Brownie Oxford and the Barren Woods Blunder: Brownie Bk 3

Chapter 1

'I am Bonnie Brown, ' I told myself as I used the flat iron to straighten my curls. The brown contacts were already in my eyes covering up the green. As strange as it felt to look at myself in the mirror and see straight hair instead of curls and brown eyes instead of my normal green, I knew it was a necessity.

Especially now.

After finding out that I could converse with the spirits of the dead, not through any crystal ball mummery, but in much the same manner as people everywhere talked to other people, the NCS, or National Clandestine Services, a rather shadowy branch of the CIA, sent someone calling himself Swift to recruit me into helping them out by questioning a host of unsavory dead. After seven years as his asset, I gained a wide variety of nightmares and a host of scars.

When someone named Matheson who possessed green eyes, curly brown hair, abilities similar to mine and claiming to be my uncle appeared, wanting to kill me so he could perform some sort of ritual to add my power to his, Swift hid me with a friend of his named Paul in a small town called Mayenfield. Admittedly, Swift didn't know Matheson was my uncle, as I was raised in the Riverdale Girl's Home, had no known family and he never got a look at Matheson to spot the physical similarities.

By now I figured he managed to find some sort of photo identification as Swift managed to find Cecil Matheson's house. I had the feeling once he found the photo, he would quickly put things together. Swift was many things, dumb wasn't one of them. When I left though, he just thought Matheson wanted to have me raise someone from the dead for some reason that neither of us knew.

Yeah, I lied to him.

After a necromancer showdown between Matheson and myself in the Mayenfield cemetery, Matheson died and I ran. I slipped out of town quietly and hid from Paul, Swift and the NCS. With the assistance of the dead I no longer needed the pills Dr. Harding, the doctor they routinely used to stich me up after something went wrong, created to keep my liver's bilirubin levels steady and my stomach from having constant upheavals.

With the assistance of Avery, Matheson's butler, who apparently helped my parents get me away from Cecil Matheson, I had a new identity. He made me Bonnie Brown instead of Brownie Oxford and as he spent my entire lifetime growing the identity, it had all of the background I needed to look real and not like I magically popped up from nowhere.

From there I started out on a new life. I drove across the country, found an apartment, set up a small sewing business and was accepted into the local university's fashion design program. I made friends with my neighbors and actually started to have a real life. I was well on my way to normal, when everything went pear shaped.

It turned out, my neighbors were serial killers.

Yeah. Serial killers.

They managed to kill fourteen people and as luck would have it, they buried their victims in cemeteries.

Yeah. Cemeteries.

Just my luck huh?

News spread and brought Swift, now calling himself Agent Mike Johnson, to the city. He actually apprehended my three neighbors in my apartment when one of them decided to make me victim number fifteen. He then informed my building manager, Nicole, that this was his last case, that he was retiring, taking a job with a consultant firm and apparently moving here to date her.

I finished straightening my hair and unplugged the flat iron. When he arrived Swift adopted a southern accent and exuded charm. The tall, blonde charmer swept Nicole off her feet. The fact that I thought of Swift as a cross between a surfer and a praying mantis made me a little creeped out at the thought of anyone dating him.

I tried not to dwell on the details.

The kitchen apprehension occurred the first day of my first fall semester as a fashion design student. Now we were two weeks into the spring semester and the media's interest was finally waning. I was certain that once the trial actually came to court interest would once again flare. Somehow, I thought that a full confession from all three of the murderers involved would speed things along.

Silly me.

Thinking things were taking forever to wrap up, I looked into it, since oddly enough, the length of time between arrest and trial was not covered in my junior high civics class, or if it was I was sick that day and probably have a doctor's note to confirm it.

In my random research I found that capitol cases, i.e. cases where someone was murdered, could easily take up to two years to make it to trial. The lawyers from both sides had to get their ducks in a row and then there were back and forth appeals and a host of other legal bits to get through before the trial could even begin.

And that was with one killer and one victim.

Without the Feds getting involved.

With the "Cemetery Three" as the media dubbed my neighbors, there were obviously three killers which tripled the amount of lawyers involved and I was certain probably extended the legal paperwork exponentially. Not to mention there were fourteen victims. It didn't help that the fourteen victims were not exactly working on the side of angels. In fact most of them worked for someone named Big Jimmy, who was apparently someone in the world of crime. I guess that's why they appended Big to his name.

Or maybe he was actually big.

I frowned at myself in the mirror. "Or do they call big people Tiny?"

As my knowledge of the naming practices of organized crime came from bad movies, I shook the thought away. His name wasn't as important as the information. My murderous neighbors turned out to be the over achieving sort and used their assorted skills to find out a host of information about their victims prior to making them victims. They wanted to make certain they were actually killing people they felt deserved to die, in addition to robbing them to make ends meet after they were laid off.

In the process of doing their due diligence, they managed to unearth reams of information the local police did not have on file. I was fairly certain the police didn't have the information because they had to abide by the law when gathering information and as serial killers, my neighbors had fewer restrictions.

It was making local news more interesting lately. At the beginning of the investigation, I started watching local coverage at night in the hopes of keeping track of Swift. Even though everyone was behind bars as they awaited their trial, I decided to continue watching.

If there were any other serial killers around, I wanted to know before they tried to kill me.

This time.

While Christa, Matt and Noah were not cited as the source of information, local media reported an increasing number of raids and round-ups, most of which centered around Big Jimmy's businesses. Speculation was rampant and before the coverage was bumped to the back burner to simmer while waiting for the trial, various media outlets started referring to my neighbors as vigilantes rather than serial killers.

"That might help at trial time, " I said, shaking off all thoughts of my neighbors and temporarily focusing on me.

During the time Swift knew me, in addition to being known as Brownie, I pretty much lived in t-shirts and jeans. Most of the shirts were in dark colors so mud and blood would be less noticible. The only make-up I wore came out on the few occasions where I actually managed to get a date. By contrast, Bonnie was well dressed and always put together head to toe. I meticulously studied every inch of my Bonnie get up, more interested in concealment than vanity. Personally, I missed the jeans and t-shits, I just wasn't willing to die for them.

The hair was straight, the eyes brown. Work with the contour brush brought out my cheekbones and made my face look a little fuller. While I still looked mostly the same, Bonnie looked more like a distant cousin to Brownie, or so I hoped. The dress was an electric blue cotton with sleeves long enough to conceal the scars on my arms and a skirt long enough to conceal the ones on my legs. It also matched the headband in my hair and the flats on my feet. A chunky necklace with bright sparkling half-dollar sized chunks of faceted glass completed the ensemble.

"It'll do, " I decided. I double checked the flat iron, making certain it was unplugged and not near anything flammable while it cooled and then left the bathroom, turning out the light behind me. In the living room I turned on the television and flipped through the channels until I found one showing current weather conditions.

"Cold enough for a coat, " I decided turning the television back off and tossing the remote to the couch. "But at least it is sunny and dry." With the amount of product it took to keep my curls straight, rain was not my friend. I sighed.

In addition to staying out of the rain, I could no longer go swimming, for obvious reasons. I also had to give up my daily running as sweat was nearly as bad as rain. I compensated for the running with strategic parking, especially while on campus. The lot I was assigned when I applied for a parking permit was in the lot furthest away from campus. I added to it by parking in the most remote space in that lot and then using my walk to class to burn off some energy. As the pace was slow, due to non-running clothes and the backpack, sweat was kept at a minimum and the hair remained as I intended.

Or at least it had so far.

I had my fingers crossed for the spring as it warmed up. I also purchased a rather large umbrella that I kept in my car as well as a smaller folding umbrella to keep in my oversized purse. Spring showers were not going to catch me unawares.

Energy, or the expending of it anyway, was on my mind a lot these days. While I managed to compensate for the lack of running, with all the cemetery related issues going on, I hadn't gone to speak with the dead in a while. It was starting to make me twitchy. In addition, my dreams started getting strange.

"At least they aren't red poppy strange, " I muttered to myself as I went to my coat closet and took out my yellow wool coat. The dreams Matheson sent me when he was trying to add my power to his own, a process I'm certain would have left me dead, always started in a field of red poppies. These recent dreams weren't like that. These were more like the scenes I got when I looked through the memories of the dead while we were conversing.

Except that I wasn't currently speaking with the dead.

Weird, huh?

I slipped on my coat and decided I would puzzle things out once I returned. For now, I had a few supplies I needed to pick up for class projects and I wanted to check out one of the large flea markets. Even though it was still chilly as we neared the end of January, this was the first weekend this particular outdoor flea market was open and I was hoping that the chilly weather and newly stocked booths would result in some great finds for me.

"I can always worry once I get home, " I reminded myself.

Chapter 2

I fastened the last of my coat's buttons, slung my purse over my shoulder, picked up my keys and opened my door. I nearly yelped when I saw two people standing there.

"Sorry about that, " Nicole, my building manager said as I tried to get my heart rate back to normal. "I was just doing a walk through with the new tenant." She gestured to the door to Noah's apartment and I nodded.

"Oh, " I said, looking at the man next to her. He appeared to be a few years older than me and was of medium height with brown hair and brown eyes. Nothing about him screamed serial killer, but then I thought that about my other neighbors, so I was fairly certain I wasn't an accurate gage for those sorts of things. Something about him looked vaguely familiar though. I just couldn't place it.

Nicole looked at me and pursed her lips while widening her eyes before returning to a generally pleasant expression. I wasn't quite sure if she was telling me I was staring too long at the new man or if she wanted me to keep my knowledge of the apartment's former tenant to myself. Thus far we had several conversations where she asked me to not say anything once management was allowed to put the apartments back on the market.

Given the extra information the trio managed to collect, officials sorted through every item in both apartments and then for good measure knocked a couple of holes in walls on the off chance things were hidden. The past few weeks saw new drywall and carpeting along with other assorted bits going into both Noah's and Matt and Crista's apartments.

From the presence of the new guy I was guessing they were now deemed rent worthy.

"Welcome to the building, " I said.

"I think you will be very happy here." Nicole added looking relieved at my generic statement.

"Thanks, I hope so, " He replied more or less answering both of us. "I'm Steve Wallace, " he said holding out a hand for me to shake. "I guess we're neighbors."

"Bonnie Brown, " I replied, shaking his hand and trying to sound friendly. There was something about the name that pinged on my radar, like I heard it before. But like his vaguely familiar appearance, I couldn't pin it down. "I guess you are moving in today?"

"Yup, moving van will be here in a bit. I'll try not to completely hog the elevator."

"No problem, I'll be out most of the day anyway, " I told him smiling politely as I let his hand go.

"Oh, and I rented the other apartment as well, " Nicole told me. Her wide and slightly sappy smile caused my gut to clench. There was only one other empty apartment in the building at the moment, Matt and Crista's, the one next door to me.

"Did you?" I asked trying not to sound strained.

"Yes, Mike, I mean Agent Johnson will be moving in next weekend, " Nicole said.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach, but I managed to keep my smile. She turned to Steve.

"He's a retired federal agent, " she told Steve. "So you know you'll be perfectly safe here." She opened the door to Noah's old apartment, prepared to do a walk through before he moved in.

"Nice to meet you, Steve and good luck with the moving in part, " I told him. The nagging familiarity of the name and face was pushed completely aside by Nicole's news. He offered his own farewells and as I turned to head down the hall and out of the building, he followed Nicole into the apartment. I could feel my heart pounding in time to my footsteps as I walked to my car. Next weekend Swift was moving into the apartment next to mine.

Even though he hadn't called me on it, I knew there was a ninety-nine percent chance Swift knew Brownie Oxford and Bonnie Brown were the same person. I knew he would watch and wait until I broke cover though, pouncing only when he was one hundred percent sure.

"Unless something forces him to act, " I muttered to myself. "Until then it will probably be some sort of cat and mouse game."

While I knew the murders probably threw an unexpected kink into his plans and he did like to be certain before he acted, I was pretty sure he was playing a game. Given what I knew of him, I was betting that he would play until I did something that positively marked me as the Brownie he knew, something I couldn't cover up with a flat iron and brown contact lenses.

I got into the elevator, keeping my general smile in place until the doors slid closed, even though the hall was now empty. Once the doors clicked shut I let the smile fall. Swift was moving in. I blinked as the elevator reached the main floor and the doors slid open. I stepped out and crossed the atrium to the main doors, letting myself out of the building and into the parking lot.

"Relax, 'Nie, " I told myself as I reached my car. I unlocked my car door and slid behind the wheel, tossing my purse onto the passenger's seat. "Just because you were friends with your neighbors before, doesn't mean you have to be friendly with them all the time. You didn't even know the names of your previous neighbors, just their faces when they went to get mail, and you lived there seven years. And you've got friends at school so you can still look social."

I turned the key in the ignition and started the engine. I made certain my seat belt was fastened and I backed out of my parking space, driving towards the exit. Admittedly, my former apartment was just some place I went to recover from injuries between jobs with Swift.

"It's not like he is going to be stopping by to borrow a cup of sugar, " I added firmly. I tried picturing Swift in an apron and putting together a cake and couldn't. I shook the thought away. "I'm sure he'll come up with some other reason to say hello, " I decided. I snorted. "Of course, if he is dating Nicole it would look strange for him to spend a lot of time getting to know me."

The thought brought some relief. If Swift was living in the apartment next to me, he and I would be sharing a wall and a view. The shared wall bordered the living room, dining room and kitchen in my apartment and even if he drilled holes to spy, he would only see me making dinner and watching television. As the Brownie he knew didn't cook, seeing me cook wouldn't help his case. If he was watching for me to be taking Dr. Harding's pills or suffering from a reaction to not taking Dr. Harding's pills he would likewise be disappointed.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel and my teeth clenched in anger as I thought of the pills.

And of Dr. Harding.

Once, when I was still taking the pills regularly, I ran out of my supply. We were in the middle of nowhere and I suffered greatly until Swift could get me to Dr. Harding to get a dose. After things settled down and I was left to recuperate at home, I looked up the symptoms trying to find out more information. The only thing that came close to matching what I suffered was a description of an addict suffering withdrawals.

While the pills helped my liver and my stomach, I suspected Dr. Harding added a little something extra to make them addictive. I was fairly certain such behavior would be considered unethical in medical circles, but I also saw the files the NCS kept on me. They didn't actually think of me as a person. It was clear Swift considered me an asset and Dr. Harding considered me to be nothing more than a lab experiment. Both appeared willing to use me up until I couldn't be patched any more.

Then of course Dr. Harding would put whatever remained of me in jars.

Swift picked up a large supply of the pills when dropping me off in Mayenfield. By my count if I was taking them regularly, then I would have run out of my supply about two months prior. Even if I was being miserly with the pills I would be getting close to the end. Smaller doses would not only have me suffering occasional bouts of stomach cramps, but my jaundice would have returned. Focusing on what I ate, cooking healthy foods, balancing my nutrient intake, and staying away from pre-packaged anything kept my bilirubin levels steady, the jaundice away and my tummy settled.

"Therefore leaving nothing for him to see, " I concluded forcing myself to relax my death grip on the steering wheel and smooth my facial expression into more pleasant lines. It didn't make the thought of Swift as my next door neighbor any more comforting, but it did help kill off some of the panic. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly before reversing out of my parking spot, shifting into drive and leaving the parking lot.

"Flea market first, then fabric store for supplies, " I decided. "Worry and panic once home again." My Saturday schedule set, I piloted my car towards the interstate, repeatedly checking all of my mirrors.

I was a very careful driver, I always had been. Spending most of my time with the dead showed me exactly what could happen when a driver was distracted. As a consequence, I always buckled up, never went more than five miles over the speed limit, adjusted my speed for conditions, made certain I could see clearly through my mirrors and never touched my cell phone once the keys were in the ignition.

Swift told me I drove like a paranoid grannie.

Of course, he drove like he was trying to qualify for the Indy 500.

Now, besides not wanting to join my friends in the cemetery, I had a different reason for practicing safe driving. I needed to avoid any form of traffic foul up that could potentially land me in the hospital. Not only did I want to avoid a lengthy hospital stay due to injury, which didn't sound like a whole lot of fun, I didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to run tests or to create a new medical file on me. I could change my name, hair and clothing but Swift and Dr. Harding both knew of my past injuries and had not only my x-rays but many, many samples of my blood on file. Fake IDs didn't actually change those. As they no doubt expected me to go to the hospital once my pills ran out and withdrawal set in, I had the suspicion there was some sort of monitoring in place.

There was also the sedan.

I spotted it the week after Swift, or Agent Johnson rather, disappeared to finish up the last of the paperwork on this, his last case before he retired and took a job with a local consulting firm. I wasn't certain how that cover story worked as there was no way the case would be closed before his move in date, but that was the story he gave. Questioning it would make me look interested and I wanted to look anything but interested. Nicole seemed happy with it though.

The gray sedan followed me to campus, although it apparently didn't have a parking pass and circled past as I pulled into my assigned lot. I saw it a week later at the shopping center where my favorite fabric store was located and then again at the grocery store. Earlier this week, I spotted it at the farmer's market.

There I actually caught a glimpse of the people in the car. When I left my vehicle, I forgot my re-usable shopping bags and had to double back for them, catching two people, one male and one female, exiting the sedan. They froze when they saw me, and tried to play it off as I retrieved my bags and went back into the market. Later, I saw them wandering by the table of flowers brought in by a local hothouse to brighten up the winter bare market.

That someone was put in place to watch me while Swift was gone did not come as much of a surprise. I was hoping it was only these two and that once Swift arrived they would leave. Not only could I always spot Swift in a crowd, it would mark me as less of a priority. I knew when I left, the NCS would send someone to try and bring me back. I was, to their eyes, a very useful asset. However, if it was just Swift and not Swift and a team send to bring me back, I thought I stood a better chance of them eventually just letting me go.

I know, hope springs eternal.

What I would do if that hope proved fruitless I hadn't yet decided. I decided that worry fell into the category of 'for another day' and checked my mirrors as Swift taught me when looking for a tail. I smiled to myself, darkly amused that the methods of searching and identifying those watching me were lessons Swift taught me in our time together.

Officially, I didn't start work as an asset to the NCS until I turned eighteen. Swift found me at the age of sixteen. Bouncing in and out of the Riverdale Girl's home and various foster houses didn't let me create too many lasting relationships. Frequently leaving town with Swift, holing up to recover from injuries and losing one job after another due to too many unexplained absences didn't allow me to build any once I left the system. Once Swift found me at age sixteen though, I saw him nearly every day.

For nearly ten years, my relationship with Swift was the most stable aspect of my life. Whether driving to and from Dr. Harding's morgue or trekking into the middle of nowhere, Swift was rarely more than an a few steps from me. At some point the lessons started. I wasn't certain if Swift decided I'd be less of a liability if I knew a little about what was going on or if he was trying in his own odd way to make up for the host of nightmares his work inflicted on me.

Truthfully, I'm not certain he knew either.

He never really intended me to become an agent, I knew that much. I also knew for certain that he never intended for me to use those lessons when hiding from him. I don't think he was able to stop himself from giving the lessons though. He may have been the most stable feature of my world, but I had the feeling I was the person he saw the most as well.

"No wonder I made friends with serial killers, " I muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror. "And there we are, " I said spotting what I was looking for. Three cars back and in the right hand lane was the gray Honda sedan that kept popping into my life.

"I guess today, they get to see the flea market, " I said as I turned on my blinker. "And I'll get to see if it is the same two people as before." Confident the sedan was following, I stopped looking for them and mentally reviewed Swift's lessons.

"I suppose it's time to see how much Swift actually taught me."

Chapter 3

It was Crista who got me interested in flea markets. She was the queen of taking battered and used pieces and turning them into something new and fabulous. As I moved in with no actual furniture, buying my bed shortly after signing the lease so I had some place to sleep, her guidance at the various flea markets, thrift stores and antique type stores helped me furnish my apartment. Once the big items were purchased, refurbished and set in place, I continued going to pick up little things to add to my space. After a lifetime of simply existing with what was handed to me, I found myself eager to make the place I lived my own in every way possible.

I also found that occasionally I could find vintage materials, or worn out clothing that would serve as patterns for the pieces I created, even if they were no longer functional. Having a handle on retro pieces helped in my odd little sewing business. While the bulk of my clients tended to be drag queens like Ricky who needed everything from simple repairs to out and out garment creation, word of my skill with a needle spread and I found myself branching out, often creating pieces for historic reenactors and those involved in cosplay.

It was definitely broadening my view of fashion and garment construction. The week before, I handed a brown leather body armor slash corset looking thing to a shiny eyed steampunk enthusiast who practically skipped out of my apartment with joy as he clutched it to his chest. Oddly, learning the construction of the garment helped with my designs for class projects.

"No learning is ever wasted, " I muttered to myself remembering Mrs. Ellison's frequent admonition during my school days. She was one of the first dead I made friends with in the cemetery next to the Riverdale Girl's home and she took me under her wing. She also made certain I did my homework and met those would serve as tutors or who fell into the category of those she found appropriate for me to engage in conversation.

She tried her best to steer me away from those she felt would be a bad influence. In many respects, she was the closest thing I had to a parent growing up. For most of the foster families where I was placed I was merely a source of revenue. With my jaundiced skin and small frame their biggest hope was either that whatever was wrong with me wasn't contagious or at least wouldn't kill me on their watch.

This was my first time visiting this particular flea market, despite the fact that it was a weekly one throughout most of the year and one of the largest in the state. They closed up shop the day before Christmas and reopened a few weeks later. It was never one Crista favored so I hoped it would hold fewer memories. Thoughts on clients and potential projects, I parked and headed into the fray.

Given that several of the queens I worked with favored a retro vibe and the increasing number of cosplay folks appearing on my doorstep, I kept my eyes peeled for older garments. Spotting a rack towards the back of one of the stalls near the entrance of the flea market, I decided it was a good place to start. In addition, the location possessed several non-clothing related advantages. While the rack was towards the back of the stall, when standing on the far side of it, I could see the parking lot and those passing by. Both location and the rack itself concealed my waiting and watching for the arrival of the sedan.

"All while still looking at what I came to see, " I said, feeling quite pleased. As I positioned myself, I saw the expected sedan turn into the entrance and park. The driver exited the vehicle and walked towards the rows of open aired stalls set up for the flea market.

"Only Mr. Nondescript this time, " I muttered to myself as I picked out a dress from the rack. I tried not to dwell on what the woman was doing. Every time prior, I saw the two of them together, even if only one left the vehicle. I hoped this didn't mean she was elsewhere doing something nefarious, especially something nefarious in my apartment. My biggest fear was that in addition to listening devices, they would put something with video in my apartment so they could watch me. If they did, I was screwed. There would be no way for me to get my hair straightened or my brown contacts in without them noticing.

'Unless its black and white, ' I thought. 'Then my brown contacts would just look like contact lenses.' Having never purchased surveillance equipment I didn't know if color was an option. 'I might be able to work around that.' I thought as I looked at the garment I held.

Once, it was a beaded dress. It featured a silk slip underneath and a beaded transparent overlay. Over time, the overlay started to shred and much of the bead work fell away. Some of the pattern of the beadwork could be seen and as I divided my attention between the approaching man and the dress, I decided I could use the dress as a pattern, not just for the garment but for the beads as well.

"I could probably trace out the design from what's left, " I mused. The man came closer and I was able to tell that it was definitely the man I spotted in the fabric store. For once my short stature helped as only the top of my head appeared above the rack. A slight bend in my knees and I disappeared completely without looking like I was trying to hide. He didn't see me in the stall and walked past. Even though he seemed to be wandering aimlessly, he made certain to scan each booth he passed a little more intently than the average bargain hunter.

"Somehow I doubt he's looking for an ottoman." I muttered straightening up as he continued on. In addition to the half disintegrated dress, I found a tailored blazer I wanted. The color was an alarming shade of grayish green that reminded me of mold, but it had a shape I liked and would serve well as a pattern. Once the man passed from view, I took my two purchases towards the front where the stall owner waited.

I again missed Christa since haggling was not my strong suit, but remembering her advice I asked what was the best offer the owner could do and bought both pieces for what both of us considered a reasonable price. I then moved on to the next stall. I was in my fourth stall and smiling over an unexpected find, when the brown haired man realized he passed me and doubled back. The find was a packet of vintage silk scarves never cut from the original bolt of cloth. It was wedged between the remnants of a bolt of lime green polyester and a large bolt of fabric that looked as though someone was hunting cookie monster for his fur.

I tugged it free and tried to hide my eagerness as I turned to the stall owner. After a brief haggling session, the bolt of fabric was mine. I paid the owner and tried not to do a happy dance in front of her. With my small bag of previous purchases and the bolt of fabric, my hands were getting rather full, despite barely scratching the surface of the market's offerings.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Mr. Nondescript from the sedan looking over a rather singular looking chair and foot stool. Both were covered in black and white cow hide and the footstool was supported by steer horns turned points down so they could serve as legs. The chair likewise featured horn legs, arms and sprouted two long curving horns on the back of the chair. It looked to me like a throne designed for a dude ranch.

Curious as to if the man would follow me out of the market I headed back towards my car to put my purchases in the back seat before continuing my shopping. Idly, I wondered if dude ranches had thrones. Did dude ranches crown a king of the cows?

"Or is that king of the dudes?" I muttered as I walked to the car. "Or maybe the Ranch King?" I unlocked my back door and placed the bolt of fabric on the seat, dropping my bag of vintage clothing into the floorboard. I closed the door and turned back to the flea market entrance. "Cowboy King sounds better, " I decided spotting the brown-haired man walking towards the gray Honda.

"I wonder why they aren't called Cowboy ranches?" I decided I would look it up later as I slowly sauntered back into the flea market. "Maybe dude means cowboy for some reason, but then a dude ranch would mean that they herded dudes instead of cows, wouldn't it?"

Once inside, I paused in front of the throne of the Ranch King and cut my eyes back towards the parking lot. The man saw me and was standing next to his car, a phone in his ear as he relayed his dilemma to someone else along the food chain. I wondered if it was the missing woman.

"Do I stay or do I go, " I sang softly to myself as I turned and inspected a chest of drawers. "Darling you got to let me know, do I stay or do I go. If I stay there will be trouble, if I go there will be double."

I paused, fairly certain I got my song lyrics mixed up somewhere. I also knew if I didn't start at the beginning I wouldn't be able to untangle it. I blushed as I saw someone staring at me, no doubt having caught me singing to myself.

"Sorry, " I replied trying not to look crazy. "Just had a song stuck in my head." I started to turn away and then I noticed something odd about the man. Not only was he wearing some sort of wide collared leisure suit, the kind favored by happening folks in the nineteen seventies, complete with the unbuttoned shirt and decorative chains, but he appeared to be in black and white.

"Crap, " I said under my breath. The man was a spirit.