A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (10 page)

The next morning I slept in. Much to my relief the events of last night did not influence my sleep. In fact, I slept soundly and without interruption the entire night and into the late morning.

It was Saturday morning and the little town of Eureka bustled. I looked out the window at the harbor and was surprised to see it so busy, especially for a cold autumn day. A bank of dirt-hued clouds sat on the far horizon. I guessed that boat captains were doing what I would if I owned a pleasure craft, I’d get in a leisurely cruise around the harbor as soon as possible. My stomach grumbled, turning from my bay-window view, I called room service for breakfast.

While waiting for breakfast I prepared my little work desk for some old fashioned research. I moved aside my notebook computer to make room for writing and set out my favorite Sensa Cloud 9 pen and a hefty pad of lined notebook paper. Marta had given the cookbook to me. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t imagine what a late-1800s recipe book would have to do with a mystery, whatsoever, let alone the ghostly experience from last night. Yet, all of last night’s occurrences pointed to this little book. It was just as well that the book was not at Marta’s, because I could deal with whatever spirit attachments there were to the book better than she could. Unlike Marta, I did not stand alone on the cusp between this world and the next, I had the spirit guidance of Eric Blackthorne.

A knock on my door told me my breakfast was here. After tipping the waiter, I rolled the breakfast table over to the window to enjoy some people watching while I ate. It was a serendipitous decision, I saw Luke drive up and park in front of the hotel. When my phone rang, instead of answering it blind, I looked to see who the caller was, it was Luke. I didn’t answer. Let him leave a message. And should he be so bold as to come up to my room and knock, well… we’ll see. But he didn’t. After two attempts at calling me, I saw him leave the hotel. With a clear conscience, a happy tummy and a fresh cup of coffee I went to work studying the cookbook.

After hour upon hour of reading every one of the 435 pages of recipes and then the back pages of advertisements, all that I came up with was a short list of handwritten recipe titles, with their pages noted, on a back page of the book. The script was printed, as opposed to a cursive writing and because of the small scale, I could not determine if the author was male or female. Typically, men will print instead of using cursive, especially for jotting down notes. However, I have read enough of my mother’s collection of cookbooks to know that women will use printing when writing a recipe. I jotted down what leads might prove to be clues to the importance of this little book and noted, specifically, that recipe titles were on the back page, written in this order as a list:

Fig Pudding 235
Escaloped Tongue 71
Horse Radish 123 Nougat 282
Ducks with Peas 70
Anchovy Toast 30
Liver Balls 85

I went back and checked each recipe named with the numeral assigned to it. For each recipe, the numerals represented the page in the book the recipe was on. For all intentions and purposes, all that this list appeared to be was a notation in the back of the book that named favorite recipes with a quick reference to the pages the recipes were on. Confusing, to be sure.

The lists haunted me. My attempts to make sense of them failed. There did not appear to be a correlation to the order the recipes were listed in. The recipes were not in alphabetical order, nor were they in an order to prepare or serve them. And my effort to categorize the recipes came up with the result of: Four dessert recipes, three meat recipes, one fish recipe, one eggs recipe and one sauce recipe.

Even after I tried sorting and categorizing each type of recipe, my results were just as nonsensical. Of the three meat recipes, one was beef, one duck and the liver recipe was for chicken. Of the dessert recipes, two were for cakes, one for candy and one for pudding. And to make it more confusing, the recipes for a sauce, fish, and eggs were in stand-alone categories.

Totally mystified and frustrated I shut the book, stood up, stretched my arms and legs and then slowly paced back and forth in my room. It was already three in the afternoon and I had agreed to meet Marta at six, for dinner here at the hotel. I was desperate to have answers for her.

No sooner had I turned my back on the book and walked away from it, did Eric take up my seat. He held the book in his hands.

Eric.”
“And judging by your pacing, you are chasing the
hands of time?”
“Yes. I am to meet Marta for dinner and I want
answers to give her.”
“Shannon, rarely have I witnessed your efforts go
unrewarded. May I suggest you take on a different point
of view?”
Eric’s remarks made me come to a halt. I glared at him. “And your enlightening point of view would be?” I
asked.
“From my perspective.”
“Eric, you’re a ghost. I rely on you to tell me or
demonstrate your spectral perspective.”
“My point, exactly. Humor me. What is this book to
you?”
“It’s an antique book of outdated and rather weird
and unappetizing recipes. Really, a recipe for Escaloped
Tongue? Yuck!”
“Yes, and I concur that by current culinary tastes, the
recipes would appear to be curious. Albeit, from the
age this book was published, in the era of my lifetime,
the recipes in this collection were among the best
culinary offerings one could hope for. Be it in a finedining establishment our at one’s own dinner table.” “And your point is?” I asked.
“My point is that it is this list, that is out of the
ordinary. Shannon, the recipes in the list are not
remarkable, whatsoever. And thereby hangs the tale of
this book. The ordinary, if used to represent what it is
not, is never ordinary.”
My eyes widened. “Eric, that list is a code?” “I suspect so.”
“What kind of cipher would have been in use at that
time?”
“Oh, any one of a dozen or so. I suspect this is one of
the simplest. Here, have another go of it.” He handed
the book to me.
I took the book and sat on the bed. This time, for each
recipe listed I turned to that page and reread the recipe.
Again, I saw nothing in the recipes that appeared to be
highlighted or even hinted at a clue. I looked up, Eric
had vanished, so I got up and sat at the desk to give it
one more try.
With only one hour to go before meeting Marta, I attempted yet another technique. This time I went back
to each recipe in reverse order of it being listed, I scoured
each recipe for hidden meanings. Good grief, in doing
so, the code became obvious. I then reversed my
findings and noted that on the page of each recipe, each
recipe’s title had only one letter underlined in pencil:
Fig Pudding: F, Escaloped Tongue: E, Horse Radish: R, Nougat: N, Ducks with Peas: D, Anchovy Toast: A, Liver Balls: L and Holland Eggs: E. The letters formed the word Ferndale. Ferndale was a city a few miles south of Eureka. Certainly, this must have been Jonathan Rupp’s book, but what was its significance? Did Alden keep it because it was his uncle’s personal collection of
recipes?
And what about the last two recipes for cakes? They
were separated from the longer list, did that mean they
had a different hidden meaning? Hmm, the recipes for
Peggy’s Cake on page 294 and for New Year’s Cakes on
page 281 did not have underlining or any other notation
that set apart the letters in the titles. However, the recipes
had some words underlined. I wrote down each recipe
verbatim, hoping that Marta would have an idea to their
significance:
Peggy’s Cake.

Three cups of sugar, one of butter, one of sweet milk, four of flour, six eggs, a teaspoonful of cream of tartar in the flour, half a teaspoon of soda in the milk. Mix like pound cake, add soda and milk last. Bake in shallow tins or round pans; test with a broom splint. When it does not stick the cake is done.

Chop one pound of butter through three and one-quarter pounds of flour, dissolve in half pint of water, one and one-quarter pounds of sugar, two eggs, well beaten, mixed through this
mixture, stir all well together, roll out in shapes as desired and bake quickly. This is considered and fine recipe.

I scratched my head about this conundrum. And when I arranged the underlined words in order, the phrase
three last round shapes considered
was the result.

A glance at the clock told me I had no time left to give this puzzle a second thought, it was time to freshen up and hightail it down stairs to meet Marta in the dining room. I gathered my pages of notes and stuffed them into my purse. Then I dressed for dinner.

Marta was in a cheerful mood, and chatty. Last evening’s events hand not left a scar on her mood.
“This is the most delicious prime rib, ever. Until I took a bite, I had no idea how hungry I was,” Marta professed.
I studied Marta as she tackled her dinner. Contrary to Marta’s unhindered gusto for her meal, I toyed with my pasta and then set aside my fork. Turning my attention to the cookbook, I extracted it from my tote and turned to the very back, then, holding it up for Marta to see, I asked, “Does this list of recipes mean anything to you?”
Marta momentarily looked up from her dinner. She read the list. “No. Why do you ask?”
Setting the book down, I explained, “The list, in of itself, might be a lead, though to what I’m not sure. Anyway, I checked out each of the recipes listed and based on pencil underlining within the titles of each recipe, a word is formed: Ferndale. Does that mean anything to you?”
“Sure, it’s a town not far from here. Ferndale is famous for its dairy farms, an exquisitely preserved Victorian village, oh, and a cemetery.”
“Does Ferndale have a connection to the Rupps?”
Marta set down her fork and knife. “Maybe, I recall a mentioning of it in the Rupp history. I do believe Jonathan had acquaintances in Ferndale.”
“Marta this is important, were his acquaintances in Ferndale personal or related to his tavern and land?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t know.”
I didn’t want to get Marta upset or worried, again. So I dropped the issue of Ferndale and asked about the last two recipes. “Could Jonathan Rupp have had a friend or business associate named Peggy?”
Marta had finished her dinner and now sipped coffee. She cradled the cup the same way I had the habit of doing… thoughtfully, as if the cup of coffee was a muse or a magic lantern.
“I do recall that a lady named Peggy was the farmer that Jonathan bought his donkey from. Seems to me that her name was Margaret Kuchen. Jonathan mentioned her in letters he sent back home, requesting that if anything should happen to him to please see to it that the donkey was returned to Peggy. You do know that Peggy is a popular nickname for Margaret?” Marta said.
“Yes, I am aware of that. Marta look at these two recipes, the one for Peggy’s Cake and the other for New Year’s Cakes.” I gave her the book and waited in anticipation, hoping that at the very least, one of the recipes would be a clue.
Marta looked up from the book, closed it and set it aside. She was smiling, with her lips and her eyes.
“Shannon, in German the word for cake is kuchen, and that was also Margaret’s last name, the person Jonathan knew as Peggy Kuchen. Now, that must be a clue! As for the other recipe, don’t you suppose it must be a clue to the date, New Years, is always January first.”
“Excellent, so we now have the name of the town of Ferndale, a person who lived there and a date. But to what purpose?” I asked.
“Well…”
“Well, indeed,” I said and then added, “Marta, I have a gut feeling this has to do with a grave. Who do you know that can get me into the cemetery in Ferndale, tonight?”
Marta obscured her reaction by turning away from me to peer out the window. I waited, patiently, not wanting to let her off the hook easily.
She turned back to face me, sighed deeply and replied, “Luke Landry used to be with an organization that gave tours of that cemetery. He was quite popular as a tour guide. I have no idea if he is still involved. Luke is your best bet. But Shannon, why can’t you wait until tomorrow to visit that cemetery? The cemetery is open during regular day hours, especially tomorrow, what with it being Sunday.”
“It could wait, but I won’t. Marta, if I can’t get into that cemetery tonight, I won’t sleep a wink. I’m going to telephone Luke, I’ll be right back. Take this time to decide if you want to join us.” I excused myself, stepped out into the lobby and called Luke.
Whatever awkwardness there was the other night, Luke ignored it. In fact, he sounded enthusiastic to the point that it made me wonder if I had acted hastily. When I returned to our table and told Marta, she seemed unconcerned about Luke’s reaction.
“Maybe Luke is still involved in the tours. Like I said, he had a good routine and was very popular. Considering you have a police detective escorting you on a personal tour, I’ll set this one out.”
“Okay. I’d like to finish our coffee. Luke said he’d be right over.” In the few minutes that it took for use to chat a little more, Luke came striding into the restaurant.
“Ready if you are.” He stood at the corner of our table, next to Marta, facing me.
“Marta, it’s not too late to change your mind,” I said.
“No, you two go on. I hope to hear about your graveyard adventures in the sunny daylight of tomorrow’s morning.”
To which, Luke replied, “If Shannon doesn’t give you an update, I will, first thing in the morning.”
I left with Luke and in doing so, turned around to steal a look at Marta. She had remained at the table with a second cup of coffee. As before, she cradled the cup in both hands and gazed out the window.
What’s on your mind, Marta?

We parked at the front of the Ferndale Cemetery. Luke had come fully prepared. He had a small notebook of information about the cemetery’s history and trivia regarding its notable residents. He wore jeans, boots and a corduroy blazer. I knew from the other day that Luke preferred corduroy blazers because the fabric and the cut of the jackets allowed a better concealment of his holstered handgun. Luke gave me a small flashlight and carried a larger one in his left hand. He locked my purse in his trunk. I carried his small notebook.

I asked.
“Don’t need them. The lock is electronic and I know
the password code.”
We walked several steps to the gate. Luke stepped
over to the side near a small control box, flipped open
the metal lid and entered a code onto the keypad. The
gate opened silently, not so much as a creak, screech, or
a moan.
Luke stepped back, came over to me and said, “Care
to take a stroll with the dead in the full moonlight?” “Is your offer akin to the movie
Batman,
where the
Joker asked a similar question?”
“No, not at all. The Joker’s question was sinister in
nature, a hint to the hidden, darker side of human behavior, a direct reference to the covert actions of temptation and danger executed in the shadows of darkness, out of view. Remember, that line referred to
pale moonlight.”
“Oh-kay.”
Yeah, and the Joker also referred to the devil.
I
stared at Luke, under the light of the full moon and
again, questioned my impulsiveness in making this
arrangement.
“What’s the name of the person you’re hunting for?”
Luke asked.
“Margaret Kuchen, possibly called Peggy.” “And when did she die?” Luke asked.
“Uh, not sure. Possibly on New Year’s Day, but I don’t
have a year. Late 1800s or early 1900s, at least, that is
my guess.”
Now it was Luke who wasn’t so sure and questioned
what he had volunteered himself for. “Shannon, this
cemetery is over five acres. Give me the notebook, I may
have notes on her.”
I handed the notebook to Luke and shone my
flashlight on it. He flipped through several pages and
came to a stop, running his finger down a list. “Here it is, Margaret Kuchen, Ferndale farmer, known
for breeding and selling mules, donkeys and burros.” “Aren’t donkeys and burros the same animal?” I
asked.
“No. At least, not around here. A burro is a small
donkey, distinct in its size and enough so, to set it apart
from a donkey.” Luke closed the notebook and gave it
back to me. “We have a long walk ahead, Kuchen is
laid to rest in one of the oldest sections of the cemetery,
toward the back, in the last rows of the cemetery.
Ready?”
“Yes. Curious, you said the last rows, would it not
have been the first rows back when the cemetery was
younger?”
“Good question. Even back then, the section where
Margaret Kuchen is buried was considered the back of
the cemetery. No particular reason, it was laid out that
way and expanded out from there. It remains the back
section.”
“Is it a potter’s field section?” I asked.
“Nope, just the opposite. The plots back there are
private and were paid for or reserved in advance. Some
people want to make sure their final address will remain
a place of everlasting peace, away from the general
public. Out here, where we are now, is the front and
center of the memorial park, there’s more footpaths,
benches and architectural attractions, like that fountain
over there, and this section attracts more traffic. It’s been
that way from the cemetery’s inception.” I paused and
looked at the fountain, where a statue of a young girl,
standing, poured water from a pitcher.
We walked slowly with our flashlights aimed at the
pathway. Luke gave me a running commentary of his
tour guide adventures.
“I always keep the mood light and tell a few
humorous stories. Such as when I was young and my
grandfather related to me the tale of his good friend
Seth. It was a Saturday night in October, after a harvest
fair, back in Indiana. The group of friends had spent
the evening at a local tavern celebrating Seth’s win of
the fair’s annual hay-pitching contest. Seth had enjoyed
round after round of beer bought in his honor. At
closing, Seth chose to take the shortcut back home. That
shortcut took him on a path through the middle of the town’s cemetery. Knowing Seth had indulged more than normal in beer and seeing he was tipsy, his friends decided to have some fun with him. The friends followed a distance behind the unaware Seth. Out of breath from traipsing across the hilly ground of the graveyard, Seth sat on a bench and dozed out, just for a few minutes. According to my grandfather, it was the loud hoot of an owl that startled Seth awake. Seth awoke with a jump in a disoriented state of mind and called
‘Where am I?’
“His friends had hidden behind nearby bushes. One
of them whispered loudly, ‘Amongst the living dead.’
Well, in those days, superstitions being what they were.
Seth feared for his soul in that he had trespassed on
sacred ground and was now the target of angry ghouls.
Seth called out ‘Where are you?’ The same voice grew
deeper and growled the reply, ‘Right next to you.’ Seth
nearly jumped out of his clothes and the way my
grandfather told the story, poor Seth couldn’t get out of
the cemetery fast enough. He bypassed the footpath and
raced out of the cemetery jumping over gravestones and
scrambling over hedges. The next morning, when my
grandfather went to see Seth, Seth’s wife answered the
knock on the door and said her husband was feeling
under the weather.”
I stopped momentarily. “That was a mean trick.
Really, that’s a story you’d tell in order to set a lighter
mood?”
“I’ve got another.” Luke stopped. “A long time ago,
when this cemetery wasn’t as far from town, back in
the horse and buggy days, in the very early morning,
while still dark, a vagrant had hitched a ride with a local
dairy delivery wagon. The milkman dropped him off, down by the frontage road because coming up this way was not on his delivery route. The vagrant needed to get to his sister’s farm, on the other side of these five acres. So, he took the shortcut through the cemetery. Just up there on the hill, he stopped to catch his breath. And before continuing, he heard a tapping noise coming from the shadows, right about where we are now. He turned around and stepped in closer, only to find an elderly man with a hammer and chisel, working on a granite headstone. Greatly relieved… but confused, the vagrant spoke out and said, ‘You nearly frightened me to death. What are you doing out here at this time of night, mister?’ To which the elderly man looked up and replied, ‘Damn fools, they spelled my name wrong.’ So,
you like that story better?” Luke asked.
I laughed. “Yes I do. Now that’s what I call a good
piece of fright fiction.”
“But it isn’t,” Luke replied.
Then he directed his flashlight to the graves a few
feet ahead of us. “See that grave, right there. That’s
where the vagrant was found by the cemetery keeper
the next morning. No apparent signs of battery or cause
of death. He was crumpled over as if he fell to his knees
and expired on the spot. His sister decided that is where
he should stay. She bought the plot and had him buried
where he was found dead.”
I couldn’t get to that grave quick enough. I scurried
past Luke.
I read aloud the name on the gravestone, “Stephen
Wilson. Born July 1856, New York, New York. Died
March 1897, Ferndale, California.” Luke now stood next
me. I looked up at him. “And his sister?” I asked. “Turn around, she’s right behind us.”
Our flashlights lit up the artistically rendered headstone. Carved in three-dimensional, miniature, there was no mistaking the likeness of three animal heads; a mule, a donkey and burro. Below the faces, a plaque read:
Margaret Kuchen, beloved by all and held in high
esteem by the asses she loved.
“She was born on New Year’s Day, in 1840 and died
in December of 1911, less than six months before
Jonathan Rupp died. That’s not a very long life. Do you
know how she died?” I asked.
“Yep. Like many in her era, she contracted an
influenza like illness, simply called
corruption
back then.
Funny name for an illness with all the symptoms of flu,
including wasting away, lingering between life and
death from the inability to keep food down and absorb
nutrients, combined with lameness in her legs and
disorientation in her mind.
“Turns out it was probably water well
contamination. Soon after she became ill, her few
milking cows became ill. The water well that she used
for human consumption was the same well she took
water from for her milking cows. After she came
down ill, local farmers closed up the well and only
allowed her to use the livestock well that was on her
property. Problem was, by that time Margaret was
weak and lame, and the livestock well was too far
out on her property to serve her personal needs. And
truth be told, by the time it was decided that tainted
well water was to blame, the sickness had taken its
toll. Her mules, donkeys and burros had remained
healthy because they were watered from the livestock
well. Her day laborers stayed on during her illness
and after she died, they took care of the livestock until her property was sold and her estate was reconciled.
Pretty much, the end of her life story.”
I nodded my understanding. Rats, I thought for sure
I was looking for a person who had died on New Year’s
Day, not one who had been born on it. Luke and I stood
there in stone silence.
Luke asked, “Seen enough?”
I did not want to leave, yet I hadn’t a good reason
to stay. Luke had taken me to Margaret Kuchen’s
grave. In all likelihood, Luke had known about her
grave all along simply because there was a trivia story
associated with her. We walked back to Luke’s truck.
I got in and he started the engine. As Luke drove up
to the curb outside the hotel I asked him, “Who told
the story?”
“Huh?”
“Luke, who told the story about Margaret’s brother,
Stephen Wilson, the vagrant. If no other person was
around that night, in the wee hours of the morning,
except Wilson and the ghost of the elderly man… then
who lived to tell the story?”
Luke looked like a madman, and yet, I was sure he
thought I was the one who had gone raving mad. He
turned off the engine. He looked at the hotel where
Saturday night was in full swing. The hotel’s restaurant
and bar were lit up. Lively voices and music sifted out
into the night air.
“Come on, I’m getting you a drink and were sorting
this out, inside.”
I followed him inside and to the bar, we found a quiet
table and Luke ordered for me. Strong coffee for me
and a shot of bourbon on ice for him.
“I could use a tad something stronger than coffee.” “No. You have had too many odd influences these
last few days. Sip the coffee and listen, okay?” “Okay.”
“Shannon, that story is just that, it’s no more than a
graveyard tale. The sort of scary tale that every kid
around here grew up hearing on Halloween and has
been retold in every generation. Honestly, there is no
documentation to prove that Kuchen and Wilson were
siblings. When I went back through accounts of the
history of the area, I didn’t find a shred of evidence to
show they were related. For instance, Kuchen’s maiden
name was not Wilson. According to local marriage
records, it was a Margaret Hornsby who married Harold
Kuchen. Also, on the marriage records she states her
maiden name as Hornsby. I suppose she and Stephen
Wilson could have been stepsiblings, but if that were
true, I think newspaper accounts would have mentioned
it. No proof they were siblings and that being the reality
of this situation, you need to get it out of your head.
Period.”
“Did she pay to have him buried?”
“Cemetery records do indicate she did. But Margaret
Kuchen was a kind person, Stephen Wilson was not the
only vagrant she helped to bury or fund the cost of
funeral arrangement for.”
“One more question, what of Margaret Kuchen’s
husband, Harold?”
“He died early in their marriage. They did not have
children and she never remarried. And before you ask,
Harold Kuchen died from a kick in the head executed
by a mule he was saddle breaking.”
I reluctantly conceded and agreed not bring up the
subject of the tall tale. “Okay. However, I feel strongly that Margaret Kuchen is a solid clue. Maybe the lead is
about where she lived and not where she is buried?” “I agree about that. However, before I commit to more
involvement, I want to know, are we, you and me,
working on this case, again?”
Luke was serious and considering where we had just
come from, I felt I could trust him. Though, I wasn’t
about to let him know that, without settling my
suspicions about his motive. “Maybe, that is if you are
straight up about what your personal agenda is.” “I hope to run for mayor of Eureka, this coming
election.”