Authors: Kathryn Meyer Griffith
She’d been officially dating Frank Lester for a year and in the last few months they’d finally become lovers in every sense of the word. He’d already told her he loved her and had since the first time he’d met her three years ago in Stella’s Diner, but he’d taken his time wooing her until the ghost of her first husband, Joel, had released her heart. Frank was a good man who cared deeply for her and she had finally let herself care for him. That morning as she sat there eating, talking and laughing with her boyfriend and her friend her future looked as sunny as the day outside.
“How’s the book coming, Frank?”
“Slow. I’m stuck somewhere two-thirds in and have no idea where it’s going. I rarely have writer’s block, but whatever this is it’s stopping me cold. I think it could have something to do with how odious the perpetrator’s crimes were. My mind and heart hates going back there, if you know what I mean?”
“You’re writing another murder mystery based on one of your old cases again, I take it?” Martha asked Frank.
“It’s more of a true crime novel. And it is based on a notorious case I investigated and solved in Chicago the last year I was working homicide. It was a real nasty one. I’ve never been able to get it or the victims out of my mind so I’m hoping this will help. I thought writing about it would be good therapy. It frequently is.”
“You want to tell me what it’s about? The book, I mean,” Martha pried, always wanting to know everything.
“I prefer not to talk about it as I’m writing the story. Just one of my little eccentricities. No offense. But you can read the book when it’s finished.”
“Great, you know how I hate waiting,” Martha complained. “When will that be?”
“When it’s out in the bookstores. It won’t be long. I’ll even give you an advance eBook or paperback copy when it’s done. I’ll even autograph it if you’d like.”
“I’ll hold you to that, friend.”
Martha turned her attention to Abigail. “So your courthouse commission is almost completed? Nadine, who works there in the office, says it’s beautiful. You’ve done a fantastic job. And she’s not easily impressed. I was planning on stopping by later today to see it.”
“Come on by. But if you want to see me there don’t wait too long because I’m wrapping it up early; getting paid and celebrating. Maybe I’ll go on a shopping spree.”
“I might join you. I will stop by early then.”
“So Abby, you finish the mural this morning?” Frank was motioning at their waitress, Stella, so they could put their orders in. “Wow that was fast.”
“It came together easier than I had even expected.” Abigail squeezed his hand. “I think it’s kind of good, too.”
“Everything you do is splendid, Abigail,” Martha chimed in. “And I should know, I have enough of your work on my walls at home to prove it.”
“Ah, you’re biased, being my friend and all.”
“No, I’m just someone who can tell outstanding art when I see it.” Martha grinned as Stella came up to their table, order tablet in hand.
“What are you three having this morning?” Stella tapped her pencil on the tablet. “Blueberry pancakes is the special. My grandson makes the best pancakes in the state.” Stella always said that every time Abigail came in for breakfast. She ought to have it embroidered on her uniform’s apron.
Stella hadn’t changed much since Abigail had moved into town. Her hair was still old-lady white and badly cut. This morning her blue eyes were bored–they often held that expression–and her lipstick was a vivid shade of pink instead of the normal cherry red. She was still grumpy, though. The woman, at times, reminded Abigail of that grumpy cat that was all over the Internet and television these days. Their faces had the same exact expression. But with Stella it was all put on and bluster. Underneath she was a kind-hearted, thoughtful lady. Abagail had grown quite fond of her, too.
“Then it’s the pancakes for me,” Frank capitulated. “Extra syrup and butter on top, like always, of course. Thank you Stella.”
“Me too, the pancakes,” Martha and Abigail spoke at the same time.
“You three are like three little lemmings that usually eat the same things. Well, who am I to moan about it if it makes it easier for me. It’ll be a few minutes,” Stella grumbled and sashayed away to put their orders in.
Abigail, Frank and Martha stared at each other and busted out laughing. Not too loud, though. Stella didn’t like being laughed at.
“So, besides completing the mural, what else is new?” Martha questioned after the waitress had left. “You look like you have something else you want to tell us.”
Stella was back at their side pouring Abigail a cup of coffee, which she was grateful for, and had scurried away again. Abigail added cream and sugar and took a large gulp. Stella made the best coffee in town hands down. It was strong but never bitter. Abigail sometimes just came in for the coffee alone and wished she could duplicate its exceptional flavor at home, but she never could.
“Funny you should say that.” She directed her words to Frank then. “I had a visitor very early this morning, right after dawn really, with a strange request.”
“And I’d bet a hundred bucks it was that nutty old busybody Myrtle.” Martha made a grimacing face. “She’s strange as they come and is the only person I know who wanders around at such god-awful times of the morning or night brewing up trouble of some sort or another. She’s not happy unless she’s in the thick of some chaos or something. What is she up to now?”
Martha had had a long running feud with Myrtle, yet in a good-natured way, since Abigail had first met them. Martha thought the old lady was touched in the head and openly disapproved of her. Yet in the last year or so her opinion of the old woman had softened somewhat; for Abigail knew, contrary to what she said or how she behaved, Martha no longer disliked Myrtle, merely questioned her sanity at times.
Abigail glanced at the realtor and at Frank again. “Of course it was Myrtle. Who else would be meandering around at sunrise bothering people? She visited me this morning and does she have a project for us. You’re not going to believe this when I tell you.”
“A project for us?” Frank looked amused, but not disgruntled. He liked Myrtle especially since she’d saved Abigail’s life the year before from the Mud People Killer. He felt he owed her for that if nothing else. “That old lady never ceases to confound me. What is it now?”
Abigail told him and Martha what the old woman had wanted.
Martha laughed sarcastically when she was done, but Frank didn’t. His eyes reflected instant interest. “Beatrice must be eighty if she’s a day. She’s been rambling around in that old barn of hers for years. Loneliness can do weird things to a person. This could all be in her mind or she’s seeking attention.”
“Beatrice has ghosts in her basement? Is that like bats in your belfry? Except below?” Martha covered her mouth and snickered behind her hand, her eyes dancing. “Well, that’s a new one. I thought it was Myrtle the dead were always after? I mean, she’s always going on about the ghosts following and tormenting her. So the madness has spread, hey? I’d better be careful if it’s really that contagious.”
Abigail threw her a stern look and Martha stopped snickering.
“What does she want you and Frank to do about it? Arrest them? Oh, I know…she wants you two to eradicate or capture them? Clean out the basement. So Beatrice has more room for her collections. Those dolls take up a lot of space.” More laughter.
Abigail gave Martha another sharp glance. “No, she wants us to help Beatrice get to the bottom of it one way or another. She’s afraid Beatrice might be in real danger.”
“From ghosts?” Martha exclaimed. “What’s the matter with the old people around here lately? Are they all insane?”
Frank ignored Martha’s outburst. “And because we’ve unraveled a few other mysteries Myrtle thinks we can solve this one, right?” Frank had that intrigued glint in his eyes, the one he got when there was a case to investigate. He might not be a detective anymore but he still loved to solve puzzles or crimes and to help people. It was in his blood and always would be.
“I suppose that’s her thinking.”
Stella had arrived with a tray full of blueberry pancakes and with a practiced flourish known only to waitresses had them all on the table and was gone before Abigail could hardly blink.
“Thanks Stella!” she called after the waitress, who tossed back a
you’re welcome
.
The pancakes were covered in syrup and butter and instantly began to disappear. The three continued to discuss the ghost situation as they ate.
“Beatrice could just be lonely and, as you said Frank, she’s claiming to see ghosts to get attention?” Martha proposed between bites. “Old people do that. Try to get attention, I mean, in any way they can. As a realtor I’ve seen that often enough. They’ll keep you there talking away for hours if they can do it. Bribe you with cake or outrageous stories. Some hate to see you leave. I wouldn’t put much stake in what they say.”
“It could be for attention. That’s possible,” Frank was thinking aloud. “I know Beatrice fairly well, though. She was a friend of my mother’s a long time ago. I still stop by once and a while to check on her. But I’m sad to say I haven’t done that in a long time. My bad.”
“She doesn’t have any family to visit her?” Abigail was busy stuffing her face with pancakes and talked when she wasn’t chewing. As always the pancakes were perfect, not too dry or soggy, but light as a feather.
“Not really. Her husband, Arthur, died twenty years ago. She had no siblings that I know of anyway. She has one son, Lucas. He was the love of her life. She doted on the boy. Let’s see he should be about fifty years or so old now.”
“He doesn’t go see her or help care for her?” Abigail posed the question.
“Sad story that,” Frank supplied. “The two had a falling out. I have no idea what it was over. Something he thought she did wrong, said wrong–I don’t know. Something she said to his wife and his wife told him. Stirred up the pot, I’d say, on purpose. The wife always wanted him to just be there for her and their kids and
her
family. She resented any time he spent with his mother. Beatrice’s son got mad at her and refused to talk to or see her; hasn’t in over a decade, as far as I recall. I don’t know what that boy’s problem is, but he’s been a terrible son. You don’t disown your mother just because she said something or did something you didn’t like. That’s not love. The son has a cold heart, is soulless or something, is what I think.
“Anyway, he broke Beatrice’s heart, shattered it and she’s never been the same. That’s when she began hoarding that stuff in her house. That’s when she started with the dolls. As if all that was filling some emptiness losing her son had created.”
“That is sad,” Abigail agreed, sipping her coffee. Now she had instant sympathy for the old woman in the ramshackle house with the stars on the front. Was it any different than when her husband had gone and disappeared years ago and never returned, alive that is? Wasn’t what Beatrice was going through missing a son she never saw a little like a death…a little like what Abigail has suffered when Joel had never come back? Yes, it was like that. Poor old woman.
Then she had a thought. “Maybe her son has his own side of the story. Those dolls of hers? Her hoarding? Those problems, as well as other emotional ones, could go way back. She might not have been as good a mother as she’d believed she had been. We don’t know, only he does. You have to admit, she sounds somewhat unconventional. And it’s not easy to live with someone who has such obsessions. Her son might have legitimate reasons for not wanting to be part of her life.”
“I never thought of it that way, but you might have a point. And only the mother and son know the truth,” Frank said. “It is unfortunate, though. When someone gets up there in years, they need their family. I still feel sorry for her.
“Anyway, what else did Myrtle say?” He had eaten his breakfast and shoved the plate away. The man had a healthy appetite for someone so slim. But Abigail knew he’d probably go home and take a long walk or a run to work the calories off. He usually did. His doctor had warned him the year before he needed to exercise more and worry less if he wanted to stay healthy. Then afterwards Frank would sit down at his laptop and work a couple hours on the novel, his fourth, he was writing. His third book, a straight murder mystery, was due to come out in less than two months. He made a respectable second income with his murder mysteries.
“That Beatrice is expecting us to pay her a visit. She’s counting on it. This evening to be exact. We should call her no later than seven and visit no later than eight because that’s when she goes to bed. If you’re available that is, Frank?”
“I am. Let’s make it earlier though.”
“About six? I have her telephone number. Myrtle gave it to me.”
Martha was staring at both of them. “You two are actually going over there to look for ghosts? Really?”
“Really,” Frank bantered back with a crafty grin. “You never know, we might find a cache of Caspers. Might even be my next book.”
“You two have cracks in your head. So you should get along just fine with the there-are-ghosts-in-my-basement lady,” Martha groused. “Just don’t let the spooks get you. I don’t have that many friends and I’d hate to lose you two.”
Frank stood up. “Call her, Abby, and I’ll be over at your house about six. We’ll drive over there. I’d been meaning to visit her anyway and see how she is doing. This evening is as good as any other.”
Martha rolled her eyes, getting up, too. It was time to go. “So you both are going to become ghost hunters now, huh?”
“No such things as ghosts,” Frank mumbled as he took Abigail’s hand and ushered her to the cash register to pay their bills. “I’m sure it’s only Beatrice being Beatrice. Could be she’s forgotten to take her meds or is taking too many of them. We’ll find out. She’s as odd in her own way as Myrtle, but we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I bet. Remember, let me know how it turns out.” Martha went with them to the pay counter. “I’m off to an appointment. I have a family looking at a superb Tudor home about twenty miles away from here. They’ve already been preapproved and this is the second time looking at this house. I can tell they really want it. I’m going to close the deal today if I know anything about selling houses. Cha-ching!”