Charity Shop Haunted Mysteries

by Katherine Hayton

“Why do you need help?” Mrs Pettigrew drifted back from a thorough examination of the books on offer. “Surely, you’re not so old you don’t know how to Google something?”

  Emily ignored the ghost, the same as she had all morning. Whether death had sharpened her tongue, or this was the personality Mrs Pettigrew had always been afflicted with, she neither knew nor cared.

  Keeping the barbs from striking her was all that concerned Emily.

  “Here it goes.” Pete turned the laptop screen towards her, then smacked his forehead as he remembered. “Just a second. There’s a read-aloud setting if you give me a moment. I’ll set it up with speech input, too, then you can use it with voice commands.”

  “Are you illiterate?” The ghost peered over Emily’s shoulder as Pete scrolled through the settings pane. “Have I wound up with someone who’s a bit of a thicky?”

  Although her hands closed into tight fists, Emily stopped herself from responding. The ghost didn’t deserve the courtesy of an answer, and she didn’t need her new co-worker thinking she was mad.

  “I think this is it.” Pete’s tongue pressed up into the gap in his front teeth as he clicked on a command.

  A robotic voice read out the heading on the page.

  “Thank you,” Emily said in relief, pulling the laptop closer as Pete walked off to greet a customer.

  Pete had left the cursor at a point too far up the page and listed off the grieving family members for an Elizabeth Maidshead. After finishing the legion of relatives, the voice moved to the notice for Mrs Pettigrew.

  “Cynthia,” Emily exclaimed as the computer recited the passage. “It suits you.”

  “That’s why I selected it,” the ghost agreed with a satisfied purr. “You’d never believe the monstrosity of a name my mother saddled me with.”

  Remembering that curiosity killed the cat, Emily refrained from asking. She frowned as the digital voice read out the words, “Died peacefully at home.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  Cynthia frowned and bent to peer at the screen. “It doesn’t sound right to me, either,” she said, straightening up again. “What possible reason would my spirit have to hang around if I died of natural causes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pete turned his head toward her and Emily dropped her voice. “Perhaps we can visit your house again and learn more. I’m sure your stepson had a different view on how you died.”

  “Gregory?” The ghost raised her right eyebrow. “When did you ever talk to him? That boy only leaves his room to grab snacks.”

  Wary of drawing any more attention from Pete, Emily made the trek upstairs, her stiff limbs nagging at her the whole way. With the door closed against eavesdroppers, she stared at Mrs Pettigrew. The woman had floated upstairs with such ease she felt a deep stab of envy.

  With a shake of her head, Emily dismissed the emotion. “I talked to Gregory while he was helping me take the boxes to the car.”

  “I suppose he’s happy to see the back of me,” the ghost said in a voice dripping with self-pity.

  Emily could certainly sympathise with anyone taking that view.

  “He put a brave face on it, but it was clear to me he genuinely missed you. I think your death hit him hard.”

  The glorious smile that resulted from those words made Emily sorry she’d said anything.

  “What did he say about how I died?”

  Emily shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure if we ask him again, we’ll soon find out the truth.” She paused and bit her lip. “I wonder if taking you back to your home will help you find your way to the next…”

  She trailed off, unsure what words to use, and ended up just flapping her hand instead.

  “I think the concept you’re reaching for is heaven,” Mrs Pettigrew said with a sniff. “Or do you think so badly of me?”

  “I’ve never given it much consideration before,” Emily lied. For many months as her injured body healed in a hospital bed, she’d filled her mind with thoughts of might wait as an alternative. Each of them had sounded better than the constant pain she’d lived with at the time.

  “Spirit realm.” The ghost tipped her head to one side, listening to how it sounded. “How about we call it that?”

  Emily nodded. “It sounds fine. If your house doesn’t bring any suggestions of what to do, we can try the graveyard next. It seems to work in movies.”

  “Great idea. Let’s go,” Mrs Pettigrew said, drifting halfway through the door.

  When Emily didn’t follow, the ghost paused and looked back with a frown.

  “I can’t go now,” Emily explained, subduing the satisfied expression that wanted to spread itself across her face. “I’ve got a full day’s work in front of me. If you don’t want to stay here, float off somewhere else and occupy yourself for a while.”

  “Doing what? I can’t touch anything or eat or drink. The entire world might as well be off limits.”

  “Look at something pretty. There’re lovely gardens around the town, or you could go down to the homestead cottage and read all about the first settlers.”

  “Been there. Done that. I’ve been at a loose end in this town many a time before.”

  “Then sit in the corner and be quiet,” Emily said in a stern voice. “It’s only my second day on the job and I can’t afford to lose it because some dead woman’s distracting me.”

  With a scornful expression, Mrs Pettigrew settled into a corner of the room, staring from the dormer window at the pedestrians wandering along the street, each of them with a place to go.

  They set off to Mrs Pettigrew’s after Emily finished work for the day. During her hours at the charity shop, she’d been excited to unearth a cream Crown Lynn Swan, medium sized.

  Supposedly a vase, she didn’t think anyone had ever successfully used it in that way. The post-war restrictions in place during the era they were first crafted had demanded goods have a purpose, instead of existing only for decoration.

  A large hollow in the middle of the gracious curves might theoretically fit the bill, but any florist attempting to insert a bouquet would soon find the blooms poking out at very odd angles.

  The large and the small sculptures of the swan were common enough to find with a good rummage through a multitude of garage sales on a Saturday morning, but far fewer of the medium vases had ever been sold. It gave Emily a warm glow to know a lucky collector could soon complete their set.

  “I feel nothing,” Mrs Pettigrew said after a few minutes spent staring up at her house. “Should I go inside, do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t really want anyone to see me again. Not after taking up so much of their time yesterday.” Emily shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Each leg hurt with the same dull ache, as though she had a tooth cavity in her hip bones.

  A curtain twitched in an upstairs window and she stepped back, feeling her cheeks flood with colour. Even though she was just standing outdoors on the footpath, she felt like a trespasser with no right to be anywhere near the house.

  “Oh, look.” Mrs Pettigrew ran a few steps along the berm, waving to the gardener.

  “He won’t be able to see you,” Emily said with a laugh, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Or hear you, so it’ll look as though I’m talking to myself!

  Cynthia continued to stare as the man trimmed back the camelia bushes along the side of the house. They were tall, reaching far past the spouting. For such slow-growing plants, it betrayed their age.

  As Emily stared at the ghost with a concerned glance on her face, Mrs Pettigrew twisted a strand of hair around her finger and chewed on the corner of her lip. When the gardener glanced toward the footpath, she rose on the balls of her feet and clasped her hands behind her waist.

  With a jolt, Emily realised the woman was flirting. Even though the poor man couldn’t see her.

  Turning with an amused smile on her lips, she saw the gardener striding straight towards them. Too late to run away or duck behind
the shelter of a neighbour’s fence.

  You’ve been caught!

  “Hey, there,” the gardener said in his slow voice. “Did you forget something yesterday?”

  Emily shook her head, confusion turning her mute. As he continued to stare, the gardener reminded her of an old-style movie star. Give him a shave and he could do a passable Cary Grant impression. No wonder Mrs Pettigrew was so smitten.

  “I’m sorry,” Emily said as she regained her voice. “I didn’t come here to do anything but have another look. The house is so lovely, and I was rushing around yesterday so I didn’t have time to take in more than a few glances.”

  He nodded as though the feeble excuse was reasonable. “Yeah, it’s a nice place.”

  “Especially the garden,” Mrs Pettigrew burst out. “Abraham’s more than welcome to trim my topiary, any day.”

  Emily blushed and closed her eyes. “I didn’t catch your name, yesterday,” she said.

  “Abraham Greening,” he said with a slow smile. “You can tell I was born to be a gardener with a surname like that.”

  The ghost burst out with a coquettish giggle and Emily gave a tongue-tied nod. “Well”—she clapped her hands together—“don’t let me keep you from your work. I’ll be on my way.”

  “You should come inside for a cup of tea,” the man said, jerking his head back towards the house. “I’m about due for a break. If we catch Hilda in a good mood, she’ll make you a hot chocolate to die for. Might even give you a proper tour of the place.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t put you two out like that,” Emily said, shaking her head.

  “It’s no inconvenience. Between you and me, she loves to show the place off.” Abraham glanced over his shoulder, then bent forward and whispered, “I think Hilda likes to pretend the place is hers. Especially now the missus isn’t around.”

  “Peanut!”

  Emily stepped back in surprise, her gaze jerked from Abraham’s piercing blue-eyed stare to Mrs Pettigrew. A grey oriental cat, whitening belly placing in it the bracket of old-age, came running up and wound itself around and between the ghost’s legs. As Emily watched, she patted the purring feline, the cat arching its back at the stroke.

  “He can feel me,” the ghost said, turning wide eyes towards Emily. “Will you look at that!”

  “What’s up with you, old fellow?” Abraham said, squatting and clicking his fingers until the cat came running. “You’ve been sitting in the hot sun for too long again, eh?”

  “Come back here, Peanut.” Mrs Pettigrew clapped her hands against the top of her thighs. “Come to Mummy.”

  Although she tried again to regain the animal’s attention, Abraham lifted him up and tucked the cat under his arm. “Well, if you’re sure you won’t come inside…?”

  Emily nodded. “I’m sure, but thanks very much for the offer.”

  “I’ll see you around town I suppose.” Abraham gave a curt nod and walked off, clicking his tongue to soothe Peanut.

  A neighbour stared at Emily over the fence. It made her so uncomfortable she went back to the car. When Mrs Pettigrew joined her, it was with a glum expression on her face.

  “All that did was make me miss Peanut. He’s been with me every day since my marriage. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to go back tonight and steal him?”

  “You suppose right,” Emily said, pointing the car toward the graveyard. “And I’ve got my fingers crossed it’s because you’ll be long gone by then.”

  “You know how to make a girl feel welcome,” Mrs Pettigrew snapped, then fell into blessed silence.

  The graveyard sat a few minutes’ drive out of the town centre. Emily supposed at the time of construction it had been far enough away to not scare the residents at night.

  Now, leafy green suburbs stuffed full of young couples with children had sprung up around it. Given the growth in Pinetar township since she’d been a youngster, it was likely they’d soon move it elsewhere.

  “I used to like coming here,” Mrs Pettigrew said, walking through the wrought-iron gates. “I’d make gravestone rubbings of the old markers to work out what they said.”

  Emily hooked up an eyebrow at that but said nothing. She preferred it when her unwanted guest kept quiet so didn’t want to encourage conversation.

  “This is it.” They walked into a newer part of the cemetery. The graves here were a mix of bare plots or fresh headstones. Off to the side, the children’s cemetery was a riot of colour and plastic shapes, but in the adult section, things were far more subdued.

  “A plaque,” Mrs Pettigrew said with a moue of distaste. “Is that all Nathaniel thought I was worth?”

  “The headstone will come later if he’s ordered one,” Emily explained. In her earlier job, she’d worked through budget advice with families beset by tragedy often enough to know the exorbitant cost of burying a loved one.

  “They don’t have them lying around at the ready. The marble is cut to order, and the engraving is hard work. It has to be tough stone. Otherwise, the words would fade away in a few years. That means cutting it with a diamond-headed tip and there’s a waiting list.”

  “You’re a bit gruesome, did you know?” Mrs Pettigrew shook her head and looked out over the immaculate grounds. “Perhaps your macabre interests are why you can see ghosts?”

  “I can’t see ghosts, I can see you. Believe me, if I thought it would stop, I’d give up all my hobbies and interests at once.” Emily rubbed her fingers along the length of her scar, then sighed, regretting the harsh words. “Besides, I know this stuff because of work, not because I’m interested.”

  She turned back to Mrs Pettigrew to see what effect her words had, then twisted in a complete circle, staring around the cemetery.

  The ghost was gone. It was as if her grave had swallowed her up while Emily looked the other way. She hesitated by the graveside, unsure if she should pursue the missing woman. After a short tussle, she decided not to and felt instantly relieved.

  If someone had asked her to imagine a ghost, she’d never in a million years have created someone so sharp-tongued and selfish.

  She slid her foot along the plaque, brushing away a few stray tendrils of grass with her toe. The cemetery groundskeeper must have mown the lawn recently as the loose blades hadn’t yet turned brown.

  The entire place was peaceful, so long as her mind didn’t dwell on the multitude of dead bodies buried close around her. Emily was tempted to sit on a nearby bench and think through her day.

  But, if she did that, the muscles in her legs would tighten and she’d struggle with the return walk to the car. With a sigh, Emily turned from the grave and struggled along the uneven lawn to the concrete path.

  If she died, would her brother inter her in a place as nice as this one? Or would he leave it in the hands of the council and her lawyers, letting strangers sort out her remains as they’d sort out her estate?

  She and Harvey had never shared the close bond Emily admired and envied in other siblings. As soon as they were out of their parents’ house, they each headed their own way, intent on fulfilling their ambitions without the intrusion of relatives in their lives.

  Still, he’d made contact with her when the hospital tracked him down as her next of kin. It was Emily who’d then let the renewed relationship lapse, leaving it until tomorrow, then the day after, to get back to him until getting in touch made no sense at all.

  Her car provided a welcome rest area for Emily to sit and think. She laid her head and arms on the steering wheel, letting old memories and new filter into her mind until she grew sleepy. Tears of exhaustion and self-pity flowed down the side of her face.

  “Stop crying, Scarface, I’m back.” Mrs Pettigrew appeared in the passenger side seat like a developing Polaroid image. A snapshot of disaster.

  Emily wiped at her cheeks, sniffing, and pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “Where did you get to?”

  “I just slipped away for a few minutes. Watching you stumble from side to side like Franken
stein’s monster was getting on my nerves.” The ghost tittered to herself, staring out the side window. “That’s fitting, isn’t it? After all, you look like you’re stitched together from different people.”

  The tears returned with a vengeance. Emily couldn’t stop them from pouring forth, even though she felt rage inside her, not sorrow.

  “How dare you speak to me like that? Get out of my car at once!”

  Mrs Pettigrew stared at her as though she were crazy. “But you’re the only one who can see me. Where else am I meant to go?”

  Emily’s mouth dropped open. Fury lit up her chest with the hot burn of an infection, but she couldn’t give voice to the thoughts flaming in her mind.

  The ghost held up a hand. “Anyway, stop whatever you’re doing. I’ve remembered something important. I was thinking of Gregory and how he used to trail around behind me when I first married Nathaniel, chattering away non-stop. Whenever my hand was free, he’d insert his sticky fingers into mine and squeeze tight.”

  “Lovely.” The muscles in Emily’s face drooped until it became as deadpan as her voice. “I’m so glad you came back to tell me that.”

  “No, no! Listen! I thought of him as a child, then another memory of Gregory flashed up. I saw him standing over me and this time his hands were sticky with blood. My blood.”

  Emily shook her head, the emotions whirling inside preventing her from following the conversation. “And?”

  “And I didn’t die peacefully at home, that’s a load of rubbish. I was murdered!”

  Chapter Six

  “Murdered?” Emily tried to keep the shock out of her voice. The why seemed obvious to her, even on short acquaintance, but she asked the other question, “Who by?”

  Mrs Pettigrew flapped her hands again. “I don’t know that bit. Somebody in the household, I guess. Probably Gregory since he was the one covered in my blood.”

  “You think your stepson attacked you?” Emily pulled at the front of her blouse, twiddling a pearl button. “I suppose we’d better report this crime to the police.”

  The ghost sat back in her seat, huffing out a sigh. “You believe me?”