The Grub-And-Stakers House a Haunt (27 page)

On that question, rumors were rife, Grandsire Coskoff’s being the rifest. He remembered his father telling about a miner who’d staggered into Lobelia Falls broke to the wide and desperately sick with fever. Kind townsfolk had nursed him back to health and given him a grubstake.

Some years later, the miner had struck it rich, remembered his benefactors, and shipped them a chestful of gold with which to build a shelter for the needy and helpless of the area, but the chest was hijacked along the way. If this claim could be proved, and Mr. Glunck was rooting through the archives in high hopes of producing the required evidence, the gold might legally be applied to the old people’s housing project to which many descendants of those same townspeople were already committed. There was a good deal of disparity as to how this project should be carried out, but a general feeling that there was no sense in starting to argue about the blueprints until they knew for sure who was going to get the gold.

All in all it was a well-satisfied group that eventually finished the brownies, sorted out who owned the various cake plates and cookie tins, and dispersed. Minerva asked Zilla if she’d like to stop over for a sandwich and a cup of tea but Zilla said she didn’t think she’d better. She had things to do back home.

In fact, Zilla had almost nothing to do back home.

Nemea was out in the garden, twitching the tip end of her tail back and forth while keeping a steady surveillance on a certain spot under a pea vine. She barely rolled an eye when Zilla came around the side of the house and let herself in at the kitchen door.

Once inside, Zilla stood aimlessly beside the sink, feeling more alone than she had for years. Even her usually perceptive cat hadn’t noticed how solitary Zilla felt.

Nemea would saunter in when she took the notion, she’d be friendly enough, but did Nemea really care? What did Zilla Trott actually mean to her cat? A well-filled food dish? A warm lap to sleep on when Nemea took the notion? A leg to rub against, an ear to purr into, a clean kitty box when cold weather came and going outdoors for practical purposes ceased to appeal?

Was this all Zilla Trott’s future was to be?

For a little while-too short a while-there had been another human voice in the house, sometimes also another face: bearded, weather-worn, not always clearly manifested, frequently showing the effects of spirits other than the ectoplasmic kind, never what a person could call a handsome face, yet somehow not unattractive. A lone widow learned to take what she got and be grateful, Hiram’s companionship had been at least a change. Even a pleasant one, some of the time.

But now that old mule skinner’s bones had been dug up from where his murderer had hidden them and decently laid to rest in consecrated ground. Hiram Jellyby’s last mission on this earth was accomplished. He’d said it himself: a haunt has to do what he has to do. The old coot must be back where he’d come from by now, checking over the Akashic Record to find out what was next on his agenda.

Well, she supposed it had been fun of a sort while it lasted. Zilla picked up the teakettle, filled it with water enough for two cups-habits were so quickly learned, so hard to put aside-and spooned dried camomile flowers into her teapot. The water boiled, she made the tea and poured herself a cup.

One solitary cup. Zilla dumped herself down in the wooden chair where she always sat and gazed bleakly into the cup. The camomile tea was bright yellow, as yellow as Hiram’s eyes had been last night out at Hunnikers’ Field.

Why had she bothered to make tea she didn’t want? Where was the comfort of drinking alone? She lifted her hand to set the cup and saucer aside.

“Boo!”

For a stunned moment, Zilla sat paralyzed, then she let him have it. “Boo yourself, you old reprobate! Why aren’t you up there somewhere studying the Akashic Record? Weren’t you spouting off a while back about how a haunt’s got to do what he’s got to do?”

“Oh hell, Zilla, I’m in no all-fired hurry. Ain’t no such thing as time anyways, that’s just somethin’ the smart alecks in the front office thunk up to keep the clockmakers in business. What’s that muck you’re drinkin’? Can’t you find a decent cup o’ coffee an’ maybe a spare doughnut around here someplace?”

Zilla Trott pushed back her chair, picked up the cup she’d set aside, and dumped her camomile tea in the sink.

“All right, you darned old slave-driver, I’ll put the coffeepot on. I’m not going begging to Minerva for any more doughnuts, though, just when we thought we’d got you safely planted. How about if I open us a can of beans?”

(continued from front flap)

warm spot in their hearts for the

denizens of Lobelia Falls, and this

charming, crafty tale of murder and

mayhem is sure not to disappoint

even one. The Gruband-Stakers

House a Haunt is undoubtedly her

most delightful work yet.

Alisa Craig (a.k.a. Charlotte MacLeod) is the author of almost thirty

adult mysteries, as well as numerous

young adult books. She was the

recipient of a Lifetime Achievement

Award at the Toronto Bouchercon

XXIII and has won five American

Mystery Awards, a Nero Wolfe

Award, and two Edgar nominations.

She lives in Durham, Maine.

Jacket design by Robert Aulicino

Jacket illustration by Roy Pendleton

William Morrow & Company, Inc.

1350 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10019

Printed in U.S.A.

PRAISE FOR

CHARLOTTE MACLEOD’S

THE WRONG RITE

“Author Alisa Craig can plot a cozy better than the Welsh can sing, dig coal and play rugby. A chatty, comfortable whodunit for armchair sleuths.” - Booklist

“Always a pleasure… a spectacular murder”

- The Washington Times

“This one begins especially well…energetic, elegant and rational. Charming…ingenious. Charlotte MacLeod/Alisa Craig is beyond doubt one of the most delightful of mystery writers-hats off to her in both her personae!”

-Drood Review

“Well-plotted and well-told as ever, this MacLeod novel gives a vivid picture of life in Wales.” - The Houston Post “Uncommon prose and puzzling plots aren’t the only reasons MacLeod mystery addicts love her…witty, whimsical and clever.” - The Tennesseean

9 “780688”086442

11A1 ISBN