Ghost in Trouble (19 page)

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…”

D
rawn 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.