“What are we doing here? And tell me again why you wanted me to bring Sherlock and Watson? I … wow. Someone really enjoys decorating for Halloween, don’t they?”
I should probably backtrack a bit and tell you what’s going on. For those who may not know me, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Zack Anderson. I’m happily married to my beautiful wife, Jillian, and together, we live in a small town in southwest Oregon by the name of Pomme Valley. PV, as we tend to call it, is situated less than ten minutes from Medford, and we’re about thirty minutes from Grants Pass, which lies northwest of us.
I also own two corgis, who go by Sherlock and Watson. They have got to be, hands down, the smartest four-legged critters I think I have ever encountered. Those two dogs—believe it or not—are actual working dogs for the Pomme Valley PD, with me as their handler. On paper, we’re consultants, but everyone knows those two dogs are the only thing the police department cares about. They are, in fact, PVPD’s secret weapons. The only title I hold is Filler of Food Bowls.
The four of us had just walked up the steps, onto the front porch, and seeing how the main entrance had both double doors propped open, stepped inside PV’s favorite historic building. Inside, we encountered a short, narrow hallway with a single door on either side. The right side, I knew, had the old den, and the left? Jillian said it was something that was originally called the reception room. As for now, it was simply a closet.
My wife purchased this place recently as a business investment. The only way she had been allowed to buy one of the town’s historic properties was with the promise that she was not going to sell the house anytime soon. Instead, the only stipulation the mayor of PV had given was that it be given a complete overhaul. Since Jillian’s plans were to convert the building into an old-fashioned bed and breakfast, she had agreed on the spot.
Renovations had been interesting. Turns out, this building had a few secrets of its own. The first, we discovered, was that this home had once belonged to Dame Hilda Highland. Apparently, Highland House had been built with the sole purpose of keeping things hidden. In this case, keeping stashes of illegal alcohol away from prying eyes during Prohibition, and as such, a number of secret rooms and passageways had been discovered. The second was that Dame Highland had used all the various nooks and crannies at her disposal to hide her more valuable jewelry.
And, of course, I would be remiss if I forgot to mention the people of PV thought the building was haunted.
Entering the former living room, which had been turned into a lobby, my eyes were automatically drawn to the right, which was where the dining room was located. The long, rustic oak dinner table, which had room for twelve, had been shoved up against the wall. What captured my attention, though, was what was on the table and, for that matter, practically every square inch of space in and around the room.
The table had been draped with two different cloths; light blue on the left, and a deep purple on the right. The two different colored linens had some type of white lace pattern on it, but I couldn’t tell what it was due to the enormous amount of … stuff on it. Bright orange marigolds were everywhere, and if I’m not mistaken, paper flowers of just about every hue you can think of were scattered along the surface. The next thing I saw was a large, black candle—currently lit—that was situated at the back of the table and was set on some type of raised platform. Black candles aren’t really that spectacular, but when it was shaped like a skull, with a huge grinning smile, it was bound to get a second look.
As I slowly inspected the table, I saw several more of the skull candles, only they were a few inches shorter than the large one. Directly in the middle of the table, arranged in an altar, were photographs, not of one person, but of many. Also present was a collection of plates and baskets. What was on them? Food, of course. I was looking at loaves of bread, baskets of fruit, a plate of enchiladas, and so on. My stomach threatened to rumble if I lingered too long over the display. The walls had additional pictures, more paper flowers, and brightly colored fabrics as backdrops. I could also see several plush animals placed here and there, only they didn’t look like any type of child’s toy I had ever seen before.
Stepping back from the table, the first thing I thought I was looking at was an homage to someone who had recently passed away. Only, thanks to the numerous photographs, I knew that wasn’t the case. This certainly wasn’t any funeral reception I had ever been to. Since when were there jet-black skull candles and brightly-colored flowers in the same friggin’ room? I was clearly missing something.
“¡Feliz Día de Los Muertos! Mrs. Anderson! Mr. Anderson! Thank you so much for coming!”
We turned to see Lisa Martinez, a Hispanic woman in her early thirties. Highland House’s manager was wearing a white, frilly blouse, a floor-length gray skirt with ruffles on the edges, and a red sash around her waist. Her long, black hair had been braided into twin pigtails, and she wore a floral tiara on the top of her head, which consisted of a series of flowers that resembled a rainbow when viewed side-by-side. What stopped me in my tracks was her face. No, don’t get me wrong, Lisa is very attractive. What took my breath away was the simple fact that her face was painted bone-white, her left eye socket area had been painted black, and her lips were also black. She produced a silver tray and held it out to us.
“Calaveras?”
“Cala-what?” I wanted to know.
“Calaveras,” Jillian repeated, smiling. “And of course, I’ll have one. Zachary? Will you try one? They’re edible. I mean, most calaveras are not, seeing how they’re used for decorations, but these? Something tells me that you’ll like them. I just hope they taste half as good as they smell.”
“Mmm, tastes just like a cookie,” I said, after taking my first bite. “I don’t care what they are. They get two thumbs up in my book.”
“That’s because they are cookies, Mr. Anderson,” Lisa clarified. “Kimmi made them last night.” In case I didn’t mention it, Kimmi is Lisa’s girlfriend. She’s Hawaiian, and basically uprooted her entire life to move out here when Lisa took the job as manager of the Highland House B&B. “If you’d like to see some actual calaveras, then you’re in luck. Kimmi made some of those, too. I helped decorate, of course. And here, I made these myself, for your two wonderful dogs.”
Lisa squatted to present two decorated doggie biscuits. Sherlock and Watson promptly sat and enjoyed their treats. Once they were finished, they practically glued themselves to Lisa’s side, hoping they’d be rewarded with another goodie. Brown-nosers.
For the next fifteen minutes, we followed Jillian’s manager around the display, listening intently as we were schooled on everything one needed to know to observe this traditional Mexican holiday. First and foremost, it wasn’t anything like Halloween, even though it did fall on the day after. And, much to my surprise, one didn’t need to be of Mexican heritage in order to celebrate the holiday. It helps, yes, to have someone explain what is what, but it certainly isn’t required. After all, this was a day meant to honor loved ones who have passed away, regardless of ethnicity. That was why, Lisa explained, there were so many bright colors. We weren’t supposed to be feeling sorry for anyone. Quite the contrary, this was when the spirits of the dead were actually welcomed back, with open arms.
I pointed at a few of the cooked dishes on the table.
“Oh, so that’s why there’s food present? To entice them to return?”
Lisa nodded. “They’re ofrendas. Offerings. People will make their loved one’s favorite dishes, in the hopes that they will be visited by their spirits.”
Jillian turned to point at one of the animal figurines. The painting scheme was just as colorfully executed as all of the skulls.
“I see several animals, Lisa. I remember you telling me they were, what, spirit animals?”
Lisa nodded again. “Alebrijes. Spirit guides. They can come in many forms. Pedro Linares, a folk artist living in Mexico City in the 1930s, came up with the idea. He was sick with fever, and claims he started hallucinating when he passed out. He insists he saw a forest with strange animals, with elements from multiple creatures.”
Intrigued, I leaned closer. “You mean, head of a lion, body of a goat, that type of thing? That’s why this cat-thing has wings?”
Lisa grinned at me. “Precisely. Alebrijes literally translates to fantasy, or imaginary. Therefore, Pedro theorized these mystical animals were there to guide the spirits from one side to the other, and back again.”
“I’ve always seen those decorated skulls,” I said, as I jammed my hands in my pockets, “but never knew the story about them. We appreciate the history lesson, Lisa.”
“Indeed, we do,” Jillian agreed. “Now, would you care to tell us why you wanted the four of us out here?”
My head jerked up. “What? She’s the one who called us out here? What in the world for? Next, you’ll tell us that the spirits are here, and you need them gone.”
Lisa laughed. “Not quite, I’m afraid. Oh, let’s see. How do I put this? Well, here we go. Some of my ofrendas have gone missing.”
I blinked a few times. “Your … offerings? From the table? They’re, uh, missing? Man, I was totally joking earlier.”
“What’s gone missing?” Jillian wanted to know. “Are you sure someone didn’t just walk away with it?”
“The first thing I noticed was my mother’s hand-knitted scarf. She made it for my abuela many years ago. It was her favorite.”
“Her what?” I whispered in Jillian’s ear.
“Her grandmother. Now, shush.”
“Yep. Sorry.”
Lisa leaned forward and tapped a section of the table next to one of the skull candles.
“I had it here, next to her picture.”
“When did you last see it?” Jillian wanted to know.
“Yesterday. I went to straighten the table and refresh several dishes and noticed it was missing.”
“What else has been taken?” I asked. My notebook had found its way into my hand and, in proper police consultant fashion, I was taking notes.
“Several small, hanging pictures.”
“Hanging pictures?” I repeated, looking up.
“Yeah, you know, the kind that are homemade?”
“Like homemade ornaments?” Jillian asked, coming to Lisa’s aid.
“Yes, exactly. And, then there’s the food.”
It was Jillian’s turn to look surprised.
“Food? What about the food?”
“Several plates have been tampered with,” Lisa reported.
“As in, tainted?” Jillian asked, horrified.
“More like … sampled,” Lisa corrected.
Jillian’s look of horror switched to one of anger.
“Oh, that’s unacceptable.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs. Anderson. If I didn’t know any better, then I’d either say we have a vagrant living somewhere inside this house …”
“… which we know we don’t,” Jillian interrupted.
“Yes. Either a vagrant, or …?”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I scolded, becoming stern. “Don’t even go there. You’re not going to tell me one of your spirits is now living in Highland House. You’re not, are you?”
“I was going to say that, perhaps, our ofrendas are too tempting to ignore. Perhaps we have one—or more—of our dearly departed walking among us?”
I felt a chill creep down my spine and ended up shuddering.
“Well, this little outing has taken an unexpected turn,” I grumbled.
Jillian swatted my arm. “Oh, Zachary. Don’t start believing everything you hear. You can’t possibly be afraid of ghosts, can you? No? Good. There’s simply no way there could be ghosts here. I don’t believe in them.”
“I may not believe in ghosts, my dear, but I do have my concerns about any type of unexplainable phenomena. Besides, you have to admit something to me.”
“What’s that?” my wife wanted to know. I also noticed Lisa was listening intently.
“If there was going to be a house that was haunted, you and I both know it’d be this one.”
Both Jillian and Lisa broke into laughter.
“Will you look into this for me, Mr. Anderson?” Lisa asked, a few moments later.
I looked at my wife, and then down at the dogs, who were both snoozing at my feet. However, at the exact instant I looked down, Sherlock awoke, looked up at the table, and did something that made my eyebrows shoot up.
Woof!
Just like that, both corgis were on their feet and were staring, suspiciously, at the table and the many offerings it held.
“I guess that means we’ll take the case,” I announced. “I always wanted my very own proton pack!”
“What does he want?” I heard Lisa quietly ask Jillian.
“He thinks he’s a Ghostbuster now,” Jillian explained. “Best to just humor him. That’s what I always do.”
“I heard that, lady,” I scoffed, although anyone who knew me would know I was just teasing. I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice to Jillian in all the time we’ve been together. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure we can each get on the other’s nerves, but when you’re in a relationship, who doesn’t?
So … now I’m a Ghostbuster. This should be fun!
My first official day as a paranormal investigator didn’t start until later in the afternoon. After all, I did have to get some gear together, didn’t I? However, the only thing you’ll find stuffed in my backpack would be a pair of latex gloves, two N95 face masks, disinfectant spray, my palm-sized video camera, and a bag of doggie biscuits.
Ghostbuster, I am not.
Actually, what I really should have packed was a change of clothes, ’cause I’m pretty sure I’m going to pee myself if I do come face to face with a ghost. Yes, I know; I’m being irrational. I know there’s no such thing as ghosts or spirits that have yet to move on. Well, let’s make that ninety-nine percent certain. After all, it’s a mighty big world out there. How do we know for certain that some form of energy doesn’t linger behind after a person passes away? It’s that one-percent I’m worried about.
Yep, there you go. I’m a writer. These are the sort of morbid things I think about. And, based on my present situation, I’ve been thinking about them a lot.
“You two are up,” I told the dogs. “Where do you want to go first?”
Neither dog bothered to look at me. Both of them were on their feet and promptly headed for the stairs in the middle of the house. Gently tugging them to a stop, I pointed left, toward the display we saw earlier in the day.
“I think you want to go that way, don’t you? After all, isn’t that the scene of the crime?”
Sherlock turned to give me a look that spoke volumes. With one glance, my tri-colored corgi pretty much told me that if I didn’t want the help he was willing to give, then I had no business asking for it in the first place. As for Watson, well, she didn’t seem to care, and was content to look wherever her packmate indicated.
“Fine, you win. Let’s go upstairs. We’ll see what we can find.”
There were four bedrooms upstairs, not including a huge suite which took up the entire western side of the second floor. The suite seems to be the most popular of the rooms, since Jillian confirmed there’s usually a two month waiting list to make a reservation. I’ve been in that particular room before. It was Dame Hilda’s master bedroom. That one room alone probably has the largest closet I’ve ever seen before. This particular closet contained not one, nor two, but three different hidden compartments, thus increasing the closet’s overall square footage to something larger than most apartments. Then again, not many closets had dedicated attic space, and a hidden pull-down ladder for access.
Everything had been lovingly restored. Jillian spared no expense. If it was something that existed during the house’s heyday, even though it might have not been originally installed, it was then added to the house plans. Door knobs, hinges, light fixtures, everything.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, the dogs turned to look left, toward the main master suite. Then, they collectively turned right and started heading down the hall as though they owned the place. The door on the far right corner led into one of the floor’s four identical bedrooms. Sherlock lifted a paw and acted like he was going to scratch the door in order to get me to open it. Anticipating his move, I stepped in front of the door before he could do any damage.
“What have I told you before? No more scratching on doors, pal. That goes for you, too, Watson. We are here as guests.” Spinning in place so that I was facing the door, I knocked a few times. “Umm, housekeeping?”
The door opened and a matronly woman appeared. “We don’t need any service at the moment, thank you. My, I can’t remember the last time I saw a male housekeeper. Oh. Oh! Look at the dogs! I know you! You’re Mr. Anderson! These two are Sherlock and Watson, aren’t they?”
Two corgi derrieres were wiggling so much that their whole bodies sort of writhed in ecstasy. I held out a hand.
“You have the advantage, Ms. …?”
“Marjorie Whitfield. My husband and I are celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary today. We both live in town, but wanted some time away from home. Oh, I wish Herb was here. He loves your dogs, too. Did you really meet the Queen of England? Oh, that must have been wonderful!”
“The Queen is a very remarkable woman, Mrs. Whitfield,” I said, nodding. “And yes, those two are Sherlock and Watson.”
“You’re not really with the housekeeping department, are you?” Marjorie wanted to know.
“No, we’re just, er, … ?”
Marjorie’s eyes widened and lit up.
“The thefts! You and your dogs are investigating the thefts! Well, may I add something else to the list?”
It was my turn to stare.
“Have you, uh, noticed something missing?”
“I have, yes.”
I pulled out my notebook. “All right, hit me with your best. What’s missing?”
“It’s really nothing,” Marjorie was saying. “It’s just that … I can’t find one of my mittens. Herb seems to think I simply forgot it at home, but I didn’t. I wore them last night, so I know I brought them.”
“Where is Mr. Whitfield?” I politely inquired.
“He’s playing golf. I know it sounds strange, us celebrating our anniversary here, together, only we’re not together. Well, I can’t stand golf, and he doesn’t particularly care for shopping, so we each agreed to meet up for lunch at the Lonely Gringo.”
“They’ve got fantastic food,” I confirmed. “Hey, out of curiosity, since I know there aren’t any golf courses here in PV, where did Mr. Whitfield go to play golf? Medford?”
Mrs. Whitfield was shaking her head. “No, it was a city by the name of Eagle Point. It’s not too far away.”
“You’re right, I’ve driven through that particular golf course. It’s only about twenty minutes from here. It’s a great area. Okay, back to your mittens. You were wearing them last night?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Whitfield said. “I’m always cold, and my hands get just like ice cubes. It drives Herb nuts. So …” Mrs. Whitfield held up a finger, signaling me to wait, and hurried around a corner. Moments later, she was back, holding a lone orange mitten. “I knitted these myself. On top of which, I’ve been through all our things. I can’t find the second one anywhere.”
“Umm, do you have any ideas who could’ve taken it?”
Mrs. Whitfield nodded and, if I’m not mistaken, turned pale.
“I know exactly who took it.”
Relieved, I offered the matronly woman a smile. “You have no idea how glad I am about that. So, curiosity kills. Who did it?”
“My mother. She always said I couldn’t knit a proper sweater even if I had someone there telling me how to do it.”
Sherlock and Watson chose that time to give themselves a good shake before sinking into down positions. In unison, they watched the two of us converse. Smiling at the dogs, I looked up at Mrs. Whitfield and paused as I tried to determine the best way to phrase my objection.
“Umm, er, is your mother here, now? Which room is she in?”
“Oh, she’s here, I’m certain of it. She never could stand to see me happy.”
Right then, the cobwebs cleared out of my brain and I realized what Mrs. Whitfield was talking about.
“You’re not suggesting your mother is here because of Día de Los Muertos, are you?”
“Well, of course! Ms. Martinez said if I were to bring a picture of a departed loved one, that she’d take ten percent off the price of our stay. Oh, and something about her favorite dish.”
That’s just great. This woman thinks her dead mother stole her mitten? Seriously?
“I can see that you don’t believe me, Mr. Anderson,” Mrs. Whitfield said, frowning.
“No, I’m sorry. My wife tells me I need to be more open-minded. Still, I’m having a hard time believing a ghost is responsible for this.”
“I’m not the only one!” Mrs. Whitfield insisted. “The lovely young couple down the hall were telling me that they have things missing, too.”
I turned to gaze back at the hallway. “Down there? Are you talking about the suite?”
“Yes.”
“Were they offered the same promotion as you?” I asked. “Did they bring a picture of someone they’ve lost?”
Mrs. Whitfield was already nodding. “They did.”
“Hmm. Well, thank you for your time. Rest assured, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
The door closed and I looked down at the dogs, who slowly rose to their feet.
“What do you think? Do you want to go check it out?”
The two corgis answered by tugging on their leashes and walking back, across the hall, to the western side of the house. The B&B’s pride and joy, the Roaring Twenties Suite, appeared before us. Glancing down at the dogs, to check whether or not this was what they wanted to do, I saw that both corgis were now sitting, which confirmed we were in the right place.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I softly intoned, before knocking on the door.
A young man in his early twenties answered the knock. He was much shorter than me, around five-foot-six, had short brown hair, and was wearing a green-collared Polo-type shirt with khaki pants.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
A woman appeared next to him. She looked to be around the same age, had long blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail, and was wearing black slacks with a blue blouse. Both husband and wife heard Sherlock’s soft snort and immediately looked down. The wife’s eyes lit up with recognition first.
“Wh-what’s this? Aren’t you two Sherlock and Watson? David, did you set this up?”
David, the husband, shook his head. “Er, no. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Hey there,” I began, once the two of them were looking my way. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m Zack Anderson and these two are … well, you guessed it. This is Sherlock, and that’s Watson.”
“Oh, they’re so adorable!” the wife gushed.
The man extended a hand. “David Sorrenson. This is my wife, Anya. Is there something we can do for you?”
I picked up the accent right away. Norwegian? Swedish? I figured it was from one of those Scandinavian countries.
“I’m really sorry to bother you. My wife owns this place and she asked me to check out some reports of missing items. I was talking to …”
“Of course!” Anya exclaimed. “Your dogs are famous detectives! We recognized them from television!”
Nodding, I held my hands out, as though I was presenting the corgis to the world.
“Yep, there they are. Where are you guys from?”
“Stockholm,” David answered.
“You’re a long way from home,” I observed. “What brought you guys out to our neck of the woods?”
“Sightseeing,” Anya reported. “Plus, we were really hoping we’d be able to meet those two adorable boys down there.”
“You came all the way here just to meet the dogs?” I asked, incredulous. “And, for the record, Watson is a girl.”
Anya dropped down to the ground and stroked Watson’s fur. “Oh, that’s no name for such a pretty girl, is it?”
Watson stared at her new admirer for a few moments before dropping to the ground and rolling over. Not to be outdone, Sherlock wedged himself up against Anya’s leg and did the same.
“They don’t like people at all, do they?” David joked. “But, to set your mind at ease, we’ve always wanted to explore this part of the United States. The fact that my wife’s new obsession happens to live here is just icing on the cake. So, you’re here to look into the thefts?”
I nodded. “What was stolen?”
Anya held up her smartphone. “My charging cable.”
I looked at David for confirmation. “Okay. Umm …?”
“I know it sounds trivial,” Anya was saying, “and I’m really not going to make an issue of it. But, I left it right there, on the little table next to the bed.”
“When did you see it last?” I inquired, as soon as I pulled out my notebook.
“This morning. After breakfast, David and I headed out to explore the town. When we came back, it was gone. The charging cube was still in the wall, but the cable was gone.”
“We checked with housekeeping,” David said, correctly guessing what I was thinking, “and they assure us they didn’t take anything out of the room.”
“Did you ask whether or not they saw the cord in here?” I asked, without looking up from my notebook. When I didn’t immediately get an answer, I looked up. “It’d be nice to know when the cord vanished.”
David turned to his wife. “I don’t recall asking that question.”
Anya nodded. “I did. They claim there were no cords draped across the table, like I left it.”
“What time did you guys head out for the day?” I asked.
“Around eight in the morning,” David recalled.
“And the cleaning lady tells me she was here around ten,” Anya added.
“So, sometime in that two hour window, someone came in here to steal … a charging cable. Hmm.”
David grinned. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Those cables are, what, no more than ten bucks?” I scoffed.
“We each have spare cables,” Anya pointed out. “That’s why we didn’t bother reporting it. It’s just that, well …”
“… why in the world would someone break in here and take a simple cable?” I finished for her. I looked down at the dogs. “Is there anything you guys would like to look at?”
I swear I saw Sherlock shrug and nod. He gave himself a solid shaking and immediately headed to the desk near Anya’s side of the bed. He sniffed it a few times before turning to look at the window.
“What do you see, pal? Hmm, nope, it’s just a window. Nothing spectacular. Wait. Are you suggesting whomever came in here did so using the window?”
“We thought of that, too,” David confessed. “However, if you look at those windows, you’ll see that yes, they swing out, but no, there’s no way anyone could make it through.”
I saw the small casement crank and looked questioningly at the room’s occupants. “Do you mind?”
David waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Help yourself.”
I rotated the crank and watched both sides of the window slowly swing out. It would seem Jillian had replaced the windows in the Roaring Twenties Suite, and seeing how she didn’t want to obscure anyone’s view, had opted for French Casement windows. The first thing I noticed about the windows is that there wasn’t a screen on it.
“Where’s the screen?” I asked, as I leaned out the window to inspect the ground. This was only the second floor, so the ground wasn’t too far away. However, there also wasn’t anything a burglar could climb onto in order to make it up here. No trellis, or drain pipes, or even any footholds could be seen on the building’s exterior. “You’d need a ladder to get up here, and I would think it’d be blatantly obvious that he was up to no good.”
“Especially during the day,” Anya reminded me. “What about flying?”
I looked up. “Flying?”
Anya nodded. “That’s right, flying. Or floating, whichever you prefer.”
I hesitated as I studied her face. Was she serious? Thankfully, her husband broke out laughing, although to be honest, it did sound a little forced.
“Stop your teasing. You know it has nothing to do with the festival downstairs.”
Anya looked at me and shrugged. “I will say we had the window open, seeing how the weather was beautiful today, and we wanted to let some fresh air in the room, but the windows weren’t open by that much. Maybe … six inches?”
I scribbled some notes. “That’s helpful, thanks. Sherlock? Watson? Anything else in here you want to check out?”
Both dogs headed for the door.
“Apparently not,” David laughed. He held out a hand. “Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Anderson. It saves us having to track you down so Anya could meet the dogs. Min kära? Is there anything else you’d like to say?”
Anya pulled out her cell phone. “Could I take some pictures?”
Ten minutes later, the dogs and I were back downstairs. Since I know there was no unauthorized access to either of the rooms upstairs, especially since Jillian had sprung for the state-of-the-art door entry systems that top-end hotels use, I decided to investigate the exterior of the house. It’s the only way someone would have made it in. Even though Anya had said she only left a gap of around six inches, that would be more than enough room for someone to conceivably reach through the opening and spin the crank, thus opening the windows even wider. I just had to see for myself what it would take to make that possible.
“Oh, there’s no way, guys,” I moaned several minutes later, as Sherlock, Watson, and I stood outside on the lawn, gazing up at the western side of the house, where the suite overlooked the vast lawn. “If someone tried to put a ladder up against the house, then they’d be seen. I mean, look at this. You can totally see the street from here. Yes, there’s a small window sill just outside of that window. Yes, the tiny ledge does connect the windows on that floor, but no, there’s no way for someone to walk along that. Not unless they were Tom Thumb, that is. No, that’s not the way they were getting in there. I just don’t know what that leaves us.”
Both dogs were sitting on the cool grass and panting.
“Any help here would be swell, guys.”
I continued to be ignored. In fact, both dogs settled down and closed their eyes.
“Sherlock? Watson? Could I possibly tear you away from your refreshing nap and focus on the problem at hand? How is this person making it inside the rooms? Could there be a hidden room or secret door we missed?”
I can’t even count how many rooms, doors, hallways, and hidden compartments had been found inside that house when it was fully remodeled. But, the idea was sound. Could there be something we missed?
Both dogs suddenly perked up. Sherlock jumped to his feet and strained at the leash, intent on checking out a small row of shrubs decorating the base of the house. Watson joined him moments later, and if I wasn’t too far off the mark, I’d say both dogs were close to …
WOOF!
Yep, there it is. Was there something in the bushes? Right on cue, the nearest bush rustled. I looked at the corgis and saw both had their ears sticking straight up and trained on the shrubbery.
“What is it?” I whispered. “There must be something there, ’cause I can hear it moving around.”
“Awwoooo,” Sherlock agreed, using one of his low, soft howls.
“Are you going to check it out?” I asked the dogs.
Neither one budged an inch.
“Oh, come on. There’s something in there. Don’t you want to, you know, spook it out of there? What’s the phrase, flush it out?”
Neither corgi moved, nor did either make a sound.
“Thanks a lot, guys. Fine, I’ll take a look. If something leaps out at me, then you and I both know you’re gonna be in the doghouse, got it?”
I crept forward and placed one knee on the soft grass. With the leashes held tightly in one hand, and the other making certain I didn’t execute a face plant onto the ground, I leaned as low as my shaky arm would allow, trying to peer under the thick row of bushes and shrubs.
“Uuuunnnnggghhh!!” a loud voice suddenly moaned.
I’m ashamed to say that I came thiiiiiiiiiis close to wetting myself.
“Son of a biscuit-eater!” I bellowed out, throwing myself backward and executing a half-roll, to land on my back. “What the fracknoggin’ …?”
“Such harsh language,” a familiar voice teased, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. “Whatcha doin’?”
Vance Samuelson, senior detective at the local police department, and a good friend of mine, leaned over me and looked down.
“Dude,” I started sputtering, “I’m gonna … I’m gonna …”
“… need a new change of underwear?” Vance teased, as he gave me a hand up. “I was driving by and saw you on the ground, so I thought I’d check to see what you were doing.”
“Besides giving me a heart attack? I’m just doing a little Ghostbusting’, that’s all.”
Vance regarded me for a few moments.
“Seriously?”
“It’s the Day of the Dead,” I explained. “And, wouldn’t you know it, a few things have disappeared from the house. We were brought here to try and figure out what’s going on.”
Vance stepped around me to gaze at the front entrance of the house, which was nearly twenty feet away. He took a few more steps as he studied the contours of the house, then he turned back to me. Then, his eyes dropped to the dogs, who were both chomping at the bit to be allowed to say hello. Eyeing Vance, who nodded, I gave both dogs permission and watched as they raced each other to see who could get to him first. For the record, Watson won this round.
“Hi, guys!” Vance cheerfully greeted, as he squatted down to give each of the dogs a scratch behind the ear. “Look what I’ve got for you!”
Doggie biscuits were produced. Two corgis were suddenly behaving so angelically that I’m surprised halos hadn’t appeared over their heads. Both dogs sat. Sherlock even raised a paw, as though he was expecting to be asked to shake in order to earn his treat.
“Enjoy, guys. So, you’re checking out, what, some burglaries?”
“Yeah, people have reported several missing items.”
“Izzat so? Anything I need to know about?”
“It’s just piddly stuff. Someone lost a scarf, another a mitten. The couple in the room up there lost the charging cable for their phone.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t sound like you need my help at all. All right, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if that changes.”
“I will. Thanks, pal.”
Once my detective friend was gone, I dropped to one knee next to the dogs.
“That’s what you get for living in a small town like this. Friends can drop in at any time. However, I have one request: how about a little bit of a warning next time? If you see someone sneaking up on me, which means the person who feeds you, takes you for walks, and buys you goodies at the pet store, is about to get the bejesus scared outta him, then what about letting out a few warning woofs? Remember, you’re on my side, not his.”
Both dogs barked, in perfect unison.
“Okay, that’s just a little creepy. I didn’t expect an answer. And Watson, you rarely bark. Sherlock? Just … keep doing what you’re doing. Come on, this mystery isn’t going to solve itself. Guys, now’s the time to work your magic. What are we dealing with here? Do we have a thief on the property, a ghost haunting the place, or is there something else at work here?”
In response, Sherlock promptly headed back for the main entrance. Watson and I trailed behind.
“Well, I did ask for this,” I said to my little girl, as we both followed Sherlock up the porch steps and into the foyer. “We were already here. What’d we miss?”
We approached the staircase and, assuming we were heading back upstairs, I was surprised to see Sherlock and Watson veer right. Then, they stopped at the first door on the right, which led to a room that was originally a den, but had since been turned into a mini-library. And, for the record, a complete set of my works was in there, along with a number of other titles, all for the enjoyment of Highland House’s guests.
“What do you want in here?” I asked, as I pushed the door open.
This room, I knew, was hiding several secrets most guests would never know about. Yes, this was the new library, and yes, practically every wall was covered with books. However, I knew that the picture on the left, which happened to depict a small, thatched cottage with a young woman sitting at a loom, hid a secret passageway. Grinning, I gently slid my fingers along the bottom of the frame and felt the tiny, recessed button. One press would open a rather narrow corridor, which would lead directly to the area off the kitchen, known only as the servant quarters.
Moving to one of the bookcases, which looked no different than the others, I paused again. This one, I knew, was hiding one of the many compartments the previous owner had used to hide contraband.
Detecting movement, I watched both dogs sniff along the base of the walls, hesitating at the painting and again at the bookcase. Thirty seconds later, after making the rounds, Sherlock moved to the center of the room and fell silent. Watson joined him and, together, the two corgis became as still as statues.
“What are you doing?” I quietly asked them. “Knock it off, would you? You’re creeping me out.”
Neither dog budged, nor did they make a sound.
“Not funny, guys. Sherlock? Watson? Do something. Shake your collars, bat an eye, woof, anything, huh?”
Sherlock finally looked at me, then at his packmate, and then back at me. Moments later, he sank into a down position. When I started for him, he quickly rose to his feet and trotted to the large painting hiding the hidden passageway. As I stood there, watching the dogs watch me, I realized what they were doing: they had found something and wanted me to look. But … in the center of the room?
“There’s nothing here, guys,” I announced, as I stepped into the middle of the room and slowly spun in place. “Everything is as it should be. There are no trapdoors here. It’s the original hardwood floor, all right?”
Jillian had pulled out all the stops in restoring the floor to its previous glory. It had been stripped, repaired, sanded, filled, and stained. Yes, the floor was gorgeous, but that didn’t mean it didn’t have …
Wait.
Let me interrupt myself and pose a question. Are you the type of person who is able to relax their eyes and let small details jump out at you? Something that doesn’t match the others and therefore stands out? Well, I don’t know why I did it, but that’s exactly what I did, and much to my surprise, something did stand out. Plus, it was right smack in the middle of the room. I just had to move something out of the way first.
Eyeing my two dogs, I knelt down to inspect the floor. A thin, gray area rug took up much of the room. Since I know the dogs weren’t looking at the geometric patterns, I could only assume they wanted to see what was beneath it. It only took a few moments to roll the rug up and shove it against the opposite wall.
This particular floor was comprised of stripped, sanded, and refinished hardwood. At least, that’s what I originally thought. Now that I was standing in the middle of the room, staring downward, I saw right away that the pattern of planks was off. Just like bricklayers when they’re working, bricks won’t ever sit directly over the stone below it. That would mean their grout lines would be straight up and down. Bricks are toggled, so that it increases the wall’s durability. In this case, the wood was arranged in a similar pattern, but for some reason, it didn’t apply to the center of the room.
Directly where I was standing was a section of the floor which didn’t conform to the rest of the pattern. Oh, it was subtle, there was no doubt about it. To any outside observer, the change in pattern wouldn’t be enough to stand out. But, as I stood in place, studying the wood planks, I could see that there was an area roughly six feet square where the lines were all different. Squatting on one knee, I saw that there was no symmetry in what I was starting to refer to—in my head—as the center box. Some pieces looked longer than others. Some were larger squares. Then, there was a smaller square, set in the direct middle, too. It was almost as if the carpenter was trying to create a mosaic out of leftover scrap pieces of wood, couldn’t make it work, and just threw everything together.
“Well, well,” I murmured, as I ran my finger along the grooves in the floor. “What have we here?”
My eyes were drawn to a small square piece of wood directly in the middle of the center box. There was something … off about that piece. The surface felt coarse; rough. It was nothing like the rest of the floor, which was almost as smooth as glass. So, what was different with it?
A quick poke had my eyes opening wide. It moved! Well, it was more like a slight wiggle. I gently pushed the small square. Nothing happened. I tried moving it left, or right. Again, nothing happened. Then, noticing the tiny piece of floor was just marginally thicker than the rest of the wood pieces, I checked to see if I could pry it up.
My eyes widened with surprise as the square block of wood easily popped off. That’s when I noticed it really wasn’t wood, but a piece of tile made to resemble wood. Bemused, I stared at the empty square space on the floor. My eyes then took in the overall shape of the anomaly, and the empty square, and was immediately reminded of those childhood sliding puzzles, where the player had to arrange the numbered tiles in order. Poking a finger at the closest piece of wood that was of similar size, I gave it an experimental shove. It moved, too! It was a good thing I wasn’t drinking anything, or else I’d have spewed it on the floor.
While similar to those sliding puzzles, I quickly discovered that what I had before me wasn’t quite the same, although it was close. Once I managed to get a piece of the floor puzzle in the right position, then whatever was holding it let go, and I was able to lift the piece out of the way. Using this technique, it took me nearly twenty minutes to clear all the pieces out of the way. Once I did, I looked back at the dogs and gave them a mock salute.
It was a trap door!
“You two are something else. Check it out! How in the world did you know this was here? You know what? Scratch that. Let’s see what’s behind door number one, shall we?”
Lifting the heavy wooden door up, I propped it open with a thin, wooden pole found on the side of the opening. Once I was sure the door wouldn’t come crashing back down on me, I activated the flashlight on my phone and took a long look at what lay before me.
It was a secret staircase!
This one wasn’t one of those super-narrow, steeper-than-you-can-climb types that would require climbing gear just to make it down the stairs. Instead, what I saw were stone steps, descending into darkness. Eyeing my phone, I made the executive decision not to try the stairs until I had a source of light that was much stronger.
Lowering the trapdoor back into place, I took the dogs and headed toward the check-in counter. Lisa was there, talking with one of the two staff members handling the guests checking in. The manager caught sight of me and waved me over.
“Mr. Anderson! How are things … ? You found something, didn’t you?”
I pointed at the dogs. “They did, I didn’t. Hey, do you have a flashlight I could borrow?”
Lisa nodded, ducked below the counter, and came up with an 18V Lithium-Ion cordless, rechargeable LED light. According to the side, it was capable of spitting out 200 lumens of light. In comparison, my cell’s flashlight will probably put out no more than 50.
“Will this work?” Lisa asked me.
I clicked it on and promptly blinded myself. “Yep, this’ll do. Thank you. Hey, as long as I’m thinking about it, can you put an Out of Order sign on your library door? I’m going to have the trapdoor propped open, and I wouldn’t want anyone falling in.”
“Trapdoor?” Lisa incredulously asked. “You found another hidden door in the library? Ooo, I have to see it!” Highland House’s manager followed me into the library and whistled once she saw the missing floor pieces and the outline of the door. “Geez, how long has that been there?”
“Years and years,” I confirmed, as I pulled the door back open and made sure it was locked in place. Clicking on the flashlight, I looked back at Lisa. “You’ll make sure no one else comes in here?”
“I’m on it. Good luck down there. I hope you find our missing stuff.”
“I hope I can figure out why it was being taken in the first place,” I countered.
The stairs were shallow enough that the corgis could take them themselves. With the light held high, we emerged into a room the size of one of the second-floor bedrooms and looked around. Were we completely underground? After all, there were only a dozen steps or so. I did notice one corner of the room was brighter than the others. There must have been a small window up there, hiding behind some type of tarp. Stacks of crates were everywhere, and judging by the amount of accumulated dust in the room, no one had been down here in decades.
Sherlock led me to the closest crate. Seeing how it wasn’t sealed, I leaned over it and shone the light to see what it contained: bottles. Row after row of dusty bottles, with no labels, could be seen. Lifting one up for a closer inspection, I turned to Sherlock and held it out to him. Both dogs sniffed once, snorted at the same time, and lost interest. At least, Watson did. Sherlock, about to turn around, sniffed once, and returned to the crate. He reared up on his hind legs and whined.
“It’s booze,” I told the corgis. “I’m certain of it. All these crates are probably loaded with them. Quite frankly, I’m surprised. I thought for certain we had located all the hidden rooms during the renovation. I … you’re whining again. Why? Do you want to see inside? All right, just a moment. There, the crate is on the ground. What do you think?”
Sherlock jumped up, so that his front legs were resting on the rim of the crate. He lowered his head and nudged a bottle. Looking back at me, he whined again and nudged the very same bottle.
“Color me intrigued,” I said to myself, pulling the bottle out. I held it up to the light and was surprised to see it didn’t contain any type of liquid. Instead, I could see something inside. Something metallic. “I think we might have found another piece of Dame Hilda’s missing jewelry. Sherlock? Check the other crates. See if there’s anything else, would you?”
Just once, it would have been nice to see Sherlock doing what I wanted him to do. Then again, what was I expecting? For him to completely understand what I wanted him to do and say, Sure, Dad, let me get right on that. Did he? Nope. He did wander off, though, to slowly inspect the room. Seeing how there was only one way out of this subterranean room, I felt it was safe enough to drop their leashes.
Sherlock immediately went to the far corner, where the faint light was trying to squeeze through a dirty towel hanging on the wall.
“There’s probably a small window up there,” I told the dogs, as I wrestled with the cork. “You can see from the size of that rag that there’s no way a human could fit through it. Just let it go, okay?”
The cork came free and, with genuine flourish, I emptied the bottle into my hand. When I saw what I was holding, I almost dropped it on the floor. It was a gold diamond necklace. Holding the piece of jewelry up for a closer inspection, my eyes widened as I noticed the size of the stones. These weren’t teeny-tiny filler stones. Each gemstone looked to be at least a half carat in size, and judging by the number of stones, I’d say the total carat weight to be somewhere in the vicinity of thirty or so.
I know I’m not a jeweler, and I have no business giving out an uneducated guesstimate on what this necklace must be worth, but as a married man, I’ve done my fair share of pricing out pieces of jewelry for Jillian. Tennis bracelets could easily run several thousand dollars. This, however, was a necklace, and I’m pretty sure a ballpark value for this thing was probably in the fifty-thousand range.
“We’re just gonna tuck this bad boy away,” I breathed, as I slid it into my pocket. Holy moly, I did not like carrying around something that valuable. But, I couldn’t leave it down here, either.
“Woof!”
Looking over at Sherlock, I could see Watson had joined him and, together, they were staring up at the ratty towel.
“What’s the deal, guys? Why are you so fascinated with that thing? All right, fine. Look, I’ll pull it down for you, okay? There. This disgusting piece of garbage can be thrown away. I … will you look at that? My bad, guys. As usual, I should’ve been paying attention.”
With the removal of the rag, the source of light was revealed. It was a window, and a small one at that. However, what caught my attention was that it was broken. And, the window may have not been cleaned in over fifty years, but I could still tell that it was above ground, probably behind one of the clumps of shrubs: I could barely see any daylight at all.
There were several stacks—of varying sizes—of crates next to the window. Sherlock moved to the closest and indicated I wasn’t done with my inspection.
“Awwooowooowooo.”
It wasn’t loud, nor was the howl accusatory. Sherlock simply wanted to draw my attention. Well, he had it, but I didn’t know what he wanted me to notice.
“Watson? Would you care to translate? There are more crates here. Should I start taking them down?”
Sherlock had the tenacity to turn in place and stare at Watson, as though they were having a silent argument. I can only imagine what was being said.
“How many times are we going to have to do this? How can we make it any easier?”
“He is human, after all. Don’t be too hard on him.”
“I’ve done what I can for the lumbering idiot. It’s your turn now.”
“Swell. In that case, let’s try something a little more obvious, shall we?”
My little red and white girl actually lifted a paw and scratched at the base of the smallest stack of crates. Then I felt my heart stop and my breath lodge in my throat as the tower of crates rocked to the left, and then the right, and I knew if I didn’t intervene, it was going to topple over. Holding the crates in place as the tremors stopped, I looked at Watson and wagged a finger.
“That really wasn’t necessary, was it?”
Unbeknownst to me, an adjacent stack of crates was still quivering, and it was just enough to send the top crate crashing down at my feet. I have to admit, my jump was pretty impressive. I figured it was at least two feet high and at least that many feet backward. And … I managed to stick the landing.
Neither dog flinched, which wasn’t surprising, as Watson was the one who got the stacks moving in the first place. Clearly, though, the majority of those crates had to be empty, or else it wouldn’t have been that easy to force them off balance.
Intent on using my foot as a broom to sweep the broken pieces of crate to the side, I noticed a flash of orange on the floor. Stooping, I picked up an orange mitten. Orange mitten? Didn’t one of the guests say she was looking for an orange mitten? Holding the light out in front of me, I inspected the rest of the clutter that must have been inside the crate. Seeing a white USB cord in the dust, I picked it up to reveal it was the missing charging cable from the couple in the Roaring Twenties suite. I also found a handful of homemade pictures, complete with pieces of string still attached.
“We found the thief’s hideout,” I whispered to the dogs. “However, I have no idea how they’re getting in here. There’s no way out except the stairs. And that small window, I suppose. Unless you’re only two inches tall, that isn’t gonna work. Come on, let’s gather everything up and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
Gathering up the mitten, cord, pictures, and a scarf that was probably Lisa’s missing family heirloom, and a few other things that looked out of place, we hurried up the stairs and closed the trapdoor. Seeing the jumble of wooden floor pieces around the hidden door, I sighed, dropped what I was holding, and spent the next fifteen minutes putting the floor back together. Once it was, I gathered the stuff and—with the corgis leading the way—approached the front counter. Once the pilfered items had been dumped, I waited for Lisa to look my way. She did, and when she saw her grandmother’s missing scarf, her eyes filled with tears.
“You found it! Oh, I’m so relieved! Thank you so much! I’m so confused. I wonder how it made it into that hidden room in the library. And you’ve found the rest of the stolen items! Oh, this is such good news!”
I pointed at the variety of items on the counter. “I think we’ve found everything. I spoke with several people upstairs. One was looking for this mitten, and another, that is, the couple in the suite, reported a missing charger cable.”
Lisa held up the USB cable. “Who would want to steal this? This is, what, worth maybe five dollars?”
I shrugged. “Whoever did it has a secret method to get into that room, ’cause there’s no way they used those stairs to do it.”
“Woof.”
The bark was soft, and as a result, I totally missed Sherlock’s attempt to get my attention.
“There’s a window down there,” I continued, “and it’s broken, so it’s open, only it’s somewhere behind the shrubs running around the base of this place.”
Sherlock tried again. “Woof.”
“There has to be some explanation,” Lisa insisted.
“WOOF!!”
Both Lisa and I turned to look down at Sherlock. The feisty corgi wasn’t looking at me, or Lisa, or even Watson. Instead, he was facing the foyer and was anxiously pulling on his leash, as though there was something—or someone—over there he had to greet.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I announced, as I wrapped the leash around my hand. “You are going to behave yourself.”
Exasperated, Sherlock looked at Watson, and I swear she shrugged. Moments later, she, too, was pulling at her leash.
“Excuse me a moment, would you?” I said, offering Lisa a smile. “I’m not sure what’s setting him off. We’re going to go check it out.”
Heading back to the foyer, with the front door visible directly in front of us, we came to a halt as Sherlock decreased his speed so much that he was moving in a very slow walk. Noting how I’ve seen him do this maneuver before, and it typically meant he was trying to sneak up on something, I gave him his slack and let him lead the way.
Stepping through the front doors, and about to head down the porch steps, our little group came to an immediate halt. There, in the middle of the stairs, was an orange and white tabby cat. Its leg was lifted high as he worked to, uh, clean himself up. The cat then noticed the three of us staring at him. If possible, the leg was lifted higher and the cat went back to work.
I looked at the cat, then at the dogs, and I finally realized what I was looking at.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Anderson?” Lisa asked, as she arrived behind me.
I pointed at the cat. “We seem to have found a cat.”
“Who, him? Oh, that’s just Snipper. He’s a friendly boy who has taken up residence in the house. I’ve told Jillian about him, and she assures me it’s okay to let the cat stay here. He makes sure the mice population remains nonexistent, and the patrons love finding him in their rooms.”
“In their rooms,” I slowly repeated.
Lisa’s eyes widened. “No. Are you telling me Snipper is our thief?”
I handed Sherlock and Watson’s leashes to Lisa and sat down next to Snipper. The big cat eyed me a few moments before deciding I must be harmless. He started purring and rubbed himself against my leg. That’s when I noticed tiny bits of broken twigs and leaves on his fur. That was what he had been cleaning off his coat.
“Snipper is using the window,” I said, sporting a grin. “Mr. Klepto here has been taking stuff he finds and then heads outside, where he pushes his way through the shrubs and enters the underground room through the broken window. That’s how the stuff is disappearing. Look at the mitten and your scarf. They have little bits of leaves and such on them, don’t they? Don’t you see? Snipper had been dragging them along the ground. I told you there was no such thing as ghosts.”
Snipper chose that time to cease his cleaning session and return our frank stares. After deciding he was clean enough, the tabby cat rose to his feet and sauntered down the steps to the sidewalk. After giving the cat a decent enough head start, the dogs and I followed, intent on seeing whether or not Snipper wanted to return to his hidden lair. Sure enough, he turned left and, with us hot on his tail, disappeared into the shrubs. Sherlock and Watson sniffed at the southeastern corner of the house before turning to look at me.
“Zachary!”
The three of us turned to see Jillian walking toward us.
“How are things going? Any progress?”
I nodded and pointed at the shrubs. “Yep. We just followed the thief over here and have confirmed he’s now hiding in his lair.”
My wife was quiet for a few moments as she digested this bit of news.
“You found the thief, and you know where he’s currently hiding?”
“Yep. He squeezed through a hole in a broken window and is currently noticing all of his stolen goodies have been confiscated.”
“Shouldn’t we be calling the police?”
“On a cat? Probably not. I’m pretty sure we’d be laughed at. Vance already laughs at me enough. I don’t need to give him any more ammo.”
“The thief is a cat? But … Snipper! You’re telling me Snipper is our thief?”
I nodded. “That’s exactly right.”
“And that’s where he’s been hiding? In the basement?”
“Yes, but not the one you’re thinking of. We found a secret staircase in the library, and it led down to yet another unexplored room.”
“You found a secret set of stairs?” Jillian sputtered. “In the library? Heavens, how long have I been gone?”
“Not long,” I grinned. “Oh, hey, that reminds me. You might want to put this in our safety deposit box at the bank. Sherlock found it, and I personally don’t like carrying something like this around with me.”
Jillian’s eyes threatened to bulge out of her head when she saw what I had deposited onto her hand.
“Is this …? Are these diamonds?”
“They were found in a hidden room at Highland House. I can pretty much guarantee you they’re genuine.”
“Zachary, look how many stones there are! This must be worth a fortune!”
“Which is why it needs to be secured,” I said, dropping my voice and pushing her hand, still clutching the necklace, down toward her purse.
“Where did you …? How did you …?”
I slipped my arm through hers and, together, we walked down the sidewalk, each holding a leash.
“I’ll tell you all about it, over dinner. You know what? I think we should go to the Lonely Gringo. I’m in the mood for some Mexican food.”