southern ghost hunters 02 - skeleton in the closet (10 page)

He fingered the spine of his book. "It would be nice to move on," he said, letting out a self-conscious huff, "but of course none of us have managed it."

"I'm so sorry," I said, wishing I could give him a hug.

Frankie's cold breath chilled my skin. "What are you doing?" he demanded, teeth clenched, as if he didn't quite want to know the answer. "You're not here to make friends. Besides, you say one wrong thing and this beast could go poltergeist and tear us apart."

"Shoo," I told him. Hadn't he listened to a word this man said?

Yes, our Civil War soldier could still turn into the rampaging, teeth-baring crazy ghost I'd witnessed earlier, but I doubted it. What I saw in front of me felt much more real.

I approached him cautiously, as casually as I possibly could. "I was hoping you knew something about the woman who died upstairs. Early this morning," I clarified, thinking of how many others must have breathed their last in this building over the years.

His features came into sharper focus and I could see his high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and weak chin. He appeared more cautious in his human form, ready to dart at any moment. "Darla was my great-great-niece."

Amazing. "Do all ghosts recognize family or is that a special talent of yours?"

He dipped his chin as if we'd suddenly ventured into personal territory. "She wouldn't stop talking about how she's related to Myra Jackson, my sister."

Well, wasn't that sweet? Not surprising, either. It seemed all the older families in town were related in one way or another. "I'll bet she bragged about you, too."

"No," he said, with a touch of regret. "They don't talk about me."

It hit me. "You were the only one in your family to join the North?" For many families in Tennessee it had truly been brother against brother, and it seemed men like him were still paying the price.

"I had to fight following my conscience," he said, welcoming no argument.

"Yes, you did." We were glad for it today. "Although I can see how you'd catch hell upstairs."

He let out a huff, glancing at the ceiling as if he could see clean through it. "A lot of the time, they don't even notice me. Or they'll ignore me. They don't bother tormenting me much anymore." He chewed at his lip. "I like the display Darla was putting together. My favorite belt buckle is on one of the tables. Although it's labeled as my father's." He let out a small laugh. "No way my father would wear a flashy silver belt buckle."

Now we were getting somewhere. "Were you watching Darla when she was killed?"

"No," he said quickly. "I was there for a little while, watching her fiddle with the display. Then the head surgeon found me. He chased me back downstairs."

That made me sad. He shouldn't be banished down here. It wasn't right. Still, I couldn't dwell on it right now. Instead, I needed him to tell me, "What did you see?"

He floated upward, as if he could break right through to the room above. "Darla was being Darla. She had such life. Such energy." He ran a hand over the beams above his head. "I was proud of her. I even gave her a cold spot to let her know I was there, but she didn't notice." He gave a small, self-effacing laugh. "She was too excited over a piece of paper. She even said something about a hidden Bible."

No kidding? I drew closer. "What about it?"

He gave a wry grin. "It has to do with an old scandal from the sound of it."

"Show me," I urged.

He gave a quick nod. "All right. But for my sake, keep quiet."

He rose up through the ceiling while I took the long way out, through the stacks, up the narrow staircase and back from behind the circulation desk. I moved fast, worried that I'd lose track of him. That the ghost would be chased away, or lose power, or simply leave before I could find him upstairs.

I hadn't even asked his name. We'd have to remedy that. For now, at least I knew he was a Jackson. Although if I called out "Jackson!" in the library, I'd be willing to bet about a dozen guys would come running. It wasn't exactly a small family.

Just as I feared, there was no sign of the ghost when I entered the main library reading room. I saw the hospital, the men playing poker, Frankie glaring at me from a spot near the soul traces, but not Darla Grace's great-great-uncle.

"How you holding up?" I asked, searching behind him for the ghost of the Yankee. 

"It's a picnic when you suck out my energy to go look for another fella," he remarked. "Let me save you some time. He's in there." Frankie gestured to the storage space I'd used as a hiding spot earlier.

"Thanks," I said, hurrying toward it. On the way, I checked the clock on my cell phone. We had about ten minutes left before Marshall came back, if Ellis could even hold him that long.

I'd better not end up hiding in the closet off the lobby again.

I slipped inside. This time, an unearthly gray light permeated the space. I saw a ghostly operating theater. Rays that mimicked sunshine streamed in through high windows, illuminating a pair of wooden tables streaked with gray blood and gore. A perfectly clean set of surgeon's instruments rested on a nearby table, and I couldn't help but stare at the ragged blade of the bone saw.

"We'll have to be quick," Jackson said, poking his head through the door that I just closed. "Dr. Hays is coming back, and he doesn't like me."

I knew the feeling. "Pete Marshall is coming, and he doesn't like me, either."

Jackson frowned. "Someone has taken the secretary I told you about," he said, leading me to an empty place near the wall. "This is where it stood."

"So I'm sunk." The murderer had covered his or her tracks. I wasn't going to be of any help to Ellis, or Darla, or anybody.

Jackson knit his brow. "I can show you what I remember," he offered.

I stared at him for a moment. "What are you saying exactly?"

He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. "I can create things as I remember them. It's a common enough ability here on the other side." He drew his hand down. "That's why the ghosts here see a field hospital."

Wow. "Okay. How much do you remember?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I can call back the paper she touched, the one I saw. She didn't take out a Bible while I was with her, so I can't help you there." 

"So you can only show me things you directly experienced." I'd take what I could get.

I watched him as he narrowed his eyes and began to focus. I held my breath as a ghostly secretary shimmered into view along the wall. It resembled the top half of a writing desk, and was made to be portable, I assumed. A mother-of-pearl dove decorated the latch. 

"You can touch it," he offered.

"I'm good for now," I said, still getting used to the idea.

He nodded, understanding, and opened it. The top folded down into a writing surface, with cubbies above for stationery and other correspondence. "She opened it like this, then drew out a piece of paper. She became quite agitated and even made phone calls." 

Interesting. For some people, yakking on the phone wasn't a big event. But Darla getting worked up about a find right before she died, that was something.

"Whom did she call?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know." 

"And you won't be able to show me what you didn't see," I finished for him. 

From the fuzzy, faded letters cramming the slots, and the barely visible packages stuffed toward the back of the writing surface, I could tell she hadn't worked all the way through it. 

"It's generous of you to show me this," I said, moving toward the ghostly vision. "I appreciate your spending so much energy to help me."

Trouble was, the top paper lay facedown. I gathered the courage to pick it up myself. I'd been able to hold one ethereal object before, a locket. It had become part of my world for a brief time before it disappeared. I wondered if the same would happen with the paper.

Physical contact with actual spirits had made for a few experiences I'd rather forget.

I fought my hesitation. I didn't have time to dillydally. I snaked a hand out to touch the document. With a sigh of relief, I realized I could. 

The paper felt chilly in my hand, yet it had no weight, no texture. In fact, it felt like nothing at all. I turned it over and read the letterhead:
Leland Herworth Wydell, Importer/Exporter
. I straightened. This had to be the first of the Leland Herworth Wydells, whose collection Virginia had hastily lent to the library yesterday.

I scanned the paper, finding it difficult at times to make out the fading type. I read aloud the subject line at the top. "Declaration of Parentage." 

That struck me as exceedingly odd. Everyone around here counted on family Bibles and good old-fashioned gossip to know who belonged to whom. Unless… "Somebody was hiding…another somebody."

The single-spaced, typewritten document was addressed to a woman named Rosa, dated September 6, 1951.

My dearest Rosa,

I was wrong. And I fear in my age and current state of health that any correction I attempt to make to the situation at hand will only cause you and my family pain. So I now declare it to the world that Madeline Angelica Learner, born June 12, 1933, is my oldest child, a Wydell, and the heiress to my estate. Leland Herworth Wydell II, my first and only son, born October 3, 1935, will do well enough on his own. He has had my support in life, as dear Maddie shall have it in death.

Do with this as you will. You always did know best.

Leland H. Wydell

 "I don't believe it." The document shook in my unsteady hands. "It didn't happen this way. Leland Herworth Wydell II, Ellis's grandfather, was the heir. He got everything."

Jackson cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Yet it seems there was another." He shifted from one foot to the other. "It happens from time to time, even in the best families."

Of course it did. Perhaps even more often in the rich families.

I gasped as the document dissolved in my hands as if it had never existed. Only now I knew the truth.

Was Madeline Angelica Learner/Wydell aware of her heritage? I'd never heard of her. She might not even be in Sugarland anymore, if she was still alive. 

I froze. Maybe she was. Perhaps Darla knew exactly who that person was and was killed because of it. With the letter gone, the secret would be safe. Safe from everyone except ghosts like Jackson. And me. 

The entire fortune was tied up in the Wydell Heritage Trust Fund, which was now under the control of Ellis's parents and the source of their entire fortune: the mansion on the hill, acres of land, millions in assets, and the film production company. 

"In my time, Wydell family wills were drawn so that the first child inherits everything," Jackson said.

Mine, too. I remembered my grandmother talking about that. "Leland Wydell II kept it all, leaving his two younger sisters practically destitute." Those two sisters were gone now, as was Leland Wydell II. "But this woman, if she's still alive, should have inherited the entire Wydell fortune."

The ghost nodded. "Her heirs would as well."

If we had this document, the real one, it could change a lot of things around here. Leland Herworth Wydell III, who managed his law firm from his beach house in Malta, would have to come back to the real world. His wife, Virginia Wydell, who'd tried to take everything from me, who had never held a job in her life, who ruled every society board and bake sale from her castle-like home on the hill, the woman who now considered herself a star maker and a dream crusher, would be forced to get a job like the real people.

"This Madeline Angelica would be more than eighty now." Clearly no one in the Wydell family had checked the contents before donating the piece.

Darla had. And she'd been murdered for it.

A chill slid down my spine. My almost-mother-in-law would have a darned good reason to wield a bayonet. So would Ellis's brother Leland IV, the most ruthless judge in three counties. Come to think of it, I wouldn't put it past Beau, either.

How was I going to tell Ellis? I was sure this wasn't what he had in mind when he asked me to search for the truth.

I stood. We needed more. "We need to find someone who saw." 

"Bully," Jackson said, rubbing his hands together. He dropped them when he saw me watching. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but I haven't had much to be excited about in the last several decades."

I headed out into the lobby with the ghost on my heels. "What about her?" I asked, pointing at the ghost of the nurse in long skirts. She bent over the same bed as before, whispering to the outline of Private Baker.

"That's Millicent," he said. "She's more of a memory now. I doubt she saw anything." He scanned the room. "The poker players from the 12
^th
Infantry might have. Or the surgeon."

The poker players were a dead end; they couldn't even remember where they'd been last night. "Where's the surgeon?" I asked.

Jackson stiffened. "In the ether for now."

"Gotcha." Frankie had told me about the ether. Near as I could tell, it was an in-between plane where spirits could recharge their batteries and get away from daily life on Earth. "I'll just have to come back." 

The union officer lit up at that. "Later tonight, perhaps? I have a fascinating theory on how the child vampire, Claudia, in her heart of hearts did not truly want to grow up."

I was more interested in learning about the ghosts in the library. "That woman, Millicent," I said, watching her glide past the cots in the reading room. "She wanted me to write a letter."

He glanced at me. "Yes. For the dead private. She asks everyone. She's been asking it since the war, only nobody can do it." He turned back to her as she glided among the patients. "She's mostly gone now. It happens. Some ghosts run out of steam. The spirit fades and you're left talking to a memory."

"Is Private Baker still aware?"

He shook his head. "I don't know."

I'd find out. Soon. When I had more time. 

"Jackson," a grating voice bellowed, "what are you doing bothering that fine woman? Gregson glided our way, one eye hidden beneath the bandages on his head. He raised his hand to deliver a mock blow.