The Haunting of the Holy Mackerel

2: Saturday the Thirteenth

(August 13, 2016)

Sheriff Blubs called Stanley that morning to tell him he wouldn't make it to the Lodge meeting. "Got a lot of important law-enforcement stuff that came up all of a sudden," Blubs said.

"Uh-huh," Stan said flatly. "Daryl, you're a wimp."

"Stanley," Blubs responded, "I'm telling you, I got a bad feeling about this."

"Yeah, you sound like Han Solo," Stan said. "OK, see you at next month's meeting, then. That'll be September tenth. Is ten an unlucky number for you, too?"

"Nah, ten's OK."

Stan rolled his eyes as he hung up. His wife Sheila came to the breakfast table, refreshed both of their coffees, and stood for a moment massaging Stan's broad shoulders. "You're tense, sweetie."

"Yeah, just aggravated," Stan said. "Sheriff Blubs is too superstitious to come to the Lodge meetin' tonight. And his deputy thinks Friday the Thirteenth can come on any day of the week! Like Christmas! He should know that Friday the Thirteenth always comes on the same day—like the day Columbus discovered America."

"Well, don't let it bother you." She gave him a kiss and then sat down and reached for the newspaper. They subscribed to the Gossiper, but she preferred the Oregonian. "Anyway, you won't much miss Blubs and Durland."

"Nah, but he spooks everybody. Every time Saturday falls on the thirteenth, he wants to postpone the meeting, and we always vote not to postpone, but then when the day comes, half the members come with 'excuses.'" Stan's hooked fingers drew air quotes around the last word. "Every year has two Saturday the thirteenths—"

"No, some years there's only one, and other years there can be as many as three." Sheila delicately sipped her coffee, which was quite hot.

"Yeah? I didn't know that," Stan said. "But anyways, back in the winter, February? I think it was February. Anyways, the lodge meeting fell on Saturday the Thirteenth, and that evening we had twelve of the members show up. Twelve! Not even a quorum."

"So you just played cards," Sheila said, smiling.

Stan snorted. "Ha! Stupid games like Baseball and Jacks-or-Better. Twelve's a terrible number. Too many for a good game of straight stud. So we divide up into sixes and then play a crappy watered-down version. And 'cause we don't even have the meeting, it goes on for hours!"

"I have never known you to complain about gambling before," Sheila said. "You feel all right, dear?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just that if I'm gonna gamble, I want the game to be interestin'." He picked up the phone again. "I'm gonna start callin' all the members and urging them to show up tonight. Hmm. I think I'll tell 'em that the rulebook says we can fine 'em twenty-five bucks if they miss a meeting for an inadequate excuse like superstition."

"Is that in the rulebook?" Sheila asked.

Stan shrugged. "Meh, who knows? I got the rulebook somewhere in the house, probably in one of the boxes we haven't unpacked yet. But nobody's read it, so they'll take my word for it." He pushed up from the table. "I'm gonna go to my study and get the list of Lodge phone numbers. OK to take the coffee?"

"Sure," she said, smiling. "As long as you don't grumble about it if you set it on the billiard table and turn it over and have to have the felt re-done."

"That was one time! And it was Fiddleford's billiard table, so I had to do the honorable thing and fix what I'd messed up."

"How many times have the McGuckets actually played billiards?"

"None, that I know of," Stan said. "But Fiddleford likes to put his model railroad set on it."

That was true. It was quite small, T-gauge, and when fully set up, the track wound through a tiny town populated by minute robots that Fiddleford created in his spare time. A few of them had escaped, probably through the table pockets, and were just possibly setting up a nearly microscopic civilization of their own behind the baseboards. Anyway, something in there now and then holds hootnannies.

However, instead of taking his coffee downstairs, Stan stood and drained the cup in a couple of gulps. "Good coffee, hon," he said. He bent to kiss Sheila, and she said, "Have fun. I hope you get your quorum."

"I think I will," he said with his trademark grin. "You know I can be a persuasive guy."

He reached all of the other Mackerels, and after about two hours, he had promises for twenty-nine of them to come to the meeting. Milt Befufftlefumpter was surprised to hear of the problem. "Blubs being a nervous Nellie again?" he asked. "That's ridiculous. Tell the rest that I'm coming and if they stay out because of the number thirteen, they're just being a bunch of lady kittens."

Stan did tell the others that, though he used a more compact word. Even Durland said he'd be there, and Stan said, "Good. Convince your boss. We never had a full meeting with every single Mackerel there when this calendar coincidence happens. Let's do it one time and put this superstition to rest."

Durland said, "I didn't understand hardly none of that, but I'll tell him he should come."

"Do that," Stan said.

The effort left him with mild heartburn, so he told Sheila he'd head up the hill to the Shack. "I'll take a turn as Mr. Mystery," he said. That always cheered him up.

It was another hot August day. Stan dressed lightly for the walk up the hill, white jeans and a blue Hawaiian shirt. He'd just reached the edge of the parking lot when he heard laughter behind him. He turned and grinned—Dipper and Wendy were walking up the hill, obviously finishing their morning runs. "Hiya, knuckleheads," he said cheerfully. "Pardon me for askin', but ain't it a little bit warm for running?"

Both of them gleamed with sweat. Dipper's tee shirt clung to him, and Wendy's, well yeah, when it got a little wet with perspiration, it did interesting things. Wendy laughed. "Better to do it in the morning than wait until it's like a hundred degrees!" she said.

"Oh," Stan said evilly, "you kids like doin' it in the morning, do you?"

"Running!" Dipper said hastily. "Running in the morning, she meant!"

"Wendy, tell my nephew to get his mind outa the gutter for a change," Stan said.

Even though Dipper must have known by then how Stan's teasing played out, he turned even pinker. "Never mind," he said.

Stan opened the gift-shop door and held it for them. "You guys go get your showers and change clothes. I'll brew up a pot of coffee," Stan told them.

"Hey, no eggshells this time, OK?" Dipper said. "I don't like eggshells in coffee!"

"That's how cowboy coffee is made!" Stan said. "But if you wanna be a baby kitten—wait, that's not right—never mind, I'll just make a straight pot."

By the time Dipper and Wendy had showered (yes, separately, as always) and changed clothes, Stan had slipped into his Mr. Mystery costume, but he hung the black jacket over the back of a chair. The kids found him sitting at the table teaching Tripper, the dog, to sit still with a snack on his nose until Stan gave him permission to eat it. "Smart dog!" Stan said. "When does he get the dumb cone off?"

"Monday, Dr. Setter says," Dipper told him. "He's already picked up the trick?"

"Watch him. Sit. Good boy. Hold still." Stan balanced a little Puppity Chew-Chew on his nose. "Stay. Stay. Ready? Get it!"

And Tripper jerked his head, tossing the goodie up in the air, then tilted his head back and caught it.

"Great," Wendy said. "Good boy!"

Tripper loved praise, and he wagged practically everything from his ears back.

Melody came in and said she'd start breakfast, but Dipper and Wendy told her to sit and they'd take care of it. "Let 'em, Mel," Stan advised. "They're like a well-greased team when they do stuff together."

"How 'bout flapjacks, turkey sausage, and fries?" Wendy asked.

"Sounds great," Melody said. "Soos will be here in a minute. I think Abuelita's up now, and she'll bring Harmony in when she comes."

Now, the word "flapjack" is archaic in the U.S. In the United Kingdom, it means a kind of oat cake, baked rather than pan-fried, and often incorporating dried fruit. Wendy's dad had taught her how to make lumberjack flapjacks: flour, some oat bran, beaten eggs, buttermilk, melted butter, some sugar, and usually chopped dried apples or raisins, and fried up thick in a hot skillet.

While Wendy mixed the batter, Dipper quickly zapped half a dozen potatoes in the microwave, then peeled and chopped them. He added a mild chopped onion and put them into a big hot cast-iron skillet with just enough oil. As they started to sizzle, he added a second big skillet and started the link sausages.

Mabel bopped in from having visited her pigs and approved of the menu. Soos, Little Soos, and Abuelita and Harmony showed up. Stan asked, "Hey, Soos, OK if I take a turn as Mr. Mystery this morning?"

"Sure Mr. P—I mean, sure, Stan!" Soos said enthusiastically. "Hey, the crowds are pickin' up again, so the Gnomes will be here to do their dance. Don't forget to tell the people on the Mystery Tram that they can see them at fifteen minutes past the hour from ten until twelve and then from two until five."

"Got it," Stan said. "Who wants coffee?"

All the adults except Melody. Abuelita often drank tea, but coffee with a couple of spoons of brown sugar—always brown, she had individual tastes—and a big sprinkle of cinnamon was her standing order when she wanted coffee. Unless it was her after-dinner treat, Mexican coffee, that featured Kahlua, tequila and vanilla ice cream. Stan took his coffee black, no sugars this time—he'd gained about five pounds over the summer and Sheila wanted him to be careful, so he was doing that. Mabel, Wendy, and Dipper all wanted a dollop of whole milk, no sugar. Soos took everything, dawg—cinnamon, regular sugar, milk, a shot of vanilla flavoring, and if he remembered it, coffee.

"These are so good!" Abuelita said after one bite of the flapjacks. "So dulce, but they stick to the ribs, no?"

Wendy laughed. "Yeah, my Dad says a breakfast like this can keep a logger goin' all day!"

"Mabel, don't give Tripper people food," Dipper said.

She was cutting a sausage link into little bits and tossing them, keeping score by how many stayed in the cone, two points a shot. "But he likes it!" she said.

"Tell him to sit," Stan said.

Mabel gave the command, and Tripper sat.

"Now take one of those sausage bits and balance it in his nose."

"Really?"

"Trust me, kid. Try it."

Mabel did, as Stan commanded, "Stay . . . stay. . . ."

"Will he wait for the command?" Mabel asked.

"Oh, yeah. Tell him whenever you want."

"Get it!" Mabel said, and she laughed as Tripper did the nose-toss and expert smacking catch. "He's so smart!"

Everybody fussed over Tripper while Dipper, Mabel, and Wendy washed, dried, and put away the breakfast things. "Teek comin' over?" Wendy asked Mabel.

"Well, yeah. He still works here!" Mabel said. "He'll be in around ten. I guess I'll start on the second gift-shop register until we see how big the crowds will get. If they're not all that big, I'll find something else to do."

Wendy pinned on her gold employee badge—Wendy, Asst Mgr—and Dipper his—Dipper, Sales. At her own request, Mabel's read Mabel, Wndr Grl. Soos and Stan, as Museum Guide and Mr. Mystery respectively, didn't need no stinking badges.

"Heads up," Wendy said as she looked out the gift-shop door window at about three minutes to nine. "The Oregoner and the Columbian tourist buses just pulled in out there, and they look packed."

"Here we go!" Mabel crowed. "Let's make this a lucky Saturday the Thirteenth, everybody!"

"Oy," her Grunkle complained. "Don't you start in on that, too!"

While the Pines group dealt with a big flood of tourists, down in town Tats was just getting back to the Skull Fracture from his breakfast in Greasy's Diner. He unlocked the back door and went into the bar, checking to make sure everything would be ready by opening time, eleven. It looked pretty good. Floors were clean, no broken glass or little puddles of blood or other fluid underfoot.

He opened a box-store large economy size can of mixed nuts and filled the nut bowls. He made sure the ice maker was working—it had been cranky during the hottest days, but it held a mountain of crescent-shaped cubes now, enough for the day's business.

Then he stopped, his head tilted, and he looked up at the ceiling. There it was again.

"Plumbin'," he muttered. "Gotta be."

The sounds had come and gone over the past week. Never loud. Just a slow, stately thumping, as if someone in soft shoes were walking back and forth on the floor above. Back to front and then return, over and over.

But he'd checked the Lodge Hall and the rest of the second floor, and no one was there. And from there he didn't hear the sounds.

Then, dang it, as soon as he started downstairs, there they were again, thump . . . thump . . . thump.

"Best get Gillis to take a look tonight after the meeting," Tats told himself Tim Gillis was a plumber and also a Striped Mackerel, about halfway up the ranks. If Tats could get Milt and Stan to agree, he might promise Gillis a Lodge promotion in lieu of money if Gillis would track down the loose pipe it was that made the slow walking sound.

Had to be plumbing. Couldn't be a person. Couldn't be a, well, ghost.

Naw.

'Course not.

Couldn't be.