Deadly Decision (4 page)

“The sausage is good,” I mumbled. “Where's Ted? This time I really want to know.”

“He's painting. He has a canvas about done, and figured it was something quiet he could do while you slept.”

“Considerate of him.”

Trina carried my empty plate to the sink. I sipped a second cup of coffee.

“You should be the one to tell Mrs. Roberts,” Trina said as she grabbed the broom and started sweeping the back of the kitchen.

My cup clattered to the table. “Why me? I don't even know her.”

“You saw Jimmy's ghost.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

“Afraid of her?” Trina stared at me. “Whatever gave you that idea?” Insufficient light reached the back of the narrow kitchen, but I had no trouble seeing Trina's raised eyebrows.

“Just wondered.”

She leaned against the built-in cupboard, a Mona-Lisa smile curving her lips. “As soon as we met, there was a connection between us. It's strange. I feel like I've known her forever.”

“So why doesn't Mrs. Roberts live here?” My suspicions of this woman's ulterior motives grew with each mention of her name.

“She has her own little house. Her husband built it for her and then he died a few years later. This house has belonged to her family, her husband's family actually, since it was built in 1800. Isn't that amazing, one family owning a house all that time? Her husband's Uncle Carl lived here until he died a couple months ago. Jimmy is the last of the family.”

“What do you know about this woman?”

“She's a sweet and wonderful lady. You'll like her, Dad.”

“So this sweet and wonderful lady is allowing you to live here in exchange for doing the repairs. And when you're done, you can try your hand at a bed and breakfast?” I hoped she would hear how ludicrous that sounded.

And yet, something had drawn me here.

“And she's buying all the stuff. We just need to tell her what we need.”

Stuff. She's buying stuff. The two of them don't even know what stuff they need.

I had hoped this venture would give the kids home-maintenance experience and a financial break. That was before I saw the house. Now I wondered. Trina said God had led them here. I had my doubts. “There are other houses if your heart is set on running bed and breakfast. You don't have to grab the first one you come to.”

Trina's laugh broke through my rising temper. “Oh Dad, you had to be part of it to understand. It was like we were drawn here.” Her eyes took on a misty look. “It was more me than Ted. He didn't even want to get out of the car when we pulled up in front of this house, but there was something about the place…like I was meant to be here.”

As she turned her attention back to me, the shadows under her eyes deepened. “I couldn't sleep last night. I kept thinking about all Jimmy must have gone through, all by himself, just a little boy.”

“It's over for him now, Trina. He's with God.” I was amazed at how easily the old clichés spilled out of my mouth. “It doesn't do him any good for you to get worked up over it.”

Trina pulled a tissue from the pocket of her shorts and gave her nose a good blow. I always told her, ‘when you're going to do a job, do it right' and she had taken my words to heart.

She wiped the bottom of her nose. “You saw Jimmy's ghost; that's why you need to tell Mrs. Roberts that Jimmy's dead. It's the right thing to do.”

“We really don't know it was his ghost, Trina. We don't have any facts.”

“Don't tell me you imagined those ghosts, because you know you didn't.” She grabbed the broom and began sweeping. “OK, maybe you didn't see his actual ghost, but you saw something. Besides, the police are coming. They'll file a report, and it's bound to end up in the paper. I'd rather she hear about Jimmy from us than read about it in the
News and Post.
”

Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “Whoever did this deserves to be punished.”

“When you're done sweeping…”

She tossed the broom, and it smacked against the cupboard. Her face had morphed into frustration and grief. “Forget the floor.”

I stared in surprise.

“It won't make any difference. I sweep one day and the dirt's back the next, always in the same place.” With nostrils flaring, she thrust her finger toward a spot in the back of the kitchen by the hutch.

I eased out of my chair and picked up the broom, unsure what to do next.

“I keep checking for bugs, maybe they bring in the dirt, but I haven't seen any.” Trina shredded the tissue that was still in her hand. “I blamed Ted, poor guy. Now he leaves his shoes at the door, but the dirt still shows up.” She turned toward me. “I hate this dirt!”

“Honey, it'll be all right.”

“No it won't be. Jimmy's dead.”

I winced. This wasn't about dirt. I held her as she cried.

“I just hate that he's dead, a little boy…”

It was times like these I wished Trina had a mom, and I had a wife to tell me the right things to do. “Let's find Ted and get this over with.”

With my arm still tight around her shoulders, we headed upstairs to the temporary art studio. Ted was singing. I had to admit, the man could carry a tune, but how could he sing with all the tension? The words brought back to mind all my years in church.

What about my faith? My prayer life wasn't all that great, and church attendance had slipped since Trina's marriage two years ago. Now ghosts. I pushed the thought of God aside, as I had numerous times over the past years. Concern over my soul would have to wait.

“Morning, Bill. Hope you had a good sleep.”

“Slept like a baby.”

“Give me a minute, and we can go to see Mrs. Roberts. We'll leave a note on the door for the police. We won't be gone that long.”

While Ted cleaned his paintbrushes, I glanced at several of the canvases that were propped around the room. The colors were pleasing; the overall effect pleasant. But I would never understand his work; modern art was beyond me. Give me fruit in a bowl, or a face that looks like a face. Those I could appreciate.

Ted dropped his stained cloth on the table. It was time.

With mouths downturned and faces looking at the floor, I felt like we were going to a wake, and in a way we were.

 

 

 

 

6

 

Sandra Roberts was not what I expected: old, craggily, and conniving. Instead, she was my exact image of a southern lady: soft wavy hair more brown than gray that she kept tucking behind her ear, and a gentle Southern drawl effective in soothing my nervousness. Trina was right. I had to be the one to tell her about Jimmy.

As I talked, she listened, occasionally glancing at Trina or Ted for acknowledgement.

In the end, she cried. Even after raising a daughter, tears still make me uncomfortable. Trina stayed behind when Ted and I returned home to wait for the police. The experience had drained me, and I eagerly agreed to give the ladies some space.

Ted and I were standing in the kitchen when we heard the crunch of gravel. He hurried to the front door while I lingered behind. This was his house, I knew my place, but I still had a clear view of the front door.

“Mr. Hancock, I'm Inspector Simpson. This is Officer Hopkins.” Both men shook Ted's hand. “You filed a report last night about Jimmy Roberts.”

Ted shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki shorts.

“Do you mind showing us the way to the attic?” Inspector Simpson asked.

Ted led the men down hall to the stairs. “This is my father-in-law, Bill Iver. He's the one that saw the ghosts--”

The two officers looked my way, a slight wobble marring their tight lips. No doubt, I had been the brunt of more than one joke at the station. “Mr. Iver.” Inspector Simpson extended his hand. “We probably won't need you; Officer Studler's report seems to be thorough. But stick around, won't you, just in case.”

I knew a blow-off when I heard one. In this instance, I didn't mind. Twice in the attic was enough. A third visit could wait a long time, as far as I was concerned. I knew the day would come. I had promised to take Sandra to the attic when she was ready.

Ted led the men toward the stairs. The black case gripped in Officer Hopkins' right hand hit the side of the wall as he gripped the railing with his left. I wanted to file another report, one for negligence of client property. Once I heard them going up the attic stairs I ran my hand along the wall. The small dent could be repaired with a round of spackling, but still, it shouldn't have happened.

I put on a new pot of coffee, got out the fixings for a sandwich, and settled at the kitchen table, wondering what was happening upstairs. Would the officers seriously look at the bolt and fibers, given their reaction to the ghost story? I took a chunk out of the sandwich, and it fell like a lump into my stomach. I pushed away the plate.

“Hey.” Ted wandered into the kitchen and slumped into the chair across from me.

“Want a sandwich?” I pushed my plate toward him.

“Maybe later.”

“What's going on up there?” I hoped they would find another explanation for the fiber and bolt. Even though I would have to eat crow, it would be preferred to thinking ghosts or demons resided in this house. But in my heart, I knew what I had seen. There would be no other explanation. The apparitions had not been my mind playing tricks on me, resurrected from a glimpse of a poster while driving through town. What it all meant I didn't know.

Ted shrugged his shoulders. “I showed them the bolt and threads, repeated how I had found them. They told me they might be awhile, and I might as well find something else to do.”

Two cups of coffee later, Ted jumped from his chair. “I'm going upstairs to paint.”

So much for the calm and always in control son-in-law. Truth be told, my muscles were as jumpy as the rocks in a landslide.

After washing our coffee cups and putting away the remnants of lunch which neither of us ate, I wandered around the house feeling useless. Pain gnawed just under my ribcage. I pushed a hand into my stomach, pressed against the burn. This same painful nausea used to keep me awake at night when Nancy was sick. If tension were an indicator of effort, I should be able to rearrange the laws of gravity about now. I needed something to do; work was my stress reliever. I headed to the upstairs gallery.

Once on the second floor muffled scuffling and footsteps sounded from above. Memories flooded back from last night: me, laying in the dark, listening for sounds. Would the ghosts appear to the officers? Probably not. So far no one had seen them except me —my own special gift. Some gift. Everyone thought I was crazy, including me at times. I glanced down the hall, then at the open attic door. I pushed it closed.

I strode into the large corner bedroom. I smelled the paint thinner before I entered the room. Strips of flowered wallpaper still clung to the plaster. The ceiling, once white, looked creamy ivory. Burn spots from the plaster underneath gave the appearance of whitewash with coffee splashed here and there. The hardwood floor had been mopped, but lacked the shine it was capable of having. More work for the summer.

“Ted, do you have a hoe?”

He glanced up. The easel, placed toward the windows, cut off my view of the current canvas. Ted held up a paintbrush, its bristles covered in gray.

“Um…there might be one in the garage. Do you want me to go look?”

“I can do it. I thought I'd take down some of those tall weeds out back, make the place look better. Maybe put in a flower bed when I come back.”

“Sounds good.” His attention had already refocused on the project in front of him.

I headed to the door.

“Bill.”

At the tone of his voice, I turned.

“Thank you.”

I stared.

“You were good with Mrs. Roberts.”

My face reddened. “It's all right… I'll go get that hoe now.”

I slipped downstairs and out the kitchen door that exited onto an old screened porch. The add-on flanked the back side of the house. Wide floor-boards slanted gradually away from the house. Light sliced through the crack where the porch attached to the house. A good wind and the whole thing would blow away. Another item to add to Mrs. Roberts's construction budget.

I stood on the cement steps and let the sun warm my face. The back yard, a quarter of an acre at least, contained overgrown bushes and small trees that blocked the view of neighbors. A yellow cat wandered through the brush and sat peering at me. Eventually it began to groom its feet, pulling one long leg toward its mouth at a time.

The garage sat behind the house and off to the left. As I walked, I examined the wood framed building now weathered gray. Overgrown vines and small trees covered the windows. A pair of dormers, bordered with ornate scrollwork that still showed flecks of white paint from a past era, adorned the roof. Once I trimmed the scrollwork a different color from the garage, they would stand out, making the building look like the play house Trina had always begged for when she was a little girl.

I chuckled. The old place must be growing on me if I thought the outbuildings looked good.

After being in the bright sun, the darkness of the garage blinded me. I stumbled over cans, old engines, batteries, boxes and sacks, and more cans. Lots of cans. The place rivaled the county dump. Scratching sounds came from deep within the darkness. Good place for rats to hide.

Eager to leave rodents to their home, I found a hoe, shovel and bucket right inside the door. Clumps of dry, sandy soil clung to the shiny blade of the hoe. Someone had made an attempt at yard work, even though all signs of the effort were gone.

Leaving the garage, I headed toward the opposite side of the yard. Dense weeds three feet tall created a maze impenetrable to all but stalwart snakes. Remembering a story my grandfather had once told me, I pounded the base of the hoe on the ground three times; the vibrations guaranteed to scare away any lurking snake.