Leighann Dobbs - Mystic Notch 02 - A Spirited Tail (5 page)

“Another good question, sister.” Hattie took Cordelia’s arm. “I think this begs further investigation.”

“Meow!”  Pandora came racing around the corner in a ball of gray fur. She skidded to a halt when she noticed Ranger lying on the floor. Her back arched and she let out an unwelcoming hiss. She glared at me, her greenish-gold eyes shooting daggers across the room. 

Ranger merely opened one eyelid, shoved his nose further under his tail and went back to sleep.

“Well, looks like you might have a bit of a problem on your hands.” Bing chuckled as he watched Pandora sniff Ranger as if he were an alien species. 

“Indeed,” Cordelia said. “We’ll leave you to it, then. Be sure to let us know if you find anything else out about the murder. We’ll hit up the Mystic Notch grapevine and see if we can come up with anything.”

And with that, the four of them left, shutting the door behind them and leaving me to deal with one furious feline.

Chapter Five

Pandora stared at the noxious-smelling ball of golden fur, unable to believe her eyes. 

Who had let a dog in here?

She looked up at Willa incredulously. Didn’t she know how dirty these things were? Surely, her human had more sense than to bring one here.  But the next words out of Willa’s mouth proved she didn’t.

“Now, you be nice, Pandora. Ranger’s just lost his master.”

Pandora’s heart hitched. She knew what it was like to lose her human. She remembered the pain she’d felt when Anna had died. 

Did dogs feel the same way about their masters?

Pandora wasn’t sure, but she put aside her natural dislike for the species and vowed to try to be nice … at least until the creature proved she should act otherwise.

She went around to the back end and sniffed the tail cautiously, ready to unleash her razor-like claws and scratch the beast’s eyes out should it try to bite her. 

The dog did not move a muscle. 

She worked her way to the front, taking in the various smells on its coat. She could tell the dog had been near death. She smelled fear and loneliness and her heart started to soften.

Maybe dogs did have feelings. She had to admit she didn’t know much about them.  She’d always avoided having anything to do with them as she considered them to be inferior creatures.

She sat down near its head. 

“Hello there,” she said, attempting to establish communication.

The dog didn’t even acknowledge her presence. It was just as she suspected—dogs were rude, self-involved creatures.

She stood and turned her back on the dog. She was working on picking out the sunniest spot on the wide sill of the front window when she heard a pitiful whine escape the beast.

“What was that? Did you say something?”

“Leave me alone,” Ranger said. His face was partially tucked under his tail and he looked up at Pandora with one tormented eye.

“Fine by me,” Pandora replied haughtily. “You’re the one encroaching on my territory.”

“I lost my best friend today.” The pathetic whining tone of his voice tugged at Pandora’s heart and she sat back down next to him.

“I lost my best friend once,” she said. “It was a sad day. But then I inherited Willa and I miss my old friend less and less now.”

Ranger flicked his eye up to look at Willa behind the counter and then back down to look at Pandora. “No one can ever come close to my master.”

Pandora shrugged. “Well, cats don’t have masters.  We
are
the masters. So I really can’t help you there.”

“Just leave me alone, then. There’s nothing for me to do now but sleep. I can still hear him arguing. I’m a bad dog.”

“Arguing?”

“With the man at the special house.”

Pandora moved closer, her curiosity getting the better of her. “What special house?”

“The house my master takes me to when we go for a walk. I can sense he thinks it is special. So I think it is special, too.”

Pandora considered that for a moment. What would make a house special?  She had no idea, but suddenly was overwhelmed with wanting to find out.

“Where is this special house?”

Ranger’s forehead creased into furry lines as he thought. “It’s through the woods, down the path with the birch trees and past the place where the deer come at night.”

Pandora narrowed her eyes at him. Apparently, dogs weren’t very good with directions. Better start a different line of questioning.

“So, why are you a bad dog?” she asked.

Ranger blew out a strangled sigh. “I couldn’t save my master. I was out sniffing in the woods and by the time I heard him cry out, it was too late.”

Waves of guilt radiated from the dog and Pandora backed up a few inches so as not to be engulfed in them.

“Are you saying your master was murdered?”

“Yes.”

This was getting interesting, Pandora thought. Not that she didn’t feel bad about Ranger losing his master to violence; she did. But murder usually meant the presence of evil, and her task on this earth was to protect humans from evil. Something told her this particular murder might be one she should pay attention to.

“You feel guilty because you couldn’t save your master?” she asked.

“Yes, what good is a dog if he cannot fight for his master?”

True, Pandora thought but didn’t voice her opinion. “But you saw the other man. The one who killed him.”

“No. I would have chased him down!” Ranger lifted his head, feeling insulted. Did the persistent cat think he wouldn’t have attacked the man and taken revenge for his master if he’d had the chance? “By the time I came back to the clearing, the bad man was driving away and master wouldn’t wake up.”

“So, you didn’t see him? You don’t know what he looks like?”

Ranger let his head fall again, depression overwhelming him. “No, I did not see him … but I’ll never forget his scent.”

***

The shop had been quiet since my regulars left, which gave me a chance to enter some books I’d acquired into the database and put price stickers on them. Glancing over the counter, I was relieved to see that Pandora and Ranger seemed to have called a truce and were staring at each other warily. 

“Good girl, Pandora.” I tried to encourage the cat, whose kinked tail flicked on the floor nervously. I’d had visions of having to play referee all day to prevent her from injuring the depressed dog, but since it looked like they were getting along, I figured I’d take the opportunity to stock the books on the shelves.

As I scooped up a pile of books and headed toward the shelves, my mind wandered to the Van Dorn library. I hoped it didn’t seem callous considering a man was murdered outside the house, but I was practically salivating to be able to spend more time in that library. 

I was also curious to find out more about Charles Van Dorn and Lily Johanson’s deaths. Was it really murder like his ghost had said, or was he lying?  What did their deaths have to do with Bruce Norton’s murder? It was hard to picture them being related with a fifty year gap in between, but the triangle symbol on Bruce and Lily was too much of a coincidence. The deaths
had
to be related.

I knew I probably shouldn’t get involved, but I couldn’t tame the instincts I’d honed while spending over twenty years as crime journalist. They were ingrained in me, and now I just couldn’t help but investigate any mysteries that crossed my path—much to the dismay of my sister and Eddie Striker.

“I hope I can get back to the Van Dorn house soon,” I said aloud. I’d gotten into the habit of talking to Pandora when the store was empty. Call me crazy, but most of the time it actually seemed like she was listening and understood me.

“Did you say Van Dorn?” 

The voice scared the bejesus out of me and I dropped the book I’d been trying to shove into a slot on the bookshelf. I spun around to see the swirling mist of another of the ‘regulars’ that inhabited my shop. Unlike the four senior citizens, this one was of a more ethereal persuasion. A ghost. Robert Frost’s ghost to be exact.

Yep, the poet. He’d lived in New Hampshire during a good part of his career and apparently liked it so much he’d decided to spend a good part of his afterlife here, too. I wasn’t sure why he’d picked my bookstore to spend it in, but I had a large selection of books featuring his poems, and I think he felt flattered.

“Yes, I did say Van Dorn.” I answered his question while retrieving the book from the floor and placing it on the shelf.

“As in Charles Van Dorn?” He swirled in front of me, blocking my access to the shelf.

“Yeesss.” I drew out the word and stepped to the left, shoving the book into a space before he could move in front of me again. I didn’t like passing my hand through ghosts—they felt cold and clammy. Not to mention that it just seemed like a rude thing to do.

“Oh, I knew Charles.” Robert Frost smiled. “He used to channel me.  Back then, I was newly dead you know.  Oh, we had a grand old time.  Though I did so wish I could have attended his parties in the flesh.”

“You knew him?” My investigative radar honed in on this little tidbit. “What happened to him?”

“He’s dead,” Frost said, as if I didn’t know. “Been hanging around his house ever since—or so I’ve heard. I guess he can’t move on.”

 “Oh, that is so sad when that happens.” A voice behind me spoke up. My other ghostly regular—Franklin Pierce, the fourteenth President of the United States—who was also from New Hampshire. I wasn’t sure why he picked my store either, but ghosts never seem to have a good reason for doing some of the things they do.

“I’ll bet he wants you to help him.” Robert Frost ran his finger along the edge of the bookshelf, leaving a trail of condensation.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

He looked at Pierce and they both shrugged. “We’re ghosts; sometimes we just know things.”

I pressed my lips together, a thought occurring to me. “How come you guys never want me to help
you
? Don’t you want to move on?”

“Who, us?” Pierce looked at me and I could see a gleam in his eye even though he was mostly transparent. “No way, it’s too much fun here.”

Robert Frost laughed. “It sure is. How about the other day when Mrs. Woolridge was looking in the naughty romance section and you swiped the book onto the floor.”

Franklin Pierce laughed and slapped his knee. “I thought she was going to jump out of her saggy pantyhose.”

My lips curled up in a smile at the image of pious old pinch-faced Mrs. Woolridge looking at sexy romances and then being surprised by a book slamming to the floor. The boys did this to my customers a lot. Apparently, they thought it was great fun. I usually had to spend a few minutes each night walking the aisles to pick up any stray books that had fallen to the floor.

“So, if you guys know stuff, then what do you know about Bruce Norton’s murder?” 

“Murder? There’s been a new murder in town?” Frost consulted Pierce, who shook his head.

“We don’t know a thing about it,” Pierce said. 

“Nope. We don’t know everything, you know,” Frost said. 

“We’re not psychics—just ghosts,” Pierce added.

“But I do know one thing.” Frost leaned toward me. “Van Dorn has some very nice volumes of my poems in his library. Be sure to acquire those for the store.”

“Oh, and if there are any biographies on my life, get those, too,” Pierce added. “Books about me are so hard to find.”

The bells over the front door tinkled and the two ghosts evaporated, leaving a wet spot on the rug. I leaned backward to look down the aisle toward the door and saw my best friend, Pepper St. Onge, scooting inside with a tray loaded with goodies from the teashop she owned two doors down balanced in her right hand. She stopped short as soon as she spotted Ranger, who was still lying in the same spot.

“Well, hello there.” She slid the tray onto the counter and squatted to pet the dog, who ignored her.

“Hi,” I yelled from my spot as I slid the last book into place before joining her.

“I brought you some refreshments.” She turned concerned, green eyes on me. “I heard about what happened at Van Dorn’s and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” I eyed the silver tray, noticing it had my favorite molasses spice cookies along with a dainty china teapot. Wisps of steam curled out of the spout of the teapot. There were two chintz teacups, a tiny pitcher of milk, sugar cubes and a row of thinly sliced lemon all perched on top of antique lace doilies on the tray.

“You adopted a dog?” Pepper pointed to Ranger, who hadn’t moved a muscle. Some watchdog he was.

“No. That’s Ranger, Bruce Norton’s dog. He was hanging around the … err … body. The police were going to take him to the dog pound, so I took him instead.”

Ranger let out a pained whine at the mention of his former master’s name, pinching my heart and causing Pepper’s face to crumble with concern. She broke off a tiny piece of cookie, squatted and presented it to the dog.

“Treat?”

Ranger slit one eye open, sniffed, and then closed his eye without taking the food.

“He must be in a bad way, poor thing,” Pepper said.

“Did you know Bruce?” I asked her.

“When I was younger.” Pepper took the tray to the couch and motioned for me to join her as she talked. “I heard he’d become quite a recluse in his old age. Rumor had it he was suffering from dementia. I didn’t know he had a dog. Are you going to keep him?”

“No. I don’t think so. I figure I’ll see if any of Bruce’s relatives want him, and then find him a good home if not.

Pepper scrunched up her face. “I’m not sure Bruce has any relatives. He never married. I’m not sure about brothers or sisters.”