Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy (15 page)

“I can't say that I've ever heard any stories like that one. . . .” Eugene stroked his mustache. “No, on second thought, I believe I have heard
one
story about the ghost of a woman dressed in white. The legend is that a young bride came down with yellow fever and fell into a coma. Her husband thought she was dead, so he quickly arranged for her funeral. The thing was, the husband wasn't too sad about his wife's death because he was secretly having an affair with another woman. Well, just when they were about to carry his wife to her grave to bury her, she just happens to surprise everyone by waking up in her coffin! It was considered a miracle. Everyone except the husband was happy; they all went home to celebrate, and that was that. Well, this husband decided that he couldn't wait around any longer for his wife to pass on a second time. He gradually began putting poison in her food, while telling everyone that she was sick with another terrible illness. And this time, when she died, he made sure that she stayed in the ground good and deep. She was buried in her wedding gown, which happened to be her favorite dress. And of course, the ghost story is that she comes back to haunt her husband wearing that dress.”

“What an awful story!” said Mrs. Joyce.

“It's a fabulous story!” said Gilda. “I mean, it's horrifying, but it is an amazingly good ghost story.”

“Glad you liked it,” said Mr. Pook, clearly pleased that Gilda had enjoyed the story.

“Do you know the name of the family?” Gilda asked.

“What family?”

“I mean, the husband in the story—what was his name?”

“I have no idea. Of course, most of these stories are just local legends. Someone dies of natural causes and the next thing you know, people are seeing ghosts everywhere but the bathtub.”

“Still,” Gilda said, “it's a good story.”
At least Mr. Pook knows a ghost story or two even if he doesn't believe in ghosts,
Gilda thought.

She pulled out her reporter's notebook and scribbled a note to herself:

Gilda sighed as she closed her notebook. At the moment it seemed that every new clue was only making her feel more perplexed about the true nature of her mystery.

A
s Gilda, Eugene, and Mrs. Joyce approached Eugene's house, Gilda heard some unusual activity coming from Mary Louise's yard, so she peered over the fence to get a closer look. Mary Louise was engaged in a heated discussion with a young woman and a professorial-looking man with gray hair and glasses. The source of their concern was an enormous oak tree that had crashed to the ground during the nighttime storm, narrowly missing the roof of Mary Louise's house. The deep root system of the tree was exposed, and the tree's traumatic death had left a gaping pit in the yard.

“Wow!” Gilda declared. “Mom—Eugene—did you see what happened in Mary Louise's yard?”

“'Course we saw it,” said Eugene. “She's lucky it didn't get her house; that's a big tree.”

Gilda watched as the man squatted near the tree, carefully examining the soil around its roots.

How could I have missed seeing that fallen tree when I walked by their house this morning?
Gilda wondered.
I guess I was so focused on trailing the woman in white that I didn't even notice anything else!

Gilda realized with surprise that the young woman who appeared to be assisting the man was actually Debbie—the ghost-tour guide she had met the night before. Gilda hadn't recognized her at first with her dirt-smudged blue jeans, work boots, and her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

What is Debbie doing here?
Gilda wondered, intrigued. “Hey, Mom,” said Gilda, “I should introduce you to Debbie Castle. She's one of the people I invited to the wedding.”

“Okay,” said Eugene, “but Patty—we need to get ready for dinner in a few minutes. I still need to finish that new batch of datil-pepper jelly to take over to the Furbos.”

Followed by her mother and Eugene, Gilda approached the group, curious to discover what they were discussing so earnestly.

“Once we complete a survey of the entire property, I reckon we'll need to do an excavation,” said the man as he knelt near the root system of the tree and touched clumps of dirt gingerly. Broken pieces of painted pottery were spread on a blanket nearby.

“Hey, Mr. Pook—it looks like they found some artifacts under the tree!” Gilda expected Eugene to be delighted with this discovery, given his passion for antiques, but Eugene looked grim.

Gilda watched as Debbie picked up a clump of dirt and brushed it carefully, revealing a smooth, polished object that appeared to be some kind of tool. “Look,” she exclaimed, “a pipe stern! I think it's made of some type of animal bone.”

“Hello!” Mary Louise turned to greet Gilda, Eugene, and Mrs. Joyce. “As you can see, we had a rude awakening after our ghost tour last night. But these two archaeologists here are happy as clams.”

“Thank you, Mary Louise!” said Debbie. “If you hadn't called me over here, I wouldn't have made my first big discovery!”

“Don't thank me; thank the tree for falling over,” said Mary Louise. “At least it didn't land on my house.”

“Hi, Debbie,” said Gilda. “This is my mom—Patty Joyce. And I guess you already know Mr. Pook.”

“I know your mother, Evelyn,” said Eugene, shaking Debbie's hand.

“Congratulations to both of you on your engagement,” said Debbie. “Oh, and this is Professor Bill Weller; he's a city archaeologist.”

“So what do you think you've got here?” Eugene asked the archaeologist. “Anything worthwhile?”

“Based on the artifacts that have turned up just in the roots of this tree, we've got evidence of an old Indian village,” said Professor Weller. “Chances are good there's a burial ground nearby, too. So far, we've found Timucuan artifacts. See that object Debbie's cleaning? It's a pipe stern made of animal bone. And this here is an old fishhook made of bone.” Professor Weller held up the fishhook and then pointed out bits of dark-clay pottery, some of which was painted with a pattern that reminded Gilda of a checkerboard. “This looks like Timucuan pottery,” he said. “We'll have to finish our survey first, but I reckon that the excavation site will extend into the adjacent property over there.” He pointed to Eugene's house.

“That's my property you're thinking of digging up!” said Eugene. “I'm Eugene Pook.”

“Looks like you may have the lucky distinction of living on top of an Indian burial ground,” said Professor Weller.

“If that's the case,” said Eugene, “I think it would be best to just leave it alone.”

“Mr. Pook, we do our best to leave any human remains as undisturbed as possible,” said Professor Weller.

“Seems to me that digging them up and dusting them off might disturb them a bit.”

“A find like this could tell us a lot about prehistoric communities in St. Augustine. And of course, you never know what other valuables can turn up, too.”

“Which I suppose you and your people would claim.”

“The city would keep them only if you decided to donate them, sir. Which we encourage, of course.”

“When are you expecting to dig up my yard? I'm having a wedding reception here in a couple days.”

“You don't need to worry, Mr. Pook. We aren't going to dig anything until we survey the property, and we probably won't get to that for a week or so. We'll bring the documents for you to sign first.”

“I still think it's wisest to leave the bones of the dead in peace.”

“Mr. Pook,” said the archaeologist, “we don't know if there are any dead over there yet, now, do we? We won't know that until we do an excavation.”

“No,” said Mr. Pook, gruffly, “I suppose we don't.”

I wonder if Mr. Pook already knows there's a burial ground, but just isn't saying anything?
Gilda thought
. It's hard to believe he's so concerned about disturbing the bones of the dead—unless he's really worried that he'll get in trouble for keeping that jawbone without notifying the city. . . . Or is he actually upset about awakening spirits who might not want their graves disturbed? Maybe Mr. Pook believes in ghosts more than he admits. . . .

Just then, Gilda noticed a movement in an upstairs window of Mary Louise's house. It was Darla, peering down at the scene below. She quickly snapped the curtains shut when she saw Gilda staring up at her.

“Excuse me, Mary Louise,” said Gilda. “Is it okay if I go ask Darla a question?”

“She's not feeling very well today, honey,” said Mary Louise.

“I see,” said Gilda, turning to march up to the front door. “In that case, I'd better go check on her.”

Mary Louise watched as Gilda walked up the front steps and disappeared inside the house.

G
ilda found Darla in her very pink bedroom, sprawled on her bed and gazing down at her cell phone as she tapped out a text message. “Knock, knock,” Gilda said, peering into Darla's room.

Darla practically jumped out of her skin at the mere sound of Gilda's voice. “Omigosh, you scared me half to death!” She grabbed a pillow and held it over her stomach as if protecting herself from an attack.

“Your mom told me I should come check on you,” Gilda fibbed.

“I
told
Mama I don't feel well.”

“What's wrong? Fingers sore from sending text messages?”

“No.”

Gilda watched as Darla's fingers moved over the screen of her phone. “You're worried about this excavation, aren't you?”

Darla stopped tapping on her phone and sighed. “Maybe. I don't know.”

“Did your mom tell you about the burial ground?”

She nodded. “She's all excited about it.”

“Well, it is kind of interesting.” Gilda walked slowly through Darla's room, touching knickknacks here and there. “It's like uncovering an ancient mystery right here in your own front yard! Most kids would give their eyeteeth for that.”

“What are eyeteeth?”

“I'm not sure; it's just an expression my grandmother used to say.”

Darla continued staring at her cell phone, and Gilda was shocked to see tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. “What is it, Darla?” Gilda sat on the edge of Darla's bed.

“You don't understand. Seeing those bones moving around everywhere was not ‘interesting'. It was horrible!”

Gilda looked around for a tissue, but couldn't find one. She opened her backpack and pulled out a napkin from the Spanish Bakery. “Here,” she said, “blow.”

Darla blew her nose loudly and sat up on the bed.

“Darla, I know you don't want me to talk to you about ghosts,” said Gilda, “but I think I could help you.” Gilda pulled
The Master Psychic's Handbook
out of her backpack.

Darla stared at the book as if it were a hairball lying on her bedspread.

“It's just a
book
, Darla; it won't
bite
. I learned just about everything I know about conducting psychic investigations from this book. Maybe if you learn to focus your skills more—and think more like an investigator, you won't be so scared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, instead of just freaking out when you see a ghost, you can ask yourself:
‘Why am I seeing this? What is this spirit trying to tell me?'
You'll also get better at just telling unwanted ghosts to leave you alone.”

Darla picked up the worn book and flipped through the underlined, highlighted, and dog-eared chapters on topics including “Using a Pendulum,” “Interpreting Your Dreams,” “Conducting Séances,” and “Automatic Writing.” She had to admit feeling intrigued by some of the topics.

“You write in your books a lot, you know that?” Darla glanced warily at Gilda.

“I do that when I really like a book,” said Gilda. “It drives my school librarian crazy, though, so now I just copy the sentences I like in a little notebook.”

“Well,” said Darla, “I guess I could take a look at it.”

“Don't get too excited about it.”

“I mean, I really appreciate it. Thanks.”

“I got you something else, too.” Gilda removed the archangel candle from her bag. “This is for special protection.”

“A candle?”

“It's not just any candle; it's your special
guardian angel
candle. When you're feeling unsafe, you light this candle and say, ‘Archangel Michael, please protect me and keep me safe from all danger and evil.' ”

Darla took the candle and traced the image of the angel with her finger.

“You can say whatever words you want—just ask your guardian angel to protect you. Get it?”

“Does it work?”

Gilda wasn't at all sure it would work, but when she looked into Darla's hopeful, frightened eyes, she felt compelled to feign certainty. “Sometimes when I feel scared I think of my dad, who passed away, and I ask his spirit to help me get through it,” she said. “And it's like having a guardian angel. So yes—it does work. It makes you brave.”

“Why aren't you scared of ghosts—or anything?”

“I get scared all the time, Darla. But when that happens, I just try to talk myself out of it and continue my investigation. Sometimes I write myself a letter—kind of like a pep talk.”
And sometimes I call Wendy in the middle of the night,
Gilda thought.