All the Lovely Bad Ones Page 10

  "What did you tell them?"

  "The truth," he said. "I've always suspected that the previous owners milked the sightings for all they were worth. Maybe even faked them to get publicity for the inn."

  "Believe me," I said, "the ghosts at the inn are just as real as the man you saw walk through the wall of this store."

  He gave both of us a long, considering look. "You've actually seen them?"

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  "Lots of times," Corey put in. "Not just at night, either. We know their names and how they died and what the poor farm was really like."

  "And you're not scared?"

  "Just of Miss Ada," Corey said. "She's the woman who hanged herself."

  "We've made friends with the boys," I said, boasting a little. "They call themselves the bad ones, but they're just ordinary boys."

  "Ordinary boys who happen to be dead?" Mr. Pumphrey asked.

  "It's not their fault they're dead," Corey said. "Miss Ada left them outside in the cold all night and they froze to death. She's still mean to them—even now when they're all dead, including her, she won't leave them alone."

  Mr. Pumphrey looked at us long and hard, as if we'd said something that worried him, maybe even scared him. "Let me give you some advice," he said. "Stay away from those boys. The dead have their place. And the living have theirs. It's dangerous to cross the line that separates them from us."

  For a moment, he watched the raindrops race one another down the shop's window, thinking of what to say next. "It's one thing to watch a ghost walk through a wall," he said slowly. "It's something else to ask him how he did it."

  "We couldn't stay away from those boys even if we wanted to," I told Mr. Pumphrey. "They follow us everywhere."

  Just then the bell over the door jangled, and a rosy-faced woman rushed inside, struggling to close her umbrella. "Has the book I ordered come in?" she asked Mr. Pumphrey.

  "Excuse me, children." He turned to the woman. "I was just about to call you, Abigail. The Murder at the Vicarage arrived in this morning's mail. It's in good condition—a little foxing, but on the whole it's a fine first edition."

  As Mr. Pumphrey handed the book to Abigail, Corey nudged me. "It's past twelve. Grandmother's going to be mad if we keep her waiting much longer."

  "We have to go," I told Mr. Pumphrey. "We're supposed to meet our grandmother."

  Abigail handed her credit card to Mr. Pumphrey. "Thanks so much for getting this for me. It's the only Agatha Christie first edition I don't have."

  As he ran the card through his machine, Mr. Pumphrey watched us open the door. "Say hello to Elsie for me," he said. "And remember, you can't trust the dead. They go by different rules than the living."

  Mog meowed as if he, too, wished to warn us. Then he hopped into the window and watched us run toward Church Street.

  Huddled under her umbrella, Grandmother frowned when she saw us. "I've been waiting for fifteen minutes. Where have you been?"

  "At the Dusty Jacket." I pointed down the brick walkway to the little building squeezed between the Nearly New Emporium and the Vermont Crafts Shop. "Mr. Pumphrey said to say hello for him."

  Grandmother's frown turned to a smile. "Jack Pumphrey can talk the ear off a rabbit. Did you meet his cat?"

  "Mog's huge," Corey said, "and so sweet and pretty. I wish I had a cat just like him."

  "He's also a great mouse killer," I said.

  "So I've heard." Grandmother started walking down Church Street, dodging puddles and other people's umbrellas. "What would you like to eat?"

  "Pizza," Corey and I said. It was the one thing Mrs. Brewster never fixed and probably never would.

  "I know just the place," Grandmother said.

  The windows of Nel's Pizzeria were steamed up, giving it a cozy, welcoming look. As soon as we stepped inside, we smelled tomato sauce and cheese and baking pie crust. Crowds of college kids occupied most of the tables, but the service was quick, and we soon had a pizza the size of the moon, gooey with cheese, runny with tomato sauce, and topped with meatballs the size of a baby's fist.

  "How does it compare with New York pizza?" Grandmother asked.

  When Corey and I both gave thumbs up, she looked at our empty plates and laughed. "Foolish me. I thought we'd have enough left over for an after-dinner snack."

  Stuffed with pizza, we headed for Wade's of Vermont, where Grandmother bought us each a pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts, three T-shirts, and extra underwear and socks. "Let's hope nothing happens to these," she said. "I can't afford to replace them."

  "Don't worry. The ghosts like us now," Corey said. "Except for Miss Ada, of course. She hates—"

  Grandmother stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at Corey. Rain dripped off her umbrella and splashed into the puddles. "What are you talking about?"

  Corey's face turned red with embarrassment. "Just because you don't believe in ghosts doesn't mean they aren't real."

  "Not that ghost nonsense again," Grandmother said. "Sensible people simply do not subscribe to such foolishness."

  "How about Mr. Pumphrey?" I asked. "Do you think he's sensible?"

  "Jack's a bit eccentric, but I suppose he's fairly sensible." She looked at me closely. "Are you saying Jack Pumphrey believes in ghosts?"

  "He's seen one in his shop," Corey said. "And so has the lady who runs the antique store."

  "And so have you," I said. "You just won't admit it."

  By now Grandmother was unlocking the truck. "Get in out of the rain," she said crossly. As she edged out of her parking space, she said, "Not another word about ghosts!"

  Corey and I looked at each other. We'd have something to say to each other when we got home, but for now we'd keep our mouths shut.

  14

  After we'd put our new clothes away, Corey and I went outside for a walk. The rain had stopped, but the lawn was puddled with water. Our shoes were soon soaked, but we slogged through the mud, not paying much attention to where we were going.

  "Is Mr. Pumphrey right about the boys?" Corey asked. "Are they dangerous?"

  "No matter what he says, I'm not scared of them," I said. "They're just kids."

  "Dead kids," Corey reminded me.

  "Save your worries for Miss Ada. She's the dangerous one."

  Corey gnawed on a fingernail, her face worried. "What do you think they want?"

  "Maybe we should ask them."

  As luck would have it, I'd no sooner spoken than I realized we'd wandered into the burial ground. Caleb, Seth, and Ira grinned down at us from an apple tree. The shadow children clustered around them, a profile here, a leg dangling there, a hand holding a limb—like one of those pictures where you have to find hidden objects.

  "We been waiting on you," Seth called.

  Jumping down from the tree, the bad ones led us to a row of stones.

  "This here's mine," Seth said. "And there's Caleb's and Ira's. But who's to know withouten our names writ on 'em?"

  Corey looked at him solemnly. "Travis and I can write your names on these three stones."

  "That's right kindly of you," Seth said, "but we want proper headstones, like you see in a church graveyard."

  "And not just for us," Caleb said. "For all the folks lying here forgotten."

  "Do you know their names?"

  "Course not," Seth said. "None of us ever seen a burial."

  "Joseph dug the graves at night," Ira explained. "By sunup, the job was done, and we didn't know who was put where."

  "Until we became as we are now," Caleb corrected him. "We mourned all the folk they buried here after us. Said the right words for them and tried to send them over the river to the place where they belonged."

  The shadows stirred. "We stayed, though," they whispered. "All us boys, all us bad ones—we stayed."

  "There's just one here with a name." Seth pushed his way through a thick tangle of bushes and honeysuckle vines and pointed. "There she lies."

  A cracked stone lay face-up on the
ground, covered with so much moss I had to scrape it off before I could read the inscription:

  MISS ADA JAGGS

  3 APRIL 1789-17 MARCH 1841

  A WICKED HEART IS ITS OWN REWARD

  Corey pressed against my side. "A wicked heart," she whispered.

  "It's true, ain't it?" Seth asked.

  "Her heart was wicked through and through and black with hate," Ira said quietly.

  "Who wrote the inscription?" I asked.

  "A man from the county office ordered it done," Caleb said. "But it was our idea. We whispered it to him so sweetly he thought it was his idea."

  Ira kicked Miss Ada's stone. "He wanted to put names on all our markers, but he couldn't find the burial records."

  "That's 'cause he didn't know about her secret account book," Seth said.

  "Now if you two were to find that," Caleb added, "everybody could have their proper stones. And maybe we could rest easy."

  "Are you saying Corey and I ... have to find Miss Ada's book?" I stared at Caleb. "Don't you know where it is?"

  "She used to keep it under the floor in her room," Caleb said.

  "But she could have hidden it somewhere else," Ira pointed out.

  "After all, we wasn't watching her every second of every day, was we?" Seth asked.

  "Do you remember which room was hers?" I asked Caleb.

  "Number seven." He pointed at a window on the second floor, the Jenningses' old room, the one with a good view of the grove ... and the stupid ghost imitation that had started all the trouble.

  Corey looked at me. "Is anyone staying there?"

  "I think it's those two old ladies, Miss Baynes and Miss Edwards," I said.

  Seth giggled. "I sure riled them up with that mouse at dinner, didn't I?"

  "I thought that was you," Corey said, laughing herself.

  "They're usually gone all day," I said, in an effort to steer everyone's attention back to the room—and to the account book that might or might not be hidden there.

  "Let's see if we can find it." Corey ran to the inn with me close behind. The bad ones followed us on soundless feet, blending in with the shadow children.

  We paused at the front door and listened. All was silent except for the grandfather clock ticking to itself in the hall. While Corey kept watch, I sneaked into the office and lifted the spare key to room 7 from its hook.

  On tiptoe, we crept up the wide stairs to the second floor and paused again to listen. The doors to the occupied rooms were closed. The other doors were open. We didn't hear Mrs. Brewster's vacuum cleaner, nor did we see any other signs that she was cleaning the rooms.

  Cautiously, we approached number 7. I knocked, but there was no answer.

  "Nobody's home," Seth said.

  Slowly, I stuck the key in the lock and turned it gently. Feeling like a burglar, I eased the door open. Corey and I—and the bad ones—stepped inside. I locked the door behind us. The room was empty. A pink sweater hung on the back of a chair, and a pair of neatly folded tan slacks lay on the seat. Shopping bags from Simon Pearce sat in the corner. On the desk was an assortment of tin cookie cutters made by Ann Clark of Vermont. Grandmother had dozens of them, and so did our mother. Not that Mom ever baked—she collected them and displayed them on a wall in the kitchen.

  But we hadn't come to look at cookie cutters. On our hands and knees, we crawled across the floor looking for loose boards. We covered every inch, but each board was nailed down tightly.

  "Maybe we should pull them up," Ira suggested.

  "No," I said as Seth tugged at a board. "Try the walls. Maybe there's a hole behind something."

  We started with the little Currier and Ives prints and moved on to the mirrors. As Corey and I struggled to move a tall pine bureau, Seth said, "Hsst—the old ladies are back!"

  Just as he spoke, I heard Miss Baynes say to Miss Edwards, "Shopping tires me out more than it used to. Let's have a rest before dinner."

  They were in the hall, right outside the door. As one of them put a key in the lock, Corey and I slid under one of the beds. Hidden by a floor-length dust ruffle, we heard the women enter the room, accompanied by the rustle of more shopping bags.

  "Woodstock was just delightful," Miss Edwards said. "So many nice stores."

  "And lunch was delicious," Miss Baynes said. "If the inn at Woodstock wasn't so expensive, I'd cancel our reservations here and take a room there."

  "I'm sure we wouldn't see a mouse in the dining room."

  "Indeed not."

  The bathroom door opened and shut behind Miss Edwards, and Miss Baynes lay down on her bed. The mattress creaked and sagged over our heads. Corey and I scarcely dared to breathe.

  Suddenly, Miss Baynes sneezed and sat up with a jerk.

  The bathroom door opened, and Miss Edwards said, "What's the matter?"

  "Someone just tickled my nose with a feather!"

  Miss Edwards laughed. "You must have been dreaming." The next second her laugh turned into a gasp. "My sweater!" she cried. "It just floated out the window!"

  Both women ran to look. "There it is!" Miss Baynes said. "It's caught on the branch of a tree. See? The wind must have blown it there."

  "But it's not windy," Miss Edwards said.

  That's when the giggling started.

  "What's that?" Miss Baynes asked.

  Little ripples of laughter ran around the walls.

  "It sounds as if someone is having a joke at our expense." Miss Edwards opened the closet door. "Come out, right now!"

  The giggles got louder. At the same moment, a Simon Pearce shopping bag slid across the floor and bumped against Miss Edwards's legs. A few small pictures fell off the wall, and the bathroom door opened and shut three times.

  As the women ran from the room, Seth joined us under the bed. Convulsed with laughter, he drummed his heels on the floor. "That was fun," he crowed.

  Corey gave him an annoyed look. "They'll leave for sure now."

  Following her lead, I slid out from under the bed and left the room while we had the opportunity. Seth came with us, hiccupping from laughing so much. Behind the office's closed door, Miss Baynes and Miss Edwards were complaining to Grandmother. "It must be your grandchildren," Miss Edwards said.

  "Didn't they cause enough disturbance in the dining room with their childish pranks?" Miss Baynes asked.

  We didn't wait to hear Grandmother's answer. Sneaking out to the porch, we sat down in the rocking chairs farthest from the front door.

  Seth joined us and rocked happily back and forth, his red curls blowing in the breeze he generated.

  Corey glared at him. "We get blamed for everything you do. It's not fair!"

  Seth scowled. "You think dying when you're just seven's fair?"

  "Nothing's fair," I said. "You're both old enough to know that."

  "Not me," Seth said. "I weren't old enough when I died to know about what's fair and what's not."

  "Well, you're a lot older than seven now," Corey said.

  "No, I ain't. I was seven then and I'm seven now and I'll always be seven. So there."

  "What if you had to be ninety-nine forever?" Corey asked. "And you had to hobble around and you couldn't see or hear and—"

  I gave her a nudge with my elbow. "Shut up, Corey. You're giving me a headache."

  "I was just trying to say—"

  "Well, stop trying," I said. "Seth isn't even here anymore."

  She looked around, surprised. While we'd been arguing, Seth had disappeared.

  A little later, Miss Edwards and Miss Baynes stalked out of the inn. Mr. Brewster followed them, hauling their little wheeled suitcases and all their shopping bags. We sat very still and hoped they wouldn't see us.

  Without looking to the right or the left, they got into their Honda and slammed the doors. As soon as Mr. Brewster had wedged everything into the trunk, they took off, driving faster than the average person their age, I thought.

  "All that," I said, "and we didn't even find the account book."


  15

  I've been thinking." Ira appeared on the porch railing, looking glum, as usual. "Maybe she buried the book in the grove before she hanged herself."

  I imagined Corey and me digging one hole after another, fighting roots and rocks with our shovels, sweating in the heat, bitten by gnats and mosquitoes—not a pretty picture.

  "What makes you think so?" Corey asked.

  "Well, she wouldn't leave it in her room, would she? Somebody might find it there." He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. "Most likely she reckoned nobody would dig up the grove."

  "Why would they?" Caleb sat down next to Ira, swinging his bare feet. "Nobody knew there was another book."

  "But it's spooky in the grove." Corey toyed with her fingers, twisting them this way and that, as if she wanted to tie them into a knot.

  "Spooooky," Seth whispered in her ear, "Spooooky."

  "Go away." Corey swatted at him as if he were an annoying fly. "You get on my nerves."

  Seth pulled the barrettes out of Corey's hair and laughed as long strands fell in her face.

  Corey got up so fast the rocker swung wildly back and forth. "Quit it!" she yelled at Seth.

  Grandmother heard the noise and came to the door. "I've been looking for you two," she said. Her voice was calm but stern, and she had a teacherly gleam in her eye that meant Trouble, with a capital T. "Come inside. I want to talk to you."

  Seth giggled and made a face. "Nyah, nyah, you're in for it now!"

  Ira grabbed the younger boy's arm. "Leave off."

  The three faded from sight, and Corey and I followed Grandmother into the office.

  "I'm very disappointed in your behavior," she began. "Because of your pranks, Miss Baynes and Miss Edwards have canceled the rest of their stay here. They—"

  "We didn't do anything to them," I said.

  "It was Seth," Corey added. "We told him not to, but—"

  "Seth?" Grandmother stared at Corey. "Please don't tell me he's one of your ghosts."

  "But he is," Corey insisted. "He's the worst one of all, he's—"

  "Corey, I simply can't believe this." Grandmother turned to me. "Travis, tell me the truth. Why did you let a mouse loose in the dining room last night? And why did you booby-trap room seven? What on earth do you have against those two women?"