Harvey. "What makes you think it’s your
grandpa?"
"The ghost hits the liquor cabinet every night at nine,
just like my grandpappy used to do."
"Define ‘hits.’"
"Opens the liquor cabinet door, sometimes both of them."
I waited to see if he was going to deliver a punch line, but
apparently there wasn’t one. "Maybe your cabinet is just off-balance."
"Really, Miss Smarty Pants? And gravity works its magic
at the same time every night?" He shook his head. "It’s got to be Grandpappy.
My pa always reminisced about his daddy’s drinking habit, said you could set
your clock by him. In the end, the damned firewater killed Grandpappy’s liver, taking
him along with it."
"So, you want my client to confirm it’s your grandpa?"
"No, I want your client to ask Grandpappy where he
buried those damned jars of money. I’ve dug up the whole yard and can’t find
‘em anywhere."
"I have a metal detector down in the basement you can
use," Aunt Zoe said, rejoining us. "Maybe it would detect the lids if
there are no coins in the jars."
"I’ve tried metal detectors. There’s somethin’ in the dirt
out there that makes the radars go all scatterwonky." He scratched behind
his ear. "No, I need Violet’s ghost talker. He’d go right to the source."
I groaned and shook my head at Aunt Zoe. "I can’t
believe we’re having this conversation."
"Stranger things have happened around these parts,"
she explained with a shrug.
"I’ve always wanted to ask my grandpappy if that old
story about the two miners trapped in the mine up behind my barn is true or
just a tall tale."
"This is crazy, Harvey."
He continued as if I hadn’t tried to inject some rationale
into the conversation. "According to the old timers, the miners had three
bags full of gold that they’d stolen from the mine superintendent’s safe in
Slagton. They were stashing the gold when the mine caved in, trappin’ them."
Harvey’s words went in one ear and out the other. I was busy
trying to envision Cornelius talking to ghosts in Harvey’s living room. "Even
if ghosts do exist, how could they talk without a larynx?"
"The old timers swore that for decades after the
cave-in, if you went up in the mine, hiked back to the rock-fall, and stood
really still and quiet-like, you could hear someone tap-tap-tapping on the
other side of the timbers."
Chills spread across my shoulders and down my arms. "Ghost
or no ghost, that’s just creepy."
"I remember hearing that story years ago in the Golden
Sluice up in Lead." Aunt Zoe said, referring to the gritty local bar where
I’d met one of Lead’s high-ranking, tail-chasing, council members weeks ago to
talk about a potential sale. Unfortunately, that buying client of mine now sat
in jail awaiting trial. Such was my luck in the realty business.
Zoe continued. "The miner who told us the tale used to
live back in Slagton before the government evacuated most of the town. He
refused to go back to Slagton, swearing there was something in the water that
turned everyone sour in the head. How did he say it? ‘Made ‘em just not right,
anymore.’"
Harvey nodded. "That’s why my pa called them Whangdoodles.
One step short of plum-shit crazy."
I tried to rub away my goose bumps. After the last story I
heard about Slagton, which involved a milky-eyed demon who supposedly dug up
the graves in a local cemetery and chewed on the bones, there was no way I’d go
to Slagton. Not even with a six-pack of fully-armed Navy Seals leading the way.
"Anyway," Harvey said, "if I can find that
cash my pa swore my grandpappy buried, I wouldn’t have to wait for my ranch to
sell to buy a house in town."
I sat up straight, my chain yanked. Did someone say buy a house?
Harvey grinned. "I’d be your second cash-paying
customer this month."
Okay, so I wasn’t sold yet on the whole concept of ghosts
existing, and maybe the idea of Cornelius talking to them was a tad bit loony,
but what if— just what if —there really were jars of