Who Killed the Ghost in the Library: A Ghost writer Mystery Page 4

Truth be told, and I would never tell Randy this, I was glad he was with me. Things between David and I had been a bit rocky lately, and with Randy there, David wouldn’t bring up the same old arguments. Let’s just say that David wasn’t very supportive of my writing career, and leave it at that for now.

  We went to a local steakhouse, and managed to grab a table in the back, where we were less likely to be interrupted. While we waited for our server, I glanced at David. He had wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, and a dimple in his chin. The dimple was my downfall. I was hooked the minute I saw it. Of course, those muscles and the way he looked in a business suit didn’t hurt, either. Ever since he started working for Morgan Winthrop Enterprises, he had been trying to control the way I did things, what I wore, and recently, he had started complaining about my job. Frankly, I was tired of it. Looks only go so far.

  “Cam? Did you hear what I said?” David said.

  “What? No, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I’ve been offered a promotion.”

  “That’s great!” I leaned over to hug him, but he stopped me. My cheeks flushed and I quickly moved back. “So, what will you be doing?”

  “Director of Operations. It’s a big step up, with a raise, company car…”

  “And a key to the executive bathroom?” Randy joked.

  David glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to me. “It’s a big opportunity for me.”

  “Cam just got a new job, too,” Randy said. I shook my head at him. This was not the time or place to talk about the ghost of Stanley Ashton III.

  “You finally quit working in that dusty old bookstore and found a real job?” David said, unable to resist getting a dig in at Randy’s expense.

  “There is nothing wrong with working at my bookstore,” Randy replied, his feathers clearly ruffled.

  “Except for the fact that Cam has a Master’s degree that is going to waste. She should be teaching at a college somewhere, not working at some dead end job, or writing books for other people who don’t even know she exists.”

  “Wow, I cannot believe you just said that,” I said.

  David shrugged. “You should set your expectations higher than this little town, Camille.”

  “Camille? Since when have you started calling me that?”

  “When we start going to more of the company functions, I’ll be calling you by your full name. I have to keep up appearances. That’s why I need you to find a new job. It would be embarrassing to introduce you and say that you work at a bookstore.”

  I just sat there, unsure what to say. The chutzpah of this man was just unbelievable. “I’m afraid I won’t be attending any ‘company functions’ with you any time soon. I’ve taken on a new client, and I’m busy doing research. I’m afraid you’ll just have to go by yourself, or find a date that won’t be such an embarrassment to you.”

  “What new client?”

  “A member of the Ashton family,” Randy said. I kicked him under the table.

  “The Ashtons?” David said. “They haven’t been around here in years. Who cares about them anymore?”

  “Someone close to the family believes that Stanley Ashton III may have been murdered, and they have asked me to help them find the truth.”

  “Again, who cares? You’re not the police, Camille. Leave it to the trained professionals. I need you to go through your things, throw out the old ratty stuff. I’ll buy you all new furniture and clothes, hire a mover, give your…”

  “Whoa…what?”

  “We have to move. My new job is on the West Coast.”

  “And you just assumed I’d give up everything and come with you?” I said incredulously. “Are you insane?”

  “Lower your voice, please,” David said, placing his hand on top of mine. “Of course you’re coming with me. I love you. You didn’t really think I’d leave without you?”

  My phone rang at that moment, and I dug it out of my purse. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Miss Camille? This is Agatha Foley. Mr. Stanley is wondering if you have made a decision yet.”

  “I thought we agreed that I would contact you after I had looked into a few things. I’ve barely had time to talk to anyone.”

  “I know, Miss Camille, but he is very anxious to get this situation settled.”

  “Camille, we’re in the middle of lunch,” David said, obviously annoyed.

  “Aggie, tell him I’ll do it. I’ll let you know when I find out anything.”

  “I’ll certainly tell him, Miss Camille, and thank you!”

  “Are you really going to do it?” Randy said. I nodded. “Fantastic!”

  “Do what?” David said.

  “Help a ghost find his murderer,” Randy replied. I groaned and put my face in my hands.

  “Excuse me? Did he just say ‘ghost’?” David held up his hand when Randy opened his mouth. “I’m asking her, not you.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m listening.”

  So I told him everything. His face was expressionless, like he was processing all the information before coming to a logical conclusion. “I asked them to give me some time to do some research before I made a decision, but it sounds like they are anxious for me to get started.”

  “And you believe that helping a…”

  “…ghost,” I said for him.

  “…yes, that…is the best use of your time and talents?”

  “At this particular time, yes.”

  David motioned to our server, who came right over. He handed her a hundred dollar bill, put his napkin next to his plate, and stood up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving. It’s clear that it would be in my best interests to make a clean break of things, and start over by myself in California. You’re not the same person I first met.”

  “And you have turned into a self-centered, pompous jerk, the same type of person you used to make fun of. The only things you love are yourself and your job. Good luck, David. I’m sure you’ll find someone who fits into your mold for an ideal mate.” I turned my back on him so I wouldn’t have to watch him leave.

  Randy watched him go before turning his attention to me. “Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied, lying through my teeth. “Where should we go first, the library or the newspaper office?”

  Chapter 8

  We started at the library. I was once again riding with Randy, since I had gone to the restaurant with David. “Want to talk?”

  “Not really,” I said, staring out the window.

  “Come on, it will make you feel better.”

  “No.”

  We rode in silence for a few minutes. “Good riddance is what I think.”

  “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk’ don’t you understand?”

  “It will do you good to talk about it, though.”

  “What is it you want me to say or do, Randy? You want me to have a nervous breakdown or something? Cry my eyes out?”

  “You’re certainly going to be the talk of the grapevine for a few days. A public dumping is bound to have those tongues wagging.”

  “My lifelong dream fulfilled. I can scratch it off my bucket list.”

  Randy parked in front of the library. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “I know you’re just trying to help, and I appreciate it. But I’ll deal with this in my own way. But when I am ready to talk, we’ll do it over a carton of chocolate chip ice cream.”

  “Deal. Now, get out of here.”

  “Aren’t you going in with me?”

  Randy shook his head. “I’ve got a phone call I need to make. I’ll wait for you here.”

  “While you’re making calls, would you call Mr. Scott and see if he will talk to us?”

  “How much am I getting paid for this job?”

  “About as much as I am.”

  “So half of nothing, huh?” Ran
dy said.

  I grabbed my purse and got out. Thanks to countless hours of research, I was very familiar with the library. I spent so much time here, one of the librarians jokingly said I should think about applying for a job.

  I opened the heavy oak door and went inside. To my immediate left was the checkout desk, manned by Julie Cooper, a high school senior, who smiled and waved as I walked by.

  “Cam, good to see you again!” Sam Ellison, the reference librarian said as I entered her area. “Researching a new book?”

  “Sort of, Sam. I’m looking for some information on the Ashton family.”

  “Good grief, why? That family has been gone from here for over sixty years.”

  “But the Ashtons were one of the founding families, right?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “So you should have files on them, right?”

  “Of course we do,” Sam replied. “But if you want to write about the founding fathers, surely you could find someone more interesting than the Ashtons?”

  “I’m starting with the A’s and working my way down the list.”

  Sam got up, walked around the desk and over to a row of gray filing cabinets. “Everything we have would be in here,” she said, opening the top drawer of the first cabinet. “Is there a particular Ashton you are focusing on?”

  “Stanley III,” I said.

  “Oh, him,” she said, the tone of distain loud and clear in her voice.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Sam pulled out three thick files, carried them over to a table and put them down. “He was a real piece of work,” she said, going back to the cabinet and grabbing three more files. “From what I’ve been told, no one was sorry to hear that he killed himself. A lot of people went to the funeral just to make sure he was dead.”

  “I take it your grandmother was one of them.”

  “Yes, she was,” she said, putting the other three files on the table. “Stanley Jr. spent years trying to take my family’s land from them. He wanted the land to add horse stables and tennis courts to his private house. He wasn’t able to take it away from us, but Stanley III picked up right where his father left off. It took him a couple of years, but he managed to do it.”

  “Because of the Depression.”

  She nodded. “They just couldn’t make the house payments or pay the property taxes. It was the same for a lot of families back then. Unfortunately, Stanley III died before he could go through with the expansion plans.”

  “But your family never got the land back.”

  “No, they didn’t. I believe they tried to talk to Amelia about it, but she wouldn’t listen to them. A month or so after that, she took the kids and left town.”

  “I’m sure that your family wasn’t the only ones that Stanley III hurt.”

  Sam snorted. “You want a list? Go visit the nursing home. I can guarantee that almost everyone there had some type of business dealings with the Ashtons.”

  “I’ll have to ask him about that,” I mumbled.

  “Ask who?”

  “No one. It was one of those random thoughts that popped into my head. Just reminded me I need to ask someone a question.”

  “Why exactly are you asking about the Ashtons?”

  “I’m thinking about doing a book on the people who first lived here.”

  “Then you should write about the Underwoods. They were wonderful people.”

  “That’s Amelia’s family, right?”

  Sam nodded. “They were very generous, giving money to build a lot of the historic buildings.” She got up and went to a different cabinet. “People wondered why Amelia married into the Ashton family,” she said, pulling more files out and carrying them to the table. “There was speculation that the Ashtons agreed to the marriage to get access to the Underwood money.”

  “But weren’t the Ashtons rich?”

  “Yes, they were, but with Underwood money, it would make Stanley III more powerful than his father. There were rumors that he wanted to run for governor.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Amelia’s father made sure that her husband couldn’t get his hands on the Underwood fortune. He established a trust fund for her when she was born, and when she started dating Stanley III, he reworked the terms of the trust so that the money could only be used for her and any children that she had.”

  I thought about it for a minute. “So when she decided to leave town, she had access to money.”

  “Exactly. It’s all in the files.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I love genealogy and history. A lot of these files were here when I started working here six years ago. Many interviews and lots of research later, and I know more about this town than anyone else. It’s pretty cool to share it with someone else.”

  “Maybe you should take all that information and write a book.”

  “I don’t know if I would be any good at that. I’ll leave the writing to you.”

  “Could I take these with me? This is a lot of information to go through.”

  “Technically, you’re not supposed to, but I do have all the paperwork on a computer. Give me a flash drive and I can give you everything you need.”

  I dug around in my bag, pulling out a flash drive I kept in there in case of emergency. It took about ten minutes to get everything I needed. “Thank you so much.”

  “Any time.”

  “By the way, any idea what happened to Amelia and the kids?”

  “No clue. It’s like they disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

  “If you have some time, would you mind checking to see if there are death certificates, marriage licenses, or anything else you can think of that might give us an idea of where they are?”

  “Sure, I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  I thanked her again and left. True to his word, Randy was still waiting for me when I came out. “How did it go?” he asked as I got in the car.

  “There is a ton of information on the Ashtons and the Underwoods in the reference section. Sam put them on my flash drive. I’d rather have a hard copy in hand to make notes, but I’ll manage.”

  “I could print them off for you at the bookstore,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  “That would be great,” I said, handing him the flash drive. “Sam mentioned that Amelia’s father set up a trust fund for her that Stanley III couldn’t touch. So if she left town and disappeared, she certainly had the resources to do so. Were you able to get in touch with Mr. Scott?”

  “He’s going to meet us at the coffeehouse in about an hour. That will give us time to go to the bookstore and print out the stuff on your flash drive.”

  “What do you mean ‘us’? You need to spend time working at the store.”

  Randy scoffed. “That’s why I hired a manager, so I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time there. Being rich has its advantages.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you’re spending more than you make.”

  “I never go into business to lose money,” he said, as we parked in front of the bookstore.

  Truth be told, I had no idea where Randy got his money, and I never asked him. With my vivid imagination, I had come up with various scenarios, but brushed them aside as absurd. What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?

  Three reams of paper later, we had all the information printed out that Sam had given me. “This is going to take forever to go through,” I groaned as we put it into a box.

  “Yes, but somewhere in there could be the name of a killer,” Randy pointed out.

  “Or we could be barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Always the pessimist. Would it kill you to see the glass as half full just once?”

  “You’re not the one who has to read all that.”

  “Good point,” Randy conceded, glancing at his watch. “We better get over to the coffeehouse. Mr. Scott will be there any minute.”

  We walked across the street to the coffeehouse. Randy went to
get us something to drink while I picked a table away from possible eavesdroppers. “How will we know Mr. Scott when he walks in?” I asked Randy as he handed me a Dr Pepper.

  “He said he would be wearing a gray fedora,” he replied.

  “Certainly not a lot of people wearing one of those around town.”

  Five minutes later, a tall gentleman wearing a gray fedora walked in. Randy went over, introduced himself and led him to our table. “Mr. Clifford Scott, this is Camille Shaw.”

  “A pleasure, sir,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand. “I appreciate you coming down here on such short notice to talk to us.”

  “Can I get you anything to drink, Mr. Scott?” Randy said.

  “Coffee, black, please. Thank you,” he said as he sat down, putting his hat on the chair next to him.

  I had to admit, I had a preconceived notion about what he was going to look like, and I was definitely wrong. I had been expecting someone short, fat and bald. Mr. Scott had thick gray hair, was about six feet tall and in good shape for a man his age. He was wearing a white shirt with gray slacks that matched his hat, and a sturdy pair of dress shoes.

  “Not what you were expecting, I take it?” he said.

  I blushed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scott…”

  “Please, call me Cliff. Mr. Scott sounds so formal. You’ve grown into a beautiful young lady. I remember when you came up to my knees. Hard to believe you’re that same freckled face little tomboy.”

  “I still have the freckles and I’m still very much a tomboy, much to my mother’s chagrin. It took years for her to realize that I was not the frills and lace type.”

  He laughed, a deep, rich laugh. “Your friend told me on the phone that you have some questions about a murder that happened years ago. He wasn’t very specific. I dealt with a lot of murders in a forty-year career.”

  “Stanley Ashton III.”

  “Wow,” he said. Randy put a maroon coffee cup in front of him and sat down next to me. “That is an old one. My very first murder case, as a matter of fact.” He took a sip of his coffee. “May I ask why you want to know?”

  “I thought the case was ruled a suicide,” I said, ignoring his question. “You just said ‘murder’. Why?”

  “Answer my question first.”