The Legend of Sleepy Harlow (21 page)

“She stacked the equipment alphabetically,” I reminded him, even though I shouldn’t have had to. “She arranged and rearranged and cataloged and made lists. Do you really think—”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t a great inventor.”

“No, it doesn’t, but—”

“And it doesn’t mean the plasmometer is any less valuable to us in our work.”

“Of course not, but—”

“Hey, who cares how the chick did it!” Liam grabbed the plans, rolled them up, and tucked them back in the heavy cardboard tube they’d come out of. “All that matters is that the thing works. And that you’re going to talk to the cops for us about getting it back.” Grinning, he walked out of the kitchen. “Wait until I tell the rest of ’em. They’re going to be freakin’ stoked!”

I left him to his return-of-the-plasmometer fantasies. I had my own work to take care of, so I shut myself in my private suite and got to work on the Internet.

“Turner Plasmometer,” I said to myself as I keyed in the words.

Up popped a few dozen sites.

One was EGG’s own website, and just as I expected, they spent an entire page singing the praises of the piece of equipment Noreen had so clearly thought was junk. Other sites I visited belonged to other paranormal investigation groups. A few congratulated EGG on the plasmometer and the advances they’d made in the field of searching for spooks because of it. A few others were decidedly jealous. If only they’d thought of it first! If only they’d put two and two together and made the connections the wonderful and fabulous and genius Noreen Turner did. They, too, could have had their own reality TV shows.

I guess there’s a purpose for everything, even carping. By the time I found my way to the blog of someone named Ted Fywell, I was so used to hearing “if only” that I didn’t pay much attention.

Until I read further.

I sat up, propped my elbows on my desk and stared at the computer screen. This Fywell guy lived in New Mexico, and according to a website filled with misspelled words and questionable grammar, he said that he was an engineer who specialized in making equipment for paranormal investigators.

He had the testimonials to prove it.

“Awesome dude,” one investigator was quoted as saying.

“Far-out spectacular!” another commented.

But what really caught my eye was a long, ranting post where Fywell claimed he, not Noreen Turner, was the one who’d actually invented the plasmometer.

I checked the clock, did some quick calculations to figure out the time in New Mexico, did some more research on the Internet, and made a few calls.

“Fywell? Ted Fywell?” Turns out Ted’s day job was as a professor of Engineering Design and Technology at Eastern New Mexico University in Roswell. Didn’t it figure. The man on the other end of the phone sounded confused when I asked for Ted.

“You can’t exactly talk to him,” he said.

“I could leave a message. Or if he’s not there, you could give me his home number. It’s important.”

“Not to Ted. Ted Fywell, he’s been dead for going on a year now.”

  20  

A
fter a few more phone calls and a couple more hours of Internet research, I had pieced together the story of Ted Fywell’s untimely demise.

Suicide.

His coworkers said they weren’t surprised. Ted had always been something of an odd duck, they told me. A genius of the old-school, crazy-in-the-head, eccentric variety who was focused to the point of obsession with paranormal research. Once he heard about the Turner Plasmometer, his always-erratic mind latched on to the story of its unqualified success and Ted claimed the plasmometer as his own.

From then on, there was no going back. Ted’s behavior became more erratic. He missed classes. He grew more isolated. He had paranoid delusions about a break-in at his home and the resulting fire that, the fire chief out in Roswell told me, looked plenty suspicious. The chief had been circumspect, and though I was disappointed by his lack of candor, I couldn’t blame him for not coming right out and saying Fywell had started the fire himself.

How did all this tie into Noreen Turner’s murder?

As far as I could see, it didn’t.

At least, not until I dug a little further.

Halloween morning dawned clear and chilly, and by ten o’clock, I had a theory. And a plan.

As long as I was paying expenses for Aaron and his team of technical wonder workers who’d created the ghost in my parlor, I figured I might as well get my money’s worth.

Fortunately, Aaron agreed. To him, each new special effects challenge was an opportunity to hone his skills. And besides, he confessed, it sounded like a heck of a lot of fun, even if this time, the challenge wasn’t so much spooky ghosts and eerie voices as it was just plain, old-fashioned theatrical illusion.

By noon, I’d talked to Chandra and Luella and, yes, even to Levi, and they agreed to help in any way they could.

At one, I met the ferry so I could personally welcome Marianne and Alvin home, and while I was at it, I threw myself at Marianne’s mercy. And after all that time of worrying and wondering what Marianne would think when I told her the story of Jerry the Destroyer? Well, maybe having a scary medical problem and serious surgery changes your outlook on life and your appreciation of even the small things. Marianne listened—and burst into laughter. That is, right before she apologized left and right for causing me so much trouble and so much work.

She couldn’t wait to read my version of Charlie Harlow’s story, she told me, even after I warned her that after what I had planned for that night, she might have a little extra work to do on the book. Though I remained mysterious about the details, she and Alvin played along. They said they’d be at the Halloween party I was planning, even though their costumes—Lucy and Charlie Brown—didn’t quite fit in with my theme.

I convinced Kate to join us, too, though I have to say, that was the most difficult part of my day. She was sure that she wasn’t long for the non-prison world and, because of that, more depressed than ever. It is a tribute to her faith in me and her friendship that she agreed at all.

By six, with the sun hanging over Lake Erie like one of the dozens of pumpkins lit in the park for the huge costume party going on over there, everything was ready. Even I—who had, after all, given Aaron instructions as well as carte blanche when it came to expenses—was impressed when I walked to what used to be the Orient Express restaurant.

“So? Huh? What do you think?” Aaron was dressed as a bartender with a white apron looped around his neck, and he was justly proud of what he’d accomplished. He held out his arms and spun around. “Some transformation, huh?”

That was putting it mildly.

When last I’d been there, the Orient Express was a typical walk-in Chinese restaurant with a counter against the wall opposite the door and a few tables out front where folks could wait for their to-go meals or eat in if they wanted.

Now . . .

I looked around in openmouthed wonder.

Now, I swear, I was standing in a Prohibition-era speakeasy.

The front counter had been turned into a bar, where Aaron had been drying beer mugs when I walked in. The few white café tables Peter Chan, the Orient Express’s murdered proprietor, had had out front had been replaced by a dozen wooden tables. Each one had a flickering candle on it that added to the ambiance of the ceiling fans that swirled overhead and the spotlights that shone on potted palms in the corners. There wasn’t room for a live band (thank goodness—I wouldn’t have wanted to pay for one!), but Aaron had music piped in: Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith and Al Jolson. Two women stood ready to serve drinks and there was a guy in a pin-striped suit stationed at the front door whose job it was to demand that each person he let in knew the password I’d included in the email invitations I’d sent out that morning: “Bea sent me.”

“Bea sent me.”

Three cheers for Levi for following my instructions. When he walked in, he looked as amazed as I felt.

“Incredible.” It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t looking around at the speakeasy, but checking out the gold-colored flapper dress I wore. “How’d you ever come up with a costume like that at such short notice?”

There was no use explaining the frantic call to the costume shop in Cleveland, the special messenger delivery, the cost. I was flattered, and smiled. For his part, Levi was dressed just as I asked him to, in dark work pants and a white shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves above his elbows and added a jaunty tweed walking cap. I hadn’t requested the hat, but I approved. It gave him a certain roguish look that was perfect for the part I had asked him to play.

“You had it easy,” I told him, because that seemed a better option than pointing out that he looked delectable. “Guys usually do when it comes to costumes.”

As if to prove it, Hank showed up in a black suit and a fedora. He had a cigar clenched between his teeth. He had a woman on each arm. The moll on his right—complete with a red strapless dress and a feathered headband—was none other than Chandra. For the record, she looks better in red than she does in green. The woman on his left, resplendent in a blue beaded gown that wasn’t at all true to the period but was beautiful nonetheless, was Luella. I realized I’d never seen her in a dress—or dangling earrings, for that matter.

Over the next twenty minutes, my guests drifted in, including all of the ghost getters. They weren’t sure what I had planned, but they made it clear that whatever it was, they were eager to get it over with so they could get out and start hunting on this, what they called the one night of the year when the veil between the physical world and the spiritual one was the thinnest. Ben and Eddie each wore T-shirts that said
This Is My Costume
. Liam, Rick, and David looked no different than ever and informed me that they were dressed as members of EGG. Jacklyn wore her pink kimono, and Dimitri had on a makeshift toga that seemed appropriate considering his Mediterranean good looks. At least until I realized the toga was made out of one of the bedsheets from the B and B.

I recognized Fiona’s costume at once; it was one of Chandra’s caftans, this one a swirl of purples and blues that set off that spectacular howlite necklace of hers just right.

Kate didn’t bother with a costume, and I didn’t criticize. I was so grateful to see her that the moment she arrived, I sat her at the table closest to the bar, ordered her a classic speakeasy drink—the gin rickey—and told her to get comfortable.

Lucy and Charlie Brown, it should be noted, arrived right on time, Alvin in his yellow t-shirt with a black zigzag and Marianne in a blue dress and saddle shoes. Okay, so they weren’t exactly Prohibition-era anything, but that didn’t keep them from looking as cute as can be.

“We’re ready,” I said to Levi when I zipped past him to make sure Marianne was comfortable. “Everybody’s here.”

“Go for it,” he said.

And I did.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” I stepped to the center of the room. “Thank you for joining us this evening to celebrate Halloween. My name is Carrie Wilder.”

Kate sat up.

“We’re here tonight,” I continued, “to tell you all a story. A story about me and this man.” I held out a hand and Levi joined me. “This is somebody you all know: Charlie Sleepy Harlow.”

The ghost getters applauded. Marianne looked pleased as punch. Hank knew what I was up to, but Chandra and Luella had only been given the bare bones of the plan. They were sitting with Kate, and like her, they sat up and took notice.

Once I had everyone’s attention, I signaled to Aaron, who brought an oil lamp out from behind the bar. I lit it and left it there.

“A lamp,” I said. “And Kate, though this one isn’t yours, you’ll recognize it. It’s just like the one Carrie Wilder . . .” I pointed to myself, just to remind them which role I was playing. “Carrie Wilder put this lamp on her windowsill at the winery every day. Sometimes she lit it and sometimes she didn’t, and some people”—I glanced at Levi—“some people thought I was crazy to think that the lamp was a signal, but I’ve recently found out that I was right. You see, I recently found a number of old letters. Written to Carrie Wilder from Charlie Harlow. And from Charlie Harlow to Carrie Wilder.”

Marianne’s mouth dropped open. “Is that the surprise you said you had for me? Carrie and Sleepy, they were friends?”

“They were more than friends. Kate, you should be the first to know, and I’m sorry I’m not going tell you in private, but you’ll understand when I’m done. You see, Sleepy Harlow, he was your great-grandfather.”

“No!” I couldn’t tell if she was happy or outraged or just so gobsmacked that she couldn’t think what else to say. “The family story is that Carrie’s husband died before my grandfather was born.”

“Well, that’s sort of true,” I told her. “Your grandfather’s father died, all right, but he wasn’t Carrie’s husband. Oh, they planned to get married, but they never had the chance. Carrie’s father was furious, both about who she intended to marry and the fact that she was pregnant before the
I do’s
were said.”

“Which is why . . .” Levi stepped forward. “It’s why he obliterated the oil lamp Carrie had added to Sleepy’s tombstone. She put it there as a tribute to her love.”

“But your great-great grandfather,” I told Kate, “didn’t want the world to know that his daughter was having the child of a gangster. Because we all know that’s what Sleepy was, right?”

I saw a couple nods and heard a couple, “You bets!” I figured that’s the reaction we’d get, and that was Hank’s cue to step forward.

“Sleepy worked with gangsters.” I motioned toward Hank. “He supplied them with Canadian liquor. And eventually, he got on the wrong side of those gangters. We’ve all talked about it, haven’t we? Sleepy did something to make the mob bosses really mad. They killed him and cut off his head. Nasty!” I didn’t have to pretend to shiver, because every time I thought about it, I had the same reaction. “And awfully violent, even for those years filled with gangland shootings and revenge killings. But thanks to those letters, we finally know why he suffered such a vicious death.”

Just as I’d instructed him, Levi turned toward the bar while I was saying all this, and now, he turned back again. He’d taken the time to pin something to his white shirt, and it winked in the light of the nearest candle.

As much as I wanted to make the announcement, I knew it wasn’t my place. I waited for Kate to figure it out. Her jaw dropped, and when she finally snapped it shut, she stammered, “Sleepy was a cop!”

“He was a G-man, working undercover to infiltrate the gangs of bootleggers,” I said.

“But why”—Kate got up and closed in on Levi so she could examine the badge he’d pinned on his chest—“why didn’t anyone ever say anything?”

I would explain to Kate in detail when we had the time. For now, it was simpler to say, “From what I’ve been able to find out, he was working under the direction of a man in Chicago. The day before Sleepy was killed, that federal agent had a heart attack. He was in the hospital for weeks, and he ended up dying. The secret of Sleepy’s undercover status died with him.”

“Then he wasn’t a gangster?” Marianne’s suddenly pale face looked terrible against her blue dress. “Then everything in my book, it’s all . . . wrong?”