Death by Haunting (10 page)

He hadn’t. I could still hear him talking to June in the library, which is why I had left the door open.

Good. I hobbled into the bedroom where I had taken refuge that night. I silently closed the door trying to ignore that my left leg was hurting like the dickens. The doctor had put me on new pain medication. Obviously it wasn’t working. Maybe when I got home, I would medicate myself from my private stash of contraband . . . that is if I could even bend to get into the floor safe.
I’m going to have to get a wall safe
, I thought to myself. Another thought popped into my head.
Concentrate.
Concentrate on the task at hand.

Going over to an eighteenth-century writing desk, I took out a drawer and then pushed on a tab under the desk.

A secret panel popped open.

Reaching into it, I pulled out my camera and put it into the pocket of my jacket. Opening the door just a bit, I peeked into the hallway. Seeing no one, I quickly limped down the servants’ staircase.

Carefully negotiating the stairs, I made my way into the kitchen. “Hey, Bess,” I said. “I hear you have a pie with my name on it.”

“Find anything upstairs?”

I turned to find Jean Louis sitting at the kitchen table having a piece of pie with a cup of coffee. “I thought you were having tea with June. Wow, a piece of pie after afternoon tea.”

He patted his belly. “Got to keep my weight up.” He took a sip of coffee.

I turned to Bess. “Help me out with my bag?”

Bess gave Jean Louis a sideways glance. “Sure. You get your pie. It’s in the fridge.”

I hurried to retrieve my pie and followed Bess out to my golf cart.

Jean Louis followed us. “Josiah, would you mind dropping me off at the guest house?”

Bess stepped forward, grabbing the pie out of my hands. “I’m afraid you might jostle the pie on the way home. You’re so clumsy.” She got in the front seat, holding the pie in her lap. “Mr. Jean Louis, you get in the back and we’ll drop you off.”

Puffing, Jean Louis had no recourse but to get in the back of my golf cart. This was not the way it was supposed to go. He silently brooded as we parted ways at the guesthouse.

Once out of earshot, Bess laughed out loud. “That’s one hair-raising Frenchman. Ooooh, he gives me the shivers.”

I laughed as well. Bess was one smart cookie.

“Let me off here.”

I slowed the cart and Bess hopped out.

She placed the pie on the floor of the cart. “You don’t think I believe that cock-and-bull story about you tripping, do you?”

“What do you think happened, Bess?”

“I think Jean Louis rapped you upside your head.”

“That’s what I think too.”

“Why don’t you tell Miss June, then?”

“I don’t think she would believe me. She is under the spell of Monsieur Jean Louis. Besides, I need some time. I don’t want to confront him yet. Keep this mum, will ya?”

“I’ll have Liam keep an eye on our guest.”

“Liam? Isn’t he too busy belting down June’s bourbon?”

“I guess he needs a few snorts to put up with Miss June.”

“So you know about that?”

“Liam’s a big boy and knows what he’s doing. He’s in his fifties, after all.”

“Still.”

“Actually, Liam’s having a great time and Miss June is giddy with the attention, but this May/December fling won’t last too much longer.”

“Have you ever seen an old lady with such a sex drive?”

“It beats the rocking chair . . . or the grave. Most old folks give up, but not Miss June. You gotta give her credit. Don’t worry about them. They’re both of age and know the facts of life.”

Hmmm. The facts of life.

Maybe I should rethink some things.

31

G
oetz opened his door.

“Why do I owe you?”

“Jeez.”

“No, tell me. You said I owed you. That has been bothering me. Why do I owe you? I know you’re not dumb enough to think that helping me with a concussion one night deserves favors.”

I walked past him into his apartment. It was actually quite nice, with Mission Arts and Crafts furniture. I looked closer. I was beginning to doubt the pieces were reproductions, but the real McCoy.

“You’re the only woman I know that would come to a man’s apartment to chew him out and then get sidetracked by some sticks of wood.”

I shrugged. “I’m not finished yelling. I would really like an answer to my question, but I also want to know where you got this collection.”

Goetz grabbed me by the shoulders and shook. When he saw that my eyes hadn’t rolled back in my head yet, he shook again and harder.

“Can’t you see that I’m crazy about you? Have been since the first time we met.”

I pushed him off. “Yeah, I love the way you show it. Don’t you ever touch me like that again! I am tired of men thinking that they can do what they want to me and suffer no consequences. I swear that the next man who puts his hands on me is going to get a bullet in the leg.”

“I was trying to shake some sense into you.” He fell onto his couch and threw up his hands in defeat. “I can never catch a break with you. First it was the death of Richard Pidgeon. I knew you had nothing to do with it. I tried to persuade my Captain that we were going down the wrong path . . . that it was death by misadventure, but he said that he would follow O’nan’s lead.”

“Is that why you tried to plant a listening device on me and ransack my house during a search?”

“I know that it is hard for rich people like you to understand average working Joes like me, but even for you, I was not going to be put on suspension and lose everything I had worked for.”

“Rich people like me?” I sneered. “I hope you don’t think I have lots of money. The fact is I have my retirement fund and that’s about all. The settlement I got from the city has been spent on medical bills, and the little revenue I get from the farm goes back into the farm. I have very little money myself. And I have worked hard all my life too, buddy. Nobody gave me handouts. What I’ve got, I earned.”

Goetz lifted up his craggy face. “You want a beer? I’m tired of fighting.”

I plopped down beside him. “I am too. We’re too old to fight like this anyway.”

“You wear me out, Josiah.”

“What do you want, Goetz?”

“I want to go to movies with someone. I want to be able to call at ten o’clock at night and tell someone about my day. I want someone to buy a birthday card for. I’m tired of being alone every damn single night.”

I placed my hand on top of his big catcher’s mitt of a hand. “We can be friends, Goetz. You can call me late at night. I’ll go to the movies with you.”

“You know what I mean?”

“Sure, I get lonely too. And it will get better when you retire. You can visit your grandkids more often then.”

Goetz leaned toward me. “I’ve got a secret. I hate kids. All that screaming and neediness. Kids suck you dry.”

I laughed.

“That’s nice.”

“What is?”

“Your laugh. You’ve got a nice laugh.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s go to dinner. I’m starving.”

“You paying?”

“Yeah.”

“What are we waiting for then?”

As we were going out the door, I asked, “You never did answer my question.”

“What question?”

“How do I owe you?”

“Be quiet, woman, I was just baiting you. Let it go.”

Somehow I didn’t believe him. There was something still unspoken. A deep secret between us. I could feel it.

32

T
he phone rang.

I lifted the receiver from its cradle. “Hello,” I said, groggily looking at the radio clock. It was two in the morning.

“Josiah, this is Mavis Bailey.”

“Mavis? Why are you whispering?”

“Someone is trying to break into the house. Help me!”

“Mavis, hang up and call the police.”

“There’s someone in the living room.”

“Lock your bedroom door. Mavis, hang up and call the police! Mavis! Mavis!”

A bloodcurdling scream sounded in the phone.

“MAVIS! MAVIS!”

The phone went dead.

33

I
got to Mavis’ house before the police, but I heard sirens in the distance. They couldn’t be too far away. All the lights in the house were off. Knocking on the front door, I tried to push it open. It was locked. “Mavis! Mavis! It’s Josiah Reynolds. Open up!”

Nothing.

Taking a flashlight, I went to the back of the house.

The glass on the back door had been broken and the door stood open.

I pulled a stun gun out of my pocket while I pushed the door open wider with my foot. I didn’t know if someone like a deranged druggie was still in the house, but I didn’t want to wait for the cops. Seconds might count.

Reaching around the doorjamb, I felt for a light switch. The room flooded with bright light.

“MAVIS!” Hearing nothing, I stepped into the kitchen, avoiding the broken glass. “I’ve got a gun. If you’re still here, go out the front. The cops are coming.” I listened but the house was silent. No running footsteps.

Feeling braver, I kept turning on more lights and searching for Mavis. The sirens kept getting louder. When were the police going to get here?

Finally I turned on the hall light and saw an arm outstretched from the bedroom. “Mavis?” Throwing caution to the wind I ran down the hall.

Mavis was in her nightgown, lying on the floor. Her lips were bloodied. “Oh, Mavis,” I gushed, bending down. I checked her pulse. It was faint.

“Help me up,” she whispered. “Help me.” She began struggling.

“Mavis. Let me support you, but I really don’t think you should stand. The police are almost here.”

“You. YOU!” she hissed. She raised her arm and pointed to the corner of the bedroom.

“What is it?” I asked, half-expecting to see someone hiding in the corner. But there was no one there.

“It’s Mama!” she cried. “MAMA’S HERE!”

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I dragged Mavis out of the bedroom.

34

O
kay. Call me crazy . . . thinking I could cheat death by dragging Mavis out of her bedroom. Did I think Cordelia Sharp was back from the grave and coming for her daughter? You betcha.

Do I believe that ghosts are real? Not on your life.

I just know that the rolling hills of Kentucky are rife with the dead waiting to interfere with the living. The dark, rich earth of Kentucky is saturated with the blood and bones of Native American warriors, frontiersmen and women, boys from the North and South, victims of blood feuds and tobacco wars, murdered slaves, drug runners and countless luckless women who loved the wrong men.

This land is old and the hate in the soil is strong and cries out for vengeance.

People are always seeing haints, but few will say they believe in ghosts as it defies science or God. But there is nothing scientific or holy in being haunted. It’s a damnable thing to have happen to you.

I know Kentucky. She’s a beautiful mistress that turns on you. She will lure you to your death if you don’t keep a steady eye on her. Will it be death on the palisades, a coal mine explosion, falling off a Thoroughbred, drowning in Kentucky’s many lakes or rivers, or bloodshed by one of her sons?

She has a long, long history of violence at the hands of her sons and daughters. It’s bred in us.

Kentuckians are charming, friendly and hospitable, but never, never double-cross us or harm one of our kin. We can be vicious. Even the dead.

Kentucky is not called the dark and bloody ground for nothing.

Dragging Canoe, chief of the Cherokees, warned Daniel Boone, “We have given you a fine land, Brother, but you will find it under a cloud and a dark and bloody land.”

Most people think Kentucky was always uninhabited. It was by the time Daniel Boone walked the Wilderness Trail, which is the most famous footpath in America, but historical records show that many peoples resided in Kentucky for thousands of years.

In fact, the last known Shawnee town near Lexington was Eskippakithiki, but when Daniel Boone reached its location, the town had been burned to the ground. Presumably European diseases had decimated the local population so the surviving Shawnees relocated north of the Ohio River. Or at least, it is thought so.

Kentucky is old. The rocks are old. She was here long before the dinosaurs, before the Mastodon or Saber Tooth Tiger, before the Ice Age. Her earth is rich and dark with the sacrifices of many.

William S. Burroughs is quoted as saying, “America is not a young land. It is old and dirty and evil before the settlers, before the Indians. The evil is there waiting.”

He might as well have said that about Kentucky.

The earliest stories of haints and strange beings begin with the Native Americans. They would tell the early fur trappers stories of other-worldly beings that had lived in or visited Kentucky.

And there was proof to back up the stories.

Pre-Columbian mummies with red hair have been found in our caves, including the Grand Daddy of them all – Mammoth Cave.

A Thomas Ashe writes of underground chambers below Lexington in his 1806 book,
Travels In America
. He claimed that a very large chamber with mummies having red hair had been discovered in 1783.

The Native Americans claimed that the mummies were not their people, but a forgotten race that had died out long ago.

There are records of these finds, but no one can actually locate the mummies now. One called “Fawn Hoof” was taken to the Smithsonian Institution in 1876 and discarded after she was dissected. However, a photograph of “Fawn Hoof” does survive.

Explorer Alonzo Alvarez de Pineda in 1519 wrote that he had encountered giants on the Mississippi River.

In 1965, a nine-foot tall skeleton was unearthed in Holly Creek, Kentucky. It supposedly had slits for eyes and nose rather than the normal round holes humans have. It was reburied by its finder, who took the whereabouts of the giant skeleton with him, but not before witnesses saw the remains.