Deader Homes and Gardens

by Angie Fox

  That could have been from the yard, blown by the wind. It didn’t mean anything that I also wore a yellow flowered dress.

  The gangster glided to the far edge of the porch, away from me. “I know you want to talk to her, but this kid is seriously creeping me out.”

  Leave it to Frankie to state the obvious.

  Perhaps I’d try something new. “Can I hold onto this doll?” I asked Lee. Even if I’d rather drop it like it was hot, it was my only connection to the little girl. “She offered it to me.” It felt wrong to refuse her gesture, even if I didn’t know what it meant. Maybe Frankie and I could figure out a way to use it. Or perhaps Suds would know.

  “Hold onto it if you think it will help,” Lee said, locking up behind us. He tested the door. “I’ll install another bolt this afternoon. Just in case we do have something valuable in there.”

  “Good. I’ll call my professor friend.”

  Lee thanked me and we said our goodbyes by my car.

  Maybe the ghosts would talk to me while the professor inspected the journals. They would have seen me once before and realize I wasn’t a threat.

  “We’ll figure this out,” I said to Frankie as we left the old house behind us. “Ghosts love me.”

  He gave me a long look. “Are you sure?”

  Chapter 8

  On the way home, I kept looking at the bench seat between Frankie and me.

  The doll in the purple dress sat, or rather slouched, toward my ghost friend, her head lolling to the side.

  Frankie frowned and gave it a sideways look, as if it would haul off and bite him. “That thing wigs me out.”

  The car moved slowly with the noontime traffic on Main Street. “I keep waiting for her to disappear,” I said. Objects that had meant a great deal to a ghost could sometimes take physical form temporarily before melting back into the ghostly plane. That didn’t seem to be the case this time. I shot Frankie a grin. “Looks like this doll likes us.”

  “That’s it.” Frankie’s image faded, and he reappeared in the backseat.

  For Pete’s sake. “It’s just a doll,” I said, stopping at a crosswalk for a pair of women.

  “You just keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” Frankie groused, arms crossed for the rest of the way home.

  He was right, of course.

  That doll wasn’t just a plaything. She was my connection to the child ghost. And since the doll was sticking around, she was most likely as real as I was. If the little girl ghost could manipulate objects on the mortal plane so easily, she was more powerful than I’d given her credit for.

  I’d gotten the distinct impression the girl wanted to tell me something. This could be her way of building a relationship. So whether Frankie liked it or not, I’d make sure she understood she could trust me with the things that were important to her.

  Frankie had taken his power back, but the energy we’d used in the house had caused one of his feet to go missing. He didn’t even complain about it. He just kept an eye on the doll.

  It sagged toward me as we pulled around to the back of my house. “We’ll have to find a safe place for you,” I said, straightening it.

  “Please don’t act like it’s alive,” Frankie muttered.

  “I don’t get you,” I said, shutting off the car and gathering up the doll. “This is your area of expertise. You live in the spirit world. You’ve been talking to ghosts longer than I’ve been alive.”

  He looked ready to spit nails as I headed for the back porch.

  “Me? You think I’m the king of the spooks? I’m just a normal, stand-up guy trying to make a living in this place. No longer breathing, but that’s the only difference. You’re the one who wants to poke your nose into places it don’t belong.”

  “Normal guy?” I asked as he glided through the hydrangea bush at the bottom of the steps, not even bothering to walk around.

  But Frankie wasn’t listening to me anymore. “Fellas!” he said, looking up at the porch, his dark mood gone as he threw open his arms to welcome no one I’d invited.

  Naturally, I didn’t see a thing. Frankie shot up the steps like he was head of the greeting committee. “Sticky Pete!” he shouted. “Ronnie Boy!” He lowered his voice. “Louuu.” He dragged out the end until it didn’t even sound like a name anymore.

  He proceeded to pat invisible backs, trade play-punches, and jump wholeheartedly into what was no doubt a gang reunion on my back porch. He even lost his hat in the process.

  I climbed the steps slowly. Yes, I’d agreed to his use of this space, but I hadn’t predicted this. Without Frankie’s power, I couldn’t see the rowdy bunch or even know what they had planned for my lovely white-painted outdoor retreat.

  But it couldn’t be good.

  Hmm…I stopped by the porch swing to think, placing the doll so that she perched nicely against the old wood.

  That got Frankie’s attention. “No, no, no…” He waved a hand as he stalked toward the swing. “That nasty thing”—he pointed to the doll—“does not belong out here.” He addressed an unseen entity behind the swing. “You see what I put up with, Knuckles?”

  “Who’s Knuckles?” I asked, squinting as if that would actually help me see the ghost. It was worth a shot.

  Frankie moved between me and the guy I couldn’t see anyway. “When you gave me this porch as my personal spot, you said you’d give me privacy.”

  “I said nothing of the sort.” However, if having a baby doll and me out here bothered him that much, we’d go inside. “We’ll figure it out after your friends leave.” I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the guys and I needed to call my old college professor anyway. “Behave,” I warned Frankie, and whoever else was in earshot, before retreating inside.

  I could have sworn I heard a cheer go up as I stepped into my modest kitchen.

  My refuge was getting smaller and smaller every day.

  At least Lucy toddled out to greet me, her tail swishing. I let her weave around my legs while I found spots on her to stroke. She sniffed the doll I’d tucked under one of my arms, but didn’t let it bother her.

  “You’re more mature than Frankie,” I told her.

  “I heard that,” he said, his voice floating from the porch.

  Perhaps I should have closed the kitchen windows before I left this morning. But the days had grown pleasantly warm, and the breeze coming through the house felt good.

  I straightened, enjoying the fresh air while I headed into the parlor and placed the doll on a mantel with hummingbirds and gardenias carved into the corners. It was one of my favorite spots in the house. She would be safe there.

  Next to the fireplace stood the whiskey barrel that contained Frankie’s ashes, along with a fair amount of gardening dirt, and the rosebush that started this whole thing. I reached into my purse for the urn that allowed me to take Frankie with me.

  “There,” I said, placing it under the rosebush where it belonged.

  It was becoming ghost central in here.

  Of course, I didn’t say that out loud. No sense worrying Lucy.

  I slipped her bits of lettuce while I made a fresh, delicious salad. Once I’d enjoyed every last bite, I used the green wall phone in the kitchen to call my old professor.

  “Verity Long,” he said, his voice booming like it had in class, “it’s good to hear from you. You know, I still have that pen and ink drawing you made of Isis. It’s right in front of me on my desk.”

  His black cat, Isis, was my favorite cat ever. I trailed the long phone cord through my hand and smiled. “Does she still let you take her for walks on the leash?” It had been the ultimate compliment when she’d let me escort her around the neighborhood after a summer of house and pet sitting. I’d fed her tuna before—and after. Although I refused to think one had anything to do with the other.

  “Isis passed away last summer,” he said, quite plainly, although I could tell he missed her.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “She was old and she ha
d a wonderfully adventurous life.”

  I supposed that was the way to go. “Listen, Professor—” I began, noticing I’d stretched the phone cord as far as it would go. I was practically in the parlor.

  “Dale,” he instructed.

  No matter how many times he insisted, I still had trouble calling him by his first name, at least when addressing him. Old manners died hard.

  “Dale,” I said, trying to make it sound effortless. I began walking back toward the kitchen island. “I made a discovery this morning,” I said, knowing that would pique his interest. “A friend of mine here in Sugarland may have some ancient Egyptian artifacts in his house.”

  I could hear his smile through the phone. “Tell your friend not to get his hopes up. Most ‘artifacts,’ even those handed down, are reproductions. My own grandma had the entire British Museum collection of mini Grecian urns. They were pretty, but…”

  He didn’t get it. “This man’s grandfather was Jack Treadwell, a famous Egyptologist,” I added, stretching the truth on the famous part. And probably on the Egyptologist end as well.

  A knock sounded at my back door. Probably Suds. The ghosts could wait. I moved away, toward the parlor.

  “I’ve heard of Jack Treadwell,” the professor said. “At least as it pertains to Rock Fall mansion.”

  “That’s the place I’m talking about,” I confirmed. “Jack’s grandson and I opened up the house for the first time this morning. We found evidence they were unwrapping a mummy.” I paused to let that sink in. And I’d tell him about the ghost part later. “We also found stacks of original expedition journals.”

  “Original?”

  “Yes. There are also dozens of wooden crates in the attic, marked for Treadwell’s last expedition in 1910. They’re empty, but they’re real,” I added, hoping I was tempting him. “You were the first person I thought to call. I’d really appreciate it if you could visit and tell us what we have.”

  “Tomorrow,” he said over the sound of papers shuffling. “I can move a few things around.” Said the man who’d told me not to get too excited. “I can meet you at one o’clock.”

  “Perfect. You can look at the journals and I’ll cook a nice dinner for you at my house after.” I’d make veggie soup. Or perhaps my sister had a chicken I could borrow.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing you, Verity,” he said warmly. “But as I said, don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Wise words,” I said.

  I hung up the phone and went to see what Frankie and his friends wanted now.

  When I opened it, I went stone cold.

  A peach pie, still warm, rested on a folded tea towel. It seemed I’d had a living, breathing visitor. A nosy Nellie, no doubt. And whoever it was had left the pie uncovered, which meant she’d known I was home. I glanced to the curtains fluttering against the screens on my open kitchen windows. Had my unexpected guest overheard any of my conversation with the professor?

  The last thing I needed was news of this getting out. I hadn’t succeeded yet—far from it. And if word got out to the town, they’d be expecting results by supper.

  Lucy pushed past me to sniff the pie.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, taking the pie into the kitchen. At least I’d have something to serve after dinner tomorrow.

  Lucy rubbed up against my leg. “If news gets out, we’re in a mess of trouble,” I told her.

  But perhaps we could solve it all tomorrow, before word spread too far. Maybe I could get a head start today, find out about some of the ghosts, or at least what might be haunting them. I could see what might have happened to the expedition artifacts.

  “I’m heading to the library,” I said, spotting my sandals by the front door. “You watch the house.”

  Lucy’s nails clicked on the linoleum floor, following until I closed the door behind me.

  Frankie wasn’t even on the porch anymore. I didn’t see any sign of him or his buddies. It was just as well. I had other ghosts to mind now. If I could discover some tidbit of information, some way to connect with the spirits at Rock Fall or to discover what had happened, maybe this case would be simpler than I’d imagined.

  I called ahead and told my sister what I wanted, hoping that by the time I walked into the old limestone and brick building on the town square, she would have already pulled together a reference room full of material. Melody was gifted that way. And I was grateful for it.

  Minutes later, I stepped into the main reading room with its lovely arched ceiling and old-book smell. Melody spotted me and came over for a hug. Wisps of blond hair escaped her French braid and brushed my cheek.

  “Congratulations,” she said, smiling, keeping her voice low as we walked back to the private study rooms off the main reading area. She kept an arm around my shoulder, the petals of her flower pen tickling my arm. “I hear you have a ghost-hunting job.”

  “It’s made the gossip rounds already?” I asked, a bit too loudly. Heads turned from the long wooden circulation desk at the back.

  That was lightning fast, even for Sugarland.

  “No,” Melody said, perky, her smile widening into a wooden one. “Ellis stopped by this morning.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved.

  She tucked her flower pen behind her ear. “He needed to look at some old city plans. Evidently, there’s a property dispute between two neighbors on Stonewall Jackson Street. Ellis said he could arrest them, or he could solve it.”

  “That sounds like Ellis,” I said as Melody opened the door to the last reference room and ushered me inside.

  “It worries me that you’re going into the Treadwell mansion,” she said once we were alone.

  “Already went,” I corrected, watching her face fall. “It was scary,” I admitted. We didn’t lie to each other. “That’s why I need to know what happened there.”

  She sighed, not even bothering to talk me out of it. I liked that she knew me so well.

  Melody had historic pictures and newspaper articles laid out on a heavy wooden table that was probably as old as the library itself. “It’s not a nice story,” she said, almost to herself. “Jack Treadwell was an amateur Egyptologist,” she went on, handing me a picture of a smiling, mustached man that looked a lot like the photo I’d seen in the mansion. “He was by all accounts charismatic, a good leader. Not the best archaeologist.” She shrugged. “He’d pay top dollar for permits and then just dig like a kid in the sand.” She handed me a folder. “There are all kinds of articles in here that talk about what went on in those days.”

  “But he was a man of his day,” I said, trying to get some clarification. “He didn’t know anything about modern excavation techniques.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. It killed her when people did bad research. “His brother-in-law, Robert, did have a degree in archaeology. He’s the one who documented the sites, according to the methods of the day.”

  Then perhaps Robert had written some of the journals we’d found. We’d have to look further and see.

  “Anyway—” she sighed “—Jack unearthed an unnamed tomb in the spring of 1910 and that’s when the trouble started.”

  “The cursed tomb of a lost king,” I said, supplying my knowledge of town gossip.

  Melody smiled. “No evidence of that. It was never revealed whose tomb he found. His party left Egypt in May, made it home in June. They were set to have an unveiling and an announcement, but then Jack died at his desk. His doctor said he had a heart attack.” She showed me an article on Jack’s passing. It spoke mostly of his business and his accomplishments rather than how he’d met his end.

  “The next day, this happened…” Melody led me to a newspaper article on the table. The headline screamed treadwell daughter leaps to death.

  “That poor thing,” I said, thinking of the little girl I’d seen.

  “According to this article, Charlotte was only seven years old. Witnesses at the bottom say she just…ran right off the edge.”

  It didn’t make sense. “
Something must have happened.”

  “It was at that point newspapers started speculating about a curse. Then Jack’s wife drowned in her tub.” She showed me the article.

  “I recognize her. I found her crying in the parlor.”

  “Her brother—Jack’s digging partner—found her lifeless body. Then he dropped dead a few minutes later.” She showed me another article.

  “What did he see?” I wondered aloud.

  “It doesn’t say,” Melody pointed to a place farther down in the article. “He collected his sister from the tub, carried her downstairs, and then dropped dead in the foyer. The governess witnessed the entire thing. She was the only other person in the house.”

  “And the only one who lived.”

  Perhaps it was his figure burned into the floor.

  “What about the Eye of Horus symbol in blood on the door?” I asked.

  “No evidence of that,” she said simply.

  “I’ll have to ask the ghosts,” I said, returning to a photo of a triumphant Jack after his final expedition. I paged to the one under it, dated June 24, 1910, just days before he died. “Look at these crates behind him,” I said, bending for a closer look. Their lids lay open and I could see inside—they were full of earthen vessels and other objects packed in straw. His daughter, Charlotte, stood in the background, holding a doll and peering inside a crate filled with more earthen jars. “I saw the same crates hidden away at Rock Fall this morning, but they were empty.” It was like I had access to all the answers, but I didn’t know the right questions.

  “After that day, all the news turned to the deaths,” Melody said. “And then the fire.”

  I turned to her. “I didn’t hear about that.”

  She shook her head, as if trying to shake off the darkness that seemed to surround this family. “It was about a month after. The funerals were over. Jack Junior had returned to New York and the governess had taken up residence in the house. There was a fire in the gardens, in the grape arbor. No one knew how it started. There wasn’t any lightning that night or any natural cause. The neighbors and the fire department put it out before too much damage had been done. Nobody saw the governess at the fire, but they know she was there.”