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

by Teresa Watson

  “But that doesn’t mean that’s what Stanley’s father did,” Mike pointed out.

  Thinking about the layout of the library, I knew there two bookcases behind the desk, as well four more on the other side of the room directly across from the desk. “If Stanley was shot from across the room, then the passageway had to be there, or else someone had been hiding out in the room, perhaps behind the heavy drapes,” I said, explaining the room layout to Mike. “Then they stepped out, shot him, and either took the passageway, or managed to slip out into the main hallway, where they could have disappeared into any room. When Aggie discovered the body, they could simply run into the room like they had been somewhere else in the house.”

  “Lots of conjecture in that statement, Cam.”

  “If you’ve got something better, I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Maybe they came in through the windows.”

  “Bushes all around the windows. Unless they were pre-cut to make an open space, there’s no way someone could go through them. I noticed that the yard is well-maintained. I wonder who does that.”

  “Aggie probably hired someone.”

  We spent another hour looking over the plans, trying to pinpoint other places to check out on our visit tomorrow. Mike looked at his watch. “I’m going to stay one more night, if that’s okay with you, just to make sure you’re alright.”

  “I’m feeling fine, really.”

  “I’d still feel better if I stayed. Whoever shot up the house the other night might come back.”

  I figured that wouldn’t be a bad idea, considering there was still plywood on the windows. “What happened to your window guy?”

  “Sorry about that. He had a rush job. Someone shot out Prufrock’s office windows last night.”

  “Wow, really? I can’t imagine why. I’m sure all of his clients are satisfied customers.”

  “I do know that it’s the same type of caliber as the ones used here.”

  “What are the odds? Prufrock is Amelia’s lawyer,” I said. “And same caliber doesn’t mean the same gun, right?”

  “We’d have to do a ballistics match to prove that.”

  “Which, of course, you’re going to do.”

  “I asked them to work on it.”

  I yawned. “I’m going to bed. Do you need anything before I turn in?”

  “I’m good. I think I’ll watch some TV for a little while.”

  “Alright, then. Good night.”

  “Good night, Cam.”

  Sunday

  The next morning, I felt much better. Looking at the clock, I realized I had missed the early service at church. Considering the week that I’d had, I was pretty sure my parents would understand.

  I took a shower and got dressed, picking a pair of khaki pants and a blue Oxford shirt to wear with my trusty sneakers. When I came out of my bedroom, I heard the shower running in the hallway. Hurrying into the living room, I grabbed my messenger bag and took it back to my bedroom. I closed the door, got the Sig Sauer out of the safe and put it in my bag, making sure the safety was on first. I had a funny feeling about going out there. Better safe than sorry.

  I put my bag by the front door, and went into the kitchen to fix breakfast. By the time Mike came out, I had set the table, the bacon was cooked, and I was putting the scrambled eggs in a bowl. The oven timer dinged, and I pulled out a pan of biscuits. “Are you trying to fatten me up?” he said as he sat down.

  “No,” I laughed, “I just wanted to do something to say thank you for yesterday.”

  “You’re welcome. Got any coffee?”

  “I’m not a coffee drinker, sorry. But I do have orange juice, tea, milk, Dr Pepper and water.” The doorbell rang. “The only person who would dare come here on a Sunday is Randy,” I said, putting the bowl of eggs on the table before going to the door. Sure enough, it was Randy…again. “Why are you here?”

  “I knew you didn’t have any coffee, and I was sure Penhall would need some,” he replied, holding up a large take out cup from The Grub.

  I took the cup from him. “Thank you for bringing it over. Bye.” I tried to close the door, but he stuck his foot in the doorway, shoved his hip against the door and walked around me. Sighing, I closed the door and followed him into the kitchen. Randy had already commandeered my seat, putting food on the plate. “Please, help yourself.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  I handed Mike the coffee. “Do you have a camera or some kind of bug in my house that tells you when I’m up?” I asked Randy. “I love you like a brother, but I’ve seen more of you in the past four days than I usually do in a week.”

  “Maybe he’s jealous,” Mike said, taking a drink of his coffee. The way Randy was heaping the food on his plate, Mike was lucky he had put food on his plate first.

  Glaring at Randy, I made more eggs and bacon for myself, poured myself some juice and sat down. “Answer my question, Randolph Scott Cross. Why are you here?”

  Mike laughed, choking on his food. I had to whack him on his back a few times to dislodge the food.

  Randy glared at me, obviously ticked I had used his full name in front of Mike. “I was with Jo when you called her about Artie Shatton. I thought you were totally off your rocker last night, Penhall.”

  Mike pointed at me. “Don’t look at me. It was her crazy idea. I told her she was way off base.”

  “Then you better apologize to her,” he replied, putting strawberry jam on his biscuit.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Artie Shatton is Stanley Arthur Ashton IV.”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” I said, sitting back in my chair in shock.

  “You’re Methodist, not Catholic,” Randy reminded me. I kicked him under the table.

  “Are you sure?” Mike said.

  “I’ve got the paperwork in the car. I’ll go get it.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin, stood up and left.

  “I apologize for doubting you,” Mike said.

  “We both had our doubts last night. Do you think Amelia knows?”

  “I won’t know that until I ask her.”

  “It would be interesting to learn just how much plastic surgery he had after that accident. He must have had a lot. He’s lived here thirty years, and no one recognized him, not even Aggie. We could ask Stanley III,” I said as Randy came back.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me a folder. “There’s no record of an Artie Shatton before 1984. The birth certificate shows his date of birth as September 1950, instead of 1940, so he shaved ten years off his age. And of course, his social security number is different from the one under his birth name. That’s why Jo couldn’t find a trace of him. But he has made withdrawals from his trust fund over the years, nothing big until that $500,000 one. Some of that money went to Jake Yarborough.”

  “I just can’t believe that Amelia didn’t know,” I said.

  “Maybe she does know,” Mike said, “and maybe that’s why she fingered him for his father’s murder. I’ll bet there’s a clause in Stanley’s will or in the terms of the trust that would give the money to the other family members if one of them did something illegal.”

  “That sounds rather callous,” I said.

  “The Ashtons cared about protecting the family name at all costs,” Mike replied. “Frankly, nothing would surprise me, especially when it comes to wealthy families. They all think they’re above the law, and that their money can buy their way out of anything.”

  “First things first,” I said. “We need to go see Stanley III.” Randy and Mike got up from the table and started to leave the kitchen. “And just where do you two thing you’re going?”

  “I’ve got stock to put out at the bookstore,” Randy said.

  “And I’ve got to get ready to go,” Mike said.

  “Guess again, gentlemen,” I said. “The rules in this house are I cook, you clean. And don’t ask me if I’m kidding, because I’m not. Now get busy.”

  I stood in the kitchen doorway to make sure nei
ther one of them tried to duck out. Thankfully, it only took them ten minutes. Before he left, Randy made me promise to let him know all the gory details of our visit, and I assured him I would. We got in Mike’s Bronco and took off.

  He was pretty quiet as we drove out there. “You alright?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You aren’t saying much.”

  “Well, it’s a bit weird, you know? We’re going out to interrogate a…”

  “…ghost,” I finished for him. “A poltergeist, or any other fancy word you want to use. You make it sound like this is something I normally do, Mike. I’m a ghost writer for people who don’t have the time or the talent to write their own story. Living, breathing people.”

  “You’re pretty calm about all this.”

  “Trust me,” I said as I turned into the Ashton driveway, “inside I’m screaming my head off.”

  He parked and we got out. I didn’t see a reason to knock this time. Aggie wasn’t there, and I didn’t know if Stanley even wanted to see me, much less talk to me. Mike grabbed my arm and stopped me. “What?”

  He jerked his head toward the door. “The door’s ajar,” he said, pulling his Colt 1911 out and holding it down to his side. I dug my Sig Sauer out and slowly followed him inside.

  “Stanley,” I called out, “It’s Cam Shaw. I’m here with Mike Penhall.” There was no answer. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  The door slammed behind us, and we both spun. “Is your ghost playing games with us?” Mike whispered.

  “It’s possible. Very funny, Stanley. Knock it off. We just want to ask you about the night you died.”

  I heard a noise behind us, and I turned around, but didn’t see anything. I tapped Mike on the shoulder and pointed to the library. He nodded, and we quietly made our way in that direction. “Mr. Ashton, it’s Chief Penhall. I believe that there was a cover up involving your death. It would help the investigation if you could fill in a few details for me.”

  Looking into the library, we saw Stanley sitting in his desk chair. Jo was right: he didn’t look as solid as the night I first met him. “What’s happening to me?” he said as we entered the room.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe we’re getting close to finding your murderer,” I told him, putting my gun back in my bag as Mike holstered his weapon. He started looking at the bookcases as I moved closer to Stanley.

  “What kind of questions do you have for me?”

  “First, I have some news for you about your son.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s alive.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes, I’m very sure. I’ve even talked to him. He lives here in town, has for the last thirty years.”

  “Oh my god,” Stanley replied. “Did Aggie know?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, but I think Amelia did.”

  “Amelia? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s pure speculation on our part, and we do plan to talk to her about it. But since she sits on the board of directors at the bank, we think she knew he was alive because he was withdrawing money from his trust fund.”

  “But how would she know that?”

  “She could have asked someone to keep an eye on the account for her, or she could’ve kept track of it herself. I honestly don’t know. But he did make a large withdrawal shortly before Cliff Scott was murdered.”

  “You don’t think he had anything to do with that?”

  “We’re not sure what to think, Mr. Ashton,” Mike said. “What I want to do is start from the beginning, which is the night you were killed. Do you think you could walk us through it?” Stanley nodded. “Great, where would you like to start?”

  “Nothing really happened until I came into this room,” he said.

  “I think you should start from the time you walked in the front door. You might remember seeing something that at the time didn’t seem important.”

  Stanley got up from his chair and led us back to the foyer. I noticed he seemed to be floating a little bit instead of walking. It was a bit creepy. “I came in, put my briefcase on top of the table here,” he said, pointing at the cherry wood table against the wall. I called out for Amelia, but there was no answer from her or the children.” He headed for the kitchen. “There was a note on the table from Aggie, telling me there was a plate of food in the oven for me. I took it out, turned the oven off, got a fork out of the drawer and a napkin off the table, and took everything back to the library.”

  We followed him back to the library. “I ate at my desk while I did some work. When I was done eating, I took everything back to the kitchen, left the plate and fork in the sink, the napkin on the counter, and I returned to the library.”

  “Do you remember how much time passed between the time you came back from the kitchen and you were shot?” Mike asked.

  Stanley shook his head. “I used to know, but after all these years, you lose your sense of time. It wasn’t long. There was a financial report from the bank in front of me, and I was checking the numbers. I heard a noise, but when I looked around, there was nothing there. I glanced down again, there was a bang and a pain in my chest.”

  “The police report says you were on the floor behind your desk,” Mike said. “Do you remember falling to the floor?”

  “No, I don’t. Voices…there were voices.”

  “Voices?” I said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Two, maybe three, I’m not sure.”

  “Let’s back up a minute,” I said. “Do you remember from which direction the shot came from?”

  Stanley walked around and sat behind his desk again. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “There,” he said, pointed across the room to the bookcases behind us.

  “We’ve looked at the blueprints for the house,” Mike told him, “and we’re wondering if there is a secret passage in this room.”

  “Yes, there is,” Stanley replied. He pointed at the bookcases again. “Back there.”

  We approached the bookcases, and started looked for something to indicate there was a door. “These are pretty solid,” Mike said, clearly impressed with the craftsmanship.

  Stanley came and stood next to me. “I’ve always loved this room, even when I was a little boy. All these books were a way to escape the harsh lectures I got from my father about learning the family business, being responsible, and protecting the Ashton name. I never wanted to go into the banking business.”

  “What did you want to do?” I asked.

  “I wanted to be a college professor, to pass along my love of the classics to another generation. My father tried to keep me out of here because he said I was becoming too much of a dreamer like my mother. After a while, I got tired of the arguments, so I gave in. But I still managed to sneak down here during the day through that secret passage to get a book.” He pointed to a large brown book. “This one,” he said.

  I took a closer look at the spine of the book. “Moby Dick?” He nodded. I pulled it forward, and the middle section slowly opened toward us. We had to move back to keep from being hit. We looked inside, but it was pitch black. I took out my phone, and opened the flashlight app. I aimed the light into the dark interior: there was a staircase that spiraled out of sight, and cobwebs everywhere. “Are there lights in there?” I asked Stanley.

  “No, I usually used a candle when I was a kid.”

  “I’ve got a flashlight in the car,” Mike said as I turn off the app. “I’ll go get it.” A couple of minutes later, he came back with a black, heavy duty Maglite. “This leads to the master bedroom, right?”

  “Actually, the closet in the master bedroom. Just push the door open at the top of the stairs.”

  Nodding, I took the flashlight from Mike and started to move into the passage, but he stopped me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Mike shook his head. “Fat chance,” he sa
id, taking the flashlight from me and pulling out his gun. “We don’t know what’s up there. Let me go look around first.”

  “Why, you chauvinist pig!”

  “I’m not being chauvinistic. I’m trained for this, you aren’t. Just stay put.” He walked into the open space and disappeared up the staircase.

  “He likes you,” Stanley said. I shrugged. “You like him, too.”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “He’s just trying to take care of you. Let him. I can tell he’s a gentleman. He’s a good man.”

  I heard a noise from the front of the house. It sounded like a crunching noise, followed by squealing tires. I went back outside and looked around, not seeing anything unusual at first, but I could smell burnt rubber. That’s when I took a closer look at the Bronco, and realized it had been flipped on its passenger side and said a few choice words. “Son of a motherless goat herder!”

  An engine revved on the left side of the house, and the next thing I knew, a big, black truck came barreling around the corner, bearing down on me.

  Chapter 39

  It was one of those trucks that had been jacked up so high you needed a ladder to climb into it. The tires were about the size of a tractor wheel, and I thought I was going to be eaten by the large silver grill. The truck wasn’t slowing down. I turned and took off around the right side of the house.

  Running has never been my favorite thing; okay, who am I kidding here? I hated running. I’d rather have a root canal. But at this point, running was preferable to being run down like roadkill. For some reason, an old black and white WWII movie, Sink the Bismarck! popped into my head. The German fleet commander had ordered the crew of his ship to perform a zig zag pattern in order to get away from the English pursuers. I decided this might be a good thing for me to do; it would be hard for that big truck to zigzag through the fields without risking the chance of rolling. At least, that’s what I hoped.

  Moving side to side didn’t seem to bother the driver at all. They continued on the same straight path, and I began to realize why. There was a fence to my right; if I kept zigzagging, I’d be cut off. Crap. I altered my course, continuing the pattern, but in a northern direction.