“Are you ready for a haunted evening?” a woman’s voice rang out as we walked into the foyer.
Clarence took my arm and cuddled up close. “This is so exciting. Wait until I tell Sister Frances.”
“She can never know. We stayed at a Hampton Inn or something,” I said.
“I couldn’t possibly lie.”
“It’s for her own good.” Or mine. Either way.
Fats stomped on the rug and looked around. “Hello!”
“Be right there!” said the voice.
“Is there a Hampton Inn in town?” I asked.
Clarence squeezed my arm and said, “I always heard about bed and breakfasts. This is exactly what I imagined.”
The crazy thing was that she was right. Miss Elizabeth’s was creepy as hell outside, but inside it was warm and cheery with polished woodwork and lovely antiques. It smelled like baking bread and chocolate chip cookies.
We took off our ice-encrusted coats and hung them on the fancy twisted wood coat rack and Moe dashed around sniffing and wagging her curly tail.
“Hello. Hello.” A woman with curly short grey hair and wearing a huge apron came out from the back, carrying an enormous mixing bowl and a batter-coated wooden spoon. “Mary Elizabeth?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Fats, taking out her ponytail and shaking her light brown hair out. It fell perfectly. I don’t understand how she did that. My hair was a wreck. I didn’t need to see it to know.
“I didn’t realize you had two guests with you.”
Clarence stepped up. “I’m a surprise addition. I hope you have room.”
Our hostess smiled. “Plenty of room. You’re our only guests. I’m Irene. My husband, Lefty, is out in the woodshop, working on a new window frame. I have hot chocolate on the stove. Would you like some?”
She didn’t have to ask Clarence twice. We dropped our bags and followed Irene to the back of the house to a large addition with an eat-in kitchen and blazing wood stove.
Irene poured us mugs of thick hot chocolate that would’ve done Aaron proud and asked Fats, “You seem familiar. Are you a pro wrestler?”
“I dabbled a little,” she said with a sly smile.
I could not picture Fats in an over-the-top costume, not that her normal wardrobe of cheetah leggings and neon wasn’t the tiniest bit costumy. “I can’t see that.”
“I’m sure you were wonderful,” said Clarence. “The best ever.”
“They fired me,” said Fats with more than a little pride. “I was less restrained than required.”
“Pink the Impaler,” said Irene. “Lefty loved you. Those men didn’t stand a chance.”
“You fought the men?” I asked.
“You’re surprised?” asked Fats.
“On second thought, no, not really.”
My phone buzzed and I glanced at the screen. Uncle Morty.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and went into the hall, away from talk of choke holds and body stockings.
“What’s up?” I asked Uncle Morty.
“Don’t ask the St. Seb cops about the old chief,” he said in a rush.
“Too late.”
“Son of a bitch. How’d you get there so fast? 44 is a parking lot.”
“I guess we beat it.”
He began typing and said, “The current chief ain’t a fan of you.”
“I got that and then I made it worse.”
“Yeah, you do that. Called his grandpa a drunk, did ya?”
I sat down on a squat Victorian chair and almost slipped off the horsehair upholstery. “Yep. I also called him sad and implied that he faked Maggie’s death certificate.”
“Going for broke then.”
“Always. Why’d this take so long? You’re usually superfast with this kind of thing.”
He grumbled and admitted that he’d gotten distracted by some more pictures of Nikki, happily flouncing around Greece. He found a pic of her in a swimming suit and declared that he would never eat pizza again. Right.
“So what did you find on the old chief?”
“Well, I ain’t surprised that you hit a nerve. The guy was sad. Drank himself to death. Cirrhosis of the liver. 1972.”
“I guessed that.”
“Jesus, Mercy,” said Uncle Morty. “Do ya want to never get to Greece?”
“It popped out.”
“Stop popping and start thinking. You want the rest?”
I did and I didn’t. But what I wanted really didn’t matter. He was going to tell me no matter what. Chief Woody Lucas was a St. Seb native, born and bred. He graduated from the Catholic high school and fought in WWII, where he served as a Marine in the Pacific. Married. Two kids. The daughter, Melanie Lucas Gates, was police chief from 1972, taking over after her father died until she retired to open a florist shop in 1992. That’s when the current chief took over.
“So I stepped on the family business,” I said.
“You stepped in it alright.”
“How’s our current guy?” I asked. “Not the healthiest specimen. He was sober, but from the weight and veining on his cheeks I’d say he’s following in Grandpa’s footsteps.”
Uncle Morty typed so that it sounded like three people were typing instead of just one.
“Hello?”
“Got his financials. He’s screwed.”
“Anything we can use?” I asked.
“No. You nailed it. He has a whiskey habit and he likes the good stuff. Up to three or four bottles a week. Divorced. Kids with the ex in Kansas City.”
“I don’t think that helps us. Any good news?”
“He’s solid cop. Straight shooter. Crime rates’ down, not that it was ever high. Does a lot of community outreach.”
“How’s that good news for me?”
“A good cop is a hell of a lot better than a bad one. He’ll do the right thing.”
I didn’t know about that. He was hating me pretty hard and I couldn’t blame him.
“What else have you got?”
“Crime rates prior to the murder,” he said. “You’ll like this.”
“Define like.”
I did like it. Uncle Morty pulled the stats from a variety of resources and, despite the stats not being terribly specific about little podunk towns, he came up with a trend that backed me up. St. Seb’s county had seen a rise in small time crime prior to Maggie’s murder. Property crimes, thefts, and arson were all up.
“Not violent crime?” I asked.
“No. I got the insurance data. It ain’t real specific, but we’ve got more claims coming out of that county during the five years prior. Looks like a slow trend up.”
“And after?”
He chuckled. “I wondered if you’d ask that. After the murder, it went down. We got a nice little cliff with Maggie at the top and a severe drop-off after.”
An involuntary shiver went down my back. “Do you feel as bad about that as I do?”
“Damn straight and what do you want to bet that old chief felt it, too?”
“I’d bet the farm, but he didn’t do anything about it,” I said.
“You got to get that report,” said Uncle Morty.
“Not gonna happen. The sergeant told me that the old files were destroyed three years ago after some pipes burst. It wasn’t the first flood. The river got some of them before that.”
“Let me check.” He went at that and I let my gaze settle on the pictures opposite me. I wish I hadn’t. They were ghost pics of the house I was in. Grainy apparitions on the stairs and next to beds. Framed newspaper clippings and magazine articles. Miss Elizabeth had been busy. Swell. I thought about our family cat, Blackie, the one that showed up when something tragic was about to happen. Seeing him a couple of times was enough to make me think that there might be something in the Miss Elizabeth legend.
“Goddammit,” said Uncle Morty.
“So no files or evidence, I assume?” I asked.
“They did flood. Morons kept using the basement. You got to get something. We’re ass out.”
I groaned. “I can take another run at Aunt Miriam, intervention style, get Mom and Sister Frances to gang up on her. If she’d just ID that medal, I’d be off the hook.”
He snorted. “Miriam don’t care what people think and you wouldn’t be off no hook. Myrtle wants you to do it.”
I slumped back and nearly slipped off the chair again. Who thought horsehair was an awesome fabric? It’s not. It sucks. “It’s not looking good.”
“You want the rest?” he asked.
“Is it better?”
“Eh.”
That wasn’t a good sign and his info wasn’t terribly helpful. He checked into the odd duplicate death certificate and couldn’t find another one like it. All his hacker buddies agreed it was hinky. That wasn’t good news exactly, but his other info was decidedly worse. There were twelve clergy with substantiated claims of abuse in the sixties. That meant a lot of kids, but Uncle Morty couldn’t connect any of that to Sister Maggie or Father Dominic or Bishop Fowler. None of them was accused of anything to do with the sex abuse scandal and Fowler supposedly retired for health reasons. If something was going on during the period leading up to Maggie’s death it was well hidden and the church hadn’t stepped up.
“Is the diocese still talking up a storm?” I asked.
“It’s settled down,” said Uncle Morty. “The current crew doesn’t get what the hell went on and they’re pissed that something was hidden.”
“But they don’t know what?”
“Not a friggin’ clue. Nobody understands what went on with Maggie and Dominic. They’re looking at him hard, but there ain’t nothing there.”
I mulled that over for a minute. What do people get worked up over? Sex and money.
“So if it wasn’t a sex crime they were dealing with that fall, that leaves money. Follow the money,” I said.
“Money? The church is loaded.”
“Let’s see. Lots of meetings. Nuns kept out of it.”
“That sounds like they had a molester on their hands,” said Uncle Morty.
“Except they didn’t.”
He started typing again. “That bishop covered it up. Protected somebody.”
“Let’s assume the diocese did come clean with the sex abuse.”
“You go ahead and do that. I’m looking again,” he said. “Keeping chicks out still makes it look like sex.”
“I know, but I bet it was money, not kids,” I said. “You can give it to one of your accounting gurus. A numbers puzzle from the sixties, they should love that.”
He grumbled but agreed. “You going to the paper next?”
I looked out the window. “I don’t see how. It’s snowmageddon out there.”
“Where are you holed up?”
“Miss Elizabeth’s B and B.”
“The haunted hotel? What the fuck?”
“It was available and close.”
“That place is notorious,” said Uncle Morty. “My guy, Howie, stayed there with his wife before doing the wineries in Augusta.”
“And?”
“They left at two in the morning and needed new underwear.”
“Are you telling me you think this joint is really haunted?” I asked.
“I think you know Howie,” he said. “He scare easy?”
Howie? I scrolled through my index of dudes and came up blank. There weren’t a lot of Howies running around.
“Old guy. Firefighter,” said Uncle Morty. “Runs the Gruesome Ghouls Haunted Firehouse.”
“Grisly Gus?”
“Yeah. His real name’s Howard.”
I knew that guy and there was a reason why he ran the charity haunted firehouse. Grisly Gus was terrifying, a true ghoul, missing half a hand, multiple burns, and a limp, not to mention his laugh. Think chicken bone in garbage disposal. Some grandparents threaten their grandkids with the bogeyman if they won’t go to bed or eat their broccoli. Grandad threatened me with Gus. I totally went to bed. I didn’t sleep. But I was in there.
“Grisly Gus ran out in the middle of the night? He gave me nightmares.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“What happened to Gus? Grandad never told me. He’s pretty beat up.”
“Howie wasn’t a fan of safety equipment. It didn’t work out for him.”
“Wow.”
“It was the seventies. Guys were crazy,” said Uncle Morty. “I sent you a map. Get over to the Sentinel.”
“I’ll have an accident and freeze to death.”
“It’s six blocks. Suck it the hell up.”
He hung up on me and I took a look at the map. Go out the front door and take a left. Six blocks. Fats did have a stupid big truck and snow tires. It was three o’clock, if I didn’t go, the day was basically wasted.
I went back in the kitchen and found it empty. The mugs were gone and two fresh loaves of bread were cooling on a rack. “Hello?”
“Yes?” whispered a voice.
I spun around. No one was there.
Don’t freak out.
“Fats? Clarence?”
“They went upstairs,” said no one.
Breathe. You didn’t hear anything.
“Yes, you did,” said the voice. “You heard me.”
I took off, running out of the kitchen, bouncing off walls, and grabbing the newel post to whip around and run upstairs. “Fats! Clarence!”
At the top of the stairs, a man stepped out, but I was going too fast and I rammed right into him. I’m not going to lie. I’ve never been so happy to plow into an old man and knock him off his feet. He was real, solid, and landed on his bum with an oomph.
“Well, that’s a fine how do you do,” he said, looking up at me with twinkling blue eyes under shaggy white brows.
I gasped and collapsed against the bannister. “I’m so sorry. I just. I was.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry yourself. It’s not the first time. Nor will it be the last.”
“Let me help you.” I gave him a hand up. “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t break a hip,” he said. “I look that old, but I’m not. I trust you’ve met Miss Elizabeth.”
“I didn’t see anything.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you.” He adjusted his woolly grey cardigan and ran a hand through his hair that was as shaggy as his brows. “I’m Lefty, part owner and fixer of all the stuff that breaks for no good reason. Are you here for the tournament?”
“Tournament?” I asked blankly.
“Basketball. It’s a big deal around here.”
“Um…no. I’m Mercy Watts. I’m here with my friends. Do you know where they went? I was on the phone and when I went back to the kitchen, they weren’t there.”
He patted my shoulder. “Did you just have an…experience?”
“I think maybe.”
“Just breathe. It’s alright. I take it you didn’t get the spiel.”
I sucked in a breath, but my heart was still racing. “Where are they?”
“Irene put them in the Blue Room. No offense, but our furniture is antique. I don’t know if the bed will hold Pink the Impaler. She’s a whopper, bigger than I imagined.”
“Thank goodness.”
He patted me again. “Try not to panic. It just encourages her.”
“Um…who?”
“Miss Elizabeth. Stay calm and she won’t pester you.”
Irene came down the long hall carrying a pair of wool blankets. “What nonsense are you talking, Lefty? Don’t get her worked up. I haven’t had a chance to give her the spiel yet.”
“And you’re already too late,” said Lefty.
“You can’t be—” Irene looked at me. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. Were you in the kitchen?”
I nodded.
“I was afraid of that. She does not like that kitchen. We put on the addition and I have not heard the end of it.” Irene put her arm around me and herded me down the hall. “We’ll have you tucked up with warm cookies and feeling better in no time. Oh, Lefty?” she called out.
“Yes, dear?”
“The faucet’s running in the yellow bathroom again.”
Lefty muttered something and went in the opposite direction.
“It’s fine,” said Irene. “One of her little jokes. She just loves to bother him.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” I asked.
“Who else? You wouldn’t believe our water bill.”
There was a clang from down the hall, followed by a whoop of joy.
“See,” said Irene. “Fixed already. Here we are. I gave you all the triple, since you girls want to be together.”
“We do?” I asked.
She wrinkled her nose and whispered, “I recommended it. She might think you’re sad.”
“I’m not sad.” I’m freaked the hell out.
“Trust me. Alone is not good. Happy couples are the worst, but let’s not take any chances.” Irene opened the door with a flourish and there were my investigating partners. They were in bed with face masks on, eating cookies and listening to jazz noir.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Clarence waved her cookie at me. “It’s like a slumber party.”
In hell.
“We’ve got stuff to do.” Like find some other place to sleep.
Fats stuffed an entire cookie in her mouth and shook her head. “Bwizzard.”
Irene put the blankets on the foot of their beds. “Now if you want those pedicures, just let me know. Mrs. Cleary is right next door and she’s in for the day.”
“No pedicures,” I said. “I have to go to the newspaper office.”
“Whatever for?” asked Irene.
“Research.”
Clarence dunked her cookie in a glass of milk. “We’re investigating a murder.”
“Not helping,” I said.
Irene looked at me like I’d lost it and I was pretty close. “In St. Seb, murders aren’t our thing.” She leaned over to me, whispering, “I don’t think Miss Elizabeth murdered anyone. She just wanted to. She didn’t like men very much.” Then loudly she said, “It’s a good thing you’re all ladies.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“We get that all the time,” said Irene. “But trust me, it’s happening, but what am I saying? You already know. Ladies, can I trust you to tell Mercy the rules?”
Fats stuffed another cookie in her face and nodded.
Clarence crossed her heart. “I promise.”
“Can I have the truck keys?” I asked and got a snort for my trouble. “Fine. I’ll walk.”
Irene went to the door and called out, “Lefty, I’ve got a customer for you.”
He trotted in, rubbing his hands together. “Where are we going? Walmart? The Chinese buffet?”
“The Sentinel,” said Irene.
“That’s only six blocks,” he complained.
“Take it or leave it.”
Lefty grinned at us. “Who’s ready to take a ride on my brand new Gator?”
“What’s a Gator?” I asked.
“It’s a pointless mini truck that we do not need,” said Irene.
Lefty stood up straight. “It is an all-terrain vehicle with snow tracks. We won’t ever get snowed in.”
“We’re in the middle of town. We’ve never been snowed in.”
He held up a finger. “Climate change. It’s happening.”
Irene sighed. “Do you have boots, Mercy?”
“I do.”
“Put ‘em on. He’s been known to roll that thing.”
Lefty grinned. “That’s why I got the upgraded roll bars. Come on. To the snow.”
“Where are your boots?” asked Irene, looking at my bag on the third bed.
I went over and got out my Timberlands. “Give me a second.”
“Those aren’t snow boots. Come with me.” She marched out and I looked at Fats.
She shrugged and ate a third cookie. She hadn’t swallowed the second one yet and it wasn’t pretty. “What happened to you?”
Fats muttered something while picking out a fourth cookie.
“Have fun,” said Clarence.
I would not be having fun. That much was guaranteed.