by Sylvia Nobel
“So, you getting all your questions answered,” he asked, eyeing me with a shrewd glint.
“No, they keep multiplying like rabbits but listen, Marta tells me you might have a cell phone.”
“Yep. My son bought it for me last Christmas.”
“I was wondering if I could use it.”
He grimaced and pushed a thatch of unruly white hair from his forehead. “You could, except the damn thing’s useless till we get cell service in these parts.”
My heart fell. “What about a CB? Surely someone has a CB radio.”
“Got one in my jeep.
“Thank goodness. Can you get a message to the sheriff’s office?”
His silvery brows collided. “What’s going on?”
I supplied a thumbnail sketch and watched speculation flare in his cornflower blue eyes. “So, you think that even with Miss Morgan’s...er..ailment there might be something to it?”
It took a second for his statement to sink in. Then I understood Marta’s dubious reaction to the ghost story. “Let me guess. Jesse Pickrell’s been busy blabbing Audrey’s condition around town.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes, but I don’t think she was seeing things.”
He fixed me with a look of quiet appraisal. “Okay, I’ll get on the horn right now.”
I accompanied him along a dirt driveway toward a ramshackle wooden carport behind the house and couldn’t help but think that Whitey could have used D.J.’s artistic green thumb on his neglected, weed-infested yard. I particularly liked the ancient pink Edsel set up on blocks with raggedy shrubs sprouting from the broken windshield.
While Whitey fiddled and fussed with the knobs, I stood at the edge of a sizeable mud puddle slapping flies away and listening to the hiss and crackle of his radio until he finally made contact with a trucker pulling into Bisbee.
“That fella’s gonna deliver your message personally,” he announced stepping out and slamming the door behind him, “but he said it might be awhile before anyone gets here because they got one hellacious bunch of storm damage last night.”
“Thanks a lot and before I go can you tell me how to get to Weaverville?”
His freckled forehead crinkled. “Whatcha need to go out there for? Not much left except a few tumbledown buildings and the cemetery.”
I grinned. “Got a hot prospect to interview.”
He looked suitably perplexed, but after enlightening me with a few historical facts concerning the old ghost town he directed me to proceed eight miles past the mine road. “Watch real close or you’ll miss the little wooden sign telling you to turn right. The graveyard’s back in the hills about a mile or so.”
“How come it’s so far out of town?”
“We had one here up until about thirty years ago.” Fingering his white mustache, he cocked his head to one side, looking expectant. “So, I guess you haven’t heard the story of Otto Pigwell yet?”
I sensed another yarn was about to unfold. “No. I think that’s a name I’d remember.”
“Well, you’re gonna love this one,” he said, flashing me one of his amiable grins. “Seems poor old Otto was down in the drift one day, minding his own business, merrily drilling away at the rock face, when all of a sudden the back caved in and guess what came down and conked him smack on the noggin?”
I shrugged. “A rock?”
“Nope. A casket.”
I’m sure he relished my look of disbelief. “He was underneath the cemetery?”
“You guessed er Chester. And since they were following a real rich vein, Jeb Morgan wasn’t too keen on abandoning it. Instead, he donated a big chunk of land he had setting on a couple of old mining claims he owned and had the whole shebang moved out of town.”
“Fascinating. Oh, and one more thing. You remember the other day when you suggested I talk to Ida Fairfield about Audrey’s sister?”
“Uh huh.”
“This morning, Dr. Orcutt implied that she may not have all her faculties about her and even insinuated that I’d be wasting my time talking to her.”
He seemed taken aback and picked absently at the stubble on his chin. “That’s news to me. I mean, granted the old gal did have stroke a couple a years back, but last time I talked to her she seemed pretty clear headed.”
“So, you think her memory is intact?”
“Hey, she forgets little things, we all do, but she doesn’t seem to have any trouble remembering stuff from a long time ago.”
“I got the feeling there’s no love lost between her and the good doctor.”
Whitey threw back his head and guffawed. “Most likely he’s still itching to get even with her for telling everybody in town he was a quack.”
My ears perked up. “Really? Why’d she do that?”
“You recollect the story I told you about Grady’s first wife, Lydia, being so sickly ‘n’ all?”
“Yeah.”
“Seems like the doc was treating her all those years for cancer but after the poor lady died it turned out to be some sort of rare blood disease.”
“Dr. Orcutt misdiagnosed her?”
“Yep. After that, I mean to tell you Ida was out to fry his eggs. She ended up raising such a ruckus she darn near got his medical license yanked. They’ve been on the outs ever since.”
How enlightening. That explained Dr. Orcutt’s disparaging attitude towards the old lady.
I thanked Whitey once more and headed towards Toomey’s garage while the tense scene with Fran Orcutt replayed itself in my mind. It rekindled a white-hot fire of expectation inside me. Once again, I wished I could be several places at once. If I didn’t feel it was so vital to report last night’s incident to the sheriff and if I hadn’t already scheduled the long-anticipated meeting with Ida Fairfield, I would have headed for the cemetery right then and there.
Good to his word, Lamar Toomey had the body- work completed. My car shined like a new penny. “Wow,” I exclaimed with unabashed admiration, running my fingertips along the smooth blue paint, “it looks brand new.” He beamed with pleasure and pointed to his grease-caked associate rolling a tire towards the bay. “If you want to take her now I’ll drive the Packard up the hill later on and have Buzz here bring me back.”
I agreed, thanked him again and, feeling just a shade of regret knowing I’d probably never get the chance to drive such a cool-looking car again, I climbed behind the wheel of my own and had just started the engine when Willow burst out the door shouting, “Wait a minute!”
Oh, boy, what now? As she trotted towards the car, I decided that Lamar Toomey must be a really laid-back boss to tolerate Willow’s bohemian, post-hippie appearance. Her ill-fitting tie-dyed blouse was buttoned wrong and the way her hair stuck out at crazy angles gave me the impression she hadn’t brushed it since her impromptu shower with the hose yesterday.
“You can save me a trip up the hill if you’ll give the Morgan girl this new contract I wrote up last night,” she said, shoving an envelope through the car window. “And you can tell her I meant every word I said. If she wants to stop any more trouble, she’d better sign it today.”
Her distinctive eyes, burning with the same intense passion she’d exhibited yesterday, left no doubt she intended to continue the battle. Unwilling to embroil myself in a pissing match with her, I accepted the document along with her not-so-subtle threat. How Audrey was going to mediate this impasse to everyone’s satisfaction was beyond me.
Cruising along the main street, I spotted the now-familiar white pickup parked in front of the Huddle Cafe. I slowed down and felt a twinge of surprise to see Bitsy Bigelow and the ever-bewitching Archie Lawton standing practically nose to nose, engaged in deep conversation. Suddenly, she tossed her head back, laughed, and then playfully squeezed his arm.
Well, well. More small town intrigue. Did D.J. have a clue that Archie was schmoozing his lady-friend behind his back? I’d bet money he didn’t.
As if sensing my scrutiny, Bitsy’s gaze fastened on me. Her
smile dissolved into a look of fear-laden hostility before she abruptly turned and made a beeline for the door of the cafe. How odd. Her curious behavior toward me made no more sense today than it had yesterday morning.
Archie, however, was a different story. In the nano-second we made eye contact, he fastened such a brazen look of animal lust on me that I shivered with revulsion. Smarmy creep. I stepped on the accelerator and wound up the hill, my mind bouncing back to the strange confrontation at the cottage yesterday between him and D.J. Had he done as ordered last night and carried out D.J.’s questionable demands? Somehow I had to find out what the two of them were up to.
My trip had taken a little longer than expected and it was almost ten o’clock by the time I reached the house. Good to her word, Marta, now dressed for traveling in a long red cotton skirt and loose, white embroidered blouse, met me at the kitchen door, purse in hand. “Miss Morgan is still sleeping.”
“Good. Sorry I’m late, and by the way, there’s no need to come rushing back from your visit. Miss Morgan will be having dinner with Mr. Claypool and I’m not sure what time I’ll get back from Weaverville this afternoon.”
Solemnly, she crossed herself. “My aunt is buried there. My cousin too.” She cocked her head to the side. “Why will you go there, Miss O’Dell? It is a lonesome place.”
I repeated only what I’d told Whitey, took the house key from her outstretched hand and then watched her waddle down the hill towards the cottage before heading to my room. Moments later when the Suburban flashed past the window I couldn’t contain a twinge of aggravation.
Too bad D.J. wouldn’t be here when the investigator arrived. I’d love to analyze his reaction to questions like: ‘Explain your close association with that scumbag Archie Lawton? Is he fencing stolen property for you? Or, where were you at approximately four A.M., Mr. Morrison? And by any chance, does Ms. Bigelow have in her possession a long white dress?’
Well, they’d be something along that order I thought, trying the office number for what seemed the fiftieth time. Unreal. How long was it going to take the phone company to fix the problem?
With a frustrated sigh, I dropped the receiver back on the cradle and rubbed my aching shoulder. If I took one of the pain pills now, hopefully the effects would wear off before I had to drive very far.
I went to the kitchen for water and had barely swallowed the capsule when a fresh-faced Deputy McHenry from the sheriff’s department presented himself at the side door, clipboard in hand.
Disappointed to learn that it was Orville Kemp’s day off, it took me a few minutes to fill him in on some of the recent events. When I led him to the scene of the “ghost sighting”, now absent the blood and broken glass Marta had so efficiently cleared away, he admonished me sternly. “This area should have been left untouched.”
“I know, but considering the emergency medical situation I didn’t have time to tell the housekeeper to leave things alone.”
He appeared unimpressed by my excuse. “I’ll need a statement from Miss Morgan.”
Audrey, already cranky at being wakened and me forcing her to confess her illness up front, was less than gracious. His expression, impassive and professional at first, slowly disintegrated to skepticism with each subsequent question. “It wasn’t the lightning or the champagne,” she insisted with tight-jawed conviction, “and I wasn’t hallucinating. I don’t know how the woman managed to get behind Kendall without me seeing her.”
He edged me a doubt-laden glance. “And did you see this alleged intruder?”
“No.”
His gaze swung back to Audrey. “Do you know if anything was stolen?”
“No, but then I can’t be sure since I’ve only been here a few days.”
Now wooden-faced, the deputy wordlessly scribbled notes on the investigation report before abruptly rising to his feet. “Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll see that Detective Kemp gets a copy of this tomorrow morning.”
He did a cursory search of the house and grounds and twenty minutes later Audrey stood next to me at the living room window watching the patrol car disappear beyond the gate. “He didn’t believe a single word I said.” “You have to admit, it all sounds pretty bizarre, but considering he wasn’t really familiar with the particulars in this case, can you blame him?”
“I guess not.”
“Don’t worry, when Orville Kemp hears about it I’m positive he’ll want to follow up, but right now you’d better get ready so we can get going to Ida’s place.”
“Are you happy with how your car turned out?” she asked, still staring out the window.
“Very. And by the way,” I said, pulling the envelope from my back pocket. “Willow wants you to sign this today.”
She looked utterly defeated. “I can’t deal with this now. Can you help me upstairs?”
“Sure.”
Because of the crutches, our ascent was slow and awkward. When we finally reached her room, she insisted she could bathe without my assistance, so I returned to the landing and sat down on the top step to contemplate the whole fascinating cocktail of events. Princess, doing her usual cat thing, appeared noiselessly from somewhere and bumped against me, mewing for attention.
“Okay, partner,” I said, stroking her soft golden fur, “let’s reset this table. If we assume the phantom is real then how did she get from Audrey’s room to the bottom of the staircase so damn fast? What do you think, girl? How’d she do it?”
Princess fixed her luminous eyes on me and twitched her tail.
“Well, you’re no help today,” I said, scratching behind her ears. “What about the banister? Do you think she slid down it?”
The mental picture comprising any of the possible suspects attempting this feat, especially Jesse, brought a wry smile to my lips. No, not probable. I would have heard something. As I sat there in deep reflection, inhaling the sweet flower-scented breeze wafting in the window behind me, another thought popped into my head.
Wait just a minute. I rose and peered outside. To my left, a rickety drainpipe snaked down the wall. Could she have gone this way? Nope. It looked too flimsy. I surveyed the sturdy branches of a walnut tree, only yards away. Now that held possibility. Could the woman have climbed down and sneaked in the front door? But wouldn’t there have been telltale signs like water or mud?
I don’t know how long I stood there sifting through the different compartments of my brain, when all at once an obscure detail from the night of Grady’s death jabbed me like a sharp stick. I whirled around to stare at the cat’s impassive face. “Marta didn’t see anyone in the house that night but you did, didn’t you, Princess?”
Thankful that the throbbing pain in my shoulder had subsided, I charged down the steps, scooped up the flashlight I’d left on my dresser and dashed across the living room. If I was right, Marta’s contention that she’d seen Princess bolt from the old kitchen hissing in fear, combined with Audrey’s claim of persistent noises along with that scraping sound I’d heard yesterday when I was on the parlor phone, might have an explanation.
I pushed through the swinging doors, snapped on the overhead light in the pantry and made a beeline for the dumbwaiter secreted in the wall. “Please, let me be right,” I whispered in breathless anticipation, yanking open the waist-high wooden door.
Cool, musty air rushed out at my face as I played the light around the opening and the sudden realization made me gasp. Why hadn’t I noticed this the first time I’d looked? There wasn’t a spider web anywhere! And if that wasn’t a dead giveaway that the old contraption was still in use, what was? But more importantly, the wooden platform looked solid enough to support a person. I reached up and pulled one of the two ropes hanging side by side. The platform rose smoothly. A few tugs on the second rope lowered it again.
I shined the light upward into the gloom, revealing the pulley system situated directly above what appeared to be an opening to the second floor. I knew what I should do, but when I stuck my head in the hole, panic clogged my t
hroat and I jumped back.
As always, I despised myself for succumbing to my nemesis. Yes, it was illogical. Yes, it was irrational. But the thought of becoming trapped in the constricted shaft had my heart hammering like a pneumatic drill. I paced around the room trying to convince myself that I could overcome my foolish fears, but met with no success. I turned back to stare at the dark cavity and stopped in my tracks. Perhaps there was another way.
Retracing my steps, I stopped again on the stair landing and leaned over the banister. The kitchen was below and to the right. I pointed in the approximate direction of the shaft and moved my finger up. Oh, yes indeed. That would put the opening in the room right next to Audrey’s. Eager to prove my theory, I rushed to the top of the stairs and almost collided with her as she stepped from the bathroom, enveloped in a haze of gardenia scented steam.
“Oh, my God,” she shrieked. “What are you up to now?”
“Sorry,” I said, reaching out a hand to steady her, “I didn’t mean to scare you but I’m dying to check out a hunch. If I’m right, I think we’ll have the answer as to how our lady phantom works her disappearing act.”
“How?”
“Follow me.”
She stayed close behind as I turned the crystal knob and pushed the squeaky old door open. There was no overhead fixture and in the low light of the shuttered room it was difficult to make out much except for a jumble of furniture and boxes. I snapped on the flashlight and we picked our way among the clutter, following the dust-filled beam.
“What are we looking for?” Audrey asked in a hoarse whisper.
“You’ll see.” If my calculations were correct the opening should be behind the high-backed chair positioned against the far wall. I dragged it to one side and pointed in triumph. “Ta-dah. There it is.”
Audrey stared at the small wooden door. “There is what?”
“The entrance to the dumbwaiter.”
She continued to look befuddled so I explained my theory. “Now I want you to go into your room and tell me if this is the noise you’ve been hearing.”
“Okay.”