House of Ghosts (2 page)

“I’m sorry for you,” Rosa said.

Joe removed a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros on the table, lighting it with a Zippo bought in a PX before shipping out to Vietnam. A wisp of smoke floated from a nostril. “It’s alright. Elaine is being Elaine.”

Rosa scooped up the beer cans and disappeared into the laundry room. The
crash of the cans into the recycling container pierced Joe’s ears. She returned pushing a vacuum cleaner. “Forgot to tell you, something is happening at Mr. Swedge.”

Joe wrinkled his forehead, picked up his cane fashioned out of a five-iron golf club he was no longer able to swing, and forced the pack of cigarettes into the right front pocket of his Levi’s. He hobbled to the picture window in living room at the front of the house.

In the circular driveway of the Tudor across the street were an ambulance, a Westfield black and white police cruiser, and a dark blue Crown Victoria. A banana yellow Dodge Durango SUV completed the quartet.

Joe didn’t need to rush. The Durango belonged to Dr. Christian Murphy of the Union county medical examiner’s office. Barefoot, he put on a pair of sneakers that were wedged under the base of a wood coat rack beside the door and ventured out.

Rosa was wrong. It wasn’t so hot; it was as if he stepped into a blast furnace. Joe felt the heat rising from the concrete walk.

“Hey Joe!” Ed Stoval yelled from the front yard two doors to the left of the action. The octogenarian rested against the handle of a bamboo rake he was wielding against a mountain of grass clippings. “What’s going on?”

Joe crossed the street feeling the curious stares from windows up and down the block. Tanglewood Lane wasn’t where invitations were extended to come over for a cup of coffee. Stoval was one of the exceptions, the other, a raven-haired beauty with legs that went forever and had a husband who was never home. “Mr. Swedge must not be feeling well.”

A Jaguar convertible coupe backed out of the driveway from one of the recently constructed houses, slowing to a crawl as it approached Joe. “Prick,” Joe mumbled, wanting to knock the three hundred dollar designer aviator sunglasses off the pompous ass’s head. The thirty-something male accelerated, tossing loose gravel behind.

Stoval coughed deeply, spitting a gob of mucous onto the pile. “I hope he’s fucking dead.” His ramrod carriage hadn’t changed from when he served in World War II. Silver and Bronze Stars and two Purple Hearts gave him cause to curse the abundant BMWs and Mercedes’ that cruised the upscale town. A 1990 Buick LeSabre sat proudly in his driveway.

Before Joe could answer, Stoval adjusted his 82nd Airborne Veteran’s cap and turned away. Joe laughed to himself. Stoval wasn’t prone to cursing, but Preston Swedge, with a disposition as sweet as rancid butter, brought out the best in everyone.

Joe approached the black and white from the rear. The uniformed officer sat with his hat pulled down over his eyes. A rivulet of condensation from the air conditioner ran down a slope toward a grove of evergreens partially obscuring the house. Joe tapped the bumper with the golf club causing the dozing officer to sit up and check the side mirrors. The driver’s door creaked open.

“Where in hell have you been?” Sgt. Bill Fielder asked, placing his feet on the pavement. The middle-aged patrolman looked up at the five ten former lieutenant. They were friends for twenty years and Joe’s change in appearance was disturbing. The combination of Joe’s packing on thirty plus pounds and the red spidery look of his face led to one conclusion: the man had fallen into the bottle. Fielder knew his share of cops that ended up the same way. “I call and get no answer and ringing the bell is a waste of time.”

Joe looked away as he took the last drag on the Marlboro, tossing the butt onto the street. “I took off for a couple of weeks and visited my cousin up in… Maine.”

“I got a couple of long lost relatives somewhere. Maybe I should look them up.” Fielder never heard Joe mention a cousin in Maine. He changed the subject. “Jeanie would love to have you over for dinner. It ain’t good to be alone.”

“I’ll give you a call.” Joe ran his fingers through his graying crew cut. He thumbed in the direction of the house. “How good?”

“About the same as when we found that scientist and his buddy dead last summer with the heat turned to the max.” Fielder fetched a red handkerchief crammed in a rear pocket with his ticket book and blew his nose. “I needed some air.”

That incident was the precursor to Joe being shot. The memory of the decomposed bodies churned an unsteady stomach not helped by the Percocet. He struggled to remove the pack of Marlboros from the tight jeans. “I hate shit like this. Who called?” He lit another cigarette.

“Ryan Mack couldn’t get any more mail through the slot,” Fielder replied, taking a drink from a bottle of water. “We’ve been ventilating the place for an hour, but…” Fielder got back into the air-conditioned cruiser and rolled the window down. “The body is in the kitchen. Straight down the hall.”

Joe didn’t need directions. The floor plan was burned into his brain after searching the premises on more than two-dozen calls for burglars, second story men, bumps in the night, and a character named Rothstein who seemed to be connected to the Wild Turkey the proprietor of the premises liked to suck down. When Joe suggested adopting a Doberman from the ASPCA, the irate citizen threw him off the property. The two hadn’t exchanged even a drop dead in a year.

A sign declared the premises were protected 24/7 by a security firm advertised across the country. He laughed at the idea that the renowned skinflint would’ve
sprung for anything more sophisticated than a piece of string to trip an intruder. The sign was a two dollar knockoff at any flea market.

Climbing the slight incline, Joe passed behind the evergreens and stood facing the house. Rough sawn limestone and red brick combining with semi hexagonal bays, turrets, and half-timbering gave the impression of a fortress.

Joe maneuvered around a section of deteriorating flagstone walkway leading to the ground level entrance. He flicked his cigarette into a neglected flowerbed and stepped across the marble threshold of the open gingerbread door. The aroma wasn’t too bad. He wasn’t surprised that a security keypad, motions sensors, and window glass breaks were nowhere in sight. A pile of mail lay on the floor adjacent to the slot.

When Swedge tossed Joe from the premises, he fired Rosa as his housecleaner. It was apparent that a replacement hadn’t been found. Spider webs dangled from the huge crystal chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Dust thick enough to write his name in covered the banister of the staircase to the second floor. Sheets covered the furniture in the living and dining rooms to his immediate left.

Green horseflies danced around brass wall sconces in the dimly lit the hallway. With each step, the mild aroma turned more sickeningly sweet with the flies growing thick on the crown moldings. Joe tapped on the door jamb with the club and entered the kitchen, drawing four faces covered with surgical masks his way. A six-panel glass door to the rear yard was open.

“A regular Yogi Bear. He sleeps till noon…,” Lt. Dan Fredericks gibed, handing Joe a mask.

“One of the perks of retirement,” Joe replied, not taking the bait. Fredericks, promoted to head the five man detective division upon Joe’s retirement, was a born-again Bible reader who listed Joe as one of his projects. In his black suit, starched white shirt, and pencil thin red tie, the thirty-four year old looked like a cross between Buddy Holly and Billy Graham.

“Nice to see you Joe,” Dr. Christian Murphy said as he jotted notes on a clipboard.

Chris Murphy was Joe’s kind of guy—nicotine addicted and never missed an occasion to hoist a cold one. Murphy never changed the happy-go-lucky expression on his pudgy freckled face or the lab coat Joe claimed was a biohazard. “Glad to see that someone knows his manners.”

“Not much of a mystery,” Murphy said, pointing to the Parson’s table. A collection of pill bottles lay scattered amidst a leather bound book and two weeks worth of crossword puzzles clipped from
The New York Times
. “Mr. Swedge was
being treated for congestive heart failure. The tablets on the floor are nitroglycerin. I’ll have a definite cause of death in a couple of days.”

Joe checked two EMTs fidgeting with a black rubber body bag. Preston Swedge, leaning back in a wood high back chair with his chin tilted to the ceiling in a forty-five degree angle, had turned into a science experiment. Maggots working overtime stripped the flesh off his face and consumed his eyeballs, leaving sockets glistening like polished ivory. A noxious collection of yellow-green fluids congealed on Preston’s wing tips. “Like the Wicked Witch of the East, he’s melted into his shoes. How long hasn’t he been missed?”

“Ten to twelve days. Humidity and heat play havoc with the decomposition process.” Murphy pointed to the flies on Swedge’s face. “Do you want to know the life cycle of our friend the Chlorotabanus crepuscularis?”

“I’ll wait for the movie,” Joe replied. “Where’s the emergency alert pendent he wore around his neck?

“The last completed puzzle is from the fifth. The date fits within the estimate.” Fredericks removed the pendent from a plastic bag on the kitchen counter, holding it in the palm of his rubber gloved hand. “Didn’t help him.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders.

“Can you
remember
the last time you saw Mr. Swedge alive?” Fredericks asked.

Joe lit a cigarette and froze Fredericks with his glare. Joe’s former shrinking violet subordinate had grown into the role of being the big cheese. Murphy sorted through his notes as he walked to the door to stay out of the looming fray. “I remember like it was last Thursday. I saw him tool out in his ’58 Fairlane convertible,” Joe said. A half-eaten hoagie lay rotting on its wax paper wrapper across from the body. He circled the table and sat down. “Looks like tuna.”

Fredericks nodded to the EMTs who lowered the bloated remains into the bag positioned on a stretcher. “So what?” Fredericks asked.

Joe waved at a swarm of flies tiptoeing across the hoagie. “He couldn’t chew stuff like this.”

Fredericks removed his mask. “What’s your point?”

“Someone was here when Preston expired.” Joe leaned forward for a closer look. “A month ago, I was at the dentist and Mr. Charm was bitching to the receptionist how his new set of choppers couldn’t chew oatmeal no less a sandwich.”

Murphy packed his examination bag. “This is all very interesting. But…”

“Make sure you check his gut. I’ll bet a case of beer you won’t find any shredded lettuce,” Joe said.

“I’ll let you know,” Murphy said, rolling his eyes. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

Fredericks watched Murphy recede down the hall. “There’s no evidence of forced entry, the drawers and closets haven’t been tossed. According to Murphy, the guy was taking medication to keep his heart ticking. Maybe he was sitting on the other side of the table, didn’t feel well, got up and tried to walk it off. Who knows?”

“And who cares?” Joe added. “I don’t give a shit, but let me ask you one question, Detective Lieutenant.”

Fredericks motioned for Joe to continue.

“He goes for a leisurely stroll around the table and he doesn’t use the alert. He feared dying and being found like he was.” Joe laughed as he pat Fredericks on the shoulder. “Like I said, I don’t give a shit. It’s your case, but for old times, humor me and check the wax paper for prints.” His eyes widened as he flipped the book over.
The Five Books of Moses
was embossed in silver letters.

Fredericks removed his gloves. “I’ll think about it.”

Joe picked up the book, opening the cover. “The Old Testament.” He shook his head. “Genesis. In a million years, I’d never guess he’d be reading the Jewish bible.” He checked his watch. It was 1:15. “I gotta get going. I got a shrink appointment in hour.” He tapped the table twice with his club and walked down the hall into the sunshine.

Fielder was gone. Joe Stoval, clutching his rake, stood at the bottom of the driveway. “You got your wish, Preston is
fucking
dead,” Joe said.

“I shouldn’t have said it. Barbara would’ve kicked me in the shin.”

Joe put his arm around Stoval’s neck. “If I had a ten dollar bill for every time I wished the bastard dead…it would’ve paid for a year of college.”

Stovall burst out laughing. “Maybe the ‘fucking Jew’ Rothstein killed him. He rambled on about him enough.”

Joe lit another Marlboro. “I was hoping to meet the ghost Rothstein.” He blew a stream of smoke to the sky. “I wonder if there’s going to be a service. Preston had no relatives.”

Stoval poked at a rock with his rake. “I hope there is one. I can’t wait to hear Reverend Miller’s eulogy for the man who claimed he changed the world and history.”

“Changed the world, how?” Joe asked.

Ed shrugged his shoulders. “Beats me. Maybe it was the booze talking.”

JOE CHECKED THE SIDE MIRROR, stuck his hand through the window and gave the guy in the BMW on his bumper the middle finger. “Keep blowing your horn, moron.” There wasn’t any way to pull around the old lady pushing a shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot of Wholesome Organics. Going organic for Joe was equivalent to flushing money down the toilet. Besides, the T-bone steak he planned to toss on the grill was on sale; it would be a change from frozen dinners, fast food and pizza he was surviving on since his wife left.

Driving Elaine’s ‘98 Volvo wagon was an adventure. He swore to the service manager at the dealership that turning the radio on caused the Swedish delight to misfire. Using the air-conditioner caused it to stall. Joe cursed the woman who took his five-year-old Explorer to Arizona as he turned the key for the umpteenth time. The engine coughed to life. He revved the oil-belching beast for another ten seconds for the prick in the BMW. Dr. Headcase would’ve been pleased. The behavior modification plan for his anger management issues paid its first dividend.