Die Job (28 page)

“Who knows?”

Vonda pushed the mixing bowl across the counter to me. “Here. Pour the batter into those muffin tins and pop them into the oven for twenty minutes. I’ve got to put my face on.”

“But they’re not starting until eight. That’s four hours from now,” I protested. The only response I got was a view of her backside disappearing through the swinging door. I filched a fat blueberry from the batter and popped it into my mouth.

I GOT AN ALMOST IDENTICAL RESPONSE FROM MOM and Althea when I had taken the muffins out of Vonda’s oven and driven to Mom’s. Mom was filling the upstairs bathtub with water when I arrived, so we’d have fresh drinking water and water to flush the toilets with if Horatio—God forbid—disrupted the water supply. Althea perched on the closed toilet seat, reading a styling magazine.

“Can we come to the taping?” Mom asked. “It’d be like watching a show from the inside out.” Turning off the tap, she
dried her hands on a towel. Fog coated her lenses, but I could see the interest in her eyes.

“It’ll be more fun than sitting around here waiting for Horatio to hit,” Althea agreed. “There’s nothing on the TV except weather updates.” She rolled up the magazine and whapped a fly with it. “Got ’im,” she said with satisfaction.

“What’s the latest?” I asked as we trooped out of the small bathroom and headed back downstairs.

“Cat one, maybe cat two,” Althea said. “Storm surge of ten to twelve feet.”

“Not too bad, then,” I said, relieved. Hurricane Katrina’s storm surge had been somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-eight feet. “When’s it supposed to make landfall?”

“Before midnight.”

With any luck, we’d have the murderer behind bars and everyone home before Horatio hit the coast.

BY THE TIME I ARRIVED AT ROTHMERE, THE LITTLE lot was crammed full of cars and I had to park in the circular drive fronting the house, where coachmen would have pulled up their horses so their masters and mistresses could alight for a dinner party or ball. The windows glowed with light—electric, not candles—and it spilled out the open door, as I imagined it would have for those long-ago parties, but at least I wasn’t trapped in a hoop skirt. Still wearing the green denim skirt and white blouse I’d donned for my “condolence” call on the McCullerses, I had freshened my makeup—Vonda’s influence—and French-braided my hair to keep it out of the way.

Stepping out of the car, I sensed a change. Not able to pinpoint it immediately, I turned in a slow circle, noting how the wind made the topiary unicorn bow its head, and the startling
whiteness of the mansion against the solid expanse of gray clouds forming a barricade to the east. I stared in awe at the dark mass foreshortening the horizon, creating a wall that cut us off from the Atlantic and from everything east of us. Lightning flickered in the depths of the angry gray and suddenly I knew what was different. No birds chirped and fluttered in the hedges, no squirrels chased each other across the broad lawn. All the creatures had fled, seeking shelter in nests or hollows, leaving a disquieting stillness. Horatio was almost here, I realized. It wasn’t waiting for midnight. If we didn’t hurry, it might strike during our staged “Interview with a Ghost.”

Stepping into the hall, I entered into a scene of controlled chaos. At least, I hoped someone had control. Huge lights blazed atop thin metal legs, looking like one-eyed insect aliens. Boom mikes hung suspended over the landing. Two large cameras, the kind I’d seen only in “The Making of . . .” extras on DVDs, squatted on tripods. Technicians scurried here and there, occasionally calling out to unseen persons down the hall. Some high schoolers, along with Glen Spaatz, Coach Peet, and what looked like a handful of parents, watched wide-eyed from the parlor to the right of the hall. So did Lucy Mortimer, dressed in full Amelia regalia. No cops in sight. If Cyril was a shy ghost, I thought wryly, trying to count the crowd, Avaline’s show was doomed before it got started.

Mom, Althea, and Vonda waved at me from the far corner of the room. Before I could make my way to them, voices sounded behind me and I turned to see Mark Crenshaw and both his parents mounting the steps.

“This is just ludicrous,” his mother said as they pushed into the hall. “Ghosts don’t talk. And even if they did, it’s got nothing to do with Mark.”

Mark, bald head gleaming in the glare of the studio lights, edged away from her toward Lindsay Tandy, who emerged from the salon to clutch his arm. She cast a nervous look up at him and he smiled reassuringly into her eyes. I wondered if she was nervous because of the impending revelations—did she suspect her boyfriend of pushing his best friend?—or whether it was proximity to his parents that made her jumpy.

“It’s no big deal, Joy,” said Captain Crenshaw, looking very military despite wearing jeans and a long-sleeved tan golf shirt. “It’s not like we were doing anything else tonight.”

“We should have evacuated days ago,” she muttered.

“Well, we didn’t,” he said shortly.

Dr. Solomon and Ari entered in their wake, Dr. Solomon holding fast to her daughter’s forearm. “I’ll be with my friends,” Ari said, pulling away from her mother. Flipping her hair, she hurried toward the clump of high schoolers gathered near the parlor door. Dr. Solomon, worry in her eyes, looked like she would call her daughter back.

Before she could speak, a huge man in jeans and a
Spirit Whisperer
tee shirt stepped into the middle of the hall and clapped his hands. “If I could have your attention! My name’s Bruno and I’m the stage manager.”

With the competence of someone who had done this many times, he explained that Avaline would be on the landing, ready to talk to Cyril if he appeared. The audience—Bruno gestured to all of us—would be standing in the foyer. He pointed to taped Xs on the floor. We were not to make noise of any kind or leave during the taping for any reason.

“If I hear a cell phone during the taping, I will personally shoot the owner,” he said.

I wondered if he and the rest of the crew knew this taping was fake. Everyone scrabbled in their purses or pockets to silence their phones.

A grin split Bruno’s face, showing a gold canine tooth. “Just kidding.”

Relieved laughter filtered through the group and everyone cooperated as crewmembers positioned them on the taped Xs. I ended up near the front, directly under the chandelier, with Rachel to my left and Mark Crenshaw to my right, with Lindsay still clinging to his arm. Dillon came in from a side corridor and positioned himself near the foot of the stairs. We locked eyes for a moment and then he looked away, scanning the room. I didn’t see any other cops, but I figured they were there somewhere.

“What’s he doing here?” Lindsay whispered to Mark. She made a tiny motion with her head toward Dillon.

He shrugged. “I guess to haul away the murderer if the ghost points a finger.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Quiet on set,” Bruno bellowed, and silence fell over the group.

The lights dimmed until it was difficult to make out the features even of the people standing closest to me. Red lights glowed atop the cameras. We stood uneasily, listening to the increasing anger of the wind as it slapped at the old house and tore at the trees, producing eerie creaks and groans. Raindrops rattled like bullets against the windows, startling me. It sounded like Horatio might be arriving a bit ahead of schedule.

Before I could start to worry about the hurricane, a movement on the landing caught my attention. A bluish light picked out the figure of Avaline van Tassel as she glided to a spot just at the top of the stairs. She must have been
waiting in one of the bedrooms, I figured. I had to admit she looked beautiful, with her black hair streaming down her back and wearing a simple gown—little more than a shift—of white or gray that made her look pretty ghost-like herself. Smoky makeup around her eyes and red lipstick on her mouth made her features stand out against her pale skin and the pale dress.

“Cyril Rothmere,” she breathed. Her hands came up in a gesture of supplication and a gem winked darkly from one of her rings. “Cyril, will you join us?”

Nothing happened. Someone shifted, clothes rustling. I could hear each breath Rachel took through her nose and felt soft exhales against the back of my neck from whoever stood behind me. I resisted the impulse to turn and look.

“Cyril,” Avaline implored. Her throaty voice was that of a woman pleading with her lover.

I shivered. The woman was good. I didn’t believe she could hobnob with ghosts, but she was mesmerizing as a performer. All of a sudden, I felt a chill. From the sound of indrawn breaths, I knew others felt it as well. The cold seemed to pool at my feet and then move up, bathing my calves and then my thighs in chilled air. Simultaneously, a new light appeared on the landing, little more than a glimmer. It grew, expanding to the size of a tennis ball and then a basketball. The light was opalescent, shimmering with tones of green and blue and occasional flashes of yellow. It reflected off what seemed to be a creeping mist. A fog machine, I told myself, stifling a shiver. Special effects wizardry. I almost wished for one of those Mel 87-whatever gadgets to see if weird things were happening in the electromagnetic realm.

“Will you show yourself?” Avaline asked.

I looked around surreptitiously; as far as I could tell, every
eye in the place was glued to the landing, except Dillon’s. I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to be facing the onlookers. When I glanced back at the landing, I almost gasped. A form was taking shape. The eerie whiteness gradually solidified into the shape of a man, a man wearing the waistcoat, breeches, and long hair of a plantation owner from the 1800s. His eyes and mouth seemed no more than dark holes. Special effects, special effects, special effects, I chanted to myself. I didn’t believe in ghosts, I knew this whole thing was staged, and even so the man’s appearance made me shiver.

“I am Cyril Rothmere,” the wraith proclaimed in a deep but hollow voice. It sounded like he was speaking from the end of a long tunnel.

Nervous whispers sounded around me and I heard one low, “Oh my God.” Rachel’s hand crept into mine and gripped it hard. I gave her a reassuring smile, but I didn’t know if she could see it in the dimness. Even with my back to the windows, I knew when lightning zigzagged behind me because it cast strange shadows on the walls. Thunder rumbled a few seconds later.

“You were the victim of a murderous hand almost two hundred years ago,” Avaline said. “Is that what you’ve come to tell us about?”

The apparition shook its head slowly from side to side.

“Then what disturbs your peace? A more recent act of violence?”

Cyril nodded. “Yes.” The sound was sibilant, accusatory.

“This is such bullshit,” someone muttered from behind me. I thought it might have been Captain Crenshaw’s voice.

“What did you witness on this landing?” Avaline asked, taking
a step toward the ghostly figure. Her arms spread wide to encompass the landing and stairs.

“I saw betrayal, a friend betrayed.” Cyril didn’t face Avaline; instead, he loomed forward, his torso leaning over the balustrade, and seemed to hover over those of us in the foyer below.

I felt Mark startle, his shoulder bumping mine.

“I saw death. Death before its time.” Cyril’s voice grew stronger.

“Braden didn’t die here,” Rachel whispered. I squeezed her hand to hush her.

“Did you see . . . murder?” Avaline’s voice dropped into a lower register on the last word.

“They argued. And then I saw you push him.” Cyril’s arm extended from shoulder height, lace dripping from his wrist, and his rigid forefinger pointed directly at Mark Crenshaw. “You.”

“I didn’t!” Mark jumped back, knocking me off balance. It sent a ripple effect through the close-packed crowd. The winds cracked a tree branch against the side of the house.

“My son would never—” Joy’s shrill voice sounded behind me.

“He didn’t!” Lindsay sounded on the verge of hysteria. “He wouldn’t hurt Braden. Not even when Braden said—”

“Shut up, Lindsay,” Mark whispered harshly.

“
I
talked to Braden that night. But I didn’t mean—”

Lightning exploded just outside the windows, illuminating the scared and confused faces in the room before thunder boomed. The lights flickered once, twice, and went out.

I COULDN’T REMEMBER EVER EXPERIENCING SUCH total darkness. With the flash from the lightning still burned onto my retinas, I couldn’t see a thing. Even the red lights from the cameras were extinguished, as was the small spotlight that had lit up Avaline. The landing where Avaline and Cyril had stood moments ago was as pitch dark as the depths of a nightmare. Lightning must have hit the transformer, I realized, just as someone shoved me sideways.

I toppled toward Rachel, reaching out instinctively to break my fall. All around me people were pushing and swaying, grabbing at each other to maintain their balance. I fell in an ungainly heap, dragging Rachel down with me. Someone kicked my shin and I caught an elbow in the breast. Ow. Footsteps sounded and the front door creaked open, letting rain spit into the foyer.