People flung themselves out of their seats and scuttled to different corners of Sonya’s pretty parlor. The people who stayed put were Sonya, Noah, and Julia. Even if Noah had wanted to run, he couldn’t. Both of Julia’s arms were wrapped around his neck, and she was sitting completely in his lap. To be sure, Noah was equally scared but unable to do much about it.
“Everyone settle down!” Sonya called out to her scurrying guests. “She thinks Dale knows where Ryan is. If you will all be calm, I will talk with her. Please come back and we can finish this session.”
Marnie, who was standing by the grand piano, went over and collected Dale. She dragged him back to his chair and promised him tomorrow would be a free day off if he’d sit down and be a man. Ashen-faced from his scare, he put his hand down near the space of the chair he was supposed to occupy to make sure that nothing else was already there.
“Poppy,” Sonya asked, “what were you and Ricky, your husband, arguing about before you passed to the other side?”
Poppy didn’t hesitate. “Money, Ricky wanted to know where the money was my family hid in the house. I don’t know and I told him so. He was angry, and where is Ryan?”
Sonya knew what she had to do. Ghosts were lost without the ones they loved and Poppy needed to see Ryan again or, at least, know he was fine.
“Poppy, Ryan is still alive. He lives here in Willow Valley. If you will let me, I will make sure you see him, but you must promise to behave properly.”
Nothing and no one moved in the room for a few brief seconds. Poppy’s voice full of longing finally answered. “I understand.”
“If Fritz comes back for you tomorrow, will you come again to this house if I promise to help you?” Sonya said with gentleness.
“Yes, but I don’t want to go back to the house. It’s so lonely and dark there.” Poppy sniffled again.
“You don’t have to go back, Poppy. Is there a special place you liked when you were alive? Remember, you must be respectful of living people,” and with a look at Dale, she continued, “they’re often scared by over-zealous ghostly attention.”
“I like it here,” came the weak reply.
“Stay with me then until you learn a few things, but don’t scare my dog, Willard. He’s already got Fritz to deal with, and that’s enough for any terrier.”
The energy that was Poppy faded from the room and soon no other unusual sounds were heard except the soft rolling thunder of the approaching storm.
“I think we’re done here, everyone. I hope it hasn’t been too much for any of you?” Sonya said raising herself up from her chair.
Her guests, a bit ashen in complexion, smiled weakly and began to rise. Having heard the sadness and loneliness in poor Poppy’s voice, they’d found their hearts opening to the dead woman’s plight. They each shook Sonya’s hand and wished her a good night.
“I hope Poppy gets on with it,” Dale said grudgingly. “I knew her and she was a beautiful woman. Sorry, to hear someone killed her.”
Sonya smiled warmly at Dale’s attempt at accepting a difficult new piece of understanding. “She’s going to be fine. I hope she chooses to pass over soon. Murder victims do better when they go on to God. They truly need the healing more than others.”
Dale smiled and patted Sonya on the shoulder. “Maybe you’re not a heathen, Godless woman, after all.”
Sonya burst out laughing good-naturedly. “I think you meant that as a compliment, Mr. Smith, so I’m taking it that way.”
“Call me Dale. It was one, and that’s enough of the touchy feely stuff. I’m dead beat. Gotta get home and shake this mumbo jumbo stuff off.”
Everyone piled back into the transport bus and waved goodbye. Sonya, feeling tired, made her way back up the front porch stairs and into the house. Locking the doors, she called for Willard and they soon were tucked into their soft beds. Right before she fell asleep, the spring thunderstorm broke over the distant hills and a soft rain tapped at her windows and pattered upon her roof. Perfect weather for a good night’s rest and if she’d ever needed one, tonight was the night.
Chapter 17
Next morning, Willard woke up, did a deep stretch, and trotted downstairs while Sonya slept unawares in her fluffy bed. He liked to take care of his business followed by a reconnaissance run around the perimeter of his territory. The garden never disappointed in the early hours right after the sun rose. Wet grass, cool air, earthy smells and hungry, busy squirrels were the enticements Willard hoped would be waiting for him in his doggy garden paradise.
The boys, Lewis and Clark, made it clear to Willard last night that the body in the pit belonged to the ghost. They’d watched the ghost come out of the pit and followed it to a burnt out house. It was for Willard to figure out a way to let Sonya know this vital bit of information.
Pushing his body through the doggy door located off the back utility porch, he was met by the fresh, misty air of the morning, making him snort at its wetness while he sniffed at each spot along his habitual route.
That’s when he heard it. The sound he’d come to loathe more than any other…the rasping, grating noise of four metal wheels rolling over the pavement along with one rubber-soled foot pounding the sidewalk in a rhythmic, drumming beat.
Willard went stiff. He turned his head, and his ears pricked up in an effort to focus all his canine senses on the approaching interloper. As if lifted from the sky above, his eager body took air and all four legs hit the ground at the same time springing him forward to the best spot along the garden fence to see The Boy on the Skateboard go by.
Out of the early morning fog, came Willard’s nemesis like a puffing dragon on a gliding, silver foot-machine. The Boy blew out warm air from his lungs, which hung momentarily in the crisp air. With great self-control, Willard waited for the perfect time to unleash his first attack: a spirited volley of surprise barking. Hunkered down below an enormous snowball bush, he watched for the wheels to come perfectly in line with his vision. But something caused the noisy wheels to halt and fall completely silent.
Willard dared not move. He sniffed the air from his hiding spot and sure enough, he picked up The Boy’s scent of cinnamon toast, wet sneakers, and hair gel. Somewhere, not more than ten feet from the garden’s white picket fence, The Skateboard Devil waited, most likely aware of Willard’s presence and feverish desire to set the score in his favor.
“Hey Willard, I know you’re in there and I have a treat for you. Tastes real good,” the boy baited.
Willard again let his nose test the particles on the air. He knew better than to move. The boy had tried this before and when Willard came out of his hiding spot, the spawn of evil had pretended to offer him a meat bone, but instead, quickly pelted him with eggs. Two baths later from the lady at the La Pooch Salon and with a demoralizing blue ribbon tied snuggly onto the top of his head, Willard wished for nothing more than to deal The Boy a worthy blow.
The air currents settled the smell of a spare rib bone wrapped in bacon onto Willard’s olfactory nerves. If you’re going to entice a dog you’ve already spurned once, you’d better go for the pinnacle of canine treats: pork.
“Maybe The Boy was good after all?” Willard thought to himself.
Dogs who’ve been treated well believe in the goodness of people. They give second, third, fourth and into infinity chances to humans. Willard’s nose sniffed and his mouth watered at the bribe. Soon, his four feet moved without assistance and with bright eyes, he emerged from his safe spot.
“There you are,” the boy said shooting glances around the garden and up at the windows of Sonya’s house. “I brought you something. Do you want it?” He dangled the smoky treat at Willard. “Come on over here. I’ll give you the whole thing.”
Out of nowhere, the boy’s skateboard stood up on its end and did a flashy twirl causing both Willard and his arch nemesis to turn their attention to the simple vehicle’s unnatural trick.
“Hey! What’s going on?” the boy said in a high-pitched voice, obviousl
y unnerved by his skateboard’s unusual exhibition. The bone he held limply in his sticky hand dropped to the ground and before Willard snatched it, it took flight again out into the brick-paved street and was lost down the storm sewer drain.
“You’re a pestilence, and if I ever see you on this street again, I’ll paint your face green, tie a tartan bow around your head, and make you dance a jig until your wee legs won’t be able to push that wheeled horror for at least a fortnight!”
Upon hearing the cursing voice, the boy’s mouth and eyes were about the same size, which meant all three were like round silver dollars. A blabber of nonsense gurgled from his dropped-jaw, and, like a cartoon character, he tried to take off from his spot on the sidewalk but stayed in one spot instead. A push was all he needed to get going. Fritz provided the necessary impetus with a great booming laugh, jump-starting the boy’s retreat. As fast as his young feet were capable of carrying him, down the street he ran. Willard watched him go.
Soon, Fritz partially materialized.
“The bone was a bad one, Willy. I lost a hunting dog to poison, so I know the smell. You might not have picked up on it until you’d already chomped on it a few times. I’ve got to be off, Willard. I think I’m going to teach our young chemist a lesson. Should be fun. I’ll see you later.”
Willard understood everything Fritz said. He owed the Laird of Dunbar his life, and dogs, if they’re anything at all, are loyal and grateful. To show his gratitude, he stood up on his hind feet and did an upper two-paw begging salute. Feeling a ghostly hand pat the top of his head, Willard attempted a lick but found nothing of a corporeal nature to apply his affection to. With Fritz’s departure, the lucky dog returned to the inside of the house to find Sonya already dressed and looking for her moped keys.
“Come on, Willy, we’ve got to go to town. I want to talk with the Sheriff about what we learned last night. Find your sweater. It’s actually a bit chilly outside.” She picked up the terrier and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “I love you, Willy. You’re my baby.”
And that, dear reader, is why Fritz is more heart than horror. He knows what matters to those he loves. No one messes with the Laird of Dunbar, or his family.
Sonya knew where to find Sheriff Walker that morning. She had, on occasion, seen him having his breakfast at Tilly’s Diner, the local coffee drinker’s hangout for Willow Valley. On any typical day, between the early hours of six o’clock and nine o’clock, a group of older men from various backgrounds would be at Tilly’s eating biscuits and gravy and drinking cup after cup of coffee at their favorite table known by most Willow Valleyians as Table Number Three.
What brought them in was the excellent food, but what kept them around were the bottomless cups of caffeine and heated discussions on everything from government news to the threat of recession. These farmers, tradesmen, and business owners loved nothing better than to talk about the graft in Washington, how the weather was different from last year (or not), and the ridiculous cost of everything.
It was into this oasis of good food and congenial company that Sonya arrived. Table Number Three’s voices dropped to a low murmur. She waved at Mr. Thomas, the owner of the feed store, who gave a brief nod in acknowledgment and a smile. There were some subtle whispers exchanged and some eyebrows raised among his tablemates. The word was already out about the events that took place last night at Sonya’s séance, but this was immediately forgotten when Marsha, the head waitress handed Earl Higginbotham, a longtime member of Table Three, his ticket.
“Marsha? You’ve got this ticket wrong. I had one cup of coffee this morning. You’ve charged me for two,” Earl pointed out.
“No mistake, Earl. We’ve raised out prices,” Marsha said walking away and leaving Table Three’s men looking shocked at this new revelation.
You should have heard the grumbling. Earl, who owned the Chevy car dealership and could well afford the seventy-five cent increase, pronounced he wouldn’t be paying extortionist prices for sub-grade coffee anymore. With a bang of his hand on the table, he declared he’d be drinking water from now on.
No one at Table Three offered a comment and, if truth be told, poor Earl realized a bit too late that he’d played the righteous indignation part a bit too strongly. As everyone knew, Tilly, the owner, easily heard everything from her perch on the barstool she sat on while frying food at the grill.
A response to Earl’s outburst didn’t take long in coming. The Diva of the Diner sashayed out of the kitchen bringing a chilling silence to the dining room. With a loud, ringing firmness, she set her own special coffee mug emblazoned with a picture of her grandson down on the counter bringing the entire dining area to order. Reverberations from the mug’s placement continued to hang in the air like the sound of a judge’s gavel after it had been struck against a block.
With a stiffness to their posture, the coffee boys each in their own time turned around to see Tilly standing there with a sour, no-nonsense look on her face. She blinked twice as if to bring her quarry into focus better. The waitress staff scuttled either into the back or found something to do, while the mute coffee guzzlers at Table Three made a diligent effort to search for possible hidden messages among the grounds clumped at the bottom of their cups.
“Earl, I think one good turn deserves another, don’t you?” Tilly slowly asked in her gravelly voice as she lowered her steady gaze upon him alone.
Earl lifted his head, and it should be said, with great strength of character he managed to utter a response. “Oh, what would that be, Tilly?”
No one moved. The place was deadly quiet. Tussling with Tilly was like taking on a female honey badger. Only masochists, the ignorant, or those suffering from hubris at their own worthiness ever attempted to tangle with Till. Everyone remembered how one time a man from California had come into the cafe and finding his Southern-style hot roast beef sandwich not up to par with the ones they made in California, he had the plate sent back to the kitchen with a high-handed condescending attitude toward Marsha, his waitress.
On that day, too, Till emerged from her kitchen with her iconic Camel cigarette dangling against all odds from the corner of her mouth and approached his table. Putting the returned meal back down in front of the man, she asked slowly what his problem was with his dinner.
“I didn’t get what I ordered. This,” he pointed to the plate in front of him in a lofty manner, “is not a roast beef sandwich like we eat in California. I won’t eat it, and I won’t pay for it.”
Tilly studied the obviously well-heeled Californian. Taking the half-smoked cigarette from her mouth and never losing eye contact with the obdurate, rude patron, she lowered her hand and stubbed the cigarette out in the steaming brown pool of gravy saying, “Well, that’s your problem isn’t it? You’re confused. This is Missouri, not California.”
Utterly flabbergasted, the man stood up to attempt a rebuttal, but that was the second bad move on his part that day. He raised his finger to point it at Tilly’s ponderous bosom, but, he, like Napoleon, never saw his Waterloo coming. Till took the perfectly white, damp kitchen towel she always wore around her neck and with excellent aim, she snapped him right in his prodigious paunch, throwing him completely off-guard.
He swore an oath, to be true, but no sooner was it out of his mouth than she had him by the back of his belt loops and was hustling him out the front door of the diner. At nearly six feet tall, he looked utterly ridiculous walking on his tippy toes as a woman two-thirds of his size hustled him from her establishment. He landed, luckily for him, on both feet while she, without a word, slammed the door to the diner in his face.
So, with that previous expulsion in mind, the boys at Table Three were sitting motionless as Tilly responded back to Earl’s question.
“I’m thinking about buying a new car, Earl, and I’d like to buy one from you. There’s one catch, though. I want it for the same price I would have paid for it five years ago.”
Earl’s chest thrust out in indignation. “Tilly, I…
I…can’t do that.”
She had him. Her gaze intensified on him, and she directed her voice in such a way that Earl didn’t have any trouble knowing it was him she was talking to.
“Why not? For the last ten years, you’ve sat on your back end every morning in this cafe paying for one cup of coffee and drinking five. If I do the math, at seventy-five cents times four, times three hundred, times ten, you probably owe me somewhere around nine thousand dollars for all that free coffee you’ve been drinking.”
Table Number Three did the mental calculations and realized Tilly was dead on. They waited to see what Earl would say. Clearing his throat, he said humbly, “You never asked us to pay for the extra coffee, Tilly.”
Tilly took a drink from her own coffee mug and replied with a shrug, “That’s the point, Earl. I am now. The price has gone up. If you don’t want to pay seventy-five cents more for a bottomless cup of coffee, fine. Drink water or drink coffee somewhere else.”
It was how she said it, like when your mom shames you after you’ve done something low or greedy. No drama or histrionics are necessary as slowly and solidly, in that perfect way, she waits to see if you’ve got the chops to assume your guilt and do the right thing. The boys at Table Number Three felt the sting. Sometimes grumping went too far and this was such a time. Tilly turned and went back to her kitchen, the noise of the restaurant returned to its regular din and Sonya spied Sheriff Zeb sitting hunkered over his plate at the end of the bar trying to not be recognized.
Making her way over, she sat down beside him.
“Good morning, Sheriff. How are you?” she asked brightly.
“Mrs. Caruthers, good to see you again.” His words and his tone were at odds with one another. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve got a question or two for me?”
She got right to the point, but recognizing it was a public place, she kept her voice low. “Last night we met the ghost who is haunting The Whispering Pines RV Park. Her name is Poppy Turner. I thought you would like to know Miss Turner is not alive but dead. She may be the owner of the skeleton you’ve had removed from the swimming pool pit.”
The Ghost in Mr. Pepper's Bed Page 9
