Pages and Premonitions, page 6
Rounding the far corner, Shelby pulled up short at the sight of a man bent to examine some trampled shrubbery along the side fence. Heart leaping into her throat, she stumbled backwards and collided with a trash can, sending it crashing over.
The figure spun, eyes widening. "Oh! Shelby. Are you all right? You gave me quite a fright."
Shelby stared, certain she was still dreaming because she was seeing the impossible. Mr. James Peacock stood before her in his winter jacket and gloves, very much alive. A small suitcase stood on the walkway nearby.
"Mr. Peacock?" she choked out. "You're ... not dead?"
He blinked at her, bewildered. "Not last I checked, though I had a bit of a cough a day ago."
Shelby's thoughts reeled. How could this be? The body found at the estate ... the murder ... none of it made sense now.
She was vaguely aware of Harper rubbing at her ankles. Drawing a shaky breath, Shelby forced her whirling mind to focus.
Harper said, “Tell him before he thinks you’re nuts.”
"Mr. Peacock, I'm so glad you're all right. I’m just ... shocked.” Shelby scrambled to her feet and her words spilled out as she explained there had been a murder in town and that the police thought he had been the victim. “The police found your wallet on the deceased.”
“My gosh,” Mr. Peacock said. “I had no idea. I was so busy, I hadn’t been paying attention to the news.” He gestured to the shrubbery. “I just got home. I took a ride share from the train station. I noticed the shrubbery had been trampled. See there?”
“The intruder may have done that,” Shelby suggested.
“Oh, I see. Maybe we should go inside? I should call the police."
"That’s a good idea."
Mr. Peacock bustled Shelby and the cat indoors while politely ignoring the young woman’s stumbling steps and astonished stares. He put on a kettle for tea before settling across from her at the kitchen table.
"Forgive the mess," he said. "I've been away at a writer’s conference. The trip was rather last-minute, so I'm afraid I left the house in disarray."
Shelby leaned forward, listening in disbelief as Mr. Peacock described being invited to present at a conference in New York City. In his excitement over the unexpected opportunity, he had raced off without telling anyone where he was going, forgetting his wallet and cell phone on the kitchen counter.
"I did have my passport with me and an extra credit card. It was a very interesting conference," he admitted. "I enjoyed presenting my article on writing fiction after a career penning many non-fiction legal pieces. The event only lasted four days, and when it was over, I took the first train back."
He opened a biscuit tin and offered a butter cookie to Shelby. "With no phone, I didn't get any messages about my supposed demise. What an unbelievable misunderstanding. I assumed I'd return to a stack of mail on my doorstep, not police tape."
Shelby shook her head, still struggling to reconcile the improbable situation with the murder investigation she had been so involved in the past few days.
"The police found a body in a fire at the Harris Estate," she explained. "They identified him as you because your wallet was on the body. I guess the dental records and DNA testing hadn’t come back yet. I just can't believe the mistake."
Mr. Peacock nodded in understanding. "A terrible tragedy regardless of the victim's identity, but I, however, remain hale and hardy." He chuckled then, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "Rather amusing to be present for one's own eulogies.” His expression turned serious. “Who was the poor man who was killed? He was in my house? The man must have stolen my wallet. Why were the victim and the killer in my house?"
Shelby shook her head. “I have no idea.” Mistaken identity or not, a brutal crime had still occurred and the killer likely believed his vendetta had been accomplished, unaware his true target was still alive. She shuddered at the unsettling thought knowing the killer would probably try again.
Abruptly, the front door rattled as someone knocked on it.
When Shelby jumped, Mr. Peacock pushed to his feet. "Well, I'd better see who's on my porch then."
Before Shelby could object, the man hurried to the front hall and opened the door partway, peering out to the porch. She held her breath, her ears straining to hear who it was. Had the murderer returned? She stood and waited.
But the only sound was a jovial voice exclaiming, "Jim, you old goat! The whole town heard you'd passed. I was walking past the house and saw you in the window."
“It was a mistake.” Mr. Peacock laughed aloud. "I’m still kicking, though doctors say I ought to lay off the brandy." He swung the door wide to admit a portly, bearded gentleman Shelby vaguely recognized from around town.
"Allow me to introduce my friend, Professor Jeffrey Rundle," Mr. Peacock announced. "An expert on medieval religious texts, though his true passion is the golf course, I daresay."
Professor Rundle pumped Mr. Peacock's hand enthusiastically. "You can't imagine the stir your supposed demise caused, but it’s wonderful to see it's been grossly exaggerated."
He turned a genial smile on Shelby. "And who might you be, my dear?"
"I’m Shelby Price. I run the bookshop on Main Street." She stood there awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. "I stopped by to check on Mr. Peacock's, um, house."
"Of course, of course. Terrible confusion all around," Professor Rundle declared. "But Jim seems no worse for wear. I'd best let you recover from all the chaos. Do call if you need anything."
With more lively hand shaking and back-slapping, the professor left the house. Mr. Peacock waved before closing the door and turning to Shelby.
"Jeffrey can be a pompous windbag, but he’s harmless. Well, my goodness, what a morning."
Shelby managed a weak smile, trying to hide the fact that her equilibrium was still tilting. She had gone from believing Mr. Peacock murdered to finding him outside his cozy home inspecting the shrubbery. She felt like she could use a huge mug of coffee after all of the shocks.
"I should let Detective Whitely know you're alive and well," she ventured. "He'll need to ... reassess some things." Like an entire homicide investigation, she thought to herself.
"Splendid idea." Mr. Peacock bustled about the kitchen. "Please convey my sincere apologies for the confusion. I look forward to providing any help in unraveling this mess."
Still dazed, Shelby looked down at her cat, and Harper brushed against her leg, gazing up with a look of sympathy.
“Quite the unexpected twist,” the cat remarked, “but very fortunate that no actual harm came to this gentleman.”
"Right..." Shelby murmured. She pulled out her phone with hands still faintly trembling. Best to update the detective on the shocking new development right away.
The detective arrived in under fifteen minutes, looking sharp and professional in his dark overcoat. Travis was unable to hide his astonishment when Mr. Peacock greeted him at the door. Soon the three of them were sitting around the kitchen table as Mr. Peacock related his tale.
"A case of mistaken identity then," Travis mused, shaking his head in wonder and turning to look at Shelby for a moment. "An innocent man died. It just wasn’t you, sir." He regarded Mr. Peacock as he spoke in a somber tone, "You're very fortunate. Your reputation as a prosecutor made you an obvious target for anyone harboring a grudge."
Mr. Peacock removed his spectacles and polished them as he thought about what the detective said. "I did put away some dangerous characters during my career, but I can't fathom who would go to such lengths now, after I've been retired for a few years."
"We'll need you to review a list of former inmates and clients," Travis said. "See if any names jump out."
“I’d be glad to.”
“Someone must have broken into your house while you were away. The intruder must have pocketed your wallet and phone,” the detective mused. “The killer probably came in while the intruder was still here. Thinking it was you, he murdered the man.”
“How unbelievably terrible.” With sad eyes, Mr. Peacock shook his head. “But the question remains … why is someone after me?”
“Is there someone you could stay with for a while?” the detective asked. “It might be better not to be alone.”
Mr. Peacock considered the suggestion. “I would prefer to stay in my home. I’ll think about it.”
“Let me know what you decide to do.” The detective stood and offered his hand. "For now, stay alert. Whoever killed that man likely thinks his mission has been accomplished, but when he hears the news that you’re still alive, he might return. Be aware of your surroundings. Call the police emergency line if anything seems off."
After a nod at Shelby and a final bemused shake of his head, the detective left the house. Shelby lingered for a moment, feeling a sense of profound relief. She hadn't been able to prevent the senseless death, but at least Mr. Peacock was still alive and grateful for missing a brush with a mortal attack. Vowing to herself that when her intuition screamed a warning, she would find a way to intervene before the darkness claimed a victim.
After she bid Mr. Peacock a fond farewell, the man bustled off to brew a fresh pot of tea. Back outside in the brisk air, Shelby turned a thoughtful gaze up to the clear blue sky.
"Why do I feel like we just stepped through the looking glass?" she wondered aloud as her boots crunched over the light covering of snow on the sidewalk.
“Because we just did.” Harper peered up at her. “Your dream and senses led the way past the smoke and mirrors of mistaken identity.”
The corners of Shelby's mouth turned up. "So, you're saying I should trust my instincts, even when the facts seem against them."
The cat blinked her approval. “You should. Your heart holds wisdom, if you’re ready to listen to it.”
With a nod, Shelby turned her steps toward home and the cozy bookshop waiting for her. The world felt like it was aligning into focus again after several days of distortion.
But dangerous illusions still waited in the shadows. The peace of Mr. Peacock's reprieve was only temporary if the killer remained undiscovered. Sobered by the thought, Shelby quickened her pace.
She had work to do.
8
The cozy bookshop windows glowed invitingly against the frosty night outside. Shelby hummed softly to herself as she worked, appreciating the peace and quiet after the shock of recent events. The warmth from the crackling fireplace warmed her and made the space cozy and inviting.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was almost 8pm. Shelby had decided to keep the shop open longer in hopes of catching some late-evening holiday shoppers.
Soon she was lost in the soothing rhythm of her tasks - straightening book piles, dusting shelves, wiping smudges from the front window. Her mundane chores never felt like drudgery. She loved her bookshop, a place filled with stories that sparked the imagination. She added some books to the circular table by the door where the staff recommendations were displayed. Shelby’s suggestion was To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, whom Harper the cat was named after.
The cheerful jangle of the bell over the door announced a new arrival, interrupting Shelby’s thoughts. She turned with a welcoming smile that widened when she saw her visitor.
“Lucy! I’m so glad you came by.”
Shelby’s closest friend unwound a vibrant red scarf from her throat as she hurried over, cheeks flushed from the cold. “I was hoping you’d still be open. I worked late at the B and B so I thought I’d stop in and see how you’re holding up after, well, everything.”
Since calling Lucy that morning with the shocking news that Mr. Peacock was alive, Shelby’s world had tilted back into some semblance of normalcy, but she welcomed Lucy’s company after the upheaval of the recent days.
“I’m doing okay. I still feel a bit unsettled, but I’m so relieved that Mr. Peacock is alive,” Shelby admitted as she prepared steaming mugs of cinnamon tea while Lucy made herself at home in one of the plush armchairs near the fireplace.
Soon the two friends were deep in discussion about the latest improbable twist. Harper leapt gracefully onto Shelby’s lap and settled there. Gazing into the dancing flames, Shelby absently stroked the cat’s sleek fur as she turned things over in her mind.
“Mr. Peacock is still in danger,” she said slowly to her friend. “The real killer is still out there, thinking his vendetta is complete. The news about the case of mistaken identity and that Mr. Peacock is alive is all over the media outlets. It won’t be long before the killer finds out and comes back to attack Mr. Peacock.” Despite the fire’s warmth, an icy chill swept through Shelby’s body at the thought that Mr. Peacock was in danger.
Lucy nodded, looking troubled. “You’re right, the good news is only temporary. Any idea why someone would want to target the man? Maybe old grudges from his lawyer days?”
Shelby rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. “I think we should do some digging into his background. Maybe we can identify someone from the past who might have cause to wish him harm.”
“Detective Travis told us not to go sleuthing on our own anymore,” Lucy pointed out wryly.
Shelby waved a dismissive hand. “Research isn’t sleuthing. We’re just ... concerned citizens trying to assist law enforcement.” Her eyes held a determined glint.
“Okay, where do we start this research?” Lucy asked, matching Shelby’s resolute tone. “We can access newspaper archives through the town’s library database.”
Shelby nodded approvingly. “Old articles about Mr. Peacock should give us some background. Maybe a former client with a grudge will jump out at us.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean that literally.”
“I know.” Lucy laughed.
They moved to the sofa and huddled around Shelby’s laptop while the young woman tapped at the keys. Pages of information about James Peacock came up; and many of the articles mentioned what a hardworking and dedicated lawyer he’d been in his pursuit of justice as a prosecutor.
“There are plenty of cases of his with defendants who would be enraged by the outcome of the trials. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Shelby stifled a yawn, the long day catching up with her.
Lucy yawned too, then stood and stretched, glancing at her watch. “I should get home. I have an early morning tomorrow.” She hugged Shelby tightly. “Call me if anything else weird happens, okay?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.” Shelby smiled.
After walking her friend to the door and turning the rectangular card to “Closed,” Shelby returned to the comfort of the armchair, gazing pensively into the dying fire. She ought to close up for the night, but her racing thoughts kept her anchored near the hearth, turning over angles and suspicions about the tragic events plaguing her little town.
A faint draft raised the fine hairs on Shelby’s arms, even though the fire still radiated warmth. She glanced up with a frown, sensing a change in the atmosphere. An unnatural coolness permeated the cozy space. Shelby shivered, goosebumps prickling her skin as she looked around for the source of the temperature shift.
Don’t tell me the furnace went out, she thought to herself.
Before she could walk over to check the thermostat, a shimmer in the air beside the front counter caught Shelby’s eye. She watched, transfixed, as faint sparkles began swirling faster and faster suddenly congealing into a see-through form. The apparition of a woman took shape, and she was staring right at Shelby.
With a gasp, Shelby stumbled backward. The ghost flickered but held her insubstantial shape. She wore a vintage light blue dress and her pale blonde hair was styled in rolls, a fashion from decades past. The spirit drifted a little closer.
With her heart pounding, Shelby forced herself to stand her ground, but no malice emanated from the ghost hovering before her; only peace, patience, and an aura of melancholy.
Slowing her breathing, Shelby tried to use her new psychic powers to probe the ghost’s energy, but her thoughts were so jumbled she couldn’t concentrate.
“What is that?” she whispered to the cat.
“You know what it is. It’s a ghost,” Harper replied.
“What is she doing here?”
“She lives here in the bookshop,” the cat explained.
Shelby’s eyes widened. “Since when?”
“Since she died.”
“Why?”
“She used to own this building.”
“Will she talk to me?”
“Probably not. She only talks to me.”
“What’s her name?” Shelby asked.
“Emily. Emily Harris.”
Shelby took a quick look at the cat. “Is she related to the Harris family who used to own the estate?”
“She is a very distant relative of theirs from George Harris’ brother’s side.”
“Why does she stay here? Isn’t she lonely?”
“It’s complicated,” the cat informed her.
The apparition gave Shelby an almost sad smile, and then the diaphanous form began dissolving with her sparkling atoms scattering into the shadows.
“Wait - don’t go!” Shelby cried; her hand outstretched as if she could restrain the specter by using her will, but the ghost vanished as soundlessly as she had appeared.
The shop’s temperature abruptly returned to normal again with the spirit’s departure. Shelby realized Harper was pressing against her leg and she reached down to stroke the cat’s back.
“It’s all right. I’m fine,” she murmured.
Harper gazed up at her solemnly. “The spirit means you no harm. She’s tied to this place.”
“For how long?” Shelby asked.
Harper headed for the hearth. “Until she decides she isn’t.”
Shelby sank slowly back into the armchair, leaning her head against the cushioned seatback. “How has this become my life? Talking cats, a man who isn’t dead after all, premonitions and psychic thoughts, and now a ghost.” She looked at Harper. “Why reveal herself to me now?”
“Because you can see her now.” Harper settled on the hearth, wrapping her plumed tail neatly around her paws. “She’s the shop’s founder,” the cat explained. “Her spirit never strayed far, watching over the store she built and all those who have come in here. She waits to be remembered.”
