The Skeleton Haunts a House

by Leigh Perry

  “Then he knows about your living arrangements? I thought I was special.”

  “There are very few I’ve trusted with that knowledge,” he said. “It’s not that you are less trustworthy, but that Brownie is equally trustworthy.”

  “I’ll count that in his favor. Where are the two of you living?”

  “He has a compact, but well-designed, trailer currently situated on Elm Street. I’ll be well housed until after Halloween.”

  “Elm Street? You mean you’re living on the carnival lot?”

  He nodded. “I’m anticipating learning more of the lingo during my stay there. It should prove to be quite an experience.”

  “I bet it will be,” I said, trying to picture my natty friend picking his way past the discarded popcorn boxes and drink cups that infested every carnival lot I’d been on.

  Brownie came over, and once we got the table arranged, I said, “How are you settling in to McQuaid?”

  “It’s always awkward picking up a class in midstream, but at least my predecessor left well-organized lesson plans.”

  “That makes all the difference in the world,” I said. “Once I took over a composition class, and the guy had shifted his assignments around without updating the lesson plan. So I’m going by the plan, and it wasn’t until three weeks in that one of my students told me they’d already done everything I was assigning. They’d just been handing in the same essays they’d handed in before, only they’d had time to correct the mistakes the other instructor had marked. Here I thought I had the most competent class ever.”

  “At least you had a lesson plan to consult,” Charles said. “Once I had nothing but a stack of illegible index cards and a copy of the textbook with sections highlighted. To make the experience complete, the topic was one I’d never studied before, let alone taught.”

  That led to more war stories, each one funny in retrospect, though at the time I suspect we’d all indulged in words of the four-letter variety.

  “One thing I’ve got to ask, Brownie,” I said. “How do you juggle being an academic with being a carny?”

  “In terms of time or philosophy?”

  “I was talking time, but you’ll get full credit for either approach.”

  “Time-wise, it’s not as hard as you might think. The show shuts down after Halloween, and our winter quarters are outside Shrewsbury, which is near several colleges. Even when we go back on the road in April, we have a fairly stable route, and our usual stands are all in this part of New England. All I have to do is check with the colleges within commuting distance. It limits my options, but then again, if I can’t find an adjunct job one semester, I just work more hours at the show.”

  “You like doing both?”

  “I love doing both,” he corrected me. “How about you?”

  “Academia is home. Both my parents are English professors, and although they encouraged me to explore my possibilities, I decided this was the life for me early on. It hasn’t turned out exactly the way I’d planned, but it’s still good.”

  “What about living in Pennycross? You don’t get bored staying in one place?”

  “I haven’t been back all that long. I grew up here, but since I got my doctorate, Madison and I have moved around nearly as much as you have.”

  “Madison is your partner?”

  “You could call her that. I generally call her my daughter.”

  He nodded, and I caught his glance at my left hand, which was free of a wedding band. I hadn’t even been eligible for a friendship ring for nearly a year, and snuck a peek at Brownie’s hand in return. It was equally unadorned.

  I was trying to decide if I wanted to take advantage of our mutually bare-fingered status when Charles looked at his watch and reminded Brownie that they had a meeting. So I went back to Mom’s office to call my other Brandeis target.

  Caroline Craig was an adjunct originally from Virginia, and she and I shared a love of pop culture, particularly comics. The cover story for her was asking if she had any recommendations for graphic novels I could use for a class I was proposing. To assuage my conscience, I did intend to suggest such a class to Dr. Eberhardt, but I didn’t have any idea that he’d go for it. As far as I’d been able to gather, he thought “popular” and “culture” were diametrically opposed. At least I could pass the list on to Sid to add to his reading pleasure.

  Once that was done, I brought up Kendall’s death.

  “That poor girl,” Caroline said. “It just broke my heart when I heard.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I had her for university writing seminar last year, and I have to say I didn’t think much of her. She didn’t give two hoots about my class and was just barely scraping by with papers that were so bland I nearly dozed off reading them.”

  “Don’t tell me: My Mother/Grandmother/Aunt Is My Real-Life Hero, How Racial Prejudice Diminishes Us All, and Bullying is Bad.”

  “Don’t tell me you taught her, too!”

  “I may as well have.”

  “Anyway, the only reason she was in my section was because there was a boy she had her eye on.”

  “Did he reciprocate?”

  “Not right away, but she kept at him, bless her heart, and they finally went out partway through the semester. And here’s the sweet thing. I think he steadied her down—she started putting some real effort into her classwork for a change. She still wasn’t a gifted writer, but she improved enough to bring herself up to a B-.”

  “Good for her.”

  “I didn’t have her this semester, but she came by my office a couple of times just to say hello. She even apologized for being such a pain in the tail end. Of course, she really hadn’t wronged me any—it was herself she was hurting by not doing the work—but I thought it was sweet. I just hate that she died so young, after she’d really started turning things around.”

  I kept at it a little, but Caroline didn’t know any more about Kendall’s personal life.

  Once I was off the phone, I checked my watch and saw there was no time to report back to Sid, so I grabbed my stuff and headed to class, figuring Sid wouldn’t mind waiting.

  13

  Sid minded. If the flurry of increasingly annoyed texts I received over the next couple of hours hadn’t clued me in, then the stony silence with which he greeted me when I got home and climbed up to his attic would have. Instead of speaking to me, he pretended he hadn’t heard me come in, which might have been more convincing if I hadn’t heard him scrambling around to get to his computer so he could act busy.

  “Hi, Sid.”

  He kept typing.

  “Come on, Sid, I didn’t have time to call you.”

  No reply.

  “Or e-mail you.”

  Nothing.

  “Okay, I could have texted you.”

  “No, that’s okay,” he said with a sniff. “It’s not like I’m your partner—I’m just a human search engine.”

  Had he been less cranky, I might have pointed out that calling him human would be a stretch. “You know I see you as a partner, but you also know my time isn’t always my own. Somebody in this family has to bring in a paycheck so we can afford some of the new graphic novels coming down the pike.”

  “I suppose.” He paused. “What graphic novels?”

  “The list of really good ones that my friend Caroline gave me. She’s got some free copies she scored at a conference, too, and was going to send them along, but if you’re not interested . . .”

  “Okay, okay, you’re forgiven.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But comics later. What did you find out about Kendall?”

  “Not a lot.” I told him what I’d learned. “So she had freshman syndrome, but got over it long before she was killed. I don’t think she was killed for turning over a new leaf.”

  “What about
the boyfriend?” Sid asked. “If she was changing herself for him, maybe it was a Fifty Shades of Grey thing, and he was making her over in his own image. Eventually she started to resent it and wanted to break away. So he killed her rather than lose her.”

  “That’s ugly, but possible. How did he get into the haunt without her knowing it?”

  “He was the ninja, of course.”

  “That would explain why the ninja hasn’t resurfaced. But isn’t the boyfriend the first person the police would check alibis for?”

  “He could have rented a ninja.”

  We looked at each other, and couldn’t help giggling. It was in terrible taste, of course, but a rent-a-ninja was too funny not to laugh.

  Once we’d recovered enough to be able to fake maturity, I said, “You know the police must have investigated the guy already.”

  “Not as well as I can,” Sid said.

  “Granted. But unless you find something, I think we have to look elsewhere.”

  “Kendall’s family? Maybe she didn’t get along with her parents, or had serious sibling rivalry.”

  “That’s still something the police would look at.” I held up a hand to forestall him. “I know, it goes without saying that you’ll do a better job of digging into that, but I’m trying to come up with something I can do.”

  Sid and I both drummed our fingers, but the resulting duet neither caused brain flashes nor masked the sounds of loud footsteps from downstairs.

  “Madison must be mad about something,” I said.

  “That’s not Madison.” A moment later, Sid was proven right when there was a knock at his door. Before he could answer, Deborah stomped in.

  “I figured I’d find you two up here.”

  “Welcome!” Sid said, as delighted to see her as I was surprised. I couldn’t remember the last time Deborah had come to Sid’s room.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “I got a call today from the McQuaid Scholars Committee, namely Beatrice McQuaid. She was not pleased that I hadn’t been calling her each and every day. The fact that nothing has changed since Saturday night makes zero difference to her. Bear in mind that Beatrice hasn’t done a solitary thing since recruiting me—she hasn’t even bothered to come down to the haunt. None of the committee have. The cast and I do the work, and they brag about how much money they make for scholarships.”

  “How did you get the job anyway?” I asked.

  “I heard they needed somebody. The guy who ran it last year moved out of town, and since I’ve worked tech at haunts before, I got in touch. That’s the last time I volunteer for anything.”

  “You did put together a good haunt.”

  “As if you’d know. If we reopen, are you going to come in?”

  “It’s kind of ruined for me now,” I said, dodging. “With what happened and all.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, not believing me. “Speaking of scary things, Beatrice and the rest of the Quintet want to meet with me tonight.”

  “I wonder if they’re going to tell you not to reopen the haunt.”

  “Why would they do that? No haunt means nothing for them to brag about.”

  “But it could mean a lot of money.” I reminded her of what I’d told Louis about the McQuaid bequest being dependent on McQuaid Hall staying in use.

  “So you think the McQuaid Quintet killed a girl to get the building and land back? Not that I’m saying they wouldn’t, but if they had, why would they be bothering me about reopening?”

  “They could be faking it to hide their real motive,” Sid said.

  “I guess,” Deborah said, “but I can’t see any of them getting their hands dirty.”

  “They could have hired somebody,” I said, reminding myself to make no rent-a-ninja comments or else Sid and I would start laughing again, and Deborah would lose all faith in our deductive abilities.

  She said, “If they’re going to try to mess around with my haunt, they’re going to have a fight on their hands.”

  “Go get ’em, and call me after the meeting.”

  “I thought you might want to come along, since you’re nosing around.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what good I’d do other than lend moral support, but it was definitely something I could do that the police couldn’t, so I was about to agree. Sid beat me to it.

  “Good idea, Deborah,” he said. “That would be a great place to continue our investigation.”

  “Yeah, no. You’re not coming,” Deborah said.

  “You asked both of us to help. Georgia, tell her you need me as backup.”

  They both turned to me. I sighed, but after some negotiation, we came up with a compromise that made nobody happy. Including me, because I realized that I’d never agreed to go to the meeting.

  We headed downstairs and told everybody what we were up to, and though Deborah made noises about heading home for a sandwich, Phil insisted on her staying for the stir-fry he was whipping up.

  Over dinner, Mom pointed out that it might be better to dress upscale to meet with the McQuaids, so after we finished, I went to find something more suitable while Deborah made a quick trip to her place to change. By the time she got back, I was wearing my navy blue interview suit with heels, and had even put on makeup. I have a nice red briefcase I usually carry on such occasions, but this time I had to settle for a worn tote designed to look like an old-time doctor’s bag. Even tying a scarf around the handles didn’t disguise the scarred leather, but it was the only handbag I had that was big enough to squeeze Sid’s skull into.

  That had been part of the compromise. Since Sid’s memory or soul or whatever it is that keeps him moving travels with his skull, as long as we had that, he was technically accompanying us. It was stretching a point to call him backup since about all he would be able to do in our defense was roll at people and bite them like a carnivorous bowling ball, but he was an excellent listener and might pick up something Deborah and I missed.

  Of course he still grumbled. “This thing is too tight,” he said from inside. “Great, now your cell is inside my skull.”

  I reached inside and pulled out the phone, then put it into a zipper section on the side of the bag. “There. Now keep your jaw shut or my wallet will be in there, too.”

  “You need to get a bigger bag, something with a see-through panel.”

  “I’m sure I can find a perfect skull touring bag on sale at Macy’s, but until I do, you’ll have to deal with this one. Unless you want to stay home, that is.”

  “No way! Sherlock Bones is on the case. And yes, you have to be Watson. You’re the doctor, right?”

  “Fine, I’ll be Watson. Just remember, Watson is the one with a gun.”

  “Oh, please, everybody knows Holmes is the better shot.”

  “Sure, lying on the couch, but it’s always Watson who’s carrying the trusty revolver.”

  Sid and I continued our literary discussion until Deborah drove up and leaned on the horn to get our attention.

  Like me, Deborah had a single good suit for those times when she needed one, but hers was a little sharper because she typically dealt with dress-to-impress businesspeople, not conservative academics. It was a rich burgundy, and since her legs were one of her best features, the skirt was shorter than mine. I comforted myself with the fact that my pumps were prettier than hers.

  “Bone Boy in the bag?” she asked once I’d climbed into the car.

  “You bet!” Sid chirped. “Hey, you two want me to wave at you from the attic window?”

  “No!” we both said. Though Sid’s ability to manipulate his bones at a distance was impressive, it might draw unwanted attention.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “If anybody else sees me, they’ll think I’m a Halloween decoration.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t do it,” I said. “Save it for Halloween night and you
’ll get a bigger reaction.”

  “Oh, good point.”

  Deborah shook her head in resignation. Just because she was used to the two of us, it didn’t mean that she understood us.

  “Where’s the meeting going to be?” I asked as Deborah drove.

  “At the McQuaid mansion.”

  “Of course. The better to cow us with.”

  “You know Beatrice didn’t even give me the address. She just assumed I’d know where it is.”

  “She was right, wasn’t she? Everybody knows where it is.” At least everybody who’d lived in Pennycross for any length of time knew. I don’t suppose the McQuaid family was all that rich or prestigious compared to folks in Boston or Long Island, but they were definitely the leading family in our little northwestern Massachusetts town. Not only had the college been named for them, but they were active in local politics and what passed for a social calendar. “I’ve always been curious about what that place is like inside.”

  “Me, too,” Sid said. He might not get out of the house often, but that didn’t keep him from taking fierce interest in Pennycross gossip. “Georgia, are you sure you can’t keep the bag open for me to peek?”

  Even if I’d been tempted, seeing the look on Deborah’s face was enough to make me say, “Sorry, Sid. We can’t take the risk of anybody noticing you. I’m a gate-crasher as it is. A gate-crasher with a skull in a bag wouldn’t make the right impression.”

  “Spoilsport,” he muttered.

  Deborah pulled into the long, circular driveway in front of the McQuaid mansion and parked near the front door. There were five other cars waiting: two Mercedes sedans, a gleaming blue Lexus, a black Escalade, and a vintage seventies-era red-and-white Cadillac that was bigger than some of the apartments I’d lived in.

  “Great, the whole McQuaid Quintet showed up. I mostly dealt with Beatrice, but I’ve met all the cousins.”

  “I thought they were sisters.”

  “A common misconception,” Sid said. “Beatrice is an only child, but has four first cousins: Paige, Vivienne, and the twins, Edwina and Erika. Beatrice is the oldest, and the daughter of the oldest from the previous generation, which is why she inherited the mansion and the lion’s share of oomph in town.”