Charles frowned, looking disappointed. “As you wish.” He handed me several pictures of the Spit & Whistle Pub, along with a photocopied article about the potential lawsuit the historical society was looking at bringing against Clarence.
I took a moment to read over it and then glanced at the pictures. One showed the secret room and had been marked “Exhibit A.” “So the lawsuit actually reached the courts?”
“Yes, but Clarence agreed to settle by restoring the restaurant to its former state. I think they expected he would destroy the room and fill in the dirt and then rebuild the wall, but apparently he found it more expedient to just brick it over.”
“Apparently so.” I frowned. “Can you tell me how many people actually have died there?”
Charles nodded. “Oh, there’s quite a list, starting of course with the first owners. You know about the murders–suicide case?”
I nodded. “Who else died there?”
“Well, there was one woman, Nellie Lars’s grandmother. Nellie bought the restaurant after it went up for sale the first time after Craig and Harriet Danvers were killed. Ida Johansen was seventy-three. She lived there with her granddaughter Nellie and helped out by doing the cooking. One evening she was in the kitchen, frying up a pan of potatoes, when the cookstove exploded. I’m not sure how, but it was thought that there was a lot of creosote built up, and they were using green wood with a lot of pitch in it—whatever happened, the oven door blew clean off. The door hit Ida and knocked her back. She fell, hitting her head on the counter, and died.”
“So she died right there in the kitchen?” I thought about the knife that had flown across the kitchen toward Louise. “What kind of woman was Ida?”
“She was a spiteful old biddy, according to records. She didn’t want to be working at that time of her life—and I understand it, but her husband had died penniless and their house was foreclosed on. She had to go live with her granddaughter, who put her to work for her room and board. Nellie wasn’t the most gracious of women, either, so I’m sure her grandmother felt like crap stuck in the kitchen.”
“So we have two murders, one suicide, and an accidental death. Anything else?”
Charles handed me another photocopy of a news article. “Jonathan Parks was a regular customer there during the 1940s. He was a mean SOB, a drunk, a bully, and also way too pushy with the ladies. He took a shine to one of the barmaids and kept trying to get her to go out with him. She was engaged and not at all interested. She complained to her boss, a man named Shy Sterner, who was a bear shifter. Shy didn’t want to listen to women complaining and ignored her, so she talked to her fiancé, who wasn’t so lenient. They were both wolf shifters, by the way, and the only reason she didn’t go after Shy was because she wanted to keep her job.”
“So what happened?” Images of bear against wolf flooded my brain and I tried to shut them out. They were far from pretty.
“Tyson—the fiancé—was waiting outside one evening when Jonathan headed out of the bar, drunk out of his mind. Tyson shot him dead, right on the steps.”
So add in a spirit of a drunk who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It had been my experience that most spirits seemed to be just about the same way in death that they had been in life.
“Hmm…if he was killed by a barmaid’s boyfriend, I can easily see him being the one who pushed the waitress down the steps.” I was jotting down notes a mile a minute. Hank had impressed that on me time and again. “Do you have pictures of any of these people?”
“Right here. Come take a look.” Charles crooked his finger, beckoning to me.
I sighed, tired of arguing. For whatever reason, Charles was feeling chummy today. I crossed behind his desk to stand behind him. Leaning down, I began studying the photographs of the dead. Ida Johansen had been a stern-looking woman, but also—tired. I could see the weariness in her eyes, as if life had put her to the test and then doubled up on the exams.
On the other hand, Jonathan Parks looked every inch the bully. I was about to ask if Charles could make photocopies of the pictures for me, when I felt a hand on my ass. I froze. What the hell? Charles had his right hand splayed across my ass, and was inching close to dangerous territory.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I reached around behind me and caught hold of his wrist with my left hand, squeezing hard. I wasn’t all that strong, but I had decent nails and I sank them into the skin of his wrist, not quite breaking the surface.
“I… I…” Charles yanked his hand away, his cheeks so red he looked about ready to have a heart attack. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t know why I did that. I just…you…today when you walked in…”
“Yeah? I’m waiting.” I backed away, crossing my arms over my chest as I tapped my foot on the floor. “You’ve been weird with me ever since I walked in. What the hell gives?”
Still blushing, Charles averted his eyes, staring at his desk. “You’re just so beautiful, all I could think about was—” He froze, falling silent. “I’d better send you the rest of my notes. I’m sorry, again. Please, forgive me.”
Not sure of what the hell was going on, I nodded, backing away. I felt like I was facing a big cat—and you don’t turn your back on big cats when you’re trying to get away. I reached my chair, picked up my bag and shoved my recorder and the notes I had made into it, and then slid into my coat and headed out the door. Not sure what to do, I headed toward the women’s restroom, feeling slightly dirty.
“Why do you feel that way? It wasn’t your fault,” I whispered, staring at myself in the mirror. “You didn’t know he was like that.”
And yet, something inside whispered, But he isn’t. Not usually. At least on the surface.
Disconcerted, I splashed water on my face and then headed out, taking a different route to the stairs. I had gathered a lot of good information, but I wondered if I would be able to talk to Charles face-to-face again. It couldn’t have been him who had left the flowers, could it? My thoughts crowded with images of ghostly faces and brilliant red roses, I hustled out the door and down the steps, heading to my car in the dim afternoon light.
Chapter Eight
I went directly home after texting Tad that I wasn’t feeling that well, and that I’d see them tomorrow. I also texted Ari, asking if she could come over and hang out, that I needed to talk to her about something. I also texted my aunt Teran, asking if she could join us. Something felt off, and I wasn’t sure whether some spirit had attached to me or what.
Speaking of attachments, as I unlocked my front door and stepped inside, Xi ran up to me, leaping to affix herself to my leg with her claws.
“Yowch! You little dork.” I set down my tote and gently disentangled her claws from my jeans. “Okay, kisses.” I smooched her fuzzy little head, then gave her a quick scritch before setting her down on the floor. She promptly tried to burrow into my bag and I fished her out and put her back on the floor, carrying my bag into the living room and zipping it shut. I shrugged off my coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sat down on the sofa and pulled off my boots. The day had been exhausting—more emotionally than physically—and the last thing I felt like doing was cooking.