“The Chicken Salad Shack is pretty good, and not actually located in a shack.” He walked us out the front door, where he yelled at Lonnie to break from soccer and eat dinner. The teenage boy barely glanced at him in response.

  Stacey and I drove away from the desolate neighborhood. We left the dead part of town behind as we crossed over the tracks into the part that was gradually returning to life, like green growth emerging on a fallen tree.

  Chapter Eight

  A bell on a ribbon chimed as we opened the glass door to the Chicken Salad Shack. The interior was cheerfully chickened up with kitschy chicken figurines and farm-related art, from a painting of a weathered chicken coop to a framed poster of Foghorn Leghorn.

  The college-age girl on the stool behind the counter glanced up from her phone at the sound of the bell, but her gaze dropped back to it as we stepped inside. She apparently had a lot to do on her phone while we crossed through the small, chicken-themed space to the front counter, and she remained silently busy as Stacey and I looked over the menu on the wall. There was spicy jalapeno chicken salad, triple-fruity chicken salad, and teriyaki chicken salad, among other options.

  “Do you have just a regular chicken salad?” Stacey asked.

  “Southern style.” The counter girl didn't look up.

  “I'll have one of those.”

  “Regular or large?”

  “Reg—”

  “Saltine or Ritz?”

  “Uh, saltine.”

  The girl took our orders and rang us up while barely glancing away from her phone. “Your order will be out soon” was what I thought she mumbled. She didn't make a move after punching our order into her machine.

  While we stood around waiting, I looked at the designs of berries and leaves carved into the wall paneling. It reminded me of our clients' house. I traced some of it with my fingertip, then regretted it when my fingers came back dusty. I wiped them on my pants.

  “Do you have any idea how old these wall panels are?” I asked the counter girl, who still made no visible move toward fulfilling our order.

  She cast an annoyed look in my direction, then went back to her phone.

  Finally, the door behind her, etched with similar designs as the paneling, swung open, unleashing a torrent of bright, brassy Spanish-language music into the room. A stooped, gray-haired man brought out two plates, each with a scoop of chicken salad atop a crisp green romaine leaf, and set them on the counter.

  “Are those ours?” I stepped forward. I'd ordered the California style, which came with grapes, and one of them matched that description. Also, we were the only customers.

  “Yes,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  “Enrique, you're not supposed to talk to customers. That's my job,” the girl said, never looking up from her phone. “Don't make me call Brad again.”

  The salad chef shook his head and returned silently to the kitchen, his upbeat music vanishing when the door closed behind him.

  Despite her claim about her job duties, the counter girl didn't talk to us as we picked up the plates and walked outside.

  We took one of the two outdoor tables and looked over the perky downtown.

  “It's so colorful,” Stacey said. “Like a tropical village.”

  “Yep. It's a happening place.” It wasn't, really, but it wasn't completely deserted on this middle-of-the-week night. Scattered couples and small groups strolled the downtown. Several people arrived in yoga gear at one point, mats strapped over their shoulders, and piled into the studio.

  After our chicken salad, which was high in quality but low in portion size, we stepped over to Turntables Cafe for fresh coffee to kickstart the long night ahead.

  The balding, pudgy guy was there in his coffee-colored apron, wiping down the tables.

  “We were just about to close,” he said. “Actually already closed, forgot to turn the sign off. But I haven't dumped the urn yet, if you want something.”

  “Just a couple of to-go coffees, if you have enough left,” I said.

  “I may.” He began dispensing some dark, aromatic coffee into a tall paper cup. “Nancy Sinatra for you, Muddy Waters for her? Am I right?”

  “Nancy's fine for me tonight,” Stacey said. “I don't want to be any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” He went to work.

  “Are you the owner here?” I asked.

  “Owner, operator, and chief custodian,” he said, smiling. “Walt Lambert. Did y'all just move in recently?” He looked between Stacey and me. “Maybe one of the renovated lofts? Or the new neighborhoods?”

  “We're just visiting somebody,” I said. “Are you from Timbermill originally?”

  “Oh, no. I was in risk management. Steelman Insurance of Macon. Twenty-two years. This cafe's my retirement business. I always liked the record store back home when I was teenager, though it's long gone now.”

  I glanced at the hundreds of records on sale, but I was more interested in the built-in shelves where they were displayed, heavily adorned around the edges with tiny carved embellishments that looked like wheat. “Are these original to the building?”

  “They were here when I got here, I'll tell you that much.” He chuckled. “I wanted a place with character and history, but cheap. My realtor said this town's growing fast, and I could get in on the ground floor. And like you said, the woodwork's got its charm.”

  “Do you know anything about the history of the building?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It was some kind of store. They've converted the upstairs rooms to lofts.”

  “Hey, there's some great stuff here.” Stacey pulled an ABBA record off the shelf.

  “That's my personal record collection I'm selling off,” he told her. “Some of the rare ones have actually gained in value, like The Who Sell Out. I could sell that at a big profit if I wanted, which is ironic, if you ask me. The others, well, I'd just like to know somebody will listen to them from time to time after I'm gone. My daughter doesn't want them, doesn't have room in her little place up in New Jersey.”

  “Aw, I'll buy some records,” Stacey said.

  “Only if you promise you'll listen to them.”

  “I promise.”

  “My boyfriend likes classic blues records,” I said. “Do you have anything like that?”

  “I may have a sad old song or two.” He shuffled out from behind the counter and took something from a low shelf. It had a frayed black and white cover. “Does he have this one? Blues in D Natural. It's a compilation.” He looked at the back. “Robert Nighthawk, Elmore James, Earl Hooker. A fine set of fellows.”

  “It doesn't look familiar.” I hesitated at the price tag. It was more than I'd expected to spend when we'd stepped inside the coffee shop. “Do you know anybody locally who can give us insight into the town's history? Maybe someone who grew up here?”

  “Well, there's a fix-it man who's been out here a time or two. He's older than I am, and I almost feel bad making him work, but I'm not as handy as I should be, and this place needs a skilled hand at times. He's a genuine local. You don't meet many of them around town. Everybody seems to be a transplant from somewhere else, like me.”

  “Could you put me in touch with him?” I asked.

  “I suppose. He's a strange duck, though. Eccentric.” Bill took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts, squinting, until he found the phone number and gave it to me. “His name's Otis Traverton. He lives in an old place across town. Did you want to buy that record?”

  “I think my boyfriend would like it, but the price is a little much for me right now,” I said. “Can you think of anyone else who could tell us about local history?”

  “There's Dorothy down at the hair salon. She'll talk your ear off any day. If you buy that record, your coffee's on the house.”

  “Okay, sold,” I said.

  “And I'll take these!” Stacey handed him five more records, including the ABBA and a David Bowie album with a faded, crumbling cover.

  We made our purchases and stepped outside. The proprietor locked the door behind us and turned off the exterior lights. The sidewalk was dim now, lit by occasional streetlamps.

  The town lay quiet, most of the little shops closed for the day. The occasional pedestrians had deserted the sidewalk and park.

  “You can almost picture how this area was before they fixed it up,” I said. “When it all looked like the other part of town, rundown and empty.”

  “A ghost town, only back from the dead,” Stacey said as she climbed into the van. “The whole place feels a little haunted.”

  We drove back to our clients’ house, ready for a long night of watching the shadows for shapes and faces, and listening for voices in the dark.

  Chapter Nine

  Stacey and I parked on the street in front of the house so we wouldn't block the narrow driveway. Our van would be our nerve center, collecting signals from our cameras, microphones, and other sensors around the house while we watched and listened through the night.

  I texted Dave to let him know we were there. The lights were still on all over the house, but I didn't want to knock on the door and interrupt any family activities. Texting seemed more considerate.

  Andra's excited to do another show, he texted back. Come on in.

  He met us at the door.

  “The kids are just finishing up with the dishes.” He led us on the circuitous route through the dining room to the kitchen. Lonnie, the teen boy, sullenly put away bowls while the two smaller kids handled the silverware.

  Nicole smiled when she saw us, but it was definitely forced, like she'd rather not be dealing with us at all, but found herself stuck without other options. “Welcome back. How was your dinner?”

  “It was great,” I said.

  “They're here!” Andra flung a few spoons haphazardly into the drawer and ran toward the far doorway. “I have to get ready.”

  “Not until the dishes are done!” Nicole said, and the girl froze.

  “Mom, Andra slopped the spoons.” Jason moved aside the misplaced spoons so he could put away a fork.

  “Straighten the spoons, Andra.”

  Andra dragged herself back toward the silverware drawer as if heavy weights were tied to her legs and arms. “Fiiiine, but the show's going to open late now.”

  Dave ushered us through the door at the back of the kitchen and over to the playroom, leaving us there. “Enjoy the show,” he said, shaking his head as he left.

  While we waited, I drew aside the curtain and looked into each of the three doors again. The normal-sized one in the middle opened onto a walk-in closet whose shelves and cubbies were mostly empty, except for a few boxes of Halloween costumes, hand puppets, and other odds and ends for Andra's shows.

  “Em-hem,” Andra said, in imitation of a person clearing their throat. She stood at the curtain. “Sunny and Rainy told me you were backstage again.”

  “Sorry.” I stepped past her and took my appropriate place in one of the rows of mismatched folding chairs.

  “Andra, let me know when to start recording.” Stacey swiveled the camera toward her. “Just say 'Ready…Action!'”

  Andra nodded. She clicked on the flashlights that lit her stage, then turned off the overhead lights before ducking behind the curtains.

  I watched the turtle-print bedsheet curtain sway on the line, wondering if the strange shape would return and come at me again tonight. Andra had identified that one as Rainy, the entity dwelling in the windowless closet adorned with patterns of lightning bolts and balloons.

  The curtain twitched.

  “Ready!” Andra shouted, poking just her face out. She was in her pointy silver HAPPY BIRTHDAY hat from earlier, but she'd left off the green Hulk mask, opting for a freshly painted mustache instead. “Action!”

  Stacey gave a thumbs up and started recording, her eyes glued to her camera's screen.

  “Ladies and everyone!” Andra bellowed, stepping out in a plastic tuxedo t-shirt and a red Doctor Strange cape. “Step right up and sit right down for the show!” She looked to the door, as if hoping some of her family members might arrive, but none did. “Okay, anyway, here's my first trick!”

  Most of the tricks were basically repeats, including one where a stuffed panda bear mysteriously moved from one cabinet to the other. I still couldn't see how she pulled that off.

  Noticeably absent was the one I'd actually hoped to record, the spooky sheet trick where one of the resident invisible friends had nearly made itself seen. The grand tamale this time was a card trick, where Andra's guess of my chosen card was incorrect, but I pretended she was right anyway.

  “Okay, bedtime, Andra.” Nicole showed up at the playroom door.

  “First we check the cabinets!” Andra said.

  “I know,” Nicole said wearily. Ten-year-old Jason ran into the room to join his younger sister in checking over the cabinets and closets of the playroom, making sure everything was closed.

  Stacey and I followed at a distance, observing the younger kids' nightly ritual as they moved through the house. I could see how this might get exhausting fast for the parents.

  Andra and Jason were focused and thorough, not skipping any corner of any room. They even checked out the laundry room, where Nicole had to reach up to close the louvered cabinet door above the washing machine.

  The door-closing party moved upstairs, checking every bathroom, bedroom, and linen closet.

  In the master bedroom, Dave sat on the bed with a notebook and a number of bills. He wore reading glasses, which he removed as we entered, while hurriedly pushing the bills together in a stack.

  “Cabinet check?” he asked with a big smile.

  “Cabinet check.” Nicole sighed.

  The kids went down the armoire configuration along the wall, checking each drawer and door, fast as an Indy 500 pit crew. They also checked the doors to the upstairs porch.

  “All clear?” Dave asked.

  “All clear,” Jason replied, without a hint of a smile, his dark eyes taking in everything.

  “Onward!” Andra raised an imaginary sword and charged back out into the upstairs hall.

  Lonnie's loud, angry music poured out of the open door to his room, with a lead singer ranting about pain and death. We got an earful of it as we approached, as well as a powerful odor like a thousand dirty socks.

  “Lonnie, cabinet check!” Andra announced as she walked into his room. “Your closet's open!”

  “So deal with it.” Lonnie sat on the edge of his bed in a tank top, lifting a dumbbell while he watched a soccer match on television. Posters of sweaty young soccer players from across Europe and Latin America adorned his walls, thumb-tacked to the antique woodwork.

  Andra ran to shut Lonnie's closet door. Lonnie stood and smirked, then opened a few drawers and a small cabinet door near the ceiling that neither of his little siblings could reach.

  “Lonnie, don't!” Jason hurried to close the drawers. “You'll let Jack out!”

  “Oh, no, will I let Jack out?” Lonnie opened the closet door Andra had just closed, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “Jack! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Andromeda wants to be your friend!”

  “Stop it!” Andra wailed, hurrying to close the door again.

  “Why should I?” Lonnie re-opened more cabinets.

  “Please, Lonnie!” Jason begged, closing them back.

  “Pay me a dollar each. I know you still have birthday money, Jason.”

  “I'll go to my piggy bank.” Jason walked out into the hall where we waited.

  “Lonnie, don't extort money from your little brother,” Nicole said.

  “What?” Lonnie feigned innocence, brushing his clump of purple hair back from his face. “It's the only way he'll learn.”

  “Learn to do what? Take advantage of people when they're afraid?” Nicole asked. “Andra, Jason, leave Lonnie alone now.”

  “It's your funeral, bud,” Andra told Lonnie, closing the closet door a final time before leaving, then closing Lonnie's bedroom door behind her. “Keep Jack in there with you.”

  “Whatever,” Lonnie grumbled through the door.

  Andra and Jason moved on to Penny's room next, knocking on the door while we adults kept our distance.

  “What?” Penny snapped from inside.

  “Cabinet check!” Andra announced.

  “Go away.”

  Andra pushed open the door.

  “Are you deaf?” Penny sat on a single bed inside the room, looking at a tablet. She pulled her headphones down to her shoulders.

  “We're just here to check—” Jason began.

  “I know why you're here, you little creeps!” Penny snapped. “You can see everything's closed, so get away from my stuff.”

  Stacey grinned at the huge black and white poster over Penny's bed, featuring five hyper-attractive young men wearing cowboy hats, tight jeans, and not much else. They stared off in different directions as if deep in reverie, a moody vista of mountains and clouds behind them.

  “Hey, you like Outlaw?” Stacey asked Penny, stepping closer to the open door. “That's my favorite cowboy boy band, if I had to pick one.”

  Penny rolled her eyes. “Yes, obviously I like them.”

  “Who's your favorite? I like Delmar.”

  Penny sighed. “Who cares?”

  “I thought you liked Branson, the tall one,” Nicole said.

  “Oh, he's cute, too.” Stacey paused, then began to sing in a soft, sad whisper. “Out on the range alone…feelin' a range of feelings…”

  “Yeah, everyone knows 'Range of Feelings,'” Penny said. “It was in a truck commercial. I'm not even that into Outlaw anymore. They're kinda old now.”

  “What do you listen to now?” Nicole asked.

  “Who cares, mother? Would you brats get out?” Penny barked at her two younger siblings, who'd slipped into her room to check things despite Penny's clear keep-out instructions.

  “Jason, Andra, respect your sister's space,” Nicole said.

  The younger ones left, closing the door behind them just as Penny screamed at them to close it.

  Andra and Jason grew apprehensive as we neared the rear of the house.

 

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