Authors: Kathryn Meyer Griffith
“Being me?”
“Because,
you know?
You’ve got the magic gene that helps you find missing people and murderers. You care. You having had a missing husband who turned out murdered and all. It’s your special gift.”
Abigail sighed softly. She could almost sense this was something she didn’t want to become involved with, but Myrtle could be extremely persuasive. She wondered if she jumped up right now, ran into the house and locked the door, told Myrtle to go home because she wasn’t going to help, if she could escape Myrtle’s request? Nah, the old woman would probably only return and keep bugging her until she agreed to help. That was her way. “What does all that have to do with Beatrice Utley’s problem?”
Myrtle fixed her eyes on her and they were suddenly dead serious. “Because Beatrice’s house is haunted. Or so she says. She has this great big monstrosity of a place down near that cul-de-sac at the end of my road. You know the house…the white one with metal Americana stars on the front and a flagpole in the yard with a garden of flowers around it? Her grandmother left it to her so it’s real run down. Full of old threadbare furniture, too. That woman never cleans or dusts and the house needs a paint job and a roof bad, if you ask me.”
“I know the house.” No one in town could miss it, as large as it was, and with those silver stars on the front gleaming in the sunlight it was distinctive. Abigail had driven by it a couple of times and thought:
Such a curious looking old house…it’d make a magnificent painting. It’s so full of character. It’s like a worn and aged aristocratic lady who’s seen better days. Scary looking trees around it as if they’re guarding and protecting it. It truly looks like a haunted house. I wonder who lives there?
But she’d never found out until now.
“Well, she’s got ghosts in the basement that are making such an ungodly racket and doing so many mean tricks on her it’s driving her nuts. Her words, not mine.” Myrtle snickered. “As far as I see it, Beatrice is nuts without the spooks. She always has been. I mean with her cuckoo obsession with collecting stuff. Especially dolls. She’s got rooms full of the creepy things with their pale faces and staring glass eyes. Their tiny hands and feet.”
Myrtle visibly shivered, shaking her head. “Not to mention the other weird stuff she’s crammed into that place. Needless stuff, I say, in every room to the roofs. The whole house is like a messy storage shed. You can hardly move about in it. It’s a wonder she doesn’t trip over some of it and break her neck or some of it doesn’t fall on her head and squash her flat. Good grief.”
“Ghosts in the basement?” Abigail suppressed a giggle. “Really?”
“Really. They’re beneath her making trouble. She claims they also sneak upstairs when she’s on the third floor sleeping and they make messes, move objects, smash or even take things.”
A bird was chirping in the tree above them and another one on a nearby limb returned its call. Cardinals, she mused. She could see glimpses of red between the leaves. It was a lovely spring day and it was hard to think about ghosts and haunted houses on such a morning. The swing moved leisurely back and forth. The sun was beaming down on the grass.
“How does she know they’re ghosts? She could have trespassers, intruders, in her house or criminals looking to steal things. Sometimes teenagers take advantage of the elderly with big run-down houses. They find a way in, through a broken basement window or something, and do whatever mischief they want to do, then sneak out.”
Myrtle had tilted up her mug and was draining the final drops, making smacking noises with her lips. “Could I have one more cup of that coffee, sweetie, and maybe a few more of those tasty donuts?”
“This time help yourself. You know where everything is,” she said, stopping the swing’s movement. “I’ll wait here for you.”
Somewhere in the distance Abigail heard a cat meowing. It didn’t sound like Snowball. It must be one of the felines that belonged to the animal hoarder who lived behind her in the woods. Myrtle’s sister Evelyn. That woman was as odd as Myrtle but in different ways. Last count Evelyn had over fifty dogs and cats squatting in and around her house. Some nights Abigail could hear every one of them.
The old woman wasn’t gone long. This time she had a handful of donuts clutched in a napkin and her refilled mug in the other. She plopped down and picked up in their conversation where they’d left off. “You asked how Beatrice knows they are ghosts? Oh, she swears they are. She saw one of them last night in the basement when she went down there to see about the commotion.”
“She really saw a ghost?”
“Tall white wispy thing that stared at her and then,” Myrtle snapped her sugar-covered fingers in the air, “
poof
dematerialized! Beatrice said she nearly had a heart attack. The thing was definitely not friendly. She said the apparition, looking like a transparent starved ship-wrecked survivor, wailed at her and tried to knock her down. It went right through her like air.”
Yeah sure. Tackled by a ghost.
“But you think Beatrice is nuts, right?”
“Nuts about some things, not this. I believe she saw what she says she saw. She doesn’t have enough imagination to make up something like that. Just my opinion, mind you.”
“So you believe her?”
“Of course. Heck, I see spooks all the time. You know that. They’re all shapes and sizes, some good, some bad and some just plain evil. They’re here all right. Everywhere.”
“Okay, what exactly am I supposed to do about these manifestations? I’m not a ghost whisperer or a ghost buster and neither is Frank. Shouldn’t she call a priest or an exorcist or something?”
“Beatrice isn’t a religious person, if you know what I mean. She wants you and Frank to come over to her house and check it out. Solve the mystery and find a way to get rid of them spirits. You two are first-rate at fixing things. She’s expecting you. Evenings is best, but no later than eight o’clock because that’s when she goes to bed. Most nights anyway. I have her telephone number. Here.” She pulled a scrap of paper from a pocket in her dress and gave it to Abigail. “Call her. Soon. Otherwise she’ll keep on bugging the jeepers out of me.”
Abigail knew better than to argue with her. Once Myrtle got something, no matter how bizarre, in her head nothing would change her mind. Just wait until she told Frank about this. Myrtle wanted them to scare some ghosts away or arrest them or something. He’d get a good laugh out of it.
“I have to get going. It’s trash day at the Tranquility Nursing Home and I always take a look to see if anyone’s died there. When any of those old folks croak the families sometimes toss all their valuables out in the trash, not wanting to bother with them. You should see the treasures I pull out of those dumpsters. What a waste. So I make sure I go there before the trash trucks come by.”
Myrtle stood up. “Be sure to call Beatrice. She’s one frightened old lady. I know you and Frank will get to the bottom of it, whatever the problem is. See you later Abigail.” Myrtle was up and shuffling across the front yard, reclaiming the battered wagon she’d left in the driveway. Then the morning silence was filled with her raspy voice singing an old Sinatra song,
Fools Rush In
, as she dragged the wagon away. Off to dumpster dive.
Shaking her head, Abigail watched her leave. The old woman was a character but she had a good heart and an uncanny knack for rooting out mysteries or injustices. The problem was she kept laying them at Abigail’s feet and after the last horrendous escapade dealing with that serial killer Abigail hadn’t been looking to solve anyone else’s problems any time soon.
So much for that.
She just wanted to be happy, enjoy her life and her family. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently it was
Ghosts in the basement,
p-l-e-a-s-e!
*****
An hour and a half later Abigail was strolling towards town in the dappled sunshine, enjoying every moment. She’d always liked the fact her house was near enough to town she could easily walk it. With the sun over her, her light jacket was all she’d needed.
She stepped from the grass onto the sidewalk lining Main Street’s businesses and smiled as she peeked into the merchant’s windows. Easter decorations had sprung up everywhere; pale pink, blue and green crepe paper framed most of the storefront displays. The book store, Tattered Corners, had a window presentation of famous children’s bunny books surrounded in Easter basket grass and multi-hued plastic eggs. A giant smiling stuffed rabbit was perched in the corner with baskets hanging on his front paws.
The Bakery had a window crowded with pink-iced bunny donuts and cakes with tiny chocolate eggs on them. In the middle of it all was a plate of cream puffs in the shapes of rabbits.
Even Stella’s Diner was decked out in its Easter best. Someone had strung egg shaped lights around the door and windows in typical pastel hues. It was real festive, those lights twinkling everywhere. Real welcoming.
Abigail looked around, up and down the street, before she went through the diner’s door. It appeared the whole town was dressed up for Easter in ribbons and bows. Every storefront either had decorated its windows or had Easter adornments outside on the sidewalks. Tall cardboard rabbits or Easter scenes were propped up against the storefronts.
The hardware store had a glorious pot of silk snow-white lilies bordering its entrance and someone, probably a high school art student, had fashioned paper mache Easter eggs and stacked them up in miniature wagons. Fat chubby bunnies and yummy looking baskets filled with goodies, ran along the glass front. Whoever had painted the windows wasn’t half bad. But then she couldn’t help but think if her daughter, Laura, had done them they’d look even better. With her guidance over the last year, Laura was becoming a skillful artist and Abigail was proud of her.
Spookie sure did love its holidays. Every business went out of its way to dress up for the season. It was one of the reasons Abigail cherished the town so much. That and the people were unique; most of them were interesting, generous and kind.
She walked into the diner. For that time of the morning it wasn’t very crowded. She must have caught one of its lulls.
A woman Abigail recognized as someone who worked at the IGA and her young daughter were there on stools at the counter; gabbing in low tones about something or other. The girl didn’t look happy. There were blueberry smears around her lips.
An elderly couple was at a corner table reading newspapers and eating bacon and eggs. Abagail had often seen them around town, though she didn’t know their names. The man was very frail looking and so thin Abigail thought he might be ill. He looked worse every time she saw them. A walker was snuggled against the wall at his side. The woman had to be his wife. She had the most beautiful long silvery hair worn piled on top of her head in a coiled bun. She possessed exceptional bone structure and always seemed so elegant. The way she dressed, always impeccably with matching outfits and accessories, pegged her as a woman who cared about her looks. She was attractive for her age. Abigail observed the way the two interacted. The woman often reaching out to touch the man’s withered hands or he smiling thoughtfully at her. They appeared to truly love each other and that touched Abigail. As she passed by them she caught a fragment of their conversation.
“It’s a good price, Henry. Perhaps it is time we sell the old place and retire to California? We could be nearer the kids?” the woman was saying.
“Ah, Athena, sweetheart, you don’t mean that. You hate California. You love living here. All our friends are here, our past and our lives. And the kids have their own lives and families. They don’t want to bother with us. So what if someone offers us a good price for our home, it makes no difference. We’re not selling.” A coughing bout stopped the man from speaking further and his wife put her hand softly over his. The gentle look she gave him said it all. She’d do what he wanted her to do.
Frank was waving at Abigail from their favorite booth along the opposite wall, a cup of coffee in his other hand halfway to his mouth. Their friend Martha was sitting across from him and she waved, too.
Frank’s gray streaked hair was tied back with a rubber band. It’d gotten a lot longer since she’d first met him. He liked it that length saying, now that he was no longer a cop, he was never going to cut it ever again. Though she had to admit, because he kept it clean and combed, with his intense blue eyes and sharp angled nose and face, long hair looked good on him. Not many men could carry off the look or the tiny silver earring in his ear, but Frank could. Sometimes he sported a mustache and had for the last year or so. Abigail liked the mustache as well. It made him look scholarly. He could have been a college professor or something.
“Good morning, Abigail,” Martha addressed her as Abigail scooted in beside Frank. She grinned when Frank and Abigail kissed each other hello and Frank pulled her close. Martha got a kick out of the two dating and being in love. But that was because she’d been pushing them together since the beginning. Martha was the town’s matchmaker and pleased to be.
“So you got the kids off to school and you’re footloose and fancy free, huh?” Frank reached over and slid his hand down her cheek in a gesture so tender no one who saw it could deny he loved her.
“They’re at school, but I can’t say I’m totally footloose and fancy free…I’ve got to put the finishing touches on that courthouse mural after I leave here and hopefully after that I’ll collect a nice big fat check.” Abigail felt a sense of contentment sitting there with her two friends. Being with Frank and Martha in a place she’d come to think of as a second home, with great food, made her happy. But then small things, a good cup of coffee on a cold day, a decent cheeseburger when she was hungry, money to pay the bills in her bank account, a day with sunshine and true friends around her, always made her happy. She never asked for more than the world or life could give her and was grateful for every tiny good thing that came her way. She smiled at the handsome man next to her as he took her hand.