The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1) Read online

  “Jack?”

  And there’s a twenty foot demon standing over me. I’ve gone to hell? I was under the assumption that most things done before the age of eighteen didn’t count against you.

  “Jack, are you all right?”

  I moan and get a face full of sticky tongue kisses. The killer Mojo’s way of saying he’s sorry for plowing through me.

  “Were you sleeping outside again? It’s a little cold for that, isn’t it?”

  Crap, it’s Acker and the white light is his flashlight. He helps me up before I drown in wolfdog spit. I’m as confused as Acker about everything coming out of my mouth while attempting to explain my situation. Once I get back in the house, I show him the photo on my phone of the fleeing intruder.

  “Might be human,” he says, with raised eyebrows before forwarding the picture, likely to the bigfoot file at the police station.

  It’s close to four o’clock in the morning and Acker looks like he just stepped out of a GQ photoshoot. I look and feel like I’ve been run over by a turnip truck after having crawled out of a goop-filled gutter. He leaves me at the kitchen table to talk to an officer outside. When he comes back, he looks sympathetic– or is that pity in those big blue eyes?

  “You sure the doors were locked?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “How about when you opened the door to go outside? You sure it was locked?”

  “I guess. Listen, Mojo heard something. I’m sure someone was in the house. I’m almost sure.”

  “Getting knocked out can cause confusion. Might have been kids out there. Photo you took is kind of blurry.” He stops to grin. “Most folks in town have heard about Dorothy and assume the house is empty. If someone did get in, they probably hadn’t noticed your vehicle parked on the side of the house. Probably didn’t think they’d run into a wolf either.”

  This Acker thinks is quite funny and it likely is, but laughing causes my head to move and my neck isn’t complying with that trick.

  “A patrol car will stay in the area. I doubt anyone will come back now,” he says, but his eyes are telling another story. He goes to get me a blanket, aspirins, and a glass of water. He’s got a nurturing thing going on now. I’m thinking for someone so pleasant, he sure made a peculiar career choice.

  Acker disappears to flip on lights and check closets again. An hour after he arrived, I sign the second statement I’ve given to the Roxbury Police Department in three days, and confirm with him that I really don’t need to go to the hospital. Before leaving, he reminds me to keep the doors locked. Then with a warm pat on my arm, he tells me to get some rest. No sooner does the door shut behind him than my alarm goes off. It’s time to get to work.

  I make it as far as the bedroom and fall sideways onto the bed. All I need is an hour of sleep, two at the most. Besides, ghost aren’t early risers. We all need our rest. I promise myself I’ll stay up all night to get this job done if I can just get some more sleep. That plan starts off good, but takes a wicked turn.

  The next thing I know that is going on is blinding sunshine coming through the window and the sweet smell of fresh roses filling the air. I’m bundled up in blankets, sausage style. My face is smashed into the pillow. I can hear Mojo breathing beside me. I’m not dreaming, but I can’t wake up.

  There’s someone in the room: someone quiet, watchful, and too close. I try to move, but my body doesn’t cooperate. It’s sleep paralysis. That’s something I’ve experienced for years, and I can always force myself from its psychotic grip. Not this time.

  The roses are suffocating. The air is so thick I’m drowning in it. I know this part isn’t happening, and I know it really is in some string theory dimension that I shouldn’t be in.

  I try to cough, but my chest is heavy and my lungs won’t fill. Something pushes me down into the bed. My throat is wheezing as I try to scream. I can’t hear anything, but my efforts are enough to wake Mojo. His low growl is what brings me back into my body, and I can almost move.

  I gasp, coming out of my rose water underworld. Something pulls me up, something that is next to the bed. Mojo is still doing his ghost growl beside me. He seems to be walking on the bed as though I’m not lying there.

  My eyes finally open and there’s a woman in a long green dress by the bed. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, one arm reaches out to me. Her fingernails are long and sharp, her pale face is smeared with mud. My eyes twitch open, shut, open again. A guttural scream fills the room. I’m not sure if it’s hers or mine.

  Then the scent of roses is gone, my breathing is calm, and the room is silent. The figure’s no longer a woman. Our eyes meet and its features soften and fade to nothing. I raise my head in time to see a man walk through the bedroom door.

  Mojo lies down, still watching the door then he paws at me. This house will be the death of me. I hear these words as if I spoke them, but I’m certain I didn’t.

  Chapter Sixteen

  §

  I’m shaking and rubbing my head, still trying to come out of the ethereal maze, when I hear pounding. It’s ten o’clock and someone who sounds very much alive is knocking loudly. The wolfdog bolts when I open the bedroom door. By the time I get down the stairs, he’s at the front door with his head poked through the curtain, wagging his tail.

  I check the peep hole and groan. It’s Acker and he’s smiling right at the hole. I look about ten times worse than I did five hours ago, dressed only in my ridiculous Hello Kitty pajamas– Maybelle’s last birthday present. Not only is the old lady crazy, she’s got a wicked sense of sadistic humor about ways of saving or rather reclaiming my virginity.

  “Problem?” I say, through a cracked door.

  “Good morning, Ms. Raven. Just a courtesy call to see how you’re doing. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, it wasn’t you,” I say, and shoot evil eyes up to the attic.

  “Mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

  I mind terribly. Not only because I look and feel lousy, but because I forgot to put on my robe. I step aside and keep walking. “I’ll be down as soon as I change. Do you always make house calls?”

  “Don’t have a choice. Crimes don’t come to me. How’s your head?”

  Crimes. With my wake up attack by the ghost of– I presume– Alexander, my brain filed away the events of my late night visitor. Ghosts have a way of shifting the agenda. “My head’s about as good as the rest of me.”

  “That good, huh? How about some coffee?”

  “Help yourself,” I say, going upstairs.

  I’m halfway dressed when I hear Acker calling my name. The man is totally high maintenance. I don’t bother to answer, but fearing he’ll come looking for me, I throw myself together, grab my boots, and run down the stairs.

  “You go out this morning?”

  “I don’t think so.” I answer too quickly because I’m almost sure I don’t have a clue.

  He takes my boots and checks the bottoms before handing them back. “What do you think this is then?” He waves his hand for me to follow him to the kitchen.

  The door that I’m absolutely positive was locked last night is partially open, and there’s a muddy shoe print on the floor. Mud that is as dry as a bone. Acker eases the door open and looks outside. “No prints on the porch,” he says, more to himself than me.

  Despite the fact that I should be afraid, I’m feeling fully vindicated. “See, someone has been in the house. That’s a boot print just like the one that was here the day Dorothy fell down the stairs. The murderer’s boot print.”

  I have no idea what kind of print it is or if there even is a murderer, but I sound knowledgeable, without so much as a sip of coffee, so I’m sticking to my theory.

  “Lock this door behind me and call 911. Don’t step on the print and don’t set foot out of the house. Do you understand?”

  My head is nodding, but my eyes are focused on the very large, very scary automatic weapon that Acker has pulled from his jacket. I may be from cowboy country, but gun
s terrify me. The world of the living is terrifying me. I punch 911 with shaky fingers, almost grateful there are no neighbors nearby to hear squad cars rushing to the house for the third time since I’ve been in town.

  Then I crouch in the corner and look out the window. I can’t see Acker anywhere. I check the living room windows and head back to the kitchen. The man has disappeared in less time than it took me to say, “officer needs assistance,” or he was never here and I’m losing my mind. The condition runs on both sides of the family, so I’m not ruling it out.

  When I hear vehicles in the driveway, I run to the door. Two officers are coming my way. As soon as I say, “Acker disappeared out back,” they take off to save him or get away from the nutcase.

  I hurry back to the kitchen window just in time to see Acker walking a not so cheerful looking Tucker Matthews from the barn– barefoot and handcuffed.

  The two officers come around the house with guns drawn. This is like watching a movie, and me without popcorn. After discussing the matter, the officers lead Tucker away and Acker comes back to the house. I squeeze by the foot print and unlock the door.

  “I told you to lock the door,” Acker shouts, then grins. He gets on his phone and mumbles some instructions.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve arrested Tucker Matthews on suspicion of the murder of Dorothy Matthews.”

  My mouth is wide open. That baby skin boy? “No way,” I say. “He’s too… too goody-boy.”

  “Goody-boy?” Acker shakes his head like he’s trying to un-hear the term. “You might be right about the print. Could be the same as the one in the photos taken when Mrs. Matthews was found, and could be from the boots I just pulled off the boy’s feet.”

  “What was he doing in the barn?”

  “Hiding when I found him. Can’t really arrest him for coming on his mother’s property, but he should have known better knowing you were here alone.”

  “So you’re arresting him for murder instead?”

  Acker smiles.

  “Wait a minute.” I’ve gotten a peculiar burst of energy and am pacing around the kitchen. “I think he’s the one who found the print that day, and I saw him drive into the yard right after Hayley found Dorothy. He was here within minutes of us getting to the house, and I know Hayley was in no condition to call him. He came bombing that truck of his through the gate. Where is his truck?”

  “Truck’s in the garage. I read your statement. Dispatch operator knows the Sanders. She called Boyd right after you called for assistance. Can’t say I recall reading that anyone called Tucker.”

  I feel my stomach twisting in knots again.

  “Okay, forensics is on their way. You have just enough time to get ready before we have to leave for the funeral.”

  “What funeral?” I ask.

  “Mrs. Matthews’ funeral. What other funeral would I be taking you to?”

  “I wasn’t invited. I have a deadline. I need to call the County Clerk and find someone old in town. I have work to do. They’re burying Dorothy already?” Heavens, I can’t shut up.

  “They want to get her in the ground before Christmas. You need to be out of the house while they process the scene for evidence anyway. Besides you can’t be staying in the woman’s home and not attend her funeral. That’s just plain disrespectful. Family will be expecting you. Hurry up now so we have time to stop for breakfast and pick up Tucker on the way to the church.”

  “What? I thought he was under arrest.”

  “He is, but the boy still has to go to his mother’s funeral. What kind of town would we have here if we made him sit in a jail cell while they’re burying the woman?”

  “A normal one?”

  “We’ll put him in the back of my car with the wolf. That’ll make him behave. Go on now. You have time enough for a shower too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  §

  The funeral of Dorothy Louise Matthews is attended by everyone in town, or so it seems. Officer Ober takes Tucker from Acker, and leads him to the front of the church to sit beside Hayley, who has questionably recovered from her nervous spells.

  There’s standing room only at the back where Acker and I find room, but still I can hear the woman’s snotty sobs.

  I called the County Clerk’s office about the house’s ownership history while Acker was waiting for me to get ready. The house has had two owners to date, just as Dorothy had indicated. It set empty for several years after Alexander’s corpse was found– probably it needed airing out.

  Between the funeral and the reception, which I’m sure I’ll be required to attend too, I’m losing a good three hours today. Unless I pull off a ghost bust– shutter the reference– by tomorrow, I’m working through Christmas and beyond.

  It’s not until we get to the church that my neurons start firing again, and I realize there’s no better place to find old people than at an old lady’s funeral– bless her soul.

  The minister is going on about Dorothy’s good Christian heart. I’m making eye contact with a short, seventy-something, bald man who’s looking pretty happy about it. Just when I’m thinking about sliding over to talk to him, I look up and see Dorothy propped on top of her casket. Yes! Why didn’t I realize she’d be here? I wave to get her attention and get a sideways glance from Acker.

  The next time you’re at a funeral, provided it isn’t your own, close your eyes and whisper something special to the deceased. Then wait for the scent of their favorite cologne or cigar smoke, a tug of your hair, or a cool breeze across your face.

  It’s rare that the dead don’t attend their own funerals, even if they have already moved on. A blink of the eye is all the time it takes them to get back to watch the show– their final show on earth– and they’re watching you and taking notes. So beware of those snickers, shed some tears, and save the texting for later.

  I’m watching Dorothy, who’s clearly found her way to the afterlife and back, but I can’t get her attention. She does seem thrilled by the turn out though. She also looks both sad and annoyed that Hayley’s sobs are drowning out the minister’s words, and she’s… what is she? Puzzled? Annoyed? I can’t quite read her expression as she checks out the mess Tucker has gotten himself into. But it’s not a happy one.

  Next up to the pulpit is Boyd who’s looking none too happy to be here. He clears his throat a few times and Dorothy flips him the bird. Oh my Great Spirit, did she really do that? I think so but with her gnarled fingers, I’m not exactly sure.

  She definitely fakes a yawn as he goes on and on about what a wonderful, generous, kindhearted woman Dorothy was and how much she’ll be missed. Hayley’s practically on the floor. When he finally shuts up, they open the casket and folks line up to take a last look.

  “Do you need to let your wolf out of the car before we head to the cemetery?” Acker asks.

  “No, I need to talk to Dorothy.” Acker pulls back like I’m contagious then waves me off like he knew I’d say that.

  Dorothy’s sitting on the edge of the casket with her feet inside. She’s leaning in studying her body and once I get to the front of the line, I see why. Whoever was in charge of the makeup, never met Dorothy, otherwise they’d know she wasn’t a turquoise eyeshadow and cherry red lipstick kind of senior.

  “I need to talk to you. Over here.” I keep moving while motioning for Dorothy to follow.

  “The ghost girl. Of course you can see me. Thanks so much for coming. Did you kick ghost butt yet?”

  “Not yet. But I could use your help.”

  “How much will you pay me?”

  “Listen. They’ve arrested Tucker for your murder. I need to know if you fell by accident or if someone pushed you down those steps. And I need to know what you knew about Alexander Jen—

  “Get that woman out of here.”

  I jerk around and see Hayley at the pulpit screaming into the microphone and pointing her fully extended arm at a woman who’s stopped in the middle aisle. The entire congregation has al
so stopped to watch.

  “Etta Jane Glick, unless you’re here to ensure your own dang funeral is coming up next, turn around and walk out that door right now.”

  “I’ve come to pay my respects to my old friend, and you ain’t stopping me Hayley Ann.”

  Now this scene would be peculiar just in and of itself, but Etta Jane would look peculiar just about anywhere. She’s five feet if she’s an inch and has pushed past two hundred pounds and then some, but that isn’t slowing her down none. She’s wearing a cattle herding outfit and a Nebraska winter hat with earflaps that’s a size or two too big. She looks to be somewhere in her fifties, but despite the age difference, she’s marching like a sumo wrestler straight at Hayley.

  “What’s going on?” I say, turning back to Dorothy, who’s nowhere to be seen now.

  “Old ex-friend.” A woman next to me says who must have thought I was asking her. She moves closer and almost whispers. “Lovers’ triangle. Harold Matthews.” She waves her finger around, I guess making a triangle, then lands it on Etta Jane. “Harold had himself a wandering eye and another part of his anatomy that couldn’t keep wiggling away from the home flame.”

  I’m getting a disturbing visual of the wiggling that’s blocking my sensibility and can’t think of a comeback other than, “Uh.” It turns out I don’t have to think of anything. Hayley’s got everyone’s attention as she marches down the aisle to stop Etta Jane in her tracks. Screams follow hair pulling and a twisting and slapping match sends both women to the floor.

  Boyd, who foolishly tried to stop Hayley’s charge, appears to have taken a fist or foot to a sensitive part because he’s folded in the fetal position at the end of the pew. Tucker’s yelling to get the cuffs off him and the minister is waving the Bible like he wants to knock one or both women in the head. Hayley’s up then Etta Jane, then both get in position to brawl.

  “You’re a wicked, greedy child who’s married to a wicked, greedy man,” Etta Jane screams. “You take after your thieving daddy. You can’t get Dorothy in the grave fast enough so you can steal her land, can you? You better watch yourself, Hayley Ann, or you’ll be joining Harold in Satan’s fire sooner than your butt has a chance to grow another foot wide.”