by Meg Muldoon
He paused, as if searching for the words.
“I saw his computer. His book was just there on a Word document left open — as if crying out to be read. So I sat down, and I stayed. I spent the entire night reading his opus.”
Ashcroft shook his head.
“It was magnificent,” he continued. “Completely different from the novel that I imagined it to be, but magnificent nonetheless. It just needed an ending. So I sent a copy of it to myself and began work on it that week. Within two months, I had the whole story, completed. And what a story it was. The next time I saw Grant, I handed him a jump drive with the completed manuscript. I thought I’d hear from him soon. I’m not sure what I was expecting his reaction to be, but I thought it would be somewhere on the positive side of the spectrum.”
The oven timer let out a ding, but I didn’t make any motion to move. I was too absorbed by the story.
“I was quite wrong, however,” he said. “When I heard from Grant again, he wasn’t lucid but he was furious. He said I had no right to do what I’d done. He said the story wasn’t mine to tell. It was his. And that he could never respect me again.”
Ashcroft rested his chin on the palm of his hand, staring down at his coffee cup.
“I suppose it was a stupid, thoughtless thing for me to do. I see that now. But back then, I was still young. And I just thought… I just thought if I could finish the book for him, then he could sell it and get his life back. I just wanted to assist him. But you see, Ms. Peters, sometimes trying to assist people is the very worst thing you can do.”
I bit my lip.
“So how did the book get published under your name?” I asked.
Ashcroft ran a hand through his dark hair, suddenly looking uncomfortable.
“Grant stopped talking to me, but I heard that his pill habit continued to worsen. His adult son moved away and cut off all communication with him. He had nobody. And he refused help of any kind. Meanwhile, I had this great book he’d written in my hands, just sitting there, gathering dust. I still thought it could be his salvation. So I began looking for a publisher. Don Wharton was the first one that I sent it to and within a week, I was in talks to get the manuscript published. I told him I wanted to write it under a pen name – and I was honest about it being a collaboration. But Don said I had the face of a best-selling writer, and convinced me that we needed to keep the co-authorship silent. Books with two authors generally don’t sell as well.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“I told you how people like Don Wharton are. If they see profit in something, nothing will come between them and their money. They’d throw their own mothers under a bus if there was even a minor payday involved.”
He paused, as if deep in thought.
“Of course, I’m deflecting responsibility, aren’t I? I can’t blame it all on vampires like Don. I should have seen how this would unfold. How I would become Ashcroft Black — the best-selling horror author behind the hit series. And how Grant, the artist and the true architect of Sheriff Lane Graves, would become pushed aside and forgotten. I let it happen willingly, dazzled as I was with the prospect of such fame.”
He eyed me, as if trying to detect whether I was judging him for doing what he did.
After a long moment, he continued.
“You know, when I began seeing the spirit of Lorna, I truly believed that it was Grant haunting me as some sort of payback for what I’d done. You see, Lorna was a character from the first book — one of Grant’s characters. But during edits, we cut her out for clarity purposes and decided to put her aside until later in the series.”
He left the cooled cup of coffee on the table and gripped his cane, which had been leaning against one of his knees.
“Truthfully, I’m still not wholly convinced that Grant isn’t haunting me. Had I been he, I’d have wanted revenge.”
The words sent unexpected chills down my spine.
I rubbed my arms.
A deep silence settled over the kitchen then.
I didn’t know exactly what to make of Ashcroft’s story.
On one hand, I could understand that he’d been trying to help his mentor during a tough time. And while it might not have been very considerate to take his book and add an ending, I could see that he’d done it with good intentions.
But on the other hand, Ashcroft had willingly gone along with Don Wharton’s suggestions, cutting out the original author of the series like it wasn’t any big deal. Not even paying him any profits, the way it sounded.
But maybe the worst part of it all was that Ashcroft hadn’t just done this shady thing — he’d kept the charade going for years and years.
That was the part that I had trouble with.
Maybe that was the part that Ana had trouble with, too. That it had taken all this time for Ashcroft to confess to what he’d done.
I cleared my throat, looking down at the floor.
“But we know now that it’s not a ghost behind the Lorna Larimer charade,” I said. “You saw that piece of fabric — it’s a living person behind this.”
I drew in a deep breath.
“Do you think it could be Don Wharton trying to scare you?” I asked.
A strange, amused look came across Ashcroft’s face, as if I’d just made a joke in bad taste.
“Unlikely,” he said. “I’m the cash cow. Even with declining sales, Don still needs me to complete the next book. Putting me in the hospital would be the very last thing he’d want to do. He’d be shooting himself in the foot if he did.”
The wind went out of my sails a little at that — Don had been our next real suspect.
“I don’t have the slightest idea who would do this to me, Ms. Peters,” Ashcroft said, standing up. “But perhaps there’s justice in it. Perhaps I deserve this.”
He leaned against his cane.
“Just like I deserve Ana’s scorn. If I had any self-respect, I’d stop writing altogether.”
I struggled to come up with some response to his self-loathing, but found that I couldn’t think of anything to say in time.
He started heading toward the back door, walking with sluggish steps.
“But I suppose we all serve something,” he said despondently. “In my case, I am bound by my own vanity. And I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do about it.”
He opened the door and was about to step outside.
“Ashcroft?”
He looked back. A stiff morning wind wound through the kitchen.
“What was your writing professor’s full name?”
Ashcroft let out a long, pained breath.
“Grant Davis,” he said quietly. “Professor Grant Davis.”
He closed the door, and I watched him walk slowly down the back steps and around the pie shop toward Main Street.
I was halfway through making another batch of pear pies before I put it together.
Chapter 30
I got a strong hit of déjà vu when we walked into the old barn.
James Hetfield’s guttural howls bounced off the ceiling beams. Once again, Josiah Davis stood hunched over the large work bench overflowing with pumpkins of every variety and shape. He held an electric saw in his hand and seemed to be unaware that the Sheriff of Pohly County and his wife had just stepped into his work space.
“Mr. Davis?” Daniel shouted.
Josiah didn’t look up from his pumpkin. His head bounced along to the music.
Daniel shot a glance at me just as Lars launched into a decibel-shredding drum solo.
“Josiah!” I said.
My voice came out louder than I intended. Josiah reacted to the noise the way a person scared of spiders might if they woke up one morning to a black widow crawling across their pillow.
The electric saw crashed to the concrete floor.
Josiah gazed at us with eyes as wide as pumpkin pies.
He shook his head. Then he went over to the music system in the corner and hit a button.
My ears rang in th
e sudden silence of the barn.
“Guess my mother was right,” he mumbled, turning off the saw. “I ought not to listen to music so loud.”
I smiled weakly, studying the pumpkin carver.
It had taken me a little while to make the connection — that Ashcroft’s writing professor shared the same last name with Josiah Davis. But once that came to me, the evidence continued to pile up.
Ashcroft had mentioned that Grant Davis had had a son. The son could have been around Josiah’s age. Josiah had only moved back here to Christmas River recently, and said he’d lived in a lot of different places over the years. He also mentioned that his father had passed on earlier this year — which lined up with what Ashcroft said about the professor passing away this summer.
Additionally, I remembered something else — something I’d overheard Josiah say under his breath as he was delivering the pumpkins on the evening of Ashcroft’s writing workshop.
Josiah had been staring at the cabin, a dark look on his face — and he’d said the words:
You should be ashamed.
At the time, I thought I’d heard wrong.
But now, I didn’t think I had.
And I was now convinced that Josiah Davis was behind the Lorna Larimer haunting. And that he’d paid an actress to dress up as the forlorn spirit as some sort of revenge for his father.
“What, uh, what can I help y’all with?” Josiah said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You have questions about those pumpkins you ordered, Cinnamon? I picked out a few real choice ones for you. Some of the best gourds I’ve seen this season. And I’ve got the patterns on my computer if you wanted to take a look at ‘em before I start cutting.”
“Thanks, Josiah — but we’re not here about pumpkins today.”
He gave me a puzzled expression, then glanced from me to Daniel.
Josiah gulped hard.
“Official business?” he asked.
Daniel nodded.
There was a resigned look on the pumpkin carver’s face, and the normalcy of it made me realize something.
Josiah had had dealings with the police before.
If I’d been pretty sure before that it was him behind the haunting, now I would have bet the farm on it.
“Look,” he said, scratching his head. “I don’t know what you might have heard about me, but I don’t do that anymore. I gave it up. So with all due respect, it’s probably best if you leave now.”
I furrowed my brow, not understanding exactly what he was talking about.
Daniel took off his hat.
“All due respect, we’re not gonna leave until we get some answers,” Daniel said, stepping farther into the barn.
Josiah crossed his arms defensively.
“What part didn’t you understand, Sheriff?” he said.
“Tell us about your dad, Josiah,” I said. “Tell us about what happened to him. And what you’re really doing here in Christmas River.”
Josiah scratched his head again, looking around the barn for a long moment.
“My dad? Well, he passed this year. I think I told you that already, Cinnamon. Back in March, he was working on a stretch of highway out in the southwest part of Louisiana — worked for the department of transportation his whole life. A man driving a pickup was texting and driving that day. He went off the road through the work zone and struck my dad. I moved here to Christmas River shortly after he died.”
Sorrow washed over his face as he spoke.
He was obviously as good an actor as the woman he’d hired to play Lorna Larimer.
“C’mon, Josiah,” Daniel said. “You don’t have to lie about it. We know you’re after Ashcroft Black for what he did to your actual father. And maybe I can even see why you would be. But just come clean and tell us, all right?”
Josiah scoffed.
I felt my stomach tighten into a big knot.
The pumpkin carver reached for his phone on the work table and began scrolling through it. A moment later, he came over, sticking the phone out for both of us to see.
It was a photo of Josiah and a man in his early 60s standing on the side of a highway. The older man was wearing a fluorescent construction vest and work boots.
“I don’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Sheriff. This is my dad. His name was Josiah Richard Davis the second, and as far as I know, he never even heard of Ashcroft Black, let alone met the guy.”
I gulped hard, feeling my cheeks flush.
What had once seemed like the undeniable truth was now crumbling in spectacular fashion, and I was beginning to feel as foolish as a wild turkey that had wandered onto a farm Thanksgiving week.
Davis was a very popular surname after all. And the rest of those connections, which had seemed so solid only moments before, could be chalked up to coincidence.
Daniel looked at me for a split second, then back at Josiah.
“So you haven’t been paying someone to dress up as a ghost to intentionally scare Ashcroft Black?” Daniel asked.
The supremely confused look on Josiah Davis’s face said it all.
A Tsunami of embarrassment washed over me.
“No. Even if that was something I wanted to do, I wouldn’t have had time for it this month. I’m swamped with all of the work pouring in.”
Josiah glanced at the table full of gourds.
Daniel nodded, placing his hat back on.
“Our sincere apologies, Mr. Davis. We’re just trying to solve a crime and because of your last name, we thought you could be involved. But it’s now clear as day that we’re wrong. Thanks for—”
“Wait — why did you say that the night of the writing workshop, then?” I asked, cutting Daniel off.
It was the only thing that still didn’t make sense to me.
“Huh?” Josiah said.
“I heard you. You were standing outside, looking at the cabin. And you said ‘You should be ashamed.’ Remember?”
Something flickered in Josiah’s eyes when I said that.
“What did you mean by that, Josiah?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. He stared past our shoulders with a vacant expression.
“It was nothing. I was thinking of something else when I said it.”
For the first time in this whole conversation, I sensed what was an obvious lie.
I could tell Daniel sensed it, too.
“Just tell us, Mr. Davis, and we’ll be able to check you off our suspect list for good,” he said.
Josiah hesitated.
“What I meant was…”
He shook his head.
“I was talking about Ashcroft. I meant that he should be ashamed for what he does. For what he writes. The way he portrays the spirit world, making ghosts seem like these evil, malevolent beings that only want revenge. For the way he scares people. For...”
I wasn’t following, and for a moment, I wondered if Josiah was one of those fundamentalists that sent death threats to horror authors.
Josiah trailed off.
“You really haven’t heard of me before?” he said.
“Heard of you?” Daniel said. “Why would we have heard of you?”
Josiah let out a staggered breath.
“I, uh… I’m Josiah Davis," he mumbled. “The guy who helped the cops find that missing girl in Baton Rouge last year? The suit with the gift, the police called me.”
I glanced at Daniel. There was a blank expression on his face which was about where I was with that last statement, too.
Josiah closed his eyes.
“You see I…”
His voice cracked.
“I can… I can talk to the dead,” he whispered.
My mouth went drier than bone dust.
Chapter 31
“No way. Christmas River has a real life medium now?”
“He didn’t exactly call himself a medium, but I guess it’s the right term for it,” I said.
I opened the oven and pulled out a pan full of bubbling Sour Cream Apple pies
. The flavor was one of my most-requested ones in the fall, and I could see why it was so popular. Tender apples combined with a good helping of cinnamon and sour cream in piping hot pastry was the ultimate fall indulgence, and as I pulled out the pan of pies, I had to fight the urge to cut myself a slice and put it in the freezer to cool down quickly.
The recipe — which was the same one I used for the apple turnovers I’d served at both the bookstore event and the ill-fated writer’s workshop — had come from my mother. Growing up, she’d make this pie every fall for Warren and me.
Of course, after she passed away when I was 13, nobody made this pie. It wasn’t until years later when I was rifling through one of her old recipe books and found the hand-written recipe for it that I remembered and started making the flavor again in her honor. I had made a few changes to it, such as adding a hit of whiskey and more cinnamon then the original recipe called for. But overall, it was the same.
“What’s Daniel’s take on all this mediumship business?” Kara continued right before inhaling another large bite of Bourbon Cider Chess Pie.
“Daniel was polite, but I don’t think he could really bring himself to buy into what Josiah claimed,” I said. “Josiah went on this long rant — how Ashcroft Black’s depiction of the spirit world isn’t accurate and how it’s caused masses of readers to become deathly afraid of ghosts. Josiah said this fear has put them in a place where they can’t hear messages from their loved ones.”
Kara furrowed her brow as she listened intently, hanging on every word.
“Josiah said real spirits aren’t scary. That our loved ones are on the other side and that they sometimes try to communicate with us — to help us in certain situations. But if we’re in a state of fear, we’re cut off to any communication with them and we can’t hear what they’re saying.”
Kara stuffed another bite of pie in her mouth.
“Interesting,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought so, too.”
I wasn’t sure if I actually believed Josiah, but his past seemed to confirm that he was at least not your average con artist. He said he’d worked on a few cold cases with law enforcement authorities back in Louisiana. He helped solve a missing persons’ case when he worked as a lawyer, hence the nickname “The Suit with the Gift.” And Daniel was able to confirm his involvement by talking to a police commander in Baton Rouge. But the police commander had been unable to provide many details about Josiah’s role in finding the missing girl, as the case was going to trial soon.