Grave Errors

by Carol J. Perry

  “Who?”

  “That woman with the mayor. It’s her. Trudy.”

  The name didn’t register at once. “Trudy?”

  “Trudy Shores. Emily’s boss’s wife.”

  The female side of Happy Shores Real Estate.

  “Big project,” Ray interrupted my thought. “Huge project. Lot of trees to clear.”

  “Roads to grade. Buildings to construct. Big project,” Roger declared.

  The mayor stepped aside and Scott held a hand microphone in front of the woman Dorothy had just identified as Trudy Shores. She was a tall, full-figured woman with a wide smile. “This is Mrs. Shores of the Happy Shores Real Estate firm, the Salem company which has worked long and hard to complete the sale of this amazing property. Tell us a little about the coming mall, Mrs. Shores.”

  “Oh, please call me Trudy, Scott.” The woman beamed “It’s all so exciting, isn’t it? The mall is going to be absolutely stunning. I can hardly wait to show you the drawings of how it will look when its finished. The entire Happy Shores organization has worked for nearly two years to pull it all together. I wish my dear husband, Happy, could be here today to share this moment.” She blew a kiss toward the camera. “Love you Happy! He is the genius who has made it all happen. He’s been traveling the country for weeks, negotiating with retailers who’ve expressed interest in opening stores here at Wildwood Plaza.”

  Scott looked into the camera and smiled. “Thank you Mrs. Shores. I mean Trudy. Thank you. I’m sure all of Salem will be looking forward to seeing this exciting project take shape. Now, back to the studio.”

  The ever-smiling, always gorgeous Wanda the Weather Girl appeared on screen, with the usual background of isobars and radar images and foreground of plunging neckline. She gave current temperatures and rain probabilities, and cheerfully reminded viewers that she was keeping a careful eye on that pesky tropical depression down south.

  “Okay, everybody, time to get to work,” I said. “Roger, want to turn the TV off please?”

  He did, perhaps with some reluctance, as Wanda performed one of her trademark forward leaning poses.

  “That mall is a good idea,” Shannon offered. “Will it be finished in time for our cemetery thing?”

  “Not a chance,” Ray scoffed. “Thing like that takes years. Permits. Paperwork. Regulations up to here.” He waved his hand above his head.

  Roger nodded agreement. “Years. Maybe never gets done at all.”

  “Well, we’re going to get our project done on time, I’m sure,” I said. “We’re off to a great start. I know Mr. Pennington was very impressed. Therese, you said something about getting us a guided tour. Can you get in touch with your guide friend? I’d like to do it as soon as possible.”

  “Sure. Kelsey Roehl is one of the best ghost tour guides in Salem. Knows lots of history and has more ghost stories than anyone else I know. I’ll text her right now.”

  “A ghost tour guide?” Shannon asked. “Are we going on a real ghost tour?”

  Therese shrugged. “We’re going to be walking around in a haunted cemetery. What else would you call it?”

  Made sense to me. I turned to the twins. “How are you guys coming on the brochure?”

  Roger answered. “We’re thinking of something a little fancier than the cheap and dirty one we did before. Need some artwork for it. Make it look professional.”

  “Artwork,” Ray echoed. “Real pro stuff.”

  “I know an artist,” Dorothy spoke softly. “Sort of.”

  “She means Dakota!” Shannon was clearly pleased. “Don’t you, Dot?”

  Dorothy nodded. “I do. But I don’t really know him. He’s just an acquaintance.”

  “Smokin’ hot acquaintance, if you ask me,” Hilda said. “Let’s see if he’ll do it.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Shannon offered.

  “Perhaps it would be best if Roger or Ray did it,” I suggested. “Since they’re in charge of the brochure.”

  The men agreed. Dorothy looked relieved. Shannon pouted prettily, but handed Ray the artist’s phone number and Hilda Googled copyright-free illustrations in case the artist idea didn’t work out. Therese reported that her guide friend was available that afternoon after four for about an hour. Things were moving along swimmingly. I dared to feel confident.

  “Everybody ready for another field trip this afternoon? Four o’clock? Howard Street Cemetery again?” There were no objections. Therese gave a thumbs up and booked the tour.

  CHAPTER 11

  The sun was low in the sky and shadows were lengthening when we gathered once again at the Howard Street Cemetery. Therese’s friend, the ghost tour guide, Kelsey Roehl, waited for us at the Bridge Street entrance.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Kelsey called as we approached. She was a petite, dark-eyed young woman, wearing a simple thigh-length black dress and old-fashioned high-buttoned boots. The hood of her gray cape didn’t entirely disguise a mass of long blond curls. “Therese has told me that some of you have an interest in the spirit of Giles Corey so I think it would be a good idea to begin our journey under his special tree.”

  The special tree was news to me, but I noticed Therese nodding as though she knew what the woman was talking about. Hilda frowned and consulted her phone with Shannon looking over her shoulder. Dorothy appeared to be focused on the guide’s words, while Ray and Roger gave simultaneous head shakes and eye-rolls.

  Following Kelsey, we trudged uphill. I’d worn flat heeled shoes on the off chance that a trip like this might come about, and a quick glance at the footwear of the others revealed that all of them must have had similar thoughts. Dorothy’s Mukluks looked better every minute. The guide directed us along a grave-studded ridge, down a steep incline and past a large tomb, half buried on the side of a hill. She paused, pointing to the name on the tomb. Richard Manning. “Nathaniel Hawthorne’s grandfather. His mother and sisters are in there too.”

  I’d barely digested that little-known fact when Kelsey pointed again. “There it is.”

  The tree was taller than most of the others dotting the cemetery and appeared to be a member of the pine family, with limbs and boughs tightly twisted around the trunk. Kelsey’s voice dropped, taking on a spectral tone. “It’s just a local legend of course, but they say that the very spot where poor Giles Corey was tortured, crushed to death with thirty-two boulders and rocks on his chest, is right here. Beside this tree.” Long pause. “The old man lingered in anguish for two days and finally died. His last words were ‘More weight! ’” She paused, looking from one of us to the other. “The date was September 19, 1692.”

  “OMG!” Shannon was first to make the connection. “That’s today!”

  A buzz of excited conversation followed. None of my students seemed to be spooked by the coincidence, but rather found it interesting. Phones and cameras were aimed at the tree, and more than a few “haunted tree” selfies would undoubtedly soon show up on Facebook. Even the twins drew closer to the spot the guide indicated. Ray bent and examined the ground there, while Roger gazed, frowning, toward the old jail property on the other side of the nearby fence.

  Making a mental note to be sure a few lines about the legendary tree would be included in our Day of the Dead publicity, along with information about the final resting place of Hawthorne’s mother and siblings, I stepped into line behind our guide. I was second to last in the single file queue, with Dorothy close behind me.

  I’d just brushed past the upward sweeping limbs of the tree when I heard Dorothy’s sharp intake of breath followed by a nervous giggle. “I thought for a minute there that the ghost had grabbed me,” she said. “It was just a branch brushing through my hair.”

  Kelsey Roehl seemed to be blessed with extraordinary hearing as well as knowledge of things ghostly. She turned and faced in our direction. “Did you say old Giles pulled somebody’s hair?”

  “Just a branch,” Dorothy answered. “No harm done.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that.” The gui
de smiled. “He does it to me sometimes too. That’s why I wear my hood up when I’m in here.”

  “Maybe we should have brought flowers or something for him.” Shannon spoke softly. “To leave under his tree, you know. Because of the date.”

  “What a sweet kid!” Hilda said, throwing an arm across Shannon’s shoulders. “That’s a really nice idea. We’ll be sure to do something special for the old man when we have the Dia de los Muertos celebration here. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Shannon agreed.

  “Is that what this is about?” Kelsey wanted to know. “Are you guys going to do a Day of the Dead party here? Therese, you didn’t tell me about that.”

  “Sorry. We put this together in kind of a hurry.” Therese frowned. “Why? Is there a problem with it?”

  “It’s a great idea! Keep Halloween going for a little while. Great for my business. Can I help with anything?”

  “What do you think, Lee?” Therese turned toward me. “Can Kelsey get involved?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “An expert on Salem ghosts who knows her way around the cemeteries is exactly what we need.”

  “Maybe she can help with the permitting process,” Ray said. “City regulations. Cemetery protocol.”

  “Gotta go by the book,” Roger agreed. “Regulations. Permits. She can help.”

  “No problem,” Kelsey said. “Now let’s continue with this tour, shall we?”

  So we did. And a worthwhile tour it was. We learned about a few more Salem dignitaries who reposed there. She told us too about some underground rooms and tunnels below the grassy surface of the place, and about the times the riding mower had broken into the ceilings of the mysterious chambers. Howard Street had actually needed reinforcement a couple of times because of what was under it.

  Dorothy sounded incredulous. “You mean there are tunnels and rooms under here somewhere? That’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it,” I said. “I know there are tunnels and rooms under Salem.”

  Questioning looks came from several of the students. “It’s true,” Kelsey said. “Some guides even do tunnel tours.” She shuddered. “Not me. Too dark and scary.”

  “Me either,” I said, meaning it. “Been there. Done that.”

  We returned to the classroom where everyone seemed to be in an upbeat frame of mind. Therese gave an impromptu PowerPoint showing of her early morning “cemetery in the misty dawn” photos. It was probably due to our recent field trip that several of us thought we saw strange floating white orbs over some of the graves.

  “Let’s show some of the shots we took of the ghost tree,” Hilda said. “If there are orbs anywhere, that’s where they should be.”

  The positive vibes remained and even Ray and Roger were among the first to volunteer to share their own tree pictures, including their selfies. There was good-natured kidding all around as we viewed a slide show of various angles of the twisted old tree. There was a hush in the room though, when Roger’s shot of the tree taken with the tower of the old jail in the background appeared on the big screen.

  Therese broke the silence. “Well, there’s your orb. No doubt about it.”

  There couldn’t be much doubt about what we were seeing. Beside the tree, maybe three-quarters of the way up the trunk, and just over the fence separating the cemetery from the old jail property was a wavy edged oval white shape. Not exactly an orb. More like half of a person.

  “Dust mote,” Ray insisted. “Or else Roger had his thumb over the lens.”

  “That’s probably it,” Roger agreed. “Sure ain’t a ghost! No such thing.”

  “I think it’s just the glare from the sun,” Hilda offered. “It was getting low in the sky. See? It’s a reflection from the windows of the building over there.”

  “Sure, that’s what it is,” Shannon giggled. “You guys had me going for a second there.”

  Heads nodded all around, and everyone seemed to like Hilda’s theory. I liked it a lot better than the half-a-ghost blob myself.

  The school bell announced five o’clock so class was dismissed. I was nearly ready to head for the exit when my phone buzzed. It was Aunt Ibby.

  “Guess what?” she said. “I think I’ve found your James. His complete name is Henry James Dowgin. I have an app that completes possible name endings. Holds four hundred eighty-five names beginning with Dow. Besides that, some folks use their middle name because they prefer it. I just started with A. James Dow, B. James Dow, and so on. H. James Dowgin turned up. Found him listed with a real estate agents’ organization. I’m pretty sure it’s the man you’re looking for.”

  “You’re a wonder,” I told her, not for the first time. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in Florida,” she said. “But unfortunately, he’s probably dead.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I sat in stunned silence on my end.

  “Listen,” she said. “You come on home and I’ll show you all I’ve found on it. I could be wrong.”

  “But you’re probably not.” I found my voice. “I’m on my way.”

  According to the reports my aunt had found, a man presumed to be Dowgin had died a month earlier while fishing for largemouth bass in one of the many canals adjacent to the Everglades. Dowgin, who was alone at the time, was believed to have slipped on a muddy embankment and fallen into the murky, alligator-infested water. An associate from the real estate office where Dowgin worked, unable to reach him via phone, went to search for him and found his automobile parked on a nearby road. One of Dowgin’s boots and his tackle box were near shore. His cell phone and wallet were missing. A search of the area had produced the sleeve of a shirt, identified as part of the shirt Dowgin had been wearing, but no body. Authorities concluded that the man, unfamiliar with his surroundings, had ventured too close to the edge of the canal and had been attacked by one of the thousands of alligators known to inhabit the area.

  “What a sad story.”

  My aunt made a “harrumph” noise. “He should have known better. Poor soul had no business wandering around the ’glades by himself.”

  Something about this sad story just didn’t add up. “Do you think you could learn a little more about this? Like the name of the real estate agency where he worked?”

  “I expect that I could. Might take a while. I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow. I have a library board meeting this evening.” She looked at the clock. “I’d better get dressed. Want to come with me? Should be interesting. We’re planning a book signing event for authors of Salem histories.”

  “I’d like to but thanks, no,” I said. “Pete has tonight off and he said he’d call me. I think he has plans for the evening.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a smile. “I shouldn’t be too late.”

  “Have fun.” I kissed her cheek and headed up the front stairs to my apartment, O’Ryan bounding ahead of me.

  I took a welcome shower, tossed my clothes into the laundry chute and dressed in soft, faded blue jeans and a lavender cotton sweater. Pulling my hair up into a messy top-knot, I gave a rueful look at my shoes. A cemetery tour can sure mess up plain old leather flats. I carried them out to the kitchen, spread a sheet of newspaper on the counter and began brushing caked dirt from the soles and sides. A good scrubbing with saddle soap and I judged them clean enough for another wearing. They were a little bit damp, so I lifted the kitchen window and parked them outside on the fire escape to dry.

  O’Ryan had watched the entire process with cat-interest. He took his favored place on the sill, appearing to stand guard over shoes while I checked messages on my cell. One from Pete. Must have called while I was in the shower.

  “Hi,” I said. “You rang?”

  “Sure did. Want to go out for a romantic dinner at your choice of fast food emporiums and a moonlight stroll along Deveraux Beach?”

  “Sounds good. When?”

  “In about ten minutes. I’m on my way.”

  “Pretty sure I’d be here, huh?”

  “If you weren�
�t I’d just watch TV with O’Ryan and wait for you to get home.”

  “See you in a few,” I told him and headed for the bedroom mirror to check my outfit and try to do something about my hair. I decided that the jeans and sweater were okay for burgers and beach. I’d add a jacket against the evening chill. I brushed my hair, which was still a mess, and opted for a baseball cap to cover the damage.

  Pete’s key clicked in the back door lock and O’Ryan streaked across the kitchen to meet him. I took one last turn in front of the mirror to check my appearance. Big mistake. The swirling colors parted quickly and revealed . . . shoes.

  It was almost like the home shopping shows I used to do in Florida. A smiling pitchman stood behind a counter with shoes on it. First I saw a shoebox containing a pair of black patent leather pumps like the one behind my desk at the Tabby. Then came a boxed pair of Mukluks like Dorothy’s. Next, my leather flats, which I’d set out to dry on the fire escape. The last picture, a pair of scruffy work boots in a neat new box, looked oddly familiar. It was bad enough to have these damned visions intruding on my life, but did they have to be so maddeningly vague?

  I sat on the edge of the bed, willing the shoe show to go away. What did it mean? The pictures in the mirror faded away. The work boot image blinked out just as Pete and O’Ryan appeared in the kitchen.

  “You okay?” Pete raised one eyebrow the way he does when he’s trying to figure something out. “You look . . . funny.” He glanced at the mirror. “Uh-oh. You been seeing things?”

  “Yeah. One that doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense.” I stood up and gave him a quick hug. “But at least there were no dead bodies in it.”

  He still looked worried. “Want to tell me about it?” He took my hand, leading me to the chair next to the still-open window. O’Ryan followed.

  “I guess. But I told you,” I said, “it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Try me.”

  “Shoes.”

  “Shoes?”

  “Right. First I saw a pair like the big black display shoe from the Tabby. Then I saw Dorothy’s Mukluks. Then the shoes I wore today and last a pair of dirty old work boots.” I folded my arms and watched his face. “Make sense to you?”