The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed

by Bruce Coville

  After a while I began to wonder whether Norma had brought me to the shop to work or to answer questions about our adventures.

  It turned out that Chris’s parents had plans for that evening. So instead of my staying at her place, she was going to ride home with Norma and me, to stay at my house.

  At the end of the day the two of us were waiting outside while Norma did some last-minute paperwork. We were sitting on the stone wall that ran in front of the shop, talking about Phoebe Watson, when a voice called to us from the bushes.

  “Something terrible, something wonderful, haven’t found it yet.”

  I jumped off the wall and ran over to the hedge. “Jimmy! Jimmy, what’s up there at Phoebe’s House?”

  “Can’t tell!” said Jimmy. He sounded offended, as if I had asked him to do something wicked.

  “What about the ropes?” I asked, backing away a bit. “What do you know about the ropes?”

  “Can’t hang someone without ropes.”

  “Did you really hang Cornelius Fletcher?” Chris asked sharply. She had come over to stand beside me.

  Jimmy’s eyes went wide. “Had to! Poor man couldn’t do it himself. I hung him every day.”

  Just then Norma came out of the shop. At the sound of the door opening Jimmy ducked into the bushes.

  “You two ready to stop chasing squirrels and go home?” called Norma.

  “We’re not after squirrels,” Chris replied. “We’re talking to a nut.”

  “Maybe,” I said softly. “And maybe not.”

  “He’s nuts,” Chris said. “You can only hang a guy once; after that he’s dead!”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I was starting to get an idea. Everything clicked into place as we drove past Seven Rays.

  Well, not everything. But I knew why Jimmy had hung Cornelius Fletcher.

  And I knew where the Lost Masterpiece was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  On the Edge

  “You’re as crazy as Jimmy,” said Chris when I told her my theory.

  “Fine,” I said. “You don’t have to believe me. I’ll test it on my own.”

  “How?”

  She had me there. Phoebe Watson’s house wasn’t a public place, like the Grand Theater or the Quackadoodle Inn. In those places Chris and I had been fairly free to wander around. But I had no excuse for snooping through Phoebe’s house—at least, not the kind of excuse anyone other than Chris or I would go for.

  “We could just ask,” she said at last.

  Notice that even though she thought I was nuts, she was willing to help me test my theory.

  I thought about what she had said for a minute, then began to laugh. We had gotten so used to doing things in secret that it hadn’t occurred to me that we could simply ask Byron or Phoebe to let us test my theory.

  “Let’s go call them,” I said.

  As it turned out, we didn’t need to. The phone was ringing when we left my room. My father got to it first. He listened for a moment, then said, “Hold on. I’ll check.” Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he turned to us and said, “It’s Byron. He wants to know if you two can spend the night.”

  I must have looked astonished because my father started to laugh. “Byron wants you to babysit. He’s been tied to the house for the last few days, and he’s starting to get cabin fever. He’d like to go out with some friends, but he doesn’t feel he can leave Phoebe alone. She sleeps a lot of the time, but he wants someone there to bring her medicine and water, talk to her if she’s awake, things like that.”

  I looked at Chris and smiled. When the gods put a gift like this in your lap, you don’t question it.

  “We’d be glad to help,” I said.

  “I figured as much,” replied Dad. “On the other hand, I’m not so sure I want you over there.”

  “Oh, Dad, the ghosts are no problem. They never really tried to harm us—and you know yourself that they can’t hurt you if they hit you.”

  “You can cause people damage without hitting them,” he said. “For example, you could slam a shutter on them.”

  I wondered if Mona had given him that line or if he had come up with it on his own.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “it’s not the ghosts I’m worried about. It’s ‘Early Harvest.’ I’m not willing to let you go unless you promise you’ll stay away from that picture.”

  I hate having to stay away from anything. On the other hand, I figured I had already learned all I was going to learn from “Early Harvest.” So I promised.

  “You, too,” he said to Chris.

  “Won’t be a problem,” Chris said casually.

  My father looked at her. “How dumb do you think I am?” he said. “Promise.”

  Chris sighed. “I promise, Mr. Tanleven.”

  Dad nodded and turned back to the phone. “You’re on, Byron.” He listened for a moment, then said, “No, don’t bother to send a cab. I’ll bring them over. I need to pick up some groceries anyway.”

  He hung up and told us to pack our overnight bags. Chris hadn’t unpacked hers yet, so she was all set.

  As soon as we were finished with supper, the three of us piled into the Golden Chariot and took off for Phoebe Watson’s house and our appointment with destiny.

  (When my dad first read that sentence, he said he thought I was being overly dramatic. But when I reminded him of everything that had happened that night, he decided I was right to use it.)

  Byron greeted us at the door. “I’m so glad you two could do this,” he said. “I love Phoebe, I really do. But I think one more night alone with her in this house and I would have lost my mind.”

  “Another mad artist,” I said without thinking.

  Chris and my dad gave me a look that said, “Well, now that your foot is in your mouth, how does it taste?”

  Byron, being a gentleman, changed the subject. “Phoebe is resting in the dining room.”

  “Kind of a strange place to rest,” said Chris.

  “We decided it would be easier on everyone if she could stay on the ground floor. Some friend of hers—Carla Bond, I think—loaned us some money to rent a hospital bed.”

  “Does Phoebe know we’re going to be here?” I asked.

  Byron nodded. “She’s a little embarrassed about it—feels that she’s being a lot of bother. But she’s glad to have you here. She really likes the two of you.”

  “Adorable, aren’t they?” my father said.

  I had a feeling he didn’t mean for us to take him seriously.

  Dad and Byron talked for a few more minutes, then Dad told us to be careful, reminded me of my promise, gave each of us a hug, and took off.

  After my father left, Byron showed us where Phoebe’s heart medicine was. Then he took us to the kitchen. He was telling us about the buzzers he had rigged up for her to call him when a horn began to honk outside.

  “That’s my ride. Remember, whenever you get tired, you can go to bed in Phoebe’s room. I’ll see you later!”

  We went to the door with him. Then we returned to the kitchen and made ourselves a little snack. I tried to do some homework. I couldn’t concentrate. The only thing I was really interested in doing right now was testing my theory. But I had to get someone’s permission first.

  I figured we had two chances. If Phoebe woke up and was feeling well, we could ask her. Or we could wait until Byron got back and ask him—although I thought I might pop if I had to wait that long.

  Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—things moved faster than that.

  We were just debating whether or not to have some more ice cream when a buzzer sounded. Phoebe was awake and needed something.

  We headed for the dining room. I was a little surprised when we entered. I knew it had been made into a sickroom. But it was still strange to see the big table pushed against the wall and a metal bed in the middle of the room.

  Phoebe looked smaller than I remembered, as if she had shrunk while she was ill. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent. Yet
the smile on her face was bright and strong.

  “It is so good to see the two of you again,” she said, holding her hands out to us.

  “Good to see you, too, Phoebe,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Pshaw,” she said, which surprised me, since I always thought that that was a sound people only made in books. “What would the two of you want to see an old prune like me for? But it was awfully nice of you to come over and give Byron a break. The poor boy needs a little time off. Now, help me up, would you?”

  A wheelchair stood beside the bed. Following Phoebe’s directions, we cranked up the back of the bed and maneuvered her around so she could slip into the wheelchair without much trouble. We covered her legs with a thick afghan.

  “Let’s go sit in the parlor,” she said. “We can chat, maybe even play a little game.”

  That was fine with me; I wanted to be in the parlor—though Chris and I were going to have to be careful to keep from looking at “Early Harvest.”

  We got Phoebe settled. Then I made some tea.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy,” said Phoebe as I rolled in the tea cart. She adjusted the afghan we had spread over her lap and said, “Now we can have a good old-fashioned chat.”

  “Can we talk about the old days?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she said, with a little smile. “Truth to tell, I don’t think I do a very good job talking about anything else. The world is changing too fast for me to keep up with it. I’m not complaining, mind you. It’s been a pretty good life, all in all, even if things were sort of rocky at the beginning.” She sighed. “Actually, the only regret I have is that I won’t be able to pass the house on to Byron. Well that, and never finding Poppa’s last picture. Oh, girls, that would have done him such honor. It would have put him where he belongs—not in the footnotes, but right in the center of the art history of his time.”

  This was the opening I had been waiting for. My stomach felt tight. “I think I know where the picture is,” I said softly.

  For a moment no one spoke. The silence in the room felt heavy.

  “Nine,” said Phoebe slowly. “Please don’t tease me about this.”

  “I’m not teasing. I have a theory.”

  “She’s figured out things like this before,” said Chris.

  I looked at her in surprise. Chris shrugged. I felt good; it was nice to have her stick up for me.

  Phoebe looked at me carefully. “Are you quite certain?” Her fingers picked at the edge of her afghan.

  Now I felt nervous. “I’m not certain. It’s only a theory. But if we don’t try, we’ll never find out.”

  Phoebe was quiet for a little while. “I have to call Carla,” she said at last.

  I gave her a questioning look.

  “Carla has spent the last thirty years studying Poppa’s work. If you’re correct, I want her to be here when his masterpiece is unveiled. She’s earned that right—or at least the right to have a chance.” With a bit of a twinkle in her eye she added, “But if Carla isn’t home, I won’t make you wait until she gets back.”

  Carla Bond was home. I would have been impatient waiting for her, but I remembered the night I begged my father to drive over and get Chris before we opened the strongbox from the gazebo. So I understood how Phoebe felt.

  To my relief, Ms. Bond lived less than a mile away. Even so, it seemed like hours before we heard the doorbell. When it rang, I jumped up and shouted, which made Chris laugh. “Calm down,” she said. “You can’t make your theory right by worrying about it.”

  We started for the door. But Ms. Bond didn’t wait for anyone; she just opened the door and walked in.

  “It’s me!” she called from the hallway. “Thank you so much for thinking of me,” she continued as she came into the parlor. “I would have been crushed if I had missed this.” She crossed the room to give Phoebe a kiss on the cheek. “You know how I have dreamed of this.”

  She took a seat, looked at me, and said, “Well, let’s hear your little theory.”

  Suddenly I was frightened. Ms. Bond had been studying Cornelius Fletcher for years. If my idea was right, why hadn’t she figured it out on her own? I had to be wrong.

  I don’t know what I was afraid of; it wasn’t as if Ms. Bond would hit me if I was wrong, or anything like that. I just didn’t want to feel her scorn. I had a sense that she was good at scorn, could crank out the kind that made you want to shrink down and hide behind a rock.

  I explained my theory.

  Ms. Bond closed her eyes for a moment. A look of profound sorrow crossed her face.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” she said. “I was so hoping that you would be wrong.”

  “Why in the world would you want her to be wrong?” asked Chris.

  “Because then I could have let the three of you live,” replied Ms. Bond. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a small gun. Pointing it directly at my head, she said, “As it turns out, I can’t let any of you leave this room alive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Off the Wall

  “Carla!” gasped Phoebe, clutching at her heart. “Carla, what are you doing?”

  “Protecting my investment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, think, Phoebe,” she snapped. “I’ve been trying to buy this house from you for over ten years now. Didn’t you ever wonder why I’ve been so interested in it?”

  “Because you know where the picture is,” I said softly.

  Ms. Bond turned to me. “That’s right, Nine. But then, you have a habit of being right when you’d be better off being wrong. You see, I can’t afford to let that picture come to light just yet. It’s my retirement fund, dear—the total investment of my life’s work.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris asked.

  “Figure it out for yourself,” snapped Ms. Bond. She took a little breath, then added, “This isn’t the end of some book, where the villain kindly explains all his motives so you can know what’s going on. So just think about it, while I figure out what I’m going to do with the three of you. As the witch said in The Wizard of Oz, ‘These things must be done delicately.’ I have to make sure no one can trace any of this back to me.”

  “Carla,” said Phoebe, “let the girls go.”

  “The girls, my dear, are the problem. Your death is easy enough to explain; you’ll probably be gone from a heart attack by the time I’m finished with these two anyway. What I need is something to explain their deaths.” She paused, then said, “I think a break-in is the ticket.”

  I was annoyed. The last guy who tried to kill Chris and me wanted to make it look like a suicide. Now Ms. Bond was going to blame some nonexistent burglar. I wanted to tell her to grow up and take responsibility for her own actions. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I asked, “Is this place really worth the risk of killing us?”

  “Shut up,” she explained.

  Since Ms. Bond wasn’t going to help, I had to figure things out on my own. It wasn’t hard. Given what my dad had told me about Cornelius Fletcher’s Lost Masterpiece, combined with what I had figured out on my own, I could guess what Phoebe’s house was worth. If Carla could buy it at a regular price—probably under a hundred thousand—the difference would be almost pure profit. Which meant my big mouth was about to cost Carla a few million dollars.

  I could see why she was upset with me. Under the circumstances I would have been unhappy, too.

  The difference is, I wouldn’t have been willing to kill someone to keep it from happening.

  But in a world where people are getting killed for the sake of their wallets, I suppose it shouldn’t have been surprising that someone was willing to bump me off for a few million.

  If I sound calm now, believe me, I was sweating bullets at the time. Nice cliché; if I could have sweated a gun to go with them, I would have been all set.

  When Ms. Bond spoke again, her voice was as cold as February; her words carried that coldness into my blood.

  “Maybe I don’t need
to worry about delicacy,” she said. “Perhaps crude will do just fine under the circumstances. On your faces, girls—and hands behind your backs.”

  My heart was pounding. I looked at Chris. Her eyes were wide—and hopeless. I knew what she was feeling. It looked as though this time we had finally gotten in over our heads.

  “On your faces!” repeated Ms. Bond.

  I thought about resisting. No point—the woman would only blow me away that much sooner. Or maybe there was a point. Maybe by resisting, I could give Chris a chance to escape. On the other hand, maybe something else would happen. Maybe Byron would realize he had forgotten something and come walking through the front door. Maybe my father would decide he was lonely and come over for a chat.

  Or maybe nothing would happen, and I would have to do it myself. If so, I decided to wait as long as I could; I didn’t want to get myself blown away mere seconds before rescue arrived.

  “All right, here’s the picture,” Ms. Bond said. At first I thought she meant the Lost Masterpiece. Then I realized she was talking to herself, outlining her plan. “Burglar breaks in, finds girls in living room, kills them so they can’t identify him. Old woman hears commotion, too much for her weak heart, bang—she’s gone, too. Probably better get Phoebe back into her bed before I finish her off.”

  “Carla!” said Phoebe desperately.

  “You’re not going to turn me away, Phoebe. I’ve been waiting decades for this, and I’ll not be stopped now.”

  She walked over and stood behind me. Suddenly I felt cold metal against the back of my neck. “Now how would a burglar do this?” she muttered to herself. “From close up—or farther back?”

  “My God, Carla, listen to yourself,” pleaded Phoebe. “This isn’t you. You’re a woman of culture. Stop before it’s too late.”

  “It’s been too late for over sixty years.”

  If things had gone on much longer, I probably would have died of fright before Ms. Bond had a chance to shoot me. But suddenly a new voice spoke.