The Ghost in the Big Brass Bed Read Online Free PDF Page B

chair again, then followed Norma and Chris up the stairs, thinking about what I had heard. Why couldn’t Phoebe keep her house? Because she was broke, probably. But why would selling a picture take care of the problem? Could she really have a picture worth that much? And what picture was the lawyer talking about? The one over the fireplace?
    I shivered at the memory of the grisly images and wondered why anyone would paint such a thing to begin with. Could a painting like that possibly be worth enough to let Phoebe stay in her house? If it was, then why didn’t she sell it? I would have been glad to trade something like that for my house. Heck, I’d have given it away, rather than have to look at it every day.
    I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I forgot what we were there for until Norma said, “Well, child, are you going to put down that chair or not?”
    â€œDon’t mind her, Norma,” said Chris, who was already standing on the chair she had carried up. “She gets that way when she’s thinking.”
    I made a face at her and set the chair on the floor. Norma climbed up. Working together, she and Chris lifted the top off the wardrobe.
    Even in pieces the wardrobe was heavy, and it took all three of us to carry some of the sections down the stairs. After we had most of it on the porch, Norma went to open the back of the truck. Chris and I went upstairs to get the top, which was the last and smallest piece.
    As we were carrying the top out of the room, I heard someone start to cry. I turned back to look and almost lost my grip on the wood when I saw a little girl sitting in the bed.
    â€œChris!” I hissed. “Do you see?”
    â€œI see,” she whispered.
    The little girl continued her quiet weeping. I wanted to comfort her. But what could I do? Put my arms around her? Pat her on the shoulder? If I tried to touch her, my hand would go right through her.
    Before I could decide what to do, the form in the bed faded away. But her voice lingered in the air after her image was gone, the way the smell of peaches had remained in the room after Carla Bond left.
    â€œDaddy?” she whispered softly and sadly. “Oh, Daddy, when are you coming back?”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The Lost Masterpiece
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” Chris asked, looking up at me. I was sitting on a branch of the apple tree in her backyard. Before I could answer, she swung one leg over the branch and pulled herself up to sit beside me.
    â€œI’m not sure,” I said, moving over to make room for her.
    We were sitting in Chris’s apple tree instead of her house because finding a quiet spot to talk in the Gurley house is about as likely as finding a giraffe in your bathtub. That’s because Chris has more brothers than a bug has legs. I keep trying to count them—her brothers, not a bug’s legs—but they’re never all around at the same time. Whenever I ask Chris how many there are, she just shrugs and says, “About five more than I need.” (But she won’t tell me how many she thinks she needs.)
    Anyway, if you want to talk quietly, it’s easier to go outside—especially on a night when the air is cool and crisp and filled with the smells of October. I felt good. I was upset by what had happened that day, but I was also excited about the fact that we had landed in the middle of a new mystery. I love mysteries. Solving them makes me feel really alive.
    â€œWell, we’ve got to do something,” Chris said.
    â€œI agree. It gives me the creeps to think of that poor little girl, waiting there for her father.”
    â€œShe’s probably been waiting for years,” said Chris sourly. “Another few weeks won’t kill her.”
    â€œThat’s not funny!” I slid along the branch and reached for an apple.
    â€œSo it was a bad joke. But I mean it about waiting. Much as I’d like to help that little kid, Phoebe’s