The First Ghost (25 page)

“Yes, that’s it exactly. Sorry about that piece. It shouldn’t have...”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m not a mourner. Well, I was. Except not really. My uncle’s funeral was here last week, but I barely knew him. I had to pick up his property today. We didn’t want the cuff links cremated, if that makes sense. They weren’t his. They’re my husband’s.”

Something clicked. “Biddle was your uncle?” I almost said ‘
O
ld
M
an
.’

“That’s right. I’m Bootsie Bosch.” She held out a hand. It was like shaking a limp, bony fish.

I went with the direct approach. “How much do you know about your uncle?”

“Nothing,” she said flatly. “We never associated with him. Mother always said he was a filthy pig, even as a little boy. She kept me as far away from him as possible.”

“Did you ever hear rumors about his wives?”

“Wives?” She frowned. “I heard about how his first wife vanished. I didn’t realize he ever remarried.”

“A lot of women went missing from his house.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She tried to push past me.

“The police want to search the house.”

“That’s not a good idea.” She shook her head. “I don’t like that at all.”

“I have reason to believe that there are women’s bodies buried in that house. Five of them. And you’re the owner. You could give the police consent to search.”

“I said no.” She clutched her handbag. “You’re blocking my way.”

“Why not?”

“I’m selling the house. My husband and I could use the money. The last thing I want is for it to be some notorious--”

“You can still sell the house. They won’t destroy it.” Much.

“It isn’t just the house. I have children. I don’t want people to know. It isn’t fair to them for people to know their uncle was a
you know what
.” She leaned forward and whispered.

“A serial killer?” I whispered back.

She straightened. “That is so presumptuous. You don’t know anything of the kind.”

“But we would if you let the police search. Knowing the truth won’t change anything.”

“It will for me.”

I studied the old-fashioned head covering. And here we were in the chapel. “Don’t you think those women deserve better? Don’t you think they deserve to be buried in hallowed ground? What about their families?” She looked down at her hands. “I can’t promise you this won’t be on the news, but no one has to know he’s your uncle, right? Different names and all.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I guess so. There wasn’t any reason for this, you know.”

“Reason for what?”

“There wasn’t any reason for him to be a monster. My grandparents were nice people. It wasn’t that kind of family. His wife came over once or twice when I was little. She seemed...nice.” Bootsie Bosch shuddered. “Tell the police they can search the place. Just keep my name out of the papers. I don’t want anyone to know. If they find something, let me know. I’ll make certain those women are buried in hallowed ground.”

I stepped aside to let her go.

“Whew, I thought she’d never leave. So the old crackpot wasn’t just a braggart, what?” Boris swooped closer. “Did he really murder five women?”

“Apparently so.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Care for a little sing-along? Hmm? Maybe a little canoodle?”

“No, and Mother has living clients in her office, so lay off the Cole Porter. I need to call the police before Biddle’s niece changes her mind.”

“Suit yourself, but you don’t know what you’re missing. I know how to treat a woman,” he called after me.

I ignored his halfhearted advances. Flirtation was like breathing used to be for Boris, second nature. Fierro’s cell rolled automatically to voice mail, so I left a message about Biddle.

I tried to put Biddle out of my mind. I had more stressful things to worry about. Ethan was having dinner with Walter and Mother tonight, which meant ghosts and killers would have to take a backseat.

This was real terror.

* * * *

When I opened the front door, the house was spotless. The couch had a fresh slipcover on and all knickknacks were dusted and polished to a shine.

“In here,” Mother called out. “I need your help.” I could hear the clatter of pots and pans. I followed the sound into the kitchen. Something smelled overcooked. Tonight she was roasting a succulent chicken into a hunk of jerky.

“I’m not much help for that.” I pointed at the doomed bird as she brushed it with margarine.

“Not that. Her.” Mother pointed over her shoulder. “This is Mrs. Bierstock.”

“Good grief,” I muttered. Mrs. Bierstock was impossible to ignore. Pink and round, with an upturned nose, she reminded me of a little piggy, a very
sad
piggy. Mrs. Bierstock perched on the beige linoleum counter weeping ostentatiously.

I cleared my throat. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Bierstock.”

For some reason this made the woman bawl louder.

“Mrs. Bierstock is having a difficult time adjusting,” Mother said. She stirred a gelatinous goo that bubbled sluggishly in a sauce pan. Gravy? At least the salad looked fresh. It was still contained in its plastic bag on the counter.

“Hiya, doll. How’s tricks?” Hephzibah reclined on the window seat, both legs stuck out in front of her and crossed at the ankles. Her bony calves poked out of her burnt orange velour tracksuit, reminding me of a boiled chicken.

“What gives?” I asked her, sidling closer.

“Like your mother says. Mrs. Bierstock seems to be having a difficult time adjusting.”

“I see that. But what can I do?”

“Talk to her.” Mother brushed stray curls away from her face. She was beet-red and sweating in a way that had little to do with the hot stove. Menopause had snuck into her life, and this meant we would all get to enjoy the pleasure of a house that felt like a meat locker. “Try to reason with her,” she said.

“I’m guessing you’ve already tried.”

“Mrs. Bierstock don’t seem willing to communicate.” Hephzibah uncrossed her legs, rotating her ankles. “She won’t talk.”

“Waaanh!” Mrs. Bierstock wailed.

“And you think I have ways of making her talk?” I intended to take a shower and primp, not run interference for Mother’s latest project. “Couldn’t you have left her at work?”

Mother yanked the meat thermometer from the chicken carcass. “Don’t think I didn’t try.”

Mrs. Bierstock cried harder.

“Sorry,” I said loudly. “I didn’t mean that. Why don’t you come into the living room with me? It’s nice in there.”

“Ding-dong,” sang out Violet’s sunny voice.

I looked at Mother in panic. “You invited Violet? Don’t tell me you invited...”

“This is a family dinner. Everyone is invited. Don’t you like her?”

“Of course I like her. It’s just...never mind. I’ll go say hi.” And hope she brought wine.

She did and we immediately uncorked it. “Where’s Harry?” I asked as Violet poured the zinfandel.

“I thought he would be here. He said something about a late run to the crematorium, but he should be here by now.”

“Waaanh!”

Mrs. Bierstock had followed me out of the kitchen. She was likely the reason for the late run.

“He had a pickup at Our Lady too, but that was earlier. He said to be here around six-thirty.” Violet tucked a braid behind one ear and chewed her lip.

“Waaanh!”

Violet wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

“It used to be chicken,” I said.

“I don’t eat meat. Is that going to be a problem?”

“I don’t know if I’d still call it meat, but it did used to be alive. I know there’s salad and probably mashed potatoes and stuff like that. How about some fruit? I saw apples and oranges on the counter.”

“I can make do.”

“Harry called. Said he’s running a bit late. He just left the crematorium.” Mother came into the room, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Waaanh!”
Didn’t the woman ever shut up?

Mother avoided my eyes. “I’ll take some wine too. Fill it up,” she instructed, then knocked back half the glass in one swig. She held it out for a refill.

“Thought we’d make some screwdrivers for cocktails.” Walter emerged from the back porch carrying orange juice and vodka and some little plastic sacks. French bread poked out of one. He stopped at the sight of us. “Or we could drink the wine.”

“Save the vodka,” Mother said. “I may want it later.” I wanted something stronger than wine, but drunk might not be a good thing. I probably needed my wits.

I was saved by the doorbell. Ethan looked yummy as ever in chocolate brown slacks and a buff shirt that showed just the right hint of muscular chest without delving into Hasselhoff territory. He stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

If Mother was startled at his height, she was graceful enough not to show it. Ethan held up a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was unanimous. Everyone had determined that alcohol would be necessary for the evening. “I brought a little something to share, but perhaps it won’t be needed.”

“Oh, it will,” I assured him under my breath.

He also produced a lovely bouquet of gardenias, freesia and white baby roses for Mother. She inhaled the heavenly scents.

“These are so beautiful. What a thoughtful man. Look, Walter. The doctor brought us flowers.” She winked at Walter.

“His name is Ethan, Mother.”

“Of course it is.” She opened her arms wide as if to hug the room. “I’ll just put them in some water.”

“I’ll go,” I interrupted, snatching up the flowers and heading for the kitchen, where Mrs. Bierstock had retreated. She sat cross-legged on the kitchen table. Hephzibah studied her impassively.

“So what happened to her?” I asked.

“Car wreck. Her and two kids.”

“Kids?” I sucked in my breath. My lower lip quivered.

“Teenagers, but yeah, kids. She was talking on her cell and eating a hamburger.”

“Then where are the kids? Did they...”

“They crossed over, doll. Kids almost always do. They’re used to following orders. Then again, the kids died on the spot, but she didn’t. That makes it harder. When she passed, she jerked away and has been damn near hysterical ever since.”

My feelings softened. Mrs. Bierstock had accidentally killed herself and her two teenage children. Her sorrow was understandable. I made a mental pledge to hang up when I drove.

I located a nice crystal vase under the sink. I took a moment to arrange the flowers and carried them over to the kitchen table where Mrs. Bierstock was still noisily mourning the life she had so casually disregarded.

“Mrs. Bierstock? Mrs. Bierstock?” She ignored me. “Mrs. Bierstock, don’t you want to see your kids?” Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. “I know you feel bad about what happened, but staying here won’t change anything. You need to go with Hephzibah.”

Mrs. Bierstock turned her back to me, continuing to cry.

“She ain’t listening, doll.”

“Fine. Just stay in the kitchen until after dinner. I’ll deal with you then.”

I carefully snagged my wineglass with my left hand and hefted the crystal vase with my right. My fingers were just long enough to curl around the mouth of the vase.

As I pushed open the door to the dining room with my foot, a ghostly howl wafted down the hall that led to the bedrooms.

Arooooooooooooooooo!

Great. Just great. All I needed was a Billy serenade through dinner. He was probably shedding in the middle of the bed and trashing my pillow.

“There you are. Let me get that.” Ethan took the vase and placed it on the table. “Do you need a refill?” He eyed my drink.

“Not yet.” I smiled.

“The night is young.” He winked and leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Don’t worry. Moms love me.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“I’m dating you. Not your family. Besides, they seem nice.”

“Harry is coming.”

Ethan grinned. “Can’t wait to spend more time with your twin. I’m sure he’ll tell me all sorts of gruesome stories about humiliating events from your past. It will be fun.”

“Maybe I do want that refill.”

His lips lingered on mine.

Arooooooooooooo!

“Is that...”

“He’d be in the way.”

Violet found us. “There you are. Is the table set?”

“Still no Harry?” I grabbed the stack of plates off the counter.

“No Harry yet.” Mother crossed to the sideboard and uncorked the zinfandel again.

“Is everybody here already?” A voice came from the front of the house.

“Harry!” Violet bounced out to meet him.

Arooooooooo! Aroooooo!
Billy wailed at the sound of Harry’s voice.

I lurked in the doorway. Harry bent to brush Violet’s cheek, but she turned her head and enthusiastically kissed his lips. He looked up and we locked eyes. Both his ears blushed.

Mother knocked back another glass of wine. “I’ll get the chicken,” she said with a frozen smile on her face. She stood and tilted to one side. She steadied herself with a hand to the table before mustering her dignity and tottering to the kitchen.

Walter stood too. “I’ll go help.”

“That might be good.” I turned to Ethan. “She isn’t normally a lush. Nerves.”

Unfortunately, Mrs. Bierstock followed Mother out of the kitchen this time and hovered over the table, weeping. My earlier wave of sympathy faded. I know the woman had suffered a tragedy, but she needed to get a grip. If she kept refusing all attempts to help her, she would end up Reclaimed, or worse.

Down the hall, Billy carried on his serenade. Even Hephzibah got lonely in the kitchen and came out to offer words of wisdom.

“What the hell is that?” She gestured at the desiccated chicken. “You ain’t really gonna eat that, are you? Man, I wish I had a pot roast right about now. I love a good juicy cut of meat. Speaking of juicy meat, that boyfriend sure is some looker. Hang on to that one, doll.”

Mother drank heavily. Walter eyed her rapidly emptying glass with trepidation, but when he looked at her face, he didn’t say a word. She glared over the table at me as if was my fault that we had a crying ghost floating over the table, a pug howling down the hall and a running commentary on the dinner party courtesy of Death.