House of Ghosts

by House of Ghosts (epub)

  Joe circled the section, approaching from the far side. Miller’s voice carried in the slight breeze, “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want…” Joe placed the flowers at the base of a tombstone fifteen feet from Balaban and Miller.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever,” Miller concluded.

  Balaban took a step closer to the grave. “Yeetgadal v’ yeetkadash sh’mey rabbah. B’almah dee v’rah kheer’utey. V’ yamleekh malkhutei, b’chahyeykhohn, uv’ yohmeykhohn. uv’chahyei d’chohl beyt yisrael, ba’agalah u’veez’man kareev, v’eemru Amein.”

  “Amen,” Miller said.

  Joe said a silent “Amen” recognizing the classic Hebrew mourner’s prayer for the dead. He took a step closer.

  Balaban continued, “May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon.”

  Straddling the coffin, one of the gravediggers released the lowering device. The casket slowly descended out of sight. The other worker removed the tarpaulin from the mound, handing each clergyman a long handled shovel.

  Both clergymen stepped to the mound, removing a spade’s load. “May you finally rest in peace,” Miller said, sending the dirt onto the coffin. For an instant, he locked eyes with Joe.

  Balaban bowed his head before delivering the full scoop with a thud. “Goodbye my tormented friend.” He turned, re-burying the spade into the mound.

  “Say a prayer for him at the Wailing Wall,” Miller said to Balaban, handing the shovel back to the workman. “And throw in one for me.”

  “Good things happen to good people,” Balaban said, placing an arm around Miller’s shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

  Joe lit a Marlboro. Watching the Camry pull away, he ambled over to the gravesite. The workmen had removed both the lowering device and the canopy. “The service is over,” came gruffly from the backhoe over the rumble of the diesel engine,

  “Yeah, got here late,” Joe yelled, walking to the mound of earth. “Do you mind?” he asked, removing one of the shovels.

  “Knock yourself out!” came back with a rev of the engine.

  Joe, holding the full shovel, looked into the grave. “Preston, what the hell went on here today?”

  Chapter 4

  WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

  GEOPOLITICAL SYSTEMS 1945–1955 wasn’t high drama, but Joe managed to keep awake in class and stay current with the work. He was mired in writing a twenty-page paper due at the end of the week. Saturdays were supposed to be relaxing. He needed a break.

  Joe put on his Westfield P.D. windbreaker and picked up his five-iron. Ripping August from the calendar tore the heart out of summer. It had turned cooler. With the light drizzle, it felt as if it was fall. An estate sale was in its final day at the Swedge house. Joe heard the house was sold to a “nice” couple who were going to level it and build their dream castle. He wasn’t surprised. Proceeds from the sale were to go to an un-named charity.

  Lighting a cigarette, Joe walked to the curb. What was it that drew the bargain hunters? A statuesque blonde in designer jeans was loading pots and pans not worthy of the Salvation Army into trunk of a $90,000 BMW 750.

  Ed Stoval wasn’t wielding his rake. He had gone to his daughter in Chicago to avoid the tumult. Despite his outward giddiness at Preston’s demise, Joe sensed a deep-seated sadness. It was the end of an era.

  Joe crossed the street. Four silver helium balloons tattooed with “Sale Today” were tethered to a lime green Attic Finds sandwich board positioned on the driveway apron. Poking at the bobbing targets with the five-iron drew a dirty look from a gray haired gentleman walking toward him. Joe waggled his fingers under his chin as they passed.

  A garbage dumpster piled with cardboard boxes, black plastic trash bags, an upright freezer, and several mattresses blocked the garage. It explained two weeks of vans, station wagons and a collection of south of the border types coming and going from the house. The heavy drapes that prevented the outside world from entering had been removed. The Tudor looked scared. It was being devoured a piece at a time.

  A tan beaten up Ford pickup truck with more rust than paint blocked the flagstone walk. Willie Reynolds Odd Jobs and Hauling was stenciled in red paint on both doors. An area rug with a $35 price tag and a rag tagged sleep sofa were in the cargo bay. Joe ground his cigarette in the flowerbed and skirted the truck. He paused at the threshold of the open door. Two black handymen struggled to remove the crystal chandelier. An extension ladder too short to reach the vaulted ceiling leaned against the fascia of the second floor landing. Clothesline, tied to one of the wings of the chandelier, ran to a pulley screwed to the ceiling.

  “For Christ’s sake, Willie, be careful!” screamed a woman no taller than four-eleven, wearing a lime green pantsuit highlighted by red hair tied in a bun on the back of her head. She touched a large gold cross dangling from a matching chain as the ladder momentarily rocked back from the landing.

  Joe watched with amusement. Willie, the fifty-something salt and pepper haired owner of the truck, had the physique of a football tackle. His biceps rippled against the sleeves of his gray T-shirt as he stretched from the top rung of the ladder to release the chandelier from its electrical connections. His forehead glistened with beads of sweat.

  “Listen Ruth,” Willie replied, rearranging his grip on the ladder, “you told me we was removing a ceiling light. Nothing was said about a two-hundered pound crystal chandelier. We’ll get it down if you leave us alone.”

  Ruth stared at Willie. “What did you…”, she started to say then threw her hands up in frustration. “Let’s get the damn thing down. It’s getting late.”

  Willie wiped his face with his arm. “Son. Pay attention!” he said to his cohort holding the end of the rope. “James!”

  Joe felt the tension between the two. The younger Reynolds was the opposite of his father—bean pole thin, dreadlocks, and hadn’t worked up a sweat. With his mind, on the song streaming into his ears from his Walkman, he looked at his father and pulled on the rope.

  Joe stepped into the foyer, squeezed around a couple holding a torch lamp, and entered the living room. It was eerily dark, the only light coming from the naked windows. All of the furniture had been removed except for an ornate orange upholstered chair precariously balanced on three legs against the side of the fireplace. The hearth had been bricked closed. Reddish brown mud streaked the threadbare beige carpet.

  “It’s almost four o’clock, we’re getting ready to close,” Ruth barked as she entered the living room.

  Joe turned around. “No problem.”

  A middle age woman wearing a version of Ruth’s lime green pantsuit peeked into the room. “I’m cutting out. Upstairs and the basement are clear.”

  “Silvia, I need you here tomorrow by ten,” Ruth ordered.

  Silvia sighed, waving her hand over her head as she walked out of the house.

  “Lime green is a nice touch,” Joe said.

  “I think so. It sets us apart from the buyers.” Ruth gave Joe the once-over. “You’re the hero cop.”

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Joe said modestly.

  “Ruth Ritchie,” she said, offering her hand. “I own Attic Finds.”

  Joe shook her hand. “Joe Henderson, owner of a gimpy leg.”

  Ruth removed a pack of cigarettes tucked in her sleeve and tamped a non-filtered Pall Mall against her leg. “You wouldn’t have a match?” she asked, patting her pockets.

  Joe flicked his Zippo and held it for Ruth. “You don’t look like the estate sale type,” she said.

  “I hate garage sales, estate sales and any other scam that redistributes junk from one house to another.” He moved to the fireplace, bending to inspect the bricked hearth.

  Ruth’s rapid long drags produced ash an in
ch long. She flicked the ash onto the rug. “Then why bother coming in?”

  “I knew Preston a long time. Call me curious,” Joe said, running his hand along the brick and mortar closure. “He must have been afraid of Santa Claus.”

  Ruth spit a piece of tobacco. “Mr. Swedge wasn’t just afraid of Santa Claus. There are dead bolts on a couple of the interior doors.”

  “Damn it James, pull on the rope!” Willie yelled in the hall.

  The sound of tinkling crystal turned Ruth on her heels. She ran into the hall. Joe followed. Mutilated plaster and wire lathe hung from the ceiling where the chandelier tore the electrical box from the floor joist above. Willie scrambled down the ladder and placed a gray woolen blanket under the chandelier as James lowered the two-hundred pounds to the floor.

  Ruth ran her fingers across the crystals. “Amazing none are broken. Here are the addresses. Make sure it gets there in one piece and make it your first stop.” Ruth handed a sheet of paper to Willie.

  “One day…,” Willie left off as he snatched the paper. “James, get the dolly.”

  “I’ve got a couple of things to finish. Joe, you’ve got about ten minutes.” She headed for the kitchen.

  Resting on alternate steps, Joe climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hall seen from the bottom of the staircase led to a master bedroom, two small bedrooms, and a full bath. The small bedrooms had been picked clean except for odd scraps of tissue paper.

  Joe leaned heavily on the five-iron in an attempt to keep pressure off his throbbing leg. As with the other bedrooms, the master at the end of the hall was devoid of furniture. Preston’s suits lay crumbled in the space where the bed was once situated. That section of the oak hardwood was pristine. A Crucifix remained above where the headboard marred the plaster.

  The floor was grooved and worn between where the bed was located and a small study directly to the right. Joe envisioned Preston pacing with his hands clenched behind his back. Preston explained in an alcohol fueled rant that the eight foot by eight section was formerly his wife’s dressing area. He had the vanity replaced with a built-in bookcase which was empty except for a 1942 Princeton University yearbook on the top shelf. Torn and faded Time and Newsweek magazines lay strewn on the floor, along with a few issues of Christian Monthly.

  A leather satchel without its handle sat in the corner. Sweeping dust off the front flap with his hand, Joe could barely read Preston’s faded monogram. The lone contents, a Post-It note with “6 down 3 across” scrawled in pencil. Using the five-iron, he scooched the yearbook off the shelf. Opening the cover, he read the dedication to Hans Schmidt, a math professor killed in a Nazi bombing raid on London. Joe thumbed to the S section. A weasel face with hair combed and slicked like Errol Flynn’s stared back. Preston Swedge hadn’t changed in nearly sixty years except for his hair going snow white.

  Joe placed the yearbook into the satchel and returned to the bedroom. From the pile of suits, he found a matching black gabardine pants and jacket. He held the pants to his waist. At five-ten the pants were three inches long. He folded the suit and stuffed it into the bag.

  Joe made his way down the stairs. Willie Reynolds had managed to remove the chandelier. An eerie stillness filled the house. The five-iron echoed off the walls of the hallway. Solitary bulbs in plastic receptacles replaced the brass wall sconces. He entered the kitchen.

  Ruth stopped counting the day’s take from a cash register on the Parson’s table. “The briefcase is definitely a keeper.”

  Joe dumped the suit and yearbook on the table. “Got these too.”

  Ruth raised an eyebrow. “Yearbooks are collectible, but a sixty year old suit?”

  Joe looked under the table. A faint stain remained where Preston had melted into his shoes. “It’ll make a good scarecrow for the garden.” Growing tomatoes and cucumbers was on the same list as going fishing. He had no reason for taking any of the items. “What do I owe you?”

  Ruth swatted at a fly as she continued to count the receipts. “It’s on me.”

  The fly was a holdover from Preston’s gourmet buffet. Three of its cousins were perched on top of the refrigerator. “That’s very kind,” he said, trying not to laugh. Joe returned his treasure to the satchel and pointed to an opened door. “What about the basement?”

  Ruth looked up. “Nothing of value down there,” she said. “The light switch is one step down on the left.”

  The kitchen’s overhead fluorescent light failed to illuminate the area immediately inside the door. Joe eased his left foot to the edge of the tread. The angle of the staircase seemed excessively steep. He froze. Twice he had lost his balance on his own basement steps after returning from the rehab facility. Three times was a charm he wanted to avoid.

  Chalky paint crumbled on his hand as he searched the wall. There wasn’t a wall plate. He could feel the outline of the old Bakelite switch. Anticipating a shock, he timidly flicked the lever. A clear light bulb at the base of the steps glowed then burned out. A second bulb hanging in the middle of the room dimly lit the lower half of the staircase. He took a deep breath and proceeded one step at a time. Dust and the hint of aged cat urine irritated his nose. Joe was besieged by a coughing fit as he cleared the last step.

  A half-hearted cleaning job had been made. Broom marks were left in the grime build-up of more than six decades. The windows had been removed and replaced with bricks. Black-green mold crept up the cement walls in the stagnant air.

  Joe cleared a patch of cobwebs hanging from the exposed beams with the club, making his way to the center of the room where sheets of paper and an assortment of manila envelopes were piled. A badly stained and crumpled map caught his eye. It wasn’t from the AAA. It was a U.S. Army Air Force map from WWII.

  Joe poked the paper scrum with the five-iron, exposing a rectangular cordovan leather wallet. With Preston’s miserly reputation, Joe expected pre-historic moths to emerge, having hatched between the first George Washingtons Preston earned. It wasn’t a wallet, but Preston’s passport declaring him a representative of the State Department. The last entry was an Israeli stamp dated 1956. Joe thought it odd that the obituary in The Star Ledger only mentioned his employment in the petroleum industry.

  Joe picked up a manila envelope and opened the flap. Three photos were stuck together. He peeled them apart. A girl, he guessed to be around six, posed in what resembled a communion dress. A parasol rested on her shoulder. He turned it over. There was no date or notation. The second, a black and white wallet size photo of a boy dressed in a suit and tie looking scared stiff. A tallis was draped around his neck. It was the kid’s Bar Mitzvah picture. The third—Preston and Millie Swedge on vacation taken in front of a non-descript motel.

  He poked around. A 10×10 of Preston resting a foot on the bumper of his beloved Fairlane caught Joe’s eye. A large chunk had been ripped away. Joe picked it up and moved under the light. The person standing next to Preston had been cropped out, just leaving the tips of John Doe or Jane’s fingers.

  Cat-like, Ruth descended the stairs. “Are you finished?” she asked, standing on the fifth step from the bottom.

  Startled, Joe jumped. “What’s going to happen this?” he asked, motioning to the papers.

  “I have a crew coming in to clear the place out.”

  “Would anybody mind if I took this stuff?” Joe asked.

  “Absolutely not. Mr. Hargrove, the attorney handling the estate, instructed nothing is to be kept. He needs this wrapped up by Monday afternoon,” Ruth said. “I have some large trash bags upstairs.” She disappeared.

  A wad of black plastic garbage bags landed with a thump. Joe managed to get the mess into one bag. He placed the five-iron under his arm and grabbed the bag by its drawstring. His leg screamed with each of the twelve steps. Out of breath, he dragged the bag into the kitchen.

  The cash register was no longer on the table. “For someone who hates other people’s junk, you hit the jackpot.” Ruth searched her handbag for a cigarette. She held up a
book of matches. “Can I bum a butt?”

  Joe handed her a Marlboro. Ruth lit the cigarette, savoring the smoke. “What’s the attraction?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe murmured.

  Chapter 5

  WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

  JOE’S SUNDAY MORNINGS BEGAN after eleven. The routine, perfected over the months of his wife’s absence, consisted of reading the rag-sheets and drinking enough coffee to kick up his ulcer. Joe settled in at the dinette armed with The New York Post, The New York Times, and the University of Arizona mug filled to the brim. The TV on the counter was tuned to the ESPN football pre-game show.

  The clock above the sink read 12:30. He refilled the Mr. Coffee. “Come on girl, I‘ve got to finish my homework,” Joe said to Roxy lying under the table. The Giant-Eagle game didn’t start until one. He needed to polish his research paper.

  He headed toward the den armed with the mug of coffee and a new pack of Marlboros. Roxy followed but detoured to sniff the garbage bag and Preston’s leather satchel on the dining room table. She pawed at the drawstring.

  Joe placed the mug and cigarettes next to the bag. “Nothing good in there.” He untied the drawstring, dumping the musty contents on the table. Roxy took one more sniff then returned to the kitchen.

  Joe felt the supple leather of the cordovan wallet. The passport declared the holder to be employed by the U.S. State Department. The message was clear: Preston was a big-shot. Why Preston’s government service wasn’t mentioned in the three line obituary gnawed at the retired detective.

  Joe flipped a stack of utility bills to the side. Time and humidity had taken its toll on the assortment of stray papers. Typing paper had turned to a brownish mush. Ink and pencil were illegible.

  Joe put the pictures of the young girl in her communion dress, Preston and Millie on vacation, and Preston standing next to the Fairlane convertible to the side. He laid the crumpled loose-leaf size map on the table. Lines drawn in red ink ran between Foggia, Italy and Manowitz, Poland. Several numbers were circled on either side of the lines. He recognized the map as a navigation aid from memorabilia saved by an uncle who flew a B-17 based in England. The numbers were altitude rendezvous points.