Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Then I found this.” Zeke handed me a second article. The headline read: “Sorghum Bombing Person of Interest Found Dead.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Wes. I could tell his line of thinking followed mine.

  “Apparently, the guy had agreed to meet with the agent heading the investigation,” said Zeke. “But before the meeting could take place, he wound up knocked upside the head in some alley. I don’t think they ever found out who did it.”

  “That was a long time ago,” I said, half to myself. “But if there is a connection here . . .” I trailed off, as the two guys looked at me expectantly.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Wes.

  “I’m thinking Gil might be in danger.”

  * * *

  Back at home, Wes and I discussed what we should do with the information about Gil. A few people I’d spoken with recently, such as Fern and Tadd, seemed to think Gil was a shady character. But Josephine had trusted him. And if he really was involved in something illegal with both Josie and Davey . . . then it stood to reason that he could be the next target.

  “What does your instinct tell you?” asked Wes, as he emptied his pockets and tossed the contents on the bureau.

  I dropped onto the edge of the bed and sighed. “My instinct hasn’t been talking lately. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like I’ve lost touch with my inner guide.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true. It’s been a rough week, that’s all.”

  As I twisted the end of my nightshirt, the cat sauntered in and rubbed up against my legs. “At least I made the right call with Kitty, here. You’re sure you don’t mind having her live with us?”

  “Nah, I like cats. I don’t mind. She needs a name, though. How about Buffy?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Does she look like a vampire slayer to you?”

  “Phoebe? Piper?”

  “Ha-ha. No, I need to wait and keep my eyes and ears open. I think her name will come to me in due time—assuming I’m not completely cut off from the divine spirit. I still don’t know what to do next, Wes. And my family will be here in just a few days.”

  “There you go again. Look, you should check in with Rhinehardt tomorrow. Tell him you’re worried about Gil and let him figure out what to do.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But I think I’ll go by Gil’s house, too. I really want to talk to him again.”

  “Then I’m going with you. I can take the morning off, since I’m going to Memphis tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You’re going to Memphis? As in Tennessee?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? The paper is doing a piece on this celebrity chef who might open a restaurant here in Edindale. There’s a cooking award ceremony, or something. They’re putting us up for the night, then I’m supposed to get some city shots the next morning.”

  “Okay, then it’s settled. We’ll go see Gil in the morning.”

  I only wished I knew what to do after that. I crawled up to the head of the bed and looked over at the dreamcatcher I’d hung on the wall. It reminded me of a dream I’d had shortly after Josephine’s death. In it, she had attempted to give me a Native American talking stick.

  What were you trying to say?

  I fell back onto my pillow and closed my eyes, as a rush of images washed over me: Gypsy Rose and her divination games, Fern’s Sisterhood, a distraught Fredeline, Josephine’s face in a murky looking glass . . .

  Then, a whispered plea carried on the country wind.

  Wes flicked off the light and got into bed. Shivering, I cuddled up next to him. I didn’t want to admit it, but a troubling notion had begun to creep into my consciousness—a terrible feeling that I was being haunted by the spirit of Aunt Josephine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Gil Johnson lived in a part of town known as the Hills. The neighborhood was semi-woodsy and peaceful, with the homes widely spaced and set far back from the road. Gil’s house was a charming wooden cottage built, appropriately enough, into the side of a hill. As we pulled into the long, steep driveway, I half-expected a dog or two to come out and greet us. But when we climbed out of the car, the only sound was the soft, sorrowful coo of a mourning dove.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” remarked Wes, as we walked up to the front porch. He knocked on the door, and I angled for a glimpse between the curtains.

  “His car could be in the garage,” I pointed out.

  “Could be,” said Wes, knocking a second time.

  We both spoke quietly, as if we were doing something surreptitious. I tried to tell myself we were merely dropping in on an acquaintance, a friend of a friend. It was perfectly normal to peer into a window when no one came to the door. Right?

  In truth, I was trying to get a feel as to how long he’d been gone. Had he just stepped out to the grocery store? Or had he shipped off to Tibet again?

  “Let’s check the back,” I whispered.

  We rounded the house and came upon a new deck. I recalled the kid at the canoe shop saying Gil had been working on his deck. Cautiously, I crept up the stairs to peek in the patio door. That’s when I noticed the missing pane from a side window.

  “Wes, look at that!”

  He crossed to the window and assessed the damage. “Someone broke in. They removed the glass and reached inside. Check the patio door—I bet it’s unlocked.”

  He was right. I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  “We should call the police,” said Wes.

  “I will. But what if Gil has been hurt? If he needs help, every second counts.”

  Wes didn’t argue. He followed me in and scanned the room.

  “Gil?” My voice sounded hoarse. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Gil!”

  There was no answer.

  My heart beat a steady cadence as we tiptoed through Gil’s living room. The place was cluttered, but not torn apart. The TV was still on the wall. The kitchen was mostly clean—just one glass in the sink and a few crumbs on the counter. Overripe bananas sat in a bowl on the table.

  We continued to call his name as we crept upstairs. In the bedroom, a few clothes were strewn about, but it was hard to tell if this was the work of a burglar or the normal untidiness of a bachelor. I stood in the center of the room, thinking. I was curious to know if any clothes appeared to be missing, but I was reluctant to leave my fingerprints on any knobs. Then I had another idea. Moving into the bathroom, I looked all around the sink for a toothbrush. There was none.

  “He’s skipped town.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Maybe he left in a hurry, but it looks to me as if he left of his own free will. Let’s check the mailbox.”

  “Don’t you think we should call the cops now?”

  “Yeah . . . in a minute. I don’t think it’s an emergency now.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Wes stood at the front door, while I jogged down the path to check the mailbox. It was empty. I told him as much, as I slipped back inside.

  “I guess that means he left today, unless he doesn’t get much mail.”

  “He could have put a hold on it.”

  I wandered back into the kitchen, where a built-in desk was covered with papers, most of which appeared to be junk mail and hardware store receipts. The cubby above the desk was filled with pens, Post-its, and something else. A postcard. Considering postcards were Josephine’s preferred means of communication, I carefully extracted the card. It featured a picture of the Edindale County Courthouse and was addressed to “JJ, c/o Fern Lopez.”

  “JJ,” I murmured. “Josie June.” It was a sweet nickname, but there was nothing sweet about the brief message: “Don’t do it. Remember what happened to Davey.” It was signed “G.”

  I shivered involuntarily. There was no postmark and the note was undated. The postcard had never been mailed. Still, I felt sure this was Gil’s intended response to the postcard Josephine had sent to him—before she came to Edindale for the last time. When I found her postcard in Levi’s cabin, I hadn�
��t known if Gil had ever received it. Now I knew. Seeing his reply confirmed that he not only received it, but he also knew Josephine was in town. He had lied.

  “Keli, we really gotta get out of here.”

  “Okay.” I replaced the postcard and let Wes usher me out of the house. We circled back to the front and stood in the driveway, where I placed a call to Detective Rhinehardt. His voice mail picked up, so I left a message, saying only that I had stopped by Gil’s house and noticed the broken window.

  After hanging up, my eyes wandered the property. A piece of litter on the edge of the driveway caught my attention. I walked over to pick it up.

  “What’s that?” asked Wes.

  “An old receipt. It looks like it’s been stepped on. It was probably on the floor of someone’s car and stuck to the bottom of their shoe.”

  Wes joined me and read over my shoulder. “One burger, one large fry, and a large soft drink. From a place in . . . Virginia?”

  I nodded. “Levi drives a car with Virginia plates.”

  “Not exactly a smoking gun,” said Wes.

  “No, but . . . if he was here, that might explain how he obtained the postcard Josephine had sent to Gil.”

  “Why would he take that one and not the one Gil wrote in return?”

  “Maybe Gil hadn’t written his response yet?”

  Wes looked doubtful. “In that case, if Levi was here before Gil wrote the message to Josephine, that would mean this receipt has been blowing around on the ground here for a few days. Right? ’Cause I assume Gil wrote that note before Josephine was killed.”

  I studied the crumpled receipt. It was slightly damp, but not soaking wet. Other than the year, most of the date was too blurred to read. I didn’t know what to think.

  Wes squeezed my shoulder. “I think you’re right that Gil left in a hurry. Maybe he came to the same conclusion we did and figured he might be in danger. Or maybe not. Either way, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  I glanced back at Gil’s darkened house. “I wish we would have snapped a photo of that postcard.”

  “It didn’t say much,” said Wes. “Just, ‘Remember Davey,’ and ‘Don’t do it.’ Something like that.”

  “You’re right. I guess it’s the tone I really wish I could read. You know what I mean? Was Gil’s message meant as a concerned plea? Or was it a threat?”

  * * *

  For the rest of the morning, I cleaned house and helped Wes pack for his trip. When my family arrived in a couple days, they’d likely stay in a hotel. Still, I wanted the house to be presentable. My grandma would want the grand tour.

  After Wes left, I called Beverly to get the details on the Jameson party the following night.

  “I’m glad you can make it,” she said. “We’ve rented out an entire mansion. We need a good showing. Invite friends if you’d like. Tickets are forty dollars at the door. Oh, and don’t forget to come in costume.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  I hung up and looked in my closet. I had no costume. I’d already returned the one Crenshaw had rented for the haunted barn—which I wouldn’t have worn anyway. I’d never been one for the vampy, mistress-of-the-night look.

  What to wear, what to wear? I was about to call Farrah, when my phone rang. Once again, it was my neediest client, Grace Hammerlin.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hammerlin.”

  “Keli, is that you?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Hammerlin. This is Keli. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m calling you from the Cadwelle Mansion Bed and Breakfast. I can’t stay in my house another night. I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I’d like you to call Mr. Friedman, or his lawyer, as soon as possible and tell them what’s going on. He’s going to have to pay for those city ghostbusters, and if that doesn’t work, the whole deal is off. He can have the house back and return my money.”

  “Oh, dear,” I repeated. “Mrs. Hammerlin, it doesn’t work like that. We can’t ask for a refund. These sounds you’re hearing, I don’t think they qualify as a home defect the seller was obligated to disclose.”

  “Well, can you at least ask? Maybe he’ll agree. He probably knew the place was haunted when he sold it.”

  The cat jumped up onto the couch next to me and tried to nudge her way onto my lap. I patted the top of her head.

  “Mrs. Hammerlin, let me ask you something. Have you heard any scratching or thumping since I took the cat home with me? Have any more gloves or other items gone missing?”

  “No. That’s not the problem. It’s the overnight noises. For a couple days, there was nothing. It was blissfully quiet. Then, last night it was back again. That’s the thing—I never know when it’s going to happen! Just when I think it’s gone, it starts up again. It’s like the spirit is toying with me!”

  “Well . . . what if I stay the night in your house? Maybe I can get to the bottom of this.”

  The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. Mrs. Hammerlin jumped on my offer.

  “Fine. You’re welcome to try. But I’m not going back there until I’m sure these ghosts are banished for good. I’ll meet you at the house at six to let you in, then I’m going back to the B&B—which, by the way, I think Mr. Friedman should pay for. You can add that to our list of demands.”

  I suppressed a sigh. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Hammerlin. I’ll see you this evening.

  * * *

  I couldn’t believe I’d volunteered to spend the night in a haunted house. And I wasn’t even promised a huge inheritance or awesome prize money! I laughed at the absurdity of the situation as I strolled through Fieldstone Park on my way downtown. I had decided I needed some fresh air—and a quick confab with the wisest witch I knew.

  Mila was helping a customer when I entered Moonstone Treasures, so I amused myself by browsing the newest additions to her collection of spell books and witchy fiction. Without planning to, I gravitated to the section on evil spirits and dark energies. I was particularly drawn to a glossy hardcover, whose cover featured a medieval rendering of a nasty, scarlet-skinned demon. It looked like it flew straight out of Dante’s ninth circle of hell.

  “Trying to scare yourself?” asked Mila, coming up behind me.

  “No.” I replaced the book onto the shelf. “That’s the last thing I want to do right now.”

  “Come sit up front with me,” she said. “Catrina is off today, so I need to stay close to the cash register and telephone.”

  She brought out a velvet-cushioned stool, set it next to the checkout counter, and ordered me to sit. While she unpacked a box of candles, I filled her in on the latest from Mrs. Hammerlin. I also told her about seeing Josephine’s image in the mirror—or, at least, what I imagined was her image.

  “Interesting.”

  “Mrs. Hammerlin is so frightened of whatever it is causing all the noise at her house. She calls it a ‘banshee.’ But if it’s really Aunt Josephine—which seems very unlikely, but assuming it’s her for the sake of argument—she would be a benevolent spirit. She’s not evil.”

  Mila didn’t answer right away. I could tell her mind was working to select the right words. I spoke up again. “A banshee is an evil spirit, right?”

  She glanced toward the book section we’d just left. “In Irish folklore, a banshee is a female spirit that flies through the night wailing, or keening, a warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “A warning that someone is going to die.”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s not always considered an evil creature. It depends on the story.”

  “It sounds like you don’t think banshees are real.”

  “Well, I’m not saying there’s no truth to the stories.” She smiled. “Spirits and energies can manifest in many different ways. As for your aunt, it sounds to me like she’s crying out for help. She’s trying to get your attention however she can. The most likely reason would have to do with her unsolv
ed murder. I doubt she’s a harbinger of more death to come.”

  “I would agree, except for one thing.” I told her about Davey and Gil and my suspicions about the Sorghum bombing. Mila didn’t ask me where I’d derived my information, but a look of concern crossed her face.

  “You might have something there. Besides dealing with her sudden, violent death, she might have other unresolved issues—like guilt.”

  I nodded grimly. Aunt Josephine had wanted to turn herself in and was never able to follow through. Perhaps she was the haunted one.

  “Do you have a plan for tonight?” Mila asked.

  “Yeah, sort of. I’m going to make a protection amulet and bring along some salt and fennel.”

  “Let me get you some crystals.” She turned to the glass case behind the counter. “You’ll want some tourmaline, for sure. And some quartz, too, I think.”

  I watched with admiration as Mila filled a velvet pouch for me. She pulled the drawstring and raised the pouch to her lips. She blew softly, then brought the pouch to her heart. I knew she was infusing the crystals with her own positive energies.

  “Thanks, Mila.” I placed the pouch in my purse. “Hey, on a more fun note, I need a costume for a masquerade party tomorrow night. Think you can help me out?”

  “Absolutely! I have several options that would look great on you. Did you have something specific in mind?”

  “Not really. I’m up for anything—as long as it’s not a banshee.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mrs. Hammerlin was waiting for me on her front porch. She unlocked the door and flipped on the lights.

  “Make yourself at home. I just want to water my plants while I’m here. I forgot to do it before I left.”

  I followed her to the conservatory and watched while she tended to her plants. “Were any of these here before you moved in?” I asked, to make conversation. “Or did you bring them all?”

  “They’re all mine. This solarium is one of the things I love best about this house.” She looked out the window at the setting sun. “I do love it here. I truly hope you can work your magic and get rid of that lonely spirit—or whatever it is.”