The Smoky Corridor

17

Early Thursday morning, Eddie drove past a sign proclaiming, “Welcome to Lily Dale: Home of the World’s Largest Center for the Religion of Spiritualism.”

He had driven all night to reach this far-western corner of New York State, but according to the boss, it’d be worth it: Just about every person living in the town of Lily Dale could speak to ghosts—a skill Eddie and the boss desperately required if they hoped to find Captain Pettimore’s hidden gold.

Eddie parked his little car in front of a shabby cottage. The sign hanging on the lawn read “Madame Marie: Medium.”

A lopsided door swung open and out waddled a bubbly woman in a bright green smock decorated with even brighter green flowers.

“Welcome,” said the woman. “I am Madame Marie!”

The morning sun glinted off earrings dangling under her rosy cheeks like crystal chandeliers.

“I understand,” she said mysteriously, “that you and your employer cannot find that which you seek without the aid of one who has passed over to the other side?”

“Yes, ma’am. Such is our situation.”

Madame Marie toddled toward the tiny car. “It would be best if we had some object from your deceased loved one for our séance. Perhaps a favorite bit of clothing, a hat, a letter.”

“We have a letter and we know where he is buried.”

“Excellent! May I see the letter?” She held out her chubby hands, fingers eager to touch the past.

“I’m afraid I could not bring it with me on this trip. It is quite old, very fragile.”

“Of course, of course. When was it written?”

“In 1873. Eight years after the War of Northern Aggression.”

“You mean the American Civil War?”

Eddie smiled politely. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what some folks call it.”