A Ghost to Die For (15 page)

Next, in a startling move, Andalyn produced a hand held mask on a stick. Typical of a face mask so very common to masquerade balls, she held it up to her face and approached the window. When Andalyn was only inches from me, on the other side of the window glass, she leaned forward and said aloud, “See as I see. Costume is the key to deception.”

“What are you doing here? Have you gone mad?”

Huh? “Alex?”

Dazed and confused, I turned to look again into the shop window. It was not there. I was standing across the street from the Van Wyck home, at the top of the hidden path. Alex had a firm grasp of my shoulders. I was still holding Atlas by his collar.

“Enough of this nonsense. Shannon, you cannot go wandering about in the dark of the wee hours of the morning. Had it not been for you leaving the back door ajar and setting of the alarm and the security company calling me, instead of the police, we’d be in big trouble. How do you explain this?” Alex continued to rant in a hushed, hissed tone, as to not wake the neighborhood occupants, as he pulled me by my hand down the path. After we reached the back gate and approached the back door, I halted and refused to budge.

“Stop Alex. Take a deep breath and stop ranting. Calm down. I have a perfectly sensible explanation.” I looked at Atlas and said, “And Atlas will back me up.” Atlas drew in near to me, and stepped in between us, displacing Alex by three feet.

Alex looked at his dog. “You too?”

Alex’s momentary distraction to query his dog was the perfect break in the action for me to take advantage of. I stepped around Alex and said, “Put some coffee on and bring out the Bushmill’s. What I’m about to relate to you calls for a stiff drink of Irish whiskey.”

I entered that house through the kitchen and did not look back at Alex as I exited the kitchen and dashed up the stairs to my room to change. Atlas followed me.

I slammed shut my bedroom door. “First things first,” I said to Atlas. I grabbed the notepad off my beside table and jotted down every detail I could remember about the ghosts, making a special effort to write, exactly as I heard it, the phrase Andalyn spoke:
See as I see. Costume is the key to deception
.

After a quick shower and changing into old jeans and a sweater, I was ready to face Alex. I descended the stairs just as the old clock in the foyer chimed five times. The sun would rise within ninety minutes. My-oh-my how time flies when one is in the company of ghosts. Strangely enough, I wasn’t the least bit tired.

I followed the delicious aroma of coffee into the kitchen. Alex sat in the chair facing me. He had a steaming cup of black coffee ready for me, with an open bottle of Bushmills next to it.

Chapter 27

I measured a full shot and poured the whiskey into my coffee. I looked at Alex and said, “You’re not having some?”

He shook his head and replied, “Not at this hour.”

Alex looked disheveled and shaken. I knew I needed to placate him, somehow, in order to justify what I did and to get him in a frame mind to believe what I was about to tell him. An apology would have to do.

“Alex, truly I regret having left the door open. Had I had my wits about me, I would have realized that doing so would set off the alarm. And truly, I am grateful the security company telephoned you, instead of the police. I’m so sorry for all of this.”

He looked at me and gave me a weak, lopsided smile. “But?”

I sipped my whiskey-laced coffee, cleared my throat and said, “ I met Andalyn Dixon and her dog. In fact, it was the dog that first appeared, here outside the kitchen door, in the backyard near the gate. It was not until Atlas and I approached the dog that I realized the gate was open and then, before I could stop Atlas, we were on the other side of the gate, following the ghost dog.”

“Ghost dog? What do you remember about it?” This question was not what I expected from Alex. And for whatever reason the ghost dog struck a chord with him, I was grateful.

“Well, he resembled a smallish Saint Bernard, mostly white except for a black face and ears. And, the poor thing, he was missing a forepaw. His tail seemed too short, too. And he was very friendly.”

Alex laughed out loud and nearly fell out of his chair. The gall of him, making fun of me, and laughing right in my face. I slammed down my coffee cup and stood up. “Enough, then.”

“No, wait Shannon. I believe you, honest I do.”

“You do?”

“Yes. In fact, I know the dog you speak of. His name is Bum, right?”

Wonders never cease. I looked to heaven and said a silent thank you. “Yes, that is his name. He was friendly and Atlas had no fear of him whatsoever. But, Alex, how is it you know of this ghost dog?”

“Just a moment.” Alex got up and went into the library. I could hear him sorting through books. When Alex came back he was holding a large book; he opened the book, flipped through several pages, stopped and held the book open for me to see. There, on that page was a photo of Bum.

“Yes, that is the same dog.” I was delighted. There really was a ghost dog named Bum.

“Allow me, please, to read to you about this legendary dog.” Alex winked, and I was charmed by his enthusiasm.

“Please do.”

Alex cleared his throat and read aloud, “San Diego’s Beloved Bum, that’s the title. Arriving in port aboard a San Francisco steamship, the regal pauper took in the sights, sounds and smells of San Diego and instantly decided to make the city his own. Like so many opportunists who had disembarked before him, he had heard the roar of the real estate boom and now in this exciting up-and-coming metropolis, he stepped forth to follow his instincts into the crowd and toward his destiny.

“By chance he became acquainted with good-hearted Ah Wo Sue, a Chinese laundry man who offered him shelter and affectionately nicknamed him Bum. In turn, Bum gave Ah Wo Sue a gentlemanly wag of his tail and accepted the man’s hospitality, but only on a temporary basis, because Bum fully intended to a dog-about-town.

Lovable rascal that he was, Bum made short work of charming all San Diegans he met. He enthusiastically marched in parades, greeted visiting dignitaries with cheerful sincerity and, when appropriate offered a paw in gesture of condolence at a funeral. Declared by residents to possess the temperament of a saint (Bernard, no doubt), and to embody the steadfast loyalty of a spaniel, (most likely a trait he inherited from his mother), Bum was adopted by San Diego’s citizenry and duly sanctioned as town mascot.

“As the freewheeling symbol of the city, Bum roamed with liberty and occasionally ventured onto trolley or train for free rides. Sadly, it was on a train excursion that he met with mishap. While hitching a ride one day, Bum miscalculated his jump, slipped to the ground and lost a bit of his tail and his right forepaw under the wheels of the moving boxcar. Residents administered medical attention and Bum recovered and quickly adapted to his physical limitations. Undaunted, Bum made do with his shortened limb and never allowed his disability to be an excuse for neglecting his mascot duties. Bum gave licks for kisses instead of a paw for a handshake. His bravery endeared him that much more to his public, so much so that San Diegans unanimously agreed that Bum’s portrait should grace their county’s dog license certificates. And sure enough, an 1891 paper certificate clearly displays Bum’s likeness. Shown in profile, the large white dog with black face and ears, sporting a shortened tail and missing front paw, is unquestionably San Diego’s beloved Bum.

“Bum’s later years were spent in daily visits to local eateries, hotels and saloons. At hotels he welcomed visitors and bade a fond farewell to departing guests. Local cafes allowed the favored canine to slip past dining rooms into the cook’s hall where tasty morsels of dinner treats awaited him. In saloons he lapped ale and kept company with the most celebrated gamblers of the era. It was also in saloons where Bum developed a mighty thirst for booze that proved to be an ill-fated passion. Arthritic and a hopeless booze hound, Bum’s health gave way to illness. In dire hope of saving their alcoholic and ailing mascot, San Diego County Supervisors elected to send Bum to a farm on the outskirts of town to sober up and get well.

“Too little too late, Bum died November 10, 1898. His obituary in the local newspaper, the
Evening Tribune
read: The death of Bum, that good old dog, will be regretted by all public-minded spirited citizens. His was a more active and useful life that nine-tenths of his race.” Alex looked up from the book and chuckled. “All my life, especially while living here in this Victorian mansion, I hoped, even prayed, I would meet the ghost of Bum. I’m so envious of you.”

I laughed. And maybe it was the whiskey speaking or the profound sentiment I felt for Bum’s life story, but I couldn’t resist saying, “Alex ,pour yourself a shot. We must say a toast to Bum, and his spirit.”

Alex took the bottle and poured a hefty shot, three fingers high. He raised his glass and said, “Dear Bum, when all is said and told, when all is grown and old, and when our time has come, let it be you who is waiting for us at Heaven’s Gate.”

We drank to Bum and then I said, “Whenever a pet would pass on, my grandmother would whisper in their ear: Wait for me at the gate.”

“Now, what about Andalyn?” Alex asked. His mood changed. He was serious now.

Chapter 28

“Wait, according to the story of Bum, he did not belong to anyone in particular?”

“Correct.”

“Then he was not necessarily Andalyn’s dog?” I asked.

“Shannon, I suspect Bum was friends with all persons, especially soft-spoken young women who showed him affection and gave him a meal now and then. Bum, for all of his lovable nature was an opportunist. He lived a long and happy life in San Diego as a dog of the town. No person ever actually owned him.”

“So Andalyn called Bum into service, as a way to get my attention, through Bum and via Atlas. Okay, that makes sense. Here’s what I learned about Andalyn, she wore a costume in the guise of French Queen Marie Antoinette. Her apparel was elaborate and of stage performance quality, complete with stylized white wig. The costume came from a shop called Angelique’s. Evidently, Angelique was a designer and seamstress who specialized in women’s apparel, including bridal gowns, ball gowns and masquerade. Alex, what I would like to know is if Andalyn was wearing this costume on her birthday, at her party, when she died.”

“You think the costume is the apparel she died in?”

“Yes. What I need to know is if, after all these years, there is a way I can be sure.”

Alex considered my suspicions and then said, “I believe San Diego had a medical examiner at that time, nearly all major cities did. But as to where ME’s records are, I’m not sure.”

“Well, I did ask you to visit that attorney firm, maybe they would know?”

“Good point. And in fact, I will see them today and I’ll bring that up. Speaking of today, what are your plans?”

“I’ll have some breakfast and then I’ll make notes about the dream and develop a list of questions I want to ask Geraldine Markowitz. I plan to call her office a little after eight this morning to set up a meeting. Oh, and I can take my painting to her. I’m excited about this prospect. I hope she has time to thoroughly examine it. After meeting with her, I’m going to the local historical society and delve into their archives. I’m hoping to discover more information about the night Andalyn died.” I looked over at Atlas snoozing on the rug by the back door. “I cannot take him with me today, sorry Alex.”

“No problem, I’ll take him home.” He looked at his wristwatch and said, “I know a breakfast cafe that is open this early. It’s down by the harbor. Atlas can stay here while we dine out.”

Later that morning, after breakfast and after Alex had left with Atlas, I took a long hot shower and prepared for my meeting with Geraldine Markowitz. By the time I was dressed it was after eight. I called Geraldine’s office. To my surprise she answered instead of a secretary. As it turns out, her secretary had called in sick and as a matter of rescheduling her day, Geraldine had canceled her appointments. She said I could come right over.

I was at her office by nine, holding my painting in both arms and my tote bag over my right shoulder.

Geraldine answered her door. “I see you come bearing gifts, of sorts.” She smiled wide and was pleased I had the painting.  She took the painting from me, “Here, let me help you with that. I have an easel ready for it.”

I slipped off my sweater jacket, draped it over the chair across that was across from her desk and opened up my tote. I took out my notebook computer and laid it on her desk, ready to power up on command. Together we took the painting out of its box and set it on the easel. I waited in quiet and excited expectation as Geraldine examined the painting.

She scrutinized the front up close with a large hand-held magnifying glass and then turned her attention to the back of the painting. She turned to me and said, “The frame is original. I’m delighted the painting as never been separated from its original frame. This is unusual for a piece of art of this age.”

“And of what age is it?”

“Definitely of the early 1890s. Shannon, based on what you told me over the phone, I played a hunch. You see, this painting and another that is rumored to be almost identical to it are somewhat of a mystery. You’ll notice there is not the artist’s signature, on the front or back. And the back is not exposed. However, we, in the art community have always speculated that this painting and it’s evasive sibling, were done by an artist known as John Glapion, an African-American resident of Louisiana, who studied medicine in France, and it was in France that he took up painting. He became good at it, but medicine was his calling and his art took on a secondary, perhaps even a third importance in his life. I remember having done a little research about this topic, many years ago. There has always been a suspicion that he may have been involved with the death of a young woman.” Geraldine stopped there, and I’m sure it was because she was reading the look of surprise on my face.