The Haunting of Quenby Mansion Omnibus: A Haunted House Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  She contacted the number on the Missing Persons page. It was out of commission. She contacted the college.

  “We cannot disclose any of his personal information,” one of Barker’s old colleagues said over the phone.

  “I’m a P.I,” Evelyn explained in what she expected would be the first of many times today. The man gave her the runaround for a bit before Evelyn pressed him. “No one else is looking for your friend. At his age, they probably suspect he is dead. Give me a chance to find out the truth.”

  The colleague grumbled on a bit about college policy, but at the end of it all, he revealed Barker’s retirement address, which was in Adders. Light rain pattered the windows of the mansion and turned the world steel and gray.

  Evelyn pulled her black double-breasted coat on while Terrence grabbed the car keys. A sudden chill gripped them.

  “What? You aren’t going to say goodbye?” A voice said behind them.

  Barker stood at the railing of the inner balcony, looking down on them with a smoking pipe in his hand. He used the top of his other hand to wipe the blood leaking from his tight mouth.

  Terrence and Evelyn exchanged glances and felt the tension in the room.

  “The two of you need to relax,” Barker said with small smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Good one,” Terrence said, unsure how to react.

  Evelyn couldn’t get used to this, no matter how many times she’d encountered the supernatural. Taking a step forward, she said, “We’re going to visit your home.”

  “I think you’ll like the place. Sally’s a great interior decorator.” Realizing that Evelyn was unfamiliar with the person he mentioned, Barker clarified. “Sally. My wife. She’s the most beautiful, lively, and intelligent woman you’ll ever meet. A little snarky, I might add.”

  “We could just ask you about your demise,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms.

  “It’s a pathetic story. Old man goes on a walk as per the doctor’s request and then… the rest after that is blurry. Apart from the chlorine.” Barker’s face went bitter. “I can still taste that.”

  He hit his pipe. Smoke and blood fell from his lips.

  “He made you drink…” Terrence said, becoming wheezy.

  “He, she, I don’t know.” Barker admitted, wiping his chin. “Scotch has always been more my poison.”

  “Did you know my father?” Evelyn asked.

  “I knew the name. I mostly called him the guy in the big house.”

  “Do you think he did this to you?”

  Barker looked around the vast foyer. “I’m in his house, aren’t I?”

  Evelyn felt her stomach drop. She couldn’t draw a conclusion. Not yet. But the evidence was building. “Is there anything you want to say to Sally?”

  Barker seemed stunned by the question. He recomposed himself. “Tell her… tell her that she made life a joy and to keep on living until I come home.”

  “We’ll tell her,” Terrence promised.

  Barker stared through them, seemingly unable to hear Terrence’s words. Blood seeped from his lips. This time, he didn’t wipe it away.

  Evelyn knocked on the front door of the ranch home. Weak rain pelted its cobblestone exterior while wind swayed the small and pointy evergreen trees sprouted across the house’s face. Terrence held the black umbrella over Evelyn’s head while a little rain pattered the back of his charcoal gray fleece that Evelyn bought him one Christmas. With Evelyn wearing black, too, they must’ve looked like they were returning from a wake.

  A Hispanic woman in blue scrubs answered the door. “Yes?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Does Sally Barker live here?” Evelyn asked.

  The Hispanic woman nodded slowly. “She won’t be taking any visitors.”

  “What happened?” Terrence asked with concern.

  “I’m afraid her health is failing.”

  “We’d like to talk to her about her husband. Could you tell her that?” Evelyn asked.

  The woman eyed her. “Wait here.” She vanished inside without another word. She returned a moment later. “You may enter, but her nap time is nearing, so be quick.”

  Terrence frowned at the woman’s rudeness, but Evelyn kept her expression flat. This was nothing new to her. There were very few lights on in the house, and the walls were shades of blues and grays. Pictures of James and Sally in their 50s and 60s backed by the Louvre, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the unique colorful buildings of Amsterdam, and more breathtaking European travel destinations. Terrence cracked a smile. He nudged Evelyn. She didn’t share the same enthusiasm. Not because she didn’t long to see the world, but because she knew she’d never have time.

  They entered the bedroom. Whatever bed had been there before was replaced with an adjustable one from the hospital. The woman lying on it had long white hair, paper skin, and a sunken face. An IV needle was trapped into her inner elbow. Her gaze was cast at the rain cascading down the window. Evelyn could feel the dread hovering in the room and knew that time was not on Sally’s side.

  “You can go, Lucile,” Sally said in her froggy voice.

  The Hispanic woman whispered, “Don’t upset her. Her heart can’t take such things.”

  She slipped into the hall, leaving the door open behind her.

  Sally turned to them. “Did you find my husband?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Evelyn replied as she approached the bedside. Terrence followed behind.

  “Did he run away or is he gone?”

  “Gone,” Evelyn replied honestly. She couldn’t lie to a woman nearly a century old.

  Sally shut her eyes for a long while. Her breath was so faint that Evelyn thought that she may have left them. “How?”

  “We’re figuring that out,” Terrence said.

  “Tell us about him?” Evelyn asked.

  “A talker. A doer. More of the former,” Sally said with a slight smile. “He stole my heart when we were fifteen.”

  “Before he disappeared, did you notice a change in his attitude?”

  “James was James. He was never one to stay mad for long, though he did complain a lot. Also, he would always smile before he made a witty remark. I rolled my eyes to show him how impressed I was.”

  Evelyn looked at her blank notepad. “Did he have any enemies or anyone angry with him?”

  “Restaurant waiters,” Sally nodded seriously. “He was a lousy tipper.”

  James chuckled.

  “The last thing James ever said to me was, I’m going on a mundane stroll. I’ll be stinky and sweaty when I get back, so have the bath ready. That was it. Never saw him again. I waited beside the cold bath water for an hour before I went after him. Old Sycamore Trail is the place where he hiked. Five-minute drive from here. Police found nothing.” Sally said and turned to Evelyn. “There are days when I... feel him, but now that I know he’s gone. Really this time. There’s not much left to hold onto.”

  Terrence took the woman’s hand. “He’s not as far away as you think.”

  Sally’s brown eyes widened.

  “We’ve talked to him,” Evelyn said, overcoming her struggle to admit to the ghostly encounter. “A part of him still remains.”

  Terrence nodded in agreement.

  “How--What did he say?” Sally asked with a small voice.

  “He said, you made life a joy.”

  Sally shivered and cried softly.

  “And to keep on living until he comes home.”

  “Oh, James,” Sally said through her tears. She talked to the ceiling. “You promised we would leave this world together. I’ll wait on you for another nineteen years.”

  The nurse lingered in the doorway with her hands on her hips.

  “Get your rest, Sally,” Evelyn said. “We’ll get James home much sooner than that.”

  Evelyn and Terrence left and traveled to Old Sycamore Trail. In the rain and without talking, they walked the smooth path through the woods, but found nothing that hinted at James Barker’s disapp
earance.

  “You think we should’ve told her?” Terrence asked as they drove back.

  “We gave Barker our word,” Evelyn replied.

  “I know but… what if we fail and he’s stuck in the mansion for good?”

  “Hey, there’s only room for one pessimist in this relationship.”

  “You’re right,” Terrence replied. “I was just hoping we would’ve learned more from her.”

  “We have three victims left,” Evelyn reminded him. “One of them will know something.”

  Following the killer’s chronology, they started with Winslow, the second victim. A little ways outside of town, Evelyn and Terrence arrived at a large, drab, industrial-style building that had multiple semi-trucks shipping grass-fed meats across the state. Tipton’s Slaughterhouse.

  Avery Tipton greeted Evelyn and Terrence at the front door as he said he would over the phone call. He was a man of average build and height, with the beginnings of a second chin and a thin crown of hair around his head. He wore a blue collared shirt and welcomed Evelyn and Terrence aside.

  “I’m glad you’re taking an interest in Winslow. God, I loved that boy. My wife and I helped raise him. Well, ex-wife.” Avery said as he led them to the office. Evelyn noticed his finger swelling around his undersized and weathered wedding ring.

  “Did you adopt him?” Evelyn asked.

  “Not officially,” Avery sat on the edge of his metal desk and moved his hands when he spoke. “The boy’s father was never in the equation, and his mother would beat him and call him names. Nasty stuff. I was locking up the church one afternoon and saw the boy sitting on the steps. The mother left him there and skipped town. For the better I think. I took him in, originally for just a few days, but he had such a gentle heart, my wife and I kept him. We raised him with our other two boys.” Avery fidgeted. “My ex-wife and I.”

  “You gave him a job here?” Evelyn asked.

  “Winslow wasn’t…” Avery searched for the right word, but didn’t find it. “He had strengths and weaknesses like the rest of us. One of the traits was strength. The boy could lift a cow, I kid you not. Eat a whole one too.” Avery sighed. “Yeah, I miss him. He worked a lot harder than the clowns I have now.”

  “He was forty-two years old when he went missing,” Terrence recalled. “How old was he when you adopted him?”

  Avery rubbed the back of his neck. “To be honest, I was never quite sure. Communication wasn’t Winslow's strong suit. I was in my early thirties when I got him. He was probably seventeen or so. Innocent as a child though. I’ll always see him as a boy, despite the age factor. What made you so curious about him anyway? Someone hire you?”

  “It’s a personal project,” Evelyn said. “My father went missing too. I’m seeing if there is any connection. Maxwell Quenby. Heard of him?”

  “Quenby. Yeah. I heard of him.” Avery’s face twisted to disgust. “I never knew he had a daughter.”

  “Yeah, sole inheritor,” Evelyn replied. “What’s your issue with Maxwell?”

  “Nothing personal, but I’m sure you’ve heard of the Sullivan girl.”

  “Mary.”

  “I’d bet my bottom dollar that Maxwell had something to do with her disappearance.”

  “Any reason you think that?” Terrence asked.

  Avery frowned heavily and shook his head. “Just made sense. Maxwell lived in that big house all by himself. He looked down on us normal folk. He had so much money and clout, cops wouldn’t even give him a speeding ticket. If anyone could get away with murder, it was Maxwell Quenby. That’s why I’m glad he’s dead and gone. No offense, but this town has been quieter since no one's been in that house.”

  Evelyn changed the topic. “Tell me what happened to Winslow.”

  Avery stopped leaning on the desk. “Let me show you.”

  They walked into the meat locker.

  Massive slabs hung from hooks across the ceiling. Cold fog thumbed through the icy room.

  “I hope blood doesn’t make you squeamish,” Avery said.

  “Not anymore,” Terrence replied.

  In the far corner of the room, Avery pointed at the gash in the wall and then went back to hugging himself.

  Evelyn approached and brushed her fingers across the groove. “Meat hook?”

  “Yep,” Avery said. “Winslow was manning the graveyard the night he vanished. In the morning, I learned he was missing, the back door was open, and there was this scrape on the wall. The police said that there was a fight. That Winslow used a hook to defend himself. But they found no blood. A few days later, I realized one of my curved butcher knives was gone. If that doesn’t scare you, nothing will.”

  Evelyn recalled the long slash across Winslow’s belly. “Anything happen leading up to the attack?”

  “Something,” Avery said. “Winslow was flipping out. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I knew he was scared. I told him that it was nothing and to get to work.” Avery shook his head. “Boy, I was wrong.”

  17

  The Lost

  Peter Calhoon was a poster child for any high school, anywhere. He had a clean-shaven boxed jaw with a dimpled chin and shy smile that kept girls swooning. His blond hair was cut neatly, and his grade card boasted a 4.0 GPA in all advanced placement classes.

  “No one could’ve asked for a better son,” Mrs. Sheerly Calhoon said. She was in her early fifties, with highlighted blonde hair and small rectangular glasses that made her look like a sexy secretary.

  Evelyn placed the school photo back on the fireplace shelf and looked at the picture of Peter. Kneeling in a football field, he wore an indigo football jacket with yellow sleeves and text. He died in that jacket, Evelyn thought.

  “He was varsity captain and named junior prom king,” Mrs. Calhoon explained.

  Mr. Calhoon, a middle-aged version of his son with the same chin, dashing looks, and silky hair, rocked in the fluffy recliner. “Nearly broke the school record with the longest pass. A fifty-seven yard missile right into the end zone.”

  “Your son sounds like he was really something,” Terrence said, admiring the glass trophy case that seemed to fit perfectly in the McMansion. “I played a few years myself.”

  “Yeah?” Mr. Calhoon said. He stopped rocking. “What position?”

  “Wide receiver,” Terrence replied.

  “Really?” Mr. Calhoon exclaimed. “Shotback?”

  “Split-end,” Terrence said proudly. “Only for a few years, though.”

  “Coach moved me between shotback and flanker. It pissed me off when I was young. Everyone wants to be quarterback.”

  “I enjoyed my position. Still, I’m glad your son got to live that fantasy for you.”

  Mr. Calhoon licked his molar and mumbled, “Yeah. He was going to be the next Fred Crawford. I could see Pete throwing an eighty-five yarder to a legend like Eddie Kawal.”

  Mrs. Calhoon used her index finger to rub away a tear welling in her left eye. She blinked a few times.

  Evelyn turned away from the fireplace and looked up the large living room. Though it was a selfish thought, Evelyn found it hard not to compare homes. Quenby was bigger for sure, but the modern classiness of this place seemed much more functional than her pre-civil war relic. Evelyn refocused. “What do you think happened to your son?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Calhoon traded looks. “Murdered.”

  “What makes you think that?” Evelyn asked.

  “He would never run away,” Mrs. Calhoon said. “His future mattered to him too much.”

  “Our son was happy,” Mr. Calhoon added.

  “Is there anyone you suspected of harming him?”

  With red-rimmed eyes, Mrs. Calhoon said, “Everyone.”

  “People were jealous of Peter,” Mr. Calhoon added.

  Mrs. Calhoon looked ill. “Behind their smiles and compliments, they couldn’t stand that my son was better than theirs.”

  “What are your thoughts on Maxwell Quenby or Stephen Doyle?”

&n
bsp; “I don’t know any Doyles,” Mr. Calhoon said. “Maxwell, though. He attended a few school board meeting events. At first I thought it was his chance to chase some tail. He had this mysterious way about him that drew in women. But after my son’s disappearance and women started going missing…” Mr. Calhoon balled up his fist. “I’m glad Max is gone.”

  Evelyn gnashed her teeth. The more people suspected her father, the less she wanted it to be true. Blame it on her rebellious nature or her empathy for the underdog, but if she could prove her father was innocent, it would be a beautiful thing.

  Without getting more help from the Calhoons, Evelyn sought out her final lead: Zoey Pinkerton.

  The house was at the other end of town. It was quiet, quaint places with a few mares grazing in the fenced-in pastures. Wind chimes hung on the porch. Unmowed grass carpeted the earth. Gnats and chiggers leaped between leaf blades and weeds. Evelyn and Terrence exited their crude minivan as the day neared its exodus.

  Zoey was the final victim before Mary. Evelyn reflected on what she’d learned while she waited for the next of kin to answer. Firstly, the killer was testing the waters in the beginning. He killed an old man, then a middle-aged one and followed by a teenage male. Then he switched to an adult female and then teenaged girl. Mary’s killing would’ve been the logical step, but that was the Doyles’ doing. So what stopped the killer, and where did he go?

  As for her father, she knew Maxwell had a friendship with Mary, was disliked by seemingly everyone, and seemed to draw in women. Also, Maxwell knew of the plantation mansion’s secret study. If he was the killer and died, the phantoms would have peace, right? Unless they wanted Evelyn to chase a ghost. A fool’s errand that would be. Either Maxwell lived, which there was no proof of, or the killer was someone else who knew the house’s secrets.

  The door opened. Dressed in a wrinkled shirt and faded Levis, a short man with a shaggy goatee and tired blue eyes stepped out. Evelyn introduced herself. The man inhaled deeply through his nose. “Come in. I’m making tea.”