“No,” said the same person.
“What am I supposed to do about this?” demanded Rachel, ignoring the faces that gawked at her, though I think a part of her was having a little too much fun with this.
“Maybe you should make the author eat it,” said another person in the room.
Oh no. I buried my face in my hands. I knew what was going to happen next. Rachel’s eyes gleamed and a devilish look crossed her face and she vanished, with the paper.
Long exhales filled the room from those who had held their breaths, still shocked that an angry ghost chewed them out.
Rachel popped back in the room. “By the way, class is dismissed!” She vanished again.
Everyone left. I couldn’t blame them and a part of me was thankful for it, since I did not want to be there myself. Before the professor arrived, I hurried out of the room. My mind wandered to the photographer and his riddles. Could he have seen something he wasn’t supposed to?
What I needed was an actual blue print of the photography studio before it got converted. I dialed Jack and he answered on the first ring.
“Jack?”
“Not again,” he groaned.
“Jack, I need your help.”
“You always need my help.”
“Do you know if the original building of the photography studio was ever torn down.”
“Actually, I do, and I don’t need to look that up. It used to take up that whole block. When the owner died and the bank resold the property to a developer, instead of tearing it down, the guy decided to remodel the building into four distinct stores, which he leases. The original structure is still there, but the modifications make it difficult to see that.”
That was good to know. “Is there any way you can get me the blueprints of the original studio?”
“Why?”
“Can you?”
“I can, but the real question is: will I.”
“Jack.”
“Okay. Okay. I will. Give me some time to find them and I’ll send them to you.”
“Thanks.”
I headed to the local library, deciding that I needed to look up some old articles concerning the events from 20 years ago. When I entered, I saw the paper with my picture on the front page sitting on the front desk. Angered by it, and fed up with Jillian’s attempts to discredit me, I snatched it, crumbled it up, and tossed it in the nearby trash can.
The archives were in the basement, so I took the stairs down to it. I never liked elevators much and the exercise wouldn’t hurt me.
“Excuse me?” I said to the plump lady at the desk when I entered the archives room. “I need some help in locating old newspaper articles.”
“What year?” asked the woman in a bored tone, looking over the rims of her reading glasses at me. “Oh, it’s you.”
I gaped at her. I had never met her before in my life. How could she… The articles by Jillian. It seems, whether I wanted it or not, my face had become as recognizable in this town as the face of any celebrity.
“All archived newspapers are over there. Some are bound into books. Others are on microfiche.”
Realizing that I would never get any help from her, I moseyed over to the area where she indicated the old newspapers were. First, I looked through the bound books, having never been a fan of microfiche, as the fast scrolling film tends to make me seasick. Most of the articles revealed nothing that I didn’t already know, but one caught my eye.
A picture of Edmond Waverly stared back at me from the stained page and he looked irate. I skimmed the article.
Despite their lifelong friendship, Edmond Waverly testified against Roger Croukman during the trial. Though the details have not been released to the press, it is believed that Edmond Waverly, a wall street broker who lives in New York City and had returned for his friend’s wedding, gave pertinent information that will seal Mr. Croukman’s conviction for the murder of his fiancé Brianna Grafton.
Read Mother Mourns on page 9A for more.
Testified against Roger? Why is it Beverly kept that a secret? I could understand why Edmond said nothing, but keeping something like this buried made me wonder about the both of them. Was Beverly covering for her son?
I flipped through the book, looking for page 9A, but it wasn’t there. Instead, all I found was a written note that read, “Microfiche 368925.” Great. Guess I was going to have to sit in front of that behemoth of a machine anyway.
I yanked open the drawer, receiving a glare from the lady at the desk. What did she think I was going to do? Run off with it? My fingers zipped through the plastic cases that held the film until I found the one I searched for.
“Excuse me?” I said to the woman at the desk. “Can I get some help with this?” I pointed at the machine.
The woman ignored me and swiveled around in her chair, turning her back on me.
Okay. Fine. I’ll do it myself. It took me a few minutes, but I figured out how to thread the film into the humming machine, sweating from the heat that was released from it, forming a sweltering hothouse.
“SHHH!” the lady shouted at me as I zipped through the film, my stomach doing loopy-loops from the scrolling images and text, until I found page 9A. Geez, lady, give it a rest. An image of Beverly crying against her son’s shoulder filled the screen.
Heartbreak has riddled the Waverly household as the trial continues in the Roger Croukman case. Mrs. Waverly has refused to comment on her son’s testimony, insisting that Mr. Croukman is innocent. A verdict is expected tomorrow.
The rest of the article was blurred and faded, making it impossible to read, but I had learned some of what I needed to know. Edmond and Beverly had both neglected to tell me about his testimony against Roger Croukman, and I intended to find out why.
My phone buzzed as I received a text from Jackie. Where are you?
I sent a reply. At the library. On my way home.
I put the film away, back where I had gotten it from and made certain that the books were placed back on the shelf in their proper order, all under the watchful gaze of the library attendant.
“You’re going to burn in hell,” said the lady as I walked passed.
I clamped my mouth shut to keep from uttering a retort. It wouldn’t have done any good and I needed to get back home. There wasn’t much else I could do at the library.
Rachel showed up, holding out the crumpled newspaper she had taken from the classroom I had been in earlier that day. “Okay, so I was unable to find that reporter so that I could make her eat this.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What?”
I pointed at the library attendant. Horror filled her face as her mouth hung open, exposing her bridgework.
“BOO!” Rachel yelled at her, causing the woman to tip backward in her chair and crash into the floor.
I tried to help the woman up, amidst Rachel’s hysterical cackles of laughter, but she slapped my hand away.
“Get away!” yelled the woman.
I pulled away and left, followed by a floating piece of paper that vanished into thin air once I got outside.
When I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, the giant flakes of falling snow formed a veil, making it impossible to see anything, including my hand when I put it directly in front of my face. At first, I had planned on going to the Candle Shoppe to see if there was something I could do to help out, but Jackie had texted me while I drove home, informing me that Mr. Stilton had decided to close up for the next several days. That was fine by me. I had no desire to go out in this mess and curling up in front of the television to watch The Walking Dead on Netflix, while drinking hot chocolate, was a more attractive idea.
I had no idea where Rachel had gone to and hadn’t seen her since the incident at the library. She always did her own thing and my money was on the fact that she busied herself with harassing Jillian Modsen. If Jillian didn’t believe in ghosts now, she either would be a believer by the time Rachel got through with her, or at leas
t have a very bad week and maybe give up this crusade to discredit me.
“Miss Summers?” A soft voice stopped me before I could enter the building.
I turned around and found a man—his tattered and stained coat looked as though it was never meant to keep anyone warm in weather like this—standing in the shadows, doing his best not to be seen by anyone, except me.
“May I help you?” I asked, gripping the door handle and ready to run inside should he try anything.
“Beverly… Beverly Waverly said you wished to speak with me,” said the man, his white-streaked beard jiggled with each move he made, though it looked as though it could still use a comb. “I’m Roger Croukman.”
I released me grip on the door handle. That was fast. I know that Mrs. Waverly had said that she would ask him to come see me, but I hadn’t expected it to be this quick.
“Won’t you come in?” I asked him.
“I’d rather stay out here, if you don’t mind.”
I moved away from the door and further into the shadows, behind a concrete column so that we could have some privacy.
“I understand that you are looking into the break-ins.”
“Well, the place where I work was one of the stores that had been targeted. Beverly already told me that she had done the other three.”
“You can’t blame her,” Roger said. “She was just trying to help me and keep me from getting into any more trouble.”
“But you were the one that had broken into the Candle Shoppe.”
“Yes.”
“I told Beverly that she is going to have to turn herself in for that, otherwise I’ll have to. And you need to too.”
“If I do that, then I will go back to prison and may never be allowed out.”
“You knew that even when you broke into the Candle Shoppe.”
Roger looked at his feet in shame.
“Why don’t you tell me why you broke in in the first place. Nothing was taken, so you must have been searching for something in particular.”
Roger wrung his hands; his jittery nature made me wish that I had been more gentle with my words instead of lecturing him.
“Does this have to do with Brianna’s murder?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t scare him off.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Brianna had asked me to meet with her in the gazebo. I thought that she wanted some time alone, but instead, she wanted to tell me about her pregnancy. I was angry at first and went for a long walk while I tried to grapple with everything and figure things out. I didn’t do it. I know that everyone says I did, but I never…”
“I believe you,” I said.
“Gregory was more than just a photographer,” said Roger. “He was my friend. Oh, I wish he hadn’t gone out in that storm that night. If he hadn’t, he’d still be here. And I’m not saying that just because I believe he could prove my innocence. He was a good man.”
“So why the break-ins?” I prompted, trying to get back on tract.
“Gregory had his oddities. As a photographer, he would take far more photographs than would ever be developed or bought by the people who hired him. On a normal gig, he could use as much as 20 rolls of film, but only 10 would ever get developed. It might seem wasteful, but that was how he was. This was more a hobby than a job.
“He also had this habit of grabbing three or four rolls of film that had been used on any given job and hiding them somewhere. He said that doing so was good luck.”
“So, what does this have to do with the night of Brianna’s murder?” I asked, trying to follow where Roger went.
“During the party, Gregory had set up over 30 cameras to take snapshots at certain intervals. These intermittent shots were meant to capture the essence of the party without having people pose. Candid photography, as he called it. He still took a few posed photographs, but he liked the unrehearsed stuff as well. There was a camera set up just outside the gazebo. If it’s timer worked, it would have been taking photographs throughout the night and it might have captured a shot of the real murderer.
“When the party had ended, and before anyone had discovered Brianna”—Roger’s voice cracked when he said her name and I handed him a tissue from my purse—“Gregory would have taken the film out of the cameras and placed them in their cases. If I know him, he would have gone back to his studio and picked a few rolls at random to stash away for posterity. What if one of those rolls is from the camera at the gazebo?”
That was a possibility and a question worth answering, but a part of me doubted that such a thing could be possible. “That is a big if,” I said, “and we are talking about 20 years here and a building that had been modified and turned into four separate stores.”
“It is worth looking for,” said Roger. “I have already lost 20 years of my life.”
“All right,” I said. It was worth looking for it and what did I have to lose? “I will help you, but on one condition: you meet me at the Candle Shoppe at midnight tonight. No more breaking in on your own. And Beverly stays home.”
“Agreed.”
“You do realize, though, that this is a longshot, and if we don’t find anything, you are going to have to let it go.”
Roger hung his head, not liking the idea, but knew I was right. “Fine.”
As I looked at his disheartened face, I thought about what I had learned at the library that day. “Roger, do you know why Edmond testified against you at the trial?”
“He was in love with Brianna.”
What? That was another piece of information Edmond had left out. Again, a part of me could understand why. Such emotions and memories are painful and perhaps he did not want to think about it. “Did Beverly know?”
“No. He did a good job of hiding it. He was even the first to congratulate me when Brianna and I announced our engagement. Despite his initial feelings for her, he seemed okay with us getting married. But when Brianna died, I guess he believed what the papers and the police had said. I lost everything that night.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, patting his frozen, bare hand. The poor man didn’t even have a pair of gloves, so I gave him mine.
“What…”
“For your hands,” I said. “They’ve got to be cold.”
“I can’t…”
“Take them,” I insisted, shoving my gloves into his calloused and blistered hands. “Fashion is overrated and I can always buy new ones.”
Roger took them and put them on, thankful that someone cared enough to give him something to keep his hands warm.
“Midnight,” I said.
He nodded his head and walked off while I went inside and walked up the stairwell to my floor.
“Hey, I was wondering when you were going to get back,” said Jackie as I walked through the door to the apartment. “This snow is really coming down.”
“No kidding.”
“Greg’s home. He said he got a call telling him not to bother coming in. Closed due to bad weather.”
“Good, because we’re going to need him.”
Jackie put down what she had been fiddling with and came closer. “Need him?”
“I ran into Roger Croukman just a few minutes ago,” I said.
Jackie’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “What?”
“Mrs. Waverly had asked him to see me and he met me down in the parking lot as I got out of my car. He and Beverly were the ones committing the break-ins. They were looking for some rolls of film. I told him that I would meet him at midnight at the Candle Shoppe and I was hoping you and Greg would come along.”
“Really? How will we know where to start looking?” asked Jackie.
“We’ll need to talk to the photographer’s ghost again.” My phone buzzed and a text message with images of the original blueprints to the studio popped up on the small screen. “And I have the original blueprints. I had Jack look them up.”
“Well, of course I’m coming.”
A knock sounded at the door. Thinking it might be Greg coming over, I ripped it o
pen. “Greg, I… oh.”
Father Hillard stood in the doorway and he must have noticed the disappointed tone in my voice when I saw him. “I know that I’m not much to look at, nor was I expected, but I’m sure you can do a better greeting than ‘oh’.”
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“I gathered that.”
I noticed an overnight bag in his hands. “What’s that?”
“Detective Shorts called me, expressing his concern that you might do something which would put your life in danger. So, he asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“I am perfectly capable…” I began.
“It’s not up for negotiation,” said Father Hillard. “I will sleep on the floor if necessary, but the detective was insistent.”
Of course he was. Detective Shorts must have known I was planning something the moment I left his hospital room. Knowing I would never get out of this, I let Father Hillard inside and pointed at the couch. I couldn’t tell Greg my plans now. How was I going to sneak out with Father Hillard guarding the front door? I couldn’t climb out the window. It was too high up.
Father Hillard set his overnight bag down and noticed the TV, which I had turned on the moment I had gotten home. “What were you girls planning to watch?”
“The Walking Dead,” I answered and his face conveyed disapproval.
“Not one of my favorite shows.”
“Not one of your favorites!” Jackie blurted out. “How can you not like it? And Daryl—what a hottie! I love his toned muscles and the facial hair and…” Jackie continued her retinue of why she loved Daryl’s character so much before she noticed Father Hillard’s questioning look.
“Not that you would care about such things,” said Jackie in an effort to reclaim her dignity. I swear that if she could marry the actor, she would.
“Popcorn, anyone?” asked Jackie, her face turning red from embarrassment.
“Put it on whatever you want,” I said to Father Hillard before going into the kitchen to help Jackie.
“Now what are we going to do?” whispered Jackie to me.
“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my throat as it had started to feel scratchy.
Double, Double, Nothing But Trouble (A Mellow Summers Paranormal Mystery Book 10) Page 12