Ghosts Beneath Us: A Third Spookie Town Murder Mystery (Spookie Town Murder Mysteries Book 3) (13 page)

“She says now Beatrice is missing. She went over to see how her friend was doing and found no one in the house. After losing one friend already, she’s freaking out.”

“I take it we’re leaving?” Abigail rose from her chair.

“As fast as we can get out of here. I’m sorry. I know you wanted to visit with everyone.”

“It’s fine, Frank. Myrtle and Beatrice come first. I can visit more when we pick the kids up on Sunday evening. Let’s say our goodbyes and get on the road.”

Ten minutes later they were going out the door.

*****

“Where is Myrtle now?” Abigail queried when they were on their way.

“She’s waiting for us at Beatrice’s.”

“Has she looked everywhere in the house for her?” Abigail sat beside him looking out as the night world went past them. With the warmer weather people had begun to emerge from their homes and businesses after dark, going places, seeing friends or strolling around. But tonight the rain had decreased their numbers and there weren’t many out. And if they were they huddled under umbrellas or were wearing raincoats or water-proof jackets as they hurried down the streets and sidewalks.

“Everywhere but the basement…she refuses to go down there.”

“That doesn’t sound like Myrtle. She’s usually so fearless.”

“Except when it comes to ghosts. She said she heard mysterious noises below her and swears it’s the ghosts. Arthur’s ghost, to be precise.”

“Oh,” Abigail muttered, stretching out her legs beneath the dash. “The ghosts again. Those sneaky critters.”

The rain had suddenly morphed into a curtain around them. Frank drove as fast as he could under the conditions because he was anxious to get to Beatrice’s. Myrtle had sounded hysterical. Of course, if truth be told, she often sounded that way.

*****

The closer they got to Spookie the heavier the rain fell, and as they drove into the town’s limits the fog snuggled up against the truck, curling around the tires. Ah, spring in Spookie. Fog central.

Beatrice’s house was lit up like a shopping center.

“Well, looks like Myrtle has made herself at home,” Abigail said after they’d gotten out of the vehicle and were walking up to the door. The rain was drenching them so they dashed up to the entrance. “Should we knock?”

As an answer Frank grabbed the door knob, opened it and shoved through. “Myrtle, we’re here!” he yelled and closed the door. No answer.

He and Abigail forged deeper into the house, dripping water as they went. Empty doll eyes stared at them from different surfaces, sitting on every piece of furniture as before, and didn’t blink. Everything appeared as creepy as the last time they’d been there, except no Beatrice. The only occupants of the house seemed to be the dolls. Perhaps they’d killed their mistress?

“Myrtle, where are you!”

Myrtle appeared behind them. “Stop shouting, Frank. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, for heaven’s sake. I heard ya.”

“Sorry. Have you found Beatrice?” He wanted to also ask if Tina had shown up but already knew that answer. Myrtle would have told them already if she had.

“No, not hide nor hair of her. It’s a mystery for sure. And after my house burning, the boat fiasco with Tina going missing, I’ve had my stomach full of them,” she complained and slid around them into the living room.

“I’m sorry about Tina.” Abigail laid a hand on Myrtle’s shoulder. “And now Beatrice.”

“Yeah,” Myrtle replied, “I’m losing friends like ducks in a shooting gallery. It isn’t natural.”

“If you two ladies will excuse me,” Frank interrupted, “I’m going to have a look around. See if I can find anything that would help us locate the missing owner.”

He left the women, Abby consoling her friend, and checked the upstairs first; every place he could think of where a batty old woman could be hiding. Beatrice hadn’t struck him as completely irrational since he’d met her, close but not totally, but one never knew. She could have just wandered off somewhere.

Myrtle had been right, though. No Beatrice anywhere in the house. No notes. Nothing. Beatrice didn’t drive any longer and she didn’t have a car. So she couldn’t have driven somewhere. Returning downstairs Frank strode through the living room towards the basement door. “Nothing or no one on the main floor or upstairs so last place is the basement. I’ll be right back,” he informed the women.

The basement was still a disaster area. Broken windows, glass and objects were strewn all over the place…and after a bit of searching he found a lifeless Beatrice sitting up against a wall in a darkened corner; partially covered in trash and old clothes. A life size dead doll. Her face was serene, almost happy. In her arms was the same Raggedy Ann doll she’d carried around when they’d been there last.

Frank’s first thought was that the woman had come down there looking for her dead husband’s ghost again and had had a heart attack or something, plopped down on the cement floor and died. Then he spotted the blood on the sides of her neck. He carefully reached his fingers behind her head and they came away covered in blood from a wound. Well, she could have fallen and hit her head. But he didn’t think so. Someone had covered her in trash. His cop instincts were whispering
murder
.

And suddenly all the harassment, vandalism, so-called haunting occurrences and Tina’s vanishing didn’t seem so innocent any longer. It was as he’d suspected: something deadlier was going on.

He hated telling Abigail and Myrtle what he’d discovered beneath them but he did. Myrtle wanted to see her friend’s body so, fortified with the two of them on either side of her, they descended into the basement.

“Someone killed her you know that, don’t you?” was the first thing Myrtle said as she gawked at the corpse. “I talked to her before Tina and I went on our voyage and she was positive her dead husband Arthur was appearing to her for a reason. Sort of like a warning or something. She just didn’t know what he was trying to warn her about, but she was really scared. Perhaps he was trying to tell her something, I don’t know. But this, this isn’t Arthur’s doing. He loved her. He would have waited on the other side for her forever while she lived out the rest of her mortal life. He was never the kind of man who’d want harm to come to her.

“Someone alive did this to her.” Myrtle’s eyes were glittering with unshed tears. She was attempting to be brave.

But Frank wouldn’t have blamed her if she had burst out weeping and wailing. Losing two old friends in twenty-four hours couldn’t be easy.

Abigail put her arms around her. “It’s okay to cry, Myrtle. Go ahead. We won’t think less of you, will we, Frank?”

“We won’t.”

As Abigail sat with Myrtle, Frank put in a call to the sheriff’s department and reported the death. Soon police cars and an ambulance pulled up in the dark rain and the house was full of strangers and officers. Sheriff Mearl hadn’t come out on the call. He’d gone out of town on a retreat for police officers, but he’d sent his second-in-command, Deputy Caruthers, a middle-aged man who’d been on the force for a decade and knew the town and its people well. He was an adequate cop and a fairly nice man, but not the smartest marble in the bag. They were questioned by him after the body was taken away. He didn’t believe Beatrice had been murdered.

“She was an old lady,” Caruthers reminded them. “She most likely fell and hit her head against the wall or tripped on all this junk and it fell down around and on her. I mean, look at this place.” His disapproving eyes traveled the basement. “And she was a big time bona fide hoarder. Look at all this crap piled to the rafters. She wasn’t right in the head. This was an accident and you have to see that, Frank. Hoarding killed her.”

Frank didn’t see it that way, but the deputy was adamant it wasn’t murder, though Frank advised him of the other unexplainable happenings around town and Tina’s cruise ship misfortune.

“It doesn’t mean any of these things are connected, Frank,” Caruthers drawled condescendingly. “Just coincidences, I’d say. Bad luck all around. Sorry.”

But when the body was taken away and the officers abandoned the scene, without leaving crime tape anywhere, and allowing them to remain, Frank felt frustration at how cavalierly the death had been treated. Just because Beatrice was elderly didn’t mean her fate should be less important than anyone else’s. It made him angry.

“You should call Beatrice’s son now,” Abigail told him when the ambulance and the cops were gone. “He should know his mother is dead.”

“Ha, like he would care.” Myrtle’s expression was doleful. “That boy hasn’t been to visit Beatrice in years and she suffered from it. He was too busy with his family or his fancy high-paying job…making and spending money, is what. She used to wake up in the middle of the night, she confessed to me often enough, and lay in bed fretting over what she’d done so wrong raising him; why he didn’t love, care about or see her. She adored that boy and his neglect broke her heart. She never stopped believing one day he’d see the error of his ways and become a good son to her. But it never happened and now it’s too late.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds he can’t squeeze in her funeral. He’s too busy. He’ll send a check and a bouquet of flowers and let the funeral home take care of everything. That’s the sort of son he is.”

Frank understood Myrtle was grieving over losing two friends so he didn’t begrudge her her anger. Instead he found Beatrice’s private telephone book and keyed her son’s number into his cell.

He was taken by surprise after he told the son his mother was dead and the man broke out into genuine sobs on the other end of the phone. Who would have known? The son might have loved his mother, just not enough to show it to her when she was alive. Maybe now he’d feel the pain she’d been feeling all these years without him. It was just another one of the many sad stories of life.

Chapter 6

Abigail

Abigail stood at the kitchen window, cradling a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. It was nice, in a way, having the house to herself for the weekend. It was quiet. Though she missed the kids she knew they’d be home tomorrow so she cherished the time alone.

Snowball was trolling around her feet like a fur shark, begging to be noticed, food or both; purring loudly. The cat began meowing and Abigail set the cup down on the counter and scooped her up in her arms to snuggle her fluffy head. “I know, I know, sweetie pie, I’ve been ignoring you. I’ve been gone a lot and now I have to go meet Kate at the donut shop. Sorry. I promise I’ll give you more attention when I return.” She put the cat down on the floor and the animal nipped her on the ankle and, tail indignantly straight up which was the cat’s way of showing displeasure, ran off.

Abigail couldn’t resist one last look out the window. The spring day, the first truly warm one so far that year, with a slight breeze, was so beautiful. The trees and flowers were blooming and their perfume came in through the window and filled the house. Oh, she loved spring.

It was early Saturday morning and she was dressed and ready to go. Yet the events of the night before were still haunting her. She couldn’t get Myrtle’s stricken face or Beatrice’s dead body propped up against a dirty basement wall out of her mind. It seemed unnatural on such a pretty day her mind would be so full of dark thoughts.

Everything that was happening made her uneasy. For over a year things had been calm in Spookie and she’d gotten used to a normal existence, loving Frank, raising the children and expanding her free-lance art career. Now her life was shadowed by all the horrible misfortunes befalling the town’s old people.

What was really going on? She had her theories and so did Frank. And she was sure he was working on solving that puzzle. But she still had a job to do. Kate would be waiting for her. So it was time to go.

She left the house and because the morning was so nice, she walked into town. Passing Stella’s Diner she spied her friend Martha at one of the front tables waving furiously at her through the window.
Come in. Come in.

Abigail looked at her wristwatch. There was time to spare before she was supposed to be at the donut shop so she veered off the sidewalk and through the diner’s doors. When she got near Martha’s table she saw her friend wasn’t alone. Samantha was there, too. They were eating waffles loaded with cherries and whipped cream on top. Waffles must be the morning’s breakfast special.

“Good morning Abigail,” Martha spoke up. Samantha echoed the greeting. They all smiled at each other. It was good to have friends.

“I can’t stay long, girls,” Abigail said right off as she lowered herself into a chair across from them. “Kate’s expecting me at the donut shop in, oh, about twenty minutes. We have workmen to supervise, furniture arranging and color coordinating to do. I also have some sketches to show her for the wall artwork.”

“Is Kate still expecting to open by June?” Samantha poured more syrup on her waffles. Her cup was empty and the reporter gestured at Stella for more coffee and smiled at the waitress when she refilled the cup. “Thanks Stella.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.” Then Stella was on to the next table.

“As far as I know, she does. Take or give a week or so. I talked to her on the phone this morning before I came into town and she says everything’s on schedule. She’s excited the shop is coming along so well.”

Stella had automatically brought another cup, placed it in front of Abigail and filled it. Abigail didn’t have a chance to tell her she wasn’t staying before the woman had scurried off again. “Thank you Stella!”

The coffee smelled so good, Abigail couldn’t resist so she added milk, sugar and drank it. She had time to squander and it seemed as if Martha had something to tell her. One look at her friend’s face and she knew that was true. Martha always got flushed when she had gossip to spread. Eventually, Martha would tell her what was on her mind.

“I can’t wait until her shop opens,” Samantha had gone on to say. “It’ll be great to have a choice when it comes to baked goods. Actually, I welcome any new small businesses to our village. As a town we need to keep growing on some level or we’ll just wither away; become a ghost town someday.”