Chapters:

Chapter 1 Granny Green

The Face in the Attic Window

Rick J. Musick 2014-2015

Granny Green

I drove casually around, familiarizing myself with Yorkshire, New York. Sipping lukewarm convenience store coffee that tasted horrible. Yet, its coffee and I paid a buck thirty-nine for it. Driving slowly through a middle grade school zone. Yorkshire Middle School, Home of the fighting Hornets. Nice school, looks almost new, nice football field, artificial turf, big score board, nice bleachers. Pretty fancy for a middle school. Cop cars were parked at three of the corners surrounding the school, daring someone to go faster than twenty-miles an hour. Giving a casual wave as I drove by, two cops ignored me, the third at least nodded his head.

        I turned the corner onto Elm Street admiring the old two-story Victorian style houses, most had a widow’s perch. Most of them were wood framed, painted white with black shutters, or gray with white shutters. A few were bricked. I always admired the wrap-around porches and columns on these old houses. Tall trees lined the streets on both sides. It gave a comfortable homey feeling.

        One particular house grabbed my attention. A huge two story house in the middle of the street. It had a rusted seven-foot rod iron fence, which surrounded the property.
Every house on the block had relatively nice, to extremely well-manicured lawns. But this house is being ran over with weeds. I pulled over to the curb to get a better look at this mysterious house. At one time it had been painted white, with black shutters, but the paint had faded with time and bare wood dominated the structure. The front door screen hanging on by one hinge, the windows had been painted over, and some had plywood nailed over them.

        Someone had painted a sign with red paint, on a 4’ x 8’ sheet of plywood, NO TRESPASSING. It was fastened to the fence with bailing wire, the red paint had faded but still legible. The lettering is very sloppy. Whoever painted the sign didn’t care about what it looked like. Considering the looks of the house and the way the red paint ran down from the letters, like blood. It gave me the creeps.

        Getting out of my car I slowly approached the gate. There were no, for sale signs or any hint that anybody had walked through those gates in a very long time. Both the chain and the lock were rusted. What a mystery, I thought, then I saw movement in the attic window. No way, I thought not wanting to believe my eyes. I kept peering up at the attic window. The window was about two-feet by three-feet, it had no screen. Then I saw it.

The curtain moved, and a face was pressed against the window. It was a young woman and she was wailing. I couldn’t hear or make out what she was saying, but I could tell she was screaming for help. Then she was gone. I looked about to see if perhaps some passerby might have witnessed it as well. However, every car that passed by seemed to speed up, and nobody looked my direction.

        My name is Richard Christian and for thirty-seven years I lived and worked in New York City, for The New York Times. The last ten as the managing editor of investigative journalism. I got burned out after 911 and started down the road to retirement. I had promised myself that when I retired I would move to a small town and enjoy my golden years sleeping late, reading, and trout fishing.

        I had only lived in Yorkshire for two weeks. Just settling in, taking my good sweet time unpacking. No more subways, taxis, constant horn honking and sirens blaring around the clock and the continual, massive crowds who always seemed to be in a hurry. I want to be lazy, and honestly, left alone.

        Don’t get me wrong, I’m a people person, the job I had as a journalist demanded it. I rubbed shoulders every day with a lot of characters. I simply do not need Grand Central Station anymore. I need coffee and a book.

        Why Yorkshire? Why not? I googled it, and it has twenty-seven thousand- five hundred and thirty- three people. A community college, and a Super Wal-Mart. Plus it has the Chanesse River that runs right through the Middle of town. While searching the internet I discovered that Yorkshire boasted about having some of the greatest trout fishing in New York State. I aimed to find out  if that were true.

        

        I found a nice little three-bedroom apartment for a third of what I was paying for a one-bedroom cubicle in Manhattan. I made a call, sent a security deposit, rented a U- Haul and tow trailer and here I am.

        I’ve only met one person; the landlady. Sweet elderly lady in her seventies, I’m guessing. Small framed, short, her gray hair appropriately pinned back in a granny knot. Talkative thing. She has lived in Yorkshire all her life, knows everything about Yorkshire. My first day in Yorkshire, before I unloaded one box consisted of Mrs. Green telling me about her life, her children; all nine of them, her late husband Jacob, and who to avoid in town. "There are busybodies and gossips" she told me. Jacob Green was a plumber and a carpenter. He died six years ago during a bitter cold winter storm, his truck slid into the river.

        Mrs. Green began to tear up, “You know, they never found Jacob’s body” dabbing a tear from her cheek quickly changing the subject. "Everybody calls me Granny Green." She said with a chuckle. "You can call me granny Green too, if you like."
"Do you like Fried chicken? And collard greens?"


        I answered, a little embarrassed, "I’m not sure I’ve ever eaten any collard greens."

        As a City boy and single I ate fast food most of the time. As a newspaper journalist, always doing interviews, checking out crime scenes sometimes late into the evening. Thus, as my belly will attest, I ate a lot of fast foods, and junk food. If I had a nickel for every Hotdog I’ve eaten in the past thirty years, I’d be a wealthy man.  

        "What?" Granny replied, "Young man you don’t know what you’re missing. I have a chicken frying and the greens will cook in no time. Join me for dinner, will ya?

        I glance at my watch as if I have someplace to go. But, being the softy I am I cater to her request and accept her invitation. “Good!” She said with a smile that could charm an angry grizzly bear. The chicken was wonderful and the black-eyed peas were pretty good. The Greens will take some getting used to. Both the collard greens and Granny Green.

After eating we retired to her living room, I sat down on an oversized faded blue chair that was placed over in a corner next to the front window for easy observance of what was, or was not going on outside of her home. The old chair had a crocheted red and yellow quilt draped over the back of it. The house had dark paneling and was quite dark considering it was only one-thirty in the afternoon. She turned on a couple of lamps, went to the kitchen and returned with two cups of very hot and very strong coffee.

        “I neglected to ask if you take anything in your coffee? I drink mine black. But if you need milk and sugar I don’t mind touching it up for you.”

        I took a sip and after choking it down quickly decided that I would take her up on the milk and sugar. “I could use a little milk and a tad of sugar.” I told Granny Green, after I got over the initial shock of how strong the coffee was. In my way of thinking, that one cup would be three of my cups. Wow, that’s some strong coffee.

        Looking around her living room hundreds of pictures hang on the walls. I mean pictures completely cover the walls. I would soon get a rundown on every single picture Granny Green had, of every one of her nine-children, where they lived and worked, how old, and if they had ever been in trouble with the law, or how many times they had been married and divorced.

        I soon discovered she had fifteen grandchildren. Eleven of them girls and four boys. Where the grown ones lived and that she’s soon to be a Great Grandmother. She pointed every last picture out to me,  by name and age. She had pictures of her late husband. A rugged looking character I observed. A big man, not very tall, but thick barrel chested and broad. His flaming red hair slicked back. In just about every picture of Mr. Green he wore a blue denim work shirt and blue cover-all’s. He had hard set eyes, under thick bushy eyebrows that matched his red hair. He had that look which told you he was all business.

        She picked up a picture from an end table, “This is my favorite picture.” she said, smiling her amazing smile. “April 9, 1953 just three blocks down the street at what used to be, Peaceful Harbor church. I said I do to one of the hardest working, red headed Irishman the good Lord ever put on this planet. “

         Miss Green caressed the glass picture frame with her thumb, “This is me and Jacob just right after we married”.

A portrait of two smiling young people. She in a long white wedding dress, her brown hair, long and beautiful and the other in a black tuxedo. Its indeed a picture that resonated with love. The thought ran through my mind, “That’s something I’ll never know.”  A wave of sadness rolled over me, but I quickly shook it off.

        “Yes sir, Jacob Green was a wonderful husband and father.” She let out a long sigh and set the picture down.

        “What about you Richard, you have any children?”

        “No, I’ve never got around to getting married, and seems to me it’s a little late in the game to start looking now I‘m Sixty-two and set in my ways.”

        “You mean to tell me you never found an interest all those years in New York City?”

        “Nothing serious.” I said, ready to move on to the next subject.

        “Well now that surprises me, because you’re a good looking man.” She actually looked me in the eyes and winked.

        I must have been blushing, and she liked it because Granny relentlessly pursued embarrassing me.”

        “I bet you have a list of phone numbers of ladies that beg for your attention. If I wereten years younger, I’d handcuff you to my bed frame.”

        We both got a chuckle out of that, I knew my face was flushed. If Grannies intentions were to see how red my face could get her, goal was accomplished. My chubby cheeks always gave way to embarrassment.

        Fact is she’s halfway right. I had a list of professional women who, like-me, were journalist or in the newspaper or reporting business. I had, had coffee with several of them mostly on business, and some became personal friends, and yeah to be honest some even sparked my emotions. I went on a dozen or so dates through the years, but never got the nerve up to make such a commitment to marrying.

        Honestly I envied and admired those that are happily married. I felt sorry for those who thought they were. I sat across the table of too many friends of both genders who wept bitterly about a love relationship that had gone south.

        I suppose I feared the commitment. Bottom line is I’m sixty-two and single and for the most part, content.

        “How about another cup”? Granny Green asked.

        “I glanced at my watch again and it was quickly approaching five o’clock. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I really must be going. I need to run by the Hardware store and pick up some of those things that people use to hang up curtains with. I’m hoping to get there before they close.”

        “Which one you going to? Mickey’s or Mikes?”

        “Excuse me?” I asked a little puzzled.

        “Just wondering if you’re going to go to Mickey’s or Mike’s hardware?”

        “Which is closer?”

        “Mikes is closer, but he closes in about five-minutes. He’ll hang the closed sign up, even if you’re walking up to the door.”

        “Mickey’s closes at five-thirty, but he’s on the other end of town. Mickey’s a nice guy, but his prices are a bit higher, than Mikes. Mickey believes his smile is worth raising his prices up more than Mike’s.”

        I glance at my watch again and it’s already five-fifteen and Granny Green hasn’t taken a breath.

        “I bet you didn’t know that Mickey and Mike are brothers.”

        “Really.” I replied trying to act like I was remotely interested.

        “Well actually they are half-brothers. There both the same age and never got a long with each other. Always been trying to outdo each other.

        Old man Hershel Hickman had one of the best hardware stores in central New York State. He passed away of a heart attack right after my husband died. They were best friends all the way through Junior High school and High school. Hershel started working in the old Lumber-yard as we used to call them, and my husband got a job with a plumber one summer and never looked back. Hershel ended up buying the Lumber-yard later on in life and my husband got his master license in plumbing and started his own plumbing business. Greens plumbing.

        “Anyway, back to Mickey and Mike. The brother’s inherited Hickman’s Hardware and they couldn’t get along. Fought constantly and finally split the business. One went to the East end of town and the other to the west end of town.”

        “Well isn’t that something.” I replied as I took a step towards the door.

        “Thing is Richard; they both claim to be god-fearing folks. Don’t understand how two people who claim to be Christian can be so bitter towards one another. Live in the same town, go to the same church every Sunday, but sit on opposite sides of the church. Now tell me if that’s right or not?”

        I just shake my head as I take another step and put my hand on the doorknob. “I’m not sure how all that works. Sounds to me like they have some deep imbedded issues.”

        “I’ll say!” Granny replied. “I’m not one to gossip, but rumor has it that Mike, he’s the one on the West end of town, stole a bundle of money from the business before they split up.”

        “It’s a shame that things like that happen.” I reply. “But who knows?”

        “Well all I know is that out of nowhere Mickey was driving one of those great big trucks with four-doors and hauling a brand new motor cycle in the back, and his wife was sporting some pretty fancy clothes and a big diamond ring to boot. I never saw the ring myself, but Ela-May saw it at church. Ela-May is my friend that lives two doors down the street. They all go to the Baptist church. I go to the Holiness church right down the street. I can walk that far in good weather.

        “Well that’s good.” I said.

        “What’s good?” She asked with a confused look on her face.

        “That you can walk to church in good weather.”

        “Granny Green started chuckling. “I thought you, was saying it was good that Mickey stole all that money from Mike.”

        “No, ill-gotten gain is never good. I believe the good book says something about reaping what we sew.”

        “Well, well, look at you quoting from the good book!” Granny Green said, obviously pleased that I could quote something from the bible.

        “What church you going to go to? You’re welcome to come to mine, unless you don’t like hellfire and brimstone preaching, Pastor Jackson don’t mind shucking the corn. He can preach hell so hot everyone brakes out in a sweat!” Granny said with a grin.

        “You know, preachers don’t preach anymore. Seems to me like most of the preachers are scared to death to preach. They spend an hour talking about something they read or saw on the internet, whatever that is. Pastor Jackson, he’ll slam that old-black book down on the pulpit hard enough to wake the Methodist. I don’t mean no disrespect, if you’re a Methodist”

        “No, I’m not a Methodist.” I replied.

        “Well good, we must be careful not to offend those that are of a different belief. Even though I do have my opinion, I try to be careful not to offend.”

        “Yes, I agree.”  

        Granny squinted at the old clock on the wall. “Oh my, it’s already five-twenty. If you’re going to make it to Mickey’s before he closes, you better get going!”

        “Yes, I guess I better hurry along. Thanks for the supper and coffee and the conversation.” I say as I seize my opportunity to escape. I smile and wave as I quickly make my way to my car.

        “Goodness, I say to myself. Granny Green could talk the ears off a brass Billy-goat. Lonely for company I suppose. I never did get the chance to ask her about the face in the attic. Maybe next time.”

Chapter 2

Pearly Sue Perkins

        That was two weeks ago. Tomorrow the rent is due, I’ll swing by tomorrow and drop off the rent check. The apartment was coming together. The curtains were all hung, and most of the boxes unpacked. I even managed to hang a few pictures on the wall.

        I made it a point to drive by the mysterious house on Elm Street several times, always slowing down as I did, staring up at the attic window. Nothing caught my attention. The day was uneventful. I spent most of the day looking around town and discovered a neat little coffee shop downtown. Downtown Yorkshire consisted of a few flower and gift shops. A couple of law offices. Two banks, The police department, the Yorkshire Gazette, an ice cream parlor, a Sandwich shop and Java Joes coffee house.

        As soon as I walked into Java Joe’s I knew I was going to like that place. It wasn’t one of those, what I would call weird, nerdy, geek hangouts that a lot of college towns have. Later on I would discover that the college kids had their own on-campus coffee shop that most of the younger students frequented.

        Java Joes I learned later was owned by a middle class; classy lady named Pearl. Pearl was about forty-five to fifty years old. Tall and slim with a bubbly personality. The first time I walked in she was wiping down a table. The bell on the door alerted her that I had walked in, glancing up she smiled, raised up and stuck out her hand. “Welcome to Java Joes.” she said with a smile that revealed a perfect line of pearly white teeth and deep dimples on her cheeks. She wore a pretty light pink blouse, and a denim skirt. She had long brunet hair that was pinned back.

        There were only two other customers in the quaint little coffee shop. A husband and wife I presumed, both thumbing through magazines.  Enjoying the peacefulness of this quaint little place. Soft piano music was playing a very relaxing melody.

        Four small tables and chairs, a love seat, and six, red swivel bar stools lined the counter. Computer docks and electrical outlets were plentiful for the internet crowd and three book cases.

        She walked back behind the counter, and asked what my pleasure would be. Looking up at the simple menu that hung behind the counter, hand written in various colors of chalk. I ordered a Tall Sugar Free, Mocha Latte, without the whip cream. While the pretty lady was making the Latte, I walked over to one of the book shelves and I was pleased as I browsed through some great classics: Ernest Hemmingway; Mark Twain; Edgar Allen Poe; Jane Austin; C.S. Lewis just to name a few.

        The pretty brunet walked around the counter handing me my coffee.

        “You have a great collection of books.” Holding up a Hard-back copy of Jane Austin’s, Pride and Prejudiced.

        “You enjoy reading?” She enquired.

        “Enjoy, is an understatement. I love to read. I’m a happy man when I have a hot cup of coffee and a good book to read.” I said looking into her eyes that seemed to be absorbing my every thought.

        “Well then, I shall do my best to see to it that you are a very happy customer. Please feel free to sit and read until you’re running over with literary bliss.”  She said with a genuine smile.

        By the way my name is Pearl and don’t laugh; Perkins. My birth certificate will tell you that my full name is Pearly Sue Perkins”. She said with a smile that went from ear to ear and dimples that drew my attention to her blue eyes.

        I couldn’t help but return the smile, almost chuckling, “Really?” She nodded a confirmation. This time I stuck out my hand and said, “Well Pearly Sue Perkins, I am Richard Dominique Christian. It’s my pleasure meeting you.”

        When she took my hand I happened to notice that she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. For some reason I felt a warmth come over me. “Richard Christian, what is happening to you?” I asked myself.

        “Richard Dominique Christian.” she repeated my name three times, like she was memorizing the name for a speech or something. “Richard Dominique Christian.” Then she looked at me and said, “I know who you are! You write for the New York Times. I’ve read hundreds of your articles. What brings you to Yorkshire New York?”

        “I recently retired and I wanted to get out of the city so I basically opened a map of New York State, closed my eyes and let my finger fall, it landed on Yorkshire and here I am.”

        “No kidding?”

        “No kidding.”

        “Well, welcome to paradise. How long have you been here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

        “Don’t mind at all. I have been here a sum total of four weeks.”

        “Wow, what a change, from New York City to Yorkshire New York. I bet you feel like you’re living in slow motion.”

        “It’s a big change for sure, a much needed one I might add. So, you’ve been to the Big Apple?” I asked.

        “I went with a friend shortly after 911. I was sad and depressed the whole time and really couldn’t enjoy the experience. I was ready to come home after the first day.”

        “I can understand that. 911 It shook up the entire nation, but in many ways I believe it disturbed New Yorkers even more. I guess just knowing the terrorist were that close to all of us that bothered us the most”.

        “It was about a year after 911 and doing a lot of interviews and working with other news outlets, that I decided I had, had enough and I began making plans to retire. I took an early retirement package. I got out as soon as I could, and here I am.”

        “Glad you made Yorkshire your home. I guess you found a place to live without much difficulty? It can be a challenge to find a decent place around here because of the college.”

        “For now I am renting an apartment at the Grandview Apartments”.

        “You mean Granny Greens place? “ Pearl said, rolling her eyes.

        “Now I’m scared to death. What did Granny tell you about me?” She asked with a crooked grin.

        “I take it you know Granny Green.”

        “Everybody knows Granny Green. She’s a sweetheart, but mercy the lady can ask some questions, and talk from sun up until sun down.

        “She drops in about once a month and fills me in on the latest happenings around town and in her church.”

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        “I have discovered she can carry on a pretty good conversation. I had lunch in her home a few weeks back. I know all of her children, grandchildren, her brothers and sisters and where they lived and what they do, or did for a living. Where the deceased ones are buried. She let me know about Mike and Mickey’s dispute”.

        “Oh yeah. Mike and Mickey. The forever long going Yorkshires own Hatfield and McCoy feud”. Pearl said with a bit of sarcasm.

        “I can’t say much about Granny talking too much I’ve talked so much your coffee has gone cold, and you haven’t opened the book in your hand or even sat down. I apologize.”  She said, taking the cup from my hand. “I’ll make you another one.”

        I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. I watched her walk away, and decided right then that I liked Pearly very much.

        I took a seat at the counter, purposely sitting where I could get glances of Pearly. I had to admit, I was attracted to her. Goodness. I was very much attracted to her.

        She went about her business of cleaning, and answered a few phone calls. Waited on several customers. I know she had to notice that I was in no hurry to leave. I kept looking at her. Our eyes met each other’s a few times. Each time she grinned a little and each time I know my heart skipped a beat and I’m sure my chubby cheeks were revealing what my heart was feeling.

        When I got back to my apartment that afternoon I set my sack of groceries down and went to the restroom, flipping on the light switch. I took a good look in the mirror and did a quick assessment of the chubby guy staring back at me.

        What I saw was a Sixty-two year old man that was fighting back sixteen-year-old emotions. What was it about Pearly Sue that got me so emotionally fired up? Her smile? Which was so cute. Or was it her hazel eyes? Whatever it was, nobody in all my sixty-two years moved me like she did.

        I looked at myself in the mirror and said out loud, “Richard, you are going on a diet.” At one time I was really serious about my health. I watched my weight pretty good. But after my mother passed away of cancer and my best friend was fatally shot in the head, then 911 I let myself go physically. I gained sixty pounds and by what I see in the mirror a lot of the weight went to my cheeks, my chin and my belly.

        Now I have an incentive, Pearly Sue Perkins. I went back to the kitchen. Now, I ask myself, “Why did you buy those chocolate chip cookies and a family size bag of potato chips?” I promised myself after these were gone I would start eating celery and cucumbers. I couldn’t help myself, I opened the bag of cookies and took out four. I took a couple of steps and turned around and put two cookies back in the package.

        The next morning I wrote out a check for my rent, slipping it in my front pocket I drove over to Grannies house. Granny was sitting on the front porch slowly rocking back and forth, in her lap she held an old bible.

        “Good morning Granny.” I said as I walked up to her, handing her the check.

        “Good morning Richard. How are you this beautiful morning?” Her smile was captivating and sincere.

        “Have a seat and let’s visit a spell.”

I sat in the other rocking chair, turning it a little so I could face her.

        “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

        “No, I believe I’ll pass.”

        Remembering the last cup of Granny Greens coffee. I stared at the ceiling half the night the last time I had Grannies coffee. The other half I read almost the entire book of Proverbs, before I could fall asleep.

          “I appreciate you bringing the rent by. All my other renters just drop the rent in the mail. I don’t know why they don’t just bring it by, it’s not that far.”

        “What you up to today?” Granny asked.

        “Oh, I don’t know Granny, I’m thinking about later on going downtown and dropping in at the newspaper place. Just as something to do I might inquire about writing a weekly article or something. Writing is in my blood. I’m thinking about writing a book.

        I was thinking this might be a good opportunity to ask about the house on Elm Street.

        “I’m thinking about writing a mystery novel.”

        “Who knows, you might be the next John Grisham.” Granny replied with a smile.

        “Do you know anything about that Two-story house on Elm Street? The one with the Rod Iron fence?”

        “Why?” She asked, her tone took on a serious note.

        “I don’t know I was just driving around a few weeks ago and I saw that house and it just seems so odd that all the other houses are pretty nice but that one is in shambles. I’m just curious is all?”

         Granny looked around nervously as if she was afraid someone might over hear our conversation. “Richard, you be very careful who you talk to about the old Mundler house.”

        “Why?”

        “I know you’re new around here and you have no way of knowing the history of Yorkshire and especially the Mundler house. But, take it from Granny Green, not many people will talk to you about it.”

        “Why?” I asked again.

        “Because bad things have happened to those who bring it up.”

        “Bad things? Like what?”

        “Bad things like people turning up missing, or they just happen to decide to move to another town, after they get out of the hospital that is.”

        “Best thing you can do Richard is stay clear from the Mundler house.”

        Now my investigative juices were flowing. One thing about me is I’m curious by nature, and stubborn to a fault. Besides that, I know I saw a face in the attic window.

        After several moments of awkward silence, which was unusual for Granny Green. I thought it best to bid her goodbye. “Well, granny I guess I’ll make my rounds and see what’s going on at the Gazette.”

        “You be careful Richard. I know you might think I’m just an old senile woman, but I’ve lived in Yorkshire all my life and I know some good folks that got into a lot of trouble for asking too many questions about the Mundler house.”

        “Okay Granny.” I replied, “I promise I’ll be careful.”

        “You do that, and thanks again for bringing the rent by.”

I headed off towards the Gazette. “I think I’ll drive by the Mundler house before I do.” I parked across the street from the mysterious house. I reached in the back seat and retrieved my digital camera and my voice recorder. Walking around the perimeter, I snap a few pictures and make a verbal notation: It’s Nine-thirty in the morning, Monday June 2nd 2014. I am standing in front of the Mundler house, as the locals call it. The address is 1114 West Elm Street, Yorkshire, New York. It’s what some would refer to as a haunted house. The house is a two-story Victorian style. It looks like it’s been abandoned for years. Most of the windows have been boarded up, or painted over. Except the attic window. The attic window is where I believe I saw movement and as crazy as it sounds. I’m sure I saw a person, a young woman’s face.”

        In all my years of investigating I had seen a lot of weird things, bad things and what I would call downright evil things. After a while you get calloused to seeing the blood and gore that comes with crime scenes, and talking to informants about ugly stuff. After years of deviling into all sorts of situations, digging deep, and finding out why and what, has been my life. Something very sinister happened in this house, but what?

        Walking around to the back of the house, among the knee deep weeds I see an old rusted swing set, a tree house and a bicycle leaning against the tree. The scene spoke of better times and a happy family.

        Taking more pictures and recordings. I was walking to the front of the house when a patrol car slowly pulled up beside me, his blue and red lights flashing, lowering the passenger side window the officer yelled, “What are you doing?”

        His tone of voice irritated me. “Hello officer, I’m just taking a few pictures. I’m somewhat an amateur photographer.” I said trying hide my irritation. “I’m a sucker for old Victorian houses and this one just seemed to grip my attention.”

        “Give me your driver’s license.” He demanded.

        “Have I broken the law?”

Slamming his car in park and turning off the ignition he got his huge frame out of the car. He looked like he might be in his twenties. He wore no merits on his sleeve. “Probably a rookie”. I was thinking.

        Walking over to the sidewalk, standing directly in front of me. “I said, let me see you driver’s license.” His voice had a razors edge to it.

        My heart rate was increasing and I could feel hot anger boiling up inside my chest. Leaning forward a little I glared into his face and said, “No!”

        “I’m placing you under arrest.”

        I couldn’t help myself, I smiled - almost laughed.  I have worked side-by-side with law enforcement for thirty-years. I’ve had more coffee conversations with more cops than I can count. Some of my best friends were detectives that was working crime scenes before this kid was the cause of his mother’s morning sickness. I knew more about civil rights and law than this oversized jelly-stuffed donut eater will ever know.

        I could tell my smile really got on his nerves. “You think this is funny?”

        “No, sir. I think it’s a joke.” I replied still grinning.

        “Let me see if I can wipe that stupid grin off your face.” His nostrils were flaring and his breathing was very rapid.

        The situation was escalating to the point that I was or he was going to do something that both of us would regret. Taking a step backwards, I put my hands up palms open in a none-threatening manner.

        “Okay, you win. I’ll surrender my license. May I reach for my wallet?”

        “Yeah.” was his only reply.

I pulled my wallet out, removed my driver’s license        handing it over to his outstretched hand. He examining it. “Mr. Richard Christian, You’re the guy that writes for the New Your Times.”

        “Well, I wrote for the New York Times, I recently retired.”

        “Yeah, I know.”

        “How would you know that?”

        “Granny Green is my grandmother.”

        “I apologize for overreacting Mr. Christian, but the Mundler house is a sore spot for Yorkshire”.

        “Seems to be. Your grandmother mentioned that. What’s the scoop on this mysterious, creepy place?”

        “Creepy? This house isn’t creepy, it’s downright evil.”

        “So, what’s the scoop on the place?”

        “I know this sounds crazy, and you’re not going to understand this. But I can’t talk about it in the open. Fact is we are probably being watched right now.” He said in a very low voice. “Honestly I was trying to do you a favor by acting like I was arresting you, just to get you away from this house. It’s not safe to hang around here.”

        “So do me a favor and go a long with me, will you? Please, for both of our sakes.

        “This all seems a little crazy, but okay. What do you want me to do?”

        “I’ll explain more when I know for sure we aren’t being watched. Would you slowly place your hands behind you back and let me cuff you. Then let me escort you to my car and place you in the backseat. It’s very important that they think I’m arresting you.”

        “They?” I asked as I was turning around and placed my hands behind my back.

        “I’ll explain when we get in the car and drive off.” He said, his voice trembling with fear.

        Gently placing the cuffs on, acting as if he was angry and handled me rather rough, obviously trying to put on a good show for whom ever he thought was watching. Placing me in the backseat and slamming the door, he got in and picked up the mic and faked calling into dispatch. He started his car and drove towards the police station.

        “I think the cuffs are loose enough that you can slip out of them, but please don’t raise your hands. I want them to think that you’re still handcuffed.”

        I slipped out of the cuffs without much struggle. I went along with this young policeman that was obviously nervous, and kept my hands down to my side. I was pretty sure that nobody could possibly see through the tinted windows of the squad car. But the way this guy was acting, you’d think that ‘they’ was right beside of us.

        “Okay Mr. Youngblood, what’s going on? Who are, ‘they’? That you, and apparently many are afraid of.”

        “Please call me Steve.” He said, his voice now revealing his youth. “Here’s the deal Mr. Christian, We do not know who ‘they’ are. All we know is that every time somebody starts getting nosey about the Mundler house, people start getting hurt, or worse.”

        “Okay Steve, Please call me Richard. Somebody has to know something.”

        “Yes sir, somebody does, or people wouldn’t keep disappearing or dyeing. Problem is, we don’t know who that somebody is. Whoever ‘they’ are they are good at what they do. This has been going on for six-years.”

        “Six years?” I asked. “Didn’t your grandfather die about six-years ago?”

        “Yeah, he lost control of his truck and slid off the highway into the river.”

        “Your grandmother said they never recovered his body. Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”

        “It’s very odd. But one thing that we have learned to do in Yorkshire is not ask questions about anything that has to do with the Mundler house.”

        “I don’t understand. How was your grandfather’s accident related to the Mundler house?”

        Steve looked around, pulled over to the curb about three blocks from the police station, and looked around nervously.

        “I can only talk just a few minutes. But grandpa was called to the Mundler house to work on the boiler.         Nobody is sure what he saw or what he found, if anything. All we know is that two days after he fixed the boiler, after living in Yorkshire most of all his life he slides off into the Chanesse river. Two days later Hershal Hickman dies of an apparent heart attack.

        ‘What was his connection to the Mundlar house?”

        “Only thing I can figure is that he went to the Mundlar house to help my grandpa move something around in the basement. They were best friends and were always helping each other out.”

        ‘You said, apparent heart attack? Does that mean an autopsy wasn’t performed?”

        “That’s exactly what it means. Miss Hickman wouldn’t allow an autopsy. Said it was against her religion.”

        “Sense when did Methodist not allow autopsies?”

        “Ever sense her husband had anything to do with the Mundlar house.” Officer Youngblood replied as a matter of fact.

        “Listen Richard, this is what we have to do. I’ve got to take you into the jail house, and I’ve have to take you in as if I’m at least questioning you. What I will do is give you a tour of the facilities, and we’ll have a cup of coffee in the brake room, just to eat up some time then I’ll escort you back to your car. This is just a precaution just in case ‘they’ are watching.

        “Don’t you think everybody is taking this a bit too far? Couldn’t it be coincidence that your grandfather and Mr. Hickman died so close together?”

        “Maybe, but me and Granny and a half-dozen others don’t think so.”

        “Do me a favor and slip those handcuffs back on your wrist, we’ll need to park in the back where we take in everyone that has been arrested. We’ll get some stares by the other patrolmen but I’ll just tell them you’re a friend of the families and you’ve been riding around with me.”

        I slip the cuffs back on as we approached the police station. It was almost dark. I look over at the Java Joes and the lights were still on. I craned my neck as we passed by hoping to get a glance of Pearly. “Wow!” I think to myself, “What a pretty lady.”

        Pulling in behind the police station, five patrol cars are parked in their designated area. Several reserved parking spots were reserved for the Chief of Police, Sheriff and District Attorney.  We go through the act just as rehearsed.  We get inside and Officer Youngblood quickly removed his handcuffs. Leading me past several holding tanks. Glancing through the thick glassed wire reinforced windows at men sitting on or laying on no-mattress bunks. With absolutely nothing to do but wait. No T.V. no books, no magazines, just a combo metal sink and toilet.

        On further down the hall we passed the general holding cells of men who were waiting on bail to clear. Most were in pretty good moods. Some were regulars that carried on conversations with the officers. Mostly weekend drunks that got a little too drunk and got into a domestic dispute with a ticked off wife over money.

        Walking into the Cubicle of offices we approach the Chief of Police’s off ice. He was sitting behind his desk. Papers piled high. His reading glasses were perched near the tip of his nose as he was reading over something that was absorbing all of his attention.

        When officer Youngblood tapped on the glass door, it kind of startled him back into reality. Looking up he motioned for us to come in. “Chief I would like you to meet a friend of our family, Richard Christian. Richard, this is Chief Robertson.”

        The chief stood and extended a hand and shook mine firmly. We locked eyes as if reading each other. “Please take a seat. So what brings you to Yorkshire Mr. Christian, if you don’t mind me asking?”

        Officer Youngblood interrupted, “I’ll leave you two alone to visit, I need to get caught up on some paper work or the sergeant is going to have a fit.”

        Steve left the room and I took a seat and began asking my own set of questions. “So chief, how long have you been on the force?”

        “In Yorkshire almost ten years. I’m an old military man. Spent twenty years in the marines. Fought in Vietnam, seen a little Desert-Storm, retired out, and joined the police force in Albany. Got tired of the politics of big cities and decided to move to Yorkshire. After serving four years I was offered the job as Chief of Police and took it. So I’ve been the chief for six years already.

        “You never answered my question, Richard Dominique Christian.”

I raised my eyebrows a little. “So you know who I am?”

        “Yep. The New York City Newspaper writer. So again I ask, “What brings a big city newspaper guy to small town U.S.A?”

I could tell his question was not just for conversations sake. He wanted to know if I was snooping around like an investigative journalist.

        “I recently retired. I was ready to get out of New York City. Yorkshire seemed like a good enough place to retire. Tell me something chief, is the trout fishing in the river as good as they say?”

He looked at me with a crooked grin and said, yeah know, for ten years I’ve wanted to find out and I’ve not been fishing one time.”

        “Now that’s a shame.” I replied. “I intend to find out pretty soon. Maybe Saturday weather permitting.”

        Looking about his office I notice several family pictures, I comment about who I assume was his daughter. “Is this your daughter?” I asked”, the girl in the 8x10 picture had long, beautiful blonde hair, pretty hazel eyes, a beautiful smile, wearing snow skiing gear.

        “That sir would be my wife.” The chief said with a grin that spread from ear to ear.

I begin to apologize, feeling a little foolish.

        “Oh, don’t apologize, happens all the time. Fact is I’m almost fifteen years older than she is and I’m sixty-three and she’s forty-eight. That picture was taken about six years ago. Beautiful isn’t she?”

Indeed she is, “You’re a blessed man.”

“Blessed indeed.” He replied again, this time his cheeks flushed a little.”

        “Not to change the subject Mr. Christian, but do you intend to do any writing sense you’re retired?”

        “I’ve always wanted to write a historic novel.”

        “Here’s my chance to launch out into the deep.” I thought to myself. “You know that house over on Elm street intrigues me. I believe they call it the Mundlar house. That house would make for a great book. Just the looks of that house gives me the willies.”

        The chief’s countenance changed as his eyes darted around the room. Closing the window shades. He looked me Right Square in the eyes. “Richard, do me and you and everyone else in Yorkshire a favor and avoid the Mundlar house.”

        Unbeknown to the chief I had pushed the record button on my hand-held pocket recorder. I wanted to catch his response and it was exactly what I figured it would be.

        “You know chief, that’s the response I’m getting from several people. Miss Green, officer Youngblood and now you. What gives?”

        “Not sure. Call it haunted. Call it coincidence. Call it whatever you want but whatever it is it has a lot of the town on edge. Some people won’t even drive down that street.”

        “Who put the, ‘danger no trespassing’, sign up?”

        “Somebody put that up right after Mr. Green and Mr. Hershel died. Those were two good, Christian men.”  He said, shaking his head.

        “What are the possibilities of me seeing the accident report on Mr. Green?”

        “I don’t mind you reading it. You won’t find much. He slid off into the river and drowned.”

        “So you don’t mind me reading the report?”

        “No sir, its public access. Come on down tomorrow if you’d like. I’ll have my secretary place them on my desk.”

        “I don’t mean to put my nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s just in my blood after all these years, I hope you understand.”

        “No, problem. Just keep the Mundlar house to yourself and avoid it for all of our sakes.”

About that time officer Youngblood was walking up, so I stood reaching across the desk and shook the chief’s hand. “It was good to meet you chief, let’s get together and see about catching some Bull nose trout.”

        “He half grinned and while shaking my hand, but I sensed a nervousness that wasn’t there when I walked in.

        

        The ride back to my car was uneventful, officer Youngblood dropped me off. We purposely avoided talking about the Mundlar house and kept the conversation light. We talked about fishing. He said he knew where a great spot was and would be glad to show me, if his wife would let him.

        Everything was fine until I got in my car and just as I was going to put the key in the ignition, I noticed a note under the windshield wiper, I gotit, sat back down and unfolded the note, in Red magic Marker the note simply read in bold letters: STAY AWAY FROM THE MUNDLAR HOUSE!!

        This was getting weirder by the minute. I wonder if the chief is still in his office. I drove a few blocks towards the station, but decided to let it rest until morning. I went home, fixed a cup of instant coffee and sat in the living room staring at the note, replaying the events that had happened with the young officer. Whatever happened in that house someone is taking a lot of steps to keep it under wraps. But why did I see that face in the attic? Was that just my imagination? If indeed it was I sure have a good one.

        I tossed and turned most of the night. I was bothered by the threat. It simply means that someone was watching me and officer Youngblood. Or did he come and place the note on my car when I was talking with the chief?

I got out of bed way before the sun rose. I tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. So I took a shower, shaved and dressed for the day.

        It was around six thirty when I stepped out of my apartment, the air was crisp. Another winter was coming on. My windshield had a light frost. Heading towards the police station, I passed by Java Joes. The place was swarming with customers so I decided to wait and go later when Pearly would not be as busy.

        Walking into the police station the desk clerk asked if he could help me. He was a heavy set guy in his fifties, he had huge chubby jaws that looked like a walrus’ and a thin mustache. His voice was gruff. In one hand he held a chocolate donut.

         Reading his name tag: Boggart. “Yes officer Boggart I have an appointment to see the chief.”

        “Who are you?” He asked. His tone was that of a bull dogs.

        “My name is Richard Christian. The chief is expecting me.

        “Have a seat, I’ll let him know you’re hear.”

        “Thank you.” I said making sure he saw my fake smile that I overdid.

Walking over to the chief’s office, tapping on the window. Opening the door he barked, “Some Christian guy is here to see you.”

Turning his big bellied self around, still clutching his donut said, “He said go on in.”

        “Thank you.” I said continuing my hypocrisy of a smile as I walked past.

        “Good morning Mister Christian. Could I get you some coffee?

        “Sure, that would be great.” I answered. He walked out and told the desk clerk to get us a couple of cups of coffee. I could resist watching him set his beloved donut down.

        “I trust you slept well last night.” The chief said.

        “Honestly I didn’t sleep well at all.”

        “Not sick are you?”

        “No, I feel fine. But this was on my windshield last night.”

Handing him the slip of paper. He read it and a scowl came across his face. “Seems to me like ’they’ know who you are.” He said with a concerned voice.

        The door was pushed open and the officer brought in our coffee. Styrofoam cups. “Do you take anything in your coffee?” The chief inquired.

        “Yeah, I could use a little sugar and cream is you have it.”

        The chief pushed his intercom: “Yeah boss?”  

        “Bring Mr. Christian a couple of sugars and a couple of creams.”

A few moments later chubby marched in with the cream and sugar. It was evident that he was irritated. Which did bring a grin to my face.

        After the desk clerk shut the door, the chief leaned back in his chair and studied the note. “Seems to me like, you should stay away from the Mundlar house.” Tossing the note back towards me.

        “Can I confide in you something I have not mentioned to anyone else?” I said, picking up the note. I folded it and placed it back in my front pocket.

        “Sure you can.”

        “About three weeks ago as I was driving around just burning gas, getting the layout of Yorkshire. I drove by the Mundlar house. I was curious, so I got out and when I looked up at the attic window I swear I saw a young woman looking at me and screaming for help. Then as fast as she was there, she was gone.”

        “The chief looked at me. Picked up a ball point pen and started fidgeting nervously with it. “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?” He asked his voice took on an all business tone.

        “No sir, nothing about the face in the attic. Why?”

        “Only two other people have come by to tell me they saw a face in the attic. Guess who those two were? Jacob Green and Hershal Hickman.”

        Suddenly, I did feel a little ill, my stomach felt like it was twisting in knots, and my palms became sweaty. Sitting my coffee down I looked at the chief. “Are you telling me that they came to you and told you they saw the same thing I saw?”

        “They both said they saw a young woman, they guessed she was in her mid-twenties. They both said she was screaming for help.” This happened after they had fixed the boiler in the basement. Six years ago. They were loading up their tools, they both casually looking up saw what you just told me.

        The only difference was, the place was occupied, or at least seasonally occupied. It was right after that, that the place was abandoned. Me and a couple of my men went over to look around, but in a matter of twenty-four hours the place was boarded up, windows painted over and nobody has been back sense.

        The following week Jacob Green loses control of his truck and ends up in the river, and two days after that Hershal Hickman dies of a heart attack.

        “Nobody else has said anything about seeing a face in the attic?” I asked the chief. Who was obviously concerned for my safety.

        “No one else has mentioned it. However, some have just up and moved for no reason. Like our former Mayor, Matt Grimes. He lived here all his life. Had a very successful business as a C.P.A and was mayor for almost fifteen years. Overnight, he resigned, hung a closed sign on the door of his office and was gone.

        The fire chief did almost the same thing, only difference was, he came by my office and said for the safety of his family he was moving out of New York. Said he was taking his family to Texas. They moved two days after that.

        I could mention several more that just moved. Good law abiding citizens. Family people. For some reason, without explanation they left. Sense then it seems like a family will move in, get settled and move out as quickly as they came. I’m not sure I can tie them all to the Mundlar house. There’s just no way of being sure.

        “Why did I have to be the one to get curious about that place?” I asked out loud.”

        “I would stay away from that Mundlar place. That’s the best advice I can offer. ‘They’ have seen you, they know what kind of car you drive, and it’s certain that whoever, ‘they’ are, they have eyes and ears. The chief was showing, what I would call professional concern.

        But I know me. I’m as stubborn as a Missouri mule. I would watch my back for sure, but I would also dig into this and find out what happened to Jacob Green and Hershal Hickman.

        “Can I still take a look at the police report on Mr. Green?” I asked.

        “Sure, I’ll have one of my clerks to get it for you.”

Picking up the phone he punched a few numbers and waited. “Hey Mary this is the chief, would you please pull the reports on a Mr. Jacob Green from back in January 2009 and bring them to my office please? Thank you.”

        It wasn’t but a few minutes and the phone rang, “Chief Robertson. Yeah Mary, what? Okay thanks anyway.”

        After hanging up the phone he looked at me with a very troubled look on his face. “Well the puzzle just got bigger. My clerk found Mr. Greens file, but all the paper work is missing.”

        “This has got dirty written all over it.” I said. “It would seem to me that whoever took those files knew exactly where to look.”

        “I agree, but my question is, when did they come up missing? We’ve had no reason to open that file for six years.”

        

        “I believe I have spent enough time creating you a headache. If I were you chief, I would call in the ‘big boys’ from up state.”

        “If you only had a clue how much I hate dealing with the feds. They march in like every one of us are guilty and ask a billion questions. I will give it a day or two and do an internal audit and see if anything turns up.”

        “I believe I’ll mosey on over to Java Joes for a fancy cup of coffee.” I said heading for the door.

        “I believe your heading over to java Joes to see the coffee maker.” The chief said with a grin. “Hey, Richard” he called out, “You be careful now.”

        “I promise I will. My Manhattan instincts at midnight will be on full alert.” And they were. I was like an alley cat in a strange neighborhood. Not that I was paranoid, just aware of my surroundings.

        I walked over to java Joes, pushing open the door, I was pleased that I was her only customer. “Well hello.” Pearly Sue said, as she looked over her shoulder in response to the ringing of the bell.

        “How’s my favorite journalist doing?” She asked with that smile that made my cheeks blush.

        “I’m doing pretty good, how’s the coffee in this place?” I answered with the best smile and wink I had.

        “It’s the best in Yorkshire. Want a cup?

        “Sure thing. A big cup, and make it out of the strongest stuff you have.”

        “Really?” She asked glancing back over her shoulder.

I took a seat on one of the red barstools at the front counter. Watching this beautiful creature do her job.

        “Now you realize that I cannot be held responsible if this keeps you awake for three days and nights.” Pearl said with a hint of humor in her voice. Even her voice was beautiful. Smooth and well, sexy.

        “I promise. I’ll sign a no-fault release form if you have one.”

        “Would you like cream and sugar in your Java Jolt?”

        “It has a name? Java Jolt?”

        “It will curl your toes and get your heart pounding out of your chest. Three shots of espresso, in a Jamaican blend of dark roast. Yep, it’s strong, but I like it.”

After making the cup of Jolt she came around the counter.

        “Do you mind if I set down?” She asked as she set in the red barstool beside me. She was close enough I could smell her perfume. It was a soft, flowery scent that smelled of lavender. It made me take a deep breathe, and want to linger next to her for the rest of the day.

        “So what has Richard Dominique Christian been up to the last few days?”

        “Would you care for the honest answer, or should I make something up?”

        She turned and looked at me, staring into my eyes like she did the other day. Without blinking she replied, “Give me the honest answer or I’ll add another shot of espresso to that cup of stay-awake.”

        “Well, seems like I’m digging something up in Yorkshire that was supposed to remain buried.”

        “Oh really, like what?”

        “Like the Mundlar house.” Waiting for her reaction. I didn’t get one.

        “What’s the Mundlar house?” She asked with an inquisitive look.

        “You don’t know about the Mundlar house?” I asked a bit surprised.

        “I’ve never heard of it.” She said as a matter of fact. “It sounds like a Museum. I’ll go check it out sometime, where is it?”

        “How long have you lived in Yorkshire?” I asked.

        “A little over three years. Moved here from Rochester. I,

 like most everybody that moves here, seems to be moving away from something, in hopes of finding something better.”

        “Well, did you find anything better?” I asked.

        “I found a quaint little house a mile out in the country, and a coffee shop.”

        “Any kids?” I asked for my own sake, out of curiosity.

        “No, God knew with what was to come I didn’t need any children.”

        “Sounds serious.”

        “Yeah, it sounds serious alright, because it is.” Rolling her eyes

        “My wonderful husband, my high school sweetheart. Who I thought was my soul mate. Turned out to be my biggest nightmare.”

        “I apologize for bringing it up.”

She punched me on the shoulder, “Don’t apologize, you had no way of knowing, besides that, how we going to build a friendship if we don’t get real with each other. Besides it’s been almost ten-year’s sense he went to prison for attempted murder. I got the savings account, the checking account and the house. I sold the house for twice the money we paid for it. Took out the savings and moved to Yorkshire.”

        I felt a bit of anger rise up in my chest. I couldn’t imagine anyone laying an abusive hand on this beautiful lady.”

        “Not that it matters, but I’m sure sorry that you went through that.”

        “I’m not.” Pearl said as a matter of fact. “If I didn’t go through that I would never have moved to Yorkshire and I wouldn’t be having this conversation with a handsome journalist from New York City.”

        I know I blushed a little. I could feel it in my cheeks. “Well, I’m glad we have met.” I said, looking into her beautiful eyes. Our eyes locked on each other’s for a long pause. Nothing more was said, but something bonded in that brief moment in time.

        “So what about you Richard Christian, what’s your story?”

        “Well, my story is a bit dull I’m afraid. No marriage, no children. I’m just an old retired detective turned investigative journalist, turned retired lazy, fisherman. Who has yet to have gone fishing?”

        “Detective? I never knew you were a detective. Aren’t we full of surprises?” She said with a wide eyed curiosity.

        “Not many do, it’s not something I talk about much. But, beings that were being as transparent as Saran Wrap. I might as well put all the cards on the table. However, this is something I would like to keep just between us.”

        “Sure.” Pearl answered, “I promise.”

        Before I ever moved to New York I was on a special crimes unit in Detroit, this was many years ago. I was in my mid-twenties. I loved the work, the adrenaline rush was amazing and the bond me and the others in that unit shared was unbreakable. We knew that every time we set up a drug sting we were putting our lives in the hands of the other officers.

        We had been working on a drug sting operation for six months. I and three other officers were undercover, playing the part of both sellers and buyers. The night that we were to make the bust everything was going well, until one of the girlfriends of the drug lord showed up unexpectedly carrying a baby. The girlfriend had been in and out of jail frequent times for prostitution and petty theft.

        Somehow she recognized one of the older officers on the case, and started screaming, “He’s a cop!” Pointing at my friend.

        All hell broke loose after that. My buddy was shot pointblank in the head, and the only reason I escaped was I took a dive through a two-story window. The squat team was in that place like a hive of angry bees.

When the shooting was over everyone in the apartment was dead including the female and the baby. It was a hard call on the squat team, but that ignorant woman was shooting at the police holding the baby in her arms.

        That night I broke my left arm and left foot, along with four broken ribs. Of all the luck I landed right on top of a bicycle.

        Call me a coward or whatever, but I never went back. After I healed up, I packed and moved to New York City. Went to college, got my master’s degree in journalism, landed a job at the New York Times and the rest is history.”

        “Wow, that’s quite a story. I can see where you don’t care to talk about it much.” Pearl said as she reached over and placed a tender hand upon my arm.”

        I wasn’t about to move, in fear she would move her hand off my arm.

        “The main reason I want to keep my detective work between us, is that I don’t want the Chief or anybody at the police station to know that I’ve been a cop. I want them to just think of me as a retired journalist.”

        “Would you care for some more coffee?” she asked sweetly.

        “Sure, why not. But this time just a regular old cup of coffee will do. You’re right about that Java Jolt. I may be awake for a month. It’s good though.”

        Several customers came in around noon and she greeted every one of them by name, and seemed to know what they would order before they opened their mouth. Every one of them received the same smile and all the female customers got the same hug. Pearl inquired about their families and had a genuine concern for her clientele. “No wonder Java Joe’s has a booming business.” I think to myself.

        After things settled down, Pearl cleared the tables and wiped them down with a damp wash cloth. Then she took her place by me again.

        “You have your customers spoiled.” I told her jokingly.

        “My customers pay my bills. Besides that, If I might be honest. I believe God led me to Java Joes. I needed healing, and pretty much everyone that walks through that door needs a friend. So, I try to be a friend and at the same time make the best coffee this side of New York Harbor.

        “You really believe God had a hand in it?” I asked.

        “I believe God has a hand in all of my affairs. Don’t you?”

        “Well yeah, I suppose, but when you’ve seen as much as I have through the years. It kind of wears on you. Makes you wonder where God is at times. For example where was God when that baby got shot in that drug sting? Where was God on 911 and where is God when tsunamis happen?”

I could tell my questions were weighing heavy on her. So I decided to let the conversation rest. But pearls silence was not a sign of weakness, she was just getting her ammo ready for an all scale war on my lack of faith in God.

        She abruptly stood, walked around the counter and from a shelf picked up a bible whose pages were worn. This was no coffee top bible, this was a weapon of choice. She set back down beside me and began preaching a sermon Billy Graham would stand up and applaud. After about fifteen minutes I was convinced the Pearly Sue was not one to trifle with when it comes to God and His will. The jest me of her sermon was: God didn’t fly those planes into the twin towers, and God didn’t pull the trigger that killed the baby and it’s mother and God didn’t make me jump out the window. Those were all choices made by man. It’s where God was after nine-eleven and where God is every time we need Him after a crises.

        I looked deep into her now, serious hazel eyes and knew she was right. But she wasn’t finished.

“God didn’t make my ex-husband beat me almost to death. But I can tell you His grace kept me alive. Two times I died in the operating room and the last time they almost gave up. But praying parents and a praying church moved God to have mercy. I live Richard not because God allowed the bad. I live because God answers prayer.”

        I swallowed back the lump in my throat, and hot tears burned my eyes. This old hard-nosed. Stubborn, old man just got set straight and I knew I needed it.

        We both sat in silence for a few long-minutes.

“After that, I need something cold to drink.” Pearl said with a grin. Ow about a Java Chiller? It’s my own recipe.

        “Sure, I answer. Still shaken by Pearls testimony. “May I ask how seriously you were hurt?”

        Turning around from scooping vanilla ice cream into a blender answered, “I’ll tell you, but this is a one-time conversation. I don’t care to talk about it much.”

        After making the drinks she came back around the counter, sat down, turning towards me, lowered the scarf around her neck, unbuttoned two buttons on her blouse and careful to remain modest showed me where she had been stabbed six times in the chest.

        He missed my heart by half an inch. Punctured my right lung. He also stabbed me three times in the back, cutting a kidney almost in half. Stabbed me once in the stomach and broke three ribs when he kicked me on the way out of our house. Three months in ICU, six months and twelve surgeries in the hospital, One year going to rehab, and probably a thousand hours of good people praying, here I stand with a Java Chiller in Yorkshire, New York.”

“That’s incredible.”

“No, it’s a miracle. But you know what the greatest miracle is?

“No, what?” I reply.

“The greatest miracle is the day I went to the state penitentiary, looked Jack right in the eyes and told him that I forgave him and that Jesus loves him. That’s all I said, turned around and walked out and have never looked back. End of story. Now I am very content with the blessings of God, my business and most of all my friends, which happen to be my customers.”

        We sipped on the Java Chiller quietly, Two hours had passed sense I came in.