One of the police officers told Levi not to worry about the local boys spouting off after a few too many afternoon beers. He claimed they were just showing off for Levi’s girl. After reading the boody harm note, the same officer said he’d put the fear of the law in them. This girl is not reassured.
What is really earth shaking is that we have a meeting with Emma Weaver tomorrow to talk about her file on Dexter, as well as the man’s promise to increase my fee. Levi said she sounded relieved that he’s involved in proving her client innocent. Other than hoping to do less work on the case, I doubt there’s any truth to that at all.
According to Levi, Dexter pays only if we set him free before he stands trial. Weaver made it clear– again in Levi’s mind, which is operating under the influence of the Waffle Griddle– that she plans on taking all he’s got if she has to go to trial with the man. That’s not exactly what I would have negotiated, but I have to give Levi credit for getting as far as he did with the woman.
Mr. PI also spoke to two of the Waffle Griddle customers who gave him their real phone numbers yesterday– apparently the other three didn’t. Both claimed that Dexter is a good old boy who runs an honest business, doesn’t drink enough to make a fool of himself most days, and wouldn’t hurt a gnat, rat, or an Indiana bat. These crime solving words cost Levi two cases of beer and three cartons of cigarettes.
I didn’t get a chance before he passed out to ask about our meeting with Gail or how Dexter reacted when he asked about the woman. Seems to me if her best friend Nettle knew about her husband’s affair with Kylee, Gail would know, beyond her imaginary disease, everything that Kylee was saying. Seems too that Nettle would have been feeding Kylee exactly what Gail wanted her to know. Question is, just how far would Gail go to keep her man?
Even though I don’t care to know any of these people’s personal problems, I’m convinced Kylee was out on the property with Dexter and those voices I heard were them enjoying better days– just how many days before she was shot in the back is another good question.
Spirits don’t always know how to communicate with the living, especially when they are the newly departed. But when they do communicate, it’s because they need the living to know something important– at least important to them. When all they can do is haunt the living, that something is important to me too.
Clearly the two I heard were having a good time before the gunshot. Kylee could have gone out alone to meet Dexter and been followed by Roland who’d had enough of her cheating ways. Or Dexter has a dark side and they got in a slapping and hair pulling match, and he had to shut her up for good. Could be I’m spending too much time thinking about Dexter instead of his echo mystic.
Despite all the small town drama that Levi’s digging up and muddying my mind with, he did give me one piece of information that can help me figure out what this ecto-mist is all about and get me out of this town, with or without Dexter Joubert hanging from a hickory tree.
When Levi was complaining about the stickman, which he actually called him in front of the police, the officer told him the man was an oddball all right, but no more so than any other Ozark hillfolk who lived around these parts.
He warned Levi not to bother him because, “Those types have ways about them that you might say are deranged, iffing”– apparently an actual word in Arkansas– “you know what I mean.” Levi claimed he did know.
The officer also warned Levi not to call him the stickman because not only was that disrespectful, it might get back to the man… even if nobody told him.
After telling him all this, Levi said the officer did this weird laugh and got up in his face to say, “Not that anyone would stir up trouble with one of those Turley clansmen, especially not Silas Turley.”
Chapter Nineteen
§
Two hours after gutting, scrubbing, and spraying the inside of what is anything but a motorhome, I put together a pot of root vegetables for grounding and steadying my wired nerves. Then I make myself a cup of green chai tea to balance my energy and warm me up for what I hope is a short night in the Cathville backwoods.
According to Dexter, the surveyor saw the mist just before nightfall as he was packing up to leave. When the construction crew saw it, they were setting up early in the morning, and Dexter was almost asleep in his car the night he laid eyes on… “the face.”
What does the echo mystic have in common with sunrise and sundown? Yep, good old Arkansas fog. As much as I want to get out of these woods and this trailer, I’m instantly disappointed by this fact. Who wouldn’t want to see an ecto-mist?
It’s close to sundown now and the fog’s been rolling in. Arkansas fog is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. It’s so dense and white in places that it looks like clouds, thick enough to walk on.
I plan to get started ecto-mist hunting in about an hour. Despite the odds against it, I’m getting excited about having my own echo mystic experience, and I plan to capture it– digitally anyway.
I don’t use a camera in my spirit releasing rituals. Not only do I keep my clients’ ghost affairs confidential, other than to look at the images afterwards, they don’t serve much purpose. I’ve long since given up on convincing nonbelievers about what I do, not that I ever really tried. Since we all die, they’ll come around one day.
On this job though, I’m making an exception. The ecto-mist is one memory of these woods that I want to keep. I have a still unused full spectrum digital camera that I got for my last birthday. According to Arthur, it has some ghost hunters’ seal of approval. Perfect for an ecto-mist.
So far, I haven’t sensed anything other than Kylee’s lingering presence here, which may be nothing more than residual energy. I’m not sure what kind of energy I can expect to feel from the ecto-mist, especially if it turns out to be Silas Turley doing his Ozark conjuring tricks to keep the supermall out of his backyard. That might explain why the man is spying on me and maybe plotting my demise. If so, tonight is his night to get digitized.
My ghost hunter camera will be pointed at anything that looks like fog or smoke or an ecto-mist, but it’ll be searching the woods for a man with eyes as black as, I suspect, his magic.
As for Kylee, I’ll do what I can to release the trauma she experienced in this place. After listening to the pseudo-radio voices, I’m certain even her last happy moments on earth will really put a damper on the super duper supermall shopping experience if left to linger. As for Levi, if he wants to keep on playing Mr. PI after I’m done, I’m leaving without him.
With my cinnamon, cardamom, ginger root, and honey green tea, I spread out the documents I copied at the library onto my sleeping bag and pick out the ones about the Pritchard family.
There’s not much to help me learn about the people who once owned this supposedly haunted land. I get cross-eyed trying to make out a couple of old tax and probate records that were originally filed at the Cathville Court House.
One thing is clear: Roy Pritchard had money enough to purchase the land for two dollars and fifty cents an acre, a small fortune back then. Another thing that is quite obvious: he made many more times that amount from the mining that was done afterwards.
Pritchard had four sons and a mulatto. I have to do an internet search on the term and don’t much care for what I find. Pritchard was a slave owner, and he had a child born from that ownership. The gender and name of the child isn’t listed. And I was almost respecting the mighty landowner. There are a few Pritchard family marriage certificates and a dozen mostly illegible birth and death records. None of them with the name Morowa.
None of the records so much as send a tiny spark to my sixth sense. I’m ready to give up when I see a civil war pension record for Oliver M. Lodell, a member of the Black Infantrymen. The pension was granted in 1882, and paid on his behalf to Sara Jane Pritchard.
Interesting since their relationship isn’t stated. I don’t find the woman on any of the other documents I managed to print. More interesting is the tingle I feel when I run my
fingers across the names: Lodell and Sara Jane.
I close my eyes and try to make contact with their spirits. After more time than I want to spend on the matter, I smell mustard, of all things, then hear what sounds like seeds popping on a griddle. I’m curiously enjoying the experience until I remember that mustard seeds are used to get rid of troublesome and meddling people. “Sorry,” I say, and jerk my fingers away. The smell is gone. My fingers are intact and toasty warm.
I check the records to see if I missed anything. There are no birth or death records and nothing from the court record on the Turleys: not any I got before the librarian pulled the plug. The final page is a Patriot’s Bible record on the marriage of Garret Turley and Phoebe Lodell dated 1949. I don’t see where Silas Turley fits into this clan, but it’s clear he does.
Morowa though remains a mystery. Piecing these kinship puzzles together could take years when my plan is to be done and gone in a few days.
Levi’s driven into town to do more interviews at the Waffle Griddle and get more pie. He promised to be back in time for the spook show. I told him not to hurry.
“You ready to go take pictures of the echo mystic of Cathville?” I ask Mojo.
He’s munching on a spider that’s crawled out of somewhere and isn’t much interested until I open the door. Then he takes off in search of bigger prey. I gather my things and make my way with my lantern, another profit busting purchase, over to Kylee’s police tape circle. I’m hoping to make contact with her before going to where Dexter saw the mist.
After I toss some salt in the general direction that I last saw Silas– as best I can tell through the fog– I sit at the edge of the tape, light two smudge sticks, and turn out the lantern. I wave the sticks around to ward off the mosquitoes and Silas. For the first time since I got to Arkansas, the buzzing stops and that both thrills and concerns me.
The woods aren’t quiet though. There are the deep throaty frogs that relax me and the soft steps over twigs and leaves by raccoons, skunks, and opossums. I’m also sure there are slithering, poisonous, know-it-all snakes– who are seriously unnerving me. Then there’s the terrifying, squeaky chirping of one or more of a dozen bat species that I discovered call these woods home. The hooting of owls is still a few hours away.
After covering my head so the bats don’t land on it, I meditate on the sounds for a few minutes. My stomach rumbles a warning, and I open one eye. Someone or something is watching me. I have a flashlight in my lap and slide my thumb over the switch as quietly as possible before jerking it up and shining it at the top of the hill.
“Hello? Anyone there? Silas? If that’s you over there, I’d appreciate it if you would talk to me. I’m not here to cause any problems.”
Just like that, the woods are totally and eerily silent. I don’t hear a croak, ribbit, rustle, or squeak. It’s as if something has turned everything to stone except me and the wolfdog. Mojo doesn’t seem concerned in the least. I toss more rock salt and say a long prayer. Before I’m done, the noise returns. Silas is a powerful and oddly entertaining man.
“Thanks for the sound adjustments. I’m impressed,” I shout. “Can you make Morowa appear too? I’ve got my camera and I’m hoping to get some pictures of her tonight.”
The wolfdog is listening to me with a curious glare, one that says I’m acting stranger than usual. One that leads me to believe there’s nothing human out here but me. I decide that if the man did pay me a visit, he’s gone now so I turn back to Kylee. I’m ready to go under the tape when I see a light in the direction of the road at the far end of the property. It’s got Mojo’s attention too.
At first, I think it’s a car, but I don’t hear an engine or the slam of a door. Just what I need is another visit from the local trouble makers. I slip farther through the brush and trees to circle around and see if anyone is parked at the edge of the property.
After watching a few seconds, I can tell it isn’t a headlight. It’s no bigger than a flashlight, but without the beam, and it’s shaped like a disk. It starts moving as no car or person carrying a light could move.
Then it hits me that it’s the ghost light Maybelle told me to watch for. I should have realized that some of the Pritchards and Turleys are buried on this land. No grave dweller would appreciate having supermall cement poured over them. That’s what all this ecto-mist stuff could really be about, and why Maybelle told me to watch for the ghost lights.
“Come on,” I say to Mojo, as I move towards the trees to get a better look. The light is sweeping a small area, back and forth, up and down, in and out of the fog as if to say, here I am or maybe, come and get me.
I was so excited by the prospect of seeing the echo mystic, I forgot my camera back at the police tape. I’m about to go get it when I see the smoke from the smudge sticks. They’re making weird circles that meet a good ten feet up in the air. Never have I seen anything like it. I can only guess who’s making it happen. I decide to use my phone instead to capture whatever I find.
The wolfdog has left me to find my own way as he heads in the direction of the light. He’s not a by-my-side kind of guard dog, especially when the urge to stalk overcomes him. I’m counting on him being there or doing his werewolf howl if needed. Plus, he’s marked a good size portion of the property to ward off the bears and coyotes.
With my fingers mostly covering my flashlight, I turn it on so I can see if I’m about to step off a cliff. I scan the area in front of me for a few seconds and turn it back off. The ghost light is hypnotic. I’m getting closer, trying to catch it with my phone, praying for the ecto-mist to appear.
Just as I’m about to snap a photo, a twig snaps behind me and I freeze. So does the twig snapper. I trade my phone for my flashlight and turn around to confront my furry or human stalker.
A warm, rough hand brushes my neck then pulls a clump of my hair. I swing my flashlight at air, and let rip a sound barrier breaking scream.
Chapter Twenty
§
Levi is trying to calm me down and figure out what happened. He pulled the jeep onto the property seconds after I ran back to the trailer with the wolfdog at my heels. He claims he didn’t pass a car on the way in or see anyone at the edge of the road with or without a light.
“It was Silas,” I say. Levi’s watching me pace all ten feet inside the trailer.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a tree branch that pulled your hair? Or a bird or bat or something?”
I stomp off to retrieve the things I left by the police tape with Levi trailing behind me. The lantern is turned on its side, the smudge sticks have been put out, and some rock salt has been dumped.
“Do you think a tree branch did this?” I say. Levi shrugs.
“Hey, Silas Turley. Show yourself. Stop hiding in the bushes and face me like a real man. Are you some kind of pervert that stalks women in the woods?”
“Jack, now come on. Knock it off. The guy’s a hillfolk, whatever that is. He could be dangerous and crazy. You got spooked is all. Don’t be mad too. I brought back pie… and deep fried pickles.”
“Great, that’s just what I need,” I say, kicking dirt towards the hill.
“I thought so. We’ll sit in the jeep and wait for the echo mystic while you have a snack. You can snap some pictures to put on your website. You know you should be doing that anyway. It’s good marketing.”
I mumble to myself and stomp off to the jeep with Levi behind me. “Someone snuck up on me. I was watching a ghost light. Maybelle said it would appear to help me find the ecto-mist. Silas doesn’t want me to find it. Well,” I yell towards the hill, “he can like it or not but I’m going to find it, and I’m not going to be intimidated off this job.”
Levi takes my arm and opens the door of the jeep. “Yeah, well running out of the woods and screaming like you’ve lost your mind is one way to convince him you can’t be messed with. Come on now, get in so you can eat your pickles.”
“Be quiet,” I say, getting into the jeep, which now smells like a vat of fr
ying grease. “Tomorrow, I’m going over that hill and look for the man. If I find where he lives, I’m going to knock on his door– provided he doesn’t live in a swamp– and tell him what I really think of him and his hillbilly friends.”
“We’re meeting with Emma and Gail Joubert tomorrow.”
“You’re on a first name basis with the lawyer now? So what’s the meeting with Gail for anyway?”
“You said you wanted to meet with her.”
“No, I said watch Dexter’s eyes when you told him we wanted to talk to her. What I wanted was to know his reaction.”
Levi’s dipping his pie into a runny container of ice cream. “Oh, you were setting our client up to look guilty. You should have told me that’s what you were up to. Let me think. Nope, can’t say that he batted an eye about it. He’s innocent– maybe.”
He takes a bite of pie and offers me some. I dip my pickle into the ice cream while he continues.
“Whether he’s innocent or guilty, I still need to talk to the woman to get her side of the story. Here’s what I’m thinking about my list of suspects. I told Dexter how the Noger brothers are about to profit from his serving time, and he’s mulling it over. Right now, they’re at the top of my list. Next—
“I thought the rednecks were your number one suspects,” I say. I’m watching the hill for signs of a hair puller.
“I’m still investigating. Next is Kylee’s husband who’s keeping a low profile. I talked to Dexter about the man. He says him and Kylee had an on and off again relationship– like you and me, I guess. They were off again when she was shot. I passed that little jewel on to Emma who, by the way, is impressed with the work I’ve been doing.”
“You’re saving her time and working for free. I don’t think impressed is a word she’d use to describe you.”
“You’re jealous. Anyway, she’s going to find out if Roland had a life insurance policy on Kylee. That was my idea and she was too impressed.”
The Cathville Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 2) Page 9
