Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Here’s where it happened,” she said, hugging her arms to her chest. She appeared smaller than I remembered, almost swallowed up by the long, cable-knit cardigan hanging from her shoulders.

  We looked around. The old-fashioned dining room was sparsely furnished and chilly. A brass chandelier cast a dim light over an oval table and eight Chippendale-style antique chairs. On the far wall, the built-in hutch stood abandoned, with pulled-out drawers and splayed glass doors. I noticed an ornate square cast-iron grate on the wall near the floor and put my hand on it. The smooth, cold metal made me shiver.

  Wes peeked in the adjacent solarium, which was filled with hanging ferns and potted plants of all sizes. Then he looked at me as if waiting for instruction.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s start in the basement and work our way up.”

  Mrs. Hammerlin showed us to the basement door in the kitchen. “I’ll wait up here.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves in a family room that hadn’t been updated since the 1970s. Wall-to-wall shag carpet, wood-paneled walls, and a curved corner wet bar reminded me of my grandparents’ old basement—minus all the license plates, 1950s posters, and sports memorabilia they’d had hanging on their walls during my childhood. Wes checked the closets, while I investigated the other half of the basement, behind a heavy, wooden door.

  This section was unfinished and dusty. There were several rooms, all with concrete floors and cracked, stone walls, including a utility room, laundry room, and shelf-lined storage room. In the back of the house, above a workbench scattered with ancient tools, I found the window with the missing pane.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” I called into the empty room.

  To my surprise, I thought I detected a faint mewing sound behind me. Following it to the dingy utility room, I flipped on the overhead light—a bare, flickering bulb—and called again. “Kitty? Are you in here?”

  “Any luck?” said a voice behind me.

  I started and spun around. “Wes! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  He suppressed a chuckle. “Sorry. Hey, guess what I found behind the bar? An old dumbwaiter. The ropes are nearly frayed, but it still seems to work.”

  “Cool,” I said absently, as I turned back to the utility room. Next to the gas water heater, a mean-looking furnace dominated the room, its asbestos-wrapped pipes snaking to the ceiling like Medusa’s hair. “I wish I’d brought a flashlight,” I said, straining to peer into the cobweb-filled corners.

  At that moment, Mrs. Hammerlin yelled down at us in a quavering voice. “Keli! Wesley! I heard something up here!”

  “Will you go, Wes? I really want to find this cat.”

  He ran up to join Mrs. Hammerlin, leaving me alone in the basement. Something creaked behind the furnace. With the light from my cell phone, I inched my way to the back of the room where I found a small opening. Shining my phone in the space, I realized it must be an old coal chute, angling up into darkness. Could a cat have climbed up there? If so, where would she come out?

  My nose began to tickle, so I made my way back upstairs. Wes and Mrs. Hammerlin were nowhere to be seen. As I wandered around the first floor, I realized the solarium must have been added on to the house in later years. Sure enough, when I looked under a table pushed up against what would have once been the exterior to the house, I found the opening to the coal chute.

  I took out the catnip and waved it in the air like a wand. “Here, Kitty! Come and get it!”

  There were lots of hiding places in the solarium, but the cat didn’t seem to be in any of them. I was about to go back into the main house when I noticed a slim, floor-to-ceiling, oak storage cabinet in the corner of the room. The door was ajar. I pulled it open, expecting to see shelves of potting soil and gardening tools. Instead, it turned out to be an empty closet with a door in the back. Feeling like the child who entered a wardrobe to another world, I climbed inside.

  The narrow entrance opened into an irregular-shaped cubby with a sloping ceiling. I realized I must be under the staircase. Again, shining my phone like a flashlight, I made out some small shapes on the floor. I knelt down and, looking closer, observed a glove, a pair of nylons, a handkerchief, and a coin purse. Aha! The kitty’s lair.

  But no kitty.

  I backed out of the secret closet and went back to the dining room. As I stood near the hutch trying to decide what to do next, I once again heard a faint meow. It was coming from the ventilation grate.

  Boy, this cat gets around.

  I decided to look upstairs next, but when I reached the second-floor landing, I hesitated. The house was eerily quiet. I couldn’t imagine where Wes and Mrs. Hammerlin had disappeared to. Suddenly, a strange wailing noise pierced the silence. It was almost otherworldly, like a ghostly foghorn or an enchanted owl. My body tensed, as my hair bristled on the back of my neck.

  The sound seemed to be coming from outside, so I moved toward the window at the end of the hall. Before I could reach it, a crash erupted from one of the rooms off the hallway. I ran to the door and yanked it open.

  “Hello? Wes?”

  The room was still. By the light of the full moon shining through a window, I made out frilly curtains, flowery wallpaper, and a neatly made bed. I guessed this must be one of Mrs. Hammerlin’s guest rooms, though it surely belonged to a young girl once upon a time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a movement. When I turned to look, my heart jumped to my throat. Floating before my eyes was a woman’s face. She had wavy, gray hair, deep-set, shadowed eyes, and a sickly pallor.

  I knew this face. It was Aunt Josephine.

  I shrieked. Without thinking, I flew out of the room as if chased by demons . . . or ghosts.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wes bounded up the stairs and met me in the hallway. “Keli! What is it?”

  Almost immediately, I felt sheepish, though my heart still beat madly in my chest. “I—I saw something. In there.” I pointed to the bedroom I’d fled.

  Wes pushed open the door and switched on the light. He took a cautious step inside. “I don’t see anything. What was it?”

  I followed him and forced myself to look toward the spot where I’d seen the face. There, on the wall, was a mirror. An oval, gilt-framed mirror. I approached it and stared at my reflection, pale and drawn. I blinked and let out a shaky laugh. I might not look my best, but I looked nothing like the startling image of Aunt Josephine.

  I sat heavily on the edge of the bed. That’s when I noticed the wooden cross on the floor. I picked it up and looked at the wall above, where a slim nail stuck out at an odd angle. The cross must have fallen, causing the noise I’d heard.

  Mrs. Hammerlin appeared in the doorway, then crossed the room to peer out the window. “It’s the oddest thing,” she said. “Wes and I went outside when we heard the banshee, but we couldn’t tell where it was coming from.”

  “Banshee?” I looked at Wes, and he shrugged.

  Mrs. Hammerlin turned around and drew in her breath. “Where did that come from?” she exclaimed.

  I followed her gaze and beheld the elusive black feline sitting in the doorway, as serene and poised as the goddess Bastet.

  “At last,” I said. “It’s about time you showed yourself.”

  As if on cue, the cat leaped into my lap.

  * * *

  By the next morning, I thought I must have imagined Aunt Josephine’s visage in the mirror. At least, that’s what I told myself. It was the only way I could get through the day like a normal person.

  On our way home from Mrs. Hammerlin’s house, Wes and I had stopped at Mila’s again, just long enough to borrow some cat food and a spare litter box. Her guests had all left, but she invited us to come in for a drink. I could tell she was eager to hear about what happened with our ghost hunt, but I didn’t feel like talking. I told her I’d call her later. With an understanding look, she gave us some cat supplies and also recommended a good veterinarian who doubled as a kitty daycare provider
.

  To my relief, the cat did well overnight. She slept like a princess on the upholstered chair in the corner of our bedroom. Right after breakfast—cereal for Wes, avocado toast for me, kibble for the kitty—we dropped the cat at the vet’s office. Then Wes took me to my office.

  For a couple of hours, I buried myself in my work. At half past eleven, I told Julie I was taking an early lunch and walked over to the town square, a picturesque block that contained quaint shops and restaurants on tree-lined boulevards surrounding the Capitol-like county courthouse. I walked past the courthouse to the less-impressive, plain brick building that housed an assortment of government offices. The Edindale County Department of Environment was headquartered on the second floor.

  While waiting for Ricki Day, I browsed through some brochures on a wall rack. The department’s primary focus seemed to be natural resources conservation, with separate divisions concerned with forestry, water quality, and recreation. Apparently, there was only a small unit devoted to pollution control. According to the receptionist, a hawk-eyed woman who smacked her gum, Ricki Day was the department’s only full-time environmental inspector. When Ricki joined us in the lobby, I thanked her profusely for taking the time to meet with me.

  “You must be very busy,” I said.

  “It’s okay.” She shook my hand with a firm grip and directed me to a tiny meeting room off the lobby. “How can I help you?”

  I sat down in one of the four mismatched chairs and tried to figure out why Ricki looked familiar to me. She had short, brunette hair and an open, friendly face. I guessed she was probably in her mid-forties. In her government-approved khakis and navy polo shirt bearing the county logo, she was ready to get down to business.

  “I wanted to ask you about Josephine O’Malley,” I began, then frowned when Ricki gave me a blank look. “Haven’t the police been by to speak with you yet?”

  “Police? No.”

  “I guess I beat them to the punch. You know about the body that was found in Shawnee a few days ago?”

  Ricki nodded, and I explained to her about the to-do list in Aunt Josephine’s pocket. I also told her I was making inquiries for the family.

  “Sorry, but I don’t know anyone named Josephine O’Malley. The list must refer to a different Ricki.”

  Undeterred, I said, “She used different names sometimes. Did you know a Jessie O’Mara? Or someone else with the initials JO or AJ? I was told she reported environmental violations somewhat frequently.”

  Ricki started to shake her head, then paused. “There is a woman who calls me with tips and complaints sometimes. She’s been calling for years, ever since I first started here. For the longest time, she wouldn’t leave a name. Finally, one day she said I could call her Shima.”

  “Shima?” I echoed. That was a new one.

  “Yeah.” Ricki smiled. “I guess she wanted to remain anonymous. But it’s not uncommon for some citizens to take on sort of a neighborhood watchdog role, calling government agencies every time they think they have something to report. Often, it’s retired folks who have lots of time on their hands. With Shima, sometimes her tips panned out; sometimes they didn’t.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No. She made all her complaints over the phone.”

  “Did you happen to note what phone number she was calling from?”

  “She called from different numbers. Rarely the same one twice. I figured she did that so I wouldn’t screen her calls. She said she didn’t want to be a pest, but a lot of times it was hard to get off the phone with her. She liked to talk. Sometimes I wondered if she was just lonely.”

  Up until Ricki’s last comment, I was certain this Shima person must be Aunt Josephine. But I had a hard time believing she’d be lonely considering all the friends she supposedly had.

  “When did you last hear from Shima?” I asked.

  Ricki looked at the ceiling as she thought about it. “It’s been a couple months, I think. Her last complaint was about a CAFO out near Hickton. It was discharging waste into a stream.”

  “What’s a CAFO? Something to do with chemicals?”

  “It’s a concentrated animal feeding operation—otherwise known as a factory farm.”

  “Oh.” I wrinkled my nose. “What about HAPCO? Are you familiar with that company?”

  “Yeah, sure. Hemsley Ag-Pro Company. They do packaging and storage of agricultural chemicals, such as herbicides and insecticides. Also, fertilizers. I’ve inspected the facility a few times.”

  “Is that anything like Sorghum?” I was still curious about the unsolved bombing Zeke had told me about.

  “Sorghum is a manufacturer. HAPCO is a distributor for Sorghum’s products, among others.”

  Close enough, I thought. “Did your informant complain about HAPCO?”

  “Yes, several times. But it’s a pretty compliant company. HAPCO files its required reports and keeps up with its housekeeping. I haven’t documented any major violations there.”

  “Hmm.” I seemed to have run out of questions. I also realized Detective Rhinehardt might not be thrilled to find me encroaching on his investigation. I thanked Ricki for all the information and stood up.

  As we walked back into the lobby, Ricki said, “I’m sorry to hear of Shima’s passing—if it turns out that the woman found in the forest really was her.”

  The receptionist perked up at Ricki’s words. “Did you say Shima is dead? Wow. Pop the cork, huh? That crazy lady took up so much of your time.”

  Ricki gave her a stern look. “She wasn’t crazy. She was just concerned.” To me, Ricki said, “I really am sorry. I’m going to miss her calls.”

  * * *

  Outside, I stood on the sidewalk and tried not to let my disappointment bring me down. I had hoped Ricki would be able to offer more insight into what had happened to my aunt. Ricki’s name on Josephine’s to-do list seemed like the most promising lead we had.

  An image of the note surfaced in my mind. Something bothered me. It was the wording. As I thought about it, I recalled Josephine’s exact words on the paper: See Ricki. I was sure that’s what it said. Yet the inspector told me she’d never met Josephine—aka Shima. She’d only heard from her over the phone.

  Was it possible Ricki wasn’t being honest about her encounters with her longtime tipster?

  The whoosh of flapping wings startled me from my ruminations. A large crow landed on the back of a nearby bench. When I looked over at the bird, I noticed a man getting out of a black sports car parked along the curb. I recognized him at once. It was Tadd Hemsley, the owner of HAPCO. When I’d last seen him, he was making fun of Crenshaw’s vampire costume at the haunted barn. I watched as he held out his key fob to beep the car locked, then took off down the sidewalk.

  “Tadd!” I chased after him and stopped short when he turned around, startled. He was a wiry guy, with the sort of swaggering toughness that always puts me in mind of a stuntman or a racecar driver. Something about his piercing, blue eyes and silvery gelled hair screamed Hollywood—not to mention the edgy little soul patch above his chin. He definitely stood out among the farmers he often worked with.

  “Hello there . . . Keli. Right?”

  “Keli Milanni.” I stuck out my hand, feeling somewhat idiotic as I tried to catch my breath. “I’m with Olsen, Sykes, and Rafferty.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re not here to sue me, are you?”

  “What? No, I—”

  “I’m kidding.” He snickered and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “It was nice seeing you the other night at that haunted barn thing. You made a great witch.”

  “Thank you. Um, could I talk to you for a minute? You have lots of contacts in the farming community, right?”

  “Sure,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “Matter of fact, I’m heading to a Farmers Union meeting right now. But I can spare a few minutes.”

  “I was just wondering . . . have you heard of a seed company called Sister Seeds?”

&
nbsp; He shook his head slowly. “I can check the union membership directory, but that doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “How about a woman named Josephine O’Malley?”

  “I don’t believe so. She a farmer?”

  “I’m . . . not sure. I don’t suppose the name Shima means anything to you.”

  He gave me a cockeyed look that answered my question. I decided to switch course. “Do you spend much time out at your facility near Briar Creek Cabins? I mean, are you there every day?”

  “Sure. That’s my place of business. It’s not that close to Briar Creek Cabins, though. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what happened with that woman who was shot near there. I wondered if you or any of your employees might have seen her walking in the area. She was a relative of mine.”

  He paused with his cigarette between his lips, mid-puff, then pulled it out and gave me a sympathetic look. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that. No one saw her. I would’ve heard about it.”

  “That’s okay. I just thought I’d ask. Gil Johnson—he was a friend of hers—he said Josephine was sort of an environmental activist and liked to clean up parks, that sort of thing. I thought you might’ve encountered her at some point over the years.” Tadd shook his head again, and I realized I was barking up the wrong tree. “Well, she didn’t even live in Edindale, at least not full-time. So, I guess I’m not surprised.”

  He took another drag on his cigarette and looked thoughtful. “Are you talking about Gil Johnson, the canoe guy? Now there’s an odd character. He volunteered to help out at Farm Aid last year, and then never showed up. He’s always been a flaky one.”

  “Did he give you an excuse?”

  “Nah. He just skipped town. Rumor has it he’s hiding from an ex-wife. He probably owes alimony or something.” Tadd tossed his cigarette butt toward the street. “Maybe the police should question Gil Johnson. If he was acquainted with the dead woman, he’d for sure be at the top of my list.”

  * * *