The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1) Page 3

  “Is she all right?” I ask.

  “Best as can be expected,” he says, with another shake of the head.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s your name? Jack?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “All right then, good enough. It seems Mrs. Matthews tripped and fell down the stairs. Kids of hers have been telling her to sell this place for awhile now. If she’d just listened.” He says this with great sympathy then barks, “You have any reason to think otherwise?”

  “I just met her. I mean, I don’t have an opinion on whether she should have lived here or not. It was her home—

  “I’m talking about her falling down the dang stairs. I got myself a police investigation, and I’m asking you about what went on here.”

  “Seems reasonable. But I didn’t see her—

  “Good enough. You give Officer Ober your contact information and a short statement, and we’ll be in touch if need be. Don’t think we’ll need you though. Sad day when an old lady can’t walk down her own stairs. You staying in town long?”

  “I’m not sure. I was here to help with cleaning…. I guess I need to talk to Hayley about that.”

  “What kind of clean—

  “Sheriff. We got us something that looks like evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?”

  Wiley takes off behind the officer and I follow at a safe distance, scooting by Dorothy’s body, peeking up at the attic, then planting myself at the edge of the kitchen. The cops and the two men are huddled by an interior door.

  By the sound of things, the pretty boy is Tucker, Dorothy’s apparently later-in-life son. He’s got himself worked up into a hard knot claiming that somebody’s muddy cowboy boot print– this phrase he repeats a half dozen times– is the print of a murderer.

  My stomach twists in circles on hearing the word. Not because a killer may be on the loose, but because I got another whiff of that rustic, here-and-now energy that I’m certain isn’t cow dung.

  Despite Sheriff Wiley’s insistence that he calm down, just like Hayley, nothing much is shutting Tucker up. That is until who I’m now sure is Hayley’s husband starts hollering that it was just an accident, and Dorothy should have listened to them about moving to the nursing home. “She could have lived to be a hundred and one if she’d just done what we were telling her to do.”

  “She was a grown woman and it was her own doggone decision, Boyd, but that ain’t the point. That mud’s as dry as a bone. Whoever was here, came and is long gone– unless that print’s Mrs. Matthews’. Let’s go check her feet,” Sheriff Wiley yells, and all four men barrel out of the kitchen as I slither against the wall.

  “House slippers,” Officer Ober says.

  “On the dang staircase.” Boyd is staring at Dorothy and shaking his head in an I-told-you-so sort of way. When he looks up, he looks straight at me. “Who are you?”

  Now all four of them are huddled around Dorothy and focused on me. “Jack Raven,” I answer.

  Boyd shakes his head again, something he and Wiley both seem fond of doing. His foot is about six inches from stepping on Dorothy’s bend arm. “Well I guess you’re going to have to take your ghost busting bag of voodoo tricks back to where you came from. My wife and batty mother-in-law, God rest her soul, don’t need your services now.”

  My teeth grind on ghost busters and nearly break in two on hearing voodoo tricks. All eyes are on me and my firecracker red face. “Hayley hired me on Dorothy’s behalf so I’ll leave that decision to her.”

  “My wife will do as I say.” This Boyd shouts, then looks down at Dorothy like he seriously regrets his words.

  “I’ll believe it when I hear it,” I say, crossing my arms and glaring at his mustard aura. Honestly though, he doesn’t seem all that bad aura-wise, and dead bodies do have a tendency to throw even the kindest off kilter. But then again, my sixth sense is still seriously out of sync so for now, I’m writing a mental note about this guy.

  Sheriff Wiley steps in between us. “That’s enough the both of you. Boyd stop squatting on your spurs. You’re standing over a dead body that just happens to be your mother-in-law.”

  “Standing over her? He’s practically standing on top of Momma,” Tucker says. “Move your dang foot Boyd.”

  “Right. Move away from the dang body,” Wiley yells. “Now listen up, I don’t know nothing about any ghost voodoo business, but this here woman, Jackie—

  “Jack,” I snap.

  “What? Well, she’s just an innocent bystander and her business with Hayley and Mrs. Matthews is hers. What I’m thinking now with that boot print is that I’ve got myself a crime scene—

  “Crime scene?” Boyd yells. “She fell down the stairs is all. That’s obvious enough for anybody to figure.”

  “You heard me right. A dang crime scene and nothing’s obvious about nothing right now. I need all of you to clear out and let me and Kyle do our job. Kyle, bag the feather then go get some of that yellow tape and wrap it around stuff.”

  Before Boyd Sanders, who isn’t anywhere near as nice as his wife, can start up and Wiley can interrupt again, we hear a commotion that I’m pretty sure involves Mojo.

  Like a bunch of cowbirds, we head outside where the wolfdog is preventing, who I assume is the coroner finally here to tend to Dorothy, from taking a step onto the porch. Boyd gives me a more respectful look and some significant space as I lead Mojo away.

  “Bill, get your camera.” Wiley tells the man whose color has drained from his face. “Gonna need some photos taken. Looks like we got ourselves a murder here and so doggone close to Christmas.”

  Chapter Seven

  §

  After sitting in Officer Ober’s squad car for twenty minutes, I sign my second attempt at a “clear and concise” statement of absolutely nothing worthwhile for a murder investigation.

  Both Boyd and Tucker were banned from the house and left with their tails between their legs. Dorothy is still inside getting her picture taken.

  Before going in the house, the coroner asked if I would take a picture of him standing next to Mojo. Should a murderer ever go on trial, I can’t imagine what the jury will think when the crime scene photos are passed around.

  Like it or not and I don’t, this day is a bust, mostly for Dorothy. Wiley okays my return to the hotel and warns me not to leave town without checking with him first.

  I try again to sense Dorothy’s presence and get nothing. It would be helpful for all if I could ask her what happened, but death has a way of confusing the newly deceased, even when they see it coming. They’ve got their hands full trying to get acclimated to not having a solid body before coming up with answers for the living.

  I’d sneaked into the kitchen when Boyd and Wiley were arguing about it being a crime scene. I’m no expert, but I couldn’t tell if the shoe print was from a cowboy boot or a ballet slipper. Off the top of his pretty head, I don’t see how Tucker could have either.

  For now, all I can do is wait for Hayley to pull herself together. Not knowing the woman, I have no idea how long that will take, but on December 24 at six p.m., my contract expires. Whether I talk to Hayley or not and no matter what’s up with the ghost or the investigation into a questionable murder, I’ll be heading for the border.

  ∞

  Mojo and me do lunch in the field behind the hotel. I need a little help from mother earth to clear my head and recharge my aura. I figure I still have some of the energy I sensed before going into Dorothy’s house– that rustic energy that’s still weighing me down. I’d been so focused on Dorothy’s ghost man when I got there, I could have overlooked the likes of a murderer.

  Once the crowd arrived, I’m sure I overlooked other things as well. I’m a psychic sensitive, meaning it doesn’t take much to jerk me out of my other world concentration by those fond of raging in this one.

  Hyper and loud people are like nails on a coffin to me and once they’ve dug into my spine, stepping across the vei
l is nearly as impossible as retaining my sanity amongst them. That’s one of the reasons I work alone.

  Still, ghosts are usually a bundle of inquisitive energy. The show we put on today should have brought Dorothy’s ghost out of the attic for the entertainment alone. Not once did I see him or feel his presence. Other than the spooky step, step, tumble, crack that was whispered down the stairs, I picked up nothing but Hayley’s crazed energy followed by the cops’ and the half-a-duck dynasty boys’ goings-on.

  The tumble, crack message has me curious but not concerned. Just because I heard those words while standing over Dorothy’s body doesn’t mean that’s when they were sent into the troposphere. Could be they’d been hanging around like a sad song waiting for someone like me to come along and hear them.

  Ghosts aren’t burdened by the rules of polite conversation and they, unlike the living, are not required to respect the dead. I’m not worried that the ghost man was making a crude joke or morbidly admitting guilt. Step, step, tumble, crack seems the logical way an accident would have happened.

  Still, those words don’t explain my stomach churning, but a murderer just might. Another example of why the living should be feared as much or more than the walking or floating dead.

  The entire matter is giving me a headache. I debate between a day in bed watching cable or a trip to the town’s library to do some research on the house, and hopefully discover who the ghost is and what’s keeping him from moving on.

  Despite the tantalizing porno titles the hotel proudly offers, I opt for the library. I’d already looked on the internet and found nothing but real estate listings. I have to admit that my curiosity is piqued about the ghost man. I also concede that I’m officially on the clock even without access to Dorothy’s house.

  As soon as I walk in the Roxbury library, I get flashbacks of kindergarten. The chairs are harder than stone and too close to the ground. Animal mobiles hang so low they threaten to take out clumps of my hair. The walls are covered in color crayon faces signed by the artists in boy-girl order: Sam, Brandi, Tim, Jessica, and a dozen or so more.

  The quiet librarian is stereotypically polite until I tell her I’m looking for anything they have on the history of Dorothy Matthews’ house. I think she’s on the verge of some serious waterworks as she grabs a fist full of tissues and asks me if I’ve heard the news.

  I often forget how devastating death is to the living. Not how losing a loved one is devastating because it is, and I know that firsthand. No, it’s in the way we mourn the death of nearly anyone and everyone as though we’re a species that should avoid death completely. I’m not heartless, I’m clued in.

  Think of it this way: You’re on a wild roller coaster ride. The cars go up to the highest peak you can imagine with gut wrenching effort, then they go down at breakneck speed, they slam to the right and to the left to the point you’re sure they’ll fly off the tracks. Then things smooth out for a short while, until the next highest peak, only to do it all over again. That’s life, not death.

  Death is the lavender bath you soak in after you get home from that worst ever roller coaster ride. It’s the Chardonnay that touches your lips and cools your screamed-raw throat again and again but never gives you even the teeniest hangover. It’s the sexiest man or woman (your choice) that you ever imagined who is totally and completely in love with you and always will be.

  All that stuff is fabulous. So dry your tears for the dead because you come off jealous, self-righteous, and clueless. Miss your loved ones, but never fail to celebrate their departure and know they’ll be waiting to welcome you into the spirit realm when it’s your turn to get off the roller coaster.

  In the meantime, hang on tight and don’t hang your head too far over the edge unless you’re puking.

  Chapter Eight

  §

  I tell the librarian I did hear the news about Mrs. Matthews and touch my hand to my heart. I wait for her to share a little small town gossip, but she just wiggles her fingers for me to follow. She points to a table and begins to load me up with carefully encased documents.

  I set my phone alarm to remind me to give Mojo, who’s snoozing in the jeep, a potty break, then I get to work.

  While I’m curious about the ghost man, including his name so I can stop calling him the man, I’m also curious as to why Dorothy knew so little about her house when I’d asked. Other than to tell me she and Harold were the home’s second owners, she couldn’t even remember the first owner’s name.

  Along with walking through walls, appearing and disappearing, and making things float through the air (just to name a few), ghosts have telepathic abilities. Not only can they read minds, they can manipulate them too. From my phone conversation with Dorothy, I’d sensed a missing piece of memory that wasn’t the fault of old age.

  I eagerly flip through the history of the house. The first document is a yellowed Warranty Deed. It’s mostly handwritten in script so lovely it warms me to my toes. The carefully crafted writing is free of the hustle and bustle of our modern world. I’m instantly sorry for all of us who live in the mania of rushing and multitasking.

  The first owners of the house were Alexander Horace Jenningsworth and Carmela Grace Bristol Jenningsworth. I get tingles just reading their names and figure I’m on the right track. With my fingers positioned over Alexander’s signature, I can see a man of convention, integrity, and honor. He’s tall and thin and accomplished. A bit proud and pompous too without worry for resources and an appreciation for what those resources could and did buy.

  I move my fingers to Carmela’s signature and am swept into a ballroom, spinning and laughing. My heart is filled with laughter and joy. I get a vision of a petite young girl with chocolate hair and a gentle nature. Carmela was privileged and spoiled dearly.

  If Alexander’s the one haunting Dorothy’s house, it could be because he’s lost his darling Carmela. If I can get inside, this haunting should be easy enough to remedy. Plus, reuniting lovers is good karma for everyone concerned.

  I dig through the rest of the documents. There’s several about the house’s construction, which appears to have been completed without incident or injury. The remaining documents are all about the home’s owners.

  Alexander was a successful and respected trader, unfortunately in sweet little furry creatures, but that was long before PETA and the advent of fabulous faux fur. He had the house built for his new bride in 1912.

  Yes. I’m totally convinced that Alexander is Dorothy’s man. Of course, there’s the possibility that he and Dorothy left this earth plane together. I could be in my hotel room right now watching porno– never.

  The documents all pertain to Alexander. I should be concentrating on him, but all I can think of is Carmela. I can’t help but wonder what happened to this woman who seemed to be living a blissful existence before disappearing into her Victorian mansion to tend to the needs and whims of her husband. I’m near the bottom of the pile when I find a family photograph– one taken before the say cheese mandate.

  Alexander is standing tall and looking stern with his hand resting on a chair where Carmela sits. Their faces are as plastered as corpses. A small boy stands like a miniature soldier at Carmela’s side, a tiny baby rests in her arms. Something is wrong, very wrong. Besides their stiff almost frightened faces, Carmela’s gaze is unnerving and not at all like the happy young woman I saw in my mind’s eye. I hesitate then place my fingers over her picture.

  The cries of babies pound against my skull. They’re so loud I feel sharp pain in my eardrums and have to jerk my hand away. As soon as I do, I hear my phone alarm and notice the annoyed eyes of other patrons. I turn off the alarm and grip the edge of the table.

  My stomach has twisted in knots, and I’m positive my legs will not support me. I push the photograph across the table.

  The next document is an obituary. Carmela Grace Bristol Jenningsworth was laid to eternal rest. She is survived by her husband Alexander Jenningsworth and brother Rodney Bristol. Mr
s. Jenningsworth was twenty three years of age.

  Not much of an obituary.

  I flip through more business documents. What happened to the little boy, the baby? Why did Carmela die at such a young age? I keep reading, only a few documents remain, and find Alexander’s obituary dated March 14, 1959.

  Found dead on his sixty-sixth year. The long time widower is survived by his sister Violet Jenningsworth Eastoft. It goes on and on about his business accomplishments and untarnished reputation in the community.

  Yeah, but what happened to the children?

  I don’t need psychic powers to know Mojo is eagerly waiting for me. In my rush to leave, I almost miss the final newspaper clipping. So small and worn, it’s barely readable under the plastic cover.

  December 20, 1916. Officials and the Roxbury Herald regret to inform the community of the death of Carmela Grace Jenningsworth wife of Alexander Jenningsworth and beloved daughter of the late Herbert E. Bristol and Agnes Bristol.

  Mr. Jenningsworth states he arrived home from his office at a quarter after six o’clock yesterday evening, as is his routine. He found his wife’s body at the foot of the stairway in their home located on Chester Road.

  Mr. Jenningsworth has taken to his bed with severe melancholy. This sad news will forever cast a pensive gloom over the widower. Already burdened by the loss of his three young children, it is feared he may never recover from this dreadful event.

  Funeral arrangements are pending Mr. Jenningsworth’s dire outcome. Officials have ruled the death an accident, stating Mrs. Jenningsworth obviously lost her footing and fell from the top to the bottom of the stairs. Dr. Phillips announced the death of Carmela Jenningsworth was the result of a broken neck.

  Chapter Nine

  §

  One hundred years to the exact day. Not even the most hardened skeptic could argue that Carmela’s and Dorothy’s cracked necks are anything but a coincidence. When I close my eyes, I can see them both lying at the bottom of the staircase. If I squint, I can almost see Alexander giving them both a shove… almost, but not quite.