After a few seconds, Gino let loose with a deep laugh. “As a father, I find that rather comforting. It’s kind of like having a GPS tracker on your kid. That I could get used to, even though T is an adult.” When he stopped laughing, he turned to Phil and stared at him. “So you can see and talk to ghosts, too? Am I in the minority here?”
Phil shook his head. “Not a lick. But the more I hang around Emma, the more I can sense them. Kind of like Marta can, although I’m not afraid of them.”
Gino scratched his head in bewilderment. “So this Granny ghost wants to meet Fran Monroe? Or are you interested more in Frank’s poor little granddaughter?”
“Again, neither,” answered Emma. She went over to the coffee table and sat on the sofa in front of the large photo album. She opened it, then looked up at Gino. “I want to show you something.”
Gino took a seat next to Emma on the sofa. Phil took a seat across from them. Emma opened the album to the photo of the big farmhouse with the Brown family posed in front on the steps. “This is the Brown family. The people who owned this house originally,” Emma noted.
“Yes,” agreed Gino. “It says so right there in the caption. This was taken around 1880.”
Emma pointed to a boy and girl sitting side by side on the steps. “This is Chester and Clarissa Brown. They’re twins and were eight years old when this photo was taken.”
Gino, who had been looking at the photo, cut his eyes sharply in Emma’s direction. “How in the hell do you know that?”
Granny hovered next to Phil. “Boy, this is gonna be fun.”
“Because this person,” Emma said, pointing to a young Abigail, “who is the mother of the twins, told me, just this morning. Her name is Abigail. Chester and Clarissa disappeared shortly after this photo was taken and were never seen again.”
Emma brought her eyes up to Gino’s. “The Brown family wants me to try and find out what happened to them. And reunite them all, if possible.”
Gino leaned back heavily against the sofa and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Oh boy,” squeaked out from behind his thick fingers.
“You okay, Gino?” asked Phil. “I know this is a lot to absorb, but it’s the truth. The Brown family was on the porch waiting for Emma yesterday when we arrived. She’s been in contact with them off and on since.”
Gino lowered his hands and stared at Phil, then moved his disbelieving eyes to Emma, where they locked. “You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and you’re telling me the ghosts of the people who built this house have hired you as some sort of PI?”
“Hired us,” stressed Granny, even though only Emma could hear her.
“I know it sounds screwy, Gino,” Phil told him, “but, believe me, you get used to it.”
“Ha!” Gino snorted. “I’m not so sure about that.” He stabbed an index finger at the photo, making a dull thumping sound. “These kids have been missing over a hundred years. How do you propose to find them now?”
Emma took a deep breath, held it a few seconds, and released it. “Well, that’s why I want to meet Fran Monroe. She’s a local medium and might know something. Maybe she’s encountered the spirits of these children somewhere.”
Gino stood up and started for the hallway. When Phil and Emma didn’t follow, he turned back to them. “What are you waiting for? We’ve got a ghost hunter to meet.” He glanced around the room, his eyes roving but not settling anywhere in particular. “You, too, Granny ghost.”
Emma pointed at a spot across from her. “It’s just Granny, Gino, and she’s right there next to Phil.”
Gino looked at the spot Emma indicated. “Then come on, Granny, or do ghosts need a special invitation or incantation of some kind?”
Granny jerked a thumb in Gino’s direction. “I like this guy, Emma. He’s got moxie. Just like his daughter.”
As they were slipping into their jackets by the front door, Gino lightly smacked his head with a hand. “I just realized that with Marta taking the new car, I’m without wheels again until either she or Leroy returns. I guess you’re driving.”
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
ONCE again Phil drove and Emma was in the back. Granny hadn’t come with them, saying she’d catch up later. They weren’t able to get Fran Monroe’s exact address off the web, but they did have the address for the Whitefield Library on Ash Street. Phil plugged it into the GPS and they took off for town along a tree-lined country road dotted with houses and fields. The rain was coming down in fits and starts as they traveled the quiet roads.
“Mazie told me it’s a yellow house with a red door, across from the library,” Emma said as they again entered the small, quaint town of Whitefield.
Traffic was heavier and people were on the sidewalks, hoods and umbrellas up against the rain, bustling about their business. Shops and restaurants were open. They passed a school with a sign identifying it as Whitefield Elementary School. The parking lot in front of the main building was full, but the playground was empty, the kids inside keeping warm and dry. Sadness filled Emma, knowing that it was probably Mazie’s school. They moved along with traffic for a few blocks, following the GPS until it directed them to turn left onto Ash Street.
“Can’t this Granny go ahead of us and see if this woman is home first?” Gino asked.
“It doesn’t work like that,” Emma told him. “Spirits have to have an emotional connection with a place, thing, or person before they have a strong enough bond to make contact on will. Granny can pop in on any of us or our homes, because she has that connection. The Brown family goes between the two farmhouses because those locations are important to them. Their emotional connection is to Misty Hollow more than to the people who stay there.”
“Will Granny be able to get a bead on me now?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Emma answered. “She might already have a connection to you considering she’s visited Tanisha at your home, although she’s never mentioned anything.”
Gino laughed. “Is that a good thing?”
Phil joined him in the chuckle. “It’s a mixed blessing, believe me.”
“True,” Emma agreed with a smile. “But Granny will be the first to tell you she’s no snitch. Her words, not mine. I often try to pump her about the girls and their activities and she stonewalls me, saying what happens in Boston, stays in Boston.”
“A hundred-plus-year-old ghost says that?” Gino looked skeptical.
“She says a lot of odd things,” Phil answered. “She loves TV and picks up a lot of phrases and slang from it, both modern and stuff from vintage movies, especially crime movies.”
Emma shook her head with amusement. “It’s true. Maddening sometimes, but true. But I know Granny would come straight to me if Tanisha or Kelly were ever in trouble.”
“That’s comforting.” Gino glanced in the backseat but only saw Emma. “Hey, Granny, you can keep an eye on my daughter any day.”
“She’s not here right now,” Emma told him. “She’ll catch up to us later.”
“So you’re on board with all of this?” Phil asked him. “You know, about the ghosts and all?”
Gino shrugged, his jacket collar bunching up around his ears. On his head was a dark gray tweed cap. Phil had covered his dome against the chill with his baseball cap. “Not sure,” Gino said honestly, “but as a writer I like to keep an open mind. Not to mention, except for this ghost malarkey, I trust you two and so does T. Who knows? There might even be a book in all this. I’ve gotten ideas from odder places.”
“Malarkey?” Granny snapped, popping in. “Where does this bozo get off calling spirits malarkey? He’s the one who makes stuff up and gets paid for it. He’s a professional liar.” Emma snorted.
“Let me guess,” Phil said glancing in the rearview mirror at Emma, “Granny’s here now and objecting to Gino’s use of the word malarkey?”
“You got it,” Emma confir
med.
Gino glanced at Emma. “Seriously? I ticked off a ghost just now?” Emma repeated what Granny said and everyone in the vehicle laughed out loud, except for Granny, who still had her nose out of joint.
“That will give you an idea of what we put up with day in and day out,” Phil said to Gino.
“Granny’s a pistol, that’s for sure,” added Emma.
“Humph!” groused Granny. “I don’t need to sit here and listen to this nonsense. I’ll catch up to you there.”
“I’m guessing Granny just left again,” Phil said.
“How do you know?” asked Gino.
Emma turned toward Gino. “As we discussed earlier, you may feel a slight change in the air temperature when a spirit comes or goes. It’s generally cooler when they are around.”
Gino chuckled. “From the moment we stepped foot in the farmhouse, Vanessa was cold. Maybe that’s why.”
Phil pulled over, parking behind a small sedan. “Here’s the library and there’s a yellow house almost directly across the street.”
Emma unbuckled her seat belt, but before either she or Phil could open their doors, Gino stopped them. “Is it possible we could send this Granny ghost to check up on Vanessa?” Before Emma could answer, he quickly tacked on, “Not to spy on her, but to make sure she’s okay. She hasn’t been feeling that well lately and I’m concerned.”
Emma didn’t dare glance at Phil. Gino was very observant, and any eye contact might alert him that they knew something they shouldn’t, or that he didn’t. “I’m not sure Granny has had enough contact with Vanessa to zero in on her whereabouts,” Emma said, hoping to deflect the request. “She’s not with us 24/7 and even we’ve hardly seen Vanessa.”
“Besides,” Phil added. “Granny is stubborn as an old mule. She’d only do it if she wanted to do it.”
“I heard that,” a disembodied voice called out.
The yellow house was small and built in the saltbox style so common in New England. It was painted a cheerful canary yellow with black shutters and white trim. The three of them left the car and crossed the wet street after waiting for a couple of cars to pass by. The rain had stopped, but the thick dark clouds overhead warned that it could be starting up again at any second. They hustled up to the front porch of the house and stood in front of a red lacquered door with a large brass doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
“Since we’ve been talking about ghosts,” remarked Gino, touching the knocker lightly with an index finger, “I half expect this doorknocker to take on a face like in A Christmas Carol.” He gave off a mock shiver.
Phil laughed as he pressed the doorbell to the right side of the door. He turned to Emma with a grin. “That’s what we get for hanging out with writers.”
As soon as Phil pressed the bell a loud scrambling and barking came from the other side of the door, but no footsteps. Phil pressed it again. There was still no response, except for more barking, heavy and rich, like a seasoned baritone. “From that bark,” Phil said, “I’m guessing that the beast on the other side of this door is some kind of hunting hound.”
“Hold your horses. Hold your horses,” came a muffled voice. It didn’t come from inside the house, but from outside to the right, followed by footsteps. Soon someone came into view from around the corner of the house. The figure was short and stumpy and dressed in a dark brown oversized jacket with big front pockets and a large hood pulled down low. Except for the tall rubber boots in bright pink with purple and yellow polka dots, the person could have been taken for a large forest toadstool. All three of them turned and stared at the approaching figure while the barking swelled to a frenzy.
“Howard!” the figure yelled at the door. The barking stopped on a dime, followed by a low whine. “It’s okay, boy, they’re friends.”
When the hood was dropped back, the three of them saw a hearty but elderly woman with short-cropped silver hair, rosy lined cheeks, and small blue eyes that twinkled in her round face. “About time you got here,” she said to them in a clipped voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Are you Fran Monroe?” Emma asked.
A small smile crept across the woman’s face. “That’s who you’re looking for, isn’t it, Emma Whitecastle?”
The three of them stared at the woman a few seconds before Emma asked, “Mazie told you I was coming?”
“Not exactly,” Fran answered, still maintaining the smile. “She told me she met a woman at Frank’s place who could see and talk to her. She said the woman’s name was Emma and described you as very pretty with short blond hair. From there it wasn’t difficult to figure out who you were, especially since I keep up on famous mediums.” The woman laughed. “Of course, there could be other mediums named Emma, but I took a chance that I had you pegged.” The dog inside whined again.
“Come on,” Fran said to them as she flipped her hood back up and stepped off the porch. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm and dry and we can make proper introductions. Besides, Howard’s going to have a fit if we stay out here. We’ll go in through the back so we don’t muddy the front hall.”
Without another word they followed Fran Monroe off the porch and around the side of the house from where she’d come. In the back was an impressive garden bordered by woods and an enclosed porch. She led them up the stairs and through a glass storm door onto the back porch. It was large and furnished with sturdy chairs and a table. Following Fran into the house, they found themselves in a small room with a bench and a coatrack on the wall from which hung a couple of sweaters and jackets. Along the edge were rubber mats with a small assortment of sturdy shoes. Taking a seat on the bench, Fran started pulling off her boots, placing them on one of the rubber mats. “I hope you don’t mind,” she told them, “but could you take off your wet shoes? You can leave them here in the mud room.” On the other side of another door, the dog whined impatiently. She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on a coat peg.
“Of course,” Emma answered. She sat down on the bench and started pulling off her ankle boots and coat. The men followed suit, removing their shoes, coats, and hats. Soon they were all inside a large cozy kitchen in their stocking feet, being eagerly greeted by a large basset hound.
“That’s Howard,” Fran told them, indicating the dog. “He’s a bit miffed that I went outside to refill the bird and squirrel feeders without him, but with him being built so low to the ground, when it’s wet outside he gets his entire undercarriage muddy.”
Phil bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears and head with enthusiasm. “I love basset hounds. I had one as a kid. His name was Poindexter.” The dog’s tail wagged happily as he made a new friend.
“Howard is our fourth hound,” Fran told them. “I love the goofy critters. Howard’s twelve. We had to put his sister Betty down about six months ago. Always difficult, but you have to do what’s best for them.” She pointed through a wide-framed arch. “The parlor’s right through there. How about you folks go in and get comfortable and I’ll put together some hot refreshments. Does hot chocolate sound good?”
“Sounds marvelous,” answered Emma for all of them. “May I help you?”
“I’ll make it,” said a soft voice from the doorway. They turned to see an African-American woman about Fran’s age, with salt-and-pepper hair dressed in shoulder-length braids held back with a large clip. Like Fran, she was dressed in jeans and a thick sweater. She was taller than Fran and not as thickly built. “You go in and sit with your company, Fran.”
Fran smiled at the woman. “I thought you were taking a nap?”
“With all Howard’s commotion?” the woman said with a laugh as she entered the kitchen.
Fran put an arm around the woman’s waist. “Guess we should make proper introductions. This is Heddy Hanover, my wife, and of course you know I’m Fran Monroe.” She turned slightly to Heddy. “Sweetheart, this is Emma Whitecastle, the famous medi
um.”
“Ah,” said Heddy, “the one Mazie told you about.”
“The same.” Fran turned to Gino. “And if my old eyes are correct, this gentleman is none other than Gino Costello, the novelist.”
“Did Mazie tell you about him, too?” asked Emma.
“No,” Fran said with a chuckle, “but word’s gotten around that Gino here has leased Misty Hollow for a bit. Which is very interesting considering Misty Hollow is haunted. It also explains a lot about your presence, Emma.”
Before they got any further, Emma put a hand on Phil’s arm. “And this basset hound aficionado is Phil Bowers, my fiancé.”
“Now you all scoot into the parlor while I make the hot chocolate,” Heddy said to them, shooing them off like a bunch of unruly children.
“You’re in luck,” Fran said, once they were in the parlor seated on overstuffed sofas and chairs. The room was large and cozy, filled with mementos, photos, and books, with lots of spaces for curling up to read or to take a nap. “Heddy makes much better hot chocolate than I do. It’s a special recipe she picked up in Mexico when she was teaching down there.”
Phil’s eyes lit up. “Mexican hot chocolate? Thick, with lots of spices?” Fran nodded. “I live in San Diego most of the time,” Phil continued, “and there’s a little Mexican restaurant by my office that makes the authentic stuff. It’s heaven.”
“So Heddy is a teacher?” asked Emma.
“Retired,” answered Fran. “I retired from the library about the same time. We met about fifteen years ago at a library conference but didn’t move in together until we both retired. We got married last year.” Fran beamed. “Now we do a lot of volunteer work with various children’s groups in the area.”
“That’s lovely,” Emma said with a smile. “Did you know Mazie before she died?”
Fran nodded sadly. “I did. She never missed our Saturday morning story time at the library. That’s one of the programs Heddy and I handle. We do story time for several small libraries in the area.”
The Ghosts of Misty Hollow Page 12
