Ghost in Trouble (17 page)

“Ronald told Laverne to meet Diane there.”

Kay's gaze narrowed. “You make that sound sinister.”

“I think it is.” I glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to four.

I started to disappear, stopped.

Kay's eyes widened. “Don't be half here. That's too spooky for words.”

I swirled back. “I'm off to the cemetery. I may be able to find out what Ronald is planning. While I'm gone, lock your door”—I pointed toward the hall door—“and stay put until I return.”

“You may be ghost-in-chief.” Her voice had its familiar acerbic tone. “You are not nanny-in-chief.”

I looked at her sternly. “It may seem far in the past, but less than twenty-four hours ago you escaped death because I pushed you to safety.”

“So I'm appreciative.” Kay was impatient. “Take my thanks as a given. I'm also not stupid. I'll be careful. I've been thinking about Alison Gregory. It still doesn't ring true to me that Jack talked to her about Evelyn. So, if that wasn't the subject, what was? I'll drop by the gallery, tell her I found some enigmatic notes about her and that guy out at the college.” She looked at me inquiringly.

I shook my head. “Your plan is good. Your timing is not. Tomorrow I'll go with you.”

“What do I do in the meantime?”

I gave her an encouraging smile. “Cultivate patience. As Charlie Chan advised, ‘Anxious man hurries too fast—often stubs big toe.'”

“He also said”—Kay's eyes glinted—“‘Hours are happiest when hands are busiest.'”

“Very true.”

Her eyes lighted.

I shook my head. There would be no wanderer's blessing from me. “You're extremely smart, Kay.” Praise worked wonders when I taught English and generous comments smoothed my path in the mayor's office. “You've found out everything possible about Jack's last few days. Going back to the well won't accomplish anything. Instead, put that fertile brain of yours to work. We have a logjam of facts. Figure out where to poke in a stick of dynamite and change the landscape.”

“In other words”—her drawl was dangerously pleasant—“I'm confined to quarters?”

“Here in a locked room you are one hundred percent safe.”

“Maybe I should ask that grizzled police chief to lock me up.” Her eyes widened. “Get that considering look off your freckled face.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “If you don't stay, I don't go.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake. You are a pain.”

“You are recalcitrant.” I had a happy memory. I lifted my right hand. “I, Kay Clark, do hereby solemnly promise…”

She made a rude gesture, then raised her arms in surrender.

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 thought
ful. “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.