Antique Secrets

by Libby Howard

  “No one can help me. I can’t rest. It was my fault. I was weak and scared. I didn’t know what else to do. I was weak, and it was my fault. May God forgive me for my sins. Please, God, forgive me for my sins. Forgive me for my sins.”

  I felt cold—colder than I should be, even in the presence of a ghost. The words seared through my mind, jolting my memory. I was thrown back two days, to me sitting at a bingo table next to Matthew Poffenberger, to him telling me of his grandmother.

  “Mabel?” I whispered, hardly believing it. If so, then this woman had been haunting the sideboard since 1980, pleading for forgiveness in the company of people who could neither see nor hear her.

  “I can’t rest,” she said one more time. Then the chill and the shadow vanished, and Olive shuddered, returning once more.

  I thought back to the picture of Mabel Stevens at nineteen, stunningly beautiful, a socialite and engaged to the most eligible bachelor in the county. Trying to connect her with the puritanical solemn woman of Matt’s memory was difficult. Trying to connect both those women to the ghost in my dining room was even more difficult.

  It seemed that Maurice Poffenberger was right. His mother-in-law had been wrestling with demons—demons so menacing that she worried God would never forgive her, that she could never rest.

  Oh Mabel, you beautiful young girl, what did you do that brought you such pain?

  Chapter 7

  Olive recovered quickly from her medium activities, and was making a serious dent into the cheese and summer sausage that Daisy had prepared. Daisy and I were the only ones having a glass of wine, since our psychic said that after channeling a spirit, any alcoholic beverage brought on a migraine.

  No spirits after the spirit. It made me giggle, which was a clear sign that the night’s activity had shaken me to the core.

  “That was intense.” Olive rubbed her forehead. “That poor woman is wracked with guilt. It’s no wonder she’s not moved on to her afterlife. I only wish I had been able to find out what she felt guilty about. Many times, I get feelings and impressions from the ghosts beyond what they’re verbally communicating, but this time, I was only able to feel her emotions. And they were quite strong. This woman suffered for a very long time, in life as well as in death.”

  “It’s not Eleonore,” I told them. “I think that the spirit might her mother, Mabel. The ghost seemed confused at the comment about her son, which would make sense since Mabel only had one child—her daughter. And when you mentioned her husband, she flinched. Eleonore and Maurice had a very loving relationship from what her son and husband said, but Mabel and her husband’s marriage would have frozen water into ice.”

  “Maybe her guilt is from something to do with her daughter,” Daisy conjectured. “Was there any hint that Eleonore’s father may have abused her? I can see a mother feeling guilty that she’d not gotten her daughter out of that home, or intervened more forcefully, or something.”

  I shrugged. “It would be hard for me to research that. He was a prominent businessman in our community. Back then, that sort of thing would have been swept under the rug. Mabel and Eleonore are no longer living, and the only other person who might know would be Maurice, and I’m not sure he’d be willing to talk about that.”

  “He might talk about it to his son,” Daisy suggested. “And in my experience, women who have gone through abuse confide in their friends. None of Mabel’s friends are probably still alive, but maybe some of Eleonore’s are. Ask her son who his mother’s closest and longest female friends are and talk to them.”

  Daisy had a point. I’d gotten used to doing my research online and sometimes forgot my journalism background.

  “Either way, I think it’s good of you to dig into this,” Olive commented. “That ghost is tormented. She needs help. I’ll be happy to come back and try again, or assist in any way that I can because after feeling this woman’s sorrow, I can’t just ignore her.”

  I heard a noise, a thump at the door and stood, thinking that Taco was probably trying to headbutt his way to the outside. Maybe if I fed him a second dinner, he’d be quiet. Making my way around Daisy, I nearly collided with Judge Beck.

  He stood in the doorway, a huge box in his hands. We stared at him. He stared at us. From the expression on his face, you would have thought he’d walked in on the three of us dancing naked on the table. Were three women eating cheese and drinking wine all that alarming?

  “Um, I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t realize…I’d thought.”

  Ah, the box. He had come home from the courthouse earlier than I’d expected to spread his files out on the dining room table and work here. I was flattered that he’d rather be in my home, relaxing in the dining room as he reviewed his cases than in his office.

  “We’re just wrapping things up,” Daisy told him. “Olive here just—”

  “Came by after work for a visit,” I interrupted, shooting Daisy a warning glance. “Go ahead and leave the box and go get yourself something to eat. By the time you’ve got a sandwich on the plate, we’ll have cleared out.”

  Olive stood at my words, smiling at the judge. Daisy stood as well, but as she had a half-full glass of wine, I knew we’d be moving our “party” to the porch.

  “I don’t want to displace you ladies,” the judge said. “It’s your house, Kay. I’ve been treating your dining room like an office, but you all were here first. I can work upstairs.”

  I had a vision of him with dozens of files and papers spread all over the bed, and decided that would be rather uncomfortable.

  “No, no. It’s easier for us to move. We’ll go out on the porch. It’s a beautiful evening, and Olive and Daisy were just about to leave anyway. Well, Daisy was about to leave once she finished her wine.”

  Daisy slugged down the wine and sat the glass on the table. “There. Done. I’ll take this plate into the kitchen along with the glasses, and the table will be all yours.”

  I caught the longing in Judge Beck’s eyes as he looked at the leftover cheese and summer sausage. “Just leave the food,” I told Daisy.

  Olive said her goodbyes, again reiterating that she’d be happy to help if I needed her further. Then she shook hands with Judge Beck, and headed out while Daisy gathered up the wine glasses and scampered into the kitchen. The judge edged around the table to where Olive had been sitting, in front of the sideboard. As he set the box down, he shivered and looked over to the corner of the haunted furniture.

  Could he see her? Did he sense her? She’d returned, appearing for the second time with him in the room. Now that she’d made her presence known to Daisy and Olive, would she be less shy? I trusted the spirit I thought of as Eli wouldn’t do poltergeist things, but I didn’t know this ghost. I wasn’t even completely positive who she was.

  “Is there a draft?” the judge asked, beginning to pull the folders from the box.

  “Possibly. That corner sometimes gets cold.” It did, especially since I’d bought that particular piece of furniture.

  “I’ve not met Olive before. Is she a friend of yours from work?”

  “She’s…she’s more Daisy’s friend than mine,” I replied, realizing that I really didn’t have many friends. I needed to invite Carson and Maggie over for dinner. I needed to have Suzette and Kat to Friday wine-on-the-porch again. All I seemed to do was yoga and the occasional happy hour with Daisy. There were so many nights I spent downstairs watching movies, or in the living room trying to knit baby hats for the hospital, or reading up in bed. I relied too much on the judge and his children for company. If I didn’t start being more social, developing the friendships I had, then I’d be a very lonely woman when the Beck family eventually moved out.

  I guess this weekend’s barbeque was just as much about me getting out of my shell and being social as it was introducing Judge Beck to the neighborhood.

  Chapter 8

  J.T. was in “Gator, Private Eye” mode the next morning, with his arms full of costumes and props for his next video p
roduction. I tried to concentrate on the Creditcorp files and ignore him as he went back and forth to the car hauling in stuff, hoping I wasn’t going to be roped into this production, either in front of or behind the camera. It wasn’t until he brought in an enormous box of Dixie Donuts, trailed by four of our city’s finest like he was the Pied Piper of cops that I realized today’s production would take place right here in our office. So much for getting any work done.

  “We’re doing the Mayor Briscane reenactment,” one of the cops told me, his grin huge.

  That cut really close to home. J.T. always featured real cases, although so far they’d been bail jumpers, repossessions, and the occasional suspected infidelity investigation. This was murder. It was our former mayor. And it was still an open wound for our town, occurring only a few months ago.

  “I get to be the mayor and point a gun at you. Don’t worry, it’s just a prop gun,” the cop added as he turned to pour himself a mug of coffee.

  Even worse. I didn’t want to relive that. “J.T.?” I called. “Can I have a word with you in private?”

  “Can it wait, Kay?” he asked, sitting down his case of camera equipment and flipping the lid open. “I’m paying these guys and don’t want them sitting around any longer than necessary.”

  “Paying us in donuts and coffee,” another one of the officers chimed in. They all laughed. Then they all raided the box of donuts like a pack of piranhas.

  “Now.” I rarely took this tone with my boss, but he knew when I did that I meant business. With a wince, he shut the lid on the equipment box and waved me out front.

  I didn’t beat around the bush. “It’s too soon, J.T. The town is still reeling from the realization that our easy-going mayor is a murderer. Don’t do this.”

  “I’m getting a lot of views, and this case is epic. It’s the sort of true crime story that people want to hear, and the fact that this all went down in a small town gives it a huge audience appeal.”

  It hurt how we’d all been deceived by this psychopath who fooled us into thinking he was an upstanding, moral public servant.

  “He was our mayor. And before that, he was a county commissioner, and even on the school board. We all trusted him. We all liked him. You liked him. He was a friend of yours. You went to breakfast with him regularly, golfed with him. You had dinner at his house with him and his wife.”

  J.T.’s face hardened at my words, and I realized that his feelings of betrayal were driving this episode of his videocast far more than the lure of additional viewers. This was him lancing an infected wound, removing an offending limb. Pete Briscane had been his friend. J.T. was an investigator, and his friend had been one of the last people he would have suspected of murder. He felt like a fool. He felt betrayed. And this video was his way of cutting Pete from his life and starting to heal.

  Who was I to deny someone their recovery? The town wouldn’t be wounded any more than the national news attention the case had caused.

  “Okay. Fine. But I’m not acting in this and reliving it. I’m not hiding under the desk while that young cop, who looks nothing like Pete, points a gun at me.”

  “It’s a fake gun,” J.T. countered.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Can you come down to the Megamart this afternoon and—”

  “No.” I fixed him with my sternest glare. “I’m not reenacting either the discovery of Caryn Swanson’s body, or the mayor’s murder attempt on me. Either get a stunt double, or film it around me. You might find this whole thing cathartic, but I don’t and I’m not doing it.”

  His expression softened. “Kay, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think…. I’m such a jerk. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “There’s are just some things I don’t want to relive. Finding a young woman’s body in a watery ditch is one. Thinking that I was about to be killed by our mayor was another.”

  Add to that finding my neighbor’s body and having that murderer try to strangle me. Hopefully J.T. wouldn’t decide he needed to add that “case” to his YouTube channel.

  “We’ll just film it all from a different angle,” he told me. “I still want to give you credit for what you did. Honestly, you were the one who did all the investigative work on this case. It’s more a Kay, Private Eye than a Gator, Private Eye story.”

  Kay, because I’d fought hard against any attempts to provide me with a colorful nickname.

  “You did plenty, J.T. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead. You were the one who tackled Pete and subdued him while I cowered under the desk and hoped I didn’t get shot.”

  Suddenly my boss looked every bit of his fifty-eight years old. “That was a fluke. I was supposed to meet Pete for breakfast. If I hadn’t swung by the office to grab a file and be late for our meeting, then I wouldn’t have been there in time. Maybe you’re right, Kay. Maybe I shouldn’t do this one.”

  I took a deep breath. “You should. Pete deserves to have everyone know what a horrible person he was. His victims deserve to have their stories told. I’ll deal with it, as long as I don’t have to act in this one.”

  “Deal,” J.T. told me. “We better get in there before the all the donuts are gone. Dixie’s are the best.”

  They were, fresh made with local ingredients. “Hope there’s a blueberry cream left. And J.T.?” I asked just as he reached the door.

  He turned, his eyebrows raised.

  “Thanks. For everything. Not just for saving me from getting shot, but for giving me a job when I desperately needed one.”

  He smiled and draped an arm around my shoulder, ushering me through the door. “I’m happy to have you, Kay,” he told me. Then he turned and shouted to the officers clustered around the donut box and the coffee pot, “You guys better have saved Kay one of those, or no one is getting credit in the video.”

  Chapter 9

  I tried to block out the filming of what felt like a major motion picture in my office as I worked. Lunchtime, when the cast and crew were all chowing on pastrami and rye, I called Matt, wanting to know if I could meet him sometime to ask him questions about his grandmother.

  I doubted that Mabel was haunting the sideboard out of some need to make sure it went to a loving home, especially given her repeated concerns that she was desperate for forgiveness. What had the woman done? And how long had she been haunting the piece of furniture, desperate for someone to help her find salvation?

  Matt sounded thrilled to hear from me, and asked me to meet him after work for a quick cup of coffee at a locally owned shop.

  It wasn’t until I walked into the coffee shop that I realized he’d again taken my invitation the wrong way. It had been a long time since I’d dated, but I recognized his smile to be a bit warmer and more hopeful than the circumstances allowed for. I’d told him I was a widow. He knew my husband had recently passed, but clearly, he was assuming several communications in one week meant I’d gotten through my grief.

  I believe Madison would have announced the situation to be “awk-waaaard”. How the heck was I going to wiggle out of this one? And how was I going to ask this man if his mother had been a victim of physical or sexual assault when he thought this meeting was the prelude to a romantic relationship?

  I felt even worse when he stood and pulled a chair out for me, asking me what sort of coffee I wanted. I went to tell him that he didn’t have to buy me a drink, but there was that look is his eyes again. Hopeful. I’d need to figure out how to let him down gently. Although I was very flattered. The days of men flirting with me were long gone. It was nice to have someone look at me as if I were an attractive woman again. If only this were happening in another two years or so, I might have been more receptive.

  “Large dark roast with a splash of cream,” I told him. I normally liked my coffee black, but every now and then I liked to mix it up a bit. Cream, or even a spoonful of ice cream, somehow turned coffee from a morning beverage into a festive treat.

  “Coming right up.” Matt went off to get our drinks while
I dug my phone out of my purse and wondered if I should text Daisy.

  Yes. Yes, I should.

  Help. Asked Matt P to meet me for coffee to ask him more about the ghost, but I think he thinks it’s a date.

  I held my phone in my lap and watched Matt, hoping Daisy had her phone handy.

  My phone chimed. Awesome! Have fun.

  Thanks a lot, Daisy. I glared at the phone. It’s not a date. I’m a recent widow. I’m not interested.

  Well, have fun anyway. Ooooh—send me a pic. Maybe I’ll go out with him if you don’t want to.

  That was so not going to happen. The pic, I meant, not the dating thing. Although I thought my boss would be crushed if Daisy started to go out with Matthew Poffenberger.

  I didn’t have time to respond because Matt had returned with our drinks. And two cookies. They were sugar cookies in the shape of butterflies with beautiful iridescent icing on them and little silver dragees at the tips of their antennae.

  “Here.” He grinned sheepishly. “These were cute. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

  Oh, I felt terrible. Not knowing what to do, I smiled and thanked him, taking a bite of my cookie and a sip of my coffee.

  Well, there was one thing I could say that would totally smash any romantic interest he had, and I was about to do it.

  “Remember how I was asking you about the sideboard I bought at your dad’s estate auction?” I waited for him to nod. “Well, the reason I’ve been so interested is that a ghost followed the furniture home, and I was trying to figure out if maybe it was a member of your family, or a former owner of the piece, and why they were haunting it.”

  He blinked. He didn’t run screaming, which was a mixed blessing.