by Libby Howard
Then we all stood back for a moment of silence as we beheld its beauty.
“I thought Miss Kay wasn’t going to win it,” Henry whispered loudly to his father. “It was getting expensive.”
The judge nodded. “I’m glad she won. It is pretty, and it looks perfect with the mahogany table.”
It did. I beamed with satisfaction, and followed the crew out to remove Henry’s purchase from the truck. His didn’t garner the same admiration, but I had no doubt that after the boy had applied himself, it would be amazing. Or not. Either way, it was thirty bucks. That was a small price to pay for exploring what could be a new hobby. If he lost interest and gave up, I might refinish it myself, or discreetly send it off to the dump. But I had a feeling that Henry had the same kind of stubborn determination that drove his father to burn the candle late into the night, studying briefs and reviewing cases. He’d stick with it. And if he hated it, then this would be his last project. But if he loved it, we’d be able to spend lots of enjoyable weekends at auctions and yard sales in the coming years.
Years. Because he was thirteen, and I hoped that even after the judge and his kids moved out and had their own place, we’d still be friends. I hoped that when I was ancient and he was grown with a family of his own, we’d still be friends. All of them. Friends, and maybe even close enough to be considered adopted-family.
With the entertainment console snug under the gazebo, protected by a tarp from the rain, we went inside and scrounged the leftovers for dinner. The kids headed upstairs for the night, and Judge Beck retreated to the dining room table that often served as his after-hours work desk. I snuck downstairs with my knitting and a pot of hot tea to watch some old mystery movie. Just as the bad guy was about to strike and the music ramped up the tension, Taco hopped on the back of the sofa, purring in my ear and rubbing his face against my hair. I nearly jumped a foot in the air. Then I laughed and gathered my cat on my lap where he snuggled close. I stroked his soft fur, that familiar shadow that I’d come to think of as the ghost of my late husband, Eli, hovering at the end of the couch.
“I think it’s the butler,” I told the ghost, even though I’d read the book and knew full well it wasn’t the butler. If Eli had been here, he would have scoffed at my weak deductive skills and listed all of the facts that supported his theory of who the murderer was. And at the end, he was usually just as wrong as I was. We’d laugh, thankful that neither of us were detectives by profession, then surf the channels to see what else we could watch.
The shadow was silent, not acknowledging my comment. That seemed to make the ache of loss even worse, bringing the sting of tears to my eyes. I clutched Taco to my face, feeling his soft fur and the rumble of his purr, and taking solace that I wasn’t alone. I had my cat. I had a family upstairs that I was growing to love. I had friends that I cared about, that cared about me.
But I didn’t have Eli.
It was near midnight when I headed upstairs. Judge Beck was no longer in the dining room, his files and papers once more neatly boxed and stacked to the side where he could easily grab them on his way to work on Monday morning. I stood in the dim light reflected from the hallway, holding my cat, admiring my new purchase. The wood inlay was stunning, the finish perfect. Someone had loved this piece of furniture. Someone had taken great care of it for the last twelve decades, because it was pristine, and few pieces survived that long without dents and dings, rings from condensation, or burns from cigarettes.
My sense of warm satisfaction was abruptly shattered with a bitter chill that made my flesh rise. Taco yowled and jumped from my arms, scurrying into the other room with his tail fluffed out. A darkness from the corner of the room coalesced, forming into a bipedal shape near the sideboard. This wasn’t the shadow I’d come to associate with Eli; this one was different. I was sure it was a woman. And as she reached out a limb to stroke the top of the sideboard, I felt an incredible sadness…and an aching sense of guilt.
Chapter 2
“My new sideboard is haunted,” I told Daisy as the early morning sun shone down on our Child’s Pose. “I was hoping Eli would chase the new ghost away, but he doesn’t seem bothered by her presence.”
Anyone listening to me would think I was ready for the looney bin. Luckily, Daisy was one of the only people who’d not attributed my experiences as either a visual impairment from my cataract surgery, or a psychological reaction of grief from the loss of my husband.
“Huh. Well, didn’t you get it from some estate sale auction? Maybe the former owners were particularly attached to it. You should bring a psychic in to read the energy.”
If I’d lived alone, or Eli had still been alive, I might have done so. Eli would have thought the whole thing to be great fun. We would have had friends over, and all gathered around to hear the psychic’s pronouncements about the haunted sideboard. Then we would have had martinis and canapes and possibly a rousing game of bridge, following. I doubted Judge Beck would be as amused by a psychic reading of my new piece of furniture.
Daisy’s comment did give me an idea, though. “It was from the estate of Maurice and Eleonore Poffenberger. I met the son at the auction, and he did say his mother really loved this sideboard.”
“Well, there you go,” Daisy told me smugly.
There had to a reason beyond sentimental attachment for a ghost to be hanging out around a piece of furniture. “She died ten years ago, according to him. The husband, Matt’s father, is still alive and in assisted living. Why would she be haunting it for this long a time? Unless you think she suddenly just started appearing because she’s not happy her son sold her favorite antique?”
“Matt?” Trust Daisy to zoom in on that. “How old is this son? Is he handsome? When you said you met him at the estate auction, I didn’t realize that involved enough conversation to be on a first-name basis with him.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Daisy. Everyone is on a first-name basis with everyone.” Well, aside from my inability to address Judge Beck by his first name, that is. “He looks like he’s a few years older than me. And he helped Henry and I load our purchases into the truck. We didn’t exactly have what I’d call a lengthy conversation.”
Then I thought of the business card I’d crammed into my purse, and that I was supposed to go have coffee with this man in order to return the moving blankets, and nearly toppled out of my Vrikshasana pose.
“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in a knot, just asking.” Daisy grinned at me and winked. “About your new ghost: I don’t think she’d suddenly appear when the sideboard was sold, unless maybe if you were chopping it up for kindling or something. And it’s unlikely she’s been haunting it for ten years just because she’s fond of it. Ghosts attached to sentimental objects tend to fade after a few years. If she’s still here, it’s for another reason, and the sideboard is just the anchor.”
If she was here for a reason, maybe she’d leave once I found out what that reason was. All the other ghosts, excepting Eli, that is, had shown up because they were murdered. I hadn’t gotten the idea that there had been any foul play in Matt’s mother’s death, but that wasn’t exactly the thing I’d expect someone to reveal to a complete stranger. “I guess I could do some research on the mother to see if she died mysteriously.”
“Not all ghosts you see are necessarily murder victims,” Daisy cautioned. “Eli’s ghost isn’t. He’s probably still here out of attachment to you and what he feels might be unfinished business, although a psychic could tell you more. Just because the other ghosts were murdered, doesn’t mean this one was. Maybe she was estranged from a friend, and never made her peace with him or her. Maybe she and her husband had a fight, and she just can’t leave until she tells him she loves him one more time. Or maybe she’s staying around for him like Eli is for you, and her ghost just got transferred to your house instead of the assisted living place because she’d firmly attached her spirit to the sideboard.”
I chuckled, thinking for a few moments about what mat
erial belongings I might link to after death to remain in this plane of existence. If I got hit by a bus this afternoon, I might want to stick around to make sure Taco was taken care of, and maybe float around to see Madison and Henry’s graduation, but that was about it.
It all made me think that I probably should be revisiting my will. Not that I had any intention of getting hit by a bus, but with Eli gone and no immediate family, I’d need to make my wishes clear in a legal manner, or risk my estate being tied up in probate for who knows how long.
“Is Pierson going to put a raft in the regatta this year?”
I blinked at the change of topic. Our former mayor had always pestered J.T. until he’d given in and entered a raft. Now that he was in jail, I wasn’t sure J.T. would bother. And that would be a shame. The regatta was a big town event, the entrance fees went to support the local food bank, and it was a significant public relations and marketing move to put a raft in the race. People took note of the sponsoring companies, and those were the ones that got the business as being a true part of our community.
Besides that, the regatta was a blast. Everyone lined up along the river with picnics and made a day of it, watching the various races, and laughing as some of the less-seaworthy rafts sank, dunking their crew in the murky waters.
“He hasn’t mentioned it. I’m not sure if he’ll have time to pull it together by next month.”
“Just as well. You know he’d try to rope you into crewing the thing. And probably me, too.” Daisy grimaced. “What’s up with him lately, anyway? The last reality-show video of his that I was in he kept dropping hints about me inviting him to dinner.”
That was totally my fault. I’d jokingly told J.T. to expect knife rests and a high level of etiquette the next time he had dinner at Daisy’s, and he’d taken me seriously. I think my boss had a thing for my best friend, but from the I-just-ate-a-lemon look on her face, it clearly wasn’t reciprocated.
“Are you in his next video? I think he’s doing one about that shoplifting case this week.” Thankfully I wasn’t going to be in this video. As amusing as J.T.’s YouTube channel productions of Gator Pierson, Private Eye were, they interfered with my ability to get my actual job done. Each time I had a cameo, I ended up having to take work home with me that night—and my boss was far too cheap to pay me overtime for that work.
“No. I’ve been in five so far. I think it’s time to take a break from my unpaid amateur acting career and before I go crazy and end up needing your bail bond services myself.”
After yoga, and our usual coffee-and-muffins, Daisy headed out and I got ready to go in to the office for a little Sunday catch-up work. We’d been busy lately, and I hated the thought of coming in Monday morning to a whole stack of overdue work. Mondays were enough of a shock to the system without sweating through impossible deadlines.
Mondays were also tough because I’d spent the last ten years of my life taking care of Eli and not heading to a nine-to-five. Helping a physically and cognitively disabled husband was a twenty-four-seven job, but it was one I could do without wearing business casual. Heck, most days I even did it without showering, I’m embarrassed to admit.
I showered and changed, then came down to find chaos in my kitchen and dining room. The kids were leaving today for a week with their mother, and they were clearly running late. Madison and Henry were dashing around with Pop Tarts shoved in their mouths, trying to find laptops and essential items that had migrated throughout the house over the last week all while Judge Beck loaded his golf clubs in the car and poured the rest of the coffee in his travel mug.
“Spending Sunday on the golf course?” I asked, grabbing my own mug of coffee.
“I figured I’d get in eighteen holes after I dropped the kids off at Heather’s.” He hesitated. “Did you need me home at a certain time?”
He was my roommate, not my spouse, and thus free to come and go as he pleased without any need to notify me about his whereabouts, but I did appreciate the courtesy in his question.
“No, I’m going to try to get some work done today in the office. Get ahead of schedule. I’ll just grab some takeout for dinner.”
“Good grief, even I don’t work on Sundays,” he teased. “Don’t make a habit of this, Kay.” Then he turned and yelled for Madison and Henry, letting them know that they needed to leave right now.
The kids surprised me with quick hugs before their father shooed them out the door, telling me they’d see me next week. It brought tears to my eyes. I’d gotten used to having them here, and each time it was Heather’s turn for custody, I felt a horrible ache in my chest. I can only imagine how tough this was on Judge Beck, or even on Heather when it wasn’t her week with the kids.
I waved them off as they headed down the street, then climbed into my own car, making my way through unusually busy traffic to the office. Milford was the larger city, only five miles away from Locust Point, but our smaller town was actually the county seat and home to both the courthouse and the sheriff’s office. The old courthouse had been smack in the middle of downtown, but a fire in the early part of the last century had given the town council the opportunity to move it to the outskirts where they could expand parking, and where there was plenty of room for law offices and bail bond companies. Pierson Investigative & Recovery Services was only a few blocks away from the police station, and a few miles from the courthouse. I’d always thought J.T. would be better served having offices closer to the courthouse where so many of his bail bond clients were arraigned, but he found it made better sense to be close to the police officers who sent him plenty of leads. Over the years, that side of the business had shrank, as had the old gumshoe private investigative work, and J.T. found himself with more clients that needed to track down debtors to recover assets. Even the divorce clients’ needs had changed. Instead of prowling around on cheating spouses with a camera in hand, they wanted forensic accountants to find hidden checking accounts, or internet research specialists to find proof of cheating, or drug use through online sites.
That’s where I came in. I’d been a journalism major, and until Eli’s accident, I’d made my living by being a reporter for major publications as well as researching and writing freelance feature pieces for magazines and newspapers. After the accident, I’d juggled taking care of Eli with the odd freelance work, but it had become clear over the years that journalism had changed.
All those research skills made me ideally suited to perform the skip tracing and online investigative work that J.T. needed. He did the occasional gumshoe work, ran the business, interfaced with the clients and schmoozed with the police and various paralegals and courthouse employees to get leads and information, while I typed at a computer and kept the clients whose business paid the majority of the bills happy. It was a good partnership, and as quirky as my boss was with his YouTube reality show obsession, I liked him.
I flicked on the lights and fired up the coffee maker, then eyed the stack of folders on my desk. I grabbed a cup and reviewed what I needed to handle right away versus what could wait for later in the week. There was a stack of skip traces for our biggest client, Creditcorp, then two bail bond applicants to review for risk, and some digging around for a divorce client.
The bail bond ones were a priority since we needed to get those squared away and get the clients out of jail as soon as possible. I finished those by noon, wrapped up two of the easier Creditcorp files, then spent some time on the very distasteful divorce case. I always hated this part of the work. It was one thing to see the poor decisions and behavior of potential bail clients and those who were delinquent on accounts, but there was so much emotion in these divorce cases. The woman I was checking out for J.T. this time had taken out half a dozen credit cards where it seemed she’d forged her husband’s signature. She’d also posted Facebook photos on a secondary account showing her trip to Bermuda with a much younger man, all while her primary account said she was home with her kids, taking them to the park and the arcade.
; I wrote up my summary and looked at the clock, debating which file to go through next. They would all take far longer than the three hours I had left before I’d planned on leaving, and I was feeling deflated and tired from the work on the divorce case. I needed a quick break before digging into the other Creditcorp files, and what better break than taking an hour and researching the woman who had previously owned my sideboard—and who was most likely the one haunting it.
Chapter 3
I quickly discovered that Maurice and Eleonore Poffenberger hadn’t lived a very newsworthy life. Nor had the pair been at all active on social media. I dug through courthouse records and both birth and death announcements and found that Maurice was born in 1928 in Milford and had been a surveyor for a local contractor until his retirement. Eleonore had been born in 1926 and had, as her son had said, passed away ten years ago. Her obituary listed her as a housewife and mother, survived by both her husband and their son, Matthew Poffenberger. Her maiden name had been Hansen, and her parents, both long dead, had been Harlen and Mabel. Hansen was a recognizable local name. Harlen had owned the downtown department store where pretty much everyone had shopped in Locust Point from 1910 until his death in 1945. Curious, I dug back through the newspaper archives until I found a picture of the man, chuckling a bit at his round pot belly proudly accented by the chain of a pocket watch, and his shrewd eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had a big bushy mustache which made me wonder how he managed to keep it out of his food while eating.
Hansen’s had been a heck of a department store. Not that I’d been alive when it had been open, but I remembered my mom and grandmother talking about it. It had been three stories of quality clothing and accessories, with a system of vacuum-sent containers to transport invoices and pricing information from the upper floors down to the cashiers. From what my mother had said, it was a lot like some banks still use, and it had fascinated her as a child. She’d kept one of the coats my grandmother had bought her from there, and shown it to me—dusky blue wool with a navy silk lining, and the Hansen’s tag inside the collar.
