GHOSTS: 2014 edition (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 1)

by Noel Hynd

  Hughes grinned affably. “Just me and my radio,” he said.

  “Can’t afford no assistant no more.”

  Agannis nodded.

  “Sure you’ll be okay?” Brooks asked.

  Hughes took it as a strange question. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.

  Brooks considered an answer. But Lieutenant Agannis stole the initiative.

  “No reason on earth you shouldn’t be,” the lieutenant said. “Aside from the fact that Timmy here thinks there’s a ghost in the house.”

  “A ghost?” Hughes looked up from his work. His face, tense and quizzical for a moment, then broke into a broad smile. “Know how many ghost houses I been in on this island?” Hughes asked. “Over the course of thirty years? Know how many?”

  “I have no idea,” Brooks said.

  “Take a guess.”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Well, I don’t have no idea, either,” the repairman said. “Fifty. Eighty. A hundred. It’s a real thing around here, isn’t it? People move here from New York or Boston and think they should have a ghost.” He laughed. “Women mostly, bless ’em. They leave you to work in their house, then they say, ‘By the way, if you see something funny, it’s just my Aunt Tilly. She’s been dead twelve years but she likes to check on things. So just be nice to her and she won’t bother you.’ Who do they think I am? Bill Murray?”

  Agannis grinned, laughed, and tossed the end of his cigarette into the fireplace.

  “Know how many ghosts I seen in all that time?” Emmet Hughes asked.

  He didn’t wait for an answer. The repairman held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger connecting to form a circle, indicating none.

  “Zero,” Hughes said. “Any ghost shows up here while I’m working, I’ll kick its big white butt. How’s that?”

  Brooks nodded. “Then I guess you’ll be fine,” Brooks finally conceded. He motioned to the lieutenant that he was finished and they could leave. They stepped outside.

  Boomer, motionless as a log, suddenly rolled over and came back to his feet. With an unusual whimper, he trotted to his master. Agannis patted the retriever on his head.

  “Whatsa matter, fella?” Agannis asked his mastiff. “Bad dreams?”

  Without speaking further, they piled back into Lieutenant Agannis’ SUV.

  Agannis took the wheel and fished in his pocket for the car keys.

  “Hope you’re satisfied with this fairy tale,” he said with surprising sullenness. “I even heard you talking down in the basement. Who’d you see down there? Anyone you know?”

  Lieutenant Agannis started the car. Brooks didn’t answer for a full minute.

  “Something funny’s happening on this island, Lieutenant,” Brooks said. “I can’t prove it. I can’t find it. I’m hard-pressed to demonstrate it. But it’s around. Somewhere. I know it is.”

  “Yeah,” Agannis said. He gave Brooks a sidelong glance. “Sure,” he said.

  They pulled out of the driveway onto Cort Street. An adult on a bicycle whizzed past them the wrong way on the near side of the street. Agannis nearly hit him and never noticed. The bicyclist never looked back.

  In the rear seat of the car, Boomer sighed. It was only then, trying to put the visit in perspective, that one small detail of the visit struck Tim Brooks as odd.

  Normally, Boomer followed Lieutenant Agannis anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere. Yet the dog had balked at entering the house and had settled instead outside.

  Coincidence again?

  Or had stumbling, myopic, noisily panting, drooling old Boomer seen something that all three men present had missed?

  Chapter Forty

  The first day of Annette Carlson’s visit to New York could not have proceeded better. She met her agent Joe Fischer at his office at Seventh Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. Joe held a corner office in a big plate-glass tower where he shared a suite with his New York associates. That morning over breakfast at the Regency, Joe had already extorted tentative terms from the producers for Message From Berlin.

  Fischer knew when he was holding the best cards. He knew that the producers specifically wanted Annette Carlson for the lead role in their production. He also knew that he would eventually give her to them. But not before, with his velvet-gloved approach, he turned some iron screws.

  Fischer later took Annette to lunch and went over the terms of their offer. He explained his strategy.

  “There’s just one angle of this that Joe wants you to be aware of, Annie, honey,” Fischer eventually warned. “I’m going for a quick hit on these negotiations. I want to have an agreement within another twenty-four hours. Forty-eight maximum. I’m telling the producers that we’re going elsewhere Monday evening if we don’t have a deal by then.”

  “Why are you doing it that way?” Annette asked, more curious than in disagreement.

  “Joe doesn’t want to give their tiny minds the opportunity to switch into gear,” Fischer said. “I’m hitting them real hard for money, both for you and for my writer. They don’t need to have the luxury of putting anything in perspective or shopping for other talent. And we sure as hell don’t need that complication, either. So over the weekend it’s my way or the highway.”

  Fischer merrily sipped an Italian mineral water, his eyes sharp as tacks. “Are you with me?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Good. Thank you,” he said. “Joe will do the rest.”

  Annette’s faith was implicit that Fischer would land the best deal possible, without endangering Annette’s involvement in the project. She knew that he wouldn’t have taken things this far if he weren’t brimming with confidence.

  After lunch, she walked with Fischer back to his office. There her agent introduced her to Jonathan Reed, the writer of the script, who had a two-thirty appointment with Fischer. The agent wanted Reed in New York in person to iron out parts of his own participation in the production. This was also another Fischer flourish to the deal: all the principles on hand to hash out language with lawyers and initial the eventual deal memorandum.

  Reed was a tall, thin, ascetic-looking man, soft spoken and nicely mannered. He stood respectfully when Annette was presented to him. He shook her hand and told her he was honored to meet her. He spoke in a Tidewater drawl and she later learned that he hailed from Virginia. It was Annette’s initial impression that he was gay—writers so often were, in her experience—though she couldn’t tell for certain.

  “I want you two to develop a good working relationship,” Fischer said. “Jon, your script will only get better with Annette in a lead role. And Annie, you’ll find that parts like this don’t just float by every few days. You can’t lose doing one of Jon Reed’s scripts.”

  He looked back and forth, from one of them to the other. “I see chemistry setting in here.”

  The remark embarrassed both of them. But Fischer was doing his part to encourage the chemistry and cement the deal at the same time.

  “Look what Joe Fischer has clipped to his date book,” Joe Fischer said, leading them both to his desk. “And Joe can’t use these because he’s going to be negotiating for the two of you this evening. “

  Fischer produced a pair of theater tickets which, by no coincidence, were to the hottest show in the city, a London import which had opened to tremendous reviews the preceding Friday. The show was in New York for a limited run of six weeks.

  “The two of you have to use them,” Fischer said. “If you don’t, I’m going to fall down on the floor and flail, kick and scream until you do.”

  Neither Jonathan Reed nor Annette could turn down the offer, so Fischer could keep a lid on his flailing, kicking and screaming until he met with the producers of Message From Berlin again that evening. Fischer had a way of riding herd on his clients this way, of making sure that he knew where they were and with whom they were consorting. It would have pleased him to no end if two single clients got married or at least set up housekeeping together. He felt he then had
that much more influence over what they did.

  “By the time the curtain falls, I may have good news for both of you,” Fischer said.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Reed said. Apparently, he meant it. Despite living in Beverly Hills now, Reed remained a devout Methodist.

  Both clients were staying at the Carlyle. So Joe Fischer’ office arranged for a car and driver to transport them for the evening. The car stopped for them at six. They went to a small French restaurant for a light pre-theater dinner on West 47th Street. Then the car took them to the Shubert Theater where the London import was selling out. As they arrived, a photographer noticed Annette and caught her picture stepping out of the car. It would appear in the New York Post the next day, though Jon Reed was misidentified as an actor.

  The show was excellent, living up to the acclaim the reviewers had bestowed upon it. The hired car was waiting for them after the show and drove them directly back to the Carlyle. There were no awkward moments between Jon Reed and Annette. He saw her to her floor and stepped out of the elevator with her. He gave her a chaste good-night kiss on the cheek and said he looked forward to working with her.

  The Carlyle’s evening elevator man studied his fingernails the entire time. Then Jonathan Reed went to his room and Annette went to hers.

  The light on her telephone was flashing when she entered. She telephoned the desk. There was but one message. It was from Joe Fischer. Joe asked that Annette return his call immediately. She did.

  “When Joe promises wonderful news, Joe comes through with wonderful news,” he said. “We’re all set. Pending your approval, of course.”

  It was staggering. The best deal of Annette’s career, and certainly one of the best ever formulated for an actress in a cable mini-series. She would receive a guaranteed $1.2 million dollars for her participation in the movie, plus residuals that could take the deal to almost two million.

  “The beauty of it is that now I can go to the film studios, Annie, honey,” Fischer said, “and tell them that if this is what you get for television, we want ten times that for a feature film.”

  ‘Ten times, Joe?” she asked.

  “Oh, we’ll never get it, angel,” he said amiably. “But we’ll settle for triple that.”

  She sighed. “Wow,” she said.

  “Now stay in town and don’t get hit by a truck overnight,” he said. “I want to execute the deal memo tomorrow and lock up all the signatures by Monday. I don’t want to be a pest, but it’s very important. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re going to be a very wealthy lady, Annie,” he said. “This is just the first of several big steps for you. And you know what? You deserve it. You’re a good person. It couldn’t happen to a better client. Except maybe Jon Reed, my most brilliant television writer, who’s now on the other line. Can I call you tomorrow? Maybe after ten A.M.?”

  “Joe, you can call anytime you want. And you know it.”

  “Sweet dreams, Annie.”

  She set down the telephone, almost overwhelmed. More than a million bucks. Plus escalators. By the end of the year. For a six-week shoot in California and Europe.

  She didn’t know whether to let out a yelp of joy or tears of happiness. For some reason windfalls were bittersweet. She knew how hard her parents had worked in their lives. And her father had never made more than forty thousand dollars a year.

  Similarly, moments like these were times when she didn’t like to be alone. She would have liked to have been in love with someone enough to share the moment with him. But there wasn’t anyone.

  For a moment, she thought of Tim Brooks. She felt like talking to him, just for a minute or two. Then she glanced at the hour—it was almost eleven now—and decided it was inappropriate.

  Her hotel room was very still. Outside, very distantly, she could hear the low murmur of traffic on upper Madison Avenue. She thought of calling her father to tell him. Then she decided, no, she would call him just to chat. To say hello. The good news could be conveyed in another call in a few days, after it was official.

  She talked to her dad for fifteen minutes. Then, feeling the need to unwind further, Annette put in calls to two girlfriends, one whom she had roomed with in college, another who lived back in California.

  Before she knew it, the clock proclaimed midnight. And she was finally growing tired. She washed and dressed for sleep. Then she slid into the big plush bed in her suite.

  The sheets were soft and cool. The room was spacious. She felt alone, but very safe. She settled into bed and thought she would read for a few minutes. But her mind drifted.

  For the first time in several hours, she thought back to her house in Nantucket and the troubles within it. Those problems seemed so distant from her perspective of the moment. So distant. So less threatening.

  She wondered whether the solution was obvious.

  Just sell the place. Walk away from it. Thanks to Jon Reed’s writing and Joe Fischer’ shrewd negotiations, Annette could unload Cort Street quickly and afford to take a loss.

  She would be out of the problem. No more creaking floorboards, female specters in white and ominous dark forms rising from crashed furniture.

  She asked God. What was she even doing there? she wondered. Why had she put up with that bizarre little quirk in reality for as long as she had?

  Why, when the solution was so clear?

  Sell the place, take the loss and move on to the next film project. Buy another home somewhere else. Maybe something in Europe or the Bahamas.

  Funny, she thought to herself, how answers sometimes settle into place if only you allow them to.

  She turned off the lights of the room. Tonight the darkness was soothing and restful. Seventeen Cort Street was suddenly a dead issue.

  Annette dozed peacefully and slept without a care in the world.

  Chapter Forty-one

  As July turned into August, and as the island became increasingly crowded with summer people, more than ghosts haunted Timothy Brooks.

  As a professional law enforcement officer, he was in some ways haunted by every case in which he had ever been involved. And by every arrest, every name and every face that had ever passed before him, be it a victim or a perpetrator, a witness or a suspect.

  So it was, on an otherwise uneventful Sunday morning when he was attempting to quickly complete his grocery shopping, that he looked up at the deli counter of the supermarket and—almost subconsciously at first—found himself staring at a face that he knew he had seen before.

  But when?

  He couldn’t place it, but knew it was recent.

  The man he watched wore glasses and had sharp features. Alert intelligent eyes.

  He glanced Tim Brooks’ way. He gave Brooks a weak smile and a nod, then ordered a pound of smoked turkey and half a pound of rare roast beef.

  Where?

  Again, Brooks sensed a karma. He knew the face was important. The man was joined for an instant by a young girl. Dark haired and pretty. She asked him something, then vanished into the supermarket again.

  Then Brooks placed the face, just as the man was picking up his order from the counter attendant and turning away. “Doctor Friedman, right?” Brooks asked. “Doctor Richard Friedman if memory serves me correctly.”

  The man looked back to the detective. His eyes asked questions. “Why, yes,” he answered. He didn’t recognize the detective, and, worse, didn’t know whether he should.

  Yet there was no reason he would.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Friedman said. “Do I…?”

  “No. You don’t know me,” Brooks said. “I’m Detective Timothy Brooks. Nantucket Police Department.”

  Almost as an afterthought, Brooks reached to his pocket and pulled out his leather ID case. He showed the doctor his shield. Surprised and apprehensive, Friedman hesitated before he reacted. “Uh oh.” he said. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment.”


  “Of course,” Friedman said, still confused.

  Brooks walked with him to remove him from the proximity of other shoppers.

  “I listened to you at George Osaro’s ‘spirit night,’ “ Brooks said. “You were the final speaker. Renovated your house and disturbed some evil spirit, right? The thing in the house finally drove you out? Came charging down the steps the day you were leaving?”

  “Oh, that?” Friedman said, with a dismal air of recollection. “Yes, that’s me. Or at least that was my story. Sometimes I wished that minister had never talked me into coming.”

  “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about it?”

  The doctor smiled grudgingly. “Everyone else has,” he said. “Sometimes I’m not sure which was worse. The haunting of the house or the follow-up questions.”

  “I suspect the haunting was,” Brooks said with sympathy.

  Friedman placed his deli purchases into a shopping cart. “You suspect right,” he said. “Anyway, what’s on your mind, officer?”

  Brooks corrected him politely. It was “detective,” not “officer.” But he wasn’t about to make an issue of it. And at that time, the girl reappeared. Rachel. His daughter. Fourteen. On closer inspection, Brooks noted, she was a half-sized Friedman, with a similar posture, black hair, glasses and the same bright look through her eyes.

  Dr. Friedman gave his daughter permission to buy some guacamole. Then the girl was gone again.

  “I couldn’t get your story out of my mind,” Brooks began. “It made something of a believer out of me.”

  “It made one out of me, too,” Friedman said, with no amusement at all.

  “And everything happened just the way you said it did?” Brooks asked.

  “Exactly as I described it,” Richard Friedman said. “And I live for the day when I’m able to legally unload the place.”

  “Then you still own the house you described?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Friedman then made an immediate and less than loving reference to the bridge loan he was carrying between the first house on the island—the haunted one—and his current one.