The Ghost Who Dream Hopped

by Anna J. McIntyre

  Walt turned to Danielle. Placing a hand on her knee, he said, “I suppose this sounds selfish of me, but I wouldn’t want to change things. If I could do that, I wouldn’t have met you.”

  Danielle’s mouth turned to a smile as she said, “And Clint might have ended up with all your money, and he’d be sitting here right now.”

  Walt chuckled. “I thought he was?”

  Danielle grinned. “This all gets pretty confusing.”

  Walt looked into her eyes. Her grin disappeared, and her complexion flushed at his intimate scrutiny. He leaned closer, and just as his lips touched hers, a loud knock came at the parlor door.

  “You mentioned there was some carrot cake,” Joan Watts asked as she stood in the now open doorway into the parlor. By the time she opened the door after her knock, Danielle had already jumped up, leaving a bemused Walt alone on the sofa.

  “Certainly. Let me get you some,” Danielle said with forced cheerfulness.

  When she returned to the parlor fifteen minutes later, she brought with her a slice of carrot cake for Walt.

  “I thought you said I was getting fat,” Walt said as he took the plate of cake and the fork from Danielle.

  “No. I said you might get fat if you keep eating so much.” Danielle grinned and sat back down on the sofa with him.

  “I read about you in one of Lily’s magazines,” Walt said as he took his first bite.

  “What do you mean?”

  Walt scooped up another bite of cake with the fork, but instead of eating it, he offered it to Danielle. She accepted.

  “You are what they call an enabler. I clearly have an addiction to your baked goods, and you keep giving them to me.”

  Danielle shrugged and watched as Walt took another bite, patiently waiting for her turn. “You did give up smoking cigars. People who give up smoking tend to eat more.”

  “People who haven’t eaten in ninety years tend to eat more.”

  Danielle giggled and then accepted the next offered bite. She sat back on the sofa and propped her feet on the coffee table while shoving the papers to the side with one foot.

  “I’ll be happy when this cast is off, and I can move up into the attic,” Walt announced.

  “Hopefully the room will be done by then. I need to talk to Adam about a contractor. But maybe Bill Jones might be able to do it.”

  “Bill Jones? The palooka who broke the library window?”

  “He does good work and he’s reasonable. He did a good job on the front door.”

  “Sometimes I think one of your best traits might be your downfall.” Walt took his last bite of cake.

  “Best trait?” Danielle frowned.

  “You have a tendency to be too forgiving.”

  “I find it exhausting to hold a grudge. Anyway, Bill does good work, and he was actually pretty decent when he found me with my cousin’s body.”

  Walt chuckled. “And turned you over to the police.”

  “I thought he was going to kill me. Being turned over to the police was a relief.”

  “If he can get the attic finished by the time this cast comes off, I’ve no problem with him doing the work. I’m looking forward to spending some time with you without people barging in at the most inopportune times.”

  Danielle glanced over at Walt and smiled. “You’re thinking of those secret stairs, aren’t you?”

  He grinned and set the now empty plate on the table.

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you. First there were those papers you found, and then Joan knocked on the door.”

  “You skipped over that very brief kiss,” he reminded her.

  Danielle’s smile widened. “There was that too.”

  “So what didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ian found an old metal bucket shoved under the stairs behind my closet. It was filled with candles and some stick matches. A number of the candles had been used. He also found a sconce on the wall in the hidden stairwell. We hadn’t noticed it before. But it looks like the sconce was used for the candles. So someone obviously did use those stairs. There are even wear marks and scuffs on the steps.”

  “I assumed it had been used,” Walt said with a sigh.

  Danielle frowned. “Why is that?”

  “Looking back, I suspect my grandfather never intended to mention those stairs. It was after my grandmother had died, and I can’t remember how the conversation came up. But I do recall he changed his story a number of times when I started asking him questions. One story was that he had built the stairs but had them boarded up. Then it was something he wanted to do, that they hadn’t actually been built. You have to understand my grandfather. He had a habit of embellishing his stories, especially if he’d had a couple of brandies. I never really questioned him about it later because I figured it was more something he thought might have been interesting to do. But he obviously had the stairs built, and he didn’t board them up. If he had done that, those panels wouldn’t have opened so easily. There was some reason he wanted stairs from his bedroom to the attic.”

  “But why?”

  Walt shrugged. “I have no idea. But it might explain something.”

  Danielle turned on the sofa so she could face Walt. “What’s that?”

  “When I was a child, my bedroom was the one Lily stayed in. Sometimes I would hear footsteps in the attic. But when I would go up to check, no one would be there.”

  “That must have freaked you out!”

  Walt chuckled. “I was certain the house was haunted, but my grandfather told me it was just the sound of the house settling. But it sounded like footsteps to me.”

  “It probably was.”

  “Yes. Because it stopped after my grandfather passed away.”

  Danielle let out a sigh and turned around again, returning her feet to the coffee table. They sat in silence, each contemplating what they had learned this evening.

  Finally, Danielle said, “What do we do with the papers we found? Do we give them to the museum?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not sure. But considering what you found, I think it’s pretty obvious Ben’s father helped himself to your Packard.”

  “When going through the newspaper clippings Beverly brought over, I found an article on my missing Packard. According to the date someone scribbled on it, it must have been when my estate was going through probate. The article was about my stolen car. No one seemed to know where it was.”

  “I didn’t even consider this possibility. But was Ben’s father the attorney representing Roger, the one contesting your will? Maybe Roger gave him the car as some sort of payment. After all, he had access to it.”

  Walt shook his head. “No. There were a couple of articles about the court case in those news clippings. It mentioned Roger’s attorney back then. It was a firm in Portland I recognized. Roger wasn’t about to use someone like Smith for such an important case, even if they were friends. As it was, he lost.”

  Thirty-One

  There was something surreal about being able to see his own reflection. It had been over ninety years since that had been possible. Walt stood in his bathroom and stared into the mirror, studying the man looking back at him.

  In the beginning it was Clint he saw—in spite of the eerie likeness. Yet now, he knew the man looking back was his own reflection. He didn’t understand it, but he knew that the body he wore was a clone of the one worn in his first life.

  Perhaps it was in some way Clint’s body. But like a lump of clay, he had managed to reshape it and make it his own. He didn’t know how he did it. No more than he knew how he could still telepathically communicate with Sadie and Max, or levitate objects without physically touching them. While in the spirit realm, he had learned to manipulate his energy, and it was obvious that skill had not been lost to him when he moved back into the physical realm. Some of that energy was now being used to personalize his body.

  Reaching up with one hand, he stroked his beard. Lily gave him frequent comp
liments on his new look, yet Danielle had remained silent. She had never asked him to shave if off, yet he suspected she felt about beards as he did about tattoos.

  Opening the medicine cabinet, he looked at the razor. Perhaps it was time to see if the rest of his face looked like the old Walt—or the Clint version.

  Walt appreciated the fact Danielle hadn’t purchased any blue jeans for him when he came home from the hospital. Her reasoning might have been practically motivated—would he be able to slip them on over the cast? Walt’s rationale was strictly a choice of fashion. He wasn’t a farmer, and he didn’t intend to dress like one.

  According to Danielle, the clothes she selected were preppy—whatever that was supposed to mean. She said they seemed to be more in line with the style of clothes he normally wore. Of course, there wasn’t a three-piece pin-striped suit in the bunch, yet he imagined that would raise some eyebrows. He might have been dead for over ninety years, but he understood that look had long since gone out of style. That, along with men’s hats that didn’t look like baseball caps.

  Once again standing before his mirror, he studied his clean-shaven face for a moment and then glanced down. He wore a pale blue golf shirt with an embroidered monogrammed pocket, and gray loose-fitting linen slacks. However, it wasn’t an actual monogram of his initials, but something Danielle had designed as a souvenir for Marlow House. She had ordered several shirts long before his cousin ever came to visit, and had never made the decision to have more made. They were initially samples. But since they were in Walt’s size, she thought he might like them. He did.

  When Walt stepped out from his bedroom into the hallway ten minutes later, he came face-to-face with Amy Marsh. The young woman came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes widened, and she let out an unexpected and quite vocal scream.

  Amy’s outburst made Walt stop in his tracks and stare back at her. Danielle, who had been in the living room with the Wattses and Garcias, rushed out into the hallway after hearing the scream, with the two couples close behind her. The five people found Walt and Amy still standing in the hallway near the door to the downstairs bedroom. Walt wore a look of confusion while Amy simply stared at him in disbelief.

  “What’s wrong?” Danielle asked Amy. When the young woman didn’t answer, she looked to Walt and said, “Walt?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  Amy let out a breath she had been holding and broke into laughter. “I’m sorry. But seriously, for a moment there I thought I saw a ghost!” She and Walt were now surrounded by Danielle and her fellow bed-and-breakfast guests.

  “A ghost?” Rubin asked, glancing around the hallway.

  Amy laughed and shook her head. “Not there, here.” She pointed to Walt. “I thought Walt was a ghost!”

  “You look nice without a beard, but I’m not sure why Amy thought you looked like a ghost,” Joan said with a frown.

  Walt absently stroked his recently shaved chin. He glanced at Danielle and noticed her smiling in his direction.

  Amy looked at Danielle. “I’m sorry for making you guys all run out here. But my cousin took me to the local museum Saturday, and I saw those portraits you told me about. Oh my gawd, I can’t believe how much Walt looks like the other Walt without his beard. I didn’t really see the resemblance when I looked at the portrait. But when Walt stepped out of his room, he looked—well, he didn’t look like himself. He looked just like the man in the painting!”

  “Now we’re going to have to stop at the museum and see that portrait before we go,” Joan told her husband.

  Fifteen minutes later as the group all sat around the dining room table eating breakfast, Amy looked at Walt and asked, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

  Just about to take a sip of his coffee, Walt paused and looked over at Amy. “I’m not sure.”

  “What, you think he’s the reincarnation of the guy who was murdered in the attic?” Lindy asked with a giggle.

  Amy looked at Walt as she answered the question. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “Not that I believe in reincarnation. A bunch of baloney if you ask me,” Rubin said. “But I don’t think reincarnation means you come back looking like the same person.”

  “It’s genetics, dear,” Joan told Amy. “Nothing more than that. Although, I will have to admit the other sounds more interesting.”

  “You shaved,” Danielle said when she was alone with Walt later that morning in the parlor. Their guests had left to do some final sightseeing before packing up and checking out.

  “I thought it was about time to see the rest of my face again.” He flashed her a smile as he took a seat on the desk chair.

  “Nice face. I like it. You going to keep shaving?”

  “I think so.”

  “Much better, Walt,” Marie said when she appeared the next moment. She wore a floral print sundress and straw hat, and her age looked closer to seventy than eighty, which was about twenty years younger than she had been at death.

  “You’re looking good, Marie,” Danielle said as she took a seat on the sofa.

  “I find death suits me,” Marie said cheerfully. “I prefer you without a beard, Walt. Such scratchy things.”

  “Where is your partner in crime?” Danielle asked.

  “I assume you’re talking about Eva. She’s over in Portland haunting a theater. They’re running a silent screen marathon. I promised her I would be back this evening, when they’ll be showing some of hers. But I wanted to stop by and see what I’ve been missing.”

  “I thought you were going to check on Beverly?” Walt asked.

  “I did drop by her house, but she is really quite boring. She doesn’t exactly ramble on to herself about what she did to her husband or where we could find evidence of the murder weapon.”

  “You mean the crabmeat?” Danielle asked.

  Marie nodded. “Unfortunately, Steve ingested the weapon.”

  “The chief seems to be dividing his time between trying to figure out who attacked her—and gathering more information on her character,” Danielle said.

  “I would think the fact she killed her husband tells us all we need to know about the woman,” Marie reminded.

  Danielle agreed and then shifted the conversation to what they had found in the box Beverly had brought over. She also showed Marie the news clippings with the men dressed in Klan garb.

  “I never heard about the Seahorse Motel being on Marlow property. My father never said anything about it.”

  “I don’t think George knew I even owned that piece of property,” Walt explained. George had been Marie’s father.

  “Those payments are rather shocking, and I would love to know what they were really for, but the rest, no big surprise. I always knew Millie’s father and the rest of them were involved with the Klan.”

  “Millie’s father?” Danielle asked.

  “Yes. Billy Forest. I thought you knew?” Marie asked.

  “Billy Forest—the same William Forest who got money from Walt’s estate? One of the guys dressed up in white sheets?”

  “Of course. It was no secret. At least, not when we were kids. I suspect that’s why Millie’s and Herman’s fathers purchased the land for the new church. It was their way to redeem their reputations after people started looking down on the Klan. According to my father, there was a time it was considered a respectable organization.”

  “Your father never had patience for the Klan. One reason we were such good friends,” Walt said.

  Marie smiled at Walt. “My father, like his, had worked for your grandfather in the shipping yard, and many of his coworkers weren’t white. He respected them, and he had no room for intolerance. Neither did my mother. But back then, I suppose there was only so much they could do, considering the climate of the country.”

  “If you know about Millie’s father—about the rest of them—does that mean they know too?” Danielle asked.

  “Are you asking if Millie, Ben, and Herman know their fathers were in the Klan?” Ma
rie asked.

  Danielle nodded.

  “Yes. Of course they know. That’s why I parted ways with the Historical Society. They wanted to leave all that in the past. I can’t say I blame them. I certainly wouldn’t want it advertised if my father had been a Klan member.” Marie cringed.

  “Do you think they’ve already seen all this?” Danielle pointed to the box on the floor by Walt’s feet, now filled with newspaper clippings, photographs, and other assorted items from the boxes Beverly had brought over.

  Marie peered into the cardboard box, but since she couldn’t pick anything up, she had to wait for Walt to lift up various items and show them to her. When he came to the fishing photo album, he opened it to the first page. After looking at it, she nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some of the other things too.”

  “I suppose you have to give the Historical Society credit,” Danielle said as she watched Walt return the items to the box.

  “How so?” Marie asked.

  “They could have just destroyed all that instead of keeping it.”

  “It was convenient for them when the newspaper office burned down,” Walt noted.

  Danielle frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Think about it. Over in the museum they have an entire—uncensored—selection with back issues of the local newspaper. The few articles where those palookas are smiling for the camera while proudly wearing their sheets are from the missing newspapers.”

  “I wonder if they’re really missing,” Marie mused.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But these days it’s pretty easy to go online and look at back issues of other newspapers. And I wouldn’t be surprised if I did a search over on one of the sites I use, I’d find other articles on those guys in their KKK costumes. I’m sure they posed for more than the local newspaper in their attempt to spread their word,” Danielle said.

  Marie nodded to the box. “So what are you going to do with that?”