CHAPTER TWELVE
As Jenna drove the patrol car toward Calloway House, her mind was piecing together the puzzle that Nolan Greer had become.
The superintendent had written anonymous complaints about his own workplace—even though he’d seemed protective of the condominium when they’d met him.
It might be an unimportant issue, or it could be the first lead they’d found since Donna Marsh’s body was discovered.
“It doesn’t make much sense,” she said to Jake, breaking the silence between them. “Why take a job maintaining a place you’re actively trying to undermine?”
“Money? Maybe he needed a job and couldn’t pass up the salary but still hates what the building stands for.”
“Or he took the job specifically so he could sabotage the new condominium from the inside. But what would be his reason for that?”
“Either way,” Jake said, “we finally have something to follow up on. Agnes Freelander was more than happy to track down where those emailed complaints came from.”
The road curved alongside the edge of town, where modern conveniences gave way to older structures with deeper histories.
Calloway House—once Shannon House—rose into view like a relic from another era, its limestone facade catching the afternoon light, windows reflecting back the world like dark, watchful eyes.
The renovated mansion loomed larger as Jenna pulled into the curved driveway, its Gothic Revival architecture somehow both inviting and forbidding.
Modern landscaping softened its edges—tasteful shrubs and ornamental grasses that Boyd Calloway had insisted upon—but couldn’t disguise the building’s imposing presence.
“You really think Greer could have killed Donna Marsh?” Jake asked as they stepped out of the car and began to climb wide stone steps to the entrance.
Jenna paused, letting her intuition work. “I don’t know yet. But if he’s been sabotaging the building, making those maintenance problems the residents complained about...”
“Then maybe Donna caught him in the act.”
Inside, the foyer welcomed them with its restored grandeur—polished wood, gleaming brass fixtures. The crystal pendants in the chandelier caught light in fractured patterns.
Voices drew their attention toward what had once been the mansion’s main parlor, now converted into a sitting area for residents. Through the open doorway, Jenna spotted Nolan Greer sitting in a wingback chair across from Hugh Bickel, both men leaning forward in conversation.
Bickel noticed them first, straightening in his chair and smoothing his rumpled suit jacket. “Sheriff Graves,” he said with forced brightness. “What brings you back to the scene of the accident?”
Jake couldn’t resist. “I could ask the same of you, Bickel. You don’t seem to be investigating too hard there, just sitting and chatting.”
The private investigator’s face flushed. “I’ll have you know I’ve been working this case thoroughly since Mr. Calloway hired me. Just because you don’t see me dusting for prints or measuring blood spatter doesn’t mean I’m not doing my job.”
“And what has your job determined so far?” Jenna asked, keeping her voice neutral.
Bickel stood, adjusting his tie. “Same as before. Mrs. Marsh’s death was tragic but ultimately accidental. She fell from a stepladder while trying to change a light bulb. Nothing sinister about it.”
Nolan remained seated, his eyes moving between them with wary attention. He wore work clothes—khaki pants, a faded blue button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms marked by years of manual labor. The perpetual tiredness in his brown eyes seemed more pronounced today.
“Mr. Greer,” Jenna said, “we’d like to speak with you. Alone, if possible.”
Bickel glanced between them, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere. “Well, I should get back to Mrs. Marsh’s unit anyway. Still a few things to document.” He collected his notebook from the side table. “We can finish our conversation later, Nolan.”
They waited until Bickel’s footsteps faded down the corridor before Jenna took the seat he had vacated. Jake remained standing, positioning himself slightly to the side of Nolan’s chair.
“Is there a problem, Sheriff?” Nolan asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“That depends on your definition of ‘problem,’” Jenna replied. “We’ve been looking into some letters sent to the Trentville Weekly News. Letters from a ‘concerned citizen’ protesting the development of Calloway House.”
Something flickered behind Nolan’s eyes—a momentary tell that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“We spoke with Agnes Freelander this morning. Her staff traced those emails to a public library computer. Account name: Nolan Greer.”
“I don’t see what a few letters might have to do with Mrs. Marsh’s death,” he said, neither confirming nor denying.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Jenna said, studying his face. “Residents have been complaining about maintenance issues lately. Flickering lights. Unexplained drafts. Doors that won’t stay shut. Were those your doing as well?”
His eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove anything like that.”
“We don’t need to prove it right now. We just need to understand why you would take a job as superintendent for a building project that you clearly don’t support.
” Jenna watched him carefully, registering the subtle shifts in his expression.
Years of interviewing suspects had taught her to read the small tells—the rapid blink, the tightening around the mouth, the way he had begun to tap against the arm of the chair.
But she spotted something else there too. Something beyond guilt or defensiveness. There was fear.
“Mr. Greer,” she said, softening her tone, “what are you holding back?”
He looked away, toward one of the tall windows where afternoon light streamed in. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try us,” Jake said.
Nolan took a deep breath. “I saw it. Two nights ago. The ghost others have been talking about for years.” His voice had dropped to nearly a whisper. “I didn’t believe it myself. Thought it was just stories, or maybe someone playing pranks. Until I saw him with my own eyes.”
Jake exchanged a skeptical glance with Jenna. “And what exactly does this ghost look like?”
“I can show you.” Nolan stood abruptly. “Follow me.”
He led them from the sitting room, through the grand foyer, and down a hallway. At the end of the hall, he unlocked a door marked “Storage” and flipped on the light switch.
The room was filled with carefully labeled boxes, antique furniture draped in protective coverings, and various artifacts from the mansion’s past. Nolan made his way through the organized chaos with ease, stopping before a large object leaning against the far wall. It was covered with a white sheet.
“When Boyd Calloway bought this place, he decided some of the original furnishings and artwork were too...” he paused, searching for the words, “well, reminiscent of its past owners. This was one of them.”
He pulled away the sheet to reveal a large gilt-framed portrait of a man in his thirties.
The subject had a full head of dark hair parted in the middle, a thick mustache, and eyes that seemed to follow them around the room.
Though the painting style was somewhat stiff and formal, the artist had captured a sense of ruthless intelligence in the man’s gaze.
“Pete Shannon,” Nolan said, his voice tight with barely suppressed emotion. “Builder of this mansion. Coal baron. Exploiter of men.”
Jenna studied the portrait, taking in Shannon‘s stern features, the set of his jaw that suggested unyielding determination. “And you believe you saw his ghost?”
“I know what I saw,” Nolan replied. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. “Same face. Same cold eyes. Standing at the top of the main staircase at midnight, looking down at me like I was nothing more than dirt to be stepped on.”
Jake crossed his arms. “Convenient that you suddenly see ghosts right when we start asking questions about sabotage.”
Nolan’s anger simmered visibly. “I didn’t kill anyone. But if I could...” he gestured toward the portrait, “if I could go back in time, I’d kill him.”
“Why?” Jenna asked quietly.
“My great-grandfather worked in Shannon’s mines.
So did his brother. Stories passed down in my family about the conditions they endured—twelve-hour shifts, cave-ins that were never properly addressed, wages that barely fed their families.
” Nolan’s voice had taken on a bitter edge.
“My great-grandfather’s brother died when a support beam collapsed.
Shannon didn’t even pay for the funeral. ”
Jenna watched him carefully. The pain in his voice seemed genuine—old wounds inherited through generations.
“I wish this place had been torn down and forgotten,” Nolan continued.
“Instead, Boyd Calloway comes in, puts a fresh coat of paint on it, and suddenly it’s a luxury address.
People living in modern comfort where a man who caused so much suffering once walked.
” He exhaled slowly. “But since that decision wasn’t mine to make, I might as well have a job here. ”
“And make everyone’s life difficult in the process?” Jake asked.
Nolan replaced the sheet over Shannon’s portrait with unexpected care.
“I’ve been as open and honest as I can be.
If you have any more questions, I’ll only answer them with a lawyer present.
” He turned toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go assist Mr. Bickel in his investigation. You can show yourselves out.”
They watched him leave, the door left slightly ajar behind him.
“Well,” Jake said after a moment, “that was illuminating.”
Jenna remained focused on the covered portrait, her mind turning over everything Nolan had said—and everything he hadn’t.
“Do you think he’s still hiding something, besides that he’s probably been deliberately causing maintenance problems?”
“I’m not sure.” She turned away from the portrait. “But I don’t think he killed Donna Marsh.”
They made their way back through the hallway, the foyer, and out the heavy front door into the crisp October afternoon. The sun had slipped lower, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds of Calloway House.
“You don’t think Nolan is our killer?” Jake asked as they walked down the stone steps. “He could have motive—if Donna caught him sabotaging something. He had opportunity. And he clearly has a grudge against this place and what it represents.”
Jenna shook her head. “It doesn‘t fit. The sabotage was petty, annoying—not dangerous. Flickering lights and drafty rooms don’t escalate to murder overnight.”
“Unless he was cornered. People do unexpected things when they’re backed into a corner.”
They reached the patrol car, and Jenna paused with her hand on the door handle. “What about the ghost?”
Jake snorted. “Convenient distraction. He knew what Shannon looked like from that old portrait and made up the ghost story to throw us off track.”
“Maybe.” But something about Nolan’s fear had seemed genuine to Jenna. She’d interviewed enough suspects over the years to recognize authentic emotion. And what she’d sensed from Nolan when he described seeing Shannon’s ghost was pure, undiluted terror.
“The mayor said Boyd Calloway was coming to Trentville tonight,” Jake reminded her. “He’s holding a meeting here tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll want to be here for that,” Jenna said. “Meanwhile, I think maybe we should give Calloway a call and let him know that his super has been sending letters attacking his project.”
She slid into the driver’s seat while Jake settled beside her. Before she could turn the key in the ignition, Jake’s phone rang. He answered with a curt “Hawkins,” then listened for several moments, his expression shifting to one of resignation.
“We’ll be right there,” he said, ending the call. “That was Hugh at the station. Bar fight brewing at the Rusty Nail. Apparently, someone accused someone else of cheating at darts, and now there are four pickup trucks in the parking lot with their engines running.”
Jenna sighed and started the car. “The ghosts of Calloway House will have to wait.”
“You don’t actually believe— “
“I don’t know what I believe.” She pulled out of the driveway, tires crunching on gravel. “But right now, we’ve got a normal job to do.”
Jake reached for the radio to alert dispatch they were en route.
Jenna cast one final glance at Calloway House in her rearview mirror.
For now, the mystery would have to simmer.
But Jenna couldn’t shake the feeling that Nolan’s ghost story wasn’t just a convenient lie—and that whatever haunted Calloway House was far more complicated, and more dangerous, than the restless spirit of old Pete Shannon.