The Ghost and the Mystery Writer

by Anna J. McIntyre

  Grabbing a brush off the dresser, she ran it threw her hair to smooth out the tangles caused by her recent nap. Tossing the brush back onto the dresser, she murmured, “I wonder if I can talk Danielle into a sandwich.”

  Melony stepped out into the hallway from her room and looked around. All the other doors on the second floor were closed—except for Hillary’s, which was slightly ajar. She could hear the continued tapping of the typewriter.

  Heading toward the stairs, Melony paused by Hillary’s doorway and curiously peeked in. She expected to see Hillary’s back, as she sat at the desk in front of the typewriter. Yet when Melony looked in, she was surprised to find the desk chair empty.

  Curious, Melony eased open the door and glanced around. There didn’t appear to be anyone in the room. But what is that noise? It sounds just like a typewriter.

  Without making a peep, Melony tiptoed into the room. Her first thought: Does crazy Hillary have a recording of a typewriter playing?

  Stealthily approaching the desk, Melony suddenly froze, her eyes fixed on Hillary’s antiquated manual Royal typewriter.

  Inserted in the typewriter was a sheet of white paper. The keys busily moved over the page as the carriage moved from side to side, the piece of paper slowly making its way up the roll as freshly inked words appeared on the page.

  Melony’s eyes widened as she let out a scream and then turned abruptly, running from the room.

  Walt turned from the typewriter and let out a sigh. “Well, I guess someone woke up.”

  Danielle heard the scream from downstairs. She knew immediately what had happened. She had been sitting at the kitchen table with MacDonald and Hillary when Melony tore into the room a few moments later. They all stood up.

  Hillary was the first to speak. “What happened? Is there a fire?”

  “No. It’s…it’s…I know this is going to sound crazy,” Melony said in a panic.

  Gently, MacDonald placed an arm around Melony and said, “Calm down. What happened?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but that typewriter in Hillary’s room, well, it was typing all by itself.”

  Hillary’s expression of concern quickly faded. “It was what?”

  “Just what I said. I woke up from my nap and heard the typing. I decided to come downstairs, and on the way down I noticed Hillary’s door was open, so I looked in. And…and…the typewriter was typing.”

  Danielle let out a chuckle and grabbed hold of Melony’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t you see what happened?”

  Melony looked blankly into Danielle’s smiling face and shook her head, still confused.

  Danielle patted Melony’s arm and ushered her away from MacDonald, leading her to a kitchen chair. “It’s pretty obvious to me. You’ve been asleep for over an hour. Understandably, you’re exhausted, and I can’t even imagine the stress you’re going through with your mother’s death and all the unanswered questions.” Gently, she nudged Melony down into a chair.

  Dazed, Melony looked up into Danielle’s dark eyes. “What are you saying?”

  “Hillary was typing upstairs not ten, fifteen minutes ago. You probably heard her earlier. You obviously weren’t totally awake when you came downstairs.”

  “Are you saying I was dreaming?”

  “I certainly don’t imagine Hillary’s typewriter was typing on its own, and I’m fairly certain you’re sane. But I also know you’ve been through a great deal lately, so it’s not that unusual to have strange dreams.”

  “Can we at least go upstairs and look? Just to make sure?” Melony asked.

  Smiling, Danielle gave her a quick hug. “Sure we can.”

  Just as Danielle released Melony from the hug, Walt appeared in the room. He stood behind Melony, wearing a sheepish smile.

  “Sorry about that,” Walt told Danielle. “I looked in on Melony right before I went back into Hillary’s room. I was certain she was sound asleep. I managed to type about half the letter, which should be more than enough for a comparison. I put the letter in the top drawer of the parlor desk.”

  Danielle took Melony’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you it was all just a bad dream.”

  When they all came back downstairs ten minutes later, Danielle led Melony to a chair at the kitchen table and brought her a piece of chocolate cake. Hillary’s piece of cake was still on the table—only one bite eaten—as were the pieces Danielle had cut for herself and MacDonald.

  Still dazed, Melony shook her head and said, “It was all a dream.”

  “Chocolate fixes everything,” Danielle announced cheerfully as she set a glass of cold milk on the table in front of Melony.

  Picking up her fork, Melony took a quick bite of cake and then laughed. After washing down the bite with a sip of milk, she said, “I imagine you think I’m crazy.”

  Instead of sitting back at the table with Melony and Hillary, Danielle and MacDonald stood by the table, eating their cake.

  “Of course not,” Danielle said. “Stress does crazy things to people.”

  Hillary looked up from her cake; her eyes met Melony’s. “I agree. Stress can make people see and imagine all sorts of things.”

  Just as MacDonald put his last bite of cake into his mouth, Danielle snatched his plate from him and set it with hers in the sink. She turned to Melony and Hillary, who continued to sit at the kitchen table, and said, “If you ladies will excuse us. There was something I promised to show the chief earlier.”

  “If they ask, what are you going to tell them you had to show me?” MacDonald asked as he followed Danielle into the parlor.

  “I have no idea. I’m exhausted from trying to make crap up.” She shut the door behind them.

  “I felt so sorry for poor Melony,” MacDonald said. “It must have been quite a shock watching that typewriter type on its own.”

  “It wasn’t really typing on its own,” Danielle reminded him.

  MacDonald let out a snort. “I don’t imagine learning a ghost was doing the typing would be an especially comforting consolation.”

  “I don’t imagine it would be.” Danielle walked to the desk to retrieve the paper Walt had placed in its drawer.

  MacDonald glanced around the room. “I don’t smell any cigar smoke. Is Walt in here with us?”

  Danielle opened the desk drawer. “No. He stayed in the kitchen. I imagine he’s eavesdropping on Hillary and Melony.” Taking the paper from the drawer, she handed it to MacDonald.

  He placed the paper on the desktop and then removed the photocopy of the original letter from his pocket. After unfolding it, he set it on the desk next to what Walt had typed.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” MacDonald said, staring down at the two pieces of paper.

  Standing next to MacDonald, Danielle compared the two pages and then shook her head. “Walt was right. There’s no way your anonymous letter writer typed that on Hillary’s typewriter.”

  “Now I’m back to square one. I need to figure out who sent me that letter.”

  Walt casually leaned against the kitchen counter and puffed his cigar. He eyed the piece of chocolate cake slowly disappearing on Hillary’s plate and tried to remember how chocolate tasted.

  “Did you know Chief MacDonald when you lived in Frederickport?” Hillary asked Melony after she finished her last bite of cake.

  Wiping her mouth on a napkin, Melony shook her head. “No. He moved here after I was gone. I haven’t lived in Frederickport since I was a teenager. Eddy didn’t grow up here.”

  “I just got the impression you two were friends,” Hillary said with a shrug.

  “We are, actually. His wife and I were college roommates. We were best friends.”

  “Are you still friends?” Hillary asked.

  Melony stood up from the table. She picked up her fork and now empty plate along with Hillary’s and carried them to the sink. “No. She died. He’s a widower. But we’ve stayed in touch over the years. I consider him a good friend.”

  “
Then you know about him questioning me regarding your mother’s murder,” Hillary asked her.

  Standing by the sink, Melony turned to face Hillary. “Adam told me Eddy interviewed everyone who was at Pier Café the night Mother was killed. He mentioned you were there. I have to assume you didn’t see anything, or I would have heard about it.”

  “Then he didn’t mention my notes?”

  With a frown Melony asked, “Notes? What notes?”

  Picking up a napkin from the table, Hillary wiped imaginary crumbs from the edge of her mouth. She looked up at Melony. “It happened again. My crime scene for the book I’m writing.”

  Melony stared at Hillary, her expression unreadable. She began to shake her head. “No…”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  According to the background information on Tom Fowler, he and his wife had moved to Frederickport the past summer, after he retired from his job as a high school track coach in California. Wearing faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt, he sat at the table in the Frederickport Police Department’s interrogation room and warily glanced around. Officer Brian Henderson sat across the table from him, thumbing through a file folder.

  “My wife told me I had to come in,” Tom began.

  Brian closed the folder and set it down. He looked across the table at Tom. “I’m glad you did. Why didn’t you come in right away?”

  Tom shrugged. “Didn’t see any reason to. It’s not like I saw anything that night.”

  “You might have seen something that can help us find the killer.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my wife said too. And then she heard on the radio you were looking for whoever was fishing on the pier that night; I figured she was right. I better come in.”

  “Were you down there alone?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah. My wife doesn’t like to fish, and I really don’t know too many people in town yet.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me everything you remember that night, starting with when you arrived at the pier. Try to remember people you saw that night or anyone you might have talked to.”

  Tom sat quietly for a moment, composing his thoughts. With a sigh, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “When I arrived, I remember the parking lot had about half a dozen cars. But I didn’t see anyone walking around. When I got up to the pier, I only saw one other guy fishing. I figured the cars must have belonged to whoever was in Pier Café.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “I got there late. Around nine thirty or ten.”

  “What did you do when you got to the pier?”

  “Like I said, there was one other guy fishing. I started to go ask him if he was catching anything, but he was cussing, fighting with his line.”

  “Fighting with his line?”

  “Yeah. It was all tangled. By the way he was handling his pole, it was obvious he didn’t know what he was doing. I moved to the other side of the pier.”

  “So you didn’t talk to him?”

  “No. Looked over at him a few times during the night. Seemed like he spent more time screwing with his line than actually fishing.”

  “Did you move around on the pier that night or stay in one spot?”

  “Pretty much stayed at the same spot all night. Started catching fish right away. So I didn’t see any reason to move.”

  “Whereabouts were you?”

  “Same side of the pier as the row of shops. About twenty feet from the café entrance.”

  “So you could see who was coming and going from the café?”

  “I suppose, when I was looking that way.”

  “Did you notice any other fishermen?”

  Tom shook his head. “Nahh. Just that one guy. It was pretty quiet that night.”

  “Do you remember anyone else on the pier, aside from that one fisherman?”

  “Yeah. I was just reeling in a fish and this guy walks by. People tend to stop when you’re bringing in a fish, want to see what you got. That’s one reason they come down to the pier. But this guy didn’t seem very interested. Just kept walking.”

  “Which way was he walking?” Brian asked.

  “To the end of the pier.”

  “Do you remember what time it was?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not really. I’d probably been down there at least an hour. Maybe more. I started catching fish right away, but they were all small, tossed them back. This one was a nice size. Gave me a good fight.”

  “But you don’t remember the time?”

  “No. I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “Did you notice what the guy did at the end of the pier?”

  “I saw him walk that way and thought it was funny that he didn’t seem remotely curious about what I was bringing in. In fact, he didn’t even pause, just kept walking. But then I was dealing with the fish and didn’t notice him after that.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Can’t really say. Average height. Didn’t get a look at his face. He had some sort of hat on. Big jacket, jeans, maybe. Had his hands in his pockets, never really looked my way.”

  “Any idea how old he was?”

  “Sorry. He might have been twenty or fifty. Like I said, I didn’t see his face. He just walked by, and I was pretty focused on the fish I was bringing in.”

  “Do you know where he came from, from the café maybe?”

  Tom shook his head. “I didn’t notice him until he was there, walking by me as I was reeling in the fish. He could have come up from the beach, parking lot, café, I have no idea.”

  “Did you see anyone else that night on the pier?”

  “Yeah. After I landed that fish, a young couple came by to see what I’d caught. We talked for a minute. He works at the gas station by the grocery store.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I saw him the next day when I went to fill up for gas. I remember thinking he was the kid I talked to on the pier.”

  “Did you see anyone else on the pier that night?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “What time did you go home?”

  “I’m not sure what time I left, but I remember it was a little past midnight when I got home. So I imagine I must have left here sometime after 11:30.”

  “It takes you thirty minutes to get home?”

  “No. But it takes time to pack everything up and get it in my car. Maybe I left after 11:45.” Tom shrugged.

  Brian opened the folder and removed a photograph. He slid it across the table to Tom. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  “That’s Hillary Hemmingway, sure!” Tom smiled.

  “You know her?”

  “Not personally. But I’ve read every one of her books. When my wife said she was staying in Frederickport, I didn’t believe her, but then I saw her that night.”

  “The night of the murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You didn’t mention seeing her on the pier,” Brian said.

  “I didn’t see her on the pier. When I went by Pier Café, I looked in the window and saw her sitting at a booth. I was sure it was her, especially after my wife said she was staying in town.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “She was when I saw her.”

  “Did you see her again that night?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah. I was tempted to ask her for an autograph, but I didn’t have anything for her to sign.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t know the time. I think it was after I reeled in that fish—might have been before. But I saw her leaving the restaurant, and she took off in the opposite direction, heading for the street.”

  “You didn’t see her walking on the pier that night.”

  “No. I’m sure I would have noticed. I only saw her leaving the restaurant and heading down to the street.”

  Joe Morelli filled two cups with coffee. Turning from the coffee maker, he walked to the table and handed a cup to Brian and then sat down with him. The two officers sat alone in
the Frederickport Police Department’s break room.

  “He seemed pretty confident Hemmingway didn’t walk down the pier that night,” Brian told Joe as he sipped the coffee.

  “If he’s right, then how could she have seen anyone toss those rings off the pier?” Joe asked.

  “Or how could she have tossed the rings herself?” Brian added.

  “If the killer is the one who threw those rings off the end of the pier, then that takes Hemmingway off our suspect list—in spite of what she wrote.”

  “What about your fisherman? Did you get anything?” Brian asked.

  “His story isn’t much different from Fowler’s. He remembers the young couple—they stopped and talked to him too. He thinks he remembers at least two—maybe three other people on the pier that night aside from the other fisherman. One of which was Steve Klein. He recognized Klein from the bank.”

  “Did he talk to Klein that night?” Brian asked.

  “No. Said he started to say hi to him, but he seemed preoccupied. Watched as he walked down to the end of the pier.”

  “Klein did admit to walking on the pier that night. Did your fisherman happen to see Klein throw anything off the pier?”

  “No. It was dark. And he wasn’t the only one on the pier, just the only one he recognized,” Joe said.

  “So what do we have here?” Brian set his mug on the table and leaned back in the chair. “We’ve already interviewed our young couple, who like your fisherman, recall seeing three men on the pier that night, along with the two fisherman. Your fisherman is the only one who could identify any of the men on the pier—Steve—who already admitted to being there. None of them saw Hillary on the pier that night.”

  Joe’s cellphone began to ring. He picked it up and looked at it. Before answering it, he said, “It’s the chief.”

  Brian sat quietly, listening to Joe tell the chief what he and Joe had learned in their interviews with the two fishermen they had finally tracked down. When Joe got off the phone a few minutes later, he told Brian, “If Hemmingway typed that letter, it wasn’t done on her typewriter. The chief’s stopping by Pier Café and then returning to the station.”