The Ghost of Ernie P. (3 page)

“Look at this, Jeffrey,” Mrs. Barber urged. She was gazing at a photo next to the door. Jeff peered over her shoulder at a small roly-poly Ernie, aged about three.

“He was such a mischievous child,” Mrs. Barber quavered. “This was taken right after he'd released the brake on his father's new Buick. We were living on a hill then, in California. The car went down the driveway with Ernest in it, up the hill on the other side of the road and into our neighbor's garden, and then down again into a ditch. Just look at that naughty little smile.”

Jeff nodded. He'd seen that smile many times.

“What about this one?” he asked, pointing to the next picture. It showed Ernie at five or six, his face almost hidden by a broad-brimmed black hat. A black cape covered him from neck to toes, and he was waving a stick over his head.

“Oh, isn't that adorable!” Mrs. Barber exclaimed. “That was his Halloween costume. Every year he wanted to be either a magician or a wizard, and I had to make him a new cape and find a hat and a wand. The hat was the hardest part. Ernest had a very big head.”

Jeff moved from one picture to another, with Mrs. Barber behind him, describing the circumstances in which each photo was taken.

“This one was taken the day Ernest accidentally set the garage on fire. He even helped us put it out, the dear,” she said proudly. “He was such a brave boy.”

Another picture showed little Ernie grinning over the edge of a bathtub. “The little dickens poured all my perfumes and colognes into a bowl and then spilled most of the mixture over himself,” Mrs. Barber said proudly. “Wasn't that funny?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jeff said, becoming more uneasy by the minute. It seemed to him that as they worked their way around the walls, the room was growing darker.

“Here is my absolute favorite,” Mrs. Barber said. She pointed to a large picture above the bed.

Jeff looked at it and turned away quickly. Thank goodness his parents had never taken a picture of him like that! The photo was of baby Ernie lying naked on a bearskin rug. It was the only picture in which Ernie was scowling.

“I do think that's simply precious,” Mrs. Barber crooned, wiping her eyes again. “I do think my Ernest was the most
precious
baby who ever lived.”

Thunder crashed around the house. The picture of Ernie on the bearskin rug fell off the wall and vanished behind the bed.

Mrs. Barber went to a window. “Another storm!” she exclaimed. “That thunder seemed terribly close, didn't it?”

“Yes, m-ma'am.” Jeff was surprised to discover his teeth were chattering. “I think I'd better go home. My m-mother will be worried.”

He wanted to get away before Mrs. Barber noticed that the “precious” picture had fallen and asked him to hang it up again. Next time the lightning might score a direct hit.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Barber turned back from the window with a little sigh. “You mustn't worry your mother.”

She opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a manila envelope. One look at it drove every other thought from Jeff's head. Across the front, in bold black letters, was printed: ASSIGNMENTS FOR JEFF KEPPEL—T S P. Below that was a single word: PRIVATE!!!!!

“This is what I called your mother about this morning, dear,” Mrs. Barber said. “I suppose it's some homework my dear boy was helping you with. I didn't want to open it—it says Private, after all—but you mustn't ever be ashamed about asking for help. I'm sure Ernest was glad to assist you.”

Jeff looked from Mrs. Barber's kind, teary face to the envelope. He wanted to run right out of the house. He thought he could pick up a rattlesnake easier than he could take the envelope she held out to him. But once again he was trapped.

“Thanks.” He took the envelope.

“Well, now, will you look at that!” Mrs. Barber exclaimed, turning back to the window. “You won't get wet on your way home after all—the sun is shining again. Isn't this weather the strangest thing!”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Mrs. Keppel was spraying roses at the side of the house when Jeff got home. He waved and hurried inside before she could ask him about his visit.

There was a good smell in the house. His mother had been baking bread.
This could have been a really great Saturday
, Jeff thought. Instead, he had Ernie's manila envelope, which was practically guaranteed to turn the day into a disaster.

He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He read it quickly, his heart thumping.

MASTER PLAN was lettered across the paper. TOP SECRET PROJECT. Below the main heading was a numbered list labeled
Assignments for Keppel
.

1. He should hide the evidence in a really safe place.

2. He should talk to Muggin.

3. He should arrange the payoff.

What evidence? Who was Muggin? What kind of payoff? Jeff raced through the list again, trying to figure out what it meant.

The Top Secret Project apparently involved some evidence—a secret—and this evidence had something to do with a person named Muggin. The only Muggins Jeff knew were a very proper old couple who lived in the biggest house in the neighborhood. Jeff had seen Mr. Muggin, a retired banker, once or twice. He'd said hello to Mrs. Muggin at church a few times, when he was with his mother. It was hard to imagine either one of the Muggins having a terrible secret to hide.

And even if one of them had done something wrong, how could Ernie Barber have found out about it? Mr. and Mrs. Muggin had lived their quiet life in their big old house for as long as anyone could remember, while Ernie had arrived in Treverton just three months ago.

The mention of a payoff was puzzling, too. Jeff thought of the computer and the VCR in Ernie's bedroom. He'd always seemed to have plenty of spending money, and after meeting Mrs. Barber, Jeff was sure Ernie could have whatever he wanted. Then why had he been so interested in a payoff?

One thing was certain. Ernie may have thought up the Top Secret Project, but he'd intended to give the dirty work to Jeff. Jeff was supposed to hide the evidence. He was supposed to make the arrangements for the blackmail, if that's what it was. If anything had gone wrong with the T S P, Jeffrey Keppel would have been the one to get most of the blame.

A screen door banged, and Mrs. Keppel called from the foot of the stairs. Jeff stuffed the sheet of paper back into the envelope and slid it under last year's history notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Just forget it
, he told himself.
There isn't going to be any T S P. Those dumb assignments don't mean a thing
.

He went downstairs and found his mother in the kitchen wrapping a loaf of bread in foil.

“I have an assignment for you,” she said cheerfully.

Jeff stared at her.

“This morning I suddenly remembered that I'd promised Celia Muggin the recipe for my sauerkraut rye. She bought a loaf at the church sale last March, and she asked me for the recipe the next Sunday.” Mrs. Keppel hesitated, looking a little puzzled. “At least, I
think
she asked for it. I do remember she said her husband liked the bread very much. Anyway, I've made a batch, and I've copied the recipe, and I want you to take them over to Mrs. Muggin right away.”

“Now?” Jeff asked in a weak voice.

“Now, please,” his mother said. “I woke up this morning thinking about it, for some reason, and I won't be able to rest till she has the recipe. You know how it is with promises, dear.”

Jeff nodded miserably. It was no use telling himself this was still another coincidence. Upstairs in his desk drawer was a list of assignments from Ernie Barber including an order to “talk to Muggin.” Now his mother was giving him the same “assignment.” Jeff had a feeling that if he turned around fast, he'd see a round-faced ghost with a mean smile lurking in the hallway behind him.

“And please try to look a little more cheerful,” Mrs. Keppel said. “Was it very painful visiting Ernie's mother?”

“Not so bad,” Jeff mumbled. “She showed me a bunch of pictures.”

“Well, I'm sure it was sad,” Mrs. Keppel said, “but the best thing you can do now is think about something else.” She handed him the foil-wrapped package, a recipe card neatly taped to the top. “Life goes on, dear, and you must keep busy. It's what poor Ernie would want.”

She was right about that, Jeff thought grimly. He clenched his fists and tried to think of some way to say No to a ghost. He wanted to yell and kick and refuse to leave the house, but what good would that do? His mother would probably burst into tears and decide she was a failure as a mother.

The winding road that led to the Muggins' house did not have sidewalks. Jeff walked slowly, his mind on the puzzle of the Top Secret Project. It was easier to think outside in the sunshine.

The big question, he realized, was not whether Ernie Barber was haunting him. He was. The big question now was WHY? Ernie was dead; he couldn't enjoy the payoff of his Top Secret Project. So why was he still determined to have Jeff carry out the T S P? And what was it all about?

The wrought-iron gates of the Muggin estate stood open. More of Ernie's work, Jeff supposed; usually when he passed this way the gates were padlocked. He turned in and followed the gravel road that wound across the lawn. Huge oak trees made islands of shadow.

Jeff's steps became even slower as he neared the front porch. With its towers and gables and high narrow windows the house looked kind of spooky, even on a bright day like this one.
Maybe it's just me
, Jeff thought. Everything looked spooky to him now.

He lifted the big knocker on the front door and let it fall with a crash. Almost at once, a voice called, “Coming,” and the door swung open. Mrs. Muggin, a tiny, white-haired lady in a crisp pink-checked housedress, looked at Jeff with surprise.

“Why, aren't you—” She frowned. “I do know you, don't I? I'm sure we've met.”

“I'm Jeffrey Keppel. You know my mother,”

“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Muggin's smile widened. “Come right in, Jeffrey. Are you selling something for your school?”

“No, ma'am.” He followed her into a foyer and then to the right into a dimly lit living room. Velvet draperies cut off most of the outside light, and the floor and furniture were covered in rich, dark fabrics. In one corner stood the biggest grand piano Jeff had ever seen.

“My mother sent you this.” He handed Mrs. Muggin the loaf of bread. “It's the recipe you asked for. And a loaf of bread she made this morning.”

Mrs. Muggin seemed bewildered. “Well, that's very nice of your mother,” she said. “I'm afraid I don't remember asking, but then, my memory is not what it used to be. I'm sure it's wonderful bread.”

“Sauerkraut rye,” Jeff said. “My mother said Mr. Muggin liked it a lot.”

“Well, he'll be pleased.” Mrs. Muggin still sounded perplexed. “How would you like some lemonade, Jeffrey? You wait here—I'll be right back.”

Jeff tried to say he didn't want any lemonade, but Mrs. Muggin was already on her way across the foyer. He sat for a moment in one of the overstuffed chairs, wondering how soon he could leave. The dark old house made him uneasy. Then he stood up and started ambling around the room, stopping at the piano. He pictured himself on the stage about to perform.
Presenting Jeffrey Keppel, the Jazz King
.… The keys were silky smooth under his fingers.

“What do you think you're doing?”

The words shot through the silent room like arrows. Jeff whirled around and saw a tall figure in the hall. It was a girl, a stranger, with long dark hair that hung straight to her shoulders. She wore black slacks and a loose black sweater. Her eyes glittered like ice chips in her pale face.

“I wasn't doing anything,” Jeff sputtered. “I'm just—Mrs. Muggin told me to wait.”

The stranger came into the room, and Jeff saw that she was older than he'd thought—maybe thirty. “Well, I'm telling you to get out,” she snarled. “You're not wanted here!”

Jeff was stunned. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “I just brought some bread for Mrs. Muggin—”

“I heard what you told her!” The woman took another step toward Jeff and pointed a long finger. “But I know the real reason you came. And if you know what's good for you, you'll go while you can. Before it's too late!”

Jeff edged around the piano bench. He wanted to run, but there was something hypnotic about those ice-chip eyes. He would have edged around a hissing snake with the same caution. He had nearly reached the front hall when footsteps sounded from the rear of the house. Mrs. Muggin appeared, carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade on it and a plate of cookies.

“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “You've already met our niece Margo. Margo, you'll have some lemonade with Jeffrey and me, won't you?”

“I'd adore it, Aunt Celia.” The lilting voice stopped Jeff in his tracks. “I've been telling your guest to wait till you came back, but he seems to be in such a hurry.”

Jeff took a step back into the living room. Mrs. Muggin was fussing over the tray on the coffee table, her back to Jeff. The tall stranger was curled up on a sofa, her legs tucked under her. The hard glitter had disappeared from her eyes, and she smiled radiantly at Jeff. “Now, Jeff,” she said, “aren't you glad you waited?”

“But you said—” Jeff began, and then stopped. Mrs. Muggin would never believe that this gentle, smiling, soft-spoken person had just ordered him out of the house. He hardly believed it himself.

“I said you'd love Aunt Celia's lemonade,” Margo Muggin finished the sentence for him. “Do sit down and stop fussing.”

Jeff sat.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“Well, you were gone quite a while, weren't you?”