02-A Spirited Tail

by Leighann Dobbs

  "It does sound like there could be a lot of reasons Gladys could be the killer, but I can't picture anyone going to all that trouble." Jimmy sipped his tea. "Although it is almost perfect. Kill Lily, frame Charles, then kill Charles and have him confess to killing Lily in a suicide note. And then collect your inheritance. Case closed. The police wouldn’t even investigate Charles' death and would likely stop the investigation on Lily's."

  "Exactly," I said, letting Jimmy continue with his own conclusions.

  "And no one would even question why Charles left Gladys money." Jimmy sighed. "Maybe Gladys really is that devious, but we can't just go on a hunch."

  "Right! We need proof."

  "How do we get that?"

  "I need to look at all the files from Charles' and Lily's cases and get into Bruce's house to see what he had." I gave Jimmy my most earnest look. "Will you help me do that?"

  Under the table, Ranger, who had been flicking his eyes back and forth between us as we ate the pizza, whined at the mention of getting access to Bruce's.

  Jimmy pursed his lips, and reached down to pet Ranger on the head. "Okay, but we have to be careful. We were wrong before and I don't want Augusta to get madder at me."

  As if to emphasize Jimmy's words and taunt us for our error in having Steve brought in, Pandora leaped on the table with a blue pen in her mouth, then proceeded to drop it right in the middle of the last slice of pizza.

  Chapter Eighteen

  During my crime journalist days, I had developed a gut instinct about crimes, and it was usually right on target. Right now, my gut instinct was telling me that Bruce Norton's murder was directly related to the murders of Charles and Lily fifty years ago.

  The only people—and ghosts—who were still around from back then, didn't seem to want to give me straight answers, but I knew one person who might have them. Les Price.

  Even though Les hadn't been around, his father had, and since he was continuing his father's book, I figured he'd have plenty of information about the goings on back then.

  So, the next day, I headed over to the Moonlight Motel before work to bring some fresh baked muffins to Mr. Price. In my experience, baked goods usually worked pretty good to get people talking and I was hoping Les Price was no exception.

  The Moonlight Motel sat just off Route 302, in the White Mountain National Forest. The motel, a small, one-story building with about twenty rooms and an office, was nestled in a forest of dense pine trees. I breathed in the fresh, pine-scented air as my tires crunched over the white stone driveway.

  Having grown up in town, I knew Mabel and Burt, the owners, so I used two of the blueberry muffins to bribe them into pointing me toward Les' room. I knocked on the door, holding the bag of muffins up in front of me as if it was a ticket for entry.

  The door opened slowly and Les peered out, blinking and squinting as if he hadn't seen sunlight in days. I glanced inside the room. Les's laptop sat open on the round table, papers were strewn about on the bed, and piles of clothes on the floor.

  "Oh. Hi. What are you doing here?" he asked.

  I held up the muffin bag. "I just thought I'd stop by and bring you some of the best muffins in New Hampshire."

  Les looked from the bag to me skeptically, then over his shoulder into the room. "Well, I'm kind of busy writing …"

  "That’s what I want to talk to you about. The Van Dorn stuff," I said quickly.

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, I have a theory and I'm wondering if your dad's notes might help."

  He hesitated, looking from the messy room to me.

  "It could be beneficial to both of us. Plus, these muffins are still warm." I dangled the muffin bag in front of his face.

  "Okay." Les stepped aside and I squeezed in, wrinkling my nose at the smell of burnt coffee and ketchup.

  Les gestured to the messy room. "Sorry, I've been on a writing tear … well, you know how it is."

  I nodded. I did know how it was, or used know, back when I made my living by writing. Les pushed a pile of clothes off the chair and we sat at the small round table under the window, the bag of muffins between us.

  "Coffee?" He pointed to the coffee maker sitting on the table. I wasn't sure how long the coffee had been in there, but it looked like mud.

  "No, thanks." I angled the bag at him, giving him first choice. He reached his hand in and came out with a muffin, then I took one for myself and placed it on the table in front of me.

  "So, it looks like you've been hard at work." I nodded at the pile of papers on the bed. "Have you been out to the Van Dorn’s?"

  "No. After what you told me about the body, there was no way I was going up there to be the next victim of the curse. Anyway, I heard that Van Dorn guy got arrested for killing that old man, so I guess the house must be locked up again." Les slid the glass carafe out of the coffeemaker and poured himself a mug of thick sludge.

  "He did … but then he was released. I guess it wasn't him." I peeled part of the paper cup off the bottom of my muffin carefully.

  "What?" He looked up at me, the movement causing him to dribble thick dots of coffee on the table.

  "Yeah, I guess he had an alibi. He was on an airplane. The weird thing is, he confessed to being the one that wrote on Bruce's forehead, but I guess he wasn't the one who killed him."

  Les stopped dabbing at the spilled coffee and squinted up at me. "Why would he do that?"

  "To make more money. He figured the items in the house would be more valuable if there was a renewed interest in the curse."

  "Oh." He sat back in his chair with a sour look on his face, flicking his pencil on the notepad in front of him. "Are there any leads to the killer? What about the murder weapon?"

  I shrugged, brushing crumbs off my finger neatly into the paper muffin cup. "The cops don't share with me. I did find out the murder weapon was some kind of club or blunt object, but they haven't found it yet. But, I have an idea about the murder and I think it’s related to what happened fifty years ago."

  Les stopped tapping and stared at me. "Really?"

  I nodded and told him how Charles left Gladys money, how she was strong enough to clobber Bruce, and how she seemed quite agitated when I visited her and told her the house was being sold.

  "I think she might have been after something in the house. It's possible she went there the morning of Bruce's murder to get it. Bruce just happened to be there and she had to kill him. I was wondering if there was anything in your father's notes that might support my theory," I said hopefully.

  Les pressed his lips together. "The housekeeper … yes. He did talk about her. She was always around. So, you think she had something to do with the murders back then?"

  "Yep. Maybe she was jealous of Lily or something …" I let my voice trail off and shrugged. I didn't want to tell him about the love letters.

  "Huh, that could be. I remember my father saying something about her acting suspicious. It's in his notes somewhere, I think." Les jumped up and sprinted to the bed, then started rummaging around in the stacks of papers.

  "Did your father write anything about Lily's death … or Charles' suicide?"

  "Well, he always thought Charles killed Lily. I mean, because of the mark on her head and such. Plus, he did say they had something going on." He stopped rummaging, pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked at me. "Yes, that’s right. There was something. Maybe there was something between Charles and Gladys at the same time, and then Lily got angry and they had it out? It could have happened that way."

  "Maybe. If you have notes from your father, that might help us prove it." I wondered if what Les was saying could be true. According to the letters, the affair had to be hidden from Lily, but what if that was because Charles was also having one with Lily. If Les’ father thought something was going on between them, maybe Charles had lied to me. But why?

  He looked down at the mess of papers. "I can't find the exact note, but I believe he said something about seeing Gladys come out of that stream gaging s
tation—you know, that little building in the woods just up the street from the Van Dorn's? She denied it when he confronted her. He always thought she hid some evidence there."

  A feeling of excitement sprouted in my stomach. This could be the lead I was looking for. "You mean evidence on Lily's death?"

  "I think so."

  "If she is the same killer, she might have left the murder weapon that killed Bruce there, too."

  "Exactly what I was thinking." He started pacing the room, which I found to be a little unnerving. I twisted in my chair, to face him.

  "What about Charles’ death? Did your father have notes about that?"

  "What?" He looked at me distractedly. "Oh, no. My father had already left on the train earlier that day, so he didn't know a thing about Charles’ death. He never went back after that."

  He started pulling some clothes out of a drawer and I wondered what the heck he was doing. "Do your father's notes mention anything about a hand-written journal?"

  He looked up from his task, his brows knit together. "Journals? No, why?"

  "Oh, a few people have mentioned them and I was wondering what they were. I haven't found them in the library."

  "Well, I don't know anything about that." He looked pointedly at the digital clock on the bedside table. "I just remembered I have an appointment, so if you'll excuse me …"

  "Oh, right." I shoved the rest of the muffin in my mouth and brushed the crumbs into the bag. "Well, thanks for the info. Let me know if you remember anything else."

  "Right. You do the same. This could be a great addition to the book."

  I left the muffin bag on the table and took my exit, feeling a little more hopeful and making a mental note to check the gaging station … if Gladys had hidden something there once and it was never found, she might think it was the perfect place to hide a murder weapon.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I went home to collect Pandora and Ranger after my visit with Les. I wasn't back at the bookstore for more than an hour when the door opened and Jimmy Ford hurried in, clutching a plastic bag as if he was hiding a stolen treasure.

  He looked around furtively. "Do you have a back room?"

  "Sure. Why?"

  He leaned across the counter toward me. I noticed he seemed taller somehow, his shoulders broader and his face less blotchy. Or maybe it was just the uniform.

  He cut his eyes toward the bag and whispered, "I have the files from the old Van Dorn cases."

  "Great! Let’s look at them right here." I gestured to the sofa.

  He frowned. "I'm not sure I want Striker or Augusta to know I'm looking into this. These are old cold case files. They were pretty easy for me to check out of storage, but after the whole thing with Steve …"

  "Right." I rushed to the door. "I’ll close the store while we look at them."

  I flipped the sign and locked the door while Jimmy settled on the couch. He opened the folders and spread the contents on the coffee table.

  Charles' ghost hovered near Jimmy's elbow, looking down at the pictures and scowling.

  Jimmy rubbed his elbow. "Is it just me or is it chilly in here?"

  I exchanged a look with Charles. "The air conditioning vent is blowing on you there."

  Jimmy scooted over a few inches and I repressed a smile, which quickly faded as I looked at the pictures.

  Pandora and Ranger came to join us, and Jimmy petted Ranger’s back, then Stroked Pandora behind the ears. Pandora must have liked that because she jumped into his lap and started purring loudly. Jimmy's face lit up and he rubbed her neck and belly.

  The pictures were old eight-by-ten's, shiny and aged with curled edges. Most were black and white but a few were color. They had that yellow tinge typical of colored photos from the 1960s.

  One of the pictures showed Lily lying on her back, her eyes staring blankly, the strange triangle mark on her forehead. She was in a bedroom, which I assumed was one of the guest rooms at the Van Dorn mansion. It was lavishly decorated in a 1940s style. I realized I'd never been upstairs at the Van Dorn’s and wondered if I should check out the room.

  Jimmy pointed to a stack of yellowed papers filled with old-fashioned typewriting. "According to the file, Lily was hit on the back of the head with a blunt instrument."

  My eyes widened. "Just like Bruce."

  He nodded.

  Remembering what Charles had said about the talcum powder, I grabbed a magnifying glass from behind the counter and trained it on Lily's hair. Sure enough, I could just barely make out tiny, white flecks in her hair.

  "Does it say anything about the powder in her hair in the report?"

  "Huh?" Jimmy grabbed the magnifying. "Wow, how did you notice that?"

  "Good eyes." I shrugged, sliding my eyes to Charles.

  Jimmy flipped through the papers. "Here it is. It says that was calcium carbonate on the lab results."

  "Is that what talcum powder was made of?"

  "I don't know."

  I reached for the stack of papers and thumbed through them, quickly reading the notes on Lily's investigation. "Looks like they didn't do much investigating."

  Jimmy nodded. "All the clues pointed to Charles."

  "Or were set up to point to him." I put the report down and started on the other stack, the one about Charles' death.

  The first picture was of Charles slumped over his desk, which I recognized as the very room from which Steve was running his eBay business. I wondered if he knew his uncle had died in that room … or if he cared.

  Charles' ghost glanced down at the photo, then gasped and swirled agitatedly. I noticed Robert Frost and Franklin Pierce poking their heads out from one of the rows of bookshelves. Frost waved to Charles who squinted, then widened his eyes in recognition and waved back before gliding over to them. The two men shook hands like long lost friends, which I guess they were, considering that Charles used to channel Frost. As I turned my attention back to the gruesome picture, I heard Frost introducing Van Dorn to Pierce.

  Charles had been shot. A second picture revealed the gun on the floor under his dangling hand. Switching back to the first picture, I could see his head had fallen on the desk blotter and a dark puddle spread out under it, the strangely tinted, colored photo, showing reddish-orange edges in the puddle.

  The suicide note, written neatly in fountain pen, was conveniently at the corner of the desk, just a corner of it resting under the top of his head. The orange fountain pen lay uncapped on top of the letter, as if he'd written it then shot himself, not even bothering to care if the ink dried up on the nib. I thought it was pretty convenient that no blood got on the note so the whole thing could be easily read.

  The transcript of the note was in the files. It was short and sweet—a simple confession of how he killed Lily and then couldn’t live with himself.

  "Look at the placement of the suicide note. Isn’t it convenient that no blood got on it? That note would have been directly in front of him on the desk when he was writing it. Do you think he would have had the presence of mind to move it to the side in his despondent state?"

  Jimmy frowned at the picture. "It doesn’t seem like he would, but then maybe he realized there would be a … err … mess, and he wanted to be sure they read the confession."

  Pandora meowed and jumped down from Jimmy's lap.

  With a chill, I noticed the desk in the picture was the same one Steve had been using. Had there been a stain on the top? In the picture, Charles had a blotter which I assume had since been removed, but I made a mental note to check the room anyway—not that I wanted to see the bloodstains, but there could be other clues.

  Pandora trotted back over, dropping a pen on the floor in front of Jimmy.

  "She's not going to let us forget the pen incident with Steve," Jimmy said, rolling his eyes.

  I picked up the thin file on Charles. "There're hardly any notes on Charles death, either."

  "Once it was ruled a suicide and the note was his confession for Lily's murder, they sto
pped investigating both cases," Jimmy said.

  "The police stopped investigating. But maybe not everyone else did." I tapped the pile of typewritten papers. "We need to go check out Bruce's place. He may have a clue the police never found."

  ***

  We closed up the bookstore and headed to Bruce's, despite the protesting squeal of Pandora. Ranger wanted to come, too, but wasn't nearly as annoying as Pandora about it.

  I hated to leave the shop closed during the day. I did, after all, have a business to run. But something told me we should get to Bruce's right away and I was getting tired of seeing Charles’ ghost glaring at me at every turn. I was just glad I had inherited my house and didn't have a mortgage. As it was, I'd probably have to eat ramen noodles all next week.

  Bruce lived in a secluded area. We drove down a meandering dirt road about a half-mile past the Van Dorn place, and came out in a peaceful clearing where Bruce's cottage peeked out from behind a stand of tall pine trees.

  The exterior was freshly painted—red with white trim. A rocking chair sat idle on the porch, and window boxes with dried-up flowers that must have added a spark of color at one time hung below the windows. I looked at the dead flowers with a heavy heart. Bruce obviously took pride in his place, but he wasn't around to water the flowers anymore and they'd suffered without his attention.

  Jimmy took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. "Remind me to lock up when we leave."

  Inside, the cabin was as neat as the outside. An old sofa sat against the wall in the living room, a crocheted afghan in greens and oranges draped over it's back like a shawl. Next to the living room was a small kitchen with knotty pine cabinets and old appliances. The dining room had papers and photos spread all over the table.

  "These are the photos." Jimmy pointed to the dining room table.