The Ghost and the Mystery Writer (19 page)

W
hen Danielle opened
the front door of Marlow House and found Chief MacDonald dressed in his uniform, standing on her front porch, she wondered for a moment if her psychic powers extended beyond communicating with ghosts. Just moments earlier she had been contemplating calling him and asking him to stop by on his way home from the station. Now, here he was.

“Wow, I'm good,” Danielle muttered as she opened the door wider to let him in.

“That's one of the strangest greetings I've ever received.” MacDonald removed his baseball cap as he stepped inside Marlow House.

“I was just thinking of calling you. We need to talk.” Danielle pointed to the parlor and shut the door behind him.

“I don't even get a hello, or why are you here?” He followed Danielle into the front room.

“Hello, why are you here?” Danielle asked as she waited for MacDonald to enter the parlor so that she could shut its door.

“We have to keep this between the two of us,” MacDonald began. In the next moment his nose twitched, teased by the distinct scent of cigar smoke. He turned to where he believed it originated. “Afternoon, Walt. I will rephrase. We need to keep this between the three of us.”

Walt chuckled and took a puff off his thin cigar.

“Can't pull anything over on you, Chief.” Danielle grinned and took a seat on the sofa. “Go ahead and tell me what you came here for, and then I'll tell you what I found out.”

“I suspect Hillary witnessed Jolene's murder,” he began.

“Yeah, I know that's what you've been saying.” Sitting on the sofa, Danielle pulled her bare feet up on the cushion, tucking them under her.

“It explains those notes she wrote. I believe she saw Steve Klein murder Jolene.”

“Steve? I find it difficult to imagine Steve as a killer.”

MacDonald removed a photocopy of the anonymous letter he had received from the supposed witness to the crime. He handed the folded piece of paper to Danielle. “I received this in today's mail. It was sent to the station, but addressed to me.” After Danielle accepted the paper, MacDonald took a seat on one of the chairs facing her.

As she unfolded the page, Walt moved to the sofa, standing behind it, looking over Danielle's shoulder so that he could read what appeared to be a typed letter.

After reading it, Danielle looked up to the chief. “I assume you think Hillary sent this?”

“It's the logical explanation. But I really don't have enough to arrest Steve on. If I had a witness, one who was willing to come forward and not hide behind an anonymous letter, I could bring Steve in.”

“What's your plan?”

“I need to convince her to do the right thing. Whoever wrote that letter it wasn't printed on a computer. I've already had the original letter examined—it was typed on an old-fashioned typewriter with ribbon ink. It wasn't generated from a computer printer.”

“What about fingerprints?”

He shook his head. “None. Of course, I wouldn't expect a mystery writer to leave her fingerprints on a letter if she intended to remain anonymous.”

“She also wouldn't use her own typewriter,” Walt said. “I imagine you can identify the machine this was typed on.”

Still holding the letter in her hands, Danielle glanced over her shoulder at Walt.

“I plan to show this letter to Hillary, tell her I know she wrote this, and do what I can to convince her to do the right thing. I'll remind her it will be fairly easy to prove whoever typed this did so on her typewriter,” MacDonald explained.

Walt shook his head. “But it wasn't.”

“What are you saying, Walt?” Danielle asked.

MacDonald looked from Danielle to where he imagined Walt must now be standing.

Walt took the letter from Danielle. From where MacDonald sat, it looked as if the letter floated up from Danielle's hands and was now suspended over her head.

“Not sure I'll ever get used to this,” MacDonald muttered under his breath.

“This wasn't typed on the machine upstairs in Hillary's room,” Walt said. The letter seemingly floated back down into Danielle's hands.

“Walt says this wasn't typed on Hillary's typewriter,” Danielle explained.

“What do you mean? Of course it was,” MacDonald insisted.

Walt shook his head and took a seat on the sofa next to Danielle. “It's not the same type style.”

“Walt says it's not the same type style,” Danielle told MacDonald.

“How would he know that?” MacDonald asked.

Danielle glanced to Walt and flashed a smirk. “Because Walt can be nosey. He's been reading over Hillary's shoulder while she types her book.”

“Don't blame me. I initially did it to help—but she's a good writer. And the story's getting interesting.”

Standing briefly, Danielle handed the letter back to MacDonald and then sat back down. “If Walt is right, then you're wasting your time trying to get Hillary to admit she was the witness. And if she didn't write this, you obviously have another witness out there. Or perhaps it's a hoax?”

“If the anonymous writer hadn't mentioned the part about Jolene blackmailing Steve over an affair with a waitress—something only Jolene and Steve would know—or someone who overheard their argument before Jolene was killed, I wouldn't give much credence to that letter.”

“You forget the waitress,” Walt reminded them.

Danielle looked to Walt. “What do you mean?”

“The chief just said only Jolene and Steve knew about the blackmail. You forget the waitress knew.”

“Are you suggesting Carla might have sent that letter?” Danielle asked.

Walt shrugged. “If Carla is the waitress.”

“Carla?” MacDonald muttered. “She did claim to be worried over her safety.”

“Walt has a point,” Danielle said.

“Maybe she wrote the letter, but that doesn't mean she witnessed the murder. In fact, I'd be surprised if she did, because the first time I interviewed her, she didn't come across as someone who had just witnessed her lover murder someone. Unless she's been a great actress all these years, I've always found Carla to be fairly transparent,” MacDonald said.

“Perhaps Carla is the killer?” Walt suggested.

“Carla?” Danielle asked.

“Carla what?” MacDonald asked.

“Walt suggested Carla might be the killer. Maybe she's throwing her lover under the bus for this one.”

“Steve told me Carla had more of a reason to kill Jolene than he did. I don't buy that,” MacDonald said. “Yet I could see her sending something like this if she thought he was guilty and wanted him locked up because she feared for her life.”

“I suppose the first thing you need to do is find out what typewriter was used. And then figure out if whoever wrote this was actually a witness,” Danielle said.

MacDonald refolded the paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. “I'm still not buying into the suggestion this wasn't written on Hillary's typewriter.”

“I can settle that once and for all,” Walt said as he removed the letter from the chief's shirt pocket.

MacDonald looked down and watched as the folded piece of paper floated from his shirt pocket, unfolded itself, and hung in midair. “What is he doing?”

“Tell the chief I'm memorizing this letter,” Walt told her.

Danielle shrugged. “He says he's memorizing the letter. Why? I have no clue.”

“I'm going upstairs to type the same letter on Hillary's typewriter. You can then compare the two letters and see I was right.”

“You know how to type?” Danielle asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. We did have typewriters back in my day.”

“I know. But didn't you have secretaries to do menial things like typing?” she asked.

“Haven't you learned by now, I'm a liberated man,” Walt boasted.

Danielle laughed. “Liberated man? I betcha back in your day you didn't use phrases like
liberated man
.”

“What are you two talking about?” MacDonald asked.

“Walt's memorizing this letter so he can type a duplicate using Hillary's typewriter, and then you can compare the two.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but won't Hillary get a little suspicious when her typewriter starts typing by itself?”

Danielle laughed. “I'm pretty sure I can lure Hillary downstairs to the kitchen with the promise of chocolate cake. You can join us. And if Walt proves the letter wasn't written on Hillary's typewriter, then no reason to mention the letter to her.”

“While you two decide what you plan to say to Hillary, I'm going upstairs to see what she's doing. I'm also going to check in on Melony and make sure she's still sleeping. Then I'll let you know if it's a good time to get her to come downstairs.”

“Walt just left to check on Hillary and make sure Melony is still sleeping in her room. She went up earlier to take a nap.”

“I suppose we should wait here until Walt returns?”

Danielle glanced up to the ceiling. “Might as well.”

“While we're waiting, why don't you tell me what you wanted to talk to me about? When I got here, you said you needed to tell me something.”

“It seems Hillary knows your victim's daughter.” If Danielle expected the chief to be surprised at her announcement, she was disappointed.

“Melony stopped by my office earlier. She mentioned she knew Hillary.”

“And you didn't find that an interesting coincidence?”

“When I asked her how she knew Hillary, she said professionally. I asked her if Hillary knew her mother, and she said no.”

“She told you Hillary had been her client?”

“
Her
client?” MacDonald frowned. “No. Hillary was her soon-to-be ex's client.”

“Is that what Melony told you?”

“No. I just assumed that's what she meant when she said she knew her professionally. Melony's husband is some sort of an entertainment attorney. He works with authors, people in the movie industry. He handles some pretty famous clients, from what I recall. I just assumed she meant he was Hillary's attorney.”

Danielle shook her head. “No. According to Hillary, Melony was her attorney. She never mentioned anything about Melony's husband.”

“Melony is Hillary's attorney?”

Danielle shrugged. “Technically speaking, I believe Hillary said Melony
was
her attorney.

The chief let out a low whistle. “Well, that's interesting.”

“Why is that interesting?” Danielle asked.

“Because Melony is a criminal attorney. She's handled some high-profile cases over the years.”

“Criminal attorney?” Danielle asked.

“Yes. And we're not talking penny ante stuff—like burglary or fraud.”

“Burglary and fraud are penny ante?”

“Compared to capital offenses, yes. I imagine, had Clarence Renton hired his old business partner's daughter as his attorney when he was arrested for Cheryl's murder, he might have gotten off. Melony is that good.”

“Why would Hillary have needed a criminal attorney?” Danielle muttered.

MacDonald shook his head. “I have no idea.”

Danielle shivered and glanced up to the ceiling, thinking of who was on the second floor. “Makes the rest of what I wanted to tell you seem even creepier.”

“Creepy how?”

Danielle told the chief what Ian had told her about Hillary's other books—how each of her murder scenes was identical to a crime that had taken place six months prior to that particular book's release—and each real-life crime remained unsolved.

“I see what you mean.” MacDonald glanced to the ceiling. “Jolene's murder scene will be featured in Hillary's next book…which I imagine will be released in about six months.”

S
he hadn't changed
her clothes, but she had slipped off her shoes before climbing into bed. Wearing dark blue leggings and her hip-length sweater, Melony hugged one pillow while her head rested on a second one. She had climbed under the sheets and had managed to fall asleep within minutes.

But an hour had since gone by, and Melony—who rarely took midday catnaps—shifted restlessly on the bed and began to wake up. Groggily fluttering open her eyes, it took her a moment to get her bearings.
Mother's gone—I'm in Frederickport—staying at Marlow House.

With a yawn, she closed her eyes again, hugged the pillow tighter, rolled onto her side, and told herself,
I'll sleep a few more minutes
. She lay there in the silent room, but unlike an hour earlier, she couldn't fall asleep. Just as she decided she might as well get up, she froze. Instead of opening her eyes, she held firmly onto the pillow, afraid to move.

Someone is standing over me.

Too afraid to open her eyes and discover her hunch was correct, she lay perfectly still, practically holding her breath. While she hadn't seen anyone in her room, she felt it. The inescapable sensation gripped her. The beating of her heart seemed to accelerate and she wondered if she were to scream, would anyone hear her?

She then remembered Hillary had been in the next room typing her book when Melony had first come up the stairs. For a brief moment Melony imagined it was Hillary who had invaded her room and now stood over her. That thought terrified her. But then she heard it, the faint tapping of the keys of a typewriter. She could barely hear it through the wall separating her room from Hillary's.

Maybe I'm imagining things.

Mustering her courage, Melony opened her eyes and bolted upright in the bed, prepared to fight. To her amazement, she was alone. Dazed, she looked around the room and then leaned back against the headboard. Again, she heard the faint rapping of the typewriter keys.

She sat there a moment, took a deep breath, and chastised herself for being so edgy. After considering the events of the last few days, she decided she was being too hard on herself. Who wouldn't be out of sorts under similar circumstances?

She lay there a few more minutes and then finally climbed out of bed and stretched. Walking over to the dresser, she looked into the mirror. Leaning closer to her reflection, she used the tip of one finger to gently wipe away a smudge of mascara under one eye.

Grabbing a brush off the dresser, she ran it threw her hair to smooth out the tangles caused by her recent nap. Tossing the brush back onto the dresser, she murmured, “I wonder if I can talk Danielle into a sandwich.”

Melony stepped out into the hallway from her room and looked around. All the other doors on the second floor were closed—except for Hillary's, which was slightly ajar. She could hear the continued tapping of the typewriter.

Heading toward the stairs, Melony paused by Hillary's doorway and curiously peeked in. She expected to see Hillary's back, as she sat at the desk in front of the typewriter. Yet when Melony looked in, she was surprised to find the desk chair empty.

Curious, Melony eased open the door and glanced around. There didn't appear to be anyone in the room.
But what is that noise? It sounds just like a typewriter.

Without making a peep, Melony tiptoed into the room. Her first thought:
Does crazy Hillary have a recording of a typewriter playing?

Stealthily approaching the desk, Melony suddenly froze, her eyes fixed on Hillary's antiquated manual Royal typewriter.

Inserted in the typewriter was a sheet of white paper. The keys busily moved over the page as the carriage moved from side to side, the piece of paper slowly making its way up the roll as freshly inked words appeared on the page.

Melony's eyes widened as she let out a scream and then turned abruptly, running from the room.

W
alt turned
from the typewriter and let out a sigh. “Well, I guess
someone
woke up.”

Danielle heard the scream from downstairs. She knew immediately what had happened. She had been sitting at the kitchen table with MacDonald and Hillary when Melony tore into the room a few moments later. They all stood up.

Hillary was the first to speak. “What happened? Is there a fire?”

“No. It's…it's…I know this is going to sound crazy,” Melony said in a panic.

Gently, MacDonald placed an arm around Melony and said, “Calm down. What happened?”

“You're going to think I'm crazy, but that typewriter in Hillary's room, well, it was typing all by itself.”

Hillary's expression of concern quickly faded. “It was what?”

“Just what I said. I woke up from my nap and heard the typing. I decided to come downstairs, and on the way down I noticed Hillary's door was open, so I looked in. And…and…the typewriter was typing.”

Danielle let out a chuckle and grabbed hold of Melony's hand, giving it a squeeze. “Don't you see what happened?”

Melony looked blankly into Danielle's smiling face and shook her head, still confused.

Danielle patted Melony's arm and ushered her away from MacDonald, leading her to a kitchen chair. “It's pretty obvious to me. You've been asleep for over an hour. Understandably, you're exhausted, and I can't even imagine the stress you're going through with your mother's death and all the unanswered questions.” Gently, she nudged Melony down into a chair.

Dazed, Melony looked up into Danielle's dark eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Hillary was typing upstairs not ten, fifteen minutes ago. You probably heard her earlier. You obviously weren't totally awake when you came downstairs.”

“Are you saying I was dreaming?”

“I certainly don't imagine Hillary's typewriter was typing on its own, and I'm fairly certain you're sane. But I also know you've been through a great deal lately, so it's not that unusual to have strange dreams.”

“Can we at least go upstairs and look? Just to make sure?” Melony asked.

Smiling, Danielle gave her a quick hug. “Sure we can.”

Just as Danielle released Melony from the hug, Walt appeared in the room. He stood behind Melony, wearing a sheepish smile.

“Sorry about that,” Walt told Danielle. “I looked in on Melony right before I went back into Hillary's room. I was certain she was sound asleep. I managed to type about half the letter, which should be more than enough for a comparison. I put the letter in the top drawer of the parlor desk.”

Danielle took Melony's hand. “Come on. Let's go upstairs. I'll show you it was all just a bad dream.”

W
hen they all
came back downstairs ten minutes later, Danielle led Melony to a chair at the kitchen table and brought her a piece of chocolate cake. Hillary's piece of cake was still on the table—only one bite eaten—as were the pieces Danielle had cut for herself and MacDonald.

Still dazed, Melony shook her head and said, “It was all a dream.”

“Chocolate fixes everything,” Danielle announced cheerfully as she set a glass of cold milk on the table in front of Melony.

Picking up her fork, Melony took a quick bite of cake and then laughed. After washing down the bite with a sip of milk, she said, “I imagine you think I'm crazy.”

Instead of sitting back at the table with Melony and Hillary, Danielle and MacDonald stood by the table, eating their cake.

“Of course not,” Danielle said. “Stress does crazy things to people.”

Hillary looked up from her cake; her eyes met Melony's. “I agree. Stress can make people see and imagine all sorts of things.”

Just as MacDonald put his last bite of cake into his mouth, Danielle snatched his plate from him and set it with hers in the sink. She turned to Melony and Hillary, who continued to sit at the kitchen table, and said, “If you ladies will excuse us. There was something I promised to show the chief earlier.”

“
I
f they ask
, what are you going to tell them you had to show me?” MacDonald asked as he followed Danielle into the parlor.

“I have no idea. I'm exhausted from trying to make crap up.” She shut the door behind them.

“I felt so sorry for poor Melony,” MacDonald said. “It must have been quite a shock watching that typewriter type on its own.”

“It wasn't really typing on its own,” Danielle reminded him.

MacDonald let out a snort. “I don't imagine learning a ghost was doing the typing would be an especially comforting consolation.”

“I don't imagine it would be.” Danielle walked to the desk to retrieve the paper Walt had placed in its drawer.

MacDonald glanced around the room. “I don't smell any cigar smoke. Is Walt in here with us?”

Danielle opened the desk drawer. “No. He stayed in the kitchen. I imagine he's eavesdropping on Hillary and Melony.” Taking the paper from the drawer, she handed it to MacDonald.

He placed the paper on the desktop and then removed the photocopy of the original letter from his pocket. After unfolding it, he set it on the desk next to what Walt had typed.

“Well, I'll be damned,” MacDonald said, staring down at the two pieces of paper.

Standing next to MacDonald, Danielle compared the two pages and then shook her head. “Walt was right. There's no way your anonymous letter writer typed that on Hillary's typewriter.”

“Now I'm back to square one. I need to figure out who sent me that letter.”

W
alt casually leaned
against the kitchen counter and puffed his cigar. He eyed the piece of chocolate cake slowly disappearing on Hillary's plate and tried to remember how chocolate tasted.

“Did you know Chief MacDonald when you lived in Frederickport?” Hillary asked Melony after she finished her last bite of cake.