AHMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Right about then the drug emporium's front door opened and some lady yoo-hooed for help. Rutherford waved for Archibald to head out front and see to the customer.

  "Hold on,” the sheriff said. “I got a couple a quick questions for your man here, and then he can go sell your lozenges. So you talked to the ghost before connecting it up to Cedric, right?"

  "Had to,” Archibald reluctantly agreed.

  "What'd it have to say?"

  "He asked to speak to Cedric. Real polite like."

  "So it was a he?"

  "Think so, though it's hard to tell on these things. Most everyone who owns one is hard of hearing and generally shouts and the connections ain't much good, crackle all the time, ‘specially if it's storming."

  "All right, all right,” the sheriff said, not liking all the excuses. “Answer me this. Can you at least tell where it was calling from?"

  "Not unless I recognize the voice."

  The sheriff ground his teeth a bit before saying, “How about this. Could you tell whether it was the same ghost calling every time?"

  Archibald hemmed and hawed a bit before admitting, “Not for sure."

  "Well thanks for muddying the waters up as much as you could,” the sheriff said. “As big a help as you've been, maybe you should get on with your drugstore work."

  Archibald took those lumps kind of hard and shoved off toward the front of the store as best he could. Soon as he was gone, the sheriff turned to Rutherford and whispered, “Can he be trusted?"

  "What kind of a question's that?” Rutherford boomed back.

  "The kind a sheriff has to ask from time to time."

  That soured the druggist plenty but did drag out the following confession in a somewhat lower voice, “If you ask me, he's too dang-blamed trustworthy. Got to count everything three ways from Sunday to make sure it's accurate, that's Archibald's way."

  "Fair ‘nough,” the sheriff allowed. “Joe,” he went on, giving me a start because I'd almost forgotten I was part of the party, “you got any questions?"

  Figuring I had to say something or risk looking a complete fool, I come out with, “You ever use this switchboard?"

  "'Course,” Rutherford blared. “If Archibald's out making deliveries, I have to. And a fat lot of bother it is too. I can't hardly hear what they're saying."

  "So Archibald handles most of it?” I said. “'Specially at night?"

  "That's right. Why do you think I let him live back here for free?"

  "All right, Joe,” the sheriff butted in, “I think that's enough of that. No need to get the citizenry all up in arms. Why don't you head over to the boneyard and see if there's any ghosts who'll confess to this business. And if you strike out there, well, check up on all the other spooks with access to one of these telephones. I'll catch up to you later, after I ask Rutherford here a couple of questions about something ailing me."

  Ailing my foot. He was hoping to pry something out that'd give him an edge in cracking this case before me, so when I stepped out of the back room, I didn't go far, about two feet was all, and kept an ear cocked for what the sheriff was fishing for. To my disappointment, all I heard him say was, “Rutherford, I've been having some problems with rats to home and the missus is scared to death of them."

  Thinks I, that's the first I've heard of Mrs. Becky being scared of anything that walks God's green earth.

  "You got anything on the premises that could handle such varmints?” the sheriff asked. “Other than traps, I mean. I'm always forgetting where I put those blame things and stepping on them."

  Thinks I, Hard to step on anything when you're all the time napping.

  When Rutherford told him they had some poison that ought to do the trick, the sheriff wanted to know all about it, and if it worked on all kinds of rats, and if he had any recent customers who could recommend it to him, so I guessed he really did have rat problems. I didn't stay around to hear the rest of his woes because just then I noticed who Archibald was helping up front. When he and his customer stepped out from behind a cabinet, I caught sight of the sheriff's wife Becky. She didn't seem to be after any rat poison though. It appeared that she and Archibald were chortling about something pleasanter than rats.

  Seeing someone enjoy a chat with Mrs. Becky was something of a novelty. Pestilence and drought were usually more her kind of meat. Why, I would almost swear that I heard her tittering like a schoolgirl. I had my doubts that she'd ever made such a sound as that even when she'd been a schoolgirl. And then she turned and left, though not before she curtsied and Archibald bowed, as if they'd just agreed on something.

  Needless to say, I was on fire to learn more about that, but when I buttonholed Archibald, he turned all red and forgetful, which left me only one choice—trying to pry something out of the sheriff's wife. I'd almost talked myself into doing it, too, when I heard the sheriff and Rutherford stepping out of the back room. I took wing before the sheriff got a chance to ask what I was about.

  Once outside, I caught sight of Mrs. Becky heading home, so I turned the other way, not wanting to draw attention to my interest in her, and ducked around the nearest corner. My getaway wasn't clean though. Still looking behind me, I ran smack into the survey crew that had for the last week been trying to find the best place to stretch another railroad bridge across the river and bring Marquis into the twentieth century, same as Mr. Bell and his telephones were all a-pant to do. What with the considerable problems they were having driving stakes into river muck, those surveyors weren't a happy bunch to begin with, and my knocking over one of their tripods didn't improve their mood, nor mine, because all the cursing that followed drew the sheriff right to us.

  "Injun Joe,” the sheriff bawled out, “don't you dare punch that man. What's wrong with you? I thought I warned you not to go knocking anybody into the next county again. And anyway, didn't I tell you to head over to the cemetery? And you there. Yes, you. I wouldn't plan on hitting my deputy over the back of the head with that stake, not unless you want to break the stake and spend the next six months in our hoosegow eating my wife's cooking, I wouldn't. We take a dim view of assaulting a lawman in these parts, particularly since Joe here's the only man I got who's big enough and brave enough to tackle a ghost. In case you haven't heard, we're right in the middle of a murder investigation here."

  That got me turned loose, along with several mouthfuls of smart talk about how they wouldn't want to interfere with any lawman that brave, though they didn't seem to care two figs about my size. They weren't any pipsqueaks themselves. But I didn't pay them much mind, not busy as I was wondering why the sheriff both was talking me up and doing his best to send me on my way. Mighty fishy. It got me to wondering if he was trying to get rid of me so that he could check out something himself. Thinking we'd see about that, I headed for the cemetery, only to double back to main street as soon as I was out of sight. I got there just in time to watch him duck into the law office of Etheline Spavin's nephew, Perry Woodley.

  Often as the sheriff dispenses free legal advice, I supposed it was possible he was dropping in there to discuss the fine points of the law. But I doubted it. The only opinion that ever counted with that man was his own, so I guessed that what he was really up to was having a word with Perry about his Aunty Etheline and that ghost.

  I settled in with the loafers mooching chaws out front of the general store, waiting to see what might happen next. Ten minutes shoved off before the sheriff left the law office and headed straight to the Spavins’ riverbank mansion, where Miss Etheline was parked on her front veranda with Molly McIntosh riding shotgun and the usual assortment of cats who had the run of the place rubbing against their legs and bedding down in their laps.

  The story of how Miss Etheline came to be wheelchair bound is wrapped in the mists of time, though most every explanation that pokes its head out of those mists says that her mother's ghost pushed her off the same widow's walk that she did a swan dive from herself. The poor lady must have been terribly lonely in the Herea
fter to pull such a stunt as that.

  For most of the next hour the sheriff sipped some of Miss Etheline's famous tea and still managed to walk a straight line when he pushed off. That tea was known to be doctored with enough medicine to double the glow of a sunset. It had enticed many a dry throat and lonely soul to her door.

  From there the sheriff headed to the reverend's for a word with Alfreda. Of course, words were cheaper by the dozen with her, and she was still flinging them after him as he left. I could hear most of them fine from the tree I'd climbed up. She'd made up quite a list of the dearly departed who were buried out her front door but might still bear the world they'd left behind a grudge. As for my finding out about those ghosts, well, that had to wait until after dark anyway, didn't it?

  * * * *

  That night I started at the cemetery. Soon as Alfreda Scrim saw me at the gate she came charging out to let me know which ghosts I ought to be arresting. Her list of suspects seemed to include an awful lot of folks who'd never given her the time of day whilst they were still among the living. It took her an hour or two to fill me in on all that, but her jaw eventually tired and she left me alone to do my job. I had some pretty one-sided conversations with a headstone or two before everything came to a stop because a low, gargly voice was calling out, "Injun Joe-e-e-e-e." So I knew the sheriff was hiding somewhere nearby and trying to have himself a little fun.

  "What?” I asked, casual like, hoping that I sounded as if I had graveyard voices talking to me daily.

  "You're needed back in town."

  Soon as I got back to the jailhouse, I found out why. Archibald Dewitt was fluttering around worse than a moth with singed wings. It seems the ghost had been telephoning again.

  "To who?” I asked, on the grumpy side, I'm afraid, ‘cause another reason for the sheriff flushing me out of the graveyard had now presented itself. He knew Archibald was on the prowl and wanted me to handle it.

  "Molly McIntosh."

  "Well, we better get on over there then,” I said, shoving past him.

  "She ain't home,” he told me.

  That put a stop to my rushing off. “How's that?"

  "She didn't answer her phone."

  That's when I started running, fearing the worst, which was exactly what I found when I got to Molly's place. She was stretched out on the kitchen floor, a glass of spilt milk beside her, one hand reached out toward her telephone as if it was still ringing, and a look of midnight terror stretching out her wrinkled face. “You're running out of folks to call,” I said, speaking up so the spirit could hear me, though he or she never bothered answering.

  Thanks to Archibald spreading the alarm, the sheriff and Mrs. Becky soon joined me, followed by Alfreda and the reverend, Rutherford in his nightshirt, and last of all Etheline in her wheelchair came humping along, pushed by her nephew. Sheriff Huck took me aside to say, “I'll handle this bunch. I want you to keep after this ghost before it gets an urge to talk to someone else."

  * * * *

  The rest of the night turned out to be longer than a ten-mile hike in tight boots. While the sheriff shooed everyone back to bed, I spent a couple of hours lurking around the McIntosh lumberyard without catching so much as a whiff of the night watchman, who supposedly trailed a smoky scent wherever he haunted. I did, however, discover that the yard's back gate had been left ajar. That was the first I'd ever heard of a ghost needing to open a gate to go through it.

  From there I ambled on past the Dewitt Drug Emporium, but all was quiet. Too quiet, if you asked me. I half expected to spot the two young ghosts who had been Rutherford's brothers playing leapfrog out front, but I didn't catch so much as a flicker of them. What I did get an eyeful of was a white horse galloping down main street. Its eyes might have been blazing. I couldn't tell for sure because I was so busy watching the rider's sword swoosh through the night air. His blade cut the moonlight to shreds and left me pressed against a dark wall, holding my breath for all I was worth.

  Against my better judgment, I struck out after him. On foot, of course. I didn't have time to wake up my old nag, fling a saddle on her, and give chase, which was just as well. I wasn't completely sold on catching up to any apparitions. Just seeing the general direction he was headed was more than enough to satisfy me, and besides, as I was tiptoeing after him, I noticed a light still burning at Etheline Spavin's. Usually her place was dark as the river.

  I was beginning to get the notion that I might have been missing a thing or two on my nightly rounds. Keeping that in mind, I checked up and down the street, then crept up to the lighted window to make sure everything was safe and sound with Etheline. I found myself staring at a bedside oil lamp and an empty wheelchair, but I never got a chance to figure out if she was tucked in for the night. A flutter and chill drew my eyes upward first, toward the widow's walk. With a lurch, I found myself gazing at a cloaked figure I'd never noticed before, only heard of.

  For a few twitchy heartbeats that hooded thing and me stood there staring at each other as if one of us owed the other money. That ended when someone screeched behind me. Naturally I whipped around, expecting to find the horseman bearing down on me. But except for moonlight, the street was empty. The screech kept on going, though, sounding awful high and thin to belong to a cavalry captain swinging a sword. Slowly it dawned on me that it might not be a screech but the work of an opera singer trying to tackle a high C. Whoever it was held the note long enough to make the whole night seem about to shatter and come crashing down. The note stretched out thinner and thinner until almost gone. By then I could barely separate it from the rustling of the last few leaves still clinging to the trees. And then it cut off. Everything went back to being still as the instant before you fall asleep.

  Rechecking the widow's walk, I found the cloaked figure gone, and just as I lowered my eyes to the window I'd been peering through, the oil lamp inside got snuffed out, leaving me with nothing to look at but black. I raised a hand to rap on the glass and call out to Miss Etheline, but thought better. How was I ever going to explain what I was doing peeking in a lady's bedroom window?

  Instead, I listened until hearing the rustle of bedsheets. Satisfied all was safe, I pushed off toward the cemetery to see if any ghosts were cavorting out there. I thought there was a good chance there might be, seeing as how that's the direction the horseman had galloped off.

  When I got there a thin layer of mist hung over the gravestones, but nothing was stirring, unless you counted the tail of Preacher Scrim's horse, which happened to be white and tied up to the cemetery's gate. When I ran a hand over its flank, I found it'd worked up a fine lather, but a quick glance toward the parsonage told me everything was quiet there.

  That summed up my night, though I figured I'd found out enough to make the sheriff think twice about ever sending me after ghosts again.

  * * * *

  The next day, about noon, I rolled out of the jail cell where I sleep, stretched and scratched, and headed down to Lady Small's Café for lunch. The proprietress clanked a cup of coffee down in front of me as if mad at the world, which was unusual, considering what a cheery chatterbox she was. Normally she never got tired of telling me about her days as a circus performer who'd warbled and taken bows before the crowned heads of Europe. She had a photo mounted on the wall to prove it too. Just listening to her call out an order to her cook was worth the price of a meal. When I asked what'd flown up her nose today, she patted her throat and grimaced as if coming down with the first cold of the season, though she didn't seem to have any sniffles. Still, whatever she had didn't sit well. You could tell she was just dying to ask me about all the ghosts that were scaring half the town to death. But sore as her throat was, she didn't have any choice but to let her other customers pester me half to death about what was going on.

  They did a bang-up job of it, too, throwing up questions and possibilities fast as I could knock them down. Hard as they went at it, you didn't need a newspaper reporter to tell you that the whole town was in an upro
ar. To eat my meal in peace, I had to pick up my roast beef sandwich and leave, though as I was easing out the door, I couldn't resist letting slip that they could all rest easy because the sheriff was pretty close to making an arrest. So far as I knew he wasn't any closer to that than Sisyphus was to getting his rock up that hill, and now he'd have everyone hounding him to reveal what he had up his sleeve. Maybe that'd teach him to go whispering my name around a graveyard.

  And then, wouldn't you know, I began to wonder if the scoundrel might actually be onto something he wasn't sharing. He'd sicced me after those ghosts awful quick and seemed to be finding time to have some fun to boot. Unable to shake the idea that he was holding out on me, I headed toward his house to find out what he'd been up to.

  I didn't bother knocking at the front door but slipped directly around back to the sheriff's shed, where I found him whittling a hickory stick down to nothing. That was never a good sign, though at least all his fingers were still attached.

  "Deputy Joe,” he said, sulking the way he did whenever he and his missus had been chawing on each other, “I'm thinking we'd better gather the interested parties together tonight so's we can make the telephones of Marquis, Iowa, safe again. I'll leave it to you to let everyone know. And, Deputy, in case you're wondering, that includes my missus. She'll probably take it better from you. Let's tell them to meet at Etheline Spavin's place, shall we? You know how hard it is for her to move about, especially so late. Tell ‘em a little before midnight. And order up a storm if you can. For drama."

  I never got a chance to try and talk my way out of it. Tossing what was left of his whittling aside, he pushed off for main street before I could, saying he had a loose thread or two to pull together. Perhaps. Just as likely, he was clearing out fast before I tackled Mrs. Becky. All well and good because I was still wondering what her and Archibald Dewitt had been so thick about down at the drug emporium.