Lady Justice and the Mystery Mansion

by Robert Thornhill

  “Very commendable and very prudent. You never know when PETA will be looking over your shoulder.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Surely you know about PETA, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”

  “Of course I do. They do great work.”

  “And you’ve probably eaten a box of Animal Crackers sometime in your life.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know that PETA has convinced Nabisco that after thirty years, their boxes showing the caged circus animals is cruel and should be changed.”

  “Holy cow! Then how cruel is it when some kid bites the head off of a giraffe?”

  “Exactly! By the way, I hope you showed no mercy to the spiders and other creepy things.”

  “That’s where I draw the line. You know my motto, ‘If it crawls, it falls ---.”

  “I know, and ‘If it flies, it dies.’”

  “You got it,” he replied, heading to his truck. “I’ll send you my bill.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  When I walked in the door Dan called out. “Walt! I’m glad you’re here. What do you want me to do with the booze?”

  “What booze?”

  “The booze that’s in the wine cellar.”

  “We have a wine cellar?” I asked, obviously surprised.

  “Yes, my friend, you do, and we found a surprise inside.”

  I followed Don to the basement. Up till now, I had only seen the basement using a flashlight. Don had brought a generator to power a huge bank of lights that illuminated every corner of the basement, revealing a door that I had not previously noticed.

  I walked over to the door, and to my surprise, we did indeed have a wine room, fully stocked.

  I picked up a bottle and looked at the label. Of course, it meant nothing to me. The only thing I drink is Arbor Mist.

  “There’s some pretty good stuff in here,” Don said. “What shall we do with it?”

  “I have no idea. I certainly don’t want it.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll take it off your hands and give you a five-hundred-dollar credit on your account.”

  I thought for a moment. “Deal!”

  “Good,” he replied. “Now for the surprise.”

  “This wasn’t the surprise?”

  “Not by a long shot. Follow me.”

  There was a set of stairs at the back of the room. They seemed to stop at a rock wall. Don stepped up to the wall and gave a push. The wall swiveled inward, revealing yet another small room.

  “The electricians were following the old wiring and found this place,” he said, stepping aside.

  I looked inside and my mouth dropped open. There was a cask and more bottles of hooch.

  “Holy crap! This stuff looks really old.”

  “I’m guessing almost a hundred years old,” Don replied. “It looks like contraband from the prohibition years. I’ll take it off your hands for another two thousand credit.”

  “Something tells me you’re taking advantage of my ignorance.”

  “You’re absolutely right, my friend. Feel free to dispose of this on your own. You can probably get more than I’m offering.”

  “How is it you know so much about booze?”

  “I don’t, but I know a guy.”

  I mulled over his offer. I could either make a quick two grand, or I could spend the next week trying to figure out exactly what I had, then try to sell it for more. In the end I decided I didn’t want to screw around with a bunch of old bottles.

  “Deal!”

  Art had been listening to the entire conversation.

  As I walked by, he whispered in my ear. “Sucker!”

  I probably was, but when I walked out of the place I was twenty-five hundred better off than when I walked in.

  When I walked into our apartment, I called out to Maggie, “Boy, have I got a surprise for you!”

  She met me at the door and gave me a big hug. “And I’ve got a surprise for you. Me first!”

  She led me into the kitchen where her papers were scattered across the table.

  “I’ve spent the past few days researching the second owners of the Gladstone mansion, Angelo and Catrina Rossi. It was much more difficult than with the Matson’s. There wasn’t much on Google, so I had to go to the library, but I finally found what I was looking for.”

  “And I’ll bet you’re going to tell me all about it.”

  “Well, don’t you want to know?” she asked indignantly.

  “Absolutely!” I replied, properly chastised.

  “The Rossi’s owned the mansion from 1919 until 1935. They owned a bar on Twelfth Street in downtown Kansas City. They were doing quite well until the United States banned the sale of alcohol during the Prohibition years.

  “It was during that time that Tom Pendergast, the Chairman of the Kansas City Democratic Club, ruled city government with an iron hand. Because of his ties to organized crime, city officials turned a blind eye to Prohibition and alcohol flowed freely at numerous speakeasys. Those that flourished had ties to Pendergast and continued to operate with his blessing.

  “The Rossi’s were one of the bar owners who continued selling bootleg liquor, but they wanted no part of Pendergast’s crime family. They were under constant pressure to go under his umbrella, but they firmly resisted.

  “Then, one Sunday morning, the Rossi family, Angelo, Catrina, and their two children, were gunned down on their way to church. Everyone knew it was Pendergast’s doing, but he was so powerful no one dared to accuse him. The Rossi’s were all dead and no one was ever held accountable.

  “The Rossi estate finally cleared probate in 1935. That’s when it was purchased by Theodore and Marjorie Weston. I just can’t wait to get started researching their story.

  “Oh, yes, you said you have a surprise.”

  Maggie’s research certainly made sense of what we’d found in the basement of the old mansion. Undoubtedly, the hidden stash of hooch was part of the illegal contraband that was being sold in their speakeasy during the Prohibition years.

  When I told Maggie about the secret cellar, she wanted to go take a look for herself before Don cleaned it out. Just seeing the old bottles brought her historical research to life.

  After hearing her story, I was starting to feel a bit uneasy. The ownership of the mansion by its first two occupants ended in tragedy. I just hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next time I drove by the mansion, all the workers were on the front lawn. Don was standing in front of them waving his arms and pointing to the house.

  I parked and made my way up the sidewalk.

  “Coffee break?” I asked.

  “I wish it was that simple,” he replied, obviously exasperated. “We’ve got a real problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “You’re going to think I’m nuts, but here’s what’s happening. The men are reporting strange things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “For starters, when they come in to work each morning, things are not where they left them. Tools show up in odd places with no explanation. They hear footsteps and creaking doors, but when they go look, no one’s there. Today was the straw that broke the camel’s back. A table saw came on and not a soul was anywhere near it. Walt, the men think the place is haunted and they won’t go back in until they know it’s safe.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed that many of my laborers are Hispanic. They’re hard workers, but they’re also a bit superstitious. The spirit world is very important in their culture.”

  Although I don’t speak fluent Spanish, I took a couple of courses in college. While I was listening to Don, I heard several of the worker’s conversations and I was able to pick out a few words. Muerto, fantasma, and asustado. Dead, ghost, and afraid.

  I turned to Don. “Now you’re going to think I’m nuts. Believe it or not, this isn’t m
y first encounter with spirits from beyond the vail.”

  Until a few years ago, if someone told me they were seeing ghosts, I would have scoffed, but then something strange happened that made a believer out of me.

  One day, Mary called me to the Three Trails and I found a scene much like I was seeing today. My tenants were huddled on the front lawn scared out of their wits by strange occurrences such as Don’s men were experiencing.

  I’d never dealt with such a problem and had no idea where to turn for help. When I shared my dilemma with Maggie, she knew just what to do. Another agent in her office had a listing where the husband had choked the wife to death. Every time she showed the house to a buyer, they would say it felt cold and had bad vibes.

  The agent called Christopher Wheeler with Psychic Solutions. He came out, cleansed the house, and the agent had a contract the next week.

  Reluctantly, I gave Wheeler a call. He came to the hotel and discovered our guest was Brother Cyrus, a Franciscan Monk who died in the hotel in 1908.

  Wheeler convinced my tenants that Brother Cyrus was a benevolent spirit who stayed around to continue his ministry to the hotel occupants.

  A bit later, I called on Wheeler again when I was called to investigate strange goings-on at the old Vaile Mansion in Independence.

  As I shared my paranormal experiences with Don, he just stood there with his mouth agape.

  When I finished, he shook his head. “I thought I’d heard everything, but never anything like this. What do you suggest we do?”

  “I’ll give Chris Wheeler a call and have him come out. Tell your workers that everything will be okay. Maybe you can have them start work on the exterior until we get this spirit thing figured out.”

  “So this Wheeler guy is an honest-to-goodness ghost buster?”

  “I think he prefers the term, medium.”

  He shook his head again. “I can’t wait to see how this turns out.”

  I hurried home and gave Chris a call.

  “Christopher Wheeler, Psychic Solutions. How may I help you?”

  “Chris, it’s Walt Williams. I’ve got another one for you.”

  “No kidding? You’ve turned out to be quite a spirit magnet. What’s going on?”

  “Well, I bought this old mansion.”

  I told him everything I knew about the place and what Don’s workers had reported.

  “It certainly sounds like a spiritual manifestation,” he said when I had finished. “For some reason, your restoration has caused it to reveal itself. I’m guessing you’d like me to go over and take a look.”

  “I certainly would. The workers are scared to death and won’t go back inside until something’s done with our resident spirit.”

  “I’ll meet you in an hour.”

  An hour later, I met Chris in front of the mansion.

  He stepped out of his car and I saw the look of disbelief on his face.

  “You bought this place? What in the world were you thinking?”

  “Actually, you’re the third person who’s asked that same question and every time I blame it on my wife.”

  “I get it. Enough said.”

  At the front door, I introduced Chis to Don.

  Don gave him a long look. “You’re not quite what I expected.”

  “You probably thought I’d look like some kind of kook. I get that a lot.”

  At that moment, we noticed that the workers had all gathered on the front lawn. Don must have told them who was coming, and from the looks on their faces, they had never seen someone who claims to talk to the dead.

  “Looks like you’ve got an audience.”

  “Then I’d better get busy. I don’t want to disappoint. I’ll go in alone. You two stay here and try to keep things quiet.”

  As Chris disappeared into the house, I looked at the huddled workers. Noise wasn’t going to be a problem. You could have heard a pin drop.

  Thirty minutes later, a grim-faced Chris returned.

  “You definitely have a spirit trying to manifest itself,” he said, solemnly.

  “Please tell me it’s a good spirit like Brother Cyrus,”

  “I wish I could, but that’s not the case. This spirit is angry, restless, maybe even vindictive.”

  Evidently some of the workers understood English. There was a buzz of conversation and the crowd shrunk back.

  “Oh, great!” Don muttered. “Now I’ll never get them back inside.”

  “So what should we do?” I asked, knowing all to well what he was going to say.

  “A séance, of course,” he replied. “We need to find out what’s troubling the spirit, then maybe we can do something to bring it peace.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll meet you here.”

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  I promised I would never say that again, but for some reason beyond my comprehension, every time I’ve participated in a séance, the heavens have opened up with squalls of drenching rain pounding the streets.

  Not surprisingly, Maggie was reluctant to let me go.

  “Look,” I said, trying to reassure her, “I’ve done this three times. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  “But this is different. Those spirits were kind and benevolent. What were Chris’s words again, angry, restless, vindictive? You have absolutely no idea what a vindictive spirit might do!”

  “I’m sure Chris has dealt with this kind of thing before. I trust him. Anyway, if we want to get the place restored, we have to deal with this situation. The workers won’t go back inside until we do.”

  “I suppose so, but be careful. Isn’t there something you should be doing to keep yourself safe --- like wearing a clove of garlic around your neck?”

  I laughed. “You’ve been watching too many movies on the Sci-Fi channel, and for your information, garlic is used to ward off vampires.”

  “Okay smarty pants, just come back to me in one piece.”

  I gave her a kiss and headed out for my rendezvous with the spirit world. I opened my umbrella in the foyer and when I stepped out the door the wind nearly turned it inside out. The wind was whipping the rain so violently that the umbrella was useless, and by the time I reached my car I was soaking wet. Shivering, I turned on the heater full blast and headed to Gladstone Boulevard.

  The moment I pulled up into the driveway of the old mansion, I had a feeling of foreboding. This was the first time I’d been there at night. The structure, silhouetted behind the old oaks whose branches were being whipped by the wind and rain, struck me as a massive vault containing the gruesome secrets of its former occupants. Flashes of lightening reflected off the windows looked like eyes burning into my soul.

  I had almost talked myself into pulling away when I saw the headlights of Chris’s car pull in behind me. I felt a moment of panic. I was trapped. There was no way out!

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when moments later, Chris tapped on my window. “Give me a hand and let’s get this stuff inside.”

  I unlocked the front door and helped him carry a card table, two folding chairs, and a cardboard box inside.

  “Great night for a séance,” he said, grinning. “Let’s set up over there,” and he pointed to the base of the stairway leading to the second floor. “When I was here yesterday, that’s where I felt the presence the strongest.”

  While I set up the card table and chairs, Chris pulled two candles from the cardboard box and placed them on the table.

  He lit the candles, then turned to me. “Are you ready?”

  I took a deep breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good,” he replied. “You’ve been through this before, so there shouldn’t be any big surprises. Hopefully, the spirit will manifest itself, and if so, maybe we can find out what’s troubling it.”

  During our previous séances, the spirits actually communicated through Chris. It was an eerie feeling, sitting there in the candlelight, listen
ing to a voice that in no way resembled Chris’s voice. I wondered if that would be the case tonight.

  We turned out our flashlights, leaving only the flickering candles to penetrate the dark corners of the room.

  The old house creaked and moaned, buffeted by the unrelenting wind and rain. Every so often there would be a flash of lightening that would cast eerie shadows on the wall, followed shortly by a clap of thunder that rattled the windows.

  I would involuntarily jump at each clap of thunder, but Chris remained completely calm with his eyes closed.

  After maybe twenty minutes, I felt a chill breeze and the candles flickered.

  “I feel a presence,” Chris whispered softly.

  His eyes still closed, his head cocked from side-to-side as if trying to isolate the source of the disturbance.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said to some force I could not see. “We’ve come to hear you, to share your burden, to ease your pain. Come, speak to us. Who are you?”

  The next voice I heard was not the voice of Christopher Wheeler. It was the voice of a woman.

  Chris opened his eyes and looked directly at me. “My name is Julia Weston. Who are you and why are you in my house?”

  “Uhhh, my name is Walt Williams. My wife and I bought your house and we plan to restore it and make it beautiful again.”

  “Beautiful? It will never be beautiful until it has been cleansed of the atrocities that have been committed here.”

  I figured I had gone this far, I might as well push ahead. “If you are the one responsible for the items that have been moved and the saw turning on, is it because of something that happened to you? Have you been trying to get our attention to undo something that happened in the past?”

  “Yes, that was me, but sadly, you can never undo what was done to me.”

  “Then tell me, please, what can we do to help you?”

  “My spirit cannot go to its final resting place until another spirit has been set free.”