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I'm not your ordinary gumshoe.
My name's Nina Cohen. Born: 1898, died: 1912. I'm a poltergeist in a human body. I work from home as a private investigator. I have a cop for a boyfriend, I watch entirely too much TV, and I talk to my cat. Say hello, Djinn.
Meow
Yay! Vacation!
Sun, sand, beach, a small town protest, a cranky Sheriff, a violent homicide, a missing exotic dancer, a political scandal, and the legendary Lake Superior Mermaid. No problem. A sleepy little vacation town like Moss Island, Minnesota has its secrets. When I rescued a little boy from being drowned by the Mermaid, those secrets became my problem.
There's something else, too, something powerful, deep under the frigid waters of Lake Superior, where the enigmatic lake clutches her dead to her cold heart, and never lets go.
Yay. Vacation.
“Ping,” goes my laptop computer. “You have voicemail from Cronenberg@lunchrat.com,” says its voice.
“Play it.”
“Hey, Nina. Really sorry to do this, but I'll be a day or two late coming out to the cabin. It's this case. We have a hot lead. You know how it goes. We're hoping to wind it up tonight, tomorrow at the latest. I'll keep you posted.”
“Do you have a reply?”
I'd just closed my eyes to listen to his voice, too. Phone calls are all we've had time for lately. I'm almost angry enough to go solve his case for him, so I can have him to myself for a while. Part of me feels relieved. I don't like that part very much. “Fuck.”
“Not tonight, apparently,” says the computer.
I stare at it. Gulls squawk like rusty door hinges. The surf laps and burbles at the beach down the hill. No numa changes hands to mess with my laptop. It's not the cat. So why can't this Mac answer to “Siri,” or behave like the ones in the commercials? No idea. “You're awfully portable to make that kind of joke,” I bluff. Obviously I can't afford to throw my insolent computers into the lake, but maybe they don't know.
“I didn't get that. Could you try again?” says the computer. Sure, now it plays innocent. I just shake my head. “Reply to Cronenberg.”
“Replying.”
“Hey, Dee. It's okay. Djinn and I will hold the fort. See you when you get here. Miss you. If you get some time alone, give me a call.” I pause a few moments, wrestling with my next words. There's more I should say. I always feel the pressure to say it, mostly from myself. But I don't. “Be careful out there,” is what I say instead.
“Send message?”
“Send it.”
“Email sent.”
There we sit, computer, cat, and private eye, for about an hour. There's an ache I have, an itch I can't scratch. I'd call it a heartache, but it's lower down than that. I often wonder if I, with no ruach—the spirit that gives you willpower and rational reactions—am even capable of love. Lust, I clearly have. When Djinn drifts off to sleep, I get up, shower in the cabin's tiny, plastic-footed shower stall. Dry off. Do my hair. Eyeliner, a peachy eye shadow, mascara—an evening eye—and candy-apple red lipstick. Stand there naked with makeup for a while. Stare at myself in the mirror, with no real expression. Face my fear.
I get out my bikini.
Sam, my trainer and shopping buddy, makes her living as an exotic dancer. When I told her Cronenberg invited me to his cabin, she said, “You can't go to the beach in your lap swimming suit, Nina. As my padawan, I won't let you.” Did I mention my friends are nerds? My friends are nerds.
The result is a bright red bandeau top that squinches down into a ring between my breasts, and an equally bright red, mid-rise bottom with similar rings at the sides over my hips. It does not require me to shave in unnatural places. It covers my bottom. It covers my top. I look in the mirror again. It fits more or less exactly the same as it did in the store, with Sam there to cheer me on. “It's not going to fall off,” I tell myself. I say it again for good measure. Then, “I'm legally and morally covered.” The cat looks up at me as if to say, “Monkey, that sound—it's coming out of your head again.”
Stand in front of the computer. Put one hand on my hip, and turn slightly for a bit more of a profile. “Odessa,” I say. “Take my picture.”
It'd be nice if my head was in the photo. Grab a plastic pen and adjust the lid of the computer until the camera is at a more flattering angle. Step back a little further. Assume the pose again. “Odessa. Take my picture.”
This goes on for a while until I have a photo I'm happy with. “Send this photo to Cronenberg. Caption: Wish you were here.” Chuckle to myself, and try not to worry that I'll distract him and get him shot, or anything like that. Sigh.
Wearing the thing in public is a whole different ballgame. Am I wearing too little? Will I get laughed at by all the ladies at the protest who…paraded around half naked in front of the Piggly Wiggly? Blow out my cheeks and put on the beach coverup I got with the bikini. If a hoodie grew up to be a very plain little black dress, this would be its adolescence. It still has its hood, pockets, and zipper, but it's old enough to nip in at the waist a little, and its hem has started to show some style. The sleeves have thumbholes. No idea why. It shows a lot of leg, but as warm as it's been this summer, I've gotten used to that. Teva hiking sandals. My new pink and aqua tie-died Piggly Wiggly baseball cap. Somehow, it's an outfit.
I make the call, and go to the party. Djinn stays at the cabin.