If I have to climb into heaven on a ladder, I shall have to decline the invitation.
—Mercedes McCambridge, actress, CBS Radio Mystery Theater
I HEARD A pounding.
For a moment, I thought I was back in that Manhattan nightclub, listening to Carmen Miranda’s drummer taking the spotlight. Then the drumming stopped and the band’s crooner began singing my name.
“Pen! Oh, Pen!”
I opened my eyes. Bright daylight streamed through a crack in the bedroom curtains, but they weren’t my bedroom curtains. While my groggy mind searched for the reason why, the pounding resumed.
“Pen! Are you there?!”
At last, I realized the “crooner” was J. Brainert Parker, and I was still at the Stumbull Inn. Yawning, I approached the closed door between our rooms.
“What is it, Brainert?”
“Can you spare an extra towel? Seymour came out of the bathroom dressed like he was going to a toga party!”
“Why did you bother her, Brainiac?” Seymour snapped. “I said you can have this towel. I didn’t dry myself with it. I just wrapped it around my hips.”
“Please, Pen, you have to help me!”
“Calm down. I’ll check my bathroom.”
AN HOUR LATER, we left the Stumbull Inn for the same little roadside eatery where we’d bought those juicy burgers and hand-cut fries. All three of us doubted our breakfast would be as good as our dinner.
“Hey, never judge a book till you’ve read it!” Seymour reminded us.
He was right.
We stuffed ourselves with the best blueberry flapjacks we’d ever eaten. By ten a.m., we were climbing into Seymour’s VW bus and heading back to Blackstone Falls.
The road to Old Walt’s was nearly empty, the sky clear and sunny after the tempestuous night. Best of all, Seymour was still flying high from his purchase (not to mention the carb-loaded meal). He was feeling so good he even refused to be goaded by Brainert’s nonstop jibes.
Finally, we arrived at Walt Waverly’s home.
“The front door is open,” Seymour noted. “Walt must be ready to bring out the new paintings.”
Seymour and Brainert climbed into the back of the Volkswagen and began to shuffle the old cargo aside to make room for the new. Meanwhile I followed the long sidewalk to Walt’s open front door, only to stop abruptly at the edge of the porch. For some reason, water was puddled on the hardwood floor inside the foyer.
“Hello,” I called tentatively. “Are you in there, Walt?”
Nothing but silence came from the house. As opposed to the inside of my head.
Cool your heels, doll.
My ghost was awake and he sounded worried.
There’s something hinky here.
“You mean the rainwater inside the house? It is odd, isn’t it? The storm stopped hours ago.”
But I’ll bet a five-spot against a plugged nickel it was raining when Walt’s visitor showed up last night.
“Perhaps we’re being paranoid,” I said, eager to dispel my anxieties. “Maybe Walt is upstairs or in the basement and can’t hear me.”
I called “Hello!” again, a little louder this time. The only response was the echo of my own voice. Brushing aside my misgivings, I crossed the narrow porch in three quick steps and knocked on the open door.
“Walt, it’s Pen!” (Now I was yelling at the top of my lungs.) “I’m here to pick up the paintings—” Just then, I noticed something poking out from behind the door, and the sight of it sent a stab to the pit of my stomach.
“Look, Jack!”
It’s a Longfellow.
I tensed. The “Longfellow” in question was a size-twelve loafer lying on the hardwood just inside the foyer, and it didn’t take long to discover the leg attached to the shoe. Whoever owned that leg was sprawled on the floor behind the half-open door.
Gingerly, I stepped across the threshold.
Don’t disturb anything, Jack warned.
I didn’t. I even took care to avoid the rain puddles on the hardwood.
My eyes needed a few seconds to adjust to the dark. Then I spied the same ladder Walt used in his library, only now it was tilted at a crazy angle, leaning against a partially shattered grandfather clock.
A broken picture frame with a torn canvas lay on the floor, surrounded by glass shards. I steeled myself and peeked behind the door.
My anguished cry brought Seymour and Brainert running.
“Pen! What’s wrong?” Brainert asked, eyes wide.
“Behind the door,” I rasped. “It’s . . .”
Seymour moved past me and into the foyer.
“It’s Walt,” he proclaimed.
Who else would it be? the ghost asked. Glenn Miller?
“It looks like the poor guy fell off the ladder. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
“Check for a pulse,” Brainert said. “Walt may only require first aid.”
Seymour vanished behind the door. He emerged a few moments later, shaking his head.
I swallowed hard. “Are you sure he’s—”
“Yeah, Pen. Dead as rock and roll.”
“You should try anyway,” Brainert insisted.
Seymour gawked. “Try what?”
“Anything!” Brainert cried in a tone so hysterically high-pitched it threatened to attract stray dogs. “You know, lifesaving measures! Don’t they teach government employees CPR?”
“CPR? Sure. But the United States Postal Service doesn’t teach forensics—or reanimation.” Seymour sighed. “I’m really sorry, but Walt isn’t just gone. He’s long gone.”
“I have to call 911,” I said, fumbling for my phone.
The operator answered immediately. I identified myself and reported what I’d found and where. I was informed that an ambulance would be dispatched. The operator also told me not to leave the location until Sheriff Gus Taft arrived to take my statement.
“Don’t disturb the scene,” the operator added. “Or try to move the body.”
“What now?” Brainert asked after the call ended.
Seymour shrugged. “Unless you want to make like Dr. Frankenstein and harness a lightning bolt, we wait in the van.”