The Ghosts of Landover Mystery Series Box Set

by Etta Faire

  I had no idea what kind of mystical mumbo-jumbo she was expecting, but I tried to look the part. A hundred bucks a piece was still a hundred bucks.

  I walked around and looked longingly at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, trying to look like I was feeling the energy of the room.

  I did feel an energy around me, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t Bessie’s. It seemed male to me. Less historical.

  “Yes,” I said. “Bessie’s here.”

  “Did you talk to her just now in your mind?”

  “No. We talk like normal people. With out-loud conversations and arguments and everything. She’s here, but she doesn’t want to talk right now.”

  I hadn’t felt her at all. I only lied because I knew she’d be here. It was her idea to get Paula Henkel to seek me out in the first place.

  “How does she like the new display?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Well, ask her.”

  “I’m sorry, but confirming is all I can do,” I said, just as snippy as she’d been. “My time and my talent come at a price. I’m a huge fan of money too.”

  Rosalie elbowed me until I looked over. She gave me a thumbs-up and we signed the paperwork. The seance was officially on for a week from Saturday.

  Chapter 4

  Dark History

  “I need your help,” I announced the next afternoon to the short woman with coke-bottle glasses, sitting behind the main counter of the library. A cloud of white hair peeked around her huge, yellowing computer monitor.

  “What do you need this time?”

  “Town history,” I said.

  “Follow me.” Mrs. Nebitt hopped off her stool and hustled over to the microfilm section. She was a squatty woman in a pair of green pants and a stretched-out, beige sweater that did nothing for her figure except create weird lumps where there probably weren’t any.

  Because the library was very small, the microfilm section was just a set of three metal cabinets in the periodicals area. And I was pretty sure one of those cabinets was empty. “Some day we’re going to digitize our archives,” she said, in a tone that suggested that was a radical idea. “Do you know what that means?”

  I nodded even though I was tempted to hear her explanation.

  She stopped in front of the gigantic computer on the desk in front of them. “Is this about Bessilyn Hind and the seance coming up next weekend at the bed and breakfast?”

  I turned my head to the side. “How on earth did you know about that?”

  “I received an invitation,” she said with a grin, which made me realize the woman’s face could make other expressions in addition to her usual scowl. “The new owner came over first thing this morning.”

  “That was nice of her,” I said. I knew there were only a few spots at any given seance table for others, probably six, max, for this one.

  “Yes.” The older woman sat down and clicked on the keyboard in front of the research computer. “Apparently, I’m considered one of the most distinguished members in town. So I get my ticket for free.”

  “Ticket? So, she’s charging people?”

  “There’s a dinner too. You and Rosalie have quite a draw with the older ladies at the country club. And Bessilyn Hind was also a member there. Oh here we are,” she said, staring at the screen while she took out a tiny pencil and scratch paper from the plastic basket on the side of the desk. “Just Bessilyn?”

  It took me a second to process what she was saying. My mind was still on the seance. “No, Sir Walter Timbre too, and Bessie’s parents…” I looked at my notes app. “Greta and James Hind. Her sister and brother-in-law. Pleasant and Troy Brillows.”

  “One at a time, please,” she said, scribbling down names onto the scratch paper.

  “So, how much is she charging for the dinner and the seance?” I asked, suddenly much more interested in making sure Rosalie and I were getting our fair share.

  “There’s a flier on the front counter.” Mrs. Nebitt pointed toward a bright pink piece of paper propped up in a plastic display case on the main counter next to the check out. “I’m selling tickets for her.”

  I rushed across the room, my hands shaking so much I could barely pull my phone out of my purse. I clenched my teeth as I clicked a couple photos of it.

  Meet the Ghost of

  Landover’s Bed and Breakfast

  The Landover Bed and Breakfast presents…

  The Conjuring of a Suicidal Suffragette with Carly Taylor and Rosalie Cooper

  $50 per ticket for the 9:00 seance show

  Cocktail hour and Buffet-style dinner

  also available at 5:30

  It went on to talk about Bessilyn and her suicide, the new historical display cases, my fame as Jackson Bowman’s ex who inherited Gate House and was briefly tangled in the stripper murders.

  I texted the photos to Rosalie then stormed back over to the periodicals section where Mrs. Nebitt waited for me, tapping her pencil.

  As soon as I returned, she scooted to the edge of her seat, pushing the film into place and twisting the knob on the side until she stopped on an article. Sir Walter’s obituary.

  Sir Walter Charles Timbre, heir to Crown Frozen Vegetables, died just before his 76th birthday on October 9, 1942 after a long bout with cancer. He is survived by his wife of 35 years Katharine Timbre, famous in her own right for her role in the women’s suffrage movement; their two children, Byron and Walter Jr; and five grandchildren.

  “Welp, he didn’t wait long,” I remarked to Mrs. Nebitt who was still sitting by my side “helping” me with the microfilm. We both knew I only needed help getting things set up. She blinked her humungous-looking eyes at me.

  I pointed toward the screen. “It says his wife of 35 years,” I explained. “He must’ve married this Katharine woman in 1907. Yet in 1906, he was still engaged to Bessilyn Hind. I wonder if she was the reason they broke up. I also noticed he had a thing for women’s rights leaders.” The article included a photo of Sir Walter. My mouth fell open. Broad shoulders, full beard and mustache that wasn’t waxed or weird, and soft vulnerable eyes. The photo was not of a 76-year-old Sir Walter.

  “He was very handsome,” Mrs. Nebitt said, pointing out the obvious.

  We both stared at him a second before looking up some of the other articles on her scratch piece of paper. Bessie’s parents died six months after she did, in a car accident. Her sister, Pleasant, died in 1950 from “natural causes.” And Pleasant’s husband passed on in 1926.

  “Pleasant Brillows. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. She used to go to First Methodist when I was a little girl,” she said, matter-of-factly, making me just about fall over onto the microfilm machine. I’d forgotten this woman was basically a walking history book herself, born and raised in Landover. “You knew Pleasant?”

  She nodded. “Only she wasn’t very pleasant.”

  I somehow refrained from making a “pot calling the kettle black” comment right then.

  The older lady leaned back in her rickety wooden chair. It squeaked under her weight. “I remember her from church. This was the early 1940s. I was a child so my memory is a little unreliable, but I know she was very scary to children. She always wore black and never smiled. It was one of my first memories, actually. I had to sit next to her one time. Mrs. Brillows opened a butterscotch candy in front of me. I was mesmerized by her hands, how they shook as she opened the candy, how pale they were with large blue veins running down the length of them. I was terrified, but mesmerized. She had a whole bag of candies by her side, and I was a child, so I smiled and motioned toward the bag. She nodded approvingly.”

  “That was pleasant,” I said.

  “When I reached for one, she swatted my hand so hard it left a pink mark. My mother never made me sit by her again.”

  I chuckled. “Whatever happened to her?” I asked.

  “She eventually left the church, so I’m not sure. I heard she died penniless. Canned yams stopped selling like they used to,
I suppose. Serves her right.”

  I stared at the screen full of names and dates. It was weird how time changed everything. From how our hands looked to what we ate as a society. And how each life was eventually just a snippet, like a faded article on microfilm, a tiny part of a much broader story.

  The library suddenly seemed extra quiet to me. Lonely. The clock ticked away on a nearby wall.

  “You know who would be an excellent reference for all of this? My friend Mildred. She wrote a book on Landover a few years back.”

  I snatched my phone from my purse once again before Mrs. Nebitt could change her mind. “Mildred Blueberg? I would love to talk to her. Do you have her number?”

  Mrs. Nebitt swatted the air. “Why on earth would I have my address book with me here at work? I’ll look it up for you later.” She glanced at my phone. The screen was still on the photo I’d taken of the flier.

  “The seance is more than a hundred dollars per ticket if you include dinner.” She lowered her voice. “But I guess we both get in for free. Lucky us.”

  “Yes, lucky us,” I repeated. I couldn’t wait for Rosalie to see just how lucky we were to have signed that contract.

  Chapter 5

  Cooler Heads

  Cartoon flames bolted from Rosalie’s ears when I stumbled under the unicorn that afternoon.

  “Why in the hell are we only getting a hundred dollars each to do this seance if she’s selling tickets for fifty dollars a pop?” Rosalie said, her face beet red. “And that’s not including dinner and cocktail hour. Cocktail hour. Honestly. So we’re nothing but the entertainment.”

  I shrugged. “I guess there’s not much we can do about it now.”

  Rosalie didn’t hear me. “Buffet-style dinners are what they serve when they expect a hell of a lot of people. Isn’t that right?” Rosalie only cussed when she was upset. She’d said hell five times in the two minutes I’d been there; I was counting. “They’re the potlucks of fancy dining, huh?”

  She flipped through the pages of the contract we’d signed with Paula while pacing the room. The limp she usually had from her bad hip was barely noticeable. “Nowhere does it say in this damn paperwork that she would be selling tickets at all.”

  “I guess we should have specified how many people could show up.”

  “The hell we should have,” she said, picking up her cell phone. “This is not our fault. She was purposely deceptive. I do see something in this contract that we can still use, though. This 24-hour cancellation clause. I bet she put that in for herself.” A calmness fell over her face as she left a message on Paula’s voicemail. I was pretty sure Paula was not going to be nearly as calm when she heard it.

  Bessie and Jackson were arguing in the living room when I got home a little before 7:00. Rex greeted me by begging for the dinner I was late in getting him. I put his meal in the microwave then listened in on the argument in the next room.

  “Stop being so sadistic,” Jackson said. “You used to be living. Is it too much to remember what that was like and be concerned for her psyche?”

  “There could be an important clue there.”

  “But those clues won’t involve the exact second of… impact. Be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable? I’m not the one being unreasonable.”

  “Except that you are.”

  “I have an idea probably no man has ever thought of,” Bessie said, turning to me. “Why don’t we let her decide?”

  I knew what they were talking about. It was what I’d been the most worried about too. The final moment. The gunshot part. Channelings were just like living the memory out in real life. I would be feeling death, for the first time.

  The microwave beeped and I turned back toward the kitchen, my boots digging into my feet like a constant reminder of just how humanly fragile I was. I felt pain. Every bit of it.

  “I can handle it,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure. “And Bessie’s right. There could be a clue at that moment.”

  Bessie threw Jackson a smug smile. It gleamed in the darkness. “Tell me, dear. Did you find anything interesting in your research today?” she asked.

  I wondered how much of my research I should tell the apparition or how much she already knew. Was it okay to tell her that her parents died shortly after she had, or that her sister had grown into a mean old woman who smacked little kids’ hands after offering them candy? It was strange because I was privy to stuff she probably had no idea about.

  “Nothing worth talking about,” I said. “Are you ready?”

  “I was murdered ready,” she said, chuckling at her joke.

  I sat down on one of my dining room chairs and took off my boots to get comfortable. My heart raced for no reason, and I told myself to calm down, but all I could hear was the clock ticking away in the background again. I heard a lot of clocks lately, not sure why.

  I blinked into the dimness of my dining room. It wasn’t too late to back out. I could still say, “no.” Problem was, I was feeling drawn to the channelings. I’d been looking forward to this all day. So, why was I suddenly feeling weird about it?

  Bessie looked human, aside from her glow, and the fact she was hovering just above the hardwood floor in front of me.

  She seemed to sense my apprehension. “Just keep your eyes closed until I tell you. Breathe deeply and try to make your mind open and free of thoughts.”

  I took one deep breath after another. Inhale, exhale. Like Jackson had done when I channeled with him, she waited until my heart was steady and my breathing calm.

  I smelled her first. Just before she entered. The faintest smell of mint tea, which was odd and unexpected. She was softer than Jackson had been the first time I’d done this, more encompassing. A powerful ghost must have an easier touch.

  “Do you hear me?’ she asked, her voice echoed inside my mind.

  “Yes,” I replied. I took a deep breath, which seemed to echo off my rib cage like Darth Vader.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I told myself. “Just like last time.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You will.”

  Whether I was comfortable with this invasion of my body or not, we were one. And it was happening. It was now too late to back out. I breathed in again, my loud exhale morphing into the sound of lively piano music, mostly the playful, repetitive cords you hear before a piece begins.

  A man’s voice bellowed over them in a vocal warming exercise. “Me. Me. Me… Usually, I get paid to dance,” he yelled. Lots of applause and laughter followed. I could tell, even with my eyes closed, that the crowd was pretty substantial. The man continued. “Please, maestro. My key.” The piano played. “I said my key…” The man repeated in a falsetto high-pitched voice. More laughter.

  “You can open your eyes now,” Bessilyn told me.

  Blinking around the darkened room, I could hardly believe it. The house didn’t look at all creepy on the inside like it had in the photos I saw in Landover County: Then and Now.

  A small orchestra sat off to my right where a man stood in front of a piano, singing like he was straight out of an old record.

  To my left, three large tables, each beautifully trimmed in gold and white linens, were pushed against the back wall to create a dance floor where about seven couples found places to dance.

  One table had nothing but drinks and glasses. Another hors d'oeuvres. And the third, the makings of a feast. I smelled bread, and some sort of meat in what could have been a burgundy sauce. Many people sat at tables situated around the dance floor, eating and talking, watching the dancers.

  My stomach growled. I’d forgotten to eat before the channeling, and I tried to get myself not to care, not to smell things. I had a job to do.

  I realized I was cupping something in my gloved hand, and I looked down to see a glass of champagne. Bessie took a sip as she shuffled her feet to the music. The champagne was extremely dry. The couples dancing around her all seemed to know the same dance moves, probably a waltz of some sort.

  “A
re all of these people your friends,” I asked Bessie.

  “Hardly any of them.”

  Someone tapped her shoulder and she turned around. A short, older man in his 80s. “May I have the honor?” he asked.

  She warmed when she saw him. “Popsy. Of course.”

  He slipped his hand into Bessie’s and they spun around the dance floor, in perfect time with the other dancers, round and round, smiling at the many guests seated around them. A large chandelier overhead glistened in the lamp lights accenting the staircase toward the back of the room. It was decadent, all right. And I suddenly felt like a star, like all eyes were on me, but not all of them were happy-for-you eyes. I mentally felt daggers.

  He leaned in and whispered in Bessie’s ear as we danced. “I heard you had to go before the judge on a matter of speeding again.”

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  “How fast were you going this time?”

  “You would have been very proud.”

  “Someday you’ll take this old man around, I hope.” They twirled to the music as they talked. “I wanted to get you a car of your own for your birthday so you wouldn’t have to scare the town in your father’s. A faster one. Wouldn’t that have been something?”

  She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “That would have been.”

  “Your father said you didn’t have a need for it. A need? Who makes purchases because they have a need?”

  Bessie looked down at her feet, almost losing her step as they danced.

  His breath smelled like hard liquor as he yelled over the music. “The world may be quick to tell you all the things you can’t do in life. But remember, they’re only right if you listen to them.” He winked. “They told me, ‘Jimmy, you’ll never make money canning vegetables. People can can their own. They don’t need you to do it.’ I didn’t listen, and not listening to them changed my life.”