by Jessa Archer
“Yes,” I admitted. “I noticed it, so I went up to investigate.”
“And what do you think this coffee cup proves?”
I gave him my assessment of the situation: the cup, the spill, everything I had laid out for Ed back at the restaurant. Then I told him what Dean had said about the door being locked. When I finished, he didn’t say anything. He just stared at me.
“Well,” I nudged. “What do you think?”
Blevins stood up and stretched. “I think you’re grasping at straws. I think you want a story. I think you’re bored as the dickens in this tiny town after years as a big shot reporter in Nashville.” He looked down at me. “Yeah, you definitely want a story, but this ain’t it.”
“How can you be so certain that Edith fell? Isn’t it at least worth considering the possibility that something else might have happened?”
“Maybe Dean was wrong. Did you ever think about that?”
“No,” I said, my voice rising. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? It’s like this is some kind of joke to you. A woman died, Blevins.”
“I know that, Townsend.”
He glanced at the stairs along the wall. He cocked his head and listened, straining to hear any movement from upstairs. Once he was satisfied that all was quiet, he turned his attention back to me.
“I’m about to tell you something. Totally off the record, so I’d better not see hide nor hair of it in that little paper of yours.”
“Okay.”
He sat back down across from me. “I’m serious. Anything gets out from what I’m about to tell you and it’s you I’ll be arresting.”
“Good grief,” I said, “just tell me.”
“I don’t think Edith fell either.”
A shiver traveled down my spine. “What?”
“I don’t think she fell. She jumped.”
Whatever I had expected Blevins to say, it wasn’t this.
“Why would she do that? Why jump down a single flight of stairs? Not even a full flight, actually, since she was on the landing.”
I thought I saw a tiny flicker of doubt in his eyes, but then Blevins shook his head. “Edith Morton had a lot of problems.”
“Her health?”
“In a sense,” he said, scratching his scruffy beard. “Not her physical health, though. She’d been calling the station a lot, late at night, for the past few months. Said she was hearing music in the house. Getting strange phone calls, but never when Clarence was there. Called once to say someone had broken into the house. Sent a deputy out to check, and the only thing he could find was a broken window in the garage, but it was after that big storm last summer. Clarence told us she’d go off on rants, and that she’d taken to writing down dreams or…hallucinations, I guess, in her diary.”
“What sort of hallucinations?”
“She claimed she was seeing ghosts.”
✰ Chapter Seven ✰
When I arrived home, I learned that Clarence Morton had returned my call while I was out. Cassie had gathered the information for the obituary from him.
“Thank you, sweetie. That was a big help. Did he sound…okay?”
Cassie gave me a quizzical look. “His mother just died. I’m not sure what okay sounds like under the circumstances. To be honest, he sounded kind of numb to me.”
I hesitated, not wanting to sound horrible, but also wishing I’d had the chance to talk to Clarence myself so that I could get a feel for things. I’m pretty sure that Steve Blevins thought telling me Edith was claiming to see ghosts would make me less inclined to believe that foul play had occurred, but it really didn’t. If anything, I was more curious now than ever.
Part of the problem had been Blevins himself. He wasn’t friendly when I was at his place, by any means. There was still plenty of snark in his comments. But he’d given me information, and I really didn’t get the sense that was his normal pattern when speaking with the press.
Since he’d referred to the Star as my “little paper,” it could just be that he didn’t consider me any sort of threat. He’d also made it very clear that I couldn’t use the bit of information he’d given me, not that I would. Death is hard on a family, but suicide makes it so much worse.
So it wasn’t really that he’d been nice, per se. It was more that he’d been nice for Steve Blevins. Ed agreed when I relayed the story to him, noting that Blevins had a policy of never giving any information to the press unless it was a formal announcement, and he avoided those except on the rare occasion when television cameras might roll in from Knoxville. Then he morphed into Mr. Congeniality, smiling for his close-up.
Cassie was my only hope of any additional information for the moment, so I decided to fish a bit more. “Did he mention Edith being…disturbed about anything recently?”
“Nope. Just what I typed up for the paper there. Her volunteer work, her surviving family—which is just him, apparently—and the funeral arrangements. Nothing about the cause of death, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Well, I know the proximate cause of death. Her neck was broken from the fall. I’m just questioning the cause of that fall, and it doesn’t seem that the sheriff is at all concerned about that. Just because someone is eighty-five years old doesn’t mean you should automatically assume things. That’s ageism.”
Cassie smiled. “Funny how you’re all of a sudden interested in ageism.”
I stuck my tongue out at her. “I’m serious, Cassie. I went to see Blevins in order to tell him about two things that suggest something might be off about Edith’s death. And all I got from him is the possibility—and you are sworn to secrecy about this—that Edith might have jumped. That she might have killed herself. I mean, seriously, who tries to commit suicide by throwing herself down a staircase? And not even the full flight of stairs, since she dropped her teacup on the landing. He’s basing this solely on the fact that she had been calling the station lately with claims about seeing things.”
“What sort of things?”
I hesitated again, because I wasn’t sure that I wanted to get into this particular discussion with Cassie. “A ghost,” I finally blurted out. “She kept calling, all distraught because some dark-haired boy was back, although he could never get her to give him any concrete information about what dark-haired boy and where or when he was from, except for the one time she admitted that he was dead. So yeah. A ghost.”
Cassie shrugged. “Well, it’s possible. I’ve known plenty of people who’ve seen them.”
You mean you’ve seen them, I thought. But this probably wasn’t the best time to open that can of worms, so I stretched out on the bed next to her and watched the ceiling fan as it circled lazily above us.
“It could have been all in her mind, though. She was eighty-five. It’s not uncommon for older people to hallucinate.”
While I had never really talked to Edith, I’d seen her around town just like anyone else, and she’d always seemed pretty spry and savvy to me. Her obituary noted that she’d continued to volunteer even as an old lady. Dean hadn’t mentioned anything about her being mentally unstable, and he’d spoken to her nearly every day. Maybe it was just a matter of not wanting to speak ill of the dead?
I pulled the covers up around my shoulders. Thinking back on the conversation with Blevins chilled me all over again. It had been a relief to get out of his house and crawl back into the warm confines of Ed’s truck.
Cassie sighed. “Like I said, I believe it’s possible that she saw something. But…there are usually other perfectly natural explanations for paranormal sightings. Someone could have been playing games with her. Making her believe she saw something that wasn’t there. If she was on medication, they could have mixed them up or substituted them. There are lots of ways to mess with someone’s head to push them over the edge.”
“But with someone as old as Edith…I mean, there would be easier ways to kill her, don’t you think? Old people die in their sleep all the time. I think they’d be even less likely to
suspect foul play if she accidentally overdosed or simply stopped breathing than after finding her at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken. Either way, though, Clarence would seem to be the most likely suspect. He lived with her.”
“True,” Cassie agreed. “And you did say he stands to inherit a lot of money. Maybe he got tired of waiting on her to die so he could collect?”
“Which is sad. Thank god I’ll never have to worry about that. If you need what little money I have, just let me know, okay? We’ll work something out.”
Cassie laughed. “Is Sheriff Blevins friends with Clarence?”
“I don’t know if they’re close, but Ed says they’re friends. And I did get the sense that the decision not to insist on an autopsy was more of a personal matter than anything professional. So I don’t know if it’s friendship, or maybe Blevins and Clarence are in on something together.”
Cassie gave me a sly smile. “Ooh. A conspiracy.”
Her saying the word made me realize that Blevins might be right. I’d been thinking just that morning that what the town needed was a good mystery if I wanted to sell papers. Maybe it was simply boredom convincing me to connect dots that really didn’t make a picture.
Maybe.
But I really didn’t think so.
“Well,” I said, “either way, I have to get Edith’s announcement in the paper. Or rather, on the website. She’ll get her actual obituary on Wednesday, in her own special font.”
“You’re going to continue the tradition?” Cassie asked.
I nodded. “I’m sure that the town doesn’t really care one way or another. They probably think it’s a silly custom. But it mattered to Mr. Dealey, and this way, the Thistlewood Star will continue to be his paper, even though he’s gone.”
Cassie snuggled up next to me, just like she used to when she was small. “You’re such an old softy. That’s one of the things I love most about you. An old softy…with a boyfriend.”
✰ Chapter Eight ✰
The morning of Edith’s funeral was cloudy and cold without the promise of sun or warmth. It was also my birthday, which hadn’t slipped Cassie’s mind. She had been walking around all morning humming “Happy Birthday to You.” But at least I hadn’t come downstairs this morning to find balloons and streamers everywhere. I’d been a little worried that I might.
I found a black dress in the back of my closet. Circa 2005, but it still fit, so it would have to do. Cassie was right…I really needed to go shopping. It wasn’t lack of money. I would never be in the market for designer labels, but I could afford a wardrobe makeover. I just hated the thought of it. Give me a few pairs of well-worn jeans, comfy sweaters, and a big warm jacket, and I am a happy woman.
I’d just pulled on a pair of ancient black heels when Cassie gave a light tap on the door and stepped inside.
“How do I look?” she asked.
We’d made a quick trip to the mall yesterday because Cassie hadn’t packed for a funeral. Her black dress was a little tighter and shorter than mine, but still modest. She looked beautiful, and I felt that rush of pride that comes from watching your child grow into a strong, independent woman. I was quite certain there would be a few people in town who would take issue with her purple highlights, but people in small towns always need something to talk about. Life gets boring, otherwise. Might as well make it easy on them and dish up a teensy bit of scandal on a silver platter. That way they don’t have to go snooping around for their gossip.
“You look stunning,” I told her. “As always. And I really do appreciate you going. As long as you’re sure you want to. Because you don’t have to. You didn’t even know Edith. I barely knew her.”
I’d been completely surprised when Cassie offered to attend the service with me. It required her to actually step foot inside a room with a dead body, something that she’d done precisely once in her life, to the best of my knowledge. She’d had such a bad reaction when my parents died that I didn’t press the point when her dad’s mom died a few years later. There’s no law dictating the way people grieve. While there were a few people who clearly didn’t approve of a sixteen-year-old skipping her grandmother’s services, I’d told her what they thought really didn’t matter. Her father hadn’t been too happy about it, but he’d seen how she reacted at my parents’ funeral, and he was smart enough not to say too much to Cassie about staying home.
“I’ll be okay,” Cassie said, although I could see that she was a bit on edge. “I need to move past this. And I have to admit, I’m curious. If Edith was being haunted by some dark-haired boy, perhaps he’ll be there today.”
“And you think you’d actually see him?” I asked.
She gave me a grim smile. “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.”
I hugged her tight. “Okay, sweetie. But I know this isn’t easy for you. And I’m serious. If you need to make yourself scarce, I will understand completely.”
Downstairs, the doorbell rang. It was probably Ed, who had offered to give us a ride to the service.
“I’ll let your knight in shining Silverado in,” Cassie said.
Cronkite rubbed against my leg and then darted after her, eager to help answer the door. But he stopped cold just beyond the threshold. In that spooky way that cats possess, his green eyes roamed over to the bedroom window and locked on it.
Ghosts.
I shuddered, shaking the word out of my head. “What is it, buddy?”
Stepping across the room, I pulled the curtain back, almost certain that a spectral face would jump out at me from the other side. But when I looked down into the yard, I smiled. It wasn’t a ghost at all. Just Remy’s furry black face poking through the underbrush. The bear must have seen the curtains rustle, because he was looking straight up at the window. It almost looked like he was smiling.
As I raised my hand to wave, a crazy thought struck me. Remy had come to tell me happy birthday. Somehow, he knew. I waved again and sent him a silent thank-you.
It was a profoundly silly thought. He probably wasn’t even looking at this window. More likely it was a trick of the light, and he was just sitting there at the edge of the woods, wondering if I still had any of the berries and carrots I’d fed him when he was in my shed last year.
The bear didn’t know it was my birthday.
But everyone is entitled to a few silly fantasies now and then.
✰✰✰
Death in a small town is a strange thing. Everyone pretends to know the deceased, to have been friends with them, even if they hadn’t known them any better than I’d known Edith. The word always spreads quickly, especially when the death was sudden or accidental. I’m guessing half the county knew Edith was dead before my notice went up at the Star Online.
Edith’s service was no different. Most of the town seemed to be there, along with a smattering of less-familiar faces who lived in the even smaller communities scattered around the county. Wren had said the visitation at the funeral home the night before hadn’t been nearly as crowded, but then that’s usually the case around here. Casual friends sometimes attend visitation, but it’s mostly for family and close friends of the deceased.
The preacher Clarence asked to speak at the funeral wasn’t from Thistlewood, so I suspected he was one of their distant relatives who traveled here from out of town. Most families have a cousin or an uncle who’s a preacher of some sort, and they always seem determined to speak at the service, even if they haven’t seen the deceased since a family reunion decades ago. This particular minister, whose name I didn’t catch, spoke of Edith’s life for only a few minutes and then launched into a full-on fire-and-brimstone sermon, clearly trying to preach poor Edith into heaven. After sitting through one of these funerals with my mother back when I was a teenager, she’d said I shouldn’t bother with that at her funeral. If she hadn’t made it into heaven by the time the service started, no amount of preaching was going to get her there. When the time came, I was glad she’d given
me that bit of instruction. I was also glad that we didn’t have any fire-and-brimstone types in the extended family, insisting on their moment in the spotlight.
Edith’s mahogany casket shone brightly beneath the muted light. The church’s stained-glass windows cast the colors of the prism across her body as a last tribute during Edith’s final hour above ground. That sounds a little fanciful, I guess, especially after my earlier thoughts about the bear. But odd thoughts have always popped into my head during church, and even more so during funerals.
I knew Edith’s son, Clarence, even less than I knew her. In fact, I’d have been hard-pressed to describe him, but the face clicked when I saw a man about Ed’s age, or maybe a little older, following her casket down the long church aisle, out the door, and into the waiting hearse. Clarence Morton was short and overweight, although not exactly fat—sort of like a former football player who had given up exercise instead of beer. His eyes were dry but red and vacant, with dark circles underneath. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. And maybe he hadn’t. It was a hard thing to lose a parent. I knew that from experience. But I had no idea how it felt to think your mother committed suicide. That had to make it so much harder.
The one absence that seemed notable was Elaine Huckabee. Even if she hadn’t liked Edith, you’d think she’d have come to the service to support Clarence. I mean, if everyone in town knew they were an item, what reason did they have to hide it now? Unless there was a provision about that in the will, too? My entire estate is bequeathed to my son, Clarence, as long as he doesn’t sell the house, is never seen in public with Elaine Huckabee, and always remembers to wipe his feet on the front mat. Otherwise, he gets NOTHING.
Compared to the funeral, Edith’s graveside service was short and somber. This time, the speaker was Edith’s own preacher, Reverend Walden. He said a few words about her years of service to the church and her community, casting a rather annoyed glance at the other preacher, who hadn’t really bothered with those points. Then he spoke a short prayer, and they lowered Edith’s casket into the grave.
