The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher (14 page)

I
thanked the Conrad twins for giving me their time, left the house, and rode my bike into town, where I stopped in at Tim Purdy's office. When not acting as the town's historian, Tim managed farmland in other states from his room on the top floor of a three-story office building.

“Hello, Tim,” I said, knocking on the frame of his open door. “Can you spare a minute?”

“For you, Jessica, more than a minute.” He saved the document he was working on and swiveled in his chair to face me. “Please have a seat.” He waved at an extra chair next to his desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I thought you'd like to know that Elliot Cooper has arrived.”

“Wonderful! Now the funeral can go forward, I assume.”

“Yes. I'm hoping for that, too.”

“Was that all you wanted to tell me?”

“No,” I said. “Remember when we were talking about Cliff Cooper's son, Jerry, and his wife?”

“Yes, and I finally found a photo of the young man for you. Did you misplace it?”

“No, I have it right here,” I said, patting my shoulder bag. “I know it's many years ago, but I understand there was a report in the paper announcing the young couple's deaths at the hands of a tribe they were supposed to be studying. Do you remember that?”

“As I told you, it was the prevailing story, but I'm still a bit skeptical.”

“Why would you doubt the story?”

“I don't know if you recall what the
Gazette
used to be like. It wasn't a full-fledged newspaper at all, simply an attempt on the publisher's part to come up with local news, more scandal sheet than information. She printed whatever anyone gave her, verbatim, misspellings and all.”

“And you think Cliff gave her the story?”

“In all likelihood.”

“And you weren't sure it was true?”

“It wasn't just me. But I have to say, even though Cliff didn't ask, I took it upon myself to scan the national newspapers.” He leaned back in his chair.

“And?”

“And I never saw any reference to scientists or even plain Americans being murdered in South America. Don't you think that would have been a newsworthy event?”

“I do, but why would Cliff have lied about such a thing?”

“I don't know that he did. Might be that Jerry trumped up a story so that he and his wife wouldn't have to come back, do some real work, raise their own child. They may be dead anyway for all I know. All kinds of contagion in those places.”

“Lucy Conrad said Cliff had no idea that they were planning to go to South America. He found a note they left for him. What I'm trying to figure out is how they got away without his knowing.”

“Probably the same way you get around town.”

“By bicycle?”

Tim chuckled. “No, I meant by cab. It would have been a long trip to the airport on a bicycle with two people and their luggage. Makes quite a picture, doesn't it?”

“By cab, of course. They could have arranged to be picked up at the end of the driveway, and if they left in the middle of the night, Cliff might never have known they'd slipped out until the baby woke him in the morning.”

“You have to admire the man. Cliff Cooper simply took up the responsibility of caring for his grandson and went about his business. Not an easy task. Pardon me if I sound sexist, but it must've been especially difficult without a woman to help.”

“Men can be just as nurturing as women.” My reply was automatic, but my mind was already skating ahead to where I could find out if Jerry and Marina used a taxi in their escape from Cabot Cove. My usual driver, Dimitri, was too young to have had a driver's license that many years ago. But the business had been founded by his father, an old friend of mine in both senses of the word “old.”

I thanked Tim for his time and trotted down the three flights of stairs. My bicycle was leaning against the side of his building, but I'd had enough of pedaling for the day. I would pick it up later. I dialed the taxi service, and Dimitri arrived in short order. He was surprised when I asked to be taken to his father's house.

Dimitri Cassis Sr. was the paternalistic head of a family that had emigrated from Greece to the United States many years ago. They'd initially settled in New York City, where the elder Dimitri found work driving a taxi on the chaotic streets of Manhattan. But one summer, the Cassis clan, which included Dimitri, his wife, Eva, and their two children, took a week's vacation to escape the city's hot, muggy weather. They drove to Maine, where they spent five days in Cabot Cove.

Dimitri fell in love with the town—he saw parallels between it and the Greek coastal city they'd left—and by that fall, he and his family had packed up their apartment in the Astoria section of the New York City borough of Queens, and bought a small house in a development that had sprung up on the outskirts of town. Not without ambition or imagination, Dimitri saw an opportunity to provide Cabot Cove with something it didn't have, a cab company, which also provided a way to support his family.

Dimitri's Taxi Service was born. And it grew. Dimitri expanded to launch a shuttle service to Boston's Logan Airport, and he established a driving school that flourished under a contract with the local school district. Everyone in the family pitched in. They not only helped run the business; they became active in a variety of civic affairs.

For me, Dimitri and his taxi company were particularly important. I don't drive a car and never have, and I've depended for many years upon Dimitri and his friendly drivers, including his cousin, Nick, and his son, Dimitri Jr., to take me places beyond the capabilities of my trusty bicycle.

The elder Dimitri was retired—although he could always be counted on to don his chauffeur's hat in a pinch—and enjoyed his days of relative leisure, playing golf, fishing from his twenty-two-foot Aquasport boat, and cooking Greek delicacies. He was in the midst of making his signature dish, spinach pie in phyllo pastry, when I knocked on his door that afternoon.

“Ah, Mrs. Fletcher, my best and favorite customer. My wife will be distressed that she missed you. Come in, come in. Sit down. A glass of Metaxa? Coffee? Tea?”

“Nothing, thank you, Dimitri. I won't be staying long.”

“Stay as long as you wish, provided you don't mind my keeping an eye on the oven. I don't want to burn the spanakopita.”

“I won't mind at all,” I said as I sat at his kitchen table and breathed in the wonderful aroma of the dish he was lovingly creating.

“So,” he said, “I hope that you didn't come with a complaint about the service. Sometimes Dimitri runs a little late, and I have been lecturing him about it. He is a good son, but, you know, today's young people sometimes do things differently than the older generation.”

I laughed. “No, no complaints, Dimitri. Actually I'm here to test your memory.”

“My memory? Ah, it is not as good as it once was.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I remember the past, yes, but not what I had for breakfast yesterday.”

“Then we're both in luck,” I said, “because what I need is a little history from you.”

He sat across from me and grinned. He was a stocky fellow with a broad, square face, a full head of hair the color and texture of steel wool, and a ready laugh. He was the sort of man you immediately felt comfortable with.

“Dimitri, you've been driving people in Cabot Cove for many years.”

“Too many, maybe. After so many years behind the wheel, my back finally protested. I tell Dimitri Junior to be sure and use the backrests in the cabs I provide for all my drivers or he will end up the same.”

“And I'm sure he listens to his father.”

“Sometimes. But since I'm grateful you have only good rides with him, I won't scold him. Tell me how I can help with your history lesson.”

“Dimitri, do you remember a young couple that lived in the Spencer Percy House?”

His face creased in thought. “Yes,” he said, “I remember them, but I didn't know them. They were, as we say in Greek,
idiómorfos
. Peculiar. I believe that carpenter, Mr. Cooper, lived with them.”

“You're right,” I said. “Cliff Cooper was the young man's father. Cliff recently died, you know.”

“Yes. I was sorry to read that in the newspaper.”

“His son, Jerry, was married to a woman named Marina. They had a little boy named Elliot and—”

Dimitri waved his hand over the table as though to banish what I'd said. He grunted. “It was terrible what happened to them, terrible what they did, leaving the baby with the grandfather and going off for their own pleasures.”

“To South America,” I said, following up on what he'd said, “where they were killed, as I understand it.”

He simply nodded, got up, checked his spanakopita, and returned to the table.

“I was wondering, Dimitri, whether you or one of your drivers took them to the airport the day they left for South America.”

“I did,” he said flatly and without hesitation. “It was the only time I ever met the carpenter's son.”

I was surprised at how quickly he remembered having driven them.

“And I suppose that it was the only time that you met her,” I said.

He shook his head. “No. I didn't meet her.”

“But—”

“When I went to the house to pick them up, only the man was waiting for me outside the door.”

“Without Marina?”

“Only him. I remember he told me that his wife had already left and that he was meeting her wherever it was they were going in South America.”

“I'm impressed that you remember it so clearly,” I said.

“I remember because I didn't like him.” He slapped his palm down on the table. “There was something about him, something in his eyes. After he told me about his wife, we drove to Boston without another word between us. I was relieved when I dropped him off.”

“Did he say how his wife got to the airport?”

“No. Maybe he drove her himself. I only know that I did not drive her, nor did anyone who drove for me back then.”

“Did he mention the baby, Elliot?”

“He said nothing, Mrs. Fletcher, nothing. I am ashamed to admit it, but when I heard that he and his wife had been killed in the jungle, I was not sad. I know that isn't a nice way to feel—and I wasn't
happy
that he'd been killed—but I felt no sorrow.”

“You really didn't know the man, Dimitri.”

“I am sad when anyone dies, Mrs. Fletcher. I felt sorry for Mr. Cooper, who had a small child to care for and raise.
Him
I felt sadness for.”

I understood, and I appreciated his candor.

Dimitri opened the oven door and used two pot holders to pull out the pan of spanakopita and set it on the stovetop. The pastry was browned and flaky. “You'll stay for dinner?” he said. “My wife will be back soon and—”

“I appreciate the invitation, Dimitri, but I'm afraid I have other plans.”

“All right, but you are not to go until I have given you a portion of my wonderful dish. My wife always says, ‘Good food tastes better if it's shared.'”

Dimitri cut a large square from his spinach pie and wrapped it in foil for me. Then he called his son to pick me up.

“Thank you for the spanakopita, and thank you for spending this time with me,” I said. “Please give my best to your family.”

He walked me out to the waiting cab.

“What happened to the baby?” he asked.

“He grew up into a fine young man,” I said. “He's returned to Cabot Cove for his grandfather's funeral.”

“Please send him my best, and condolences on the loss of his grandfather.”

“I'll be happy to do that.”

Dimitri's son drove me back to Tim's office to pick up my bicycle, and he dropped me and the bike off at home. The whole time my mind was in overdrive.

The lives of Jerry and Marina Cooper had always been shrouded in mystery, but what Dimitri Cassis had told me only added to the enigma. Why had Marina traveled ahead of her husband instead of accompanying him? What was it about Jerry Cooper that had engendered such negative feelings in Dimitri Cassis? Who had reported to Cliff that Elliot's parents had been murdered in South America?

The answers to those questions, and more, were locked away in the Spencer Percy House, along with, as Arianna Olynski would say, the negative energy of unhappy spirits.

C
ecil was sniffing around a paperback that had been placed on the bottom step when I arrived the next morning and brought in an empty carton that Lettie had left outside the front door. The Chihuahua's mistress was pacing in the hallway, yelling at someone on her cell phone. “What do you mean you need a few days off? We have work to do. I already gave you money to buy materials.”

I slipped out of my Bean boots and tiptoed past Eve into the library, where Elliot was perusing the books that remained on the shelves. He waved a greeting.

“Grandpa Cliff used to have a volume of poetry by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” he said, his hand running over the spines of the books. “Have you seen it? I couldn't find it in any of the boxes.”

“Are you short of cash?” I asked.

He turned to face me. “Boy, nothing gets past you, does it, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Your grandfather wanted me to pay the lawyer.” I opened a cabinet door and retrieved the hollowed-out book of poems Cliff had used for what he called his “stash,” and handed it to Elliot. “I paid Fred Kramer and gave him the rest of the money in the book for safekeeping. Perhaps he can provide you with funds the next time you see him.”

Elliot snorted. “Wish I had known that yesterday when I had an appointment with him.” He opened the book and ran a finger around the rectangular hole in the center of its pages. “I used to sneak a dollar or two when I was short, figuring Grandpa Cliff would never notice. I figured wrong, of course. He'd confront me the next day and threaten to dock my allowance. He never did, though. Instead, I'd find a ten-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans that I knew I never put there.” He closed the book, a wistful expression on his face. “Makes a nice souvenir, doesn't it.”

“Yes, it does.”

“
Sacré bleu
, Jessica! This will never do.” Eve stood in the doorway of the library, fists on her hips. “There's barely room for Cecil to walk in here, much less my client, who's a very big man. We'll have to get rid of these boxes.”

“That's the whole idea behind the book sale, Eve, getting rid of the books in the boxes,” I said.

“Well, when is this momentous event going to take place? I think I've been very patient, but it would be just as easy—probably a lot easier—to have Herb, the junk man, come and haul them away.”

“Eve Simpson, you are not going to renege on the promised fund-raiser for the Cabot Cove Library,” I said, barely resisting the urge to stamp my foot. “And furthermore, don't complain to me about how long this is taking when your pledge to help organize it seems to have evaporated into thin air.”

“Tell me how I'm supposed to show the house when it's chock-f of boxes,” Eve said, her voice rising. “I can't even
think
about attacking the bedrooms when I can't navigate the first floor.”

“Where's your knight-in-shining-armor handyman?” I asked. “Why not have him move the boxes to the barn?”

“I'm not sure where he is. He called to say he was taking a few days off. Can't I count on
anyone
?”

“Moving the boxes somewhere else would work for me,” said Arianna Olynski, coming into the room. “The kitchen will never do as a set.”

I knew that the medium, the former Agnes Pott, had returned to town with her cameraman and nephew, Davy, known professionally as Boris, but I hadn't realized they were already at the house.

“I didn't see your truck when I arrived,” I said.

“We parked it behind the barn, like before,” Davy said. “Aunt Aggie doesn't want a truck in the opening shot. Spoils the mysterious atmosphere.”

I'd guessed that Davy had hidden the truck behind the barn the last time they were here, when Mort had caught him filming through an open window. Aggie had told Eve her truck wouldn't start and had requested a ride to the house. I didn't know if Aggie realized that Davy had exposed her lie, but I decided not to challenge her. It was enough to have my suspicion confirmed.

“If you empty the room,” she said to me, “we could use the library to shoot our next episode. Does that work for you, Elliot?”

“I'm easy.”

“What is Elliot doing in your show?” I asked.

“He's going to tell a story about how his mother's spirit found its way from the jungles of South America to Cabot Cove in order to read bedtime stories to her little boy. It's so touching.”

“Elliot, are you sure you want to do this?” I asked.

“Sounds like fun. Maybe if I talk about her again, she'll reappear. I haven't seen her ghost since I was ten.”

“Oh, but she's watching out for you,” Aggie said, waving her gold-topped cane in the air. “I'm certain of it. I can feel her spirit.”

“Which reminds me,” Eve said, pointing at Elliot, “you cannot just take up residence in one of the bedrooms while I'm trying to get the house in order. You'll have to move somewhere else.”

“Me? Where am I supposed to go? This is still my home, you know.”

“Only until I can sell it,” Eve said with forced cheer.

I had the impression that she was trying to tamp down her temper before she alienated everyone in the room.

“You want the money, don't you, Elliot?” Eve continued. “Think what you can do in Alaska with all those wonderful greenbacks to spread around. You'll be the toast of—where is it you live?”

“Sitka. It's a nice little city situated on Baranof Island—”

“You'll be the toast of Sitka. Women will be flocking to your door. You could buy a home or open a business or simply put your feet up for a year or two and read. Take some of these books with you. Or you could skip Alaska altogether and travel the world. Where would you like to go?”

That last question was posed through Eve's clenched teeth.

“Right now I'd like to go upstairs. I'm a little tired from traveling by motorcycle so many days. I could use a little rest, if that's all right with you.”

“Rest all you want, but not in this house, please. I can't sell this monstrosity with so many boxes around, especially if people keep adding to the clutter rather than taking it away. Find somewhere else to go. Like Blueberry Hill Inn or some other bed-and-breakfast. And make sure you take that motorcycle with you. We can't have prospective buyers thinking this is a biker hangout.”

“I can't afford a hotel until you sell the house and give me the money,” Elliot said. “You'll just have to deal with my clutter for a day or two. I don't know that many people who would be willing to put me up, especially when they know there're eight empty bedrooms upstairs.”

If Eve hadn't just paid for a wash and blow-dry at Loretta's Beauty Shop, I was certain she would have pulled out her hair with both fists. I was feeling her frustration myself. Every time I'd proposed a date for the book sale, it conflicted with another event on the calendar of the Friends of Cabot Cove Library. We'd finally settled on the thirty-first of October, which was a Saturday and, not incidentally, Halloween. It was the date that Seth Hazlitt had lightheartedly recommended, but I wasn't certain I could count on people to help out with the sale when there would be other events taking place around town, not least of which was the library's Halloween Parade for children. And would Charlene Sassi still offer to provide cookies when she had so many bakery orders for holiday parties at that time of year? At least we had most of the books off the shelves and boxed by category. Only the bottom two shelves remained to be sorted, and maybe I could get Elliot to help me finish up before he starred in Aggie's YouTube program.

“I'm leaving,” Eve announced. “Come along, Cecil.”

Cecil gave a sharp bark, trotted over to Eve's tote bag, and jumped in.

“Boris and I are going to shoot some establishing shots on the grounds,” the medium said, following Eve out the door. “If the books have to stay, perhaps we can find another location to film.”

“Suit yourself,” Eve called over her shoulder. “I have to find another handyman.”

Elliot looked at me and shook his head, chuckling. “I don't even have a key to this place,” he said. “I've been coming in and out through a window.”

“Eve didn't give you a key?”

“No, ma'am, but don't worry about me. I'm going to ask Aunt Lucy if I can use their spare room. That'll get me out of Ms. Simpson's hair. Fortunately, I don't have a lot to pack.” He covered a yawn. “Can't seem to get used to this time zone,” he said, shaking his head like a dog shaking off water.

“It's very nice of you to accommodate Eve,” I said. “She doesn't deserve your cooperation after her temper tantrum today, but she'll be grateful, I know.”

“I seem to remember that selling a house is considered a major life crisis that causes people a lot of unhappiness and strain.”

“It does,” I said, “as do death, divorce, job loss, and illness, among others.”

“Thanks to Grandpa, I don't have to do the selling,” he said, stifling another yawn.

“I'm not surprised that you're tired,” I said. “You've experienced a lot of turmoil in your life recently—the death of your grandfather, and having to leave your job and home to travel across two countries to help settle his estate. Not to mention the breakup of your engagement. All those upheavals take their toll.”

Elliot put his hands up as if I were pointing a gun in his direction. “Not to forget that Grandpa Cliff's death is suspicious. No wonder I can barely keep my eyes open. But that last part you listed, Mrs. Fletcher, the breakup of my engagement. That's frankly a great relief. I knew it the instant I saw Beth again. Oh, it stung my ego, no doubt about that, but I'm really glad I'm free to get to know my childhood friend again. I only hope she's as glad to see me as I am to see her. We were really close once, and I wasn't very nice to her when she tried to help me.”

“That was a long time ago, and I'm sure she's forgiven you,” I said, noting the bags under his eyes. “Why don't you go upstairs and take a nap?”

“You wouldn't be offended?”

“Not at all. Do you mind if I stay? I have more work to do, and I'm curious about a few things I've found.”

“The house is yours to explore. You can ask me about anything later. I'll tell you whatever I know, or what I can remember.”

While Elliot climbed the stairs to the second floor, I looked around the room wearily. Seth has often accused me of assuming projects without weighing the consequences. Sorting the contents of Cliff Cooper's library for a book sale to benefit Cabot Cove Library had become a massive undertaking, and I was feeling overwhelmed. There was so much left to organize in the remaining days until the sale. I'd never been able to gather the help I'd expected to materialize. Was Eve right? Should I have let her hire Herb to cart away all the books and not have devoted all my efforts toward selling them? After all, realistically, how much money could be raised to support the library? Very likely not enough to expand the staff. Maybe only enough to get part-time help with a project. Was it a worthwhile endeavor?

Meanwhile, if Seth's analysis of the autopsy was correct—and I had to assume it was—Cliff Cooper had been murdered, and the discovery of who might have wanted him dead had taken a backseat to investigating his family history. What good was that going to do? A son and daughter-in-law sacrificing their lives on what was most likely a fool's errand in South America. A grandson who moved across the United States and Canada right after college. What was it about Cliff that drove his family members as far away from him as they could get?

All I knew about the day Cliff Cooper died was that no visitors had signed the book, but that Beth, possibly Lettie, and someone who sounded suspiciously like Elliot could have been there. Elliot had shown up in the Spencer House almost ten days after his grandfather's death. He couldn't have been hiding in Cabot Cove all along, could he? He seemed such a nice young man. Was it possible I'd misjudged him so completely? If so, it wouldn't have been the first time I'd been taken in by a handsome face and a pleasant manner.

I picked up the book that had been left on the bottom step, carried it into the library, and deposited it in the box marked “Mystery: Hard-boiled and Noir.”
Another Hobart,
I thought, sighing. This one, entitled
Masquerade!
, had a picture of a figure in a green cape, face hidden behind a black mask.

Green,
I thought. “Green,” I whispered. “Of course.” Seth had said he'd found green fibers in Cliff's throat, but there were no green pillowcases in the hospital. Then in the morgue, he'd speculated that they might have come from a hospital uniform. And when Aggie had saged the house, Mort had found green scrubs in an upstairs dresser drawer. “Scrubs” was a term used to describe a medical uniform. I'd forgotten that I'd meant to ask the Conrads if Cliff's wife, Nanette, had ever worked in the hospital. Or could they have been left behind by the nursing students who'd helped care for Elliot as a baby?

I went to the base of the stairs and looked up. Elliot's room was on the opposite side of the house from the bedroom with the dresser. If I walked carefully, I wouldn't wake him. Still in my stocking feet—my boots were next to the front door—I climbed the stairs, wincing at every creak. At the top, I tiptoed down the hall, hoping he wouldn't hear the squeak of the boards as I peeked into each room until I found the one Aggie had saged. The bedroom still bore a trace of the scent of lavender smoke in the air. The bedding appeared to be as it was when I'd last seen it. I'd taken the book I'd found downstairs. There was nothing on the top of the overturned box except the lamp that had been there before. Out of habit, I checked the bulb, but this time it was cool.