The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed (11 page)

“I'm not mad,” I said softly. Actually, I felt sick. I hesitated, then asked, “Why did he want you to hang him?”

“Something terrible, something wonderful,” whispered Jimmy. “That's what it's all about.”

He began to back away from us.

“Wait!” I said.

But he only moved faster. He disappeared into a clump of bushes. By the time we reached it, he was gone.

“How can someone that old move so fast?” asked Chris in astonishment.

“Maybe he didn't move fast so much as move smart.”

“Huh?”

I shrugged. “He's been living on the streets for years. He probably knows every hiding place in town.”

“Jimmy?” called Chris. “Jimmy, can you hear us?”

No answer.

“Come on,” I said. “I doubt he'd tell us anything more even if we found him.”

“Okay,” muttered Chris. “But I'd like to know what that was all about. Do you think he killed Cornelius?”

“Maybe it was one of those assisted suicide things,” I said uneasily. “If you consider everything that had happened to him, it's easy to imagine that Cornelius might decide to end it all. Since he was crippled, maybe he talked Jimmy into helping him.”

“But why would Jimmy do it?” asked Chris.

“I don't know!” I said sharply. “Maybe because he's crazy, too!”

But that answer ignored two things. One, we had no reason to think Jimmy had been crazy that far back; two, from what I've been reading lately, it seems that some very sane people have gotten involved in things like that.

We were still discussing Jimmy when we got to Phoebe's room on the third floor of the hospital.

Phoebe looked awful. She had her eyes closed when we walked in, and for a second I thought she was dead. Her skin was so pale, it was almost white. Her hair seemed thin and limp. The lines around her eyes and mouth were deeper than I remembered. I wondered if that was a sign of being in pain.

As we stood there, wondering if we should wake her or just go home, her eyelids fluttered open. When she saw us, she smiled.

“I'm so glad you've come to see me,” she whispered, reaching for my hand.

Boy, did that make me feel guilty. After all, we wouldn't have come if not for the letters. Now that I saw what our coming meant to her, I felt like some kind of fake.

“How ya doin', Phoebe?” I asked softly.

She smiled again, although it wasn't really much of a smile. “Better than I look,” she said. “Here, give me that button.”

She motioned to a little control box attached to a thick cord. Chris handed it to her. Phoebe pushed a button, and the back of the bed began to lift, carrying Phoebe with it.

“That's better,” she said, once she was halfway to a sitting position. “Now we can talk. So tell me, how's my baby doing?”

I wondered if she was having hallucinations, until I realized she meant her cat.

“General Pershing is fine,” I said.

Phoebe patted my hand. “Norma told me that you were going to feed him. I appreciate it.”

I wondered if I should tell her about the prowler in the house. I decided not to; what was the point of giving her something else to worry about right now? But I realized we had better also call the police to see if it looked as if anything had been stolen. It wouldn't be good for her to come home to a ransacked house; that might give her another heart attack.

Chris stepped in to fill the silence I had left. “Nine found something at your house last night. We thought you might like to have it.”

Before she could hand Phoebe the box, someone knocked at the door. It was just a warning; no one expects you to get up and answer the door when you're in the hospital. People just knock. If you say it's okay, they walk in. If you don't say anything, they usually figure you're asleep and walk in to sit beside you. (I got all this from my father, who told me the ground rules we should know if we went to visit Phoebe.)

A warning knock wasn't enough to prepare me for the tall, slender man who stepped into the room. He was extremely handsome. But that wasn't what took my breath away.

It was the fact that I recognized his voice. I had heard it the night before, in Phoebe Watson's house.

I was face to face with the prowler.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Byron

The man who stepped into Phoebe's room was younger than I expected, probably in his early twenties. His thick, golden-brown hair hung down to his wide shoulders. His brown eyes were enormous. With his straight nose and square jaw he was about as gorgeous as a guy can get.

But my heart wasn't pounding so hard because he was handsome. What I was feeling was sheer terror. What was this guy doing here? Had he tracked me down? Had he come to do something bad to Phoebe?

While I was trying to decide whether or not to scream, the newcomer crossed to the bed and said, “Hi, sweetheart. Who are your friends?”

Phoebe grabbed his hand. “Byron!” she cried. “Oh, Byron! I'm so glad you were able to come.”

I blinked in confusion. What was going on here?

“It's one of the few advantages of being unemployed,” Byron said with a grimace. “You can go where you're needed.” He sank into a chair and crossed his long legs.

Phoebe turned her head toward us and said, “Girls, this is Byron Fletcher. He's what we call a shirttail relative.”

“Third cousin, I think,” said Byron. “Though I usually get that mixed up.”

Byron and Phoebe were related? Then what had he been doing prowling around in her house?

“And these are my friends, Nine and Chris,” said Phoebe.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Byron once we got past the usual explanation about my name. “Are you old friends of Phoebe's?”

“New ones,” said Chris.

“Those are good, too,” said Byron, smiling.

“How is your work coming, dear?” Phoebe asked.

Byron shrugged. “I like it. Unfortunately, no one seems to think it's worth paying for.”

“What do you do?” asked Chris.

I was glad to let her carry the conversation while I tried to figure out what was going on.

Byron smiled. “I'm a starving artist.”

“He's trying to carry on the family tradition,” said Phoebe, squeezing his hand. “He's good, too—the best since Poppa.”

Byron actually blushed. “Phoebe has always been my biggest supporter,” he said. “My parents think art is a waste of time. They want me to be a lawyer. They still haven't forgiven me for refusing to go to law school.”

“Or me,” said Phoebe with a sigh. “They think I encouraged you in your rebellion.”

Byron laughed. “You did, you old scoundrel!” He squeezed her hand and winked at me. I thought for a minute that I might fall over.

“When did your train get in?” Phoebe asked.

“Last night,” said Byron. He looked troubled. “What a night I had! First, there was this awful storm going on. Then I thought there was a prowler in the house. Only I couldn't find anyone, so I decided it was just my nerves. But just about the time I was settling down, the police showed up, saying they had had a
report
of a prowler.”

Chris snorted. I began to blush. This was embarrassing. But since I didn't want Phoebe to get all worried, I figured I'd better straighten things out.

“I sent the police,” I said. “I was feeding General Pershing, and when you came in, I thought
you
were a prowler. Actually, what I thought was that I was going to die. I didn't think anyone else was supposed to be there, so I called the police as soon as I got home.”

I thought Byron might be angry, but he seemed to find the whole mix-up pretty funny. “It's a good thing Phoebe keeps my picture on her dresser,” he said with a laugh. “I had to use it to convince the good officer I really did belong there.”

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said. “I didn't think he was coming in from Pennsylvania until today. If I had known he was arriving last night, I wouldn't have bothered you, Nina.”

That was just like Phoebe, to call me by my full name.

Byron stood up. “Listen, sweetheart, you seem to be in good hands, and I have some errands to take care of. I'll go now and be back to see you in a little while.”

“We can go,” I said. I didn't really want to, but it seemed the polite thing to do, since Byron was a relative.

He shook his head. “I really do have some things to take care of. And there's no point in Phoebe's having three visitors now and none later.” He bent over and planted a little kiss on Phoebe's forehead. “See you later, sweetness,” he said. After winking at Chris and me, he breezed out the door.

Phoebe sighed after he had left. “Poor Byron.”

“What's wrong with Byron?” Chris asked.

“He was supposed to get my house. I was going to leave it to him, in my will. I didn't care what he did with it; he could live in it, sell it, rent it—whatever would free him to paint. Only now that won't happen because I have to sell the place to pay my bills. I guess I just lived too long.”

“Don't talk like that!” I said fiercely.

Phoebe looked startled, as if she had forgotten we were there. “Oh, it was so nice of you two to come,” she repeated, taking my hand again.

“The truth is, we have something to show you,” I said. I felt a little less guilty once I confessed that we hadn't come simply out of the goodness of our hearts. (Actually, I think the goodness of my heart still needs a lot of work.)

Chris handed me the bag, and I pulled out the metal box.

“Now this is a surprise,” Phoebe said. “I thought you had brought me chocolates. What's inside?”

“Open it and see,” said Chris.

Phoebe opened the box. “Oh, my,” she murmured after a moment. “Oh, my goodness. Oh, what a treasure! Wherever did you find it?”

I swallowed. “Your father led me to it.”

Phoebe's hands began to shake. “My father?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Suddenly I wondered if I was making a mistake by telling her this now. But when I didn't answer right away, Phoebe squeezed my hand with more strength than I would have thought possible. “Tell me!” she said fiercely.

So I told her how the ghost had led me to the gazebo.

“That was Poppa,” said Phoebe softly when I was done. “I never saw him, you know,” she whispered sadly. “Ever.”

While Phoebe took out the letters and began to read them, I tried not to feel guilty for having seen her father. When she got to Amanda's letter, she looked a little surprised. Then she said, “Ah, yes. Mother always wrote her letters at least twice; you can be sure the one that went to Aunt Edith looked
much
better than this. Practically perfect, if you know what I mean.”

She read the letter. Tears started to roll down her cheeks. “Such a sad time,” she murmured. “Poor Momma. Poor Poppa.” She closed her eyes. “Poor everyone.”

“We read some of the letters,” said Chris.

Phoebe looked a little startled.

“It seemed like the ghost wanted us to,” Chris said with a shrug.

Phoebe seemed to accept this explanation. At least, she nodded.

“So what happened next?” asked Chris. “Did your mother go to live with your aunt?”

“For a while. In fact, I was born in Aunt Edith's house. Poppa wrote often, asking Momma to come back. For a long time she wouldn't go. But when I was three, Poppa became very ill. We came home so Momma could care for him.”

She paused, and her eyes seemed to look back into the past. “But he was dead before we made it back,” she said softly. “I can barely remember it, of course.” A tone of horror crept into her voice. “All I remember are the ropes.”

“What ropes?” I asked, remembering what Jimmy had said.

Phoebe shook her head. “I don't know,” she said. “All I know is that there were ropes everywhere. They scared me. The whole house scared me. I remember screaming.”

Her hands began to tremble. I was afraid she was going to die. I took her hand again. It scared me to do that, scared me to think she might die while I was holding her hand. But it was all I could think of to do.

“It's all right,” I said. “It's all over, Phoebe.”

She looked straight into my eyes. “No, it's not,” she whispered. Her hand tightened on mine. “If it were over, Poppa would be gone. But he's still here, and that means that something has been left undone.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the pillow. “Something terrible,” she murmured, “something wonderful.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Editorial Comments

“Is she dead?” Chris asked, her voice husky with horror.

I started to pull my hand away. But Phoebe tightened her grip. “Terrible,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “Wonderful.”

While I was trying to figure out what to do, Chris found a nurse and dragged her into the room.

The nurse checked Phoebe over, then said, “She's fine—just needs a bit of rest.”

Relieved, we tiptoed out of the room.

“Well, now what?” Chris asked, as we left the hospital.

“We go home and make some notes,” I said, glancing around nervously. I was afraid Jimmy was ready to jump out at us again. Which reminded me—

“You did recognize that phrase Phoebe used, didn't you?” I asked.

“The bit about ‘something terrible, something wonderful'? Yeah, it was the same thing Jimmy said. And I think I know what it means.”

“What?”

“The Lost Masterpiece. I think it's still there someplace, and that's why Cornelius doesn't want Phoebe to sell the house.”

I gaped at her. “That's brilliant!” I said. “If we could just figure out where it is, it would solve everything.”

We went back to my house. But after an hour of writing things down, we weren't much better off than when we had started. We had an idea of what had happened in the past, but no idea how to make things better in the present.