Mickelsson's Ghosts (94 page)

“I'm not sure whether I'd heard that or not,” Mickelsson said, and casually watched her.

“Oh my yes! He just couldn't get enough about it! But I'll tell you, just between you and me and the gatepost”—she waved her hand as if sweeping away nonsense—“I don't think he believed those stories for one minute. All he
really
wanted was to find owt how they gaht stahrted—who lived here at the time, where the noises seemed to come from, and such.”

“And did he find out?” Mickelsson asked.

“Why you know, I haven't gaht any idea.
I
never stahrted them,
that
I can tell you!” She laughed gaily.

The kettle had been hissing; now it rose to a full whistle, frantic. He turned the heat off and poured hot water over the teabags in the cups. “Sugar?” he asked. He glanced at his wrist, then remembered he'd given his watch away.

“No thank you. Never use it—steals the vitamins.”

As he moved nearer to give her her cup he caught her scent, not a smell of soap or perfume, it seemed to him, but of spring itself. No doubt she'd brought it up from Florida. The scent was pronounced, remarkable. When he noticed her expression, he realized he'd shown his surprise.

“It must be beautiful in Florida at this time of year,” he said.

“Oh yes, very nice. They have the whitest sand, you know, down on the Gulf where we ahr.” She took the cup from him and moved ahead of him to the livingroom. Tim stood bent over near the glass-topped table, looking at something—the old wooden cheesebox with its few remaining keys. His face was prepared to make some interested comment, but he seemed to decide not to break in on the doctor's conversation.

“Well,” she said when she and Mickelsson had seated themselves—she on the couch, he in the rocking chair across from her—and she'd taken her first sip, raising the saucer and cup together, using both hands, “never a dull minute in Seskehenna!”

He waited, encouraging her with a look. Tim, losing interest in the keys, went over to stand at the door of the new diningroom, thoughtfully puffing at his pipe, looking in.

“That whole tragic business about the Spragues, I mean,” the doc said. She sighed, giving a little wave with her left hand, and took another sip of tea.

Mickelsson nodded, then glanced at her, reconsidering. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“Why, you know,” she said, “three or four years ago they were the nicest people you could imagine, except for one or two oddities—but we all have our oddities.” She smiled, inviting agreement. “But then one thing after another stahrted happening, and the Spragues just changed overnight till you wouldn't've known them. Broke off with all their friends; pretty soon even the relatives wouldn't visit. …” She leaned forward. “And then those
really
odd things stahrted happening, the un-explainable mutilations. That awful business about Tommy Sprague's body, it's nothing new, you know.” She leaned forward more, confidential, her eyes oddly merry and full of light, though her expression was one of concern. “The same thing happened to the Spragues' pigs three years ago.”

“Wait now,” Mickelsson said, “what awful business?”

“You didn't hear?” she asked, brightening more. “Why, the body was all cut up, just as if someone had attacked it with a switch, or maybe a torch, or some kind of animal had got to it. No more clue to what did it than there was with the pigs.”

“You mean to say—” he broke in, not quite registering, trying to slow her down. He looked toward Tim for help, but the young man's broad-shouldered back told him nothing.

Dr. Bauer nodded emphatically. “He was all cut to ribbons, big slash across his throat. That's what killed him, you know. At first they thought the poor man froze to death and then gaht mauled by the snow-plow, but it wasn't so. No sir. Something gaht to him. I suppose it must've been a bear, though heaven only knows. There were odd little cuts on him, anyway, especially the face. It was a friend of mine down at the hospital that examined the body. They're expecting to do a full autopsy day after tomorrow, or maybe Wensdee. But they won't learn a thing, you know, and though they question people till Doomsday, they'll never get a clue.”

Tim turned, smiling with what looked like simple sociability, the pipe in his hand, and came over to sit on the end of the couch not far from Dr. Bauer. He looked from one to the other of them as if enjoying the conversation but thinking it not his place to take part in it—as if he were a boy among adults, or just the doc's chauffeur.

“But what's the explanation?” Mickelsson asked almost crossly. “Are you saying it's witchcraft?” He gave a sudden ironic laugh. “UFOs you think?”

“Maybe there
is
no explanation.” She smiled, delighted that it might be so.

“There's always
some
explanation,” he said. He glanced over at Tim, who smiled.

“Well, you're the philahsapher,” Dr. Bauer said. “I suppose you must be right. Maybe he fell in the brush or, as I say, a bear gaht to him. But my own opinion is … well, you know, the world's what you make of it.” She shook her head. “Ever since the tragedy—I guess you know abowt that, how his daughter passed away, one of those freak anesthesia reactions—” She paused, apparently losing her thread. She covered by taking a sip of her tea. “What I was saying,” she said at last, brightening again, very gently setting down the cup and saucer, “Tommy changed all at once, and somehow or another …”

Mickelsson was thrown, then remembered that “Tommy” was her name for old Sprague. “The world changed to suit his view of it?” he suggested.

“Well,
no,”
she said, and blinked. “Heaven knows,” she said then, eager to dismiss the whole business, out of her depth. “I don't really believe in such silliness, of course.”

Tim said, “There's a laht of strange things in this world, though—more strange things than naht!” He laughed. She too laughed and gave a helpless little gesture, admitting it might well be so, not caring to pursue it.

But Mickelsson wasn't quite ready to move on. “I've been wondering”—he cleared his throat—“what was it that frightened you, the last time you were here?”

Her whole face lifted, almost sparkled, prepared to hear marvels. “Frightened me?”

“You nearly killed me,” he said. He smiled and made a feeble pass with his pipe to show he bore no grudge. “You remember almost having an accident, just down the road?” He pointed.

“Was that
you,
Prafessor?” she cried, almost joyful. “Good gracious, I'm so sorry!”

“Oh, it's all right,” he said, faintly annoyed at her reaction, but again waved it away. He drew his pipe back to his lips and found that it was out. “The thing is,” he said, “I know you were up there at Spragues', and I know about the lawsuit, of course—”

“Yes, I see!” She looked trapped, though not displeased by the fact. She went on merrily smiling, brighter than sunlight on ice. He wished suddenly that Jessie were here—for many reasons, among others because she could check his perceptions and because it seemed that the mystery was about to be solved. Without her, the pleasure of the detective game paled. The thought of her brought other thoughts less pleasant. As if the ground had opened up.

“Well,
that's
over,” the doctor said, almost regretful, it seemed to Mickelsson. “He never had a chance with that suit of his, you know—the whole thing was downright insane, really; it's a wonder he found a lawyer. But now that poor Tom's gone …” She shook her head once more, smiling with what seemed pity except for the sparkle in her eyes. She turned to include Tim in the conversation. “You know, all our lives there was something about us,” she said. “Bad chemistry, I suppose. And then, once he gaht it in his mind that I'd stolen his property—” She looked around as if surprised by the recollection that this was the house. “Well, who'd believe it?” She smiled, finished her tea, and carefully placed the cup and saucer back on the glass-topped table. Mickelsson glanced down at his own tea, almost untouched. “You might laugh,” she said, “but there was a time I was actually sweet on him. Isn't that something? It was a long, long time ago, a course.”

The light in the room had changed now, some of the brightness drawing back, losing power. The shadows on the walls had grown more vague and more extensive. On the road outside, a car slowed down, then sped up again. She too seemed to listen. Both Tim and Mickelsson were relighting their pipes.

“So what was it, that night, that frightened you?” he asked.

“Frightened me,” she echoed as before, visibly baffled. Then light broke, a queer, joyful wildness in her eyes. “I wasn't frightened,” she exclaimed,
“that's
naht the reason I was driving like that! I was furious!”

He stared.

Tim looked with interest from Dr. Bauer to Mickelsson.

She leaned forward, muscles tensing, her smile suddenly like a young girl's, and said, “I talked with him, reasoned with him, tried to make him see that he'd end up despised and bankrupt if he didn't just let
go
of it—believe me, he didn't have a leg to stand on! But no, they kept on, both of them, screeching and complaining, making terrible accusations. … If I'd stayed a minute longer I'd've broken both their necks!” She laughed at herself. “Believe me, I wasn't frightened—not of
that
little monkey! Believe me, if somebody'd put a knife in my hand, or a paper box of matches—” She laughed again, a laugh almost like music, acknowledging what a foolish child she'd been, and at the same moment, as if to be done with the embarrassing confession, she stood up, looming above him, raising her hands out to the sides for balance. Tim stood up too. “Oh no, I wasn't afraid, heaven bless me! I was never
that
kind!” Then, getting her amusement into control, still blushing, she said, “Well, I'm sorry to have frightened you on the road, I
must
say. I guess it's pure luck that we're still here to talk about it. I really am so ashamed of myself.”

Grudgingly, Mickelsson said, “It's amazing, the way you pulled out of it. Me too, for that matter.”

“Well, you know, something just takes over for you,” she said. “People have no idea what powers they have. I believe people really could just take off and fly if they set their minds to it—not that I say Tommy Sprague could do it.”

Surprised, Mickelsson said, “You sound uncertain about it.”

“Oh, well, you know, I like to leave things open.” She smiled.

It came to Mickelsson that he ought to be standing. They were preparing to leave. He got up, rising into the smell of Tim's pipe, and abruptly remembered that his pipe tobacco had never reappeared after the night his house had been ransacked.

“And I'm so glad the howse has been no trouble,” the doc said, crossing to her coat. “You certainly have done well by it!”

“It seems odd,” he said, “that you should've thought it would be trouble. You're sure it wasn't the ghosts you were thinking of, or witchcraft or something?”

Tim was shrugging into his coat.

Dr. Bauer smiled, staring as if absently at where the hex had been, and seemed not to register his remark. “Ah, yes,” she said. She stood large and comically out of season in her bright pink coat, pulling her white gloves on, then reaching for her hat.

“I understand there's some evidence that there really may be ghosts, or something of the sort,” Mickelsson said, stalling them. “Is that why you put up the hex sign?”

She blinked, coming out of her reverie, and looked at him. “That?” she said, pointing at the door as if the hex were still there. “I gaht that down at some restaurant just outside Harrisburg. It was one of those decals, you know.” Her expression was partly puzzled, partly apologetic. “I think it just means ‘welcome.' ”

“But the black band around it, wouldn't that suggest—”

“Heavens, I wouldn't know, Prafessor,” she said with a laugh, patting her hat into place. “There was a paper that came with it, but I'm afraid I lost that years ago.” She came back toward the door. Tim, smiling, moved toward her.

Mickelsson frowned. It was his paranoia, he knew, that made the two of them seem conspirators. Obviously, Tim was just helping her out, driving her around during her visit. Mickelsson said, “I wanted to tell you, by the way, I'm very grateful for the way you came down in price. I was amazed, really—”

“That was because of the Mormons, of course,” she said.

No doubt he showed his surprise. Tim explained with a wide grin, “They wanted it real bad. There's more and more of 'em arownd here these days. They pay tahp dahller.”

“You didn't want to sell to them?” He studied the doctor's face.

“I know it's terrible to be prejudiced,” she said, “but I've always gahtten on so well with my neighbors. Right or wrong, I knew they'd just hate me if I sold to
those
people. How would they have liked it if I'd sold to the Mormons and they'd turned the place into one of their synagogues? Thank heavens I was able to find Tim, and Tim fownd you!”

“I see,” Mickelsson said. It was a slight exaggeration. Yet he felt oddly cheerful. The visit had done him good. “Well,” he said then, “I'm glad you could stop by.” He opened the door for her. “Have a nice trip back.”

She smiled again. “I will, I'm sure. I always do. Thank you!” Carefully she put her right hand on the doorframe, preparing to step out. “What a beautiful, beautiful day,” she said.

Just as they stepped onto the porch, Mickelsson steadying the doctor's elbow, a small yellow car came down the mountain and, approaching Mickelsson's place, slowed.

“Company?” the doctor asked.

Mickelsson ducked a little, trying to see the driver. “I imagine it's one of your friends,” he said. “No doubt they've recognized your car.”