Popcorn and Poltergeists

by Nancy Warren

  When they’d left, Vi said, “You should take the popcorn class too, Lucy.”

  “Isn’t it a bit advanced for me?”

  She chuckled. “Darling, picking up needles seems too advanced for you. You’ll never become a good knitter unless you actually knit something.”

  “I knit. I made Gran that sweater. And I’m working on a scarf.” She looked at me as if to say, Stop being pathetic. “I know. You’re right. It’s just there are so many other things going on these days. Missing manuscripts and restless poltergeists—”

  “Dark, sexy vampires.” She finished my sentence for me.

  “All right. Rafe is a distraction. But he’s also a good friend.”

  “More than that, I think.”

  I was always uncomfortable being confronted by my confusing relationship. “Really, I’m not sure—”

  “Lucy, don’t ruin all my fun. My own love life is one disaster after another. At least let me have hope that you might find lasting love.”

  My heart immediately softened toward her. “You will too, Vi. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

  She sighed. “Or maybe some people get more than their fair share of someones.” Here she shot me a pointed look. “While others don’t get anybody.”

  I didn’t know how to answer and was guiltily grateful that the bells on my shop door jingled, signaling a customer. It was Eileen, back for more pale-blue baby wool. She looked so pleased with herself as she pulled out a finished sweater from her bag. “I finished my popcorn sweater. Isn’t it darling?”

  Naturally, it was pale blue and grandson-size. “But you’re way ahead of the rest of the class,” I protested, half laughing.

  “I know. I like that popcorn stitch so much, I’m going to make a matching sweater for my daughter, his mother.” She gathered up half a dozen more skeins of the baby blue wool. I was marginally horrified at her choice and thought the new mother had enough on her plate without having to wear an oversize baby sweater. As tactfully as I could manage, I said, “Are you sure about the color?”

  Eileen laughed at me. “Oh no, the baby blue wool is for a little blanket I’m making baby Henry. For my daughter, I was thinking something bolder. What do you think of this pinky-red color?” Violet and I didn’t have much to do except approve her choice, and it was a very pretty pink. “I’ll bring this with me Monday. And shall I bring the completed baby sweater? Do you think the rest of the class would like to see it? Or would I look like a show-off?”

  Since I knew that Alice was the kindest woman on earth and that Eileen loved nothing more than to show off both her pictures of her grandson and the things that she had made for him, I told her to go ahead. “And if you have any new photos of him, please bring them along.”

  Maybe none of us would see much difference in his development in a week, but she left, a very happy customer.

  I spent the rest of the weekend sleeping, practicing the popcorn stitch and thinking very seriously about going to the gym.

  Chapter 18

  By Monday night I was well-rested and feeling able to tackle a knitting class. There was a certain familiarity now among the members of Alice’s popcorn knitting class. Judith Morgan hadn’t lied about her knitting skills. She and Hester had spent part of their weekend with the wool and pattern and had rapidly caught up with the others. It was nice to see Hester looking so happy and nearly normal, with a friend who looked her own age, and both of them knitting sweaters from the same wool.

  The Miss Watts weren’t particularly accomplished knitters. Like me, they were busy running a business. Unlike me, their business didn’t actually involve knitting. They had decided that maybe a sweater was a bit complicated for their skills, so they had decided to make cushions for the sofa. Hudson Carter couldn’t make it, as he had an exam, but Eileen was there with more pictures of baby Henry for us all to admire as well as the perfect little sweater she’d made him.

  “I can’t believe you’ve finished already,” Scarlett said, holding up her own barely-begun project.

  Eileen looked slightly sheepish. “But it’s only a little sweater.”

  Once more I’d looked for Fiona, but when I didn’t see her, I assumed her arm wasn’t well enough healed. However, just before seven, she rushed in. Her cheeks were red as though she had run all the way from St. Mary’s, though that might have been the cold. I was pleased to see her, as my plan had been to get her and Judith Morgan together in a relaxed and friendly setting. I hoped that Judith might see Fiona as a pleasant woman who enjoyed knitting as well as her tutor and that Fiona might learn to appreciate Judith as more than a student. It might not affect Judith’s marks, but I hoped they’d manage a positive and friendly relationship.

  Fiona looked surprised to see Judith in the class, and there was a little embarrassment on both sides as they said hello. There was an empty seat beside Judith and another beside Florence Watt, and I saw Fiona hesitate before choosing to sit beside her student. They exchanged pleasantries over knitting, compared choices of wool, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I took the remaining seat next to Florence.

  I thought a cushion cover was a very good idea and was thinking I might also make that out of popcorn stitch rather than heap onto myself the added stress of trying to make a sweater that would fit a human being.

  Alice spent about fifteen minutes talking about the pattern and describing the tricky bits. Then she said she’d help anyone who was struggling or had any questions. She got up and went around the circle looking at each person’s work and offering suggestions or praise. Otherwise we just sat and knitted.

  This suited all of us, as we were at different stages both in the sweaters and in our proficiency as knitters.

  I wasn’t free to converse too much, as I had to concentrate on my stitches, but everyone else seemed quite chatty. We heard all about baby Henry, how often he smiled, how clever he was for being awake so much. Perhaps to give the conversation a different turn, Florence said, “Alice, you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

  Alice blushed deeply and thanked her.

  Eileen laughed. “But not too soon, I hope. I always advise couples to enjoy a few years of marriage before they jump into parenthood.”

  “Yes, first make sure the marriage sticks,” Mary said. “And make certain the gentleman is worthy of you.” She was speaking from personal experience, and there was an awkward pause.

  To fill it, Fiona piped up. “I absolutely concur. I’m so glad I never had children.”

  I was surprised. I had supposed her to be a single woman. “Are you married, Fiona?”

  “I was. Like so many marriages, it began with fire and expectation and ended on a wet Tuesday morning in a lawyer’s office. I don’t mind, really. I’m married to my job. At least there weren’t any children.”

  “If my mother hadn’t got pregnant during her disastrous first marriage, I wouldn’t be here,” Judith said, jamming her knitting needle into her wool.

  Oh, dear. So far, my plan to bring these two closer didn’t seem to be working.

  While I racked my brain to think of something to say while simultaneously remembering to keep count of my stitches, Fiona spoke again. “You’re right, Judith. Think how many of our favorite novels wouldn’t exist if the heroines always made the best decisions. If Hester Prynne had said ‘no’ at the critical moment, there’d be no Pearl beyond price.”

  “What?” my Hester asked.

  “The Scarlet Letter,” Judith said.

  “If Jane Eyre had gone to another job.”

  “If Scrooge hadn’t been visited by three ghosts.” I offered my own literary might-have-been. Then realized that bringing ghosts into the conversation wasn’t the best idea.

  Alice, who worked in a bookstore and probably read more books than even Fiona and didn’t know about the poltergeist at St. Mary’s, said, “It’s interesting how ghosts are so often used to propel the action forward. Hamlet was just an unhappy student until the ghost of his father appeared in spirit an
d called for revenge. And, as Lucy says, the three ghosts in A Christmas Carol change not only Scrooge’s life but those of so many people he can then help.” I was so impressed that she could carry on a literary conversation without so much as slowing the pace of her knitting.

  “His father didn’t do Hamlet any favors though, did he?” I was still thinking about this. “By appearing to him and swearing him to revenge, he propelled his son on to great tragedy. Hamlet could have grieved his father and still felt contempt for his uncle, but he wouldn’t have been driven to revenge had he not been informed of the betrayal. Maybe he was better off not knowing.”

  Betrayal again. That was the word the ghost had given me just as Hamlet’s father had told him about a betrayal. Was it a thing among ghosts to mess with the living by throwing out those kinds of challenges? Maybe they sat in their ghostly realm like directors and writers, tossing problems for the living as though they were puppets or actors.

  Still, I wasn’t as worried about the ghosts in books. I was more worried about the one that had left me messages. Who had betrayed Georgiana Quales? And why did she think I was in danger?

  I had a feeling that if I could work out the answer to the first question, I’d know the answer to the second.

  I wasn’t a literary smarty-pants like most of the other people in this room, but I’d studied Hamlet in school and seen it on screen when Benedict Cumberbatch played the role. Hamlet drew out the betrayers by enacting a play. Which gave me an idea.

  Meanwhile, Judith and Fiona kept the conversation going. Fiona often put her knitting down to rub her arm. When I asked whether it was bothering her, she said using the arm was part of her therapy.

  “I can help you during your lecture, if you’d like. I could carry heavy books or something.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But I don’t want you to be distracted. I’ll talk a lot about proto-feminism and the subtle way Charlotte shared her subversive feelings with other women.”

  By the end of the class, I had the satisfaction of seeing Fiona and Judith much more friendly toward each other, everyone looking forward to next week, and I’d even managed a few respectable rows of work. But better than all that? I had a plan.

  I wasn’t the tiniest bit surprised when I got back up to my flat and found Rafe there. Though he was sitting in front of my television. It was so rare for him to watch TV that I did a double take.

  He looked up. “No doubt you’re surprised to see me.”

  “Rafe, I’d have been shocked if you weren’t here.” If I’d been in any danger tonight, he’d have been down there with fangs out, and we both knew it. He didn’t try to deny it. “I suppose your punishment for being overprotective is being stuck up here with nothing to do but watch TV. What’s on?”

  He was sitting on the couch, Nyx curled up in his lap. I looked at the screen and started to laugh. “You’re watching Ghostbusters?”

  “I am.”

  “You gonna hire those guys to get rid of the poltergeist?”

  He looked down his long nose at me. “I find it tiring not understanding your appalling cultural references. I decided to watch the film you and Violet seem to think so highly of.”

  “This I have to see.”

  I dumped my knitting, sat beside him on the couch, and watched Ghostbusters. Maybe Rafe didn’t laugh as loud as I did, but I definitely heard a chuckle coming from him.

  “Well?” I asked when it was done. “What did you think?”

  “The film offered a certain fatuous entertainment.”

  I turned to him. “If I could travel back to your time? I’ll bet there was plenty of fatuous entertainment then, too. You’re just lucky that none of it survived.”

  “And you are unlucky that these days everything survives.”

  Well, I couldn’t argue with him there. Instead, I told him the good news. “I have a plan.”

  He didn’t look thrilled with the idea. “Lucy, whenever you have a plan, it inevitably goes awry.”

  I couldn’t argue with him there either, but, like Hamlet’s ghost and Scrooge’s ghosts and even the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, ghosts got stuff done.

  As he also knew, some of my crazy ideas worked, so I explained that we should take the manuscripts back to the library and be very clear about where they were stored.

  “You’re planning to tell the world that two extremely valuable and irreplaceable manuscripts are sitting in a school library?”

  “Yes,” I said with relish. “The only thing is, of course they wouldn’t be the originals. We’d make copies.”

  He was silent for so long, I finally burst out with, “What? You think it’s a terrible idea? You’ve already baited the hook, letting out hints that you have the manuscripts.”

  “No. It’s so simple, it’s brilliant.”

  I was hardly through congratulating myself on my own brilliance when he spoke again. “You, however, will stay far away from that library.”

  I fired up in my own defense. “Not an option.”

  Rafe revised my plan a bit, and I had to admit he made it better. Rather than some clumsy public announcement, he decided to tell only two people. A rare manuscript dealer who had a big mouth and wide connections, and Amelia Cartwright. “She’s the one person apart from you that I’m positive had nothing to do with theft or violence.”

  There was a possibility that she was playing some kind of dark game, but I had to agree that was unlikely, and we had to trust somebody. Naturally, telling Amelia Cartwright the truth meant that her assistant and the board members would hear about the find. Otherwise, no one would know.

  “What’s your argument, then, for keeping them in the library? Won’t Amelia Cartwright immediately lock the manuscripts in the safe?”

  “If pressed, I’ll assure Professor Cartwright that the originals are safe and these are copies. We will set the trap tomorrow and hope the rat takes the bait.”

  Rafe tried again to talk me out of going, citing the words of warning written on the wall, but I was adamant. I reminded him that he’d be there and wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Also Amelia Cartwright would no doubt hire extra security. Finally, he reluctantly agreed that I could come along. And so I found myself back in the library at St. Mary’s the following evening. I’d had bad experiences in libraries before, pulling all-nighters when I was in college, being shushed for giggling, but in all my life I had never had worse library experiences than at St. Mary’s, and yet here I was again.

  I was wearing all black because it seemed fitting. Rafe raised an eyebrow when he saw my outfit, but there wasn’t much he could say. He was wearing all black too. Mind you, his color palette mostly ranged from black to gray and blue—navy, not sky or baby. All black wasn’t a big departure.

  We waited until the librarians had gone home and then quietly slipped into the library. “Are you sure it will be tonight?” I asked. The trouble with baiting a trap was not knowing when the intended vermin would come sniffing around it.

  “No. I think it will be soon, though. Someone’s waited a long time for the manuscripts. They’ll want to snatch them quickly before they’re moved or sold.”

  One good thing about being here with Rafe was that I wasn’t too worried about the poltergeist. In fact, I’d taken off my protective crystals, because with Rafe here, the poltergeist wasn’t about to appear, and I didn’t feel like scaring off the culprit by rattling my crystals every time I moved. We were on the main floor of the library, one floor up from the entrance to the college. The stairs Wilfred Eels had fallen down were still cordoned off, so we’d come through the school to get here. All seemed quiet.

  Rafe was a creature of darkness and of the night, so he seemed perfectly content sitting in an alcove. He chose the one directly opposite the arts and crafts section, where the leather-bound books of manuscripts had been replaced exactly as they had been. The only difference was that we’d supplied copies of the manuscripts in place of the originals. It had been a real scramble to get the hand-w
ritten copies done in time. Silence had been able to replicate Charlotte Brontë’s handwriting the best, and Theodore copied all the drawings. Shelley’s hand was duplicated by Carlos, who turned out to be an excellent forger. I began to think there was a lot to Carlos we had yet to discover. Hester, of course, had insisted on taking a role, and she’d been the one to collate the pages and check them against the originals. Rafe was the one who bound them so similarly to the originals that I couldn’t have told the original from the fake.

  Rafe settled into a seat, quiet and still. I, however, was a daywalker, and a restless one at the best of times. I couldn’t even turn on the lights to read one of the intensely boring books in this library. My phone screen glowed, so that was out. I didn’t want to share an alcove with Rafe and have him keep glaring at me for fidgeting, so I chose the next alcove. This gave me a view of the doors into the library and a partial view of the arts and crafts section. This way nobody was going to surprise me.

  I sat there in the dark wondering if this was the first of many nights I’d be forced to sit here, waiting for someone who might never show up.

  With nothing to do.

  Man, they needed some more comfortable seats in here. The chair was hard and seemed to get harder by the second. The chair back dug into my shoulder blades. Who designed these torture devices? No wonder so many kids hated school.

  I glanced at my watch. We’d been here ten minutes. I was so bored, I tried to remember all the names of the wool I sold in my store. I started in the left corner of the wall behind the cash desk and worked my way around. I skipped all the ones I couldn’t remember, and that turned out to be quite a few.

  I tried to recall my favorite parts of Ghostbusters in my head. That was more entertaining, but I accidentally giggled aloud so I had to stop.

  My pose was slightly more comfortable if I put my head down on the desk, pillowed with my two arms.

  I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep until something woke me. At first, I thought I was having a nightmare, surrounded by darkness and books, with a pain in my lower back. No one knew better than I that books could be fodder for nightmares. Books could be weapons, and I wasn’t talking “the pen is mightier than the sword” here. I was thinking of poltergeists chucking hardbacks at me. Then my entire body went on alert. Someone had come into the library. In fact, two someones. I saw them like moving shadows in the dim night lighting.