by Blair Merrin
This time the skull slides forward, toward the edge of the counter. I jump forward, trying to catch it, but I don’t get there in time. The skull falls to the floor with a tremendous thud, leaving a crack in the tiled floor.
I put my hands on my hips like a stern parent, setting my mouth in a fine line. “What? What do you want? How about instead of breaking my stuff, you just tell me for once?”
The skull very slowly twists upright, and then turns so that it’s facing me. And yeah, maybe ghosts don’t scare me, but this skull does, and it’s downright creepy to watch it face me.
The skull suddenly jets forward, scooting across the floor. I try to jump and catch it, but I end up sprawled on my belly on the floor. The heavy skull crashes into the base of a curio cabinet full of delicate merchandise. Everything on the shelf quivers and wobbles. One single item topples forward, crashes to the floor and cracks in two.
As I’m picking myself off the floor, my phone buzzes loudly on the glass countertop, and I jump a little. I grumble as I retrieve it, keeping an eye on the now-dormant skull.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Cass,” Dash says urgently. “The skull is gone again. Phil went to the bathroom for like a minute, and when he came back it was just an empty pillowcase—”
“I know. It’s here, in the shop.”
“Oh,” he says simply. “Does that mean…?”
“Yup. Haunted.”
“Bill?”
“Pretty sure. Guess he gave up on Maximoff.”
“They sure do seem to like you.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter as I go to pick up the broken knick-knack. “But I wish they’d communicate in some way other than breaking my stuff. At this point, I’d prefer writing on the walls in blood, like in the movies.”
“Well, I’m heading over to talk to Cory Wilkes before the gas station closes. Anything you need from me?”
I examine the broken ceramic pieces in my hand. “Yeah, actually. Will Phil let you use the police database?”
“I’m sure he would. Why?”
“Can you see what you can find on a Jeffrey Crane?”
“Crane, like the bird?”
“Like the bird.”
“Sure. We’ll talk in the morning?”
“You bet.”
I hang up, and go in search of superglue to fix the two pieces of the broken ceramic crane.
CHAPTER 15
The next morning, I head downstairs from my apartment to the shop carefully, afraid of what the skull might have done in the night, but thankfully I find it exactly where I left it, sitting on the floor at the base of the curio cabinet.
I open the store at eight, and Mom arrives with Kodiak and perches herself on a stool in front of the computer with barely more than a “good morning.” By nine, Bonnie still hasn’t come in, which is unusual, but then the shop’s phone rings.
“Hey, Cassie, it’s Steven.”
“Oh, hey.” My first thought is that something happened to Bonnie. “Is your mom okay?”
“Oh, yeah, she’s fine.” He sounds like he’s chewing. “She, uh, asked me to call you to tell you not to worry that she didn’t come in today. She’s busy…” More chewing. “Busy cooking.”
A wave of jealousy washes over me. “Well, you let her know that anytime she wants to bring some food down for us to try, we’ll be here.”
“Sure, I’ll tell her.” More chewing. “Bye, Cassie.”
He hangs up. Some guys have all the luck.
Dash comes in around ten with a printed page in his hand. “Hey, good morning.”
“What’s up, buttercup?”
“I caught up with Cory Wilkes just as he was leaving the gas station last night,” he tells me. “Guy was nervous as a teenager on a first date. Seems that Rex indeed spilled the beans about the hotel deal to him, and when I asked him where he was the morning Bill was killed, he claims he was working in the garage at the station. I asked who the customer was, or if anyone saw him here, and he couldn’t give me a straight answer.”
“Most peculiar.”
“There’s more. I did some digging into Bill’s books; turns out Maximoff hadn’t yet paid him a cent for the work he did. Phil contacted the bank, and they said the loan for the hotel deal was still pending.”
“So not only is Maximoff not paying out of pocket, but he doesn’t actually have the money yet? Talking about counting your chickens.”
“Right. But he did seem awfully keen to tear down the Waverly house, didn’t he?”
“Where is he now?”
“Most likely passed out on his living room floor,” Dash says. “Phil cut him loose yesterday after you left.” He eyes the bronze skull, still on the floor. “What’s the deal there?”
“I’m not sure yet.” It’s not really a lie. I gesture to the paper in Dash’s hand. “What’s that? You got something for me?”
“Oh, right. You asked about someone named Jeffrey Crane… turns out there’s a Jeffrey Crane in a retirement home called Shady Acres in Scarsdale.”
“Scarsdale? That’s only, what, forty-five minutes away?”
“Yeah. Why’s that surprising?”
“I assumed he’d be… I don’t know, further.”
Dash eyes me suspiciously. “What’s this about?”
“Tangential mystery.” I pat him on the head. “Don’t you worry nothin’ about it.”
“Oh, I worry.”
He probably should; I don’t think Bill’s ghost would point me in the direction of a crane if the Cranes’ history has nothing to do with his case, but I’m not fully prepared to admit it. Dash has enough on his plate already, and I know he’s been ignoring his other cases for this. If I can visit Jeffrey Crane and find out something new, it might make Dash’s life easier… and maybe settle my curiosity as a bonus.
“Well,” I tell him, “I have to run some errands that are completely unrelated to anything we’ve just discussed.”
“Oh? And are those errands going to happen to take you by Scarsdale?”
I shrug. “Who knows? I go where the music takes me.”
He shakes his head. “Ordinarily I’d come with you, but I’ve got a mountain of work waiting for me. You’ll be careful, right?”
“Dash, Jeffrey Crane’s got to be at least seventy. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Dash heads back to his office, and I have to snap my fingers twice in front of Mom’s face to get her attention. “Hey, Earth to Julia. Come in, Julia.”
Mom looks up. “Huh? Sorry, honey. This nice man online wants to trade us an authentic shrunken head for that old brass rotary phone.”
“Ew, Mom, seriously? No shrunken heads, please. Listen, I have to run out for a little while. You’ll pay attention to the store?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And help customers?”
“Of course, sweetie.”
“And if anyone asks about the dismembered bodies of all those tourists I murdered, they’re buried out back.”
“I got it under control, dear.”
Yup, I’ve officially lost her to the internet. I shake my head, grab my purse and leave anyway. What’s the worst that could happen? Well, the store could probably burn down around her and she’d still be watching to make sure the latest auction goes as planned.
The drive to Scarsdale is an easy one, with little traffic on the highway at this time of day. I find Shady Acres thanks to the modern marvel that is GPS. I’m surprised by it; I was expecting a depressing place, like retirement homes on TV tend to be, but this one looks nice. It’s a wide three-story building painted in burnt orange with big picture windows and lots of well-manicured trees around the perimeter.
A plump, pleasant woman greets me at the reception desk. “How can I help you?” she smiles.
“I’m here to see Jeffrey Crane.”
“Really?” she says, her smile faltering. “Just sign in here, and I’ll need to see ID.” After I sign in, she leads me down a long, bright hall
lined with motivational posters showing smiling, elderly people playing tennis or swimming in a pool. Each poster highlights the importance of exercise, good nutrition and a healthy social life. We pass open doors, and I peek in to see old folks watching television, chatting amiably, playing chess and the like.
The woman asks me, “How do you know Mr. Crane?”
“Oh, uh, I’m a reporter from his hometown. I’m writing a historical piece, and I’d like to include him in it.” I’d rehearsed that on the way over, assuming that someone would ask.
She frowns at me as we walk. “I’m not sure he’ll be much help, honey. Mr. Crane had a stroke a few years back. He’s not able to speak.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t expected that. “Well, I came all this way; I’d at least like to say hello and let him know that I’ll be including him in my article.”
When we get to Jeffrey Crane’s room, it’s like walking into a new hotel suite; the bed is perfectly made, and there are no personal items on any of the surfaces or walls… except for the wheelchair facing the window, in which sits a white-haired man with his back to us.
“Mr. Crane?” says the woman. “You have a visitor. Her name is Cassie.” She turns to me and says, “I’ll leave you to it.”
I move slowly over to the window, leaning against the frame so that Jeffrey Crane can see me. His brown eyes flit up to me, but nothing else moves. The corners of his mouth droop slightly in a frown, and the fingers of one hand tap against the armrest of the wheelchair.
“Hi, Mr. Crane,” I say softly. “I…” Suddenly I don’t know what I’m doing here. Crane obviously can’t tell me anything. Why would the ghost have asked me to come see him?
“Excuse me,” says a male voice behind me. “Who are you?”
CHAPTER 16
The man that stands in the doorway is tall, skinny, and mostly bald. He wears silver-rimmed glasses and the knuckles on his hands are knobby and thick. He looks to be in his mid-fifties or so, and he doesn’t appear to be particularly friendly.
“Uh, hi,” I say, “My name is Cassie.”
“Great,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a reporter with the Bandit Hills Gazette,” I tell him. “I’m writing a historical piece, and I wanted to include Crane Bronze in it. I was hoping to get a quote from Jeffrey, but I didn’t realize that he…” I trail off.
The man’s expression softens at my explanation. “I see.” He holds out one of his knobby-knuckled hands for me to shake. “I’m Dennis Crane, Jeffrey’s younger brother.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“I haven’t heard the words ‘Crane Bronze’ in quite a long time. Good to know we’re not entirely forgotten,” he says with a thin smile. “Unfortunately, Jeffrey can’t speak, due to his condition, but I’d be happy to talk with you. What is it you want to know?”
“Oh, great. Thank you.” I pull out a small notepad and pretend to write in it. “So Crane Bronze was in business until the late seventies; is that correct?”
“1979, that’s right.”
“And after that, you and your family left Bandit Hills?”
Dennis Crane nods. “We headed west, to Nevada; some distant relatives took us in and gave us jobs in a mining operation they ran. We stayed up there for, oh, about fifteen years, but Tennessee was always home. Eventually we came back.”
“But not to Bandit Hills.”
Dennis looks at the floor. “No. We resettled here in Scarsdale.”
“I see.” I clear my throat. “You have an older sister as well, right? Matilda?”
Dennis sighs. “Had. She’s, uh, no longer with us.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
We’re both silent for a long moment. Dennis speaks up again, changing the subject. “Tell me, are the Maximoffs still active in town?”
“Sort of. Sadly, Dexter is the only one left.”
“Shame,” Dennis says, and I can tell he doesn’t mean it. Suddenly Jeffrey squirms in his chair and groans. Dennis rushes over to his side. “You okay, Jeff?”
The old man groans again, unable to articulate what he wants to say, but his eyes roll up toward me.
“I’m really sorry, Miss…”
“Cleary.”
“Miss Cleary, but I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short. Jeffrey can get cranky with strangers. Tell you what; why don’t I come to see you tomorrow and we can talk more? I’d love to see the old town again.”
“Um, okay. Let’s meet at Tank’s Diner. How’s one o’clock?”
“Perfect.” He turns back to his brother as I leave. “Please, Jeffrey, calm down, you’re going to strain yourself…”
I retreat down the hall, signing out at the reception desk before I leave. I wonder if I should tell Dexter Maximoff about Matilda’s passing. I’m not sure how he’d take it; if he’d find some solace in her being at peace, or if he’d be heartbroken that he can never see her again. Actually, I realize, I don’t know any details to tell him. I make a mental note to somehow work Matilda’s death into my next conversation with Dennis Crane.
Now all I have to do is get to Tank’s early tomorrow to let April know that I’m playing the role of a reporter. I scold myself for not thinking ahead.
I drive down Route 666, getting off on Exit 13 and taking the road into Bandit Hills, and as I’m approaching town the sight of flashing lights catches my eye. Parked at the gas station at odd angles are two police cruisers and Dash’s midnight blue El Dorado. I pull in and get out just in time to see Sheriff Phil stuffing a handcuffed Cory Wilkes into the back of his cruiser.
Dash trots over to me, a smile on his face. “I don’t know how you do it, Cassie, but you were right. Cory Wilkes is our guy.”
CHAPTER 17
“What? How can you be sure?”
“Well, we can’t be yet, not a hundred percent,” Dash explains, “but we’re bringing him in on suspicion. See, after I talked to him last night, I kept thinking about how nervous he acted, so Phil asked him to submit to fingerprinting. Sure enough, they matched the prints Sharon lifted off the front doorknob at the Waverly place.” He beams with pride, having cracked the case, but something just doesn’t sit right with me.
“I don’t know, Dash—”
“There’s more. I used credit card receipts to track three different customers who were at the gas station the morning Bill was killed, and all three of them said that Cory, and his truck, were not here like he said he was.” He must notice my look of skepticism, because the smile fades from his face. “Why so glum? You were the one that suggested Cory might know something. You deserve just as much credit here.”
“Yeah, I guess. I just… I don’t know.”
“Well, Phil’s going to bring him down to the station and question him. Guy like Cory, I suspect he’ll crack in no time.”
“Probably.”
“Listen, I’m going to head down and help Phil close this one up. I’m sure we can have it wrapped by this evening. Then we should celebrate. Sound good?”
“Sure,” I murmur. “You know where to find me.”
I watch Phil’s cruiser pull out of the small lot with Cory in the back. Then I get back into my SUV and head to the shop.
Kodiak loses his mind when I enter. Mom, behind the desk on the computer, calls to him and he retreats. Good thing, too; I’m not in the mood to entertain his shenanigans. The bronze skull is still on the floor where I left it.
“I don’t understand,” I say to the skull. “Why did you want me to meet Jeffrey Crane?”
The skull does nothing. It just sits there silently.
“What’s that, honey?”
“Nothing, Mom.”
I spend the afternoon and early evening helping customers. Two of them ask about the weird skull on the floor, but I have to tell them it’s not for sale. By all rights, it should be back in the evidence locker. Eventually Mom calls it a day, shutting down the computer, scooping up Kodiak, and giving me a kiss on the forehead before she head
s home.
Dash calls me right around dusk. “Hey, no breaks in the case just yet. Cory Wilkes is sticking to his story; he wasn’t there, and has no idea how his prints got on the doorknob. Weird thing is, he hasn’t asked for a lawyer. Phil’s thinking about requesting a polygraph test. Long story short: We’re going to have to postpone celebrating.”
“No worries,” I tell him, not exactly feeling in a celebratory mood.
“How’s the skull? Still there?”
“All quiet on the ghostly front,” I say, peering at the skull on the floor.
“That’s good, right? Don’t they tend to move on when the killer’s caught?”
“Usually, yeah.”
“Phil’s going to need it back as evidence. Try not to get your prints all over it.”
“Sure thing.”
“Sleep tight. I’ll call you in the morning.”
I hang up and sigh. “Alright,” I say aloud. “If Cory is the killer, I need a sign. No messing around, Bill. I mean it, mister—” I turn toward the skull. Or rather, where the skull was. It’s gone.
“Now where’d you go?” I check all over the shop floor, the cabinets, and the glass case. I figure maybe it went back to the evidence locker, or to Maximoff’s place, vanishing like it did before, but then there’s a clatter behind the counter.
I find the skull sitting atop the small wooden crate from the Waverly basement. I’d put it on a low shelf behind the register dedicated for items not to be sold, in case Mom went snooping.
“Okay,” I tell it. I put the skull on the counter, and the crate beside it. I take each item out again; three feet of twine, the diamond ring, the love letter, and the silver eyeglasses. “What are you trying to tell me?”
Rope. Ring. Letter. Glasses. All things belonging to Matilda, except the rope; not sure how that factors in. Dexter wrote her the letter… gave her the ring…
I pick up the glasses and unfold the temples. They look like the same pair from when she was a younger girl in the photo that Mr. Spencer showed me. I look at the skull. And the glasses. And then I slowly fit the glasses over the bronze.