southern ghost hunters 02 - skeleton in the closet (23 page)

He looked at me like I was crazy, and maybe I was. "You realize it's a junk room."

"And a coat closet," I added, as Ellis and I ducked inside. 

The soldier gripped his friend's hand and the man winced as the doctor examined the bloody hole in his leg. The young soldier was frightened and in pain. And there was nothing I could do for him or the poor doctor whose eternity had become one bloody mess.

Except for one thing. I could help in a small way.

I'd explain later. "We can start with these," I said, pointing to the boxes by the door.

"Where?" he asked, searching for the electrical switch. That's right. He needed light to see. When he found the switch, he flipped it on and grabbed an armload of boxes. "Where to?"

"Out in the lobby for now." Melody would have a better idea where to put them tomorrow. I refused to believe she'd be in jail tomorrow.

"Excuse me," I said to the surgeon as I scooted the box of rolled-up posters away from his operating light. He grunted, focused on his work. 

When I got them out to the lobby, I saw Ellis stacking boxes by the arched doorway to the reading room. "Not there," I called. "The guys need room to play poker."

He stood. "Okay. Sure." It was sweet of him to trust me like this, and I found my earlier anger softening a bit. He pointed to the corner nearest the door. "Anybody needing this spot here?"

"No," I said, scooting the box that way. "That should be fine."

"Leave it," he told me. "I can get it."

"Sounds good," I said, relieved to hand part of the job over to him as I headed back for the rolling coatrack.

It took some doing, mostly on Ellis's part, but we managed to get everything out of the doctor's way and out into the lobby.

"Thank you," I said, my back aching a bit. I reached for Ellis's hand and squeezed.

He held on. "I'm sorry."

I gave a quick nod. "I know."

He leaned in close. "You about done in there?"

It depended on what happened next. "I hope so." 

I watched as two orderlies carried the young soldier out on a stretcher and headed for the makeshift recovery area in what was now the reading room. I didn't see as much of it as I had last time, but it was there.

The soldier who had burst open the door lingered behind. I approached him gently. "Your friend is in good hands. That doctor in there might be gruff, it's only because he cares so much."

The young man nodded, lost in his thoughts. 

I turned and saw the doctor watching me from the doorway.

It was as good an invitation as any. 

When I let myself back into the room, he headed to the corner with a table that held a bowl of water. He stood over it, rinsing his hands in the already bloody bowl. He made no move to toss me from the room this time. I took it as a good sign. 

"Thank you," he said. "I don't know why people can't leave me alone to do my work." If I'm not at my best, they die." He turned, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. "Do you have any idea what that's like?" 

"No," I admitted. "But I understand what it's like to feel powerless." I shook my head, trying to keep frustration from taking hold. But it settled in my gut, wound through me. "A good woman died right outside and I can't do anything about it. She discovered something in here and it made someone angry enough to kill her. But I can't prove anything."

He threw the towel over the bowl with more force than necessary. "You helped me with the junk, so I reckon I can help you with that." 

"Really?" I tried not to sound so eager, but I needed this break. "Did you see her that night?"

He stood, as if taking my measure. "She found a letter in the wooden secretary. It's gone now. I don't know who took it."

I rubbed a hand over my eyes. "I know. I've been chasing down that lead and it hasn't led me anywhere useful."

He narrowed his eyes. "I'm not talking about the letter Jackson showed you."

I dropped my hand. "You saw me with him?"

"I always know who's in my operating room."

The doctor walked over to where I'd stood with Jackson, and the image of the antique secretary shimmered into view on the table, exactly as it had before. He was remembering the same thing, recalling it from the ether. He caressed the mother-of-pearl dove inlaid on the wood and opened the lid to reveal the foldout writing table and the cubbyholes stuffed with letters. But then he lifted the leather lining on the writing surface and reached underneath. 

"I fear this will make us look bad," he warned. "The men who died here deserve glory. But not if it lets a murderer go free. There is a higher morality at play here." He withdrew an envelope with large, scrolled handwriting across the front. "This is it," he said, offering it to me.

I didn't want to touch it. "Can you open it?"

The doctor frowned, and I decided not to press my luck. "It's fine," I said, reaching for the letter, hoping to heaven I could remove the paper from the envelope. This was more complicated than simply picking it up or turning it over.

It felt ice cold against my fingers, but I had it. I could touch it. It felt real enough.

Breathe.

The envelope glowed silver gray in my hands. The outside was addressed to Jeremiah Hatcher in careful, flowing script. 

There was already a slit at the top. With shaking fingers, I withdrew the letter.

Dear Mister Hatcher,

It is with my deepest regrets that I write to inform you that I must end my engagement to your daughter, Josephine. It is not because my affections have ceased. Rather, the unfortunate circumstances that have come to light regarding the events of the afternoon of October 17, 1863, have forced my hand. I know you were not in favor of our union, so perhaps for you this will serve as a silver lining in an otherwise painful situation. 

My father still considers you his dearest friend, and was honored to receive your personal Bible when you feared for your life at the battle of Eads Creek. However, your written confession about the Battle of Sugarland, which I found inside, cannot be forgiven or forgotten by me. 

I confess I am shocked and dismayed by your account of the events of that day, as I had believed this a great victory for the South and for Sugarland. In light of this deception and your role in these shameful proceedings, I cannot in good conscience marry your daughter or join your family. I shall return your Bible, with your confession, for you to do with it as you wish. Your secret will go to the grave with me. 

Yours,

Jonathan Conway

Impossible. The Battle of Sugarland was our finest moment. Nothing shameful had happened on that day. Had it? I gripped the letter so tight that it stung my fingers. Our town based its identity on that battle. Virginia Wydell had pinned a good part of her legacy on that one historic day.

And now it seemed the Hatchers were involved in this as well. I needed to learn more. I turned to the surgeon. "Did you know a Hatcher who fought here?" I wondered if Josephine's dad still haunted the house on the hill, along with his poltergeist wife. Josephine had rarely spoken of him. "Do you have any idea what he could have been hiding?"

The surgeon began organizing his instruments. "I was here the whole time, patching people together. The town burned down around me, and I didn't leave this room. My job is the same no matter what happens on the battlefield. But the woman who died found the letter quite distressing. She left this room, eager to spread the word to the living." 

"Did you see who she told?"

"No," he said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "I had an amputation to perform, but when I came back out, she was dead and the secretary and all of its contents were gone. A shame. There's been more than enough death around here."

"There has," I murmured. Enough lies as well. 

We had to find that Bible.

It had been the property of Pa Hatcher, and according to the letter, Jonathan had returned it to him. I wondered if it was still somewhere in the house, hidden.

Maybe that's why Ma's ghost guarded the place with such a vengeance. 

The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the idea. Josephine had said the shooter tried to break in tonight, but he'd been run off. I hoped he hadn't found the Bible first.

The doctor and I watched as the letter disintegrated in my hands, just like the one before. That was okay. I didn't need it anymore. 

"Thank you for your help," I said to the doctor as I made my way out of his operating room. 

He nodded and returned to his instruments. He'd given me a great new lead. Now I just had to use it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

O
UT
IN
THE
lobby, Ellis had just hung up his cell. "We have a problem," he said, returning the phone to his pocket. "Somebody ransacked Maisie's house tonight after you left."

"I think I know what they're looking for." It had to be that Bible.

Whatever confession Pa Hatcher had unburdened on those pages, it was causing a lot of trouble now. Who else would be implicated, and how many more people would have to die to keep the truth hidden? 

"We need to go to Maisie's," I told him, glancing around for Matthew. I didn't see him. 

Ellis headed for the door. "We'll pick her up at your place on the way," he said, grabbing his keys.

"No, wait. I don't think we should involve her until we know what we're dealing with." We made it outside and Ellis began locking up the library. "Maisie is old and frail. And she's way too fond of that shotgun. Let's see what we have first."

He glanced at me. "We'll need her permission to search."

"She said we were welcome anytime," I told him, cringing.

Maisie would want us to do what was right. Plus, I really didn't want to wake her up to explain another message I'd found on the other side.

Ellis shook his head as we hurried down the stairs toward his squad car. "You aren't much for rules."

"True," I admitted. People were more important. And Ellis would do what he could to help Maisie. I wasn't above using that to our advantage.

"We'll go in if we have probable cause," he cautioned. His radio chirped and he took the call as we slid inside his car. "What do you got, Marshall?" He pulled out as I slammed my door closed.

"Melody Long claims somebody must have stolen her vehicle," the detective said, his voice dripping with doubt. 

"That was my first thought," Ellis said as we raced, lights blazing, back to the Hatcher homestead. 

"I'm not sure I believe her. What car thief in their right mind returns the vehicle?" He huffed out a breath. "Did the suspect drive like a woman?"

"I don't think you want to go there," Ellis remarked, giving me a "keep quiet" look.

He was asking a lot.

Main Street was more crowded than usual. Everyone was climbing the hill toward the midnight Cannonball in the Wall celebration. Spotlights shone on the lectern and the VIP stage. The cameras and lights of the documentary film crew weaved in and out of the growing crowd.

Ellis's grip on the wheel tightened. "You ever think Melody might be telling the truth that she doesn't know anything?" he asked Marshall. 

"She's acting wild as a june bug on a string. It's suspicious." 

Probably because he
arrested
her. Guilt washed over me. I should be with my sister. Although, heck, they wouldn't let me see her. I'd be more of a help to Melody if I could just put this together and point the police to the true killer. Then Marshall would have to let her go.

Ellis ended the call, which was just as well. I didn't know how long I could stay silent.

We drove away from the crowd, toward the rural east end of town. Fewer cars passed us heading toward town, simply because not many people lived out this way. Ellis's car hugged the road, going at top speed as we switched from the highway to the back roads.

We took the winding drive through the woods and pulled up right out in front of Maisie's house. It was trashed. Police spotlights lit up the front yard, glass-strewn from the earlier gunfight. Through the broken front window, I could see someone had taken a knife to the couch. The slashed cushions bled foam filling all over the floor. The side-table drawer hung open. Magazines, knitting yarn, and VHS tapes lay scattered.

A young lieutenant greeted us at the door. "It's a mess, and there's no sign of the homeowner."

"She's sleeping at my place," I told him, ignoring his surprise.

I didn't have time to explain. Not when it was all starting to make sense. 

The shooter hadn't been trying to kill us. He just wanted to drive us out so he could get to the Bible. Only it wasn't in Maisie's house. 

Ma Hatcher was guarding her husband's secret with all the power of a poltergeist.

Josephine had said the shooter tried to get in and failed tonight. No doubt he'd be back.

"We've got to go to the old Hatcher place," I told Ellis. "That's where the killer will go next."

The lieutenant balked. "Who said anything about a killer? This is a simple vandalism case. Probably kids attracted to the police tape." 

There was no time to explain, at least not to him. But Ellis didn't protest. He trusted me. "Let's go."

We got back into his car and I told him the whole story as he took the overgrown drive around the property that snaked up to the haunted house on the hill. He tapped a finger against his steering wheel as I got to the part about the Bible.

"So you're saying this has to do with the cannonball in the wall," he said, working it through.

My shoulders stiffened as we crested the hill and the house came into view. "Something bad happened that day. When we figure out what, it's going to explain a lot." 

Ellis stopped the car in front of the haunted house. "Here we are." He killed the lights, and I shivered as the sudden darkness washed over me. 

The last time I'd been near the old Hatcher place, I'd almost been buried alive trying to escape. Ma Hatcher's ghost would kill to keep her family's secret.