A happy family, I thought, wishing I could see the woman’s face. Hoping for some identification, I turned the photograph over. No names, just a penciled date in a spidery hand: June 10, 1890. I felt like an idiot even asking the question, but it followed on my theory of the case. Was this a photo of my ghost?
I thought for a moment, then took down the framed newspaper article that Jessica Nelson had written about my building, which was once a family’s home—the Duncan family, according to the Historical Society’s plaque beside the front door. I had read the article when it first appeared in the Enterprise, but I didn’t remember the details. I skimmed it quickly.
And I found something. According to Jessica, the house had been built for his bride by a man named Douglas Duncan. He had also built a wood frame blacksmith shop on the alley behind the house, and a stone stable for his horses. Jessica had included several photographs with the article, but they were all of the building, then and now. No people.
The photo I was holding: Was it Mr. and Mrs. Douglas Duncan and their children? Was Mrs. Duncan my ghost?
Objection, Your Honor. Assumes facts not in evidence.
Sustained. But there she is, the woman in the swing. Or was. Perhaps. How could I know?
I couldn’t, but maybe Jessica could. She picked up after just two rings.
“Hey, China,” she said, “I just talked to the chief, at home. She says she’s feeling fine and will be back in the office in a day or two. Does that square with what you know?”
“Sounds right,” I said. “I saw her this morning, working from home. She seemed fine to me.” I changed the subject quickly. “Say, when you were doing the research on my building, did you happen to see any photographs of the family that built it? People photos, I mean?”
Jessica took a moment to think. “Maybe one or two. I can have a look in my notes.”
“Please do,” I said. “Specifically, I’m looking for information about Mrs. Duncan. I’d like to know her name, her age, anything you can find out about her.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Jessica paused. “By the way, your daughter entered the poultry show at the fair last year, didn’t she? Is she doing that again?”
“Oh, you bet,” I said emphatically. “Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy are already bathed, combed, pedicured, and polished. We’re taking them to the fairgrounds early tomorrow morning.” I paused. “Why are you asking?
“Because I’m covering the fair, and I wanted to include photos of a kid or two. Caitie is super photogenic, so I was thinking of using her, if it’s okay with you.” She chuckled. “And Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick, of course.”
“Covering the fair?” I couldn’t resist a tease. “I thought you were the Enterprise crime reporter. Is something going on at the fair that the rest of us don’t know about? Somebody pilfering fair funds, maybe? Criminal connivance at the carnival?”
“Oh, you are so funny,” Jessica said sarcastically. “The truth is that there hasn’t been a lot of bad stuff happening in Pecan Springs lately, and my boss doesn’t like me to sit on my hands. So I’m covering the fair. I’ll be looking for anything newsworthy. What kind of chicken is Dixie Chick?”
“She’s a Buff Orpington. Extra Crispy is a Cubalaya rooster. His family immigrated to the U.S. from Cuba around the time of the Second World War. He’s super elegant, with a tail you won’t believe. He’s definitely newsworthy.”
“‘A tale you won’t believe,’” Jessica muttered. I could hear her computer keyboard clicking. She was making notes. “Why won’t I believe his tale? Is there some sort of mystery about this particular rooster?”
“That’s t-a-i-l,” I said. “And there’s no mystery. Extra Crispy loves to mug for the camera.”
“Sounds great,” Jessica said. “How about if I meet you tomorrow and get some quotes and a pic or two of Caitie and her chickens? If one of them wins a ribbon, I’ll follow up with an interview and—”
There was a voice in the background and Jessica said something I didn’t quite hear. Then she was back on the line. “Hark wants to know if your garden page is going to be late again.”
“Tell him he can stop being snarky,” I said. Hark Hibler is the editor of the Enterprise, Jessica’s boss. My boss, too, since I write the garden column for the Thursday paper. I trade the articles for advertising for the shop, which is a pretty good deal, and definitely worth the time it takes. “I’m writing about a wildflower that’s blooming along my lane right now,” I added. “Queen Anne’s lace—lots of history as a medicinal herb. The article is all but done, and I’ll have photos. Maybe some recipes, too.”
I was stretching the truth a little. The article wasn’t anywhere near done, but I was planning on working on it tonight. I went on: “Caitie and I are checking her chickens in about eight in the morning. Want to meet us at the poultry tent?”
“Perfect,” Jessica said. “See you in the morning.”
I looked once more at the photograph, then took my purse out from under the counter and slipped the photo into it. I would ask Jessica to take a look. Maybe she would recognize the couple sitting on my porch. And the porch swing in the photo had given
