by Morgana Best
Melissa made a face. “How are you going to make a story out of that?”
I held up my hands. “Dunno. It would’ve been a great story if the tour was still going, but now that it’s shut down, I can’t see the point. Plus Skinny wants one thousand words.”
“She’ll want something sensational, too.”
“Tell me about it.” I let out a long sigh. “The problem is, I called one of the guys. He said he’d sue me if I mentioned his name or what happened and he said that he’s already refused interviews with newspapers.” I sighed again. “At least I’ve contacted him, so I hope that’s enough to shut Skinny up.”
Melissa removed herself from the corner of my desk. “The only thing that will make Skinny happy is one thousand words. You need to go to Morpeth if you’re going to make any sort of story out of this.”
“Melissa!” Skinny’s voice summoned Melissa back to her office.
By early afternoon, I hadn’t made any ground into the story, despite working through my lunch hour, and was frantically searching the net when a ghoul appeared beside me. I exaggerate—it was Skinny, although the description is apt. “Misty, I’ve just read your email about the ghost tour closing. Forget the tour! Just write about the ghosts in Morpeth. I need the story by nine a.m. Tuesday. Try to do a competent job, Misty. I have to go out to an appointment now. My plastic surgeon has suggested I try snake venom instead of botox.”
I bit back the obvious retort with some difficulty, and instead texted Melissa: Feel like a day in Morpeth this weekend? Then I spent a good hour on Facebook.
Chapter 3
I was glad it was Friday, my favorite day of the week. As I lived in a small country town, it was only a short drive home from work. Diva was sitting on my front doorstep waiting for me to let her in. I had hoped there would be a parcel for me. Only a week earlier, I’d ordered some bikinis online. There was no way I was going into a store to buy bikinis and flaunt myself in front of over-zealous shop assistants. Even if they didn’t harass me outside the fitting room door, they would always offer me a size or two bigger than I really was.
I opened the door for Diva, but she just sat there and looked at me. “Are you coming in or out?” I asked her. She continued to look at me. I shrugged and shut the door. I was only a step away when there was a scratching sound on the door. I opened the door, and Diva was scowling at me. I held it open for her. “Are you coming in?” She just sat there with a blank expression on her face.
I sighed, and after a while, shut the door. I turned to leave, but then Diva scratched on the door again. I rolled my eyes, and opened the door once more. Diva just sat there. I reached for her, but she swiped at me and moved away.
I left the door open, went into the kitchen, got her packet of Furball Control dried cat food out of the cupboard, and rattled the packet loudly. Diva ran in, and I topped up her already full bowl with more food, and then sprinted down the hallway for the front door. I made it just before she did. With a sigh of satisfaction, I pushed the door shut just in time.
Diva returned to her food after giving me a glare over her shoulder. I went into one of the front rooms, which was my office. The other was the living room. I booted up my laptop, and went to the Australia Post Tracking website. I retrieved my tracking number from my email and entered it. It came up that the parcel was due for delivery today.
Bummer. That meant only one thing. The postal lady wanted to chat with me, so was going to deliver the parcel to me at a time when she knew I would be home. In my town, there is a man, Craig, who delivers letters and small envelopes straight into letterboxes on his motor cycle, and his wife, Julie, who delivers the parcels from her van direct to people’s doorsteps. I apparently have one of those faces that encourages people to speak to me, and for months now, Julie has told me all her marital problems as well as all the town gossip, real or imagined.
In summer, I like to sit at my desk with my curtains open and look out over my rose garden, but of an afternoon, if Julie catches me at home, she will talk for at least half an hour about her problems. I always make sure I select ‘Authority to leave without signature’ if I buy something online, but that doesn’t stop Julie knocking and knocking until I appear at the door. Of course, I’m a sitting duck when I’m sitting at my desk in the front room, or even in the living room.
Today, however, I figured I would have Julie fooled. The previous day I had bought what I thought was a one-way, mirrored window film that would block out anyone looking in. I hastily read the instructions and applied it to my office window with some difficulty. The man at the store had assured me that it was easy to do, but it wasn’t. Finally, after quite a struggle with the adhesive film and after spilling water from the requisite spray bottle everywhere, I had stuck the film to the inside of the window, although there were still some rather large bubbles.
I was going to go outside to test whether I could, in fact, see in, but then figured the film would probably have to dry first. Instead, I walked back to my tiny kitchen and fetched a bottle of cheap bubbly Moscato out of the refrigerator. After all, it was Friday, the end of a working week. The cork popped with such force that it flew out of my hand and across the room. Diva was delighted, and at once pounced on it.
I returned to my office, and opened up Facebook. I was half way through inboxing Melissa to tell her that I had successfully (more or less) installed the one-way film, when I saw Julie’s van stop outside my picket fence. I had no idea whether the film was, in fact, one-way, as the man from the store had assured me, or whether she would see me, so I sat stock still in my chair. Unfortunately, I only had a carport, not an enclosed garage, so she would be able to see my old Ford and know that I was home.
The inevitable constant loud knocking on the door came, accompanied by an equally shrill, “Misty, Misty, parcel!” I’m sure every neighbor in the street heard her yell.
I continued to sit and held my breath. Soon I saw Julie’s face peering at me through the window. I looked at her. Could she see me? I hoped not.
My hopes were soon dashed. Her face broke into a wide grin. “Misty, didn’t you hear me call? I have a parcel for you!”
I smiled a big fake smile, took a large gulp of my bubbly, and walked outside, thinking of all the horrible things I would like to do to the man at the store who sold me the expensive, allegedly one-way, window film.
I opened the door and Julie thrust an electronic device under my nose. “Sign here.”
“But I selected ‘Authority to Leave without Signature’,” I protested.
“Not for the parcel, silly, for the envelope.” Misty handed me a parchment colored envelope with a British postmark. “Must be important,” she said. “Do you know who it’s from?”
“No idea,” was all I managed to say before Julie spoke again.
“Well, open it then.”
I groaned inwardly. “I’ll open it later.”
Thankfully, Julie lost interest in the envelope and handed me the parcel. “It’s all soft, must be clothes, is it?”
I nodded.
Julie took a step closer to me. “I can give you the name of a good website for clothes. I’ll bring it back with me next time I come. I bought a really a nice dress from them because I was going to renew my vows.”
I nodded again, but Julie kept talking. “I don’t know if I will renew my vows now. I might get a divorce instead. Craig spends all my money on games. You know I have two jobs?” Without waiting for me to reply, she repeated her story. “Yes, I have two jobs, but Craig spends all my money on games. Do you know he came home with three games this week? That’s over three hundred dollars. And then he has to have an Xbox and those other game playing things, whatever they’re called, and always the newest ones. And he never talks to me anymore. It’s not as if he’s a teenager, you know? He’ll turn fifty this year. I thought only teenagers played those games. But he won’t stop! He’s obsessed. He never watches TV with me now. All he does is play those games. I’ve had enough.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “Well, I’d better go, Julie. I’m just home from work and I want to have a shower.” I stepped back inside my door, and started to shut it, but Julie took another step closer.
“If you don’t see me next week, it’s because I’m going to the coast. I’m going to the coast to think about whether I can put up with him anymore. I just don’t know if I can.”
I nodded, and closed the door a little more.
“Of course, if we do decide to renew our vows, you’re invited. Can’t do it ‘til next year, though.”
“Oh, there’s the phone,” I lied. “Gotta go. Catch you later, Julie.” I shut the door, locked it, and leaned against it until I heard her footsteps leave and her van start up. I let out a long sigh of relief. Then I walked back outside and looked in my office window.
Sure enough, I could see everything. So much for one-way mirror window film! I snorted with disgust and then went inside to look at the packet. It simply said ‘Energy Control Window Film’ and that its purpose was to block out UV light. There was no mention of one-way. I was furious.
Anyway, my mood soon lifted, as I was excited about my parcel. I pulled out the bikinis and the shorts. Of course, I had no intention of going swimming, none whatsoever. Bikinis and shorts, and even the skimpy dress I’d bought, were nice to wear around the house at weekends and after work, so long as no one saw me. I didn’t even intend to look in the mirror.
I remembered the letter. I’d assumed it was from the lawyer or perhaps official papers from quarantine, left over from when I’d recently imported Diva from England, after I’d inherited her from my Aunt Beth. I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter which was on thick, sepia-colored paper with gold edging.
The return address was blocked out. It simply said, Dear Ms. Sales, your first duty as Keeper is to solve the murder of Mr. Morgan Baxter of Morpeth, New South Wales, Australia.
That was all it said. The signature was indecipherable, simply a scrawl.
I was not at all happy. How could I solve a murder? I wasn’t a detective! I was simply a journalist, and not even a crime journalist at that. Sure, I had solved Aunt Beth’s murder, but I didn’t intend to make a career out of it. Besides, with the little knowledge I had so far, nothing suggested that the Keeper’s official job description was to solve murders. Why didn’t the Society simply hire a private detective if they didn’t want to use the police? And surely Morpeth was too much of a coincidence. How did the Society know that the magazine wanted me to write a story on Morpeth?
I shrugged, muttered some rude words under my breath, and returned to my glass of bubbly and my computer. I at once googled ‘Morgan Baxter murder’. The search proved fruitless. How was I supposed to solve a murder when it hadn’t even been reported in the newspapers?
Even Diva seemed sympathetic as she licked my bare toes. I dared not wriggle them away from her, as the last time I did that, she bit my big toe. This was not turning out to be my day.
Chapter 4
After getting hopelessly lost and having had to resort to the GPS on my iPhone as I couldn’t afford a TomTom on my salary, Melissa and I finally arrived in Morpeth. Cute, quaint, and about as old as you get for a white European town in Australia, the town of Morpeth looked like it was still in the pioneer days of the colonies. I expected to see a paddle steamer coming up the Hunter River at any moment.
It was busy, as would be expected on a Saturday morning, so I took the first car space I could find.
“Coffee?” Melissa was a fellow addict.
I pointed to the end of the street, to a tall building with a big sign, Campbell’s Store. “I’ve had good coffee there before. They’ve converted the old servants’ quarters to a coffee shop. We could kill two birds with one stone there, ask a few questions.”
Melissa appeared only to have heard the words ‘good coffee’, and was already heading off in the direction of Campbell’s Store at a fast walk. I locked the car, grabbed my handbag and hurried after her. We took a left turn off the main street down a paved alleyway that opened onto a courtyard. I nearly tripped over a frilled neck lizard, a big one. Thankfully it was one of the few native Australian reptiles that doesn’t bite, and even if it did, the bite wouldn’t prove fatal. In front of us was a sign, ‘The Servants Quarters Tearooms’, and the wall to the right was covered with tourist brochures. Melissa grabbed one of each and stuffed them into her tote bag.
“Background information to pad out your story,” Melissa said as she guided me to a glass table surrounded by wicker chairs. I wondered if I could work The Servants Quarters Tearooms into my story as padding, and pulled out a pen and paper to make notes about the overhanging ferns, the two specials boards, one of which was for desserts, and the Victorian period, restored cottage behind the courtyard.
We both ordered coffee and told the waitress we needed it urgently, and would think about what to order for lunch.
Melissa leaned across and spoke in a low voice. “Ask her about ghosts when she comes back for our order.”
“What will I say?”
Melissa shrugged. “Just say, ‘Do you know anything about ghosts in this town?’”
I nodded. “Okay.” I looked at the menu. “I can’t decide between the Vegetarian Focaccia and then the Apple and Rhubarb Pie, or the Apple and Rhubarb Pie and then the Sticky Date pudding.”
Melissa didn’t even comment on that. She was well used to me having two desserts rather than a main and a dessert. Instead, she leaned across again and whispered, “Write down the menu.”
“What?”
“Write this down: ‘Vegetarian Focaccia: tomato, avocado, roasted eggplant with capsicum and cheese.’ You have to pad out your story. Let’s face it, if the ghost tour has shut down, you’ll be scratching for material.” Her voice lowered an octave. “Here she comes. Ask her about ghosts!”
Our coffees arrived—what a welcome sight—and Melissa ordered, and then gave me a meaningful look. I decided on the healthy option. “Vegetarian Focaccia please. Oh, and do you know anything about ghosts around here? Um, I mean, we wanted to go on the ghost tour, but we heard it shut down.”
The waitress did not look in the least surprised. “There’ve been a few ghost tours here that shut down, but there’s a couple that do still run, I think. The boss would know. He’s away at the moment but he’ll be back early afternoon if you wanted to come back. The lady at the front of the shop might know something about the tours.”
I nodded my thanks. “Oh, and is Morpeth a safe place?” I added. “Have there been any murders here lately?”
The waitress was surprised by that. “No, we have no crime here,” she said, giving me a long, hard look.
“Why on earth did you ask about murders?” Melissa whispered when the waitress left.
Of course I couldn’t tell her about Baxter Morgan, so I simply shrugged and drank as much coffee as I could to get my caffeine hit without burning my mouth. When my caffeine levels had reached the required minimum, I turned to Melissa.
“Melissa, I’ll just pop out to the front shop to ask that lady if she knows anything. Don’t let them take my coffee. There’s still a bit left.”
Unfortunately, the lady didn’t know anything about tours, or murders for that matter, but did have a few books for sale on the history of Morpeth. I bought one. It was $30, but I figured it would be worth it to help me keep my job, and if I was careful with it, I could give it away later as a gift to someone for Christmas as well as use it as a tax deduction.
Melissa at first didn’t seem impressed with my purchase. “Thank goodness you’re back. I have to run to the bathroom.”
Our meals arrived just as Melissa returned. “Anything useful in the book?”
I shrugged. “I was hoping for some background stuff, but I found something you’d be interested in.”
“What?”
I flipped to the page. “It has a few pages on the initiation ceremonies of local Aboriginal tribes, and the one that�
�ll interest you is the Geringai ceremony. It says the youth to be initiated was covered in red clay, then there’s another page of details, but the bottom line is that at the end of a long initiation, the head spirit man gave the youth a bag containing a clear quartz crystal wrapped in a piece of possum skin.”
Melissa sat upright. “You’re kidding. What about that piece I wrote on crystals that Skinny refused to publish, ‘cause she said crystals are all New Age with no tradition! Well never mind that. Eat up. We have to find some good stuff on Morpeth ghosts so Skinny won’t have any excuse to fire you.”
A few hours later and I still didn’t have any information, good or otherwise. One store owner told me that the ghost of Elizabeth Campbell had been seen by many people walking up and down the top level of Campbell’s Store and that a young girl called Alice drowned in the well behind the store.
Another store owner told me that it was a young boy named Stephen Cantwell who had drowned in the well. Yet another person told me that a ghost named Alice walked up and down the top level of Campbell’s Store.
I was getting frustrated and thinking I would soon be jobless and homeless, when my luck changed, or so I thought at the time. The café owner had returned.
“Oh yes, there are two ghost tours still running.”
I beamed.
“Old Scotty runs one. It’s historical. He dresses in historical clothes and carries a lantern. The bigger tour is more organized and run by Gavin King. I’ve got his card in here.” He popped around the door and back and handed me a glossy, laminated business card. “I don’t have a card for Scotty’s tours. Scotty’s tour is only late on Saturday nights, but Gavin’s is on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights.”
It looked like I would keep my job and be able to pay the mortgage after all. Plus, I might be able to find out about Baxter Morgan. I returned gleefully to my table, only to find it covered with brochures: Free Ginger Beer Tasting, Morpeth Accommodation, Tennis Resort, Morpeth Museum, Art Exhibition, Cruises, and they were just the ones on top. I picked up the accommodation brochure. “Melissa, do you have any plans for tonight?”