The Ghost's Grave (13 page)

“You think someone might steal from a sick person in the hospital?” That seemed about as low as anyone could get.

“It's happened,” the nurse replied. “Don't stay more than a few minutes.”

“I won't. Thanks for letting me go in.”

“Me? I never saw you.” She busied herself with the medicine cart; I walked past the nurses' station and entered Aunt Ethel's room.

She lay in bed, her left foot propped on a pillow. Her eyes were closed.

“Aunt Ethel?” I whispered.

Her eyes stayed shut. I decided not to wake her up. If I did, she'd only demand to go home.

I opened the purse. Aunt Ethel didn't have a credit card, but I removed eighteen dollars and forty-five cents, along with the key chain. I wanted to be able to get the mail out of the post office box.

I put the purse in the drawer of the bedside stand. Even though I'd taken out the money, she might need the comb, pencil and notebook, or handkerchief that the purse still contained.

I waited a couple of minutes, wondering if Aunt Ethel would wake up. When she didn't, I whispered, “I'll take care of Florence while you're in the hospital.” I didn't know if she could hear me or not, but I figured Florence was the one thing she'd worry about.

I left her room and headed for the elevator.

When I got back to the lobby, I realized I had no way to get home. The medics had left as soon as they'd delivered Aunt Ethel, and I didn't know anyone in Diamond Hill or in Carbon City. Except for Aunt Ethel and the hospital staff, the only person I'd talked to in the entire state of Washington was the man in the Carbon City Market, and I didn't know his name. He didn't know mine, either. There was nobody I could call to ask for a ride home.

Although I'd spent the last hour imagining hordes of people swarming to Aunt Ethel's house, the only friend she had mentioned was Muriel. I didn't know Muriel's last name or where she lived.

I knew if I explained my dilemma to the admitting clerk, she would probably find someone to help me, but I didn't want anyone to know my plan to stay
at Aunt Ethel's house alone until she got out of the hospital.

I found a pay phone with a local directory chained to it, then looked up taxis in the Yellow Pages. It listed only one company. I dialed the number and asked how much it would cost to go from the Diamond Hill Hospital to the far side of Carbon City.

“Ten dollars.”

“OK. Can you come now?”

Five minutes later, a yellow-and-blue taxi pulled up. The driver wore a white turban and spoke halting English, but he understood when I said Carbon City.

My mind raced in circles as we drove, the way Charlie used to chase his tail. What a day! I'd never ridden in a cab before, much less an ambulance. I'd never helped a ghost, or dug up bones from a grave, or found a buried box. No wonder I was weary. I'd never stayed alone overnight, either, and that part was yet to come.

The taxi driver slowed when he drove into Carbon City. “Keep going,” I said. “It's up the hill a couple more miles.”

As the taxi approached the cemetery, I leaned forward in my seat, looking for a car. It was gone. The daisies still lay in the grass; the man who had pulled them out had not bothered to replant them.

I wondered if I should call the police as soon as I got home. From the frantic way that man had been digging, the box I'd removed must contain something valuable. But if it did, why would he have buried it in the cemetery? If it was full of money, as I suspected, why wouldn't he have deposited it in the bank? It didn't earn interest underground.

A new thought hit me. What if the box had been stolen? Maybe it didn't belong to this man, and he'd buried it to keep it hidden until he thought it was safe to open it.

I decided to force open the box all the way, find out exactly what it contained, and then call the police immediately.

I was thinking so hard about the man at the cemetery and the mysterious box, I nearly missed Aunt Ethel's road. At the last second, I said, “Turn there,” and the taxi swerved onto the gravel driveway.

When we reached the house, the driver looked at the meter. “Ten dollars,” he said. “Long way out here. Long way back.”

I wondered if I was supposed to tip him. It was a long drive for the taximan, and he would be going back without a passenger. I gave the driver twelve dollars, which seemed to please him.

As soon as I got in the house, I rushed to the
kitchen. The box sat on the table, exactly where I'd left it. Relieved, I opened the fridge. It was past eight o'clock, and I'd eaten only an apple all day. I was so hungry I would have eaten spinach or Brussels sprouts, but I didn't have to. I found a pork chop, some fried potatoes, and green beans, left over from yesterday's breakfast.

Wishing Aunt Ethel had a microwave, I wrapped my meal in foil and put it in the oven to heat.

While I waited for my dinner to get warm, I ate three chocolate chip cookies. Dessert first never killed anybody; that's my motto.

I was sorely tempted to have a slice of the unfinished cake, but I didn't. I wondered if Aunt Ethel's customer had come while I was at the hospital, then left when no one answered the door.

Three times I opened the oven and stuck my finger inside the foil to see if my dinner was hot. On the third try I gave up and ate everything lukewarm. Even after the cookies, I was too hungry to wait any longer. How did Aunt Ethel survive without a microwave? I would have made a rotten pioneer.

I ate right out of the foil. One less dish to wash. I washed my fork and glass, then picked up the metal box and headed for the barn.

B
reathing hard, Mr. Turlep held the torn plastic bag and stared into the empty hole.

The box was gone. The box containing all the money for his golden retirement had been stolen.

How dare someone remove what belonged to him?

He knew the box had been discovered accidentally because he had told no one where he'd hidden it. Unfortunately, he did not know whose grave this was, so he had no way to track down any relative or friend who might have planted the daisies.

Mr. Turlep stood up, wiped his filthy hands on his suit pants, and looked around the cemetery. The same kind of daisies bloomed on another grave a few rows over. The thief must have planted those, too.

Mr. Turlep rushed over to the second clump of
daisies and read the name on the headstone. F
LORENCE
H
ODGE
. He remembered her; she and her sister used to come to the bank to complain whenever interest rates on savings went down. Mr. Turlep didn't know she had died, but, come to think of it, he had not seen her in a while.

Was the sister still living? Had she come here and planted flowers? Is that who took his money? If so, it ought to be a simple matter to get it back, as long as he got to the old woman before she told anyone what she'd found.

Mr. Turlep ran back to his car and broke the speed limit driving toward town. He tried to remember the sister's name. Edna? Emma? He decided to go to the Carbon City Post Office and ask where the Hodge sisters lived. The surviving sister might still live around here. In a small town like Carbon City, everyone would use the same post office.

He reached the post office as a woman was turning a key in the lock on the front door. He screeched to a halt in the parking lot and jumped out of his car.

“Sorry,” she said. “The post office is closed for today. If you need stamps, you'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“All I need is information. I'm looking for the sister of an old friend. My friend's name was Florence
Hodge, but I can't remember the name of her sister or where she lives.”

“I'm not the regular postmistress,” the woman said. “She was sick today, and I substituted for her. I don't sub here often, so I don't know the local people. If there is a Hodge who has a P.O. box, I wouldn't know the street address. If you want to come back tomorrow morning, the regular postmistress will be back, and she might be able to help you.”

“Can't you look it up? You must have records.”

“Sorry. The post office closed at five; I stayed to finish some paperwork.” The woman walked to her car, ignoring the icy glare from Mr. Turlep.

He went next door to the Carbon City Market and asked the clerk if he could use a telephone directory.

The man reached under the counter and began sorting through piles of papers. “You want King County or Pierce County?” he asked.

“I want this area. The local numbers.”

“Hold on, then. It's in the back room by my personal phone.”

Mr. Turlep drummed his fingers on the counter while the man ambled to the rear of the store and went through a door marked
PRIVATE
.

“Don't take all day,” Mr. Turlep called after him. “I'm in a hurry!”

The clerk reappeared. “Keep your shirt on,” he grumbled as he slapped the slim phone book on the counter.

Mr. Turlep turned quickly to the
H
page and ran his finger down the listings. He stopped at
E. Hodge
. A phone number followed but no address.

“It doesn't give the address,” he said.

“Who is it you're trying to find?”

Mr. Turlep hesitated. He didn't want to tell this man he was searching for someone named Hodge, whose first name he didn't know. What if the old lady put up a struggle and wouldn't give him the box? What if he had to take it by force? It was foolish to have a witness who could identify him, a witness who would swear he had come in the market looking for Miss Hodge's address.

It would be better to drive to the bank and look through the records there. Most of the old-timers who lived around here had stuck with the local bank, even after two of the big national banks opened branches in town. Probably this Hodge woman's address was on file in his own office, where nobody would wonder why he wanted it.

Mr. Turlep slapped the phone book closed, then
turned and pushed open the door. As he hurried out, he heard the clerk call, “You're welcome!”

He headed away from Carbon City, back to the bank in Diamond Hill. As he drove, he became more and more agitated. What if the woman had already called the police and turned the money in? What if he was already too late?

He had never bothered to wipe his fingerprints off the metal box before he put it in the bag because he'd been positive it would never be found. He wondered how long fingerprints stay on a surface. Could they still be lifted from the box? Maybe it was good that the Hodge woman had taken the plastic bag off. Now her fingerprints were on the box, too, on top of his.

As he reached the city limits of Diamond Hill, a sleek black cat dashed across the road in front of his car. Mr. Turlep slammed on his brakes, made a U-turn, and drove four blocks out of his way to avoid driving where the cat had crossed. He wasn't superstitious, he told himself, but why take chances?

He reached the bank, punched in the alarm code, and used the back entrance. He booted up his computer, opened the list of customer files, and scrolled down until he reached Hodge.

There she was! Ethel Hodge. She had a checking account, where a Social Security check was deposited
automatically on the third of every month. She also had a small certificate of deposit. No wonder he didn't remember her first name. Even though she had been a bank customer for more than fifty years, she'd never taken out a loan, and she had minimal assets. Mr. Turlep only paid attention to his wealthier clients.

Both the checking account and the certificate of deposit gave the Carbon City post office box as the address. Nowhere in the bank's records could he find the physical address. Where did this woman live?

He closed the current customer file and opened the file called Closed Accounts. This time he searched for Florence Hodge, but the information was the same—nothing but a post office box. He'd have to go back to the Carbon City Market and ask that slow-moving clerk to give him directions.

Mr. Turlep closed the files, turned off the computer, reset the bank alarm, and locked the door. But he didn't drive straight back to Carbon City. Instead, he went to his apartment. Now that he'd had time to think about it, he realized it was crucial for him to leave for Florida that night, as soon as he had the money. He couldn't take a chance that the Hodge woman would keep quiet—or the market clerk, for that matter.

Since he had planned to go the next day, his bags were already packed. He would leave the boxes for Goodwill and the load of trash for the dump in his apartment. Let the landlord deal with it.

He hurried inside and opened his bedroom closet. He removed a box, set it on his bed, opened it, and took out dozens of back issues of
Deep-Sea Fishing
magazine. At the bottom of the box lay a black ski mask and a handgun, the ones he'd used the night two years ago when he stole the money.

He'd bought the ski mask at a garage sale a few weeks before he used it. The handgun came from a gun shop in Tacoma, one with a reputation for not requiring background checks and for “losing” guns to theft. Customers who paid cash for a gun did so with the assurance there would never be a way to trace that gun back to the purchaser. Mr. Turlep had paid cash.

He had hidden the gun and the ski mask under the magazines as soon as he got home the night of the robbery, and he had intended never to touch either of them again. His plan had been to take several boxes of clothing and household items to a Goodwill donation station tomorrow morning before he left town for good. By the time someone discovered one of the boxes contained items other than magazines, he would already be halfway to Florida—and nobody
would even know where the items had come from.

Now he carried the gun and ski mask back to his car, hid them under the seat, and drove the eighteen miles back to Carbon City.

It was long past Mr. Turlep's dinner hour, and his hunger made him irritable.