A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (4 page)

Marta resided in the historic district’s section known as Clark Street Neighborhood. The homes in this section were a reflection of Eureka’s prosperous lumber boom era, built between the 1870s to early 1900s. Many of the homes were small-scale counterparts to Eureka’s grand homes and mansions. Still and all, although these homes were little mansions, they often had three stories and four to six bedrooms. Before I got out of my car, I surveyed the street and noticed that the most popular Victorian architectural styles were represented in this single block of homes, including Gothic Revival, Italianate, Eastlake and the ever-popular Queen Anne. According to my Eureka Chamber of Commerce tour brochure of Eureka’s historic homes, Marta’s home was a two-story Queen Anne cottage with Eastlake influence. In addition, it was a nearly identical bookend house to the McLaren House on Simpson Street. I loved the whimsical features of the home’s ivory-hued fish scale shingles and the large arched stained-glass window depicting a seascape scene. It appeared the entire home was lit from within because every window glowed with lamplight. I wondered if Marta was expecting several dinner guests.

I stepped up onto the porch and saw two cats sitting in the large front window, one was a light beige tabby and the other, a russet tabby. Neither of them had six toes. I lifted the key-shaped brass knocker and tapped it three times. Marta opened the door.

“Shannon, you’re right on time, I do appreciate punctuality. Please come in.”
I stepped into the foyer. Marta was dressed in a garnet red, long-sleeve blouse and denim slacks. Standing next to her, I guessed her height to beabout four feet and four inches. The house was quiet. If Marta was expecting additional guests, then I must be the first guest to arrive. I held the boxed-up Brother Jonathan clown tightly in both hands.
“Marta, this is the clown, where would you like me to put it?”
Marta smiled widely, “Oh, this is special. Let’s see…” She turned and looked into the hall, as if debating where to go to next. “Shannon, follow me, I know just the place for it.”
I followed her into the front living room, then through the kitchen which was warm and inviting with sumptuous aromas, and then through a short hall to another room, that I guessed had been a back parlor and now was set up as a guest bedroom.
Marta pointed to the queen-size bed. “Set it there, please.”
I set the packaged clown on the bed. With my attention turned to Marta, I couldn’t help but to wonder why she hesitated to open it. I know that faced with her choice, I wouldn’t be able to contain my excitement.
“You wouldn’t mind if I open it now?” Marta asked.
I smiled and then replied, “Please do.”
Marta opened the box top, and lifted out the clown. Holding it in both hands, she held it up to her eye level. “Hello Jonathan Rupp. What a curious looking clown you were.” She looked up at me and said, “It’s quite substantial, I suspect it is porcelain, except for the drum he’s sitting on, that must be wood?”
“I’m not sure. The clown head and body seem to be a type of porcelain. Also, Marta, I don’t have documentation on its age. My friend who found it said he thought it was from the Victorian period, probably 1860s, and he and his father deal in antiques.”
“Hmm, I do recall my grandmother on the Rupp side saying she saw a clown figure like this when she was a little girl, and it was old, even then. Heck, it could be this same clown that she saw. Where did your friend find it?” Marta held onto the clown, hugging it in both arms. I suspected she had no idea whatsoever that her image resembled that of a young girl holding a cherished doll.
“My friend, Seamus O’Kelley and his father Connor, are entrepreneurs in different markets. They are best known for buying old warehouse-like utility buildings and transforming them into dinner and entertainment venues that have unique themes, such as magic, vintage stage theater, and circus and carnivals. They buy, usually at auction, authentic props, furniture and decorating items to use for ambiance. Connor was at an auction in San Francisco and saw this clown. He recognized it as the likeness to Brother Jonathan, and having in mind that I’m working on an assignment pertaining to Jonathan Rupp, he purchased it and sent it to my hotel room.”
“Your friend was correct, this is an exact portrayal of Jonathan Rupp in his clown character,” Marta said.
My curiosity was getting the better of me, so too were the delicious aromas wafting out from Marta’s kitchen. I heard my stomach rumble in protest of waiting to be fed and that prompted me to segue into dinner. “Marta, what will you do with the clown?”
She turned around and said, “I want it right up there on that bookcase, second shelf from the top, that is, if you would do me the honor and place Brother Jonathan there.” She handed the clown to me.
I set him on the shelf and stood back. Marta’s eyes glistened. I imagine she felt that a part of her family history had finally come home. She turned to me and said, “I’ve prepared a family-recipe dinner of Rinderrouladen, more commonly called Beef Rouladen, with red cabbage and Spaetzel.”
“I’m not sure if I can pronounce those names,” I chided, “but judging from the aroma coming out of your kitchen, I suspect I am in for a very flavorful treat. Are you expecting others?”
“No. Just the two of us. Did you think other guests would be here?”
“No, um, I thought you might be expecting additional visitors, because your house is so warm and invitingly well-lit.” I bit my tongue on that reply, hoping I had not slighted Marta.
Marta chuckled and dismissed my curiosity with the wave of hand. “Oh, that. I always leave the lights on, for the others, you know. Well, let’s eat. Follow me, dear.”
Huh? For the others?
And this is why she has the house illuminated like a Christmas tree, out of season? What others? I kept my thoughts to myself and dutifully followed Marta back through the kitchen and then into another room, a cheerful dining room with a circular table set up at a bay window that overlooked the back garden.
“I’ll be a minute, you make yourself comfortable here.” Marta gestured me to sit at the chair that afforded the best view and then she left. I could hear kitchen noises and suspected that in her own way, she did not need, nor wanted, my assistance.
In November, Marta’s garden, or any garden up here on the chilly Northern California coast, was not much to look at. There were vibrant evergreen hedges, bare fruit trees and a good size juniper-like bush with bright red berries. Marta’s garden was, like her house, well lit. I was grateful for lighting, otherwise I’d not be able to view the backyard at all, the sun had set and darkness enveloped us. I spied movement on the lawn near the juniper bush and leaned closer to the window. Two raccoons had come out from underneath the bush and were sauntering over to Marta’s back porch. I leaned closer into the window to get a better look at the porch. The raccoons had perched on the stoop and were eating out of a large bowl. Imagine that, Marta fed the local raccoons.
“Oh, do you see Hansel and Gretel?” I did not hear Marta enter. She held a tray of food.
“Who?” I asked.
“My two raccoons. I named them Hansel and Gretel. I feed them cat food. Just a little kibble in the evening and then in the morning. I don’t want them to come to rely on my feeding them. Nevertheless, in this cold weather, I take heart and give them a little extra cream with their kibble, just like my cats, they love a saucer of cream. Last year Ozzy helped me catch Hansel and Gretel with a have-a-heart trap and I took them both to be fixed and vaccinated. That way they can’t reproduce and as a couple they do not stray from each other. And they are far less likely to spread, or die of, diseases, especially rabies.”
Marta set the tray to the side, on the buffet table, and then handed me a plate heaped with more food than I could possibly eat.
“Coffee or milk?” She asked.
“Coffee, please, and black.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Marta returned with coffee for both of us. She sat across from me. “Please, Shannon, eat.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes. It was a friendly and casual reverie.
“Marta this dinner is delicious. I’ve had German food before, but nothing as wonderful tasting as this homecooked dinner.”
“I am glad you enjoy it. At first I was not going to prepare a traditional meal, but I should tell you, I spoke with our friend, Rosario, and she said by that by all means you would enjoy it.”
I giggled. “Rosario knows me better than anyone on this planet. How is she?”
Marta shrugged her shoulders, “She’s Rosario. Busy as ever and keeping everything and every person organized like a well-oiled machine. She said there were several guests at the B&B. I know that makes her happy.”
“Yes it does. You know, I live there, at Blackthorne House Inn. I have my own quarters with a fantastic bedroom and a separate office. I love it and though I have mentioned moving out, Rosario always vetoes my idea.”
“Lucky you, and I mean that sincerely. More coffee?” “Yes please. Oh, where are your cats?”
“Blondie, the light colored one, is curled up on the rug underneath the piano in the front parlor. Rufus, the red cat, prefers the kitchen, he has a little rug in the corner by the back door. I imagine he dreams of being let out. Nevertheless, I won’t allow either one of them outside. Too dangerous, what with the vehicle traffic in this neighborhood, and the raccoons.”
“I noticed them in the front window when I arrived. I was a little surprised they don’t have six toes.”
Marta laughed. “Good grief, aren’t there enough sixtoed cats in Eureka? Seems as if every shop owner has one and they stop me and make sure I’m aware that they have a Rupp cat, that’s what they like to call the six-toed felines here, a
Rupp cat
.”
“Hey, that makes you famous by association,” I suggested with a lilt and then added, “I bet Ozzy likes that description.”
Marta’s blue eyes twinkled. “Any help Ozzy can get to round up stray cats, get them the medical attention they need and find good homes for him is useful, and for that I do not mind the Rupp name being used. I believe Jonathan Rupp would have like it, too.”
Ah-ha, the perfect opening to ask a question I was anxious about. “Marta, was Jonathan Rupp ever involved in gambling?”

Marta set down her fork and sipped her coffee. I waited in anticipation of her answer. I felt my pulse quicken, had I asked too personal a question?

“Shannon, I’ve wondered that myself, given the era he lived in, and of course that tavern of his. What else was there for men to do in that time, especially since the tavern most certainly was never operated as a brothel. I can’t imagine that gambling, in the manner of playing poker, faro and whatever other card games that a player can wager on, was not a primary diversion. I don’t recall ever reading about the tavern being used as a poker palace, so to speak, in other words, gambling was never part of Rupp’s income, the way it was at saloons of the period, when the saloon owner always took a percentage of the winnings.”

“I see. I was just wondering, you know, for background research, that’s all.”
Marta smiled. “If you have more questions on your mind in regard to Rupp’s background, now is the time to ask.”
“As a matter of fact I do. I’m sure you are aware of the circumstances surrounding his death, that odd incident about a land jumper and such. The perpetrator, Bonnie Parting, was she ever investigated?”
“No. I wish she had been. That whole episode seems fishy to me. I guess because she and her boyfriend were killed in the gunfight, that was the end of investigation about the shoot-out. No person in Eureka followed up on her. I’ve always thought there was more to her than what met the eye, or the story.”
“Marta. Could it be possible that Parting and Jonathan Rupp knew each other, or were at the very least, acquainted, somehow? Maybe even in the most obscure fashion?”
“Yes. Possible, perhaps even probable. I’ve always thought there was more to that tragic incident than what was reported. I wondered if Parting had had a disagreement with Rupp, and came back to settle up and that the land jump claim of homesteading was just a ruse.”
I dropped my fork, and the food on it. “Oh, excuse me. I’m so…,”
“Unsettled by my honesty?” Marta said. “Well, no need for that. I hope you are aware I specifically requested you, and not just for your writing talents. I need more than the brochure, not to undermine the writing, it is crucial to the success of getting the tavern renovated and open for business this coming year. Shannon, I need you to help with the riddle that Jonathan Rupp was, and is. I believe I get messages from him. I’ll pay you, of course.”
I was too dumbfounded to speak.
“Shannon?” Marta waved her hands in front of my face.
I blinked several times. “Uh, yes I heard you.”
Did she actually say she get messages from him?
Yikes! Shannon, get your wits about you. Right now.
“Marta, I’m not in the business of being a ghost detective, though I have done some work in that… um, in that field of paranormal research. I’ll help you in whatever way I can, but please, no payment, okay?”
Marta was visibly relieved, she sighed deeply. “Thank goodness. For a moment there you looked like a deer in the headlights and I thought for sure my bluntness had addled you.”
“No, I’m okay with it. Actually, I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out a way to ask you a few more questions, without offending you, without being nosy.” I laughed, and it was a nervous laugh followed by a hiccup. I gulped water to masquerade my anxiety.
“More questions? Have at it.” Marta’s blue eyes glittered with excitement. Looking back at the moment, I swear that the paranormal energy in her little dining room was tactile, and that at any moment it would manifest into a fiery bright orb, consuming all in its path. Was I scared? Most certainly. Would I back down? Not a chance.
“Okay. When did Rupp’s distant relatives take ownership of the tavern and land?”
Marta shot back the answer. “Late July, same year Jonathan died. Oh, and let’s call him Jonathan, instead of Rupp. We will be naming numerous Rupp family members the deeper we get into talking about his background and my background.”
“Who took over the land and tavern?” I asked as a follow-up query.
“His one and only sibling, a sister, the ancestor I am in direct lineage. Technically, she was in Missouri when she received the letter from the court. She had gone to Missouri to be with a friend who had lost her husband in a horrible bridge accident. Long story short is that the man was a bridge construction worker and he was hoisted underneath a railroad bridge. The hoist line he was on broke and he fell to his death. Anyway, back to my ancestor. Her name was Lillian Rupp Warner. She was born and raised in Missouri, as was Jonathan. She was twenty years younger to Jonathan’s age, and odd dynamic, for which I have never found a logical reason. Anyway, she married when she was eighteen, that was about 1888 and years after that, she moved to Lily Dale with her husband, Elmer. They had three children, I’m related to their middle child Alden, their only son. It was Alden who came out to Eureka and took over ownership of the land. He operated the tavern for a very short while, not to any success, mind you. He was, by profession, a photographer and he met with great success here in Eureka. He built this house. Remained here the rest of his life.” Marta stopped talking, allowing me time to absorb this information.
I pondered over a few obscure bit and pieces of what she said. “Marta, by Lily Dale, do you mean the village of Lily Dale in New York?”
Marta gave me a sly look, a Mona Lisa smile. “Yes. Exactly”
“Okay, so your family was involved in the Spiritualist Movement?”
“In a way. Though, keep in mind that most historians fix 1916 as the cornerstone year for the inception of Lily Dale as a hamlet of interest to mediums and psychics. It was not until the Fox sisters, Kate and Maggie, made their home there in 1927 did the spiritualist movement take hold and Lily Dale became a famous headquarters for the movement. Jonathan died in 1912, his sister had gone to live in Lily Dale around 1904 or 1905. She was ahead of the curve in the emergence of the spiritualist development.”
My eyebrows sprinted up. “You mean to say that Lillian was a medium?”
Marta sighed. “I guess so, at least that is what she would be labeled as today. I never thought of her that way. I guess I never cared for
medium
or
psychic
. I prefer to call her a seer or a diviner. By all accounts, Lillian was a very gentle soul.”
I nodded my understanding. “Marta, earlier this evening you mentioned the others, and said you keep your lights on for them. Who are the others?”
She looked perplexed, and avoided direct contact by looking out the window. Marta kept her gaze on the darkness outside, in a low voice she said, “I’m not sure of all their identities.”
I leaned over the table and in a calm voice, I asked, “What did they say to you, most recently, that is?”
Marta turned to face me, and with strong, unwavering eye contact she said, “It sounded like,
She’s cagey…, see.
”
“Was it a male of female voice?” I asked.
Marta relaxed in her chair and faced forward. Suddenly she was far more at ease. “Oh, male voice, most certainly. I, uh… I thought it might be Jonathan.”
“What gives you the impression it is Jonathan?”
“When Brother Jonathan performed in the circus, he had a theme song. A calliope would play ‘Pop Goes The Wease
l
.’ It’s such a familiar tune, I doubt there is a child who does not know its melody. In quiet moments of relaxation, like here, gazing out this window, I go into a wakeful dream state and I hear that song, just as if I am at the circus, and then whispers begin. The whispers get ever louder until the voices merge into a cacophony of indiscernible clamor, except for the male voice. I hear it clearly. Just recently, the night before you arrived, I heard that phrase. Scared me willy-nilly it did. I was tempted to believe that it was meant about you, that you are cagey, and not to be trusted. I called Rosario with my concerns and she, of course, dispelled all my doubt.”
I said a silent blessing and thanked Rosario. “Does this usually happen only in here?”
“Right here, or in the parlor room, at the piano.”
No wonder the paranormal energy was strong in her dining room. I was about to ask another question when our peacefulness was interrupted by the grandfather clock in the hall. I counted the chimes, ten of them. Had it really been that many hours?
“It is late, I should be going. Marta, please understand I will help you, I promise. However, first and foremost, I must finish the brochure. I’ll have it completed in two days and then we will tackle your situation. In the meantime, should you have any concerns, whatsoever, do not hesitate to contact me. Okay?”
Marta appeared noticeably happy. “Yes. I promise Shannon. I’ll call you first should another episode occur.”
Marta saw me to the door. We hugged. I drove back to my hotel room nursing a thirst for a shot of something stronger than coffee and the dire need for rest. I felt a headache coming on.