The Case of the Deathwatch Beetle, pt. 2
Aggie wondered at the transformation. Even by the famously poor standards of driver’s licenses, the woman in the laminated photo ID she held was beautiful. Even striking.
The woman sitting across the desk from her bore only the slightest resemblance. Her appearance was such that when she burst in, Aggie considered adding the words, “By Appointment Only,” under the heading, “Aggie McPherson, Spectral Analysis” on the pebbled glass of the office door.
However, the shell of what was once Melissa Burbidge had pushed her way in without warning. Even Gladys, tall enough to be intimidating, beautiful enough to give pause to the most determined, didn’t have time to rise from her receptionist desk to stop Mrs. Burbidge.
While Aggie didn’t think of herself as a woman without compassion, this was a place of business. Her business. The woman who had come into it, with stringy hair and pockmarked face, calling for assistance with a voice that was somehow both cracked and phlegmy, clothes that were as gray and dirty as the rest of her, appeared as if she needed medical help. Or a homeless shelter. Or both. Neither of which Aggie’s agency was suited to provide.
Aggie was also mildly repulsed by the invading presence, but self-aware enough to know this was a product of her own vanity: Her bobbed hair, natty seersucker suit, the polished nails, these things didn’t happen by accident. It was easier to clean herself than her well-maintained office, though, so she prepared to physically remove the stranger. The earnest pleading in Mrs. Burbidge’s tone, though, made Aggie stop and listen.
When Mrs. Burbidge produced her driver’s license it became clear that she had exactly the kind of problem Aggie might help with. The fact Mrs. Burbidge also produced her checkbook helped.
Many people had walked through Aggie’s door having been haunted by nightmares not meant for men, some drained of vital essences by etheric parasites, others plagued by nocturnal visitations, hungry ghosts, minor demons. So Mrs. Burbidge’s tale wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Even so, listening to Mrs. Burbidge describe being vomited on by a vagrant caused Aggie’s toes to curl. However, it did make it clear to Aggie that this was the beginning of Mrs. Burbidge’s transformation.
“Nothing is working for me.” Mrs. Burbidge fruitlessly pushed her stringy hair out of her face. “I’ve been to every kind of doctor, specialist, dietician. None of them have found anything wrong with me.” Melissa paused, on the edge of tears. Aggie handed her a handkerchief, encouraging her to continue. She tried not to think about the upholstery of the chair Mrs. Burbidge was sitting in.
Drying her eyes, Mrs. Burbidge continued in frustration. “Even simple things like bathing and combing my hair don’t do any good. I just end up,” Mrs. Burbidge waved the handkerchief over the wreckage of herself, “looking like this.”
Aggie was familiar with the physical toll lingering disease could bring and how sometimes tending to the things you could, helped with the things you couldn’t: A bit of make-up to bring out the features in a pallid face, shaving off hair when it started to come out in clumps, a blanket to hide withered legs. To be robbed of that simple comfort struck Aggie as cruel.
Instead of focusing on what others might think of as an impossible transformation, though, Aggie asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible. I’m exhausted all of the time. I can’t do my job or look after my family without feeling like I need a thousand-year nap. I could barely find my way here.”
She wouldn’t be the first person to have a hard time finding her way to Aggie McPherson’s office, but that was a different story. She had found her way here, which might be the best indication that Aggie could help her. She’d need more, though, so asked, “What is it that you do?”
“I’m the Dean of Medicine at Dunhill University.”
While Aggie could see a connection between medicine and disease, she didn’t see an immediate connection there so asked, “And your family? Everyone doing OK? Any sudden tragedies or problems there?”
“It’s just me and my husband and our three girls. Jonesy is about to head off to college, which is a bit tough, but we’re managing it.”
Not much there to go on, which made Aggie wonder out loud, “This is clearly…abnormal. But typically, my offices handle a different sort of problem.”
“I was told that you handle hauntings. Ghosts, specters, that kind of thing.”
Aggie eyed the clearly well informed Mrs. Burbidge. “That’s correct.”
“Isn’t a spiritual possession just the haunting of a person rather than a place?”
Aggie tilted her head as if moving a prism through which she viewed Mrs. Burbidge, trying to see past the tattered visage. She began to think she might like Mrs. Burbidge.
“I suppose that argument could be made, but possessions tend to have a more diabolic component. And I’m not sure that’s what we’re dealing with here. This might be some kind of curse or hex. It’s hard to tell without being able to examine the point of origin.”
“Then you can find the man who did this.”
“You expect me to find a homeless man in a city of millions?”
Mrs. Burbidge looked at Aggie with undisguised hope, tempered by the clear, high expectations of one professional to another. “I was told you’re very good.”
Aggie smiled. She did like Mrs. Burbidge. “Very well. I’ll begin today. Please leave your contact information with Gladys on your way out. She can discuss my rates. If they’re acceptable to you, I’ll be in touch.”
Mrs. Burbidge clutched what was once most likely a very nice purse to her chest, both its surface and the smile she gave Aggie cracked and gray. “Thank you.” Aggie tried to ignore the tears forming in Mrs. Burbidge’s eyes.
Before those could reach a heavy enough state to fall, Aggie briskly stood up from her desk and escorted Mrs. Burbidge to her office door, opening it to reveal the smiling Gladys. With a gentle smile, Aggie’s secretary took her newest client by the hand, and sat her down to take her information and discuss payment details.
Aggie closed her own door and breathed a sigh of relief. She may like Mrs. Burbidge, but she didn’t want to share tears with her. Gladys was much better suited to that end of the work. It was too bad she couldn’t help Aggie with casework outside the office.
Aggie busied herself with a bit of research and contemplation on what might be vexing Mrs. Burbidge until she heard the client leave. Only when that emotional maelstrom departed did she poke her head out to the reception room. “Is she gone?”
Under the perfectly coifed blonde hair that Aggie could never fail to admire, Gladys raised an eyebrow at her boss. After inspecting her for humanity, she pretended to brush something off the sweater of he her Coco Chanel day suit and responded, “She’s a lovely woman. And she’s agreed to all the usual terms.”
Aggie breathed a sigh of relief, watching the entrance as if Mrs. Burbidge might return. “Well, that’s good. Any thoughts on Melissa Burbidge after spending some time with her?”
Gladys, the friendliest, kindest person Aggie had ever known, including her mother, looked right at Aggie with her impossibly blue eyes and said, “That lady isn’t gonna make it.”
Read the The Case of the Deathwatch Beetle, pt. 3 here.
See the author’s published work here.
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Not really sure why I decided to turn a standalone flash fiction into an Aggie McPherson story, but here we are. I guess maybe I just like Aggie.
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