An Unwelcome Client

An Unwelcome Client

If anyone had told me that I'd accept a ghost as a client, I wouldn't have believed them. Ghosts to me are part of childhood--scary tales to be put away with our jump ropes and jacks.

Besides, believing in ghosts takes me in a direction I don't want to go.

So the night Rosemary talked to me is a night I'll never forget. I was seated on my living room couch in my two-bedroom apartment north of Loyola University in Chicago.

"Restore my honor," Rosemary said.

As the chief of security at Callifonte Inc., I'd been working long hours and sleeping irregularly, so, I thought, I'd possibly said it myself.

Rosemary, however, quickly repeated her request. That time I knew my mouth hadn't moved--although the hairs on the back of my neck had snapped to attention.

"You're a detective. You live in my rooms. Clear my name."

I took a deep breath, then looked behind me. From where I sat, I could see into my darkened kitchen. There, in the doorway to the pantry, was what looked like a soft, white glow.

"Good grief," I whispered, suddenly wishing I were Catholic and entitled to cross myself. But I was barely Protestant and a long way from devout.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Rosemary Sheaf, and I pleaded guilty to a murder I didn't commit. Tell my daughter." That said, she vanished, leaving me, a twice-divorced female, alone in a darkened apartment.

*******

The next morning, I dismissed the ghostly visit as a bad dream, probably caused by a carton of bad yogurt.

Still, the memory was compelling, and when I got to my office, I telephoned my friend at The Gazette for a favor.

Throughout my years in Internal Affairs on the Chicago Police Department, I'd maintained contact with a couple of police reporters. You'd be surprised the information they carry around in their heads.

Sue Gladstone always was one of the best informed of the lot. Her resistance to my request for information, though, was instantaneous.

"No dice, Morgan" Sue answered over the telephone line.

"You've gone corporate. You don't have any information I'm interested in, and knowing you corporate types, you wouldn't share it with me anyway."

"Sue, I may be out of the department, but I still have contacts there--deep contacts. I'll fill you in on anything I can."

I heard a long pause on the other end of the line. Sounded like Sue was chalking up the numbers and figuring out if it paid her to play this hand.

"So what do you want?" she finally asked.

I gave her Rosemary's name and asked her to run it through the newspaper's computer.

She phoned back about an hour later and asked, "You desperate or what?"

"What do you mean?" I closed my eyes and hoped Sue wasn't about to tell me she'd found something on Rosemary. She didn't leave me in suspense for long.

"Rosemary Sheaf pleaded guilty to murdering a low-level mobster in 1939. She died in prison six months later. That's not the Rosemary you're looking for. Right?"

"What's the woman's address?"

"1124 West Pratt." She paused a moment then asked, "Wait a minute? Isn't that your address?"

"That sounds like my Rosemary," I said with a sigh.

*******

Cashing in a personal day at work, I headed for the Tribune offices.

There were stacks of clippings in the box I picked up from Sue later that morning.

When I got home it was well after noon. I left the box on the couch, wandered out to the kitchen to make coffee, then returned to the living room where I fished a couple of stories out of the box.

"Gun moll mows down lover," the first headline read.

"Jimmy the Horse found shot in an alley," a later edition proclaimed.

I opted for the first article, carried it with me to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and settled myself at the kitchen counter to read.

"Rosemary Sheaf was taken into custody this morning on a charge of murdering her live-in boyfriend, James Keagan, also known to police as Jimmy the Horse," it read.

"Keagan was a reputed member of the North Shore mob run by Michael Flaggerty. Police say Sheaf killed Keagan in a fit of jealousy."

I wondered.

If she were in a jealous rage, wouldn't she have been more likely to shoot him while they were inside the apartment?

I refilled my coffee mug and returned to the couch. After another twenty minutes of reading, I still didn't feel any better about the case.

Leaning to my right, I grabbed the telephone and dialed the Nineteenth Precinct.

"Joe Campbell, please," I crooned into the mouthpiece. I also prayed he was on duty.

"Joe," I said when he finally answered. "You know anyone still living who had anything to do with a murder in your precinct in 1939?"

I figured it was a long shot, but if anyone would know, Joe would. He loved the history of the precinct and spouted details on old cases the way other cops recite Miranda warnings.

After he finished laughing, I threw out Rosemary's name.

He sobered instantly, "Actually, for that case I do have a name. Go see Victor Charsky."

*****

The Glendale Nursing Home was located on Sterling Avenue. The squalid building smelled as bad inside as it looked outside.

The receptionist took my name, then led me to a shabby room at the end of a dark hall.

"You have a visitor, Victor" she said, depositing me at the bedside of a small, bald man, who looked next door to death. His eyes caught on mine.

"You're Morgan Miller," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Internal Affairs, right? What do you want with me?"

Funny how we all live in our own self-centered little worlds. I'd figured every cop in Chicago had heard when I left the police force three years before.

"I was told you worked the Jimmy the Horse murder," I said. "Just want to ask you a few questions."

"Too, late. You can't pin anything on me for that one. Rosemary Sheaf confessed."

"Did Rosemary confess voluntarily? You guys didn't sweat it out of her--Billy clubs, bright lights--stuff like that?"

Victor's face grew red, and the machine he was hooked to coughed out ominous noises.

"Listen. You got my nephew, but you're not getting me," he rasped. "She confessed before we even got her to the station. That was a clean collar."

"She had a daughter, right?"

"Yeah, Eleanor Sheaf. Cute kid."

Just then, a nurse popped into the room, took one look at Victor, whose face was as red as the machine he was connected to, and ordered me out of the room.

I left, hoping I hadn't shortened an innocent cop's life to save a ghost's reputation.

*******

It was late afternoon by then. I figured I didn't have time to check marriage records before the records office closed. So, on a long shot, I searched for the name Eleanor Sheaf in the phone book.

It turned out to my amazement that she lived in an apartment building directly across the street from mine.

Eleanor Sheaf responded instantly to my knock on her front door.

A dainty woman, with hair gently piled in a soft bun on top of her head, she looked to be in her seventies. She wore a pale-colored pants suit with a ribbed cardigan under it.

"Yes?" she asked, swinging the door open.

"You're Eleanor Sheaf?"

She nodded.

"Are you related to Rosemary Sheaf?"

Her face turned red, her eyes misted. "She was my mother," she said slowly.

Then, she looked up into my face, and asked, "Are you the one?"

"Excuse me?"

"My foster mother, Betsy, always told me that someday, someone would come for the letter."

"The letter?"

"Yes. It's from my mother--my real mother. At least that's what Betsy said."

I shivered. "I could be the one you've been waiting for," I admitted reluctantly.

Eleanor stepped back from the door and motioned me inside. "I always knew someday someone would come," she said pointing me toward the living room couch. She paused on her way out of the room.

"You're that detective aren't you? You live across the street. I recognized you from your pictures in the paper. Now, don't go away. I'll be right back."

She scurried down the hall.

Taking a quick look around the apartment, I liked what I saw. The furniture was old, but well cared for. In all, the room looked about as dainty as the woman who'd just left it, and a soft scent of lavender seemed to fill the place.

I'd barely finished reviewing my surroundings when Eleanor rushed back into the room. I don't know where she'd kept the letter, but I had the impression it was someplace handy.

"Betsy gave me this on my twenty-first birthday," Eleanor said, as she sat in a small chair opposite the couch.

"She made me promise not to open the letter, but to leave it until someone came to open it for me."

Eleanor handed me a small, yellowed envelope. It, too, smelled faintly of lavender. "Hurry, please. I've waited such a long time."

How anyone could sit still all that time with a letter in their possession that they were dying to read, I couldn't figure. But with trembling hands, I eased a finger under the envelope flap. It gave way, and I gently pulled out and unfolded a fragile piece of stationary.

"Oh, read it aloud, please" Eleanor said leaning forward. Her face eager. Her elbows resting on her knees.

"My dearest daughter," it stated. "You've lived your life believing you were the daughter of a murderer, and for that I'm sorry. You see, I didn't shoot Jimmy Keagan. Jimmy and I had just been to a movie that night, and we were walking home through the alley when he was killed.

"Earl Flaggerty shot Jimmy for shorting him on some deal. Then, Flaggerty turned the gun on me. But instead of shooting me, he gave me a choice. I could confess to murdering Jimmy, and he would see you were well cared for. Or I could be shot where I stood with no guarantees for your future.

"I was fresh off the farm and dumb as a post when you were born. That night, though, Flaggerty wanted a fall guy, and he was willing to pay with your future. I think it is the best deal I ever made. You see, you've always been the best part of my life. My best to you always. Love, Mother."

I took a deep breath and eased the letter onto the coffee table between us.

"I knew it," Eleanor whispered. "I think I've always known it--somewhere down here." She placed her gnarled hand over her heart. "My mother was not a murder."

*******

That night I picked up hot pastrami on rye sandwiches at Sol's Deli and delivered them to Julia Stevens. It's a Friday night ritual with us.

Julia's a thirty-five-year-old paraplegic who lives in the west wing of my apartment building. By the time we'd finished eating, Julia knew all about Rosemary and Eleanor.

"It's happened at last," Julia responded, when I'd finished my tale. "The great Morgan Miller, believer in hard evidence and scrupulous facts, is now a believer in ghosts." She gave me a smug grin.

Well, I shot back with the first thought that entered my mind.

"Hate to disappoint you, kiddo, but I think there is another explanation," I replied stiffly. I mean, my dignity was somewhat nicked.

Still grinning, she shook her head. "Okay. Let's see you wiggle out of this." She folded her arms over her chest.

"Think about it," I said. "You've got an old lady with a letter who knows she's nearing the end of her life. And because of her promise to this strange woman Betsy, Eleanor also knows she's running out of time to read it. If someone doesn't show up soon, she might die without learning its contents.

"Now, across the street, she knows there's a female detective. And let's face it, detectives are good at picking up signals. I think Eleanor willed my involvement. Anyway, I'd sooner believe in ESP than what you suggest. Life's tough enough without adding ghosts into the mix."

The next morning, with Eleanor's permission, I phoned Sue Gladstone. "Got a hell of a story for you, Sue."

*****

So that's how by Sunday morning, the whole world--or at least everyone who read the Trib--knew the real story behind Jimmy the Horse's murder.

The tale continued to make headlines for days as other newspapers picked up the details.

And me? Well, I continued to play my part in the affair, collecting the newspaper articles and hand delivering them each evening to Rosemary's grateful daughter.