The Legend of Sleepy Harlow

by Kylie Logan

  He pulled a face. “Sure, lots of people are interested in paranormal investigating, and all those shows on TV make it look so glamorous. But nine times out of ten, our volunteers try it for a week or two, then give up. It’s always left to the core group to keep going, and it was always up to me to try and make everybody remember that what we were doing was important. Try being enthusiastic when you’re standing in the middle of some ruin of an old orphanage in the middle of the night and you haven’t found one shred of evidence and it’s raining and everybody you’re with knows they’ve got to be up and out the door and to work in less than three hours.”

  “Still, you kept the group going.”

  “You got that right.” A muscle jumped at the base of his jaw. “And little by little, every year, we got a little better, a little smoother. We started gathering some really convincing evidence.”

  “Like that video of Sleepy.”

  Dimitri grunted. “It was that darned video! It should have been the best thing that ever happened to us, right? And in some ways, it was. I mean, it got us plenty of attention. But once Noreen had that video . . .” He shook his head. “Once that happened, nothing could stop her. Nobody could toot Noreen’s horn like Noreen could, and she tooted for all she was worth. There isn’t anybody in the field who hasn’t seen the video. And not one who doesn’t think the Turner Plasmometer is the Holy Grail of paranormal investigation.”

  “You mean you think that contraption really works?”

  “‘That contraption’ . . .” Dimitri repeated the phrase but added a certain note of reverence I couldn’t have mustered if I tried. “It’s the greatest innovation in detection equipment in the last ten years. There’s no way we would have gotten that video of Sleepy last year without it. The plasmometer, see, sends out waves of electromagnetic energy that spirits can use to manifest. Other folks have tried similar inventions, and they’ve had some minimal success. But Noreen—I don’t know how she did it, but she got the wavelengths just right. And the radio frequencies. I didn’t like the woman. You may have noticed! But I’m the first to give credit where credit is due.”

  “So that was the plan, just like last year? You take the camera crew and the plasmometer. You lie in wait at the winery and you get more video of Sleepy.”

  “No.” When he shook his head, a curl of inky hair dipped over his forehead. With one hand, he pushed it back in place. “See, last year, we had spread out over the winery to get some base readings and see what we could see. Noreen, she was all alone when she took that video. She caught it with her handheld camera. Since she was back at the winery all by herself when she was murdered, my guess is she thought she could duplicate the conditions. She was after the same thing all over again.”

  “Sleepy.”

  “Yeah, Sleepy.” Cynicism dripped from every syllable. “And the fame that would come along with getting more footage of him. You see, that’s really all Noreen cared about. Not advancing the science. Not illuminating what’s been a mystery for millennia. Noreen wanted to be a guest on talk shows. She wanted to be the keynote speaker at paranormal investigation conferences. And she was going to do anything to make that happen, even if it killed her. I guess she got her wish, huh?” Dimitri twitched away the thought. “Hopefully tonight, we’ll get some footage of activity here on the island so that we’re not wasting our time while we hang around.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to.” When he gave me a blank look, I explained. “I mean, I thought after what happened, you’d take some time off. Or spend your time talking to each other. You know, a little therapy.”

  “Paranormal investigating is the best therapy known to mankind.” He grabbed an apple, tossed it in the air and caught it in one hand, then strolled out the door. “Hey, with any luck, maybe we’ll run into Noreen’s apparition tonight while we’re out. That would be something, huh? Noreen would actually be good for something besides the Turner Plasmometer. And that would be hilarious. You know, because she’d be more useful after she was dead!”

  10

  The next day was Saturday, and I spent all day working on reconstructing Marianne’s book about Sleepy.

  I know, I know . . . I should have been worried about Kate. I was worried about Kate. But worrying would get me nowhere, and I knew that. Neither would trying to get through to Kate. See, Kate being Kate and as single-minded and as stubborn as anyone I’d ever known (except for maybe the possible exception of me), she threw herself into her work to forget her troubles, shutting herself in her office at the winery. Her employees had strict orders that no one—no matter who—could bother her.

  At least that’s what they told me when I called.

  By ten o’clock, I had two dozen more pages for the manuscript. They were mostly blank, with a word here and there that I’d been able to make out. I hoped those words would work like a trail of bread crumbs, leading me to the information that would help me rewrite Marianne’s story. I’d talked to Alvin, and learned that Marianne had come through her surgery with flying colors. But the docs on the mainland wanted to keep an eye on her, and they insisted she stay close.

  I had a couple days’ reprieve.

  With that in mind, I waded my way (gagging all the while) through three more chapters. Lucky for me, it was a short book (hurray!) that I assumed would be illustrated with historic photos of the island, the lake, and, of course, Sleepy. After all this time reading about him, thinking about him, and trying to reconstruct his life, I was anxious to see what the man looked like.

  With his head.

  Thank goodness, the pages I worked on next were slightly more readable. Being farther down in the pile, they weren’t as soaked as the earlier ones. It was tough going, but I refused to lose heart. By the time I was done, I’d deciphered enough to know exactly where on the island Charlie Harlow was born, and I’d learned that as a young man, he was a day laborer. Smart guy that he was, he recognized an opportunity to make some real money when Prohibition was enacted. He started out small with a gang of locals who smuggled real liquor (not the nasty bathtub variety) out of a place called Middle Island, Canada, and he soon became their leader. He made contacts (or the word might have been contracts, which I guess would have made sense, too) with the larger world and with gangsters on the mainland, both in the US and in Canada. He had the reputation for being quiet (hence the nickname), and once he had a few ill-gotten bucks in his pocket, he was known to be generous with those who deserved it and less than cooperative when it came to explaining to the right side of the law about where all that money came from.

  The rest of those few chapters were fuzzy.

  Or I should say, more descriptively, soggy.

  I needed a break to clear my head. And my nose. I’d just made a turkey sandwich and a glass of iced tea and taken it out to the front porch when Hank pulled in.

  He made his way up the front porch steps between the pots of purple mums and the pumpkins I’d put out in honor of the season, and when he got over to where I sat, he gave my lunch the careful sort of once-over that I imagined he used on perps.

  Which made me think about Kate.

  Which made me not so hungry anymore.

  “Sandwich?” I asked Hank.

  He accepted with a nod and scooped up half the turkey and avocado on wheat. “I already ate lunch,” he said between mouthfuls. “So you have the other half.”

  I sipped iced tea instead.

  “Just thought you should know . . .” Finished with the half sandwich in three efficient bites, Hank dropped into the wicker rocker next to the couch where I sat. No matter how hard the cushions had been scrubbed or how many times, I swear I could still smell the souvenirs of Jerry Garcia’s disastrous visit to the porch, and I’d tossed the cushions from all the furniture and ordered new ones online. Until they arrived, I’d folded up a cushy chenille throw in a luscious shade of grape that matched the trim on the house and was ensconced on that. I doubted Hank was as comfortable in the rocker sans cushions. Then again
, it was a little hard to tell. Hank always had a pained expression on his pug-ugly face.

  “We checked into Kate’s phone calls,” he said, and maybe he winced because an errant bit of wicker poked him. Or maybe he just didn’t like what he had to say. “The other day when she got called to the mainland by that wine critic? That call came from Noreen Turner’s cell.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Which didn’t mean I wasn’t disgusted. “Getting her hopes up like that! What a lousy thing to do to Kate!”

  “Yeah, well, Ms. Turner and her bunch wanted to get Kate away from the winery. I guess they figured it was a pretty good way to do it.”

  “Dimitri claims they didn’t know what Noreen was up to.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  “It doesn’t much matter. Kate refused to press charges for the breaking and entering. End of story.”

  “So why tell me about the phone call?”

  He shifted in his seat, and the wicker groaned. “You’re a smart woman, Bea.”

  I swiped a finger along the outside of my glass, getting rid of a drop of condensation. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “So you know what I’m getting at.”

  I locked my gaze onto Hank’s. “I know you’re wrong.”

  “Are you telling me Kate didn’t realize that call was a scam? That she wasn’t mad about it?”

  “Yes, she realized it. And of course she was mad. You know that. She admits it, and who can blame her? But that doesn’t mean—”

  “When she figured out where the call really came from and why Noreen made it, she must have just about busted a gasket.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “And that’s when Kate told you she wanted to kill Noreen Turner.”

  Believe me, if I could take back what I’d told Hank about the conversation I had with Kate after she returned from the mainland, I would have. In a heartbeat. But it was too late for that.

  “She didn’t mean it,” I told him. “Not literally. And even if she did, that certainly doesn’t prove she did it.”

  “You don’t think I’m enjoying this, do you?” Hank hauled himself out of the rocker and stalked to the porch railing. It was another glorious fall day, and across the street, the sun glinted off the waves that kissed the shoreline. Tourists were taking advantage of these last wonderful days. The road was busy with buzzing golf carts. Hank might have been watching it all, but I knew it wasn’t what he was thinking about. His back to me, he planted his feet and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “So who else do you think could have done it?” he asked.

  If he’d been facing me, he would have seen my mouth flap open. There was a time he wouldn’t have asked for my opinion. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I wish I did.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to find out. It’s the only way we’ve got any hope of helping Kate.”

  I hadn’t even realized there’d been a knot in my chest since I saw Kate get into Hank’s SUV. That is, until some of the tension eased. “You don’t really think she did it.”

  He spun to face me. “I don’t want to think she really did it. But the facts—”

  “Can’t be right.”

  “Until the test results arrive back from the state crime lab and tell me any different, facts are all I have to go on.”

  I scooted forward in my seat. “I know, but—”

  “So unless we find some other facts and those other facts point us to other people, things aren’t looking good for Kate.”

  “Yes. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” I found myself nodding like a bobblehead and stopped before I made myself dizzy. “What do you want me to do?”

  A slow smile relieved some of the surliness of Hank’s expression. “I was hoping that’s what you’d say. What have you found out so far?”

  I didn’t bother to ask why he assumed I was digging into things myself. Words like nosy and snooping tend to rub me the wrong way. Especially since I know they’re true.

  “I thought they’d all be depressed,” I told Hank, with a look at the house that was supposed to indicate the ghost hunters. Since they’d trouped out early in the morning and he didn’t know that, I figured I needed to elaborate.

  “EGG. They’re not the least bit upset,” I told him. “Not any of them except maybe for Fiona. In fact, I’d go so far as to say a couple of them are actually thrilled.”

  “That she’s dead?” Even Hank, hardened from years of police work, was surprised.

  “Not that she’s dead so much as that she’s gone,” I said. “Dimitri has taken over with a vengeance.”

  “I suppose someone has to. They have a contract, and they have to produce something for that TV show.”

  “Yes, I agree. I know a little about the entertainment industry and I know that Noreen’s murder is going to give the show a whole lot of publicity. That makes it more important than ever for them to get their filming done and in on time. I get that. Really, I do.” I folded my arms around myself. “I just didn’t expect that they’d go at it with this much”—I wondered how to describe it to Hank and decided that one word would suffice—“glee.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Mostly this Dimitri guy?”

  “Mostly. He’s back in the driver’s seat. He used to be lead investigator for the group. Then when Noreen shot that video of Sleepy that made them famous, he got pushed to the background. He likes being in charge. And he likes the idea of getting first billing on the show and being a star. He’ll be good at it.”

  Hank nodded. “And the rest of them?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk them. I want to, but not until I can get each of them alone. You know, so they can’t repeat each other’s stories.”

  Another nod, and I knew he approved.

  “But I will say that it’s not a coincidence that Jacklyn Bichot is back with the group.”

  “And maybe not a coincidence that she just happened to show up the day Ms. Turner’s body was found?”

  This I couldn’t say, and I told Hank so. As he’d just reminded me, I could only stick with the facts. “Jacklyn used to be a member of EGG, and she and Noreen didn’t get along. Jacklyn went out and found another job. Now that Noreen’s gone . . .”

  “Made her move and got back in, huh?” Hank’s eyes lit. “And the others?” Hank dropped back into the rocker, the better to eyeball me. “They’ll be more comfortable talking to you than they would to me. Oh, I’ve already asked all the usual questions, but I’m thinking you can dig a little deeper. You know, get a little more of the dirt they might not be willing to share with law enforcement.”

  “I’ll try,” I promised.

  “That’s all I can ask.” He slapped the arms of the chair and stood. But not before he eyed the other half of the turkey sandwich. “Hey, if you’re not gonna eat that . . .”

  I gave him permission with a wave, and, sandwich in hand, Hank stomped back down the steps and into his SUV.

  I opted for an apple for lunch. Okay, yeah, that sounds healthy enough, but in the interest of full disclosure, I’ll admit that after I sliced it, I slathered each piece with peanut butter. Extra crunchy. Thus newly fortified, I made a quick call to Luella to ask for her help with a little Sleepy research, then got back to work on Marianne’s manuscript, gagging through another few chapters.

  By the time I was done, it was late afternoon, and since I’d left a note by each of the ghost hunters’ doors that morning inviting them to tea that afternoon, I wasn’t surprised when they were back at four on the dot.

  And plenty hungry, as it turned out.

  I set out a china pot of nice, strong black English tea, and another of green tea; a variety of tiny sandwiches that Meg, Luella’s daughter and my go-to person for all things culinary, had come in to make for me; a platter of sugar cookies; and a selection of really nice chocolates.

  Then I stepped back to wait.

  I have to admit, I wasn’t surprised when th
e guys and Jacklyn dug right in or that poor Fiona hung back, eyeing the table and quietly waiting her turn. In fact, it was just what I was hoping for.

  I caught her eye and waved her into the kitchen.

  “By the time they’re through, there’s not going to be anything left,” I said, and I was sure to add a smile, just to gain the kid’s confidence. I led the way to the counter, where I’d kept extras of everything. “Go ahead,” I said. “Help yourself. I’ll get us some tea.”

  “That’s so nice of you!” Fiona plunked down on one of the tall stools at the breakfast bar. Like every time I’d seen her, she was wearing that spectacular howlite necklace, and the light above the counter caught the stone and made it shine like newly fallen snow.

  When I handed it to her, she wrapped both her hands around her teacup. “I’m starving! We worked so hard today. We were out at the lighthouse.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “You mean evidence of paranormal activity?” Fiona gulped down one of the tiny egg salad sandwiches and reached for a second. “Maybe a couple EVPs. You know, Electronic Voice Phenomena. That’s when you make a recording and you don’t hear anything with your own ears, but when you replay the recording, you pick up the voices of spirits.”

  “Well, for your sake, I hope you caught plenty of them. Noreen would have liked that.”

  “Noreen. Yeah.” Fiona changed her mind just as she was reaching for another sandwich. She sat back and glanced over her shoulder. From here, we could hear the lively conversation going on in the dining room. “They don’t care,” she said.

  “Maybe they know they don’t have the luxury. You’ve got a TV show to finish producing.”

  “I guess.” Her shoulders rose and fell. “But it seems kind of harsh, doesn’t it? I wish the cops could figure out what really happened to Noreen.”

  “They talked to you?” I knew Hank had, but Fiona didn’t know that I knew. “And you told them that when EGG left the winery the other night, they forgot to take you with them?”