Ghosts Beneath Us: A Third Spookie Town Murder Mystery (Spookie Town Murder Mysteries Book 3)

Ghosts

Beneath Us

Spookie Town Mystery #3

(Sequel to
Scraps of Paper
and

All Things Slip Away
)

By Kathryn Meyer Griffith

Why is the town called Spookie? In this murder mystery series it is a tongue-in-cheek, a tip-of-my-hat to my roots as a horror writer and little else. This book is for my sweet brother Jim Meyer, who passed away on May 27, 2015. He was a great singer/musician/songwriter. If you’d like to listen to some of his songs, here they are:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEypYatBBgrWxOzQGsLOs3IItVVUywSsV
  

Chapter 1

Abigail

Abigail Sutton had a premonition that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. Her skin itched and a chill tickled along her spine. Her fingertips tingled. The last time she felt that combination of sensations a serial killer came to town. When he left, three people were dead and in their graves.

A chilly breeze brought goosebumps to her exposed flesh.
Trouble…trouble coming.

She usually loved this time of day, early in the morning with a new sun in the sky above; the world tinted in a golden light that made everything look magical and made her feel peaceful. It meant a new day, a fresh start. But today, she had the feeling, it wouldn’t be so.

Walking out onto her porch in her pajamas and robe, and with a sigh of contentment, she relaxed on the porch swing. A cup of her homemade chocolate coffee steamed from the cup in her hands and she sipped it as her eyes roamed the yard. As usual there was the Spookie town fog sneaking in from the woods and swirling along the fringe of the yard surrounding her house. It was a gray mist full of mysterious shapes and figures she didn’t dare let her eyes linger on too long because she often saw unexpected things–people or animals–in it. That was the artist in her, always trying to make sense of haphazard patterns.

 Shivering, she tugged her robe closer around her because for the first day of April it was chilly. Two weeks away, Easter would be late this year. It’d be such fun, though, with the children and Abigail looked forward to it. Everything was different since Laura and Nick had come to live with her a year ago. They were a responsibility but an even greater joy.

Abigail was the happiest she’d been in years.

Her green eyes took in the birdhouses she’d hung around the edge of her porch and they stopped on the new one she’d gotten the week before. It was a miniature blue painted gourd with a crimson feathered fake bird in its opening. A pretty thing. It’d been a present from her boyfriend Frank Lester.

Boyfriend. Oh, she could have called him her lover, but boyfriend sounded nicer. They’d been dating for over a year, she’d known him now for three, and she’d finally accepted how deeply they cared for each other. Their relationship had been on a slow simmer for years and she’d enjoyed every moment of it. Getting to know him and letting the love in. They’d taken their time because when she’d first moved to Spookie and met Frank her heart had been broken. Time had been what she’d needed.

It’d been five years since her husband Joel had come up missing, a murder victim of a mugging gone wrong; three years since she’d known what had happened to him. Those years when he’d been missing had been terrible times. It felt like a lifetime ago when she’d lived in the crowded city, had toiled thanklessly at a job she’d hated and been so lonely. But now her life and her heart had basically mended. Frank, her two foster children and a town full of friendly but quirky characters had helped to heal her. She’d always remember and love her husband Joel but it was time to move on. It was way past time.

A smile touched her face. She was supposed to meet Frank at ten that morning at Stella’s Diner in the heart of town for breakfast and the latest gossip. They did that at least once a week after the kids had left for school. But she had two hours before she had to meet him and she was enjoying every moment of it. Alone. She’d seen Laura and Nick off and she was lounging on her porch admiring her house and appreciating her life. These days she was a lucky woman and how well she knew it.

Her brown hair had grown long and she’d tied it back in a braid so it’d stay off her face. Frank liked her hair long and the longer the better.

She’d been a free-lance artist–a lifelong dream of hers–the last three years and had already built a reputation as a fairly good one because of the paintings she’d completed for the townspeople and the murals for the library and city hall. Right now she was working on a massive courthouse mural of Lady Justice holding up her weighing scales standing outside the building. It was the most difficult job she’d attempted so far. The painting was twice as large, covering two walls, as the one she’d done for either the library or the city hall but she was nearly done and she was pleased with it. She’d be going there today after breakfast to put on the finishing touches and collect her check. Her smile grew wider and she took another sip of coffee.

Ah, things were good.

Her cat Snowball came bounding out from the house, shoving the screen door open with her nose and slipping through, and ran past her out into the yard. Looking for birds to chase, catch and devour. But the wild creatures weren’t awake yet, probably still sleeping in their nests protecting unhatched eggs in the limbs of the trees around the house. Snowball was out of luck again. Abigail didn’t feel in the least sorry for her. She cared about birds, too, and as much as she loved her cat, she hated its predatory traits. Yet a cat was a cat. It could no more stop hunting than a lion out in the wild could.

Above her the birds began to squawk so she wasn’t surprised when Myrtle came up beside her on the porch, sat down on the swing and said, “Humph, I knew you’d be out here getting the sun, Abigail, so I decided to mosey on over and visit. I got some interesting news for ya.”

Myrtle Schmidt was the town eccentric wagon-lady and a terrible secret-keeper. Today she was wearing her typical garishly flowered sundress, way too large for her tiny frame and with the hem unraveling, and her silver permed hair was a wild halo about her wrinkled face. Didn’t she ever comb it? Who knew? The old woman wasn’t smiling but her sapphire colored eyes were sparkling with barely contained excitement.

“You don’t happen to have any more of that coffee do ya, Abby girl? A couple of cookies or donuts to go with it? Now that would taste so good. I haven’t had a thing to eat yet and I need my strength to tell you what I have to tell ya.”

“Well, good morning to you, too, Myrtle.” Abigail turned and looked at her friend and neighbor. Over the years she’d lived in town Abigail had come to care about the old lady, idiosyncrasies and all. Myrtle might be a bit peculiar, but she was an interestingly feisty individual. A person was never bored when Myrtle was around. And at least once Myrtle had literally saved her life. She owed her.

“I imagine there’s coffee left in the pot and I’ll see if I can come up with a stale donut or something.” She always kept a box of donuts or cookies in the house, if not for herself and the kids, then for Myrtle. The old lady was forever coming over and mooching food. That was her trademark.

She rose from the swing and went into the house, Myrtle hobbling behind her.

They made their way through the living room with the walls covered with Abigail’s original artwork, a round tapestry rug in vibrant colors on the floor, and filled with comfortably overstuffed furniture. The house had changed since she’d bought it as a dilapidated fixer-upper and performed her magic on it. She’d painted and decorated both floors, filled them with color and then with people and love. The year before she’d taken the roomy rear hallway and had made it into a bedroom for Laura. Frank and a couple of their friends had helped her build on a room in the back for Nicolaus. So now both children had their own rooms, small, but all theirs.

Abigail cherished her house now. It was home. She felt safe and happy there.

“You know if you pop those donuts in the microwave for ten, fifteen seconds they’ll be as fresh as the day you bought them,” Myrtle advised. “Just saying.”

The laugh Abigail released was muffled. “I’ll do that.”

“You’re still in your pajamas, Abigail. Is it that early?”

“Really early. The sun just came up. Didn’t you notice?” They were in the kitchen now. The table covered with empty cereal bowls and dirty utensils from the kids. She’d clean everything up once Myrtle left.

“I noticed. Sorry. But when you’re my ancient age, day and night don’t seem to matter. Sometimes I sleep all day and stay up all night or vice-versa. It’s hell getting old, let me tell you. Schedules and sleep times go out the window. I saw you sitting outside on the swing and thought you wouldn’t mind a little company. I mean since you were already awake and all.”

“Uh,huh.” Abigail poured coffee into a mug and handed it to her.

“I would have come earlier but, you know, those ghosts that live in the woods can be awful scary before dawn lights things up. They want to jump all over me and scream obscenities in my ears. Tell me their secrets I don’t want to hear. They’re such pests. Stupid ghosts.”

She gave the old woman a bemused look over her shoulder as she grabbed a box off the counter and pulled out two power-sugared donuts, put them on a napkin, then added two more for herself, and slid them into the microwave. Ten seconds. “Ah, so those ghosts are still hounding you?”

“More than ever lately. What’s new, huh? I can’t leave my trailer longer than a minute before a mess of them gang up on me with their demands and their perpetual whining. Some of them are just lonely but some of them are just downright mean. As you know, I don’t ever dare go out into or through the woods after dark. They’re even worse then. They’d be hiding behind trees or big rocks. Always waiting. Popping up when you least expect them…they can scare a few years off a person with their wasting away bodies and sunken in faces. Not to mention their smell. Whooie. Most of them stink like year old garbage.” Myrtle shuddered, her fingers pinching her nose as if to demonstrate what she was speaking of.

“That wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“It sure ain’t.”

The ghost thing was a chronic problem of Myrtle’s. She’d been going on about them ever since Abigail had met her. She didn’t know if Myrtle really could see ghosts or if it was in the old woman’s imagination. Not that Abigail actually believed in ghosts. Not completely anyway. Yet too many strange things had occurred in Spookie since she’d moved there for her to be a total cynic. So she tried to keep an open mind by choosing not to think about random spirits floating around. It was easier that way.

With coffee and donuts in hand she led Myrtle back out to the porch and placing the snacks on a side table, the women took their seats. Myrtle snatched two of the circle cakes and stuffed them in her mouth. She was so short when she sat on the swing her feet didn’t touch the porch floor.

“Okay Myrtle, I know you too well. I recognize that look on your face. There’s a reason you’re here so early, besides the donuts, that is. How about telling me what it is?”

The woman grinned. She had nice even white teeth for her age. “I promised Beatrice–she’s an old friend of mine who lives down the road from me and I’m sure I’ve spoken about her before–I’d talk to you on her behalf about a sort of, er, trouble she’s been having. Beatrice Utley?”

“No, I don’t recall you mentioning her before, but then you talk so much about so many people, I tend to forget some of what you say.” A quick teasing smile. “We live in a small town, but it’s not that small. There are plenty of people I haven’t met yet.”

Myrtle threw her an exasperated look. “Very funny about me talking too much. I don’t think I do. I just have a lot to say that needs saying. That’s all.”

“Uh, huh. If you say so.”

“I do.” Myrtle’s wrinkled face was pouting.

“So this Beatrice friend of yours has a problem?” Her eyes on her swing mate, Abigail ate one of the donuts as crumbs and white powder drifted down the front of her robe. She brushed them off. “Why are you bringing it to me?”

Myrtle had gobbled up both her donuts and was gulping down her coffee. Then she’d ask for another cup. So predictable. “
Because
you and Frank did so well on the last couple
problems
we had in town I thought you’d two be just the ones to fix this one, too. If there’s a mystery to be solved, a wrong to be righted, a murderer to catch, you two are the ones to do it. Him being an ex-cop and a mystery novelist and all and you…being you.”