“Scared?”
“Maybe.” The situation made me uneasy. I hadn’t liked it when there was no obvious reason for Braden to have come upstairs. I liked it less now that we knew someone else had been up here, someone who hadn’t bothered to get help for a critically injured teen.
Spaatz and I descended the stairs and walked to the now-deserted parking lot.
“What should we do with that?” he asked, nodding at the sheet I still carried.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, undecided. “I guess we should take it to the police,” I said finally, “and tell them what we figured out about someone playing ghost on the landing.” I dumped the sheet into the trunk.
“It probably won’t change their minds about it being an accident,” Spaatz warned, pushing the trunk lid down so it closed with a clang.
“I know.” I sighed. “But we can’t just leave it here. I’ll take it by the station first thing in the morning. Then it will be the police’s problem.”
Chapter Seven
DUSK HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME I PULLED UP TO THE curb in front of my apartment, the remodeled carriage house offset from my landlady’s Victorian home. Clumps of trick-or-treaters carrying flashlights and pumpkin-shaped plastic containers for collecting candy ran excitedly down the sidewalks. Parents trailed behind, assuring the safety of the tiniest princesses and ninja warriors. A huge jack-o’-lantern with a goofy grin on its face glowed from the bottom step of Mrs. Jones’s veranda.
“Yoo-hoo! Grace!” Mrs. Jones called. She waved a broom to attract my attention and I saw she was dressed as a witch, complete with pointy hat on her head. “Come help me hand out candy.”
I obediently climbed the steps to the veranda and helped myself to a Snickers bar from the basket at her feet. “Had many customers yet?” I asked.
She nodded happily. “Oh, my, yes. Quite a few. I do so enjoy Halloween!”
In her mid-eighties, Genevieve Jones was still a go-getter, taking Meals on Wheels to shut-ins, practicing tai chi in the park, and generally meddling in the lives of her numerous nieces and nephews and their children. Tall and skinny and with a frill of white hair standing up from her head, she reminded me of a crowned crane.
“Such a shame about the McCullers boy,” she said.
I wasn’t surprised that she’d heard; Mrs. Jones’s network of family and friends kept her posted on all the good gossip.
“He wasn’t really possessed by a spirit, was he?” she asked, leaning forward.
I sighed. Mrs. Jones might get all the good gossip, but the rumor mill had usually distorted it beyond recognition by the time she repeated it. “Of course not. He tripped and fell on the stairs at Rothmere,” I said.
“Twick or tweat,” a tiny bumblebee with blond curls said, holding out a pillow case. Two other youngsters stood behind her, a skeleton and a diva with a feather boa, oversized sunglasses, and chunky jewelry.
“Aren’t you all so sweet?” Mrs. Jones said as I plunked a couple of pieces of candy into the bee’s bag.
“Are you really a witch?” the skeleton asked apprehensively, his words muffled by his mask.
“Just like you’re really a skeleton,” Mrs. Jones replied with a twinkle.
The boy thought about it for a moment and then gave a satisfied nod before scampering after the bee and the diva.
“They moved him out of ICU this afternoon.” I picked up our conversation.
“I had a friend whose son was in a coma for twenty-four years,” Mrs. Jones said sadly. “Such a tragedy.”
“And then he came out of it?”
She shook her head as a posse of teens—way too old to be trick-or-treating—came up the walk. “Then he died.”
“Hand over a treat or I’ll make you walk the plank,” a female pirate said. She had a red bandanna tied around her head and a lot of leg showed under her skimpy skirt with its ragged hem.
A costume was no excuse for her rude tone. I skipped over the chocolate bars and gave her a packet of candy corn. She backed down the stairs and a Frankenstein’s monster, complete with green face and penciled-on stitches, replaced her. He looked a bit familiar . . . Recognition dawned in his eyes at the same time I realized who he was. I half stood, spilling some candy onto the veranda. “Lonnie!”
He turned, like he might run off, but then I could see him decide to brazen it out. “The name’s Frank. Frank N. Stein,” he said as his buddies scooped up the spilled candy and put it in their bags.
Mrs. Jones said, “Aren’t you a bit old for trick-or-treating, young man?”
“I’m a kid at heart,” he said, getting a laugh out of her. “I still believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy . . . and ghosts.” He shot a sidelong glance at me on the last word.