Mr Wilmott Gets Old School Page 6

  Emily was still laughing as they walked into Agnes room. Outside, the sergeant gesticulated wildly, his arms flapping out to each side like he was trying to fly.

  “What now?” Agnes asked, sitting on the bed. “He looks upset.”

  “He does.” Emily scanned the scene, registering the policemen had stopped digging while the gardener stood off to one side, scowling. “I wonder if they’ve found something.”

  Sergeant Winchester turned and spotted Emily in the window. He gestured for her to come outside and after excusing herself to Agnes, she joined him on the lawn.

  “Well,” he said in greeting, “you were right.”

  Although she’d guessed what had happened, Emily’s stomach still formed a tight fist, aching. “Another skeleton?”

  “Three more.” The sergeant rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and sighed. “All of them teenagers.”

  Chapter Seven

  Emily took the cup of tea out of Crystal Dreaming’s hand. “It was awful,” she declared, shivering before taking a big sip.

  The medium had been the first person she thought of when the police excused her from Stoneybrook, and not just because she was Emily’s business partner. The woman overflowed with empathy and she craved some of that right now.

  “I can imagine,” Crystal said, sitting opposite. “Sometimes I get overwhelmed in the graveyard where the dead actually belong. Coming across bodies out in the wild…” She gave a shudder.

  “And they’re children, which makes everything worse.”

  “Oh, don’t.” Crystal held up a hand. “You know, often I want the spirits to talk to me but this time I’ll gladly abstain. I’m crying and I wasn’t even there.” She dabbed at the edge of her eyes with a dainty handkerchief.

  “I hope this is what the ghost needed to move on,” Emily said with a sigh, pulling at the curl by her ear. “Cynthia might have been maddening but this man, with his silence, has been far worse.”

  “It’s strange that he’s afflicted, even after he’s passed on.” Crystal stroked the edge of the heavy crystal ball on the table between them. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that in my circles before.”

  “Afflicted?”

  “From what you’ve told me, it sounds as though he has memory troubles. It would explain why he could locate the young ghosts while being unable to tell you so much as his name.”

  Emily gave a slow nod, letting her mind mull it over. “Half of Stoneybrook caters to dementia patients needing full-time care. I expect he came from there.”

  “I suppose they’ll have to relocate them all. It’s a pity.”

  “What? Why?”

  Crystal tilted her head to one side and frowned. “Because one of their residents was buried under the patio. They can hardly keep the place open if that happens. I expect the police will lay charges against the director.”

  “He didn’t seem like the type to kill anyone.” Far too fussy. Allain would probably faint at the sight of blood.

  “Whether he did the deed or not, the buck still stops with him. I’m surprised the police haven’t taken him into custody already. The new remains might date back well before his time, but your nameless ghost must be more recent.”

  Emily took another sip of her tea. “I thought they’d leave an arrest until they know for sure who put him there.”

  “But if he wasn’t reported missing in the first place, then it’s negligence.” Crystal sat forward, hands pressed flat on the table. “And I know for a fact, there’s been no one reported missing in Pinetar since a teenage girl back in the nineties.”

  Crystal shook her head, pulling her lips into a prim line. “We all pitched in back then to join the foot search and we would’ve done the same for a missing dementia patient. I can’t believe the heartlessness of the man to let someone wander off and never bother to report it.”

  “We don’t know that’s what happened. You’re just guessing.”

  “I’d like to know another explanation for how he wound up there.”

  But Emily couldn’t answer that one and fell silent. She’d already tried to think of an innocent explanation and couldn’t get very far. If only her ghost had been more vocal, she’d be able to pick a side and join in with the calls for arrest or offer up a decent rebuttal.

  “The ghost appears to be in his seventies or older,” Emily said. “Whatever happened didn’t cut much off his life.” She held up a hand before Crystal could get started. “I understand that’s no excuse, but the teenagers worry me a lot more than he does.”

  “Please, don’t.” Crystal’s face drained of colour and she pulled at the lobe of her right ear. “I mean it when I say I can’t bear to think about them.”

  “Okay. How’s the felting club going?”

  Crystal immediately brightened. “Now that Diane has taken the reigns of leadership, we’re doing much better. I hardly notice Hilda’s absence these days.”

  They chatted for a while, finishing off their cups of tea and musing on lighter subjects. By the time Emily excused herself to go to work, she felt on a much more even keel.

  At the charity shop, Pete appeared happy to see her. He filled her in with the morning’s clients of note—a boy who came in each week to trade the second-hand book he’d just read for a new one, an old lady searching for porcelain thimbles—and Emily relaxed.

  After a short struggle up the stairs out the back to the attic, she shut the door and got to work sorting out the latest donation boxes while Gregory was out and about, collecting still more. While sorting out a few treasures from the majority of trash, she even managed a smile.

  Peanut was so affectionate from the moment Emily stepped foot inside the door, she immediately knew something was wrong.

  “Hello?” she called out, hesitating by the entrance, half wanting to head out and leave whatever waited for her until later. A sigh came from down the hall and she raised her eyebrows at Peanut, then pulled the door closed and followed the noise.

  “Nice to see you again.” Emily gave a small wave to the male ghost when she found him seated on the windowsill in her bedroom.

  He gave a start and stood up, bowing and wringing his hands together.

  “I guess you weren’t here about the boys, then.” Emily gave her own sigh and kicked her shoes off. “Any chance you can tell me your name?”

  The man clenched his hands so tightly, Emily winced. If she tried that her arthritis would scream for a week. He opened his mouth, leaning forward, and she mimicked the posture, ears attuned for the slightest whisper. With a frustrated twist of his lips, the ghost sat back, loosening his hands long enough to thump on his leg.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Emily said, ignoring the twist of concern gripping her chest. “It’ll come when it’s ready. I’m about to make my dinner, so if you want company, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  When she walked in the room, Peanut scampered out from behind the rubbish bin. “What’s up with you, little fella? Don’t you like our new guest?”

  Apparently not, since the ghost cat ran to a new hiding place behind the sofa as the man shuffled into the kitchen.

  “Keep to one side,” Emily warned. “I don’t want to drop anything because of you giving me a fright.”

  Unable to keep silent with a guest standing so near, she embarked on a tale of everything that had happened since she’d left Stoneybrook Acres. Since the ghost had been in the gardens of the home, she supposed he knew all about that part of the day.

  When her chicken and steamed vegetables were ready, Emily moved to the sofa to eat while watching the news. The ghost trudged behind her and after she’d been sitting for a minute, perched on the edge of a chair.

  The headlines showed the world was in much the same position as the news the night before had left it. No notice about buried skeletons in Pinetar but she supposed the police might want to keep that under wraps.

  It would be hard enough to investigate four cold cases without a barrage of media trailing them at
every step.

  She kept the television on, muted until the weather. After the meteorologist ran through the main centres, Emily kept her eyes fixed to the scrolling bar along the bottom. One of her favourite games was ‘how hot is my town compared to everyone else’s.’ In the winter, the goal would flip, but the game would otherwise remain the same.

  As the ticker tape reached the city of Wellington, the ghost became animated. He pointed to the television, then his chest, repeating the gesture until it resembled a large tremor.

  “What is it?” Emily put the last of her meal aside and leaned toward him, scanning the ghost’s face for some hint of what he was thinking. “Is that where you’re from?”

  He nodded and shook his head, his gestures slowing as the weather report headed further south. A forlorn expression suffused his face, so painful that Emily had to glance away.

  “How about I do the dishes, then we’ll talk?”

  She didn’t look to the ghost for an answer, keeping her head down as she went into the kitchen. Peanut was once again hiding in there, this time with his back half inside the ajar pantry door while his front paws were just outside.

  “Do you think you’re food, now?” Emily cast an amused glance his way while she waited for the water to run hot. “If you stay there, somebody might mistake you for a sack of potatoes.”

  Peanut flicked his ears towards her but otherwise remained unresponsive. When Emily shook her hand through the sink water to raise some bubbles, she cupped a handful and blew them his way.

  “Still nothing, huh? I got to tell you, between your mood and the other one, I've got a tough crowd tonight.”

  She finished up and pulled out an antique she’d brought home with her from the charity shop. When Emily had opened a box in the late afternoon, she’d at first thought someone had thrown in a twisted typewriter keyboard with the case missing. On closer inspection, she was delighted to uncover a Blickensderfer typewriter No 5.

  The keyboard needed a good polish and the type wheel ball looked on its last legs, but Pete had verified the model used the scientific layout for keys. Emily hoped with a careful clean, it might fetch up to a thousand dollars at auction.

  Or it might not. Even after a few months in the role, it took Emily by surprise how variable bidders were, especially when an antique took their fancy.

  As she laid out a soft cleaning cloth and Brasso cream, the ghost ambled over to stare at the contraption. He pointed at the keys, giving a soft hoot—the first sound she’d heard him make since the night before.

  “Do you like that? Were you a typist or a journalist or something?” She scanned his face for a reaction but saw no change.

  When she tried to move him aside to sit down, the ghost continued to stand and point at the typewriter. When she worked out he was pointing at different keys, in turn, Emily felt like slapping her forehead. Doh!

  Unsure if the machine would work, she scrolled in a piece of paper and stood back, letting the ghost point to the different keys. As she hit them, unknown squiggles appeared on the paper. When even Emily could see the words repeating, she pulled the paper out.

  With over a year of experience to teach her how debilitating illiteracy was, Emily’s phone now sported every app possible to aid her in having a normal life. She scrolled through the tiny icons now, giving a triumphant call when she found the right one.

  Using the camera, she lined up the paper on the screen and let the computer read the words back to her. Frederick Wilmott. Over and over.

  “That’s your name?” Emily checked with the ghost. “Frederick Wilmott?”

  He nodded, an expression of profound relief crossing his face.

  She bent her head to the side, studying him, unable to tell if he knew a lot more than he was letting on. A ghost who could pick their name out on a typewriter, but not just say it. If it was a trick of his mind, the universe must be having a laugh, teaming him up with an illiterate.

  But he clapped his hands together softly, beaming a smile. Wasn’t that irony just the way the universe liked to work?

  Emily sighed and flicked through her phone until it showed a picture of Sergeant Winchester. Hopefully, with a name, they could sort the case out and return the ghost to his rightful home.

  Chapter Eight

  When Sergeant Winchester pulled up outside Stoneybrook Acres, he turned off the engine but continued to sit in the car.

  “Is there something wrong?” Emily asked from the back seat. She was trapped unless he came around to open her door. The thought he might zone out and leave her seated there for hours zipped through her mind.

  He turned around, bracing his hand on the passenger headrest. “It might be best if you don’t speak unless I specifically ask you something.”

  The sting of his words hit Emily full-force. Her day hadn’t been conducive to taking shots on the jaw. Not that she showed that to him. Instead, she lifted her chin and plastered on her widest smile. “Don’t worry. The crazy ghost lady won’t speak unless spoken to.”

  The sergeant appeared as though he was about to add something, then shook his head and got out of the car. He let Emily out of the back seat, and she stretched her legs while he checked the perimeter of the police taped area—greatly expanded during the day.

  “Okay, let’s see what information we can get out of the night staff.”

  Emily gave a start as she realised how late it was. Of course, she’d finished eating her tea before the adventures in point-typing began but, for some reason, her mind was stuck in the late afternoon.

  Margaret Tillerson had packed up her reception desk and gone for the day. In her stead was a man dressed in a blue uniform. His mouth hung ajar, and he pulled at his earlobe as the sergeant advanced on him with a stern expression.

  “We need your help to source information on a previous resident.” Sergeant Winchester tapped his police ID on the counter, flipping it closed and tucking it in his trouser pocket before the man even thought to glance down.

  “Sure. Whatever I can do to help.” The man ran a hand through his hair and pulled the computer keyboard close. He tapped in a few digits, then frowned at the screen. “Just a moment.”

  As he opened a drawer and rifled through the contents, Emily saw an elderly woman coming down the corridor. A smile crossed her face as she thought it was Agnes, then the woman glanced up. No. A stranger. The lady turned off into a room and slammed the door.

  “Margaret must’ve changed the password,” the man said, half under his breath. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll give her a call.”

  “Sure, take your time,” the sergeant said, his voice laden with irony. He stood back, staring at his watch with a frown. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Erik Asgood,” the man replied. He tucked the receiver of the phone between his ear and shoulder, extending a hand for the sergeant to shake. “Sorry about this, but we don’t often have late callers. Manning the desk after hours is usually just helping the residents back to bed when they go wandering.”

  His attention was diverted as someone answered his call, and he hurriedly explained the problem, scribbling on the desk pad as he did so. A few seconds later, Erik’s fingers flew over the keyboard again and he hung up the phone. “We’re in.”

  “What information do you have in there?” the sergeant asked, leaning over the counter so the screen was in view. “How old was this fellow?”

  “Seventy-two at his last birthday,” Erik replied.

  As Emily wandered back to the desk, he hunched his shoulders, shielding the screen. She smiled to herself. Needn’t bother on my account.

  “He’s from around Pinetar, I take it?”

  To the sergeant’s surprise, the answer to that was no. “The address on file from before he moved in here is in Tawa, in Wellington.” Erik shrugged. “That is a bit odd, but I suppose we have residents in here from all over. Sometimes, folks like to move somewhere quieter in their twilight years.”

  “Does it mention his occupation
?”

  The man shook his head, frowning as he clicked and typed. “I’ll print out what we have, but it’s not big on those sorts of details. The home is more interested in whether they can afford to pay for ongoing care and meet the monthly fees than anything else.”

  There was a sudden noise behind Emily, and she jumped, whirling on her heels. The printer spat out sheets of paper in fits and starts and she gave a small laugh, feeling silly.

  Erik tapped on the keyboard again. “Oh, now this bit is interesting—”

  “Erik,” Margaret called out as she strode through the doorway. “How about you move over and let me search out the information?” She nodded to the sergeant and offered a conspiratorial smile. “I’m far more used to pulling up our resident’s details than he is.”

  Although the man stood and moved back, Emily could read from the expression on his face that he wasn’t pleased with the interruption. “I was doing fine—”

  “I’m sure you were. Now, who did you want information on?”

  Emily paused for a second, ensuring nobody was looking in her direction, then she moved to the corner and lifted all the sheets from the printer. If anybody had asked, she would have turned them straight over, but the sergeant was now barking a series of questions at Margaret.

  “I can’t tell you that!” the receptionist said with a gasp of horror, pressing a hand up to her throat. “It’s more than my job’s worth to pass on that kind of personal information. I’m the one who set up everything to keep in good standing with the privacy principals. Unless you have a warrant?”

  Margaret raised her eyebrows at the sergeant, who gruffly admitted he didn’t. Behind her, Erik flushed a deep crimson. He backed up a few steps, then turned and scurried down the corridor. Emily took the opportunity to shove all the papers into her handbag. She could hand them to the sergeant later, outside.