Murder Can Haunt Your Handiwork

by Rose Pressey

  “Psst.”

  I checked over my shoulder to see if someone was trying to get my attention. No one was back there. It must’ve been my imagination. No sooner had I turned around than the noise came again. Okay, I was sure I heard it that time. It was definitely not my imagination, but no one was nearby. This was strange.

  “Did you hear that, Van?” I asked.

  He licked my cheek. That wasn’t a direct answer. It was more like a can-we-go-for-a-treat-now response.

  “Over here,” a male voice said.

  I spun around. That had definitely been someone talking, but I saw no one. Was someone playing tricks on me?

  “Caleb, is that you?”

  I wouldn’t put it past him to try a trick like that. He was somewhat of a prankster, but this wasn’t funny. After all, there had been a murder at the estate, so that meant I was a wee bit on edge. When Caleb didn’t respond, I grew even more nervous. It didn’t sound like my brothers’ voices, either. However, maybe they were trying to disguise their voices so that they could play a trick on me, too.

  I placed my hand on my hip. “Is that you, Stevie or Hank? If it’s you guys, I’m gonna let you have it. No joking around.”

  “Over here,” the male voice repeated.

  I whirled around again, but still no one was in sight.

  “I’m not playing this game anymore,” I yelled out. “And I don’t think it’s funny.”

  “Over here,” the voice said, even louder this time.

  “Do you need help?” I asked. “Because if so, you need to tell me where ‘over here’ is. I can’t see you.”

  “Over here,” he said again, as if he were becoming agitated with me.

  He wasn’t the only one agitated. I stepped over to a nearby tree and anxiously peeked around the edge. There was no one hiding behind it.

  “Well, if you can’t tell me where ‘over here’ is or what you want, I’ll just have to ignore you.”

  “Don’t go,” the male voice said.

  This was really starting to creep me out. It sent shivers along my spine. Van barked and growled, as if he sensed or saw something that I didn’t.

  “Is someone hiding, Van?” I asked.

  He growled while staring right at a nearby tree.

  “Is someone behind that tree?” I asked.

  It wasn’t a large tree, so I wasn’t sure how anyone could use its trunk to conceal their presence. Regardless, I walked over and peeked behind it. There was no one there.

  “Okay, that’s it, I’m done with this,” I said in frustration. I would act as if I hadn’t heard the person trying to get my attention. “Let’s get out of here, Van. At least we have a name to start with, so something productive came of my conversation. We need to track down Deidre right away.”

  “Who’s Deidre?” the male voice asked.

  I spun and tumbled backward, landing on my bottom, when I realized the man from my portrait was standing right there. He wore the same dark, gray-striped suit as in the portrait. The jacket fit slightly loose, with wide lapels and a three-button closure. A matching vest peeked out from under his jacket, with a white dress shirt underneath. The thin, richly jewel-toned maroon tie finished his stylish outfit. Van barked and licked my face. That was his way of making sure I was all right. The man seemed just as real as any other person at the craft fair.

  I was speechless. I should have been used to this, because it had happened in the past, but every time was just as shocking as the first. Even though I had somewhat expected a ghost to appear again at some point, I was never really prepared. He stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  I couldn’t answer his question about who Deidre was until I knew who he was. Why did he want to know, anyway? Did he have something to do with the murder? Perhaps he’d been in the estate at the time.

  A deep line was entrenched between his eyebrows. “Well, oddly enough, my name has slipped from memory.”

  “Oh no. That’s terrible,” I said as I climbed up from the ground.

  Was he being truthful or just trying to hide his identity? I suppose I would have to push for more details. Since I was still fairly new to all this paranormal stuff, I had to keep my guard up. I had no idea if I could trust a ghost to tell the truth.

  “Was that you trying to catch my attention?” I asked.

  “Yes, that was none other than me. I apologize. You see, I’m trying to figure out how this afterlife business works. I could see you, but you couldn’t see me. Not at the moment, obviously. All of a sudden, poof . . .” He waved his arm. “Here I am, right before your eyes. You heard me before seeing me.”

  “Oh yes, I guess that was dramatic for you,” I said.

  “I’m just glad it worked out. I was beginning to panic,” he said.

  He was beginning to panic? I was pretty much always in a panic, wondering when a ghost would pop up. I had my answer . . . here was another one. Was he coming from another dimension, and it took a while to fully form into a person that I could see? And how long would he be here? Would he disappear in the next few minutes, or was he here permanently?

  “For years I’ve been trying to get someone to see me. You came along and painted me. I was drawn to you because of that. I sensed that you could see me if I tried hard enough to come through.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I said.

  I waited until a few people walked by to continue talking, because I didn’t want them to see me talking to myself. I assumed they couldn’t see the ghost. However, I had no way of knowing for sure unless I asked, and that wasn’t happening. I could just see it now: me asking strangers if they saw the man I was talking to, and all they saw was a little dog at my feet.

  My best friend, Samantha—or Sammie as everyone calls her—had seen the last ghost that came around, so I knew it was sometimes possible for others to see the ghosts. I suppose they had to have a trace of a sixth sense, as well. Sammie was open to that kind of thing, so it was no wonder that she saw the ghosts sometimes, too. Now that the group of people had walked away, I focused my attention on the ghost again. He was waving at Van as Van wagged his tail.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “From your painting, of course,” he said. “That’s all I know.”

  “Of course,” I said with a click of my tongue.

  Van ran in circles again and wagged his tail in excitement. I’d never seen him this happy to meet a stranger. This behavior was usually reserved for when he wanted a treat. I studied the man’s face as he watched Van. He appeared just as he had in the painting, with a receding hairline and a gray beard that was not in a current style. Instead of hair on the chin, there were large sideburns along the sides of his face. Could I get him to share any other details he might remember about his life? If he couldn’t recall his name, he likely couldn’t remember anything else. Nonetheless, I’d give it a shot and ask.

  “Are you from the area?” I pressed.

  I sounded as if I were talking to another tourist. This whole exchange was awkward. Too bad there wasn’t a book on how to chitchat with a ghost. And not by a séance, but in a one-on-one conversation. Something that would help me with what questions to ask would be nice.

  “Yes, I am attached to this estate,” he said, puffing his chest out proudly.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  Information like that should be something easy to research. Why was he attached to the estate? Had he lived here? Had he worked here? Now that I thought about it, a Vanderbilt had built this place. Yes, that was right . . . William Vanderbilt had built the mansion. Perhaps I should ask if that was his name.

  “Is your name William Vanderbilt?” I asked.

  He stared blankly at me, and suddenly, his eyes lit up. “Yes, that’s it—William.”

  Wow. I was talking to a Vanderbilt. Sammie would never believe this. Well, actually, no one would believe this, and I wouldn’t blame them, because it was crazy. No way would I te
ll my family about this. My brothers teased me enough already. No need to provide them with ammunition. I had a famous ghost coming through from the great beyond. Maybe I needed to paint Elvis Presley and see if he’d visit.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Vanderbilt?” I asked.

  “That I do not know,” he said.

  Another mystery for me to unravel. We stared at each other, unsure of what to say next. Would Mr. Vanderbilt hang around with me? How odd would that be?

  “What is your name, young lady?” he asked.

  Oh no. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t introduced myself. How rude of me.

  “My name is Celeste Cabot, and this is Van.” I gestured.

  Van circled again and wagged his tail.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Mr. Vanderbilt said with a smile.

  “I was just taking Van for a walk,” I said.

  “You never answered my question,” he said.

  “What question is that?”

  “Who is Deidre?”

  “Oh, right. She’s a friend of someone who was murdered here today.” I watched his face for a reaction.

  “Murdered here at the Biltmore Mansion?” he asked with shock in his voice.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Travel Trailer Tip 7:

  Embrace the small space; don’t fight it.

  There’s enough fighting with others. You

  don’t want to fight with yourself, too.

  The sun shimmered across a shiny silver trailer as it pulled up to the arts and crafts fair. Another late arrival. Chirping birds perched on the branches of the nearby oak tree. It sounded as if they wanted to be a part of the conversation with the ghost, as well. A feather-soft breeze tickled my face. I still tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I was outside, talking to a spirit I’d painted.

  “I had hoped you might be here to give me information about the murder,” I said to the ghost. “Maybe you witnessed something inside the estate.”

  “Good heavens, no. I think I would remember seeing something so violent. Though I suppose my memory is a tad foggy, isn’t it?” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger.

  “Yes, just a smidgen,” I said. “Maybe you’ll recall.”

  He cast his gaze downward at his shiny black lace-up boots. “Perhaps. Who was murdered?”

  “A woman who works here. I found her body,” I said.

  “How awful.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “They don’t know who did it?” he asked.

  “No, but that’s what I’d like to find out,” I said.

  “That sounds dangerous,” he said.

  I would have loved to stay in the great outdoors and chitchat with him, but I really needed to find the woman’s friend. And I had no idea where to start with that.

  “Well, I need to find this woman, Deidre Ashley,” I said. “So I should be going.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Where are we going?”

  I had a feeling he would say that.

  “I suppose I can check for her address,” I said.

  “That sounds like a daunting task,” he said. “Wherever will you start?”

  I pulled out my phone. “I’ll Google it.”

  I typed in the woman’s name.

  “You’ll what it?” he asked with confusion.

  “I’ll search online,” I added.

  “On what?” he asked.

  “I know you’re a ghost, but haven’t you been snooping around and watching people? They hold these telephones in their hands. Like tiny computers on the go?”

  “A computer?” His brow pinched together.

  “I suppose you have no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “I’ve seen them holding those things up to their faces, but I had no idea what they were,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “Well, I don’t have time to go into much detail, but basically you can type in anything you want to know, and you’ll get your answer.” I held up the phone so that he could see.

  “Amazing,” he said.

  “Yes, it is amazing,” I said.

  Naturally, I’d done my research before I’d come here for the craft fair. Based on my findings, I knew that the estate was the largest private residence and a national historic landmark.

  “What about me? Can you find out anything about me on that contraption?” Mr. Vanderbilt asked.

  “I suppose I could try.”

  I’d never anticipated needing to research Mr. Vanderbilt. Later, I’d discover that my research on him had been all wrong. I did a quick search on my phone as Mr. Vanderbilt watched in anticipation.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “You opened the house on Christmas Eve, 1895.”

  “That sounds about right,” he said.

  I read down for further information. “You married June 1, 1890.”

  “Hmm, I don’t remember that. Was she beautiful?”

  “I’m sure of it,” I said with a smile. “That was in Paris, France. None of this is coming back to you?”

  “No, not really,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said through pursed lips. “Well, let me read more and see if I can possibly spark more of your memories.”

  Mr. Vanderbilt paced. I figured he was anxious to hear what I discovered. If he didn’t stop pacing, though, I might be too nervous to even continue.

  “Your daughter was born on August 22, 1900.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “None of this is clicking with you?”

  “No, not really,” he said.

  “She was married in April 1924.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Okay, you were involved in overseeing the care of the Biltmore house.”

  “Well, that would make sense, considering I owned the home,” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose it would, wouldn’t it? Maybe this information will come back to you soon. Once it has time to settle in your mind.”

  “That’s probably what will happen,” he said with a forced smile.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll just enjoy your company.”

  Not that I cared having Mr. Vanderbilt around, but it was distracting having a ghost following me. Nevertheless, I wanted to help him if there were some reasons why he was still hanging around. Maybe I could figure that out, and he could move on to the next dimension.

  “Did you find out what you need to know about the woman?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I found an address. I don’t know if it’s correct, but it’s some place to start.” I pointed at my phone.

  “It can’t hurt to try, can it?” he asked.

  “I won’t even answer that question, because I’ve had bad luck in the past with wrong decisions. Just when I think something is a good idea, it turns out to be the opposite.”

  “That’s a shame,” he said with a click of his tongue.

  “We’ll drive over in my truck,” I said.

  I knew he wouldn’t let me go alone. Mr. Vanderbilt followed me as I carried Van toward my pink F-1. Yellow and red flowers lined the stone path that led to the parking lot. Trees on either side swayed with the warm, gentle breeze.

  “Do you take the dog with you everywhere?” he asked.

  “Not everywhere. Sometimes he gets tired and likes to take naps. If some place is dangerous, I won’t take him.”

  “What if the place today is dangerous?”

  “If I think it is dangerous, I’m not going anywhere near it. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said.

  Soon, we reached my truck. The sun bounced off the shiny chrome, and the pink color stood out like a puff of cotton candy.

  “It’s pink,” Mr. Vanderbilt said.

  “Yes, it is pink,” I said with a smile. “I love pink.”

  “I’ve seen these things before, but I’ve never been in one,” he said.

 
; “Well, I guess this will be your first time.” I opened the driver’s side truck door and motioned for him to get in.

  He tried to open the door just like me, but his hand went right through the truck’s door.

  “I think you could just move right through it without opening the door,” I said. “But I’m no paranormal expert.”

  He made a running lunge for the truck and slipped right in. What would happen, though? Would he be able to sit in the truck? It sure seemed as if it would work out that way.

  “That was a pretty cool trick,” I said.

  “Thanks for the tip,” he said, giving me a thumbs-up.

  He sat there just like any living human. When I first saw a ghost do this, I figured they would just fall right through the seat, like when Mr. Vanderbilt tried to open the door. Once again, though, I didn’t understand all the paranormal stuff and how it worked. After I slipped behind the wheel, Van sat next to me. He had love in his eyes for Mr. Vanderbilt. I’d never seen Van make a friend so quickly. I turned the truck’s ignition and shifted it into gear.

  “I hope this is a successful visit,” Mr. Vanderbilt said as he took in the scenery.

  “Me too.” With the truck in reverse, I tapped the gas and backed out of the spot.

  Soon, we were on the road and headed to our destination. Within seconds, I noticed a black car following me. It was the same one that had gotten me the speeding ticket. No way! I wasn’t going to let the driver get by with it this time, although I had no idea what I would do to stop her. I didn’t want to talk to her about the murder, but I didn’t want her following me, either.

  “I can’t believe she’s following me again,” I said.

  After noticing me checking the rearview mirror, Mr. Vanderbilt peered over his shoulder. “Who is following you?”

  “A reporter. She wants to know more about the murder. But I’m not talking to her!”

  “Just ignore her,” he said in a raised voice.

  “I would ignore her, but I don’t want her to know what I’m up to and where I’m headed. She should just leave me alone. I only found the dead woman. I had nothing to do with the murder.”