Christina's Ghost (5 page)

After what seemed a very long time, he mumbled a good-bye and hung up. “Liberated women,” he snarled into the air above Chris's head.

“Excuse me?” She took one step closer to the counter.

“Women!” the man snapped. “Wives!”

Chris looked over her shoulder, ready to run if necessary.

“I suppose when you grow up you're going to want a
career
,” the man jeered. He made
career
sound terrible. “My wife's a nurse. Works second shift at the hospital.”

Chris cleared her throat. “That's nice,” she said cautiously.

“Nothing nice about it! She calls to tell me to do the
grocery shopping. She calls to tell me to wash the windows. She calls to tell me what to fix for dinner.” He shook his head so hard the pencil poised behind one ear hurtled through the air. “And what do
you
want?”

“I'd like to see some . . . some old newspapers,” Chris said. The request sounded silly, even to herself.

“How old?” The man glared at the phone as if he was daring it to ring again.

“About thirty years,” Chris said. “If it isn't too much trouble.”

“It's trouble,” the man said. “What week do you want? We publish once a week.”

“I—I don't know.” Why had she thought this would work?

The man scooped up his pencil and thrust it back behind his ear. “Then I can't help you,” he said, sounding pleased. “You certainly don't expect me to pull out a whole year's worth of papers, do you?”

That was exactly what Chris had hoped he'd do, but she didn't dare say so. Clearly, he didn't like females, even very young ones. Maybe he didn't like anybody.

She shifted from one foot to another. “I—we're staying at the old Charles house,” she said. “It's a big house on a lake, way out in the woods. My uncle says something happened there about thirty years ago. I want to find out what it was.”

The man scowled. “No need to get out a pack of newspapers to tell you that,” he muttered. “Murders—that's what happened at the Charles house.”

“Murders?”

“Two people—man and boy.” The man pursed his lips. “It's not a
nice
story, and you shouldn't even want to know about it. You should be learning to cook. Or making doll clothes.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Nobody does what they're supposed to anymore. Nobody.” He turned away and hunched over the list on his desk.

Chris waited. When he looked to see if she was still there, she forced a smile. “Just one paper, then,” she pleaded. “Or two. That wouldn't be much trouble, would it?”

The man came back to the counter and glared down at her. “Do you want to know something?” he demanded. “You remind me of my wife. You women—” He turned away so fast that the pencil took off again and arced over the counter. “One paper,” he said. “And that's all.”

“That'll be fine,” Chris said quickly. “Thanks a lot.”
Now if he'll just hurry up
, she thought,
so I can read what it says before Uncle Ralph comes looking for me
. . . .

The man didn't hurry, but when he returned from the back room, Chris saw that he'd chosen the single
newspaper with care.
CHARLES MURDERS SOLVED
, the headline said in big letters. Under it were several stories concerning the case.

Chris thanked him again and carried the paper to the window. She wanted to keep a lookout for Uncle Ralph while she read.

The first article was a background piece on the Charles family. They were wealthy Milwaukee people who had built the house on the lakeshore and lived there quietly for several years before their only child, Russell, was born. A grainy snapshot of Russell showed him wearing a rain slicker and helmet.

In the spring of 1955 Mr. and Mrs. Charles went to Europe on an extended business trip. They hired a tutor-companion named Thomas Dixon to stay with the boy while they were away. Six weeks later, Dixon and Russell were found shot to death in the big house.

The Charleses were brokenhearted. After their return from Europe, they stayed in the house only a couple of weeks, then closed it up and moved away from the painful memories it held.

A second article consisted of an interview with the sheriff after the capture of one of the murderers. The killer had confessed at once, admitting that he and
Dixon and two other men had been involved in the theft of some extremely valuable stamps in New York. Dixon had run away, taking the rarest stamps with him and leaving his partners with little to show for their crime. He'd taken the position with the Charles family in order to hide out for a while. When the furious thieves caught up with him, he'd refused to tell them where the stamps were hidden. They had killed him, then killed the little boy as well, because he'd seen and heard too much.

Chris read as fast as she could. According to the sheriff, the stamps still had not been found, and he thought they were gone for good. Dixon might have sold them on his way to the Midwest; he might even have lost them or destroyed them.

She glanced up. Uncle Ralph was just coming around the corner. He looked both ways, then turned and started up the street in the other direction. She hurried back to the counter, scooping up the man's pencil on the way.

“Here's the paper,” she said. “Thanks again.”

The man was at his desk, glaring at his list as if it might bite him. When he looked up, his expression was mournful.

“I bet you never played with a doll in your life,” he said. “Nobody does what they're supposed to anymore.”

Chris rolled the pencil across the counter and darted
to the door. “Good-bye,” she called over her shoulder and ran outside before he could accuse her of anything else.

Halfway up the next block and on the other side of the street, Uncle Ralph was peering into windows. His shoulders were hunched with annoyance as he hunted for her, and Chris knew he would agree with the man in the newspaper office.
Nobody does what they're supposed to anymore
.

She hurried next door and ordered two ice-cream cones, hopping from one foot to the other while she waited for the clerk to ring up the sale.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Uncle Ralph said when Chris caught up to him at last. But he cut the scolding short when she handed him his triple-decker cone.

Meekly, she followed him to the car. Her head was whirling with all she'd learned in the last few minutes.
Russell Charles
, she thought.
That's his name. And he is really and truly a ghost
. She even knew when he had died. And she could make a guess about the terrifying presence in the attic.
It's Thomas Dixon up there
, she thought. The ghost of a man who stole the stamps and then cheated his partners. The ghost of the man who was responsible for Russell Charles having been murdered.

“Why does a tall man eat less than a short one?” Chris sat at the end of the pier and read the riddle in a loud voice. She flipped to the back of her paperback for the answer.

“Because he makes a little go a long way!” She twisted around, hoping to catch sight of little Russell Charles, but the shore was deserted.

“Why does a spider spin a web?” She paused. “Because she can't knit!”

She giggled at the idea of a spider with eight knitting needles. And suddenly Russell was there, a faint, smiling figure under a tall birch. Almost at once he was gone, but Chris was thrilled. She'd made him appear. Her laughter had brought him.

Poor little kid. He'd had nobody to laugh with for years and years.

She started back to the house. On the way she picked some of the feathery blue flowers that grew in the tall grass edging the lawn. If she were going to bring sunshine into Uncle Ralph's life, flowers might help.

The table was set—the blue bouquet, peanut butter, jelly, bread, tall glasses of milk—when Uncle Ralph came out of the study. He grunted, sat down, and opened his book.

“What do you think is worse than finding a juicy green worm in an apple, Uncle Ralph?” Chris had the paperback open on her lap.

Uncle Ralph looked up. “What kind of question is that?”

“It's a riddle,” Chris explained. “You're supposed to guess the answer.”

He thought for a minute and then shrugged. “I have no idea, Christina. Riddles aren't my thing. Sorry.” He went back to his book.

“Half a worm,” Chris said.

He looked up again. “Half a worm what?”

“It's worse to find half a worm in your apple than to find a whole one. If you find half of one, it means—”

Uncle Ralph groaned. “Yes, yes, I see what it means. Please don't explain.”

Chris didn't mind the groan. Everyone groaned at
riddles. She glanced down at the paperback again. “Which is the left side of a round coconut cake?”

Now Uncle Ralph shook his head impatiently. “I told you, riddles aren't my thing. And I'd really like to finish this chapter, if it's okay with you.” He began reading without waiting for a reply.

Chris's face felt hot. She made a double-decker peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ate it fast. Bringing sunshine into Uncle Ralph's life was a real pain.

She was leaving the kitchen when Uncle Ralph closed his book. He gestured at the jelly-glass bouquet. “You'd better throw out those weeds, Christina. They'll soon start to smell.”

Weeds! She saw that the blue flowers had closed up tight in the last few minutes, leaving nothing but a cluster of stems. She grabbed the glass and emptied it out the back door, wishing she could punch someone.

She muttered to herself most of the afternoon. It took a long swim—to the point and back without stopping—to make her feel better. Let Uncle Ralph have his stuffy books, she decided. Let him be Mr. Sourpuss for the rest of his life, if that was what he wanted. Grandma would have to understand that she'd tried and failed.

But then Uncle Ralph surprised her. “Well,” he said that evening as they sat down to canned chili, “which is it?”

“Which is what?”

“Which is the left side of a round coconut cake?”

“Oh.” Chris wrinkled her nose. “You don't care,” she said. “You really don't want to know.”

“Right on the first point, wrong on the second,” Uncle Ralph told her. “I don't care, and yet I do want you to tell me. I kept thinking about it this afternoon when my mind should have been on the paper I'm writing. It was annoying—like a mosquito buzzing around when you're trying to work.”

“Well,” Chris said reluctantly, “it's the part of the cake you haven't eaten yet. See, if it isn't eaten, it's left—”

“Stop!” He shook his head. “Don't explain.” But he was smiling, and even though he kept his eyes on his book during the rest of the meal, Chris felt better. A smile was something.

“I'll make lunch tomorrow,” she offered. She'd seen a bottle of maple syrup in Uncle Ralph's shopping cart, so there must have been pancake mix there, too. Pancakes should be easy.

But when she went to the kitchen the next noon, there was no mix. She searched the cupboards, finally deciding she'd have to make the pancakes her mother's way. She put some flour into a bowl, added milk, then broke an egg into the mixture. What else? She was pretty sure her mother added other things,
but she couldn't remember what they were. Maybe a little sugar for flavor, she decided.

The batter was the right thickness and color. Chris put the skillet on the stove and dropped in a big dollop of butter.
Just wait till he sees this
, she thought, as the butter sputtered and browned.
He thinks I don't know how to make anything but trouble
.

When Uncle Ralph came out to the kitchen a few minutes later, she was just lifting the last pancake to the platter. Because he was watching, she gave it a little extra flip. The pancake flew through the air and landed on the floor.

Before he could stop himself, Uncle Ralph had stepped on it. He slid to one knee. “What's this?” he grumbled. He picked up the pancake as if it were a dead mouse.

Chris stared. The pancake was undamaged. There wasn't even a dent where Uncle Ralph had stepped on it.

“It's a—it's a pancake,” she mumbled. “A surprise.”

Uncle Ralph sat down, his eyes on the platter heaped with pancakes. “That was a nice thought,” he said, sounding strained.

“They may be a little bit . . . stiff,” Chris said. “But if you use lots of butter and lots of syrup. . . .” She gulped. “I'll show you.”

She put a pancake on her plate, dropped a pat of
butter on it, and poured on maple syrup. “Like this,” she said, and took a big, dripping bite.

“Ugh!” The pancake was like leather in her mouth. Watching her expression, Uncle Ralph began to laugh. He went on laughing while she chewed and chewed.

“Give up, Christina,” he advised when he could get his breath. “It isn't going to go down.”

Chris ran to the sink and spit out the pancake. When she looked up, Russell Charles was at the window. He smiled in at them and then he was gone.

Chris whirled. “Did you see?” she asked. “Did you see him, Uncle Ralph?”

“See whom?” Uncle Ralph said. “Is this another riddle?”

Chris opened her mouth and closed it. Uncle Ralph was still chuckling, but his smile would fade in a hurry if she told him a ghost had been enjoying his laughter.

“It's not a riddle,” she said. “I'm sorry about the pancakes.”

Uncle Ralph went to the refrigerator. “How about French toast?” he asked. “As long as the syrup's on the table.”

“Okay.” Chris watched the window, but Russell didn't return. She dumped the pancakes into the garbage can while Uncle Ralph mixed eggs and milk for the French toast.

“Maybe I just threw away a great invention,” she
said when they'd returned to the table. “Those pancakes might have been terrific for patching old shoes. Or for fixing holes in the roof.”