By the Fright of the Silvery Moon

Here’s a peek at my current work in progress. If you have questions or suggestions or any comment about it, please put them in the comment section. I would welcome them. Fright is a lot of fun to write. The first book in the Moonlight series takes place in December. This second book is ten months later, in the fall. A lot has happened. I thought you might like to be invited to Ned’s first luncheon where she meets several people who are going to figure in the story.

Is a murderer among those gathered around the table? Is the victim there? What do you think? Or, are these ladies completely in the clear?

So began a routine. Each evening, I put food and a bowl of water on my back porch. I never saw Ulysses come to eat and drink but each morning, the food and water were gone. With the fall days growing colder, it was necessary that Ulysses put on some weight. He would never survive the winter in the wild, as emaciated as he was.

     Finding an old quilt and a cardboard box, I put them on the porch beside the food. I don’t know when Ulysses slipped in for the food and a night’s rest but a few dog hairs showed up on the quilt and it developed a hollow where he had lain.

     The day of the Old Houses Club luncheon dawned bright, crisp, and windy. I looked around my dining room with a great deal of satisfaction. My grandmother’s table linens brightened the room. Jackie’s low centerpiece of yellow and bronze mums, white daisies, and blue lupines went perfectly with the blue, red, and yellow fiesta ware. Pat and Jackie had arrived early to help with last minute details.

     Greta brought the taco soup earlier and it was now simmering on a burner on the stove. A plate of brownies sat on the counter top and Pat’s big bowl of crisp green salad waited for my guests. We were to fill our plates from this tempting buffet and take them to the table.

       A blazing fireplace added to the hominess. Penny completed the picture by napping on a braided rug in front of the hearth.

     My first guest was Ann Decker, my elderly next-door neighbor. I had invited Ann, hoping she would benefit from being out of her house and among a group of women. Although her husband had been one of the infamous Decker crew, Ann was nothing like them and had lived an awful life as a prisoner in her own home until last December.

     Greta came into the house with a blast of cold air and the last three guests.

     “Most of you know Bessiebell Coleman, Daisy Stanton, and Lizanne Jones. In fact, you probably all know each other except our hostess, Ned McNeil,” Greta said, smiling at each one she mentioned.

     “I’m so glad you’re here,” I greeted them. “I’m sort of an old new-comer in town. I once lived in Ednalee and this house belonged to my grandparents and then to my Uncle Javin. Some of you may have known him.”

     Bessiebell Coleman, the oldest of the group, thin, wrinkled, with chopped-off hair that was obviously dyed, shook her head. “Poor Javin,” she said, her voice quavering. “All that time spent in jail. Forty years, can you believe it? It’s a wonder that Decker man lived as long as he did. He was a mean ‘un. Yes sir.” She nodded vigorously but abruptly stopped as Daisy gigged her in the ribs.

     Ann sighed. “It’s all right, Daisy. My husband was an evil man.”

     Putting my arm around Ann’s frail shoulders, I smiled at her. “Miss Bessiebell didn’t mean to hurt you,” I assured her (at least, I hoped this was true). “Today, we’re forgetting all about the past and celebrating just being together. Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

     “It sure is, and your house is beautiful too,” Lizanne murmured, as I herded them all toward the kitchen and food.

     I remembered Lizanne from grade school. She was Lizanne Johnson then. Her mother was dead and her dad was the town drunk. Lizanne and her brothers came to school with dirty faces and ragged clothes. It looked like life had finally turned around for Lizanne and she was doing all right now. Her gray-blond hair was smoothly tucked into a chignon and she wore stylish pants, a cashmere sweater, and expensive low-heeled pumps.

     Daisy Stanton, tall, with her red hair perfectly in place, squeezed my hand. “Ned, I’m in real estate and I’d like to talk to you later. You’d be perfect for something I have in mind. I love your old house. What a marvelous job you’ve done with decorating it.”

     “Now, Daisy, we’ve just got here and you are talking business. Let’s forget about everything today except the good food  and good company.” Greta said “Thanks, Ned, for letting us come. If we have time after lunch, maybe you could lead us on a tour?”

     I returned her smile. “Certainly. It would be my pleasure. I love this old house and I’m always happy to show it off.”

     “Come and help yourselves,” I invited, waving everyone into the kitchen.

     Soon, the happy chatter of women filled my dining room. It looked as if my first party in Ednalee was a success.

     Daisy swallowed a bite of brownie, leaned toward me, and asked, “Are you possibly looking for a job here in Ednalee, Ned?”

     I dabbed my mouth with my napkin. “Goodness, I don’t know. I suppose I’ll need a job. I just haven’t started searching for one.”

     Daisy grinned. “Search no further. I need someone to visit the several properties I have for sale and write something about each house for the paper as well as my brochure. It would really be fun, Ned. What do you think?”

     I laughed. “You’re some sales woman, Daisy.” I didn’t know what to think. I had been so busy re-building the carriage house which burned last December, going through the unused rooms of this old house and pulling out antique furniture I could use, that I’d placed getting a job on the back burner. However, my husband’s life insurance wouldn’t last forever.

     Daisy patted my hand. “Think about it. You could go poke through a lot of the county’s historic homes and at least one old church that has been abandoned. It would be only part time. You could write your articles from the comfort of your home and send them to me via email. Anyway, just keep it in mind, will you?”

     That did sound pretty alluring, to be paid to look at old houses which I loved anyway.

     “Maybe you could include some of the things you find in your book,” Jackie said.

     Pat began clearing dishes off the table and taking them to the sink. Lizanne hurried to help her. “Sure wish you’d finish that book,” Pat said. “I’m running out of reading material.”

     “Okay,” I said. “I’ll certainly think about it.”

     Greta frowned. “Bite your tongue, Pat. The library has mountains of excellent books.”

     “You know, Ned,” quavered Miss Bessiebell, “this here house isn’t really the first one to be built on this spot.”

     I swiveled to face her. “Not the first house?”

     Miss Bessiebell shook her head. “Nope. I’ve heard my grandmother talk about an old, unpainted board house, built in this spot way before statehood. I guess this house was built around it or maybe the old house was actually torn down. I don’t know.”

     Miss Ann sniffed. “Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing, and I’ve lived next door to the Granger’s for a good many years.”

     “Amazing,” Lizanne murmured, shaking her head, “I’ve never heard that either. Sometimes, old tales get started.”

     My curiosity was piqued. Granger Mansion built around a previous house. “Miss Bessiebell, may I come talk to you about it?” I asked.

     She smiled, her old face crinkling. “Of course, my dear. I’d welcome your company.”

     Greta snapped her fingers. “That reminds me, Ned. You know how you and I have been searching through microfiche and stacks of old papers down in the basement of the library, trying to find information on Mr. Granger’s house for that book he wanted you to write. Well, I found a bunch of stuff a couple of days ago. Haven’t read through much of it. I just noticed the dates…late 1800s and I’m sure some of the material concerned this house. I’ll run out to my car and bring it all in.”

     “Should we wait until you get back to start the tour?” I asked.

     Greta waved her hand. “No, No. Go ahead. It won’t take a minute to run out and get them. I’ll catch up with you.”

     We walked through the downstairs rooms, the women exclaiming about the wonderful, carved fireplace surround, the tall windows with stained glass insets, and the original, wide plank floors. We were about to climb the stairs when Jackie said, “Shouldn’t Greta be back by now? She was just going out to her car.”

     I nodded, going to the front door. “Maybe she needs help in bringing in all those papers.”

     Opening the door, I peered at my driveway. Greta’s little car sat among the others parked there. Her car’s back door was open. I squinted. Was that Greta on the ground? What had happened? Had she fallen?

     “Girls, Greta’s in trouble!” I yelled and sprinted down the steps to where my friend lay, face-down on the driveway.

https://www.amazon.com/Blanche-Day-Manos/e/B0090018EI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0