Free Ghosts Beneath Us: A Third Spookie Town Murder Mystery (Spookie Town Murder Mysteries Book 3) by Kathryn Meyer Griffith Page A

complete disarray. There wasn’t really much in the basement, but what was there was smashed, spilled and tossed about.
    For crying out loud, Abigail thought, who would do such a thing to an old person?
    Somewhere during their later conversation, peppered generously with cuss words provided by Alfred, Frank asked, “Alfred, is there anyone mad at you? Have you had any disagreements lately with anyone?”
    Frank had also mentioned Alfred could be a hothead at times and over the years had had feuds with just about everyone in town over one thing or another. Delayed PTSD, no doubt. The old man had had a terrible experience in Viet Nam and it hadn’t only been the fighting. He’d been captured and had been a prisoner of war for years before he’d been released at the end of the conflict. He’d been tortured and abused and it’d left horrendous scars, both physical and psychological.
    “Not that I can recall.” Alfred’s face scrunched up and his brown eyes clouded. He made a dismissive gesture with a hand that more resembled a claw. “Oh, wait a minute. I did piss off these two pesky realtors, a man and a woman, or I think they were realtors, who wanted to know what I’d sell my house and land for. The man was an irritatingly creepy dude with a head of hair like a Brillo pad and eyes that couldn’t stay still. He just wouldn’t take no. Third time he came by himself and I told him no way in hell was I going to sell to the likes of him or anybody for that matter. I scared him off with my shotgun and warned him never to come back. I took care of him all right. You should have seen the look of panic on his weasel face before he scrambled off.” Alfred laughed deep in his throat. Frank laughed with him.
    “Uh,” Abigail weighed in, “you often have people just show up at your door trying to buy your property?”
    “More than a few over the years, come to think on it.” Alfred scratched the side of his neck for about the tenth time where there was an angry looking rash. At times he moved as if he were in pain. Arthritis most likely or it was old wounds. “The woman who’d accompanied the man the first time, she was a looker I have to say that for her, offered me a hundred thousand a couple of weeks back. I told her, too, I wasn’t interested.”
    Abagail remarked, “Whew, that’s a lot of money.”
    “It is. But this is my home and this is where I plan on dying. Under this roof in my own bed with my mementos and memories. Nobody is going to scare me off, either.”
    Abigail had the thought that Alfred’s demise wasn’t far off. The man was very ill, even she could see that.
    “Did the damage we saw in the basement happen last night then?” Frank spoke to the man in a friendly voice and the veteran seemed to be warming up to him. Alfred’s scowl was gone.
    “No, it happened oh, three, four nights ago, I reckon. I just went down there and noticed it yesterday, though. But the disturbances have been waking me up at night now for over a week. It’s getting tiresome. I need my sleep. Somebody or something was lobbing rocks at my roof last night and because of the noise I couldn’t sleep.”
    “Have you called the sheriff about this?”
    “I have. Sheriff Mearl was out here yesterday. Took the report, huffed and puffed like usual, told me he’d keep his ears and peepers open and I wasn’t to use my gun again. He was as much help as he always is. Which is to say, not much. And if someone comes on my land uninvited, I darn well will get out my gun and use it. This is my land, my home and I can do what I want on it.”
    Abigail thought Frank would say something to that, but he didn’t. As one gun owner to another, she imagined the two men thought the same about self and home protection.
    “Alfred, do you know Beatrice Utley?” A tall man, Frank looked uncomfortable in the cramped house at the small table. The chair he sat in squeaked when he moved as if it would collapse at any moment and deposit him on