Authors: Kathryn Meyer Griffith
“Oh, that’s so sad.” Now she felt dreadful for thinking badly of him and his home.
The door burst open and a grizzled man somewhere in his seventies was scowling at them. “What do you want?” His voice was somewhere near a growl.
“I’m Frank Lester and this is Abigail Sutton.”
The man’s face and shoulders relaxed and a faint smile emerged. “Ah, the ghost busters Myrtle said would be visiting. Frank and Abigail. Howdy. I feel like Scrooge in that Christmas movie. You know when he was told to expect three visitors? The police were the first and you’re the second. I wonder who will be the third? I’m thinking it could be the Easter Bunny, with Easter so near and all.” He chuckled. “Enter.”
“Yeah, that’s us,” Frank quipped with a cynical smile as he reached out and shook the man’s hand. “We’re ghost busters, whether we like it or not.”
“Not that I believe that crap about my problem being ghosts and such,” the old man griped as he led them into his home. “That’s Myrtle’s foolishness. Myself? I believe it’s a bunch of miscreants causing the troubles, but that Myrtle wouldn’t take no for an answer and had to bother you both. It is humans pestering me. If I catch those damn scallywags making their mischief I’ll fill their butts full of buckshot. I have the guns here to do it. Those &#%@ !!#!& better stay away if they know what’s good for them. Buckshot isn’t easy to get out.”
The inside of the shack wasn’t what Abigail was expecting. It was neat, sparse, but clean and nothing like the outside. Though it was humble, it seemed to be of sturdy construction. Frank had said the man lived a simple life. He didn’t have a computer, the Internet or even Cable. There was aluminum foil on his old TV’s bunny ears and there was a conversion box on top of the set. So he was only getting the basic local channels. Well, that was simple.
Sitting at the wooden table with mismatched chairs they heard a story fairly similar to the one Beatrice had related to them days before. For weeks Alfred had been tormented with knocking at his windows, disturbances in the basement, things going missing in the house and other petty crimes against his property. But, unlike Beatrice, he swore it wasn’t supernatural, but man made.
They journeyed down into his basement and, sure enough, it’d been trashed the same as Beatrice’s. There were windows broken, objects turned over and cans of paint and varnish spilt. The lower level was in complete disarray. There wasn’t really much in the basement, but what was there was smashed, spilled and tossed about.
For crying out loud, Abigail thought, who would do such a thing to an old person?
Somewhere during their later conversation, peppered generously with cuss words provided by Alfred, Frank asked, “Alfred, is there anyone mad at you? Have you had any disagreements lately with anyone?”
Frank had also mentioned Alfred could be a hothead at times and over the years had had feuds with just about everyone in town over one thing or another. Delayed PTSD, no doubt. The old man had had a terrible experience in Viet Nam and it hadn’t only been the fighting. He’d been captured and had been a prisoner of war for years before he’d been released at the end of the conflict. He’d been tortured and abused and it’d left horrendous scars, both physical and psychological.
“Not that I can recall.” Alfred’s face scrunched up and his brown eyes clouded. He made a dismissive gesture with a hand that more resembled a claw. “Oh, wait a minute. I did piss off these two pesky realtors, a man and a woman, or I think they were realtors, who wanted to know what I’d sell my house and land for. The man was an irritatingly creepy dude with a head of hair like a Brillo pad and eyes that couldn’t stay still. He just wouldn’t take no. Third time he came by himself and I told him no way in hell was I going to sell to the likes of him or anybody for that matter. I scared him off with my shotgun and warned him never to come back. I took care of him all right. You should have seen the look of panic on his weasel face before he scrambled off.” Alfred laughed deep in his throat. Frank laughed with him.
“Uh,” Abigail weighed in, “you often have people just show up at your door trying to buy your property?”
“More than a few over the years, come to think on it.” Alfred scratched the side of his neck for about the tenth time where there was an angry looking rash. At times he moved as if he were in pain. Arthritis most likely or it was old wounds. “The woman who’d accompanied the man the first time, she was a looker I have to say that for her, offered me a hundred thousand a couple of weeks back. I told her, too, I wasn’t interested.”
Abagail remarked, “Whew, that’s a lot of money.”
“It is. But this is my home and this is where I plan on dying. Under this roof in my own bed with my mementos and memories. Nobody is going to scare me off, either.”
Abigail had the thought that Alfred’s demise wasn’t far off. The man was very ill, even she could see that.
“Did the damage we saw in the basement happen last night then?” Frank spoke to the man in a friendly voice and the veteran seemed to be warming up to him. Alfred’s scowl was gone.
“No, it happened oh, three, four nights ago, I reckon. I just went down there and noticed it yesterday, though. But the disturbances have been waking me up at night now for over a week. It’s getting tiresome. I need my sleep. Somebody or something was lobbing rocks at my roof last night and because of the noise I couldn’t sleep.”
“Have you called the sheriff about this?”
“I have. Sheriff Mearl was out here yesterday. Took the report, huffed and puffed like usual, told me he’d keep his ears and peepers open and I wasn’t to use my gun again. He was as much help as he always is. Which is to say, not much. And if someone comes on my land uninvited, I darn well will get out my gun and use it. This is my land, my home and I can do what I want on it.”
Abigail thought Frank would say something to that, but he didn’t. As one gun owner to another, she imagined the two men thought the same about self and home protection.
“Alfred, do you know Beatrice Utley?” A tall man, Frank looked uncomfortable in the cramped house at the small table. The chair he sat in squeaked when he moved as if it would collapse at any moment and deposit him on the floor.
“Sure I do. She’s my neighbor over there.” His thumb cocked in the direction of Beatrice’s house. “I holler at her sometimes when I see her somewhere, but she don’t holler back. We don’t socialize much. She’s a little hoity-toity, if you know what I mean? She has money and I don’t. Also, she’s not my type. And, oh lordy, I heard about those crazy dolls of hers. I don’t do crazy. I have enough issues of my own.”
By the looks of him, the way he lived and what was happening to him, Abigail agreed. Alfred had his own problems.
She and Frank stayed another half hour but learned nothing else that could have helped them. Alfred was as in the dark about what was going on as Beatrice had been.
And after leaving him, Frank and Abby drove over to Beatrice’s to see how she was doing. She was fine. She’d had the basement straightened up again and the police patrol had kept anything else from occurring. So Far. Frank had telephoned her son the night before after he’d left Abigail’s house and had explained to him what was going on. The son seemed like he cared about what was happening to his mother on the phone, but so far hadn’t shown up or called her. It made Abigail feel bad for her.
“Well, that’s done,” Frank had exhaled when they were heading towards Abigail’s house so she could pick up her car and get to town. She wanted to get to the bakery. Her new job waited.
“I pray everything is okay with those old folks now and nothing else happens to either one of them. I still can’t believe someone would torment them like that.”
“Me either. I’m not giving up yet on finding who did it and making them pay for it.”
“You’re not going to stake out their houses every night, are you?” He’d done that for her when the Mud People Killer had been after her the year before.
“I might. I have the strong suspicion it isn’t over yet.”
“So do I.”
“And I have a hunch or two,” he said, “I’m following up on. I can’t help but think what’s happening to Beatrice and now Alfred isn’t somehow linked. As I said, there’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“Let me know how that goes, will you?”
“You know I will, Abby.”
“Now on to something less mysterious and cheerier. I’m driving the children to Shelia’s on Friday, they’re going for a weekend reunion with their brothers and sisters, and wanted to know if you’d like to tag along? We wouldn’t be staying long and then we’d have the rest of the night to ourselves.”
“The weekend?”
“You can have some of that, too. But remember I have that new commission and I’m supposed to be at the bakery Saturday morning to see how the construction is coming along. But you can have Friday and Saturday night.”
“Fair enough. We’ll have to go out to the movies or something Saturday after you’re through at the bakery.”
“Hey, that’s an excellent idea. There’s a film or two I’ve wanted to see and one of them is being shown in Imax.”
“I know you’ve been dying to try Imax, so pick the movie and a time Saturday and we’ll go. My treat.”
“Of course your treat. You’re the wealthy author here, not me.”
“I’m not wealthy,” Frank bantered. “My books are doing fairly well, but I’m no Arthur Conan Doyle. I’m not rich.”
“Yet. You get a couple more novels out there and your fame will spread. I expect you to be a millionaire one day.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re going out with me? Because you think I’ll be rich someday?”
She gently squeezed his arm as he was driving. “Yep, that’s it. It’s all about the money.” And they both laughed.
He dropped her off at the house and drove away. She knew she’d see him later because she’d invited him for dinner.
*****
Abigail was hurrying down the sidewalk towards the bakery, her portfolio clasped in her arms, when she almost bumped into Samantha.
“Whoa, Abigail, where are you going in such a hurry?” the editor exclaimed, putting her hands out to cushion the collision and then bringing one of them up to shove her thick glasses higher on her nose. Today she had her vibrant red hair in a ponytail and was wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that had the words
I Write the News
on it.
“To my job at the new bakery. I’m going to help the owner, Kate Greenway, decorate it from floor to ceiling, and then paint donuts on the walls. Thanks for the tip the other day.”
“Ah, you’re welcome. I just heard the prospective owner was looking for an artist or a painter from someone else, can’t even recall who now. I didn’t even know the owner’s name…so it’s Kate Greenway?”
“It is. She’s Clementine Kitteridge’s daughter.”
“Really? I know Clementine, of course, but I’ve never met her daughter. I’ll have to introduce myself to her when it’s ready to open and run a story on her business. I do that with all the start-up shops in town. Like a
welcome to Spookie
kind of piece. Donuts, huh?”
“All donuts. But, according to Kate, of many exotic varieties. She’s a donut wizard. She showed me some pictures of them she had in a scrapbook and they looked delicious. Which by the way is what she’s calling the place. The Delicious Circle.” They’d arrived at the bakery’s door. Abigail could see Kate inside fussing with something behind the counter. Probably sorting out what was to go and what was to stay.
“I can’t wait until she opens then. Late May or early June, huh? That’s not far off.”
“I know, but that’s what she’s aiming for. I mean, we’re aiming for. You want to come in and meet her?”
“Not now, she looks busy, and I’m on my way to meet someone for an interview.” Samantha smiled and looked into the shop. She wiggled her hand at the occupant, who returned the wave. “Tell her I’ll stop by nearer to her opening date and get her story and photos. Tell her I’m thrilled she’s opening her business here in Spookie. We can always use another bakery.”
“I will.” Something in Samantha’s tone when she’d said she was going to an interview had tipped Abigail off. “What interview?”
“I don’t know much about it as of yet. It concerns more local vandalism. There seems to be a wave of it going around lately.”
“Vandalism?”
“I’ve labeled it that for convenience,” Samantha explained, “though it sounds more to me like a bunch of malicious teenage mischief against elderly people.”
“What do you mean?”
Samantha sighed and shifted from one foot to another. The sun was glowing on her face and highlighted the scarlet in her hair. “I’ve spoken to three citizens in the last two weeks, older people, who have had windows shattered, damage done to their property and their houses broken into. They’ve had things stolen and have been just generally harassed. In some instances terrorized in their own homes with nightly–and one of them put it exactly in these words–wraithlike intruders that have scared the heck out of them.”
“Wraithlike intruders…you mean ghosts?” Something prickled up along Abigail’s neck. What was going on in Spookie anyway?
“I’m not going to say that out loud or they’ll drag me off to the looney bin. But yes, that’s what it sounds like. I’m going to do a cautionary editorial on these incidents because I feel as if the town should know these crimes are going on. We need to be more vigilant and we need to catch these hooligans terrorizing our old folks.”
“You know Frank and I are investigating a couple of occurrences that sound similar to what you’re reporting on.”
“You are, huh? Now that’s curious.”
“So you might go talk to Beatrice Utley and Alfred Loring, as well. They’ve also been recently and repeatedly targeted. Same events as what you’ve mentioned. Frank is looking into it.”
“You mean you and Frank are investigating it like you did the Summer’s disappearances thirty years ago and the crimes last winter?” The editor gave her a slight smile.
“I guess we are.”
“I know both of them. Okay, I’ll go see them, too. Thanks for the tip.” There was a troubled look on her friend’s face. She’d taken a small notebook out of her jacket pocket and had written the names down.