The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed (12 page)

“Well, at least we know what we
want
to do,” Chris said, looking at the sheet of paper labeled “How to Help.” It had two items listed on it:

(1) Get Cornelius Fletcher and his first daughter back together.

(2) Find the Lost Masterpiece so Phoebe can keep her house.

Unfortunately, we had no idea how to accomplish either of these tasks.

While we were batting ideas back and forth, the phone rang. When I picked it up and said hello, a cheerful voice replied, “So—how's my book coming?”

“Mona!” I cried.

Chris rolled her eyes. I ignored her. Actually, I had been avoiding calling Mona because I knew Chris was still a little jealous about the book. But as long as Mona had called me, I figured we should take advantage of the situation. Mona has made a real study of ghosts, and she might have some ideas that we had missed.

“Your enthusiasm is nice to hear,” said Mona. “Does that mean you've written the sample chapters—or are you just trying to keep me in a good mood because you're off schedule?”

“It means I'm glad to hear from you,” I said. “Partly because I could use your advice. Chris and I are in the middle of another—situation.”

Mona sighed. “I'm going to have to train you to get one adventure written down before you plunge into the next one. But as long as it's in motion, tell me what's happening.”

I filled her in on everything that had gone on so far.

“Sounds like it's right up your alley,” Mona said. “Tough situation, though. My guess is that the father is stuck outside because he's reliving—you should pardon the pun—the night he couldn't come through for his daughter. Ghosts tend to obsess about that kind of thing. As for the little girl—well, he told her to wait for him, and my guess is that's just what she's doing. Have you checked the bedpost?”

“Huh?”

“You said the little girl was trying to take the top off the bedpost. Have you tried doing the same thing?”

“Agh!” I replied. “I was so frightened that it never occurred to me. Thanks.”

“That's what editors are for,” Mona said. “Pointing out the things you've missed. But listen—take care of yourself, will you? I don't want my newest author turning into a ghost herself.”

“I don't think there's anything to worry about,” I said. “After all, the prowler was only Byron, and he had every right to be there.”

“True enough,” said Mona. “But if this Cornelius Fletcher character is really crazy—and I'd say the man who painted ‘Early Harvest' was on the edge—his ghost might be wacky, too. I doubt he can hurt you directly. But if you think about some of the things he's done already, you'll see that there are ways he could harm you without touching you himself. A slamming shutter or a floating box can be a real problem if you're standing too close!”

“But we're on his side!” I protested.

“People don't always recognize their friends,” said Mona.

I had a feeling from her tone of voice that she was reminding me of the bratty way I had acted when we first met. But I had only done that because I thought she was after my father. Actually, I still think she's after him, but since she lives three hundred miles away, I don't worry about it too much. And I do have to admit that she's turned out to be a pretty good friend.

“I know what you mean,” I said, after a second.

Let her take that however she wanted. I figured if she wanted to use double meanings, I could, too.

“Well,” Chris said, after I hung up, “what was that all about?” Her tone was a little sharp.

I filled her in on the conversation. “Mona's right,” she said. “Which means that what we have to do now is go back to Phoebe's house and check the bedpost.”

“We'll have to wait until Bryon gets back.”

“That's okay,” said Chris. “I wouldn't mind prowling around a haunted house with a guy who looks like that!”

I smiled. It sounded like a good idea to me. We called the house but got no answer. I figured that Byron was back at the hospital, visiting with Phoebe. Or at least sitting beside her bed. We went downstairs for some more slopnuggets.

My father was home by the time we finally got in touch with Byron. It was just as well; given what had happened the night before, he would not have been amused to find that we had gone back to Phoebe's on our own, even if we had found out that my “prowler” was no real threat.

“I'll go with you this time,” he said.

“You're only coming because you hope you'll finally see a ghost yourself,” I teased. But frankly, I was just as glad to have him along.

The three of us got into the Golden Chariot and drove to Phoebe's house. As I climbed out of the GC, I noticed again the remains of the stone wall that had once surrounded the property—the wall that had kept Cornelius Fletcher from getting the medicine back to his daughter. I wondered if he had ordered it destroyed after that awful night.

The thought reminded me of something else that had been bothering me. “Dad, can people really die from the flu? I thought it wasn't much more than a bad cold.”

“That's pretty much the case these days,” he said, “though a stiff case of flu can still be dangerous for someone whose health is already weak. But it used to be a lot worse. Just after World War One there was a pandemic—”

“A what?” asked Chris.

“A pandemic—a worldwide outbreak. If I remember correctly, the death toll was over twenty million.”

I looked at him. “That can't be right. We're studying the Holocaust in school right now, and that's three times as many people as died in that.”

My dad shrugged. “We remember the Holocaust because it was man-made and based on prejudice. The influenza pandemic was an equal opportunity killer. And we've pretty much beat the flu. I wish I could say the same thing about prejudice.”

We had nearly reached the porch by this point. “You know, I've always wanted to see the inside of this place,” said my father, interrupting my thoughts about twenty million people.

“Don't get too excited,” Chris said. “It's not all that hot.”

“Only eleven, and she's lost her sense of wonder,” said my father sadly.

Chris was winding up for an answering shot when we reached the door. If we had been waiting for Phoebe, she would have had time to make a whole speech after we rang the bell. But Byron was there in a matter of seconds.

“Come on in,” he said, stepping back and holding the door wide.

“Sorry about sending the police over here last night,” said my father after we had introduced him.

Byron smiled. “It was reasonable, under the circumstances. I'm sorry I gave you such a scare—though to tell you the truth, you had
me
pretty frightened, too.”

After a little talk about how Phoebe was doing, Byron said, “What can I do to help you?”

“Actually, we were hoping to help
you,
” said Chris.

“That would be nice. Right now I feel as if I need all the help I can get.”

“Then would you mind if we check one of the bedposts upstairs?”

Byron looked startled. “Any particular reason why?”

I took a deep breath and started to explain about the ghost. I was a little worried that he might decide we were all crazy and throw us out. But he just smiled and said, “Phoebe always told me she suspected this place was haunted. I must say, I think it's a little rude of the ghosts to show themselves to strangers and not family members.”

“Don't let it bother you,” my father said. “I never get to see them either.”

He didn't have any better luck this time, although the ghost was there.

She seemed to ignore us as we entered the room. It wasn't until I started to turn the knob on top of the bedpost that she got upset. Then she threw herself at me, hitting and scratching like a wild woman.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sketches

When the ghost of Alida Fletcher began to hit and slap at me, I stumbled back, crying out in shock.

Chris grabbed me. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice trembling.

I nodded. Since Alida's hands had passed right through me, the attack hadn't hurt. But I had felt a terrible coldness when they touched my skin.

My father knelt beside me. “What happened?” he asked, taking me in his arms. His voice was shaking. “Nine, what happened? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” I said, “Just a little scared.”

“What is going on here?” asked Byron. He sounded totally mystified.

“The girl in the bed didn't like what I was doing.”

“What girl?”

“She's a ghost,” Chris said. “We think she's Phoebe's sister.”

Byron stared at us for a moment. “If Phoebe hadn't spent years telling me this place was haunted, I'd say you were crazy and throw you out,” he said at last. “But since she did, I guess I'll have to take you seriously.” He paused, then added, “But why did the ghost attack you?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “My guess is that she's trying to guard what's in the bedpost.”

My father looked around nervously. “Is she still here?”

“She sure is,” said Chris.

When Dad looked at me, I nodded in confirmation. What I didn't mention was that she was calling, “Daddy? Daddy, where are you?”

“You try, Mr. Tanleven,” Chris said.

“What?”

“Well, you can't see the ghost, so I figure you might not
feel
her either.”

My father turned to Byron. “It's up to you. Do you want me to give it a try?”

Byron nodded. “I think we need to find out what's in that bedpost.”

My father swallowed, then walked to the bed. “My big chance,” he muttered to himself as he reached for the knob.

The moment he touched it the ghost began to flail at him.

He heard me catch my breath. “This is weird,” he said, closing his eyes and shivering.

It
was
weird. Alida kept hitting him, trying to drive him away from the bedpost. But since he couldn't see or feel her, she was having no effect on him.

Even if
he
couldn't see her, the scene was starting to drive
me
crazy. “Stop!” I cried at last. “You leave him alone. He's not going to hurt anything. We only want to help you.”

The ghost glared at me, then faded out of sight. My father blinked, as if a puff of wind had struck him in the eyes.

“She's gone, Mr. Tanleven!” said Chris. “Hurry!”

My dad returned his attention to the bedpost. Seconds later the knob turned in his hands.

We had no problem finding what was inside. The roll of papers hidden there extended past the top of the post; it must have been sticking right up into the hollow knob. Rolling the papers a little tighter, Dad pulled it out of the bedpost.

“Got it!” he said triumphantly. Then he looked guilty and stepped quickly away from the bed.

“Relax,” I said. “She's still gone.”

“But who knows when she'll be back,” said Chris. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

“Just my luck,” my dad said as we left the room. “I finally meet a ghost, and other than a bit of a chill, I can't even tell it happened.”

“Come on,” said Byron impatiently. “I want to see what you've found.” He led the way downstairs to the dining room. “We can spread the papers out here,” he said, pointing to the big table.

“We'll have to do this carefully, so as not to damage the paper,” my father said. He hesitated, then turned to Byron. “Actually, you should have the honor.”

Byron reached forward, pulled his hand back, then reached out again and took the papers. For a minute I was afraid he might ask us to leave, so he could look at them in private. Even though he wouldn't have found the papers if it hadn't been for us, we had no real right to be here; if he wanted to throw us out, he could. But he didn't tell us to go. Instead, he laid the papers on the table, waited until we had all gathered around, and then slowly began to unroll them.

I was dying to know what they were. But part of me was enjoying the suspense: It was a little like unwrapping a present very slowly, to keep yourself waiting.

The papers kept wanting to curl back onto themselves.

“Hold down this end,” Byron said to my father.

My dad leaned on the end of the paper and watched as Byron rolled it along the table to reveal what was inside. “Holy Moses!” he whispered.

The top sheet of paper held a Cornelius Fletcher drawing. I knew it was Fletcher's work, because by this time I could recognize his style. The drawing was one of his more pleasant pieces—a street scene in what looked like a little French village.

Byron leaned over to trace some of the lines with his fingertip. But he kept his hand about an inch above the paper, so that he wasn't actually touching it. “He was so good,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe.

My father nodded.

Working slowly and carefully, they pulled apart the pages. There were a dozen drawings in all. We spread them around the table, holding them down at the corners with things from the kitchen—candlesticks and salt shakers, cream pitchers and spoon rests.

“You know what these are, don't you?” Byron asked after a minute.

“I've got a feeling,” my father said.

I looked up. “Plans for his last painting?”

Byron nodded. “The Lost Masterpiece. What a tragedy he never finished it.”

“Do we know that?” my father asked. “The rumor I always heard was that it had been painted but then disappeared somehow.”

Byron shrugged. “Lost, stolen, or strayed—whatever happened to it, the world has lost a great piece of art.”

I walked around the table, examining the pictures. I didn't stand too long in front of any of them—I was afraid they might start to draw me in, in the same way “Early Harvest” had done those other times. I was afraid of what I might see or feel if I let that happen.