A Spirited Tail #2 Mystic Notch Series Read online

  "Do you think that’s relevant? I wasn't sure if I should mention it to Augusta."

  "Meow!" Pandora jumped onto the counter and skidded down the length, flipping a yellow highlighter off the top. The highlighter clattered on the floor and rolled under the couch.

  "What's with her?" Pepper asked.

  "She's been acting strange all day. I think having a canine guest is affecting her behavior." I fished under the couch to retrieve the pen, then returned my attention to Jimmy. "That could be an important clue or maybe not. I wonder if I could get a look over there and then I could let you know if you should mention it to Gus."

  "Oh, I don't know if Augusta would like it if I just brought you over there." Jimmy shook his head, his face turning pale.

  "Well, I do need to go and pick up some of Ranger’s things …" I let my voice trail off.

  "Oh, right. I guess maybe there'd be no harm in that. But right now I have to get back to the station. I’ll be in touch about going to Bruce's."

  He stood to leave and I rushed over to the counter to grab one of my business cards.

  "Here's my cell phone number if you want to get in touch." I shoved the card at him, making a mental note to keep my cell phone turned on—I considered it an intrusion and rarely used it. I had one more question I hoped to have answered. "Did you find the murder weapon?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. We're not sure what it was, exactly. Some type of heavy, blunt instrument. We set up a search grid in the surrounding woods, but found nothing. Augusta said we may have to widen the grid, but she's afraid the killer took it with them."

  "Meow!" Pandora leaped onto the coffee table and Pepper had to react quickly to keep the teapot from spilling to the floor.

  "Pandora cut it out!" I swiped at the cat who deftly avoided my grasp, then retreated to the counter to glare at me, her tail high above her head, the kink at the end making it look like she was pointing outside.

  "I’ll be in touch about going to Bruce's." Jimmy swung the door open, then turned back to look at me. "Oh, there is one other thing you might be interested in."

  "What?" I tried not to sound too eager.

  "That symbol on Bruce's forehead …"

  "Yeah?"

  "I don't think it was done by any kind of ghost or part of any fifty-year-old curse. Not unless the ghost went to a craft store recently."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "That symbol was written with alcohol-based markers like artists use. I do some drawing myself and use them. They didn't exist fifty years ago. The lab was even able to nail down the exact make and color of marker." He pressed his lips together, squinted his eyes and looked up at the ceiling for few seconds. "If memory serves me right … yes … it was a Copic Y28 Lionet Gold marker, to be exact."

  Chapter Eleven

  That night, my mind whirled with questions as I drove to Van Dorn's. Why was everyone after the journal? Who was Charles’ lover? Who killed Lily? Did Bruce's murder have anything to do with Charles' murder fifty years ago? And last but not least, where was the murder weapon?

  Not only that, but I was becoming increasingly concerned about Pandora's behavior. She'd been acting so wild at the shop that I almost didn't want to bring her in with me the next day. I'd taken her and Ranger home and fed them dinner after work. When I'd left on my way to Van Dorn's, she'd tried to sneak into my car.

  I'd finally had to lock her cat door as well as the door to the basement—I knew she had a secret exit down there that I hadn't been able to figure out yet. I'd driven away to the sound of her wailing inside the house. I was afraid that Ranger's presence was driving her over the edge and figured I'd better find him a new home soon.

  I parked behind Steve's yellow Dodge, a tingle of doubt running through me. I felt funny about being in the house alone. What if he had killed Bruce? I didn't relish the thought of being alone in a remote house with a killer, but if he really was the killer, surely Gus would have figured it out and had him arrested by now. I had to finish cataloguing the library, so I shrugged it off and climbed the porch steps, taking care not to step on the rickety boards that had come loose.

  I hesitated at the front door, unsure if I should just walk in. Even though Steve knew I was coming, it felt odd to barge in unannounced.

  "Hello! It's me, Willa!" I yelled into the house.

  "In here." Steve's voice sounded like it was far away—he must be in the back.

  I walked down the hall toward the library, stopping short when I reached the doorway and saw Steve inside, rummaging through one of the shelves, a stack of books piled on the floor beside him.

  "What are you doing?" My heart sank looking at the mess.

  "Hey, Willa. Have you seen any hand-written journals in here?"

  "What? No."

  "Oh." Steve looked disappointed. "Some old biddy came by and offered me a lot of money for them."

  "Did she have long, gray hair and a mean-looking redheaded side kick?"

  "Yes." Steve looked at me surprised. "How'd you know?"

  "She came to my store, too."

  "Huh! Those must be mighty important." Steve rubbed the two-day-old stubble on his chin. "I should charge more. I bet she'd pay twice what she was offering."

  I didn't reply, choosing to start putting the books neatly back in their place instead. "I need to keep these shelves the way they were so I can keep track of the books I've catalogued," I explained.

  "Sorry." Steve stepped over the pile of books and headed to the door. "I have more eBay pictures to take. If you find the journals, set them aside for me, will 'ya?"

  "Okay." I turned my back, glad he was leaving the room. I finished putting the books back, then picked up my notebook, intending to start cataloguing where I'd left off. I scanned through the book spines, carefully looking for more hollowed out books with love letters or other clues inside.

  A few strangely shaped spines caught my eye—not a hollowed out book—a photo album! My pulse raced as I reached for it. Surely, Van Dorn would have included photographs of his closest friends, and surely, one of them would be the person with whom he exchanged those love letters.

  The book was loaded with old photos. Some of them were black and white, but most were in that strange, yellowish color that early photos had. They were mostly taken in and around the house, which looked pretty much the same now as it had back then, except for the dust and disrepair.

  Most of the people were dressed up, the men in suits and the women in full-skirted cocktail dresses. I recognized Charles right away, but didn't know who any of the others were. One woman was particularly beautiful and photogenic, and I guessed her to be the tragic Lily Johanson. In several of the pictures, a man stood off to the side, staring at her with intense longing on his face. Lily didn't seem to return the emotion, though, and I wondered who he was. Could he have been her killer?

  There was another woman, too, very young and very pretty. Charles was in many of the pictures with her. They seemed to be quite chummy, though I couldn’t get a sense of any feeling between them. She was different from the other women—her clothes not as fancy and her demeanor not as frivolous.

  As I flipped through the pictures, my eyes keep going back to the other woman. Was she the one in the love letters? The only thing I knew for sure was that Lily was not the woman Charles had been having the affair with.

  But why even have an affair? Charles was single and an adult, he didn't need to hide from anyone … unless the other person was married. Fifty years ago, that would have been quite scandalous.

  I squinted at the picture of the pretty girl. She had a ring on her left hand. Was it a wedding ring?

  I had too many questions, and the only person who could answer them was Charles. Where was he? If he wanted me to solve his murder, he’d better show up.

  "Charles," I whispered, then looked around for the misty swirl that usually happened when a ghost appeared.

  Nothing. Not even a teensy drop of condensation or a small chill in the air.
>
  "Hey, if you're here, I have some important questions."

  "Were you calling me?"

  The voice startled me and I spun around. It wasn't Charles, though—it was Steve.

  Had he been lurking there watching me?

  "Oh, no … I was just talking to myself," I stammered.

  His eyes fell to the photo albums. "Oh, I see you have some photos. Are those of my uncle? I don't suppose my dad is in any of them …"

  A look of sadness passed over his face and I felt a tug at my heart. I knew his father had just died and, while I hadn't pegged him as the sentimental type, the look on his face suggested that I might have been wrong.

  He walked over and looked down at the pictures. Reaching out a scarred hand, he flipped the pages. "Yeah, I recognize some of these. My dad had some duplicates of them."

  "I thought your dad and Charles didn't get along."

  "Oh, they did at first. At least, that’s what my Dad told me." A pained look crossed his face. "But I guess they had a falling out. I was too young to remember. I only have a few vague memories of Uncle Charles."

  "Your father didn't approve of Charles being a medium?"

  "That’s right. But before Charles got famous, we spent a lot of time here." A wistful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Those were good times."

  "So, I guess this is Lily Johanson." I pointed at the picture, hoping Steve would know who at least some of the people were.

  "Yep." He scowled. "She was the one who was murdered."

  I nodded. "Do you know anything about that?"

  "That all happened after my father and Uncle Charles had the falling out. He didn't believe in all the ghost stuff and didn't talk about Charles much." Steve's face turned hard. "I lost my mother around that time. I think I was around ten or eleven. Anyway, I could have cared less about some uncle I hadn't seen in years. After Mom died, I kind of lost my way."

  "Oh, I'm sorry." I meant it, too. I still thought Steve was an opportunist taking advantage of Bruce's death to make more money, but I could see he hadn't had it easy.

  I returned my attention to the photo album, pointing to the guy longing for Lily. "Who’s the guy?"

  He squinted, then shook his head. "No idea."

  I flipped to a picture of the pretty, young girl. "How about this woman?"

  Steve snorted. "Oh, yeah, her I know. That’s Gladys Primble."

  "You knew her?"

  "Sure. She was Uncle Charles’ housekeeper. She used to make the best cookies and took care of me lots of times when I came here to visit. She used to watch me when I was a baby and my father came to visit Uncle Charles. But, in the end, I guess she must have pulled a fast one."

  "Pulled a fast one?" My brows mashed together. "What do you mean?"

  "Uncle Charles left the house and its contents to my father." Steve gestured toward the rest of the house. "My father thought that was a slap in the face because he didn't approve of Charles' séances and stuff. Dad said the house was cursed, which is why he never did anything with it. Charles also left some money in a trust to pay the taxes for the house. He actually didn't have a lot of money in the bank when he died, but according to my Dad, the real slap was that Uncle Charles left a big chunk of that money to Gladys Primble."

  ***

  I stared at Steve. "Why would he leave money to his housekeeper?"

  Steve shrugged. "Who knows? As I said, Dad hadn't talked to Uncle Charles for some years by then. We didn't know what was going on with him."

  "Was it a lot of money?"

  "About twenty-five grand. Not that much. Of course, back then that was worth a lot more. Anyway, it pissed Dad off big time."

  My investigator’s intuition was starting to work overtime. I knew some people left money to loyal servants back a hundred years ago, but in the 1960s I didn't think that was very common. But if Gladys had been Charles’ lover …

  "I gotta get back to my listings." Steve turned and headed toward the hallway.

  "Was Gladys Primble married?"

  Steve stopped and cocked his head to the side, pressing his lips together. "Yep, she must have been because I called her Mrs. Primble."

  That was it! Gladys must have been Charles lover and they had to hide it because she was married.

  But, what did that have to do with Charles' murder?

  Steve went back to his eBay listings and I tried to continue cataloguing the books. My mind spun with this new information. Was Gladys Primble Charles Van Dorn's secret lover?

  Maybe Gladys knew Charles was going to leave her the money and she was the one who killed him? Or perhaps there was some kind of a love triangle between her, Lily, and Charles and she killed them both in a jealous rage. Maybe Bruce was involved, somehow. I wondered if those old photographs Jimmy had seen at Bruce's had to do with Charles' murder. Maybe Bruce was looking into it for some reason and suspected Gladys.

  A shiver danced up my spine as I glanced out the window toward the place where I'd found Bruce's body. Was it possible that the two of them met here, and Bruce confronted her with his theory and she killed him?

  I needed to go to Bruce's and look at those old pictures and I needed to talk to Gladys Primble. It was looking more and more like the two murders were related.

  I picked up the pace. I wanted to make it to the end of the row of books I was working on before I called it quits. Plus, I was hoping Charles would show up—I had a lot of questions for him.

  Twenty minutes later, I was done with the section of books I'd wanted to finish, but still hadn't seen Charles. It was just like a ghost to pester you when you didn't want to see them and then vanish when you had questions.

  I gathered up my notebook and, after wrestling with my conscience about stealing from a client, slipped a photo out of the album and tucked it inside the notebook. I knew Charles wouldn’t mind if taking them meant solving his murder.

  Closing the library door quietly, I started down the hall, wondering if I should say good-bye to Steve. I probably should. It would be rude to just leave, and I wanted to let him know I'd have to come back tomorrow night.

  Sounds of hushed talking filtered out of a room on my left. I remembered seeing an office down there which, I assumed, had been Charles’ office. Steve must have moved his eBay operation from the hotel and set it up in the comfort of Charles' old office.

  I tiptoed toward the open doorway, stopped just outside, and flattened myself against the wall so I could hear what he was saying. Guilt gnawed at my stomach, but the hushed tones sounded suspicious, and even though I'd just made the discovery about Gladys, Steve was still one of my main suspects since he was benefitting financially from the renewed interest in the Van Dorn curse.

  "I told you the money will be there." Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper. "See if you can hold them off … I'm waiting on some eBay sales … it could mean the end of everything if you can't hold them off, but we're so close to …"

  Steve's voice got even lower and I leaned closer. A floorboard creaked sending my heart into a tailspin.

  "Who's out there?" Steve's voice was louder now.

  I popped my head into the doorway as if I'd just been walking down the hall, instead of eavesdropping outside the office. "Hi, I was just taking off."

  "Hold on," Steve said into the phone, then put his hand over it and looked up at me. "Did you find the journal?"

  "No. Sorry." I glanced down at the desk and noticed he had official-looking papers spread out with a bold, fancy font and gold seals affixed to them.

  He followed my gaze. "These are my certificates of authenticity for eBay for the Van Dorn collection."

  He held up a thick piece of paper and I could see it had a ribboned title across the top, the gold seal, then a picture of the item and the date with some text below, which I assumed was some sort of jargon letting the buyer know it was the real deal. On the bottom, it was signed Steve Van Dorn in gleaming, gold ink to match the stamp.

  I stepped inside the office to get a
closer look and caught a whiff of alcohol. Had Steve been drinking? Something niggled at my memory as I stared at the paper.

  "That’s nice," I said.

  "They sure do help boost customer confidence," he said. "Are you all finished cataloguing the books?"

  "No. I need a few more nights of cataloguing, but I'm finding some valuable books." I tapped my notebook, then brought it back to my side quickly before the pictures could fall out. "I’ll type everything up for you when I am done."

  "Great," he said, then held up the phone. "I gotta get back to my call."

  "Right, I’ll be back tomorrow night."

  He nodded and turned away, speaking into the phone in a normal tone. "Jeff? Yeah, like I said, a couple more days …"

  I backed out of the room slowly, trying to hear as much as I could of his conversation. On his desk, I noticed a strange-looking, large white round pen—it must have been the one he was using to sign the certificates, but it wasn't like any normal pen I'd even seen. My eyes fell to the name on the side "Copic."

  My heart stuttered in my chest when I noticed the marking on the very end of the pen—Y28. It was the same type of pen that had made the marking on Bruce Norton's forehead.

  I practically ran for my car, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket as I went. My fingers fumbled the keys for Gus' number.

  Wait. I couldn’t call Augusta—she'd want to know how I knew about the marker and Jimmy might get into trouble. He was a good source of information and I didn't want to risk that—you never know when an 'in' at the police station might come in handy.

  I slipped into my car and turned the engine over, the phone still in my hand. Maybe it was just a coincidence. How many people used those Copic markers?

  My eyes slid to Steve's yellow car parked next to mine and something clicked into place in the back of my mind. Ruth Walters had seen a yellow car drive by that morning. That was one coincidence too many. Steve had to be Bruce's killer.