“He’s known me since I was born, so I think he knows my background. I wonder if he’ll find out I cheated on a spelling test in the fourth grade? I’ll get to it when I get to it.”
“Also, I wanted to tell you that your last column has done extremely well online.”
My last column had been a compilation of many columns, a “greatest hits” kind thing. One of the ways I made extra money was to do something I called an “Efficiency Evaluation.” As a helpful hints writer, I was chock-full of knowledge to help people save money. At a home or business owner’s request, I would go through every room and make a list of things they could do to lower costs and live better. Over the years, I had been contacted by almost every business in town. In my last article, I posted some of my suggestions.
“As a matter of fact, Betsy, we've had several people call and ask you to come do more efficiency evaluations. Are you trying to go full-time doing this made-up job?”
“No. Really? People have been calling?”
Nick handed me a yellow legal pad with various scribblings on it. “Here's the list we have so far.” There were more than ten names of people wanting me to do efficiency evaluations. Near the bottom of the list, I came to a name I didn't recognize. In a town this small, finding someone you didn't know was unusual.
I pointed at the name. “Who's this?”
Rocky peered at it, pushing his bifocals to the end of his nose. He curled his lip slightly as he read the name. “John Simpson. I don't recall anyone by that name in these parts.”
“I don't either. I thought I knew everybody in this town.”
Nick took a sip of his coffee and then said, “You don't know him because he’s the newest resident in Pecan Bayou. He's got to be the one in the house by the cemetery.”
“What did he sound like?”
Nick raised one eyebrow. “Sound like?” His tone made me feel silly for asking. “A man.”
“You know what I mean.”
Nick thought for a moment. “Well, the only thing I can tell you different about this guy was he didn't sound like he was from Texas. It was more of a Northern accent. New York. New Jersey. Something like that.”
“Good God, all we need is a New Yorker on Main Street.” Rocky had a real look of fear in his eyes.
“Rocky,” I scolded. “I don't think a newcomer's going to hurt anything. It'll probably be a breath of fresh air for this town.”
“If you say so.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw a call from Coco's daycare. I glanced at my watch. I was late. I answered the phone quickly. “I'm on my way.” Where had the time gone? Looking at the list again, I knew if I was going to visit all these people, I might need a little help. As I walked out to my car, I dialed Aunt Maggie. She was probably home with my cousin Danny by now.
“Hey Aunt Maggie, how'd you like to do a little job for me?”
Chapter 3
“So you're going to this dude's house?” Tyler asked, as he took a heaping amount of mashed potatoes. Tyler was now in his first year of high school and playing on the football team, although “playing” might be too strong a word for the amount of time he spent on the sidelines. At least he was listed on the roster. He ate so much that leftovers were a thing of the past. Tyler had also grown another inch this year, making Zach look like he was more than a year behind his brother.
“Just make sure you leave a door open if you need to get away.” Zach had grown up in Pecan Bayou, hearing the tales of the Marion Funeral Home. The stories had been swapped by kids all the way from Buzz Aldrin Elementary to the school he attended now, Nolan Ryan Middle School. The story of the old man who died on the gate surfaced every year on Halloween. This year would be no different.
“You ever been in that place?” Tyler asked Zach.
“No. They closed it before I was born. I touched the fence once, though.” Zach was referring to the wrought-iron fence that caused such a stir once they pulled Mr. Marion off it. “If you look real close you can still see some blood on it.”
It was probably rust, but who was I to argue? I didn't want to cramp his imagination. Bloody fence posts on Main Street weren't exactly what the town fathers wanted in the brochures. “I also looked in the windows once.”
“You didn't.”
“I did.”
Leo, my husband, had been finishing up on the computer and came into the room late. “You were looking in somebody’s window? Do I need to call Grandpa to check out a Peeping Zach?”
“The boys were talking about the Marion Funeral Home. I guess one of Mr. Marion’s relatives has moved in. He’s on my list of people to see for an efficiency evaluation.”
“Really?” Leo asked. Our daughter Coco was in the high chair between us. Oblivious to our conversation, she was holding her mashed potatoes up in the air and watching them plop on her plastic plate.
“Isn't that place supposed to be haunted?” Leo asked, as he took a helping of roast beef.
“Yes,” Zach said. “It should be illegal to live there. The ghost killed the last man by throwing him onto the spikes of that fence.”
“Come on Zach,” Leo said. “It was an accident.”
“Don't you understand? That's how ghosts do things. They can't pull the trigger on a gun. They have to make it look like an accident.”
“Where did you hear that kind of thing? Have you been hanging out with your Aunt Maggie and her paranormal society?” Leo asked.
“I heard it at school. Everybody says it.”
“Maybe we should have put the bucks into private school,” Leo said.
I grabbed a cloth and wiped Coco's face and tray right before she graduated to tossing bits of mashed potatoes at her brothers. “Just know that when I go over there, I won’t be worried about ghosts.”
“Do you know this guy?” Leo asked.
“No, I don't.”
“I might be able to get a couple of hours off from the weather bureau. Do you want me to go with you?” That was my Leo. Always worried for my safety.
“No, I'll be fine.”
“I'll go with you, Mom,” Zach offered. He sat up straight in his seat.
“You can't afford to miss algebra.”
“You're more important than silly math.”
“I think I'll be fine.”
As I lifted Coco out of her high chair, I had a whisper of a thought in the back of my brain. I’d heard the same stories Zach had. Would I be fine, or was I being foolish?
Chapter 4
I pulled up to the Marion house and the first thing I noted were the bald patches in the lawn. Deprived of proper watering and reseeding, the areas heavily shaded by the large oak trees were now totally bare.
Bert Finley, the cemetery’s current caretaker, was putting fresh sod on a grave. Even though it was a cool October, sweat shone on his muscled arms as he wrestled the square patches of grass. I hadn't done much with providing my readers tips on yard restoration. Maybe Bert could help me out on this one.
“You do beautiful work,” I said, making my way into the graveyard.
Bert looked up, mopped his brow, and gave me a warm smile. Being a cemetery caretaker must be a lonely job, because he looked happy to see me. “Good morning! Thank you. It's a labor of love and a little manure.”
“I'm here to meet your new neighbor and give him some tips on fixing up the Marion house. Do you have any advice for what's left of his lawn?”
Bert Finley looked over at the withering grass. “First thing I'd do is to rake up those bald spots. After that, I’d add in special compost I make from kitchen scraps and paper.” He gestured over to a green trash can behind his house. It resembled a giant bingo tumbler, ready to spout out the winning letters. “I just put my scraps in and twirl that thing a couple of times a day and out comes the kind of dirt God didn't intend for Texas. You'd be amazed the piles of healthy worms I get from the stuff. Worms are good for the soil and make the grass stand up and salute the flag. After putting the co
mpost down, I'd sprinkle grass seed over the top and then water it twice a day until it took.”
My gaze moved from the Marion house to the cemetery, one of the most beautiful places in Pecan Bayou. Mr. Finley took such pride in the place that he periodically raked over each grave and replaced the dying grass with fresh sod and grass seed. The cemetery was prettier than the town park. Mayor Obermeyer liked Bert's work so much that he’d asked him to take over the grounds of all of the city's properties, but Bert's first love was the cemetery.
“You know,” I said, “even though this is a cemetery, you've made this a sort of paradise.”
“I thank you for that. Everybody needs their paradise, the thing they wait for year after year.” He gestured toward the even rows of gray tombstones. “I'd like to think this is their paradise.”
He was right, and his quiet work ethic was devoted to those who could never thank him.
I wrote down Bert's suggestions. “Thanks for your help. I'll put it in my report for Mr. Simpson.”
“Do you know anything about this guy?”
“Not much. He's Mr. Marion's nephew. That's all I know.”
“His sister's kid?”
“Yes.”
Bert looked up into the sky, his eyes gauging the clouds. “Got to get back to it. I want to make sure I get everything put away before Halloween tomorrow. I’m expecting some ghouls and goblins to be out here up to no good. I can at least remove some of the temptation.”
~*~
I knocked on the door of the former Marion Funeral Home. No matter who lived in this house it was always going to look like a funeral home, with its white siding and oversized drive-through carport. That was where Mr. Marion had parked the hearse. I had been inside this house a few times for funerals and remembered how beautifully decorated it was. There had been soft carpet and walls in muted shades. The front step looked weathered and dusty, but a new coat of paint and a good cleaning would solve that. The structure was still there. This house had good bones, pardon the pun. If someone wanted to fix it up, it wouldn't be that difficult. The only problem was even if the walls were painted and the carpet replaced, you still have to turn the lights out at night.
Mr. Simpson, a man in his mid-fifties, opened the door. He had salt-and-pepper gray hair styled in a military cut. I remembered Mr. Marion being on the small side where this man had a barrel chest and a slim waistline. John Simpson was in pretty good shape and looked nothing like the former owner. He wore a navy blue polo shirt and jeans, and I couldn't help notice when he extended his hand to shake mine that he had a Marine tattoo on his forearm.
“Are you the Happy Hinter?”
I smiled. No one who lived in Pecan Bayou actually called me the Happy Hinter. Most people just called me Betsy. “That's me.”
“Well, come on in then.” I noticed right away his accent lacked a Texas drawl. Nick had been right. I would peg him as native to the New York area. He definitely was a city boy.
“I read your article.” He motioned to a copy of the Gazette on the floor. He had folded it so my column was prominent. “I love the idea of an efficiency evaluation. You’ve worked for most of the people here in town. What a resource. Now that I’m moving into a new house, I want to set things right from the beginning. It is so important to start out on the correct course.”
“Absolutely.” I pulled out my clipboard with the checklist I used in the initial phase of my evaluations. “Uh, you do know I charge for this, right?”
“Yes, your assistant on the phone informed me I should have a payment for you.”
“Good. If you don't mind, I'd like to walk around your home and check out a few things.”
“Not at all. That's why I called you. Feel free to roam around as much as you’d like, but I should warn you, there’s only one light bulb in the entire house, and that's in this room. I don't know whether somebody took them or my uncle was so cheap he kept unscrewing this one and using it in every room.”
The ceilings in the house were all at ten feet. Replacing so many lightbulbs would be quite a chore. “Do you have a ladder?”
“Nope. I guess I'll have to borrow one from a neighbor.”
There were stacks of boxes scattered about the room, most of them unopened. “You have a lot of unpacking to do.”
“Yes, I know. I’m dreading it. My wife will be coming into town shortly, and I'm going to leave most of the unpacking to her. You know how women are. I'd probably just put things in the wrong place.”
“Nothing like not being able to find that frying pan when you need it,” I said.
I began walking around the house, remembering the furniture Mr. Marion had in the funeral home. I walked into the parlor where coffins had been set out for visitations.
A piece of black wrought-iron fence had been set in concrete and placed in a rectangular box. I gasped when I realized this was the gate Mr. Marion fell on.
“I know. Pretty grisly, huh? I guess Aunt Jane wanted it in the house so that nobody would take it as a souvenir. She set it in concrete so it would be too heavy for thrill seekers to carry away. Seems like a little overkill to me, but that's how she wanted it.”
“What will you do with it?”
“Doesn't exactly make a house a home, if you know what I mean. I’ll get rid of it.”
The chairs that lined the walls during visitation were missing now, but sconces were still at the end of the room where coffins had been set up. Now the absence of chairs made the room unbalanced. Mr. Simpson would want to take those out to remove any reminders of how this room was used. I noted the lighting and ways to save on energy costs.
The next room had to have been the preparation area for the bodies. The most notable feature was the drain in the floor. I wasn’t sure what to do with that so I continued to other rooms used for offices, both public and private. Mr. Simpson could use those for bedrooms, but the floor plan of a former funeral home didn't lend itself to a traditional family home. If Mr. Simpson wanted that, he would need to start knocking out walls.
My notes included doors that needed weather stripping to reduce drafts. There was one bathroom upstairs with a bath and shower, but he would need to immerse the showerhead in a bag of vinegar for about an hour to reduce the lime deposits. Taking on this house was a major job, and from the looks of the unpacked boxes, I wasn’t sure Mr. Simpson was the man for the task. I continued throughout the house for the better part of twenty minutes. When I made my way back to the living room area, I found Mr. Simpson staring out the large picture window.
“You certainly have your work cut out for you. You could make this a showplace with a lot of time and money.”
He continued to stare out the window. His eyes were a very light blue, reminding me of crystals. He finally turned back to me.
“No surprise there.” He pointed at the window. “I don't know how my uncle could stand living next to the cemetery like this.”
“It was his business. Short commute.”
“At least the neighbors are quiet.”
I laughed at his joke but had to wonder if Simpson knew the stories people told about his new house. Was this a good time to bring something like that up, or should I keep it to myself?
His gaze traveled to the house on the other side of the cemetery.
“Is that where the new cemetery caretaker lives?”
“Mr. Finley? Yes, that's where he lives.”
“How long has he been there?”
“I don't know, probably ten or fifteen years? One thing most of the town agrees on is that he does beautiful work. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him out there measuring the grass with a ruler. He’s a perfectionist, and our cemetery has never looked better.”
Mr. Simpson crossed his arms and leaned against the window, staring out at Mr. Finley's house. “It does look green out there.”
I knew I only had a little bit more time before I needed to pick up Coco. I tried to return our conversation to the purpose of my visit.
�
��Let's start with a walk around the house. I can tell you about some of the things I found, and my suggestions to make the house more livable and energy efficient.”
John Simpson held up his hand, halting what I considered the most important part of the evaluation. “No need for that. I can simply read through your list, and if I have any questions, I'll let you know.”
“Okay,” I answered reluctantly. “If that's the way you want to do it, sure.”
As I gathered my things to go, Mr. Simpson returned to his post at the window. “One more question. Do people ever complain about any movement in the cemetery at night?”
“You mean like ghosts?”
His blue eyes twinkled. “Sure. Ghosts. Does anybody say they've seen any ghosts at any particular tombstones?”
I didn’t expect to be discussing the topic of ghosts with a man like Mr. Simpson. He looked more grounded than the paranormal crowd. “I didn’t want to share this with you, but your house and the attached cemetery have plenty of local lore surrounding them. I’ve never heard a specific grave brought up, but with your uncle’s untimely death, your house is a topic of conversation. You know how people are, always making up stories.”
“Interesting.”
I had never heard what Mr. Simpson did for a living, so I made a leap of logic. “Are you interested in the paranormal?”
“You mean am I a ghost hunter?”
Pecan Bayou, as small as it was, was proud to have its own paranormal society. Aunt Maggie was a charter member. The members of the group were already excitable, and if Mr. Simpson were a ghost hunter, they would take him in immediately.
“Actually, yes. That’s one of my interests. I'm here to observe the paranormal activity.”
“Great. I’ll tell the local paranormal group. They'll probably be calling you in the next day or so.”
His eyes widened. “I’d prefer you didn’t. I get more vibrations from the dead if I’m on my own. I fly solo on this. I trust you can understand that.”
I nodded. “Mum’s the word. I can certainly keep a secret.” I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable being in this place, with the furniture gone and so little light in the rooms.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 20