7 Never Haunt a Historian Read online

  “Archie?” she called, trying one more time.

  Please. Just a groan. A moan. Anything.

  Silence.

  Leigh’s stomach churned. She tried not to be superstitious. Really, she did. But why, oh why, did she have to be the one checking up on Archie? Seriously, how good an idea was that?

  I think he’s dead, Scotty has whispered.

  Did she have no concern for the poor man at all?

  She closed her eyes and swore.

  Chapter 2

  “You’re being ridiculous!” Leigh’s cousin Cara proclaimed between heaving breaths. “Honestly, how silly!”

  Leigh pushed her cousin forward another pace toward the farmhouse door. She was still trying to catch her own breath, after having rousted Cara from work in her home office—precious “adult” time they both considered inviolate ever since Leigh bought the house next door and the women had agreed to trade off child care. She steadied herself and planted both hands on her hips. “Archie Pratt is a genuinely nice person, and I happen to like him very much,” she defended hotly. “If my being ridiculous is what it takes to keep the man alive, then fine—call me ridiculous!”

  Cara’s blue-green eyes rolled. “All right, all right,” she soothed. “I’ll go in first.”

  “I’m staying here,” Leigh asserted, crossing her arms. “If you need me to call 911, just yell.”

  Cara threw her cousin another exasperated look, but turned and put her hand on the knob. “Mr. Pratt?” she called, knocking briskly with her other hand. “It’s Cara March. Are you home?”

  They waited. There was no response.

  “It’s open,” Leigh reminded.

  Without hesitation, Cara opened the door.

  Leigh watched, heart pounding, as her cousin disappeared inside. “Mr. Pratt?” Cara called again.

  Leigh’s ears strained to hear a response. All she heard was the television. Impatiently she moved forward to stand just outside the doorframe. “Cara?” she urged, “What is it? What do you see? Is he there?”

  Her cousin, maddeningly, took her sweet time in answering. “He’s not here or in the kitchen. I’ll check his bedroom. I’m guessing it’s over here…” her voice trailed off.

  Leigh turned and paced a bit. She gnawed on a fingernail. She checked her phone to make sure the battery was charged. She paused with one shaky finger hovering over the nine.

  “Leigh?”

  She jumped. Cara stood in the doorway. “Do you know if he used the upstairs?”

  “I have no clue,” Leigh answered. “Did you see—”

  Cara disappeared inside the house again.

  Leigh groaned in frustration. She waited another minute, then moved slowly toward the open door. Cara had said Archie wasn’t in the front room, hadn’t she? Leigh crept forward and poked her head inside.

  Her nose was met by the mingling aromas of must, dust, and burned coffee. The room was shabby and cluttered; about what she would expect for a middle-aged bachelor who was generally either puttering outside or away in his pickup. But the floor was a disaster, strewn liberally with the recognizable shreds of cardboard, paper, and plastic that had once sheathed snack crackers, boxed macaroni and cheese, dehydrated potatoes, and instant soup. Someone—and she had a pretty good idea who—had led a full-out assault on Archie’s food pantry.

  Leigh jumped as she heard a banging noise from the back of the house. As if on cue, the culprit in question bounded in from the kitchen and danced around her ankles, his flailing paws scattering the litter in all directions. “Down, Wiley!” Leigh ordered, sensing the animal’s clearly telegraphed intentions of leaping onto her person. The lanky black mutt seemed to be some combination of Labrador and hound, but his attitude was all puppy. “Been a little hungry lately, have you?”

  The dog continued to prance in circles around her as Leigh made her way through the front room to the kitchen. The farmhouse’s tired-looking vinyl floor was scratched, pitted, and buried even deeper in waste than was the front room. A small, box-shaped television sat on the countertop, hooked up to a digital converter box and tuned to a free local channel. The one small table was empty except for a single, quarter-full coffee mug; on the floor beneath lay an overturned glass, one fork, and the shards of a broken breakfast plate. The pantry door hung open, its former contents spilling out into the room like a cornucopia.

  “He’s not in the house,” Cara announced, returning down a narrow staircase and joining Leigh in the kitchen. “I looked in every room.” Her eyes remained fixed on her cousin, even as she raised a practiced knee to forestall Wiley’s attempt at a crotch sniff. “And my guess would be that he either left in a hurry in response to some emergency, or else he didn’t intend to leave at all.”

  Leigh drew in a shuddering breath. “He couldn’t be… you know…”

  “Stuffed somewhere?” Cara finished without a blink. “No. I’ve looked in all the closets, under the beds, everywhere that would be feasible. It’s a small house; the attic door looks like it hasn’t been opened in years. Have you looked around outside? In the cellar?”

  Leigh raised an eyebrow.

  Cara let out a breath. “We’ll have to do it now, then. Did you see this?” She pointed to the kitchen countertop along the far wall. A well-used coffee maker sat with its glass carafe still on the warmer, stained brown and bone dry. The red brew light was on.

  “Whatever was left has all evaporated,” Cara said soberly, wading through the trash to switch the machine off. “We’re lucky it didn’t start a fire.”

  The women stood in silence a moment, looking at each other.

  “I’d guess we’d better look around outside,” Leigh agreed.

  The women proceeded out the back door and into the yard. With Leigh sticking close to—but always behind—her cousin, they systematically checked the farmhouse cellar, the detached garage (which was filled with so much junk it couldn’t possibly house any vehicle larger than a scooter), the skeletal shell of the old barn (which was empty except for several decades’ worth of bat guano), and the tool shed (whose notable lack of tools shed some light on Archie’s deficits as a carpenter). For all his hound blood, Wiley proved no help whatsoever; once they left the vicinity of the house his interest waned and he took off again in the direction of Leigh’s place. The women finished their sweep by walking along the creek and looking for any disturbances in the brush along the woods, but they saw nothing unusual. Archie’s truck wasn’t locked, but according to Cara his keys were in his bedroom, sitting on the dressing table alongside his wallet.

  “I think you should call Maura,” Cara said when their search was complete. “Not that there’s any evidence of foul play exactly, but… well, maybe they can locate a family member who should know?”

  Leigh nodded gravely. Maura Polanski might be her best friend since college, but the career policewoman, now a respected detective in line for promotion to Lieutenant, was less than enthusiastic about Leigh’s “abilities” in the field of homicide. More accurately, she had threatened that the next time Leigh’s name appeared in one of her investigative reports, it would be as the victim of said homicide, perpetuated by the detective herself.

  Then again, Maura threatened a lot of things. And her bark was always worse than her bite. Besides, Archie’s situation was different. Wasn’t it?

  “I’ll call her,” Leigh agreed as the women set off walking home along the creek. “But I’m not looking forward to it.”

  Cara smiled. “Don’t be silly. You’re merely doing your neighborly duty, aren’t you? Besides—”

  “Yoo hoo!” a loud, screechy voice called to them from the back of the Browns’ house. “You two come on up here and tell me what’s going on! What’re you looking for? Did the kids lose something?”

  Leigh and Cara glanced up at the personal care home’s generous wooden deck, where an elderly woman in an athletic pantsuit stood hanging over the rail, supporting herself with one hand while holding a pair of high-powered binoculars i
n the other.

  “Looks like we’re busted,” Cara whispered. “Maybe we should have been more discreet?”

  Leigh shook her head. “Wouldn’t have mattered. Her crime sensing makes me look like an amateur.” She cupped both hands around her mouth. “We’ll be up in a minute, Mrs. Rhodis!”

  The older woman leaned out even farther. “Say what?”

  “Oh dear,” Cara responded hastily, turning toward the house. “Let’s get up there before she vaults over the rail!”

  Leigh hustled in kind. Sadly, her cousin was not exaggerating. Arthritis may have rendered the eighty-something-year-old Adith Rhodis barely able to walk, but her mind was still sharp as a tack—and more dangerously inquisitive than ever. The woman was so bored at being homebound that she could find intrigue in anything from a distant plume of smoke to a half-eaten box of breakfast cereal. And where there was no mystery to be found, she would happily create one.

  “I saw you girls looking in the bushes out there!” Adith beamed when the two had finished climbing the steep wooden stairs that led up to the Browns’ back deck. “What are you after?”

  Leigh smiled at her friend’s latest performance-ready, moisture-wicking warm up suit, this one in midnight blue with shiny white racing stripes. Adith had hung onto her prized collection of seventies-era polyester housedresses and pantsuits well into the new millennium, but after losing fifteen pounds to Emma Brown’s healthy cooking, her longstanding love affair with double-knit had been forced to evolve. Leigh had been as happy as anyone to see the retirement of the olive-green zippered dress and burnt orange skorts, but Adith’s new penchant for athletic-fit spandex did take some getting used to.

  “We didn’t lose anything,” Leigh said carefully, giving the answer she had prepared while coming up the steps. We were just poking around at Archie’s place to see if we could find out where he went. He’s gone out of town, apparently, but whoever was supposed to be taking care of Wiley hasn’t done the best job.”

  Adith gave a wince. “Oh, Lordy. That was probably Lester. He’s been down with a nasty flu bug this week. But he’s perked up a bit today.”

  Leigh and Cara let out a mutual sigh of relief.

  “Of course!” Cara said cheerfully. “I forgot that Archie and Lester were such good friends. We should have come and asked Lester where he was to begin with.”

  “Well, you can ask him now,” Adith offered, opening the door to the screened porch and ushering the women on through it and into the Brown’s communal sitting room. The modest, yet cozy room featured an assortment of unmatched furniture chosen to be comfortable without being difficult to get out of; the decoration was decided by the residents’ own tastes. The fireplace mantel sported pictures of various loved ones, including Adith’s late husband Bud, while the long wall was dominated by a giant print of a Civil War battle and a yellow canary in an antique bird cage.

  “Lester!” Adith yelled loud enough to wake the dead. “Miss Leigh and Miss Cara are here to see you!” She eased herself into one of the chairs with a grunt, at which point a miniature apricot poodle materialized from nowhere and popped into her lap. “Hello, Pansy love,” she cooed. “You knew I was coming back in, didn’t you?”

  Leigh couldn’t resist a chuckle. Adith had maintained at least one of a dynasty of poodles as long as anyone at the Koslow Animal Clinic could remember—all of which were named Pansy, and all of which (according to Adith) were possessed of psychic abilities. When advancing arthritis had forced Adith to sell her house on the Ohio River Boulevard and seek daily assistance, Leigh had been delighted to recommend her neighbors’ care home, knowing that the Browns not only understood the bond between older people and their pets, but were genuinely happy to accommodate it.

  A stout, balding man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen wearing a plaid flannel bathrobe and a painfully red nose. “Oh my,” he said sheepishly, “sorry you ladies had to see me like this, but I didn’t much feel like getting dressed today. Can’t believe how long it’s taking me to kick this danged virus!”

  “Don’t apologize,” Cara said quickly. “We’re sorry for intruding, but we were worried about Mr. Pratt. We didn’t know he had gone out of town and Wiley’s been a bit out of sorts.”

  Lester looked from one to the other through tired, bloodshot eyes. “Archie’s left town? He didn’t tell me. I wondered why he hadn’t called back, but I felt too rotten to go over and find out.”

  The sick feeling returned to Leigh’s stomach. She and Cara exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “His truck is parked at his house,” Leigh explained. “But he isn’t at home now, his mail hasn’t been picked up in days, and Wiley hasn’t been fed.”

  Lester blinked back at her for a long moment, digesting the statement. He and his wife, both practical nurses who had spent many years working in hospitals and nursing homes before launching their five children from the nest and opening up their own business, were practical about most everything. “Arch wouldn’t leave like that,” he said finally. “Not without telling anybody. He must be sick in bed. Probably caught the same thing I’ve got. I’ll get dressed and go on over—”

  “I already searched the whole house,” Cara explained quietly. “He isn’t there.”

  Lester’s cheeks reddened. “That can’t be. We’ve got a meeting of the 102nd on the day after tomorrow! That’s why I was calling him. We got a bunch of potential new recruits at Antietam, and he was supposed to…” his voice trailed off. “Are you sure he’s not just laid up sick over there?”

  Leigh’s head swam a moment as she tried to place the references, but the giant battle scene on the wall to her left soon jogged her memory. Archie Pratt, a Civil War buff of the first order, was the chief organizer of a local unit of reenactors, a group to which he was forever trying to recruit everyone in the neighborhood—and probably everyone he met. The women’s husbands had both politely declined, despite Archie’s impassioned pleas that Leigh’s husband Warren was the spitting image of Major General George McClellan.

  In Lester, however, Archie had found a true devotee. “He’s not at his house,” Leigh confirmed. “But maybe if he was feeling ill, he could have gone to stay with a friend, or a relative?”

  Lester raised a hand to his chin and rubbed at it thoughtfully. “I can’t think of anyone. His family’s all from Hershey or thereabouts. And he knows Emma’d be only too happy to run him down some soup or whatever he needed.”

  A sudden prickle swept down Leigh’s spine. But after casting a glance over her shoulder, she sighed. Adith Rhodis was standing all of two inches behind her, breathing down her neck.

  “I don’t mean to alarm anyone,” Cara said smoothly, darting a concerned glance over at Adith. “But wherever Archie went, he didn’t take his wallet. I saw it sitting on his dresser; his driver’s license was in it. And his keys were there, too.”

  Lester’s mouth dropped open a bit. His face paled. “Well… that’s strange.”

  “Archie didn’t have any…” Leigh faltered. “I mean, he wasn’t afraid of anyone in particular, was he? Having an argument with someone?”

  “Of course not!” Lester defended. “You know Archie! He can get along with anybody. Always has. Everybody likes Arch!”

  “Of course they do,” Cara agreed. “There’s no need for any of us to think the worst” —she threw a hard glance at Adith— “but I think we should probably contact the police, don’t you?”

  Lester considered another moment, then nodded glumly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his red nose. “I can do that.”

  “There won’t be much they can do though, will there?” Adith piped up, her bright eyes burning. “They’re not going to believe… you know… all the circumstances. With the farm and all.”

  The others turned to her with blank stares. “What circumstances?” Cara asked.

  Adith’s lips puckered. “You know what I mean!” Her scratchy voice dropped to a whisper. “The G-H-O-S-T!”

  Lester groane
d. “Now, Adith, you know better than to bring all that up. Bunch of nonsense, all of it.”

  Adith’s eyebrows arched. “Archie didn’t think so. And he’s the one missing, ain’t he? Well, let me tell you something.” She pointed a bent finger. “The spirits aren’t to be trifled with. That soldier had his reasons for haunting the farm he settled, and just maybe poor Archie went a bit too far with his poking around in the past—”

  The poodle exploded in a fit of frenzied yapping.

  Adith smirked. “See there,” she crowed. “My Pansy knows. There’s something afoot here that goes beyond what meets the eye.”

  The dog began to jump on and off her mistress’s chair, her barks now interspersed with a high-pitched whine. Adith’s expression changed slowly, her frown lines deepening to a look of genuine concern. “And I’m thinking,” she said hoarsely, “it may be E-V-I-L.”

  Chapter 3

  Detective Maura Polanski unfurled her solid, six-foot two-inch body from the driver’s seat of her department-issue sedan and fixed her ex college roommate—and friend of over twenty years—with an exasperated glare.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” Leigh protested. “I told you already, there’s no body. We’re all just worried about Archie, and since it’s kind of a weird situation, I thought it might be better if I called you than for one of the other neighbors to dial 911—”

  The policewoman held up a hand. “I get the picture, Koslow.” She cast a glance around the area in front of Archie’s house, where Leigh had walked to meet her. Maura’s voice, for once, didn’t sound gruff so much as tired. “When was the last time anyone saw or spoke to Mr. Pratt?”

  “Lester Brown, who lives two houses down, talked to him here at his house Monday night,” Leigh explained. “And Archie didn’t mention going anywhere. Lester tried to call him on Wednesday and then again yesterday, but his machine picked up, and the message Lester left was never returned. So Archie could have been gone as long as four days.”