The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher (4 page)

“No,” I said.
“This
.
”
I pointed to one of the windows in the photo.

“What?”

“It looks like—well, it looks like a woman's face peering out.”

“It does?” Tim said.

“Don't you see it? It's vague and not clearly defined, but see the ethereal figure in the window?”

Tim nodded. “I just see a white blur. Must be damage to the print or on the negative.”

“It could be a woman in a white dress.”

“You have a vivid imagination, Jessica.”

“I suppose that's why I'm a writer,” I said, returning the photo to the box.

“I found Jerry Cooper's yearbook,” Tim said, “but his name is listed under the ‘camera shy' section. I see he was in the Explorers' Club, but there's only a listing, no picture.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“You're getting a firsthand glimpse into the tribulations of a historian. There are always gaps in the historical record.”

“Do you know anything about Jerry's wife?”

“Never met the lady. I understand Jerry married her right out of college. I heard they moved in with Cliff for a while. It was after Nanette died. Marina, that was her name, must have been very shy. I never saw her in town. The last I heard about them was that they left the baby with Cliff, and he raised Elliot.”

“Cliff once told me that his son and daughter-in-law went to South America—Colombia, I think—to research the indigenous peoples,” I said, “and that they were killed by the very tribe they were studying in the jungle. I was always curious whether he tried to recover their bodies to have them returned to Cabot Cove for burial.”

“I wondered the same.”

“Did you ever ask?”

Tim shrugged. “It was a touchy subject to raise, and he always deflected any questions, saying Elliot was safer in his care.”

“Well, that much is true,” I said. “If they'd taken him with them to South America, he would have been killed, too.”

“Still want to look into the history of the Spencer Percy House?”

“If you have the time,” I said.

We spent the next two hours looking at papers about and photographs of the Spencer Percy House that the library had preserved on different devices.

“I think that's enough for one day,” I said to Tim. “Thanks so much for taking the time with me.”

“My pleasure, Jessica. Anytime you want to do it again, just give a holler.”

I returned home and tended to a myriad of projects demanding my attention. But I kept thinking about the history of the Spencer Percy House, the young couple who disappeared, and the possible treasure trove of books that Cliff Cooper had collected over the course of his life. Filled with appreciation for the house and its long history in Cabot Cove, I eagerly looked forward to returning there to continue going through the books, no matter how dusty and dirty the task might be.

“S
omebody is definitely not resting in peace,
mes amis
,” Eve Simpson said, looking around the table at Mara's Luncheonette. “I think it's Cliff Cooper.”

Eve took a bite of her French fry and dropped the second half into the large canvas tote at her feet.

I leaned over and peered down into Eve's bag. Nestled next to a file folder holding a sheaf of papers was her Chihuahua, Cecil, working away at the fried potato with his few remaining teeth.

“If Mara catches you doing that, she's liable to call the cops,” said Seth Hazlitt as he sliced into a short stack of blueberry pancakes for which Mara was famous.

“She doesn't have to call. I'm already here.”

Eve batted her eyelashes at Mort Metzger. “Now, Sheriff, you won't tell on me, will you?”

“You're breaking the law bringing that dog in here, Ms. Simpson,” Mort said, “but as it happens, you're in luck. I'm on my lunch hour.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Eve took another French fry from her plate and dropped it off the side of the table. “Anyway,” she continued, “we have to do an exorcism or something, or I'll never get the Spencer Percy House sold.”

“We?” I asked. “I don't know what
we
can do to help you.”

“Why do you think it's a ghost?” Mort asked through a bite of lobster roll.

“The painters quit. They said they couldn't paint when the rooms were so cold. And they complained about hearing odd noises.”

“I don't suppose it would hurt to turn on the heat,” Seth said, adding a little extra maple syrup to his plate.

“I have limited funds for the renovation,” Eve said. “Besides, they work with the windows open, and it's been positively balmy outside.”

“It's been in the fifties,” Seth said, “hardly a heat spell.”

“You could try another painting company,” Mort said.

“Painters are just the beginning,” Eve said, waving around a French fry. “Two roofers got stranded up on the shingles when someone—or some
thing
—walked off with their ladder. And the janitorial service I hired said that not only were their cleaning ladies afraid to enter the bedrooms, but they wouldn't go anywhere near the basement.”

“Did the previous owner ever indicate the house was haunted?”

“No, Sheriff, but Cliff Cooper always wore three sweaters even in July, so he wouldn't have noticed any ghostly chill. Plus, he was so preoccupied with his reading, he wouldn't have paid attention even if the walls fell down around him. I was hoping to find a prospective buyer before the funeral, but it doesn't look possible right now, even though Evelyn Phillips promised to put an article in the
Gazette
.”

“Still can't believe he didn't make it,” Seth said, spearing the last bit of pancake with his fork. “There was no reason why he couldn't have recovered.” He scowled at the fork before finishing his meal.

“Tough to lose a patient, huh, Doc? What did you say he died from?” asked our sheriff.

“I wasn't there. Another doctor pronounced him. Attributed the death to respiratory failure due to pneumonia. ‘Pneumonia,' my foot. It was just a bad case of bronchitis. I listened to his lungs.”

“If you don't believe that's what he died from, why didn't you order an autopsy?”

“No point in doing an autopsy unless the grandson requests it. Funeral home has Cliff on ice till he arrives.”

“You're the doctor. Seems to me that you should be the one to decide that.”

“Does it now? Is that your medical opinion? Are you studying up to be a general practitioner, Sheriff?”

“Just common sense. Don't need a medical degree for that.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Eve said, “this conversation is so
inapproprié
.” She spread her hands, indicating the surroundings.

“Sorry, Ms. Simpson. The doc and I have a few areas of disagreement.”

“More than a few,” Seth added in a low voice.

“Don't think I didn't hear that.” Mort turned his back to Seth and addressed Eve. “Who owns your haunted house now?”

“The lawyer said it may take a little while to settle the estate, but it'll probably be Elliot Cooper until the house is sold. He's been living in Alaska, but he's coming home for the funeral.”

“If he ever gets here,” Seth put in. “I understand he's coming by motorcycle. Doesn't he know that airplanes fly to other places than the wilds of Alaska?”

“Are you sure Elliot won't change his mind and want to keep the house?” Mort asked.

“It's much too big for one person,” Eve said.

“Only one person lived there for more than thirty years,” I reminded her.

“True, but Cliff wanted the house sold. He made that point to both you and me, Jessica. He even had you write it in his will. And he wanted
me
to have the listing. He said I was the perfect person to sell it. I happen to agree, although I think he was just flattering me. It's a veritable nightmare, that house, and he knew it. There's no way Elliot can manage a place that large. Frankly, I think he'll want to take the money and go back to Alaska as fast as he can.”

“Isn't he the boy who had a crush on the Conrad twins' great-niece?” Seth asked.

“That's the one,” I said.

Mort looked at me and squinted. “The Conrad twins, those elderly ladies who live in that little cottage across the way from Cliff Cooper's place?”

“Yes.”

“I've seen them around town but don't think I ever met them. And I know I never met this Elliot guy.”

“There's no reason why you'd have met Lettie and Lucy Conrad,” Seth said, “unless they decided to become a live version of
Arsenic and Old Lace
and kill somebody.”

“Elliot Cooper is Cliff's grandson,” I said, “but Cliff actually brought up the boy.”

“What happened to Elliot's parents?” Mort asked.

Seth made a face. “No one knows anything for sure except that they abandoned their child.”

“Well, that's not exactly true,” I put in. “Cliff's son, Jerry, and Jerry's wife, Marina, were archaeologists studying ancient civilizations. Don't you remember, Seth?”

“So Cliff said. I rarely had any contact with Jerry. Wouldn't know him if I tripped over him in the street. Course, he'd be in his fifties by now.” He looked at me. “Did you know him any better?”

“No, I didn't. I understand he met his wife in college. They had a child, and when they decided to pursue their studies in South America, they left Elliot in Cliff's care.”

“And never came back,” Seth added.

“Because they died there,” I said.

“They were odd birds to begin with.”

“Why do you say that, Doc?”

“Because they were all wrapped up in their own interests, had no friends, no desire to be proper parents, let their baby run naked until the neighbors complained. Tore off to some isolated part of the world. I felt sorry for the boy, but the child protective services couldn't do anything since he was being supervised by his grandfather.”

“I'm sure the Conrad sisters were a civilizing influence,” I said. “And Lucy told me what a nice young man Elliot turned out to be.”

“Absolute miracle,” Seth said.

“I hate to be a spoilsport,” Mort said to Eve, “but why does this ghost of yours, if there is one, have to be the previous owner? Why couldn't it be Cooper Junior and his wife who died in the jungle, or some sea captain who built the place? Heck, it could be any number of other people who lived there a hundred years ago.”

“I suppose it could be someone who lived there a long time ago,” Eve said. “But one way or another, something has to be done. I spoke with one potential buyer who said the place gives her the creeps. She's convinced a ghost lives there, said others had mentioned it to her. I've heard that ridiculous rumor before, but I never saw anything to prove it. No, if the Spencer Percy House is haunted, I believe it's recent. Got to be Cliff. Maybe he left behind something unfinished in this world.”

“Probably just never got around to finish reading all his books,” Mort said.

“It really doesn't matter who the ghost is. The fact is I've got to get rid of it if I'm going to find a buyer.”

“How old is this house?” Mort asked. “Maybe it simply needs a lot of work. Old houses tend to creak, you know. Or host critters in the attic. Doesn't mean there's anything woo-hoo going on.”

“According to our town historian, the house dates back to the early 1800s,” I said.

“It's certainly the oldest house in Cabot Cove,” Eve added. “I could probably sell it as is if it had been designated a landmark. But someone in the last century pulled off half the molding and added an extension that wasn't approved. So now it's just a white elephant in need of repair.”

I spooned up the last of my cup of clam chowder and sat back in my chair. It was Friday afternoon, and Mara's lunchtime customers were hurrying out, anxious to finish the week's work or eager to get a start on the weekend. “If no one is willing to help fix the place, what are you going to do, Eve?”

“I don't know, Jessica. I was hoping you would help.”

“What kind of help are you looking for?”

Eve was silent for a moment as she concentrated on cutting her hamburger into little pieces. “I've already taken some steps,” she said at last. “I just hope that you'll keep an open mind.”

“Oh, dear, Eve, what did you do?”

“I found a medium online and used your name to invite her.” She rushed on, “She's such a big fan of yours, and she said she's heard how you're always so helpful to friends in need. And I'm very much in need right now, Jessica.”

It took me a few moments to process what she'd said. I finally asked, “Just how did you use my name, Eve?”

“I sent her an e-mail telling her that you needed help getting rid of a ghost.”

“Oh, Eve,” I said, “how could you?”

Seth patted his mouth with a napkin and leaned forward. “Didn't this medium, or whoever she is, find it odd that Jessica didn't request the help herself?”

“Not at all,” Eve said. “I think she thought I was your assistant.”

“I don't have an assistant.”

“Nevertheless, she agreed to come. And she said she was excited to be seeing you again.”

“Again?” Seth and I said in unison.

“Yes. Her name is Arianna Olynski. She met you in Lewiston some years back. She was writing a book called
Our Supernatural Neighbors
, and she said you were very encouraging. Don't you remember?”

“The name doesn't sound familiar,” I said, trying to remember the last time I'd been to Lewiston. “I did teach a summer course on creative writing at Bates College, but that was many years ago. Even so, I don't recall the name Arianna Olynski.”

“Well, she certainly remembers you. She mentions you on her website in the section called ‘Praise for My Work.' That's how I got the idea to invite her here.”

“Seems she didn't make quite as deep an impression on you as you made on her,” Seth said.

“If she's quoting me, I'd like to see what I said.”

“You can look her up online like I did,” Eve said, letting a few crumbs of chopped meat fall on Cecil's head.

“Better watch out,” Seth said. “Here comes Mara.”

Eve used her foot to nudge her tote bag under the table, and faked a cough to cover a little yelp from Cecil.

Bearing a pair of coffeepots, decaf in one hand, regular in the other, the proprietress of Mara's Luncheonette approached our table. “How was lunch, folks? Anyone here need a refill on coffee?”

“The soup was delicious,” I told her.

“Pancakes were excellent as usual,” Seth said, pushing his cup in her direction. “You can top me off.”

Mara dipped to the side as she poured coffee into Seth's cup. “What about you, Sheriff?”

Mort waved a hand over his cup. “I'm good.”

She eyed the crumbled chopped meat on Eve's plate. “Having a bit of trouble with your teeth, Ms. Simpson?”

“
Moi?
Oh, no.”

“I can recommend a good dentist.”

“My teeth are just fine, thank you.”

“Then do you want to take the rest of that home for your . . .
dog
?”

Eve gave her a bright smile. “That would be wonderful.”

Mara rolled her eyes. “That beef is choice, you know. Shouldn't be wasted. We only use the best chopped meat for our customers.”

“Cecil is such an admirer of your hamburgers,” Eve said.

Mara grunted. “Don't think I've ever received a compliment like that. I'll be right back.” She stopped at two more tables before depositing the coffeepots on their stands and bringing Eve a cardboard box for her leftovers. “Dessert, anyone?”

We declined more food, although Seth asked to hear a list of the available pies before deciding he'd had enough sugar for the day. Cabot Cove's favorite physician was accustomed to dispensing diet advice to his patients, but he found it difficult to follow his own orders.

“Need a lift home?” he asked as we left the luncheonette.

“No, thanks. I'm going to stop in at the library to see if Doris Ann signed up any volunteers to help me with the sale of Cliff's books.”

“You should advertise it as a Halloween book sale,” Seth said. “Trick the house up with cobwebs and broomsticks. That way if any ghosts should happen to show up for your event, you can say it's all part of the show.”

“Seth! What a great idea.”

“It is? I thought I was making a joke.”