The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher (18 page)

“Slow, frustratingly slow. That handyman I hired seems to take his own sweet time getting things done. He's back on the job, thank goodness. I was getting ready to throw up my hands. Speaking of getting things done, Jessica, when will the rest of the books be packed up and moved out?”

“The sale is taking place next Saturday,” I answered. “As you know, I haven't had a lot of help sorting Cliff's library. It's a daunting task, but we're almost there. I'm hoping to finish up tomorrow. What do you hear from our favorite medium, Arianna Olynski, also known as Agnes Pott?”

“She's a kook, Jessica.”

I had to laugh at her directness.

“She's supposedly going to videotape an interview with Elliot Cooper, but she put it off until Evelyn Phillips can come and watch. Evelyn's doing a front-page article about her. I just hope Aggie remembers that the whole purpose of her being here is to rid the house of ghosts, not talk about them haunting the place. I've had exactly one query from a prospective buyer, and I'm eager to move this property off the market.”

“Maybe Aggie's show will help sell it,” I offered.

“Or scare everybody away,” was Seth's analysis. “Haunted house indeed!”

We stayed another twenty minutes before announcing that we were leaving.

“It was very generous of you to invite Elliot to stay here and to host this reception for him,” I told Lettie.

“Thank Lucy. It was her idea.”

“I will,” I said. “Where is she?”

“She went to lie down. Said she had a headache. I think it's because she saw that nurse Carolyn at the funeral.”

“Did you speak with her?”

“Ayuh. She came right up to me and said, ‘Now, no one's got him.'”

“Oh, how awful. Did Lucy overhear her? Did you say anything back?”

“I don't have time for her. I just turned away.”

Elliot and Beth walked in just as Seth and I were on our way out. We complimented Elliot on his eulogy and Beth on the poem she chose to read.

“Did you notice it was from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?” Elliot asked.

“I did, as it happens. And I noticed that her book doesn't have a hole in the middle of it.”

Elliot laughed. “I think Grandpa Cliff would have loved the irony.”

The rain had let up; it was now more of a mist that had settled over Cabot Cove. Seth and I walked toward his car.

I looked across the road at the Spencer Percy House.

“Spare me a few more minutes?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

I took his arm, and we crossed the street to the house where Cliff Cooper had lived with his wife, Nanette, and after her death had raised their son, Jerry, by himself—and had also brought up his grandson, Elliot, the same way. The light I'd seen in an upstairs room was off now. We walked up the gravel driveway toward the small barnlike structure in the rear. As we approached it, I saw Tony Tonelero's black motorcycle resting against the side of the building beneath an overhang that kept it dry. Raindrops on its surfaces glimmered, however; it had been used recently.

“I'll never understand people riding on those darn things,” Seth commented.

“And they probably wonder why you feel that way,” I said.

The door to the barn was only partially closed. I widened the gap and peered inside. “Tony?” I called out. There was no response. I pushed the door fully open, and we stepped through it. Although it hadn't been home to animals for a century or more, the barn still maintained most of the original structure from when it was built, with a center aisle and bays on either side that had at one time been stalls. Although it lacked the familiar barnyard smell, there was the aroma of raw wood and sawdust, testimony to its use as a woodworking shop.

“What are we doing?” Seth asked.

“I thought maybe Eve's handyman was here,” I said, folding my umbrella and leaning it against the wall. “I wanted to ask him why he'd attended Cliff Cooper's funeral.”

“A man has a right to attend a funeral, Jessica.”

“But he never knew Cliff. Eve hired him after Cliff died.”

“Maybe he's someone who likes cemeteries and funerals, or maybe he needs something to do on a Sunday morning.”

“On a very
wet
Sunday morning,” I said.

I ventured past one of the stalls in which there were a table saw and other machines useful to a carpenter. Beyond it was an area that probably had been a tack room when the barn was first built. It seemed out of place to be in a barn now. It was set up like a makeshift bedroom. There were a cot made up for sleeping, a small night table with a lamp attached to a long extension cord, a portable radio, and a stack of a dozen books. A rod had been crudely attached to the wall, where clothing dangled from wire hangers. A black motorcyclist's helmet sat atop a legal-size banker's box on the floor in a corner.

“I suppose this is where the handyman Eve Simpson hired lives,” I said, angling my head to see if I could read the titles of his books and wondering whether Tony had taken them from the boxes in the house.

“What are you doing?” a man's hard voice asked.

We turned to face Tony Tonelero.

“I hope you don't mind us being here,” I said, quickly moving away from the door. “This is Dr. Hazlitt, a friend of mine.”

Tony nodded.

“We were visiting across the street. The Conrad sisters had some refreshments for those who attended Cliff Cooper's funeral.”

Another nod from the handyman.

“You must have gotten wet riding your motorcycle to the cemetery,” I said.

“I'm used to getting wet,” he said. “Is there something you want?”

“No, nothing,” I said. “I just was curious why you were at Mr. Cooper's funeral.”

His face grew red. “I don't see that where I go on my day off is any of your business.”

“You're correct,” I said.

He grunted and turned his back to us. “I have work to do.”

“I thought you said it was your day off,” I said.

He whirled around. “Lady, do I have to explain my every move to you?”

“It isn't necessary to be rude,” I said, taking Seth's arm. “We'll leave you alone to get it done.”

“Aren't you ever afraid riding on that big bike out there?” Seth asked him.

“No.”

“I've treated too many motorcycle accident victims. Those things are dangerous.”

“No problem if you know what you're doing,” Tonelero mumbled.

I yanked on Seth's arm. I wasn't in the mood for a debate on the perils of riding a two-wheel motorized vehicle.

But after we'd crossed the road and gotten into Seth's car, I said, “He rides a motorcycle.”

“Appears that way, the fool. And in the rain as well, a double fool.”

“Theresa, the nurse's aide at the hospital, told me that Cliff Cooper had had a visitor, someone carrying a motorcyclist's helmet. I thought her description matched Elliot, but Elliot arrived well after Cliff died, and his helmet isn't black.”

“And now you think it may have been this fellow?” Seth said as he put the car in gear and pulled away.

“It seems strange to me that he was at the cemetery, but I can't imagine why he would have been at the hospital visiting a man he'd never met before,” I said.

“There were other people in the hospital at the same time Cliff was there,” Seth said, stopping to allow a gaggle of geese that had decided to cross the road to make it safely across.

“Yes, but Theresa talked about a motorcyclist visiting Cliff. How many people in Cabot Cove do you know who ride motorcycles?”

“Too many, Jessica.”

“I only know two—personally, that is: Elliot Cooper and Tony Tonelero.”

The final member of the gaggle of geese made it to the other side of the road.

“Know why a goose crosses the road in front of cars?” Seth asked.

A joke from Seth Hazlitt?

“Why?” I asked.

“I wish I knew,” he said as we continued on our way.

S
eth dropped me off at home, and I quickly discarded my damp clothing in favor of a comfy gray and white sweat suit and slippers. I checked messages on the answering machine and saw that Arthur Bannister, my bookseller friend from New York City, had called. He said that he'd arrived in Cabot Cove and was staying at the Blueberry Hill Inn, owned and operated by my friends Craig and Jill Thomas.

“You made it,” I said after I'd been connected to his room.

“Not a bad trip, considering the weather,” he said, “but I prefer riding around in New York City, as insane as it is. The drivers are crazy, but all the traffic keeps down the speed.”

“I'm just glad that you're here, Arthur. Why didn't you let me know that you were coming?”

“Didn't know how long it would take me to get here, and I used the ride up to stop at some antiques shops and bookstores along the way. Made a little busman's holiday out of it.”

“Do you have dinner plans?”

“I was hoping that you were available.”

“Which I happen to be. However, I spent the morning at a funeral and need a little time to unwind.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. No one close to you, I trust?”

“Actually, the service was for the man whose books I want you to see. Give me a few hours to catch up, and I'll tell you all about it tonight. You have my address?”

“I've already punched it into my GPS. Neat little device, and the woman giving directions is good company.”

We firmed up a time for him to pick me up, and Arthur bid me
“Hasta luego
.
”

I called Peppino's restaurant to make a reservation, tidied up my office, and started to empty the dishwasher, but my thoughts kept going back to bumping into Geraldo Tonelero in the barn. He certainly was a strange fellow, speaking in an almost incoherent mumble and avoiding direct eye contact. Not that his personality mattered. As long as he did what Eve Simpson was paying him to do, his lack of social skills was irrelevant. But I'd been meaning to look him up ever since Eve had hired him, especially since I suspected she still hadn't asked for references.

I switched on my computer and waited for the screen to come to life. A Google search failed to turn up the name Geraldo Tonelero with an address in a town down the coast, which was where Eve said he'd come from. I checked a page of images but found no Geraldo Tonelero, either senior or junior. Nor did his name show up under Tony Tonelero or on any of the pages rating the work of local Maine artisans and tradesmen. Of course, he could have used a company name for his business, and I could be looking up the wrong name. I only hoped he hadn't seized on Eve's predicament as an opportunity to enrich himself. On the other hand, if he was a criminal with plans to make off with Cliff's valuable carpentry equipment, he probably wouldn't have stuck around this long. Frustrated, I turned off the computer.

Arthur arrived at the appointed time, and I took a few minutes to show him around my house before heading out for dinner.

“So this is where the famous Jessica Fletcher creates her spine-tingling masterpieces,” he said as we stood in my office.

“This is where Jessica Fletcher hides from the world while she tries to make sense out of murder and mayhem,” I said.

“Which you never fail to do,” he said.

I smiled. “I do enjoy a flatterer, even though I know that you're just buttering me up for something. What is it?”

“Ah, she sees right through me,” Arthur said to the ceiling. “But we'll get to that later. Shall we go share a repast?”

“I've been looking forward to it all day.”

And I had. Arthur Bannister was an old-school gentleman with a classic education. He held a doctorate in languages, and would have made a superb professor had he stayed in academia. Instead, he devoted his remarkable mind to collecting and selling books, because, as he always put it, “Books are never rude, even if some of my customers are.” Overweight and with a salt-and-pepper beard that refused to be tamed, he was also meticulous in his dress and habits—some said foppish. He was fond of bow ties and wore a neon yellow and red one this evening with a matching handkerchief in the pocket of the double-breasted blue blazer that was wrapped around his sizable frame. I caught the aroma of some citrusy cologne that he wore and thankfully didn't overdo. On occasion I have met gentlemen who douse themselves in a heavy fragrance, their scent overpowering all else and making it difficult to sit near them in a restaurant and enjoy the food.

We drove downtown and settled at a table in Peppino's, an Italian restaurant that had become a favorite of mine since it opened years ago. Arthur had been a lover of the aperitif Campari for as long as I'd known him, even though its bitterness was an acquired taste to be sure. He ordered it on the rocks; I opted for a glass of white wine.

“So,” he said after we'd been served and been given menus to peruse, “what's new in the world of Jessica Fletcher?”

I started off by telling him how the book organizing was going. “We're close to finishing,” I said, nearing the end of my account. “There are thousands of them, most of them boxed up in Cliff Cooper's library. The sale is next Saturday. Doris Ann, our librarian, agreed to hold Cabot Cove's annual Halloween Parade on the grounds of the Spencer Percy House. The building is reputed to be haunted, so the date is appropriate. We should get a good crowd, weather permitting.”

“How exciting.”

“I have to admit that I did not put aside first editions for you, but I've culled some books that I thought you might be especially interested in, although you're free to look at everything.”

“I'm really not expecting to find anything of great value, Jessica. Frankly, I've used your book sale as an excuse to get out of the city for a few days. I've left the shop in the hands of my new assistant and only hope that he doesn't burn the place down in my absence.”

“I hope so, too,” I said. “Cliff Cooper, the gentleman whose books we're selling, recently died. He was a book collector only in the sense that he never let any of them leave his possession. His interests were truly eclectic when it came to reading. We found books ranging from esoteric philosophy to potboilers. Ever hear of a writer named Graham P. Hobart?”

My mention of Hobart caused Arthur to straighten in his chair and lean on the table. “You have Hobarts in the collection?”

I couldn't help but laugh. “Yes,” I said. “Do they interest you?”

“They do. They do.”

“You must know the covers are gruesome, a real throwback to the early days of noir fiction. And the titles! One more lurid than the last.”

“Sounds as if you've read them,” he said.

“I haven't read any of them. I just keep coming across them every time I turn around.”

“I want them all,” he said.

“All?”

“Yes. I probably shouldn't tell you this, Jessica, but there is about to be a Hobart renaissance.”

“I can't imagine why.”

“He was an unappreciated master of the genre, a recluse and psychopath whose warped imagination took him into the darkest aspects of our existence. I have a friend at a publishing company who wants to reissue all Hobart's novels. If it weren't Sunday night, I'd call him at his office and break the happy news.”

“I'm so pleased that your trip here will be fruitful,” I said. “Shall we order?”

Arthur was his usual talkative self during dinner, and I played the role of good listener, which I find easy to do. He regaled me with stories of his special purchases—a collection of guides to being a successful housewife, owned by a gentleman who'd been married four times, and a set of taxidermy instructional manuals that sold out the first day Arthur put them on a shelf. “I can't imagine what animals that customer is hunting in lower Manhattan. Rather, I can imagine but don't think I really want to know.”

I told him about Cliff's obsolete atlases, and he surprised me by saying, “You know, those fetch a pretty penny. People buy them to tear apart, then frame the maps and sell them separately. Old maps are very popular.”

“I never thought of using an outdated atlas that way, although I do love to read a map.”

“You do? I thought you don't drive.”

“I don't, but I remember how much fun it was to serve as navigator when my late husband, Frank, was behind the wheel. I'd spread the map of Maine on my lap, follow our route with my finger, and alert him to the turns coming up.” I smiled at the memory.

“I'll bet you loved telling him how to go.”

I laughed. “I did, especially since he was so good-natured about getting instructions from a backseat driver with no experience whatsoever.”

“Those big paper maps are not as readily available as they once were. They're being replaced by GPS systems and programs on your smartphone that only show you small sections of your route. As convenient as they are, they don't give you the big picture that a large map can provide.”

“Or the opportunity to investigate alternate routes or side roads to your destination.”

“Exactly,” Arthur said as our dessert plates were cleared. “And speaking of opportunity, any chance I can see the Hobarts tonight?”

“They're boxed up in Cliff's library at the Spencer Percy House.”

“Can we go look?”

“Now?”

He adopted a little boy's pleading expression.

“I suppose we can,” I said. “No one is there at this hour, and I have a key that the real estate agent gave me. But promise me we won't be long. It's been a tiring day.”

He agreed, and after saying good-bye to Peppino's father-and-son owners, we got in Arthur's car and headed for the Spencer Percy House. It occurred to me as we drove up the driveway that I might be invading the handyman's privacy again. But how likely was it that he'd be working late on a Sunday night? Chances were he was in his cubbyhole in the barn, reading one of the books on his night table.

Arthur looked up when we exited his car. “Amazing how many stars you can see out in the country.”

“When you live in the city, the lights on the ground obscure them,” I said. “It was one of my reasons for deciding to move back home to Cabot Cove from New York. I wanted to see the stars again.”

When we approached the house, it was dark except for two lamps that Eve Simpson had put on timers, based upon my suggestion. I have lamps on timers in many rooms in my house, a sensible security step I'd been practicing for years. I inserted the key in the front door and stepped inside, with Arthur following.

“Hello,” I called out, figuring if someone was there, I wanted to alert them to our presence. I didn't want to be mistaken for an intruder. Too many times the arrival of an unexpected guest provokes an equally unexpected response.

“You talked about this place being haunted,” Arthur said. “Are you expecting a spectral reply?”

“Certainly not. The haunting is simply a rumor that's gotten out of hand.”

“You don't believe in ghosts?” he asked as we entered the library.

I turned on the ceiling fixture. “No, I don't believe in ghosts.”

“Oh, my,” he said, his eyes lighting up when he took in the rows of boxes neatly marked with their category names. “I'm going to have a good time here.”

“Not tonight, however. We're here for one thing, remember?” I picked up the carton containing the Hobart novels and handed it to him. “Come with me to the kitchen. It'll be easier to look at them there.”

“And you'll get me away from temptation. Is that what you're thinking?”

“Unfortunately, there are more books in the kitchen.” I led him down the hall.

“You should keep an open mind about ghosts, Jessica,” he said from behind me. “They're very real. In many cultures, Halloween is followed by All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day,
el
Día de Todos los Santos
and
el Día de los Muertos
, honoring those who have gone before us, both children and adults. Many peoples around the world are convinced that departed souls are still with us.”

“I'll take your word for it,” I said. “I'm not up for a debate.” I switched on the overhead light and directed him to the kitchen's metal table. “This is the only unoccupied space on this floor,” I said, putting down my shoulder bag. “All the other surfaces are piled with boxes of books.”

Arthur looked around the crowded room at the stacks of corrugated cartons lining the walls. “I'd hardly call this space unoccupied,” he said, smiling.

“These are the ones that haven't been sorted yet. The house's deceased owner kept books in the basement as well as the library. The handyman who's working on repairs kindly packed up the ones downstairs, saving me the trips up and down.”

“A true gentleman.”

“I was grateful for the help, but I'm fairly certain he didn't group them by category. That's work left to do. Not to mention that there were several legal-size boxes containing family papers. I don't see those, though. Maybe they're still on the shelves.”

Arthur placed the box containing the Hobart novels on the kitchen table and eagerly began pulling them out, holding each one at a distance to admire the sensational cover. “Ah, yes,” he said, “from the master himself.”

“He really was that good?” I said, looking over his shoulder.

“Good in a literary sense? No. But there was—how shall I say it?—there was a level of perversion that emanated from his own warped personality.” He withdrew from the box the copy of
Betrayal
. “How much are you asking for these?”

“I have no idea, Arthur. Make an offer. The money is going to the Cabot Cove Library.”

“A worthy cause. Let me think about it overnight. Can I take these with me?”