Witch House

by Dana Donovan

  “If you would. In the meantime, Carlos and I will be down at the Percolator. I think we owe Lilith and Ursula breakfast.”

  “Wait, why can’t I go?”

  “Because, thou`est need not the distractions of yon fair maiden to complicate this case.”

  “Aye,” said Carlos, in thespian fashion. “Thou art drunk with lust, for her smile doth affect thee as strong drink. Be not lost so poorly in thy pity that thou heart lies like lead upon thy chest. It is by good fortune thou hast found thy love verily. Take hold and know wherefore we depart hence without thee, fair kinsman.”

  “Wow!” I turned to Carlos and smiled large. “That was good. Did you just think that up?”

  “Yeah,” he said, surprised at his own wit. “Methinks I did.”

  “Just for that, I’m buying.”

  “Well then, leadith the way, m`lord.”

  “Okay, really you can stop that now.”

  NINETEEN

  It was nearly three in the afternoon before Spinelli met Carlos and me at the cemetery with a backhoe to exhume Johnny (Buck) Allis’ casket. A formidable black sky of cumulonimbus clouds rolled in just as we arrived, supporting forecasters’ predictions for rain. I promised Spinelli that if it held off long enough for us to finish our work I would have him over for dinner with Lilith and Ursula. The rain held off for exactly five minutes.

  “This sucks,” said Carlos, stuck again with the pocket umbrella from the car. “Why do we have to stand here and watch this? Can’t we wait inside the funeral home?”

  I pointed with my umbrella toward the poor fellow operating the backhoe. He wore a bright yellow raincoat and hat, the kind Gloucester anglers wear out in the Atlantic. Still, that was not keeping his hands and face warm against the cold rain coming down in a torrent. “If he can stick it out,” I told Carlos, “then so can we.”

  He grumbled something about Noah’s ark before making Dominic switch umbrellas with him. A few minutes later, we were watching the bucket on the backhoe hoist the casket up out of the earth on chains. It rode from there on a flatbed to the service entrance at the funeral home. Once inside, Dominic and I hopped up on the truck and opened the lid. I do not know what Dominic expected to find, perhaps a perfectly laid out skeleton, its head resting on a pillow, hands folded neatly upon its chest. Had there been a body, then maybe that is exactly what he would have found. I knew better, though. A pile of charred bones means a closed casket funeral. Shy of just shoveling the bones into the casket, the mortician makes little effort to reconstruct the skeleton in detail. Sure, he will lay out the larger leg bones down at the base of the coffin; maybe arrange some of the rib bones somewhere in the middle. Apart from that, the only thing likely to find a home close to its natural position is the skull. That, anyway, was resting on a pillow, front and center as expected.

  “He looks small,” Dominic commented.

  “Well, he is dead,” I said.

  “No, I know that. I’m just saying….”

  “I know.” I pointed at the skull’s upper alveolar ridge. “Lilith was right. Look at that. This guy had a million dollar smile.”

  “More like a six million dollar smile.”

  “Good one.”

  Carlos called up, “What do you see?”

  “Bones,” said Dominic.

  “I figured that. Are they Johnny Buck’s?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We make sure,” I said. I looked to Dominic. “Let’s get some x-rays of this skull. Compare the dental work with any known x-rays of Johnny Buck’s.”

  “And when we find out it’s not him?”

  I thought about it a moment. Looking down at the bones I said, “This has to be someone.”

  “Maybe the third robber.”

  “Francis Nanchákey?”

  “Indian men are kind of small.”

  “See, I told you,” Carlos said, pointing at the casket. “I told you there was a third man.”

  Spinelli countered, “What about the spirit at the séance last night? He said his name was John, and Ursula saw the name Allis out front on the mailbox.”

  “I know. That is true, but John and Allis are common names in New England. It could be coincidence.”

  “Yeah? What about the sack with the casino name stenciled on the side?”

  “That is a good one, I’ll admit, but clearly, the bones in this casket do not appear to be those of Johnny Buck Allis’. Until we find out otherwise, we have to assume that Johnny Buck is still alive.”

  “And what if we find out that this guy is not Nanchákey? What then?”

  “Then we take one setback at a time. Meanwhile, check your x-rays against Johnny Buck’s dental work and that of Nanchákey’s, too.”

  “What are you two going to do?”

  I smiled at Carlos. “If he does not mind driving in the rain, Carlos and I will head out to see Mrs. Allis.”

  “Mrs. Allis?” I could see Carlos’ bushy brows crowding low on his forehead. “I didn’t know Johnny Buck was married.”

  “Not his wife, his mother.”

  “Johnny Buck has a mother?”

  “Of course,” said Dominic, with a snort to his laugh. “Everyone has a mother.”

  “Oh.” He turned away, as if reconciling that thought, before looking back perplexed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  His befuddled face softened. “Do you suppose Mrs. Allis has bucked teeth, too?”

  I said to Dominic, “You will let me know as soon as you have something?”

  “Probably won’t be till morning.”

  I looked back at Carlos. He was making rat faces again in the truck’s door mirror. I shook my head. “The sooner the better.”

  Dominic smiled. “I’ll call you.”

  Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in Elizabeth Allis’ parlor sipping tea and breaking stale cookies into small pieces to make it look like we were eating some. The old woman lived in one of the units at River’s Edge condominium complex, the same complex where Stephanie Stiles lived. Like Stephanie’s apartment, Mrs. Allis’ unit also faced the river. Naturally, I wondered if the two knew each other. It seemed possible, though they hardly had more in common than their proximity in domicile. Whereas Stephanie was a chain-smoking, booze drinking woman of social decadence and promiscuity, Mrs. Allis; bent, feeble and dependant on a cane to get around, derived her pleasures through cats, crochet and Catholicism. Everywhere we turned, Carlos and I faced either calico or crucifix. Over every doorway hung a rosary and on every table a statue of the Virgin Mary.

  I began by asking Mrs. Allis about the house on East Monroe. “The mailbox out front has your name on it,” I said. “Is it your house?”

  “Oh, heavens no, not anymore,” she said, and her stare fell onto a distance speck somewhere out the window. “It is a shame, isn’t it? It has been up for sale nearly eighteen years. The bank owns it now. I could not keep up the taxes and insurance and whatnot.” She returned her gaze to me, and I could see that she truly had no idea about the condition it was in. “I don’t know why it won’t sell. It’s a marvelous old house.”

  I smiled warmly at that. “Yes, it is. It is a marvelous old house, indeed.” I sat up and took a sip of tea to wash down a bit of cookie that I had to eat after Mrs. Allis caught me breaking it in two. Afterward I asked her, “Did your son live in the house up until his death?”

  “My Bucky? Of course he did. He loved that house. It would still be ours if he were here today.”

  That got Carlos and me exchanging glances. “Yes, of course, about that. Mrs. Allis, this is difficult for me, however I must ask you. Do you think it is possible your son is still alive?”

  “Bucky? Oh no. That’s impossible.”

  “How can you know for sure? You never saw his body.”

  “I saw them bury his casket in the ground out at the cemetery. That’s good enough.”

  “What if it was not him inside?”


  “What do you mean? Of course it was him. I know my Bucky. He was a good boy. Sure, he may have been a little slow in the head, but he was good to his mother. He was a choirboy at St. Vincent DePaul you know.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes, so don’t go spreading bad rumors about my son. He could not go without showing his face to his mother every week. That is how I know he is with our Heavenly Farther.”

  “You are sure of that?”

  “Do you think he went to the other place?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I meant—”

  “I told you. I know my Bucky. There is no way he would stay away from his mother for so long without calling or writing. He is gone. He is with the Lord.”

  “Yes, of course he is.” I looked around the apartment, past all the cats and the statues of Mother Mary, and I noticed that the furnishings looked new and expensive. She mentioned that she had lost the house because she could not keep up the taxes and insurance, yet I knew that a riverfront apartment at River’s Edge did not come cheap. At the risk of upsetting her further, I said, “This is a nice apartment you have here, Mrs. Allis. I imagine it must be difficult maintaining it on a fixed income these days.”

  She looked at me cross, and I knew I had struck a nerve. “That is really none of your business now is it, Detective?”

  “No, Ma`am.” I shook my head. “I suppose it is not, but in a way it might be. I mention this because my partner and I are investigating a case, one that involves your son.”

  “My Bucky?”

  “Yes. You see, someone killed an old friend of his the other day, and in the course of investigating that death, we began digging up some old clues that…well, I don’t know exactly how to put this.”

  Mrs. Allis put her hand out to stop me. “Detective, please don’t tell me you dug up my boy.”

  Carlos was quick to answer. “No, ma`am. We are mostly certain that we did not dig up your son.”

  He was not lying. We had no idea whose bones were in the grave marked for Johnny Buck Allis, but we were reasonably sure they were not his. I sat back in my seat and collected my thoughts. I was going about things all wrong. Whatever the disposition of Johnny Buck, one thing was for sure. Mrs. Allis believed her son was dead. She had buried him along with the bones that she believed were his and the only thing living now was his memory. Carlos did the woman a great service by answering her before I could, and I made a mental note to thank him after we left.

  Hoping to salvage the interview, I said, “Would it be getting too personal, Mrs. Allis, if I asked you if you had a secret benefactor?”

  “A secret benefactor?”

  “Yes, you know, do you find an occasional check in the mail that you were not expecting. Does your bank statement sometimes come up with a higher balance than what you thought?”

  “You mean is someone paying me off, Detective?”

  “No! I don’t mean that at all.”

  “You think my son is still alive. You think he robbed a casino with that hooligan, René Landau and now he is paying for my apartment with blood money, don’t you?”

  “Mrs. Allis, I don’t—”

  “My son was murdered, Detective Marcella. René Landau killed my son and tried to frame him for that robbery. Well, I have news for you. My son did not stand trial for robbing that casino. No one found him guilty of anything. He went to heaven with a clean heart and a pure soul and I will not have you sit there, slandering his good name.”

  “Mrs. Allis, we mean no disrespect.”

  She struggled to her feet with the aid of her cane and pointed it at the door. “I think you both should leave now.”

  I looked at Carlos, who gave me a heads up, almost as if to say, nice going old man. Only I was not an old man, not anymore, and that was the problem. Ever since my return to prime, I have noticed how poorly sometimes my interviews with older folks go. Perhaps I come across too brash for a young cop. The technique worked well when I was older. I suppose people expect that from seasoned veterans. I am thinking that in the future I should let Carlos take the lead in questioning the elderly. After all, he is practically one of them.

  Outside the apartment, Carlos gave me his assessment of Mrs. Allis, saying that she was obviously lying to cover up for her son. “Did you see how defensive she got? She’s hiding something, you can bet.”

  “You are kidding,” I said. “That sweet old lady?”

  “Yes, that sweet old lady. You don’t see it?”

  I shook my head. “Carlos, the woman is a devout Christian. I counted five Mother Mary statues, three rosaries and a crucifix just in the living room alone.”

  “See what I mean? She is overcompensating. She is living a lie.”

  “No, she is living in denial, maybe, but she is not lying. I’m sorry; I’m going the other way on this one. I think if Johnny Buck is still alive, then Mrs. Allis is in the dark about it. I don’t believe he has tried to contact her since the robbery.”

  “Yes, so where does that leave us?”

  We started toward the car. “Get Dominic on the phone, will you?”

  Carlos took out his phone and hit speed dial. “What are you thinking?”

  “Something Mrs. Allis said.”

  He handed the phone to me. “It’s ringing.”

  “She said that her son could not go without showing his face to his mother every week.”

  Spinelli picked up. “Hey, Carlos, what’s up? Did you and the old man talk to Johnny Buck’s mother?”

  “Yes we did,” I said, and I heard him swallow down the lump in his throat.

  “Oh, Tony, hey. I thought you…. I didn’t mean that just now. I thought Carlos—”

  “Yeah, yeah, forget it. Listen. Are you working on those dental record comparisons?”

  “I am, but I can tell you already one person whose records won’t match.”

  “Oh? Wait a minute.” I turned the phone on speaker. “I have Carlos here. Say that again.”

  “The bones in Johnny Buck’s grave, I can tell you definitively they do not belong to Francis Nanchákey.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because, in looking up Nanchákey’s records, I found out that he was a she.”

  “A transvestite?” said Carlos. “I didn’t know Indians had those, too.”

  “No!” Spinelli answered, and I could hear him laughing in the background. “She was not a transvestite. She was a woman working for the armored car company.”

  I asked, “How do we know the bones we dug up aren’t hers?”

  “It’s simple pathology. One look at the bones and our forensic pathologist said they belonged to a male. It’s something about the pelvic bones and how they—”

  “Yes, yes, I know how he can tell the difference. Okay, listen. I have a hunch about something anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you remember the name of the driver killed during the armored car robbery?”

  Spinelli paused briefly before answering. “Davis, I think.”

  “Do you remember his first name?”

  “John; John Davis.”

  Carlos said, “Our ghost said his name was John!”

  “Dominic, didn’t you tell me that Johnny Buck shot the armored car driver in the face with a shotgun?”

  “Yes, according to the reports.”

  “Then that means John Davis would have had a closed casket funeral, just like Johnny Buck, right?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “There you have it. Get a hold of Mister Davis’ dental records and do a comparison. Make it priority one.”

  “Roger that. Anything else?”

  “No, just do it quickly enough that we might still have time to get another subpoena from Judge LaHaye in case we need to dig up Davis’ grave tomorrow.”

  “Oh, boy, that sounds like fun.”

  “Just do it.” I hung up and handed the phone back to Carlos. He seemed vindicated in his smile. “What?”

  He took the phon
e and slipped it in his pocket. “I knew it. Johnny Buck is still alive. That ghost we saw was Davis’ ghost.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Well, first off, he told us his name was John. He did not say Johnny or Johnny Buck. Secondly, he said he wanted to find out who shot him. Johnny Buck would know who shot him.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but our ghost was shot in the back. John Davis was shot in the face.”

  “We never saw a face on our ghost. Maybe it is because it had been blown away.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And then there is the money sack from the Wampanoag Indian casino. John Davis would certainly have had opportunity to get his hands on something like that, wouldn’t he?”

  “Again, I suppose, but how do you explain John Davis’ ghost in Johnny Buck’s house? Why would he haunt there?”

  Carlos pinched his chin and began stroking his at his whiskers. “He’s waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Davis’ ghost is in Johnny Buck’s house waiting for him to return. When he does, he will extract his revenge.”

  “That’s exact.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “No, the phrase is he will exact his revenge. That is the expression.”

  “No, it’s extract. It means to take something out. To extract revenge is to take revenge out on someone.”

  “Yes, but that is not the expression one uses. The common expression is to exact revenge.”

  “Well, what if it is not so exact?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It is still exact.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at me skeptically. “I’d like to exact myself from this conversation.”

  “No, that’s extract.”

  “Ah-ha! See?”

  I shook the keys in front of his face. “Get in the car.”

  TWENTY

  The following morning, Carlos and I met up with Spinelli in the detective’s lounge just off the main conference room upstairs at the Justice Center. He had laid out some of his notes and assembled a few key documents and photos for reference if we needed them. Frankly, I did not think we would. We were four days into our investigation, and things were really beginning to stall out on us. Dominic, having failed to obtain permission from John Davis’ widow to access her husband’s dental records, petitioned Judge LaHaye for the same. By seven-thirty that morning, the judge handed down his decision against it, citing lack of compelling evidence to warrant intercession.