Who Killed the Ghost in the Library: A Ghost writer Mystery

by Teresa Watson

  “Wow. Unbelievable.” We sat there quietly for a couple of minutes. “Tell me everything.”

  So, for the next ten minutes, I did just that. Randy didn’t say a word until I finished. “I told them I wanted to do some research before I made my decision, but I have no idea where to start.”

  “Well, there’s always the newspaper.”

  “I doubt they have records that go back that far.”

  “They probably had everything put on microfiche. If they don’t have it there, the main library at the university or the public library will probably have it.”

  I made a note on my pad. “It would be good to find the death certificate for Mr. Ashton as well. Maybe see if we can find one for the wife and kids.”

  “What is this ‘we’ bit?”

  “You’re going to help me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am, but you could’ve asked me instead of assuming.”

  “You want to help me or not?”

  “I’m in,” he said, humming the theme song from the 80s movie ‘Ghostbusters’.

  “Knock it off.”

  “Party pooper.”

  “I wish there was someone we could talk to besides Aggie about what happened back then.”

  “There is.”

  “Who?”

  “Your grandmother, duh. She would’ve been around the same age, maybe a little older than the Ashtons when it happened.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get Grandma Alma involved.”

  “Why not? She’s a hoot!”

  “My mother would kill me.”

  “Just tell your mom we are going out to visit your grandmother. She doesn’t need to know why we are going out there.”

  “Randy, my grandmother is eighty-five years old. Her memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  “We’re just going to talk to her. It’s not like we’re going to drag her into the car and carry her away.”

  I knew my grandmother. She would try to figure out a way to get the heck out of the Manor, even for a little while. She would pretend to remember something, before saying that she needed to see the object or person in question to be sure that she was right. It was a little game that she liked to play, and my mother always got mad whenever Grandma Alma managed to talk someone into taking her out for a while. I did not want to be on the receiving end of that tongue lashing.

  “Fine, we’ll go talk to her. But that’s all!”

  Famous last words.

  Chapter 6

  My grandmother, Alma Dreyer, was sitting in her recliner, looking out the window at the squirrel feeder my parents had placed out there. There was a squirrel sitting on the little ledge, picking corn off the cob that was placed vertically on the top of the feeder. “I see you have company,” I told her as I gave her a hug.

  “They haven’t been coming by as much lately,” she said sadly. “I think it’s getting too cold for them out there.”

  “It’s not that cold, Grandma. They are just getting ready for winter.”

  She turned to look at me. “Then remind your mother that I need to get ready for winter, too. Randy! My goodness, it’s been a long time since you’ve come to see me!”

  He leaned over and gave her a hug. “Hello, Ms. Alma. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing just fine. It’s so good to see you. This one,” she pointed at me, “doesn’t come to visit me much.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma, I’ve been out of town doing research.”

  “Why don’t you marry that nice young man you’ve been dating and settle down?”

  “That sounds like Mom, not you. She told you to talk to me, didn’t she?”

  “Certainly not! She might have mentioned she is worried about you, but that’s all.”

  “Uh huh. So if I bribe you with a cranberry orange muffin, will you tell her to leave me alone?” I said, holding up a white bakery bag.

  Grandma Alma’s eyes widened. “Deal,” she said, snatching the bag from my hand.

  I sat down on her bed. “Actually, I came out to ask you something.”

  She took a big bite of her muffin. “About what?”

  “The Ashtons.”

  She swallowed and took a drink of her coffee, which was sitting on her end table. “Why do you want to know about them? The last of the Ashtons left years ago.”

  I glanced at Randy before answering. “Just curious.”

  Wiping the crumbs off her shirt, she took another sip of coffee before answering. “Well, Stanley Sr., Stanley Jr.’s father, died just before I was born. Stanley III was about 15 years older than me.”

  “What was his wife Amelia like?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “When she and Stanley first got married, she was very sweet. Granted, her family came from old money, like his family, but she didn’t flaunt it like he did. Her father was very big on giving back to the community, and he instilled the same beliefs in his daughter.”

  “So what happened?” Randy said.

  “Marrying Stanley changed her. Not right away; it was gradual. He made her miserable. Business always came before the family. When she complained, he would go out and buy her something as a way to apologize. It got to the point where she would pick fights with him just to get whatever she wanted.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of a marriage,” I said.

  “Like I said, it wasn’t always like that. It seemed to happen after they moved into the Ashton house.”

  “They didn’t always live there?”

  “Oh heaven’s no,” Grandma Alma said, taking another bite of her muffin. “Their first house was a cute little house on the other side of town. It was pale yellow, with a white picket fence. Cliché sounding, I know, but it was what they wanted. Well, I think she wanted it more than he did, but I think it did him some good to be in such a simple house. He lost a bit of his snobby attitude while they lived there.”

  “Do you remember the address?” I thought it would be a good idea to see the house for myself. I wasn’t sure what it had to do with the murder. But I was having a hard time believing that Stanley III lived in “a simple house”.

  “I’m not good with addresses, Cam, you know that. But if we drove around, I’m sure I could find it for you,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Nice try, Grandma. You know Mom would kill me if I took you out of here.”

  “She doesn’t have to know.”

  “She would know before we even left the parking lot.”

  Grandma scoffed. “Eh, the warden here needs to learn to lighten up.”

  “What do you remember about the investigation into Stanley III’s death?” Randy said, trying to get her back on track.

  “It didn’t last very long, maybe a week. The police chief was convinced it was murder.”

  “Do you know why?”

  Grandma Alma shook her head. “Nope. I was dating one of the policemen investigating it at the time, but he didn’t tell me much. He said one day the chief was convinced it was murder, the next day he said it was suicide and they closed the case.”

  “Sounds like someone paid off the chief.”

  “There was a lot of talk about that back then. There was no way Stanley Ashton III would commit suicide.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was too vain. And the reason they gave for his suicide didn’t make sense.”

  “What did they say?” Randy said.

  “That the Ashtons were broke. One paper said that he was trying to get money from Amelia’s father to repay some loans, but that his father-in-law refused to give him the money.”

  “Was Amelia in town when Stanley III was killed?” I said. “There are two different stories about her whereabouts that night.”

  “You’re talking about the story in the paper that stated Amelia and her daughter were on a cruise the day of the murder.” We nodded. “Another lie told by the police. Amelia and the kids were in town that night.”

  “How can you be so sur
e?”

  “Because I was with Amelia when she got the news. She started crying and screaming her head off. They had to give her a sedative to calm her down. There is someone you could talk to about it.”

  “Who?”

  “The chief.”

  “He’s still alive?” Randy said.

  “Sure he is! He’s my bridge partner! Do you want to meet him?”

  “Of course!” I said.

  “Wheel me out of here, Randy. The last time I let her drive, she ran me into a wall.”

  Grandma Alma directed us down the hall to the TV room. There were several tables scattered around the back of the room; a big screen TV was on the other side, with a couple of brown suede couches and matching chairs. Four ladies were watching “The Price is Right” and yelling at the TV when the contestants gave the wrong answer.

  She pointed to one of the tables, where two men were playing chess. “Are you losing yet, Walt?” she said as we approached.

  “He always loses,” the second man said. “Ten years and he hasn’t learned anything from me.”

  “Aw, dry up, both of ya,” Walt said, tipping his queen over. “One of these days, I’ll beat you, Pete.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that for years.”

  Walt turned his attention to us. “Hi, toots,” he said, squeezing Grandma Alma’s knee. “Who have ya got with ya today?”

  “This is my granddaughter, Cam Shaw, and her friend, Randy Cross. This is Walter Penhall, former chief of police.”

  He shook our hands. “What can I do for you?”

  “We want to talk to you about an old case of yours.”

  “Oh yeah? Which one?”

  “Stanley Ashton III,” I said.

  His smile disappeared. “Why do you want to know about that? He committed suicide, case closed.”

  “We have reason to believe that he didn’t.”

  Walt looked at Pete, who stood up and left without saying a word. Randy and I sat down and waited.

  “Why do you think it wasn’t suicide?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

  I didn’t want to put all of my cards on the table right away. “Tell me what happened that evening.”

  “We got a call at the station about a shooting at the Ashton place. Myself and one of my patrolmen, a rookie named Clifford Scott, drove out there to see what was going on. When we got there, the housekeeper was standing on the front porch in tears. She said that Stanley Ashton III was lying on the floor of the library, dead. We drew our guns, told her to stay outside, and we entered the house. We saw a body on the floor, like she said, and I checked to see if he was alive. He wasn’t; shot through the heart. The gun was in his right hand. After checking the rest of the house, we didn’t see any sign of a break-in. The housekeeper kept saying that Ashton wasn’t the type of person to kill himself. The local doctor and the justice of the peace came out and declared him dead.”

  “Rather an odd thing to do if you knew he was already dead,” Randy said.

  “We did it by the book, considering who we were dealing with. The whole investigation was by the book.”

  “What was your gut feeling about the shooting?” I said.

  Walt rubbed his chin before answering. “That someone had killed him. Ashton had a lot of enemies. When it came to his business dealings, he didn’t care who he ran over to get what he wanted. That kind of approach tends to upset people.”

  “Was there anyone in particular that you were looking at?”

  “We were making a list of suspects, but we didn’t get a chance to investigate anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “The doctor said it was a suicide. There wasn’t a reason to talk to anyone.”

  “Did you agree with his conclusion?”

  “Doesn’t matter whether I agreed or disagreed. He said it was suicide, so that was the end of it.”

  I looked at him, and he glanced down. “You thought it was murder.”

  “Why are you dredging all this up now? Mrs. Ashton disappeared two months later and took the kids with her. No one around here cares what happened to him sixty years ago.”

  “The housekeeper does,” I said.

  “Doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Walt scoffed.

  “Why do you say that?” Randy said.

  “Because she had it bad for Ashton. She stood on the porch, wailing for two hours while we worked the scene. The doctor finally gave her a sedative and had her husband take her home.”

  “Where was Mrs. Ashton?”

  “At some meeting.”

  “You never talked to her, Chief?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not really. She was too upset that night. I tried to talk to her at the funeral, but her father rushed her into a car right after the graveside service was over. And really, there was no need to talk to her, since it was declared a suicide.”

  “Is Clifford Scott still alive?” I said.

  “Far as I know. Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to him, get his opinion about the case.”

  Walt shook his head again. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, but if you want to waste your time, go ahead.”

  I handed him a piece of paper and a pen. “Is there still a copy of the report at the police station?”

  “I doubt it. A lot of those old files were down in the basement of the courthouse, and most of it was ruined in a flood in 1978.” He gave me back the paper and pen.

  I stood up. “Thanks for the information, sir,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “I wouldn’t believe anything that housekeeper tells you. She’s a sly one. I always had the feeling she knew more than what she was telling me. I just couldn’t prove it.”

  I gave Grandma Alma a hug. “Thank you for introducing us, and for the information.”

  “You could repay me by getting me out of here sometime,” she said as she gave Randy a hug. “Maybe take me to that pie shop for some lemon meringue pie?”

  “I’ll see what I can do to get you a day pass,” I laughed. “One more thing: do either of you know who called Amelia with the news about Stanley III’s death?”

  “It was Aggie Foley.”

  Chapter 7

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Randy said as we drove away. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I was thinking about what Grandma Alma said as we left.”

  “About Aggie being the one who told Amelia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it?”

  “Aggie told me that she never got a hold of Amelia that night.”

  “Good grief, Cam! The woman is in her eighties! You can’t expect her to remember everything that happened during a traumatic experience that happened sixty years ago.”

  “My grandmother is the same age, and she seems to remember things just fine.”

  Randy turned down the alley behind the bookstore. He parked in one of the two spots reserved for his store and turned the engine off. “No offense to Grandma Alma, but how do we know she is right?”

  “We don’t,” I grudgingly admitted. “But I trust my grandmother more than a woman who has lived on the same estate with a ghost for the last sixty years. I mean, who voluntarily lives in the place where a murder was committed?”

  “Good question,” he said as we got out of the car.

  “She was still young; why didn’t she move on with her life?”

  “Maybe she and Stanley III were engaged in extracurricular activities.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes, way,” he replied as he unlocked the back door of the store. “You think he’s the first rich person to have an affair with the hired help?”

  I didn’t answer as we walked to the front of the store. Frankly, I didn’t know what to think. “We need to put up a display of cozy mysteries.”

  Randy stopped and looked at me. “Why are you changing the subject?”

  “I’m not. It was just a thought that popped into my head. Just wanted to mention it while I was
thinking about it.”

  “Cam, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why are you so interested in this ghost story?”

  “It’s just a job.”

  “To solve a sixty-year-old murder mystery? Reading a bunch of Agatha Christie and Robert B. Parker books does not qualify you to investigate a crime. Nor are you Jennifer Love Hewitt from “Ghost Whisperer”. You’re just a writer, for crying out loud.”

  “Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.”

  “Don’t you find it a wee bit strange that you’re able to talk to a ghost?”

  “I do believe Mr. Ashton may have mentioned something to that effect last night. If I could explain it, I would.”

  “So what happens now?”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost noon. We should grab some lunch, then I’ll go to the newspaper office and see if I can find some stories about the Ashtons that might help.”

  “You might have to delay your plans,” Randy said as he stared out the front window.

  “Why?”

  “Because your boyfriend is outside the store right now.”

  I turned around. Sure enough, there was David, leaning against his black BMW, arms crossed, watching us through the window.

  “I can’t wait to hear you explain to him about your ghostly encounter last night.”

  That was going to be an interesting conversation.

  In order to make sure he would be there when I told David about the Ashton story, Randy invited us to lunch…his treat. Randy never offers to buy meals unless there is something in it for him. I guess seeing David’s reaction first hand was a strong enough incentive to force him to open his wallet.