Hauntings in the Garden, Volume Two

by Wild Rose Press Authors

  As he continued the deliberately slow crawl toward his destiny, two teenagers in snappy navy blue band uniforms and white spats raced by. “Excuse us, sir,” each said as they ducked around him then raced down the sidewalk.

  “Sir. Ain’t that a kick in the ass?” How long had it been since a kid young enough to be his grandchild—if he stretched the numbers—addressed this aging former cop with anything resembling respect?

  Two houses down on the left, he came up short. At last recall, the small white clapboard building had been home to the only lending library within three counties. The sign hanging from the wrought iron post proclaimed a recent name change: Genevieve Pierpont Memorial Library.

  “Well, shit. Hank never said a word.”

  Add a few more points to his guilt list. Not visiting Aunt Genny often enough in her last years took top spot. She’d been a wonder, his aunt whose enormous spirit and unflagging energy belied her small stature. A teacher who specialized in New York history, she’d always been drawn to this part of the state.

  Once Nick and Annie left the nest for college, Genny charmed Hank into selling their three story Victorian in the middle of Syracuse’s university section and relocate to this tiny spit of land sticking out on the far eastern end of Lake Ontario where it bled into the Saint Lawrence River. During the ensuing years, the stuccoed Craftsman style bungalow became a home away from home for Nick and his sister, then her kids and their off-spring. Jesus, he missed Genny. As much as he would miss Hank.

  AnneMarie’s last voice mail message echoed in his head. “Enough with guilt trips. Spend quality time with him while he’s still alert and aware. You owe him that much, Nicky.”

  His sister, a champ when it came to playing the guilt card, took early retirement from a busy internal medicine practice to relocate to the Cape in order to care for Genny in her last months. Annie stayed on permanently to tend to Hank after it became clear his heart couldn’t keep going at its former pace. Last month, she phoned to say she was burned out and taking a six week cruise to Alaska and needed him to help their uncle with Caper Madness. With his best efforts at keeping in touch over the past months consisted of a few measly phone calls—Nick simply couldn’t say no.

  The partners at Gallow, Yankowicz and Perot, LLC were not exactly thrilled with his request to take a family medical leave. Initially attracted by the generous salary and benefits that came with the position of chief of investigations for the prestigious law firm, shortly after coming on board, Nick found himself putting in twelve hour days tracking down bail jumping clients, alibi witnesses, or locating missing loved ones for controlling parents or shifty-eyed spouses capable of forking over GYP’s obscene hourly rates. Along the way he’d earned a boulder-sized hole in his gut. His sister warned him that at the rate he was going, he’d be on a milk and Maalox diet for the rest of his life. Perhaps, he realized, as he turned the corner onto Vincentian Lane where his uncle waited, he should begin considering alternative means of employment.

  The distinctive blare of a fire siren, followed by the blast of an air horn, or a tuba in desperate need of tuning, threatened the ability to hear without electronic aides. Whatever the source, one thing became clear: Cape Brendan was about to have themselves a parade.

  ****

  Nick expected to find his uncle relaxing on the deck in the back yard, potboiler crime novel in one hand, cup of tea at his elbow. No such luck. The diminutive older man was in his favorite spot: the two car garage he’d turned into a workshop to build his custom-made boats.

  Without thinking of how it might sound, Nick yelled, “Shouldn’t you be sitting down, Uncle Hank, with your feet up, taking it easy?”

  The old man glanced up and glowered. “Why in hell would I be doing that?”

  The familiar voice, once so strong and determined, held a creak that made Nick’s heart clutch. “Yeah, but, didn’t your doctors tell you to conserve your energy?”

  “Sure they did.” Hank straightened, then reached for a fresh sheet of sandpaper to smooth the hull of the Saint Lawrence skiff that rested on a pair of saw horses. “Whipper snappers,” he sneered. “Neither one of them look old enough to vote, much less shave. And your sister? God knows she deserves that fancy dancy cruise she’s taken herself on, but between the three of them, none has Caper Madness to oversee.”

  For a man with a failing heart, Hank could still string multiple sentences together without needing to take a breath. Before Nick could come back, the old man pulled the guilt card. “Don’t figure any of them has finishing a boat on their bucket lists.”

  Nick laid a hand over Hank’s to still the motion and couldn’t help but notice the slow thrum of blood pulsing beneath the paper thin skin. “I said I’d help with this—insanity—and I will. Tell me what needs doing.”

  Shaking off concern of others, as he always did, Hank changed the subject. “Your hotshot bosses don’t mind if you take a little time off?”

  “Let me worry about the firm, Uncle Hank.”

  “Saw one of them on the tube the other night, posturing like a peacock at the zoo. Something about a nasty custody case and a woman who maybe ran off with her kids. You in on that one, boy?”

  Christ knew the years of practice Nick had put in to hide his true feelings when it came to Robert ‘Just Call Me Bob’ Gallow and wasn’t about to clue his uncle in on the details of his work at GYP. Best thing was to get the old man back on topic. “In her email AnneMarie mentioned something about an opening event for Madness. What do you need me to do?”

  Out of the blue, another deafening blare of horns from a fire engine sounded. Hank grinned at Nick’s reflexive cringe, then dropped the sheet of sand paper and wiped his hands on the rag that always hung from the tool belt at his waist. Grabbing a cane of iridescent green with silver stripes from the edge of the deck, he motioned Nick to follow him around the side of the house to the walkway leading to Vincentian Lane.

  They made it to the corner of Main Street in time to see the owner of the local car dealership at the wheel of a vintage Mustang convertible. On the top edge of the car’s back seat, the mayor of Cape Brendan perched beside a teenage girl in a tiara and strapless ball gown with a sash naming her Queen of Madness. Both offered regal waves of greeting to the hordes crowding the sidewalks on both sides of the street.

  Dressed in clothing that ranged from plaid flannel and barn boots to pricey vacation wear, people from infancy to golden-agers lined the parade route, applauding and whistling. Not ten minutes before the streets had felt devoid of human life save himself. Now, Nick decided, they were crawling out of the woodwork for this deal. Trucks from local TV affiliates with monster transmitters on their roofs parked end-to-end at the far corner. Roving reporters, mikes at the ready and trailed by videographers with giant cams on their shoulders, roamed the crowds in search of ready prey for local color commentary.

  The blare of trombones and trumpets brought a hoot from Hank’s lips as a team of high stepping baton twirlers passed by in short skirts and tasseled boots. “My Genny’s favorite song,” he sighed. “Back in the day she and I cut quite the rug on this tune. I asked the band teacher to have the children play it in her honor.”

  Nick blinked, then blinked again, finding some difficulty in taking in the group of marchers who followed behind the Cape Brendan Marching Mariners’ drum line.

  Witches. All types and sizes. Costumes ranged from simple black nun-type habits with the standard cone-shaped hats to elaborate ball gowns, high button shoes, and pointy velvet hats. Straight out of central casting for a Harry Potter movie, each held the requisite broomstick at the ready. There had to be at least fifty of them, marching five abreast to the beat of Glenn Miller’s Saint Louis Blues March.

  At a certain point in the song, a shrill whistle sounded. The witches broke into a precision routine to the beat of the toe-tapping march made popular during World War II, wielding the brooms in a sharp, coordinated routine. Shouts broke out among the onlookers; reporters motioned for th
e camera persons to get shots of the group Hank explained was known as the Witchy Poos.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Nick mumbled.

  Hank bumped his shoe with the tip of his cane. “Got us thirty more days of this excitement. Better rest up.”

  ****

  Over coffee the next morning, Nick and Hank relaxed on the front porch of the Craftsman while his uncle updated him on the different events scheduled for Caper Madness. As usual, the older man’s mouth outpaced his busy brain.

  “Slow down a second,” Nick begged, concerned with the man’s color and occasional hitch in his breathing. “The witch drill team performs twice a week in the town square? Does that mean the school releases the kids in the band from class for musical back up?”

  “Hell no. All the Witchy Poos need is a snare drum to keep the beat. Doc Ryan, proctologist from Watertown, dresses up like one of those Revolutionary War fife and drum boys, complete with a limp and bloody bandage on his head. Between him and the Poos, they got themselves quite a rhythm.”

  Nick nearly choked on a spear of melon. “I’m sure.”

  “If the doc gets tied up with a major pain in the ass, he arranged back-up. A few of the nuns from the pre-school program at Saint Vincent dePaul play the kazoo. Been practicing for months; got a couple Three Dog Night tunes down pat.”

  On a deep sigh, Nick closed his eyes. Somehow the thought of bunch of penguins playing Halls of Shambala on their kazoos seemed a bit strange—but then the whole deal fit pretty well with the theme of madness. “Always good to have a plan B.”

  “There you go,” Hank said. “Moving right along, the folks at Mel’s Diner over on Marie Louise Place offer free dessert to anyone in a costume. Only on Wednesdays, mind you. Can’t be breaking the bank even for Caper Madness.”

  “Mel’s Diner?” Nick asked. “Are we talking the old-time TV show?”

  “Sure thing. The owner, a Paris trained chef, dresses up in a gob’s hat, dirty tee shirt, and fake tattoos and calls himself Mel for the month.”

  “Aw geez.”

  Hank chuckled. “I couldn’t make up this shit if I wanted.”

  “They got waitresses named Flo, Alice or—what’s her name? The goofy one with big teeth, boney hips, and a squeaky voice?”

  “Naw, just Flo, though her real name is MaryJane Monroe. She’ll fix her hair in one of those bee-hives, pump up her bazooms with balloons, wears a pink uniform and one of those frilly organdy deals on her head.”

  “Okay,” Nick said, committing Cordon Bleu chefs and balloon pumped waitresses to memory. “I saw a sign on my way over this morning about a pumpkin carving contest, winner to be announced at the costume ball at the end of the month.”

  “Contestants carve their entry—donated by a local farming conglomerate—at home, or work, wherever floats their boats. They’ll bring it into the Town Hall for an official photograph. Can enter as many times as they want, but each picture must be notarized to make it legal.”

  Nick nodded. “Who’s doing the judging?”

  “The mayor, principal of the high school, and the county executive.”

  “Okay,” Nick murmured, one eye on his watch. The day he left Syracuse for the Cape, he assured Bob Gallow he’d check in at ten each morning. It wouldn’t do to rock the boat so soon in his leave of absence. “What’s next?”

  “I lined up a string quartet from the music department at the U to perform every Tuesday in the town square. The choice of music and costumes is up to them—theme appropriate, of course,” Hank said. “No sense in playing the hard ass.”

  “Always good to let the troops make a few of the minor decisions.”

  Looking like he had something smart to retort, Hank opened his mouth, then let out a holler just before a huge toothy grin stretched the corners of his gaunt cheeks. “Top o’ the marnin’ to ye, Missus!” he cackled to someone exiting the front door of the stone cottage next door.

  Taking the concrete steps to the sidewalk in two lithe moves, a woman in a slinky dress the color of ripe tomatoes glanced their way and responded in a distinct Irish brogue. “And the ass end of the day to ye, Mistur Pierpont.”

  Intrigued by the rich tone of her voice, Nick craned his neck and found one of the witches from yesterday’s parade—minus the droopy velvet hat—passing within steps of Hank’s porch. A bulging garment bag hung over one arm; she looked headed in the direction of the pier at the end of Vincentian Lane. Damned if right then a wind didn’t jump up off the lake and mold the filmy length of scarlet against each curve of her body. Long black hair—and there seemed to be a good ten pounds of it—flowed over her shoulders, caressing her body like a lover as she marched toward Dingle Pier. As his heart bumped into a trip hammer beat, Nick reminded himself to breathe.

  “Ferget yer broom, Missus?” Hank called out to her retreating back.

  “In the repair shop,” she replied over one shoulder, winging that glorious onyx hair away from lips painted to match her dress. “Gettin’ fitted with a couple of those fancy turbo boosters, it is.”

  Hank chuckled, then went back to his coffee. “Turbo boosters. That Nunie Doyle; sure is a pistol.”

  An invisible fist reached down to grab Nick’s gut in a vise. As recognition flared, long buried rage took a slow crawling path up his spine.

  Five years had evoked more than a few changes in Annunciata Doyle. Much thinner, he noted, but as far as he was concerned, she’d always been a bit on the hippy side. Back then her weight was something she’d thrown around with ease—or when the mood suited. When it came to cops, it suited her often.

  The hair was another matter. Who knew when she freed the ruthlessly tight bun she’d always sported, her hair would fall past her waist in a curtain of black velvet?

  In the costume of a Witchy Poo—and wasn’t that appropriate considering what she’d done to several of his fellow officers—her current manner of dress was looser and certainly more feminine than the severe straight-jacket type suits she wore back when reporters hung on her every word and judges clamored for her to speak during the sentencing portion of criminal trials. Counselors and advocates proclaimed her the patron saint of victims and survivors.

  Which, in his opinion, was total bullshit.

  While Nick waited for his uncle to hand over the To Do list for the day, he hated his inability to take his focus off the tall, slender woman with the intriguing accent and delectable body now moving toward the water’s edge in a brisk no-nonsense stride.

  “You hear me, boy?”

  “What? Sorry, Uncle Hank. I got—distracted.”

  “Easy to do with that one. Be careful though.”

  She took the first step leading into the gazebo. As she moved the thigh high split on the dress opened to expose a slender silk covered leg. “Why is that?”

  “Folks around here call her the Black Mamba. Dangerous for any man who shows much of an interest.”

  No big secret there, Nick mused sourly.

  The Crone his brother officers had called the Director of Crime Victim Services back then. A woman who proved herself fully capable of destroying a man’s career with one carefully placed phone call to the police brass—or worse—the local media. Or, as she accomplished with one blow, dropping a name during an interview about a notorious child sex abuse trial.

  The ensuing scandal ended badly for all concerned, including the loss of several careers and, in the case of Nick’s best friend, suicide.

  Chapter Two

  “Come on, Nunie,” the photographer crooned. “Give me that smile the lens loves.”

  More tired than if she’d run a marathon, and aching in every joint south of her belly button, Annunicata Doyle complied with the request. It wasn’t all that difficult for she adored Druzilla Horvath, champion of abused women the world over.

  “That’s it!” the diminutive photographer crowed. “A couple more shots and we’re done. Turn toward the horizon, shade your eyes like you’re waiting for your man to come home after a long day
fishing.”

  “Me? Holdin’ me breath for some bowsie who stinks ta high heaven from all manner of fish guts and gore beneath his fingernails?” she said, annoyed to hear her accent thicken, a sure sign of encroaching fatigue. “That’ll be the day.”

  “The honchos at Graceful Aging Magazine will dance down Broadway when they see the dailies. Not to mention our lovely boss will go ballistic.”

  The mention of Fiona Thorpe, founder of La Vrai Beaute, an upscale modeling agency which featured models of mature age, brought a smile to Nunie’s face. Pleasing her boss might lead to a few assignments in the tropics come winter when Cape Brendan turned as frigid as a Mother Superior’s black heart. “It’s thankful I am, Dru. Appreciate the feedback.”

  “You earned it, pal. There aren’t many models with your energy level and ability to stand for hours in all kinds of weather without whining, just to please some Big Apple magazine editor. Enjoy the applause.”

  After leaving Crime Victim Services beneath a cloud brought on by the Crozier College fiasco and relocating to Cape Brendan, Nunie found herself needing to supplement a meager pension which Jaysus knew wouldn’t keep a bird alive, much less a leak-proof roof over her head. Fiona Thorpe and LVB had not only kept the wolf from the door, but also gave her a new outlook on life. Plus, the requisite travel for photo shoots ensured her other pursuits ran like a well timed clock.

  “How did the last shoot go? Everything delivered intact and safe?”

  Druzilla Horvath, two time Pulitzer Award winning photographer, squinted against the sharp rays of a setting sun in order to focus the next frame. “As no one pays attention to a photographer’s assistant, we were blessed. We came; we set up; we shot and I left her in the capable hands of the next conductor. Why do you ask?”