Mrs. Fincher followed Ida upstairs, wanting nothing more than a nap and a cup of tea. I should have grabbed the knife when I had the chance! she thought with gritted teeth, Ah, yes, no more Finchy or Mrs. Fincher from this flighty odd biddy and only her money! It does seem...this ghost thing is funny...not as much as her belief in it, that is.
Ida shut the parlor door behind her, preventing her husband from entering. ("You're supposed to be working on your column, remember, Georgie Porgie?" "Yes, Mother.") Mrs. Fincher jumped. The room was so cluttered with Ida's cranberry-colored, glassy jars, vases, and bridal baskets she thought she was literally looking through rose-colored glasses. Ida swayed over to a heavy bookshelf carved with angels, removing the thickest book there. It was coated in gritty dust, which she blew until she coughed. Mrs. Fincher took the sofa across from her, pulling off her shoes. This was going to be a long day.
Ida flipped through the book until her huge eyes sparkled with delight.
"Here! This is my grandmother, Martha Stonefield Spinner! It says here that the family rumor is that she haunts her granddaughters by hiding under curtains and stealing their jewelry, which will then be found in random places throughout the home. Such as the kitchen, I suppose."
"Yes," Mrs. Fincher said, smirking, "That Martha's a smart one."
Ida slammed the book shut, causing a cloud of dust to spray out. Mrs. Fincher coughed violently.
"Ah, are you catching cold, Finchy?"
Of course not, you idiot! Mrs. Fincher thought, but she merely nodded.
"My party will be the sixteenth," Ida announced, "At noon-- that's the exact time I was born, you know. Then on midnight, there shall be a private visiting of my grandmother's spirit. You know, the one who likes my jewelry? George should have my Ouija board by then, and we'll...."
"But, Mrs. Pumphrey," Finchy protested, "Don't you have a twin sister? I'm certain Ada would like to be included."
Ida frowned, recalling her haughty, snorting, much-married twin.
"We don't talk," she said coldly, "Besides, it's about time I had my own birthday, complete with activities."
"You can't go ghost-hunting on the sixteenth; it's your birthday."
"Not if I do it at midnight. Then it'd be the seventeenth, Finchy dear."
"But you said...."
"Never mind what I said! Grandmother Spinner was born the seventeenth in...1790. Or was it 1791? A 'big time for the superstitious', the book said."
"Huh. That's a funny way of putting it."
"Or perhaps a mild one." Ida patted her housekeeper's hand. "Mrs. Fincher, I do hope you'll take the sixteenth off. It's my birthday, and I want everyone to partake in chocolate cake from King's Bakery. You know, where Jocko works?"
"At noon?"
Ida bobbed her head up and down excitedly, like a child.
"That's how Daddy always did it."
Daddy, Mrs. Fincher thought, pursing her lips, The woman's turning forty, and still thinking of dear old Daddy! And ghosts-- parlor games with...! Ugh! That's it! I'm getting the jewels I deserve!
"You still think of your Daddy, eh? He must have treated you well."
"Absolutely! The man adores me!"
"At least you had one."
Mrs. Fincher went silent for a while, stroking her basket. She gazed into the distance, her small pale eyes glazed with some hard, deep pain.
"Finchy? Finchy?" Ida asked, flapping a lacy hand-fan in Mrs. Fincher's face. "Is everything all right, or shall I call Dr. Hemmer?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Pumphrey," Finchy spat, "And don't worry-- I'll make sure your birthday is exactly to your liking."
"Thank you, luvvy! It'll be an event to remember!"
As Mrs. Fincher smiled and nodded, she recalled the ache in her knees, the red, bleary pain in her mother's eyes, the chorus of rich, fur-clad folks shouting, "work, work, work!"
"Indeed it will," Mrs. Fincher pronounced, then thought, More for me than you.
XXX
February Sixteenth, 1897, was a holiday for the people of Belldale-- perhaps more than Valentine's Day, and almost as much as New Year's Eve. Although it was a Tuesday, a parade filled the street. Flutes whistled, trumpets roared, and drums thundered a triumphant tune. The choir and musicians of Ida's Lutheran church performed her favorite Bach cantata. Ida, being fluent in German, sang along to every aria and recitative. ("Anyone who says German isn't a musical language," she said, "Has never listened to a Bach cantata.") Several townsfolk gave gifts; Olive Stoppelbein, Baby Ethel's mother, knit her a luxurious pink scarf. She smiled shyly in the background like a giggling wood-elf. And, of course, handsome Jocko King of King's Bakery gave out free chocolate cakes for everyone.
Mrs. Fincher loved every moment of her day off. She strode around town, looking handsome in her emerald day-dress and ostrich-feather hat. However, there was one problem....
"What's in the basket, Finchy?" asked curious townsfolk, a few nosy ones reaching it.
She yanked it back, frowning.
"None of your business! Doesn't my missus have a birthday for you to celebrate?!"
She stormed off, only for them to remark on the heaviness of such a fiiiine wicker basket.
Dinner was served at Piggy's Cafe-- roast chicken with mixed vegetables and a small slice of quiche. During this birthday meal, a few youngsters began sneaking up on the "ghost-giddy" dame, poking her back and hissing, "Boo!" She squealed, jumping up every time. The children burst into laughter.
"Now, that's not funny," George snapped at them.
"Oh, but George, how can you know for certain?" Ida asked, trembling, "It is getting dark out."
"You just turn around, dearest."
Ida turned around.
"I see nothing, dear. Spirits aren't that obvious."
George sighed. Ida was looking out the window at a dark, scrawny tree.
That night, they staggered back home. She yawned widely. It had been a long, indulgent day-- much like the ones she enjoyed in her New York City childhood, except she'd outgrown her pony phase, and her obnoxious twin, Ada. George yawned too, and scowled at the deviant young men who threw rocks their way.
"Duck, Ida," he ordered, "The youths are at it again."
"I'm six feet tall, darling. I can't."
"Right. Well, they're throwing rocks...see, there's a silver one, right in front of your face."
"Ah! The angle! It must have a paranormal origin. Grandmother Spinner is getting excited about her birthday."
"No, it doesn't...!"
"Ay, ay," cried one boy, "Look at the bubbies on that church-bell!"
"Aw, shut your trap!" huffed George, "What would your mother say if...?"
Ska-woop! A small, jagged rock soared past the tip of Ida's aquiline nose. She shrieked dramatically, flapping her fan at the air. The boys erupted into laughter as they rushed away.
"Little imps, perhaps," Ida huffed, fanning herself, "Anyway, I simply cannot wait to get home."
"It'll be nice to get some sleep. We've had a big day, dear. Happy birthday."
He stood on his toes to kiss her cheek. She giggled and kissed him back.
"I'll sleep later, luvvy," she announced, her heels clacking across the porch, "We've a ghost to meet, remember? And thank you ever so much for that Ouija Board...I may or may not use it tonight."
"Ah, yes. It's my pleasure, dearest."
George rolled his eyes, regretting that he'd denounced all her old phases. Genealogy. Old bells. Witchcraft. Fairies. And now ghosts! He shook his head. How how wife remained so popular, he had no idea. Not even "big bubbies" could make up for such eccentricity. I do love her, he thought, In spite of such silliness....
Ida opened the door and stepped inside, inhaling the last of the night air.
XXX
Mabel Fincher crouched behind the scarlet curtain, knife in hand. Knowing Mrs. I. S. Pumphrey, this would be simple-- perhaps simpler than the last five mistresses murdered by...an "intruder". A "thief." A thief who happened to have amassed a collection of jewelry she could easily pawn off, and then earn money for. She inhaled deeply, running her finger along the slick blade. To steal from such an unfairly rich woman wasn't enough. Luckily, Ida was in her ghost phase, which would make this especially easy.
She opened her basket, examining Old Mrs. Ashworth's skull. It was still solid, though the crumbling white bone was fading to dull gold. She ran a finger along the fine, jagged crack and smirked. Soon...Ida's head would replace hers.
Mrs. Fincher glanced outside. Winter awoke. Bare black branches clung to the gray, bloated corpse of sky, their gaunt hands curving into endless spirals. Snowflakes swirled across sharp blasts of air that melted on townsfolk's skin. Bareness, she thought, That's what winter's all about; the bareness of being. As death brings the bareness of life.
She closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. This was all going to be hers. All she had to do was wait.