THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston

by Thomas Kennedy Lowenstein

  Gerry patted her forearm. “Shh,” he said.

  “No, I won’t shhh,” Robin said, standing up. “I am so tired of this—unfairness. We’re—I asked him to take care of her, to help her, that’s how he knew her. It’s not right.” She turned to her sister. “You know how Mother always was. It’s not right. You know it’s not.”

  Gerry took her arm. “We’ll just be a moment,” he said, leading her out of the room. Robin’s sister followed.

  The lawyer looked at Sam. “These things are never easy,” he said.

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “She left you quite a lot,” the lawyer said. “After taxes and fees and the money she left to her daughters, you’ll probably—your part will probably be worth three quarters of a million. Plus the land. That won’t be worth as much with the rider, but—still—there’s a lot of it.” He peered at Sam over his reading glasses.

  “The land,” Sam said. “What land? What rider?”

  “She had recently inherited land from an old family associate—a James Hammond,” the lawyer said. “The rider bars commercial development.”

  Of course, Sam thought. The land. He nodded. He thought of an afternoon, of sunlight in the window over Mrs. Atlee’s bed, and of her laughing till she coughed. He thought of Alice and wondered when he’d meet Eddie and Jenny. But she could buy them Christmas presents now. My God. How did Mrs. Atlee have so much money? The day before, when the lawyer had called and asked him to come to the reading, he’d thought of tiny Mrs. Atlee and having her will read and he’d almost cried. Alice had come and knelt in front of him, hugging his knees, resting her head on his legs.

  “Thank you,” Sam said to the lawyer. He stood for a moment at the window. He left the conference room and walked down the hall.

  Robin was standing in a mini-kitchen, blowing her nose, talking to her husband and sister. She looked at Sam defiantly.

  He opened his mouth to speak but started walking again instead.

  On the street he thought, I could take a taxi now, it really doesn’t matter, but he wanted to walk a bit. Soon he came upon an old graveyard; the gate was locked so he stared through it at the old stones. Would he see South again? How would he remember all of this? How would he ever be sure what he really remembered and what he’d made up to fill in gaps? This would be more and more difficult to believe as he got older, that was for sure. He read some of the names on the gravestones. He turned up his collar and walked for a while. Snow gathered on his hair and collar. He crossed the bridge with the columns that looked like salt shakers and to his left could see the back of Boston, the hunched buildings on the hill, the tall new ones, the busy road stretching off to the right, following the curve of the icy river.

  The wind on the bridge was strong. He started to feel cold and when he reached the far side he hailed a cab. He stared out the window at the snow and storefronts and people, the other cars.

  He didn’t recognize his own building for a moment. He paid the cabbie and walked slowly up to his apartment and opened the door. On the floor was an envelope with the red wax seal, the initials JS.

  Sam opened it. “King’s Chapel, Sunday, 11 am,” the tiny black handwriting read. “Please come. Yours, JS.”

  The room was darkening. He sat still.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Church

  South paused at the black iron gate outside King’s Chapel. The bars were higher than his head. The square steeple of the church was pillowed in fog; it was warm for December and had been raining off and on throughout the morning.

  “Mr. McParland,” South said, gesturing with his hand for McParland to enter the church first.

  McParland nodded, touching the brim of his hat. He looked at South and their eyes held. “Mr. South,” he said, nodding again.

  Just inside the wooden doors a heavy man in a tight sport coat was smiling, asking those who entered if they were there for the service, politely telling tourists that the church was closed for the morning. There was a guest book for those who wished to stay.

  “Sign,” South said to McParland. “‘James McParland, from Purgatory, Massachusetts.’”

  McParland snorted. “If I’m lucky,” he said.

  Inside the church proper the living sat in the box pews up front, whispering to each other. A small choir sang in the balcony. The dead scurried up the aisles, knelt and prayed, gossiped in the stairway that led to the balcony.

  South leaned back and looked up at the light blue ceiling. “When, do you suppose?” he asked. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “I don’t know,” McParland said. “Soon, I think.” He had sipped from his bottle before meeting South. The room was cool, the lines clean, the colors bright.

  South felt warm and sleepy. He took a pew in the back and made himself sit up straight. He started to shake.

  “Hello, South,” a voice close by said.

  “Hello, Roberts,” South said, nodding, surprised at the effort required to speak.

  “Yes,” Roberts said. “Hello.” He looked at McParland but no introduction was forthcoming. “It’s going to be soon, don’t you think?” he asked South, his eyes flitting to McParland. “I’m going this time, I am quite certain of that. Quite. Many people far worse than I have gone. I can’t be certain about my wife, of course, but I can’t be held back by her any longer.”

  South nodded to him.

  “Yes, well,” Roberts said, clearing his throat. “Good luck, old man!” He looked uncertainly at McParland. “Good luck to you both,” he added before striding away, pulling his coat around him.

  South closed his eyes and listened to the choir. When he’d been a child the choir had always been his favorite part of going to church; the singing had always distracted him from the discomfort of the dresses he’d been forced to wear.

  McParland touched South’s arm. “Sam,” he said, nodding toward the door.

  South opened his eyes. Sam had just entered the church and was looking around, sweeping damp hair back from his forehead. Under his overcoat he wore a black suit and white shirt.

  “Here,” South said quietly.

  Sam turned, saw him, and came to the pew.

  “Hi,” he said, nodding to each of them. “Are you—is this—”

  “I don’t know,” South said. He had no energy to move; every part of him felt heavy. “It might be just a regular Sunday morning service. But isn’t it lovely? Come sit, Sam. The dead are all around you, but you are used to that now.” He tried to smile. “You remember, for example, Mr. McParland.”

  “Of course,” Sam said. He sat beside South and looked at the people in the nearby pews. An elderly couple, a family scrubbed clean, another family all in red sweaters.

  “How is Alice?” South asked, his eyes half-closed.

  “She’s ok,” Sam said. “She’s bringing the kids. Eddie left his tie in the car, they had to go back.”

  “A family man,” McParland said.

  “I’m very sorry about Mrs. Atlee,” South said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Sam said. “I thought you might come to the reading of her will.”

  South shook his head. He wanted to comment to McParland—something about how complicated things were, or some joke about how the dead can only clean things up for the living. But he couldn’t speak. The singing filled his ears and to do anything but listen seemed impossible.

  “Yes,” South said. He forced his mouth to work, heavy and slow. “I wanted to thank you. For your work.”

  “Not necessary,” Sam said. “And you, Mr. McParland, thank you for—”

  McParland held up a hand and shook his head.

  “Is that just an organ now, or voices?” South asked.

  “Organ,” McParland said.

  Alice came into the church with Eddie and Jenny. She was wearing a gray raincoat over a navy blue dress. Eddie was fidgety in a dark suit; Jenny wore a dark blue coat and carried a rain hat.

  “Will they be able to—” Sam whispered.

>   “Oh. Yes. Bring them over,” South said.

  Sam waved to them and they came over to the pew. He kissed Alice’s cheek and introduced everyone.

  “Forgive me,” South said to Alice. “I cannot stand.”

  They sat down. Eddie stared at McParland and Jenny cowered behind her mother. The service started and the children sat, quiet but fidgeting.

  “Look at that,” South said. The dead in their old clothes and mists of color ran the aisles or sobbed in corners.

  Sam and Alice looked at the quiet church. Eddie turned the pages of a hymnbook.

  “Who are you?” Jenny said, sliding close to South.

  “I’m your uncle Jacob,” he said.

  “Who’s he?” she asked, pointing at McParland.

  “Your uncle McParland,” South said.

  The minister climbed to the pulpit and began the service. When the congregation rose for hymns, South remained seated. He felt increasingly warm and closed his eyes.

  Jenny and Eddie fidgeted.

  A small man in a black overcoat with long gray hair damp around his wrinkled face entered the church, holding a round cap in his hands. He stood for a moment, surveying the church. The dead turned, stood, stopped crying; the minister continued speaking. The small man came to South’s pew and nodded at South and McParland.

  South bowed. “So you have come,” he said. He had thought he might feel frightened but didn’t. Oh Father, he thought, I am grateful.

  “May the one who creates harmony above, make peace for us and for all Israel, and for all who dwell on earth,” the gray-haired man said. “And say: Amen.”

  South turned to Sam. “Goodbye,” he said.

  “Goodbye,” Sam said.

  “Goodbye, Alice,” South said. “It has been a pleasure to meet you. Goodbye, children.”

  Alice nodded. The children stared.

  South stepped out of the pew. A crowd of the dead had gathered, silent, beseeching, wringing their hands. The gray-haired man closed the door of the pew.

  “McParland,” South said, stepping back toward him.

  McParland’s eyes flashed red. “Good luck, South,” he said.

  “Yes,” South said. “Good luck, McParland.” He opened his mouth to say more but closed it again and turned away.

  Sam watched South, flickering, walk up the aisle. The gray-haired man followed closely, pausing occasionally to gesture for a soul to join them.

  McParland stared at the floor. Sam wanted to say something to him.

  “Finally,” the pastor was saying, “we commend to thy Fatherly goodness all those who are in any way afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate, and especially thy servants….” He read a list of names of the recently deceased. “And those whom we hold up to you in silent prayer.”

  Sam closed his eyes and thought of Mrs. Atlee. When he opened them he couldn’t see South or the gray-haired man anywhere.

  The dead gnashed their teeth and fled the church in spiteful bursts of red, green, frozen blue, bile yellow. Roberts rushed by the pew, his wife trailing behind him, bent over in consultation with a pumpkin of a man in a blue suit.

  “Philadelphia,” Roberts said to McParland. “Philadelphia is next!”

  “Philadelphia?” his wife asked. “Imagine that.”

  “Oh, do be quiet,” Roberts stormed at her. He rushed from the church.

  McParland stood up. “Well,” he said. “It appears I am due in Philadelphia.” He put on his coat and hat and pushed the door of the pew open with his cane.

  “Good luck,” Sam said.

  McParland bowed. “And to you,” he said. He nodded at the children and walked stiffly away, leaning on his cane.

  Sam took Alice’s hand. The music from the choir drifted down to them, as if borne gently on the soft fog.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Thomas Kennedy Lowenstein is a writer, journalist, editor, and policy strategist. With a special interest in helping those wrongly convicted of a crime and in campaigning against the death penalty, he has worked tirelessly to focus attention on inequities in the American criminal justice system. Born in New York, educated in Boston, Mr. Lowenstein now lives in New Orleans with his wife and daughter. THE GHOST DETECTIVE is his first novel.