Popcorn and Poltergeists Read online

If I hadn’t been so nervous, I’d have laughed out loud. Anyone who knew me well knew that I was the opposite of a knitting expert.

  Whether Ian believed the story or not, he gave no sign. He continued to regard Rafe. “Were you working here earlier today?”

  “I was.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  Rafe seemed to think about it. He looked down at the corpse as though that might jog his memory. “About four o’clock. Perhaps a few minutes after.”

  “Do you recognize the dead man?”

  “Without seeing his face, I couldn’t make a positive identification, but from the clothing and the hair, the dead man resembles the caretaker and gardener, Wilfred Eels.”

  “You’re acquainted with the gardener?” Ian asked with an edge of sarcasm.

  Rafe matched the sarcastic tone and upped it a level. “The man wore a name tag pinned to his shirt, as you’ll discover when you turn him over. We exchanged pleasantries whenever we saw each other, and the surname is unusual. Easy to remember.”

  Sergeant Barnes was taking notes so Ian was free to ask questions. “When did you last see Wilfred Eels?”

  “He was working in the library this afternoon. He was repairing a broken window.”

  Meanwhile, my brain was working furiously. I had definitely seen a vision of Fiona McAdam. She hadn’t been in my shop for evening class, and she hadn’t answered her phone. I was relieved to find that the body on the floor wasn’t hers. But then, where was she?

  Possibly my vision had been wrong, but in my heart, I didn’t think so.

  “What happened to Mr. Eels?” I asked.

  Ian looked at the broken body on the ground as though it was pretty obvious. I supposed it was, but if I’d learned anything in my time at Oxford, it was never to make assumptions when someone died. “We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report, but it looks like he died from a fall down the stairs.” He turned his attention back to Rafe. “Was Mr. Eels still there when you left the library?”

  “I believe so.”

  More vehicles could be heard arriving outside, and the cluster of officials around the dead man dispersed.

  I had a clear view of the man now. I was no expert, but the way his head was angled on his body, I thought his neck was broken.

  Ian said, “I’m afraid you and your knitting expert will have to come back at another time.”

  Ouch.

  “Of course,” Rafe said.

  We were just turning to go back the way we’d come when there was a shout from above. “Sir. There’s another body up here.”

  Rafe and I exchanged glances. In a low voice, I said, “Fiona.”

  Ian and Sergeant Barnes ran up the stairs. With no one to stop us, Rafe and I followed. Rafe was just being nosy, but I had such a strong feeling about Fiona that I needed to make sure it was her. See if there was anything I could do to help. Witches were healers historically, and so long as she was still alive, there might be something I could do—I only hoped I wasn’t too late.

  The stairs were stone, narrow and uneven. No wonder the poor guy had broken his neck. However, there was a thick banister, which I held onto as I ran up. I might be in a hurry, but knowing a man had died falling down these very stairs made me safety-conscious. We burst into the library, some of us panting to catch our breath. That would be me.

  A uniformed constable was standing over the crumpled body of a woman. It was exactly like my vision. I recognized her immediately and ran forward. “Fiona McAdam,” I said urgently. “That’s Fiona McAdam.”

  Ian turned around, looking furious. I knew he was about to throw us out, but I didn’t care. I took another step forward and saw her fingers move, as though trying to wave. “She’s alive.”

  I was so happy I nearly wept with joy.

  Rafe nodded. I knew that one of his vampire super senses was an ability to tell when a person was alive and when they were dead. I imagined that he could hear the blood pumping. Or perhaps he smelled it. He was only confirming what I already knew.

  Her eyelids fluttered.

  I ran to her side and dropped to my knees. I took her outstretched hand. “Fiona,” I said. “It’s me, Lucy. You’ve had an accident. Just lie still.”

  Behind me, Ian said to Barnes, “Fetch the doctor and an ambulance.”

  Sergeant Barnes was already running to the stairs.

  I rubbed her hand between mine, trying to warm it. “Fiona. Fiona, can you hear me? It’s Lucy.”

  She groaned. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed again as though it hurt her to open them. In a low, shaky voice, she said, “My head. I hurt all over.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the two men. “She’s so cold.” Even as Rafe began to slide off his coat, a paramedic arrived. I squeezed her hand before letting go. “You’ll be all right, Fiona. The paramedic’s here.”

  There wasn’t time for more. I got up from beside her and stepped away.

  I looked around the library. It had enormously high ceilings, a balcony level with yet more books. There was one of those library ladders on wheels right beside her and books tumbled all over the floor. Had she fallen from that ladder? Been pushed?

  Now that the paramedics were on scene, there was nothing for me to do. Rafe caught my eye, and with a nod, I followed him. We left from a door that led into the main body of the college. There were meeting rooms and classrooms, all quiet and dark.

  “Are you all right?” he asked me, taking my hand in his cool one.

  “I think so. Just shaken up. I feel guilty that I didn’t try harder to find her when she didn’t show up for the knitting class, and it’s always horrible to witness death.”

  “There was nothing you could have done.”

  He was probably right, but the trouble with having powers was I felt like I should become a crusader or at least a minor superhero.

  “It could not be a coincidence that she and Wilfred Eels both suffered accidents the same night at the same place. One of them fatal.”

  “No. I don’t believe it is coincidental. Wilfred Eels died in the same spot as Georgiana Quales did ten years ago.”

  I lowered my voice so as not to be overheard. “Could it be the poltergeist?”

  He looked down at me, and in the shadows of a stone, gothic college late at night, he fit right in. “Possibly. Or there’s a very human killer at work.”

  I wasn’t sure which one scared me more.

  Chapter 4

  The following morning, I phoned the hospital first thing to check on Fiona McAdam.

  To my surprise, I discovered that she was to be discharged that day. How would she get home? I knew she didn’t have friends or family in the area and, recalling how lonely I’d sometimes been when I first moved here, I left a message that I would pick her up.

  In truth, I wasn’t entirely being generous. I did have an ulterior motive. A man had died. On the surface it looked like an accident. He’d fallen down stone steps and broken his neck. But a very similar fall had killed Georgiana Quales. Then Fiona McAdam had been attacked in the library. Something very odd was going on, and I saw an opportunity for an extra-credit project in my advanced witch training. Could we help rid the college of a troublesome spirit? I was anxious to try.

  I wasn’t the best driver in all of England, especially not in a car. I still had to concentrate while driving on the other side of the road, particularly when I came to roundabouts, which I considered fiendish devices deliberately invented to torment Americans.

  I thought I could manage to get Fiona McAdam home safely, though, and if she felt like talking about what had happened, I was more than happy to listen. Not only did I like her, but my curiosity was piqued. Suspicious deaths were fascinating enough, but death possibly caused by a poltergeist?

  Had Fiona seen evidence of the disturbed spirit?

  The Radcliffe Hospital was easy enough to get to, and there was plenty of parking. I found Fiona dressed and waiting for me. She had a painful-looking black eye and bandagin
g on her forehead and up into her hairline, and her left arm was in a sling. She looked pale but calm.

  She smiled when she caught sight of me. “Lucy,” she said in a soft Scottish accent. “How very kind of you to fetch me. I was perfectly happy to take a taxi, but the hospital prefers to have a friend or family pick up patients when they’re discharged.”

  “I’m happy to do it. It’s nice to have a friendly face around when you’re feeling a bit beaten up.”

  She made a face and gingerly touched the bandage on her head. “And I do feel quite beaten up.”

  All the paperwork had been done, and she had a handbag on her lap, so presumably the police had found that and brought it with her to the hospital.

  She was stiff and limping slightly. A nurse took her by wheelchair to the car in spite of her protests.

  On the way to her house, we stopped at the chemist’s to fill her prescription of painkillers. There was a small grocery store beside the drug store, and she picked up a few essentials, enough to get her through a few days of rest.

  She directed me to her flat, the upper floor of a house in Jericho. Naturally, I insisted on carrying her groceries upstairs for her, and she didn’t argue. Instead, she clung to the banister as we walked up two flights of stairs. She got the keys out of her handbag with no problem but then seemed to struggle fitting the key into the lock. Finally, she turned to me. “They suspect I have a bit of a concussion. That’s why they kept me overnight. I can’t quite see to put the key in the lock. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” I said, taking the key from her and unlocking the door. “You took quite a spill.”

  “I was up on a ladder, you see. I was fetching a book from a high shelf. Or returning one. I don’t quite know what happened. I fell, or something hit me, and the next thing I knew, you were leaning over me. And there were police.”

  I felt so bad for her. “Shall I make you a cup of tea or coffee? Would you like some food?”

  “Just the tea. Please, make yourself at home.”

  It was pretty obvious where I should put the groceries. Her flat was essentially one main room with two doors that presumably led to her bedroom and bathroom. Straight ahead was a modern kitchen with cupboards and appliances on one side, a kitchen island and breakfast bar on the other. That opened into a living area with a small seating area, gas fireplace and TV. In a window alcove, she’d set up a desk that was piled with papers and a computer.

  The furniture was modern and fairly nondescript. I suspected the apartment came furnished for people like Fiona, visiting professors or perhaps graduate students. There were pictures on the wall and a shelf of books that injected some of her personality. A plaid blanket was folded over the back of the couch, and her bag of knitting sat on the floor.

  I put the kettle on and then put the few groceries away. She went into the bedroom, and while I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I studied her books and the art on her walls.

  This woman took her job seriously. The books were old and, to my untrained eye, looked valuable. They were various editions of work by the Brontë sisters, as well as a few scholarly works about them, including a thick volume by Fiona herself: The Brontës: Landscapes of the Mind.

  The pictures on the wall included a pencil drawing of the Brontë parsonage in Haworth. And, no, I didn’t recognize it. The subject of the picture was printed beneath. I was studying a drawing of three young women standing together that looked Victorian when Fiona emerged wearing comfy-looking sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

  She joined me. “The Brontë sisters. It’s not the original, of course. But I find it inspiring.”

  “You’re quite the fan,” I said, motioning to the books.

  She smiled and settled herself on the couch. “They are my life’s work.”

  I made the tea and brought over two cups.

  We sat across from each other, me on the comfy chair, her on the couch. I didn’t want to interrogate her since, no doubt, the police would be doing that. Still, I wondered if she might remember things during a friendly conversation with someone she knew and trusted. Did she even know that Wilfred Eels had died last night?

  She sipped her tea. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your knitting class, Lucy. I was looking forward to it.”

  “You can come next week,” I told her brightly. “You’ll soon catch up.” That was good that she remembered she’d been on her way to my class. What else did she remember? “What an awful thing to happen, especially when you’ve only been in Oxford for a few months.

  She sighed and sat back. “I wish I could remember. It was after hours, and I thought I was alone in the library.”

  “Do you remember hearing anything?”

  She looked at me, but her eyes were far away, and I thought she was taking herself back to the evening before to try and recall what she’d noticed. “There are always noises in an old building like that, aren’t there? No, I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.” Then, “Though I was disturbed by raised voices. Two men, I think.”

  I didn’t know how to ask about the caretaker so I didn’t say anything, just sipped my tea. Suddenly she said, “The police told me that a man died last night. Wilfred Eels.”

  I nodded, glad I didn’t have to skate around the subject of his death.

  Her cup rattled as she replaced it on the saucer. “He was such a nice man. He fixed a bank of lights that wouldn’t work on one of the study carrels. That’s how I first met him. Seemed very pleasant. If he wasn’t doing maintenance on the building, I’d see him outside making sure the grounds were tidy.” She put a hand to her head and rubbed her temple as though it ached. “It’s all very sad.”

  Since she’d brought the matter up, I felt comfortable prying a little further. “Had you seen Mr. Eels that day?”

  She looked at me, and her lips curved with amusement. “You’re asking the same questions the police did.”

  I had a bad habit of doing that. “It’s just so strange.”

  “Strange indeed. Yes, I had seen him earlier that day. Like me, he’d been working in the library. There was some water damage on one of the windowsills that needed repairing and then, I think, he found a crack in one of the old windowpanes.” She smiled. “He’d been kind enough to ask about my knitting. I showed him the pattern for the sweater I was going to work on in your class.” She picked up her cup and saucer and took a reviving sip of tea. “I’m sorry I missed the class, Lucy. I was so looking forward to it.”

  “Being knocked senseless is a pretty good excuse for not showing up.”

  She smiled at my lame humor, and I quickly added, “When you’re feeling better, Alice will help you get caught up with the others.” We both looked at her arm in a sling. “Whenever that is. Or, if you just want your money back, that’s fine too.”

  “No. I really love the sweater, and I find knitting so soothing. The arm’s not broken, just strained. I’ll see what the doctor says.” She looked at her knitting bag on the floor and shook her head. “The bag of wool and pattern for the popcorn sweater are still at my desk at the college. They can stay there for now, I suppose.”

  I finished my tea and could see she looked tired. “I should let you get to bed.” I noticed a pad of paper and a pen on her kitchen counter and I went to it. “I’m writing down my cell number and the shop number. You can call me anytime you need anything.”

  “You’ve been so very kind.” Then she looked at me in a puzzled way. “Lucy, how did you come to be there last night?”

  This was what the British would call a sticky wicket. I couldn’t explain to her that Rafe had snuck me into the library because he’d found out through his secret network of vampire contacts that someone had died there, and I’d jumped to the conclusion that it was Fiona because of my witch visions.

  I’d had a bit of time to come up with some explanation in case she asked me this very question, though Rafe had come up with the most plausible reason already. “I believe you know Rafe Crosyer?”

/>   “I do, yes.” She still looked puzzled.

  “He’s a friend of mine. He’s been doing some work in your library, as you know. He’s come across some old knitting and craft manuscripts and wants my opinion on them.”

  She seemed to buy this story and nodded her understanding. “It’s really a very good library, though I must say, I’m not sure there’s a need for quite so many unpublished manuscripts about women’s lives and handicrafts in Victorian times. I fear the librarians have been too generous in giving some of those old treatises shelf room. However, I should think there are some entertaining manuscripts about knitting, though that’s not my area of research, of course.”

  It wasn’t mine, either, but I kept that to myself. Posing as an expert in knitting made me almost as uncomfortable as actual knitting did.

  I was about to leave when there was a double ring on her telephone.

  “That will be someone at the door. I’m expecting a package of research materials. Would you mind, Lucy?”

  “Of course not.” I went and answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Ms. McAdam? This is Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm, from Oxford CID. We’ve a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and told Fiona that the police were at the door. She told me to send them up, so I did.

  When I opened the door, I saw that DS Barnes was with Ian. Needless to say, they both looked surprised to see me. DS Barnes walked straight in, but Ian grabbed my arm and pulled me outside onto the landing. “Lucy? What are you doing here?” He didn’t look thrilled to see me. His cop’s eyes narrowed on my face.

  “Fiona McAdam is a customer. She hasn’t had time to make friends here in Oxford yet, so I picked her up from the hospital.”

  He wore an expression he often seemed to have when he was around me. Kind of frustrated and attracted at the same time. “Apparently, she has you.” His tone suggested that she might want to keep looking for new friends.

  I walked back into the flat, and Ian followed. “The police are here now, Fiona, so I’ll be on my way.”