by Libby Howard
“I truly appreciate his service.” I gave Matt a smile and he returned it. I noticed he seemed a bit red in the face at his father’s praise. Or maybe it was his father’s continued assertions that I was his wife.
We ate, making small talk for a while about the weather, the local high school sports teams, the upcoming regatta. Evidently Matt had promised to check his father out of the nursing home to attend the regatta this year, and Maurice was very excited to attend an event that he hadn’t missed in the last twenty years.
We finished our lunch and I noticed a few of the residents had begun to leave the cafeteria. Matt and Maurice lingered, so I accepted a cup of coffee from one of the servers and stayed as well.
“Never much liked Mabel, you know,” Maurice suddenly announced.
I stared at him in surprise, thinking of the stunning woman in the photograph. “Why?”
He frowned. “She was a sad woman. A woman with secrets. She loved Ellie with all her heart, showered her with affection, but there was something about her I just didn’t like.”
Matt sighed. “Maybe it was all the church-going, Dad. You were never a religious sort of guy.”
“Maybe.” Maurice shook his head. “I dunno. My Ellie was an angel. She was so happy and cheerful, even though her dad barely said two words to her his whole life. Even though he left all his money to some charity rather than her. She didn’t care. But Mabel cared. I think that woman had a whole lot of demons in her soul.”
Matt sucked in a sharp breath. “Dad. Maybe it’s time for you to go back to your room. Grandma was a kind woman. She was just quiet and seemed to be inside herself a lot of the time. You said it yourself. She loved Mom with all of her heart.”
Maurice nodded. “She did. That’s the only reason I agreed to let her live with us. Well, that and I could never deny Ellie anything she asked of me. That woman was my life, you know. I loved her from the moment I saw her and from that instant, no other could compare. So beautiful and happy. She was like sunshine every day of my life. Is she coming to lunch? She left this morning and I was hoping she’d be back for lunch.”
This hurt my heart. Eleonore had been a happy, loving woman, in spite of a distant father and a mother who, from what I was assuming, was prone to depression. Maurice was proud of his son, and had enjoyed a wonderful life. I hoped he continued to imagine that his wife had just gone out this morning and would be back at any moment, because the reality that she’d been dead for ten years might be too much for him to bear.
The reality that my husband had been dead for four months, had in some ways been dead for the last ten years, was too much for me to bear. As sad as dementia was, a part of me envied this man. I wished that I lived in some sort of alternate reality where Eli was just off in surgery for the day and that I expected him home for dinner. How much happier I’d be. That empty hole in my heart wouldn’t ache like this if I imagined he was due to be home any moment and not gone from my life.
I followed behind while Matt wheeled his father back to his room and helped him into his bed, adjusting the oxygen tank beside him, and tweaking the bed controls until Maurice was comfortable. Darren, the RN, came in and checked on his patient, and by the time we left, Maurice was dozing, a documentary on the marsupials of Australia on the television.
Matt and I walked out together, passing the young blonde at the front desk who smiled and wished us both a good day.
“I don’t know what Dad had against Grandma,” Matt confessed as he walked me to my car. “She lived with us for fifteen years. They always seemed to get along fine. Maybe it’s just the dementia.”
Or maybe his father had been bottling something up that was just now coming to the surface. It must have been difficult, loving your wife and shoving down any bad feelings you had about your mother-in-law. Better to keep it all buried deep than risk hurting your beloved with any criticism of her adored and adoring mother.
Matt stopped at my car. “I visit him every Tuesday and Sunday. If you’d ever like to come along, I know he’d enjoy the extra company.”
That might actually be fun. I liked Maurice, and I liked Matt. Anything that got me away from eating a sandwich at my desk while I worked through lunch was a good thing. “Maybe on Tuesdays, unless I’ve got something urgent at work.”
He grinned. “Tuesday, then. Call or text me if you can’t make it, otherwise Dad and I will expect you.”
I slid into the car. “Thanks again for the help with the furniture and the blankets, and for introducing me to your father. He’s a really nice guy.”
Matt nodded. “That he is.” Then he tapped the top of my car with his palm, gave me a short wave, and headed to his own car.
I headed back to the office, thinking about what Maurice had said about his wife. There was no mystery, no murder. It seemed like she lived a happy, fulfilling life. She had no reason to haunt a family heirloom. I truly hoped that this was about making sure the sideboard went to a loving home, and that Eleonore would head toward the light in a few days.
Although she might not. If I could only communicate with the ghost, ask her why she was here and what she needed so that she’d be ready to leave. It was easier for those who’d been murdered, but with this ghost, I had no clue. Maybe it was time to call in Daisy’s psychic and see if she could give me some answers.
Chapter 6
“This is Olive O’Toole, and she’s a medium.”
Daisy had been more excited about the prospect of having a séance in my house than the barbeque this coming weekend. She’d made phone calls, then shown up promptly at six with a short, portly woman whose dark hair was done in what looked like a hundred tiny braids, all gathered on top of her head in a messy bun. Several braids had escaped to stick wildly out of the ‘do, reminding me of Medusa.
Olive wasn’t the brightly colored scarf wearing, crystal ball toting woman I’d expected. Aside from her dramatic hairstyle, the medium looked like she might be conducting an IRS audit from her tailored navy pantsuit and her glasses.
“Sorry about the clothes,” Olive said with a grimace as I waved them into my home. “I just got off work. Usually I’m doing these things at midnight, or at least after dark. I’m not sure how successful we’ll be this time of day, but I’ll give it a shot.”
I’d wanted to have her in early rather than late to avoid disrupting the other resident of my house. In fact, I was really hoping we could wrap this up before Judge Beck got home, to save me from an awkward conversation. I could already imagine how that would go: I see ghosts, and the sideboard I just bought at an auction is haunted, so I brought in a psychic to see what the heck was up with this ghost and if we could convince it to leave.
Yeah. It was bad enough that I’d discovered two murder victims and both times nearly wound up a victim myself without confessing to my new abilities. I considered the judge and his children as my family, and really didn’t want to scare them off.
If this didn’t work, then maybe I could ask Olive back some evening when the kids were with Heather again and sneak Olive in when the judge was asleep. Or I could tell him we were having some sort of girlfriends’ night of wine and cards. And a séance. Because that’s what sixty-year-old widows did all the time.
“The sideboard is in here,” I said, leading them to the dining room.
“Mind if I scare us up some snacks?” Daisy asked, pointing to the kitchen. I appreciated that she was giving me one-on-one time with her medium friend, as well as thinking about the fact that none of us had most likely eaten since lunch.
“Please do,” I told her. She vanished into the kitchen, and I heard the sound of cabinets opening and the clink of glasses and plates.
Olive looked the piece of furniture over, opening drawers and the cabinets, and running her fingers over the surface of the wood while I told her what I knew of its history.
“There’s definitely some energy here,” she commented. “I can tell that the former owners loved this very much. It could just be a simple att
achment that fades over time. How long ago did this Eleonore pass away?”
“Ten years.”
Olive grimaced. “That’s excessive. If this were a focus piece, then I would have expected her to have moved on after a year or two at the max. Did her husband mention anything about seeing her spirit, or anything unusual associated with it?”
“No, but I didn’t ask him.” I couldn’t imagine asking Maurice Poffenberger if his wife had haunted their dining room furniture, especially with his son Matthew present. “Although I imagine he might have volunteered it if he had seen a ghost. I was asking him about his wife and this piece of furniture in particular, and he seemed open to divulging anything he knew.”
She nodded. “It could be that he’s not sensitive. I’ve been in houses swarming with ghosts before and the residents had been happily living there, completely oblivious to their presence.”
I winced at the thought of a house swarming with ghosts. One was enough. Two was too many. Swarming would have me calling the realtor and selling the house with the furnishings included.
“So, what’s the procedure for something like this? I’ve never consulted a medium before,” I confessed.
She smiled in a warm, friendly, un-psychic fashion and sat down at the dining room table, her hands clasped on top of the table. “First, what are you looking to gain from this visit?”
Ultimately? Get rid of the ghost. This one, not the Eli one.
“Well, I’m curious as to why the ghost is here. Does she want anything? Is there something I can do? Why this sideboard? And then, I’d like her to go away.”
Olive nodded. “Daisy said that you’ve seen spirits of the deceased before?”
“Yes, I have.”
I didn’t share that fact with a lot of people, and my initial impulse had been to hold as much information back as possible from this medium, to make sure that she was truly communicating with the ghost and not making stuff up. But I trusted that Olive was legit, and not some scammer trying to make a buck with séances and psychic hotlines. I didn’t know if it was her businesslike attire, her non-dramatic, professional demeanor, or her fascinating hairstyle, but I trusted her and got the feeling she was legit.
Now, whether she’d be able to sense anything or not was another matter.
“When do you usually see this ghost?” she asked.
I thought for a moment. “Usually whenever I’m in here, or even when I’m walking by the room and happen to glance over. She appears when I’m alone, and once when my roommate was here. If we’re all having dinner, she won’t show. She’s not here now.”
“And you know that she’s a she…?”
“I’m not sure. These ghosts are just shadows that seem humanoid in shape. I don’t see features or anything that would indicate gender or identity. I just kind of know gender. It’s a feeling. As for identity…well, I’m making assumptions there.”
She leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. “Tell me about the other ghosts that you’ve seen.”
Oh, boy. “Well, this all started after my husband’s death and coincided with my cataract surgery. At first, I thought it was some sort of optical side effect of the surgery, but my ophthalmologist says that isn’t the case. The first spirit is the one that’s here in my house, and occasionally while I’m out and about. He mostly appears during the evenings, and is a comforting presence, sitting beside me. I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking or not, but I’ve come to believe that spirit is the ghost of my husband.”
“Still a shadow? And he never speaks or performs any poltergeist activity?” she asked.
I shook my head. “He’s just there. The other two ghosts I’ve seen appeared when I discovered the bodies of murder victims. The first only appeared right before I found the body and I think she was playing out the circumstances of her murder. The other one seemed to primarily be in the murdered man’s house. He was just present, lurking, although there was one time that he appeared at my work. I got the feeling he was urging me to find his killer.”
“It sounds as if the first one was an echo. Those spirits lack consciousness and generally go away within a few days of death, or in this case, when the body was discovered. I think you’re right about the other one. Did he vanish once the murderer was discovered?”
I thought for a moment. “No, I still occasionally see him prowling around his yard, or see a shadow in the window of the house.”
“He’s most likely still connected to his home, which is what I suspect with this one that’s haunting your sideboard, although ten years is really unheard of for this kind of haunting. Would you like me to try to contact the other ghost as well? The one who you believe is the spirit of your husband?”
“No.” The word was out of my mouth before I could think it. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to feel even more guilty about Eli hanging around, and I especially didn’t want to face it if the ghost was someone other than Eli. I mean, that ghost had been in my bedroom many evenings while I was reading or working in my pajamas, propped up on my pillows. The thought that some male ghost other than my husband was hanging out in my bedroom would have been too creepy.
“Okay, then I’ll get started as soon as Daisy returns. We’ll dim the lights and close the curtains, trying to get it as dark in here as possible. Then we’ll all join hands and I’ll try to bring the ghost forward. I might need to ask you to request her presence, since she clearly has bonded with you and seems to be shy in the presence of others.”
As if on cue, Daisy reappeared, a tray of cheese, crackers, and summer sausage in one hand and a bottle of white wine and three glasses in the other. Taco was following right behind her, meowing and staring up at the contents of the tray as if he hadn’t just been fed twenty minutes ago.
“For later,” she said, holding up the wine. “I figured after we talk to the ghost, we may need to have a drink. Or two.”
Sounded like a plan to me.
Daisy put the food and drinks off to the side of the table, giving me an apologetic smile as she knelt down and slipped Taco a few pieces of cheese and a cracker before she came over and sat down in the chair beside mine. I got up and shooed my cat out of the room, then turned off the lights and pulled the curtains. It did darken the room considerably.
“Candles?” I asked Olive, not sure if we’d need them, or even incense.
“I’m old school,” she told me. “I only use candles or incense if they relate to the spirit we’re trying to communicate with. In this case, I don’t want to scare her off. We’re just going to request her presence, be patient, and try to seem as welcoming and non-judgmental as possible.”
I sat, and we held hands across the table. Olive began to hum an unfamiliar tune. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate.
“Can you invite the ghost to join us, Kay?” Olive whispered.
“Eleonore? Or whoever you are? Please come out so we can talk to you.” I opened my eyes, but saw nothing by the sideboard. “I love this sideboard. I was so worried that I wouldn’t win it bidding at the auction, that it would sell for more than I could afford. I can’t tell you how happy I was to bring it home. It looks lovely here. I’ll always cherish it, and when I die, I’ll make sure it goes to someone who will love it just as much as we both did.”
Something shimmered over in the corner, as if there were a sudden wave of heat in that section of the dining room, although the room was quite cool.
“You’ve shown yourself to me before, and I really would like to see you now. These are friends. You don’t need to hide from them.”
The shimmer didn’t go away, but it didn’t coalesce into a ghostly form either.
“You know I love the sideboard. I doubt you’ve been hanging around for ten years just to make sure it went to a good home. Is there something you want from me? Something I need to do to help you? Because I can’t help you if you stay hidden. I can’t communicate with you, but Olive can. Please trust her, because if I don’t know what you want, I ca
n’t help. I want to help. I want your soul to rest in peace.”
The shimmer darkened, an inky smudge in a dark corner of an already dark room. Cold brushed my skin and I saw Olive shiver, her grip on my hand tightening. Then her eyes popped open, wide and unfocused.
“I can’t rest. I can never rest.”
I got the feeling that Olive wasn’t Olive right now.
“Who are you?” Daisy asked, clearly with more composure than I had at the idea that a woman in a navy pantsuit was channeling a ghost.
“I can’t rest. It was my fault.”
I frowned. What was her fault? Did Eleonore have a deep dark secret that neither her husband nor her son knew about? From what they’d said about her, she was cheerful and well-loved, but then again, people always tended to exaggerate the good qualities of the dead and forget about their failings.
“What was your fault?” Daisy asked. “Your husband misses you very much.”
Olive flinched at that. Then the woman shuddered and drew a deep breath. “I can’t rest.”
Was everything I’d assumed from my conversation with Maurice and Matt a fabrication? Or had I been making faulty assumptions about something else entirely?
“You son loves you and misses you as well,” I told her.
Olive turned blank, confused eyes in my direction. “I can’t rest.”
“Who are you?” I asked her. “You’re not Eleonore, are you?”
She stared at me. “Eleonore?”
I wasn’t sure this séance was adding anything but confusion to the situation. If only we could get more than the “I can’t rest” on repeat from this ghost. Did she not know the former owner of the sideboard? Who was this woman who was haunting my dining room?
“Why are you here?” Clearly the ghost was reluctant or unable to tell me who she was. Hopefully this would be an easier question for her to answer.
“I can’t rest.”
We’d already established that. “What can I do to help you rest?”