“I appreciate the invitation, Dimitri, but I’m afraid I have other plans.”
“All right, but you are not to go until I have given you a portion of my wonderful dish. My wife always says, ‘Good food tastes better if it’s shared.’”
Dimitri cut a large square from his spinach pie and wrapped it in foil for me. Then he called his son to pick me up.
“Thank you for the spanakopita, and thank you for spending this time with me,” I said. “Please give my best to your family.”
He walked me out to the waiting cab.
“What happened to the baby?” he asked.
“He grew up into a fine young man,” I said. “He’s returned to Cabot Cove for his grandfather’s funeral.”
“Please send him my best, and condolences on the loss of his grandfather.”
“I’ll be happy to do that.”
Dimitri’s son drove me back to Tim’s office to pick up my bicycle, and he dropped me and the bike off at home. The whole time my mind was in overdrive.
The lives of Jerry and Marina Cooper had always been shrouded in mystery, but what Dimitri Cassis had told me only added to the enigma. Why had Marina traveled ahead of her husband instead of accompanying him? What was it about Jerry Cooper that had engendered such negative feelings in Dimitri Cassis? Who had reported to Cliff that Elliot’s parents had been murdered in South America?
The answers to those questions, and more, were locked away in the Spencer Percy House, along with, as Arianna Olynski would say, the negative energy of unhappy spirits.
Chapter Eighteen
Cecil was sniffing around a paperback that had been placed on the bottom step when I arrived the next morning and brought in an empty carton that Lettie had left outside the front door. The Chihuahua’s mistress was pacing in the hallway, yelling at someone on her cell phone. “What do you mean you need a few days off? We have work to do. I already gave you money to buy materials.”
I slipped out of my Bean boots and tiptoed past Eve into the library, where Elliot was perusing the books that remained on the shelves. He waved a greeting.
“Grandpa Cliff used to have a volume of poetry by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” he said, his hand running over the spines of the books. “Have you seen it? I couldn’t find it in any of the boxes.”
“Are you short of cash?” I asked.
He turned to face me. “Boy, nothing gets past you, does it, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Your grandfather wanted me to pay the lawyer.” I opened a cabinet door and retrieved the hollowed-out book of poems Cliff had used for what he called his “stash,” and handed it to Elliot. “I paid Fred Kramer and gave him the rest of the money in the book for safekeeping. Perhaps he can provide you with funds the next time you see him.”
Elliot snorted. “Wish I had known that yesterday when I had an appointment with him.” He opened the book and ran a finger around the rectangular hole in the center of its pages. “I used to sneak a dollar or two when I was short, figuring Grandpa Cliff would never notice. I figured wrong, of course. He’d confront me the next day and threaten to dock my allowance. He never did, though. Instead, I’d find a ten-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans that I knew I never put there.” He closed the book, a wistful expression on his face. “Makes a nice souvenir, doesn’t it.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Sacré bleu, Jessica! This will never do.” Eve stood in the doorway of the library, fists on her hips. “There’s barely room for Cecil to walk in here, much less my client, who’s a very big man. We’ll have to get rid of these boxes.”
“That’s the whole idea behind the book sale, Eve, getting rid of the books in the boxes,” I said.
“Well, when is this momentous event going to take place? I think I’ve been very patient, but it would be just as easy—probably a lot easier—to have Herb, the junk man, come and haul them away.”
“Eve Simpson, you are not going to renege on the promised fund-raiser for the Cabot Cove Library,” I said, barely resisting the urge to stamp my foot. “And furthermore, don’t complain to me about how long this is taking when your pledge to help organize it seems to have evaporated into thin air.”
“Tell me how I’m supposed to show the house when it’s chock-full of boxes,” Eve said, her voice rising. “I can’t even think about attacking the bedrooms when I can’t navigate the first floor.”
“Where’s your knight-in-shining-armor handyman?” I asked. “Why not have him move the boxes to the barn?”
“I’m not sure where he is. He called to say he was taking a few days off. Can’t I count on anyone?”
“Moving the boxes somewhere else would work for me,” said Arianna Olynski, coming into the room. “The kitchen will never do as a set.”
I knew that the medium, the former Agnes Pott, had returned to town with her cameraman and nephew, Davy, known professionally as Boris, but I hadn’t realized they were already at the house.
“I didn’t see your truck when I arrived,” I said.
“We parked it behind the barn, like before,” Davy said. “Aunt Aggie doesn’t want a truck in the opening shot. Spoils the mysterious atmosphere.”
I’d guessed that Davy had hidden the truck behind the barn the last time they were here, when Mort had caught him filming through an open window. Aggie had told Eve her truck wouldn’t start and had requested a ride to the house. I didn’t know if Aggie realized that Davy had exposed her lie, but I decided not to challenge her. It was enough to have my suspicion confirmed.
“If you empty the room,” she said to me, “we could use the library to shoot our next episode. Does that work for you, Elliot?”
“I’m easy.”
“What is Elliot doing in your show?” I asked.
“He’s going to tell a story about how his mother’s spirit found its way from the jungles of South America to Cabot Cove in order to read bedtime stories to her little boy. It’s so touching.”
“Elliot, are you sure you want to do this?” I asked.
“Sounds like fun. Maybe if I talk about her again, she’ll reappear. I haven’t seen her ghost since I was ten.”
“Oh, but she’s watching out for you,” Aggie said, waving her gold-topped cane in the air. “I’m certain of it. I can feel her spirit.”
“Which reminds me,” Eve said, pointing at Elliot, “you cannot just take up residence in one of the bedrooms while I’m trying to get the house in order. You’ll have to move somewhere else.”
“Me? Where am I supposed to go? This is still my home, you know.”
“Only until I can sell it,” Eve said with forced cheer.
I had the impression that she was trying to tamp down her temper before she alienated everyone in the room.
“You want the money, don’t you, Elliot?” Eve continued. “Think what you can do in Alaska with all those wonderful greenbacks to spread around. You’ll be the toast of—where is it you live?”
“Sitka. It’s a nice little city situated on Baranof Island—”
“You’ll be the toast of Sitka. Women will be flocking to your door. You could buy a home or open a business or simply put your feet up for a year or two and read. Take some of these books with you. Or you could skip Alaska altogether and travel the world. Where would you like to go?”
That last question was posed through Eve’s clenched teeth.
“Right now I’d like to go upstairs. I’m a little tired from traveling by motorcycle so many days. I could use a little rest, if that’s all right with you.”
“Rest all you want, but not in this house, please. I can’t sell this monstrosity with so many boxes around, especially if people keep adding to the clutter rather than taking it away. Find somewhere else to go. Like Blueberry Hill Inn or some other bed-and-breakfast. And make sure you take that motorcycle with you. We can’t have prospective buyers thin
king this is a biker hangout.”
“I can’t afford a hotel until you sell the house and give me the money,” Elliot said. “You’ll just have to deal with my clutter for a day or two. I don’t know that many people who would be willing to put me up, especially when they know there’re eight empty bedrooms upstairs.”
If Eve hadn’t just paid for a wash and blow-dry at Loretta’s Beauty Shop, I was certain she would have pulled out her hair with both fists. I was feeling her frustration myself. Every time I’d proposed a date for the book sale, it conflicted with another event on the calendar of the Friends of Cabot Cove Library. We’d finally settled on the thirty-first of October, which was a Saturday and, not incidentally, Halloween. It was the date that Seth Hazlitt had lightheartedly recommended, but I wasn’t certain I could count on people to help out with the sale when there would be other events taking place around town, not least of which was the library’s Halloween Parade for children. And would Charlene Sassi still offer to provide cookies when she had so many bakery orders for holiday parties at that time of year? At least we had most of the books off the shelves and boxed by category. Only the bottom two shelves remained to be sorted, and maybe I could get Elliot to help me finish up before he starred in Aggie’s YouTube program.
“I’m leaving,” Eve announced. “Come along, Cecil.”
Cecil gave a sharp bark, trotted over to Eve’s tote bag, and jumped in.
“Boris and I are going to shoot some establishing shots on the grounds,” the medium said, following Eve out the door. “If the books have to stay, perhaps we can find another location to film.”
“Suit yourself,” Eve called over her shoulder. “I have to find another handyman.”
Elliot looked at me and shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t even have a key to this place,” he said. “I’ve been coming in and out through a window.”
“Eve didn’t give you a key?”
“No, ma’am, but don’t worry about me. I’m going to ask Aunt Lucy if I can use their spare room. That’ll get me out of Ms. Simpson’s hair. Fortunately, I don’t have a lot to pack.” He covered a yawn. “Can’t seem to get used to this time zone,” he said, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water.
“It’s very nice of you to accommodate Eve,” I said. “She doesn’t deserve your cooperation after her temper tantrum today, but she’ll be grateful, I know.”
“I seem to remember that selling a house is considered a major life crisis that causes people a lot of unhappiness and strain.”
“It does,” I said, “as do death, divorce, job loss, and illness, among others.”
“Thanks to Grandpa, I don’t have to do the selling,” he said, stifling another yawn.
“I’m not surprised that you’re tired,” I said. “You’ve experienced a lot of turmoil in your life recently—the death of your grandfather, and having to leave your job and home to travel across two countries to help settle his estate. Not to mention the breakup of your engagement. All those upheavals take their toll.”
Elliot put his hands up as if I were pointing a gun in his direction. “Not to forget that Grandpa Cliff’s death is suspicious. No wonder I can barely keep my eyes open. But that last part you listed, Mrs. Fletcher, the breakup of my engagement. That’s frankly a great relief. I knew it the instant I saw Beth again. Oh, it stung my ego, no doubt about that, but I’m really glad I’m free to get to know my childhood friend again. I only hope she’s as glad to see me as I am to see her. We were really close once, and I wasn’t very nice to her when she tried to help me.”
“That was a long time ago, and I’m sure she’s forgiven you,” I said, noting the bags under his eyes. “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”
“You wouldn’t be offended?”
“Not at all. Do you mind if I stay? I have more work to do, and I’m curious about a few things I’ve found.”
“The house is yours to explore. You can ask me about anything later. I’ll tell you whatever I know, or what I can remember.”
While Elliot climbed the stairs to the second floor, I looked around the room wearily. Seth has often accused me of assuming projects without weighing the consequences. Sorting the contents of Cliff Cooper’s library for a book sale to benefit Cabot Cove Library had become a massive undertaking, and I was feeling overwhelmed. There was so much left to organize in the remaining days until the sale. I’d never been able to gather the help I’d expected to materialize. Was Eve right? Should I have let her hire Herb to cart away all the books and not have devoted all my efforts toward selling them? After all, realistically, how much money could be raised to support the library? Very likely not enough to expand the staff. Maybe only enough to get part-time help with a project. Was it a worthwhile endeavor?
Meanwhile, if Seth’s analysis of the autopsy was correct—and I had to assume it was—Cliff Cooper had been murdered, and the discovery of who might have wanted him dead had taken a backseat to investigating his family history. What good was that going to do? A son and daughter-in-law sacrificing their lives on what was most likely a fool’s errand in South America. A grandson who moved across the United States and Canada right after college. What was it about Cliff that drove his family members as far away from him as they could get?
All I knew about the day Cliff Cooper died was that no visitors had signed the book, but that Beth, possibly Lettie, and someone who sounded suspiciously like Elliot could have been there. Elliot had shown up in the Spencer House almost ten days after his grandfather’s death. He couldn’t have been hiding in Cabot Cove all along, could he? He seemed such a nice young man. Was it possible I’d misjudged him so completely? If so, it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d been taken in by a handsome face and a pleasant manner.
I picked up the book that had been left on the bottom step, carried it into the library, and deposited it in the box marked “Mystery: Hard-boiled and Noir.” Another Hobart, I thought, sighing. This one, entitled Masquerade!, had a picture of a figure in a green cape, face hidden behind a black mask.
Green, I thought. “Green,” I whispered. “Of course.” Seth had said he’d found green fibers in Cliff’s throat, but there were no green pillowcases in the hospital. Then in the morgue, he’d speculated that they might have come from a hospital uniform. And when Aggie had saged the house, Mort had found green scrubs in an upstairs dresser drawer. “Scrubs” was a term used to describe a medical uniform. I’d forgotten that I’d meant to ask the Conrads if Cliff’s wife, Nanette, had ever worked in the hospital. Or could they have been left behind by the nursing students who’d helped care for Elliot as a baby?
I went to the base of the stairs and looked up. Elliot’s room was on the opposite side of the house from the bedroom with the dresser. If I walked carefully, I wouldn’t wake him. Still in my stocking feet—my boots were next to the front door—I climbed the stairs, wincing at every creak. At the top, I tiptoed down the hall, hoping he wouldn’t hear the squeak of the boards as I peeked into each room until I found the one Aggie had saged. The bedroom still bore a trace of the scent of lavender smoke in the air. The bedding appeared to be as it was when I’d last seen it. I’d taken the book I’d found downstairs. There was nothing on the top of the overturned box except the lamp that had been there before. Out of habit, I checked the bulb, but this time it was cool.
There were two half drawers at the top of the dresser and four full drawers below them. Slowly, I opened one of the half drawers. The wood had swollen, and it was a tight fit. Inside was an old jewelry box, the top missing. In the felt-lined compartment I found one earring and a silver bracelet with a broken clasp. The other half drawer held socks, some of them unpaired. I found the blue and green striped scarf Mort had pulled out in the first full drawer, but no green scrubs. I closed the drawer, careful not to slam it shut, and checked the next drawer down. It contained a few half-slips and a fur collar. The next one was empty an
d so was the bottom drawer. What had happened to the scrubs? I started at the first full drawer again, this time pushing aside the scarf and running my hand along the back of the drawer in case the fabric had gotten caught. I pulled out the bottom drawer altogether to see if the uniform had fallen between the back of the drawers and the rear wall of the dresser.
“What are you doing?” said a hoarse voice behind me.
“Oh, goodness. You startled me.” I stood up, forcing the drawer closed as I did. “I was trying not to wake you. I’m looking for a pair of scr—”
Elliot’s form filled the doorway. He was taller than I’d realized. He raised his left hand to scratch the back of his head. He was wearing the green scrubs.
“Good heavens!” I said. “Take those off immediately.”
Chapter Nineteen
To say that Elliott was surprised and confused when I demanded that he take off the scrubs was an understatement. “Surely you can find something else to sleep in,” I said.
“I guess, but why?” he asked. “No one’s using these.”
“Dr. Hazlitt needs them.”
“These in particular? Can’t he get a pair of scrubs for himself? They must have others at the hospital.”
“Those in particular. You took them from this drawer, am I correct?”
He nodded.
“And were you the one who put them there?”
“Now, how could I have done that? I only got back yesterday.”
“Just checking,” I said.
“You know, Mrs. Fletcher, the whole idea when you go cross-country by motorcycle is to travel fast and light. I didn’t bring anything to sleep in. I barely have two days’ change of clothes.”
“Nevertheless, I need those scrubs, and I need them now.”
“Can I go put something else on first?”
“Yes, but hurry, please.”
“All right, but it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“I’ll make sure that it does eventually. Go! Change!”
Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher Page 14
