Page 19 of Air Of Mystery
“Amazing insight,” Sunny said, reaching for her slice of pizza. “It’s my curse.”
“Smart ass.”
She grinned at me from across the table. “Go get your gang together and go on an investigation. Put all those smarts you have to work.”
“Besides for the house on Henry Street, things have been quiet lately,” I complained. “There’s nothing new brewing around here.”
“I’ve never liked that house,” Sunny said. “I avoid that street when I take Manny on long walks around the neighborhood.”
“Probably best to stay clear of there,” I warned her.
“Planned on it.” She nodded. “Oh, that reminds me! A client of mine has a friend who bought a restaurant down in the historic district of old St. Charles. Apparently, the staff are convinced that it’s haunted. The new owner is having a hard time keeping employees. Everyone gets scared off and then quits.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, picking back up my wine. “How long has this been going on?”
“Months. My client talked to me about it yesterday, because she knew that we are related. One of her teenage kids is a fan of your show, and they thought maybe you could help their friend.”
“Do you have their contact information?”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll give it to you after we finish eating.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Thanks for the tip, Sunny.”
“You go have fun and bust some heads…in a spiritual sense of course.”
Her quote from the oldGhostbustersmovie had me laughing. Relaxing for the first time in days, I finished my meal and enjoyed the rest of the evening with my cousin.
***
A week later George, Larry, and I drove across the river into Missouri and headed for the historic district of old town St. Charles. The cobblestone streets were charming, and many of the buildings on Main Street dated back to the 1820s.
We pulled up and parked behind the row of historic buildings-turned-businesses in a public parking strip that was situated between the road and riverfront park. A full moon was rising over the Missouri River as we discretely hauled our equipment cases to the side door of the restaurant.
I’d spent the past few days doing my research on the history of the location. The restaurant was originally a family home, built in 1846 by a German immigrant, Franz Kolbe. Kolbe had prospered in his town and had also owned a warehouse that he used to store flour from his mill. In 1855 he married, and he and his wife raised their family in the location. The house was a two-story brick with dormers on opposite ends of the roof. It featured black shutters and an elegant white portico, which was likely a later addition.
As we approached, I spotted the plaque that announced the building as being listed on the national historic register. The current owner, Jim, was waiting for us, and he let us right in.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” he began.
Larry went into a small bar area and began to set some of his cases up on the tables. With a wave to me he went back out to the parking lot to go get the rest of his tech equipment. I was immediately ushered off to the dining room, where four of the staff were waiting to speak to me. The cook, Joanne, two wait staff—Darrin and Kathleen—and the dishwasher, Frank.
After saying hello, I quickly shrugged out of my jacket, set up my video camera and audio recorders, and began their individual interviews in the main dining room.
Almost immediately I got the sense of a female spirit in the dining room. Good news? It didn’t feel threatening to me at all. In fact, it felt almost maternal. But it felt like she was curious…or perhaps interested in what was going on.
A few of the employees did not want to appear on camera for my YouTube program, so I simply aimed the camera off to one side, where they could be heard but not seen.
Interestingly, they all had similar stories. Darrin and Kathleen told me how flatware often went missing at the end of their shift. Kathleen explained how one night she went back to thekitchen to go and get a few more forks to finish the table set up for the next day, and when she returned a moment later all of the silverware was missing from the table she had just completed.
Darrin, who was a college student, informed me that hehatedthe attic. “Won’t go up there ever again,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“It feels bad,” he replied. “Makes me feel like I’m choking.”
When it came time to interview Frank, the dishwasher, I got even more information. Frank, it turned out, was a veteran. I spotted several military style and patriotic tattoos on his forearms. He was far too thin, and although his shirt was a tad threadbare it was spotlessly clean. It was clear to see that the man had fallen on hard times. Polite and very direct in his manner, there was something about him that tugged on my heartstrings.
“It’s the cellar that’s the real problem,” Frank told me.
