Molly
A Nick Crowell Story

By: Frank Zubek
September 22, 2008

I was at my desk in the police station when Detective Fisher’s phone rang on the desk beside me. I heard him say: “Crowell? Yeah. Hold on.” Whoever it was, he put them on hold and nodded at me and I picked up.

“Detective Crowell? It’s Mrs. Heywood.”

Mrs. Molly Heywood is probably one of the reasons voicemail was invented. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice, old widow who gets around on her own well enough, but she’s lonely and like many people in her position, occasionally wants someone to talk to. As usual, it was a busy night and I was trying to catch up on paperwork and really didn’t have time to talk to her, let alone just listen. I mean, I could’ve talked to her and type at the same time, but it’s a little distracting. Every one of us at the station does it all the time as long as it’s business, but to just sit and listen to stories about grandchildren and baking cookies while I try to catch up on work would eat up a good deal of my time.

The only reason she had my number in the first place is that a few months ago, she was hearing strange noises in her attic. She became convinced that the ghost of her husband-who had insomnia when he was alive-had been walking around in the attic every evening.

Officer Webster, who took that call, didn’t want to be bothered to talk with her for even fifteen minutes (which was basically all she wanted), though I understood his point of view. It’s not exactly the kind of police work a young rookie cop, whose eyes are more focused on the advancement ladder, is looking for. Anyway, Webster, figuring her ghost story was something better suited for me, gave her my number.

You see, I got shot some years back and almost died. It happened near an old cemetery and for the past couple of years, my near-death experience somehow has enabled me to see ghosts. Or meet people who have abilities or experiences beyond what’s considered a normal life. In short, I occasionally come across weird shit that breaks up the monotony of my regular job.

When she called me that first night, I told her I’d stop by to see what I could do. By the time I got there, her husband’s ghost had stopped making noise. I went upstairs into the attic anyway and looked around but didn’t see anything unusual. But I had a hunch on something, so I told her that I would come back.

I kept an eye on the weather reports and soon enough, a Thursday evening came up when it was fairly windy. I work second shift, so on my lunch break (which is around seven o’clock when you work second shift), I stopped by her place and she made me some tea. Within half an hour, her husband started walking around upstairs. Well, okay, something was making noise up there in the attic. I told her I’d go upstairs and talk him into stopping with the noise.

Now if Webster had done a little bit of thinking, he would have gone up to the attic like I had done, and spotted the window shutter that had come loose after years of being battered by the weather. He would have gone down to Molly’s basement, just like I done, found a hammer and a couple of nails from her late husband’s toolbox, and nailed that shutter closed. Once I did that, the wind stopped slapping it against the house during windy evenings, the ghost of her husband stopped keeping her up at night, and she stopped calling the police station (well, at least during windy evenings).

Now, where was I? Oh yes. . . “Hello, Molly.”

* * * *

The next day, I got a call from my girlfriend, Lucy D’Agastino. She sounded worried. “Nicky, can you come by? Are you busy? I need you to come over right away.”

“I’ll get Fisher to cover for me, sure. What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing bad. But come as soon as you can.”

I hated it when she won’t explain anything over the phone. I stopped by Detective Fisher’s desk on my way out and asked him to cover for me. We did this often and all he ever asked for in return was some food. He was so easy to please.

Lucy ran an antique shop out of her home on Lorain Road from noon to six, and in the back of the place she had a second business where she told fortunes from ten in the morning until noon. By appointment only. Her three-inch ad in the paper read:

Readings by Madam Starr.

Ten dollars.

One half-hour reading.

Between 10 a.m. and noon.

By appointment only.

Now, I believe in a lot of strange stuff, but I can tell you that I’m not the kind of person who starts the day reading my horoscope. But, as Lucy explained to me, many of the people that come to her are just looking for a little hope in his or her life. Lucy often jokes, that while it isn’t the most honest of livings, it kept her off the streets.

It was after seven and the sun was pretty low in the sky by the time I parked in the back and rang the bell. Lucy came to the door still dressed in her fortune-telling outfit, which looked a lot like the standard gypsy costume you see in the movies: brightly colored skirt and a white blouse with a low cut front that showed off her ample cleavage. I always tell her she looks like a Swiss Miss girl you see on hot chocolate packages or some beer bottles.

“Hello, Nicky. Come in, come in.” She took me by the arm and led me through the screened-in back patio, which doubled as the fortune telling room. We walked through the living room where she kept all her antiques, then into the kitchen. Her German Shepherd, Ralph, stopped snoring long enough to nuzzle my hand in greeting.

“Okay. I’m here. Now what’s so important?” I leaned against the kitchen counter and folded my arms.

She went to the fridge to get me a soda. As I popped the tab on the can, she explained what had happened.

“This guy calls me up last week, Nicky. An older gentleman, very nice. And he tells me he has an old chair he wants to sell. So, I tell him to bring it by. He comes that night in a van. Nicky, let me tell you, it was a nice chair. A Remington!”

I shrugged, not really knowing much about antique chairs. She giggled, touched my arm, and continued, “So I know right away I can make a few dollars off of this and I ask him what he wanted for it.. He says fifty bucks. But I could tell it was at least a hundred years old. I asked him if he was sure, and he said it’s causing a problem at home. Family issues or something. So, I offered him seventy-five.”

“Lucy.” I gave her a scolding look and she waved her hand at me. She had an annoying habit of being overly nice to her customers, never really bartering prices.

“Anyways, I had him put the chair in the garage.”

As I took a sip from my soda, I motioned with my free hand for her to get to the point.

“Better if I show you.” She took me by the hand and we headed back into the living room, with Ralph bringing up the rear.

She had all the blinds drawn closed and I went to turn on the light. “No, no, Nicky. Here, sit down. Right here.” She sat me at a dining room table and I obediently let her grab my shoulders so that I was facing in the direction she wanted me to. She walked across the room, to an old chair, the one in question I guessed, and stood behind it.

Mildly curious now, I obliged her and looked at it. I had to admit that it looked in remarkable shape for an antique. It looked much more comfortable than some of the hand-me-down stuff in my own place. The chair was covered with what looked like brown leather, with little silver button studs along the front of both arms and down the sides.

“I went online and it turns out it’s a real antique. Over a hundred years old. I checked around and found out that I could get almost a thousand dollars for it.” Lucy was excited and couldn’t seem to stand still behind the chair. “Problem is, I can’t sell it to anybody.” As she said this she glanced at her wristwatch. Ralph started to whine and I rubbed him behind his ears to quiet him down. What was his problem?

“Oh? Why can’t you sell it?” I asked. Just then, an old man appeared in the chair. One minute, the chair’s empty and the next minute there’s an old man sitting there, reading a book. He wasn’t as solid as other ghosts I’ve seen, and he gave off a kind of greenish glow which reflected off Lucy and the wall behind her. I could see his head and his shoulders, and his hands as they turned the pages. The rest of his body was there but kind of foggy with little definition.

Now ever since this ghost business started with me, I’ve seen some stuff that has been pretty unsettling and you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. In fact, I was so taken aback by the sudden appearance of this guy, that I stood up without realizing I was doing it.

“It’s all right, honey,” Lucy said. “He just sits there. He’s harmless.”

Ralph came up behind me, leaned into the back of my legs and whimpered. Lucy came out from behind the chair, pursing her lips and cooing at him to calm him down, though it did little to calm him down. He was still jumpy. I was jumpy myself.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“When my assistant, Nancy and I brought it in from the garage a few days ago so I could clean it. Around eight o’clock, this guy appeared out of no-place!”

“Nowhere, hon,” I corrected her. She gave me a look and I shrugged my shoulders in apology. She was always reminding me how I should listen to what she says, not how she says it.

“Anyways, it lasted about three hours, starting around eight. He just sits there reading. Once in awhile, he’ll look at you.”

As if on cue, he did just that. Right into my eyes. He smiled and then went back to reading whatever it was he was reading.

“Whoa,” I whispered under my breath. Ralph whimpered once more and retreated into the kitchen. Coward.

“Does he look at you wherever you are in the room?”

Lucy nodded, staring at me with her large chestnut-colored eyes. “So can you take it off my hands?”

“Me? Where would I put it? You know my place. I have to go out outside to change my mind.”

Lucy chuckled and then folded her arms, standing with one hip jutted out like she always does when she wants me to do something I don’t particularly want to do. “Nicky. I’m serious. I can’t sell the chair to anyone. Who would want to buy a chair with a ghost sitting in it?”

I folded my arms as well and stared at the chair and its ghostly occupant. “Well, there must be dozens—maybe even hundreds of people out there who would love to own it. We’ll take out an ad—”

“Nicky, honey, I get my share of weirdo’s in here, but the kind of people who might want a chair like this I don’t need to see.”

I agreed. She had started this fortune telling stuff as a way to bring in extra income and I had helped put out flyers at a couple of local libraries and on the waiting room bulletin board at the station. After that, she got most of her business through word of mouth.

“Anyways,” she continued. “I can usually tell from the weirdos. Those guys, I just refer them to that Crystal Ball woman over on Broadway. She’s got some stories to tell you, I bet.”

“I’m sure.” I gave her a smile and walked back and forth observing the old man. He occasionally turned a page. My detective instincts kicked and I began with my questions. “The guy who dropped it off. Did he leave you his card or anything like that?”

“No, but the name of his company was on the side of the van.”

“Great. And the name is. . .?”

“I don’t know. I have to look in the phone book.”

I groaned inwardly.

She hurried into another room to get it.

We sat at the table and she flipped back and forth through the pages. “It started with a ‘P’.”

“Well, that helps narrow it down a little. We only have to search thirty or forty pages instead of the whole book,” I said.

She playfully slapped me on the arm as she flipped back and forth through the pages, scanning the ads. Seeing something she recognized, she jabbed a finger in the middle of the page. “There. That’s his name.”

I leaned forward and gently moved her finger away from the page. “Peshkey’s Shoe Repair.” His shop was way out in Avon Lake. That was strange. I would think that there would be some antique shops closer. Regardless, I wrote the info down in my notepad.

“I’d make a good detective one day, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, and I kissed her. “Okay. I’ll see if I can find time to stop by and pay him a visit tomorrow.”

From my experience with this kind of thing, it seems ghosts only hang around because there’s some sort of unfinished business they’ve left behind. If I could find that out, maybe I could un-haunt the chair for her.

“Oh, thank you, Nicky.” She stretched up on her toes, kissed me on the cheek and gave me a hug.

“In the meantime, you okay with all this?” I pointed towards the chair.

“Oh sure.” She shrugged her shoulders and followed me out to my car. “Like I said. He doesn’t move around or anything. He just sits there from about eight to eleven every evening and then he’s gone.”

“Yeah, but where is he the rest of the time?” I laughed, made a move for her backside, which she easily sidestepped.

Waving a finger my way, she said, “There will be time enough for that some other time, Nicholas.”

“Okay,” I sighed. I had to get back to work anyway. “I’ll see what I can do. But no promises. By the way, how much would you want for the chair? I could ask around at the station. Provided we can get rid of the ghost.”

“Without the ghost, I could probably get nine hundred, easy. But with that old man attached, nothing.”

Promising her I would call if I found out anything, I drove back to work.

* * * *

The next day was busy but I managed to call Peshkey’s number to tell him who I was, and to ask if I could come over. He’d agreed. His shop was way out on the west side of town. Knowing it would be at least three hours before I got back, I had Fisher cover for me again. This chair was starting to cost me money.

Peshkey’s shop was tucked neatly into the corner of a small shopping strip. I parked the car and walked in. A little bell above the door signaled my presence. There was a strong scent of old shoe leather in the air.

Though it was the middle of the day, the place wasn’t busy. A young female clerk helped a customer near the front door, and an older man stood behind the counter, no doubt Mr. Peshkey. He came from behind the register and introduced himself with a healthy handshake.

“Anthony Peshkey.” He had a warm smile and asked if I wanted a soda.

“Nick Crowell,” I said. He pointed to the little bell on the door, “That little bell on the door seems to ring less often than it used to. Bad sign of the times. Many of my customers have told me that it’s sometimes cheaper to just buy shoes at a discount place than to come to me anymore. Thank goodness I still have the older, more loyal customers. Selling newspapers and lottery tickets helps a little, but those bigger stores are really crushing me.” He turned to the clerk and said, “Suzie, I’ll be in the back for a bit, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

As we headed towards the back room, he kept looking over his shoulder as he walked. “That’s my daughter, Suzie. My wife used to help me but she got sick. My daughter is helping out until I can find someone.” He shook his head as he opened the fridge. He pulled out two sodas. I opened mine up and leaned against the counter.

“So, am I in trouble?”

I studied him. He had opened his soda but never drank from it. He had put it on the counter next to him and had begun tugging at his lower lip with his fingers.

“For what? Selling a haunted chair?”

“That poor woman didn’t know what it was she was buying. At the very least, one could say I lied to her.”

“That’s not against the law either. She’s not going to press charges, believe me. She asked me to see if there’s any information that might help her sell the chair.”

“Information like what?”

“Well, you may not be aware of it, but the chair happens to have a ghost that appears between the hours of eight and eleven at night. Now I have some limited experience with ghosts and from what I know, one reason they don’t completely go to the afterlife is because they have some unfinished business here on earth.”

He smiled and shook his head. “The old man in the chair is my father, Thomas Peshkey. This was his business originally. Built it from nothing. He started on Broadview Road near Cleveland, but when business dropped off, he moved out here. Business was better back then. He worked hard all day and after dinner, he’d sit in that chair to read. Around eleven, he’d go off to bed. Mother pretty much raised me on her own. He was very old school, very stubborn. The man provides and the woman handles the rest. After work he insisted on time for himself.”

“Five days a week? Or all seven?”

“Seven. Like clock work. Eight o’clock to eleven. He passed away in that chair a month ago. Old age. Mom found him in the morning.”

“I see. I’m sorry.” Several pieces of the puzzle began to slide into place, though it was starting to look like that wouldn’t help Lucy at all. “How long was it after the funeral that he started to appear in the chair?”

“About a week or two after the funeral. I asked my mom if I could have it and she said okay. Shortly after that, he started appearing in the chair. Almost gave my wife a heart attack.”

I allowed myself a bit of a smile—I could relate. “The obvious question would be: Why would you want to sell the chair?”

“It was making my wife crazy. She and Father never got along. I moved it from the living room to the basement but she said she didn’t want it in the house at all! My mother didn’t want it with her either.”

He began waving his hands. “At first, I took it because it’s a nice chair. But then, he began appearing and I— I couldn’t even bear to sit in it anymore.”

I felt bad for the guy until I remembered that his old problem was my new one. “Do you know the chair is worth maybe a grand?”

“I don’t care about the chair anymore. If that young woman can find it a good home that’s all I ask.”

In addition to his animated hands, his voice was sounding aggravated as well. I had a feeling he couldn’t fully wrap his mind around the problem. He seemed to me like one of those people who, after solving a problem to the best of their ability, consider it a done deal. He also seemed to me like one of those people who don’t believe in this kind of thing. I’d bet he thought that after selling the chair, he was rid of the problem.

“Actually, my friend is worried she might have a hard time selling it with, uh, your father still, shall we say, attached to it.”

“Well, I can’t take it back,” he was raising his voice. “I won’t.” He checked his voice and walked to the door to peer into the shop to see if his daughter had heard him. He was having a tough time keeping himself under control. “My wife is still very much alive and I don’t need the grief. Truth be told, I didn’t get along with him very well either. But, he’s gone now and I’m just trying not to aggravate my wife.”

Now here I was, stuck with the problem of having to deal with whatever part of his father still remained. I had hoped that Peshkey could have told me something I could use to help his father finish whatever it was that was keeping him here. But, I could see that there was nothing more I could do here. “You’ve been very helpful. Sorry for your loss.”

On the way back to the station, it occurred to me why he might have chosen Lucy instead of some antique place closer to where he lived. Knowing about the ghost, he probably figured the farther away, the more trouble it would be for the new owner of the chair to go through in order to give the chair back.

The whole way back to the station, I racked my brains trying to figure out who would possibly want an antique chair, in which, between the hours of eight and eleven every evening, an old man appeared, glowing a greenish color and reading a book.

* * * *

Before going into work the following day, I stopped by to see Lucy and tell her what Mr. Peshkey’d had to say. Right away she started pacing the living room, talking rapidly in Italian.

“Lucy, calm down.” I grasped her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I’ll think of something, okay? Trust me.” I’m sure I sounded more confident than I was. Over the next couple of days, I asked around trying to find out if anyone would want a chair affixed with its own ghost. The uniqueness of the problem rather limited my options.

Out of ideas, I went back to Lucy. “I understand,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But you’ve got to get rid of the chair.”

“You know,” I said, “if it was just a chair, I’d sneak it to a nearby landfill myself. But there is the matter of a man who hasn’t quite left this world. Besides, you told me I could have a few days to handle this.”

“Yes, but I’ve had to rush some of my customers out of here before eight o’clock. So they don’t see him.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a few more days, huh?”

She tilted her head and pouted. “Okay. Two more days.”

We hugged briefly and I said I had to get back to the sweatshop.

She waved to me as I left for work.

* * * *

The next day was Thursday and for some reason we were busy as hell all day. There were shoplifters at a local store we had to process, a kid who’d gone for a joy ride in a stolen car, plus the usual backlog of files and open cases from the past few weeks. So as I worked on a report, the phone on Detective Fisher’s desk rang. I frowned as I heard him say, “Crowell? Yeah, hold on.” He smiled and shoved a finger in my direction.

It was the way he said it that made me glance at my watch as I picked up the phone. It was about six-thirty.

“Crowell. Hello, Molly. Did she? Well that’s really nice. How did that happen?” I put the receiver on my shoulder and started grunting into it every five minutes so she knew I was still listening. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Fisher imitating me with his hand to his ear as if he were on the phone, making cooing noises. I flipped him off.

I think sometimes I’m too nice a guy. As the saying goes, being nice doesn’t cost much, but for me, well, sometimes my nice guy reputation interferes with my work. I know I just add to my workload, and sometimes to my personal life when I start going out of my way for people like Molly Heywood. But as I had said before, she’s a widow without even a pet for company. She has a son, but once he figured out that her neighbors and I kept a pretty good eye on her, he developed a habit of stopping by to see her less.

If she at least had a cat maybe she wouldn’t call the station quite so often. Hell, the cat wouldn’t have to do anything at all, just sit there and listen. That seems like that’s all she really needs— Wait a minute! That’s it!

“Molly? Yeah, listen. Could you hold on for just a second? I have a call I need to make.” I put Molly on hold and punched up Lucy’s number on my cell.

“Hi, honey, it’s Nick. Listen. I think I can take that chair off your hands. You free for the next hour? Great. I’ll be right there.” I hung up on Lucy and then punched up Mrs. Heywood’s button. “Molly? I have a surprise for you. May I stop by? Great.”

Smiling, I grabbed the handful of files and dumped them on Fisher’s desk. “Not one word. Do what you can do, cover me for an hour and a half, and all of next month’s lunches are on me.” I could have lit up New Jersey with the smile Fisher gave me. I hurried out to Lucy’s and gave her a hundred dollars for the chair so she at least had her initial investment back.

“There’s interest, you know,” she said with a teasing wink, tucking the bills into her blouse.

“Can’t be too much, it’s only been a week,” I smiled. Her expression changed from a beautiful smile to an open mouthed look of pretend shock. “But I’ll take care of that this weekend, ma’am.”

She gave me a throaty chuckle and helped me get the chair into the car. For a brief moment I felt bad tipping it sideways as we struggled to fit it into the back seat. Lucy’s face told me she had the same thought. But then, how badly can you harm a ghost?

I laughed, leaned in, patted one of the chair legs and said, “Sorry Thomas, but you’re going to a good home.”

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, I was knocking on Molly’s door.

“Hello, Molly. I have a surprise for you.”

She saw the chair and then looked back at me with a questioning look.

“Let me come in and explain.”

She stepped aside and I brought the chair in and she showed me a spot next to her couch where I could put it.

“Why don’t you make us some tea?”

While she was in the kitchen preparing the snacks, I suddenly found myself worrying that she might not see him. After all, if someone doesn’t believe in ghosts, can they see one? Or worse, if she did see him, she might get scared and have a heart attack. If that happened I would really have some explaining to do. Not only to Briggs, because normal police reports were one thing, but Briggs hated discussing anything related to ghosts or weird stuff that I occasionally handled. Absolutely hated it. The bigger problem would be Lucy. She did not want the chair back. Ever.

Oh well, too late now, I was committed. Molly came out with the tea and cookies and I helped her by pouring the tea. Checking my watch, I looked towards the chair and right on time, Thomas appeared in the chair.

“Molly, I’d like you to meet Thomas.” As I said this, I pointed toward the chair so she would turn her head to look.

She was a little startled at first. But after Thomas made eye contact, she seemed to calm down. In fact, Molly was entranced. “Thomas. How nice of you to drop by.”

Now it was my turn to be startled. “His name is Thomas Peshkey,” I said.

“Oh, I know,” Molly said. “My husband used to go to him all the time when he had his shop around the corner. He would stop by here once in awhile for dinner. Such a nice man. Shall we give him some tea?”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I figured it best to lay out some ground rules. “Well, he doesn’t eat or drink. And he’ll only show up between eight and eleven in the evening. Every night. So it might be best not to have visitors over at that time.”

After a moment, I added. “Probably best not to tell anyone about him either. Especially your son. Could you do me that favor?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Detective. I think we’ll get along just fine. I guess you should be getting back to work.” She stood up to show me to the door.
As I stood in the open doorway, I couldn’t help but stare at Peshkey, blissfully sitting in the chair reading his book, while just outside I could also see the real world, going about it’s business. That’s when I had a final thought.

“Molly, listen. Sometimes, ghosts remain behind because there is unfinished business in this world they need to take care of. I think that once Thomas finishes that book he’s reading, there’s a chance that he may not come back.” I waited for what I said to sink in.

“I understand, Detective,” she gently placed a hand on my sleeve as she looked into my eyes and said, “we only have the time that we have. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

I smiled at her. “Better get inside, now. It’s cold out here.” With a final wave, I closed the front door behind me and walked back to my car. As the engine warmed up I could see Molly standing before the chair, talking to Thomas. Probably picking up an old conversation from long ago when he used to stop by for dinner. Reminded of dinner, I bought two burgers with a side of fries for Fisher on the way back.

* * * *

A couple of weeks later, a Saturday morning, Lucy was making me some pancakes as I stared, distracted, out her kitchen window. Setting the plate in front of me, she poured me a tall glass of orange juice and then sat next to me, leaned on one elbow.

“Pssst!”

“Sorry. Day dreaming. You know how I am. I was thinking about Molly Heywood and I was wondering how she’s doing.”

“I can tell you. I can see into the future, right? For instance, you’re going to be very busy for the next half an hour.” She got off her chair and sat on my lap.

“Thirty minutes, huh?”

“At least,” she said. Slipping her arms around my shoulders, she leaned into me and gave me a big kiss.

I kissed her back, and as you might have guessed, we skipped breakfast.