Ghost Writer - Pandora Pine Page 0,32

do was hope that was enough to keep the voices at bay for the time being. He felt Jude take his hand and tug him toward the back of the store. He would love to get lost in the shop and its treasures. His mother had been very fond of antique shops. She was always on the lookout for cauldrons, old grimoires, and other magical odds and ends people had discarded through time. When this was all over, Cope would be back to examine the treasures and speak with the spirits.

“Mr. Crenshaw, do you remember me?” Jude was speaking to an older man, who was probably close to seventy years old. His hair was still a rich mix of salt-and-pepper and his dark brown eyes crinkled when he smiled.

“Antique typewriter,” Crenshaw pointed a bent finger at Jude. “Said you were buying it for your husband for his birthday. How did it go over?”

That was the question of the hour. “Where do you stand on ghosts, sir?” Cope wasn’t the sort of man who usually beat around the bush, but before he could explain what the hell was going on with the typewriter, he needed to know if Mr. Crenshaw would be a captive audience or think he was a kook.

“This is Salem, after all. I’ve never witnessed a haunting myself, but enough people have told me about them for me to believe there’s more to this world than what we can see or feel.”

“Thank Jesus,” Jude muttered under his breath.

“When you said enough people have told you tales, does that include people who consign their items to the shop?” Cope was still beating around the bush, but Crenshaw had opened the door.

“On occasion.” Crenshaw stepped out from behind the counter and led them to a nearby jewelry case. The items inside sparkled under LED lights. This was the good stuff, as Cope’s mother would have said.

“The Italian cameo.” Crenshaw’s gnarled finger pointed to the centerpiece of the jewelry counter. “It used to belong to Eugenia Fairbanks. Her husband, Lewis, owned a lucrative import/export business. He had the cameo hand carved for his wife on a trip to Naples. Eugenia was wearing the broach when she was attacked and murdered years later.”

Cope shivered. With all of the spirits shouting for his attention, he couldn’t tell if Mrs. Fairbanks was one of the multitude of voices. “How did the cameo end up here instead of with a family member?”

“Eugenia’s granddaughter, Mabel, inherited the piece after her own mother passed. She’d always heard odd stories of the cameo being haunted. She hadn’t believed them until she started experiencing odd things she couldn’t explain.”

“What kind of odd things?” Jude asked. His eyes were glued to the pendant.

“She swore she heard a voice calling her name. There were other incidences of feeling as if she were being watched. The final straw came when she was attacked at knifepoint like her grandmother. When she was released from the hospital, she brought the broach to us. That was thirty years ago. I never got the full story out of her until Mabel was lying on her deathbed last year. She was convinced the broach was haunted by the spirit of her dead grandmother.”

“How about you? Do you believe the piece is haunted?” Cope kept his voice low so other customers wouldn’t overhear him.

“Without going into details, yes.” Crenshaw shivered before pulling his eyes off the cameo to look at Cope. “Now, what does all this talk about ghosts have to do with?”

“We need any information you have about the typewriter I bought last week.” Jude pulled the receipt from his pocket.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Crenshaw’s eyes narrowed on the receipt. He looked to be preparing himself for an argument over the typewriter.

“Physically, it works fine. There’s no trouble with it at all.” Cope was telling the truth. The machine worked like a dream.

“But?” Crenshaw’s dark eyes narrowed on Cope.

“It types by itself,” Cope said softly.

“You mean the strikers move more slowly than your fingers and it takes a second to catch up?” Relief flooded the old man’s face.

Cope was afraid something like this would happen. “No, sir. I’d finished writing for the night and when I was walking toward my office door, the typewriter started writing without me.”

Crenshaw’s rheumy eyes widened, but he stayed silent for several seconds. “I know who you are Mr. Forbes. You too, Mr. Byrne. I’ve lived in Salem all my life and I’m aware what goes on in that little