Leighann Dobbs - Mystic Notch 02 - A Spirited Tail (7 page)

“Well, technically they are
his
things now,” I pointed out.

“Oh, dear, I suppose they’ll be going through everything.” Van Dorn wrung his hands, watching me closely as I went back to my task of inspecting the books. I hated to be rude, but I had to speed things up or I’d never be finished. 

“Are you going to look at every single book?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Well, I’m just inspecting the valuable ones, but eventually they’ll all be removed. The whole house will be emptied. I think Steve might send the books to auction.”

“Well, then, I pray my instructions have been followed so my secret will be safe,” he whispered in a barely audible voice.

Did he just say something about a secret? My interest was piqued. 

I stared up at him. “Secret?”

Van Dorn was distracted by another crash. “What? Did I say secret? I must have been confused. Really I
must
go see what they are doing in there.”

“Wait—”

But he had already disappeared.

I turned back to my work with a sigh. I’d been hoping to get answers from the ghost, but all I’d gotten were more questions.

I pulled out several more books, then coming to the very edge of the fireplace, I was just about to start on the next shelf up when one book that was sticking out past the others caught my eye. Upon attempting to push it back in, I noticed it seemed rather light for the thickness of the spine. 

My heartbeat picked up speed as I pulled it out and flipped open the cover. It was hollow inside—a fake book. Nestled in the hollow were several pages of handwritten notes, all bound in a red ribbon. 

I held my breath as I took them out of the book.
Could these have something to do with the secret Van Dorn was just talking about?

I pulled one of the pages out of the ribbon and was just about to read it when the library door flew open.

“Chance, I thought I’d find you in here!”

I whirled around to see all six foot two of Eddie Striker, his broad shoulders taking up most of the doorframe. Striker and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I’d been his number one suspect in the murder of town librarian Lavinia Babbage. He liked to call me by my last name, which he said was appropriate because I took a lot of chances, especially when it came to investigating murders. He acted like that bothered him, but I think he secretly liked it.

My face flushed, my heart fluttered and I shoved the papers in the back of my notebook, unsure as to why I was hiding them, but certain it was the right thing to do. Knowing Striker, he’d think it was some kind of evidence and make me turn them in and I didn’t want to do that, at least not until I’d gotten a chance to read them.

“Hi, Striker.” I tried to act cool, even though his dimpled smile turned me to jelly.

He walked toward me and I closed the book, shoved it into the bookcase and stood.

“Impressive library. You must be in your glory here.”

I smiled. “I am. I wish I could transfer the whole thing to my house.” 

He leaned his palms against the bookshelf on either side of my head, trapping me. Not that I wanted to get away. I breathed in his fresh, clean smell and closed my eyes. Then my thoughts turned suspicious.

“What are you doing here?”

“Gus wanted me to consult on this new murder case. I was looking over the crime scene.”

My eyes flew open. “Really? Did you find any clues?”

Striker’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why so interested? I hope you’re not launching another investigation … last time, you almost got killed and I would hate to see that happen.”

“Who, me?”

Striker removed his right hand from the bookcase and ran it down my arm to my hand. Earlier in the summer, I’d burned that hand in an explosion, which was a result of my investigating another murder. I guess I could see why he didn’t want me to get involved in this one. He turned my hand over gently in his palm.

“I see this has healed up nicely, so let’s not do anything to hurt it again.” He leaned back and his gaze raked my body. “Or any other part of you.”

Suddenly, I found it hard to speak. “Okay.”

He pushed away from the bookcase and took a step back, much to my disappointment.

“Good. Then carry on. I saw your car outside and wanted to stop in to say hi. Are you going to be finishing up soon?” He looked at me hopefully. “Because if you are, I could stop by your house after I’m done.”

I nodded my head up and down like an overzealous puppy, then admonished myself for acting like a teenager in heat. I actually was feeling pretty hot, but that probably had more to do with a hormonal hot flash than Striker. 

“I should be done in about an hour,” I managed to say. “But I have to get Pandora and then stop at Pepper’s to pick up Ranger.”

“Ranger?” 

I filled him in about the dog and he said he’d swing by in two hours, which should give me just enough time. I waited until I saw him moving around in the back yard and then I took the letters out of my notebook. 

I vaguely remembered Bing saying something about a journal or some notes on magician’s tricks and I wondered if that was what was in the letters. It didn’t take long before it became clear the letters didn’t have anything to do with any magic tricks.

They were love letters.

Chapter Seven

By the time I arrived home two hours later, Striker was already waiting in the driveway. I parked the car and Pandora shot out across my lap and over to the farmer’s porch to be let in. Ranger was not nearly as enthusiastic and I had to open the back of my Jeep and coerce him out.

By the time I got into the kitchen, my nerves were frazzled, my stomach was grumbling and my leg was aching.

“So this is Ranger?” Striker knelt down in front of the dog that stood listlessly at my side. 

“He’s kind of depressed,” I said. 

“Meow!” Pandora glared at me expectantly from her place next to her food dish.

“Of course he’s depressed. Poor guy lost his best friend.” Striker rubbed the fur on Ranger’s head as I started to fill Pandora’s bowl. 

Ranger whimpered and twitched his tail.

I finished with Pandora’s dish and got a large, ceramic bowl out of the cabinet for Ranger, thankful that Pepper had had the foresight to supply me with a small bag of dog food. 

I poured out the food and set it down, along with a bowl of fresh water. “Here you go. You must be hungry.”

Ranger flicked his eyes from me to the bowl. He approached cautiously, sniffing around the edges, then he sighed, lumbered to the corner of the room and plopped down, resting his head on his paws.

“Hey, you have to eat.” I grabbed a few pieces of food and squatted beside him, wincing at the pain in my leg. I put the food under his nose. He sniffed at it, then curled up in a ball and ignored me. 

“Maybe he doesn’t like it,” Striker said.

“I think he’s still upset about the murder.” I pushed up from the floor and limped over to the fridge in search of supper for Striker and me.

“Is your leg bothering you?” 

My heart hitched at the way he said it. Like he was genuinely concerned. I shoved my head further into the near-empty fridge. “I don’t have much in here … some cottage cheese, mustard, jalapeños, cream cheese and Ritz crackers.”

“You keep crackers in your fridge?”

I shrugged and pulled everything out onto my counter. “Do you think you can turn this into dinner?”

Striker’s lips quirked up in a smile as he looked at the ingredients skeptically. In the few months we’d known each other, I’d learned he was an excellent cook, which worked out well because I couldn’t cook to save my life. My meals usually consisted of take-out, frozen pizza and English muffins with whatever was in the fridge on top. Tonight I didn’t even have the English muffins. 

“Looks like we’ll be having appetizers for supper.” Striker took out some plates and I watched him spread cream cheese on several crackers, then apply a dot of mustard, then top it off with a jalapeño slice. He made a trayful, then we sat at the kitchen table.

The crackers were surprisingly good. The spice of the mustard and heat of the jalapeños were soothed by the smooth cream cheese, and the cracker added a satisfying crunch. We munched in silence for a few minutes, my mind drifting to the love letters I’d found at Van Dorn’s. 

They were safely tucked away in my notebook and I was dying to tell someone about them … but not Striker. I knew the letters didn’t have anything to do with Bruce Norton’s murder, but I figured it was better for me to keep their discovery to myself until I was sure what they meant. They could help me figure out who killed Charles Van Dorn if he actually was murdered like he’d claimed. Although his ghost
seemed
sincere, I was starting to have my doubts, especially since he’d clearly lied to me about having a love affair—the letters proved that. The only problem was, the letters didn’t reveal
who
he was having the affair with. 

Striker broke the silence. “Pandora’s being awfully cordial to her new guest.”

I glanced over at the sleek, gray cat who was circling Ranger, sniffing every inch. She shot me a reproachful look as if to let me know she took a dim view of having a dog as a houseguest. I felt a swell of pride that she was acting so respectful and made a mental note to give her some extra catnip.

“I guess she must sense that he’s in distress,” I said. “I have to admit, I was leery of bringing him here because I didn’t know how she’d react, but it looks like they’re getting along.”

“Well, at least she’s tolerating him for now,” Striker said. “Are you going to keep him?”

I munched on the last cracker thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I’m hoping Bruce had some relatives that might want him.”

“Gus said Bruce had no next of kin.”

“Oh, that’s kind of sad.” I glanced at Ranger, wondering what would happen to him now. He moved his eyes in my direction and my heart pinched. “I guess it’s up to me to find Ranger a good home, then.”

Striker raised his left brow and I realized that
he
didn’t have a pet.
Everyone
should have a pet. I glanced from Striker to Ranger, mentally sizing them up as a potential match, but decided it was too soon to mention it to Striker.

“I heard Bruce was a recluse,” I said. “I guess that explains why I didn’t know him. But Hattie and Cordelia said they thought he might have been getting dementia and just wandered onto the property.”

Striker pressed his lips together. “Maybe. Of course, whether he wandered there or went there on purpose doesn’t really matter so much. What we need to find out is why the other person–his killer—was there.”

I saw the perfect opening and took it. Plastering on my most innocent voice, I asked,“Got any clues as to who that might be?”

Striker shrugged. “I really shouldn’t discuss it, but I can tell you no witnesses have come forward and there’re very few clues. Gertie estimated the time of death at two a.m. and Ruth Walters said she saw a yellow car drive by, but swears it was closer to six. She claims people were racing up and down the road all night and suggested we put up a speed trap.”

I snorted. “Well, that’s not the first time Ruth has suggested that. One car goes by and she complains that they’ve been drag racing up the road all night.” 

“That’s what Gus said, so I’m taking her testimony with a grain of salt.”

“Probably a good idea.” I pulled an empty chair out from the table and gritted my teeth as I swung my leg up onto it. I angled my chair to be more comfortable, and something glowing in the living room caught my eye. The round sphere on my coffee table had caught the setting sun from the window and was reflecting lovely gold and pink light into the room. The sphere—I guessed it was some sort of paperweight—had been a gift from my grandmother’s friend and neighbor, Elspeth Whipple, and I made a mental note to check on the old woman. Gram had asked me to do that in her will and I hadn’t looked in for a few days.

“That’s hurting you,” Striker leaned forward and pushed my pant leg up to my knee. “I told you, you should keep massaging it.”

“Uh-huh.” I closed my eyes as he pressed his thumbs deep into the tissue, providing what I could only describe as ‘painful relief’. “Do you think Bruce’s murder could be related to the murders during Charles Van Dorn’s time?”

“Murders? I thought one person was murdered and Charles confessed and killed himself.”

“Right.” I couldn’t tell him that Charles himself claimed differently. “Don’t you find it odd the two victims both had that symbol on their forehead?”

“They did?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know?” I felt a momentary surge of superiority, thinking I’d out-investigated the police.

Striker narrowed his eyes at me. “No. What do you know about it?”

“The morning bookstore gang told me about the symbol. Apparently, it all had something to do with Charles Van Dorn’s career as a medium. Lily had the same symbol on her head as Bruce did. They thought it was some sort of curse.”

Striker laughed. “You don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo, do you?”

Yes.

“No.” I wasn’t ready to reveal my secret pastime of talking to ghosts to Striker yet.

“Anyway, it’s unlikely the two crimes would be done by the same person as the original killer would have to be at least seventy years old by now. I don’t know if they would have the strength to swing hard enough to wield the blow that killed Bruce Norton. But the markings are an odd coincidence. Our new killer must have known about the original case.”

“Right. So, what did kill him?  I mean, what was the murder weapon?”

Striker looked at me sideways as he worked his way up my leg, past the knee to my thigh, his face getting closer and closer to mine. “Sorry, Chance, that’s privileged information. I can’t give you all the clues. Besides, I don’t want you to have too many of them or you might go off investigating on your own. And I can’t have you doing that.”

And with that, he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine. The relaxing after-effects of the massage and the feeling of his soft, warm lips must have gone right to my head because I forgot all about clues, murders and the Van Dorn curse.