Spooky Trills Read online

  “Too bad,” Fee muttered as she took in the scene. She didn’t sound disappointed, though. Virgil had always been notoriously incompetent when dealing with a homicide. Dad had often told me he was dying to recruit a few capable detectives, and it looked like now he finally had.

  “Any theories?” I asked Virgil.

  “Rival duck farmer,” said Virgil knowingly.

  “Rival duck farmer? I thought the Pender farm was the only duck farm left around these parts?”

  Virgil hesitated. “Someone might have tried to muscle in on his territory.”

  “It’s a duck farm, Virgil. Not a meth lab. Duck farming is not exactly a cutthroat business.”

  Suddenly I caught sight of Rock Walker. He’d been kneeling next to the victim, and now rose to his full height, which was significant. He was a handsome man with one of those square chins that go a long way to making a girl feel weak at the knees. He had clear blue eyes, short brown hair, and a ready smile. When he saw me, he set foot in our direction.

  “Rock Walker is walking towards us,” Fee suddenly hissed. “Walking Walker. Get it?” She gave a nervous snort of laughter.

  “I get it, Fee,” I assured her.

  “I better make myself scarce,” Virgil announced, and promptly did.

  “Is Virgil scared of Rock?” asked Fee, surprised.

  “Not scared, per se,” I said. “It’s just that Virgil doesn’t like it when Rock… gets flirty with me. Which, in his view, is all the time.”

  “Oh. Right,” she said. “Still has that crush on you, huh?”

  “Yup.” Rock had reached us and I returned his smile. “Hey, there, Detective.”

  “Alice. Fee. I would ask you what you’re doing here, but I guess there’s no point.”

  I stuck up my chin. “Nope. There is not.”

  He nodded resignedly, his smile disappearing. “Why don’t I show you the body?” he suggested, and when Fee gave a tiny shriek, he added, “Or not.”

  “No, no,” said Fee quickly. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

  And then Rock walked us up to the body of Banning Pender.

  Chapter 4

  The man looked pretty dead, which was, of course, to be expected. In spite of the fact that I’ve seen my share of dead bodies, I had to swallow away a lump of uneasiness at the sight of the dead farmer.

  “So… what can you tell us about what happened?” I asked Rock.

  “Not much,” he admitted. “His wife found him a little after eight this morning. She called an ambulance, figuring he’d had a stroke or seizure, and tried to perform CPR. And that’s when she saw—” He directed a quick look of concern at Fee, who’d gone completely white. “Are you all right, Fee?”

  Fee made a retching sound, then nodded ten times in quick succession. “Peachy,” she squeaked.

  “Maybe you better go and stand over there,” Rock suggested. “You don’t look peachy.”

  She tripped over to where he was indicating, and promptly divested herself of her breakfast.

  “She has a weak stomach,” I said apologetically.

  “Many people have,” he said.

  “You were saying? About the farmer’s wife?”

  “Yes. Dorritt Pender.” I followed his gaze and saw that Banning’s wife was being interviewed by a police officer. She was a spreading woman of middle age, with curly red hair tied back in a bun, a florid freckled face, and dressed in denim dungarees.

  “She must have had such a shock.”

  “She has. Like I said, when she started to perform CPR, she noticed the blood, and immediately knew something was wrong. That’s when she called 911 once more, warning the operator that a murder had taken place.”

  “Are you sure it’s murder?” I asked.

  He gave me a smile. “Second-guessing me already, huh?”

  “No, I’m just… being thorough, I guess.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s murder, unless the man shot himself in the chest—twice—and then managed to make the weapon magically disappear.”

  I looked at the ducks, who were clucking around, digging their beaks into the mud and generally making a mess of things.

  “No,” he said. “The ducks didn’t steal the gun. This was murder, Alice. Plain and simple.”

  “So who did it?” I asked. “Any suspects?”

  “Not yet. It’s early days, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “According to something I read somewhere—” Or actually saw on Law & Order “—the first few hours of a murder investigation are crucial.”

  “They are, which is why we’re interviewing Mrs. Pender right now, and we’ll interview anyone else who was in contact with Banning Pender,” he said, darting a curious look at me. “Do you have an idea what might have happened here?”

  I looked up in surprise. “Me? I just got here. How would I know what happened?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Your father told me you have an uncanny knack for solving crime—which is what makes you such a great fit for your neighborhood watch.”

  I smiled. “He said that?” It wasn’t like my dad to dole out compliments like that.

  “He did. Last night, when we were enjoying dinner together.”

  My smile disappeared. I’d forgotten all about the fact that Rock had recently moved into my parents’ place, now occupying my old room.

  “So?” he asked “Any hunches? Anything that strikes you as peculiar or important?”

  I stared down at the body of the old farmer. “Did you know he was an Elvis impersonator?”

  “Yes, Dorritt told me. Do you think that’s relevant?”

  “It might,” I said, remembering my uncle’s words. “He was going to move to Las Vegas. Become a professional Elvis impersonator.”

  “He was, huh? Why? No future in duck farming?”

  “No idea. I guess he liked singing better than farming.” I told him what my uncle had told me, and he whistled through his teeth.

  “I’ll bet he never told his wife about that particular dream of his. Or at least she hasn’t said anything about it.” He studied me for a moment, his clear blue eyes producing a weakening sensation in the pit of my stomach. “You know, I discovered the weirdest thing last night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A diary.”

  I looked up in alarm. “My diary?”

  “Looks like. It was stuffed between the bed and the wall. I only discovered it after I moved the bed around so I could better fit the mattress.”

  “You didn’t read it, did you?”

  “No, of course I didn’t read it,” he said with a laugh. “I gave it to your mother. It was one of those Casper diaries.”

  “Casper?”

  “Casper the Friendly Ghost?”

  I swallowed uneasily. “I like cartoons,” I said. “In fact I love them. You should have seen that room before we took down all my old posters. It was like Cartoon Network Central. Scooby Doo. Powerpuff Girls. Minnie Mouse…” My voice trailed off as he arched his eyebrows.

  “The thing is, when I gave that diary to your mother, you know what she said?”

  “Thank you for not reading my daughter’s private diary?”

  “She told me you’ve always had a fascination with ghosts. That even as a girl you wished you could talk to ghosts and find out about them. Even as a girl,” he repeated, fixing me with a curious eye. “Now I wonder what she meant by that.”

  “Probably nothing,” I said dismissively. “Mom tends to babble.”

  “No, she wasn’t babbling. She was dead serious. Only I don’t think she realized she was talking to me. She took that diary and was leafing through it, kind of absentmindedly, and then made that peculiar remark. As if she was talking to herself. Then she remembered I was there, and she tried to cover her tracks by saying, ‘Oh, don’t listen to me, Detective. I’m just babbling.’ Which is what you just told me.”

  I held up my hands. “See? She was just babbling.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I
don’t think so, Alice.”

  I laughed uncertainly. “What are you saying? That I can talk to ghosts or something? That’s crazy!”

  He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “No, you’re right. That is crazy.”

  “It is!” I said in a slightly shrill voice, still grinning nervously.

  “Unless it’s true.”

  “Of course it’s not true. Nobody talks to ghosts. Ghosts don’t even exist. That’s just a bunch of Hollywood nonsense. Everybody knows that.”

  “But do they? When I asked your father he suddenly had somewhere he had to be, and when I tried to talk to your mother again, she simply dismissed me and said I was seeing things.”

  “Well, you are,” I assured him. “You are seeing things.”

  “I don’t think I am, Alice. Something is going on here and I’m determined to find out what.”

  I shrugged. “You are the detective.”

  “That, I am.” And for some reason it sounded an awful lot like a warning.

  Chapter 5

  I walked up to Fee, who was still looking noticeably white around the nostrils. She was standing with her hands on her knees, the picture of the fearless sleuth. Not.

  “You know what Rock just told me?” I asked, darting a casual look over my shoulder at the detective.

  Fee held up a hand. “Please don’t tell me. I don’t want to be sick again.”

  “He found one of my old diaries in my bedroom. It had Casper on the cover.”

  She frowned. “He read your diary?”

  “No, he didn’t read it. At least he says he didn’t. But that’s not the point.”

  “So what is the point?” asked Fee, purposely looking away from where the body lay.

  “The point is that Mom thought she was talking to herself and let it slip that I’ve always had a fascination with ghosts.”

  “So?” asked Fee. “All kids like Casper. I liked Casper. He’s adorable.”

  “It’s not about Casper.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I just said!”

  “I don’t get it,” said Fee. “Why is Rock knowing that you had a fascination with ghosts as a kid important?”

  “Because he already suspects something is going on,” I said.

  “Let him think whatever he wants. He’s never going to guess that you and I can talk to ghosts.”

  “You and I and pretty much everyone else in town. Even Virgil can see ghosts.”

  “Yeah, that is weird,” said Fee. “You would think ghosts are more discerning about who they choose to talk to.”

  I chewed my bottom lip. “What if he finds out?”

  “How can he? Nobody is going to tell him. Not if they don’t want him to think they’re nuts.”

  “Someone might let it slip.”

  “Who?”

  “My mom.”

  “Oh, right.” She frowned. “Stubborn denial,” she finally advised. “Let’s just all stick to stubborn denial. It’s not as if he can prove anything.”

  “No, but it’s not very comfortable—having this thing hanging between us.”

  “I thought you and Rock weren’t a thing?”

  “We’re not a thing, but some day we might be, right?”

  “Unless he thinks you’re nuts.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it, honey. If he likes you, he’s not going to let a little thing like you seeing ghosts come between you.”

  I heaved a deep sigh. “I hope not. I kinda like him, Fee.”

  “Yeah, well, what’s not to like?” she asked, emitting a soft burping sound. “Sorry about that. I just wish I had my mother’s stomach. I swear hers is lined with solid concrete.”

  Just then, I suddenly saw a figure hanging out near a nearby willow tree, and if I wasn’t mistaken, it was Banning Pender himself. “Don’t look now,” I whispered, “but I think I just spotted the ghost of Farmer Pender!”

  Immediately, Fee turned in the direction indicated, and instantly threw up again. And who could blame her? The farmer’s entire shirtfront was soaked with blood, while his face was absolutely devoid of it, judging by the pale color. In fact, his face was the same color as Fee’s. Huh.

  I patted my friend’s back. “It’s fine, Fee. It’s just a ghost.”

  “I know,” she said, holding up a finger. “Just give me a second here.” Finally, she rose again, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I never had this reaction to dead people before. I mean, I’ve seen dozens of ghosts, and I never had to…”

  We shared a look, and I said, “No, you’re not.”

  “It’s impossible!” she cried. “We’re always so careful.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But are you?”

  “Yes. I am!”

  We both stared at each other for a long moment, then burst into a loud squealing that had all the cops turning to stare at us. I clutched at Fee and she clutched at me. “How long have you felt like this?” I asked eagerly.

  “For about a week,” she confessed, just as eagerly.

  “Every morning?”

  “Every morning, though I’ve never had it as bad as now.”

  “Oh, my God, Fee!” I cried, jumping up and down. “You’re pregnant!”

  We both squealed again, before she said, sobering, “But we’re always so careful.”

  “But are you?”

  “Yes, we are!”

  “We have to get you a test,” I said. Then, as I cast a look at the forlorn figure of Banning Pender, I added, “And we have to talk to the dead farmer.”

  “Yes, let’s do that first,” Fee suggested, then clutched my arm again. “Alice!”

  “Fee!”

  “If I am pregnant, you’re the godmother.”

  “Me? Yay!”

  “Of course, you.”

  “Do you think Rick will agree?”

  Her face colored, which became her, after the deathly pale look she’d had before. “Oh, God. Do you think he’ll be happy?”

  “If you’re pregnant—and that’s still a very big if—I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

  “What if he’s not? What if he’s not ready to start a family?”

  “Then I’ll kick his ass.”

  “But you can’t. He’s going to be a father soon.”

  “All the more reason to kick his ass.”

  Fee darted an uncertain look at the duck farmer, who’d apparently noticed we’d noticed him, for he was wandering closer to where we stood. “Um, I think we better deal with this first. Hello, Mr. Pender, sir. So nice to see you again. I’m Felicity Bell, remember?”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” he said, shuffling over, darting nervous glances at his body which was now neatly covered with a sheet. “Can you tell me what’s going on, darling?”

  I turned so I wasn’t facing the police officers anymore, and said, “What do you think happened, Mr. Pender?”

  He scratched his sizable muttonchops. “Um, well, I guess somebody shot me. But… why am I here, and at the same time I’m over there, under that sheet?” he asked, pointing at his body thirty yards away.

  “Prepare yourself for a nasty shock, Mr. Pender,” said Fee. “Someone killed you, and now you’re… dead.”

  He blinked. “Dead? Oh, dear. You mean, I’m—I’m a ghost?”

  “That’s exactly what you are,” I said. “You died and now you’re a ghost.”

  “Oh, dear me,” he muttered, clutching at his hair. Without his Elvis wig it looked like a devastated area. “I don’t know about that,” he said after a pause. “I mean, I didn’t even know ghosts existed. I’ve heard stories, of course. You hear stories all the time, but I always figured it was just a load of rubbish, you know? A bunch of poppycock, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s not,” I assured him. “People die and if they die violently their ghosts tend to stick around, trying to come to terms with what’s happened.”r />
  “Oh, dear goodness me,” he said, staring at his wife. “What will Dorritt think?”

  “Dorritt will think that someone murdered you and will want to know who did it,” Fee said gently. She has a great bedside manner with ghosts.

  “Who did it,” he repeated. “Who did it?” His hand flew to his waist. “Elvis did it, that’s who.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Elvis. I saw him as clearly as I’m seeing you right now. He came up to me, a gun in his hand, and then he shot me! And when I asked him why, he said I had something that belonged to him and then he—he stole my buckle!”

  “He stole what?” I asked.

  “My belt buckle.” He pointed at his waist. “I had this nice, big belt buckle. My Elvis belt buckle.”

  “You wore your Elvis belt when you went to feed the ducks?” asked Fee.

  He squared his shoulders. “Young lady, I wore that belt wherever I went. It was perfectly washable. Used to belong to the King himself—or so I was told.”

  Suddenly an idea struck me. “Was that belt buckle valuable?”

  “It certainly was to me. Had a lot of emotional value.”

  “No, I mean, did it have actual value? Like, was it made of silver or gold or something?”

  “Yeah,” Fee chimed in. “Was it encrusted with diamonds?”

  But the farmer was shaking his head. “Nothing of the kind. It was just a plain stainless steel belt buckle.”

  “But you said it used to belong to Elvis himself,” I said.

  He smiled. “Well, I certainly liked to think so.”

  “So maybe whoever took it figured it might be worth a lot of money?”

  “The King killed me, little lady. He didn’t have to take back his belt buckle. The King has many belt buckles.” Then his face clouded. “Now wait a minute—maybe he took umbrage at the fact that I was wearing his belt buckle.” He held up his hand. “Maybe the King is going around taking back what belongs to him!”

  “Um, Mr. Pender, sir?” Fee asked.

  “Mh?”

  “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Elvis Presley is dead. In fact he’s been dead for quite some time now.”

  The duck farmer frowned. “Elvis ain’t dead. Elvis lives and he just killed me.”