The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher (20 page)

“I
saw all the lights outside the house, and I knew something bad was happening. The deputy wouldn't let me in even after I told him it was my house, so I went around to the side and climbed in the window I've been using since I got back from Alaska.”

“I was wondering how you made it past the police,” I said.

Elliot and I sat at the metal kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of me, hot chocolate for him that I'd managed to dredge up, while Mort's crime scene technicians finished disinterring the body of Marina Cooper.

“There's a man in the library poking through all the boxes,” Elliot said.

“That's Arthur Bannister,” I said. “He owns a bookshop in Manhattan specializing in first editions. I was hoping he'd find some valuable books in your grandfather's collection that could be auctioned off to raise money for the town's library.”

Elliot took a deep breath and nodded. “Maybe something positive will come out of all this,” he said halfheartedly, rubbing his face with his hands. “You know what I don't understand, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said, his voice cracking. “She was dead my whole life. I never knew her, never knew anything about her, never even knew anybody who would tell me about her. She was nothing to me. So why do I keep crying?” Big tears slid down his cheeks, and he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his checkered shirt.

I put my hand on his arm and said, “You were just a baby when you came to live with your grandfather, too young to remember what life was like with your parents. This is your mother we've found, not some stranger. Even though she wasn't in your life growing up, she is an important part of who you are.”

“When I started school and realized other kids had parents—not just a grandfather—I remember being angry and lashing out at Grandpa Cliff. I scoured the house looking for something about them, but he told me that he threw away all the old papers.” He managed a small laugh. “This from a man who never threw anything away. You've seen what it's like.”

I nodded.

“I was sure they would show up someday. I was certain that they hadn't been killed—only lost in the Amazon. Once, when I was reading one of the
National Geographic
magazines, I found a picture of the two of them together, my mother and father, stuck between the pages. I'm sure it was them—who else could it have been?—even though I could barely make out their faces. He was wearing one of those pith helmets, and she had a blue and green striped scarf over her head. I never told Grandpa Cliff I found it. I kept it hidden from him. It had been taken with one of those Polaroid cameras, so the picture was pretty faded. It was under my pillow for years until I woke up one morning and the picture was completely white, no image left at all.”

I was glad that Elliot was comfortable speaking with me; he needed to tell someone about his feelings and experiences. For all the wonderful things Cliff had done for Elliot, he never encouraged the boy to talk about his parents and how it felt not to have a mother and father. According to Elliot, his grandfather hadn't told him about his father, about Jerry's youth, or how and where he'd met Marina. When Elliot would raise the topic, Cliff would dismiss it or distract him.

“I guess that's why I became something of a wild kid. I bragged to the other kids that because I didn't have parents, I could do whatever I wanted. I was planning to travel around the world.” He shook his head. “Of course, the first place I landed in my great exploration of the globe was Alaska, and darned if I didn't put down roots as fast as I could.” He looked up at me suddenly. “Do you think my father's body is hidden behind another wall?” he asked.

I shook my head. “The owner of the local taxi service remembers driving your father to Boston where he was to catch a flight to South America.”

“So he may have died in the jungle after all.”

“It's possible,” I said, “but your grandfather said he received a note informing him that both your parents were killed by the tribesmen they'd gone to study in Colombia.”

“And you think that maybe it was my dad who sent the message?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps,” I said, “but I can't say for certain.”

Mort came into the kitchen. “Mrs. F., can I see you for a second?”

“Of course.”

I followed Mort into the hallway off the kitchen.

“The guys have just taken the rest of the body out of the wall. They found a string tied around the plastic sheet that held the body.”

“Yes?”

“There was a note attached.”

He pulled a clear plastic bag from his pocket and smoothed it so I could read what was on the paper it contained. The message read: “This is my daughter-in-law, Marina Cooper. I killed her. Do not blame her husband, my son, Jerry.” It was signed “Cliff Cooper.”

“What's that?” Elliot asked, coming up behind us. “If that was with my mother's body, don't I have a right to see it?”

“Yes, son. I guess you do,” Mort said, passing the bag to Elliot.

Elliot took it, his hand trembling. He held it for a moment, then handed it back to Mort. “My whole life has been a lie,” he said. He looked at me, his eyes at once blazing with anger and filling with tears. “Remember all those nice things I said about him this morning? I take them back. He was not the man I thought he was. How could he have carried on a normal life”—he waved his hand toward the basement door—“knowing he killed my mother, the wife of his son, the mother of his grandson? He pretended everything was normal. He went to my school conferences. He took me shopping for shoes. He taught me how to use tools. He discussed books with me, philosophy, and history. Who
was
he really?
Who was he?
”

I put my hand on Elliot's arm. “You've had a big shock tonight,” I said, gently steering him back to the kitchen. “The police still have a lot of investigating to do. Things aren't always what they appear to be at first. Please remember that. Cliff loved you more than anything or anyone in the world. His whole life revolved around you. Let's wait and make sure all the facts are in before we judge him.”

“I think I'd like to go to bed now. Is that okay? This is too much to process all at once. Finding my mother's body and then learning that my grandfather was her killer.”

“Of course. Is there anything I can do for you, Elliot?”

“No, thanks. I'll be okay. I just want to be alone for a while. I'll be across the street if you need to speak with me again, Sheriff.”

“You go rest,” I said, and Mort nodded his agreement.

“Will you tell Aunt Lucy and Aunt Lettie in the morning? I don't think I can face them with this news.”

“I'll tell them,” Mort said. “I have to interview them anyway.”

I followed Elliot to the door. He put his hand on the knob and looked back at me. “I saw her again tonight.”

“Who?”

“The lady in the white robe, the one who used to tell me stories. I dreamed about her, and the dream woke me up. I knew something was different. When I looked out the window and saw the police cars, I couldn't get here fast enough.”

“You think it was your mother in the dream?”

“I know it was.”

It was nearly three in the morning before I got home and crawled into my bed. Exhausted, I expected to fall asleep instantly, but instead my mind churned with the events of the day: the funeral service for Cliff Cooper, the surprise of seeing Tony Tonelero at the cemetery, Elliot and Beth's late arrival at the sisters' reception, the brief confrontation with the handyman in the barn, Arthur's arriving and wanting to see the Hobarts, and, most unsettling, the discovery in the Spencer Percy House basement.

When he drove me home, Arthur had insisted that it must have been the noir author who'd inspired me to examine the wall behind the bookcase. “The titles of his books hinted to you that something was there to investigate. You say you don't believe in ghosts, Jessica, but it looks to me as if the spirit world was guiding you, whether it was Grant P. Hobart, Cliff Cooper, or Marina Cooper herself.”

I'd dismissed Arthur's speculations, saying, “I'll admit the titles of the books inspired me to search for Marina's body, but I'm not ready to credit a ghost with being an informant in a murder case.”

But as I lay in bed, I began to wonder why it had taken so long for the history of the Cooper family to intrigue me. Was it simply the questions no one else had bothered to pursue? Cliff had been a valued and accepted member of the community, admired as much for his skill as a craftsman as for his devotion to his grandson. Had we all misjudged him? Had we all taken him at face value and allowed a murderer to live out his days among us?

And if we had, who had murdered the murderer?

T
he phone rang at eight thirty the next morning, rousing me from a deep sleep.

Seth Hazlitt's voice came over the line. “I figure that since I'm up examining the body you discovered, you won't mind being awakened to hear the results.”

I struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my tousled curls to smooth them even though no one was there to see me. “What have you learned?” I asked, reaching for the pad and pen I keep on my bedside table.

“Of course, it's too early in the postmortem to confirm that the deceased was indeed Marina Cooper, no matter what the note says. But I can say that the skeleton belonged to a woman, probably late twenties is my best guess, dressed in a white nightgown or what's left of one. No evidence of arthritis; the cranial sutures have not completely fused, relatively little wear of the so-called wisdom teeth.”

“How did she die? Was there any indication?”

“Oh, yes, a very obvious one.”

“Don't keep me in suspense, Seth. What was it?”

“There was a clear fracture of the skull. I'd say death was caused by blunt force instrument trauma to the right frontal lobe near the cerebral cortex.”

“Someone bludgeoned her to death.”

“Precisely. And now that I've completed my preliminary examination of the remains, and reported the initial observations to both the authorities and to my good friend, Mrs. Fletcher, I am going to take myself off to surrender to this aging physician's fatigue.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“I'd already retired for the night when Mort called about your
find
.”

“Unfortunate timing,” I said. “You deserve a good sleep, Seth. Thanks for giving me your conclusions. Oh, did Mort Metzger say anything about whether they've located the handyman, Tony Tonelero?”

“No. I just gave our esteemed sheriff the same news I'm giving you. Go back to sleep.”

The phone clicked in my ear.

Go back to sleep?

Impossible!

I'd just put on my slippers and robe, and was on my way to the kitchen when the phone rang again. It was Eve Simpson.

“Jessica,” she said, “this is terrible, the worst sort of news.”

“Yes, it was a tragic discovery,” I said, assuming she was referring to the murder. She was, but not in the way I expected.

“What will this do to my getting the house ready for sale? I drove past it this morning. There's that vile yellow tape strung across the driveway, and two police cars and officers are stationed to keep everyone away.”

“It is an active crime scene, Eve.”

“But what will I do?”

“You'll have to speak with the police about it,” I said.

Eve wasn't the only one with a pragmatic response to the discovery of Marina Cooper's body. It had crossed my mind that my discovery of the body might also impact the book sale. I'd ordered the tent in the event of rain, but holding the sale, even a small part of it, in the Spencer Percy House was likely to be out of the question. Would Mort and his officers even allow us to erect the tent on the property? I made a mental note to ask him about it.

Our exasperated real estate agent ended the call, freeing me to reach the kitchen and get coffee going. Now fully awake, or close to it, I used the wall phone to call Mort Metzger's office.

“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” the dispatcher on duty said.

“Good morning. Does the sheriff happen to be there?”

“Oh, no, he's over at the crime scene. Shocking, isn't it, finding a body like that. He said that you were the one who discovered her, poor thing.”

“Yes, it certainly was shocking,” I agreed.

“Can I give Sheriff Metzger a message from you?”

“No, thank you. I'll catch up with him later.”

My final comment reflected a decision I made on the spot. I'd go to the Spencer Percy House and hope to steal some time with Mort.

After a banana, a cup of coffee, and a hurried shower—and a call to Arthur Bannister at the Blueberry Hill Inn to tell him where I'd be—I ordered a taxi and soon stood in front of what by now had become an emerging tourist destination, judging from the group of people congregated outside the crime scene tape. Notably absent from the crowd were Elliot, Beth, and the Conrad sisters. I approached the officer at the foot of the driveway. “Is Sheriff Metzger here?” I asked.

“He's inside, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I really need to speak with him.”

The deputy spoke into the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder, and a minute later Mort emerged from the house. He waved to me, and the deputy lifted the yellow tape for me to duck under.

I waited for Mort to make his way down the driveway. “Why am I not surprised to see you here this morning?” he said, dark circles around his eyes and a hoarse voice testifying to his lack of sleep.

“Are things going all right?” I asked.

“We're winding down our investigation,” he said. “I spoke with Doc Hazlitt earlier. It's a clear-cut case of murder, no doubt about that.”

I didn't mention that Seth had already told me the result of his examination of the body. Although he hadn't made a definitive identification, I was certain that the homicide victim was Jerry Cooper's wife, Marina. “Are you going to ask Elliot for a DNA sample to confirm the victim's identity?” I asked.

Mort nodded. “Good suggestion, Mrs. F., but it's already on my agenda. He wanted me to break the news to the ladies who live over there, but from the looks of this place”—he gestured at the onlookers—“I imagine they have a pretty good idea that something big has happened.”

“Have you found the handyman that Eve Simpson hired?” I asked.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think that you were wired into our police communications system,” he said. “I heard only five minutes ago that he's been picked up at a downstate motel. Local police there did their job. I told them to bring him here. I want to interview him away from the station house. Sometimes official surroundings make people clam up.”

As Mort and I spoke, Arthur Bannister pulled up in his car, parked across the street, and hurried over. His appearance preceded that of Evelyn Phillips and her photographer, who arrived and parked farther down the road. Evelyn trotted up the road, just as the truck belonging to Arianna Olynski pulled in behind her car. Boris jumped out, camera on shoulder, filming the scene.

Mort spotted Evelyn and said, “You'll have to excuse me, Mrs. F. I'm in no mood to speak with the press or some crazy ghost chaser.”

“May I come inside with you?” I asked.

Mort sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so. No damage can be done now that we've completed our work.” He eyed Arthur. “You, too?”

Arthur gestured toward me. “I'm with her.”

“Come on, then,” Mort said.

Arthur ducked under the crime scene tape as Evelyn yelled to the sheriff, “I need to speak with you!”

Mort walked swiftly to the house and led us through the open front door to where the crime scene techs and Mort's deputies were in the process of packing up.

“Can you find a few minutes to talk?” I asked.

“Just a few.”

We settled in the library where Arthur perused the small number of books left on the shelves while I addressed my concerns to Mort. I told him of Eve Simpson's call and her distress at not being able to continue fixing up the house for sale. I then raised the issue of the book sale.

“I know that you don't want people traipsing around in the house,” I said. “I've ordered a large tent. Is it all right if we have the sale but confine it to the tent outside?”

“I don't see why not,” he said.

“But we will have to let people come into this room to remove all these boxes. Okay?”

He nodded. “Anything else, Mrs. F?”

“You mentioned that Tonelero is being brought back here for questioning. I'm curious about what he knows about the body in the basement. Someone had started sawing a hole in that wall. I don't know who else it could have been but him.”

“That's what I want to ask him. We collected some tools in the barn to test for plaster dust. Maybe he was just curious about what was behind the wall. Maybe he got scared when he had an idea of what it was, and took off. But he's not a suspect. Cliff Cooper did us all a favor by leaving that note.”

“Doesn't it strike you as odd that Cliff would specifically say in the note that his son Jerry
hadn't
done it? I mean, if he'd simply taken the blame, its purpose would be clear.”

“I think your creative juices are acting up, Mrs. F., if you don't mind my saying so.”

“I suppose you're right, Mort. It's just that—” I turned to Arthur, who was still perusing books. “Last night, Arthur, you said that Tony must have had some barrel makers in his family's past.”

“That's right.”

“I didn't pay attention to it then, but I've been thinking about it since.”

Mort scratched his head. “Why, Mrs. F? What do you care about the handyman's family?”

“Arthur, I'm not fluent in Spanish, but you are. Does his name, Tonelero, mean barrel maker in Spanish?”

“Right you are,” Arthur said, not taking his attention from the book he was examining.

I looked at Mort. “And another name for barrel maker in English is ‘cooper.'”

“Cooper? No kidding?” Mort said. “That's funny.”

“Cooper,”
I said, “as in the name Cooper.”

“I'm not sure I see where this is going.”

“He calls himself Tony, but he introduced himself to me as Geraldo, pronouncing it
Heraldo
.”

“Heraldo?”

“Yes, Spanish for Gerald. And the nickname for Gerald is Jerry. Mort, I think Tony Tonelero is Cliff's son, Jerry Cooper, the husband of the woman in the basement.”

“Whoa, slow down,” Mort said. “Cliff Cooper's son was killed in South America.”

“And so was his son's wife, Marina—supposedly! But the note says the woman in the basement is Marina Cooper.”

It dawned on me that I'd never shared with Mort what had come out of my conversation with Dimitri, the taxi driver, who'd driven Jerry Cooper to the Boston airport. I rectified that by recounting it for him.

When I finished, he said, “So you're saying, Mrs. F., that Marina Cooper never went to South America.”

“That's right. She never went anywhere except behind the wall in the basement, her head bashed in.”

“By Cliff Cooper,” Mort said.

“
If
you believe the note he left.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

It took me a few seconds to gather my thoughts. “It's possible, Mort, that Cliff Cooper's note means exactly what it says, that he killed his daughter-in-law, Marina, and was concerned that if the body was found, his son, Jerry, her husband, would be accused of the murder. On the other hand—”

“What, Mrs. F? You're not going to challenge my nicely solved case, are you?”

“We have to consider the evidence, Mort. Cliff might have left that note to protect his son in the event the body was ever discovered. What if he sent Jerry off to South America to get him out of harm's way, to shield his son from facing the consequences of having killed his wife? Then he buried the body in the wall and built bookcases to cover up the crime?”

“I don't know, Mrs. F. That's an interesting what-if sort of thing, like what you write in your murder mystery books. But I have an open-and-shut case. If you doubt it, you'll have to show me evidence to the contrary.”

“I only wish I could, Mort. Maybe when you question Geraldo Tonelero and ask him if he really is Jerry Cooper, things will become clearer. In the meantime, thank you for indulging my speculation.”

“That goes for me, too,” Arthur said. “I never thought when I came to this sleepy little town that I'd be an eyewitness to a real-life murder mystery.”

We were interrupted by a deputy. “Sheriff,” he said, “Ms. Phillips from the
Gazette
is outside, howling like a banshee about seeing you. She's threatening to bring a lawsuit against the town and keeps talking about some freedom of something act and—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mort said wearily, standing and stretching against a pain in his back. “Go tell her I'll give her ten minutes, no more.”

“She also says she wants to talk to Mrs. Fletcher,” the deputy added.

“I'd rather not,” I said.

“Good,” said Mort. “Let's keep your what-if thinking between us, at least for a while.”

“You have my word,” I said.

“And that goes for you, too,” Mort said to Arthur.

“Me?” Arthur said, placing his hand on his heart. “These lips have never been more sealed.”

“Does he always talk like that?” Mort whispered to me.

“Like what?”

“You know, sort of, well, sort of artsy-like.”

I smiled but didn't respond.

“I'll be speaking with those Conrad sisters after I get rid of Ms. Phillips. I promised Elliot I would. Will you come with me?”

“If you like,” I said. “Go talk to Evelyn.”

“Okay, but don't leave.”

“I'll be around.”

When Mort left, Arthur came up to me. “So,” he said, “let's hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your thoughts on what's happened. Let's say you're writing a murder mystery with this as the plot, you know, with the body in the basement.”

“Fiction is very different from reality,” I countered.

“It is? I've read your books. They may be fiction, but they reflect real life. People get murdered all the time.”

“Unfortunately,” I said. “Would you excuse me, Arthur?”

“Where are you going?”

“I want to take a look in the barn at the rear of the property.”