Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  While Aggie saged the room, calling out to its otherworldly residents—if they were present—I looked around. The mattress, instead of being folded over as I’d seen in another bedroom, was flat on the iron bedstead with a rumpled sheet on top as if someone had used it recently. But I knew this wasn’t Cliff’s bedroom. An overturned cardboard carton sat next to the bed. Someone had placed a lamp with a crooked shade on the box; the weight of the lamp indented the top. I put my hand under the shade to feel the bulb. It was warm. Perhaps the handyman had started earlier than expected and was camping in the house.

  I saw a book on the floor and picked it up. It was a noir mystery by Graham P. Hobart. The title was Buried Sins, and the cover, a bloody head rising from a grave, made me shiver. I slipped the book in my pocket, intending to add it to the box of noir books downstairs.

  Mort looked out the window. “It’s going to rain any minute. We’d better wrap this up.”

  Eve peeked around the doorjamb on the opposite side from Davy. She held a trembling Cecil in her arms. “Are the spirits gone yet?”

  “Not yet,” Aggie said. “I’m working on it.”

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll wait in the car with Cecil.”

  “Go ahead. I’m almost out of sage anyway,” Aggie told her. “Jessica, you still have my container of sand?”

  “Yes,” I said, holding up the jar.

  Aggie took the jar, buried what was left of the smudge stick in the sand, and waved the last bits of smoke toward the ceiling. “That’s all we can do today,” she announced. “I do hope Cabot Cove has a place to buy smudge sticks. Otherwise, you’re in big trouble.”

  “Oh?” I said, wondering what her next proclamation would be.

  “This place is riddled with negative energy. Did you see the way the smoke wavered?”

  I thought the open window might have been a factor in keeping the smoke from rising straight up, but I didn’t say anything.

  While Aggie and Davy retreated down the hall, whispering to each other, Mort and I gave the room another once-over.

  “With a storm coming, we should close this window,” I said. “Eve doesn’t need water damage adding to her problems.” I pulled the curtain inside and turned the crank until the casement window shut with a thud. The room became eerily quiet except for the sound of Mort’s opening and closing drawers in the bureau.

  “Find anything interesting in there?” I asked.

  “Mostly ladies’ stuff,” he said, holding up a blue and green striped scarf. “And there’re some green scrubs.”

  “Scrubs? You mean what doctors and nurses wear.”

  “Yeah. Did Mrs. Cooper ever work in the hospital?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I’ll ask Lettie Conrad. She’d know.”

  “You know, Mrs. F., that kid was trying to take pictures with his camera while we were walking around.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Yeah, he pretended just to be carrying the camera, but I saw him pushing its buttons. I know you didn’t want to be videotaped, so I tried to block his view every chance I got.”

  “That was thoughtful of you, Mort, but you didn’t have to do that.”

  “No? You mean you wouldn’t mind being on Miss Olynski’s show?”

  “I definitely don’t want to be on her show, but I think Davy will be surprised when he examines the camera later.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I reached into my pocket and held up a black square. “Because I took out the recording disk before I gave him back the camera.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Let’s see. Cliff and Nanette bought the house from the Ballards. They were from away and only lived in the mansion for twenty years. The Ballards had purchased the house as a vacation property from a family by the name of DeSelle, who owned it for two generations. Before them were the Robichauds, who settled there right after World War One. They bought the house from Emil Charles of Charles Department Store fame.”

  Tim Purdy had undertaken a history of the Spencer Percy House, and Elsie Frickert, the president of the Friends of Cabot Cove Library, had invited him to read from his notes at the organization’s meeting.

  “It gets a little murky in the nineteenth century. There was a fire in the clerk’s office and a lot of the records were lost, but I found an old newspaper article that reports a wedding reception in the grand parlor of the Spencer Percy House generously hosted by its owner, Abner Nessier. Nessier was a lumber baron who added all the elaborate molding around the doors and windows that somebody has stripped off over the years. The only remnant of Nessier’s work—or I should say the work of his carpenters—is the intricate wood carving on the newel posts and balusters of the staircase, and of course, the library bookcases. I guess we have to be grateful those still survive. That’s all I have.”

  Tim gazed out over his half glasses at the gathering in the library’s meeting room and smiled at the smattering of applause from his audience.

  “But you didn’t learn whether anyone had died in the house?” asked Elsie.

  Tim shook his head. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I just couldn’t find a citation for it.”

  “Do ghosts inhabit a house where someone hasn’t died?”

  Tim lowered his glasses to peer at her over the frames. “And do you believe in ghosts, Elsie?”

  “I have a wait-and-see attitude, Tim. Since I’m getting up there, I figure I’ll find out pretty soon. But the Gazette quoted a woman who said she saw a figure in a white gown floating at the top of the stairs. That was why the cleaning ladies refused to go up to the bedrooms.”

  “They just didn’t want to tackle the junk Cliff had been collecting for thirty-some years. I’d be afraid to go in them rooms, too.” The speaker was Barnaby Longshoot, who wasn’t really a member of the Friends. He liked to spend time in the library playing games on one of its computers, but showed up at any of the many meetings the library hosted when he found one to his interest.

  “Well, I heard that Eve had a ghostbuster there this morning to exorcise any beings from the underworld,” Elsie said, laughing, “so I guess we’re all safe for now.”

  Considering her distressed reaction to that term, I was glad Arianna Olynski wasn’t present to hear that her sageing was considered an exorcism.

  “Tim and I will be helping Jessica tomorrow,” Elsie announced. “If any of the other members of the Friends would like to join us, you’re welcome. We could use some extra hands.”

  Barnaby raised his. “What about nonmembers?”

  “You’re welcome to come along, but I remind everyone that we’re there to help Jessica pack up Cliff’s books. Tim will point out any noteworthy historical elements, and if there’s time, we’ll tour the house.”

  “Thanks for your help with the book sale,” I put in. “Eve Simpson has promised that customers who purchase a book will be able to choose another at the end of the sale from among those leftover.”

  “Are there any cookbooks, Jessica?” Lucy Conrad asked.

  “There’s definitely one box of cookbooks, Lucy, maybe more. I’m sure I saw a Joy of Cooking and a couple of Betty Crockers. Isn’t that right, Lettie?”

  “Yes, and a Maine Coastal Cooking and a Fannie Farmer, but you don’t do the cooking anyway, Lucy.”

  “I like to read them, though,” she responded.

  Elsie looked around the room. “If there aren’t any more questions, we’ll adjourn. Thanks to Tim Purdy for his presentation. Those coming to help sort books will meet tomorrow morning at nine at the Spencer Percy House. Wear your oilskins if you have them. The MPBN forecast is for rain and more rain.”

  Tim folded his notes. “Jessica, a word, please.”

  “Yes, Tim?” I said as I slipped on my jacket.

  “Got a present for you.”

  “You do?”


  “Ayuh. Here it is.” He handed me an envelope.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a copy of the only picture I could find of Jerry Cooper. It’s a group photo of the Explorers’ Club from the year before he graduated high school. I marked which one he is.”

  “Thank you, Tim.” I opened the envelope and unfolded the copy paper. The picture was clear, but even so, I didn’t recognize the face Tim had circled.

  “Look familiar?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I said, and tucked the envelope in my shoulder bag. “But thank you anyway.”

  He grinned. “I’m pretty proud of myself if I do say so. Persistence. That’s what you need to be a historian.”

  • • •

  The radio station’s forecast had been accurate. The storm had come onshore late in the evening, and a northeast wind had picked up more moisture from the bay, resulting in a good soaking. Tim had kindly picked me up in his gray sedan at a quarter to nine the next morning. I had on the yellow slicker that I often wear when I go fishing with friends, and a pair of rubber boots from L.L.Bean, as did Tim. Our Bean boots were caked with mud by the time we walked from the side of the house where he’d parked to the front door.

  Elsie was already there, huddling under the umbrella she shared with Barnaby. Lettie had said that she might join us later—Lucy had forgotten altogether that we would be here—but other members of the Friends had probably decided to forgo helping until a drier day.

  I unlocked the front door, and the four of us crowded into the dark hall. The wind pushed at the door as we struggled to shut it behind us, and another door, somewhere upstairs, slammed shut. Barnaby warily looked up the main staircase.

  “There should be a roll of paper towels in the kitchen,” I said. “I don’t want to make muddy footprints down the hall.”

  “I’ll get it,” Elsie said.

  If it hadn’t been raining, we would have left our boots outside the front door, but the inclement weather had forced us indoors, still shod. Elsie slipped off her raincoat and boots, and padded down the hall in her stocking feet. Barnaby shrugged out of his slicker and draped it over a newel post. He sat on the bottom stair and pulled off his shoes, revealing a large hole in one sock where his great toe poked through. After removing our muddy boots, Tim and I hung everyone’s coats in the hall closet in the hope that they would dry by the time we were ready to leave.

  “Is there any newspaper here we can put under our boots, Jessica?” Tim asked.

  “I think Eve has gotten rid of all the newspapers, but there are a few empty boxes here. We can put our wet footwear in one.” I reached into my shoulder bag and withdrew a pair of soft slippers that I’d packed in anticipation of the nasty weather, slipped them on, entered the library, and turned on the lights. I looked for a box that we hadn’t already used for books, and, finding one, brought it into the hall. “This should do.”

  Elsie came from the kitchen empty-handed. “I can’t find any paper towels,” she said.

  “That’s funny. I used a roll there just the other day.”

  “I could’ve missed it. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

  Tim entered the library and took in the scene. “I see you’ve already emptied the top shelves of each of these bookcases, Jessica. Would you like us to start on the next ones down?”

  “Good idea.”

  Elsie and Barnaby wandered in, peering at the rows of labeled boxes covering the floor.

  “What’s ‘hard-boiled’ and ‘noir’ mean?” Barnaby asked, pronouncing it noyer. “Sounds like an order of eggs.”

  “Those are detective stories with a cynical point of view and perhaps more graphic violence than you’d find in other books,” I said. “Noir is the French word for ‘black.’ Those mysteries are darker.”

  “Would I like them?”

  “I don’t know, Barnaby. What do you usually like to read?”

  “Whatever anyone leaves behind at Mara’s Luncheonette. I guess I’m sort of a magazine or newspaper kind of guy.”

  “You don’t want to read noir,” Elsie told him. “It’ll scare the pants off you. If you want to read a good book, start with one of Jessica’s.” She turned to me. “You do have a box here, don’t you, Jessica?”

  “Yes, I do. It’s over here.” I pointed out a carton that held books I’d either given Cliff as gifts over the years, or that he’d purchased himself.

  Barnaby lumbered over. “Which d’ya think I’d like?”

  “Work first, sir,” Tim said, scowling at Barnaby. “There’ll be time to choose a book later.” He winked at me while sliding the library ladder over to the first bookcase. “You’ll notice, ladies and gentleman,” he said as he climbed up the steps, “that the bookcases in this library are in the late Regency style, popular in this country in the first third of the nineteenth century. Six shelves on the upper two-thirds, and a cabinet on the lower third.” He slid his glasses up to his forehead and squinted at the upright between two cases. “These are made of birch, I believe, native to Maine, probably built by the carpenters employed by Nessier, the lumber baron I told you about yesterday, and stained to resemble rosewood, which was popular in England at the time.”

  Elsie gave Tim an arch look. “Work first; lecture later,” she said. “Hand me down some of them books. I’ll call out what category I think they should be in and, Barnaby, you find the right box.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for your help,” I said.

  “We’ll be fine,” she said. “Go do whatever it is you have to do.”

  “I brought lunch for everyone, so the first thing I have to do is put our sandwiches in the refrigerator. Then I’ll start on the books downstairs.” I picked up an empty box. “If you need me, the door to the cellar is off the kitchen. Just give a shout.”

  Tim handed Elsie a thick volume.

  “Roget’s Thesaurus,” she called out. “Barnaby, find the box that says ‘Reference Books.’”

  “You sure it’s here?”

  “We gotta start one if it isn’t,” Elsie said.

  “‘Reference and Language Arts.’ Got it.”

  I smiled as I walked out of the library and down the hall to the back of the house.

  In the kitchen, the roll of paper towels was nowhere in sight, but a mug and spent tea bag stood in the sink. Eve must have been here again, I thought. Or perhaps the Conrad twins. A loud hum reminded me that we’d already turned on the refrigerator. I opened the door. A quart bottle of milk, half-empty, stood on the top shelf, alongside something wrapped in foil. I didn’t investigate. The sisters had said they would come to help later. Perhaps they’d left something to share. I made room for my sack of sandwiches and placed two cans of Moxie on the shelf in case anyone wanted a soft drink.

  I tucked my cell phone into a pocket of the old blue jeans I wore and looked down at my feet. The jeans were my go-to clothes for painting or other dirty work, but the pair of folding slippers I’d brought had a soft sole—not much protection if I dropped a book on my foot or bumped into debris that might have been left on the basement floor. I parked my shoulder bag on one of the chairs around the kitchen table and headed for the door leading to the basement, hoping that Cliff had gotten around to fixing the broken step that had precipitated the departure of his grandson, Elliot.

  The door to the lower level was in the same hall off the kitchen that led to the back door. A skeleton key had been left in the lock. I put down the carton and used both hands to simultaneously turn the key and the doorknob. A current of musty air greeted me as I swung open the door to a black void.

  I squinted into the dark in search of light switches. I patted the wall on either side of the doorway with my hands in the hope of feeling what I couldn’t see. My hand connected with a raw wood railing on the right side, but nothing else. I left the cardboard box on the floor outside
the door and used the flashlight on my cell phone to shine a beam of light down the stairs. There must be a pull cord for a lightbulb somewhere. I can’t believe Cliff would have no lights at all in the basement. Gripping the railing with one hand and holding the cell phone aloft with the other, I cautiously placed my foot on the top step, then slowly descended. The stairs creaked under my weight, but even though one or two felt bouncy, they didn’t break. I was so focused on my feet that I was startled when a string brushed my cheek. I grabbed it with my right hand and gave it a tug, trusting that it was not attached to some overhead panel that would swing down on my head. I was rewarded with light from a bare bulb in a socket. The bulb was the kind used in a night-light, putting out seven watts at the most, but it was enough for me to get my bearings and see a few feet into the dim space.

  An electrical cord dangled from an outlet above the bulb and ran to the back of a nearby piece of metal equipment. It was fortunate that I’d turned on the light first, or I could easily have gotten tangled in it. I stepped down the last stair and stood on the cold concrete floor. I felt the damp coming up through the soles of my slippers. When a loud clanking sounded, I nearly jumped out of them.

  “What on earth,” I said, my heart pounding in my ears.

  I turned toward the racket to discover a large, old metal dehumidifier that Cliff must have installed to protect his books. The clanking indicated to me that the motor was in desperate need of repair. If it had come on when the painting service was here, it was no surprise that the men reported hearing strange noises.

  But if the dehumidifier was for the books, where were they?

  I turned to my left, holding up the cell phone again to add to the bulb’s weak light. Along the wall was a series of bookcases, not as elegant as the ones in the library, but neither were they rough-hewn. Cliff must have built them himself. They were perhaps six feet high with six shelves each. He’d painted them black, making them harder to see in this subterranean room, but probably sealing the wood to keep it from warping in the damp air.