Death of a Toy Soldier (14 page)

“She might,” I said. “I know she’s been acquiring equipment. I thought perhaps she was part of one of the local groups.”

“Hmm, I doubt it’s that simple,” Althena said. “See, Kimmie is . . . sensitive. She’s drawn to spirit activity. But she’s also smart. She’s working on her own advanced degree in paranormal studies. Maybe that’s why she has the equipment.”

“Right now all that equipment is in Sy’s house. She married him,” I said, and then waited for a reaction.

“Married him? I wonder if her parents know,” she said. “I’ll have to ask them next time we talk.”

“You know Kimmie’s parents?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “When I did Kimmie’s readings, who do you think she wanted to reach?”

“Her parents are dead?” Cathy said.

That explained why Kimmie hadn’t told her parents she had gotten married. I took Althena by the arm. “If I could set it up with Kimmie, would you try to . . . make a connection at Sy’s house? I’d like to be there.”

Althena agreed. On our way to the door, she leaned back and squinted at me. “Has anyone told you that you have a very powerful aura? More than any I’ve ever seen.”

Trailing behind us, Cathy sighed.

“All set,” I said, hanging up the receiver in the shop. “Althena is going to meet me there at eleven
PM
, and Kimmie sounded excited about the idea of a séance at the old house.”

“This is a major rabbit trail,” Dad said. “I don’t see what you expect to accomplish.”

Our conversation paused while a couple entered the shop and started wandering the aisles. A few minutes later, they left with a couple of jigsaw puzzles and a dozen vintage View-Master slides.

When they were out the door, I turned to Dad. “Hey, it doesn’t matter if ghosts exist or not.”

“I think that’s quite relevant, if you don’t want to waste a whole boatload of time. It’s hard to believe what normal, sane people can talk themselves into. I don’t want you marching headlong into that woman’s delusions.”

“No, Dad. Don’t worry. You raised a firm skeptic.”

“That’s my girl.” That familiar childish gleam returned to his eyes. “Just do me one favor, if you come across a ghost?”

“What’s that?”

“Try not to think of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

I smiled. “Here I was in the mood for s’mores. Still, I don’t think the ghost angle is a dead end.”

Dad raised an eyebrow.

“Pun unintentional,” I said. “I think Kimmie’s beliefs matter because they give her a motive. Look, she wants to get into the haunted house. Sy wants to find out what is going on with his house. There’s the basis for a match made in heaven. Or at least some quickie Niagara Falls wedding chapel. It’s simple symbiosis. But Sy has an aide. Sully O’Grady is a religious man, and he’s not likely to go along with all this ghost hunting business. So . . .”

“So Kimmie whacks him?” Dad said. “Why in the shop?”

“If she’d killed him in the house,” I said, thinking on my feet, “who’s the main suspect? She wanted distance. So maybe she sends him out with the toys to be evaluated, and she follows him. She finds you two alone in the store, then she strikes.”

Dad thought for a moment. “How does she plan to overpower two men, one an ex-cop and the other a veteran?”

“Element of surprise?” I said.

“I guess that makes more sense than a ghost did it.” He scratched his cheek. “If you’re right, you’re walking into the house of a killer tonight.” He drew in a long breath through his teeth. “I’m going with you.”

“The more the merrier,” I said.

“Speaking of marriage . . .” Cathy said.

“We weren’t speaking of marriage,” I said.

“Close enough,” Cathy said. “Anyway, I decided to treat us all to lunch today!”

I eyed her suspiciously.

She winked at me. “All you have to do is pick it up.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jack’s place?”

“It will be ready in five minutes.”

###

Of course, grabbing my takeout and running was not going to be an option. When I arrived, Jack was at the counter clutching my bag.

“On the house,” he said. “Peace offering.” He stepped from behind the counter and gestured toward a small table by the window. “How much trouble did you get in last night?”

“Not as much as you might think,” I said. “Dad thought it was hysterical. He dragged me back over to Kimmie’s house to apologize.”

“I’m sorry for involving you in this.”

“Not a problem. In fact, we have a lead thanks to you. It seems Kimmie’s interest in the house isn’t primarily financial. She thinks it’s haunted. We’re going back tonight for a séance.”

Jack’s face drained of all emotion, and he stared straight ahead. I wasn’t even sure he was focusing on me anymore.

“Jack?”

“That . . .” he said. “That kind of makes sense. Uncle Sy used to call all the time talking about strange noises. We assumed that he wanted attention, that he was lonely, cooped up in that old place.”

“Apparently he was convinced that something otherworldly was going on, enough to enter into an arrangement with Kimmie.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “If she’s some kind of ghost hunter and thinks the house is haunted, she’s not going to let it go, is she?”

“Not without a fight,” I said.

“Do you think you could get me into this séance thing?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe the haunting is real. Uncle Sy just had an overactive imagination, and he freaked himself out. I mean, if you sit in the dark all alone and listen long enough, anybody is going to start hearing things. If someone can explain the noises, maybe she’ll move on.”

“I think it’s going to be harder than that to get the house back for the family.”

“Then again, you never know . . .”

“What are you grinning about?”

“Maybe Uncle Sy will show up, rattle a few doors, and personally tell us who is supposed to get the Hummel.”

###

Othello was snoozing on my pillow when I went upstairs to change for the evening. I sat on the foot of my bed and stared at the open closet. He crawled into my lap, and I scratched under his chin, then worked my way to that magic spot behind his ears. He became Silly Putty in my hand.

“What does one wear to a séance?” I didn’t have any real-life experience to draw from. In the old movies I’d seen, generally people wore black, including black pillbox hats with trim black veils. And here I was fresh out of pillbox hats of any color.

I did, however, pull a pair of black jeans from the closet. I resisted the urge to dig out my
Ghostbusters
T-shirt. Or Scooby-Doo. I picked out an orange tunic, thinking it reminded me of Velma without being too overt. I held it up to Othello. “What do you think, buddy? Does it make me look smart?”

He meowed once and hopped off the bed.

A few minutes later, I knocked on Dad’s door. “Last train heading out in five minutes.”

He stepped out of his room in the midst of straightening his tie. “How formal is this thing?” He took in my outfit and ripped off the tie. “Isn’t it a little early?”

“I wanted to stop at the house next door,” I said. “Those old biddies keep a good eye on the place, and if anything new happened, they’d know about it.”

“Then I’m ready.” He picked up his chief of police coat.

I pointed at it. “Should you be . . . ?”

“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “Force of habit.” He put it back and pulled out his short wool car coat. “Better?”

I kissed him on the cheek. “I think you’re the bee’s knees.”

###

Irene and Lenora opened the door. “We’re pleased as punch to see you,” Lenora said. “Something odd is happening over at that house tonight.”

“Something big,” Irene said. “People have been in and out all day.”

“I know.” I kicked off my boots on their entry rug. “You remember my dad, right?”

He stepped out of the shadows.

“For a second there,” Irene said, “I thought you had your young man with you again.”

“Your young man?” Dad said as he shook hands with both Lenora and Irene.

“They mean Jack,” I said.

Dad left it alone but winked at me.

I turned back to the sisters. “No orgies to worry about. There’s a séance next door tonight.”

Silence reigned, although I caught their widened eyes and a furtive glance.

“Good heavens,” Lenora said finally. “Why would they want to do that?”

“Apparently,” I said, “Sy was under the impression that his house was haunted. That’s why Kimmie wanted the place.”

“She
wanted
a haunted house?” Irene placed a hand on her cheek, as if that was the most absurd thing she’d ever heard.

“Have either of you heard any stories of hauntings next door?”

Again, the sisters shared a look, then Lenora said, “Maybe you’d better come in.”

Soon Dad and I were sitting in their front parlor while they hustled to the kitchen to make tea, despite our insistence that we didn’t care for any. I could make out hurried whispers but couldn’t hear what they were saying.

“They’re up to something,” I said to Dad.

He dipped his chin once. “In spades.”

When they returned with a tray, I watched their faces carefully.

Irene exhaled, then said, “I’m afraid we haven’t been candid with you. We do know about the odd occurrences next door.”

“But you didn’t mention them?” I asked.

The sisters shared another glance, then Irene answered. “When young folks talk about things that go bump in the night, it’s all eerie and mysterious.” She sighed. “When older folks do, people think we’re dotty.”

“I’m beginning to find that out myself,” Dad said. “What do you know? About the house next door, I mean.”

Lenora set down her cup and cleared her throat. “Mainly what we told Sy, back when he started seeing and hearing things.”

“I thought you didn’t talk to him,” I said.

“Not recently,” Lenora said. “This was way back. In the seventies or eighties.”

“It would have to be the eighties,” Irene said. “I remember having big hair at the time.” She turned to me. “You’re too young to remember the Aqua Net generation, aren’t you? Perhaps it’s safer. All those fumes. But I do kind of miss shoulder pads.”

Lenora shook her head. “Made me look like a linebacker.”

“What exactly was Sy seeing and hearing?” I asked.

“Footsteps,” Irene said. “Crashes, unexplained whispers.”

“What did you think of this?” I asked.

“Well, considering the history of the house . . .” Lenora began, and then let her comment hang in the air.

“What history?” Dad asked.

“The murder, for instance,” Irene said.

Half an hour later, we arrived at Kimmie Kaminski’s doorstep, armed with the oral history of the house—some eighty-plus years of it.

Kimmie—wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “Ghost Hunters Are My Rock Stars!”—opened the door. She introduced us to several young men: Chuck, Zack, and Spook (which I really hoped was a nickname), all members of her paranormal team. They were similarly dressed and generously tattooed and were in the process of setting up various electronic devices.

Many of the boxes had been cleared away. One large box, perhaps from a refrigerator, was in the center of the room. The seams were sealed with duct tape and the inside lined with aluminum foil.

“Never mind that,” Kimmie said. “Just a little experiment I’m working on.”

Dad did a double take as he walked by.

“Althena isn’t here yet.” Kimmie rubbed her hands together. “I’m excited about tonight. There’s this energy that something is going to happen.”

“I feel it,” Chuck said. Or maybe it was Zack. They both were young men and wore black baseball caps pulled low over their scruffy faces. Spook was the only one who stood out, with his completely bald head and wide eyes.

“In addition to whoever was in the house before,” Kimmie said, “it’s possible that Sy and Sully could be here now, too. Especially since Sully won’t be completely at rest. And Sy always wanted to know what spirits were in the house. He might stick around for those answers.”

“Do you know the history of the house?” I asked.

“Just bits and pieces,” she said. “Sy was a bit scattered near the end. Wait, do you know more?”

“From the neighbors,” I said. “I gather this house has quite a history.”

“We should document this,” Zack said. Or maybe it was Chuck.

“Can we record you telling the story?” Kimmie asked.

Dad put his hand up. “Not me. Camera shy.” Except I knew he was lying. “But Liz would be happy to.”

“I . . . sure.” I was fitted with a microphone and posed in a threadbare armchair. Lights shone and cameras rolled. While all attention was on me, Dad wandered around the house, poking and prodding and looking around. Apparently I was his search warrant.

“So what can you tell us about the history of the old DuPont house?” Kimmie asked, her voice taking on a journalistic timbre. “Is it true that old William DuPont died of malaria in the master bedroom?”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “From what I heard, the house was built by a Dr. Leonard DuPont, but of no clear
relation to the industrialist millionaire.” I heard a quiet sigh but kept going. “According to local sources, Doctor DuPont used the home not only as his residence but also as his hospital and operating room.”

A bright smile spread across Kimmie’s face. “So it’s possible that some of the patients died here as well.”

Unless he was very good
, I thought. But I bit back the snarky comment. “Several years passed before a regular office and hospital were set up, so yes, it’s likely that more than one patient died here.”

“I wonder if we’ll hear from any of them tonight. Some residual moans, perhaps,” Kimmie said, and then she started talking to the walls. Loudly. “Are any of Doctor DuPont’s patients here? Did you die in this house of a disease people didn’t understand? Or did you have an operation and die on a bloody operating table?” She got up and spun around, taking in every nook and cranny in the room.

Fortunately, nobody answered. She sat down. “That’s a good start. Anything else?”

“The ladies next door did mention a murder.”

Kimmie’s jaw dropped and her eyes glittered. “A murder!” she repeated with the same tone that game show announcers used to say, “A new car!”

“Back around the turn of the century . . . not this century . . . the oldest son, a young man of dubious character, died suddenly, days after making unwanted advances toward the cook’s daughter. The family suspected poison.”

“And?” Kimmie was on the edge of her chair.

“Murder could not be proved,” I said, supplying the second- and third-hand information the sisters had given me.
“No poison was found, so they weren’t convicted. From there the story diverges. Some say the cook and her daughter were fired and left penniless. Nobody wanted to hire them, considering the allegations.”

Kimmie was now smiling like the cat that ate the canary. If I tried hard, I could see yellow feathers dangling from her mouth. “So the spirit of the young man wouldn’t be at rest, and the cook and her daughter might have returned seeking vengeance.” I doubted anyone could be more delighted about the idea of a vengeful spirit inhabiting her house than Kimmie Kaminski.

“That’s one version of the story.” I was almost afraid to tell the alternate version.

Kimmie was perched so far forward in her chair that she was in danger of falling off.

I continued the tale. “The other story suggested that the cook’s daughter became pregnant by the young man, and the cook and her daughter were kept prisoner in the house until she gave birth, so as not to sully the family’s reputation. The baby was stillborn, and the family buried it in the walls of the house. Only then did they allow the cook and her daughter to leave. They were provided a generous stipend to relocate to the West.” I sighed. “Although some say that was a story made up by the family, and both mother and daughter are also buried on the property.”

Kimmie leaned back in her chair as if exhausted and gazed up wide-eyed at the cracked ceiling. “This just gets better.” She sat up to face her crew. “We’ll have to keep our ears open for a crying baby.” Her voice crackled with enthusiasm. “Skeptics think that sort of thing can be debunked as stray
signals from baby monitors.” She turned back to me. “Tragic stories like that seem to echo from the walls in places like this. So many spirits not finding rest.”

“Of course, these are just stories,” I said.

“I’ll check it all out,” she said. “I have friends in the history department at the university. Never let it be said that Kimmie Kaminski ever relied on hearsay. I believe in historical documentation and the scientific method.” She was producing so much saliva she could have given Pavlov’s dogs a run for their money. “Was there anything else?”

“Apparently,” I said, “Millard Fillmore had dinner here on more than one occasion.” That wasn’t unusual, since he lived in the community and, by all accounts, liked to eat.

Kimmie was off and running. “Mr. President?” she said loudly to the walls. “Mr. President, can you knock on something and let us know you’re here?”

Dad had completed his circle of the room and came up behind me. “Apparently the spirit of Millard Fillmore is quite deaf,” he whispered.

But Kimmie wasn’t. She silenced him with a finger to her lips.

Dad stepped back toward the staircase and casually rested an arm on the cracked varnished banister, which creaked a little in the process.

Kimmie shot him a warning glare.

Everyone in the room was stock-still as she listened.

Suddenly a faint rattle seemed to come from somewhere upstairs. Kimmie and her fellow ghost hunters abandoned the interview and, along with all their equipment, scrambled up the stairs. The ceiling shook with their footsteps.

Dad wandered over to me, looking suspiciously innocent with his hands jingling something in his pockets.

I squinted at him. “Did you do that?”

He ignored my question and handed me a business card. “See what I found.”

The card read,

“I think she was going for ‘exorcised,’” I said.

“Could be exercised.” Dad’s lips twisted into a quirky half smile. “Have you ever seen a flabby demon?”

“I can’t say I’ve seen one at all, and I hope to keep it that way.” I slapped his arm and a couple of tiddlywinks—what purists call “tiddledywinks”—fell onto the floor. I suspected the ghost the group was currently chasing was less of an ethereal orb and more of a plastic disk.

“Wait!” I tapped the card. “This would imply that Kimmie doesn’t just intend to investigate ghosts. She wants to relocate them? Move them around? Why, that would make her . . .”

“A real female ghostbuster,” Dad said. “I bet that’s what the chamber of foil is all about.”

Moments later I was startled by a clear, definite knocking sound. It was coming from the front door, so I opened it. Jack stood on the doorstep, a few flakes of snow in his dark, curly hair. Behind him, Althena was coming up the walk.

“Where is everybody?” she said as she shrugged off her coat.

“I believe they’re upstairs with Millard Fillmore.” Dad managed to avoid the smile on his lips, but I could see it in his eyes. He was having an awful lot of fun.

The paranormal team came down the stairs, congratulating each other over various spikes and readings on their equipment. “I think we got an EVP,” Chuck (or Zack) said.

Kimmie briefly greeted Althena and the new arrivals, then went straight to the computer, where Spook played around with the equipment.

I helped Althena find a spot to hang her coat, then asked, “What exactly is an EVP?”

“Electronic voice phenomena,” Althena said, but she sounded bored when she said it. “Many paranormal groups believe that spirits can talk to them through sensitive electronic recorders or white noise.”

By this point, the group had isolated the voice and were replaying it repeatedly. “I hear temperature,” Zack (or Chuck) said.

“T’sure,” is what I heard. They played the audio five more times.

“It could be tincture,” Kimmie said. “Remember this was a doctor’s office.”

“Tincture,” Spook said. “I think you’re right.”

Althena rolled her eyes, made her way to the dining room, and dropped her bag on the table with a thud. She removed a black cloth and covered the table.

“Oh, sorry,” Kimmie said. “That was the first EVP I heard in this house, although Sy claimed he often heard disembodied voices.”

“Perhaps we could put away the equipment for a time?” Althena said.

“Can we leave one camera on to collect evidence?” Kimmie asked.

Althena nodded, then Kimmie called for us all to gather around the dining room table.

“I hope this isn’t Millard Fillmore’s seat,” Dad said as he pulled out a chair.

“I do sense a spirit,” Althena said, “but I’m feeling a playfulness.” She raised her voice. “Is there a child here?” It seemed to be a universally understood truth that spirits were deaf.

“A child or a baby?” Kimmie asked.

Althena breathed in. “A child.”

“Did you hear that?” Kimmie said.

We all looked at each other.

“I heard a child’s laugh upstairs,” Kimmie said.

Zack and Chuck went running upstairs with their equipment.

Althena sighed heavily. “The spirits are disturbed by all this running around. The child is gone now. A girl, I believe. I got the impression that she was searching for something. ‘Where’s my toy?’”

I kicked Dad’s foot under the table.

Althena sensed the disturbance. “Does the toy have significance?”

“Maybe.” I turned to Kimmie. “Do you know if Sy has any toys in the house?”

“He was like eighty. Why would he have toys?” she answered.

“Old toys,” Dad said. “Very old toys.”

“Come to think of it,” Kimmie said, “I think I did see some when I first came here. One was an elephant. I didn’t pay much attention.”

Dad leaned forward. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“Not since I moved in, I know that much.” She eyed Jack Wallace. “But a lot of things went missing after the wake.”

“None of my family took any toys from this house,” Jack said.

“These would have gone missing before Sy’s death.” I felt like a rat, but now that we were on the topic, I took my opportunity. “What can you tell us about Sy’s aide?”

Kimmie squinted at me. “You mean the one that died in your shop? Sully? That’s one reason I wanted you here tonight. Murder causes a strong disturbance in the energy.” She circled to face an empty corner. “Sully, are you here tonight? Did you come back to check on Sy?”

I decided to try a bolder tact. “Why would Sully take toys out of this house? For what purpose?”

“Were they valuable?” Jack asked.

“We’re not talking millions or anything,” I said.

“Old toys aren’t typically objects of theft,” Dad explained. “Not by people who know what they’re doing. The most valuable ones are usually worth hundreds. Only the rarest can achieve values in the thousands.”

“Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, then,” Kimmie said. “Maybe he just wanted them for himself.”

I shook my head. “Sully seemed to be a man of faith and character, from what everybody else has told me.”

Kimmie snorted. “He was a self-righteous jerk. The only reason Sy kept him on as long as he did was because they were both veterans, and Sully was the only one up for one more retelling of the Battle of Triangle Hill.”

Dad sent her a sympathetic look. “I don’t imagine you and he got along all that well. Sully would have been against ghost hunting and communing with spirits.”

Kimmie’s jaw set. “Some people don’t understand our research and what we are trying to do.”

I pulled out Kimmie’s business card that Dad had found. “Do you mean cash in on the transfer or removal of spirits?”

Kimmie put her hands on her hips. “I see someone has been snooping. Those cards are old. Experiments didn’t exactly work out the way I’d hoped.”

“You mean the tinfoil chamber of doom wouldn’t contain them?” I asked.

Kimmie rolled her eyes. “It’s just a prototype. But no, it doesn’t contain them. Mostly because it’s impossible to tell when they’re actually inside the thing.”

“Wait, did you really think people were going to pay you to get rid of their ghosts?” Jack said.

Kimmie closed her eyes, trembling like a firecracker about to go off. “That was only part of it. Yes, some people are freaked out by having ghosts in their houses.”

“What were you going to do with them?” Jack said. “Put them all in a foil box?”

“Will you stop with the box?” Kimmie said. “The box was only temporary. See, for every person who wants to get rid of a spirit, there’s at least one person out there who would like one.”