“No, no one living at any rate. They did have a child. Alexander Pennington, Jr. But he died in a tragic swimming pool accident when he was about eighteen. That was years ago.”
“How awful.”
“Yes, and it was especially tragic since their daughter had died just a few weeks before. I forget why. Oh, I think it was an accident also. And she was only thirteen at the time. From what they say, the family just fell apart after the two deaths. The mother, Susan Pennington, began wandering around in her nightgown. You know the sort of thing. Two children dead. Who can blame her?”
I thought about the house and what I’d seen of it and shuddered a little. Were those the ghosts that haunted the place now?
“How long ago was that?”
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. Forty years ago at least. Susan died at some point and Alexander just muddled on through.”
She went on telling me about how much trouble they’d gone through trying to fight city hall.
“He’s taken a DNA test to establish paternity and everything. You’d think that would be enough for these bureaucrats, but oh no! They need more. Always more.”
“So he has proof now?”
“Well, they’re not accepting it. They claim we used a shady lab. So he has to do it again. Always something.”
While she talked, I looked around at what I could see of her house. As I thought back, I remembered that she was known for painting huge canvases with startling colors, and the word was that she used her own naked body as a paintbrush. Sort of. At any rate, she slathered bright paint on her body and rolled around on the canvas. At least, that was what Carlton Hart had told me. Her pieces were quite colorful and striking. But I didn’t see any of her art from where I was sitting, and I wondered about that.
What I did see were antiques everywhere, especially large silver pieces, soup tureens and punch bowls and trays and candelabras. That made me wonder why I hadn’t seen any of that sort of thing in the Pennington House. You expected those things in the home of a wealthy person of a certain generation.
Had someone already removed them? Food for thought.
“Where are your paintings?” I asked once she’d finished patching me up. “As I remember, your pieces were quite popular at the art show at the Carlton Mansion.”
She looked a little flustered. “Yes. Well, I keep them in an environmentally controlled storage room.” She sighed, looking around the area. “Jerry says they don’t quite go with the décor here. Craftsman style, you know. Austere and Asian oriented. That doesn’t go well with my larger works. They’re a bit flamboyant.”
I shrugged. I didn’t really care, I was just curious. “All these silver antiques,” I began, but she rushed to cut me off.
“Oh, no no! These aren’t mine. Jerry collects, you know. He’s at an estate auction right now, gathering more pieces. They’re his passion. He can’t resist a good buy on an antique.”
“You’ve certainly got some beauties here.”
“Oh yes. Jerry finds them everywhere and he brings them home and I keep the records on what we have. It’s a partnership, you see. We’re both heavily involved.”
The doorbell rang and she smiled.
“That must be Richard,” she said confidently. “He called to say he was dropping by. Now, if you want to meet an expert on silver antique pieces, he’s your man. He’s been Jerry’s consultant for ages and knows everything about the field. I’ll just go let him in.”
I listened as she opened the door. Her visitor didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.
“Jerry’s in Santa Barbara, isn’t he?” I heard a male voice say, sounding angry. “You might as well admit it, Celinda, Henry Kramer called me from the auction and told me he was there. If he’s going to keep going behind my back…”
“Hush now,” Celinda said urgently. “I’ve got company. Come on in and meet her.”
She was back in no time with a tall, handsome man of middle years.
“This is Richard Karl. Richard, let me present Mele Keahi. She works for the city and is evaluating the Pennington House. They seem to think they’ve got it in their hip pocket. The fools don’t understand how serious Jerry is about claiming the place himself.”
“Ah.” Richard blinked at Celinda’s tirade and held out his hand to me, his eyes warm. His friendly look belied the accusatory tone he’d used at the front door. “Miss Keahi. I’ve heard a lot about you, all of it good. So pleased to meet you.”
He was handsome and interested, a combination hard to resist. From the way he was smiling at me, I was pretty sure he considered himself quite a charmer, and if I didn’t watch out, I was going to be swamped with charisma like a bear in a honey tree.
“Richard. I’m glad to meet you. Please call me Mele.” I shook his hand and smiled at him, determined to get in a bit of substance before the swamping happened. “You’re an expert on antiques, I hear. Maybe you can tell me if I should be worried that I didn’t find any antique silver pieces in the Pennington House today. How much do you know about the inventory there?”
For a quick few seconds, I thought I saw a strange look pass behind his eyes. But then he smoothed all that away with a laugh.
“Any treasures Alexander Pennington had were long gone by the time he died,” he told me. “He was pretty much at the stage of selling his cufflinks for latte money toward the end.”
“Ouch. I suppose that would apply to all the furniture as well?”
“The good pieces. Sure. There’s probably some junk left, but…”
He frowned, noticing a beautiful silver pitcher sitting in the middle of a large, solid wooden table.
“Celinda!” he said, looking alarmed. “I told Jerry that this piece should be somewhere safe. You can’t just leave it out like this. It’s worth a fortune, and if someone who knows what they’re looking at decides to….”
He glanced at me and the words stopped, almost as though he thought I might be one of those nefarious people. “You’ve got to take care of this,” he said more quietly. “Really, Celinda. This is impossible.”
“Oh I know, Richard, but I’ve been so busy getting ready for this show in Cambria, I’ve just had no time.”
I looked at the piece and it was stunning. Huge and elegant, it had lacy leaves and flowers inlaid on the silver, and insects, lizards and small animals made of copper and brass, wandering, seemingly at random, across the surfaces. I’d never seen anything like it.
“What is this?” I asked him, amused by the perfect rendition of a common house fly sitting on the lip. Despite the fact that it was formed of beautiful silver, it was basically a disgusting sight. In a way. “What do you call the style?” I flashed him a sassy look and added, “In case I need to fence it some time soon.”
His mouth dropped open. Not much of a sense of humor with this one. But I cringed a little. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t know him well enough to tease him like that.
“It’s a joke,” I said. “I’m just curious. It’s so pretty is all.”
He hesitated, but his love for his subject overcame his caution and he picked the whole big, beautiful thing up to show it to me.
“Made by Tiffany in the 1880’s,” he said, pointing out the hallmark. “It was a time when modern arts and crafts were heavily influenced by art flooding in from the Orient, especially from Japan. You see these insects and animals attached? That’s called a mixed metal style. Very big in those days. Every new millionaire was ready to spend his oil or gold mine or railroad wealth on things like this. The bigger, the better. Elaborate silver pieces was a great way to show off how rich you were.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, truly impressed. “And curiously disturbing at the same time,” I added, glancing at the insects.
“Yes.” He grinned at me, finally getting my groove. “Just wonderful, isn’t it?”
He caught sight of the weird patchwork of Band-Aids scattered over my arms and legs.
“Has there been a mishap?” he aske
d, looking actually concerned. “Are you alright? What’s happened?”
I couldn’t blame him. Looking in the mirror, I had to grin. I looked like a cartoon accident victim.
“Nothing important,” I told him. “Just an unfortunate encounter with Mother Nature.” I gave him a flip smile. “I fought the bush and the bush won.”
“I see,” he said in that tone that made me think he didn’t see at all. He looked toward Celinda for an explanation, but she was holding the blinds apart so that she could see who was coming onto her front porch and the sight did not seem to please her.
“It’s Astrid,” she hissed, throwing a significant look Richard’s way. “I thought she’d be half way to Santa Barbara by now.”
Richard frowned as though warning her that loose lips sank ships, or something equally as dangerous. I began to feel like I was in the way here and ought to get going. But first I had to meet Astrid.
“Hello.”
Astrid was young, probably about thirty, with wild auburn hair and huge green eyes-the epitome of what came to mind when someone said, “She’s an Irish lass.” I could see that such an attractive younger woman could become a sore point between Celinda and her husband if not treated carefully. And from the sound of things, it probably had.
Celinda introduced her as an apprentice in her art format, someone learning the ropes of using your body as your paintbrush. I didn’t know there were so many human paintbrushes. Maybe there was a union. It takes all kinds, as my grandmother used to say. At any rate, she was renting the small gardener’s cottage behind the Moore’s house. She shook hands but hardly gave me a glance.
“Oh, Celinda, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said breezily. “I wanted to make sure I understood your intentions. Are you still planning to attend that art show in Cambria this weekend?”
Celinda looked startled for a moment, then purposefully brought back a smile.
“Yes, dear. I’m leaving within the hour. Why do you ask?”
“I was actually thinking of going with you, but now that’s going to be impossible. I have an old friend showing up, needing a place to stay for the night. Would you allow me to invite her to stay with me at the cottage for a day or two?”
“Oh.” Celinda looked surprised, then slightly puzzled. “Of course. No problem. If you need more bedding, I can leave some comforters and towels on the back porch for you.”
Astrid nodded. “Yes. Thanks so much! Good luck in Cambria.”
And she was out the door. Celinda gave Richard a look and he shrugged, as though they both had been startled by what Astrid had said. I couldn’t see the reason for it, but then, I didn’t know much about these people and their lives. She started to close the door, but then turned to Richard, her eyes wide.
“Oh no!” she cried in a loud whisper. “It’s that awful Tom Hatchett from across the street. He’s trying to get together a neighborhood petition against doing anything with the Pennington House. He’s worried about traffic. I can’t say that I blame him, but he goes on and on about it and you have the feeling he’s casing the place while he’s talking to you. His beady little eyes dart around into every nook and corner. You know what I mean?”
Richard’s mouth hardened. “Let me handle this,” he said, looking like a man about to gird his loins for battle.
I didn’t know who Tom Hatchett was or why he was considered worthy of getting special handling, nor did I know why everyone in town was visiting this woman while I was all cut up and infirm. It was like a flash mob: “Mele looks ridiculous. Come Quick.”
But I did want to be on my way, so I gave Celinda a quick hug and thanked her for patching me up, while Richard marched toward the large front doors with a grim look on his face.
“Thanks so much,” I told her. “I’ll just slip out the back way. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon. Good bye.”
She waved in a distracted manner, her attention on what was happening at her front door, and then to her cell phone, which was buzzing.
“Oh dear, here’s Jerry,” she muttered, looking at the phone. “Whatever does he want now?”
I made my way out. As I closed the back door, I heard some shouting. Something about traffic and too many cars and neighborhood conditions. Good old Tom seemed to be a noisy, as well as a nosy fellow.
Celinda’s backyard was nicely manicured and it was pretty obvious where her property ended and the Pennington property began. It looked like no one had done a thing to the grass or the weeds on the Pennington side for the last two years, and I had to pick my way through treacherous holes in the turf and hidden boards with nails in them. Then I noticed the filled in swimming pool. You could see the concrete forms for the diving board and the ladder sticking out of the plantings. It made me sick to think of that poor boy drowning there—and his poor parents. Two children dead. Talk about tragedy.
I looked up at the broken balcony and shuddered. I knew I should really go up there and close things up, but there was no way I was ever going into that house alone again. I did make sure the front door was locked, but then I headed for my car.
Not quickly enough, however. Tom Hatchett, the angry neighbor person, caught sight of me and now he seemed to know who I was. He came running up the driveway, yelling for me to stop, calling me by name. His eyes were a little wild and his shouts were incoherent. I didn’t feel I needed to stick around to find out exactly what he was angry about.
I hopped into my car, started the engine, gave him a friendly wave, pretending all was well and I was just passing through--and I drove away as quickly as I dared, letting my breath out in relief when I got far enough away so that I couldn’t hear his shouts any longer.
And that was when I heard the voice from the back seat.
“Do you have a TV at your house?” it said.
My head whipped around and I stared at the child sitting there, my heart nearly jumping out of my chest.
The car just barely missed ramming into the trunk of a huge old oak tree on the corner. I yanked the wheel and pulled over, pulled on the hand brake and tried to catch my breath as adrenalin shot through every pore of my body.
“What…?” was all I could get out, staring at her. This couldn’t be happening. “What…?”
She was the prettiest child I’d ever seen. About five years old. Huge blue eyes and blond curls all over her head. She looked anxious, a little scared. She wasn’t sure I really wanted her there.
And I didn’t! Good grief no!
Still, pretending I didn’t see her wasn’t going to work. I had to deal with the hand I’d been dealt.
“Who are you?” I finally managed to say.
She blinked and didn’t answer. Instead, she gazed out the window.
“We used to watch TV but then the man went away and we couldn’t get it to work anymore.”
Typical ghost. She wouldn’t answer a direct question until she was ready. I sat and stared at her. This was no spider web apparition. She looked very much like a real live girl. Suddenly I realized she had a little ghost miniature poodle curled up at her feet. Was that the dog I’d heard barking? Oh my.
I had to take her back. There was no question. She belonged at the house. How had she managed to get out, anyway?
“Well, we’ll just have to go back,” I said, putting the car into reverse. “Can you get in on your own or…?”
“No!” Her voice was a shriek that curdled my blood and I jammed on the brakes again.
“Don’t do that,” I told her forcefully, clutching the wheel and staring at her in the rear view mirror. “Don’t do that again. I can’t promise what might happen if you make that sound one more time!”
Now she was crying. “I can’t go back. They’ll hurt me. Miss Kressy locks me in the pantry and I can’t get out for days and days. Oh please, no! I can’t go back there.”
I turned to look at her, my heart sinking. She was just a baby, impossible to treat the way I would treat any other ghost. I sighed heavily. What was I going to do?
I could take her back and dump her on the front steps, but somehow I didn’t think I could live with myself if I did that. I could take her into the house and try to find someone…some ghost, I mean…who would take care of her the way a child should be taken care of. But I was terrified of going in right now, after what had happened. I needed some time to get back to my normal intrepid self—such as I was.
I looked back at the house. I was beginning to hate the place now. Then I noticed something. Was that a man at the third floor window?
“A man,” I whispered to myself, “or a ghost?”
I almost asked the little girl, but I stopped myself in time. She wasn’t going to tell me anything. I knew that from experience.
So that was it, wasn’t it? I couldn’t take her back there, so I was going to have to take her home with me. It was only temporary. She was going to have to understand that. But I didn’t know what else to do with her.
“Okay,” I said a bit brusquely. “You can come home with me. And you can watch a little TV. But tomorrow, you go back to the house. Okay?”
She nodded, a model of insincerity, as her tears dried on her cheeks.
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
She didn’t answer and I made the question harder. “Tell me your name or I’m not taking you anywhere.”
She bounced a little on the seat. “Mandy. My name is Mandy.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, Mandy. Let’s go to my house.”
She smiled happily. “And Sparky can come too. Right?”
The little dog looked up expectantly. I wondered what our cats were going to make of him.
“Sure. Sparky can come too.”
Or I could run the car off a cliff, Thelma and Louise style, and I wouldn’t have to worry about all this anymore.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Then I’d be a ghost too.
I shuddered and drove on.
Chapter Three
Bebe was entertaining Captain Stone. Bebe was always entertaining Captain Stone lately. Made you wonder if the man still had a job with the local police. I guess when you’re captain, you get certain privileges.
Little Ghost Lost (Destiny Bay Cozy Mysteries Book 5) Page 2
