This is the longer 4700-word version of my fun ghost story.
The sound of knocking woke me at three. Then pounding, followed by silence. My breath caught in my throat.
I sat up and glanced outside. A silver crescent moon hung askew. Wind gusts rattled the windows and rocked gnarled trees that bent like old men with aging spines.
Was that creaking my front door opening? I grabbed my pepper spray and cell phone, keyed in 911 so I only needed to hit send and crept down the steps. Pausing on the landing, I glanced at the front door.
Still closed, only a dream.
Then a kitchen cabinet door opened and slammed shut. Then another, each bang sparkinf a jolt of electricity that ran up my back.
Not a dream.
I inched down three more steps, paused, and listened. My refrigerator door creaked open. If it was a burglar, I’d spray him, and hit send for the police.
Then a chill crawled up my spine as I remembered my neighbor’s border collie. He’d growled when entering the house yesterday and raced into the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry, he never does that,” my neighbor said, before handing me a basket of warm chocolate chip cookies and dragging her collie out. “I’ll be back later without him.”
The dog’s behavior put me on edge. Before that, I’d hunted for logical explanations for the odd events that happened as soon as I moved in and hung my investigator shingle on the front door. The flash of ivory passing my bedroom door, a dream. The wet footprints outside the hot tub, a neighbor, perhaps a teenager. A towel missing, and later found damp and crumpled on the lawn. Someone else had a key, and I changed the locks that afternoon. A whiff of Dior’s Poison, a perfume I once loved. I must have imagined it.
I pressed my body to the wall, wrapped my silk robe more tightly around my waist, and angled my head forward to peer into the kitchen. She floated in front of the freezer door, a shaped mist when I looked straight at it, but a shimmering feminine image that took on form on my peripheral vision. Cool slate-gray eyes, like river stones, under arched eyebrows. Hair the color of dark honey pulled back into a chignon. A perfect body poured into a tight midnight blue satin dress. The scent of Poison.
The freezer door opened, and ice cubes clinked against glass. She glided forward, moving as if her feet didn’t touch the ground before opening another cabinet and growling, “You don’t have a lot of food.”
I growled back. “What are you doing in my house?”
“What are you doing here?” Menace coated her voice.
“This is my home. I bought it.”
She wheeled around to face me, tipped the glass to her vermillion lips, and swigged. “Not from me.”
“The prior owner died. I bought this house from the heirs. You need to leave.”
Her gaze cut through me like an icy wind. “You’re the one with the problem. If you don’t like me being here, you can leave.”
Enough. “What do you want?”
“What I want is my life back. Since I can’t have that, to find out who killed Michael.”
“Michael?”
“My husband.” She poured three fingers of clear liquid into a highball glass and knocked it back. “Why do you think I drink so much?”
Puzzle pieces tumbled into place. When the neighbor returned after dropping her dog off, she said, “No one’s lived in this house for three years. Someone murdered the husband, and the wife drank herself to death.”
The ghost stared as if waiting for an answer, a brewing snowstorm in her eyes. I straightened and locked eyes with her, conscious I could now see her clearly. “Go, now. I don’t want a houseguest.”
“I’m not leaving until I get my answer.” She refilled the glass, then drained it. “You want me gone? Find out who killed Michael. And tomorrow, get some food in those cupboards.”
“Dang it.” I crossed the kitchen and opened my snack cupboard. “You ate my chocolate chip cookies, didn’t you? All of them.”
She shrugged. “I can’t exactly buy them myself, can I?”
“Why not?”
“Someone’s always around in a grocery store.”
“Yeah, right. Well, unless you intend pitching in for groceries, leave my cookies alone. And stop guzzling my gin.”
She scoffed, filled the glass to the brim, and tossed it back. “Trust me, sister. My drinking your cheap booze is the least of your problems. Someone came into this house while we slept and sliced his throat.”
“Wha-what? I heard he was murdered, but in this house?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Didn’t the real estate agent mention you bought a house where the last two owners died in the house?” Her seal-bark laugh reverberated against the windows, cracking a pane in one.
My eyes widened. I reached toward the window, felt heat, then drew my hand back.
She snickered. “Oops. They forgot to tell me how to channel my energy. I put it into high gear to pass through the front door.” She scowled. “Because you changed the locks yesterday. I need the new key.”
“They?”
“Keep up, will you? They run things. When they gave me a chance to come back, I snatched it.” She raised her arm in the air as if she’d scored a touchdown.
“You can’t stay here. There’s not enough room.”
“Since when do ghosts take up space?” She smirked. “And where else will I find clues? But chill. Once I solve Michael’s murder, I can rest. Until then, you need more groceries.” She slugged back another gulp. “And please—better quality gin.”
“I’m not buying anything to make you happy.”
She batted her eyelashes.
“Give it up. That eyelash flutter might work on susceptible men, but not on me. And I’m getting a dog.”
“Oooh, I love dogs.” Her eyes gleamed. “How about a golden? I can play with him during the day. I’m frightfully lonely.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re messing with me. I’m going back to bed.”
She pursed her lips. “And you seemed like a smart girl. Before you head to bed, do you have any ideas about who killed Michael? You sleep in the same bedroom.”
Any hope of a good night’s sleep passed out the cracked window. I pointed to the starburst crack. “I don’t suppose you can repair it?”
Her eyes cast down. “Michael handled everything like that.”
I shut my ears to her wistful tone. “If you’re going to be here even for a day, we need a rule. You break it, you fix it.”
“Ooh.” She clapped her hands. “I love rules. But I need to depart by daylight.”
“So, you are leaving.”
“Until tomorrow night.” A smile lit her eyes as she sang those words. “Depending on the strength of the moonlight.”
When I blinked, she sighed. “They don’t want us out in the daytime. We’re given free rein during moonlit hours. Otherwise, too many people might notice, and they don’t want that.”
“But you’ve left traces. You stole a towel.”
She stomped her foot. “It was mine. You’ve been using all my things ever since you’ve moved in. You think I like that?”
“I bought the house with contents.”
“There you have it. I’m one of the contents.” She gave me a baleful look. “But I’m not contented.”
When I didn’t respond, she said. “Oh, stop. Where’s your sense of humor? They scolded me for leaving traces. But when you hung that shingle, and learned you were Maeve Halycon, a private investigator, they told me I lucked out. That I could show myself to you. See? You can touch me.” She held out her forearm as she solidified even more.
“And you are?”
She raised her chin. The woman had perfect posture, making her seem taller than her height, which I estimated at two inches shorter than my five foot six. “Nelda Barrington. Pleased to meet you.” Her beauty and grooming made me painfully aware of my tangled hair and rumpled robe.
“Now, about Michael’s murder…they want me to wrap this up.” She glanced out the window. “Whoops, it’s almost dawn. Ta-ta.”
***
Sunlight streaming through the window woke me, stiff from a night sleeping on my home office’s daybed. At first, I wondered if last night’s encounter had been a dream until I entered the kitchen and saw the cracked window and the highball glass tipped on its side.
I had a ghost and wanted her gone. I debated calling the realtor or the police. But what would I tell them? A ghost swiped my towel and cracked my window?
I fired up the Keurig, grabbed a cup of Columbian, returned to my office, and typed Michael Barrington + murder + Eldridge Avenue into the computer. Four news articles from three years earlier appeared.
The first:
Former Chicago cop, Michael Barrington, was found dead Sunday morning, his throat slashed. Neighbors heard screaming and alerted the police, who arrived within six minutes of receiving the 911 call. His wife, Nelda Barrington, survived, but was sedated and taken to the hospital.
The second:
No suspects have been named in the stabbing death of retired police officer Michael Barrington. According to an unnamed source, Ms. Barrington has been brought in for questioning.
The third:
More information has been released concerning the horrific stabbing of Michael Barrington. According to a credible source, all doors to the Barrington home were locked, requiring the police to break down the front door. Mr. Barrington’s body was in the bed covered in blood. Ms. Barrington was found in the kitchen, also covered in blood. Police have named her a person of interest.
I sipped my coffee, longing for my vanished chocolate chip cookies. The police had likely zeroed in on Nelda. Years as a private investigator taught me once the police found a credible suspect that fit the facts, they stopped looking for others. Had Nelda served time? Learned a few tricks in jail? I didn’t smell jail on her.
The fourth:
The police spokesperson issued a statement today. “Police are pursuing all leads. Anyone with information concerning this murder or the murder weapon is requested to call police dispatch and ask to speak to officer Johnny Klankert.
What kind of cop was Klankert? I’d visit him, but first visit the library. They likely stored past newspaper issues on microfiche. Klankert might only give me one shot at interviewing him, so I needed to find out as much as I could about the Barringtons. The quicker I solved the case, the sooner I could send Nelda packing.
I used my cell to take a photo of the window’s cracked pane, as well as the starburst pattern Nelda’s energy burst had left on the front door, called a handyman, and headed out the door.
The library stored past issues of the town’s newspaper on microfiche filed in labeled cardboard boxes. I pulled three boxes for the year of Michael’s murder and the prior and subsequent years. Dozens of articles surfaced, along with photos confirming the beautiful Nelda was my ghost.
The Barringtons were a power couple, gracing each week’s society pages, which showed Nelda in a series of new gowns, smiling radiantly, and clinging to Michael’s arm. Those gowns and society functions cost plenty. Cops didn’t earn hefty wages and weren’t flush in their retirement. Which meant Nelda funded at least part of their lifestyle, suggesting she loved him.
Michael rarely looked at her, just stared straight ahead, his cop face betraying no emotion. A prickly sense crawled up my back as I sensed the power dynamic between them.
Michael’s brother, Craig, surfaced in several news accounts:
Craig Barrington, brother of stabbed former Chicago cop Michael Barrington, spoke with this reporter. “Michael’s blood showed evidence of sleeping pills. The doors were locked. Who else could have killed him? The police are letting her get away with it.”
A grieving brother, or someone eagerly pointing the finger at Nelda? My investigator’s juices flowed. I loved solving puzzles.
The following week:
In a follow-up interview, Craig Barrington, brother of murdered former police officer Michael Barrington, spoke. “My brother was a good cop. Nobody other than Nelda could have gotten the jump on him. The police are saying they haven’t found the murder weapon, but there was a knife missing from the butcher block.”
How did he know? The police would have impounded anything tied to the murder. Or had he arrived when the police did? That made no sense. The police would have cordoned off the crime scene.
The next week:
New information continues to surface in the police investigation into Michael Barrington’s murder. Mr. Barrington’s blood alcohol level was dangerously high, .25%.
Two weeks later Craig wrote a letter to the editor:
Why is there no justice for Michael? The police should be able to connect the dots. The doors to the house were locked. Michael’s wife has been a lush for years. He was trying to stop her from spending every penny of his pension. She got him drunk, talked him into taking a sleeping pill, and then when he couldn’t fight back, slashed his throat.
I’ll tell you why. The cop is soft on the black widow Nelda.
Why was Craig so interested in publicly accusing his sister-in-law?
A year later, a newspaper roundup article listed unsolved mysteries, noting that the Barrington stabbing “haunted” residents. Ha. They had no idea.
When I returned home, I opened a file for the Barringtons. If I broke this case, it would make the evening news and bring in clients. Despite my shingle on the front door, no new clients had called since I’d moved here. In Portland, when people drove by and spotted my shingle, the words Private Investigator triggered them to call, asking if I could discover whether their spouse indeed cheated or if I could find their missing runaway daughter. Maybe my house’s infamy kept them away.
I finished up the only paying case I hadn’t closed, a background check from an employer curious about their top general manager candidates’ histories. This left only the Barrington case. I pulled up the cell’s photo library so I could insert photos of the cracked window and starburst door onto my computer. The images were mist. I walked to the window and took another photo. Mist. Grrrr.
***
“What do you think you’re doing? Playing hide and seek with the walls?”
I’d searched the master bedroom for the murder weapon and started in the kitchen when the scent of Poison announced Nelda’s presence. I turned as she fluttered to my side, a calculating sheen to her eyes.
“Geez, when did you fly in?”
She waved toward the window, her silver nail polish glittering in the moonlight, and cackled. “You better hurry. There’ll be a full moon soon.”
“Are you threatening me?” The house’s bones settled around the two of us with a low bass creak.
She sighed. “Messing with you. Thought it’d be fun, but I’d forgotten you lack a sense of humor.”
I pulled out a chair and slid a legal pad in front of me. “How about answering a few questions? Who’s Craig?”
“Must you?” She sighed. “On a night when you’re out of gin?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“My asshole brother-in-law.” She reached into the refrigerator, pulled out a diet Coke and poured it into a glass. “Oh, thank you for offering. A slice of lime tomorrow would be nice.”
“What’s he to you?”
She swigged down the contents of her glass.
I tapped my pen on the pad.
“Y-e-s, he hit on me. Drooled. Jealous that Michael had a woman he wanted. But other than hoping we’d do the frisky, he didn’t like me. None of my in-laws did.” She shrugged. “They didn’t like Michael either, but they hated me more. It burned them he died before I did because I inherited.”
“Craig accused you.”
“Oh, you found out.” She filled her glass, then inhaled. “I’ve always loved bubbles. But I finished the champagne before you moved in.” She laughed. “Michael hid the bottles from me, but that saved them for me when his in-laws scoured the house and took everything of value.” She batted her lashes. “Except me.”
“Why did Craig zero in on you?”
She sighed. “At first, I thought it was because he’d done it. He was over here that night, swilling down whiskey with Michael. Then I realized he wouldn’t have wanted Michael to die before me. No, if it had been Craig, he’d have killed me. It was the woman who was here that night. She did it.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I’m the only one who knows about her. The police couldn’t be bothered searching for her once they focused on me. She was the last one with Michael. I heard her voice but didn’t go downstairs. Later, when Michael stumbled up to bed, I was already half-asleep.”
“What was Michael like?”
“Do you have a husband?”
“Where are you going with that? Other than you don’t want to answer?”
She scanned me, head to toe. “You wouldn’t be bad looking if you did a few things.”
Might as well let her have some fun. Besides, I wanted to know. “Like what?”
She moved in close and lifted my hair. “Highlights, auburn. Would do wonders for your complexion. A good facial scrub. Better moisturizer. Pluck those eyebrows and use three coats of mascara. Your eyes would pop.” She frowned. “Botox, no one should have creases like that.”
“Okay, enough.” Her Botox comment hurt. “Tell me about Michael.”
Her gaze shifted inward, and her voice took on a dreamy quality. “He had the most beautiful eyes. At first, he called me beautiful all the time, but of course I was.” She gave a mocking laugh. “When we married, we were totally in love, but that didn’t last. I never thought I’d see his eyes frost when he looked at me, but they did.”
A wave of sadness so acute it seeped into me crept over her. Instead of vibrant, she appeared frail, older. “What happened?”
“He didn’t like my drinking or spending. Fussed at me endlessly about expenses.” Her shoulders slumped. “He stopped treasuring me. And became oh, so domineering. I railed at him.”
A niggling sense told me she held something back. She looked toward the streaming moonlight, said, “I’m tired.” And just like that, she faded, leaving a sense of emptiness behind.
***
I called the police department the next morning. “Could you put me in touch with Officer Klankert?”
“He doesn’t work here.” Her clipped voice gave the words a drumbeat quality.
“Retired?” I pressed.
“Doesn’t work here.”
“How can I get in touch with him?”
“Try directory assistance.”
Nice.
“Is there another officer handling the Barrington case?”
“No.” Her tone turned suspicious. “What’s your interest?”
I imagined saying, “I represent a ghost,” choked back a laugh and ended the call. No listing in directory assistance for Klankert. His address showed up when I did an internet deep-dive and led me to a ramshackle house on the outskirts of town. I knocked on the cheap wooden door.
“Don’t want any.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Don’t need any Bibles.”
“Don’t have one with me.”
The door yanked open. A man with a bulldog face glowered at me through bloodshot eyes. His jowls flapped at both sides of a permanent frown. A paunch pushed out against his shirt. He wore a Chicago Cubs ball cap. “What the hell do you want?”
“When’s the last time you saw Dansby Swanson play?”
He shook his head as if clearing his brain. “What?”
“He was my favorite, for stolen bases.” Klankert’s eyes brightened. “Though I admit Christopher Morel was great for home runs and runs batted in.”
“Are you a Chicago girl?”
“My dad loved the cubs.”
“Is he still around?”
I sighed and meant it. “No. Wish he was. I’d give a lot to go to Wrigley Field with him again.”
“Okay, come on in. You didn’t come all this way to talk baseball with me.”
I followed him into a messy living room with newspapers and well-thumbed paperback books by authors like Louis L’Amour strewn throughout. A leather recliner that had seen better days faced a big screen television. An open beer bottle sat on a small end table.
Klankert waved at the couch. “Have a seat.” When I sat, he said, “I watched your eyes. You cased the room and now know I like westerns. Are you going to tell me your dad read Louis L’Amour?”
“He did.”
Klankert seemed to hear the honesty in my voice. “What do you need?”
“An old case. Michael Barrington.”
Klankert reared his head back as if I’d struck him. “A good cop. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Me either. The case got me booted off the force.”
“Why?”
“The beautiful Nelda had friends in high places. I figured she’d be married in six months.”
“Was she?”
“No. Guilt took her down. That, and she was always a boozer. Like mom.”
“Her mom?” My breathing quickened.
“Yeah. Her mom was drunk 24/7 and nuts to boot. Nelda had all kinds of pretensions, but she was a wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl. I always wondered if….”
“If?”
“That’s how Michael met her.”
“How did they meet?”
“Don’t know. He was always protective of her. A rescuer type.”
“I read a letter to the editor from a guy named Craig—”
“That little twerp.” Klankert spat, and a wad of chewing tobacco landed in a small ashtray. “He ran around making noise. I almost thought he did it and was trying to pin it on her as a cover, but decided he couldn’t be that stupid.”
“Or maybe it was smart of him to realize no one would think he could be that stupid?”
He chuckled. “Good point. He wanted what Michael had. Within a minute of talking with him, you could tell jealousy ate him alive.”
“What about the murder weapon?”
“Never found it.” He looked at me, his eyes shrewd. “What’s your interest?”
“I bought the Barrington house.”
“Whooh, some bad karma there.”
A wave of protectiveness for Nelda washed over me. “Who did it?”
“The widow.” He spat again. “She was sly.”
“Why her? And how did she do it?”
“He was a good cop. No one else could have gotten the jump on him, but he thought with his second head around her. She loaded him with whiskey, knocked him out with sleeping pills, and slit his throat. She probably didn’t expect all the blood. It was all over the bed, the walls, and her.”
“If she did it, how’d she get rid of the murder weapon?”
“My guess, she had a friend. Well, hell, she had several. Probably slipped it out the window. She tracked bloody footprints from the bedroom to the kitchen.”
“You find blood on the window?”
“No, but no kitchen gloves, either. And no paper towels. Who doesn’t have gloves in the kitchen or paper towels? She had blood all over her, but not on her hands. Or . . . her feet. But microscopic traces of blood in the toilet.”
“Where was the slash?”
“More of a stab than a slash. Side of the neck and throat. Caught the jugular. The person who stabbed him pulled the knife back out. He probably bled out in two minutes.”
“The person who did it might have regretted it?”
“Nah,” Klankert scoffed. “Wanted to hide the knife.”
“You searched the house?”
“Once, but only quick and dirty. That was to be my next step. That and dig into Nelda’s accomplices.”
“What was her blood alcohol level?”
“She was soused. Could barely stand. I figure she drank because she freaked out.”
“The doors?”
“Locked.”
“Dead bolts?”
“Deadbolt on the front door. The backdoor just had the knob locked.”
“So, someone could have pushed the lock in and left.”
“Yeah, but that someone lived there and got bloody drunk.”
“Were there other women in Michael’s life?”
“Nah. He was a one-woman man.”
“Did you find any evidence Nelda had an accomplice?”
“When I started looking, the powers that be got antsy.”
“Is that what got you thrown off the force?”
“That, and they didn’t want me searching.”
“Did anyone search for the weapon?”
“My guess, Craig and the in-laws tried. But they didn’t know what they were doing and probably got sidetracked arguing among themselves over who got what.” Anger flashed in his eyes. “I got offered early retirement, or I’d be fired. Twenty years on the force.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. I didn’t want to let it go. Michael was a good cop. He deserved justice.”
***
My head spun as I drove home. A rising moon lit the sky, like a beacon. Nelda sat at the kitchen table when I came in, the air between us brittle.
“You’ve been with Klankert. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I want to help you. Tell me what you want. What you need.”
Her gaze softened. “Who killed Michael?”
“You want the truth?”
“YES. I can’t rest until I know.”
“Tell me about that night.”
She bit her lip. “Do you have any cookies?”
“Do you want my help or not?”
She bit her lip. “We had a fight. I came down when I heard her. Hated her on sight. I screamed at Michael, ‘How dare you bring your bitch here?’ He got that look he always got, that ‘please hear me’ look. He called her a psychologist. Said she could help me. Said he worked with her in Chicago.”
“Could that have been true?”
She pursed her lips. “She looked like a vintage pinup girl. Curves in all the right places.” Nelda brushed her sides. “I was too thin to have a body like hers.”
“He wanted a psychologist for you?”
“He was always telling me I drank for a reason.” She scoffed. “I couldn’t be drinking just for fun.” Her eyelids drifted down until they hooded her eyes. “He called me a mean drunk.”
My adrenaline sparked. “Why?”
Her mouth downturned like an angry carp. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do. When did it turn sour? You were in love with him. He loved you. What happened?”
She buried her head in her hands and dissolved into big gulping sobs. After a few minutes, she raised her head. Her face had turned to mush. “I was so mad at him. He always had to be right. He liked her. Trusted her. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. Like she pitied me. Ha! He finally told her to go. Then he told me my drinking was out of control, and it made my symptoms worse.”
“You had an illness?”
“On top of the world one day, in the toilet the next. He loved it when I was bubbly, vibrant.”
“He loved you even when you weren’t, didn’t he?”
“I know,” she wailed. “But I hated feeling down. He said drinking made it worse, but—” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Drinking made it better.”
“Did the police follow up with the psychologist?”
Her head drooped. “She had an alibi.”
I can’t tell her what I suspect.
It’ll kill her.
She’s already dead.
She already knows.
“I blacked out that night.”
“What do you remember?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes were dark pools. “But there was a knife in him. So much blood. I called to him, ‘Michael, Michael, please fix it.’ But he just opened his lips and made a sound.”
Her lips parted, but she made no sound as a silent lament shadowed her eyes. “You know, don’t you? I pulled the knife out. Thought that would make it better. Ran screaming to the kitchen. That’s all I remember.” Tears dotted her lashes. “Will you tell everyone?”
Doing so would make me famous. But no. Moonlight streamed through the windows as I shook my head. I opened my arms. She walked into them. I hugged her until she returned to mist.
A special thank you to author Cheri Krueger, who provided several sentences of inspiration that added value to this short story.
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