If Mashed Potatoes Could Dance (6 page)

Jake laughed. “She’s more work than the ghost you still have a crush on? What a surprise.”

I ignored the comment. “Anyway, what do you have on Sally? She’s insisting she might have been buried with a diary that wouldn’t clear her of the murders but would show that she was justified in committing them. She wants me to have her coffin dug up just so her reputation can be restored.”

Jake blinked and then was still as he thought a moment.
He finally said, “Oh, wouldn’t that be something? Digging up an old killer’s grave. I might just mention it to the tourism bureau. Can’t you see how big it could be?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I don’t want to try to get Sally’s body exhumed. I can’t even imagine the legal issues involved, or how we could possibly explain why we want to do this—mentioning that her ghost would like her reputation less sullied probably wouldn’t work.” I might know some of the legal issues if I’d finished law school, but I was trying not to beat myself up so much over that anymore, so I didn’t say it out loud.

Jake nodded. “I have some information on Sally, but no diary. I don’t even think I have a mention of a diary.”

He walked to a spot in front of the shelves, reached in and pulled out a large plastic folder, and placed it on the center worktable. The folder was too big for the small number of items it held. His archive collection was a constant work in progress, and the folders were big enough so they could hold more as time went on.

“Oh wait. I guess I kind of take that back. There is a diary of sorts,” he said. “But not Sally’s diary. Sally died in jail at the age of thirty-three in 1893. At the time, there was a reporter at the
Noose
who kept his own diary—again, of sorts. He kept notes. I have his book. It’s in Sally’s file because most of it is filled with notes of her crime and her trial. I haven’t looked at it in a while. It takes some deciphering and I haven’t had the time. I would like to really study it. In fact, I haven’t looked at this entire file in some time; until you mentioned
her
diary, I didn’t remember
his
notes.”

Jake pulled out a small leather-bound book. It looked old, old enough that I was surprised it wasn’t in a special case of
its own. He set it on the table and opened it carefully but not gingerly.

“The reporter’s name was Edgar O’Brien. Speaking of characters, he was one. Along with his notes, I’ve read some articles that were written
about
him. His smarts are kind of legendary; it’s my hope to create something that honors him better. He deserves some recognition, I think. I’ll have to find his obituary. Anyway, I think he moved to Broken Rope from Virginia. No one knows why he came here. He worked for the
Noose
for twenty-six years, until he was in his midsixties. He liked to claim that he worked the ‘dead beat.’ There was always a mysterious death or two, of course, and he liked the challenge of investigating them and then reporting what he found. However, the Sally Swarthmore event shook him. From what I’ve read, he was unshakable until then.

“Here. Read this.” Jake scooted the book in front of me.

I deciphered the haphazard chicken scratches: “Snuck in house. Easy. Found something and wonder why the defense attorney hasn’t used it. Ax handle without blade in the basement. Clean.”

I looked up at Jake. “That’s weird, and curious. But it could mean nothing at all.”

“I know. I think there’s a pretty full account of Sally, her crime, and her trial in there, obtuse though his notes may be. Take it and read at your leisure, with or without Sally.”

“Really? You’re okay with me taking this? Why?”

Jake smiled slyly. “That’s not the original. It’s just a duplicate that I made. I sewed the binding and everything.”

“You are amazing!” I held the solid, well-put-together book. It looked worn and aged, but not as if it was falling apart. Jake must have made an almost perfect replica.

“Well…what can I say.”

I ran my finger over the binding as something else occurred to me. “You don’t know where Sally lived, do you? Is her house still standing?”

“I have a general idea of where her family’s house was. It was more a shack than a house and it’s long gone, though I don’t know if it burned down like so many other houses or if time just whittled it away. It was about two football fields back from the old Monroe House. There’s not much of anything out there now—well, a small, newly developed area with a few homes—but there used to be a big neighborhood there, not a great neighborhood, less than ideal houses, but Sally’s family did have a big storage building in their backyard; that building is gone except for some old boards. Trees and weeds have grown up around them, and you can’t see them unless you really look. I don’t think anyone knows they were part of the Swarthmores’ property, and I haven’t wanted to share that news. The area would become a tourist attraction just because Sally once lived there, and it’s not safe.”

“Behind the Monroe House. The haunted house?” I said, an involuntary shiver shaking my shoulders slightly. I’d spent a number of Halloween evenings with friends in the Monroe House, scared out of my skin by things I saw and heard: shadows, funny moving lights, moans. Long ago I chalked those experiences up to my teenage imagination, but knowing what I know now—that I could see and talk to ghosts—I wondered if it hadn’t been something more. I hadn’t been back to that house in years.

“The one and only and it’s set to be torn down in a week. That house was built by one of the town founders—Abel Monroe—and meetings were allegedly held there regarding Civil War matters. Missouri—the state, not your gram—played
a pretty bloody part in that battle. Abel Monroe hid and helped transport slaves from that home. It was said that he was killed, poisoned, in his sleep because of his abolitionist leanings. That house should remain standing, in my opinion.”

“I had no idea it was supposed to be torn down. Are there any Monroes left?”

Jake sighed. “You’ve got to start reading your emails. I’ve been sending out information about it for weeks. I’m trying to stage a protest. That house should be on the historical register. It should be restored to its former glory. No, there are no family members left. The last one, Havilda, died ten years ago, but no one has been living there for almost fifteen. Keeping and restoring the house is a cause I think worthy.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t been checking email. I usually talk to everyone I need to talk to in person, every day.” I thought Jake was probably right about the house being a good candidate for the historical register, but I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t sure I wanted it preserved. It wasn’t just its spookiness, really; it couldn’t be safe. We’d roamed through it when we were kids. I knew the same sort of activity went on today, and the old place had to be even more dangerous now than it was then. It needed to be either torn down or renovated quickly. I wasn’t as sentimental as Jake was about the old places that had seen important events, but I’d do whatever he wanted me to do to support his cause.

“I know. I should have mentioned it in person. We’ve both been busy. No big deal. Check your email for the details.”

“Will do.”

“Good. Now take the book. Let me know what you and Sally learn. And please, please, ask her to stop by and haunt me. I so deserve to see a ghost, don’t you think?”

I smiled as my phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket. It looked like my newest acquaintance was calling.

“Uh–oh,” I said to Jake. It was late, but considering how much we’d imposed on her, I thought I should answer.

“Hello, Suzi.”

“Ms. Winston, Ms. Winston, you must come quickly.”

“Suzi?”

“Yes. Come quickly, Ms. Winston.”

“What’s going on?”

“They’re gone. They’ve—three of them—have gone missing.”

“The foodies?” I suddenly couldn’t think of anything else to call them.

“Yes, come quickly!” Suzi hung up the phone.

“Gotta go. Something’s going on.”

“Go. Call me later,” Jake said as I tucked the book into my bag and hurried out of the archives.

Suzi had apparently been smart enough to call someone
other than me. When I arrived at the Anderson farm, the street was crowded with other vehicles. Our local police chief, Jim, was probably the one who’d driven the police car. If Cliff, his newest officer and my high school boyfriend, was on duty, he’d be there, too. I didn’t remember if Cliff was supposed to be working or not. The police car was parked in front of the driveway and still had its top lights flashing.

Teddy’s truck was in the street, facing the wrong direction, and it was nose to nose with Gram’s Volvo. The tour bus was down the street about half a block, but its inside lights were on and its door was swung open. A figure in what looked like a robe stood on the porch of the house behind the bus. Though it was late, the street was dotted with lit windows. The commotion at the Anderson farm was getting plenty of neighborhood attention.

I parked the Nova on the far side of the street and hurried around construction rubble to the dormitory.

“Betts.” Gram touched my arm as I walked through the door. “Jim wants us to stay back.”

Gram was dressed in an Iowa State T–shirt. She didn’t look tired, but her eyes were pinched; she was stressed.

Teddy was on the other side of the big space, but he was standing away from the main activity, too. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest, and he bit at his bottom lip as he observed the others.

The center of activity was at the two tables in the middle of the room. I took a mental inventory of those present. Jim and Cliff were standing at the end of one of the tables; neither of them looked in my direction. They were focused on the remaining members of the tour group, all of whom had wide, frightened eyes. Robert Hart was there, but his companion Eloise wasn’t. Cece Montgomery was there, but her husband Ash wasn’t. Both Vivienne and Charlene were present. So was Georgina Carlisle, but her handsome younger husband Greg wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity. Leroy was there, too, standing next to Jim and looking just as panicked as his tour group.

“Are people really missing?” I asked Gram.

She nodded. “The best I can understand is that Robert Hart woke up about an hour ago. He switched on the main light so he could see to go to the bathroom. When he did that, he woke up Cece, who got up and noticed the three beds were empty. She said she didn’t think too much of it until Robert came back, turned off the light, and went back to bed. She remained awake and then began to wonder about the others. She checked the bathrooms, and I think she said she checked outside as well as the bus but couldn’t find them. She woke
everyone up, including Suzi, who was apparently sleeping on a cot in the front room of the bed-and-breakfast main building. Suzi called Teddy first. I’m not sure who else was called, but I think everyone is here now.”

“There has to be some reasonable explanation.”

“Suzi’s car is missing, too. No one is thinking they went for a joyride,” Gram said.

Somehow, the fact that Suzi’s car was gone made the missing people seem even more missing. Though it was feasible that they had left together, perhaps to grab something to eat or get some air, it didn’t seem likely. However, I said, “Has anyone checked Bunny’s?” Bunny’s was the town’s twenty-four-hour diner. It was the only restaurant in town with such hours, and considering we were in the middle of our busiest season, it would have a few tables filled all night long. And, it was a place that Leroy had mentioned earlier as one of the group’s yearly destinations.

“I think Jim called Bunny, but I’m not sure.”

I must have been the last person called. I’d missed most of the early and original panic, and though eyes were wide and frightened, there wasn’t a frenzied sense to the room. It was as if everyone had gone through that phase already; everyone but me.

“I’m going outside a second,” I said to Gram.

I needed some air, and the dormitory was suddenly uncomfortable and claustrophobic despite its large size. I couldn’t think, and I knew that if I could just take a moment to myself, I would get this figured out. They couldn’t really be missing, could they?

As I took some deep pulls of fresh oxygen and as I tried to gather my composure, my thoughts, I switched on my phone’s flashlight app and shone it around the yard area
between the dormitory and the main building. Maybe I’d see something that would help me understand what had happened.

A cobblestone path led from the dormitory to the back of the big old house. A screened–in porch spread wide, but it was empty except for an old ceiling fan that hung as though it might fall any minute.

This backyard area was as neglected as the front. It was large enough that Suzi could turn it into an outdoor living space, which I was sure she’d do eventually, after the construction on the house was completed.

The air was hot and humid. Southern Missouri could be sweltering in the summer, particularly during the dog days of July and August. It was unusual, but the current conditions were only mildly miserable. I hadn’t noticed any walls sweating yet. That was probably because, despite the humidity in the air, the weather had been dry. I couldn’t remember the last time we had rain. The ground around the dormitory was mostly dirt and cobblestone. There were no footprints of any sort anywhere, though I knew that if I actually found any they might not mean anything. It just felt good to do something to try to get my brain around the situation. There had to be a reasonable explanation. There had to be.