Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky

by A. J. Matthews

  Claudia looked at Martin, who caught her eye and nodded. "A shrewd move, Joanne. Okay, that was then." He leaned close, and Claudia sensed his interest quickening beneath the staid Brit exterior. "Would you relate your own experience, please?"

  "It was last month," she said promptly. "It was around twelve in the afternoon of the 14th and I was just coming off early shift to get lunch. As usual I made my way through to the staff canteen, which is a room just off the kitchens." She looked at Claudia. "We use it during the season. The restaurant is purely for guests at that time. Bruce was there with Laurel, chatting about something, but the first thing I noticed was the guy in overalls leaning on the food counter."

  "Overalls?" Martin glanced at Claudia, his eyes bright, and leaned forward eagerly. "You're sure?"

  "Oh yeah! My brother's a mechanic; he wears the same kind of gear. This guy was in stained brown overalls." She looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought for a moment. "Well, I say brown, they were more like a khaki shade," she amended.

  "I know what you mean. What happened next?"

  "First off, I thought he was a mechanic or repairman from the way he was dressed, although I didn't know why he was there. No one had told me any repair work had been scheduled." She gave them a sour smile. "Nothing new there! Then I took a closer look. There was something funny about him."

  "What was it?" Claudia asked quietly.

  Joanne stroked her chin, her eyes losing focus as she thought. "It was his hair," she said finally. "It was blond, oiled, but mussed-up; like it had been gelled then ruffled."

  "That seems a common style these days," Martin observed.

  "Yeah, but this was a short-back-and-sides cut and the top would have been long and floppy if it hadn't been greased. You don't see it except in old movies and photos. I had to pass close by him to get to the coffee. It was then I noticed he stank of booze." She looked up at Martin. "It was the same smell I'd sensed in the office months ago."

  "He was quite clear? He wasn't blurred in any way?"

  "Blurred? No," she said with an emphatic shake of her head. "He looked real."

  "Did you say anything to him?"

  "No," she said and shrugged. "I gave him a dirty look as I passed but he seemed too drunk to notice." She stabbed a fingertip onto the desk in emphasis. "This guy was stinking drunk and it was only noon! You notice that kind of thing, even around here. I wondered why Bruce hadn't chewed him out for it, but neither he nor Laurel seemed to see the guy."

  Claudia gazed at her. "They didn't react at all?"

  "No, not at all. I got my coffee and food and went to sit at a table, then looked over to where he was standing. Bruce left around then and the guy followed him."

  "He followed him?" Martin sat up straight.

  "Yeah. I called out to Laurel, asked her who he was. He was drunk; I was worried he might try something stupid with Bruce." Joanne wrinkled her nose, perplexed. "She asked me who I was talking about. When I looked the guy had vanished." Her pretty face creased into a frown. "When I took my next break Laurel spoke to me about the resort's policy on drug-taking!"

  Claudia hid a smile.

  * * * *

  Once Joanne had left, Martin and Claudia compared notes.

  "One thing's pretty obvious; she's a lot closer to the boss than most folks around here!" she said in a disparaging tone.

  "Yes, I picked up a hint or two on that score," he said dryly. "What do you think of her story?"

  Claudia blew out her cheeks and slumped down in the chair, her arms folded under her breasts. "I think she's telling the truth." She cocked an eye at him. "Do you think the fact this guy followed Bruce—ah, Mr. Baker—is significant?"

  "Could well be, love. Spirits can attach themselves to people as well as places."

  "I'm not sure you should tell Bruce that," she said with a chuckle. "Okay, Sherlock; what do we do now?"

  "I'll set up some baseline electromagnetic tests in different places through the main building. After that I think we need to check through the older records, see if there's anything about the history of the farm that preceded this place."

  "Do you need me for that?" she asked, rising to her feet.

  "No. Why?" He looked up at her. "Got something else in mind?"

  She laid her hand on his shoulder, stooped and kissed him briefly. "I thought I'd look around that place by the drive where we saw the fire while it's full daylight!"

  Chapter Three

  Whilst Claudia was away Martin approached Laurel with his request.

  "You want records of the farm?" She thought for a few moments. "We don't have anything of that kind here, although there should be something in the property deeds. They'll be with the bank, so I guess you'd need to ask Bruce for a look at those."

  "Perhaps it won't be necessary to look at the deeds themselves," Martin said. "I'd just like to form an idea about what was here on this site before the resort was developed. If there are any local archives, for newspapers and such, I could search them."

  "I'll have Greg check for local sources. In the meantime, I think we can do something to help. Follow me," she said, leading the way downstairs. They went into a broad passage that led to the main guest lounge and Laurel examined the many framed photographs that lined the walls before she stopped at one. "This is the old Gottlieb farm, taken in 1936." Taking the photo off the wall she handed it to Martin. "I think it was taken from the foot of the slope, where the entrance to the drive is now."

  Martin took the photograph into the lounge to examine it in better light. The scene was of a cluster of clapboard buildings, no more than two floors each with steeply pitched hipped roofs, set around a broad yard on a rather overgrown slope. A rough track led up to the yard and at the top, beside one of the barns, was a group of people. He squinted at them but they were far too small to make out. What made his ears tingle with anticipation was the broad patch of black and dark gray against the lighter gray of the grass by the drive that showed where a bonfire had burned.

  "I think you're right," he said. "The tree-line behind the buildings has changed of course, but this looks like the scene from the foot of the drive."

  "Is it any help?" Laurel asked.

  "It could be. Do you mind if I scan or photocopy this?"

  "Go ahead. I've got to go check a few things but I'll be along later."

  Martin retired to the office and unclipped the photo from its frame. Scanning it into the PC he was able to call the scene up on the monitor, enlarge and examine it in detail without worrying about damaging the original.

  First he enlarged the group of figures. There were two women and a man, and a child with a dog standing just before them. After blowing it up several times the image lost resolution, but Martin had seen enough to be convinced the man was wearing overalls.

  "Any luck?" Laurel asked, coming into the office.

  "A little," Martin nodded. He pointed to the screen. "There's a figure here which resembles the description of the ghost.”

  "Let me see," she said, leaning close to look over his shoulder. Martin was disconcerted to feel a soft breast pushing against his back. He moved forward slightly and the touch eased for a moment, until Laurel copied his move and the gentle pressure returned. Doesn't she know she's doing it? he wondered, and cleared his throat.

  "Of course, there's no way of knowing if the ghost originates in this time. I'd have to check with the local archives to find anything about the Gottliebs or the farm."

  "Sure thing," she said, standing up. When he glanced up, she wore her usual pleasant smile.

  * * * *

  Down on the drive, Claudia was puzzled. She walked slowly through the gap in the hedge, her half-boots crunching on the rime of snow, to look directly at the area where the bonfire had been. "Nothing here!" she said to herself, scanning the ground.

  The fading green grass was unburned, unmarred by as much as a cinder. She shivered, and pulled her coat tightly around her body as she began a wider search, walking around in an
expanding spiral using her tracks to guide her.

  The world around her seemed to flicker, as if a clumsy cosmic movie editor had bungled a splice. It was an impression all too familiar to her from the first adventure she'd shared with Martin back in New York City.

  Jesus God! That I should see such a day!

  The weight of years and sorrow was enough to make her knees buckle, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. Blurred firelight filled her view, the orange and yellow flames consuming everything that had been consigned to them.

  A photograph of a young man laid amongst the burning branches, a strapping lad with his face full of the arrogance of youth and vitality. It curled up, blistered and was eaten by the greedy flames.

  And so your image dies.

  Bottles gleamed in the fire, their contents livid liquid amber and gold, bubbling, seething, the labels charring and peeling away. Each exploded in turn, spraying the fire which roared with delight at the bounty.

  And so your blood payment dies!

  Old, tired eyes looked to the dark night sky, a sky which shimmered and flickered like a black aurora.

  When her vision cleared, it was daylight. A few wisps of cloud glided serenely across the pure blue sky. Confused, she dropped her gaze to the bare snow-sugared grass and saw a tall, lanky blond man standing on the drive looking directly at her.

  She fought to make her voice work. "Did you see anything?"

  He appeared to think about it before lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug and walking away toward the resort building.

  * * * *

  Gainesville was the nearest town of any size to the resort, a typical New England town with fine clapboard houses, a Wal-Mart, a gas station, and the inevitable donut store. Martin's eye was drawn to a torpedo-shaped structure in blue and gleaming chrome set back from the road near the town limits. The sign proclaimed it to be Mel's Diner, Home of Good All-American Cooking. It looked busy; he could see a number of people inside through the steamed-up windows that ran its length.

  Claudia lay slumped in the passenger seat, her hands jammed in her coat pockets, a battered blue baseball cap bearing the Indianapolis Colts horseshoe logo pulled low over her brow.

  "There's an old-fashioned diner, love." She gave it a glance then resumed her brown study. "I've heard about those. Maybe we can visit it sometime?"

  "Yeah, sure." She made an effort to smile. "It'll be a treat for you."

  The lights at the intersection were red and he stopped. Leaning over, he lifted the peak of the cap and kissed her tenderly on her forehead before replacing the cap. He was rewarded with a wan smile.

  "I'm sorry; I must be an awful bore," she said.

  "Never, love. You've got your reasons for being so quiet." He clasped her hand. "You know I'm here when you want to talk."

  Her smile was less forced. "Thanks for that, Martin."

  Following the directions given by Greg, they pulled up outside the office of the Gainesville Gazette. Doug Kenyon, the editor/chief journalist/archivist was happy to oblige when they asked to look at the archives. A wiry man with long salt and pepper hair, he showed them into the newsroom.

  "You're in luck, folks; today's a slow news day." He grinned broadly. "Come to that, I guess most days are slow this time of year. Which years were you looking for?"

  "Between 1920 and 1950, please," Martin said.

  "Sure thing." Doug walked along the dusty shelves until he came to a file, which he pulled from the stack and handed to Martin. "We're still using microfiche round these parts," he said apologetically. "The reader's over here." He led the way to a small booth where the machine was kept. "Excuse my professional curiosity but do you mind if I ask what you folks are looking for? I've lived round here all my life, so maybe I could give you some help."

  "It'd be welcome. We're looking for anything on the Gottlieb farm and the early years of the Knight's Lodge resort."

  "Ah, yeah, Old Man Gottlieb." Kenyon nodded. "My granddaddy knew him; my dad served with his youngest son in Korea. That'd be about the time the old man set up the resort."

  "This may seem an odd question but is there any tragedy connected with the farm?" Claudia asked.

  The archivist stared at her for a long moment. "Nothing that I know of," he said at last. "But the Gottliebs were regular folks, with all the usual family scandals and feuds." He pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. "I seem to recall hearing the old man's brother went off abroad somewhere in the 1920's and never came back. They reckon his daddy was real cut up about it. The family owned the land up there for three generations before the old man sold up. Why do you want to know?"

  "We're writers." Martin explained their interest with the benign lie they'd agreed upon to cover the reason for their activities. "We're doing a little background research into the area for an article."

  "Sure thing. I doubt you'll find much. The biggest thing to happen around here was the Battle of Mel's Diner."'

  "Mel's Diner? That place at the side of the road as we came into town?"

  "Yep, that's the one. Back in the days of Prohibition, the time of the Old 18th Amendment, there was a shoot-out between the cops and some gang up from the city. Here, let me find it."

  Doug searched the files until he found the relevant microfiche and slipped it into the machine. The screen flickered and blurred as the film slid through the reader, Doug manipulating the guide wheels until the image of the Gazette's front page for September 3rd, 1929 filled the screen.

  'Feds Bust Minotti Gang,' the headline proclaimed. 'Shoot-out at diner: 3 Dead.' A photograph of three bodies filled most of the page; men dressed in the sharp suits of the Roaring Twenties lying sprawled in death, fedoras scattered on the blood-stained linoleum.

  "My mistake; it was the Feds shot 'em, not the cops," Doug said, sliding the fiche from the holder. "But that was the biggest event around here."

  "We'll be taking lunch there later; it'd be interesting to see the scene."

  "Jodi Miller runs the place; tell her I said hi!"

  * * * *

  Two hours passed with Martin none the wiser at the end of the time, when a rumbling in his stomach reminded him lunchtime was nigh. He rubbed it, and looked at Claudia. "Shall we go eat?" he asked.

  "Are you sure?" She looked pointedly at his waistline. "You put away enough food at breakfast to last you a good while longer."

  "If we go for a walk along the valley this afternoon, we can burn some of it off."

  Claudia looked down at her own trim figure. "Hmm! Not sure about the 'we' part, but I'll settle for a nice romantic walk. Okay, let's go eat."

  Thanking Doug, they left the office and drove to Mel's Diner, parking in the half-filled parking lot in front of the building.

  The diner resembled a streamlined railroad carriage, raised on solid brick piers to a height of three feet. Steps led up to the double doors and they pushed through them to a welcome scent of real coffee perking on the counter. It was early for the lunch hour and the place was nearly empty. As they took seats in a window booth Martin looked up and around at the decor, taking in the odd contrast of the early 20's art deco with the modern fittings on the counter.

  "Hi, folks, I'm Jodi. What can I get you?" The speaker was a woman in her thirties, blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, wearing a red-checked shirt and denim skirt covered by a blue striped apron. She stood by the table, notebook in hand, pencil poised.

  "Hi, Jodi." Martin smiled at her infectious good humor. "I'd like a regular coffee to start with. What do you recommend to eat?"

  "Hey, are you British?" she asked, looking from him to Claudia.

  "Yes—well, I am. We're staying up at the resort."

  "On vacation? I thought the place was closed until next week."

  "Oh, it is." He gestured to Claudia. "We're doing a little writing and research for the owners. We've just come from the newspaper office; Doug asked me to say hi."

  "That's kind of him and you. Wait one second; I'll get you some coffee." She returned
with a coffee jug and cups the size of small pails, which she filled with a rich, aromatic brew. "For your meal I'd recommend tomato soup with today's special—roast beef Manhattan with mashed potatoes and a tossed salad as option. Or there's tomato soup and a beef, pork or ham sandwich. For dessert, we got apple pie or chocolate cream pie."

  Martin blinked, overwhelmed as always by the generous choice and portions available in the US. Claudia hid a smile behind her hand. "Darling?" he asked her, trying to keep the note of mild desperation out of his voice.

  "Oh, Martin!" she laughed. "I'll have the special and chocolate pie," she said to Jodi.

  "Make that two, please," he said quickly.

  Jodi shouted the order through a hatch to the kitchen at the rear and the sound of a chef at work filtered through.

  Claudia reached across and squeezed his hand. "Martin, you've got to get used to the way we do things over here."

  "I will, given time." He closed his other hand over hers, squeezing it slightly. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

  "Thanks; I do feel much better." She took off her cap, laid it on the table and shook out her hair. "That encounter down there on the drive spooked me as much as our time in the Cloverdales’ bodies," she said softly so the few folks nearby wouldn't overhear.

  He thought back to that strange time they'd had in the old Chestnut Mansion Hotel in New York City only the previous week and nodded. "That was one of those cases which will go straight into the text books."

  "I'll say!" She cocked her head. "Who do you think it was I encountered back on the drive?"

  "I've got a hunch it may have been one of the Gottlieb men."

  "He felt old," she said with a shiver.

  "It could have been Old Man Gottlieb, burning some family mementoes before he left."

  "No, darling; I got a real sense of loss. The old guy sold the place while it was on a high, so he'd have no cause to feel down about anything."

  "Yes, you're right. Perhaps it was his father; the one whose son had apparently disappeared abroad."