The Ghost's Grave

  Once I knew for sure what the box held, I would show it to Aunt Ethel. If it contained real money, she could call the police for me. It might be unjust, but a phone call from an adult would be taken more seriously than a call from a kid.

  I had already concocted my story to explain how I found the box. I planned to say I went to the cemetery to plant some daisies on Aunt Florence’s grave. After I got there, I decided to put a few on one of the other graves, too, so I chose one that looked neglected.

  When I dug a hole for the flowers, I discovered the box. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was too new to have been buried very long. It seemed suspicious, so I brought it home. If it was supposed to be there, I’d take it right back.

  The story sounded plausible. There was no reason for anyone not to believe it.

  “I’m home!” I called as I set the box on the kitchen table.

  The house was still. “Aunt Ethel?”

  No answer.

  I looked around the kitchen. A large pink bakery-type box sat on the counter next to a sheet cake frosted with white frosting. Yellow roses made of buttercream icing decorated the edges of the cake, but the center part, where it would say “Happy Birthday” or “Congratulations” or whatever it was supposed to say, was still blank. She had not finished the cake.

  A tube of frosting with a pointed tip lay on the counter next to the cake. I squeezed the end of the tube, and a line of yellow frosting came out the tip onto my finger. I licked it off.

  “Aunt Ethel?” I called again. “Are you here?”

  I found her lying on the living room floor. Her eyes were closed, and her face was the color of fireplace ashes. I knelt beside her. “Aunt Ethel?”

  She didn’t answer.

  She was unconscious, but I could tell she was breathing.

  I grabbed the phone and called 911. “My aunt needs help,” I told the operator. I explained the situation and gave Aunt Ethel’s name. “I don’t know the street address,” I said, “but it’s up the hill from Carbon City. It’s the first driveway after you pass the cemetery.”

  “We’ll find it,” the operator said. “Help is on the way.”

  Later I learned Carbon City has a volunteer fire department, and the medic unit consists of local people, most of whom had lived in the area all their lives. The only address they needed was “the Hodge place.”

  By the time I hung up, Aunt Ethel had opened her eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “What happened?”

  “I tripped on the edge of the rug.”

  “I called nine-one-one. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

  “Call them back and tell them not to come. I’ll be fine.”

  She sat up.

  “Maybe we should let them come and check you, just to be sure.”

  “No! They’ll want to put me in the hospital. Help me stand up.”

  When I tried to help her stand, she groaned and sank back down to the floor. “I sprained my ankle,” she said. “Get me a package of peas from the freezer.”

  I found the peas, thinking it appropriate that Aunt Ethel would use frozen vegetables for an ice pack. “Which ankle?” I asked.

  She pointed to her left side, and I placed the frozen peas on that ankle.

  Fifteen minutes after I made the call, an ambulance drove in Aunt Ethel’s driveway. Two men carrying medical supplies hurried to the door.

  “You can leave,” she called as I let them in. “I don’t need help after all.”

  “Since we’re here, ma’am,” one of the medics said, “we’re required to examine you.”

  “Fleas and mosquitoes!” Aunt Ethel said. “All I did was sprain my ankle. I don’t need doctors.”

  Ignoring her protests, the medics listened to Aunt Ethel’s heart, took her pulse and blood pressure, and examined the ankle under the bag of peas. One of them said, “I think that ankle’s broken. You’ll need to go to the hospital in Diamond Hill for an X-ray.”

  “I’m not going. I hate hospitals.”

  “If your ankle’s broken, ma’am, you’ll need to have a cast put on it.”

  “Mom broke her ankle once,” I said. “It healed fine with the cast.”

  “Without it, you’d be in constant pain and likely not be able to walk right ever again,” the medic said. “You don’t want to need help to get around, do you?”

  “Oh, all right, I’ll go. But I’m not staying there. I’m coming straight home as soon as they treat my ankle.”

  “Is it OK if I go with her?” I asked.

  “Are you a relative?” the man asked.

  “I’m her nephew, Josh McDowell. I’m visiting her for the summer.”

  “You can ride along if you want to.”

  “Yes, I do. Thanks.”

  I didn’t really want to go anywhere. I was tired and hungry. I wanted to stay here, finish opening the metal box, and see if it held real money. But I couldn’t let them take Aunt Ethel away by herself. It’s scary enough to go to the hospital without being all alone.

  I thought of telling the medics about the box, but I didn’t know them, and they were busy taking care of Aunt Ethel. One of them put a splint on her ankle to hold it steady, while the other rolled a gurney into the house. I couldn’t bother them with my story of a buried box. Besides, I wanted to tell Aunt Ethel before I told anyone else and let her be the one to call the police.

  Maybe when we got to the hospital, the doctors would find that her ankle was only sprained, not broken. Probably she would not have to be admitted but would come home today. I thought back to when Mom’s ankle was broken. She had not stayed in the hospital, but she’d been on pain medication that made her sleepy for a couple of days. Gramma had come to stay with us for a week.

  If Aunt Ethel wasn’t able to talk to the police by tomorrow, I’d call them myself. By then, I’d have the box open all the way, and I’d know exactly what I’d found.

  “Get my purse, Josh,” Aunt Ethel said as the medics lifted her onto the gurney. “I’ll need my Medicare card at the hospital.”

  “What about a house key?” I asked.

  “No need. I never lock the house.”

  While the medics loaded her into the ambulance, I ran upstairs to her bedroom and grabbed her purse.

  I had been taught always to lock the house when I left, so I felt around in the purse for a house key but didn’t find one. There were two keys on her key ring; one said FORD on it, so I knew that was for her truck, and the other was a small key with USPS on it, plus a number and a warning not to duplicate the key. I figured the letters stood for United States Postal Service, and the key would open Aunt Ethel’s post office box.

  I thought back to the night I had arrived—could it be only four days ago? So much had happened, it seemed more like three weeks. I remembered when we got here that first night, Aunt Ethel had walked in without unlocking the door first.

  I couldn’t be sure that Aunt Ethel would be coming home today, and it made me uneasy to leave the house unlocked, but since I had no key to get back in, I didn’t lock up when we left.

  One of the medics drove, and the other rode in back with Aunt Ethel so I sat in front. I hoped the driver would turn on a siren and some flashing lights, but he didn’t. Maybe they only used the siren and lights in life-and-death cases.

  Raindrops spattered the windshield. The driver turned on the windshield wipers.

  “Will she be OK?” I asked as we turned out of the driveway.

  “A broken ankle’s fixable, but every patient is different. She’ll probably get a cast and come home tonight or maybe tomorrow. Of course there’s always the chance that she’ll need a few weeks in a rehab hospital.”

  I liked the first choice—coming home again right away. It was best for Aunt Ethel and also best for me. If she had to spend several weeks in a hospital, where would I go? If I had to go somewhere else now, what would happen to Mrs. Stray and her kittens? I didn’t want to leave until I’d tamed them and found them homes.

>   Maybe I could stay in Aunt Ethel’s house by myself. I knew Mom and Steven would never allow that, but I wouldn’t have to tell them about Aunt Ethel. I could send letters about Carbon City without mentioning that she’d fallen and had to go to the hospital. I could live in her house and ride my bike to the Carbon City Market if I needed supplies. I could take care of the peacock and spend my time taming Mrs. Stray and her three kittens.

  For Aunt Ethel’s sake, I hoped she’d be fine, but if she wasn’t, I could manage on my own. If I got lonely, there was always Willie.

  It’s pretty strange, I thought, when the only friend I have is a ghost who died more than one hundred years ago. Still, a friend is a friend, and I’d grown fond of the one-legged coal miner.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mr. Turlep had driven the narrow street beside the Carbon City cemetery so many times that he felt his car could practically steer itself. He used to stop on the side of the road for a few minutes and stare at the spot where the money was buried, but for the last few months, he’d been content simply to drive slowly past, savoring the anticipation of his retirement.

  On Friday afternoon, he barely glanced at the cemetery, knowing he’d be returning after dark that night to dig up his money. When he was nearly past, his foot slammed on the brake as he swiveled his head to look back.

  Someone had planted flowers on the grave. His grave! Well, not actually his, of course, but the one he’d chosen.

  He had carefully researched all the graves—pretending he was writing an article about local history for a magazine.

  He’d selected the grave with only the initials W.M.M. because nobody could remember who was buried there.

  Information existed for most of the graves. Even though a fire in 1922 had destroyed all the official records, most of the graves had been identified by surviving relatives, and the names and dates were recorded in the new cemetery book.

  Only two of the graves contained unidentified people. Mr. Turlep had chosen the most unkempt of those two graves, the one with the smallest marker. There were only initials on the marker, making it unlikely some long-lost relative would arrive.

  In the months since Mr. Turlep had buried his money, there had never been any evidence of a visitor to the grave. Why would someone have come today of all days?

  He got out of his car and strode toward the bright patch of yellow daisies. How deep had the person dug? Deep enough to find his box?

  Surely anyone planting flowers on a grave would stop digging if their shovel struck metal. Wouldn’t they?

  Beads of perspiration popped out on Mr. Turlep’s brow. He had to know. He dropped to his knees beside the daisies. Grabbing them in his fists, he yanked them up, roots and all, and discarded them on the grass. Then he began digging furiously with his bare hands, clawing at the dirt and pushing it aside until he had a hole so deep his arms were in clear to his elbows.

  His fingers closed around something thin and smooth. When he pulled on it, the torn plastic bag pulled loose from the dirt. Mr. Turlep looked at the hole torn in the bag, where the staples had been ripped free. This was the bag that had held his box of money; he was sure of that.

  Someone had been here, removed the box, and buried the empty bag in the grave.

  * * *

  As the ambulance approached the cemetery, I saw a car parked on the side of the road. A man knelt on the grass, digging with his hands in the dirt where Willie’s leg had been buried! The yellow daisies lay on the grass beside the grave.

  My heart leaped to my throat. The man had his back to the road so I didn’t see his face. The ambulance driver kept his eyes on the road and seemed not to notice the man.

  It had to be the person who had buried the box. Who else would dig in the dirt like a dog, throwing freshly planted flowers aside?

  He must have gone to the cemetery, seen the daisies, and known that whoever planted them might have accidentally found the box. Now he would discover that the box was missing.

  I had missed him by only a few hours. What if he had come while I was still there, removing Willie’s leg bones? Instead of riding to town in an ambulance right now, I’d be riding in a police car.

  Calm down, I told myself. He didn’t catch me, and he can’t find out I took the box. Even if he knows W.M.M. stands for Wilber Michael Martin, there’s no way to link me to Willie. I’m not related to him, and neither is Aunt Ethel. I’ve never been seen at the cemetery. The man will discover the box is gone, but he can’t trace it to me.

  When we reached the hospital, Aunt Ethel informed everyone she saw that she was not going to stay there.

  A nurse whisked Aunt Ethel away to an examining room while an admitting clerk asked me questions about her age and her medical history.

  Although I felt foolish carrying a woman’s purse, I was glad I had brought it because the clerk did need Aunt Ethel’s Medicare card and another insurance card.

  I didn’t know Aunt Ethel’s birth date, and there was no driver’s license in the purse. I had wondered if she had one; now I was certain she didn’t.

  I couldn’t help on medical history, either. I had no idea whether she had been sick or healthy all her life. Eventually the clerk found the information she needed in the computer, from a time ten years earlier when Aunt Ethel had been treated for pneumonia.

  The admitting clerk said, “When the doctor finishes examining your aunt, he’ll come out to the emergency room waiting area and tell you the diagnosis.”

  After the paperwork was done, I found a restroom and scrubbed the dirt and sweat from my hands and face. Then I sat in the emergency waiting room. My stomach growled from hunger, but I didn’t see any vending machines, and I didn’t want to leave the waiting room to look for a place to eat for fear I’d miss the doctor.

  Someone had left a newspaper in the waiting room, and I skimmed the headlines without reading the stories. I began to imagine the next day’s headlines: BOY DIES OF HUNGER IN HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM.

  The minutes crawled past. I fidgeted, thinking about the box I’d found and the man I’d seen at the cemetery. I had left all the doors unlocked and the box on the kitchen table. What if it was full of real money? What if someone went in Aunt Ethel’s house and found it?

  I should have hidden it before I left. Why didn’t I think of that? I could have stuck it in the freezer or put it inside my pillowcase or in the clothes washer—anyplace but sitting on the table in plain sight.

  What if the medics told their families or coworkers how they’d taken Ethel Hodge to the hospital? Someone might go to Aunt Ethel’s house. Her friends probably knew she never locked the door. They’d walk right in and see the box and wonder what was in it.

  How could I have been so stupid as to leave the box unguarded? My imagination took off like a batter who’d laid down a perfect bunt. A bum could knock on the door, asking for work or a handout, and when nobody answered, he’d go inside and find the box. The newspaper delivery person might come to collect for this month’s papers—and leave with the box.

  The longer I waited for the doctor, the more certain I became that by the time I got back to Aunt Ethel’s house, the metal box and its contents would be gone. I would never find out what it contained or who it belonged to.

  We had arrived at the hospital at 4:45. By 5:30, I couldn’t sit still. My nerves jangled each time a doctor was paged, and I jumped when anyone passed by in the hall. I paced around the waiting room, glancing at the wall clock every few minutes. 5:45. 5:50.

  New headlines scrolled across my mind: VANDALS TRASH UNLOCKED HOUSE. BOY CLAIMS MYSTERY BOX IS STOLEN.

  At six-thirty, a man wearing white scrubs came out. “Are you waiting for Miss Hodge?” he asked.

  “Yes. How is she?”

  “I’m Dr. Baker. Are your parents here?” He looked around, obviously hoping to discuss Aunt Ethel’s condition with an adult.

  I said, “They aren’t here right now.” That was true, even though I knew he meant were they here in the hospital wi
th me. I added, “I’m her nephew.”

  “Your aunt has a broken ankle; we’ve put a cast on it. I don’t anticipate problems from it, but she’s sleepy from the pain medication I gave her. I want her to stay here overnight so we can watch her. The ankle should heal fine, but her foot needs to stay elevated for a few days.”

  “Do you think she can go home tomorrow?”

  “There’s no way to know for sure, son. Your aunt is not the most cooperative patient. Are your parents coming right back? I’d like to speak to them.”

  “They’ll be gone a while, but I’ll tell them what you said.” Eventually.

  “I have another emergency case coming in. Your parents can talk to a nurse if they have questions. Miss Hodge is being put in room two-thirteen. Second floor.”

  “Is it OK if I go see her?”

  “Wait until your parents return; then go with them.” Dr. Baker hurried off to tend to his other patient.

  I found an elevator and rode to the second floor. As I followed the room number signs, I passed the nurses’ station. A nurse standing behind the counter said, “Visitors under age sixteen aren’t allowed unless they’re with an adult.”

  “My great-aunt’s in room two-thirteen,” I said. “I rode here in the ambulance with her, and I have her purse.” I held it up. “Could I go in for a minute to give it to her? I promise I won’t stay.”

  “Are you with an adult?”

  “No. I’m the only one here with Aunt Ethel.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.” Well, I’d be thirteen next month; that was close enough. I gave her my most pleading look. “Please? I feel goofy carrying a lady’s purse around.”

  The woman’s stern expression softened. “Go ahead,” she said. “Take out any money and credit cards before you leave the purse. Your aunt won’t need money here, and there’s no use tempting a dishonest person.”