The Ghosts of Landover Mystery Series Box Set

by Etta Faire

  Mason ignored his aunt and turned his attention to Bertha and Gloria. “Just tell me exactly what you saw.”

  “Hey Clyde,” someone yelled from the crowd. “Looks like your dumb brother actually believes this crap. Dumbest sheriff ever. That’s what my parents say.” It was the kid I was guessing was Freddie Linder, elbowing the chubby younger Bowman. Clyde’s face grew red under his freckles.

  “Sheriff Moron Bowman, that’s what they call him,” Eric chimed in. “They wonder if you’ll ever solve a case.”

  Mason blinked over and over, looking down at his shiny black shoes and back at his pen again. He looked everywhere but in anyone’s eyes. “Young lady, are you sure that’s what you heard and saw? I just want the truth.”

  Gloria nodded profusely. “One-hundred percent. Yes, sir.”

  “One-hundred percent. Yessss, sirrr. I’m a fancy ornithographer, so I know. Those birds growl. Grrrrrrrr,” Clyde mocked, and the group burst out laughing. Nettie laughed too.

  Gloria’s eyes stung and her nose stuffed up. She pushed past the kids while they pointed and laughed at her. She pushed past the group of grown-ups that had formed a circle along the outskirts, studying her with skeptical eyes and hushed whispers.

  Nettie was right behind us. I could tell.

  “I’m sorry, Gloria. I shouldn’t have laughed,” she yelled, but Gloria kept running, never even turning around.

  The announcer’s voice was still projecting in the background from the ski show. “Let’s hear it for another fine demonstration of athletic ability and showmanship,” he said to the sound of applause. “That concludes the ski show this year, but stick around for the barbecue and fireworks…”

  Nettie caught up and pulled on Gloria’s arm, apologizing again and again. “We need to keep our stories straight, okay? We both saw the bird attack. We were together watching the ski show when we heard the girl scream. Got it? We need to stick together on this…”

  Gloria’s head throbbed along her temples, but I couldn’t tell if it was Gloria’s headache or my own. I closed my eyes, or Gloria did, and let Nettie’s whines drift into the background. She was telling us she would never let this happen again. They were going to stick together from now on. She promised.

  When I opened my eyes, I was in my own living room. My head still throbbed and I slowly turned my neck this way and that to try to loosen my muscles and relieve my headache.

  Jackson hovered nearby, watching me. It was creepy and endearing all at the same time. “I was very worried about you,” he said.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, my voice raspy and dry from channeling for hours without drinking anything. I slowly got up and made my way to the kitchen for some water. My legs moved but I barely felt them. I had no idea how I’d woken from the channeling. That was one area I seriously needed more control over.

  “Your great aunt was horrible,” I said to my ex as I grabbed a large glass from the cabinet and filled it from the tap. “So was Clyde. Your father seemed all right. Why didn’t you tell me he was sheriff of Landover?”

  Jackson’s transparent face grew slightly paler. “I forgot you’d see that. He wasn’t sheriff for very long. Apparently, he quit right around the time of Gloria’s accident. Told my mother she could have the baby she always wanted.” He framed his chin with the back of his hands. “An adorable son, well worth the wait. And they just lived off the inheritance from then on.”

  I nodded, looking up at the ceiling. It was strange how Gloria’s accident had changed the town, from who the sheriff was to the library being built.

  “You should’ve told me sooner,” I said.

  Rex ran up to me and stuck his head in my lap as I scribbled. “And you, young man,” I said to my dog, cupping his head in my hand. “You were quite the hero in my channeling.”

  He walked away like he had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Whatever, Normandy,” I yelled to him. I turned back to my ex. “The birds were very coordinated in their attack…”

  I grabbed my notebook and wrote as I talked, circling Look up Richard. Decapitated or split in two? Find out about the investment.

  Jackson glanced over my shoulder as I wrote. “Not that I’m your secretary, but someone called and left a message on the answering machine while you were channeling. A university student, works at the paper.”

  “Lynette,” I said, dropping my pencil. I knew she hadn’t really been listening to that police scanner. “Go Bears,” I said.

  Chapter 22

  Duly Noted

  The next day was one of those days in Wisconsin when the news lectures nonstop about the importance of having an emergency kit in your car in case you get stranded.

  I shivered my way into work, scarfing down both granola bars I’d brought with me as emergency rations even though I’d already eaten an early lunch. I wiped the crumbs from my sweatshirt, kicking myself a little for eating rations for no reason. Now if I got stranded, I’d probably have to Donner-party my own arm to survive. I glanced over at my left one. We both knew which one was going down first.

  Almost as soon as I arrived, Lynette bounced under the glitter unicorn that adorned the front entrance of the Purple Pony. I could tell immediately she had the kind of positive energy I was going to have to stop myself from wanting to smack out of her.

  “I could not believe my luck when you walked into the newspaper office,” she said, barely pausing to breathe. “It was like, what do you call that, kismet or something.”

  Rosalie rushed in from the backroom when the wind chimes clanged.

  “Not a customer,” I said to her. She limped back. At least she was getting exercise. The doctor was always on her about that.

  Lynette looked around the shop. The gemstone section seemed to catch her eye and she sifted through one of the bins as she talked. “Anyway, I’ve been searching for a story to investigate for this nightmare investigative journalism class I have to take this semester. I was like, ‘How do you just make up something to investigate?’ And then, there you were.”

  “There I was,” I repeated, wondering briefly if this girl was trying to step in and take credit for my investigative work, something I probably should’ve been okay with.

  She went on. “So, when I overheard you talking about the Gazette’s botched reporting job and a possible cover-up on that accident, I looked up the old archives the next day as soon as the Herndons left for lunch. Because they always go out for lunch. Dinner too. They barely work, actually. I searched every file every day until I found something.”

  I leaned in. “Okay, what’d you find?”

  She threw a small, gray notebook onto the counter, and I recognized it immediately. Aunt Ethel’s.

  This particular notebook covered almost five years of Aunt Ethel’s notes, from 1953 to 1958. And trying to sift through the mountain of bad handwriting was too much for me to sneak in during work, but I still tried.

  Lynette was making it almost impossible, though. Sitting on a stool by my side, she went on and on about her ridiculously hard classes and how disappointed she was that the seance had been canceled because she really wanted to film it.

  “I would’ve been able to use that footage for two classes. Two. Ohmygod, how amazing would that have been? Investigative journalism and broadcast journalism,” she said, her voice rising for added emphasis and enthusiasm. “And it’s such an interesting angle, right? The ghosts coming back for revenge.”

  I nodded. “They’re not really coming back for revenge. It’s more like closure.”

  Her face dropped.

  “But last time all the windows did get blown out at the bed and breakfast,” I said to cheer her up. “And that would’ve made for some awesome broadcast journalism.”

  Her face brightened, and I realized I had just used the word awesome.

  “Unfortunately,” I continued. “The town’s too afraid to come out for this seance because if they did, it would look like they supported my investigation into the good ol
e boys club around here.” I smoothed in a little post-it note on the page I just found in Ethel’s notebook about the split-in-two body in the woods, squealing a little to myself about finding that.

  “You could do it for free,” Lynette said. “I’ll post the seance in the Daily Bear.”

  I turned my head to the side, no idea what she was talking about.

  “Landover University’s campus newspaper. It’s called the Daily Bear, but we don’t release it daily, not sure why it’s called that. If I call now, I can make it into the next issue. I’m one of the editors there.”

  “Do it,” I said. “Put the seance in for a week from Saturday, here at the Purple Pony. For free.”

  Rosalie hobbled into the room, making me realize she’d been listening at the entrance to the back.

  “For free?” she said. “You said we were going to make money off this?”

  “Good thing you don’t need money.” I teased her. “But it’s great for the long run. We’ll be tapping into a whole new local market, one you can use in winter. College students.”

  “Oh yeah,” Lynette said, looking around at the long tie-dye dresses and vintage clothing. “They’ll probably buy tons… and tons of… stuff.”

  Rosalie twirled one of her dreadlocks around a finger. “I can’t do the seance here, for free. Sorry.” Her voice was unusually quiet, and her limp extra pronounced as she turned and headed to the backroom again. I’d never seen her act so strange before.

  “I’ll talk her into it later,” I said as soon as she was out of earshot.

  Lynette shrugged and looked at her watch. “Well, let me know before seven if you guys change your mind. I’ve gotta run or I am going to be late to class. And I need to sneak that notebook back into the Herndons’ files after that.” She held out her hand like she expected me to hand over the notebook, that I’d barely had time to look through because she wouldn’t stop talking.

  I shook my head so hard and fast I pulled a neck muscle. “I’ll return it tomorrow when they’re out for dinner. I promise. In the meantime, look for more. There has to be more than this notebook. Look for an article about the Linders. I want to know if their remains washed ashore or if just a couple of shirts and shoes did.”

  Lynette’s face turned almost as red as the highlights in her auburn hair. She bit her lip.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll never know you’re doing this,” I said in that confident tone I was getting far too good at faking. “Plus, think how amazing this is going to be for your career.”

  I had no idea how whistleblowing and a seance were going to be amazing for anyone’s career, but she seemed to buy it. And as soon as the talkative girl left, I went back to the notebook.

  I took a deep breath and leaned over it, finally able to look at the small, black leather notebook in peace, when it occurred to me it really was in peace. I hadn’t seen or heard my ex-husband all day. I patted the pocket that held a couple of Rosalie’s stinky sachets. Score one for privacy.

  Ethel’s notebook seemed to be divided into what was put in the newspaper and what was x’d out. I went to the bird attack first to see what it was she had crossed out that day.

  Near the same spot as Richard. Bertie Hawthorne, growling birds, thick beaks, fifth bird attack

  Instead, the notes about the dog had been circled, and even though the headline read “Another Bird Attack in Landover,” the article never mentioned that this was the fifth one.

  That was a lot of bird attacks.

  But the strangest parts of Ethel’s notes that day were scribbled almost illegibly into the margins, so I concentrated mostly on those areas. Things like:

  Check on cut of R rumor. I KNOW I sent more leads than was paid for. People winking and nodding at me all over the place. He better deliver. Get L to call his friend in DA office. Crime or society pages — D’s choice. He already owes me.

  I had no idea what that meant. L was probably Lawrence, her husband, and the mayor. D was probably Dwight Linder. R was Richard, most likely, the dead man in the woods. Her code really wasn’t hard to decipher, but then it was reflective of the cocky attitude that plagued this whole town, an attitude that almost dared someone to figure things out and say something.

  Rosalie hobbled out to check on me. “You can go on home early if you want,” she said in a defeated tone. “I can handle things today.”

  I barely looked up from the notebook. “But I have another hour on my shift,” I said, like I was busy and leaving early was a crazy notion.

  She sighed and left, and I continued flipping through the notebook, wondering what Dwight Linder owed Ethel.

  Crime or society pages?

  Did this have to do with the investment the old man from Knobby Creek was talking about?

  And what was the Richard rumor she’d been referring to? The one about the drug deal gone wrong or the greedy relative?

  I scanned for entries from July 1957 when the accident happened to see if I could find anything on the Linders. But Ethel’s notes ended the night before the accident and picked up in December with the best egg-nog recipes. I took a picture of the eggnog recipes for later.

  Flipping back over to her notes just before the accident, I looked for anything strange about the shed fire’s reporting. There wasn’t much about it, but I was excited to see it in there.

  Fire erupted just outside the country club, 2:00 a.m. when a worker’s shed caught fire. Probably all of Ernst’s moonshine. A blowtorch and a welding mask found just inside. The fire was seen clear across the lake. No injuries or threat to the main structures. Shed is destroyed. Arson suspected. Firemen responded promptly. Cause under investigation.

  I bit the end of my fingernail. Every piece of information that could have implicated the good ole boys club had been struck from her notes, of course. Mildred had been right. The fire was started on purpose, to put Mildred in her place and destroy all her father’s hard work.

  In the light of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, I could just see what looked like an erased message scribbled into the margin of the page, just like before. Aunt Ethel’s margin notes were always the hardest part of her notebook to read, little jokes and reminders written in an almost illegible scrawl. But this time it had been erased, making it almost impossible to decipher.

  I squinted and tried to concentrate on the faint lines. An “L” maybe… or an “R.” I brought my face in closer. Nope, it was definitely a “B.” B wants article on FM. DS driving him crazy. Bury it. A loud deep cough interrupted my thoughts. Cigar and coffee breath. I screamed and fell off my stool.

  Mayor Bowman and Dr. Dog. I’d been so into the notebook I hadn’t even heard the wind chimes on the door.

  “What in tarnation is that?” the mayor yelled, pointing a thick shaky finger at his aunt’s notebook.

  I threw the opened notebook into my purse. “Just taking notes on the inventory I need to order,” I said. “Someone has to keep this place stocked. We are busy…” I looked around for a stack of papers to prove it, but I didn’t have my props ready like Mayor Wittle had.

  Mayor Bowman leaned in so close I could see the wild nose hairs protruding from his flared nostrils. Of all the Bowmans, he resembled Henry the most, only the mayor was shorter with a slightly more modern hairdo. Same round glasses, though.

  Dr. Dog towered over both of us. I’d forgotten how huge that man was, easily the largest man in Potter Grove. “This place busy?” He laughed. “You think for one second we believe that?”

  “I don’t care what you and the mayor believe. What do you want?”

  I could tell by the mayor’s cold stare, he wanted me to break open my purse and prove my lie about the notebook, but he could stare all he wanted. I wasn’t intimidated by flaring nostrils or gigantic veterinarians.

  I kicked myself for not tossing the notebook in my purse sooner, though, and for not hearing the door. The one person who would recognize his aunt’s notebook…

  Dr. Dog’s heavy footfalls echoed through the f
loorboards as he stomped around the store, scanning the place from ceiling to floor. He took a couple dangly turquoise earring sets from their display cases, shook his head, and put them back.

  “Most everything here is done by local artists,” I chimed in, like I actually thought he was interested. “Beautiful, huh?”

  The mayor’s face relaxed when I said that, a smile escaping his thin lips. “I’m just gonna cut to the point, so you don’t get your hopes up that you might actually have a customer. Rosalie is behind on her rent. Did you know that? I don’t know how you couldn’t.”

  I looked around for Rosalie, but she hadn’t run out from the back like she usually did when the door clanged. She must not have heard the wind chimes either.

  “So?” I asked. “It’s winter. I’m sure she’ll make it up when things pick up.”

  “Dr. Dog’s thinking about expanding his business. To this location.”

  “Location’s good, but it’s a little small,” he said, shaking a package of incense.

  I walked over to the veterinarian and snatched the incense from his grasp. “Let me guess who Rosalie’s landlord is,” I said, gesturing with the box before putting it back on display. “Myles Donovan?”

  The mayor didn’t answer.

  My face grew hot with anger. Rosalie had begun keeping the Purple Pony about five degrees colder than most businesses, but I could feel the sweat threatening my cute curly up-do. I took my cardigan off. “The Purple Pony has been around for decades, and she has quite the following among the wealthy ladies at Landover Lake. I can guarantee if Myles Donovan kicks Rosalie out, the women at the country club will revolt.”