Waiting beyond the veil, p.1
Waiting Beyond the Veil, page 1
Table of Contents
Waiting Beyond The Veil (Spookie Town Mysteries, #9)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
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Waiting
Beyond the Veil
(The Ninth Spookie Town Murder Mystery)
Scraps of Paper
All Things Slip away
Ghosts Beneath Us
Witches Among Us
What Lies Beneath the Graves
All Those Who Came Before
When the Fireflies Returned
Echoes of Other Times
Waiting Beyond The Veil
By Kathryn Meyer Griffith
Why is the town called Spookie? In this murder mystery series, it is a tongue-in-cheek, a tip-of-my-hat to my earlier roots in the 1980’s and 1990’s as a horror writer, mostly. But...Spookie is sometimes a little spooky.
This book is for my beloved husband of forty-three years, Russell Griffith, who passed away on August 27, 2021 and took my heart with him. Rest in peace, sweetheart, I will love you forever and always. See you on the other side.
This book is also for my sweet brother Jim Meyer, who passed away on May 27, 2015. He was a great singer/musician/songwriter. If you’d like to listen to some of his songs, here they are: http://tinyurl.com/pytftzc
Other books by Kathryn Meyer Griffith:
Evil Stalks the Night
The Heart of the Rose
Love Is Stronger Than Evil
Vampire Blood (prequel to Human No Longer)
Human No Longer (sequel to Vampire Blood)
The Last Vampire (2012 Epic EBook Awards Finalist)
Witches
Witches II: Apocalypse
Witches plus bonus Witches II: Apocalypse
The Calling
Scraps of Paper-First Spookie Town Murder Mystery
All Things Slip Away-Second Spookie Town Murder Mystery
Ghosts Beneath Us-Third Spookie Town Murder Mystery
Witches Among Us-Fourth Spookie Town Murder Mystery
What Lies Beneath the Graves-Fifth Spookie Town Murder Mystery
All Those Who Came Before-Sixth Spookie Town Murder Mystery
When the Fireflies Returned-Seventh Spookie Town Murder Mystery
Echoes of Other Times-Eighth Spookie Town Murder Mystery
Waiting Beyond The Veil-Ninth Spookie Town Murder Mystery
Winter’s Journey
The Ice Bridge
Egyptian Heart
Don’t Look Back, Agnes
A Time of Demons and Angels
The Woman in Crimson
Spooky Short Stories
Haunted Tales
Night Carnival
Forever and Always Novella
The Nameless One erotic horror short story
Dinosaur Lake (2014 Epic EBook Awards Finalist)
Dinosaur Lake II: Dinosaurs Arising
Dinosaur Lake III: Infestation
Dinosaur Lake IV: Dinosaur Wars
Dinosaur Lake V: Survivors
Dinosaur Lake VI: The Alien Connection
Dinosaur Lake VII: The Aliens Return
Dinosaur Lake VIII: For Love of Oscar...coming soon.
Memories of My Childhood
Christmas Magic 1959 non-fiction short story
*All Kathryn Meyer Griffith’s eBooks are everywhere;
Also in audio books and paperbacks.
Chapter 1
The snow was coming down fast and heavy now, and Frank squinted out through the front windshield of the squad car, trying to see what was in front of his vehicle as the snow tires slowly crunched their way down the treacherous street. He wasn’t having much luck getting very far, very fast. Too darn much snow, and not enough visibility. His hands were tense on the steering wheel. Reducing his speed even more, he was barely going at a crawl now. Darn it! He couldn’t see the road at all. The snow was getting deeper every minute, and in some spots it was crusted over with patches of ice.
The frozen white stuff had been coming down since he’d begun his daily town patrol early that morning. It was March, but old man winter didn’t seem to want to let go. Frank held on to the wheel with a fierce grip. He’d never seen a winter, in all his years in Spookie, as severe as the one they’d just experienced; were still going through. It rivaled some of the worst winters he’d lived through when he’d been a cop up in Chicago, where the Great Lakes effect sometimes made it feel like Siberia. Spookie had had so much snow and ice the last couple weeks, they could as well have been living in Siberia. It had been that brutal. Frank had lost count of how many accidents, and near fender benders, he'd been called to since November. A bunch.
It still felt strange driving the squad car, strange being sheriff of Spookie. He missed Sheriff Mearl. They’d become good friends over the last decade. Their wives had become good friends. Sometimes, when driving the cop car, it was as if a ghost rode beside him. Mearl’s ghost. Silent, but forlornly smiling at Frank from the passenger seat. Sometimes Frank even found himself talking to Mearl, asking his opinion on this or that, or merely chatting as they used to do, once they’d stopped being in competition, and had become buddies...but Mearl rarely answered. Frank still couldn’t accept the man was gone. But that was what death was like. One minute a person was here, alive, and the next they weren’t. It was one of the hardest truths for humans to accept. The end of life, end of physical existence, could happen to anyone, in an instant. No matter how important, or loved, a person was, nothing stopped death. Then all one had left was ghosts and memories. Frank had been tormented for years by his memories, should-haves, and what-ifs, after his first wife, Jolene, had died. He should have been home. He should have picked up his son, Kyle, that night in the snow storm, not his wife. But, over the years since, he’d come to terms with her death, the guilt had cooled. There were two universal truths. People died; and sometimes, there was nothing anyone on God’s mysterious earth could do about it. It was the same with Sheriff Mearl. He was just...gone.
Frank had been sheriff of Spookie now for a minute over two weeks, and he was amazed at how easily he’d slipped back into the old routine. Abigail had been right. Once a cop, always a cop. But this was different. He wasn’t a homicide detective on a large police force, one of many, or a part-time small-town officer, a consultant–he was the sheriff. His own boss. The boss. It felt good actually.
Originally, it had been a tough decision accepting the position of sheriff. When he and Abigail were getting ready to leave on their England and Ireland vacation in September, and he had first been offered the job, he’d been so sure he wouldn’t take it, no matter what. He thought he was done with being a police officer. All those years as a cop in Chicago, then the last few years working with Sheriff Mearl...he’d earned his long-awaited retirement, or so he’d thought. He had books to write. Book signings to schedule and go to. Travel, for the first time in his life, anywhere he and Abby wanted to go; for as long as they wanted to be gone. Total freedom.
But when he and Abby had returned home, and he’d had time to think about it, only a week or so with no job to go into, no people to talk to on his rounds, socialize with, or be given leads to mysteries by, he realized he sort of missed being a cop. Being in the middle of the action. Even his writing wasn’t enough to keep him fully satisfied. He was a people person, and needed the human connection. Besides, being sheriff would get him out and among the townsfolk, as well as provide fodder for his future murder mystery novels. He needed the stories, some humorous, some heartrending, people, who knew of his writing, would tell him. Spookie, as small as it was, did seem to have its share of strange occurrences, missing people, and, yes, homicides sometimes. In fact, if he was honest, murders were a little more common in his little foggy village than he’d like to admit. So he’d taken the sheriff’s job. For now, anyway. He told himself the town needed him, and he could always resign whenever he wanted to. He had been afraid that Abby would be upset at his decision, but, curiously enough, she hadn’t been.
“Do what makes you happy, Husband. If you want the sheriff’s job take it.” So he had.
The previous September, he and Abigail had traveled to England and Ireland, and they’d had a marvelous time touring the two countries, traveling around seeing the sights, visiting the crumbling and haunted castles, imbibing at the quaint pubs, conversing with the locals, and sampling the foreign cuisine; enjoying themselves, taking a load of pictures and videos, as tourists often did.
Abby had kept her promise to Mayor Samantha, and had sent copious amounts of photos with accompanying anecdotes of their travels for her to run in The Weekly Journal. So everyone in Spookie had vicariously followed their odyssey. The day they’d toured the Tower of London had been one of the highlights of the trip, and the newspaper’s readers had lapped up their descriptions and photos of it. Subscriptions and sales for the weekly paper, views online, skyrocketed. Abby had teased him that now Samantha owed them big. Perhaps the mayor/newspaper publisher did owe them. Big.
They’d topped their vacation off the first week of Oc tober with that weekend in New York, spending three lovely days with Laura and Nick. They’d attended the gig Nick and his band had booked at the Green Dragon, both nights, and enjoyed every minute of it. Frank had been to New York before, years past, but Abigail had not. It was fun to show her some of the city. Well, as much as he could in three days before they had to leave and begin the book tour. They were lucky, and on the third day, their last day, they came across a street festival full of tiny tents, and stalls, and all sorts of unique crafted merchandise for sale. Most of it hand made. Artwork, too. Abby, who loved all things artistic and crafty, had a ball buying souvenirs for herself, family, and their friends; admiring the skilled paintings and drawings. It had been a wonderful way to finish their vacation. All in all, Abby had adored New York, but hadn’t much cared for the twenty-four-hour continuous noise. Even in their fancy high-rise hotel, she claimed to be able to hear the traffic, and raucous, humanity all night long. She missed the quiet of the woods around their cabin. The place was way too loud for her, she’d professed, to ever live in. But a visit was nice. “It’s like a never-ending circus.” And she’d laughed.
And it hadn’t been snowing ice in New York, he brooded glumly, squinting out the car’s windshield, as it was doing now in Spookie.
Afterwards, he and Abigail had left the city that never slept and had excitedly embarked on his book tour. That had been a whirlwind of different cities and locations, or anyway, mostly their book stores, but it had been enjoyable. Enlightening. Signing tons of books, Frank had met many of his fans. It had opened his eyes to how well-read his little mystery novels were. It surprised, and humbled, him. He’d felt like a celebrity, and he’d soaked it in. After all his hard work, and all the years of writing his novels, it felt wonderful to bask in his fans’ adoration. Between the vacation, the weekend in New York, and the book tour, he and Abigail had made many new good memories. They’d promised themselves they’d go on another grand vacation next year. Perhaps to France’s wine country this time. Before he’d officially accepted the sheriff’s job, he’d wangled a yearly month of vacation days from the sheriff’s department, and had it put in his contract. As well as the promise that he didn’t have to wear a uniform, just the gun, the badge. Another deal breaker for him. He’d spent too many years in a uniform and would not go back to them. The mayor had agreed. So he wore his best jeans, and a button-down shirt. It worked for him. Besides, everyone in Spookie knew him; and now they knew he was the sheriff.
In December, near the tail end of the book signing excursion, they’d detoured and had made a day’s stop at the St. Louis art gallery where Abigail and Theodora sold their artwork, and had the exhibitions. Their last show had been a great success for both of them, and he had been so proud of his wife, as well as Theodora. The old woman had been so grateful, thrilled, at having her first real show.
These days, with her new artistic success, Theodora Henson was a different lady. All smiles. More sure of herself and her talent. Happier. All of Abigail’s paintings and Theodora’s entries had sold by the end of that first show. Theodora’s artistic reputation was growing. The old woman’s life had changed so much since Abigail had first met her. When Frank and Abigail had been on their vacation and the book tour, Myrtle, and Glinda, when Abigail had asked them to, had stepped in, and also became Theodora’s friends. Harvey, too. The young boy had formed a sweet affection for the old lady. Theodora now spent many a day with all of them at Glinda and Kyle’s house, playing cards with them, or eating Glinda’s home baked meals. The psychic’s, and the town doctor’s, family continued to grow.
But, he forced his wandering mind to return to Spookie. Early March. The snowstorm. Streets so icy they could have been skating rinks.
Frank was at the city limits, his eyes scanning the snow-covered streets, houses, and the shuttered shops. It looked as if most people had closed up their businesses and gone home. He didn’t blame them. The snow was predicted to continue through the remainder of the day and into the night.
“Well, Frank,” he groused aloud to himself as the squad car slid treacherously sideways on the white road, before he could bring it under control, “I think it’s time to call it a day. This weather isn’t going to get any better, might get worse, so time to go home. If there’s an emergency needing the sheriff, our dispatcher, Lucy, can give me a call.” So he directed the squad car towards his home. As sheriff, the police car went everywhere with him, even to his house. He missed his truck, but that was the way the town wanted it. The sheriff must have access to the squad car twenty-four seven when on duty, and drive it, so everyone knew who was pulling up to any domestic situation or crime scene. He missed driving his truck, especially in nasty weather, but it was handy to have the police car with him, when he needed it. The town paid for the gas, too, an extra bonus.
He was on the outskirts of town when the car’s radio squawked at him. He picked up the mic and spoke into it. “Sheriff Lester here. Lucy, that you?” Lucy Simmons was the dispatcher on duty that day. She’d been at the sheriff’s department for as long as he could remember. She’d worked for Sheriff Mearl and now she worked for him. She was a middle-aged, small-framed woman with an easy-going manner, soft brown eyes, freckles, a husband and three little kids. She was a darn competent dispatcher. Intuitive and could keep her calm in any emergency. A good woman. They’d become friends over the years.
“It is, Sheriff. I hate to do this to you. I know how bad it is out there on the roads, and you were probably heading home for the day, but....”
“What do you need?” His eyes never leaving the road and the cascading flakes spinning tiny white tornadoes around the vehicle. He swerved the squad car over to the side of the road, and parked, so he could talk, and not crash into anything. Spookie’s infamous fog, even with the snow, like the twilight, was creeping in; transforming the day into a cold grayness.
“Sheriff, we just had a call from a Philip McGann who lives down on Apple Lane, that first road on the right past the A&P store?”
“I know where Apple Lane is.” Frank had once had a childhood friend living down on that road. It’d been many years ago, before he’d gone off to be a cop in Chicago. He briefly wondered if that friend still lived down there, still lived in Spookie. Still lived. Probably not. He hadn’t run into the man, or heard anything about him, for years. People often moved away from Spookie to find their fame and fortune somewhere else in the big world. Many of them, like him, came back. Some of them never returned, disappearing into bigger towns or cities. Living their lives elsewhere where there was more job opportunities.
“Anyhow,” Lucy went on professionally, “he has a neighbor, Jud Winslow, who lives at the very end of Apple Lane. McGann claims he hasn’t seen, or even heard, from Winslow in days. They usually go walking together most days. Winslow hasn’t answered the phone, or texts. Hasn’t answered him on Facebook. Which isn’t like him at all, McGann says. He’s requested a welfare check on his good friend. He’s worried about him.”
“Good friend?”
“Apparently. McGann has lived next door to Winslow for about a year, and, according to McGann, Winslow hasn’t been well lately. He’s worried. Mister McGann has asked if you would could you check on his friend for him? Make sure he’s okay.” Lucy finished up the request.
“At the end of Apple Lane, huh?”
“Yes. Number 368 Apple Lane. Jud Winslow.”
“Okey-dokey.” Frank sighed. “I’m on my way. Just hope I can make it there without sliding into a ditch, or a pond, before I arrive. It’s a blizzard out here. The roads are ice rinks.”
“You be careful then, Sheriff. Take your time. Lucy out.” The dispatcher cut the connection.
Frank got on the road again, and carefully maneuvered the squad car towards the A&P, and turned down onto Apple Lane. The falling snow and darkening day made it hard to see the house addresses, but he found 368 easily because the numbers were on the mailbox out front. The house, even in the snow, looked run down. Uncared for. There was a junker of a car, rusted and with a dented fender, now dusted with snow, squatting in the driveway. The vehicle had to be over twenty years old.
Parking his car in the driveway, Frank tramped from it to the front door, fighting the snow and the wind. He rang the doorbell. Over and over. No answer. He knocked over and over. Shivering out in the cold on the porch, glad he’d worn his heaviest winter coat, he waited. No one came to answer the door. The curtains in the front windows didn’t move. Nothing behind any of the windows moved.
