Murder, She Wrote: The Ghost and Mrs. Fletcher Read online

  Beth produced an unopened package of ginger cookies and held it up. “I figured you wouldn’t find anything edible in Grandpa Cliff’s kitchen, so I threw this in the car this morning,” she said, tearing it open.

  “Clever girl,” Lettie said, plucking out a gingersnap. “I’ll have Lucy bring over a pitcher of milk tomorrow morning. Miss Simpson said she was keeping the ’lectric on as long as we’re here, so the fridge should work. Hope you can manage tea without milk today, Jessica.”

  “I’m just grateful for anything to soothe my parched throat.”

  “It’s the dust does it to you. My hands are as dry as parchment. Don’t know how Cliff lived comfortably in this atmosphere.”

  “Wait a moment,” I said, backtracking to a point earlier in our conversation and addressing Beth. “You called him ‘Grandpa Cliff.’ Was he a relative?”

  She smiled at Lettie before answering me. “He might’ve liked to be, but no, it’s just an honorary term. That’s what Elliot called him, and so I called him the same thing. I think Grandpa Cliff liked it. I know he liked having us around. We used to play all over the house. We found closets full of old clothing in the unused bedrooms, and we’d put on shows for him, parading around in feather boas and silver high heels. He would laugh.” She smiled at the memory.

  “So you know the house pretty well,” I said.

  “She practically grew up here until Cliff sent Elliot off to boarding school,” Lettie put in.

  “I used to know it very well before Elliot left,” Beth said, fingering a string bracelet she wore on her wrist. “Except for the basement. Grandpa Cliff didn’t want us to go into the basement. He said the stairs were rickety. He was going to fix them someday, but until he did, we might fall through and get hurt. I listened, but nothing fazed Elliot. He’d sneak downstairs when Grandpa Cliff wasn’t home. Told me there was nothing there to be afraid of, but he got himself pretty banged up when, sure enough, one of the steps broke. I never saw Grandpa Cliff so angry. Yelled at him that he could’ve been killed. He sent him away to boarding school after that.”

  “He was a wild one, that motherless boy,” Lettie said. “Hard to contain, but whip smart. Lucy and I, we tried to teach him manners, let him know how he was supposed to behave in polite company. But Cliff said he was on the road to becoming a delinquent.”

  “That was such an exaggeration,” Beth said.

  “Mebbe so, but Cliff insisted the school would teach him what he needed to know to get along in the world. And it did.”

  “Elliot hated it,” Beth said, pulling a cookie from the container. “Tried to run away a couple of times, but he got caught. I told him not to bother, that Grandpa Cliff would just send him back. He stopped writing to me after that.” She placed the cookie on her paper towel and pushed it away uneaten.

  “That must’ve made you sad,” I said.

  “It did for a while,” Lettie answered for Beth. “Cliff didn’t want her to visit anymore without his grandson at home. He said she was a reminder, that he didn’t want to see her ’cause he was missing Elliot something fierce.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t want to be here without Elliot anyway.”

  “Did you ever hear from him again?”

  She shrugged. “When he was in college, he had a short story published. He sent me the magazine it appeared in.”

  “How nice,” I said. “Are you in touch with him now?”

  “Not me, but he writes to Aunt Lettie and Aunt Lucy.”

  “Ayuh. Found himself in Alaska, he did. Got a job teaching writing and literature. Well, you wouldn’t be surprised, seein’ all these books here. Beth taught Lucy and me how to use Facebook, and one day, a message pops up from Elliot Cooper, wanting to be our friend.” She stole a glance at Beth. “So, of course, we said yes.”

  “Are you friends with him on Facebook as well?” I looked at Beth.

  “He never asked me,” she replied. “Besides, he’s engaged to some woman who runs a jewelry shop. She probably wouldn’t appreciate him being friends with a girl from back home.”

  “Eve said that Elliot will be coming to Cabot Cove for the funeral. Maybe you’ll get to see him then.”

  “I might not even recognize him. Aunt Lucy says he has a beard now.”

  Lettie waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, you’ll know him. Elliot hasn’t changed that much.”

  We took our mugs to the sink, and while Beth washed and Lettie dried, I turned on the refrigerator to let it cool before we put milk or other food items inside. The ladies from Eve’s cleaning service had washed down the interior, and except for the faint odor of bleach from the cleanser they’d used, it was as clean as a forty-year-old refrigerator could be.

  “I think we should stop work for the day,” I said. “It’s going to be dark soon, and it’s enough of a strain hauling books around. Let’s not make it harder by trying to read titles in dim light.”

  “I walked here,” said Lettie, “but Beth can give you a ride home. She has a brand-new truck. You can put your bike in the bed.”

  “I’m grateful for the offer, but I think I’ll pass. I need to get some fresh air in my lungs, and I like the idea of getting exercise riding home. Thanks for all your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Beth said. “Give me a call when you want me to come again.” She looked around the kitchen. “It was nice to be back here. I have such good memories of this house.”

  After Lettie and Beth left, I checked that the stove wasn’t on, shut off the overhead fixture in the kitchen, and walked down the hall, pausing to extinguish the lights in the library and to pull out the extra set of keys Eve had entrusted to me. As I reached for the knob on the front door, I was taken aback by a loud pounding. I flung the door open. A glaring light blinded me. I immediately stepped back and raised my arm to shade my eyes. “Turn that off, please,” I shouted.

  “In a moment,” said a female voice. “Okay, Boris, I’m ready.”

  “Action,” said a man’s voice behind the light.

  “I’m here with the celebrated mystery writer Jessica Fletcher, who has called upon my expertise to rid her home of a spectral visitor. New England is a hotbed of ghostly presences, and it’s no surprise that even the rich and famous have to deal with supernatural manifestations.”

  “Now, just one minute,” I said, blinking rapidly to rid my eyes of the temporary blindness the light had caused. “First of all, this is not my home. And second, I did not invite you here. And third, I certainly did not give you permission to film me or to use my name.”

  “Cut!”

  The light was turned off, and as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light outside, I could make out a tiny woman with a pile of blond hair, holding a gold-topped cane.

  “Well, your assistant wrote to me asking for my help in getting rid of a ghost for you.” She knocked her cane against the door frame for emphasis.

  “You must be Arianna Olynski.”

  She straightened and gave a brief nod. “I see you know who I am. You certainly called me in the nick of time, Jessica Fletcher.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” I stepped outside, forcing her to move away from the door, which I quickly locked. I turned back to the diminutive medium and said, “Eve Simpson is not my assistant. I did not ask for you to come. I apologize for her if she gave you the wrong impression. Now that you know the truth, I would appreciate it if you would leave.”

  “But what about the ghost?”

  “I don’t know anything about a ghost, and if there is one, I have yet to encounter it.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, waving the cane at me. “I can feel it. I can feel it.”

  “Just what do you feel?”

  “There’s definitely an unhappy spirit here, a very unhappy spirit.”

  “I don’t know anything about unhappy sp
irits. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m in a bit of a hurry. The sun is going down, and I’m late getting home.”

  “Be that as it may, here’s my business card,” she said, stuffing it into my shoulder bag. “I’ll still expect my fee. I get paid by the day.”

  “You’ll have to talk with Eve Simpson about that.”

  I went down the path to where I’d parked my bicycle, leaving Arianna Olynski and her cameraman standing in front of the Spencer Percy House. I put my shoulder bag in the bike basket and glanced back. The cameraman’s light was on again, his lens aimed at the little woman who had positioned herself in front of the closed door. As I pedaled away, I heard her voice addressing the camera: “As a professional medium, I’m trained to detect postdeath life forces. . . .”

  I only hoped that as a predeath life force, I would make it home before dark.

  Chapter Six

  Eve and I had had a heated conversation that evening.

  “Jessica, think about what great publicity it would be—for both of us.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate your consideration in wanting to include me, but please leave me out of your publicity campaign. I’m not willing to appear in front of television cameras to help you sell Cliff’s house.”

  “Why not? I thought any publicity was good publicity for a writer.”

  “Somehow, Eve, I don’t see you doing this to support my writing career. The only reason I got involved was to help raise money for the library.”

  “But wouldn’t Arianna Olynski’s show be a great way to promote that?”

  “I don’t know anything about her show, except that it’s not about books. Please, Eve, try to understand. I don’t want to sound selfish or conceited, but I have a reputation to protect, and it is not one that would be enhanced by seeming to endorse someone who chases after ghosts and goblins in haunted houses.”

  “Well, it isn’t as if it’s a big network production, Jessica. It’s probably not even seen by a lot of people. Besides, I have a reputation to protect, too, you know.”

  “My point exactly. Do you really want to be associated with a con artist?”

  “You don’t know that she’s a con artist. Maybe she’s providing a public service as someone with a special gift who only wants to help people connect with their departed loved ones.”

  “And who just happens to arrive with a television cameraman in tow. That’s not exactly how I would expect a Good Samaritan to behave.”

  Eve had promised to make sure there would be no cameras present if I would accompany her to the house when the medium returned, rationalizing it by saying that she didn’t want to be alone with the lady if a ghost actually materialized.

  Reluctantly, I’d agreed.

  • • •

  Seth called the next morning.

  “You requested an autopsy? I thought you’d decided to wait for Elliot.”

  “Well, the boy is taking his time in getting here, and I haven’t slept, thinking about what I might have missed that caused Cliff’s death.”

  I shifted the phone from one ear to the other while I sorted through items in my shoulder bag.

  “Seth, you’re an excellent physician. You said he wasn’t helping in his own recovery. Cliff had convinced himself he was dying, and he’d given up trying to live. I’m sure you didn’t ‘miss’ anything. And even if you did, it probably wouldn’t have been caught by any other doctor either.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence from the esteemed Mrs. Fletcher, but I can’t relax until I know the true cause of Cliff Cooper’s death.”

  “Then I hope the results of the autopsy will resolve those misgivings. When will it take place?”

  I pulled out my wallet and placed it on the kitchen table along with my cell phone, a packet of tissues, address book, reading glasses, a retractable measuring tape, keys, and an unopened package of black markers.

  “The medical examiner said he may not get to it today. Depends on when the funeral home sends the body back to the morgue.”

  “Can you do an autopsy after the body has already been embalmed?”

  “It isn’t the most favorable condition—I should have acted faster—but yes, it can be done. The embalming fluids replace bodily fluids, but the basic structures can still be seen.”

  “I hope you’re not doing this because Mort Metzger goaded you into it.”

  “That know-it-all in a police uniform gets under my skin, it’s true. In this case, however, I think he’s right. Hate to say it—and I’ll deny it if you tell him I said so. Truth is, I’m the proper one to order the autopsy, and I’ve pounded sand long enough.”

  “It’s barely a week since Cliff died,” I said, responding to Seth’s use of a Maine term for wasting time.

  “Mebbe so, but it’s time the facts came out.”

  I felt around the bottom of my bag, my fingers connecting with a paper clip, nail file, and notebook, and three pens. I pulled out the skeleton key to my back porch door, which reminded me I’d been meaning to replace the lock. What I was looking for didn’t seem to be there. I dropped the key back in my bag and said to Seth, “Will you let me know the results when you learn them?”

  “Ayuh, if I haven’t put my head in an oven.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Seth,” I said, stopping the forensic search of my bag, “I never knew you to be so insecure.”

  “I don’t mind losing a patient to old age or disease if it’s expected. Well, I do mind, but I don’t take it personally. But if Cliff died of some stupidity on my part, I want to know.”

  “And if you accidentally missed something, will you take to your bed and hide under the covers?”

  “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  “This isn’t like you, Seth. Will you call me when you get the results?”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “The medium has arrived, and Eve talked me into meeting with her at Cliff’s house in an hour.”

  “You agreed to do that?” Seth asked, his tone incredulous. “Does Jessica Fletcher suddenly believe in ghosts?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I replied. “I just want to placate Eve. If she thinks that this medium can put to rest the rumor that Cliff Cooper’s house is haunted, then I’m willing to go along with it.”

  “I’ll certainly want to hear the report on that visit.”

  “Then we’re agreed. One exchange of information for another. I’ll call you later.”

  “Take an umbrella. It’s threatening to rain.”

  I hung up the phone and upended my pocketbook to let everything inside fall to the tabletop. Aha! I knew it was in there. I took the business card Arianna Olynski had dropped into my bag and went to my computer.

  I still had time to peruse the medium’s website before Eve was due to pick me up. I was also curious about what others might have posted about this “psychic sensation,” as she described herself on her business card.

  Her website was designed in varying shades of gray, lending a dramatic backdrop to glamorous photographs of a heavily made-up Arianna Olynski posing with people she called “celebrity endorsers.” Her beehive hairdo added almost a foot to her height and suggested a certain television cartoon character.

  There were also pictures of the petite medium leaning on her cane in doorways of decrepit—and presumably haunted—mansions, as well as those of abandoned mental facilities and long-closed jails, along with a trailer for her television show, which turned out not to be on television at all but online as a series of YouTube videos. She also had a page of quotes supplied by “satisfied customers,” including one from me that purported to be a review of her book, Our Supernatural Neighbors. It read, “Vivid writing! Great work! Future bestseller!” I didn’t recall the book but had a feeling I wasn’t being quoted completely. In my past classes on creative writing, I urged my students t
o resist sprinkling their copy with exclamation marks. For that reason, I suspected that there might have been several words omitted before, after, and in between these shouts of praise.

  I heard two toots of a horn and looked out the window to see Eve’s car. I turned off the computer, hastily gathered up the items I’d dumped out of my shoulder bag, put them back, grabbed my umbrella, and joined her.

  To my surprise, Arianna Olynski was perched in the passenger seat, so I climbed in the back, pushing aside several real estate binders and making certain not to jog a tan and red checked tote bag containing one small dog.

  “Good morning, ladies. Miss Olynski, I thought we were meeting you at the house.”

  “Miss Olynski asked me to pick her up at the motel,” Eve said. “Her truck wouldn’t start this morning, and she had to have it towed to a garage.”

  Clearly, foretelling the future is not a skill possessed by the “psychic sensation,” or she might have predicted that would happen, I thought uncharitably.

  “I have accommodated your request for no cameras for my initial visit to the haunted location, Mrs. Fletcher, but I must tell you that my cameraman will be shooting there later today.”

  “I have no interest in preventing you from conducting your business, Miss Olynski. I simply don’t care to be part of it.”

  “Your loss. My program will soon be being picked up by a national syndicate. You could have increased the public’s awareness of your books in the eighteen to forty-nine key age demographic. Those people are the influentials, and I would expect you as a writer to be aware of your marketing audience and act accordingly. I certainly am.”

  I saw Eve nod in agreement, and I sighed inwardly. Rather than debate the promotional value of the medium’s online program, I changed the subject. “I understand that we may have met in the past, Miss Olynski. My apologies, but I don’t recall the circumstances. When did we know each other?”

  “I took your writing course, Mrs. Fletcher. Of course, I was a brunette then, and it was many years ago, so I’m not surprised that you don’t remember me.”