When the Spirit Calls (When the Spirit... series - Book 2) Page 3

  The secretary who divided her time between the sheriff and Bolger entered his office without knocking and dropped a piece of paper on his desk, briefly frightening the housefly from the cup.

  "Came in yesterday, Rich," she said. "Dora gave it to Phil."

  Lt. Bolger picked up the email and read it, then read the attached report. He smiled at the brevity of the report. Phil had done a simple computer search to see if any murder investigations, open or closed, had ever taken place on the old Sportsman's Association land, but he hadn't found any. Of course, Phil wasn't exactly the best man in the department when it came to computer work. Lt. Bolger decided to have a crack at it himself. At least it was something interesting to do.

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Arlene was on the phone with her best friend, Megan— now Mrs. Keith Heston— when Mrs. Caruthers paged her through the intercom. She put Megan on hold for a few seconds to respond to Mrs. Caruthers' page.

  "Miss Arlene, there's a detective on the phone. He's trying to get me to talk about you. I told him if he wants to know anything about you, he has to ask you."

  Arlene smiled and then said, "Thank you, Mrs. Caruthers. I'll speak with him."

  Tapping the button that would reconnect her with Megan, she said, "I have to go now, hon. I have an important call waiting. I'll talk to you later, kay?"

  "Okay, Ar. I'll only be home until about four. Keith and I have tickets to a play in Boston. It's some off-the-wall comedy he saw while in college and wants to see again. I can't remember the name."

  "Okay, hon. If we don't connect before then, have a great time."

  "Bye, Ar."

  Tapping the button that would connect her to the line on hold, she said, "Arlene Watson."

  "Miss Watson," the caller began very matter-of-factly, "this is Lt. Richard Bolger of the Sheriff's Department in Lake Georgina. Did you send us an email inquiring about a homicide? One that allegedly occurred on or near property that formerly belonged to the now defunct Sportsman's Association?"

  "Yes, I did, Lieutenant."

  "Could you tell me about your involvement in this?"

  "I have no involvement other than I wished to know if a murder had ever occurred there."

  "And what leads you to believe that a murder might have been perpetrated at that location?"

  "For an entire week I experienced a recurring nightmare in which I witnessed the murder over and over."

  "You saw a murder in your dreams?"

  "Yes. And the only clue to where it might have occurred was a 'No Trespassing' sign that bore the name of the Glenn Downs Sportsman's Association."

  "I see. When did you last visit our community?"

  "I've never been there or anywhere near there. I live near the Atlantic shore, and I've always been a beach aficionado. I leave the mountains to people who prefer climbing and hiking."

  "You saw the name of the sportsman's group in your dream?"

  "Yes, very clearly."

  "Was the sign badly weathered?"

  "No, it looked quite new."

  "I see. Why do you suppose you would have such a vivid dream about a place you've never visited?"

  "Well, I suspect a spirit is trying to involve me. But as to why, I can't yet say."

  "A spirit? You mean like a ghost?"

  "Yes, but I prefer to call them spirits."

  "And do spirits interact with you regularly?" the detective asked in a condescending tone.

  "I'm a spiritualist, Lieutenant. I've had considerable contact with spirits."

  "I see. Well— we've found no record of a murder occurring on the property in question. Perhaps you just ate something that disagreed with you."

  "Or perhaps you just don't know about the murder yet. The body should still be in the stream, if you care to look for it."

  "The stream?"

  "The stream that borders the former Sportsman's Association property. After she was killed, her body was wedged beneath a tree that had fallen into the stream. It must have been early spring because the stream was quite swollen at the time. And just beyond it, the trees had all been chopped down, as if they had recently been harvested."

  "Can you describe the area you saw in your dream?"

  Arlene noted that the condescending tone was gone, but she didn't understand why. "Yes, a little. As you stand on the bank opposite the association land, the stream passes from right to left. It's not a straight run at that point, and if you look off to the right, you can see a very long way upstream. It's sort of at a forty-five-degree angle to where you're standing. As the stream passes you, it continues to turn until the downstream part is almost ninety degrees offset from the upstream part. I'm sorry, but I can't describe it any better than that."

  "How far into the stream is the body?"

  "Her body was wedged beneath a tree about five or six feet from the dirt bank."

  "I see. And is there anything else you can tell me about this alleged murder?"

  "No, I think that's all the pertinent information."

  "Okay. Thank you for your report, Miss Watson. Please contact me directly if you recall anything else."

  "I will, Lieutenant. Goodbye."

  Arlene hung up the receiver reasonably confident it was the last she would ever hear of the matter. She hadn't had a nightmare since Friday, and she had been sleeping soundly throughout the night.

  * * *

  "I got a call that you wanted to see me out here, Herb," Lt. Bolger directed to a man standing at the very edge of the water in waders as he stepped down off the dirt bank onto the rock-strewn shoreline that bordered the narrow stream on their side. "What have you got?" he asked a second before a rock tilted beneath his right foot, causing him to nearly lose his footing. He managed to recover before gravity caused him any embarrassment. A stack of neatly mounded, rotted wood, cut from a long dead tree that had fallen into the stream was piled on the upper bank. On the other side of the stream Mother Nature was making an effort to reclaim the land, and tall, eleven-year-old saplings covered the landscape. Heavy undergrowth made passage there difficult.

  "We've found what's definitely a human skeleton," Herb Riddell said from his position next to a sifter screen. As a member of the fire department's search and recovery team, he had been involved in the search, and as a deputy coroner he became supervisor of the excavation once the first bones had been found. So gaunt that he almost looked like a cadaver himself, Riddell was perhaps the most experienced forensic expert in a six-county area. But for his intense dislike for politics, along with a complete lack of social skills, he would probably make a good county coroner. He brushed back his short white hair with a filthy hand as he turned to face Lt. Bolger.

  Moving over to a makeshift workbench of equipment cases, he picked up a skull and submaxilla. "I'm pretty sure it's a female, but I can't say so officially until we recover the entire skeleton and perform the standard pelvic measurements and other tests back at the lab."

  "Are these the clothes from the corpse?" Bolger asked, pointing to a small pile of rags.

  "Yeah. Just what's left of a skirt, blouse, bra, and panties. We haven't found any shoes, but the stream may have carried them away."

  "Bra and panties? That would seem to be pretty solid evidence that the skeleton is that of a female."

  "Maybe once, but not anymore," he said, grinning. "Like I said, we'll know for sure once we do the tests. Uh, she's been here for a long time. What made you think there was a body out here?"

  "We got a tip from a psychic."

  "A psychic?"

  "Yeah. And she's not local. Doesn't even live in this state. She said the ghost of the murder victim contacted her."

  "Ghost?"

  "Yeah. Weird, huh?"

  "You ain't kidding."

  "When do you think you'll finish the identification?"

  "Jeez, Rich," he said testily, "give us a chance to find all the bones first."

  "I'm not pressuring you, Herb; I just don't know what your backlog is like. Assu
ming you recover everything today, what's your best guess for time?"

  "Since this isn't a priority case, probably about two to three weeks to wrap up all the lab work and officially confirm the identity of our mystery woman, if she's who you think she was. But I'll have a prelim report in a few days. Good enough?"

  "Good enough," the detective said. "I've officially reopened the missing-persons investigation, but this case is so cold I'm getting frostbite. We may never know what happened out here."

  "Hell, that shouldn't be a problem," Herb said, grinning. "It sounds like you've got the inside track. Just ask your friendly psychic. Maybe the ghost will even help out."

  Lieutenant Bolger scowled slightly as he turned and climbed back up onto the bank.

  * * *

  Arriving home from a busy day of shopping with her girlfriends, Arlene was handed a small stack of telephone messages by Mrs. Caruthers. After dropping her things onto her bed, she looked through the pile of notes, stopping at the one from Detective Bolger. It was late afternoon, but on the chance that he might still be at work, she punched in the telephone number. A week had passed since her previous conversation with the detective.

  *

  Bolger had left work early and stopped into his favorite watering hole before heading home to prepare dinner. He was on his second bottle of beer when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the display told him the call was coming from Massachusetts. He was only expecting one call from that part of the country.

  "Hello, Miss Watson," he said as he activated his earpiece.

  "Hello, Lieutenant Bolger."

  A few seconds of silence ensued, and then the detective said, "You probably know why I called— you being a psychic and all."

  "Actually, I have no idea. And I'm not a psychic; I'm a spiritualist. I imagine you want to know if I've thought of anything else. The answer is no."

  "I'm sure you would have called if you did. This time I'm calling to give you some information. We found a body, exactly where you said it would be. I'd like to drop by and see you tomorrow, if you're free."

  "Am I considered a suspect?" Arlene said jokingly. "Should I have my attorney present?"

  "The lab work isn't complete yet, so the identification isn't official, but we figure we know who the victim was. If we're correct, she would have died about eleven years ago. Since you were ten at the time and live hundreds of miles away, I seriously doubt you would have been involved, but no one is ever excluded from suspicion unless they have an airtight alibi for the time of the crime. You won't need an attorney this time. I just want to go over your facts again, and I only do that in person when I'm investigating a possible felony."

  "What time do you expect to arrive here?"

  "If I get an early start, I should reach your area by about 1 p.m. Let's say 1:30, just in case I get delayed."

  "Okay. I'll look for you at about 1:30 tomorrow."

  "Thank you, Miss Watson. I'll see you then."

  * * *

  After being admitted by Mrs. Caruthers, a dark-green Ford Crown Victoria climbed the driveway to the house a few minutes before 1:20 the following afternoon. Lieutenant Bolger whistled in surprise as he drove through the last row of Red Maple trees that shielded the house from view and got a good look at the mansion.

  Pulling into one of the six empty parking spots on the circular drive in front of the house, the detective stepped out of the police cruiser and whistled again as he stared up at the house in awe. Constructed for the most part with granite quarried in Connecticut, the three-story structure, capped by a fourth floor garret sheathed in Pennsylvania slate roofing tiles of blue, black, and magenta, was impressive. It looked more like a school or monastery than a private residence. The five-story, granite-faced tower that rose from the center of the building just behind the front portico gave the impression of being a bell tower, but it was merely a gallery that had originally functioned as a widow's walk. It offered a splendid view of the harbor. At one time it had been open to the elements, but during the reconstruction of the house it had been enclosed and now had windows all around.

  Bolger used the reflection in the driver's window of his car to comb his hair and straighten his tie before turning towards the house. As he climbed the steps of the portico, he could hear strange music— strange because he knew it to be made by a harpsichord. He was only familiar with the sound because it had always been played in the opening minutes of the 'Addams Family' television show. He hoped the occupants of the house weren't as wacky as the fictional television family as he mentally prepared himself for the interview. He knew that wealthy people, even those considered suspects, had to be shown a considerably different attitude and behavior than that used with street punks and felons, or even an average citizen. He served at the discretion of the sheriff and was politically savvy enough to know that his continued employment hinged on his ability to adapt to every situation.

  He was reaching for the bell when the door suddenly opened. Mrs. Caruthers pushed it wide so he could enter, then gave him the onceover as he stepped into the house. Her face registered neither approval nor disapproval. After closing the door behind him, Mrs. Caruthers said, in a strictly business-like manner, "Miss Arlene will talk to you in her study, sir. Follow me please."

  So far so good, he thought. She doesn't look like either grandma, Lurch, or Uncle Fester. As he followed her through the long corridors, Lt. Bolger silently marveled at the richness of the beige Vermont marble that lined the walls and the Vermont rose-grey marble of the floors. The carved woodwork around the doorways was impressive, to say the least, and the decorative plasterwork on and around the ceiling's edges was outstanding. Mrs. Caruthers led him to a door near the rear of the house, opened it, and stood back so he could enter. As soon as he was in, she said, "Miss Arlene is in the music room. I'll inform her that you're here, and she'll be with you momentarily." She then backed out of the study, pulling the door closed behind her.

  Detective Bolger looked the room over carefully as he sauntered towards the sofa. Tastefully decorated with furniture that Bolger judged as genuine nineteenth century, the room exuded an elegance and charm rarely found in modern homes. Framed paintings and early photographs covered the ivory-colored walls. Those are definitely genuine, he thought. They might even be family ancestors. He had to revise his earlier impression that the building was like a school or monastery. It was more like a museum of the highest caliber. Only the large area rug, which covered most of the room's maple parquet flooring, appeared to be a reproduction. Its condition just seemed too good for it to be genuine. But it's a faithful reproduction, he thought approvingly. Even the telephone on the enormous antique desk appeared to be an early instrument. He had no way of knowing that the phone was the only visible reproduction in the entire room and employed state-of-the-art electronics that gave a crystal-clear sound impossible in the nineteenth century. A laptop computer was tucked away in a desk drawer.

  "Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Arlene said as the hallway door opened and she entered, leaving the door open behind her.

  "Nice place you have here, Miss Watson," he said casually.

  "Thank you. It's a bit large for my small family, but I love this old house. We have plenty of space to spread out, and we can always find privacy when we want it."

  "I imagine that's true."

  "Won't you sit down?"

  As Bolger sat on the sofa, Mrs. Caruthers entered the room and placed a tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. On her way out, she pulled the door closed behind her.

  Arlene sat down, and from the comfort of her favorite sitting place on a sofa that looked out through terrace doors to the rear yard she asked, "Would you care for some tea or coffee?"

  "Coffee sounds great."

  "Help yourself," she said, gesturing towards the coffee table. "The gold-colored carafe has coffee. The small pitcher with the blue top is milk; the yellow one is cream."

  Hating cups that only allowed one of his large fingers in the
handle, Lt. Bolger naturally selected the mug from the tray on the table instead of a teacup. As he stirred his coffee, he said, "Thank you for inviting me to your home. I won't take up too much of your time."

  "I have all afternoon free, Lieutenant."

  "Was that you playing the harpsichord?"

  "Yes. It's been in the house since 1880 and was an antique even then. I've always loved the delightful sounds of harpsichord music but haven't had much time for it while in college. I'm afraid I'm a bit out of practice."

  "You couldn't tell that from what I heard. It was wonderful."

  "Thank you."

  "Well, down to business."

  Placing a small recorder on the coffee table and pressing the record button, he said, "Interview with Miss Arlene Watson, New Bedford, Mass. June 6th, 1:40 p.m. Miss Watson, you notified us about a possible murder in our community after you witnessed the crime in a dream?"

  "I think nightmare more precisely defines what I experienced. It reoccurred every night for a week, not stopping until I had sent the email to your office."

  "And in this dre— nightmare, you saw a young woman being murdered. Can you describe her?"

  "No, I never saw her."

  "Wait a minute. You said you witnessed the murder."

  "That's correct, but I witnessed it from the perspective of the victim. I saw only what she saw and felt what she felt, as if it were happening to me."

  "Oh, I see. Then you can't tell me anything about her?"