7 Never Haunt a Historian (3 page)

“We didn’t lose anything,” Leigh said carefully, giving the answer she had prepared while coming up the steps. We were just poking around at Archie’s place to see if we could find out where he went. He’s gone out of town, apparently, but whoever was supposed to be taking care of Wiley hasn’t done the best job.”

Adith gave a wince. “Oh, Lordy. That was probably Lester. He’s been down with a nasty flu bug this week. But he’s perked up a bit today.”

Leigh and Cara let out a mutual sigh of relief.

“Of course!” Cara said cheerfully. “I forgot that Archie and Lester were such good friends. We should have come and asked Lester where he was to begin with.”

“Well, you can ask him now,” Adith offered, opening the door to the screened porch and ushering the women on through it and into the Brown’s communal sitting room. The modest, yet cozy room featured an assortment of unmatched furniture chosen to be comfortable without being difficult to get out of; the decoration was decided by the residents’ own tastes. The fireplace mantel sported pictures of various loved ones, including Adith’s late husband Bud, while the long wall was dominated by a giant print of a Civil War battle and a yellow canary in an antique bird cage.

“Lester!” Adith yelled loud enough to wake the dead. “Miss Leigh and Miss Cara are here to see you!” She eased herself into one of the chairs with a grunt, at which point a miniature apricot poodle materialized from nowhere and popped into her lap. “Hello, Pansy love,” she cooed. “You knew I was coming back in, didn’t you?”

Leigh couldn’t resist a chuckle. Adith had maintained at least one of a dynasty of poodles as long as anyone at the Koslow Animal Clinic could remember—all of which were named Pansy, and all of which (according to Adith) were possessed of psychic abilities. When advancing arthritis had forced Adith to sell her house on the Ohio River Boulevard and seek daily assistance, Leigh had been delighted to recommend her neighbors’ care home, knowing that the Browns not only understood the bond between older people and their pets, but were genuinely happy to accommodate it.

A stout, balding man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe and a painfully red nose. “Oh my,” he said sheepishly, “sorry you ladies had to see me like this, but I didn’t much feel like getting dressed today. Can’t believe how long it’s taking me to kick this danged virus!”

“Don’t apologize,” Cara said quickly. “We’re sorry for intruding, but we were worried about Mr. Pratt. We didn’t know he had gone out of town and Wiley’s been a bit out of sorts.”

Lester looked from one to the other through tired, bloodshot eyes. “Archie’s left town? He didn’t tell me. I wondered why he hadn’t called back, but I felt too rotten to go over and find out.”

The sick feeling returned to Leigh’s stomach. She and Cara exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “His truck is parked at his house,” Leigh explained. “But he isn’t at home now, his mail hasn’t been picked up in days, and Wiley hasn’t been fed.”

Lester blinked back at her for a long moment, digesting the statement. He and his wife, both practical nurses who had spent many years working in hospitals and nursing homes before launching their five children from the nest and opening up their own business, were practical about most everything. “Arch wouldn’t leave like that,” he said finally. “Not without telling anybody. He must be sick in bed. Probably caught the same thing I’ve got. I’ll get dressed and go on over—”

“I already searched the whole house,” Cara explained quietly. “He isn’t there.”

Lester’s cheeks reddened. “That can’t be. We’ve got a meeting of the 102nd on the day after tomorrow! That’s why I was calling him. We got a bunch of potential new recruits at Antietam, and he was supposed to…” his voice trailed off. “Are you
sure
he’s not just laid up sick over there?”

Leigh’s head swam a moment as she tried to place the references, but the giant battle scene on the wall to her left soon jogged her memory. Archie Pratt, a Civil War buff of the first order, was the chief organizer of a local unit of reenactors, a group to which he was forever trying to recruit everyone in the neighborhood—and probably everyone he met. The women’s husbands had both politely declined, despite Archie’s impassioned pleas that Leigh’s husband Warren was the spitting image of Major General George McClellan.

In Lester, however, Archie had found a true devotee. “He’s not at his house,” Leigh confirmed. “But maybe if he was feeling ill, he could have gone to stay with a friend, or a relative?”

Lester raised a hand to his chin and rubbed at it thoughtfully. “I can’t think of anyone. His family’s all from Hershey or thereabouts. And he knows Emma’d be only too happy to run him down some soup or whatever he needed.”

A sudden prickle swept down Leigh’s spine. But after casting a glance over her shoulder, she sighed. Adith Rhodis was standing all of two inches behind her, breathing down her neck.

“I don’t mean to alarm anyone,” Cara said smoothly, darting a concerned glance over at Adith. “But wherever Archie went, he didn’t take his wallet. I saw it sitting on his dresser; his driver’s license was in it. And his keys were there, too.”

Lester’s mouth dropped open a bit. His face paled. “Well… that’s strange.”

“Archie didn’t have any…” Leigh faltered. “I mean, he wasn’t afraid of anyone in particular, was he? Having an argument with someone?”

“Of course not!” Lester defended. “You know Archie! He can get along with anybody. Always has. Everybody likes Arch!”

“Of course they do,” Cara agreed. “There’s no need for any of us to think the worst” —she threw a hard glance at Adith— “but I think we should probably contact the police, don’t you?”

Lester considered another moment, then nodded glumly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his red nose. “I can do that.”

“There won’t be much they can do though, will there?” Adith piped up, her bright eyes burning. “They’re not going to believe… you know… all the circumstances. With the farm and all.”

The others turned to her with blank stares. “What circumstances?” Cara asked.

Adith’s lips puckered. “You know what I mean!” Her scratchy voice dropped to a whisper. “The G-H-O-S-T!”

Lester groaned. “Now, Adith, you know better than to bring all that up. Bunch of nonsense, all of it.”

Adith’s eyebrows arched. “Archie didn’t think so. And he’s the one missing, ain’t he? Well, let me tell you something.” She pointed a bent finger. “The spirits aren’t to be trifled with. That soldier had his reasons for haunting the farm he settled, and just maybe poor Archie went a bit too far with his poking around in the past—”

The poodle exploded in a fit of frenzied yapping.

Adith smirked. “See there,” she crowed. “My Pansy knows. There’s something afoot here that goes beyond what meets the eye.”

The dog began to jump on and off her mistress’s chair, her barks now interspersed with a high-pitched whine. Adith’s expression changed slowly, her frown lines deepening to a look of genuine concern. “And I’m thinking,” she said hoarsely, “it may be
E-V-I-L.”

Chapter 3

Detective Maura Polanski unfurled her solid, six-foot two-inch body from the driver’s seat of her department-issue sedan and fixed her ex college roommate—and friend of over twenty years—with an exasperated glare.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Leigh protested. “I told you already, there’s
no body.
We’re all just worried about Archie, and since it’s kind of a weird situation, I thought it might be better if I called you than for one of the other neighbors to dial 911—”

The policewoman held up a hand. “I get the picture, Koslow.” She cast a glance around the area in front of Archie’s house, where Leigh had walked to meet her. Maura’s voice, for once, didn’t sound gruff so much as tired. “When was the last time anyone saw or spoke to Mr. Pratt?”

“Lester Brown, who lives two houses down, talked to him here at his house Monday night,” Leigh explained. “And Archie didn’t mention going anywhere. Lester tried to call him on Wednesday and then again yesterday, but his machine picked up, and the message Lester left was never returned. So Archie could have been gone as long as four days.”

Maura’s gaze fell on the O’Malley’s house. “Did you ask the nearest neighbors?”

Remembering her unpleasant conversation with Scotty earlier, Leigh frowned. “Well, yes and no.”

Leigh described the exchange, explaining also the pile of mail on Archie’s bench. “We tried not to mess with anything inside,” she found herself saying as the detective walked carefully across the creaky porch and opened the front door. “But we didn’t think of it as being a crime scene. I mean… it’s
not
a crime scene. Right?”

Maura stepped inside the front room and closed the door behind her.

Leigh moved away and began to drum her fingers on the wooden porch railing. She started to lean against it, but when the whole structure wobbled, she drew back. What
had
Archie been doing to “fix up” the house all these years? According to Cara, he had moved in eight years ago. From what Leigh had seen earlier, he certainly hadn’t spent that time obsessing over interior design. Some seemingly random spots in the house had been missing drywall, exposing bare insulation.

After what seemed an eternity, Leigh heard a door slam. She walked around to the back of the house and encountered Maura gazing out over the various outbuildings with a scowl. “Doesn’t look good, Koslow,” she commented, her voice flat. “Was the coffee maker on when you and Cara got here?”

Leigh nodded, impressed by the detective’s nose for detail. “And the television.”

Maura’s eyes met hers. She let out a sigh. “I’ll let the guys know; they’ll send somebody out. But this isn’t my area, as you know. It’s General Investigations. And I’ve got to be honest with you—without any clear signs of foul play, and when you’re dealing with someone who’s of sound mind, a missing adult isn’t going to get top priority.”

“I see.” Leigh studied her friend carefully, her own frown deepening. Maura was never in the best of moods on the all-too-frequent occasions when Leigh summoned her on “official business.” But today, something else was amiss. Maura’s baby blue eyes were bloodshot, with puffy lids and dark circles below. Her complexion seemed blotched and uneven, and although her broad shoulders often slumped when she was relaxed, her posture today seemed uncharacteristically weary.

“Maura, are you feeling all right?” Leigh asked tentatively. “You look… really tired.”

Maura’s eyes avoided hers. “Yeah,” she confirmed. “I am a little behind on sleep.”

“Is there—”

“I’m going to walk around and check out the grounds before I go,” Maura interrupted, turning away. “I’ll meet you back here in ten if you want a ride home.”

Leigh shut her mouth. Within seconds Maura had disappeared around the corner of the garage.

Fretting anew, Leigh decided to give her friend some space. She wandered off in the direction of the tool shed and sank down on its front step. Archie’s unexpected disappearance was disturbing enough. But a somber, tired-looking Maura Polanski who had been in Leigh’s presence for more than twenty minutes without once either blowing her top or cracking some sarcastic joke was
not
the Maura Polanski she knew and loved. What could possibly be the matter?

An odd sound met Leigh’s ears, and her eyebrows lifted. She was certain she had heard it—a very high-pitched murmuring squeal, familiar, yet out of place. She was silent a moment, listening. Then she heard it again. It seemed to be coming from below.

She stood up and looked down. There was nothing below. The step she was sitting on was a concrete block. She opened the door to the tool shed and stepped inside. It looked exactly as it had earlier in the afternoon—barren, dusty, and unused. The sounds had disappeared.

Leigh let out a frustrated breath and returned to her step. Her mind was going. Period. Maura wasn’t the only one behind on sleep—she herself hadn’t gotten eight hours straight in at least a week. She owed that to the crackpot who ran Rinnamon Industries, with whom her advertising agency had so foolishly embroiled itself, despite knowing his reputation. The man went through advertising firms like she went through leftover Halloween candy, chewing up copywriters as fast as their proposals could be wadded up and hefted into the nearest trashcan. He had turned down six of her ideas so far… she had been working on the seventh when she had fallen asleep in her hammock this afternoon. Which would never have happened if she hadn’t already sat up half the night trying yet again to make pottery crocks sound “traditional, reliable, and sensational” at the same time.

Her left temple began to throb.

No sooner had Leigh closed her eyes than the high-pitched squeaks started up again. This time she rose and attempted to follow the sound. It seemed to stay with her as she rounded the corner of the shed, but she saw only a primitive stone and clay-chink foundation covered with sprawling weeds. As she moved around the next corner, however, her gaze halted. Midway along the back wall lay a set of slanted wooden doors, one loose on its hinges and hanging askew, both half covered by the overhanging bushes.

“A cellar?” she mumbled out loud, suddenly embarrassed that neither she nor Cara had recognized the rotting planks for what they were when they had walked this way earlier. But in their defense, they had been distracted by what had looked like a trampled spot in the weeds nearby, and besides—who would expect to find a cellar under a tool shed? But a cellar door it definitely was, and the foundation under the building, she realized, was very old. Much older, in fact, than the wooden structure built atop it.

She moved closer to the doors. The squeals grew louder.

Her pulse rate increased. She
knew
that sound. But what was it?

Her hand moved to the door that hung askew. It was barely connected to the doorframe, hanging by a single screw anchoring one rusty hinge. A quarter of the original door was gone entirely, rotted off to leave a sizable hole.

She started to pull the door to the side. Then she stopped.