by Teresa Trent
A quiet rain tapped gently on the windows of my house, making even my air-conditioned room feel cozy. Maybe this was the beginning of a cool-down. I looked out the window at the increasing cloud line along the horizon. Was that an average October rain, or could we truly be getting an exceptionally late hurricane? Maybe tomorrow morning I would walk outside to take Zach to school and feel a refreshing breeze. I couldn’t remember the last time I put on a sweater, except while shopping in the frozen foods section of the grocery store. I dreamed of feeling a chilly breeze caressing my skin – then it hit me. I had been cool in the last day … in the dead tunnel. The cold had hit me from the inside out. I knew Maggie wanted to go back and find a ghost, but she would have to drag me in by the ear to get me to go with her. Let the real ghost hunters tackle that one. I opened the door and stepped out into the light sprinkle. I felt the hothouse effect almost immediately. Humidity in the rain – isn’t that redundant? Not in Texas.
Maggie pulled up in her old Cadillac and jumped out with her umbrella. “What are you doing standing in the rain, child?” she asked as she skittered down the walk to the door.
“Wishing it was November … and cool.”
“Wishing won’t bring it any faster.” She stepped up to the porch and pulled down her umbrella. “Let’s go in – I’ve got news.” I obediently followed Maggie into the house, the glassed screen door slamming behind me.
“What’s up?” I asked as Maggie took off her pink plastic hair bonnet with tiny poodles sprinkled artfully about it. She poured herself a cup of coffee from my coffee pot.
“What’s up is that woman we knocked heads with at the old hospital. She’s organizing a picket-line march against the television station right now. She stuck her head in all the stores downtown and told people a terrible thing was about to take place if they didn’t come and stop it.” Maggie pushed up her thick glasses.
“Great. I’m sure she’s slamming your paranormal group every chance she gets,” I said.
“Yes, well, I was down making a deposit at the bank, talking to Delores the teller, when Miss Boyle came in saying she had an announcement. I thought she was robbing the place. She started talking trash about our paranormal team and then told everybody it was going to be on NUTV for the world to see. She made it sound like a virus infecting the town. People were folding up their checkbooks and following Miss Boyle right out the door. Luckily, I don’t think she saw me, or she would have torn into me right there on the spot.”
“What is it with this woman?” I said as I watched my aunt knock back the coffee and plunk the mug on the counter. I clicked off my computer.
“Let me get my umbrella.” I walked over to the hall closet and pulled out my polka-dot umbrella. It fit there nicely now that the golf clubs were gone. “Do you think there’s a chance she could really get the station shut down?”
“If she keeps riling up the public like this, who knows? I just know somebody needs to balance out this information.”
“Let’s call the station on the way. They can do a special report and then put our side of the story on the air as well.”
“With a crowd gathering outside, I’ll bet they have a clue something’s wrong, don’tcha think? Besides, Howard is already down there. He called me while I was driving over here.” Maggie started pulling her plastic hair bonnet back on and tying the skinny plastic ties under her chin.
“It’s tough enough for NUTV that most people around here are watching the Houston or Dallas stations where they can get all the network programming,” I said, not bothering to put a raincoat on. I had a choice between getting a little damp or very hot, and figured I could put up with a little water. We slogged to her car and jumped in. Maggie drove while I called directory assistance and got the number for the station. The rain was pounding down on the windows, making Maggie’s old windshield wipers wheeze with the torrent.
“I don’t think she’ll get too much of a crowd in this!” I shouted over the downpour.
“Yeah … well … we can only hope,” Maggie said.
*****
As we drove up to the NUTV station, rain pelted down on the historic two-story building at the end of Main Street. It had once been a hardware store with an apartment on the second floor. Every time I looked at it, I always figured the fancy gingerbread window cupolas were a gesture by the hardware store owner to his wife that an apartment over a store was quite a classy thing. The lower half of the building consisted of a wood front that needed a new coat of paint and two smaller windows. The front door was weathered wood with an NUTV sign nailed to it. Just in case the townspeople of Pecan Bayou missed the first sign, there was another sign to the side of the building made from a slice of the hanging tree that was cut down in the ’60s. In old Texas, the hanging tree was always close to the courthouse. One-stop justice.
On the small sidewalk in front of the station, Miss Boyle was dressed in a yellow slicker and holding a sign that said “Get the NUTS off of NUTV!” Behind her, peering out through the wooden blinds of the station, I could see Howard and the station manager, Stanley Gibson, watching Miss Boyle’s antics. I wasn’t sure if Howard wasn’t coming out because it was raining or because, of all the apparitions and spirits he’d seen in his ghost hunting experiences, Miss Boyle was the thing that truly scared him. There was a small gathering of citizens sheltered under their umbrellas blocking our entrance to the station door. As the rain increased the crowd decreased, and of course, none of the ladies from the Best Little Hair House were out there getting humidity in their new hairdos. They were probably the wrong crowd to ask to go out in the rain.
We parked across the street, and as I got out of the car popping up my umbrella, I could hear Maureen Boyle shouting over the driving pellets of moisture.
“Do you want the devil setting up shop in our town?”
The crowd responded with a weak “No.”
It was almost as if they were being affronted by evil itself at the door and were still pulling on their house slippers. “Oh, the devil’s here … um … just one minute, let me get that porch light on for ya.”
Maureen Boyle went on with her diatribe as we came to the edge of the crowd. “Mr. Oliver Canfield, a beloved citizen of this town, has now died out there. He was out there trying to make our town a better place, and this is what he got for it. He couldn’t have known the type of people who frequent an abandoned structure like that. He has died, as countless others have out in that forlorn place. God rest the souls of these people. Someone has to preserve their dignity. Is our local television station NUTV helping to do just that? The answer is no. They are putting on a so-called paranormal circus out there tromping over the graves of our loved ones. These people have no heart, no compassion and no regard for our little town. They are bogeymen themselves – the living kind.”
Maggie started pushing through the crowd. “That’s it!” she piped in her small voice. “That’s it.” She elbowed her way to the sidewalk. As the crowd moved out of the way for her, I had no choice but to follow my aunt. Aunt Maggie turned to the crowd. She was so short they could barely see her, so grabbing my hand, she hoisted herself up on a concrete planter in front of the building.
“I represent the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society, and I am here to say that we do not nor have we ever participated in devil worship.”
“Do not believe her,” Maureen Boyle interrupted. “She speaks with the forked tongue of the devil’s handmaiden. What would Oliver Canfield say if he could speak up right now? What would he tell us about her?”
Maggie ignored her. “We’re a group of investigators who get together to examine claims of paranormal activity. We want to discover and record credible evidence of potential paranormal activity through audio and video devices. Everything we collect we want to connect to provable science.”
“Bunk!” Miss Boyle replied. “You are opening Satan’s doors to let out his host of evildoers.”
I looked at the fear in Miss Boyle’s eyes. She was a woman with
a whole lot of demons right there inside her head. What terrified her so much about Maggie trying to find ghosts?
“Yes, well,” Miss Boyle droned on, the yellow plastic of her slicker rattling with each gesture. “At the next meeting of the town council, I will tell you how we will take action against these invaders of the common good.”
Maggie put her hands on her hips in defiance. “And the town council just can’t wait to listen to all this tripe you’re sputterin’.”
Miss Boyle turned slowly toward Maggie with pure hatred in her gaze. Her voice, which had been going into a higher register as she addressed the crowd, had now become low and directed at my aunt.
“Once the council hears what I have to say, you can bet your little ghost hunting adventure is over.” She turned back to the crowd, raising her voice again. “I am passing around this petition for all of you to sign to stop the Halloween broadcast. Please do what you feel is right and sign it. I will present the petition to the town council tonight.”
“What can they do?” Aunt Maggie asked me. “They don’t make the laws around here.”
“Even though we have permission from the police, there might be a possibility the town council could put a stop to the investigation. That old hospital is owned by the town,” I said
Miss Boyle walked up to the few people left out in the rain and shoved the soggy paper toward them. Some of the people shook their heads and started off down the street, seeming to use their umbrellas as shields against her angry tirade. Crazy Elmer Simms smiled at her with his one craggy tooth and gleefully signed his name.
Maggie and I escaped from the thinning crowd and the protestations of Miss Boyle and stepped into the offices of NUTV.
Our little cable access channel was owned by Martin and Sally Gibson. It was partially financed by the town council and ran local events like Friday night high school football games, which doubled as religious services for some of the Pecan Bayou residents. NUTV also televised Miss Melody’s School of Dance recitals, a live broadcast from the chili cook-off and set up a camera in the second story of Neuman’s store to film the various parades throughout the year. The person who managed our little station was Stanley Gibson, the only son of the owners. He was in his thirties and had an affection for argyle sweater vests and bow ties. He had never married, which didn’t seem to be much of a surprise to the town, what with his love for his showtune music collection.
Stanley turned from where he had been standing in the front office peeking at the crowd through the wooden blinds.
“Welcome, Maggie. I’m glad you made your way through the crowd.”
Howard looked out of the other window, still watching the demonstration. Today he was wearing a western vest, bolo tie, denim shorts and cowboy boots. Who dressed this guy?
Stan continued. “It seems we are the talk of the town right now. I was on the phone this morning with my parents, and it seems Ms. Boyle has stated that she will make sure we lose the town council’s support for all of our programming if we don’t stay away from the hospital.”
Miss Boyle had attacked on yet another front. Her onslaught of attacks made me wonder if maybe there was gold under that there dead tunnel.
Stanley walked around to his desk and pulled out a ledger. He ran his hand along a column. “Look, I can see that the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society has already paid the fee to use the film crew that night, but there is a possibility we may have to refund your money. We are happy to produce your show but not at the price of losing the station.”
“It seems to me that if the police could figure out who killed Oliver Canfield, a lot of this would die down,” I said, watching the last of the crowd get in their cars.
Maggie crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.
“That would be nice dear,” she said. “You know, Stan, we really are doing a paranormal investigation. It is not any form of devil worship or voodoo or whatever she’s callin’ it. Why can’t she make that distinction?”
“She’s a nonbeliever of the worst sort.” Howard turned from the window. “Not only doesn’t she believe, but the mere possibility of another world existing terrifies her.”
“And because to her everything is black or white,” Stan added. “You’re either in league with the devil or the angels.”
Stan pushed his chair into the desk and put his hands upright on the blotter as if praying. “Whatever she’s afraid of, it poses a risk to our little station. Very few towns agree to put out the funds to sponsor their own television station. I would hate to lose their support.”
“If we can figure out why Canfield was killed, then maybe Miss Boyle will lighten up,” I said. Finding out more about Canfield wouldn’t hurt my situation either.
Maggie put her hand on her shoulder. “Betsy, even if you solve a hundred murders, it will not change the fact that we are doing something Miss Boyle doesn’t approve of.”
“I just want to know why she was wandering around in the weeds at the hospital the other day. Was she just driving around and happened to see us over there? What’s her story?” I continued.
Stan straightened his bow tie. “Maybe she heard you were doing your investigation and it so incensed her, she showed up to stop you.”
“Howard,” I said, “how many people knew we were doing a preliminary walk-through on Wednesday?”
“As far as I know, it was just the three of us,” he answered.
“Maybe we need to ask her at the town council meeting just exactly what she was doing there. When my dad asked her, she just stomped off.”
Stan’s brow wrinkled, and he shook his head. “Well, whatever you do, don’t get her so angry she shuts down the station.”
“First of all, she has to find someone who actually is bothered by the investigation,” said Maggie. “From what I can tell, she hasn’t come up with anybody yet. I don’t even know anyone from the town who had a friend or relative die out there, come to think of it.”
It was kind of funny, but neither did I. Maybe Miss Boyle lost somebody out there? She was older than I was but by no means old. Miss Boyle was almost as much of a mystery as the murder of Oliver Canfield.
CHAPTER NINE
Later that evening, as Maggie, Zach, Danny and I entered the maple-paneled town council room, I could see the three council members sitting up at the dais. Two of the men I recognized as the Schuller brothers, Tom and Don. Tom ran Schuller Auto, while Don was in charge of the local Chamber of Commerce. They were both in their late forties and looked just alike except for the fact that even though both were bald, Tom had a full head of hair. Not exactly the hair God gave him, but he looked pretty dapper. The two of them often voted together on the council, which gave them a monopoly on the how the town was run. It was a terrific deal for them, but when they disagreed, which wasn’t often, the whole city would know about it. We had thought there would be bloodshed on the trash pick-up issue.
The third man on the council was our own Dr. MacPhee. He looked smaller up there next to the two burly Schuller men. He wore a maroon vest and tie and smiled out at his wife Lillian, who was sitting in the front row. She had silver hair coiffed neatly so as to compliment her muted navy ruffled blouse and matching slacks. She certainly didn’t pick up that outfit at the SuperWally sale rack. Lillian MacPhee was a member of the Piper’s Hills Country Club set and a true style leader in this town. I glanced down at my faded leather sandals worn under my denim capris and tried to straighten out the hem of my soft blue plaid shirt. Quite a contrast.
Leo Fitzpatrick entered with his son Tyler. Tyler immediately went over to a chair, slumped into it and pulled out a handheld video game. Zach was working on adding sums in his chair. I glanced over to him with pride, thinking what a good parent I was and then noticed some lovely stick people all over his homework paper. Fitzpatrick sat next to his electronically distracted son and folded his arms across his chest. He had to be the best-looking man to hit this town in a while, but he didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who knew it. His e
yes rose from his son’s game and immediately zeroed in on me. I quickly averted my gaze to another direction. Busted.
“The meeting will come to order,” said Tom Schuller, tapping a gavel on the dais.
“We have been called to this emergency town council meeting in order to address an issue that has come to our attention this week. Miss Maureen Boyle has the floor.”
Miss Boyle quickly rose, her notes clutched to her small bosom, and walked to the podium in front of the dais. She adjusted the microphone up a bit to accommodate her height, cleared her voice, and began. “Thank you, Councilman Schuller.” She forced a smile and aimed it at each member of the council. “I come to you this evening because of a spiritual abomination about to occur at the Johnson Tuberculosis Hospital. The structure itself has been closed off to the public for years, but now the local police have decided to give a group of so-called paranormal worshipers free reign over its rooms full of sad, sad history. I should also add that the police have admitted they have relatives in this group and will fully support them no matter what they do.”
I could feel Maggie starting to wiggle next to me. She was ready to jump up and defend herself. She would be given a chance to speak after Miss Boyle finished assassinating the character of the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society.
“It is because of this that I ask the council to consider banning this fringe group and all others from the site and that the council discourage any kind of filming by our local station. The broadcast of this program could warp our young people for God knows how long. It is a disgrace that our station would even consider this type of program to be broadcast right here in our homes. Quite possibly, this brings into question the town’s financial support of NUTV and the programming they are accepting for payment.”
