by Rose Pressey
“I gotta go,” I said.
“Wait, at least let me tell you about the evidence.”
Normally I enjoyed listening to Sam talk about evidence, but I had other pressing issues.
“Please. I’ll hurry,” she pleaded.
I sighed. “All right. What did you find?”
I did want to know.
“I love talking about this stuff,” Sam said excitedly.
“I know you do, so get on with it. Did you get anything good?”
“We did get a couple of things. Nate captured a nice looking mist on film. It formed in the foyer and lingered for a few seconds. It’s a good piece. We didn’t get any evidence of a full body apparition or anything. I’m never that lucky. But we did capture an EVP.”
“What does it say?” I looked at my watch.
“It’s a male voice and you can clearly hear him say the word Help. I got it right here.”
“That’s amazing, Sam. Listen, I’m glad you called. I’m sorry I have to be so brief.”
“You sure you still want to hunt for ghosts?” She asked.
“Of course. Things are crazy now with this house. It will settle down soon.”
“I guess.”
Sometimes Sam expected too much.
“I’ve got another call coming in.” I lied. “I’ll call you later.”
“Remember to keep your mind open because a ghost will seek out an open-minded person.” She rushed the words.
Especially if that person was really emotional.
“I gotta go.”
“If he has a message to convey, he’ll find the most receptive person. Looks like that person is you—”
I cut her off. “Thank you, Sam. I’ll call you soon.”
Did she forget I was aware of all the paranormal details?
“Alabama—”
I hung up. Not a move Miss Manners would recommend, but necessary in this situation. I whizzed onto the street in front of the library and parked next to the front entrance. A three-story stone building with carved spires, no one needed a sign to know it was the library. As I hurried up the stairs to the building, I glanced all around and over my shoulder. Why did I feel as if eyes followed my every move? I hurried along the sidewalk toward the old structure. I paused in front of the entry, looking over my shoulder one last time as if I was in the witness protection program.
The tall, carved mahogany doors were hard to pull and I struggled with one. A tall, wiry man burst out from the other side and I scrambled over to slip through before the door shut. The cold air inside made me wish I’d worn my coat—instead of a light cardigan. Shelves stretched out as far as my eyes could see and I felt a bit overwhelmed. So many dark nooks and crannies, getting lost could be easy. I loved books, but research, not so much. With so much information, I didn’t know where to begin my search for details.
As I wandered up and down the aisles of books aimlessly, the realization hit me that I had no idea what I was looking for. It was at that moment, I began to question my decision of even setting foot in the place to begin with. Another one of my non-thought-out plans. Nonetheless, if I didn’t locate anything in the library, I did have another brilliant idea. At least I thought it was a brilliant idea. Checking out the courthouse and searching land deeds may turn up something. In the meantime, I stood in the middle of the room, staring at nothing in particular. I should at least attempt to find something. I started with the newspapers.
“May I help you?” asked the elderly-man behind the long gray counter. He pushed his bifocals up along the bridge of his nose to catch a better view of me.
“I’m hoping to do some research on the history of my house. I was wondering if you knew of any sources?”
He cleared his throat, then asked, “Where do you live?”
“I’m remodeling the old mansion on Maple Hill Road.”
“Oh, yes. Maple Hill…a beautiful home. It’s a shame they built all those houses around it.” He positioned his glasses slightly higher. I guess he wanted a good look at the crazy woman who’d bought a haunted house.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” I grinned.
“You should talk to the town historian. I can give you his name and number if you’d like. I think he would be a great help to you.”
“Wow. That would be wonderful.”
Maybe I was finally getting somewhere. Why hadn’t I thought to contact a historian myself?
The old man pulled out a scrap of paper from a large stack beside the computer and grabbed a pen with his arthritic hand. He scratched down the name and number, then neatly folded the paper, as if it were top-secret information, before handing it to me.
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
He flashed a huge smile exposing his dentures, and then gave a wink. After the wink, his head moved down and his eyes made a beeline to my chest. Ugh. The old man felt me up with his eyes. Men really are all just alike—no matter the age. He was a flirtatious old fossil.
After checking out a couple of home renovation books, I sat in front of one of the many computers lined against the wall. Aside from the teenager a few computers down, the library was empty. I clicked the mouse and was disappointed when all that popped up in the search results were the facts from the historic registry. Maybe I didn’t know what I was doing or maybe there wasn’t other information available, I had no idea. After a few more minutes of poking around on the computer, I figured I’d give the historian a call. My trip to the courthouse could wait. The historian may save me the trip and provide a lot more info.
As I stood and pushed my chair back to its original spot, the distinct feeling someone watched me took over. I looked around, scanning the aisles for a person. Then I spotted him. My heart sped up and my legs shook. Across the library stood Nick Patterson and he watched me. His arms lay stiff to his sides and he glared at me as if he’d just stepped off the screen of a slasher movie. My blood chilled, freezing my muscles in place. He wore his all black uniform. A blank stare spread across his face. He held my gaze for a moment, then abruptly turned and disappeared behind a shelf of books. We’d definitely made eye contact and recognition splashed across his face. He knew it was me, and once again, I knew his being there wasn’t a coincidence.
I darted down the row next to me and peered through a gap in the books. No one appeared to be near, so I made a dash for the door and bolted out. Scanning the area around me, I looked over my shoulder. Nick Patterson was nowhere in sight—thank goodness. I ran to the car faster than I’d ever ran in my life—my high school PE coach would have been proud. If I could have hopped across the hood of the Volvo to the other side, I would have. I scrutinized my surroundings like a secret service agent. A group of children on the sidewalk looked on, pointing me out to their teacher. Probably asking why the crazy lady was running.
I started the car and whirled the steering wheel around. My knuckles turned white as I grasped the wheel. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of Nick as he burst from the library door. My stomach twisted and sweat covered my forehead. I had almost been attacked in the freakin’ romance and mystery aisle. Not only was I terrified, I was angry, too. Why was this guy after me? What did I do? Besides discover Payne’s cold dead body.
Now more than ever, I wanted answers. My car couldn’t move fast enough to put distance between me and Nick Patterson. After driving a good distance away, I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
“Hello?” the business-like male voice asked.
“Mr. Baird. My name’s Alabama Hargrove. I own the old house on Maple Hill Road.”
I didn’t know if I should feel proud of that statement or cry.
“Oh, yes. Maple Hill Road. What can I do for you?”
“I’d love it if you could tell me a little history about the house.”
“Yes, yes. I do have some information I can share. Would you like to stop by sometime?” He asked in a cheerful voice. It was nice to talk to someone in a good mood for a cha
nge.
I glanced in the rearview mirror again. A small green car followed in the distance, but no mysterious blue sedan. “I’d love to. When is a good time?”
“Well, I have appointments all day, but I do have some time now. Could you come by?”
“Perfect. I really appreciate this.”
I memorized his address and clicked off the phone with excitement. How lucky was I to have found him? My search at the library would have been a bust if not for him. Even if I’d been ogled by a geriatric to get the number.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I hummed along with the radio. Keeping my thoughts on Owen Baird—the historian—and off Nick Patterson. Thank goodness, Mr. Baird agreed to meet with me so soon. He lived a few miles outside of town, so I hurried to the outskirts as quickly as my rattletrap would take me. After turning down the wrong street, I doubled back and finally found my way to his place.
The house loomed over me as I gazed up at its splendor—a beautiful Queen Anne Victorian—yellow with white ginger board and a white wraparound porch. A two-story turret sat on the left side of the house. Finials and gables decorated the exterior. The house was dressed to the nines. I opened the intricate wrought iron gate, walked through, ambled up the stairs, and rang the doorbell.
After a few seconds, footsteps approached, then the door swung open.
“Owen Baird?” I asked.
“You must be Alabama?” His gray eyes stared at me. They looked like silver coins.
“Yes, thanks for having me over.”
“Please, come in.” He extended his hand for a handshake.
I almost screeched ouch, before he let go. He waved his arm, instructing me to enter the foyer. The space was smaller than Maple Hill was, although the hardwood floors looked the same, only nicer. A small stained glass window flanked the left wall. I followed his lead and moved into the parlor. Owen indicated a tiny loveseat for me beside the fireplace.
“Have a seat.”
I sat on the elegant cushion, afraid to touch anything around me. The room had been restored to reflect the grace and elegance of the turn of the century. I stared around at the furnishings placed delicately about the room. White crown molding and baseboards accented the sage colored walls in the parlor. A glimpse of a mural of chrysanthemums in the dining room was visible from where I sat. Delicately carved mahogany furniture covered in brocade, damask and tapestry sat around the room.
It wasn’t my style, but it worked for this house. Everything had a place, like in a museum, and Owen was the curator.
“I love your home,” I said.
“Thank you. I can’t take credit for the furniture. My wife loves to spend her spare time antiquing. Would you like some hot cocoa?” He pointed to the pot.
“I’d love some.”
A tray of refreshments rested on the table next to me. Wow, he was a great host. I didn’t know anyone even did that anymore. He poured the hot liquid into the mug and I took it.
“So you purchased the mansion on Maple Hill?”
I shook my head as I gulped my mouth full of cocoa.
“Yes, I did.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It’s lovely,” I said. I felt so dainty sitting on the little loveseat, sipping from the delicate cup. It reminded me of the tea parties with my cat when I was a little girl. “I’m doing a lot of renovations, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I hate to see these historic homes fall into such disrepair.”
Enough of the chitchat, as nice as Owen was, I wanted details.
“So, what can you tell me about the house?” I settled back on the loveseat.
“Well…” He took a bite of a cookie. “I started several years ago trying to collect history on it. I have some, but it’s been slow going. We had a fire in town about sixty years ago, so a lot of information was destroyed back then.”
That explained the lack of information.
“What I do know is the home was originally built by Fredrick Berger in 1836,” he said, as he attempted to smooth down his wild neck-length wavy-gray hair. It cascaded down to the top of his shoulders like a waterfall. “After Frederick died, he left the home to his only child, Corbin. The home was then sold to the Mitchells in 1875. The Mitchell family owned the house until 1912 when the owner died.” He took a sip. “Their children sold the house after that. The next family lived there for another fifty years until they sold to Thomas Bennett. He was the last person to own the house until Mr. Cooper purchased the land from him. So, there’s only been six owners of the house, including you.”
“Wow. That is incredible.” The history made my stomach jump with excitement. “Is Mr. Bennett still alive?” I asked, taking another sip.
“I believe so. He moved to Louisiana a couple of years ago. Beyond who owned the house, all I know is Corbin Berger left town in a hurry. He was forced to sell the house. I have a diary of someone who lived in town during the period. She talks about Mr. Berger up and moving one day. He lost the family home and his business. I suppose he started over somewhere else. Maybe staying here would have been too painful for him after losing everything.”
“How did he lose the home and business?” I asked.
“The Mitchell family moved to town and opened a store that competed with his. All the business went to them and Corbin couldn’t afford to keep the home. It was just too much for him to manage. He didn’t expect the Mitchells would buy it, but they were the only people in town who could afford it, so he reluctantly sold. I think they had one heck of a feud going on.” He shook his head.
“This may seem like an odd question, but is it haunted?”
“There have been rumors of course. Have you seen a ghost?”
“Oh, just noises here and there.” I didn’t want other paranormal investigators knocking on my door until I’d figured this mess out.
His phone rang, cutting off our discussion.
“Thank you so much for all of the information. I’ll get out of your hair now.” I stood from the loveseat. “It’s great to know some of the history about the house. Thank you again.” I shook his hand.
His grip eased this time.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Hargrove. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need to know anything else. I’m not sure if I can help, but I’ll certainly try.” He stood.
“I’ll show myself out.”
“Keep in touch,” he said, as he walked toward his kitchen and the ringing phone. “I heard all about Mr. Cooper. So terribly unfortunate,” he added, giving me a sympathetic gaze.
“Yes, it was.”
I couldn’t escape the gossip.
As I reached the door, the phone stopped ringing and Owen called out.
“Ms. Hargrove. I almost forgot.”
I stopped and turned to face him. “Yes?”
He chuckled. “I missed the call.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“Oh, no, don’t worry. They’ll call back. I forgot to tell you, Payne Cooper’s great-grandfather was Corbin Berger, the original owner.”
How had I not heard this before? “Wow. That’s fascinating. So, I guess he bought the place for sentimental value. I’m surprised he sold it.”
“I doubt it. Mr. Cooper wasn’t the sentimental kind. He was just in it for the money.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
The phone rang again. He was a busy man. “You’d better get it this time.”
He smiled. “Bye now.”
I waved and closed the door behind me.
Chapter Forty
With my new info, I didn’t know where to turn. It looked as if the ghostly stranger would always be a mystery. Would I ever sell a house with a ghost? I schlepped back to the car feeling somewhat defeated. I had no real clue who the murderer was and no clue who the ghost was.
As far as the recent crime, Nick Patterson and Julia Cooper were likely candidates, since they were following me around town. Well, Julia just once, that I knew of. The
y were probably responsible for the broken taillights, the owner of the blue sedan, and all the other harassment. I couldn’t even help a sad ghost stuck for eternity in the house, what made me think I could solve anything else.
Why would the ghost decide to stay? Granted, when I finished the house it would be fantastic, but I’ve heard eternity in heaven is much better. Surely, the ghost would prefer to move on. At least I had some details on the house. It was pretty cool to discover all the history behind it, but I craved to know more. The story of Corbin Berger and the Mitchell family fascinated me. There had to be photographs of the families somewhere. Plus, I’d love to get my hands on the diary Owen told me about. I’d have to ask to borrow it.
I drove through town headed to Maple Hill Road. A couple of men hung signs for the annual fall festival coming up in a few weeks. The warm colored banners dangled from the lampposts and street signs throughout town. Business as usual with people meandering up and down the sidewalks. A sea of bubbly faces. I wondered if anyone else worried about who killed Payne Cooper. More than likely people were discussing the crime, just not with me. Not with one of the suspects.
I wanted to make sure Reed was working on the roof, although the thought of seeing him after the kiss made my stomach do cartwheels.
My cell rang and I swerved, trying to answer.
“Hello?”
“What are you up to now?” Lacey asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you sleuthing around, trying to solve this murder still?”
“What makes you think I’m sleuthing again? Is sleuthing a word?”
“Oh, come on now, Bama. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you. Last night, you had Jessica Fletcher wannabe written all over your face. Just because I told you to stop, doesn’t mean you will. Far from it. And I know that.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.” I snorted, and switched the phone to my other ear. The car swerved as I positioned the phone.
