A Spirited Tail #2 Mystic Notch Series Page 5

  "We're in here." Ophelia's voice drifted toward me and I followed it to the kitchen. Boards had been removed from the windows and the room was bathed in the waning late afternoon light, allowing me to get a better look than I'd been able to earlier that morning.

  Large, dark wood cabinets ran the length of two walls. A soapstone sink set under a tall window interrupted the wooden counters and two ovens, one on top of the other, sat opposite it. A long, stainless steel prep table ran down the middle of the room. Ophelia had her head in one of the bottom cabinets, her back-end sticking up in the air in a most uncomplimentary way. A tall, thin man with longish, wavy brown hair was pulling things out of an open drawer and loading them into a cloth shopping bag.

  It looked for all the world as if they were looting the place.

  I paused in the doorway. "Hi."

  Ophelia backed out of the cabinet and the man turned to face me.

  "Willa Chance, this is Steven Van Dorn, the new owner of the house." Ophelia waved her hand between Steven and me. "Willa is an expert on books. I've asked her to appraise your uncle's collection."

  Steven extended a large, callused hand toward me. I judged him to be near sixty years old and his face had an edge to it that said he'd had a hard life. His handshake was rough and the way he eyed me made me uneasy.

  "You can call me Steve," he said.

  I glanced at the bag he held. "Packing up already?"

  "Let’s just say I'm in need of immediate cash and this stuff is gonna sell like hotcakes on eBay." He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. "Especially now with the Van Dorn curse coming back into the public eye."

  I slid my eyes over to Ophelia, who shrugged.

  "You don't mind that someone was murdered in the back yard?"

  "Mind?" He laughed. "Heck no, that’s gonna make this stuff more valuable! There's already an interest in old occult legends and this new development is going to make the personal items of Charles Van Dorn highly collectable."

  I took a step backward, a bit put-off with his attitude. He seemed completely insensitive to the fact that a man was dead, focusing only on how much more that death would allow him to profit.

  I turned away. "I guess I’ll go start on the books."

  "So, what about those books? Are any of them any good?" Steve asked.

  Just thinking of the beautiful books in the library warmed my demeanor. "I didn't get a chance to look too closely the other day, but it does seem your uncle had some valuable volumes. Just the sheer number of books is incredible. You might consider a specialty auction. I believe you'll get the most money that way and it will be easy for you to consign the whole lot."

  I felt a little sad about seeing the library empty of books, but at least an auction would insure they went to good homes.

  He narrowed his eyes. "Well, I don't wanna get ripped off. I have important uses for this money."

  "Oh?" I had a sneaking suspicion what he thought was important and what I thought was important were two different things.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. "Well, I can't really say what they are, but it's not all just going to me."

  "Don't worry, I’ll write up a full appraisal and list the most valuable books. You can double check those on eBay or with another appraiser if you want." It was none of my business what he did with the money. It was my responsibility to do a good job appraising the books, and I took my responsibilities very seriously.

  That seemed to satisfy him.

  "Okay, you get to it, then. I gotta grab a few bags from here and then get back to the motel and start listing. This time tomorrow, I might be upgrading my room." He flashed a grin, which I noticed was missing several teeth, and turned back to the drawer.

  I headed down the hall, past the butler’s pantry and the curtained room that I figured had been Van Dorn's séance room. I was glad Ophelia and Steve would be busy in the other part of the house. I wanted to be alone in the library in case Van Dorn felt like making an appearance.

  I pulled out my notebook and shut the door, wondering where to start. It made sense to pick a corner and work from one end of the room to the other, so I made my way to the opposite end, then crouched down to start with the books on the bottom shelf.

  Scanning the books, I pulled out the ones that would have the most value and combed the insides to get an estimate of condition as well as look at the edition, whether it was signed, and the publisher, all of which I recorded in my notebook. For me, it was relaxing work. I loved working with the books and was soon immersed in my own little world, barely aware of my surroundings.

  I'd made my way halfway around to the edge of the fireplace when I felt something cold and wet at my elbow.

  "Who is that odious man in my kitchen?" Charles Van Dorn's ghost whispered into my ear.

  "I hate to tell you, but that man is your nephew."

  Charles made a face, his form dissolving, then swirling back together. "Little Stevie? Why, he's practically giddy over selling off my kitchenware!"

  "Apparently, the popularity of the Van Dorn curse makes your kitchenware very profitable. How come you didn't mention the curse to me before?"

  Van Dorn made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "That whole curse thing was sensationalism, manufactured by the press to sell newspapers. There is no curse."

  "But what about the markings on Lily Johanson's forehead that match your logo? Did you kill her?"

  "Certainly not!" Van Dorn's face turned hard. "That’s what everyone thought, I know, but I didn't do it."

  I slid another book out of its place to inspect the jacket, then snuck a sideways look at Van Dorn. "Did you know the man killed in your yard this morning had the same mark on his forehead?"

  His eyes widened. "You don't say? That is odd. You don't suppose the same person that killed Lily did this other person in, too?"

  "I don't know. Didn't you see the murder? It was right outside the house here."

  "I'm afraid I was off in the nethers and didn't witness it. His spirit must not have been restless as I didn't even know something had occurred until I saw you out there." Van Dorn glanced out the window. "Tell me, who was it that was murdered?"

  "Bruce Norton."

  Van Dorn gasped. "No!"

  "Oh, you knew him?"

  "Yes, he used to come to my … umm … parties back in the day," he stuttered. "I guess you could say we were friends."

  "Why do you think he would be in your yard, now, though?"

  Van Dorn's brow wrinkled, causing wisps of mist to swirl up toward the ceiling. "That’s a good question. I really cannot say."

  "And you didn't have anything to do with his murder?"

  "Of course not! How could I kill someone? I'm merely vapor and energy with no physical form to inflict harm."

  I chewed my bottom lip. What he said was true. I knew I could pass my hand right through him if I wanted. Then I remembered how the ghosts of Robert Frost and Franklin Pierce were able to pull books of the bookshelf in my store. If they were able to do that, then maybe Charles Van Dorn's ghost was able to smash in Bruce Norton's head.

  I regarded Van Dorn with renewed suspicion. "Are you sure you were really murdered? From what I hear, you killed yourself out of guilt after killing Lily Johanson. There was even a suicide note."

  "Staged!" he boomed. "I told you someone murdered me. I'm sure it was the same person who killed Lily. I believe they were trying to frame me—someone who was jealous and wanted me out of the way. That’s why they put my logo on her forehead."

  "Jealous?"

  "Of my popularity and skills, I assume."

  "Oh, not like a jealous lover?"

  Van Dorn looked insulted. "I should say not. What kind of a guy do you think I am?"

  I shrugged. Was he protesting a little too vehemently?

  "So you weren't involved with Lily romantically?"

  "Of course not. My work was my whole life. And even if I was, which I wasn't, then why would I kill her?"

  I studied him wh
ile he swirled and misted anxiously. He did seem sincere and I couldn’t figure out what he would gain by lying to me. The scenario he outlined was entirely plausible. I made a mental note to dig up whatever I could about his death and see if they'd even entertained the thought of it being murder.

  As if reading my mind, Van Dorn spread his arms, smiled and said, "What would I have to gain by lying to you? I'm seeking your help so that I can pass on to the next realm, which I would have done already had I not been held back by the unresolved issue of finding my killer, and the fact that I was quite comfortable hanging around in my own home, undisturbed."

  He did have a point. I decided to accept his story for the time being.

  Crash!

  Van Dorn grimaced and looked in the direction of the crash. "What is he doing in there? It's so disrespectful. I have a good mind to head in there and do something otherworldly to spook him. That will teach him to come skulking around here at all hours of the day and night, touching my things."

  "Well, technically they are his things now," I pointed out.

  "Oh, dear, I suppose they'll be going through everything." Van Dorn wrung his hands, watching me closely as I went back to my task of inspecting the books. I hated to be rude, but I had to speed things up or I'd never be finished.

  "Are you going to look at every single book?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Well, I'm just inspecting the valuable ones, but eventually they'll all be removed. The whole house will be emptied. I think Steve might send the books to auction."

  "Well, then, I pray my instructions have been followed so my secret will be safe," he whispered in a barely audible voice.

  Did he just say something about a secret? My interest was piqued.

  I stared up at him. "Secret?"

  Van Dorn was distracted by another crash. "What? Did I say secret? I must have been confused. Really I must go see what they are doing in there."

  "Wait—"

  But he had already disappeared.

  I turned back to my work with a sigh. I'd been hoping to get answers from the ghost, but all I'd gotten were more questions.

  I pulled out several more books, then coming to the very edge of the fireplace, I was just about to start on the next shelf up when one book that was sticking out past the others caught my eye. Upon attempting to push it back in, I noticed it seemed rather light for the thickness of the spine.

  My heartbeat picked up speed as I pulled it out and flipped open the cover. It was hollow inside—a fake book. Nestled in the hollow were several pages of handwritten notes, all bound in a red ribbon.

  I held my breath as I took them out of the book. Could these have something to do with the secret Van Dorn was just talking about?

  I pulled one of the pages out of the ribbon and was just about to read it when the library door flew open.

  "Chance, I thought I'd find you in here!"

  I whirled around to see all six foot two of Eddie Striker, his broad shoulders taking up most of the doorframe. Striker and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I'd been his number one suspect in the murder of town librarian Lavinia Babbage. He liked to call me by my last name, which he said was appropriate because I took a lot of chances, especially when it came to investigating murders. He acted like that bothered him, but I think he secretly liked it.

  My face flushed, my heart fluttered and I shoved the papers in the back of my notebook, unsure as to why I was hiding them, but certain it was the right thing to do. Knowing Striker, he'd think it was some kind of evidence and make me turn them in and I didn't want to do that, at least not until I'd gotten a chance to read them.

  "Hi, Striker." I tried to act cool, even though his dimpled smile turned me to jelly.

  He walked toward me and I closed the book, shoved it into the bookcase and stood.

  "Impressive library. You must be in your glory here."

  I smiled. "I am. I wish I could transfer the whole thing to my house."

  He leaned his palms against the bookshelf on either side of my head, trapping me. Not that I wanted to get away. I breathed in his fresh, clean smell and closed my eyes. Then my thoughts turned suspicious.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Gus wanted me to consult on this new murder case. I was looking over the crime scene."

  My eyes flew open. "Really? Did you find any clues?"

  Striker’s gray eyes narrowed. "Why so interested? I hope you're not launching another investigation … last time, you almost got killed and I would hate to see that happen."

  "Who, me?"

  Striker removed his right hand from the bookcase and ran it down my arm to my hand. Earlier in the summer, I'd burned that hand in an explosion, which was a result of my investigating another murder. I guess I could see why he didn't want me to get involved in this one. He turned my hand over gently in his palm.

  "I see this has healed up nicely, so let's not do anything to hurt it again." He leaned back and his gaze raked my body. "Or any other part of you."

  Suddenly, I found it hard to speak. "Okay."

  He pushed away from the bookcase and took a step back, much to my disappointment.

  "Good. Then carry on. I saw your car outside and wanted to stop in to say hi. Are you going to be finishing up soon?" He looked at me hopefully. "Because if you are, I could stop by your house after I'm done."

  I nodded my head up and down like an overzealous puppy, then admonished myself for acting like a teenager in heat. I actually was feeling pretty hot, but that probably had more to do with a hormonal hot flash than Striker.

  "I should be done in about an hour," I managed to say. "But I have to get Pandora and then stop at Pepper's to pick up Ranger."

  "Ranger?"

  I filled him in about the dog and he said he'd swing by in two hours, which should give me just enough time. I waited until I saw him moving around in the back yard and then I took the letters out of my notebook.

  I vaguely remembered Bing saying something about a journal or some notes on magician’s tricks and I wondered if that was what was in the letters. It didn't take long before it became clear the letters didn't have anything to do with any magic tricks.

  They were love letters.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time I arrived home two hours later, Striker was already waiting in the driveway. I parked the car and Pandora shot out across my lap and over to the farmer’s porch to be let in. Ranger was not nearly as enthusiastic and I had to open the back of my Jeep and coerce him out.

  By the time I got into the kitchen, my nerves were frazzled, my stomach was grumbling and my leg was aching.

  "So this is Ranger?" Striker knelt down in front of the dog that stood listlessly at my side.

  "He's kind of depressed," I said.

  "Meow!" Pandora glared at me expectantly from her place next to her food dish.

  "Of course he's depressed. Poor guy lost his best friend." Striker rubbed the fur on Ranger's head as I started to fill Pandora's bowl.

  Ranger whimpered and twitched his tail.

  I finished with Pandora's dish and got a large, ceramic bowl out of the cabinet for Ranger, thankful that Pepper had had the foresight to supply me with a small bag of dog food.

  I poured out the food and set it down, along with a bowl of fresh water. "Here you go. You must be hungry."

  Ranger flicked his eyes from me to the bowl. He approached cautiously, sniffing around the edges, then he sighed, lumbered to the corner of the room and plopped down, resting his head on his paws.

  "Hey, you have to eat." I grabbed a few pieces of food and squatted beside him, wincing at the pain in my leg. I put the food under his nose. He sniffed at it, then curled up in a ball and ignored me.

  "Maybe he doesn’t like it," Striker said.

  "I think he's still upset about the murder." I pushed up from the floor and limped over to the fridge in search of supper for Striker and me.

  "Is your leg bothering you?"

  My heart hitched at th
e way he said it. Like he was genuinely concerned. I shoved my head further into the near-empty fridge. "I don't have much in here … some cottage cheese, mustard, jalapeños, cream cheese and Ritz crackers."

  "You keep crackers in your fridge?"

  I shrugged and pulled everything out onto my counter. "Do you think you can turn this into dinner?"

  Striker's lips quirked up in a smile as he looked at the ingredients skeptically. In the few months we'd known each other, I'd learned he was an excellent cook, which worked out well because I couldn’t cook to save my life. My meals usually consisted of take-out, frozen pizza and English muffins with whatever was in the fridge on top. Tonight I didn't even have the English muffins.

  "Looks like we'll be having appetizers for supper." Striker took out some plates and I watched him spread cream cheese on several crackers, then apply a dot of mustard, then top it off with a jalapeño slice. He made a trayful, then we sat at the kitchen table.

  The crackers were surprisingly good. The spice of the mustard and heat of the jalapeños were soothed by the smooth cream cheese, and the cracker added a satisfying crunch. We munched in silence for a few minutes, my mind drifting to the love letters I'd found at Van Dorn's.

  They were safely tucked away in my notebook and I was dying to tell someone about them … but not Striker. I knew the letters didn't have anything to do with Bruce Norton's murder, but I figured it was better for me to keep their discovery to myself until I was sure what they meant. They could help me figure out who killed Charles Van Dorn if he actually was murdered like he'd claimed. Although his ghost seemed sincere, I was starting to have my doubts, especially since he'd clearly lied to me about having a love affair—the letters proved that. The only problem was, the letters didn't reveal who he was having the affair with.