Page 29 of Ghostridden
“To answer your question, about five years ago. I’m a lawyer by training. Used to practice here in town. Taryn took over my practice when my husband and I decided to semi-retire.” He smiled wryly. “Little did we know that we’d be working harder in retirement than if we’d stayed with our original professions.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He’s now the town’s librarian—totally unpaid—although he used to be the only family practice doctor in Ghost. He also volunteers with adoption and surrogacy agencies, helping to place children with loving families, and to help families like our own grow and prosper. Of course, he did that before he retiredtoo. It was his passion project. You’ll find a number of families here in Ghost who owe him for his work.”
“That’s lovely.”
His smile turned tender. “Yes. He is.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why haven’t you been able to make progress with the papers? Are they stored poorly or damaged?”
“Not a bit. Thaddeus was meticulous in his record-keeping because he wanted to ensure that if any of his efforts to contact the other side succeeded, he’d be able to replicate the process. He also kept diaries, as did his wife and two of his six children. There arecratesof the things, so if you think I was just throwing you a bone, please disabuse yourself of that notion.”
“Crates?” I said faintly.
He nodded. “Crates. A whole room full of them. And the reason I haven’t been able to even make a start is that all my time is taken up with fundraising to try and keep the place afloat.” He grimaced. “And did I mention I’m supposed to be retired? I do try to work fewer than sixty hours a week nowadays.”
“So what do you envision for the result? Do you want to just organize and catalog the papers? Cross-reference them? Scan them into digital copies?”
“All of that, yes. But what I’d really like is the story of Richdale and his quest in an entertaining and easily digestible story. Nothing dry or academic. Anecdotal. Something that visitors could pick up in the gift shop on their way out. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.” Belatedly, I dug in my bag and pulled out a pad and pen to take notes. “The Dunsmuir estate up in Victoria has something similar.”
“Exactly! Is that something you could do?”
I shifted a little uneasily. “In terms of ability, yes. I’ve ghostwritten similar books for clients who wanted their familystories… well, not fictionalized, but novelized?” When Saul nodded, I went on. “However, it depends a lot on the material. If the stories are there in the papers, I can pull them out and make them entertaining. But if there’s nothing of interest?” I spread my hands. “I’m not a novelist. I can vet what’s there, but I can’t invent it from whole cloth.”
He chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. The papers might be extensive, but there’s a story there. Thaddeus was quite a character, and the rest of his family wasn’t exactly boring. Cornelius ended up as a stuntman in silent pictures.” Then he sat forward, eyes sparkling. “Now, how was your second night in your house? Did you experience any other manifestations?”
Okay, here goes. “As a matter of fact, yes.” I extracted the paper from my bag and slid it across the wide polished desk. “This was on the kitchen counter this morning.”
His eyes widened and he picked it up, holding it between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. “Oh,” he breathed. “Not even left on the typewriter? Actually moved downstairs to the kitchen? That’sextraordinary.”
I took a moment to wonder if Saul owned a half dozen time shares or had fallen for emails from displaced Nigerian princes, because he seemed far too innocent and trusting for a retired lawyer. If somebody had handed me that paper and said a ghost had typed it up and schlepped it downstairs, I’d have called bullshit in a heartbeat.
Iknew that’s exactly what had happened, but Saul had only my word for it.
“Do you suppose they’re apologizing for the mess in the library?” he asked.
His voice was soft, so I wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking to me, but I took a deep breath. “No. He was apologizing for almost doing it again.”
Saul’s head snapped up. “What?” Andtherewas the lawyer voice.
I clasped my hands together in my lap. “When I was looking over the manuscript for a prospective client, someone, er, commented on it from behind my back.”
His eyes widened. “Theyspoke? Youheardthem?”
“Yep. He was, um, a little judgmental about the quality of the writing.”
Now his eyes narrowed. “‘He’? It was a male voice?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “And not only a voice. I could see him.”
Saul let go of the paper, which drifted to the desktop, and fell back in his chair. “Yousawsomeone,” he croaked. “An actual apparition?”
“Not only that. I know who it was.” I took another breath. This might be tough for Saul to hear. It’s one thing to poke around in ghost stories from Thaddeus Richdale’s era, but this was someone Saul had known personally. “It was Avi.”
Saul paled. “Avi? Avi Felder?”
