Wicked Deeds

His pleasure increased; his dark eyes twinkled. “I’m quite overcome—so deeply pleased. Why, it hasn’t been since...perhaps 1921 or so, when Mr. Abraham Grisham was in the city that I was able to speak so simply and easily with the living. He was a charming man—quite well lettered. He spoke to me at the burial ground. Oh, you mustn’t think that I spend my days sitting melancholy in the cemetery—despite the words I wrote. I... Well, I’m not at all sure what I’m doing here, but, my dear young woman, I dearly hope that you realize I wrote fiction, and that I was no ghoul!”

“No, of course not. I had a dream about you, about the day you died,” Vickie said.

“You seem like an intelligent young woman. I’d not have whispered in your ear as you lay sleeping had it not appeared so. I listened at the restaurant... You were knowledgeable. I was so pleased. So many people see me in such a sad light. As if I did nothing but haunt old, decrepit, decaying houses crumbling apart! Graveyards by night... They seemed to think I was a drunken, broken man, even in death, wasting away on a tombstone. That was that wretched Griswold—Rufus Griswold.” He stared at Vickie, as if waiting for her to say something.

She did. “Rufus Griswold. You attacked him with some rather pointed criticism of his work. When you died, he found his revenge. But you see, in the end, of course, you won. People became enamored of your work more and more with each year. I can assure you, very few people today would know the name Griswold—but there is probably no one who has ever attended a school in America who has not heard of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Bravo, Miss Preston, and words most kind. Far sweeter to my ear than those I heard before! Imagine—those that came harsh upon the ear before as you traversed the garage! Such rude words to fall from such rose-like lips!” the ghost said, shaking his head. “Dear me! Not that I have not known my share of opinionated members of the gentler sex, but...you can be quite hasty and devilish in your speech!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Trust me, I’ve said worse. Usually, when your kind makes acquaintance with me, it’s because they need help. If you wish for some kind of assistance, Mr. Poe, it’s not good manners to pop up here and there, and then disappear, testing the sanity of the living.”

He still looked at her, amused.

“Should I care? I’m afraid I’m quite beyond help, though, to be honest, I don’t at all understand this existence.” For a moment, he looked stricken—he had an expression that suited every description of him as a haunted and miserable man who had led a life of substance abuse, scraping for an income, continually plagued by death and misfortune in those around him. “My Elmira has gone,” he said. “All those I would call beloved, or friend—or even enemy. So...you, Miss Preston, surely need help. Not me. Therefore, I am at my leisure. You may do the groveling, if you so choose.”

“You may get out of my car, if you wish to be so rude,” she said.

He smiled at that. “My apologies! It is not my intention to be rude. You have no grasp of what it is like to be among the dead. Here on earth. Quite uncomfortable—I mean, those unused to being critiqued and disparaged would barely make it! People walking through you, not seeing you, not noting a pleasant, ‘Good morning!’ And those of my kind. Oh, the wailing and lamenting! Quite enough to give one a dreadful headache—I mean, had one actually had a real head that might ache!”

She had actually been really angry—as much as she admired Poe. She’d simply seen the dead most of her adult life, and there was one thing she knew for a certainty. They were very much like their living selves. Some were giving, some needed help, some were kind—and some were self-absorbed and self-righteous and not so nice.

“Do you know what happened to Franklin Verne?” she asked him.

“Most sadly, I do not,” he told her. “But of this, I’m quite certain. He did not kill himself. He did not fall back into the ways of sin or the flesh or into a vat of wine, as they might well say! I knew Franklin Verne. Well, I did not know him as those who called him friend might know him—I know the man because I observed him. He was a good man. A good writer. He loved his wife very much. I felt that we were kindred spirits.”

Vickie studied him, waiting. It had been, she knew, way too much to hope that the ghost of Poe, having appeared in her dream and now in her car, had all the pat answers she might need.

“He loved his wife, and she loved him,” Vickie said.

He nodded, grave now, not taunting or teasing. “You see, he reminded me of where I was when... Well, I don’t know what happened at the end myself, but I am referring to the point when I left this earth. When I died. I was on a train...and then I was dead. I have been listening to theories ever since. But that is no matter now. It is far too late to be solved. But so—here is one truth. Sarah Elmira Shelton was my first love. We were so young...and in love as only youth can be in love. Her father betrayed us. I went on. And believe me, I did love my Virginia. Dear, sweet, innocent Virginia! So very lovely! And yet, she was gone. And then I was back in Richmond, and there was my Sarah Elmira, a widow herself. She was no flushing young rose; time lay between us. Time had taken a toll upon us both as well. For her, I joined the temperance society. I gave up drink. And I did not die in a drunken stupor—to that I swear!” He was passionate, but he stopped suddenly, smiling at her. “I knew love, and that is what I mean. And I have seldom seen such a deep, rich, selfless love as that which Franklin Verne bore his wife, and which she bore him in return. He told her he would not drink. I told Sarah Elmira that I would not drink. I meant it—so did Franklin Verne. I came to you because the truth must be proved for him—he did not run down to a wine cellar and drown himself in a vat of wine!”

“No,” Vickie said.

“You must understand—”

“I do.”

“What?” He frowned. “You really believe that?”

“I believe he was murdered. I met Franklin Verne a few times. I also write. History.”

“Ah, nonfiction.” He studied her. “Not poetic at all, but...”

“Excuse me! It’s not easy, laying down facts and figures, making it interesting and keeping the reader going. Well, okay, sometimes history is so bizarre that it is all quite intriguing, but...”

“Back to me! And Franklin, of course. How are you going to prove the truth?”

“Griffin will find the truth. Griffin and the FBI and the police,” Vickie said. “I’m not an agent yet. I have no real power.”

“You don’t need power,” he told her.

“No?”

He lifted a hand into the air dismissively. “I am credited with creating the first mystery novel, you know. Detective novel. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’”

“Yes, I know the story. But Franklin Verne wasn’t killed by an ape.”

“Neither was I, my dear, neither was I. The point is this—one needs to merely follow the clues to discover the truth.”

“And you know how to follow the clues?”

“Indeed, I do. My dear Miss Preston, I did not write the first such novel without having some knowledge of the quest for such forensic knowledge.”

Vickie smiled. “Well, then.” She turned the key in the ignition once again.

“Where are we going?” he asked her.

“To the morgue.”

“I will not go in.”

“I’m not going in,” she told him. “Griffin is there. And I believe that Dr. Hatfield is very good at what he does. If there is something that we need to know, we’ll know it.”

“Yes.” The ghost of Poe looked thoughtful and concerned. “If Verne drank, someone forced that drink into him!”

“Possibly.” Vickie hesitated. “He did smell like wine.”

Poe lifted his hands. “I don’t—I can’t smell anymore, so...” He smiled at her. “I would think, Miss Preston, that you wear the sweetest perfume.”

“Well, thank you. I think,” she murmured. “We’ll go and get Griffin. He’s seen you, of course, you know.”

“How rare. How delightfully rare. Two of you! And it’s almost as if...”

“As if?”

“As if I were living again. If only...” He paused again, then seemed to straighten. “But we will not be waylaid in our quest. We will find the truth. Franklin Verne was a fine man. I believe that too often in life, he received slings and arrows for reviews. I think others were jealous of him.”

“Everyone gets bad reviews now and then,” Vickie said, and chuckled softly. “Anyone can review a book now and so many people do. I can’t think of an author who doesn’t get a bad review somewhere along the line—even if out of jealousy or sour grapes. Perhaps deserved—perhaps not. Books being digital and reviews online mean that... Well, like I said. Everyone gets a bad review now and then.”

“Rufus Griswold,” Poe said. “Rufus Griswold, too, is long from the world we both once knew. But what people see as the legend of me is largely through that man’s words. Yes, I could overdo. I was temperamental. I had an ego. I was prone to dive into alcohol. But I wasn’t a perpetual drunk! And I did join the temperance league, and I wouldn’t have gone against Sarah Elmira...”

“You think that Rufus Griswold murdered you?” Vickie demanded.

“Only on the page, my dear. Only on the page. I was somehow murdered. And while my thoughts on that pompous bastard with a total lack of imagination regarding coherent verbiage are dark, I don’t believe he murdered me. Did someone cause my death—other than myself, as sometimes assumed? Yes. But...even in death, I can’t find the truth. That’s why I feel that I must hound you and your lawman until the two of you find out what happened to Franklin Verne. If I can’t find justice for myself, I will strive to see that the words and opinions that cast ill on memories of me do not fall upon him as well. He mustn’t be maligned. For him, the truth of this matter will be known!”

* * *

There would never be anything nice about an autopsy.