I closed my eyes and imagined what it would look like with the same setup as my shop back in Portland. A wide counter spread across the rear wall, a row of stools and clusters of seating scattered around the front. Yes, I could have seating lining the storefront, looking out over the trees that lined the road. With this much sunlight coming through, I could even grow some organic greens to use in my products. It would be perfect.
A loud meow pulled me from my reverie as the tabby cat sauntered in through the back of the shop and settled himself on a beam of sunlight in front of the window. The ginger cat appeared next and began to wrestle with a swatch of material hanging over the counter. The black cat was last to approach, his eyes fixed on my face as he circled me. I eyed the three balls of fur, wondering just how they had gotten into the store when I’d locked the door.
“So, you’re deciding to act like cats now, I see.” I crossed my arms. All three cats raised their heads, but I noticed instead of looking at me, they were looking past me. A shiver caressed my spine, and I braced myself as I turned toward the back of the shop and found myself staring at the familiar birdlike face of the trespassing old lady.
“Of course, they’re acting like cats, you dingbat. They are cats.” The old lady stood behind the cash counter and tutted at me. She still wore the same strange outfit as she had the day before; layered sweaters, pants that were two inches too short, and fluffy slippers. I shook my head as I stared at her, unsure how to address the situation at this point. She was beyond reason, and I would likely have to get the cops involved.
“Can you please tell me why you’re here?” I asked in my most calm voice. If she didn’t leave, I would pick her up and throw her out myself. I was fit and stronger than most girls my age. Stronger than most men, even. Tossing her over my shoulder and throwing her out the front door would hardly break a sweat. The idea was tempting, I had to admit.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here.” She ran her finger over the dusty surface of the table, but when I looked closer, her finger left no trail.
I raised my eyebrows as I glared at her. The whole situation was exceptionally odd. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
The lady harrumphed. “I didn’t say because you never had the manners to ask.” She straightened her narrow shoulders and raised her pointed chin. “I’m Agatha Bentley.”
Chapter Four
My eyes widened. “You can’t be Agatha Bentley. Agatha Bentley died. Her funeral was yesterday. You were there, remember?” The poor old lady had lost her mind. She had probably been one of Agatha’s friends and was in some form of denial about her death. I felt bad for the old woman, but I really needed her to leave nonetheless. I had my own problems to deal with and the last thing I needed was to babysit some angry lady who thought she was my deceased boss.
“Of course, I was there,” she snapped. “You really think I would miss my own funeral? These things only come around once in a lifetime, don’t you know.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed my eyelids with my fingertips. The poor woman was probably distraught and needed help. “I understand you must be upset, ma’am. It’s never easy to lose a friend. Is there anywhere I can take you? Maybe I can call a cab for you or something?”
Exasperated, the woman raised her hands above her head and gave me the most curious of expressions. “My dear girl, I haven’t lost anyone. What are you going on about? Maybe you are right? Maybe you’re crazy after all.”
Okay, that was it. I’d had enough. I marched up to her and reached out to place my hand on her shoulder so I could guide her out. But my hand fell through her as if she were nothing. I gasped and took a step back, my hand frozen in place. I blinked a few times and reached back toward her, her expression amused. She simply stood there, waiting as once again my fingers went right through her like she was air. I waved my hand back and forth and up and down, but still, nothing. My blood ran cold as I watched my hand pass right through her very body.
“Are you just about done?” she asked, frowning.
“This is impossible,” I mouthed. Inhale, count to three, exhale.
“Oh, for goodness sake.” The old woman threw her hands in the air. “You can practice Dr. Lee’s breathing techniques all you want, girl, but it’s not going to change anything.”
I gaped at her. “You know Dr. Lee?” It was a stupid question to ask. Who cares if she knew who Dr. Lee was; we had bigger issues at hand. There was a strange woman in my newly inherited thrift shop who was claiming to be dead and somehow, by some trick of my imagination, didn’t seem to be physically there. I took a few steps back from her and wrapped my arms tightly around my body, controlling my breath as I tried to make sense of things. “You’re just a figment of my imagination. The stress has finally got to me. Talking cats and formless old women; absolute nonsense. All I need is a good night sleep, a hot bath, maybe a visit to a shrink, and then everything will be back to normal.”
“Whatever you say, dearie.” The old lady continued running her finger haphazardly along the surface of the counter. She looked bored and let out an extremely loud yawn.
I moved over to a large purple velvet chair in the corner and plunked myself down. I tucked my knees up and sunk back into the pillows, trying my best to relax. I watched the three cats. The tabby stretched out in the sunlight, disinterested in what was going on, but the ginger cat and the black one watched us closely. The old woman stared at me, but I tried not to look her in the eye, diverting my gaze in any direction but hers. “This is all just my imagination.”
“That’s fine, let’s play this your way,” the old lady said. “If this is your imagination, obviously it’s trying to tell you something, don’t you think?”
I nodded slowly, agreeing. “That makes sense. Okay, what is my brain trying to tell me? What are you doing here? What do you want from me?”
The woman positively beamed and skipped toward me looking mischievous. “Now that, girlie, is the right question.”
“Great, well, what is it?” I pressed. “Why am I imagining an old lady and three talking cats, huh?”
The cats perked up and sauntered over toward us, each taking a place near the chair as they looked up at me with their bright eyes. I did my best to ignore them and met the woman’s gaze.
“First of all, you’re not imagining things, that’s plainly obvious.” The woman crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she looked down at me, her eyes filled with judgment. “The reason you’re here right now, is that I need you to do something for me. But first, I need you to believe that I’m not just a figment of your imagination.”
I gaped at her, realizing how ridiculous it would seem to anyone who might walk by and look through the window: a crazy girl talking to an equally batty old woman in the middle of a cluttered thrift shop. Or just a broken girl talking to a figment of her own fractured imagination. I wasn’t sure which scenario I preferred. “Fine. Go ahead. Convince me that I’m not imagining all this and that you’re Agatha Bentley and your three talking cats are real. Good luck.”
“Well. Your name is Priscilla Jones, you come from Portland where you left your failed business and failed relationship behind.” The woman raised her eyebrow at me, as if challenging me to deny her words. I merely grunted and allowed her to carry on. “You moved to Salem to live in my basement apartment—you don’t want to, by the way, mine is much nicer—and to work for me in my thrift shop. We negotiated a three-month contract and you demanded an absolutely ridiculous pay rate of eighteen dollars an hour, but I’m only going to pay you thirteen.”
I heaved a sigh. “Of course you know all that. Because I know all that and you’re just a figment of my imagination. Tell me something I don’t know.”