The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher (5 page)

“W
here do you want me to put these, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Beth Conrad, the Conrad twins' great-niece, held up two volumes,
Birds of New England
and
Training Your Puppy.

“There should be a carton of animal-related books on the table,” I said, pointing across Cliff Cooper's library.

Beth and her great-aunt Leticia—called Lettie by all who knew her—were helping me sort Cliff's books into categories. It was a big project, and I was grateful for all the help I could get. We had plenty of boxes—generously donated by a local moving company—but volunteer sorters had been scarce after a story about the “haunted” Spencer Percy House surfaced in the
Cabot Cove
Gazette
. The editor, Evelyn Phillips, had jumped on the rumors when Eve had complained about the difficulty of getting good help to do the repair work. The newspaper had published a long article on the property and the recent strange goings-on, interviewing the roofers and one of the cleaning ladies, and ran a front-page photo of our favorite real estate agent standing next to the house.

The newspaper editor was delighted when that issue of the
Gazette
sold out. Eve had been ecstatic. “Isn't that the greatest publicity? And right after the article appeared, a handyman called me and said he wasn't afraid to work in the house. I hired him on the spot. He starts in a few days.”

Nevertheless, the prospect of spending time in a haunted house was not as appealing to at least one member of the Friends of the Library. She actually offered to assist with the book sale only if she didn't have to cross the threshold. Others pleaded how busy they were. The end result was that we were short-staffed, and the responsibility rested on my shoulders. It occurred to me that if the weather didn't cooperate on the day of the book sale, we'd need a large tent to protect the books and the buyers, and that meant arranging for a rental from a local company. The sale was becoming a much bigger undertaking than I'd envisioned when I'd volunteered to take it on. Thank goodness I had at least two people helping me today.

I knew where the animal books were because earlier in the day I had discovered
Reptiles and Amphibians of the Amazon
by Richard D. Bartlett in the same box as
Cat and Mouse
by James Patterson. I removed the latter and added it to a carton marked “Thrillers.” Cliff's literary interests were wide-ranging, and his collection would have been excellent competition for a bookstore, or even the Cabot Cove Library, had he shelved them in any order. But he hadn't. An Agatha Christie novel was just as likely to be found among the dictionaries as next to another mystery. I got the impression that once having finished a book, Cliff put it on any shelf where space was available.

“Should we keep the old encyclopedias, Jessica?” Lettie asked. “There's a full set of World Books.”

“Doris Ann at the library said no one wants those anymore.”

“I'll put it in the kitchen so it doesn't go into the sale by mistake,” Lettie said. “Do you have another marker I can use to write on the box?”

“There's a package of them in my shoulder bag,” I said. “I left it by the front door.”

“It's not there now,” Lettie said, carrying a box of books out of the library. She was tall and lean with steel gray hair cut short. Seth had described her as spry. I guessed that she must have been well over eighty, but she walked like a woman decades younger. “Comes from doing for yourself,” she'd told me when I'd complimented her. “Who's going to chop wood for the fireplace if not me? My sister, Lucy, would be useless. I have to do more and more for her.”

“I thought I saw your bag in the dining room, Mrs. Fletcher,” Beth said. “I'll go get it for you.”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking my head and thinking,
I must be getting forgetful. I don't recall leaving my bag in the dining room.

“It was right next to the box of books on health and medicine,” Lettie's great-niece said when she returned, holding aloft my tan leather satchel.

“You're a dear. I have half my life in that bag, not to mention my house keys.” I took it from her and groped around inside for a new package of markers. “I'll bring one to Lettie. Do you need another marker, too?”

“No. Mine still has some ink left.”

I dropped my shoulder bag next to the front door and walked down the hall to the kitchen.

The three of us had begun working that morning. Beth, a graphic designer for an architect, had made signs for the sale, which she brought to show us. In the library, I'd found a cabinet with some room—miracle of miracles—and stowed away Cliff's hollowed-out poetry book to save for his grandson. I'd previously put the money in an envelope and delivered it to the attorney, Fred Kramer.

By midafternoon we were knee-deep in boxes, and apart from four cartons of “General Fiction,” the only subgenre with more than three books was the box marked “Mystery: Hard-boiled and Noir,” which held a dozen paperbacks, among them the two by Hobart that Eve and I had picked up from the floor.

“I'm making a cup of tea for myself,” Lettie said when I brought her a new marker. “Would you like one?”

“That's a wonderful idea. Let me ask Beth if she'd like to take a break, too.”

Beth joined us at the vintage table, which had a chipped enameled metal top and a drawer on one side. Lettie had put a kettle on the gas stove to heat. She pulled three spoons from the table's drawer and gave us each a paper towel. “Don't remember the last time Cliff bought napkins, if he ever did. Luckily he kept the tea and the sugar in tin canisters. They're fairly fresh.” She opened a cabinet and took out three mugs, rinsing them with the boiling water before dropping in a tea bag and adding more water.

I helped her carry the mugs to the table and settled in my seat to wait for the tea to cool.

“It's too bad we didn't get more people to help with the sale,” Beth said. “I can ask around at the office if you like. Most of my coworkers live south of here, so they probably don't read the
Gazette
and wouldn't be spooked by the idea of ghosts.”

“Ought to be some other locals who can lend a hand,” Lettie said. “Lot of foolish nonsense about this house being haunted. Cliff never complained, and I'd've known if he had. I'll have my sister call up her quilting cronies at the senior citizen center and see who she can scare up. ‘Scare up'! Ha! I picked the right word, didn't I?” She chuckled.

The Conrad twins, Lettie and Lucy, were part of an old Cabot Cove family. I hadn't met their great-niece, Beth, before, but I knew that the young woman's father was a captain on a freighter and spent many months at sea. Lettie had told me that Beth had become a frequent visitor to the sisters' home after her father's new wife gave birth to twin boys, and she still was. She was a sweet young woman with the kind of fresh, youthful good looks that could be pegged at anywhere from eighteen to thirty-five, but I knew that she must be in her mid- to late twenties. It was nice that she'd come home to Cabot Cove after college. So many of our young people didn't.

Beth produced an unopened package of ginger cookies and held it up. “I figured you wouldn't find anything edible in Grandpa Cliff's kitchen, so I threw this in the car this morning,” she said, tearing it open.

“Clever girl,” Lettie said, plucking out a gingersnap. “I'll have Lucy bring over a pitcher of milk tomorrow morning. Miss Simpson said she was keeping the 'lectric on as long as we're here, so the fridge should work. Hope you can manage tea without milk today, Jessica.”

“I'm just grateful for anything to soothe my parched throat.”

“It's the dust does it to you. My hands are as dry as parchment. Don't know how Cliff lived comfortably in this atmosphere.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, backtracking to a point earlier in our conversation and addressing Beth. “You called him ‘Grandpa Cliff.' Was he a relative?”

She smiled at Lettie before answering me. “He might've liked to be, but no, it's just an honorary term. That's what Elliot called him, and so I called him the same thing. I think Grandpa Cliff liked it. I know he liked having us around. We used to play all over the house. We found closets full of old clothing in the unused bedrooms, and we'd put on shows for him, parading around in feather boas and silver high heels. He would laugh.” She smiled at the memory.

“So you know the house pretty well,” I said.

“She practically grew up here until Cliff sent Elliot off to boarding school,” Lettie put in.

“I used to know it very well before Elliot left,” Beth said, fingering a string bracelet she wore on her wrist. “Except for the basement. Grandpa Cliff didn't want us to go into the basement. He said the stairs were rickety. He was going to fix them someday, but until he did, we might fall through and get hurt. I listened, but nothing fazed Elliot. He'd sneak downstairs when Grandpa Cliff wasn't home. Told me there was nothing there to be afraid of, but he got himself pretty banged up when, sure enough, one of the steps broke. I never saw Grandpa Cliff so angry. Yelled at him that he could've been killed. He sent him away to boarding school after that.”

“He was a wild one, that motherless boy,” Lettie said. “Hard to contain, but whip smart. Lucy and I, we tried to teach him manners, let him know how he was supposed to behave in polite company. But Cliff said he was on the road to becoming a delinquent.”

“That was such an exaggeration,” Beth said.

“Mebbe so, but Cliff insisted the school would teach him what he needed to know to get along in the world. And it did.”

“Elliot hated it,” Beth said, pulling a cookie from the container. “Tried to run away a couple of times, but he got caught. I told him not to bother, that Grandpa Cliff would just send him back. He stopped writing to me after that.” She placed the cookie on her paper towel and pushed it away uneaten.

“That must've made you sad,” I said.

“It did for a while,” Lettie answered for Beth. “Cliff didn't want her to visit anymore without his grandson at home. He said she was a reminder, that he didn't want to see her 'cause he was missing Elliot something fierce.”

“That's okay. I didn't want to be here without Elliot anyway.”

“Did you ever hear from him again?”

She shrugged. “When he was in college, he had a short story published. He sent me the magazine it appeared in.”

“How nice,” I said. “Are you in touch with him now?”

“Not me, but he writes to Aunt Lettie and Aunt Lucy.”

“Ayuh. Found himself in Alaska, he did. Got a job teaching writing and literature. Well, you wouldn't be surprised, seein' all these books here. Beth taught Lucy and me how to use Facebook, and one day, a message pops up from Elliot Cooper, wanting to be our friend.” She stole a glance at Beth. “So, of course, we said yes.”

“Are you friends with him on Facebook as well?” I looked at Beth.

“He never asked me,” she replied. “Besides, he's engaged to some woman who runs a jewelry shop. She probably wouldn't appreciate him being friends with a girl from back home.”

“Eve said that Elliot will be coming to Cabot Cove for the funeral. Maybe you'll get to see him then.”

“I might not even recognize him. Aunt Lucy says he has a beard now.”

Lettie waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, you'll know him. Elliot hasn't changed that much.”

We took our mugs to the sink, and while Beth washed and Lettie dried, I turned on the refrigerator to let it cool before we put milk or other food items inside. The ladies from Eve's cleaning service had washed down the interior, and except for the faint odor of bleach from the cleanser they'd used, it was as clean as a forty-year-old refrigerator could be.

“I think we should stop work for the day,” I said. “It's going to be dark soon, and it's enough of a strain hauling books around. Let's not make it harder by trying to read titles in dim light.”

“I walked here,” said Lettie, “but Beth can give you a ride home. She has a brand-new truck. You can put your bike in the bed.”

“I'm grateful for the offer, but I think I'll pass. I need to get some fresh air in my lungs, and I like the idea of getting exercise riding home. Thanks for all your help.”

“You're welcome,” Beth said. “Give me a call when you want me to come again.” She looked around the kitchen. “It was nice to be back here. I have such good memories of this house.”

After Lettie and Beth left, I checked that the stove wasn't on, shut off the overhead fixture in the kitchen, and walked down the hall, pausing to extinguish the lights in the library and to pull out the extra set of keys Eve had entrusted to me. As I reached for the knob on the front door, I was taken aback by a loud pounding. I flung the door open. A glaring light blinded me. I immediately stepped back and raised my arm to shade my eyes. “Turn that off, please,” I shouted.

“In a moment,” said a female voice. “Okay, Boris, I'm ready.”

“Action,” said a man's voice behind the light.

“I'm here with the celebrated mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who has called upon my expertise to rid her home of a spectral visitor. New England is a hotbed of ghostly presences, and it's no surprise that even the rich and famous have to deal with supernatural manifestations.”

“Now, just one minute,” I said, blinking rapidly to rid my eyes of the temporary blindness the light had caused. “First of all, this is not my home. And second, I did not invite you here. And third, I certainly did not give you permission to film me or to use my name.”

“Cut!”

The light was turned off, and as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light outside, I could make out a tiny woman with a pile of blond hair, holding a gold-topped cane.