Ghost in Trouble (2010)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Drawn velvet curtains blocked any vestige of late-summer sunlight from the library. Golden light from ecru-shaded bronze wall sconces offered soft pools of illumination around the periphery of the room. The twin chandeliers remained dark. Near the oak writing table in the center of the room, Laverne Phillips lay propped against the end of the red velvet chaise longue, one hand draped on the carved back, the other dangling limply over the side. Her face was indistinct in the gloom. No details of her all-black clothing could be distinguished.

I floated above the long oak table, studying the family and guests seated in the Louis XV chairs.

Diane plucked nervously at silver charms on a bracelet and darted worried glances around the table, perhaps fearful that those she’d persuaded to attend would leave, perhaps fearful that James would not appear.

Jimmy’s shoulders hunched. He looked young and uncomfortable, as if he held anger barely in check. His occasional glances toward Laverne were filled with loathing.

Evelyn’s strong face was untroubled, her hands quietly folded on the table. She had a magisterial dignity. Disdain was evident in the faint downward curl of her mouth.

Shannon sat stiffly, her face somber. Her eyes flickered uneasily toward the somnolent woman on the couch. When Laverne’s breathing became labored, Shannon’s hands bunched into fists.

No one was seated in the slightly turned chair at the place with horn-rimmed glasses, legal pad, and fountain pen.

Ronald stood by the door, clearly visible in the golden light from a nearby wall sconce. In a cobalt blue shirt with white collar and cuffs and cream slacks, he was at ease, assuming the role of host. With his silver hair and Vandyke beard carefully groomed, he was magazine-model perfect. He glanced at his watch. “It is almost time to begin, even though several of those expected tonight have not yet arrived. Laverne is slipping deeper and deeper into the reverie demanded by the spirits. She shall soon be connected to the beyond.” He spoke in the hushed tone affected by television golf commentators.

Diane began to push back her chair. “I’ll call them.” She was desperate to make certain nothing impeded a connection to James.

He held up a hand. “There must be no sudden movement, no noise. If necessary, we shall start without them.”

Diane sank back onto the seat. She looked close to tears. “They said they’d come.” It was as if she spoke to someone unseen.

“Quiet.” Ronald spoke in an urgent whisper. “Laverne must not be disturbed.”

A muffled rap.

Ronald opened the door, held a cautionary finger to his lips.

Alison Gregory’s confident entry was in stark contrast to the stiff reluctance of the Dunhams. Margo Taylor followed and Ronald shut the door. Ronald pointed peremptorily toward the empty seats opposite the family. “Take your seats. No talking.” He had the air of a funeral-home employee directing mourners.

A low moan issued from Laverne. She rolled from side to side, as if in pain.

Shannon gave a gasp. “What’s wrong with her?”

Ronald looked toward the chaise longue. “The spirits are near. Laverne is in their possession. Please remain silent. She loses contact if there is distraction.”

Alison gave Ronald a contemptuous glance as she slid into a seat as far from Laverne as possible. She murmured softly, “That would be a shame.” Her elegant face looked as if she saw something repugnant.

Gwen and Clint Dunham took the chairs across from Diane and Jimmy. Gwen’s lovely face was rigid. She stared straight ahead, her hands tightly clasped. She looked like a woman awaiting doom. Clint’s big face had the hurt, bewildered appearance of a wounded animal, suffering and without the power to alleviate the pain.

Margo was the last to be seated. She brushed back a strand of hair, covertly watching her daughter.

Ronald slowly closed the door. He waited a moment, then walked toward the recumbent figure of his wife. His steps were measured, the thump-thump-thump loud on the parquet flooring. He stood slightly behind the chaise longue.

Laverne’s stertorous breathing sounded loud in the strained silence.

I wondered if Ronald had any sense of the forces he might unleash. Not figures from beyond. They were not at the beck and call of Ronald or Laverne. This dim room seethed with here-and-now emotions of suspicion, fear, anger, hope, despair, and malevolence.

Malevolence.

One of those who watched and waited was as dangerous as a marauding tiger and as ready to destroy. A hard shove and Jack Hume had crashed to his death. Steady pressure on a crowbar and a vase had plummeted down toward Kay.

I had warned Ronald. He refused to see what he was doing. He had made his choices, consciously, greedily, manipulatively. I could not change them.

Laverne rocked back and forth. Words came in spurts, her voice deep and leaden. “…the Great Spirit is here…Great Spirit, we beseech you…James, where is James?…” Laverne breathed spasmodically, then slowly the gulping eased. “…torn from happiness…”

The last phrase was in a different voice, a lighter, tenor voice with an unmistakable Adelaide drawl.

“…no longer can we delight in our happy days…the night of the wedding…you were beautiful…”

Diane drew a handkerchief from her pocket, stifled a sob.

Jimmy turned toward his mother, shook his head angrily. “That’s not Dad.”

Laverne wailed, a high eerie cry that faded into loud, irregular breathing.

Ronald took five quick steps to the table. He loomed over Jimmy. “Outbursts such as that may end the session. Her spirit is not her own. If she is pulled back, there can be damage.”

Diane gripped her son’s arm. “Hush, Jimmy.” Her whisper was anguished. “Daddy’s here. I know he is. I can feel him in the room. Oh, please, Jimmy, please.”

A furious scowl twisted Jimmy’s face. He glared at Ronald, awkwardly patted his mother’s shoulder.

Ronald waited a moment more, then returned to his station behind Laverne. She twisted and turned, her dress rustling with the jerky movements. He murmured, his voice low and soothing, “All is well. Be at peace. Welcome James, bring him back.”

I would have liked to yank his dandy little beard, an inexplicable, unnerving, jolting out-of-the-ordinary tug, a little one-on-one with a spirit who despised sappy. All is well. Be at peace. What appalling nonsense. I folded my hands together, the better to resist temptation.

Ronald continued to murmur.

I wondered how long he would hold the stage. But he revealed a showman’s sense of timing. His words came ever more softly, then he fell silent.

Gradually, Laverne quieted. She gave a low moan. “…Jimmy’s ninth birthday…the calliope and the merry-go-round…”

Adelaide was a small town. I was willing to bet the Gazette ran a sweet little story on the society page about Jimmy Hume’s ninth birthday party.

“…the good times…darkness now at The Castle…trouble draws me back…hear me and do as I wish…jealousy and resentment growing over the years…family secrets…the father…handsome boy…desperate mother…”

Gwen Dunham was utterly still, her pale face stone hard as she watched Laverne.

Her husband remained rigid next to her. There might have been a gulf as wide as a canyon between them.

“…stolen photograph…”

Margo’s eyes flared in alarm. She had made no answer when Francie de Sales accused her of slipping the photograph of Ryan Dunham beneath Jack’s door. Now she stared in shock toward that mumbling figure dimly seen on the chaise longue.

“…Jack upset…young love spurned…”

Shannon drew in a sharp breath. She began to shake her head. Her mouth opened.

Before Shannon could speak, Margo reached over and gripped her arm.

“…oh, Jimmy…desperate measures…”

Jimmy’s head jerked up.

Diane made a desperate sound deep in her throat. “James, what are you doing?”

Laverne sagged against the chaise longue. “…bright red poppies in a field…sharp light and a magnifying glass…” Laverne pushed to a sitting position, clapped shaking hands to her temples. “…someone on the balcony with Jack…a quick blow to his back…down the steps, down the steps, down the steps…murder…”

“Murder.” Margo breathed the word in a shaky whisper.

“Nonsense.” Evelyn’s deep voice was harsh. “I demand to know what’s behind this highly contrived exhibition.” She turned a reproachful face toward Diane. “What are you trying to do? Destroy the family?”

“Murder?” Shannon’s cry was high and piercing.

Alison pushed back a thick strand of white-gold hair, gleaming in the dim light of a sconce. “Hey, wait a minute. Don’t the spirits have anything for me?” She feigned disappointment, clutching her throat. “Oh, woe, when will I know what the spirits foretell?”

“This is stupid.” Clint’s voice was gruff. He shoved back his chair. “Come on, Gwen. That’s enough of this woman’s idiocy.” He stood and reached for his wife’s arm, pulled her to her feet. “This has nothing to do with us.” But his voice was hollow.

Laverne buried her head in her hands. “…pain, so much pain…”

The overhead lights came on. Ronald stood by the light switch. “I’m sorry. Vocal outbreaks destroy the link to the other world.” He didn’t sound disturbed. In fact, his tone was bland. “The séance is over.”

I felt sure Laverne had completed her assignment.

Alison’s cool blond elegance was unruffled, her expression amused. “Hey, how about an encore? Let’s have an out-out-damned-spot moment.”

Shannon stood and pushed back her chair. “Who was on the balcony with Jack?” Her cry was shrill. “Laverne, you have to tell us. What do you know about Jack? Are you saying someone pushed him down the stairs?”

Laverne looked up with a glazed, blank expression. She shuddered. “I don’t know anything. I never remember what has been said. I don’t know what happens. The spirits come through me, but I am not aware.”

Jimmy strode toward Laverne. “Don’t give us that I-don’t-know-a-thing claim.” His voice was rough. “It’s all smoke and mirrors, totally phony. You make stuff up to get money out of my mom.”

Diane rushed unsteadily to Jimmy, clutched his arm. “Oh, no, Jimmy. Laverne doesn’t control the spirits. Everything at the séances is true.” Her face shone with a believer’s intensity. “There are so many things your daddy has talked about at séances that only he and I knew. Some notes he wrote to me…I still have them, but no one else has ever seen them…”

Apparently Ronald not only did excellent research at the historical society, he or Laverne had snooped among Diane’s most private and personal mementos, much as they’d filched information from the family albums of Laverne’s victim in Gainesville. Yet Diane hadn’t made that connection when Kay told her what she’d discovered. Diane would not, perhaps emotionally she could not, believe any fact that destroyed Laverne’s credibility.

Diane was nearing hysteria. “Everything in the séances comes from the beyond. You mustn’t drive Laverne away. I need your daddy. Oh, Jimmy, I have to have your daddy.”

“Mom…” His voice was anguished.

Shannon darted toward Laverne. “Who was on the balcony with Jack?”

Ronald moved swiftly to stand between Laverne and Shannon. He gently helped Laverne rise, smoothly placed her on the opposite side from Shannon, and began to walk toward the door, speaking softly. “You can rest now, Laverne. Your task is done. The spirits came. They have spoken through you.”

“That’s absurd.” Evelyn held tight to the back of a chair. “I insist you explain this charade.”

Clint Dunham banged the door against the wall. His hand on his wife’s elbow, he pushed her a little ahead of him and they were in the hallway.

Alison picked up her purse from the floor. “It looks like the party’s over. I never knew séances could be so much fun.” She moved purposefully toward the door.

Near the door, Laverne leaned against Ronald, her face pale and drawn. He looked calm, but there was a gleam of malicious satisfaction in his cold blue eyes as he cockily stared at Evelyn. “Laverne is nothing more than a conduit. If there are questions, perhaps you can answer them among yourselves. As James said, there appears to be trouble in the family.” He slid an arm around Laverne and guided her into the hall.

Shannon flung out her hands. “Did you hear what she said? That was supposed to be James’s voice saying someone murdered Jack.” Shannon stared at Diane. “Do you think that was James?”

Diane’s face crumpled. “Oh. If James said so…”

Evelyn clapped her hands. “Diane, you are the world’s biggest fool. The dead do not communicate.”

Hmm. That all depends. Generally speaking, Evelyn was right. Certainly in this instance she understood a scam when she saw it.

Evelyn folded her arms, her gaunt face grim. “James is not speaking through that absurd woman. In between those fake heavy breaths, she spewed disconnected, senseless phrases. James was never imprecise in his life. Or, I imagine, in death. Your dear friend Laverne and her smooth-tongued husband used the cover of a séance to allege that Jack was murdered. If they had proof, the responsible action would be to notify the police. However, they obviously have no proof. I fail to understand their objective. Possibly they simply wish to create unpleasantness. My advice to everyone present is to dismiss this evening’s performance and remember that Jack died in an accidental fall.” She moved majestically toward the door.

There was an instant of silence, then Alison nodded approvingly. “I’m with Evelyn. And now good night all. I won’t claim this was the most enjoyable evening I’ve ever spent here, but it certainly has been one of the most interesting.”

Shannon swung toward Alison. “How can you act like this is all funny? Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead!” She burst into tears.

Jimmy took a step toward her. “Don’t cry, honey.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide, her face stiff. “I heard you say you were going to hurt him. Did you?” She plunged past him.

Margo hurried after her running daughter.

Jimmy looked shocked. He called after her. “Shannon, come back.”

Running steps were his answer.

His mouth twisted in despair. He walked heavily toward the hallway.

His mother reached out a hand. “Jimmy…”

He didn’t look back.

Diane was alone in the library. She stumbled to the chair that had belonged to James Hume, sank into it. She picked up his glasses, cradled them in one hand. Tears streamed down her face. “James, I’m frightened.”

Upstairs, Ronald stood at the wet bar in their suite. He poured Scotch into a tumbler, added soda.

Laverne slumped back in an easy chair. She looked ill, her eyes staring and glazed, her face raddled. “That was terrible.”

He lifted the glass in a toast, took a deep drink. “To the contrary, you were never better. That’s the best James you’ve ever done.”

She lifted a shaking hand. “Didn’t you feel it?”

He was impatient. “You know it’s bogus.”

Her lips worked, and the words were almost indistinct. “I used to feel things. I could help people. I knew things no one else knew, but you pushed me and made me tell people things for money. Now there’s nothing there. I said what you told me to say, but there was something terrible in that room. Didn’t you feel the hatred?”

He smiled. “Hatred? Who cares? They’re scared.” His voice was soft. “I watched them. If you think we got money before, wait and see what I do now.”

A sudden flush stained her cheeks. “I hate you.”

“Poor Laverne.” There was cold dislike in his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t like money. I know better. If you want money for Jenny, you’d better keep your mouth on straight.”

She stared at him and spoke as if she hadn’t heard his words. “Tonight you had me say that Jack Hume was murdered. Is that true?”

He looked amused. “Of course. Why do you think someone tried to kill Kay Clark last night?”

Laverne moved uneasily in her chair. “Someone pushed that vase?”

“Someone pushed that vase and I know who.” He sipped at his drink.

“What are you going to do?”

He gave a little shrug. “Nothing for now. I’ll let the pot simmer tonight. Tomorrow I’ll make some calls, offer some constructive advice, and pick up some consulting fees.”

“Ronald, I feel danger. Something dark and terrible—”

“‘I feel danger.’” He mocked her. “Save your performance for the fools, Laverne.”

“You don’t understand.” Her voice rose. “I know—”

“I like that vibrato. It gives Diane chills. It doesn’t do a thing for me. Look”—and he was suddenly good-humored—“you’ve had a long day. You’ll feel better tomorrow. You may have to do some hand-holding with Diane.” He walked to wet bar, splashed water in a glass, carried it to Laverne. “I’ll get you a pill. All you need is a good night’s sleep.”

She sank back against the chair, waited until he returned, handing her two capsules. She swallowed them submissively. “Yes. I’ll go to bed.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. She rose and moved heavily into the bath. When she returned in a pale ivory nightgown, she was already drowsy.

I wondered if she often took powerful, quick-acting narcotics.

He placed his drink on a coffee table and strolled to a closet. He returned in a moment in a T-shirt and boxers and settled on the sofa. He picked up the glass and smiled, a man enjoying a nightcap, obviously pleased with a productive day.

I popped to Kay’s room.

No Kay.

I took a deep, steadying breath. She’d promised to stay put. Of course, she very likely had expected me to make a prompt report on the séance. With her door open, she’d have been sure to hear people walking to their rooms.

I wasn’t as fearful now for her safety. I expected the murderer was totally occupied assessing what danger might emerge from the séance. Evelyn Hume’s cold conclusion that nothing could be proved might reassure the murderer. Everything depended upon how much Ronald knew and what he intended to do with the knowledge.

But I didn’t like the idea of Kay roaming around The Castle.

I pressed my fingertips to my temples. Hadn’t I seen Myrna Loy do that in a film? Lo and behold, an answer came. When I didn’t return, Kay must have gone to the library seeking me. I dropped through the ceiling into the library. Such a fun way to maneuver.

Kay sat next to Diane.

Diane was a wreck, her makeup streaked by tears, her nose red from rubbing with a handkerchief, her untidy hair more frazzled than usual. She looked earnestly at Kay. “…you’re very kind to offer to help me make sense of everything.”

Kay spoke soothingly. “Start at the beginning, from the moment you reached the library…”

I hovered next to Kay, whispered in her ear: “I’ll be in your room in half an hour.”

She froze for only an instant, gave a tiny nod.

“After everybody finally came…”

In a marble-walled bathroom, Gwen Dunham sat at a vanity counter. She poured facial cleanser onto a washcloth. Her movements were automatic. Not even the harsh light from theater-dressing-room-style lights diminished the perfection of her features. Whether young or old, she would always be beautiful. She wiped away makeup. Her deep-set violet eyes stared unseeingly into the mirror. Whatever she saw, it was not her image.

A step sounded. Clint stood in the doorway. He was still dressed. He looked toward his wife, his face anguished. “We have to talk.”

She stiffened. “Not tonight, Clint. Tomorrow.” She rose and turned on a spigot, held the cloth beneath the rushing water. Squeezing out the excess, she lifted the wet cloth to her face, covering her eyes and nose and mouth.

Her husband waited a moment, but she made no move, said nothing. Slowly, he turned away.

Her shoulders quivered. She pressed the cloth harder, muffling sobs.

In the bedroom, he gathered up a pillow and a light blanket. He turned and moved out of the bedroom. The sound of the closing door brought Gwen into the room. She saw the pulled-down spread and missing pillow. She turned and leaned against the frame of the door, defeat and misery in every line of her body.

In the den, Clint tossed the pillow onto a leather sofa. He made no move to undress. Instead, he slumped into a chair, massaged knuckles against one temple. His face was hard with anger.

Kay worked at Jack’s desk. She wrote quickly, her face absorbed and intent.

I had much to report, but I was desperately thirsty. I opened the small freezer compartment, scooped ice into a tumbler.

Kay’s head jerked up. She stared toward the wet bar. “Will you please announce when you’re here? An ice scoop dangling in the air bothers me. There’s something awfully weird about it.”

“Certainly,” I murmured agreeably. “Here I am. Almost.” I enjoyed my reflection in the mirror behind the wet bar, the colors wheeling and whirling and solidifying, and there I was. I gave a satisfied nod. The carnelian necklace was very attractive. “I aim to please.” I filled the tumbler to the brink with water and drank it half down.

She raised an inquiring dark eyebrow. “Thirsty work?”

“Very.” I took another drink and described the séance. “Diane was anxious for the séance to begin but obviously afraid of what she might learn. Jimmy…”

Kay wrote furiously to keep up. When I concluded, she flipped back a few pages of her legal pad. “Your account is a good deal more coherent than Diane’s.” She paused. “Thank you.”

I smiled. “You’re welcome. As it played out, no one there, except for Diane, was under any illusion about trafficking with the beyond.”

Kay tapped the desktop with her pen. “Why didn’t he simply put the squeeze on someone? Why the drama?”

I drifted to the sofa and dropped gratefully onto the soft cushions. “I think he took pleasure in publicly gigging people. Plus, the séance was a clever way to make everyone present exceptionally uncomfortable and nervous about what she might say next. The obvious threat is that the séance was only a prelude. As he told Laverne, he’s going to let everyone worry and then he’ll make his move.”

Kay looked eager. “Bailey Ruth, we’re getting close. You can monitor everything he does for the next few days. As soon as he sets up a meeting with the killer, we can alert the police chief. You can be there in your cop uniform and video the whole thing.”

In the white bedroom, I admired again the effect of the pearl necklace hanging from red coral. It was a subtle, but commanding use of color. Although it would have been lovely if the circumstances had been happier, I had enjoyed my stay at The Castle. I agreed with Kay that we were nearing the end of her quest. I would follow Ronald to a fateful meeting. If all went well, Jack Hume’s murderer would be revealed and arrested. Soon I would hear the whistle of the Rescue Express and once again leave my beloved Adelaide.

I glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to ten. I felt everything was under control. Until morning, I was free. It would take only a moment for me to see those I loved. Emissaries were under strict orders never to contact family or friends, but a quick peek did no harm. As Wiggins stressed, the living must not be preoccupied with the dead. Moreover, I always felt close to Dil and Rob because whenever they thought of me, I was there for an instant.

My daughter, Dil, her red hair frosted with silver, dished up ice cream at her kitchen counter. Ice cream had always been the bedtime snack at the Raeburn house. Bobby Mac liked chocolate with slivers of almond and chocolate syrup. I poured chocolate over a generous serving of vanilla and crumbles of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Dil was a purist, plain vanilla. Our son, Rob, added slices of banana and peanuts to a dip of strawberry. Each to his own taste.

Dil hummed as she added spoons and carried two bowls to the den.

Her husband looked up with a smile. He had a nice, crooked smile that indicated good humor and a wry insight.

Dil settled across from him on a comfortable chintz sofa. “Hugh, the funniest thing. In the kitchen I started thinking about Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. My mom…”

I blew her a kiss.

I found Rob and Lelia in their den. Rob groaned, clapped his hands to his head. “He threw the ball away. He threw it away.”

On the television screen, a first baseman scrambled after a ball that had zoomed over his head. A base runner in visitors’ gray rounded second and flew toward third.

Rob groaned again. “If they lose this game, they’ll be four behind in the wild card.”

His wife, Lelia, made soothing noises, but didn’t look up from her book.

I craned to see. Oh, a novel by Dorothea Benton Frank. Lelia had excellent taste. I would add the author to my reading list.

Rob looked despondent. “They were ahead at the end of May. I should have known they couldn’t hold it. Oh, well. That’s baseball. When I was a kid, my mom loved that Yogi Berra quote: ‘This is like déjà vu all over again.’”

Lelia looked up. “Funny you should mention your mom. Today I saw someone who looked so much like a picture of your mom when she was young. A redhead in a yellow convertible.”

If I’d ever felt like the stereotype of a ghost with hair standing on end, this was the moment. I held my breath.

“This redhead was really young and pretty. It made me smile to see her.” Lelia’s tone made clear that she had no inkling the woman she’d seen was me. I relaxed. After all, I certainly hadn’t been twenty-seven when the Serendipity went down in the Gulf.

Rob grinned. “A redhead in a yellow convertible is Mom’s kind of woman.” He glanced toward a studio portrait of Bobby Mac and me. The affection in his eyes brought tears to mine.

Cars were picking up kids from the rectory of St. Mildred’s. Dear redheaded Bayroo, my grandniece, stood on the back steps, waving good night to friends. Her dad, Father Bill, dropped paper plates into a trash sack. Her mom, Kathleen, swiped the top of the picnic table. “Mom, that was the best watermelon yet this summer.”

At the Pritchard house, a little boy slept with one arm around the neck of a plush bear. Downstairs a young couple on a rose-colored sofa held hands. Peg looked at Johnny. “Saturday.”

“You’ll be the most beautiful bride in the world.”

She moved nearer, lifted her face to his.

I felt joyful as I returned to The Castle. My children were fine and those whose lives I’d touched in previous visits were well and happy.

The front hallway light was on but the house was utterly silent. The Castle walls were old and thick.

In the white bedroom, I appeared and chose a pale blue nightie. I glanced approvingly in the mirror. The bedroom was an excellent background for coppery red hair and the nightgown. I propped two puffy pillows behind me, sank into softness. The pillows were almost as comfortable as floating on a cloud. You object to the concept of support from a cloud? Clouds, you point out, are simply particles of mist. But in Heaven…Oh, of course. Yours to wonder about, mine not to tell.

I turned off the bedside lamp. Hopefully, tomorrow Ronald would lead me to a killer.