Double, Double, Nothing But Trouble (A Mellow Summers Paranormal Mystery Book 10)

by Janet McNulty

  What? I ripped open my purse, yanking out my wallet, and opening it. Yep, more cash was gone. “We really need to talk about this whole taking money out of my purse thing.”

  Rachel lowered her head with a guilty expression on her face.

  Leaving the wallet issue alone for a while, I turned to the man that Rachel had brought with her, our ghostly visitor that neither Jackie nor I knew we had. “What do I call you?”

  “My name is that of a craftsman of many trades, working for lords and ladies of London’s noble days. From lowly birth to royal appointment.”

  “Uh… what?” asked Greg, just as confused as I was.

  “Yeah, he’s been talking like that since I found him. This guy’s a loon!” Rachel shook him. “Wake up! You’re dead.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  “Not sure exactly,” replied Rachel, “but he is in what we in the spirit world call a ghostly stupor.”

  “Ghostly stupor?” said Greg.

  “Yeah. Sometimes people do not know that they are dead and so they wander the earth much like they did while alive. My guess is that he has no idea that he died.”

  Makes sense. I had heard stories about residual hauntings that were just echoes of what happened in the past, but I had also read stories about hauntings where the ghosts had no idea they were doing the haunting. Sometimes, when a person died a sudden death, they didn’t realize that they had died, so they go back to a place that was familiar to them in life, and probably even saw it the way it was when they had lived. Maybe that was case with him. But why the riddles? Could it have been a quirk of his while he was still alive.

  “Gregory King!” shouted Jackie through a mouthful of tacos. She had already eaten two of them and had the wrappers scrunched in her hand while she worked on her third taco.

  “Who?” asked Greg.

  “There was a man who lived in England in the 17th century. He was born to a lower class family, but worked as an engraver and a surveyor. Eventually, he moved to London and was later appointed Secretary to the Commission of Public Accounts and Secretary to the Controllers of Army Accounts. His name was Gregory King.”

  “How do you know all of this?” I asked, surprised by her knowledge, since he wasn’t a major figure in history.

  “The History Channel had a special on him while you and Greg were away for the weekend,” replied Jackie. “Maybe it’s his name too. Sometimes people do share names of someone in history, even if they aren’t related.”

  “Mr. King,” I said, approaching the man. “Mr. Gregory King?”

  He got a look of recognition on his face and, for a moment, I thought that he had come back to the present.

  “Of King’s Photography and Studio,” he said. “this is my place.”

  I remembered how Jack had mentioned that this entire block of shops had been a photography studio.

  “What has happened to my office?” said Gregory, the ghost.

  “Mr. King,” I said, keeping my voice calm and gentle, trying to not scare him away, “do you remember the party—the pre-wedding dinner of Roger and Brianna.”

  “A charming couple,” said Gregory. “Moments of life I captured for all posterity and their ever after.”

  Okay, so we are back to the riddles and rhymes. “You mean, you took their pictures.”

  “Yes,” said Gregory. “I was their wedding photographer.”

  And back to somewhat coherent. “Can you remember anything strange about that night?”

  “Rage and jitters filled the air, tearing poor couple a snare.”

  “You mean that Roger and Brianna had a fight,” I said.

  “Miniscule in measure, but enough to interrupt their pleasure.”

  “Do you know what they argued about?”

  “No. In the distance I remained, capturing life’s little games. But alone Brianna was not, for another feared being caught.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Greg, “the police were convinced that Roger was the last person to see her alive.”

  “Was there another who met with Brianna?” I asked.

  “Two there were: one her groom and one her doom.” Gregory King started to fade and I feared that we were losing him. What if he had witnessed the murder of Brianna and knew who the real murderer was? That would mean that Beverly was correct in her conviction of Roger Croukman’s innocence. But how would I prove it? A ghost cannot make a statement to the police or take the witness stand.

  “Mr. King,” I said, “did you see what happened? Did you see Brianna’s murder?”

  I had pushed it too far. Gregory’s ghost looked right at me, an irate expression on his face and faded to the point where I could only see a faint outline, but no distinguishing characteristics.

  “This room is private,” he said in a firm and angry tone, and vanished.

  “That little…” began Rachel in a huff. “After all that time I spent trying to find him, he just up and disappears. Oh, no he didn’t’.” She vanished as well, leaving Greg, Jackie, and I alone in Mr. Stilton’s office and a lot of questions.

  “We better go,” I said.

  Jackie and Greg both agreed. We cleaned up the taco wrappers, shoving them in the brown paper bag, and dumping them in the trash can on the sidewalk outside. Once we had gotten to Greg’s car, my cell phone rang. It was Tiny and he sounded even worse than before.

  “Mel,” moaned Tiny, “I feel horrible.”

  I sympathized with him, but was unsure of what I could do about it. The only cure for a cold is to let it run its course.

  “My nose is about to fall off. I swear it is. And I’m so stuffed up.” He coughed into the receiver of his phone and I held mine away from my ear until he stopped.

  “Where’s Elise?” I asked.

  “She’s sick too,” he cried.

  I felt sorry for him. Never did I imagine that the day would come where I would see Tiny so helpless, but colds are like that. “I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up and turned to Jackie and Greg. “You two go home without me.”

  Chapter 13

  Greg had dropped me off at my car and I told him not to wait up for me; I had no idea how long I would be gone, but Tiny needed some help. I stopped at a Walgreen’s, which was open 24 hours, and picked up some more supplies for severe colds, especially for nasal congestion, herbal tea for sore throats and colds, and a basketful of canned chicken noodle soup. The clerk gave me a weird look and stepped back a bit, no doubt worried that I was the one with the cold and she didn’t want to catch it herself. I didn’t blame her, but really, when you work in a public place, that is just something you have to deal with.

  Once I had my bags of the standard cures for a cold, I drove over to Tiny’s and let myself inside his apartment. I found him where I had the last time I was here, on the couch with blankets wrapped around him like they were his own little cocoon.

  “Tiny?”

  Deep coughing greeted me. It appeared that he has moved beyond the sore throat stage to the congestion stage where all you do is cough and feel even more miserable than before. I felt his forehead. “You seem to be running a bit of a fever. Here.”

  I pulled out the thermometer I had also bought and stuck it under his tongue, after washing it with rubbing alcohol. 100 degrees. He had a slight fever all right. Though nothing unusual about that, some people do get a fever when they have a cold, I was a little concerned. I noticed a couple of empty beer bottles on the side table next to the couch and picked one up, waving it front of him with a disapproving look. “Really?”

  “I don’t like that herbal stuff,” whined Tiny.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I am making you some chicken soup and some tea and you will drink it.”

  Tiny moaned.

  “I don’t want any argument.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Tiny, sounding like a toddler who didn’t want to take his nap.

  “You will, or I will sic Rachel on you.” I had no idea where she was at the
time, but hoped that my threat would work.

  Tiny’s face contorted in a mixture of defiance and unease. He knew about Rachel, she had introduced herself to him when I had first met him, and her, almost two and half years ago. “You would too,” he said.

  Yes I would.

  “Fine,” Tiny huffed.

  Now that we had gotten that out of the way, I went into his kitchen and pulled out a saucepan to heat the soup in and had decided to cook two cans, since I was also hungry. Jackie had eaten all of the tacos, leaving nothing for me or Greg. After I had the soup on the stove, I filled a kettle, which I had to clean first, with water and put it on a burner until it boiled.

  “Here,” I said to Tiny, carrying a tray with a cup of the herbal tea, glass of water, two nighttime capsules for relieving cold symptoms, and a bowl of soup.

  He sat up and I placed the tray in his lap, watching as he brought the cup of tea up to his mouth and sipped it.

  “Take your medicine too,” I told him. I know I was treating him like a baby, but he was sort of acting like one, and someone had to make sure he got well, considering that Elise must have caught his cold and was stuck in her own bed.

  Tiny popped the pills in his mouth and downed his glass of water.

  “Now, I want you to eat all of your soup and drink all of your tea. And don’t even think about giving it to the plant,” I said, as I watched him from the corner of my eye try to pour the contents of his cup in the planter behind the couch. He stopped mid-pour and sat back down, disappointed that I had caught him, and drank his tea until it was gone.

  The next hour was spent with me practically spoon-feeding Tiny his soup until I had gotten two bowlfuls in him, plus another cup of the herbal tea. Once done, I helped him into bed, pleased that the nighttime medicine had taken affect as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

  After I had gotten him into bed, I ate the remainder of the soup, cleaned up, and left, but not before making certain that the next morning’s breakfast had been prepared, which he could heat in the microwave once he woke up.

  A giant yawn accompanied me as I got into my car and headed home. I checked the clock; it was no wonder I was so tired, since it was past midnight. That was it. It was time for bed.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning I woke up feeling a little tired and rundown. I forced myself out of bed. I couldn’t afford to get sick or take a day off as I still needed to solve who broke into the stores on the shopping block, and why. Even though Mr. Stilton seemed to have closed the Candle Shoppe for the week, there were still my classes. I threw on my standby of jeans and a cami, with a sweater over it since one look out my window told me that it would be another cold, dreary, and snowy day. Would the snow ever stop?

  A pile of stapled papers sat on my desk, reminding me that I had something important due today. That’s right! A term paper for one of my classes was due and I found myself thankful that I had finished it last week, because with everything that has happened this week, there was no possible way I would have gotten it done.

  My phone fell out of my pocket when I put on my coat, reminding me of last night’s talk with the Candle Shoppe’s resident ghost: Gregory King. It also made me think of Beverly. She wanted to speak with me about Roger, but Edmond interrupted her. Though he probably didn’t mean to stop her from talking to us, but was just protective of his mother. Yet, Beverly did say that I could call her at any time. I fumbled in my pockets and found the slip of paper she had written her number on and dialed it. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Beverly,” I said, recording my message, “this is Mel. I wanted to know if we could meet up someplace today. I’d like to talk to you further about Roger.”

  I left my number and ended the call.

  “Where are you going?” asked Jackie as I headed for the door.

  I waved my paper in front her. She got that “Ah-ha” look on her face as she remembered my paper, and how I had spent all week last week stressing out about it.

  “I need to drop this off, “I said, “and I think I will also stop by and see Detective Shorts.”

  “Okay. Bundle up, though. It looks nasty out there.”

  Nasty was putting it mildly. As I stepped outside into the parking lot, snow blasted me in the face, followed by a bitter cold wind that made me want to run back up to my apartment and curl up in a giant, fuzzy blanket. Knowing that I wouldn’t be allowed to do such a thing, I pulled my coat tighter around me and ran to my car, braving the snowstorm.

  It took a little longer to get to the college than normal due to the weather and the fact that I drove slower than usual. At least I didn’t have a class until later that day, but the one my paper was for wasn’t meeting until next week and the teacher still wanted all of the papers by today.

  I parked my car in a space near the building where all of the college professors had their offices and ran inside, hiking up the stairs two at a time. My professor wasn’t in that day, which was little surprise, considering that he had mentioned something about taking a week off, but his office assistant was, and he was responsible for collecting the papers. I opened the door to the outer part of the office, not bothering to knock, breathless from having jogged up two flights of stairs.

  “Another one?” said the office assistant.

  “Yes,” I replied and plopped the printed pages on the cluttered desk.

  “You are the sixth person to hand one to me today,” said the office assistant as he picked up my term paper and placed it in a folder where the others were kept. “I hope the rest of your classmates remember to bring theirs by. There are no exceptions for late papers.”

  “Not even when there’s a snowstorm?” I said.

  “Of course not. No exceptions is his policy.”

  I gave a weak smile, remembering how my professor had given an hour long speech one class period about how tardiness would not be tolerated. Thank goodness he was not here this week. I thanked the man and left just as my phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered, receiving a glare from someone passing by with an arm full of file folders, pointing at a sign that read, “No cell phones allowed.”

  Good grief. No one, not even the professors who had offices here, abided by such a policy.

  “Mel,” said the voice on the other end, “this is Beverly. You called me about wanting to meet.”

  “Yes, I need to talk to you more about what happened that night. I know that the weather is less than ideal, but I was hoping we could meet somewhere alone. For lunch, maybe?”

  “I’m not afraid of a little snow,” replied Beverly. “There is this little place, it’s a diner of sorts…”

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “I can be there in 20 minutes.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  I hurried to my car and drove over to the diner, taking great pains to keep my car from fishtailing every time I came to a red light. I had thought about calling Greg, or even Jackie, but decided against it. A one on one with Beverly might be better. I didn’t want to intimidate her or scare her off and Rachel seemed to have been absent for now.

  Beverly waved to me from a booth near a frosted window as I entered to diner. Grinning at her and waving back, I unzipped my coat and sat down, reveling in the aroma of sausage, eggs, and buttered waffles.

  “It’s a bit cold out there, isn’t it?” said Beverly as I sat down.

  “I think we’re in for a bit of a storm,” I replied, watching more snow come down heavier than before. My footprints on the sidewalk had already disappeared.

  “May I take your order?” asked a waitress.

  “I’ll have your chicken and waffles and some coffee, please,” I said.

  “The same,” said Beverly, not even bothering to glance at the menu.

  The waitress wrote down our order, chewing on her wad of gum, and walked off, sticking her pencil behind her ear.

  Just then, Rachel showed up, but remained invisible so that only I saw, or heard, her. “What’s up?�
�� she asked.

  “Now, you had wanted to talk to me,” said Beverly, unaware of Rachel’s presence, something that I wanted to keep her unaware of.

  “Yes,” I said, while typing a message on the notepad feature of my phone for Rachel, asking her to follow Edmond. He seemed like a straightforward person, but I just wanted to be certain that he hadn’t been putting on an act for our benefit, or Beverly’s. “I have reason to believe that you might be right about Roger.”

  “How?” asked Beverly. “No one ever believed me.”

  “I’d rather not go into how I know.” I positioned my phone so that Rachel could read the message, but Mrs. Waverly would not see it. “But I think there might have been someone else there that night who saw Brianna after he left her. I want you to tell me why you think he could never have done it.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Rachel, referring to my message, and disappeared, causing the napkins on the table to flip up and lay back down.

  “Seems to be a bit of a breeze,” muttered Beverly, watching the paper napkins.

  “It’s just, you are the only person to believe Roger’s story,” I said.

  “I know Roger. He’s like a second son to me. The man is very gentle and kindhearted. I just cannot image him doing what he is accused of doing to Brianna.”

  “Sometimes you don’t know the people you care about,” I said.

  “I realize that, that can be true,” replied Beverly, “but if you had ever seen them together, you would know that he could not have strangled her. Roger was devoted to Brianna.”

  “But people said that they saw them arguing that night.”

  “What was never publicized was the fact that Brianna was pregnant at the time. She had only just learned it herself and had come to me for guidance. You see, Roger was not the father.”

  “What?”

  The waitress came back with our food and coffee and we remained silent until she had left.

  “Before you judge, Brianna loved Roger. She said it happened one night when she went out with her friends and had a little too much to drink. She must have met a man there and one thing led to another. If she had been sober, it never would have happened.