“I can. It was too much trouble. He’d rather unload the house and whatever was in it and forget about it.”
“You can have a yard sale,” I suggested.
He opened the attic door to a rush of cold air and darkness. You’d never think that outside the walls of the house, summer sun warmed the air, and flowers bloomed. I shivered. Annica wished for a scarf; I would be happy with a cardigan. But we were exactly where we wanted to be—in the attic, about to embark on an adventure.
“The stairs are narrow, and there’s no hand rail and no light,” he said. “I’ll go first.”
He switched on his flashlight, and shadows came to life, rising above mounds of boxes and large objects with amorphous shapes. It looked as if all the house’s unwanted furniture from past decades had been relegated to the attic, most of it covered with yellow sheets.
“It’s spooky,” Annica said, “and quiet.”
“Like a typical attic,” I told her. “That’s what we wanted.”
“What should we do now?” Annica asked. “I don’t have a plan.”
“What do you want to do?” Brent asked.
“Open something. One of those boxes. Or that trunk.”
She pointed to an ancient trunk at least a hundred years old and probably more. Once it had been shades of gray or brown, but its color had faded, and the brass hardware was dull.
He handed me the flashlight and pulled the trunk into a dim circle of light.
“It isn’t locked.” He pushed open the top, and a strong, rank odor assailed us. Mothballs or…Can mustiness have a smell? Or age, long sealed in place?
He lifted a tray with three divisions, all of which wre empty and set it on the floor. Beneath it lay an unsightly jumble of loose papers. He scooped up a handful of memorabilia and unearthed a calendar, every square of which was covered with writing.
“Treasure?” Annica murmured. “I don’t think so.”
I aimed my flashlight on the calendar. It was large, eight and a half by eleven, and opened to the month of August. The month’s picture was a girl sitting in a rose arbor with a book. After the fifteenth of the month, the spaces for the days were blank.
“Don’t be so sure,” I said.
Nineteen
Annica peered over my shoulder. “Why do you say that?”
“Never underestimate the power of the written word,” I said. “This calendar could tell us everything we want to know.”
“But all this writing—it’s just appointments and reminders.”
“Maybe I’ll find a name. Is it all right if I hold on to the calendar, Brent?”
“Be my guest,” he said.
“It’s for 1998, and there are no notations for the second half of the month. That tells us something happened on August fifteenth or shortly after that day.” I flipped through the remaining pages. “Whoever owned the calendar didn’t write anything after that date.”
“Oh,” Annica said. “I get it. Something prevented her from writing, and we need to find out what. But how on earth can we do that?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. Not yet.
“Do you want to take anything else?” Brent asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s come back to the trunk. We can open some of these boxes.”
Stepping carefully, Annica approached a neat stack of boxes in a corner. On the sides someone had written ‘Holly’ in red magic marker.
Who was Holly?
“I hope we haven’t discovered a cache of Christmas decorations,” Brent said.
The boxes had been secured with masking tape which had come loose over the years, or string, simply tied. Annica lifted the top box to the floor and opened it.
“It’s full of clothes. Skirts, blouses, dresses, underwear…”
Holly. These were Holly’s belongings.
“Most people donate old clothes,” Brent said.
“These are in good condition,” Annica pointed out. “Some look like new.” She unfolded a white tank top. “This one still has its tag.”
I said, “Maybe Holly died and her family couldn’t bear to donate her clothes. They brought them up to the attic to decide another day, but that day never came.”
“But why would they go away and leave them up here?” Annica asked. “Because no one has lived in the house for decades.”
The house’s history was a stumbling block. People and events tend to lose themselves in time. We would be lucky if we found additional information.
“Maybe by the time they left the house, their grief had worn away. They may have forgotten about the boxes. Or whoever stored them here died himself. We’ll never know.”
Annica unfolded a short aqua dress with a high waist. It was sleeveless with narrow brown trim and tiny brown buttons on the bodice. Cute but fussy, and possibly dating from the nineteen seventies, although I wasn’t knowledgeable about yesteryear’s fashions.
She held it up against her body. “How do I look?”
“Pretty,” Brent said.
“Vintage,” I added.
She refolded the dress and rifled through the folds. “These are mostly summer clothes. Shorts and pants and shirts. Here’s a raincoat. Such nice things left to fall to pieces.”
Turning away from the opened box, we concentrated on Holly’s other possessions, most of which contained personal grooming articles—even makeup—and paperbacks. Oddly, the paperbacks were old Gothic novels in pristine condition. I felt an instant affinity for the unknown Holly.
“Miss Eidt would be ecstatic to have these for the Gothic Nook,” I said.
Annica opened another, smaller box. “Look, a typewriter! I’ve only seen them in pictures. It still has the ribbon in it.”
“This box has about a zillion copies of the same book,” Brent said. “The Ghost of Sunburst Plantation.”
It had an intriguing cover. An imposing Tudor mansion with a lady in white walking toward the house. In my years of collecting Gothic novels, I’d seen countless variations of it. Usually the heroine was running in the other direction.
The author was Holly Wickersham.
“It’s her book,” I said. “Holly’s. The girl who had the calendar.”
“Wow!” Annica reached for a copy. “She was a published author.”
I had another thought. Had I found the terrified woman standing on the landing of Brent’s house, frozen in fear?
I pushed a cobweb off the return address on the box, just to be sure. It had been shipped from Starbright Publications.
“Her publisher sent her these books probably for promotion, but they ended up stored in the attic. I’m going to take one, Brent, okay? This is my kind of book.”
And possibly it would tell me something about Holly.
“Take ‘em all,” Brent said.
“So all this stuff belonged to a writer,” Annica said. “She must have been one of the previous tenants.”
“Let’s see if we can find something more personal, like a diary.”
Annica muffled a cough. “You don’t give up, do you, Jennet?”
“No, and that’s why I’m the head sleuth and you’re my humble assistant.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Between us we covered every inch of the attic, removing dust covers and opening other boxes. We didn’t find a diary or anything belonging to the tenants who preceded Holly. That was strange, considering the age of the house. But on second thought, all it meant was that the others had taken all of their possessions when they left, as one would expect.
All but the furniture. Chairs, end tables, lamps, beds, rolled-up carpets, and empty suitcases filled the attic, leaving us barely enough room to maneuver between them.
I shone the flashlight on my watch and noted that we’d been wallowing in the dust, exploring, for almost two hours. This project had taken longer than we’d planned. I for one was ready for light and air, and I had chores to do at home.
Brent replaced a dust-coated sheet on a green velvet love seat. “I can furnish whole room
s with this stuff.”
“Or you could sell it,” Annica suggested.
“What’s the point of getting rid of furniture I’d have to buy?” he wanted to know. “Let’s eat,” he added.
In the kitchen Annica appeared to be amazed that the picnic basket sat on the counter where Brent had placed it, and, moreover, that the contents were still inside.
She unfolded dinner-sized napkins for place mats and unpacked the sandwiches. In the meantime, Brent brought up two more chairs from the basement. We washed our hands over the sink near which someone had left a fresh bar of soap, and sat down to our indoor picnic.
Which was the best kind to have. In the attic we’d been in a different world, oblivious of drastic weather changes in the real one. While we’d been working in darkness, the sun had vanished behind dark clouds. It was raining, and the wind was blowing.
“We need candles,” Annica murmured.
“Why?” Brent asked. “We have electricity.”
“For atmosphere. Don’t you agree, Jennet?”
I bit into a ham sandwich and thought about it. “I’ve had enough atmosphere for one day, but candles would come in handy in a power outage.”
“I’m thinking about buying a generator,” Brent said. “I have one in my house. Then you don’t have to worry if the lights go out.”
Slowly I became aware of a sound. A distant wail broke through the drumming of rain on the windows. Could an ambulance be rushing to an accident? That didn’t happen often in Foxglove Corners. It didn’t sound like an ambulance siren. It sounded like…
Before I could complete the thought it ended abruptly in mid-wail.
“Did you hear that?” I asked. “I wonder what happened.”
“I don’t hear anything,” Annica said. “Only the wind. It’s picking up.”
“It wasn’t the wind.”
The wind wouldn’t just stop as if someone had pulled its plug. But the ambulance might have reached its destination.
Okay. That’s what happened. Don’t look for a mystery.
“The rain isn’t going to stop anytime soon,” Brent said. “But we’re through here for today. I’ll come back and take inventory of the furniture in the attic in a day or two. I’d like to have at least the living room furnished before I open the doors.”
“I'll buy some bedding at the mall,” Annica volunteered. “You’ll have a bedroom for your caretaker at least.”
“And a workable kitchen. Then all I’ll need is the caretaker.”
I finished my sandwich and wandered to the window. Rain fell on the fishpond, and the wind tossed willow strands to and fro. The sound was soothing and at the same time unsettling. How could that be?
I didn’t waste time puzzling over it. It just was. Just a feeling. I thought about the phantom collie in the pond and wondered if I’d ever see him again. I’d hoped to, and possibly I would, even though the pond had been cleaned of its befouled water.
You don’t clean away a spirit.
“You didn’t hear that scratching sound today,” Annica said. “And I didn’t feel anything when I stood on the landing like Lucy did. Now that we have some answers, maybe the haunting has gone away.”
“What answers?” Brent countered. “All we have is a calendar and a book.”
“And a name, Holly Wickersham,” I added. “As for the haunting, I think it’s still here. It’s just resting.”
But who could know for certain?
Twenty
Brent and Annica came over that evening with barbecued chicken and carrot cake from Clovers, which gave me a chance to tell both of them about the animal shelter’s dilemma and the girls’ fundraiser. Neither one was aware that Major March had passed away. I imagined they had never met him or realized that he had generously supported the shelter since Caroline Meilland’s death.
“Count me in,” Annica said. “I’ve gotten to be an expert at bathing dogs. I can’t afford to take Angel to a groomer.”
“It’ll take more than an occasional fundraiser to keep the shelter afloat,” Brent pointed out.”
“Letty wants to cut way back on the dogs they take in,” I said.
“Then what happens to the others?” Annica asked.
“They go to the pound, I’m afraid.”
“I usually come across one or two stray dogs every week,” Crane said. “The Woodville sisters make them welcome. Often they find new homes for them, especially the puppies.”
All those misinformed people who thought some farmer would gladly adopt their discarded pet. All those new orphans.
I knew Foxglove Corners had more than its share of stray dogs. But two a week?
I unpacked the chicken and placed it in baking dishes to keep warm in the oven. All I needed to do was toss a salad, but thoughts of dogs being turned away tore at my heart. Two a week? Eight a month. How could there be that many homes?
“The pound is a far cry from the Woodvilles’ place,” Annica said, “and they may put the dogs they can’t take care of to sleep.” She turned to Brent. “Couldn’t you make room for them in your new house?”
“I’m not opening an all-breed shelter,” he reminded us. “The house is for geriatric collies that haven’t a prayer of being adopted. They’re important, too, and that’s my mission. Of course I want to help…” He paused, considering. “In some way.”
“You can sign up to wash the dogs,” Annica said.
“Mmm. What else can I do? They’ll need plenty of shampoo and all sorts of things like dryers and brushes.”
“Money most of all,” I said.
He agreed. “Like money. I’ll write a check tonight.”
It was as I’d thought. I’d never see Brent roll up his shirtsleeves and squirt shampoo into a dog’s coat. But he’d be generous with his funds, if not his time.
“One of the men at my barn is crazy about collies,” Brent said. “He even shares his dinner with them. I’ll see if he wants to volunteer.”
Annica smiled at him. “The more the merrier.”
“How about you, Sheriff?” Brent asked. “What are you going to contribute to this enterprise?”
“I’ll be busy keeping the bad guys away,” Crane said.
“What bad guys? There’s been zero crime in Foxglove Corners this summer.”
“Don’t forget the transport scam,” I said.
“Crime is down because we deputies are so good. Jennet will represent our family.”
“While Crane keeps the home fires burning,” I added. “I suspect you men think taking care of animals is women’s work.”
“Isn’t it?” Brent asked.
Instead of challenging him, I said, “It’s everyone’s duty to do everything in their power to help the animals that share the earth with us. You may remember Caroline Meilland used to say that. It’s just as relevant today.”
Brent sprang to his own defense. “My animals have a good life.”
Nobody could deny it.
“Well, I hope Jennifer and Molly thought of advertising their fundraiser,” Annica said. “This is the first I’m hearing of it. People have to know when and where to bring their dogs and how much it will cost them.”
“They’re setting up on Sagramore Lake Road the first Saturday in August. That’s where they used to sell lemonade and cookies. You’re right, Annica. We can all help them spread the word.”
“Yeah,” she said, “or they’ll be no dogs to wash. Just unopened bottles of shampoo.”
~ * ~
After our company left, Crane watched the late news while I straightened the kitchen and refrigerated leftover chicken, giving occasional handouts to the collies astute enough to follow me. Candy had her eye on the carrot cake, but I had my own plans for it.
“You’ll want to hear this, Jennet,” Crane called from the living room.
I joined him to see Kate Brennan on the screen. She stood on a country road where a smashed van lay on its side in a ditch. Near her a state trooper cradled a shivering Siberian husky p
uppy. The van was in sad shape, definitely totaled, but the writing on its side was visible: Sea-to-Sea Transport.
Kate was saying, “Sea-to-Sea is the subject of an active Kate in Your Corner investigation. The scammers are contracted to deliver pets to a new location for a hefty fee. Instead they abscond with the dog and the owner’s money. The driver of this van apparently fled the scene, leaving this puppy behind in a crate.”
The camera focused on the pup who looked terrified.
“Anyone with information about the crash or the driver is urged to contact us here at Kate in Your Corner.”
The segment ended with the number of the station rolling by at the bottom of the screen.
Crane turned the volume down. “This happened earlier today north of Maple Creek. The lanes were dry. There was a light drizzle but nothing to cause a driver to crash his van.”
“He must have been drunk,” I said, “or he might have had a medical problem.”
“It didn’t interfere with his running away from the scene,” Crane pointed out.
“And leaving the dog in a crate. That’s how Sea-to-Sea takes care of their pets. I hope the husky’s owner is watching.”
“They’ll find his family,” Crane said. “I’ll bet it’s a Michigan company.”
“Now maybe we can find out what happened to Helena’s Arden and the other missing dogs.”
My phone began its rippling notes. I glanced at the number. It was Helena. Her voice was higher than usual, and her words were rushed. “I just saw Kate’s report on the news,” she said. “We got him.”
“I thought he ran away from the scene—or walked or crawled.”
“He took off, but how far can he go on foot? He must have been banged up. I hope so. Did you see the condition of that van?”
“Sooner or later they’ll find him or his body,” I said. “It’s unlikely he escaped without a scratch.”
“Doesn’t he have a partner?” Helena asked. “Maybe he was able to call him. At least Kate has a lead. I wonder where Arden is in all this mess.”
“Hopefully in a place where we can retrieve her,” I said. “First, they have to find the driver. Then—”
An annoying beep alerted me to another call.
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