Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER TWELVE

I loved the cemetery that adjoins St. Mildred’s. Rustling leaves of cottonwoods, elms, and oaks shaded old granite tombstones and newer bronze markers from the blistering summer sun. A light breeze stirred the fronds of a willow near our family plot. I smiled at the memorial column that Rob and Dil, our children, had placed there in our memory.

I took a moment, as had been my custom in years past, to visit the marble mausoleum of the Pritchards, one of Adelaide’s leading families. My Christmas visit as an emissary had been to aid Susan Pritchard Flynn’s young grandson. Inside, I stroked the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slid my hand over the head of the elegant Abyssinian on his wife Hannah’s tomb. That homage, according to Adelaide legend, always led to good luck. With the spirits of a stalwart dog and a wise cat on one’s side, good fortune seemed assured.

I felt in need of a hearty dose of luck as I skimmed below the trees, seeking Diane. I understood Kay’s impatience to be out and about. She and I had discovered a great deal about Jack Hume’s final days, but we were leagues away from knowing whose hand had pushed Jack to his death.

I curved around crape myrtle. Inside a wrought-iron fenced area lay the Hume graves. Diane knelt next to a grassy mound. The granite stone read: JAMES JEFFREY HUME, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER, APRIL 22, 1953–JANUARY 9, 2004, WHITHER THOU GOEST, I WILL GO.

In a metal vase, Diane arranged a mass of rainbow-colored plumeria and lavender daylilies. “…counting on you, James. I’m frightened for Jimmy. Everyone knows he was angry with Jack. So was I.” Tears trickled down her face. She lifted a hand and brushed the soft, worn gardening glove against her cheek. “I couldn’t go on if I didn’t feel you were near. Every time Laverne brings you home again, it’s as if you are in the next room and I can walk in there and find you. And you’ve shared so many wonderful memories. Last time, you remembered my gardenia wrist corsage at the wedding and even described your grandmother’s beautiful lily-of-the-valley handkerchief that I carried. Oh, James, our wonderful, glorious, beautiful night. I miss you so much.” Her delicate face, despite age and wrinkles and sorrow, reflected abiding love.

I felt a swift surge of anger. Ronald Phillips had done his research well. How easy to find the newspaper account of Diane and James’s wedding and pick out the details of the bride’s ensemble. Had his lips curled in a cold, satisfied smile?

A shoe scraped on the bricked path that curved around a cottonwood.

Diane looked over her shoulder. “Laverne!” Her voice echoed surprise.

Laverne Phillips approached in jerky, reluctant steps. Tight coronet braids emphasized her sharp features. Her all-black attire, fringed blouse, billowy slacks, low-heeled patent pumps, gave her an aura of doom. “Diane.” Laverne hesitated, then blurted, “I need to talk to you about tonight.”

Diane pushed up from the ground, her eyes flaring in concern. “Is something wrong? You aren’t leaving, are you? I must talk to James. I must.”

Laverne stopped at the foot of James’s grave. Her gaze was glassy. “I’m not leaving. But”—a long, thin hand reached up to press against one temple—“I’ve been struggling all day. My head hurts so bad.” She squeezed shut her eyes. “I can’t get away.” There was an underlying thread of hysteria in her voice, and a haunting note of truth.

Laverne was in the cemetery unwillingly, but she was there. Ronald had insisted. I didn’t doubt she had her lines prepared, but the pain in her eyes and the slackness of her face indicated misery.

“What is it?” Diane’s voice was faint.

“James.” Laverne shifted her stance. She looked away and down, telltale signs that she was now lying. “I keep having images.” She lifted both hands, pressed her fingers against her temples. “James is upset.”

Diane gave a low cry, one hand spread against her chest.

Diane was desperately afraid. Was she afraid for Jimmy? Or for herself?

“I get flashes, pictures. They aren’t clear to me.” Laverne’s gaze fixed on the broken stump of cedar, split by age. “It’s night. I see a figure on the balcony. The scene shifts. I didn’t see Jack’s body at the base of the steps, but now I see him. He’s lying there, dead.”

“Jack?” Diane’s voice quivered.

“James’s voice is in my head, over and over again.” Laverne wrapped her arms across her chest. “Every time the message is the same: ‘Bring them back. Bring them back. Bring them back.’”

Diane stepped toward her, imploring, “Bring who back?”

Laverne shuddered. “I have to get him out of my mind. I see James and then the faces come, over and over again, you and Jimmy, Evelyn, me, Ronald, Margo, Shannon, Gwen and Clint Dunham, Alison Gregory. James’s words hit at me like the flick of a whip: ‘Bring them back, bring them back, bring them back.’” Laverne’s voice rose higher and higher as she repeated the phrases. “They must all be at the séance tonight, everyone who was in the house the night Jack died.”

“James wants all of us tonight?” Diane looked upset. “I don’t think they will come.”

“They must.” Laverne swung to look fully at Diane. Her sharp features were set and hard, her gaze demanding. “They must.” Laverne’s desperation was clear. Failure to arrange a gathering of those who had been in The Castle the night Jack died would be unacceptable to Ronald. Laverne reached out a bony hand. “Tonight they must be in the library at eight o’clock or I can’t answer for the consequences.” Head down, she turned to walk away.

Diane ran after her, gripped her arm. “What will happen if they won’t come?”

Laverne hunched her shoulders, dipped her head. “James has spoken. If his cry isn’t answered, we may never hear his voice again.”

Evelyn looked up from the rosewood desk in her bedroom, her imperious face registering irritation. She gave Diane a short nod. “I trust you have good reason to interrupt me?”

Diane bolted across the room. Wind-ruffled hair framed her face. Her small mouth worked, the lips trembling. “Evelyn, please.”

Evelyn laid down her pen, aligning it precisely near a magnifying glass next to a large-print art catalog. “Are you ill?”

“You laugh at me.” Diane’s voice shook. “You don’t believe James comes. But he does.” She clasped her hands and they twisted and turned. “Tonight he wants everyone to be in the library, everyone who was in the house the night Jack died. Please. Come to the library at eight. I beg you.”

“Try for a modicum of control, Diane.” Behind the thick lenses, Evelyn’s milky eyes stared fuzzily at the convulsed face of her sister-in-law. “What brings about this hysterical plea?”

Tears trickled down Diane’s cheeks. “Laverne doesn’t know what’s wrong, but James is very upset. James has sent her messages. He’s very clear.” Her voice was earnest. “Everyone who was at The Castle that night must come.”

Evelyn’s gaunt face was impassive. “Laverne has heard from James? That’s very interesting.” Those milky eyes narrowed in thought.

Evelyn was unlikely to be persuaded that James’s spirit desired this gathering. I watched her with growing interest. If she were not concerned about revelations that might be forthcoming from so-called spirits, she would dismiss Diane’s passionate request. I recalled her cool comment about her sister-in-law welcoming charlatans, as Evelyn described them: …fools deserve to reap what they sow.

Diane’s face flushed. “You don’t believe me. But James told Laverne someone was on the balcony with Jack when he fell.”

Evelyn sat utterly still. “Who?”

Diane shivered. “I don’t know. I’m afraid that’s why James is upset.”

“Indeed. However, one might expect that Jack would be the proper spirit to consult.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Diane’s voice shook. “We may find out tonight.”

“Laverne’s claims are interesting.” Evelyn’s tone was thoughtful. “Very well, Diane. I am not a believer in the occult. However”—there was the slightest dryness in her voice—“I would hate to disappoint James.”

I remained a moment after Diane’s departure to study the self-possessed woman seated at the elegant desk. She appeared to be deep in thought, the art catalog no longer of interest. Was her willingness to attend the séance dictated by fear or curiosity?

Her features were somber. “Laverne. What a second-rate, cheap, lying fake.” She spoke with distaste. “Diane is a fool. I wonder what kind of trouble Laverne plans to cause?”

I assumed talking aloud to herself was a habit of long standing. Perhaps Evelyn believed herself to be the only intelligent conversationalist in The Castle.

“Someone else on the balcony…” Her dark brows drew down into a frown. “I’d better go.”

Jimmy turned and looked up from a paperback of The Amber Room by Steve Berry. I admired the striking bright red (nice color) cover.

Diane began without preamble. “Jimmy, I never ask you to do things for me. But I want you to promise you will do as I ask.”

He looked up at his mother with a mixture of affection and wariness. “What’s up, Mom?”

She bent forward, stretched out a shaking hand. “Please. Promise me.”

He frowned, his good-humored face puzzled. “Promise you what?”

“I need—your father needs—”

His face tightened.

“—for you to come to the library tonight.”

He pushed to his feet. “Mom, I can’t stand that stuff. If it makes you feel better to hear that woman mutter in the dark, I guess it’s okay. But I don’t want to listen to her act like Dad’s speaking. It makes me sick.”

“Jimmy, please, just this once. Your daddy’s upset about Jack.” Diane’s words tumbled out; her eyes were bright and glittering. “It’s all about Jack. Not your dad. Maybe we’ll hear Jack tonight. Somebody was on the balcony with him.”

Jimmy stared at his mother, his face taut. “Who said so?”

“Your daddy told Laverne. Everybody who was in the house the night Jack died has to come. Please, Jimmy.”

“Laverne.” Jimmy looked tough, pugnacious, and worried. “Yeah. I get it. Mom—” He broke off, shook his head. “I’ll be there.” His voice was grim.

The long, flagstoned dining room befitted a castle: arched ceiling, gleaming oak walls, slotted stained-glass windows, heraldic flags and shields, and a massive mahogany table. Shannon set crystal wineglasses at each place. She had changed from a tank top and shorts to a pale blue blouse and navy slacks.

Diane’s shoes clipped on the stone floor as she burst through the archway. “Shannon, is your mother in the kitchen?”

Shannon looked surprised. “Yes. May I get her for you?”

Diane, fluttery and frantic, interrupted. “I need to talk to you both. Now. Please come with me. I have to hurry.” She whirled and moved swiftly to the serving door and held it open, her body tense, her posture shouting her impatience.

In the kitchen, Margo stood at a counter, studying a recipe in a cookbook resting on a stand. An acrylic cover protected the pages from spatters. She looked absorbed, her at times discontented face relaxed and happy. Measuring spoons and cups and a mixing bowl sat to one side.

Diane rushed across the kitchen to the counter. “Margo, I need for you and Shannon to come to the library at eight.”

Shannon slowly followed, her face puzzled. “What’s going on?”

Margo frowned. “This is Wednesday. Are you talking about those séances Laverne puts on?”

“Laverne hears things from James.” Diane’s eyes were huge. “James wants everyone who was in the house the night Jack died to come to the séance.”

Shannon’s face lost its bloom. She looked both sad and angry. “That’s hideous. Jack’s gone. Don’t make him part of a stupid—”

Margo interrupted her daughter. “Everyone deals with loss in a different way.” Her tone, however, was cool and remote, rather than encouraging. “Neither Shannon nor I is interested in trying to contact the dead.”

“No one’s asking you to do anything but come.” Diane’s voice shook. “James told Laverne that someone was on the balcony with Jack. I don’t know what that means, but we have to be there tonight.”

Margo gripped the cookbook stand. The cherrywood base squeaked under the sudden pressure. The sound was loud in a suddenly stiff silence.

Shannon took quick steps and faced Diane. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?”

“That’s nonsense.” Margo’s voice was harsh. “Laverne doesn’t know anything.”

Shannon’s young voice wobbled. “Maybe she does. Maybe she knows everything. I’ll be there.”

Diane gave a glad little cry. “You’ll come. It’s important. Everyone has to be there.” Diane looked at Margo.

Margo’s face was hard. “Talking to the dead is nonsense. But I don’t suppose it will do any harm. We’ll come. Now, I’ve got to see to dinner.” She kept her voice even, but her quick glance at her daughter was uncertain and fearful.

Diane shut the library door behind her. Eighteenth-century unbleached wood bookcases sat against three walls. The pilasters and moldings of the French antique featured rosettes, sprays, and tiny pineapples. Louis XV chairs, their blue and gold paint muted by time, sat at either end of each bookcase, ready for a reader to select a book and sink onto a cushion and thumb through the pages. An unabridged dictionary lay open on a mahogany reading stand near one of four arched windows framed by gold velvet drapes. Natural light speared into the room, illuminating the parquet flooring. The reading stand was adjacent to a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in red velvet. Louis XV chairs were arranged on either side of a long English oak writing table in the center of the room.

The chair nearest the dictionary stand was turned a little, as if the occupant had just arisen and left the room. Horn-rimmed glasses rested next to a legal pad and an ornate silver-and-black Montblanc fountain pen.

Diane pattered to the table, pulled out the next chair, and perched on the edge of the cushion. “James, I’m doing what you asked, but I don’t know what will happen tonight. I’m afraid the others are skeptics.” She looked unhappy and fearful. “Laverne says you’re unhappy. You aren’t unhappy with me, are you?”

Old walls and thick windows made the room a cocoon of quiet.

Diane clutched at the Venetian glass beads of a blue-and-white necklace. “Are you sure you want Alison Gregory and the Dunhams to be here?” Her fingers opened and closed on the beads. “That’s what Laverne said. They were here the night Jack died.” Her hopeful face was slightly tilted to one side, as if straining to hear. “Bring them back. That’s what you told Laverne. I’ll call them, but I don’t know if they will come.”

Diane plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out a sleek black cell phone. “I don’t like Alison. I don’t think she’s kind. James, you’ll come even if she says no, won’t you? Please.” She closed her eyes.

The stillness of the room was cavelike, but a cave might hold a spatter from trickling water or the rustle of a bat’s wing. The library held only the faint, uneven breathing of a burdened woman.

Diane opened her eyes, nodded twice. “I’ll call. I must, mustn’t I, James?” She punched numbers.

“Alison, this is Diane Hume. I don’t want to bother you, but I’d like to ask a favor since you are such an old friend of the family.”

I arrived in Gregory Gallery.

Alison sat behind a burled walnut desk in an office that was absolutely free of clutter. She leaned back comfortably in a green cushioned chair that made her white-blond hair even more striking. The office contained only one painting, a brilliant mélange of colors, arresting, evocative, and faintly disturbing. The expensive surroundings provided a background that emphasized success and power. Alison’s smooth face held a trace of impatience, but her voice was friendly. “What can I do for you, Diane?”

As Alison listened, her finely drawn brows drew down. “I don’t understand.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?” Her face was abruptly intent, her expression considering. Jack Hume had fallen from the balcony. Last night a vase had been dislodged from the balcony to crash into the garden. This morning Alison had insisted the vase had been vandalized until she realized Evelyn Hume was determined that its fall be deemed an accident. Alison surely saw a link between the two events.

“What does that have to do with me?” Her tone was puzzled. “My presence at The Castle the night of Jack Hume’s death is completely coincidental.” She listened. “Eight o’clock? Diane, I fail to see how my presence is necessary.” Her face folded into a tight frown. “Oh. Very well. I’ll come.”

Alison clicked off her cell. She pushed back her chair and rose. Her expression suggested she was thinking and thinking fast.

I wondered if she was remembering chisel marks on the pedestal that held the vase. Or perhaps, she was focused on Jack Hume’s visit to her gallery and his grim words about Evelyn: My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she’d shoot me.

In the Dunham house, Clint was alone in the den. He sat in a brown leather chair, holding an open newspaper. He wasn’t reading. He stared at the wall of family photographs. His roundish face sagged in despair.

Quick steps sounded in the hallway.

He lifted the paper.

Gwen stood in the doorway. “Does salmon sound good tonight?”

The paper was lowered. He looked up, his face genial, though his eyes were somber. “Are you sure your headache’s gone? I can pick up hamburgers.”

Gwen forced a bright smile. “I’m fine now.” She didn’t meet his gaze.

The phone rang.

Clint picked up the portable phone from the small table next to his chair. He looked at the caller ID. “Diane Hume.” He answered. “Hello…Hi, Diane.” There was no warmth in his voice. “Gwen?” He looked toward his wife.

Gwen walked to him and took the phone. She turned away, walking swiftly toward the hall. “Got a minute, but I’m in the middle of dinner.” Gwen hurried down the hallway and pushed through a swinging door into a cheerful kitchen.

I liked the yellow daisies blooming in the wallpaper and a golden cherrywood table in a clean contemporary design.

Gwen stopped short in the middle of the room. If she’d looked pale before, now her face was stark, blank white. “I can’t.”

Her back was to the swinging door. The panel ever so slowly and carefully eased open a crack.

I flowed through the door. Clint was an odd figure for melodrama in a stylish white-, pink-, and gray-striped poplin shirt, gray cotton twill slacks, wrinkle-free, and highly polished cordovans. He bent forward, every muscle rigid, and listened to his wife’s soft, halting voice.

I flowed back into the kitchen.

“Oh, Diane, I simply can’t…Someone on the balcony with Jack?” Gwen reached out to grip the kitchen counter.

For a moment, I thought she would faint.

The door widened a half inch.

Gwen braced herself against the counter. “I don’t understand…Laverne Phillips? Oh, that’s—” She broke off.

I wondered if Gwen had intended, in a natural, rational response, to insist that Laverne could not possibly have heard from James, that whatever Laverne said was a figment of her own imaginings. Or did Gwen realize in the same, chilling instant that Laverne Phillips might well know something and have learned that fact in a purely worldly way.

Gwen asked sharply, “What exactly did Laverne say?” She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. Her voice was wooden. “I understand, Diane. I don’t believe in this kind of thing at all, but if it matters to you that much, I’ll come.”

The swinging door eased shut.

When Gwen reached the den, Clint was seated, holding the paper.

“Clint.”

Once again he lowered the paper. He looked inquiring, but the newspaper rustled until he made his arms rigid.

Gwen tried for a smile. “Darling, the most absurd thing. Diane and that awful woman are having a séance tonight. Poor Diane. They have one every Wednesday night.” It was as if she kept talking, her words would fill the emptiness in her husband’s face. “Everyone who was at The Castle the night Jack Hume died will be there. It sounds perfectly dreadful. I don’t like the idea at all, but I was afraid Diane would be hysterical if I refused. Do you mind terribly”—her hands twisted, belying the studied casualness of her tone—“if we go?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Diane’s a fool.” His voice was gruff. He dropped his eyes, lifted the newspaper to hide his face. His words came from behind the shield. “All right.”

Gwen turned away.

When the swinging door to the kitchen soughed shut, Clint crumpled the newspaper in his hands. Fear glittered in his eyes.

Kay sat at the dressing table. She opened a jewel box, selected a necklace of large, diamond-cut blue beads separated by silver oblongs. The blue matched her summery blue chiffon dress with a pattern of silver swirls. She reached back to fasten the necklace. In the mirror, she looked elegant, her feathered-short dark hair flattering to her fine bone structure. “Blackmail.” Her voice was crisp. “Ronald thinks he knows something someone will pay him to keep quiet about. I don’t get the public venue. Maybe the idea is, here’s what we know and more can come out. Maybe he plans to put the touch on several people. The evening will be like a houseware party. Everybody come and look over the goods.

“While confined to quarters this afternoon”—her glance at me in the mirror was chiding—“I had an idea. It’s time to add Sturm und Drang. I could call everyone together and announce that Jack was murdered. But Ronald may save me the effort. Now, I need to wangle an invitation to the party.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll catch Diane before dinner.” At the door, she gave me a brilliant smile. “Fortunately, you don’t need an invitation.”

I started to speak, but the door closed. I shook my head. Kay might be eager for Sturm und Drang, but I knew what was verboten for me. No séances, thank you. I strolled to a chaise longue and settled comfortably. However, I was uneasy. I wondered if there were a way to warn Ronald Phillips against a risky gamble. Unless, of course, he was the killer and hoping to cast suspicion on others.

I popped to my feet and disappeared.

In the Phillipses’ suite, Laverne lay on the bed, a damp washcloth on her face. “I can’t do the séance tonight.”

Ronald looked up from a leather chair. His blue eyes were cold. “You will do as I say.” He looked down at a thick travel brochure with a picture of dark blue water and an elegant cruise ship. “This one visits seven ports. We’ll fly to Copenhagen.”

I carefully eased open the drawer to a writing desk. I found a pen and cream-colored stationery with the emblem of a castle.

“I’m frightened.” Laverne’s voice was muffled.

I wrote in block letters:

CANCEL SÉANCE. JACK HUME MURDERED. DANGER!

He turned a page in the brochure. “You don’t have to do anything but be a dandy little parrot tonight. Say your piece and say it right.” His tone was threatening. “You won’t have to do anything more. I’ll take care of everything else.”

I scooted the sheet of paper across the floor, going slowly so a flicker of movement wouldn’t catch Ronald’s eye. I placed the sheet just inside the door, as if it had been slipped beneath the panel.

I flowed into the hall, rapped smartly on the door, returned to their bedroom.

Ronald looked around. His expression was alert with a feral wariness. He flipped the travel brochure to a side table and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, he saw the sheet of paper. He bent, picked it up. He yanked open the door and looked into the hall.

The hall lay quiet and empty.

Ronald shrugged and closed the door.

Laverne propped up on one elbow. “What was that?”

A swift, exultant smile touched his face. “Oh”—his tone was careless—“just a little confirmation of my theories. Nothing for you to worry about.”

I paced back and forth in Kay’s room.

The door opened and Kay stalked inside, her expression frustrated. “Diane’s always had the backbone of a noodle.”

“Not this time?”

Kay dropped onto the small seat at the dressing table. “I was sure I could finesse an invitation. I knocked on her door and smiled prettily and said I hoped we could have a few minutes after dinner, there were some points in my notes that weren’t clear. She looked frazzled and said we’d get together tomorrow, but tonight there was the séance. I pretended utter, heartfelt fascination and said in a tremulous voice that I wanted to reach out to Jack. Instead of embracing me as a convert to the Hereafter, she got this stricken look and muttered that the evening was only for those who were here when Jack died. She shut the door in my face. So”—she pointed at me—“you have to do your thing and find out what Ronald knows.”

My reply was swift and definite. “Count me out.”

She frowned. “Come on, Bailey Ruth. Tonight will be a gold mine of information. We have to find out what happens.” She looked exasperated. “Why are you staring at me like I’m Dracula?”

I glanced at my reflection. I admired my black jersey dress with a dramatic white floral print. It was perfect for a summer-evening dinner at The Castle. The vivid black was an excellent choice for a redhead. I smoothed back a shining curl. I wasn’t, of course, being prideful. I simply took to heart the charge against hiding a light beneath a bushel. But my normally vivacious (even though I say so myself) expression was gone. In fact, I definitely looked perturbed. “Leviticus 19:31.”

Kay blinked in surprise, then shook her head. “I remember. Summoning the occult is a bad, bad idea.” She drew out the a in the adjective. Her tone was amused. “Chill, dearie. Laverne isn’t summoning the occult. She’ll be working off hubby’s script. And”—she was abruptly serious—“if your spook routine was ever essential, it’s tonight. I can’t be there, ergo you take the baton.”

“I can’t attend a séance.” I wasn’t sure I could make Kay understand. “There will be the trappings of the supernatural. Wiggins wouldn’t want me to be part of that.” I suddenly felt as though I were bathed in a beatific glow. I looked around.

“Uh-oh.” Kay stiffened.

My expression of seeking someone clearly hadn’t escaped Kay.

She made a little shushing motion with one hand. “Is he back? Honestly, one of you is enough. Really and truly. But you have to be at the séance tonight.” She swung around on the cushion, her eyes darting around the room. “Wiggins.” She sounded a little choked at using his name. “Hear me out. We don’t believe in séances. Right? None of us here believe in that kind of thing. Although—but no, no. I remember. You sent Bailey Ruth. I didn’t ask for her to come. Oh, that’s for da—That is definitely true. No request came from me. Anyway, I understand the distinction between an authorized emissary and attempts to make a fraudulent connection with the beyond.”

I nodded in admiration. Kay put the matter very well indeed.

“However, you know and I know and Bailey Ruth knows that our participation—”

Was there a faintly heard rumble?

Kay continued hurriedly. “Actually, her unwilling presence, very unwilling, would in no way signal approval of the fraud perpetrated by Laverne Phillips upon poor Diane. However, since we are well aware the séance is a fraud, that knowledge surely permits Bailey Ruth to attend. Ronald Phillips intends to blackmail Jack Hume’s murderer. Bailey Ruth may gain evidence to avenge Jack. Possibly if we follow those leads, we can prevent Ronald from putting himself in grave danger.”

I shook my head. “A moment ago, I warned him.” I described the note and my knock on the door. “He took the note as a signal that he was right. The séance will proceed.”

“Danger.” Wiggins’s voice was as deep as the lowest timbre of a pipe organ.

Kay’s eyes flared wide.

Wiggins boomed. “Danger indeed for the immortal souls of all who traffic in such nonsense.”

Kay shot me a panicked glance.

Truly, it mystified me that she had come to terms with me, but still found Wiggins’s unseen presence unnerving. “Wiggins.” As always I was respectful. “Possibly we should realize that Precept Six—don’t scare anybody—outweighs Precept Three—stay out of sight. Of course, it is always your intent, nobly so, to work behind the scenes. However, in this instance I believe we can have more civilized discourse if Kay can see you.” He was such a wonderful, reassuring man. In person. A booming voice alone didn’t give the proper impression.

“Hmm.”

Kay stared toward the sound of his voice, hunched her shoulders.

“Oh, very well.” A swirl of colors and Wiggins stood a few feet from us, shining chestnut curls bright above his ruddy face. “Kay Clark, please understand this is not the usual protocol.”

Kay lifted a shaky hand to touch her upper lip.

Wiggins’s walrus mustache was a thing of beauty. His stiffly starched, high-collared white shirt gleamed. He was true to his period in gray wool trousers—thankfully, the air-conditioning in The Castle made the room quite cool—and suspenders as well as a thick black belt with a silver buckle.

He looked at Kay. “Now, now, my dear.” His voice was suddenly gentle. His rubicund face creased in that warm, welcoming smile I had come to love.

The tension eased from Kay’s body.

His dark brown eyes glowed with kindness. “The mission of the Department of Good Intentions”—he spoke with quiet pride—“is to combat evil.”

Kay’s look was imploring. “That’s why Bailey Ruth must be at the séance tonight.”

Wiggins tugged on one end of his mustache. He stood in thought for a long moment. Finally, he spoke in a considering tone. “The intent behind tonight’s gathering is reprehensible in several ways: the spurious offering of contact with the beyond, the deliberate effort to create fear on the part of those present, the nefarious purpose of profiting from evil. However”—his eyes brightened—“I can see that Bailey Ruth’s attendance would in no way offer sanction, but may lead to a successful completion of her mission.” He folded one large hand into a fist, smacked it into his palm. “Very well. I approve.”

Colors swirled and he was gone.

From long-ago charity functions, I remembered the glories of The Castle’s drawing room, gold damask curtains, pale-rose-and-blue brocaded furniture, eighteenth-century English mirrors, and above the Adam mantel a portrait of old J. J. Hume, whose broad, pugnacious face beamed down in eternal triumph.

Kay went directly to Evelyn Hume, who was seated in a Louis XV armchair. She appeared regal in a summery blue silk dress and a lustrous pearl necklace. “Evelyn, this is my assistant, Francie de Sales.”

Evelyn looked up, but her gaze didn’t center squarely on me. “We are pleased that you can stay with us, Francie.” Her tone was gracious. “Jack’s life was exciting and I’m confident Kay will create a fascinating book. Have you met everyone?”

I smiled. “I’ve met all of the family.”

Kay looked around the room. “Francie hasn’t met Laverne and Ronald.”

Diane fluttered toward us. “Laverne and Ronald won’t be dining with us. Just a light repast in their suite. Laverne said she is under great stress. Because of this evening.” She took a deep breath. “Tonight holds special significance. We will be gathering together, everyone who was here the night Jack died.”

Evelyn was gruff. “I doubt our guests are overly concerned with the presence or absence of Laverne and Ronald. Francie can meet them in the morning. Francie, I hope you are enjoying your visit here in Adelaide.” She looked past Kay and me. “I believe our dinner is ready. Francie, I’d be pleased to have you sit by me.” She rose and gestured for me to accompany her. “Are you aware that the Chickasaw Nation…”