The Ghostess and Mister Muir

by J. L. Salter

  Within fifteen minutes, they were inside the main museum area and headed toward the separate archives section, walled with glass atop cases and cabinets, and accessible for fewer hours than the primary facility. Despite being on those premises, the archive was in many ways an independent collection, with the curator’s salary funded in presumed perpetuity by a bequest from the family of Jebediah Wilkins, one of the town’s founders.

  Through the glass, Lucy noted the fastidious Mr. Sproule busily sorting through a small stack of what must be newly-donated material. He always wore a long-sleeved white shirt, immaculately pressed, with a brightly colored bow tie, and dark slacks belted noticeably high on his considerable girth.

  Everyone in town knew his wife dropped him off at nine, brought his lunch at one, and picked him up at six. Citizens of Magnolia could set their clocks by the activity of Mrs. Sproule, though no one understood why her husband never drove their vehicle.

  Looking up as Lucy tapped on the glass panel of the door, Sproule immediately recognized one of his frequent patrons, and waved her inside.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sproule.”

  “Delighted to see you back so soon, Miss Tierney,” he said, without any effort to shake hands. “Investigating the background of another unfortunate soul?” He had helped her group’s members with much of their local research. When his collection did not have what they needed, Sproule often had a notion where it might be found, if extant.

  “This is my friend, Levi Muir.”

  Muir extended his hand, but Sproule merely shrugged as held up his own, covered with a white cotton glove.

  “Are you one of Miss Tierney’s new members?”

  “Huh? Oh, you mean her chaser group.”

  “No, Mr. Sproule, Levi’s a new teacher at Magnolia High. English department.”

  “Tenth grade English, four classes.”

  “The very students Eve Arden taught as Our Miss Brooks,” said Sproule, obviously pleased to recall that trivia.

  Not recognizing those names, Lucy gathered Muir didn’t either.

  “Among other literary endeavors,” added Muir, “I have the pleasure of introducing them to Shakespeare.”

  “Ah, is Macbeth still in the sophomore curriculum? ‘Double, double toil and trouble’.” He smugly adjusted his tie. “Well, since you’re an English professor, I should tour you through all our major holdings. Most of the Native American material — plus Civil War diaries and correspondence — are elsewhere in the museum, but here we have coverage of the original timber business, some of the founders and their families, the town’s early days, some of the first businesses and downtown structures, certain of the train depot records…”

  When Lucy interrupted, their host looked distinctly disappointed. “We’re mostly interested in available documentation on the Gregg family, particularly Danielle herself.”

  “And her tragic death, of course.” Sproule absent-mindedly smoothed his starched white shirt with his ungloved left hand.

  “Plus whatever you’ve got on the old hotel.” She pointed to her colleague. “Levi’s staying there, you know.”

  “At the Whitecliff Apartments,” corrected Muir. “Second floor.”

  ”The Majestic. My, my. I suppose you’re aware…” Sproule leaned discreetly toward Lucy and whispered, “Does he know?”

  She nodded. “Danielle’s already made contact.”

  The curator’s eyes widened as he turned toward Muir. “And you’re still here?”

  “She’s not scary at all, but I get the feeling she’s sad.”

  “No doubt because of the suicide,” said Sproule. “A terrible way to depart this life.” When he tucked his jaw, two fleshy chins appeared beneath. “They say she decided death was preferable to that arranged marriage.”

  “Sounds kind of drastic to me,” observed Muir.

  “Well, he was an out-of-towner,” added Lucy, assuming that explained everything.

  Sproule punctuated his obvious comprehension with a tsking sound.

  Remaining stationary, Lucy scanned the shelves and cabinets. The archives’ organization system was known only to the curator and he likely kept it that way as part of his job security.

  He needed only to check two file drawers before he produced several thick folders and carried them to a nearby table, only half of which was clear. After Sproule pulled a white cloth glove over his other hand, he pointed to a box of disposable gloves and cautioned them to touch only the documents they were directly interested in. Archival material did not react well to the oil in a human’s skin.

  As he opened those folders and later pulled a box of loose papers from a nearby shelf, Sproule kept up a running dialog of the people and events covered within each. “I can’t recall exactly where it is, but somewhere in Danielle’s few surviving letters, there’s a reference to a local boy who had caught her fancy. She apparently believed they might enter courtship at some point.” He paused to flip backwards to two pages which had moved together. “But her father got wind of that possibility and forever put an end to it.”

  “Why?” asked Lucy.

  “Not the right social standing to suit the stuffy Mr. Gregg, Esquire.”

  “What did the old man do?” Muir tapped their host’s shoulder to get his attention.

  Sproule looked at the spot of the visitor’s touch as though he’d been poisoned. But he recovered after a nearly imperceptible shiver. “That boy’s father worked at one of Mr. Gregg’s timber-related concerns and that employee was given the not-so-subtle word if he wanted to retain his position, he’d keep his son away from the Gregg mansion.”

  “Wow, that’s straight out of a romance novel.” Lucy smiled. “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

  After looking toward the ceiling to check his memory and then idly fingering the folder’s contents, Spoule replied, “I don’t believe I’ve ever come across the boy’s name. All we have is a reference to his father, one of numerous employees of Mr. Gregg. But not even a surname. It’s almost as though that family was only whispered about in town.”

  Muir just grunted softly.

  “I will keep looking, however,” said Sproule, “now that I’m aware of your interest.”

  They were not actually examining much, if any, of the plentiful documentation, but their host seemed to know all of its content, so they basically listened as Sproule recited what came to mind with the visual prompt of each page he touched or turned.

  “Not long after that,” the curator continued, “Danielle’s engagement was announced.”

  “To George Fairley,” added Lucy, as she spotted that name on the leaf flashing in front of them.

  “Yes, not only an out-of-towner,” Sproule’s gloved finger pointed vaguely, “but seemingly little known even by the people where he came from.”

  Lucy nodded. “But it was still fairly common for some society marriages to be arranged at that time.”

  Muir seemed to struggle with the notion. “You mean she was trapped into marrying a stranger that her domineering father located for her? That really stinks.”

  “In any case, little is known for certain about Mr. Fairley,” Sproule continued, “but the few citizens who did know him were not favorably impressed. They’re not right here in front of me, but I’ve seen letters which describe Fairley as vain and cruel… and that’s just the parts they were willing to talk about.”

  “So most people believed that was the reason Danielle killed herself,” Lucy summarized for Muir’s benefit.

  “Here is a facsimile of Danielle’s portrait. Painted by a renowned artist from France, but it disappeared at some point after the Gregg mansion was torn down… if not before.”

  Muir started to speak, but Lucy discreetly pinched him. When he met her eyes, it was clear he understood not to volunteer any information.

  “Someone reported seeing it at the hotel before the Majestic closed, but that line of inquiry never turned up the portrait either,” Sproule continued. “I fear it’s been
lost to a rummage sale in South Carolina by now.”

  Over the next half hour, their host regaled them with stories large and small about the Gregg family, Danielle’s tragic death, and the history of the haunted hotel. Much of what he covered was new information to Lucy.

  Knowing the archives section closed at six when the curator’s wife arrived, Lucy began thanking Sproule at 5:45 and started ushering Muir toward the door.

  “You’re certain you don’t want to see our files from the train depot? There was a witness to that train death, you know.”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Sproule, we really have to scram. This was Levi’s first day of teaching and I’ll need to tuck him in by nine.” She smiled awkwardly when she realized how goofy it sounded.

  They left their gloves on the table and hurried out, passing Mrs. Sproule on the way. Plump and short like her husband, she clutched a purse tightly to her upper left hip and her right arm swung widely with each abbreviated stride.

  “Why are we rushing out?” Muir stopped at the museum exit. “He wasn’t finished.”

  “I didn’t want you to blab that we found the painting.”

  “Why? Would he have any claim of ownership?”

  “Not directly, but he has influence and, for the time being, I think we ought to keep the old girl where she is.”

  “In my apartment.”

  Lucy nodded. “Plus I knew Sproule’s wife was coming and didn’t think I could keep a straight face at how she fusses over him. She manages him like a little girl does her doll.”

  “Okay.” Over his shoulder he quickly checked the domestic Sproules. “Well, what was that about the witness?”

  “Oh, everybody knows that Fairley saw Danielle’s accident. But he claimed he couldn’t get there in time to save her.”

  Muir held open the door. “Totally stinks. Maybe that’s why Danielle’s so dejected after a hundred years.”

  After exiting the museum, they walked east to the front of the adjacent Majestic Hotel. As Muir gazed up at the second floor, Lucy tapped his shoulder. “Are you still up for a meal? Or have you had enough excitement for your first day of school?”

  “Supper… yeah. In fact, I’m starving. Didn’t eat much of that stuff in the cafeteria. Is the food always that lousy?”

  She laughed. “Actually today’s was better than most. I think they were trying to make a good impression on the newbies.”

  “Ugh. Well, I’ve survived on MREs, so I guess I can eat high school chow.”

  “It’s an acquired taste, but I’m sure you’ll adapt.” She pulled gently at his elbow to get him moving again. Her car was a block south on Orchid, in the lot across from the library.

  He figured it out. “You’re driving?”

  “Yep. That’s easier than telling you where to turn.”

  “You’re not hauling me across a state line are you? I think that’s still illegal in some areas.”

  “Not in Alabama, we do it all the time.” And she had the right companion for it.

  “Well, this is my treat, remember, to repay your kindness at school and with this research.”

  She pouted theatrically. “And here I’ve been thinking of it as our first date.”

  “Very well.” He clasped her hand. “So where do first-daters dine hereabouts?”

  Lucy discreetly noted how well their hands fit together. “How about the Bama BBQ? Best barbeque around. It’s south on Route 59, just barely outside the town limits.”

  “So you are taking me out of town.”

  “Yeah, about one long block.”

  “You’re not going to blindfold me, are you?” He grinned as he squeezed her hand then pulled out his phone. “Wait. We need a photo for the evidence guys when they’re searching for my body.”

  “Photo of what?”

  “Us, of course,” he draped a long arm over her shoulder and extended the phone. “The kidnapper and victim together.”

  “Uh, Levi, you can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Can’t shoot our picture.”

  He started to lower the phone. “Why not?”

  “It’s facing the wrong way, doofus.” She elbowed his ribs gently.

  His laugh filled the parking lot. “Okay, then you shoot it.”

  It only took a second to find the button and aim it properly. But it was difficult to steady her hand because of her own laughter.

  Levi seemed in the best mood she had witnessed in the past six days, and Lucy wondered why. Must have something to do with their research. It couldn’t be because he’s pleased to be with me. She tried to chase away those self-doubts as she drove to the highway and turned south.

  It only took a few minutes to reach the restaurant and Muir seemed to watch her the entire way.

  Standing on rustic pine flooring in an area designed to resemble a traditional front porch, they stared at the menu board above the open divide leading to the kitchen. A woman in front of them placed a takeout order and then moved to the side to wait for her food.

  Shortly after, a teenage girl —wearing a checkered shirt, denim miniskirt, and cowboy boots — appeared at the counter to seat them and take their drink orders. Both ordered iced tea.

  “What do y’all recommend for a new guy in town?” Lucy nodded in Muir’s direction.

  The girl smiled broadly. “Our house special is barbeque plates with sides of Cole slaw, baked beans, and melt-in-your-mouth hush puppies served with honey butter.”

  Muir seemed like he was about to start drooling.

  “Your waitress will be back with your drinks and take your food order.” She hurried off.

  Though it was difficult to wait those extra moments for their food, the results were well worth it. After about twenty minutes, both were stuffed and neither had room for dessert.

  Occasionally sipping his huge tumbler of sweetened tea, Muir gazed into Lucy’s eyes. “Thanks again for helping make my transition less painful.”

  It was odd how he kept coming back to her assistance. I’d rather have you value my company. “You’re welcome. You would’ve done the same if our roles were reversed.”

  His brow furrowed as he apparently pondered his reply. “I’m not so sure. When guys are friendly to women they’ve just met, it’s sometimes viewed in the wrong light… like they’re hitting on you or something.”

  “Did you think I was hitting on you?” She tried to smile.

  “No, I just thought you were really being nice.” His long fingers circled the tumbler, but he didn’t raise it. “I think I’ve tended to be less sociable than I wanted to be at times, so I wouldn’t get the cold hard stares from people who assumed I was after something.”

  “Do you imagine I’m after something?”

  He looked suddenly exasperated. “No, I’ve greatly appreciated how friendly and helpful you’ve been. I’m just trying to say that, had the roles been reversed, I probably would not have been this considerate.” He paused and searched her face. “I’m thanking you, Lucy.”

  She thought she understood, but also guessed nearly anything she could say might just make the confusion worse. And it was mutual confusion. She actually had been pursuing him. And on his end, Muir seemed interested, but stricken with relationship issues. “Sometimes it’s difficult for men and women to communicate effectively.”

  He nodded. “Especially when one of them has been badly burned.”

  It took her a second to discern he was speaking figuratively. With some veterans, it could have been literal. “Anything you care to talk about?” She dabbed her paper napkin to her lips and leaned back slightly. When she figured his silence would continue, she squirmed in her seat. “You don’t have to…”

  “No, it’s actually something I’d like to tell you, but sometimes I don’t explain things very well.”

  I’m listening. She waited silently.

  “Remember when the curator was talking about how cruel and vain that Fairley guy was?”

  Lucy nodded. This was taking an u
nexpected turn.

  “Well, I was about two minutes away from being engaged to a female Fairley.”

  When Lucy tensed, she nearly jostled her own tea tumbler. “Go on…”

  “Eva was spoiled and self-absorbed, and believed she was God’s gift to men. We hooked up after I was out of the service and had returned to college. At that point, I had not made a very smooth transition back to civilian life…”

  Lucy guessed he meant PTSD but did not inquire.

  “…and I thought Eva wanted to help pull me out of my slump.” He gulped like he had a lump in his throat. “But I realized she liked having someone tentative and out of balance to kick around. I finally understood that my maladjustment was something she hoped to maintain.”

  “Yikes.” She still refrained from asking.

  After a long silence, he explained, “The doctors said it was combat stress reaction.”

  “Never heard of that before.”

  “Supposedly, if left untreated, CSR can become post-traumatic stress.”

  “So yours was the better of those two diagnoses?”

  He nodded silently.

  Lucy covered his hand with her own. “How much of this did Eva know about?”

  “Everything. And I got the impression she would have preferred me having the worse diagnosis.”

  “That’s crazy! Why?”

  When Muir took a small sip of tea, his hand trembled slightly. “She turned out to be shallow, petty, and spiteful… and I realized I couldn’t stand to be shackled to her in a marriage.”

  “Uh, exactly how close were you to this engagement?”

  “She had already picked out the ring I was supposed to buy for her.”

  “Ouch. Where is it now?”

  “Still in the jeweler’s case, I imagine.”

  “Good thing you found out in time.”

  Another large swallow of air. “Later, I comprehended that I had known something wasn’t right, but sometimes when you’re weakened and still healing, you hold on to whoever is near… even if they don’t really want you to get better.”

  Lucy was speechless. It made no sense for a woman who supposedly loved a man to not want him healthy again. “Then she didn’t actually love you.”