Phantoms Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #13 (7 page)

Chapter
7

I pulled myself from my snug
little nest of blankets and was shocked to find that I’d slept close to twelve
hours despite the fact that I’d gone to bed with images of Louisa sneaking
through a forest in Eastern Europe under threat of death. I found clean jeans
and a pullover top and decided a ponytail was the easy answer for my hair. A
couple of swipes with the blusher and lipstick and I felt as ready as I’d ever
be.

In the kitchen, Louisa sat at the
table with her coffee, newspaper and toast.

“You look chipper,” she said. “I
guess you slept all right?”

“That bed is wonderful. I may
have to steal it and take it home with me.” I helped myself to coffee from the
carafe.

“I’m off to work in a bit, but
make yourself at home. It looks like Bethany will be out again. Unless I can
find a replacement I probably can’t break away before four o’clock.”

“Not a problem. I thought I’d
explore a little bit more, pick up some gifts to take home.”

There were two bookshops we’d
passed in our strolls yesterday and I thought I could probably find something
for my brother’s three young sons there. Better to encourage reading, I felt,
than video games. For Drake, one of the clothing stores’ display windows held a
selection of men’s wear and I might investigate that a bit further.

Louisa bustled around the
kitchen, putting an apple and a sandwich into a bag to take with her, offering
me the run of the kitchen if I wanted to eat lunch in.

“Choose a nice place for dinner
tonight,” I told her. “My treat.” With what I was now saving on hotel costs I
should be treating her to gourmet meals every night.

She hurried out the door, while I
lingered over my coffee. I wondered how I would adapt to life in such a
home—fitted tightly between neighboring places, a tiny garden outside the back
door, the front leading directly to the road—but the small rooms and low
ceilings made it amazingly cozy and warm against the damp climate. Last night
Louisa had lit the gas fireplace in the parlor while we watched TV and the
little room had warmed quickly.

I took one more glance at the
items on her bookshelf, including a peek into the potion box. Fascinating
stuff, but I had other things in mind for the day. I stuck the box back in its
spot and gathered my purse, umbrella and the little guide map Louisa’s
co-worker had insisted I take along yesterday.

Waterstone’s Books was easy to
find and I lost myself in the stacks, picking up the British edition of a
favorite American author’s newest book to read in my spare moments during the
vacation, then moving on to the children’s section where I spent way too much
time stressing over what each of Ron’s boys would enjoy. Eventually I took the
recommendation of a young clerk who told me which titles were the hottest
things locally for kids. Maybe the boys would be impressed enough to give them
a try.

On to the clothing store where I
found a casual jacket I thought Drake would love. Warm enough for our
high-desert seasons and dressy enough that he might actually take to wearing it
when we went out in the evenings.

At the checkout desk, I spotted a
familiar posture. Archie Jones.

“Is Dolly’s hand feeling better?”
I asked.

He visibly started, shoving a
packet of something that looked like underwear behind his back. His brow
wrinkled as he concentrated on figuring out where he’d seen me.

“Charlie Parker, Louisa’s niece.”

“Oh yes, quite. Dolly is doing
much better, thank you. I insisted she keep the ice on it for a few hours
immediately after, you know. The redness is completely gone now, I’m happy to
say.”

The clerk was waiting for one of
us to take the lead so he could ring up a purchase. Archie gestured for me to
go first. I placed the jacket on the counter and turned back to him. “And her
scare? Upstairs in the kitchen?”

“She’s not mentioned it again.
Dolly’s such a trouper, you know. Brushes off those types of things and moves
on with her day.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

I paid for the jacket with a
credit card and moved toward the street exit but before I got to the door a
table piled with sweaters caught my eye. I paused to imagine a certain
forest-green one on Drake and noticed that Archie was conversing quietly with
the clerk but his glance edged toward me frequently. Maybe he didn’t really
want to get roped into further conversation with me. I set the sweater aside
and left.

I considered window shopping on
the way back to Louisa’s house but my packages were becoming heavy so I headed
directly there, dropped them off, then went back out. The day had turned nice
again, with warm sun and only a light breeze. I took a deep breath and savored
the charm of the narrow lane stretching beyond me in both directions. A little
pang—it would have been more fun to explore this with Drake. But I was here and
he wasn’t, so I might as well make the best of it. At least I was getting
plenty of exercise.

I took off in the direction
opposite my accustomed route to the shops and found myself deeper in a small
residential neighborhood, on a street that curved steadily to my right. Just
before I began to wonder whether I was becoming hopelessly lost a
familiar-looking intersection appeared and I realized it was Lilac Lane, where
I’d walked a dozen times already and that The Knit and Purl was almost directly
across the street from me.

Dolly was at the front glass,
working on a window display. She spotted me and waved. I crossed the narrow
road and walked over and she beckoned me to come inside.

“How are you today?” I asked as
the door closed behind me.

She pursed her lips, about to say
something, but changed her mind.

“I’m fine, thanks.” She held up
the hand that had been scalded to show me that none of the redness remained.
She pushed up the sleeves of her sweater and glanced around the empty shop. “Be
better, though, if I had more customers. Do you suppose they’re hearing about
these incidents and that’s keeping them away?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think so. If anything,
having a haunted shop would bring more customers in, wouldn’t it? Well, it
would in the States. Hotels and restaurants there seem to capitalize on their
ghosts.”

She raised one angular shoulder.
“I dunno. Only seems it’s been slow lately. I let Gabrielle have the day off to
go see her sister in Stowmarket. No point in two of us being here. Do you think
this display is appealing? Thought the bright colored yarns would draw the
eye.”

“It certainly caught my eye,” I
said, in a small attempt to cheer her up. “It’s very nice.”

She didn’t look completely
convinced. “If I could just find out what’s really going on around here. We
only moved into this spot about a year ago. I’ve heard of cases where an old
ghost doesn’t like a new tenant and tries to scare the occupant away. Makes me
wonder.”

“You could ask Louisa. She’s
knowledgeable about which buildings in town are reputed to be haunted.”
Personally, I thought it a lot more likely that a human would have an agenda
than a ghost. “Maybe the previous tenant left something behind and is trying to
come back for it.”

“Like what? Wouldn’t they walk
right in the door and just ask me for it?” She picked up some skeins that she
hadn’t used in the window display and carried them to the wall of shelving that
held her inventory. “The place was rather cluttered when we took over,
especially the cellar. Loads of old empty boxes, some construction materials.
We never found anything of value when we cleared it all away.”

What
would
someone leave
behind that they couldn’t come back and request? My mind immediately went to
thoughts of a hidden stash of something—valuables, drugs, contraband?

 
“What kind of shop was it before you moved in?”

“Charity thrift store,” she said.
“You’ve noticed them around town, I’m sure. The Heart Association, the Cancer
Fund and such. I think this one was something to do with Alzheimer’s Research.”

I couldn’t help it. I chuckled.
“So there you have it. They’ve forgotten what it was they left behind.”

Finally, a smile from her. But it
faded quickly. Obviously she still believed that anyone coming for their
possessions would simply walk in the door and ask. And she could be right.

“When Archie gets home from his
business meeting I’ll ask him to check around in the cellar some more. Perhaps
we can figure this out.”

“A meeting?” I blurted it out
without thinking, realizing the mistake when her face turned to ice. “I’m
sorry. It’s not my business.” Archie hadn’t been dressed in business attire
when I saw him buying new underwear awhile ago.

“It’s all right.” Her tone stayed
a little frosty. “The meeting was really an interview. That’s all.”

“But—” I stopped. She obviously
didn’t know where her husband was. “I understand. And really—I won’t say a
word.”

“It’s not like it’s anything to
be ashamed of,” she said, pulling her shoulders straighter. “In these times . .
. Besides, he’s been an enormous help in getting my shop set up and all.
Really, we’re a team now. I prefer it this way.”

“Good. That’s great.” I felt my
face freeze into a falsely bright smile.

She covered by stepping behind
the register and tamping some papers into a neat stack; I covered by picking up
a random candle and telling her I’d meant to buy it yesterday. I paid for the
candle and put it into my purse.

“Charlie,” she said as I turned
to leave. “Louisa told me that you are a private detective, in your home city.”

Oh, god, here it comes, I
thought. That inevitable request. That faint hope that I might find the answers
to someone’s problems. I recognized the look on her face. What could I say? It
would be supremely ungracious of me to turn down the request, having already
pulled one social gaffe within the past five minutes.

“Do you think you could discover
what is happening here? In my shop. Why these pranks. Low-key, of course. I
don’t want any more patrons frightened away.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” And
with that, I sealed my fate.

Chapter
8

I set my purse down and perched
on a stool near the counter. I could at least ask some questions.

“You haven’t reported any of
these incidents to the authorities?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

“I thought about reporting a
break-in when I found that someone had moved all the wools,” she said, “but I
imagined the constable’s reaction. Nothing was missing.”

True. What crime had really
occurred? Malicious rearrangement?

“The two incidents with the
teacups . . . well, had someone told me the story I would have said they got
busy and forgot what they’d done, had let time slip away.”

I nodded slowly, trying to find a
logical answer to this. “Okay, let’s assume someone has come into the shop and
is using these pranks to cover other activities. Has any other merchandise or
money been missing? Have there been any other occasions when something was out
of place?”

Dolly shook her head more
vigorously with each question I posed.

I walked over to the shop’s door
and examined it. Not that I’m any kind of expert, but I couldn’t see any marks
on either the lock or the wood, nothing to indicate it had been tampered with.

“Is there another entrance to the
apartment upstairs or does a person have to come through the shop?”

She led me to the street and
pointed out a narrow door I’d not previously noticed. The wooden door was
painted a glossy black and there was a mail slot in it. Above the door were
three small window panes. “There are stairs to the upper floor here. But this
door is locked all the time. Archie and I use the inside stairs exclusively.”

“Do you receive your mail through
this slot?”

“No. Normally the postman carries
our personal post in with that for the shop. He knows who we are so he hands me
the entire stack—business and personal.”

I twisted at the knob on the
black door. As Dolly had told me, it was securely locked.

“May I see the cellar?”

We went back into the shop and
she took me through the stockroom and opened another door. A flight of stone
steps led downward. She flipped a switch on the wall, illuminating them.

“I’d better stay with the shop,
but take your time. There’s another switch at the bottom which lights up the
entire cellar. It’s one large room.” She stepped aside to let me pass. “And,
Charlie? Thank you.”

I reached the bottom of the steps
and stared into the cluttered space, unsure where to begin. Most of the single,
large room was filled with furniture. Presumably, belonging to Archie and Dolly.
Otherwise she would have mentioned that the previous tenant left it. Louisa had
told me that they owned a large house on the outskirts of town but it was now
occupied by renters. They must have needed a place for their excess furniture
and this was it. Boxes were stacked upon dressers; bedding in plastic zip bags
sat on a pair of overstuffed leather chairs. The matching sofa was empty except
for a couple of neatly folded afghans, which might have been overstock from the
shop. One entire wall was hidden by stacks of packing boxes, labeled with
household descriptions like “Library - books,” “Kitchen – spare pots and pans”
and “Dining Room.” Dolly had probably chosen the items she most needed every
day, limiting herself to what the small upstairs apartment could accommodate,
and packed away the remaining things.

The fact that she hadn’t merely
sold the excess at the time of the move told me that they must have had plans
to eventually move back to the larger digs. No wonder Archie felt the pressure
to get back to work.

To the left of the wall of boxes
I spotted something out of place. A section of the stone floor had been lifted
and the dirt beneath it looked freshly disturbed, a bit damp. Someone had
obviously been digging there but I saw no tools nearby. I stooped to examine
the spot but there wasn’t a single gold coin or bag of jewels to be found. I
brushed the dirt from my hands. So much for the hope of easy treasure.

A little farther along the wall
an area about five feet high and four feet wide was made of brick. All the
other walls were limestone or rock. I touched the bricks tentatively, half
expecting a secret doorway to swing open and a mummy or something equally
creepy to leap out at me.

But the bricks were old and the
mortar held them firmly in place. I bravely pressed all around the edges but
nothing budged so much as a centimeter. I moved on, turning toward another
stack of boxes, almost completing my circuit of the room, when a distinctly
cold breeze hit the back of my neck.

Goose-bumps rose and my heartbeat
thudded in my ears. I spun to stare at the bricked-up doorway. Nothing looked
the least bit different. I reached a hand out toward the source of the chilly
draft but couldn’t detect anything. The air in the cellar was again as still as
a morgue.

I shook off the chill and
scurried a bit quickly toward the stairs. Flipping off the light I took the
steps in doubles and paused at the top, forcing myself to take a deep breath.

Dolly was talking to a customer
and the normalcy of their voices brought me back to reality. Surely the old
bricked-in area was completely benign and the freshly dug earth . . . well,
there had to be an explanation. I squared my shoulders, flipped off the upper
light switch and closed the door as I stepped back into Dolly’s shop.

“Digging?” she said, as soon as
her customer left and I got the chance to ask about the freshly turned earth.
“Hm. Archie may have mentioned a plumbing leak a few weeks ago. The man must
have left it unfinished. I suppose I’ll have to call him back to repair the
mess.” She said it as if reminding men to clean up messes was her lot in life.

“There’s a bricked up wall, about
the size of a doorway,” I said. “Any idea where that goes?”

“Oh, that. It’s old. Apparently
in the Middle Ages there were an entire series of tunnels connecting various
places in town—pubs connected to the abbey and such. Easy access for monks that
were supposed to live an abstemious life, I suppose.”

Secret tunnels and bricked entry
ways. Spooky. Next she’d be telling me that Jack the Ripper escaped London to
come hide out here.

“As I understand it, the river
flooded a lot of the tunnels one year—heavens, must be at least a hundred years
ago. Some kind of storm drainage system was built but the town fathers decided
it would be safer to block the tunnels. A lot of them were backfilled; some of
those farther from the river, like ours, were probably just bricked up.” She
shrugged it off so casually that I had to believe it wasn’t a real concern.

But what about that cold draft of
air?

Another customer walked in just
then and Dolly’s attention was diverted to helping the woman decipher a complex
knitting pattern so she could choose the correct amount of yarn for it. When a
second woman entered I knew Dolly would be occupied for awhile. I gave a tiny
wave and left.

Half a block down I spotted
Archie coming toward me. “Hi,” I greeted. “I hope your interview went well.”

He came to a dead stop, stared at
me in puzzlement, nodded curtly.

Stupid me. Couldn’t I learn when
to stay quiet?

“Dolly mentioned it. She was
hoping . . . Well, never mind.” I started walking again, leaving him standing
on the spot.
Charlie, just stay out of it. You’ve been asked to investigate
a couple of silly things, not to get involved in their business.

Two doors down from The Knit and
Purl was a coffee shop. I stopped in, realizing I’d never paused long enough to
eat lunch. I ordered a coffee and eyed the apple tarts in the display case. As
the girl behind the counter pulled one out for me I decided to follow a new
line of inquiry.

“Wasn’t there a thrift shop in
this block?”

She pursed her lips, which were
coated in an impossible shade of glowing pink. “Yeah, maybe a year ago or so?”

“Did it move somewhere else?”

An older woman stepped forward.
“The Alzheimer’s Care shop? Yes, it’s still around. Just go up to the corner,
turn right, next street over.”

“Thanks.” I finished my dessert
and coffee and left a tip at the table.

Louisa had mentioned that the
thrift shop had not occupied the space very long and had moved rather abruptly.
Perhaps they’d also experienced some scary phenomena.

I found the shop easily enough,
with a characteristic window display of gently-used items at bargain prices.
Business seemed to be good—at least a dozen women browsed everything from
overcoats to paperback books. The staff consisted of women in their retirement
years, volunteers filling a few hours of their week and helping a worthy
charity at the same time.

At my inquiry, a buxom woman whom
I guessed to be in her late sixties stepped forward and introduced herself as
Agatha Dunston.

“I’m the shop manager,” she said.
“American, are you?”

I nodded. “Visiting my aunt here
in town. Could we talk for a minute? I’m also trying to help a friend of my
aunt’s with an unusual problem.”

She led the way to the back of
the shop, where tables of unsorted donations waited.

“Ask away,” she said, “as long as
you don’t mind my working as we talk.” She picked and pulled items with the
speed of a pro—books, ladies clothing, men’s clothing, knick-knacks—each going
into separate stacks.

“This friend owns a shop called
The Knit and Purl, and they moved into the shop on the next street over, where
your shop used to be.”

“Ah, yes, I’d noticed that.”

“Did you ever experience
anything, uh, unusual in that location?”

She chuckled. “My job consists of
‘unusual’,” she said, holding up a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with
peacock feathers and golf balls. “You might need to be more specific.”

I laughed at the hat and she
laughed even harder.

“Okay, I see what you mean.” I
started over. “The current tenant of the shop has experienced several incidents
that are downright eerie.” I told her about the inventory of yarn being
completely rearranged. “On other occasions, liquids went from hot to cold very
quickly. More than one person has suggested these events might even be
supernatural. So, I was wondering if something like that might account for your
organization deciding to move on short notice.”

She smiled and nodded her head
and I began to think she was agreeing with my statement, until I noticed that
her attention was directed toward a fuzzy stuffed chick she’d taken from one of
the donation bags.

“Oh, no. I’d not heard of
anything strange like that in the old shop. Our decision to move was solely
based on the offer of free rent in this spot. A benefactor owns the building
and said we could use it. Couldn’t say no to that, now could I?”

“No, I don’t see how.” I fingered
the fabric on a turquoise silk blouse she’d just laid in the women’s clothing
pile. “And you can’t think of anything happening that might hint at the shop
being haunted?”

Agatha dropped two more blouses
onto the stack. “Not really. Well, there was one odd thing. Several times I’d
be working in the cellar. It’s where I did the sorting. Felt cold drafts a lot
down there. Took to wearing my jacket while I worked.”

Well, at least my experience
wasn’t imaginary. I thanked her, picked up the turquoise blouse and held it
against myself. It looked to be just the right size. “How much for this?”

She considered for a moment. “Let’s
say four pounds?”

“I’ll take it.” I browsed the
paperback books on my way to the register, chose two, and tucked my bagged
purchases under my arm as I left.

Three unexplained incidents, no
answers. I began to feel a little at a loss as to where to turn next. A glance
at my watch told me that the day was sneaking by and it was probably time for
Louisa to be home from work. I headed toward her place.

I had offered to take her
somewhere nice for dinner but Louisa seemed more in the mood for simple food
than elegant, so we settled into a corner table at a pub just two blocks from
her house.

Over glasses of merlot and a
basket of savory bread I filled her in on my adventures of the afternoon.

“It looks like I’m
semi-officially hired to find out what’s going on at Dolly’s shop.”

“Poor dear. Here I had promised
you a vacation and now I’m having to work and it looks like you are too.”

I shrugged it off. I couldn’t ask
for a more intriguing assignment, after all. At least no one was shooting at me
or whacking me over the head. I mentally erased those thoughts—nothing like
inviting trouble.

“Meanwhile, I’m out of ideas on
this,” I told her. “Ghost hunting is a whole new field to me. Any suggestions?”

She dipped the corner of her
bread in the small bowl of olive oil. “You might look up the Trahorn
Building—that’s what it’s called—see if it has past reports of paranormal
phenomena. If it does, I’m not aware of it. Of course, I’ve principally studied
the places on my tour route. I guess you’d call them the celebrity ghosts of
the town. That’s not to say there aren’t others. The entire region has a wealth
of supernatural activity.”

She caught my vacant expression.

“There’s a good museum,” she
said, “Manned by volunteer docents for the most part, but the curator is quite
knowledgeable on town history. The newspaper might be another source. It’s been
in print for ages. Over the years they’ve probably covered every strange
occurrence of any note. You might find a story on the location.”

I filed the information in the
back of my mind while we finished off a meal of delicately sauced fish and
tender vegetables. On the short walk back to her home, Louisa remembered a
resource book. As soon as we’d settled in the parlor with mugs of tea she
pulled it from her shelf.