A Dash of Murder (6 page)

“And that pays money?”

That was a little rude. “Yes,” I replied. I get more steady paychecks than you investor types get, I thought, wondering if he
was just another Barry.

I continued. “My father wanted me to get your number to ask you some questions about meeting
Canfield at the old hospital.”

One of the ladies from my presentation came over and placed a
copy of my book in front of me.

“Miss Livingston. Thank you so much for speaking with us toda
y. Would you sign this for me?”

“Sure.” I grabbed her p
en and started signing my name.

“Is this your husband? Nice to meet you.” She extended a blue-
veined hand out to Fitzpatrick.

“Uh, nice to meet you
but I’m not …”

The older woman picked up her book from the table. “Have fun, you two!” She giggl
ed and scooted across the room.

“Man, this town really wants y
ou to have a man in your life.”

“Lucky me,” I said with a quick smile and a shrug of my should
ers.

“I hope you’re
not too embarrassed,” he said.

“No, it’s quite a compliment compared to w
hat they usually say about me.”

Jackie returned with our burgers and placed them on the table. “Whatcha goi
ng to be for Halloween, Betsy?”

“A paranormal invest
igator, and you?” I asked.

“I’m torn between a prison matron or one of those sexy little Red Riding Hood costumes.” She snapped her gum and smiled directly at Mr. Fitzpatrick. She angled slightly and put her hand on her hip. “Enjoy,” she said, turning and swinging her hips seductively
on her way back to the kitchen.

“I think she
likes you,” I told Fitzpatrick.

“She might change her mind when she finds out I’m probably on your dad’s suspect list. I was walking around the old hospital, and I ran into Canfie
ld. That’s all there is to it.”

I wasn’t sure if Fitzpatrick was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time or if there was much more to this handsome stranger from Dallas. He did just arrive in town and within two weeks, Oliver Canfield was found dead.

“So tell me about this investor you’ve come
to town for. Is it a big firm?”

“No, I wouldn’t necessarily say big. I’m here for someone who
se … interests I’m protecting.”

That was puzzling. Had his investor already p
ut money into the old hospital?

“It’s a private matter.” He continued
shutting down my next question.

“Okay.” I played with a french fry. What was he hiding? Was his investor so hush-hush because he or she intended to put something up the town wouldn’t like? What could it be? A prison? A landfill? It couldn’t be good if he was clamming up this fast. Whatever was going on, hopefully my dad was
on to it and would fill me in.

“By the way,” said Fitzpatrick. “ I wanted to let you know that Benny has put our boys together as buddies for the campo
ut.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirmed.

Great, now Zach would have to spend the night with a kid who will probably use him for a punching bag. If it wasn’t scheduled on Halloween, my dad could have gone along to watch out for him. I felt as if Zach was being thrown to the wolves. I had to find a way to m
ake peace between the two boys.

“Unless we want to be pulling them apart as they battle all night, maybe it might be a n
ifty idea to have a play date.”

“A play date?” He acted as if he had never heard of the concept. How could he have a son as old as Tyler and
not know what a play date was?

“Yes, you know. We get together, and the boys run off and hang out for a little while? Your wife really did cut you out of all
the parent stuff, didn’t she?”

“Oh … that kind of play date.” He nodded. “Sure. Would you like to take the boys t
o get hamburgers or something?”

Tyler was a pretty hefty guy, and I couldn’t imagine he would have too much fun crawling around the colorful playground tubes and tunnels they had at our neighborhood fast food joint. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Fitzpatrick had thoug
ht about it one way or another.

“That sounds good, but how about the two you come over to our house and eat supper? I make a pretty mean plate of spaghetti. After dinner, the boys can
run off and play video games.”

“Sure. That sounds great. It’s really nice of you to have us over. Maybe we can get our boys to stop fighting. I really think Tyler would benefit from having a friend – and so would I.” He smiled, showing straight white teeth, not unl
ike the wolf at Grandma’s door.

Trying not to think about my unplanned lunch date, I sat in my kitchen an hour later working on newspaper columns for November. There were plenty of tips to give in planning a successful Thanksgiving dinner. I had begun my exhaustive search for the best turkey leftover recipe I could find. I always made a turkey for Zach and my dad, and it seemed we were eating leftovers for a couple of weeks. Why was turkey that dish that you couldn’t wait to taste on Thanksgiving and then couldn’t stand the sight of by the time December rolled around? That is probably the sole reason why so many peop
le cook a ham at Christmastime.

A quiet rain tapped gently on the windows of my house, making even my air-conditioned room feel cozy. Maybe this was the beginning of a cool-down. I looked out the window at the increasing cloud line along the horizon. Was that an average October rain, or could we truly be getting an exceptionally late hurricane? Maybe tomorrow morning I would walk outside to take Zach to school and feel a refreshing breeze. I couldn’t remember the last time I put on a sweater, except while shopping in the frozen foods section of the grocery store. I dreamed of feeling a chilly breeze caressing my skin – then it hit me. I had been cool in the last day … in the dead tunnel. The cold had hit me from the inside out. I knew Maggie wanted to go back and find a ghost, but she would have to drag me in by the ear to get me to go with her. Let the real ghost hunters tackle that one. I opened the door and stepped out into the light sprinkle. I felt the hothouse effect almost immediately. Humidity in the rain – isn’
t that redundant? Not in Texas.

Maggie pulled up in her old Cadillac and jumped out with her umbrella. “What are you doing standing in the rain, child?” she asked as she skitt
ered down the walk to the door.

“Wishi
ng it was November … and cool.”

“Wishing won’t bring it any faster.” She stepped up to the porch and pulled down her umbrella. “Let’s go in – I’ve got news.” I obediently followed Maggie into the house, the glassed
screen door slamming behind me.

“What’s up?” I asked as Maggie took off her pink plastic hair bonnet with tiny poodles sprinkled artfully about it. She poured herself a cup o
f coffee from my coffee pot.

“What’s up is that woman we knocked heads with at the old hospital. She’s organizing a picket-line march against the television station right now. She stuck her head in all the stores downtown and told people a terrible thing was about to take place if they didn’t come and stop it.” Magg
ie pushed up her thick glasses.

“Great. I’m sure she’s slamming your paranormal group
every chance she gets,” I said.

“Yes, well, I was down making a deposit at the bank, talking to Delores the teller, when Miss Boyle came in saying she had an announcement. I thought she was robbing the place. She started talking trash about our paranormal team and then told everybody it was going to be on NUTV for the world to see. She made it sound like a virus infecting the town. People were folding up their checkbooks and following Miss Boyle right out the door. Luckily, I don’t think she saw me, or she would have torn in
to me right there on the spot.”

“What is it with this woman?” I said as I watched my aunt knock back the coffee and plunk the mug on the coun
ter. I clicked off my computer.

“Let me get my umbrella.” I walked over to the hall closet and pulled out my polka-dot umbrella. It fit there nicely now that the golf clubs were gone. “Do you think there’s a chance she could rea
lly get the station shut down?”

“If she keeps riling up the public like this, who knows? I just know somebody needs to
balance out this information.”

“Let’s call the station on the way. They can do a special report and then put our side of
the story on the air as well.”

“With a crowd gathering outside, I’ll bet they have a clue something’s wrong, don’tcha think? Besides, Howard is already down there. He called me while I was driving over here.” Maggie started pulling her plastic hair bonnet back on and tying the skin
ny plastic ties under her chin.

“It’s tough enough for NUTV that most people around here are watching the Houston or Dallas stations where they can get all the network programming,” I said, not bothering to put a raincoat on. I had a choice between getting a little damp or very hot, and figured I could put up with a little water. We slogged to her car and jumped in. Maggie drove while I called directory assistance and got the number for the station. The rain was pounding down on the windows, making Maggie’s old windshield
wipers wheeze with the torrent.

“I don’t think she’ll get too much of a crowd in this
!” I shouted over the downpour.

“Yeah … well …
we can only hope,” Maggie said.

*****

As we drove up to the NUTV station, rain pelted down on the historic two-story building at the end of Main Street. It had once been a hardware store with an apartment on the second floor. Every time I looked at it, I always figured the fancy gingerbread window cupolas were a gesture by the hardware store owner to his wife that an apartment over a store was quite a classy thing. The lower half of the building consisted of a wood front that needed a new coat of paint and two smaller windows. The front door was weathered wood with an NUTV sign nailed to it. Just in case the townspeople of Pecan Bayou missed the first sign, there was another sign to the side of the building made from a slice of the hanging tree that was cut down in the ’60s. In old Texas, the hanging tree was always close to th
e courthouse. One-stop justice.

On the small sidewalk in front of the station, Miss Boyle was dressed in a yellow slicker and holding a sign that said “Get the NUTS off of NUTV!” Behind her, peering out through the wooden blinds of the station, I could see Howard and the station manager, Stanley Gibson, watching Miss Boyle’s antics. I wasn’t sure if Howard wasn’t coming out because it was raining or because, of all the apparitions and spirits he’d seen in his ghost hunting experiences, Miss Boyle was the thing that truly scared him. There was a small gathering of citizens sheltered under their umbrellas blocking our entrance to the station door. As the rain increased the crowd decreased, and of course, none of the ladies from the Best Little Hair House were out there getting humidity in their new hairdos. They were probably the wrong crow
d to ask to go out in the rain.

We parked across the street, and as I got out of the car popping up my umbrella, I could hear Maureen Boyle shouting over the drivin
g pellets of moisture.

“Do you want the devil
setting up shop in our town?”

The cr
owd responded with a weak “No.”

It was almost as if they were being affronted by evil itself at the door and were still pulling on their house slippers. “Oh, the devil’s here … um … just one minute, let me g
et that porch light on for ya.”

Maureen Boyle went on with her diatribe as we came to the edge of the crowd. “Mr. Oliver Canfield, a beloved citizen of this town, has now died out there. He was out there trying to make our town a better place, and this is what he got for it. He couldn’t have known the type of people who frequent an abandoned structure like that. He has died, as countless others have out in that forlorn place. God rest the souls of these people. Someone has to preserve their dignity. Is our local television station NUTV helping to do just that? The answer is no. They are putting on a so-called paranormal circus out there tromping over the graves of our loved ones. These people have no heart, no compassion and no regard for our little town. They are bogeymen
themselves – the living kind.”

Maggie started pushing through the crowd. “That’s it!” she piped in her small voice. “That’s it.” She elbowed her way to the sidewalk. As the crowd moved out of the way for her, I had no choice but to follow my aunt. Aunt Maggie turned to the crowd. She was so short they could barely see her, so grabbing my hand, she hoisted herself up on a concrete pl
anter in front of the building.

“I represent the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society, and I am here to say that we do not nor have we ever participated in devil worship.”

“Do not believe her,” Maureen Boyle interrupted. “She speaks with the forked tongue of the devil’s handmaiden. What would Oliver Canfield say if he could speak up right now? Wh
at would he tell us about her?”

Maggie ignored her. “We’re a group of investigators who get together to examine claims of paranormal activity. We want to discover and record credible evidence of potential paranormal activity through audio and video devices. Everything we collect we want t
o connect to provable science.”

“Bunk!” Miss Boyle replied. “You are opening Satan’s doors to
let out his host of evildoers.”

I looked at the fear in Miss Boyle’s eyes. She was a woman with a whole lot of demons right there inside her head. What terrified her so much abou
t Maggie trying to find ghosts?

“Yes, well,” Miss Boyle droned on, the yellow plastic of her slicker rattling with each gesture. “At the next meeting of the town council, I will tell you how we will take action against thes
e invaders of the common good.”

Maggie put her hands on her hips in defiance. “And the town council just can’t wait to listen to all
this tripe you’re sputterin’.”

Miss Boyle turned slowly toward Maggie with pure hatred in her gaze. Her voice, which had been going into a higher register as she addressed the crowd, had now beco
me low and directed at my aunt.

“Once the council hears what I have to say, you can bet your little ghost hunting adventure is over.” She turned back to the crowd, raising her voice again. “I am passing around this petition for all of you to sign to stop the Halloween broadcast. Please do what you feel is right and sign it. I will present the petitio
n to the town council tonight.”

“What can they do?” Aunt Maggie asked me. “They do
n’t make the laws around here.”

“Even though we have permission from the police, there might be a possibility the town council could put a stop to the investigation. That old hospital
is owned by the town,” I said

Miss Boyle walked up to the few people left out in the rain and shoved the soggy paper toward them. Some of the people shook their heads and started off down the street, seeming to use their umbrellas as shields against her angry tirade. Crazy Elmer Simms smiled at her with his one craggy tooth
and gleefully signed his name.

Maggie and I escaped from the thinning crowd and the protestations of Miss Boyle and st
epped into the offices of NUTV.

Our little cable access channel was owned by Martin and Sally Gibson. It was partially financed by the town council and ran local events like Friday night high school football games, which doubled as religious services for some of the Pecan Bayou residents. NUTV also televised Miss Melody’s School of Dance recitals, a live broadcast from the chili cook-off and set up a camera in the second story of Neuman’s store to film the various parades throughout the year. The person who managed our little station was Stanley Gibson, the only son of the owners. He was in his thirties and had an affection for argyle sweater vests and bow ties. He had never married, which didn’t seem to be much of a surprise to the town, what with his love for
his showtune music collection.

Stanley turned from where he had been standing in the front office peeking at the c
rowd through the wooden blinds.

“Welcome, Maggie. I’m glad you mad
e your way through the crowd.”

Howard looked out of the other window, still watching the demonstration. Today he was wearing a western vest, bolo tie, denim shorts and cowb
oy boots. Who dressed this guy?

Stan continued. “It seems we are the talk of the town right now. I was on the phone this morning with my parents, and it seems Ms. Boyle has stated that she will make sure we lose the town council’s support for all of our programming if we don’
t stay away from the hospital.”

Miss Boyle had attacked on yet another front. Her onslaught of attacks made me wonder if maybe there was gol
d under that there dead tunnel.

Stanley walked around to his desk and pulled out a ledger. He ran his hand along a column. “Look, I can see that the Pecan Bayou Paranormal Society has already paid the fee to use the film crew that night, but there is a possibility we may have to refund your money. We are happy to produce your show but not at th
e price of losing the station.”

“It seems to me that if the police could figure out who killed Oliver Canfield, a lot of this would die down,” I said, watching the last
of the crowd get in their cars.

Maggie crosse
d her arms and rolled her eyes.

“That would be nice dear,” she said. “You know, Stan, we really are doing a paranormal investigation. It is not any form of devil worship or voodoo or whatever she’s callin’ it. Why ca
n’t she make that distinction?”

“She’s a nonbeliever of the worst sort.” Howard turned from the window. “Not only doesn’t she believe, but the mere possibility of another
world existing terrifies her.”