Ghost Busting Mystery

by Daisy Pettles

  Kandy seemed to tuck that little Post-it Note of information into a folder in her mind. I wondered if she saw everything and had talked to the skeleton direct, why didn’t she know all about Dode?

  I asked, “The ghost of that skeleton tell you her name? How she came to die with her bonnet and dress boots on?”

  Kandy popped out her hips and cracked her back until she could stand upright and normal. “Yep. Sure did. I can give you a free sample, but you got to buy a ticket for the rest. Like I said, I got expenses. Just driving over here cost me a ten-spot. And the Moon Glo ain’t cheap.”

  “Lay the sample on us.”

  She jangled the bracelets on one wrist. “She was murdered. Popped off in her prime. Her name starts with an ‘A.’ Alta or Allegra or Anabelle. Something old and fussy like that. She’s kicking up a fuss in the apple trees because she can’t go on over to the other side until she has a Christian burial.”

  “I knew it!” squealed Veenie.

  “Gals, she’s asking for your help to save her immortal soul. And to help bring her killer to justice.” Kandy’s eyes steamed up like maybe she was going to squeeze out some tears, but then Harry came charging in the door, hat in hand.

  Harry stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Kandy prancing around. He extended his hand. “Harry Shades, at your service ma’am. This is my agency. These gals treating you right while I was out on a case?” He smoothed back his pewter-colored hair with one hand. He flashed his teeth, which were real and just a tad bit crooked.

  Harry had been on a case all right. A case of Schlitz from the smell of him.

  Veenie explained why Kandy had visited. “We’re going to ask Dode to spring for a séance, help solve the case. Kandy here says it’s a murder. I reckon having a séance will get us some good free publicity.”

  Kandy sidled up to Harry like she’d known him—or his type—all his life. “I’ll be in town a couple of days. Staying down by the river at the Moon Glo. Don’t see no ring on that manly hand. Maybe we could meet up later? Go over the case?” She batted her eyelashes.

  Harry put his hands on his hips. “I know the Moon Glo. Could stop by after work. Could give you my full attention then. Maybe take you out for a spot of dinner at Pokey’s downtown.”

  “Perfect. I just love being escorted. After dinner, I would be needing your full attention, of course. Everything you got, sugar.”

  Harry walked Kandy to the door, looking very pleased with himself.

  As soon as she was gone, Veenie pranced around Harry’s desk doing a little snake dance with her hips. “Oh Harry,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know where the Moon Glo is, don’t you, sugar?”

  I chuckled.

  “Get back to work!” Harry grunted. He went into the bathroom and slammed shut the door.

  Veenie eyed the door. “You think Harry knows he’s about to be taken for a ride by a first-class hoochie-coochie gal?”

  “Imagine he’s dreaming about it right now.”

  Veenie and I got busy dialing up Dode. He immediately gave his permission to set up a séance that Saturday night.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, we decided to visit Queet Hudsucker, the town librarian, to see what she knew about the Wyatts. The library was on the way to the White River Boat and Gun Club, where Dickie Freeman, Veenie’s boy toy, had promised he’d take a peek under the hood of the Impala. The car roared to life just fine but was sending up smoke signals by the time we pulled into the library lot.

  Normally Veenie and I lugged around a Chilton manual. We fixed car problems ourselves. But the smell of the smoke and the burning engine was off-putting enough that we figured it might be best to throw a man under the hood. Dickie had been our mechanic over at the Lube It Up. We’d known him since high school. He’d recently retired. He’d do anything for Veenie. Sad to say I wasn’t too proud to pimp out my best friend for free auto repair. Not that Veenie minded. She’d always been a little sweet on Dickie.

  The old Chevy belched gratefully when we pulled into the gravel lot next to the library and came to a firm stop. The library was in an old yellow brick- and limestone-trim building. It sat on a little rise on a nice green plot of grass, shaded by maple and walnut trees. Someone had hung a children’s swing in one of the trees. A steep limestone front entrance staircase was guarded by a pair of lions that looked just like the ones that guarded the New York City Library. Petunia and begonia beds surrounded the building. It was a great place, not changed much from when the Carnegies had first commissioned it. The front double doors were all glass, heavy to hoist open, the doorknobs and railings all polished brass. The only change made in my lifetime was a wheelchair accessibility ramp that had been built off a side entrance. Inside it always smelled like Murphy’s Oil Soap and lilacs, and books, of course.

  Queet waved as we strolled into the library. She was down on her knees at the end of a row of books, shelving incoming and straightening the rows as she went. She was a touch humpbacked and liked to wear sweaters tied over her shoulders to hide the fact. Her gray shoulder-length hair still had a lot of curl and sass. Today, she was dressed in a red cardigan with white sequin butterflies. Her denim skirt was wide and dragged the ground when she stood up. Scoffed tips of hiking boots peeked out from under the frazzled edge of her skirt. “Hey gals,” she called. “Just got some new mysteries. Got that Aussie priest detective you like, Veenie. Father Mackie John.”

  Veenie scurried over and latched hold of the book. “That Father Mackie John is a little hottie,” she said. “I wish he’d toss the cloth and ravish that Irish housekeeper of his, Miss Elizabeth.”

  A teenage girl, a volunteer library aid, slumped by with a tower of children’s picture books. She had white earbuds plugged into both ears. She eyed Veenie suspiciously.

  Veenie paid her no mind. She took her Father Mackie mystery book to the checkout counter.

  Queet asked what we’d been up to. “Saw that story on the Hoosier Squealer site. My, oh my. You gals certainly lead exciting lives. April got anything on that body yet?”

  Veenie sniffled as Queet scanned the book. “Nah. We was hoping you might know something. About Jedidiah Wyatt and his kin.”

  “Got some stuff about them in the Knobby Waters history archives. Most of it isn’t scanned. Still in folders. Got a box or two in the town history archives. Let me fetch that stuff for you.” Queet scurried away.

  Veenie and I sat down in some soft velvety red chairs in the reading room. I started peeling pages on a lady’s magazine while Veenie flipped through her new novel looking for the trashy parts. “Oh boy,” she said, “listen to this: ‘Father Mackie John felt his manhood stiffen when Miss Elizabeth came into his private chambers. Her bosom was swollen with despair … or was it desire?’”

  A young mother dressed in a black-and-gold Purdue T-shirt and white pedal pushers crept over. She put her finger to her lips and made a “shhh!” sound. She pointed to a wall sign that read “This reading room is for the enjoyment of all. Please be quiet and courteous.”

  Veenie stuck her false teeth out at the woman.

  “Well, I never …”

  Veenie said, “Well maybe you ought to. You might feel better if you did.”

  The woman stormed across the room. She sat down at a table alongside what appeared to be her son, a kid maybe nine years old. He was reading a book about pirates. The woman gave Veenie dagger eyes for a couple of minutes but gave up when Veenie wiggled her ears at her. The woman eventually buried her nose in the current issue of Good Housekeeping.

  Queet motioned for us to join her in the community room, back by the restrooms and coffee machine. “Got a few things for you gals,” she said.

  Veenie took the folder from Queet and spilled the contents out onto the table. There were some photos, a couple of tin types, and some regular prints. The documents were mostly legal papers related to the bank and the mansion. “So Jedidiah was real, eh?”

  Queet adjusted her reading glasses, which
hung on a pearl chain around her neck. “He was very real. Took twenty thousand dollars in gold and silver with him the night he rowed out of town. The bank’s last audit and balance sheet is in there, stamped by the regulators up at Indianapolis. That’s him. Right there.”

  Queet pointed to a tintype. Jedidiah Wyatt was sitting stiff as a board in a high-backed velvet padded chair with carved lion’s heads on the arms. His face was tiny and wrinkled like a raisin. He had a handlebar moustache waxed to a curl on each end. He was wearing a top hat and a gentleman’s silk scarf and brocade vest. He wasn’t very tall because the photographer had put a velvet-tufted stool under his feet so they didn’t dangle in midair. His boots and spats looked spit-polished. He held a gold-tipped cane like a king’s staff in one hand.

  Veenie studied the photo. “Snappy dresser,” she said. “Must have taken all morning just to dress that moustache. I can’t even get Fergie Junior to pull on pants before he goes out on the porch to get the mail.”

  Queet clucked her tongue. “Yeah. Men used to dress a whole lot better. Now it’s all butt crack and hippie whiskers everywhere you go.”

  I asked about the other photos.

  Queet fanned them out. “Here’s his wife, Alta Iona Ollis. This is their wedding picture. Married 1919, the week before the flood. He took off in the rowboat that same week. Never even gave her a proper honeymoon. They’d been planning to take a carriage ride down to Louisville, and then on to see the sites in Atlanta. They planned to visit his kinfolk and the Southern lady fashion saloons along the way.”

  Jedidiah was standing in this photo, one arm draped over the back of the ornately carved chair where his wife sat. She was trussed up in ten miles of lace. Her cheeks were puffy, like those of a child. Her long light hair had been curled with an iron so the ringlets fell down onto her exposed bosom. Her right eye was a little lazy.

  Veenie commented. “Holy corn dog. Kandy, that’s a medium we done hired, said the ghost was named something with an ‘A.’ She even mentioned the name Alta. Why, she was just a baby. Walleyed as a pike to boot. What happened to her?”

  “Nothing good, sorry to say,” said Queet. “There’s a paper in there attesting that she lost her mind when Jedidiah left her. She was ordered consigned to the Indiana Hospital for the Insane in Corydon. Melancholy, the reports says.”

  “That’s rough,” I said. “How long she in there?”

  “Probably died there. Place closed down after a fire in the seventies. Most of the records were lost. Back then people lived in asylums until they died. What cures they had—opium, cocaine, laudanum, lobotomies—were far worse than the diseases. You thinking your skeleton might be her?”

  I mused. “Could be, but if she was committed and locked up down in Corydon, how’d she get back here? And what killed her? She have any local kin who might remember her story? Aren’t the Ollises out on the brick plant road a part of her clan?”

  “Think so. Got a genealogy chart. Brought in by a fellow named Randy Ollis. I think he’d be Alta Iona’s brother, Jeb’s, great-great-nephew. Alta had but one brother, Jeb Ollis. Big lumber tycoon. Stripped the farmland down in the Knobby Waters bottoms. Ordered corn seed from South America. Went on to plant corn. Lost it all in the bank failure and Alta’s dowry to Jedidiah.”

  Veenie studied the yellowed papers. “Well, lookie here. This here chart says Alta Iona had a daughter, Myrtle Mae Wyatt, born eight months after Jedidiah skedaddled. Reckon the old coot gave her a bit of a honeymoon after all.”

  We all stared at the birth certificate. Jedidiah was listed as the father. “Anything else you can tell us?” I asked Queet.

  “It’s all pretty much in that folder. Randy Ollis brought that folder in back when we started the history archive. Said we ought to have this stuff. No one in his family was interested in keeping it. Said the mice were chewing it up. Glad he thought to bring it in. What happened back then was an important part of Pawpaw County history. Banks weren’t regulated then. That didn’t happen until after the big stock market crash, under FDR.”

  Someone rapped on the conference room door. It was a man wearing Birkenstocks, a straw hat, and a rucksack. He said he had some books to donate for the library sale later in the month. Queet excused herself. Told us to leave the file folder on the table and she’d reshelf it later.

  I asked Veenie, “Should we pay Randy Ollis a visit?”

  “Yep. Think so.” Veenie checked her cell phone. There was a text from Dickie Freeman. He wanted to know if we could meet him out at the Boat and Gun Club early. He had a proctology appointment later in the afternoon and wanted to make sure there was time for him to crawl under the hood of the Impala and give it a once over before the proctologist did the same to him.

  Veenie texted him back, “Sure thing, honey buns,” and we were on our way.

  Chapter Nine

  The White River Boat and Gun Club is not hoity-toity, unless you were born in Pawpaw County. If so, the place is pretty much a yacht club and the country club all rolled up into one. Its events were the height of the Knobby Waters social scene, especially in the summer months when fishing and hunting were in full swing.

  The clubhouse is your basic fishing camp bunkhouse, made of tacked-together, gray weathered wood with a mossy tin roof. Inside, under exposed rafters, a handful of chipped folding tables were strewn about. There was a kitchen in the back with white metal cabinets where fish fries were held in the summer and bake sales for 4-H and the Boy Scouts were held in the fall. A wide screened porch wrapped around the clubhouse. Fly strips loaded with winged bugs twisted like big yellow corkscrews in the river breeze that blew around the porch. Rocking chairs and hammocks were scattered haphazardly along the porch. The clubhouse sat on stilts on the sandy lip of the White River. It was nested in an elbow bend in the East Fork of the White River, where Greasy Creek trickled into the main waterway. Sycamores, weeping willows, box elders, and a sprinkling of maples shaded the wide chocolate-colored water. Clouds of mosquitos hung over the place. Not far in the distance you could see the covered bridge and the tractor turn off road to the Moon Glo Motor Lodge.

  When we arrived, Sheriff Boots Gibson was sitting on a dented, red pop cooler, fishing off the end of the porch. He had on a cowboy hat and his customary blue jeans. He cast a long line and then shot us a one-handed wave. The deep, wide channel he was casting into was known as the Greasy Creek catfish honey hole. Legends had been caught off that porch. According to the fishermen and women of Pawpaw County, some of the catfish that flipped and dove in that deep hole were big enough to saddle up and ride.

  We waved back at Boots.

  Veenie said, “Your boy Grape Nuts Gibson don’t look all that happy to see us.”

  Veenie had been calling Boots Gibson “Grape Nuts” since we were kids hanging together in Vacation Bible School. Boots got hold of some grape Kool-Aid powder out of the rectory kitchen, licked his fingers, and ate off the sugary purple mess, then later latched onto himself to take a leak. The rest was local legend. He wasn’t that fond of the nickname himself. Preferred Boots.

  “He’ll get over it. We’re making him work for a living. You know how he hates that.”

  “You ought to date the poor fellow, put him out of his gosh-darn misery.”

  Boots had been in love with me since second grade, or so said the rumor mill. I’d been married once. My husband, Charlie “Whiskers” Waskom, had died suddenly. His ticker burst on him twenty years ago, right in the middle of his drawing up a farm insurance quote. He’d gone face down in a bowl of German potato salad during the closing pitch. He traveled express lane to the Holy Hereafter, just like that. I’d grieved over him for a good couple years. Then one day I woke up and suddenly felt pretty, well, OK. Marriage, in hindsight, had been a heap of work. I didn’t plan on having any more amorous entanglements. I had two all right kids, all grown. I pretty much liked being a lone wolf at this state of the game. If I ever had to revisit the sex stage of my life, I was planning on making it a DIY proj
ect.

  “I don’t want to date. I’m leaving that to you and Sassy,” I said to Veenie. “I get all the lurid excitement I need just watching the two of you.” “Sassy” Sue Ann Smith was a divorcee our age who rented a room from us. She’d recently returned to town from California and was working her way through anything that could still stand and take a leak. We hadn’t seen her at the house lately, so she must have trapped someone who thought she was worth feeding and watering for a few days. She was that kind of woman—an ace at husband hunting.

  Dickie Freeman hopped up the steps and greeted us. We’d both known him for a coon’s age. He was widowed and a few years younger than Veenie. He was cute as a button and easy going. Trim little guy. Loved to dance. Still had some strawberry-blond hair nested above his ears. Dimples the size of Clark Gable. He called Veenie his little firecracker and loved poking at her until she sputtered. He carried a dented, green metal toolbox in one hand. “Want me to give the old Impala a once over, gals?”

  We nodded and followed him down the steps to the back sand lot where the Chevy was parked under some willows. A swarm of black river flies floated after us. When we got to the car, Veenie reached under the front seat and yanked out a spray can of WD-40. She let go at the flies. They fell to the ground like wet, oily raisins. She got the WD-40 on my glasses, and I ended up groping around in the glove compartment looking for some napkins to wipe off the oil. I found a lace garter (not mine, and I wasn’t about to ask Veenie) and managed to smear my glasses clean enough to see Dickie.

  Dickie popped the hood and stuck half his body under there while I ignited the Impala.

  Smoke rolled out like one of those Chinese black snake coils we used to light on the sidewalk during Fourth of July as kids.

  Dickie stumbled backward and waved the smell from his face. “Lord, God, Jesus in heaven, what have you gals been doing? It smells like you’ve been boiling possum on this engine block.”