by Mary Bowers
“Even snobs love to gossip, and what elderly person doesn’t like to talk about the glory days? She was famous once: photographers followed her around, movie stars wanted to date her, everything she did went into the society pages. Now – nobody remembers her or her bigwig father. She must be lonely. She lives all alone, doesn’t she?”
“Her daughter, Dolores, takes care of her.”
“So Dolores is the gatekeeper? Well, let’s ask her for an audience with Frieda.”
“Dolores doesn’t have any influence over her mother. Nobody does. We’ll have to go to Frieda herself, and that’s not easy. She’s wheelchair-bound now. I haven’t actually seen her in a couple of years.”
“Give it a try anyway. The old girl would probably like a good long talk about the old days, and if we tell her it’s got something to do with the desecration of the Cadbury cemetery, I bet she’ll see us.”
He looked at me. “You want to come too?”
“Why not? I’m the one having problems here. And you said she was pleased when I figured out who killed Vesta. Lay it on thick, tell her I desperately need her help. It’s worth a try, and we might get more inside information than you’d get on the internet.”
“Oh, all right,” he said.
“What? Are you afraid of Frieda?”
He looked at me levelly. “Everybody is.”
Chapter 3
I hadn’t checked in at Girlfriend’s (the shelter’s downtown resale shop), in over a week. With Ed on the job, I could only hope the construction crew would man up and get to work. After I told Charlie about the cemetery and asked him to have somebody fill in Kingsley’s grave, I headed for Tropical Breeze.
The dune between A1A and the Atlantic was narrow and tall on this stretch of road, and when I saw the ocean, I was viewing it through a pretty lace of sea oats waving around. Traffic was light and I enjoyed the drive.
Girlfriend’s is in the middle of Locust Street, the town’s main drag, just west of 5th. I slid my SUV into the alley behind the store and parked, then went into the shop the back way. Florence Purdy, the store manager, was working in the back room.
“Taylor!” she said. “Come on in, honey. We don’t see much of you these days, what with those ghosts and all.”
So it had gotten all over town already.
My faithful Florence will say anything, and I guess at her age, she’s earned the right. She’s 72 and has been running Girlfriend’s since she was 44, when the shop first opened. Proceeds go to support Orphans of the Storm, and we lucked into a cheap downtown rental a couple of years after opening the shelter. The only condition the landlord made was that we name the shop after his dog, Girlfriend. The location is fantastic, and the landlord loves us, so it’s been a good deal over the years. And Florence, bless her heart, has set the tone for the shop since the very beginning: eclectic, slightly worn, old-fashioned and sweet. She has a knack for display, which is important when you’re dealing in cast-offs. Pile up too much stuff at once and the place starts looking like a flea market.
“I think it was a very good idea of yours, hiring Edson.”
“That’s gotten around too?”
“Some of Charlie’s boys had breakfast over at the diner. Anyway, Ed will get to the bottom of things. He’s the one who found the ghost in Frank and Lula’s house, you know.”
“Frank and Lula?”
“You wouldn’t know them. They’re dead. This was about eight years ago, when Edson first moved into Santorini. There was an article about him in The Beach Buzz – Bernie’s always got her ear to the ground.” Bernie Horning is the editor of our local rag. Strictly minor league, but a must-read around town. “Well, Frank and Lula had been just plagued when they moved into that house. Lula was just about hysterical. It was a winter ghost.”
“Huh. I’ve never heard of one of those,” I said, having lost interest in Frank and Lula and their ghost. Before I could quickly change the subject Florence went on, and I realized I was just going to have to hear all about whatever foolishness Frank and Lula and Edson had been up to eight years ago.
“Yes. A winter ghost. Before that, when old Hattie had been living in the house, God rest her soul, it had been a year-round ghost. She told me all about it once. It was a little girl named Nettie who had died of scarlatina, and she and Hattie got along just fine. She sort of adopted Nettie and used to talk to her and tell her to stop making so much noise, or not to bother her while she was cooking. Sort of kept her company, living alone like she was after Ferdie died. Well, Edson came in and started calling for Nettie, swinging his ghost-grabber or whatever it is and looking for electrical readings. Why is it,” she said, digressing, “that ghost-hunters think ghosts are electric? People aren’t. Why would a ghost be?”
“I don’t know. Listen, Flo –“
“But apparently they are. Anyway, Edson did a thorough investigation, and not only did little Nettie stay away from him, but he couldn’t find any trace of her, electrical or otherwise. Until winter, of course.”
Suddenly it dawned on me that I did know about this investigation. I felt a smile spreading across my face. I’d read about it in The Beach Buzz, then forgotten about it.
“Then Ed heard Nettie.” Florence was smiling now, too. “It turned out that Frank and Lula almost never used the air conditioning. They were here during unusually cool summers, and the one summer they were away for three months taking a ‘round the world cruise. But every winter, when they turned the heat on –“
“Little Nettie began to rattle around,” I said.
“Yes she did, the poor soul. Edson had apparently run into that kind of thing before, construction workers being what they are. The boys who put the ductwork in had been throwing their empty beer cans down the ducts to keep their boss from seeing that they were drinking on the job. And whenever the heat was turned on –“
“The beer cans began to blow around and make weird noises, and everybody thought the house was haunted.” I broke into a grin, sidetracked in spite of myself. “Bravo, Ed. Any other ghost-hunter would’ve found an entire ghost family and a ghost dog too, and done a book and a documentary film about it.”
“Yes. That’s why I say it was such a good idea to hire Ed. You can’t fool him. He’s an honest ghost-hunter.”
I laughed. “I’m glad you reminded me of that story. I didn’t hire Ed for the Halloween Haunted House until a few years afterwards. I’d just asked Bernie who to hire who wouldn’t charge us an arm and a leg. Thanks for reminding me, Flo. It gives me a little more confidence. Frankly, he’s kind of an odd duck.”
“Of course he is,” she said complacently. “He’s a ghost-hunter. So – has he found anything yet?”
I thought about the cemetery, and decided I didn’t want to get even more gossip started. “Maybe. I only hired him yesterday. Give him time. Listen, how are things going here in the shop?”
We spent a few minutes talking shop (ha), and then Florence said, “Bernie was in a little while ago. She wants to interview you.”
I heaved a sigh. I should have expected that. What was I going to do about Bernie? Whether I gave her an interview or not, she was bound to do an article on the haunting, if it was all over town already. This was going to be tricky. Bernie had given us all the coverage we wanted when Vesta’s family had donated her things to the resale shop after her death. Really stoked up business. I supposed I owed it to her, though I wasn’t happy about it getting into print that our barn was haunted. Everybody from ghost groupies to animal rights activists might come down on our heads trying to keep us from putting the shelter there. One group would be babbling about Spirit Rights (“They were there first!”) and the other would want to protect the animals from being tormented by ghosts. I decided to give her an interview, just to try to get out in front of the story instead of letting rumors run wild. But not today.
“If you hear from Bernie again, just tell her I’ll call her.”
“Okay, but you know Bernie. She doesn’t keep The
Beach Buzz going by sleeping on the job.” We heard the tinkle of the bell over the shop’s door. “See you later, Taylor. Don’t be such a stranger.”
As she parted the curtains, she took a look in and immediately turned back.
“It’s Bernie,” she whispered. “Want to come up front or duck out the back?”
I heaved a sigh. Bernie had probably already seen my car in the alley, and I was going to have to get this over with sooner or later. “Oh, well, go ahead and send her back.”
She nodded and let the curtain drop.
Bernie was in mint green today. She was always crisp, clean and coordinated, with the kind of polyester pull-on separates that octogenarian ladies love. She was still wearing her summer sandals, but I noticed she had on mint-green socks, just in case the late-September temperature dipped below 80.
As she came into the back room she gave me a knowing look with her sharp brown eyes.
“Come on in, said the fly to the spider,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
She laughed. “The public has a right to know, and you may as well put it into your own words before everybody starts making things up.”
“Don’t I know it? Pull up a packing box and get your recorder out.”
She found an old Windsor-back chair and settled herself comfortably, while I hiked a hip up on an old shipping desk we keep pushed into a corner. My whole attitude said this wasn’t going to take long.
“So, where’s the haunting going on?” she began. “One of the carpenters said it was in the barn. Said Charlie’s pay was good, but nobody paid enough to make him go back into that barn after Charlie came out of it wild-eyed. Just what was it he saw, Taylor, dear? A ghost?”
She’s so sweet. So innocent. It was impossible to look at that wrinkled old face and suspect that behind it, greased wheels were spinning around just fine – faster than my own, in fact. I’m at least twenty years younger than Bernie, but I wouldn’t match wits with her if there was money on the line.
When I just raised an eyebrow and looked at her, she went on. “Charlie’s nobody’s fool, you know. If he says he saw something strange, I believe him.”
“Oh, I believe him. He saw something. Or rather, something seems to have touched him.”
Bernie shivered deliciously. “It touched him? Oh, this is good!”
“It brushed over him or something. Anyway, it was broad daylight, and something came at him when he wasn’t looking and brushed against him. Might have been a bird,” I said, suddenly inspired. “They tend to roost in the rafters. But we’re checking it out. For all we know, the problems are being caused by pranksters and our own strung-up nerves. Don’t use Charlie’s name; he’ll never live it down. Just say ‘a workman.’ I know people are going to find out anyway, but let’s not get him mad at us. And you can say that we’ve hired Edson Darby-Deaver.”
Her eyes gleamed. “So it’s that serious? You really think this is a haunting?”
“I don’t know what it is, but as you say, Charlie’s no fool. If you like,” I said, having an even better inspiration, “you can interview Darby-Deaver himself, instead of taking it second-hand from me. If he tells you anything too bloody and wild, you check with me first before you print it, though, or this is your last scoop from me.”
Bernie laughed. “Censoring the press?”
“Actually that’s not a bad idea. Listen, Bernie, rumors like this can make our lives miserable out there. It could actually make Cadbury House unlivable. You know how silly people can be. I don’t want to find devil-worshippers having black masses in the barn. So keep it real, okay? No unnecessary drama. In return, I promise to let you know what’s actually going on out there, and give Ed permission to talk to you. But I want to get a chance to read anything your write before you publish it, deal?”
She gave me her “intimidating” look, which on an 85-year old was rather charming.
“I will not tolerate censorship,” she said finally, “but I will give you a look. You’ll be reasonable, right?”
“I will if you will.”
And with that vague compromise, we shook hands. I felt good about it, passing the buck to Ed. When you hire a ghost-hunter, you’re not exactly getting something tangible for your money. You may only be buying peace of mind. The least he could do was keep the press off my back.
Chapter 4
I ran across Locust Street to Don’s Diner and went inside, where the kitchen was sizzling, the air was scented with grilling onions, and the thermostat was always set at about sixty-five degrees. Most women brought jackets in with them, but I hadn’t grabbed one before running over, and I shivered. Michael called to me from a booth and I headed his way. There was a woman with him, but that was all right; it was just my real estate agent, Rocky Sanders. Her office was right next-door to the diner.
Since moving to Florida from Chicago over thirty years before, I’d had to go it alone for a long time – starting up the shelter, making a home for myself, making new friends and learning to cope with the deaths of both my parents when I was in my twenties. Now after all that time, I had somebody.
Michael Utley was 62, just slightly older than me, and had been widowed a few years before. I was what you might technically call a spinster – married and divorced so fast, so long ago that it didn’t count. Ask me the name of my ex sometime. Uh – wait a minute – I know it – it’s on the tip of my tongue – it’s, no, guess not. Poof, he’s gone. And his fershnickin’ mother, too.
Now I had Michael.
I slid into the booth and smiled into his frosty blue eyes, then said hello to Rocky.
“I’m not gonna intrude on y’all,” she said. A classic redhead with dark blue eyes, Rocky was always fizzing with energy. Today she’d dressed up her eggshell blouse with lashings of sea-green freshwater pearls. Too divine. “When Michael told me you were coming, I just thought I’d hang around and say ‘hey’ when you got here.”
“I’m glad you did. It’s great to see you.” Since we’d signed the contract for the sale of my old house, I hadn’t seen her or talked to her. Closing had been set for the second week in October, which was fast approaching. “How’s tricks in the real estate world?”
She lit up. “Haven’t you heard?” She leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “Lance Skinner is scouting around in the area.”
I stared. “The Lance Skinner? The real estate developer from hell?”
“Now you hush! The man’s a genius. The fact that he’s looking around here is big news for all of us who own property in Tropical Breeze. There wouldn’t be any kind of word out on the street if he hadn’t already made a deal, but he hasn’t made the announcement yet. You know what this means, don’t you?”
Yeah, I knew what it meant. Lance Skinner was a big-time deal-maker, flamboyant and deliberately obnoxious. He liked to have people hate him. He headquartered in New York, and in most folks’ opinions, should stay there. Instead, he was always forcing his way into bucolic places that didn’t want him, scooping up land under various phony names to keep the sellers from inflating their prices, then putting in some mega-development that the locals hated.
Seeing the look on my face, Rocky reached across the table and gave my arm a little slap. “Shame on you, Taylor Verone, for being a troglodyte. This could put Tropical Breeze on the map! Think of the tourist dollars.”
“Think of the real estate deals,” I said.
“Oh, trust me, honey, most of the money on real estate deals will go straight into Mr. Skinner’s own pockets. But it could bring values up across the board, and that would be good for all of us. Too bad you signed a contract on your property already. In another couple of months, if the rumors are true, we might have been able to double the price.”
“I’m happy with my deal,” I told her. “I need to get things moving over at Cadbury House, and I need that equity in the bank.”
“Well, suit yourself. I could put out a rumor that you’ve got mold, if you want. The buyer would back out in a
heartbeat.”
“Don’t you dare!” I said.
“Silly thing! I’m only kidding.”
The floor waitress, DeAnn, was approaching the table, and Rocky slid out of the booth, straightening her trim, sea-green skirt. “Well, gotta go. I’ve got a showing in half an hour. Good to see you both.”
“You too.”
We ordered lunch, and when DeAnn walked away Michael turned to me and said, “So, how’s it going?”
I could feel my smile falling right off my face. “Terrible. Now the workmen won’t even go into the barn.” I went on about my troubles at Cadbury House, then told him about Edson.
DeAnn put our iced teas on the table, gauged the conversation, decided not to interrupt and silently walked away. She’d served my construction crew at breakfast and found out all about the ghost; she didn’t need to eavesdrop (or she would have).
“You hired that Darby-Deaver character?” he said when I’d finished.
“Michael, what else could I do? He’s got a reputation for honesty, and I needed to do something about whatever the heck it is that’s going on over there.” I took a sip of my tea, and in my agitation, I slurped it just a little.
“Don’t get me wrong – I’m not criticizing you. It’s just that –“
In the pause while he tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound like criticism, my cell phone started ringing. I looked at it, not intending to answer but not being able to resist knowing who it was, and saw that it was Ed.
“Uh oh,” I said. “Here we go.” I took the call. “Yes, Ed? What is it? We’re having lunch.”
I heard background noises that got me alarmed, and I almost stood up in the booth. Michael’s eyes widened, and DeAnn, who was approaching with our plates, stopped in her tracks. Over the phone I could hear people yelling and some kind of horn going off, and instead of talking to me, Ed was shouting at somebody.
“Ed!” I said. “What’s going on?”
“They’re here!,” he said, talking to me at last.
