Phantoms Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #13

by Connie Shelton

  “Did it move somewhere else?”

  An older woman stepped forward. “The Alzheimer’s Care shop? Yes, it’s still around. Just go up to the corner, turn right, next street over.”

  “Thanks.” I finished my dessert and coffee and left a tip at the table.

  Louisa had mentioned that the thrift shop had not occupied the space very long and had moved rather abruptly. Perhaps they’d also experienced some scary phenomena.

  I found the shop easily enough, with a characteristic window display of gently-used items at bargain prices. Business seemed to be good—at least a dozen women browsed everything from overcoats to paperback books. The staff consisted of women in their retirement years, volunteers filling a few hours of their week and helping a worthy charity at the same time.

  At my inquiry, a buxom woman whom I guessed to be in her late sixties stepped forward and introduced herself as Agatha Dunston.

  “I’m the shop manager,” she said. “American, are you?”

  I nodded. “Visiting my aunt here in town. Could we talk for a minute? I’m also trying to help a friend of my aunt’s with an unusual problem.”

  She led the way to the back of the shop, where tables of unsorted donations waited.

  “Ask away,” she said, “as long as you don’t mind my working as we talk.” She picked and pulled items with the speed of a pro—books, ladies clothing, men’s clothing, knick-knacks—each going into separate stacks.

  “This friend owns a shop called The Knit and Purl, and they moved into the shop on the next street over, where your shop used to be.”

  “Ah, yes, I’d noticed that.”

  “Did you ever experience anything, uh, unusual in that location?”

  She chuckled. “My job consists of ‘unusual’,” she said, holding up a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with peacock feathers and golf balls. “You might need to be more specific.”

  I laughed at the hat and she laughed even harder.

  “Okay, I see what you mean.” I started over. “The current tenant of the shop has experienced several incidents that are downright eerie.” I told her about the inventory of yarn being completely rearranged. “On other occasions, liquids went from hot to cold very quickly. More than one person has suggested these events might even be supernatural. So, I was wondering if something like that might account for your organization deciding to move on short notice.”

  She smiled and nodded her head and I began to think she was agreeing with my statement, until I noticed that her attention was directed toward a fuzzy stuffed chick she’d taken from one of the donation bags.

  “Oh, no. I’d not heard of anything strange like that in the old shop. Our decision to move was solely based on the offer of free rent in this spot. A benefactor owns the building and said we could use it. Couldn’t say no to that, now could I?”

  “No, I don’t see how.” I fingered the fabric on a turquoise silk blouse she’d just laid in the women’s clothing pile. “And you can’t think of anything happening that might hint at the shop being haunted?”

  Agatha dropped two more blouses onto the stack. “Not really. Well, there was one odd thing. Several times I’d be working in the cellar. It’s where I did the sorting. Felt cold drafts a lot down there. Took to wearing my jacket while I worked.”

  Well, at least my experience wasn’t imaginary. I thanked her, picked up the turquoise blouse and held it against myself. It looked to be just the right size. “How much for this?”

  She considered for a moment. “Let’s say four pounds?”

  “I’ll take it.” I browsed the paperback books on my way to the register, chose two, and tucked my bagged purchases under my arm as I left.

  Three unexplained incidents, no answers. I began to feel a little at a loss as to where to turn next. A glance at my watch told me that the day was sneaking by and it was probably time for Louisa to be home from work. I headed toward her place.

  I had offered to take her somewhere nice for dinner but Louisa seemed more in the mood for simple food than elegant, so we settled into a corner table at a pub just two blocks from her house.

  Over glasses of merlot and a basket of savory bread I filled her in on my adventures of the afternoon.

  “It looks like I’m semi-officially hired to find out what’s going on at Dolly’s shop.”

  “Poor dear. Here I had promised you a vacation and now I’m having to work and it looks like you are too.”

  I shrugged it off. I couldn’t ask for a more intriguing assignment, after all. At least no one was shooting at me or whacking me over the head. I mentally erased those thoughts—nothing like inviting trouble.

  “Meanwhile, I’m out of ideas on this,” I told her. “Ghost hunting is a whole new field to me. Any suggestions?”

  She dipped the corner of her bread in the small bowl of olive oil. “You might look up the Trahorn Building—that’s what it’s called—see if it has past reports of paranormal phenomena. If it does, I’m not aware of it. Of course, I’ve principally studied the places on my tour route. I guess you’d call them the celebrity ghosts of the town. That’s not to say there aren’t others. The entire region has a wealth of supernatural activity.”

  She caught my vacant expression.

  “There’s a good museum,” she said, “Manned by volunteer docents for the most part, but the curator is quite knowledgeable on town history. The newspaper might be another source. It’s been in print for ages. Over the years they’ve probably covered every strange occurrence of any note. You might find a story on the location.”

  I filed the information in the back of my mind while we finished off a meal of delicately sauced fish and tender vegetables. On the short walk back to her home, Louisa remembered a resource book. As soon as we’d settled in the parlor with mugs of tea she pulled it from her shelf.

  “This is a good one,” she said, handing me the large hardcover volume. “It covers Bury’s history in detail—more than you might want for a light evening read. But somewhere back here . . .” She flipped pages. “There is a chapter about the haunted sites. And further on is a chapter about several heinous crimes, way back in time.”

  Just what I needed for relaxing bedtime entertainment. I curled into a corner of the sofa with the book across my lap. At some point I became vaguely aware that she’d cleared away the empty cups, said good night and climbed the stairs.

  The old house had its own set of noises and I soon switched out the lamp and went upstairs myself, taking the big book along to read in bed. It turned out that there were so many tales of murder, mayhem and ghostly visits that I kept turning pages avidly, completely losing track of time. When the clock downstairs chimed two o’clock I realized that I would never memorize all the names and really didn’t need to. All I was accomplishing was to fill my head with gruesome details. I rolled over and let the book lie on the comforter beside me after I switched out my light.

  Chapter 9

  My late hours spent in the book of hauntings caused me to sleep until nearly ten in the morning and I found that Louisa had left for work much earlier. A note on the kitchen table invited me to help myself to whatever breakfast I wanted and suggested that we might want to try The Fox Inn for dinner. “Save some room—it’s fabulous!” she’d noted. She’d also sketched me a little map to show where to find the museum and the newspaper office.

  And so it was that I found myself in the other-world atmosphere of a newspaper archive that went back a hundred and fifty years. Luckily, I didn’t have to go back quite that far to locate a couple of stories about the Trahorn Building. Background on the more sensational piece informed me that it was built in 1793 in the days of the cattle market. A photo showed it as it looked in the 1800s, with two shops side-by-side—butcher shop on the left, double doors to the slaughter house on the right. A second photo of the location was taken in 1946 with a report of the murder of a homeless man.

  By that time the two halves of the building had become individual retail shop
s, one selling bicycles and the other non-specific one was called Watson and Sons. I puzzled over the photos, trying to place them in modern context. The stone façade above the second floor was the same in 1946 as now, although now it was painted white. Wood trim had been added alongside the display windows, each half done in a different style and color, which explained why I hadn’t realized the two shops were actually part of the same structure.

  The former bicycle shop was now home to The Knit and Purl. I would have to go back and take a look to see what Watson and Sons had become. Obviously, my powers of observation could stand a little fine tuning.

  An elderly man shuffled into the room where the office clerk had parked me with the index to articles.

  “One day we shall get all this transferred to microfiche,” he said, stepping around me to reach for a file box. “Got the modern bits catalogued already, but it’s those historic archives—huge job.”

  “Am I in your way?” I shifted my chair in hopes that he wasn’t about to drop the heavy carton on my head.

  “Oh, no. You’re fine. I see you’ve got some pieces on the death of that poor man in the cycle shop. That was a tragedy. Poor chap was sleeping in the doorway, freezing cold night it was. Someone nicked his wallet but had to bash him in the head to do it. Couldn’t be content just to take the cash. And him a war veteran and all.”

  I’d already scanned the article, which didn’t mention the weather or the fact that the man was a veteran. “You remember the incident personally, don’t you?”

  “Aye, Miss. I’ve covered the news in this town going on seventy years now.”

  “Can you tell me something? Have there been stories of, say, ghosts or apparitions in the Trahorn Building?”

  He set down the carton he’d been holding and bit at his lower lip as he gave the question some consideration. Finally he shook his head.

  “No. Not in that one. Now the Cupola House—that one’s got a hundred stories. People still claiming to see things there. But the two are a few blocks apart. Why d’you ask?”

  I told him that my aunt was a friend of the current tenants, Dolly and Archie Jones. I didn’t go into details about Dolly’s claims. Talking rumor with a newsman didn’t seem like a great idea.

  “Archie Jones? He and the wife are living there now? Well, I’ll be. Remember one time I covered a ribbon cutting at the sugar mill—this would be maybe ten years ago. Jones was a manager then. Braggart sort of fellow, tall, sort of stiff in the spine, insisted on taking me all round, wanted me to do a big spread on the success of his department. Course we didn’t have the space for that. He was none too pleased with me, but I couldn’t give in to the man. Hard news trumps a business story. They were lucky to rate a photo and a caption.”

  I thought of Archie as I’d seen him, somewhat stooped in posture, quiet. A shadow of what this man was describing.

  “I could locate the piece for you if you’d like,” he said.

  “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble. I was just interested in the supernatural history, if there was one.”

  He picked up the box he’d originally come for. “All right then. All I know’s what I’ve told you, but you might try the museum. Talk to Gertrude Hutchins. Tell her Billy Williams sent you.”

  And so I did. Mrs. Hutchins was no spring chicken herself, but she was probably a good twenty years younger than Billy. Her eyebrows wrinkled when I told her he’d sent me.

  “Surprised he’d want my opinion,” she said as she led me into a display room. “We’ve not shared the same view on anything in thirty years.”

  Maybe as a newsman he was giving me the chance to get both sides of the story? I simply shrugged and followed her.

  “I’m specifically wondering whether there is a history of hauntings or supernatural activity in the Trahorn Building,” I said.

  Gertrude paused in the center of the room, her gaze darting among the many enlarged photographs on the walls. Her eyes squinted nearly shut and then she turned to her right and headed purposefully into a second room.

  “It was in the cattle market section of town way back,” she said, pointing to a poster-sized blowup of the same photo I’d seen in the newspaper. “Always something strange in that place.”

  The descriptive placard under the photo merely said: Trahorn Building, constructed 1793. The Watson Brothers Butcher Shoppe occupied the building until the 1850s.

  The grainy photo had to have been taken near the end of that particular occupancy.

  “Sightings of ghostly shapes and horrid noises during the night is what caused the Watsons to close up shop and leave town,” my guide was saying.

  The spirits of all those butchered cows? “Really? Mr. Williams said there’d never been anything supernatural about the building.”

  She gave me a pointed stare, reinforcing the comment she’d made about the two of them disagreeing on nearly everything.

  “My own great-grandmother was a Watson. These stories have been in my family for generations. My father wouldn’t even enter the bicycle shop that moved there in later years. Claimed he’d never trust the work performed under those conditions. In fact, a man on our lane bought a bicycle there and the thing came apart the first day he brought it home. Broke his leg.” She ended with a curt nod, daring me to make any statement to the contrary.

  I stared again at the photo, as if some faint ghostly image might appear to me. But nothing did.

  “Anyhow, take your time and look around,” she said. “I’d best get back to my desk.”

  I made the circuit of the two rooms. One display covered the two most notorious grisly murders of the county’s history, including a human skull that purported to be that of a serial killer executed in 1860. After awhile I noticed that the names of the sites were starting to feel familiar to me, but I still hadn’t found much that could specifically tie in with Dolly Jones’s current problem.

  I decided to grab another of those Cornish pasties for an early lunch, this time the chicken and mushroom one Louisa had told me about. I carried it to the Abbey Gardens once again and let the ambiance of flowering beds and birdsong relax me. Before I lost track of all the new information I’d studied this morning, though, I decided to pay another visit to Dolly’s shop and report the small scraps of information I’d gained.

  Archie looked up from the sales counter when I walked in. At my inquiry he said Dolly was upstairs asleep.

  “Poor dear, she hardly slept a wink last night,” he said.

  I heard footsteps from the stock room and Gabrielle emerged, her face slightly flushed, two knitted throws bundled in her arms.

  “Brought these from the cellar,” she said to Archie. “Shall I arrange them for display?”

  He looked like he would have turned to Dolly for an opinion but since she wasn’t there he just nodded.

  “Well, tell her I stopped by,” I said. I shouldn’t wake her for the minuscule amount of information I’d learned.

  “It was another of those ghostly things,” he said. “The reason she had no sleep.”

  I’d turned toward the door but I stepped back to the counter. “When did that happen?”

  “About midnight. She said she heard a noise down here in the shop. Myself, I slept through that part of it. Woke when she came clattering up the stairs, all shaken up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Claims she saw a person here in the shop. When she shouted out, he just vanished. Whoof! Right into thin air.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  “Well, it’s just, you know. I never heard or saw a thing. After she come running into the apartment, shoutin’ and all, I came down here to check it out. Didn’t see a bloody thing.”

  I glanced around the small shop space.

  “Door was locked tight. Only thing out of place was this bin.” He indicated a plastic trash receptacle beside the counter. “And Dolly herself admitted she’d bumped into that and knocked it over.”

  “What do you think she saw?”

>   He shrugged. “Might be anything. Lights from the street lamps, shadows from the trees.”

  I turned. “Gabrielle, do you have any ideas what she might have seen?”

  The young woman merely shook her head and went back to draping the afghans over a display rack.

  “Any rate, Dolly didn’t get another wink all night so she asked if I’d take the shop for the morning. She’ll be waking any time now. I can check, see if she wants to come down.”

  I started to tell him not to bother her, but he’d left the room. Besides, it might be good for me to get Dolly’s version of events while it was still fresh in her mind. I watched Gabrielle fiddle with the yarns in their racks, seemingly making busy work. She avoided eye contact. In a couple of minutes I heard voices from the back room.

  “Charlie? Come on upstairs,” Dolly called.

  Archie stepped back into the store. “She just got up. In her robe, but she wants to see you.”

  I closed their apartment door behind me, following small sounds to where I found Dolly in the kitchen, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She held the pot out but I declined.

  “Archie said you had a real scare last night,” I said.

  Something had shaken the woman. Her face was pale and dark circles ringed her eyes. Tangles knotted her normally precise pageboy and the robe hung lopsidedly with the fabric belt undone. Her hands were trembling so badly that she set her mug down.

  “It was so real. Then it was completely gone.” She sank into a chair at the kitchen table and raked her hands through her hair. “Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.” Her voice broke when she admitted that last part.

  I took the other chair. “Start at the beginning and tell me all of it. Exactly what you saw and heard.”

  She reached for the mug and took two long sips. “Arch and I were sound asleep. Not a thing out of the ordinary that evening. We’d watched a television program then went to bed.” Another sip. “I woke to a noise. Very distinct. A thump downstairs. After a few seconds, a second thump. I pictured someone down there messing with the stock again so I grabbed up my robe and rushed to the stairs.”