by Molly Macrae
When we were standing in front of the shelves of recorded books, I held up the note I’d written so Geneva could read it: Problem solved. No pages.
There were two ranges of shelves—several thousand titles, easily. It was paradise for the page-turning impaired. Geneva floated from one shelf to the other, then came to read over my shoulder when she saw me writing another note: You listened to The Ballad of Frankie Silver on my laptop at the cottage. Remember?
“I felt at home in that story.”
Pick one out. I’ll borrow it. You can listen in the study.
“Look through them and pick one out?”
I nodded and scribbled. Summaries of stories on backs.
“Take one off the shelf, read the summary, and choose?”
Yes! Tedious ghost.
She stared at me, stared at the shelves, stared at me, then flew at the shelves with her arms spread wide. I almost screamed. But caught myself when she passed through the wall and came out again, nary a box tipping.
I shook my head and mouthed, “Sorry.”
She sniffed, then watched as I scanned the shelves for authors and titles I recognized. And tried to filter out her helpful suggestions.
“Don’t choose only red ones. The blue ones are prettier. This box is fatter. It must be a better book. Or are the words just longer? How do they make these recordings? You should find out and record me. My book would be very exciting and realistic. And I just had a very marvelous idea. I would leave the k off the word ‘book’ and call my book a ‘boo!’” She shouted that in my ear. “Wouldn’t that be a wonderful joke?”
Despite wanting to bean her with the unabridged dictionary sitting on the table behind us, I chose half a dozen audios ranging from Charles Todd to Charlotte’s Web. I stood the boxes on the table so she could read the front and back of each. While she did that, humming to herself again, I quickly jotted down the sparse information I had on Eric Lyle, Pen Ledford, and Sylvia Furches. Then I wondered about adding Carolyn Proffitt to the list. But why? Why should I be suspicious of her? Because she’d irritated me? Then again, how could it hurt to know more about her before believing her story one hundred percent? If I could wonder about Debbie, whom I liked and basically trusted, why not wonder about Carolyn Proffitt’s motive for accosting me in my own store and telling me to back off?
“I’ll take all six.”
I held up two fingers and added Carolyn Proffitt’s name to the list.
“I’d like all of them.”
I held up three fingers and looked at the clock over the circulation desk. I’d been gone long enough and needed to get back so Ardis could have her turn at lunch. I picked up the list.
“How about half a dozen, then?”
We took all six. It was easier than arguing.
On our way back to the Cat, I pulled out my phone and made a deal with Geneva—before I started one of the audiobooks for her, she would tell me what she’d heard Clod and Debbie talking about. Even if Ardis was successful in getting Debbie to talk, I wanted to hear a third party’s take on their exchange. Even if that third party believed teen beach movies were documentaries. Not to mention that she was a ghost. Honestly, if I were to stand back and listen to my own thoughts, I’d believe I’d spent too much time fumigating textiles out from under the regulation fumigation hood.
“You don’t want to encourage my cooperation by playing a tiny portion of one small book first?” Geneva asked.
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
“Geneva, do you realize what an important role you play in this investigation? And do you know that you’re the only member of the posse who can fill that role?”
“Really? Tell me more.”
“You’re our…” I didn’t like to say “fly on the wall.” She wasn’t fond of flies…“You’re our spy, our infiltrator.”
“Infiltrator. I like that. It sounds very important.”
“Not just important. Vital.”
“I like that even better. I haven’t felt vital for quite a few years.”
“Good. Do you think you can do one more thing for me? Can you tell me why you weren’t talking to me? Why you’ve been so desolate? Talking really might help.”
“Are we friends?”
“We are. And friends help each other.”
“Then no, I won’t tell you because we are friends. If I tell you, then I won’t be helping you, especially when you’re trying to go to sleep and you hear things go bump in the night.”
“Oh.”
“But you want to help me?”
“Yes.”
“Then do not ask me anymore and do not remind me and maybe I can forget.”
“You don’t think it would help to find out…”
In an instant she swirled around in front of me, a dangerous sound building low in her throat. I stopped short, but the sound increased as she started to billow. I took a step back.
“You got a wasper in your face there, darlin’?”
I blinked and looked to my left. An old man in overalls was sunning himself on the bench in front of the Blue Plum Bank and Trust. He smiled.
“Waspers don’t mess with me none,” he said. “They only pester sweet things. You’re Crazy Ivy’s granddaughter, aren’t you? You look just like her.”
He probably thought he’d made a friendly observation. Or, more likely, he hadn’t thought at all. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I imagined swirling toward him, billowing like Geneva and blasting, Do not call her Crazy Ivy, into his thick, unthinking skull. But I held myself back, held it together. If Granny could let the nickname slide past her, I’d try to let it slide, too.
“I’m Ivy’s granddaughter, yes.” I said it as lightly as I could, although ignoring the nickname and Geneva at the same time was a strain.
“My condolences, then. She’s sorely missed.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Geneva said.
Although she still hung too claustrophobically close to my face, she’d ceased billowing when the old guy started talking. That was due to her natural nosiness trumping her supernatural spookiness. If she wanted to believe I’d thanked her for the billowing reprieve, instead of him for his kindness, that was okay with me. That she had manners at all was a plus. We left the old man smiling in the sun and Geneva floated next to me the rest of the way back to the Cat.
I realized my stupid mistake about the CDs immediately after she told me the bad news about Debbie’s conversation with Clod.
Chapter 22
“What do you mean, you can’t tell me what they said? You said you would. We had that whole discussion about how important you are to the investigation.”
“Yes, we did. You should start calling me V.I. for Vitally Important.”
V.I. for Virtually Impossible. “Geneva, we had a deal. You promised you’d tell me what they said.”
“No, I promised to tell you what I heard. And I just did. I heard nothing.”
“How did you hear nothing? You were in this room. They were in this room. They talked. Debbie cried. You love crying. What do you mean, you heard nothing?” I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was shouting and anyone in the whole building and the next three over could have heard that. I closed my eyes, pretended I was somewhere else. With someone else. Maybe that I was someone else.
“I was following your instructions,” Geneva said.
I opened my eyes. “What?”
“I was quite depressed but still I listened to what the deputy told you, because I adore all the Law and Order TV shows and so I always try to be law-abiding and orderly. And I’m surprised you don’t remember this, but he expressly told you not to listen at the keyhole and you went on at great length about how you wouldn’t and how impolite it would be if anyone did. And even though you sometimes fall short, I always try to be polite.”
“There is nothing wrong with my memory,” I ground out between my teeth, “or my manners. I was trying to tell you that I wa
nted you to eavesdrop.”
“How unfortunate, and here I thought you were being unusually clear and precise, so I went away and let them have their privacy. And to be on the safe side, in case I was tempted to put my ear to the door, I put my fingers in my ears and sang like this…” Her singing exploded in my head. I have no idea where she’d heard, much less learned, the lyrics to the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.”
“I know how you feel,” she said when she broke off. “I had to screw my fingers right into my ears, too. Next time I will choose something more sedate. And in future, when you have vitally important work for me to do, you should try harder to make your instructions more straightforward. Now, I’ve held up my end of the bargain, so which book shall we listen to first?”
Was there really so much to learn about ghosts, or just so much to learn about this one? She was right, though, drat it. Back in my old life, in the lab at the museum, if I’d issued instructions the opposite of what I meant, my colleagues would have thought I was crazy. Oh dear.
Geneva chose Still Life by Louise Penny for the first book. She said she liked the irony of the title. “Do you get it? On the one hand you have the book—Still Life. And on the other hand you have me—still dead and always will be. Do you think I’m the first ghost in the world to listen to her book? Perhaps if I enjoy it you should write her and let her know.”
I thought it was ironic that she understood irony but hadn’t managed to understand my eavesdropping instructions. She hovered annoyingly while I inserted the first CD into my laptop and then drifted around the attic in a euphoric cloud as the narrator started reading. Then I realized my stupid mistake.
She was listening to the first CD. Of nine. There might be fewer CDs than pages to a book, but Geneva couldn’t do a thing with either and in just over an hour her euphoria would come to a screeching halt. Quite possibly in my ear while I was discussing wooden needles versus metal or plastic with a customer.
“Geneva?”
“Hush.”
I stopped the CD.
“Hey!”
“I’ll turn it back on in a second, but I thought I should warn you. The story has nine episodes—”
“Like a soap opera? I adore soap operas.”
Of course she did. “Good. You’re listening to the first episode. It’ll last about an hour. If I get the chance later, I’ll run back up here and put on the second episode, if you’re still interested.”
“Of course I will be. And you can come back every hour to put on the next episode and then the next and then the next…how many episodes are there?”
“Nine, but don’t you think it would be more fun to save some for another day? It’ll give you something to look forward to.”
“I don’t need to save them,” she said. “We brought home six audiobooks and there are hundreds, if not several thousand, more back at the library, and I look forward to listening to all of them. I am beside myself with excitement, in case you hadn’t noticed. If you aren’t going to buy me a television, these recorded books are a decent enough substitute. What are you doing? Why are you praying at a time like this? Turn the book back on.”
“I’m not praying.”
“You’re also not turning the book on.” She was quiet for a puzzled few seconds. “If you aren’t praying, what are you doing?”
“I’m getting a grip,” I said through gritted teeth and the tightly clasped hands I held to my lips.
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“Geneva, I will try to come back up to put the second episode on for you, but I won’t be coming back every hour for the next nine hours.”
“Whyever not?”
“You mean besides that being a totally unreasonable expectation? I won’t be doing that this afternoon because I’m working. I work for a living. Work comes first.”
“Before me.” She looked less like a euphoric cloud, but she didn’t sound incredulous, so maybe she understood.
“In this case it does, yes. And I won’t change episodes for you every hour this evening, either, because I’m going out.”
“With a paramour?”
“What? No. To a meeting. To the Historical Trust Annual Meeting and Potluck.”
“Will that be fun?”
“I don’t know. Fun enough, I suppose. My grandmother liked going.”
“I see. And fun comes before me, too.” She looked more like dingy laundry hanging on a drooping clothesline every second.
“That’s not really what I meant, Geneva. I—”
She interrupted. “Will there be a lot of people there?”
“I guess.”
“How many?”
“I don’t really know. A hundred? It isn’t just going to be fun, though. Thea’s doing some research for me this afternoon and she said she’ll bring the results with her tonight. And with that many people there, Ardis thinks it’ll be a good opportunity to ask questions and listen in on conversations without appearing too nosy. She’s probably right. I hope so, anyway.”
“Ardis and Thea are going?”
“Yes.”
“Debbie?”
“I think so.”
“Ernestine? Mel?”
“Yes, look, let’s not go through the whole list of people you know, okay? I have to get back to work.”
“The posse, though.”
“Mm, yeah…” I hadn’t really thought of it that way.
“But you don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go?”
“No! No. Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.” I was ready to cringe in case she took exception to my shout or to her exclusion, but—will wonders never cease?—she remained calm. Thoughtful even. “I hope you understand.”
“I do. You don’t want me to go. I understand and I can handle that.”
“Good, thank you. After work I need to dash to the store so I can make a green salad to take with me tonight, but I’ll stop back here before the potluck and put on another episode for you. How does that sound?”
“That will be fine. Will you turn on my audiobook for me, please?”
I left her content for the time being and went back down to work. She even said she’d come find me when the CD ended and wait patiently if I was with a customer or couldn’t get away immediately. It was nice to have her acting like a rational, considerate…well, like a normal person. Nice, but odd. When I got the chance, I’d have to search for audiobooks in a format I could download in a single unit like I had for the McCrumb book I’d played for her. Preferably free.
On my way past the second floor, I heard voices and clicking needles coming from the front room and popped in to say hi and see if the knitters there needed anything. There were several women I recognized from around town, though I didn’t remember seeing them in the Cat before. And there was Ernestine, thick among them—smiling, knitting, listening, and nodding to whatever they were so happily chatting about. I hated to interrupt them, but Ernestine saw me and excused herself. She shooed me ahead of her out of the room and down the hall.
“Ardis called me,” she said when we were out of view and earshot. “She said there were more conversations going on this afternoon than the three of you can keep track of. She said crime is definitely paying and asked me to provide backup. The costume was my own idea.” She beamed. “What do you think?” She smoothed her tweed skirt, folded her hands, and assumed an innocent look. Then she grimaced and tugged at her waistband. “I haven’t worn stockings for years and now I remember why. Horrible things. Like sausage casings. But worth it, don’t you think?”
“Jane Marple?”
“I probably look more like Margaret Rutherford doing Jane Marple, or Elsa Lanchester doing Margaret Rutherford doing Jane Marple, but yes.”
“You look perfect.”
“And I would hardly be convincing as V.I.”
“Who?”
“V. I. Warshawski, dear. Haven’t you read Sarah Paretsky’s books?”
“Oh, right.” For a
horrible, surreal second I’d thought she meant Vitally Important Geneva.
“I’d better get back,” she said. “One of those women is a cousin of the husband of the woman who cleans for Bonny. She might not really know anything useful, but she has strong opinions about everything she does know. I’ll make a full report at our next meeting.”
“Are you taking notes?” I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea.
She patted my arm reassuringly and whispered. “Not notes. They’re too obvious. I borrowed my grandson’s solid-state, voice-activated recorder. It’s under the knitting in my basket.”
She yanked at her waistband again and went back to the front room. I continued downstairs, not sure recording was such a good idea, either. If it turned out that secret recordings were illegal, and someone found out and kicked up a fuss, who was Clod Dunbar more likely to arrest—his former Sunday school teacher in her sweet little old lady outfit, or me?
Chapter 23
For lack of a community center in Blue Plum, or a meeting space large enough and not associated with one or another denomination, the Historical Trust Annual Meeting and Potluck was held in the grade school gym. The first thing I noticed when my thrown-together green salad and I entered—I in my flowery crepe skirt, low heels, and pink silk blouse and the salad in Granny’s green glass lettuce-leaf bowl—was the lack of a gymnasium fug hanging in the air. I’d worried about that, wondering how eau de PE would mix with this high-tone potluck. Instead I caught whiffs of fried chicken, baked beans, and hot rolls.
The next thing I noticed was that most of the other women wore pants. In fact, many wore jeans. There were a few skirts and dresses and a smattering of jackets and ties, but they were all worn by people who appeared to be over seventy. Or over eighty. That there were no children and almost no one under thirty didn’t surprise me. I’d given my share of presentations to preservation groups and historical societies and knew the demographics involved.
