The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1)

by Robin G. Austin

  During a mental recharge at the park, I get a call from Sanders Construction. It’s halfway to voice mail when I realize Boyd may be calling to give me the boot home. Fine with me, he’s made no friend here.

  Boyd’s a man with an agenda. What agenda I don’t know, but I do know how to spot ulterior motives in the living. You don’t need to use psychic abilities to do the same. Just look right into a person’s eyes. Watch for that far away glare that tells you they aren’t operating in the same zone as most. Watch closer for the dart and blink. Never is there a truer sign that someone is up to something than when the three are combined.

  “Hello?”

  “Jack. Can I call you Jack? It’s Boyd Sanders. I’m at the hospital with my wife and she needs to talk to you.”

  Before I can get so much as a grunt out, hysterical Hayley is on the line. “Jack, it’s Hayley.” She stops to blow her nose into the phone and I get an earful, figuratively. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need you to come to the hospital to talk about the man. Since Momma’s gone… well, I’d rather do this in person. Can you come right now?”

  For someone who communicates with the dead, hospitals are worse than going to a teenage girl’s slumber party: you go, I’m not going, you go, no you, no not me, take her.

  “I’d rather meet you somewhere else,” I say. “When are they releasing you?” I can hear muffled talking in the background that doesn’t sound friendly.

  “Jack, it’s Boyd again. We need to talk to you as soon as right here, right now. Hayley’s suffering the effects of her nervous spells. Doctors don’t know when she can go home. Now, we paid you for five full days, and this here is one of those days. Under these troubling circumstances, it ain’t too much to ask you to come to the hospital.”

  I don’t know any worse reading than legalese, but I do know the contract Hayley signed was for eradication not consolation, and the location was Dorothy’s house not the hospital. Still, talking contracts to an irate construction boss and a woman having spells after losing her mother is a little too much even for me. I get directions and disconnect.

  Unfortunately, Roxbury General is only ten minutes from the park. That doesn’t give me near enough time to brace myself for what I know is coming– the refund demand via a whole lot of hollering by a buffed up Texan. I park in the farthest spot from the door and take my time walking to the entrance.

  The answer is no. I did not drive all this way to lose money. It’s too late to book any appointments to make up for my loss. The contract says blah, blah, blah. Yes, I feel bad about Dorothy’s death and understand you have a funeral to pay for, but that would have been the case someday soon anyway. Okay, maybe I’ll leave that last line out of my I’m keeping the money speech.

  I wander down the hall to the nurses’ station and follow her directions to the fourth floor– the psych ward. This just keeps getting better and better. With squared shoulders and a stiff upper lip, I go into Room 409.

  At first, I think Hayley’s dead since there are more flowers than you’d think they’d allow a patient on this type of ward.

  The woman’s lying in her bed, fully alive with hair curled, too much makeup, and a washcloth on her forehead. She reaches out her frail arm to me. I go as far as the end of the bed since Boyd is standing on one side of her and Tucker’s on the other, and neither is looking too happy to see me. I sort of wish I’d brought Mojo inside.

  “How you doing, Hayley? I just want to say that I’m real sorry about what happened to your mom. I know this is a trying time for you.” I stop to make eye contact with Boyd and Tucker so they know who they’re dealing with before turning back to Hayley. “Where do we go from here?” I think I sound good. Direct but caring. Understanding but forward thinking.

  Hayley looks up at Boyd and I fear he’s been put in charge of strong-arming me, but he just nods for his fragile wife to continue.

  “Well first off, Sheriff Wiley hasn’t released the house back to our custody yet. He thinks Momma was murdered.” With those last words, Hayley bursts out crying again and Boyd and Tucker do their best to soothe those nerves of hers.

  I’m having second thoughts about wishing they weren’t here. I have a soft spot in my heart same as most every human being, but a grown woman having a breakdown every few words gives my own nerves spells. After more snotty nose blowing, she’s ready to start again.

  “That just can’t be though. No one would kill Momma. Everybody loved the woman. You saw the black feather in her hand. She said herself that the house would be the death of her.” Hayley takes a sip of water and goes on. “Since the house is a crime scene,” exaggerated sigh, “well, it complicates things.”

  Okay, here it comes. Brace yourself, I tell me. More tears and blowing and Boyd’s patience is waning.

  “Listen, Jack. I don’t know nothing about spooks or vampires or zombie apocalypses, but when Hayley sets her mind to something, I know better than to go snapping her garters.”

  I’d been silently hissing over Boyd’s imaginary friends until he got to snapping garters. Now I’m just confused.

  Hayley’s beaming, I guess about the garters, and she’s found her inner cheerleader. “If that ghost man killed Momma, I want you to… to kick his butt straight to hell.”

  Chapter Ten

  §

  The men cheer Hayley’s butt-kicking battle cry and Boyd pumps up his chest like a frigatebird during mating season. I’m ready to get back in the company of the dead.

  “That’s right. What Hayley’s wanting to get done is getting done.” Boyd throws his fist in the air like a moron on steroids before focusing on business. “Wiley’s put a detective on the case. I spoke to him earlier today, and he said it’ll be late tomorrow afternoon before they can let you in the house.

  “I know you planned on staying at the hotel, but we need to speed things up. I want this here ghost deal.…” he pauses, and I swear those dart and blink eyes shoot at Tucker. In return, the boy flashes a dimpled grin. “This business you came here for, we need it finished as agreed.”

  He starts to go on, but I’ve had enough. “Hold on. My agreement was for five days and I’m losing two. If you want the same deal, it’ll cost you a thousand dollars for the additional days.”

  “What if it don’t take no additional days?” Tucker hollers.

  “Good question,” Boyd adds. “Just do your hocus-pocus and be done with it.”

  My nostrils are flaring. “Can’t say it will take additional days. I reserve the time needed and that time is what the client pays for. I’ve already explained this to Hayley and Dorothy and both agreed. I’m not getting short changed because you want to do some hocus-pocus renegotiations. Negotiations were over when the contract was signed.”

  “Hold on.” Boyd raises his hand.

  Both Hayley and Tucker voice their complaints as I work myself towards the door. I’m thinking I’ll be putting up a Christmas tree after all.

  “Let me finish,” Boyd says. “We’ll make you a deal. You can stay in the house instead of the hotel. That way, you save the hotel bill and it’ll give you more time in the house to get rid of that dang thingamajig.”

  “Let me make you a deal. I’ll get in my vehicle and drive back to New Mexico and you can get rid of that dang thingamajig yourself.”

  “No,” Hayley yells, then whispers, “Boyd, we got to get rid of the man or we’re never going to—

  Boyd holds up his hand again. I wonder if he’s ever been a crosswalk guard. “Give us just a couple of minutes to ourselves, would you Jack?”

  I flick my hand in the air to solidify my rigid as rock position and stomp out of the room. I hear a whole lot of unpleasant words and more crying, hopefully just on Hayley’s part. Boyd opens the door and nearly knocks my head off with it before he signals for me to come back in the room.

  “Jack, here’s the deal. We got ourselves a little bit of a cash flow problem—

  “But that’s temporary,” Hayley shouts, and gets pursed lips
from Boyd.

  “What my wife means is that money isn’t a problem as soon as Dorothy’s assets become available. That should be real soon and we’re willing to pay you the extra days, plus let you stay in the house with the hopes that you’ll get the job done by Christmas Eve as agreed. Consider those two days a bonus if you do.”

  “Great, so write the check and once it clears we have a deal.”

  Turns out the cash flow thing is the real deal, and the best Boyd’s got is a promissory note that Dorothy’s attorney has already agreed to provide. So much for honest negotiations on Boyd’s part, Hayley’s too. Tucker has already been designated as the one to accompany me to the attorney’s office so he’s also on my do not trust list.

  That’s fine because I’m certain now that Alexander is the ghost and as soon as I clear up his confusion about Carmela and point him in the right direction, I’ll be home in a couple of days with a holiday bonus to ring in the new year. Plus, my promissory note is coming with an extra five hundred dollars to compensate my wait time. My superpowers don’t include compromise.

  Hayley blows me a kiss– just plain weird. Boyd gives me a Texan nod, and I follow Tucker back to the center of town and into the law office of Charlton Q. Buchanan.

  Buchanan has already been briefed on the payment that Dorothy’s greedy family tried to swindle me out of. He does his lawyery thing of making the transaction twice as difficult and drawn out as it needs to be.

  As we’re all signing on the six dotted lines, there’s a ruckus out front. Tucker seems nervous and goes to investigate or maybe sneak out the door. Just when I think I’ll escape too, a short man with a leopard spotted cowboy hat on his acorn head comes marching down the hallway.

  “Charlton, where’s that dang promissory note you said you’d have for me? And where’s Tucker? I know he’s here because his truck’s parked at the curb. I swear to both of you that woman will not get any farther than the casket without that note in my pocket.”

  Buchanan barely rolls his eyes and flicks a condescending hand at his office.

  I’m half way to the front door when Tucker pops out of another office, grabs my arm, and tells me to wait for him. I’m in no mood to have anything more to do with the boy, but he’s waving his arms in my face like a lunatic. Then he points at Buchanan’s office.

  “He in there?” he whispers.

  I shake him off and wave my hand over my shoulder, which he can read anyway he wants. Instead, he rushes after me just as the cowboy starts hollering his name.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Tucker Matthews, get your lazy sorry self in this office. Your poker debt ain’t going underground with your momma, so unless you want to keep her casket in your living room, you’re signing this here note.”

  Buchanan is standing in his office doorway with his arms folded. “Riley, you do know that financing gambling debts is illegal, don’t you? Maybe I should call the sheriff to sit in on this conversation.”

  “Don’t you be threatening me, Charlton. I’m owed four thousand bucks fair and square. Dorothy promised me she’d pay her lazy, good for nothing son’s debt when she got around to it. Well, that wasn’t soon enough for me, and my patience ran out of steam on the last day of hog butchering. Either I get that note signed today or I swear I’m filing a lawsuit and tying up her estate for the next ten years.”

  “He can’t do that.” Tucker yells through me seeing as he’s blocking my exit, otherwise known as hiding behind me.

  More arguing ensues and Buchanan goes back in his office to let the boys sort it out. At this rate, I get a sick feeling that the promissory notes being handed out will exceed Dorothy’s estate before I see my bonus. Tucker finally agrees to sign, and Riley stomps back into Buchanan’s office.

  Before he goes, Tucker turns to me with a big old lone star grin, slips his arm around my waist, and asks me if I want to go have a few beers after he finishes with this other business matter.

  I remove his arm, look into his pretty boy gray eyes, and tell him I only do my drinking with the dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  §

  I know a number of things better than indulging in the devil’s brew with an underage drinker, and one of them is a trip to a graveyard. After I go through the drive-thru at Taco King and get directions, I head to the Roxbury Cemetery.

  While graveyards are a favorite haunt of ghost hunters, don’t be fooled by their hype or my YouTube video. Very few cemeteries are filled with anything more than the bodies of the dearly departed.

  Most earthbound spirits end up in their own home as in Alexander’s case, or they get stuck in the place where they took their last dying breath, which is rarely a graveyard.

  To me, cemeteries are a sort of sanctuary. People leave a whole lot of loving energy there, and the dead appreciate how much they’re remembered and cared about. When they show up to say thanks, don’t mistake it for a haunting.

  I’m not going to the Roxbury Cemetery to stalk the dead and snap pictures of their orbs. I can’t get the Jenningsworth children off my mind. So I’m going to look for their headstones, and see if I can sense a little loving energy that was left behind for them.

  Mojo likes graveyards too, and he’s ready to get out the door before I park the jeep. I head to the back of the property where I expect to find the earlier graves. Roxbury may be a small town, but it’s got its fair share of dead people so it takes some walking.

  I’m a good number of acres from the entrance when the sun dips behind the mountain range and turns the sky pumpkin orange. Another few acres and the town’s lights look like tiny stars scattered beneath the horizon.

  The wolfdog is weaving through the headstones, and I’m sure he’s stopping often to leave his mark on more than a few– I’ll pray for rain. All I can see of him is his amber eyes, freakishly bobbing in the distance. In hindsight, I should have gotten an earlier start on my search. Considering Mojo’s bad manners, our late timing is probably for the best.

  My flashlight is focused on the dates. I’m assuming the children are buried next to their mother so I’m looking for the year Carmela died– 1916. The headstones are getting smaller and looking more weather worn. Some aren’t much more than stones with crudely chiseled epitaphs. “Somebody here give me a sign,” I say.

  I’m all the way back to the early 1800’s and haven’t come across a single Jenningsworth or Bristol family member yet. I get comfortable on a big rock and try to contact Carmela. After fifteen minutes and nothing more than several raindrops paying me any attention, I start scanning the rows again.

  When I get back to the 1900’s and am ready to give up, the wolfdog goes into killer mode. He’s not much help in finding graves, but he does keep the coyotes at bay.

  I call for him and head back to the jeep. After less than ten steps, I fall flat on my face from tripping over the small marker of one Minnie R. Jack. I get a chill when I see the name. As soon as I spot the date she left this earth– 1914, and despite the pain, I thank her for the sign I’d asked for earlier.

  I shine my light up and down the row, and there they are: Alexander and Carmela, side by side in death– but no children’s markers are in sight.

  Kneeling at Carmela’s grave, I place my hand on her headstone, close my eyes and ask, “Where are your children, Carmela?” Five minutes of waiting and she’s still silent. “Come on, I know you can hear me, Carmela Jenningsworth. Whatever happened, know that I’m only here to help Alexander. To reunite the two of you, the five of you.”

  The crickets are singing and the wind sounds like it’s blowing through a tunnel. Mojo sniffs my hair before laying down beside me. Leaves rustle around us and smokey mesquite dissolves as an approaching rainstorm clogs up the air.

  Mojo is pawing my arm, hoping not to end up getting drenched– like I said, he’s got a thing about that.

  Carmela is silent. “But where are those little children?” I’m not getting an answer.

  ∞

  It’s early the next morni
ng when I check out of the hotel. Boyd called before sunrise to say Detective Clayton Acker planned on meeting me at the house at four o’clock. He tells me the locks have been changed and Acker will provide the key.

  I’m anxious to get this case wrapped up and head home, but I need to face something I’ve been refusing to look in the eye– that little matter of the one hundred year anniversary of two women’s falls down those stairs.

  There are no coincidences, even if it’s just the spirit world messing with the living. Something I’m telling no one– because who around this town would believe me? Dorothy’s man wouldn’t be the first to leave a phantom track. But he might be the first to have ever left a boot print. Still, this is Texas.

  So, I’m thinking what I have here is a cowboy who for some reason or other came over to Dorothy’s house and pushed her down the stairs. Or Alexander took on a more solid form and scared her down them. Or it was nothing but a tragic, perfectly innocent slip and fall by an elderly woman with a bum hip in house slippers.

  Of the three scenarios, Jenningsworth is looking the most guilty, based on the anniversary date. Based on supernatural synchronicity, the universe is handing out one curiously twisted message.

  By the time Mojo’s tired of stick chasing at the park, my brain is scrambled. We head to the library to put my superpowers back to work and see if I can make a better energy connection by way of the records I reviewed yesterday.

  Since the documents aren’t the best for object reading, I’m going to rely on my most advanced psychic ability of all: my gut instinct, which unfortunately has been on that roller coaster ride lately.

  I also want to see if there’s anything on an investigation done regarding Carmela’s fall or if the police took Alexander’s word at face value. Considering his alleged untarnished reputation in town, they probably did the latter.