The Ghostess and Mister Muir

by J. L. Salter

  Presently, back in his own suite, Muir busied himself with showering and dressing so they could go to supper. As he was occupied thusly, Lucy walked about the apartment struggling to store up visual and tactile clues which she hoped would help jog her memory after midnight when everything was supposed to vanish.

  At her own place on Sunday evening, while Muir was napping, Lucy had typed a detailed account of the entire bizarre series of events. While doing so, she inserted several admonishments to the reader, such as, “when you see this account, you will not remember that it actually happened right before your eyes, but it did.” Even as she’d written those prompts, she had resigned herself to Danielle’s prediction — that she and Levi both would recall only fragmented snippets and would mostly perceive them as pieces of a dream.

  “So what will you think when you read this account after tomorrow morning, Lucy?” she asked herself. “You’ll probably think those prompts to the reader are a literary device that Levi very cleverly suggested inserting into your fictional tale.”

  “What did you say?” inquired Muir, entering with damp hair and a broad smile. He wore a body-flattering plaid shirt and pressed jeans.

  “Nothing. Merely talking to myself.” She smiled back. “Oh, just remembered, this little package arrived in Saturday’s mail.” She pointed toward the kitchen table.

  “What’s in it?” He returned to the bathroom for a small towel, with which he vigorously finished drying his hair.

  Lucy held it out. “No idea. It’s addressed to you. What were you expecting?”

  “Nothing. Not that I remember anyway.”

  “Well, open it and we’ll both be surprised.”

  He hesitated, but finally put down the towel and grasped the small parcel. “Hmm.” He shook it very gently as he held it next to his ear. “Sounds like a clock or something.”

  “It’s ticking?”

  “No, not ticking, but…”

  “For Heaven’s sakes, Levi, just open it.”

  He slid a pocketknife from his jeans and opened the largest blade. With two expert flicks, he cut the taped flaps, folded them back, and began extracting the packing tissue.

  “So…?” She spotted the packing slip and opened it.

  “Uh, it’s a round jewelry box or something.”

  “That’s a music box, you ninny.” She waved the page.

  “Weird. Let me see.” He handed her the box and studied the slip she traded him. “According to this invoice, on last Saturday I bought it for the asking price from an auction in progress.”

  “You sound puzzled, Levi.”

  “Well, I usually place my maximum bid, then wait ‘til the auction ends to see if my bid wins it. With this thing, I evidently had to hurry… couldn’t wait for the auction to run its course.”

  “It must have been important to you.”

  “Crank her up and let’s see what she plays.” Muir went to his bedroom and returned holding a pair of cowboy boots.

  Lucy had just flipped up the music box’s lid when he reentered the kitchen. “Oh, that’s a lovely tune.”

  “Sounds kind of familiar, but I can’t place it. Is there a song title on that paperwork?” He pointed to the table.

  She squinted to read the handwritten scrawl. “You made me love you… I didn’t want to do it.” And tears immediately fell.

  “What’s wrong, Lucy?”

  “Nothing.” She tried to stem her emotion. “It’s the Harry James Orchestra from the early 1940s.” Lucy pointed to the shipping slip.

  “So why are you crying?”

  “Levi, don’t you realize why you bought this music box?”

  While seated at the kitchen table, he struggled to pull on his boots. “Well, certainly not for myself.” He picked up the box, rewound the key, and let the melody play again. “So I guess it’s a gift.”

  Warm salty tears filled her eyes. “For whom?”

  “Who do you think, Lucy?” He smiled awkwardly. “Obviously, I bought it for you.”

  She nearly knocked the box from his hands as she lurched over to hug him in his chair. “Oh, Levi, are you sure?”

  “Who else?” He picked up his phone, tapped on the photo album, and showed her their picture. “You’re the only woman in my life, Lucy.” He pushed her back enough to look into her eyes. “You do like it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Levi, I love it.” She sniffled noisily. “Every time I play it, I’ll think of you.”

  Muir placed the box on the table and stood, pulling Lucy up beside him, and then embraced her tightly. “You’re certainly acting spooky today.”

  “What do you mean by spooky?” She inhaled some of the congestion from her sinuses.

  “Spooky like a young colt on a spring morning, just discovering new sights and sounds in the field.”

  “Oh, that kind.” She pressed her face back into his firm chest. “Yes, I suppose so. It’s been a long weekend and I’ve been indoors a lot,” she pinched his belly, “taking care of a sick newbie. I haven’t been outside getting my proper exercise. So, I guess I am a bit spooky. But I’m glad you’re feeling better and I appreciate this music box.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his lips. When she started to disengage, Muir pulled her back, tighter, and kissed her more deeply. Their embrace was becoming far too warm, and a bit too soon… so she ended it. “Say, I like those boots. Don’t think I’ve seen them before.”

  He was visibly disappointed about the kiss ending, but did not complain. “Don’t believe I’ve worn them yet in Magnolia, not until now.”

  “Why now, Levi?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. Just felt like doing something different. Plus, I wanted to see if my ankle would let me wear them again.”

  “Very nice.” She leaned over to examine them more closely.

  Muir selected that moment to bend forward until his face nearly touched her head. When Lucy straightened, they collided. “Ow.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Just smelling your hair.”

  “Why?”

  He grinned self-consciously. “Not sure exactly. But I have this powerful feeling that I just can’t get enough of you.”

  It warmed her considerably. “Well, there’s plenty of me to go around, Levi. But we’d better get some supper first, or I’ll keel over.”

  Muir reached out his long arms and again pulled her to him tightly.

  She could hear his heart beating and feel the sturdy rhythm of his breathing. “I must say that getting past that two week hump at school really seems to agree with you. I think you’re one newbie who’ll do just fine, Levi.”

  “Well, the verdict’s still out on sophomore English, but I’m mighty glad I moved to Magnolia and met you.”

  “Really?” She knew it, deep down, but still relished hearing the words.

  His reply was a short kiss on her forehead. Then he pulled away, gazed deeply into her eyes and kissed her again, on the lips.

  Lucy wanted more and knew Muir did as well, but she disengaged again and patted his denim covered rump. “We’d better go eat before they run out of peach cobbler.”

  “I’d be willing to make that sacrifice… if the tradeoff was advantageous.” He grinned slyly.

  “Well, behave yourself and you might get lucky.” She reached for her purse. “Now grab your keys and let’s scoot.”

  Muir noticed the portrait leaning against the wall beside door. “Where’d that picture frame come from?”

  “Oh, it has a connection to the hotel.”

  He picked it up and turned it over, gazing fondly at the image of the beautiful young lady. “Who is it?”

  “That’s the Gregg girl, the one whose grave is not far from my duplex. I thought you’d seen it.”

  “Hmm. Maybe so. Didn’t that guy at the museum show us a picture?”

  She nodded.

  “Wow, she’s hot… wish I could’ve met her.”

  Lucy pinched below his ribcage. “You could have, if you were around a hundred
years ago.” Then she monitored his face as she added, “Unless you believe in ghosts… because people say she used to haunt this hotel.”

  “Nah, you already know I don’t believe in all that. No offense to you and your chaser group.”

  “No offense taken. Now let’s go eat or I’ll leave you here and dine by myself.”

  “Hold on. This portrait shouldn’t be down on the floor. It ought to be hanging on the wall.”

  “Actually,” she fibbed, “I borrowed it from Mr. Coombe’s storeroom for some research I was doing. I’d meant to take it back, but I’ve been busy nursing an invalid.” Her eyebrows arched theatrically.

  Apparently tuning out her explanation, Muir scanned the suite for likely wall space and then situated it in the same spot it had hung before, though no longer in his memory. “Maybe the manager will let me keep it a little longer. I like seeing her face. It gives me a feeling of comfort, like somebody’s watching over me.”

  As Muir spoke those words, a sweet aroma entered the room… rather as though a swarm of magnificent butterflies had just been startled and darted away.

  About the Author

  My newest novel is “Hid Wounded Reb,” released by Astraea Press in August 2014. My other published novels (with Astraea) are: “Called to Arms Again” (May 2013), “Rescued By That New Guy in Town” (October 2012), and “The Overnighter’s Secrets” (May 2012). Also released through AP are the short novellas, “Echo Taps” (June, 2013) and “Don’t Bet On It” (April, 2014). Also, “Curing the Uncommon Man-Cold,” a screwball comedy released by Dingbat Publishing in December 2013… and its prequel, “Scratching the Seven-Month Itch,” which released in September 2014.

  Romantic comedy and romantic suspense are among nine completed novel manuscripts.

  I’m co-author of two non-fiction monographs (about librarianship) with a royalty publisher, plus a signed chapter in another book and a signed article in a specialty encyclopedia. I’ve also published articles, book reviews, and over 120 poems; my writing has won nearly 40 awards, including several in national contests. As a newspaper photo-journalist, I published about 150 bylined newspaper articles, and some 100 bylined photos.

  I worked nearly 30 years in the field of librarianship. I’m a decorated veteran of U.S. Air Force (including a remote tour of duty in the Arctic, at Thule AB in N.W. Greenland).

  I’m the married parent of two and grandparent of six.

  Acknowledgements

  You see this in each of my Astraea Press books, but I am greatly indebted to AP founder and CEO, Stephanie Taylor, for giving me a chance, for encouraging me, and for continuing to extend contracts for my submissions.

  It’s been wonderful to work with editor Alyssa Brooke Cole, who provided me with extra assistance during content edits. And thanks to Andrea Scibetta for her special attention during line edits.

  Special thanks to my friend, colleague, and AP staffer, Opal Campbell, who was the head wrangler for the creation of fictional Magnolia AL and this new AP series.

  Creator of the outstanding cover for this book was Amanda Matthews at AM Designs Studio.

  As in previous projects, I thank my brother, Charles A. Salter, who provided perceptive, detailed, and very helpful feedback on a late draft. And to my wife, Denise Ann Williams Salter, for reading an early draft and providing several great suggestions, plus helping with the layout / décor of the hotel suite.

  I appreciate the assistance of Runere McLain, who helped me understand more about ghosts and ghost hunters… and their equipment. Also, Larry Tuttle, who provided some needed details about steam locomotives.

  Finally, let me express my fondness for the wonderful 1947 movie, “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” with Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney, which I’ve seen several times. It was based on R.A. Dick’s novel, “The Ghost of Captain Gregg and Mrs. Muir” — which I have not yet read, but I want to.

  Also by J.L. Salter

  Prologue

  March 30, 1919

  Her worn overcoat already fastened as tightly as possible, Belva Butler’s bony fingers held the top of one lapel flap against the spot where the button was missing. With her other hand, she pulled her woolen scarf over her ears and clasped the ends against her throat.

  As the sun hovered over the treetops to her right, she stood in the small graveyard. The hand-shaped stone marker bore no name, but she studied it as though she were reading. Belva remembered how she felt at sixteen, so long ago: the middle of the War Between the States. She never called it the Civil War because it was anything but civil. Brutal and horrible, it was devastating to the state, their community, her family… and to her.

  Fifty-six years ago that very night was when her life first changed. Then a few years later, everything transformed again.

  Without realizing, she began humming a mournful tune. Though people had mentioned this to her, she never seemed to notice. Humming that song felt as natural as breathing. A gust of wind made her shiver as she watched the sun disappear behind the highest branches of the leafless westerly trees.

  Belva leaned forward slowly and placed in front of the unmarked stone a small, white blossom which she’d grown indoors on a windowsill. Though struggling to mature out of season, it was enough of a flower to suit anyone, especially here in the quiet cemetery. Nobody else would bring flowers until Decoration Day at the end of May. Her specially-grown flower, two months before anyone else, made this her private commemoration — her ritual every year on that date, weather notwithstanding.

  Belva shuddered again, her frail bones aching. She exited the rusty wire gate and walked carefully over the hillside, through several gullies, along the crude line of dense cedars and oaks. At a large sinkhole, one of three near her little cottage, she paused again.

  Clutching the thin coat around her neck with one hand, she reached into a coat pocket with the other. With considerable difficulty, she extracted a small, dark bundle. Belva stood there quite a while, gazing down into the deep sinkhole, seeming to calculate something. Perhaps she wondered whether she’d see another of her private annual Decoration Days.

  Then she tossed in the bundle. Actually, it was more of a slow release. One might think it caressed her skin as it finally broke contact with her wrinkled fingertips… and fell to the sinkhole’s deepest part.

  Another sudden gust swept away her scarf, which wafted upward slightly before settling into a different area of the pit, part way up the side nearest her. She thought about trying to retrieve it, but that would be too dangerous with the dark, the cold, and her unsteady legs. The sun was gone, leaving only a hint of orange in the western sky. Belva eyed the bright half moon and guessed just enough light remained to finish her business.

  She made her way carefully to the small spring some forty yards away and lower on the slope. Everybody said the water sprang from somewhere deep below the sinkhole.

  She turned over the dented metal bucket from its resting place on the small rock ledge just above the spring and filled it a bit less than halfway. Water was heavy and Belva longed for the day when her pump would be fixed. She also wished she had a heavier winter coat. She was upset at losing her warmest scarf in the sinkhole, but at least she could do something about that: she’d go back tomorrow morning and fish it out with a potato rake.

  Belva trudged down the hill, past the fence-row, and over toward the southeast corner of the family property. She had hoped someday to build a proper farm house farther east toward the road, but the ground was too steep, and everybody said it would take too many wagon loads of dirt to build it up enough. It probably wouldn’t happen… not in her lifetime anyway.

  By the time Belva reached her back door it was even colder. The last two days of March always seemed the bitterest.

  ****

  Ten days later she was found dead in her cold bed; the blackened stove’s coal fire had been out for a long time. Her old family Bible, on the floor, appeared as if it had fallen from her hands while she was reading.

  It was s
aid Aunt Belva was seventy-two years old. Hard years, every one.

  Chapter One

  Friday, March 30, 2007

  “Wonder what brought a wounded and dying Rebel soldier ta that cabin door.” Her landlord nodded toward the field where the old Butler cabin once stood. “But not another farm down the wagon road?”

  It was unusual for the old man to drive all the way over, especially on such a cold morning. Kelly Mildred Randall had already heard from Chet “Pop” Walter about the dying soldier seeking help from his ancestors during the Civil War. “Don’t know. Maybe chance… fate?”

  Pop’s ear had healed nicely from the gun-shot wound of the previous September, and he fingered it lightly as he gave her a faint scowl.

  Kelly motioned for him to enter, but he shook off her invitation and sat in a rocker near the railing. He just gazed to his left — north — at the fields of his Fulton relatives, and then zipped up his heavy jacket.

  Kelly was impatient to know what brought him, but she’d learned from many contacts with Pop that she wouldn’t gain anything by rushing him. He’ll say what he wants when he’s ready to say it.

  “Cematarry’s going to need a mow before too long.”

  Butler Cemetery was on the adjacent property of Pop’s ancestors.

  “Last week was 144 years since it started.” He cleared his throat loudly.

  Kelly realized Pop had begun explaining the purpose for his visit, so she sharpened her focus.

  “Ever tell you about the big fight near here? Northeast a couple of miles.” Pop didn’t wait for a reply. “This was a running battle that ended up on a hill at the Dutton farm. Rebs came up from Tennessee, hunting beef cattle mostly. Yanks chased them down. After the shooting stopped, the Rebs had lost a couple hundred. Most was prisoners, but a bunch was killed and a whole lot was wounded. Some hurt so bad they knew they was dying and was left ta make their own way, if they wasn’t caught by the Yanks anyhow. They’d stay on small back roads and in the woods ‘til evening came or they couldn’t go no farther. That night, Rebs — some say one Reb, some say two — came by the old Butler cabin on their way home… some say Tennessee. One’s wounded real bad, not sure about the other. Butlers took them in, even though it could’ve been their ruin if the Yanks found out. Anyhow, they hauled the Reb they knew was dying up to the attic, and the other one hid in the little cellar. The one bad-off died during the night. Other Reb left the next morning heading west and left the dead man’s horse.”