The Ghost in Mr. Pepper's Bed Page 5

  “Not to worry, Deputy. I see two gentle souls in your future. Both have been mistreated, so you’ll need to be true.”

  For a short few minutes, they both quietly enjoyed the fresh morning atmosphere of pretty Pickwick slowly coming to life. Cars made their way down the brick road and children walked with either an older sibling or a parent down the sidewalks on their way to school. Off in the distance, a siren wailed, probably going to the hospital on the other side of town.

  Tommy, full of danish and feeling relaxed, offered a morsel of gratuitous information. “The body is a woman’s. Early-thirties. Cranium has a nasty dent, but they think what killed her was a fall. Her spine is broken. She’s been there a while, probably around a year. Of course, you didn’t hear that from me.”

  Sonya maternally patted Tommy’s shoulder. “The ghost that has been giving The Whispering Pines its excitement lately is a female. She became active before the pool digging operation, and if your forensics are correct, as I’m sure they are, something else caused her to wake up.”

  Tommy laughed while shaking his head. “I kind of like the idea of working with a psychic, Mrs. Caruthers. Any idea who she is?”

  “No, but I might be a bit closer after tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah? How do you figure that?” Tommy asked.

  “We’re having a group spiritual therapy session this evening at The Whispering Pines.”

  “Is that a fancy way of saying séance?”

  Another failed approach at finding a more politically correct way to say séance. She let out a resigned sigh and said, “Yes, a séance, Tommy. Want to come? You could be that much wiser about the possible identity of the person who has been calling the pit their final resting spot this last year.”

  “We have our own theory, ma’am.”

  “More danish?”

  He smiled at her bribe. “Not necessary, Mrs. Caruthers. Not many women have gone missing who also meet the age parameters of the one found in the pit.”

  “Would it be the woman Marnie’s handyman mentioned? What was her name? Poppy, I think.”

  “That’s one of them,” Tommy agreed, “but we won’t know for sure until we check the teeth against the dental records. There’s one problem, though, with the Poppy Turner suggestion.”

  “What?”

  “She’s not exactly a missing person.”

  Chapter 11

  Tommy stood up from the white wicker table and adjusted his police cap back on his head. “You see, Poppy Turner was married to a fellow named Richard Mitchell, who, by the way, still lives here in Willow Valley. He claims Poppy ran off with a guy from Springville, Missouri. Supposedly, he has a signed divorce document dated from about six months after Poppy left Willow Valley.”

  “So, even if it’s not Poppy, any other possible leads?” Sonya asked.

  “Like I said, we’re working with the two dentists in town who were practicing at the time. We should know something in a few days.” Tommy stepped down a few of the front porch steps. “Thank you, Mrs. Caruthers, for a delicious breakfast. I’ll be seeing you. Best of luck on your séance tonight. If you learn anything,” Tommy smiled impishly, “you’ll return the favor?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Tommy finished ambling down the front steps and waved at Sonya from the gate. He waited for the traffic to pass and hustled across the street and up another well-groomed front walk. Mrs. Townsend opened the door and let him in, while Sonya briskly collected her breakfast dishes onto a tray and walked inside to do the washing up.

  “Are you coming, Willard or are you staying outside? The boy will be by in a few minutes who rides the skateboard. That always sends you into a frenzy.”

  Willard’s ears perked up and he cocked his head from one side to the other as if trying to understand Sonya’s meaning.

  “Go ahead, but stay away from the fence. I’m not sure I trust him. He delights in getting you worked up each morning and I’m pretty sure he’s the one who egged you.”

  The coolness of the inside rooms gave Sonya a happy pleasure. She preferred cool days to the extreme heat. Every summer halfway through the month of June, Sonya turned her keys over to a gentle mouse of a woman named Bette. From June through September, Bette managed the garden and lived in Sonya’s house, taking care of things while Sonya went to Cornwall, England to get out of the heat.

  After putting the kitchen to rights, she finished the rest of her housekeeping duties and went upstairs to get ready. Her hair was always a simple affair. It was short enough that a good brushing, some mousse to scrunch up the curls and maybe a clip to hold it out of her eyes produced the carefree style she admired. A bright pink tunic paired with yellow pedal pushers and pink canvas tennis shoes completed her ensemble. She put on pearl earrings, her signature piece of jewelry, and dabbed some perfume on each of her wrists and behind each ear.

  “Willard!” she called from her bedroom window, “It’s time to run some errands. Meet me in the kitchen!”

  True to his loyal nature, Willard was waiting dutifully near the pantry door. Sonya produced the treat he always received when he followed commands, and they headed out to the moped. Ten minutes later, they were scooting along Pickwick and turning down Main Street toward Puggly’s grocery store.

  The morning was always a wonderful time for the two beagles, Lewis and Clark. Fresh smells, cool brisk air, and the anticipation of bacon or sausage for breakfast nurtured their already happy dispositions. Fortunately, for the boys, one of their absolute favorite meats was on the menu: pork. They’d each been given a whole piece of bacon by doting mom, Marnie, and afterwards, it was time to check out the park, patrol the area for marauding squirrels, and, of course, remark their territory for the one-hundredth time.

  As they rounded the back of their own camper, their noses picked up a smell that both intrigued them and caused them a slight bit of anxiety. Being fairly new to the world, there were a few scents they hadn’t yet learned. This one was extremely strong, causing the dogs to go into a frenzy of sniffing to find the trail.

  “Whatever this is, Clark,” Lewis said, “even a cat could smell it.”

  “Yeah, even a cat, Lewis,” Clark agreed following his brother around a trashcan and down a manicured gravel path to where the open pit sat. There in the bottom of the pit, sniffing around, was an extremely grumpy skunk. It had probably been working the campsite all night and perhaps had gotten too close to the pit’s edge and had fallen in. Though it had tried to claw its way up one side and then another, the loose dirt and rock always repeatedly made it lose its grip and tumble back down.

  The boys watched the animal in wonder, and with every fiber in their bodies, they wished to scramble down and give the interloper what for. But every time they neared the edge, their footing would give way and force them to scoot back to save themselves from plunging downward. The next best thing to do in this situation was bark and the louder, the better.

  Most of the residents of The Whispering Pines RV Park were early risers and had already been up, taken their walk and had their breakfast, but for one. Mr. Noah Simpson was still snuggled up in his warm bed that morning because the night before he’d been out dancing with another resident, Julia Abercrombie. The pair had been out until midnight. Lewis and Clark’s barking, so close to his own camper, was having a decided effect on his ability to stay in a deep sleep.

  Finally, Mr. Simpson rolled over and stuffed a pillow over his head in an effort to drown out the yapping. It was at that moment, he realized he wasn’t alone. His mind experienced a sort of jolt. Had the lovely Julia whom he’d been trying to woo for over six months come home with him last night? He forced his sleeping brain to focus. He couldn’t remember. His grogginess kept him from being able to access the exact details of their parting after the dance.

  Feeling the weight of a body curled up next to him, he congratulated himself on his masculine prowess. Though he tried desperately, to no avail, to recall the exciting specifics, he decided it was safe to go a
head and murmur, “Darling, good morning.”

  The responding cooing sound, typical of a sleepy woman waking up, confirmed for him it must, indeed, be Julia. With his joy running over, he reached for the bundled form that was well covered by his heavy comforter. Pulling back the bed cover, Noah bent down to whisper something enticing in his bedmate’s ear and steal a morning kiss from her warm neck. To his utter astonishment and heart-wrenching horror, he realized nothing was there. A pair of cold, clammy, yet invisible, hands applied themselves to his face holding his head still while a pair of unearthly lips pressed against his own. Poor Noah screamed at the top of his manly lungs and bolted from his bed and his camper until he found himself panting hysterically at the far edge of his own camping lot.

  The scream attracted the attention of Lewis and Clark, as well as Marnie and Mr. Pepper, who were both outside. They came scurrying over to where Noah rested, leaning against one of the massive pine trees shading his lot. He tried to compose himself, but upon looking down, realized he was wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt advertising one of the state’s baseball teams.

  “What happened, Mr. Simpson?” Marnie asked, keeping her eyes courteously above waist level.

  “I…I…I don’t know,” Noah stumbled vocally. “I think there was someone in there but…”

  Marnie and Mr. Pepper exchanged rapid, but furtive glances. Neither one moved, but Mr. Pepper sighed deeply.

  “I’m afraid, old friend, you may have had a visitor of a ghostly nature. What you need is a cup of coffee, and,” he glanced at Noah’s lack of trousers, “something to take the chill off.”

  Noah, who by any standard of men’s couture, was always at the top of his game when it came to his clothes, hair, and presentation, saw himself in total dishabille and, for a second time that morning, his system was in shock.

  “Oh, my God! I’m practically asking to be charged with indecent exposure.” He headed for his camper’s door but came to a full stop. His hesitation was relieved by Marnie’s quick perception of his situation.

  “Mr. Simpson, why don’t you go with Mr. Pepper to his camper? I’m sure he has something you can wear and maybe something to eat.” The look she shot Pepper indicated he didn’t have a choice in the matter, and soon, both men were heading across the park’s central gravel road toward breakfast and warm pants.

  “I’m glad we’re getting this sorted out tonight,” she said under her breath giving the camper a weary eye. “The sooner this spicy spook is sent on to her spiritual reward, the better.”

  Lewis and Clark watched Marnie stomp off in the direction of her office. In the hubbub with Noah, the skunk had finally found a toehold and bustled off to freedom and the woods. The boys approached Noah’s camper with noses to the ground and ears twitching.

  “That thing from yesterday is back, Clark. I can feel it.”

  “Makes my back itchy. I think we should stay away from it,” Clark suggested.

  “Hold on, there brother. Something is rattling around in there.”

  Lewis and Clark hunkered down on the ground under Noah’s camper. Above them, they heard things hitting the floor and weird singing. The ghost broke free from the camper and was heading through the park. The boys followed at a safe distance.

  “Let’s see where it goes,” Lewis said.

  Even though they knew better than to leave the park, they watched the specter head into the woods.

  “We’re not supposed to go in there, Lewis,” Clark warned.

  “I know, but if we were to follow it, we’d be helping Mom.”

  After a thirty minute wander through an open wooded area, the boys saw a burned down house. The ghost was nowhere in sight, but something was disturbing the crows settled on the old stone chimney.

  “Look! Those birds are worried,” Clark pointed out.

  “That’s our thing. She must live here when she’s not out haunting our park. Let’s get home and send out a message to Willard.”

  Lewis and Clark, using their excellent noses, found their way back to The Whispering Pines RV Park. Within minutes, the canine system of sending news was put into operation. The bloodhound known as Rusty barked and howled getting the attention of the Husky, who lived down the road toward town. He, in turn, informed the two crazy, car-chasing bull terriers who waited for Lou, the Chihuahua, to come by with the mailman. They barked the story as Lou’s owner drove by with them in hot pursuit. Once Lou made it to town, he would make sure he talked with the dog in question.

  Lou sent a message back through the dog-line saying he’d see Willard around two o’clock. That’s when they worked his street. In less time than it takes to slap something up on a human social media site, the dogs of Willow Valley had effectively gotten the word out.

  Chapter 12

  Puggly’s was a throwback to another time when grocery stores were not the dazzling, streamlined, consumer Shangri-Las most suburbanites have come to expect in today’s shopping experience. Instead, it was like walking into a place straight out of our collective American small town memory.

  Not tidy by any means, but the shelves were stocked with such a variety of things that one could gaze with childlike wonder at items thought long since removed from the American-made product vernacular. But Puggly’s proved they hadn’t disappeared. They’d simply been supplanted by bright techno gadgets made in countries halfway around the ever-shrinking globe.

  At Puggly’s, kids picked from a wonderful variety of great American-made items. They bought, or needled their adults to buy for them: Candy and toys still being turned out by people in places like Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Georgia, and Oregon. Wooden yo-yos and a game with plastic monkeys shared the shelf with a set of real wooden blocks for building and a brightly colored tin kaleidoscope that, when put to the eye and lifted to the sun, would dazzle even the most jaded video game junkie. A kazoo and one-penny bubble gum, along with taffy made not far from Willow Valley by two ladies who brought their candy in once a week packed in the back of their old Ford Bronco. All promised simpler forms of childhood pleasures.

  There wasn’t a rule against well-behaved dogs coming into Puggly’s. Most people in Willow Valley knew whether their dog was capable of handling the situation or not. In small places, people still uphold the dictates of good manners and common courtesy toward others and property. There were the occasional times when someone’s teenager might express a rebel action or a tourist would confusedly forget they weren’t in DC or LA and wonder why it took so long for something to be done, but common sense could be counted on to usually prevail and tolerance was a sign of good breeding.

  Pets of an anxious nature were leashed outside to one of the many shady areas reserved for this circumstance. Willard, for all his good attributes, found going into Puggly’s a place of anxious odor-overdrive. The smell of fresh meat, bakery items, and bags of dog food, cat food, and even goat food in the back of the market, caused Willard to become too excited. Sonya always left him in his basket with an umbrella opened over his crate to keep him cool. He waited patiently and solicited any greetings or gentle pats from the regular stream of pedestrians.

  With Sonya inside doing her shopping, people and kids came and went. Not far from his position on the back of the moped, was tied a sleek Greyhound.

  “Hi Lucky,” Willard said. “How’s the rheumatism?”

  “I’m terribly grateful it’s finally warming up. This winter, I hardly moved from my electric blanket.”

  “Well, you’re looking fit. Where did you get the sweater?”

  “A lady is making them. Glad you like it. It’s been a godsend.”

  While the two chatted, the mailman pulled up in front of Puggly’s. There in the window, perched on his padded seat was Lou, the Chihuahua.

  “Morning, Willard. Lucky.” Lou leaned out of the window. “I’ve got some news for you, Willard, from the boys down at The Whispering Pines.”

  “What’s up, Lou?” Willard asked, fairly curious because he rarely got mail.


  “Lewis and Clark say they need to talk with you soon. There’s a ghost wandering about the place and they think they know where it lives. Sorry, to hear about it, Willard. Those things give me the shakes.”

  “Thanks, Lou. I’ll be seeing them tonight. Sonya’s got some sort of ghost encounter planned. I wish she’d give the one living at our house the boot.”

  Lou and Lucky shook their heads in thoughtful commiseration.

  “Here comes the boss,” Lou said, seeing the mailman, Felix Tushman, coming back out of Puggly’s.

  “Thanks again, Lou. Take care. By the way, have you seen that boy who rides the skateboard around today?”

  “Sure have. He just left the library and was heading down Pickwick.”

  “Gripes! I wish Sonya would get a move on. That kid is worse than fleas.”

  “See ya, boys!” Lou called as the mail truck fired back up and pulled out of the grocery parking lot.

  The moped shook causing Willard, his umbrella, and the crate he called Shotgun to careen dangerously back and forth. Willard refused to give Fritz the pleasure of seeing him stress pant. Sonya, fortunately, breezed out of the grocery store’s entrance and witnessed the shaking moped.

  “Fritz! Be good and tell Willard you’re sorry,” Sonya commanded. “You’re about to lose privileges. You think the family in Scotland can be difficult.”

  Fritz knew when he’d fiddled too much with the Willard situation. So, he patted the terrier on the head causing it to move up and down in a weird way. Lucky, watching the scene from his spot, barked worriedly at Fritz’s unearthly energy. Sonya sighed and hopped back on her moped.

  “Boys, be good for ten minutes until we get home. Fritz, are you riding with us?”

  Putting himself on the handlebars, he pulled out a riding crop from his belt and waved it. “Let us make haste, woman! To home!” He pointed the crop forward and stabbed at the air as if to indicate it was time to move.