Portrait of Ignatius Jones by Peter David Shapiro

Author:Peter David Shapiro
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: psychic, paranormal, spirit, fiction, Vermont, novel, suspense
Publisher: Peter David Shapiro
Published: 2014-10-26T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty

Before returning to the minibus, Frances stopped in the Wilder Barn, a museum of farm implements that were in use on Vermont farms until the mid-1900s.

Frances saw no one else in the barn when she entered. The only sound she heard was the scuff of her shoes on the wood floor. Dust particles hung suspended in streams of sunlight that poked in through a couple of windows and the cracks in the barn’s wooden walls.

The items in the Wilder Barn were functional, and rugged, made of wood, iron, and leather; an iron plow, a buggy with cracked leather seats and wooden wheels, a corn sheller with a hand-crank, a horse-pulled hay rake.

For Frances, their simplicity and plainness of purpose brought back an earlier age. She sensed the spirits of the people whose hands had gripped these utilitarian tools and stained them with their sweat as they extracted meager livings out of their rocky hillside farms. These were people who made do with what they had, and what they lacked, they did without.

She noticed a horse-drawn sleigh that stood out from the other items because of its ornate brass metal work. According to the card posted in front of the sleigh, it was donated to the Wilder House museum by ‘Price Farm’ in Tudorsville.

A thickset man entered the Wilder Barn.

He had steel-grey hair, and wore farmer’s denim overalls and a peaked cap embossed with ‘Justin Boot Company.’ He saw Frances and walked towards her, apparently cycling through a checklist: Large woman with curly grey hair, check! Wearing a muumuu, check! Gemstones on fingers, check! Only person in Wilder Barn, check!

“You’re Dr. Gourmelon, I presume,” he said.

“I am indeed,” Frances said.

“I’m Wilt Schmidt,” he said. “Hildy Veysey said I might find you in here,”

“How...?”

“She was watching from the store. She keeps an eye on things.”

“I recognize your name,” Frances said. “Mrs. Veysey told me about you.”

“Did she?”

“You’re the caretaker of the historic site.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Do you and your wife live here in Plymouth Notch?”

Frances surprised herself, sometimes, by the words that flew out of her mouth. Now, already, she was checking Wilt Schmidt’s marital status!

“I do live here in the caretaker’s cottage, but alone. My wife died.”

“I’m so sorry, Wilt,” Frances said, touching his arm. “I shouldn’t have...”

His arm felt like the limb of a giant oak, and his hands and fingers were those of a man who worked outdoors regardless of weather, making things, fixing things, keeping things going.

“No, that’s alright,” Wilt said. “What else did Hildy tell you?”

“She said you were fighting the development of the Ignatius Jones Center, and then changed your mind.”

“When Charles Philip Tucker waved dollar bills under my nose.”

“Yes.”

“Did she mention that our church needed a new roof?”

“She did. And that you hide your head when folks bring up the topic.”

“Doesn’t stop them from sharing their opinions. People around here are riled up about the Center.”

He didn’t elaborate. He just stood silently beside Frances looking at the exhibits. It was taking him a while to get to the reason that he had sought her out.

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