“Tough to lose a patient, huh, Doc? What did you say he died from?” asked our sheriff.
“I wasn’t there. Another doctor pronounced him. Attributed the death to respiratory failure due to pneumonia. ‘Pneumonia,’ my foot. It was just a bad case of bronchitis. I listened to his lungs.”
“If you don’t believe that’s what he died from, why didn’t you order an autopsy?”
“No point in doing an autopsy unless the grandson requests it. Funeral home has Cliff on ice till he arrives.”
“You’re the doctor. Seems to me that you should be the one to decide that.”
“Does it now? Is that your medical opinion? Are you studying up to be a general practitioner, Sheriff?”
“Just common sense. Don’t need a medical degree for that.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Eve said, “this conversation is so inapproprié.” She spread her hands, indicating the surroundings.
“Sorry, Ms. Simpson. The doc and I have a few areas of disagreement.”
“More than a few,” Seth added in a low voice.
“Don’t think I didn’t hear that.” Mort turned his back to Seth and addressed Eve. “Who owns your haunted house now?”
“The lawyer said it may take a little while to settle the estate, but it’ll probably be Elliot Cooper until the house is sold. He’s been living in Alaska, but he’s coming home for the funeral.”
“If he ever gets here,” Seth put in. “I understand he’s coming by motorcycle. Doesn’t he know that airplanes fly to other places than the wilds of Alaska?”
“Are you sure Elliot won’t change his mind and want to keep the house?” Mort asked.
“It’s much too big for one person,” Eve said.
“Only one person lived there for more than thirty years,” I reminded her.
“True, but Cliff wanted the house sold. He made that point to both you and me, Jessica. He even had you write it in his will. And he wanted me to have the listing. He said I was the perfect person to sell it. I happen to agree, although I think he was just flattering me. It’s a veritable nightmare, that house, and he knew it. There’s no way Elliot can manage a place that large. Frankly, I think he’ll want to take the money and go back to Alaska as fast as he can.”
“Isn’t he the boy who had a crush on the Conrad twins’ great-niece?” Seth asked.
“That’s the one,” I said.
Mort looked at me and squinted. “The Conrad twins, those elderly ladies who live in that little cottage across the way from Cliff Cooper’s place?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve seen them around town but don’t think I ever met them. And I know I never met this Elliot guy.”
“There’s no reason why you’d have met Lettie and Lucy Conrad,” Seth said, “unless they decided to become a live version of Arsenic and Old Lace and kill somebody.”
“Elliot Cooper is Cliff’s grandson,” I said, “but Cliff actually brought up the boy.”
“What happened to Elliot’s parents?” Mort asked.
Seth made a face. “No one knows anything for sure except that they abandoned their child.”
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” I put in. “Cliff’s son, Jerry, and Jerry’s wife, Marina, were archaeologists studying ancient civilizations. Don’t you remember, Seth?”
“So Cliff said. I rarely had any contact with Jerry. Wouldn’t know him if I tripped over him in the street. Course, he’d be in his fifties by now.” He looked at me. “Did you know him any better?”
“No, I didn’t. I understand he met his wife in college. They had a child, and when they decided to pursue their studies in South America, they left Elliot in Cliff’s care.”
“And never came back,” Seth added.
“Because they died there,” I said.
“They were odd birds to begin with.”
“Why do you say that, Doc?”
“Because they were all wrapped up in their own interests, had no friends, no desire to be proper parents, let their baby run naked until the neighbors complained. Tore off to some isolated part of the world. I felt sorry for the boy, but the child protective services couldn’t do anything since he was being supervised by his grandfather.”
“I’m sure the Conrad sisters were a civilizing influence,” I said. “And Lucy told me what a nice young man Elliot turned out to be.”
“Absolute miracle,” Seth said.
“I hate to be a spoilsport,” Mort said to Eve, “but why does this ghost of yours, if there is one, have to be the previous owner? Why couldn’t it be Cooper Junior and his wife who died in the jungle, or some sea captain who built the place? Heck, it could be any number of other people who lived there a hundred years ago.”
“I suppose it could be someone who lived there a long time ago,” Eve said. “But one way or another, something has to be done. I spoke with one potential buyer who said the place gives her the creeps. She’s convinced a ghost lives there, said others had mentioned it to her. I’ve heard that ridiculous rumor before, but I never saw anything to prove it. No, if the Spencer Percy House is haunted, I believe it’s recent. Got to be Cliff. Maybe he left behind something unfinished in this world.”
“Probably just never got around to finish reading all his books,” Mort said.
“It really doesn’t matter who the ghost is. The fact is I’ve got to get rid of it if I’m going to find a buyer.”
“How old is this house?” Mort asked. “Maybe it simply needs a lot of work. Old houses tend to creak, you know. Or host critters in the attic. Doesn’t mean there’s anything woo-hoo going on.”
“According to our town historian, the house dates back to the early 1800s,” I said.
“It’s certainly the oldest house in Cabot Cove,” Eve added. “I could probably sell it as is if it had been designated a landmark. But someone in the last century pulled off half the molding and added an extension that wasn’t approved. So now it’s just a white elephant in need of repair.”
I spooned up the last of my cup of clam chowder and sat back in my chair. It was Friday afternoon, and Mara’s lunchtime customers were hurrying out, anxious to finish the week’s work or eager to get a start on the weekend. “If no one is willing to help fix the place, what are you going to do, Eve?”
“I don’t know, Jessica. I was hoping you would help.”
“What kind of help are you looking for?”
Eve was silent for a moment as she concentrated on cutting her hamburger into little pieces. “I’ve already taken some steps,” she said at last. “I just hope that you’ll keep an open mind.”
“Oh, dear, Eve, what did you do?”
“I found a medium online and used your name to invite her.” She rushed on, “She’s such a big fan of yours, and she said she’s heard how you’re always so helpful to friends in need. And I’m very much in need right now, Jessica.”
It took me a few moments to process what she’d said. I finally asked, “Just how did you use my name, Eve?”
“I sent her an e-mail telling her that you needed help getting rid of a ghost.”
“Oh, Eve,” I said, “how could you?”
Seth patted his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward. “Didn’t this medium, or whoever she is, find it odd that Jessica didn’t request the help herself?”
“Not at all,” Eve said. “I think she thought I was your assistant.”
“I don’t have an assistant.”
“Nevertheless, she agreed to come. And she said she was excited to be seeing you again.”
“Again?” Seth and I said in unison.
“Yes. Her name is Arianna Olynski. She met you in Lewiston some years back. She was writing a book called Our Supernatural Neighbors, and she said you were very encouraging. Don’t you remember?”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar,
” I said, trying to remember the last time I’d been to Lewiston. “I did teach a summer course on creative writing at Bates College, but that was many years ago. Even so, I don’t recall the name Arianna Olynski.”
“Well, she certainly remembers you. She mentions you on her website in the section called ‘Praise for My Work.’ That’s how I got the idea to invite her here.”
“Seems she didn’t make quite as deep an impression on you as you made on her,” Seth said.
“If she’s quoting me, I’d like to see what I said.”
“You can look her up online like I did,” Eve said, letting a few crumbs of chopped meat fall on Cecil’s head.
“Better watch out,” Seth said. “Here comes Mara.”
Eve used her foot to nudge her tote bag under the table, and faked a cough to cover a little yelp from Cecil.
Bearing a pair of coffeepots, decaf in one hand, regular in the other, the proprietress of Mara’s Luncheonette approached our table. “How was lunch, folks? Anyone here need a refill on coffee?”
“The soup was delicious,” I told her.
“Pancakes were excellent as usual,” Seth said, pushing his cup in her direction. “You can top me off.”
Mara dipped to the side as she poured coffee into Seth’s cup. “What about you, Sheriff?”
Mort waved a hand over his cup. “I’m good.”
She eyed the crumbled chopped meat on Eve’s plate. “Having a bit of trouble with your teeth, Ms. Simpson?”
“Moi? Oh, no.”
“I can recommend a good dentist.”
“My teeth are just fine, thank you.”
“Then do you want to take the rest of that home for your . . . dog?”
Eve gave her a bright smile. “That would be wonderful.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “That beef is choice, you know. Shouldn’t be wasted. We only use the best chopped meat for our customers.”
“Cecil is such an admirer of your hamburgers,” Eve said.
Mara grunted. “Don’t think I’ve ever received a compliment like that. I’ll be right back.” She stopped at two more tables before depositing the coffeepots on their stands and bringing Eve a cardboard box for her leftovers. “Dessert, anyone?”
We declined more food, although Seth asked to hear a list of the available pies before deciding he’d had enough sugar for the day. Cabot Cove’s favorite physician was accustomed to dispensing diet advice to his patients, but he found it difficult to follow his own orders.
“Need a lift home?” he asked as we left the luncheonette.
“No, thanks. I’m going to stop in at the library to see if Doris Ann signed up any volunteers to help me with the sale of Cliff’s books.”
“You should advertise it as a Halloween book sale,” Seth said. “Trick the house up with cobwebs and broomsticks. That way if any ghosts should happen to show up for your event, you can say it’s all part of the show.”
“Seth! What a great idea.”
“It is? I thought I was making a joke.”
Chapter Five
“Where do you want me to put these, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Beth Conrad, the Conrad twins’ great-niece, held up two volumes, Birds of New England and Training Your Puppy.
“There should be a carton of animal-related books on the table,” I said, pointing across Cliff Cooper’s library.
Beth and her great-aunt Leticia—called Lettie by all who knew her—were helping me sort Cliff’s books into categories. It was a big project, and I was grateful for all the help I could get. We had plenty of boxes—generously donated by a local moving company—but volunteer sorters had been scarce after a story about the “haunted” Spencer Percy House surfaced in the Cabot Cove Gazette. The editor, Evelyn Phillips, had jumped on the rumors when Eve had complained about the difficulty of getting good help to do the repair work. The newspaper had published a long article on the property and the recent strange goings-on, interviewing the roofers and one of the cleaning ladies, and ran a front-page photo of our favorite real estate agent standing next to the house.
The newspaper editor was delighted when that issue of the Gazette sold out. Eve had been ecstatic. “Isn’t that the greatest publicity? And right after the article appeared, a handyman called me and said he wasn’t afraid to work in the house. I hired him on the spot. He starts in a few days.”
Nevertheless, the prospect of spending time in a haunted house was not as appealing to at least one member of the Friends of the Library. She actually offered to assist with the book sale only if she didn’t have to cross the threshold. Others pleaded how busy they were. The end result was that we were short-staffed, and the responsibility rested on my shoulders. It occurred to me that if the weather didn’t cooperate on the day of the book sale, we’d need a large tent to protect the books and the buyers, and that meant arranging for a rental from a local company. The sale was becoming a much bigger undertaking than I’d envisioned when I’d volunteered to take it on. Thank goodness I had at least two people helping me today.
I knew where the animal books were because earlier in the day I had discovered Reptiles and Amphibians of the Amazon by Richard D. Bartlett in the same box as Cat and Mouse by James Patterson. I removed the latter and added it to a carton marked “Thrillers.” Cliff’s literary interests were wide-ranging, and his collection would have been excellent competition for a bookstore, or even the Cabot Cove Library, had he shelved them in any order. But he hadn’t. An Agatha Christie novel was just as likely to be found among the dictionaries as next to another mystery. I got the impression that once having finished a book, Cliff put it on any shelf where space was available.
“Should we keep the old encyclopedias, Jessica?” Lettie asked. “There’s a full set of World Books.”
“Doris Ann at the library said no one wants those anymore.”
“I’ll put it in the kitchen so it doesn’t go into the sale by mistake,” Lettie said. “Do you have another marker I can use to write on the box?”
“There’s a package of them in my shoulder bag,” I said. “I left it by the front door.”
“It’s not there now,” Lettie said, carrying a box of books out of the library. She was tall and lean with steel gray hair cut short. Seth had described her as spry. I guessed that she must have been well over eighty, but she walked like a woman decades younger. “Comes from doing for yourself,” she’d told me when I’d complimented her. “Who’s going to chop wood for the fireplace if not me? My sister, Lucy, would be useless. I have to do more and more for her.”
“I thought I saw your bag in the dining room, Mrs. Fletcher,” Beth said. “I’ll go get it for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, shaking my head and thinking, I must be getting forgetful. I don’t recall leaving my bag in the dining room.
“It was right next to the box of books on health and medicine,” Lettie’s great-niece said when she returned, holding aloft my tan leather satchel.
“You’re a dear. I have half my life in that bag, not to mention my house keys.” I took it from her and groped around inside for a new package of markers. “I’ll bring one to Lettie. Do you need another marker, too?”
“No. Mine still has some ink left.”
I dropped my shoulder bag next to the front door and walked down the hall to the kitchen.
The three of us had begun working that morning. Beth, a graphic designer for an architect, had made signs for the sale, which she brought to show us. In the library, I’d found a cabinet with some room—miracle of miracles—and stowed away Cliff’s hollowed-out poetry book to save for his grandson. I’d previously put the money in an envelope and delivered it to the attorney, Fred Kramer.
By midafternoon we were knee-deep in boxes, and apart from four cartons of “General Fiction,” the only subgenre with more than three books was the box marked “Mystery: Hard-boiled
and Noir,” which held a dozen paperbacks, among them the two by Hobart that Eve and I had picked up from the floor.
“I’m making a cup of tea for myself,” Lettie said when I brought her a new marker. “Would you like one?”
“That’s a wonderful idea. Let me ask Beth if she’d like to take a break, too.”
Beth joined us at the vintage table, which had a chipped enameled metal top and a drawer on one side. Lettie had put a kettle on the gas stove to heat. She pulled three spoons from the table’s drawer and gave us each a paper towel. “Don’t remember the last time Cliff bought napkins, if he ever did. Luckily he kept the tea and the sugar in tin canisters. They’re fairly fresh.” She opened a cabinet and took out three mugs, rinsing them with the boiling water before dropping in a tea bag and adding more water.
I helped her carry the mugs to the table and settled in my seat to wait for the tea to cool.
“It’s too bad we didn’t get more people to help with the sale,” Beth said. “I can ask around at the office if you like. Most of my coworkers live south of here, so they probably don’t read the Gazette and wouldn’t be spooked by the idea of ghosts.”
“Ought to be some other locals who can lend a hand,” Lettie said. “Lot of foolish nonsense about this house being haunted. Cliff never complained, and I’d’ve known if he had. I’ll have my sister call up her quilting cronies at the senior citizen center and see who she can scare up. ‘Scare up’! Ha! I picked the right word, didn’t I?” She chuckled.
The Conrad twins, Lettie and Lucy, were part of an old Cabot Cove family. I hadn’t met their great-niece, Beth, before, but I knew that the young woman’s father was a captain on a freighter and spent many months at sea. Lettie had told me that Beth had become a frequent visitor to the sisters’ home after her father’s new wife gave birth to twin boys, and she still was. She was a sweet young woman with the kind of fresh, youthful good looks that could be pegged at anywhere from eighteen to thirty-five, but I knew that she must be in her mid- to late twenties. It was nice that she’d come home to Cabot Cove after college. So many of our young people didn’t.
Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher Page 4