Charity Shop Haunted Mysteries

by Katherine Hayton

  “Let’s have a look.” The lady pulled the box toward her and started to rifle through the contents. After a few under-the-breath exclamations, Emily felt more hopeful about her judgment.

  “These are a wonderful selection,” Sariah said after ten minutes examination. “I’m impressed that anybody would donate such expensive pieces.”

  “I heard sometimes people like to use the donations as a tax write-off,” Emily said, parroting the information the librarian had told her.

  Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say because Sariah’s open face turned to closed, and she turned away. “I’ll fetch some labels,” she said, all enthusiasm gone from her voice. “We can get these tagged and ready for tomorrow. I’ll send you back with an estimate but be aware we don’t guarantee any of the valuations given.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of that,” Emily gushed, wanting to make up for whatever faux pas she’d just committed. “I’ve participated in auctions before and I know there’s no such thing as a sure thing.”

  Sariah drifted off and wandered back a few minutes later, dropping the labels and a marker pen on the table. “If you mark these up with your auction reference, we’ll take it from there.”

  Emily stared at the pen, her head hot and her chest hollow. She poked at the side of one marker with her fingertip.

  “Is there something wrong?” Sariah’s momentary pique had passed, and she leaned forward, frowning. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll need help with the labels,” Emily said in a low voice. She checked behind her but the man at the next table was busy dealing with his own business. He didn’t look to have spare capacity to butt into hers.

  She rubbed the scar on her face, drawing Sariah’s attention towards it. “I was in an accident and I find it hard to write these days.”

  The woman blushed, a strident colour change on her pale skin. “Ah, sure. I can help with that.” She wrote the labels out, noting them on her clipboard as she did so. “Silly,” she said, finishing up the task. “It’s actually quicker to do it this way. I don’t know why we never thought of it before.”

  She helped Emily to affix the labels, then gave her a large smile before heading along the line to help the next seller. As an afterthought, Emily pulled her phone out to take photographs.

  She’d spent a long time on each piece, checking the ceramics for hairline cracks and comparing the creator’s marks and stamps against books for confirmation of authenticity. It tugged at her to let them go, even though she’d known from the beginning they weren’t hers to keep.

  “I almost forgot,” Sariah said, coming back over to Emily’s table. “Here’s your inventory for the auction items.” She tore a sheet off the clipboard. “I keep the copy, but this is for your records.”

  “What happens tomorrow?”

  “We’ll load up an individual list on the website, so bidders know exactly what items are available. They can submit a bid online, but the actual sale won’t take place until the auctioneer runs it tomorrow. Once that’s done, we collect the money, deduct our fee, and in a few weeks pay your total earnings into the bank account on record.”

  “So, it’s a standard auction, with the paddles and the phone bidding and everything?”

  Sariah nodded. Emily hadn’t taken part in many—even before the accident her nerves weren’t up to the challenge—but she’d seen them enough to know the protocol.

  Online auctions were more her speed. Submit your top bid and check back later to see if you’d won. Or trawling through a garage sale on the weekend, sharp eyes probing for a bargain.

  “Can anybody attend?”

  Sariah tilted her head to one side, a crooked smile playing out across her mouth. “Sure. Are you planning on coming along?”

  Emily thought of the crowds of people there’d be—jostling for attention as they made their bids. Awful. “No, I’m just curious.”

  “That’s good. We don’t generally recommend sellers stick around for the actual auction unless there’s something else you wanted to bid on. It can be a bit of a daunting experience and we’ve encountered a few problems in the past.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  “People bidding on their own goods because they changed their mind or didn’t think the other bids were high enough.” Sariah shook her head, wide blue eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, I’d never do that!” Emily pulled a face as her hand reached out to stroke the edge of the nearest box. “These don’t belong to me to start with.”

  “No, they’re from the Pettigrew estate, aren’t they?” When Emily nodded, Sariah continued, “It’s such a tragedy—the wife dying so young. Poor Nathaniel has been beside himself for weeks, now.”

  The tinge of warmth in Sariah’s voice caused the hairs at the back of Emily’s neck to stick up on end. She kept her voice modulated as she enquired, “Do you know the husband well?”

  “Just through work. He’s involved with the same organisation that our business sponsors.” She nodded as though answering an unspoken question. “I feel blessed I’ve been able to offer Nathaniel some comfort during this extremely trying time.”

  Emily tried very hard not to stare at the woman. In the back of her head, Mabel’s voice piped up, I wasn’t at all surprised to hear around town about his affair.

  So much for the ghost’s staunch denial.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m not sure what you’re so worried about,” Mrs Pettigrew said when Emily returned home. “I told you he’d survive the day.”

  Peanut wound himself in a figure-eight around Emily’s legs, raising the concern he might accidentally trip her. When she opened the can of premium cat food sourced from the supermarket on a special trip, the cat gave that practice up and stared in rapt attention instead.

  As Emily placed the bowl on the floor, Peanut lost interest in her and his old owner. He attacked the food in his bowl as though he hadn’t been fed in weeks.

  She walked through into the small dining room without incident and flopped into a seat. Her thigh muscles were twitching from the long period of standing at the auction house and she massaged them until the discomfort faded.

  “I can’t take care of him forever,” she told Mrs Pettigrew in her firmest voice. “I’m on a limited income at the moment and those cans are over five dollars each.”

  “As if he’s not worth five dollars, twice a day.”

  “It’s not a matter of whether he’s worth it. It’s if I can I afford to keep paying that out and the answer is unavoidably, no.”

  “Doesn’t your head injury qualify you for compensation? Or weren’t you working at the time?”

  “It qualifies me but I’m not happy living off public funds when I’m quite capable of working and providing for myself.”

  “Just not providing for a cat as well.”

  The two women glared at each other, Emily dropping her gaze first as she recalled her conversation with Sariah. It was hard to argue with someone when you knew something terrible about their private life. Something they either didn’t know or had wilfully ignored.

  “I’m taking him back tomorrow. If he’s been at the house for fifteen years, then Gregory must be missing him terribly.”

  “Not enough to go looking,” Mrs Pettigrew said, slumping into a chair in the lounge and glaring at the blank TV. “Well? Aren’t you going to turn this thing on? I’ve been stuck with my own company all day and I’m bored out of my brain.”

  Peanut wandered through to join them, leaping into Emily’s lap as soon as she sat. After a few minutes of clicking fingers and cooing didn't win him to her side, Mrs Pettigrew sat back with a disgusted expression on her face.

  “Aren’t you going to eat something? Or did paying for the most extravagant can of pet food rob you of the money for your own groceries?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Emily turned the television volume up a few notches higher and sank back in her chair. The warm purring body next to hers was comforting. It would be a real loss to send him bac
k home.

  Her stomach growled, and Mrs Pettigrew arched an eyebrow. Fine. Emily was hungry but the thought of standing on her feet for twenty minutes in the kitchen while she cooked something made her hip ache.

  If she hadn’t made such a song and dance about expenses, she could have ordered takeaways but showing such hypocrisy to the ghost put her off the idea.

  “Is this going to be our evening, then? Just slobbing in front of the telly?”

  Emily glanced over with a raised eyebrow. “You’re the one who wanted me to turn it on.”

  “Didn’t you find out any new clues today?”

  Yes. That your husband is having a fling with an auctioneer. “Nope. I’ve been working all day.” Emily rubbed a hand over her eyes. They felt gritty and swollen. “I could search for some information about your husband’s company.” That wouldn’t take much energy.

  “What sort of information? Why would Nathaniel’s company have anything to do with my death?”

  “The librarian said he’d been hit with a massive tax bill. Perhaps he killed you for the insurance.”

  Mrs Pettigrew snorted. “Look if you want, but I doubt it. My life insurance has been the same measly hundred grand since I took it out in my twenties. Hardly enough to kill someone over. It would barely cover the expenses for a lavish funeral.”

  Emily tried not to think how much security the money would mean to most people, herself included. Instead, she pulled her laptop out and listed the search terms. She was overly familiar with the company registrar site so only took a few minutes to find the information she needed. When the computer read out the figures, she gasped.

  “Two million dollars in back taxes? That’s got to hurt.”

  Mrs Pettigrew leaned over to read the screen. “Hm. I’m sure Nathaniel will’ve sorted something out. He’s nobody’s fool.”

  “According to the Inland Revenue Department, he’s not half as smart as he thought he was. If you’re clever, you do everything inside the boundaries of the law.”

  “What?” Mrs Pettigrew frowned. “Are you saying his company is acting illegally?”

  “No,” Emily admitted. “This isn’t a fraud conviction just an indication he was skirting over the line. As long as he pays the bill, he’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know why he hasn’t already,” the ghost said, concern edging into her voice. “Unless he’s leaving it to the last minute.”

  “If he doesn’t get it sorted soon, I guess he can kiss his company goodbye.”

  “They won’t take the house or anything though, will they?”

  “No, that should be safe. It’s a limited liability company so they can only go after the company assets, not the director’s private ones.”

  “Good. So, Gregory will still have a home to run to.”

  “Yes.” Emily cocked her head to one side. “You really care for that boy, don’t you?”

  The ghost shrugged. “Not really. It’s just if he doesn’t have a safety net, that boy will fall apart. He almost did even with all the backing of daddy’s money.”

  Emily wasn’t in the mood for a rundown of the poor young man’s faults. She snapped the laptop closed, then petted Peanut who’d startled at the noise. “Don’t you worry, fella. I don’t bite and neither does my laptop.”

  When Emily woke the next morning, the lower half of her body felt as though it had been run over by a truck. Again. She rolled onto her side and had to rest, panting, for ten minutes before she could think about swinging her feet to the floor.

  “What’s up with you?” her friendly neighbourhood ghost enquired. “You’re moving like you’re a hundred-year-old woman.”

  “That feels about right.” Emily wondered for a few minutes if she should call Pete and let him know she wouldn’t be coming into the store. One plus to working on commission rather than a wage.

  Then she thought of the mountain of goods he’d warned her to expect for the day. Friday’s were a clearinghouse as people ticked items off their list to free up the schedule for the weekend. The only day busier was Mondays, for the same reason in reverse.

  Instead, she called into the doctor’s office on her way and spoke to the nurse. It made her feel rotten asking for a repeat prescription on her pain medication. She’d hoped to at least make it to her next appointment.

  As she waited for the duty nurse to check her details in the computer system, Emily thought about asking her to take off the auto-notification message to her physio. After the lecture on Monday, Joanne wouldn’t be happy to see her still overdoing things four days later.

  But that was the point of setting up the notifications. If everyone dealing with her medical issues knew everything, it aided her recovery. To hide this now, just to avoid another lecture, would push her into harm’s way. And for what? As Joanne would no doubt tell her on Monday, it wasn’t as though Emily listened to her chastisements, anyway.

  As she walked out the door, Emily checked her watch. The Evensbreak pharmacy in the nearby shopping centre would be open, but she decided to drop into the charity shop to talk with Pete since it was on the way.

  With a coffee in hand and no customers, the early morning greeting stretched out for twenty minutes. When Emily finally tore herself away, she found a queue of people waiting at the chemist.

  “You should go to the one on the other side of town,” Mrs Pettigrew said, making Emily jump with her sudden appearance. “One of these pharmacists was so rude to me, I vowed never to shop here again.”

  “Mm,” Emily said under her breath, wishing the ghost would stop trying to tempt her into talking when there were other people nearby. The longer she hung around, the less strange it felt to converse with her. Sooner or later it would spell disaster.

  Although there was a row of chairs for customers to wait while their prescriptions were being filled, three elderly clients had already availed themselves. Emily turned to stare out of the glass frontage at the shopping centre carpark, hoping to distract herself from the pain in her legs.

  Gregory loitered outside the chemist. His casual lean against a nearby lamppost appeared so staged, she assumed he was up to no good.

  “Next,” the pharmacist called out, and Emily walked to the counter. “That’ll be ten minutes,” the white-coated woman said. “We’ve got a rush on at the moment.”

  Emily nodded and looked around at the chairs. No luck. Three elderly bottoms were still perched on their seats. She could go back to the charity shop and take a seat there while she waited, but by the time she got back there and walked upstairs, the medication would be ready.

  “What’s he doing out there?” the pharmacist said in a tight voice.

  It didn’t appear she was genuinely asking Emily, but she turned to look. Gregory still stood outside, one pole nearer the door this time, his head staring in the opposite direction even as he edged closer.

  “Right.” The pharmacist strode out from behind the counter and slalomed through the line of waiting customers to reach the front door. “You’re not welcome here,” she shouted from the entrance, so loud everyone in the store turned to stare. “Get out. We’re not selling you any drugs, not now, not ever.”

  Gregory’s face turned as red as beetroot and although he maintained his slouched posture, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he moved out of Emily’s line of sight. When the pharmacist returned to the counter, she was shaking her head.

  “Has Gregory done something wrong?” Emily asked, unable to resist in light of Mrs Pettigrew’s earlier comments. “He seems harmless to me.”

  “He’s a scourge on our society, is what he is,” the pharmacist said with a sniff, adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses. “Did you know, he used to get prescriptions for pills from the doctor up at the mall by faking illness, then sell them on to the other kids at university?”

  Emily shrugged. “Yeah. I might’ve heard something along those lines.”

  “Well, we’re the ones who filled those prescriptions. We didn’t know there was anything wrong i
n doing that. It’s not our place to second guess a doctor’s orders. When the whole thing blew up, and he got kicked out of university, guess who his mother chose to blame?”

  The answer was obvious from the indignation on the pharmacist’s face, but Emily still obliged. “She blamed you?”

  “She did. Stormed in here one day shouting that we’d been handing out pills to minors, but the police would soon shut us down and that would be the end of our ‘drug-dealing’ trade.” The woman mimicked quote marks as she said the words, her lips contorted with fury. “The chemist was packed full of customers at the time. His mother deliberately waited until midday, our busiest time, to come in and scream out her baseless accusations.”

  “Oh, that’s dreadful,” Emily said, clasping a hand to her chest. She sneaked a peek at Mrs Pettigrew who’d grown a sudden fascination with the row of hair conditioners lined up on the shelves. “I’d heard his stepmother could be quite unreasonable at times.”

  “Yes. I mean, god rest her soul and all that, but I swore from that day forward I’d never let her or that young man into this shop again. You know, even when the police came in and we showed them the scripts—all filled out and above board—she never even bothered to return and apologise for what she’d said. We still have folks coming in here and asking about it. A full year later!”

  “She sounds like an absolute nightmare.” Emily suppressed a small grin at her naughtiness. “Definitely not the type of person you’d want hanging around.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I just hope that Gregory got the help he needs.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t an addict or anything like that,” the pharmacist said. “Oh, no. He was just pulling off an act to trick the doctor and earn some money. I don’t think he ever took a single pill himself.”

  “Really?” Emily frowned. She’d assumed from hearing bits of the tale from the librarian and here, that he must have been taking them, either through addiction or recreationally. “Why would he need the money when the family’s so well off?”