by Lotta Smith
“I see.” As I fought an urge to roll my eyes, Rowling was busy texting on his iPhone.
I wasn’t sure about the involvement of an exorcist. Not that Brian Powers was bogus, but because he was good. It seemed like he could exorcise any ghosts. Still, exorcising meant spiritual murder. I didn’t know Giselle McCambridge personally, but considering she was already murdered, having her heart and soul remurdered sounded awfully harsh—inhumane, even.
“All right,” Rowling said, “Mandy, let’s do the job quickly and have NYPD cancel the appointment with Brian Powers.”
“I can try,” I said reluctantly, thinking Brian—one of few real exorcists who went to the same boarding school as Rowling—wouldn’t be thrilled.
“He’s been getting a big head lately, and a last-minute cancellation will be good for him.” Rowling was now grinning from ear to ear. Obviously, he was enjoying the situation.
* * *
As I approached the perimeter of the grand staircase, I felt the temperature of the room getting somewhat warmer. Maybe it was because of Giselle’s presence. Or, maybe the heat might have been attributed to the uniforms and detectives standing by the walls. They were keenly observing the place and yours truly emerging onto the landing of the staircase like an unsophisticated actress wandering onto the stage. Meanwhile, Rowling and DeLaurentis sat on the sofa, which screamed “Expensive!” just ten feet away from where I stood, as if they were watching some kind of show from the front row seat.
It was so uncomfortable and awkward.
Taking a deep breath, I willed myself to think I was alone with the ghost of Giselle McCambridge, rather than an exhibit at the zoo.
“Hello, Madame Giselle,” I talked to the ghost breezily, as if I was at a cocktail party exchanging pleasantries as a guest. Instead of Mrs. McCambridge, I referred her as Madame Giselle, because Rowling told me to do so. According to my boss, the mistress of this mansion often insisted to be addressed with her first name.
She didn’t respond immediately, but I knew she recognized my presence because she twitched her eyebrows after giving me a world-famous onceover, a la Upper East Side style.
“Madame Giselle,” I said again.
She averted her gaze from me, as if she were looking for someone else to talk to. After a full minute of intense yoo-hooing—yes, I did say “Yoo-hoo!” like Kyra Sedgwick starring as Brenda Leigh Johnson in The Closer—she finally laid her eyes on me.
“Do I know you?” she said rather haughtily.
“Hello, my name is Amanda Meyer.” I smiled. “I’m with the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Again, she twitched her eyebrows.
This time, I knew she intended to raise her eyebrows, except they didn’t go up because of heavy Botox therapy. The lingering effect of the cosmetic procedure was both surprising and scary. I made a mental note not to have any cosmetic surgery procedures, even in case I actually won the Powerball.
“What is the FBI doing at my house? I should have been informed about your visit if the FBI wants something from us. I know the director’s personal phone number,” she went on.
“Actually, I’m here to ask you some questions regarding your fall from the grand staircase.”
“My fall… from the grand staircase?”
“Yes,” I reassured. “You were found lying unconscious by Ms. Willow Ganong, the maid of this house, and the butler, Mr. Marcus Warne-Smith.”
“Yes, I remember. Willow was shrieking. She’s a little plain to serve for a family like us. What surprised me was even Marcus was practically yelling. He’s a refined man serving the household. Think of a modern day Jeeves, you know what I mean. Anyway, it was so uncharacteristic of him. I had to tell them to be quiet.”
She seemed to remember a lot of things, and it looked like an easy case. I suppressed my urge to smile.
“And you told Mr. Warne-Smith that you were pushed off the stairs.”
“That’s correct.” She nodded.
“So, who did that to you?”
As I asked, I felt all the eyes and ears on me. The detectives standing by the walls were squirming. DeLaurentis and Rowling were still sitting at the sofa, looking relaxed, only now the captain was gripping her fists tightly.
Is it Wilfred, Giselle’s adopted son? Or is it his wife… or one of their kids? I held my breath, but—
“I have no idea.” The ghost of a dead lady shrugged.
“Excuse me?” I blurted out. “How can you have no idea about such an important event?”
Confusion and disappointment rippled like a wave in the foyer.
“I was pushed from behind. How could I have known who had done it?”
“Still, you told Mr. Warne-Smith to catch the culprit, writing the letter W on his palm, didn’t you?”
“Ah, yes. I remember that,” Giselle said breezily. “I was hoping he’d figure out Who committed such animosity—hence, the letter W. Do you understand?”
My jaw dropped. “So, basically, W stands for Who.”
“Exactly. Did Marcus find the culprit?” As she tilted her head to the side, I noticed a small but nasty wound on the left occipital area, tainting her platinum blonde hair that was almost white.
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept silent.
“I have a hunch about my attacker. It would have to be some kind of petty thief who snuck into this house, hoping to steal some money or jewelry.” She went on proudly. “So, I’m expecting to hear the news about the arrest of my attacker.”
“But, according to your butler, you were about to tell him something very important.”
“Of course, I was telling him something very important: have the police arrest my attacker. Do you have any idea how frightening it is having a total stranger roaming your residence, assaulting you?” She snorted. Then she hurried on. “You have at least made a suspects list out of local common criminals, haven’t you?”
“No,” I said; then I added. “I’m afraid not.” Because it seemed like the woman was ready to bite my head off.
“Excuse me? How can you protect the people in this city when you can’t even catch my attacker?” she demanded, literally flinging her arms and finger-pointing at me. “What a shame! Do you have any idea how much taxpayers’ money has been spent for the police?”
She was the most aggressive ghost I’d ever seen. As I observed her beautifully manicured fingers, I wondered if she’d tell me the name of her nail stylist when we got her killer behind bars.
“In order to catch the culprit, I need your cooperation. Thank you very much.”
“Fine,” she said resignedly, “I will do my best to assist you. I’ll be attending many parties, charity balls, and events, including the International Debutante Ball. I’m hoping to attend the event as happy and carefree with the bad guy securely imprisoned.”
Obviously, it hadn’t dawned on her that she was already dead while the debutantes were courted and presented to high-ranking society in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria. I thought about giving her the bad news, but I had to ask some more questions, and I couldn’t risk upsetting the scary ghost. So, I made some sympathetic noises.
“What would you like to know?” she asked me.
“Where were you when you were shoved?”
“I was at the top of the stairs, and I was pushed from behind.”
“Where in your back were you pushed?”
“Somewhere around here.” She indicated an area just below the scapula.
“Did you feel one hand or both hands on your back?”
“Well,” she closed her eyes and took a pause. “One hand, I think.”
“Was that the right hand or left hand?”
“How would I know? I don’t have eyes on my back.” She let out an exasperated snort.
“Did you witness something, anything, like the hand or leg of your assailant?”
“Excuse me? I was falling off the marble stairs and not socializing at the moment.”
“I understand. How about
this, did you hear any footsteps before the assault?”
“I believe so.”
“How did the footsteps sound? Male or female?”
“I don’t know, but there’s one thing I’m certain of, whoever committed such an atrocity is some lowlife burglar from outside.”
“Can you recall anything else you noticed at the time of the crime? Like hearing something, catching some scents—such as fragrance, body odor… or anything?” It was sounding more like pleading than asking a question.
“No. I have no such recollections.” She shrugged off my question.
“Okay. So, when you fell down the stairs, you lost consciousness, right?”
“Right.” She grimaced grudgingly. “During and after the fall, the pain was unbearable. And the next thing I knew, Marcus and Willow were shouting my name as if I had suddenly turned deaf.”
“Actually, Willow, your housemaid, was the first person who found you lying unconscious. I’m just speaking hypothetically, but could it be possible that your housemaid pushed you off the stairs, and then she acted like she found you injured?”
“Are you talking about Willow, that plain girl?” Giselle let out a shrill cackle. “That’s impossible! Subtlety is something I’ve been trying to teach her, along with manners, protocol, and everything without success. Besides that, if she were coming from behind, I would have noticed because she walks like an elephant, completely lacking elegance.” Somehow, her acid words rhymed.
“So, after pushing your back at the stairs, the assailant didn’t come down the stairs.”
“That’s correct. My assailant must have slipped away through the emergency exit upstairs.” She sounded so confident and stubborn.
I glanced at Rowling for help, only to get a keep on interviewing look. According to him, my voice was clear enough to catch without earpieces.
“Actually, Madame, that’s impossible. The whole house is wired up by USCAB home security service, and whenever a door or a window opens, the log is recorded. Around the time of your assault, there was no such record, which means someone at your residence—be the person a maid, the butler, family members, or their friends—would have committed the crime.”
“That’s ridiculous!” She swung her arms like she wanted to bitch-slap me. “Someone in this house pushing me off the stairs? In the remote case it was true, what would they have as a reward?”
“Well…” I fidgeted with words. “For instance, Ms. Miranda Wollf, your sister, has been insisting that you had decided to alter your will so that the family fortune goes to her and not your adopted son, Wilfred.”
“Get out!” She let out an unladylike shriek. “That’s total BS!”
“Based on this presumption, she’s been accusing Wilfred of the crime, implying he feared that you’d alter your will and the fortune was going to her, not him.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! That miserable excuse of a—” She divulged some expletives that I took a mental note for future use. After a moment of her temper and more than a few truly inventive cusswords, she took a deep breath. “She should take over the McCambridge Steel? How dare she make such an outrageous proposition when she’s not even a McCambridge herself! Wilfred might have been adopted, but at least he’s from a distant relative of the McCambridges, whereas Miranda would have nothing to do with this family if it were not for my marriage to Patrick. She’s always been a sucker for making a blast when there’s no smoke, let alone fire. Of course, you don’t believe such a malicious lie. My son isn’t capable of committing such a horrible act.”
“Of course, NYPD doesn’t believe everything relatives say. Then again, there’s no evidence to clear Wilfred of any wrongdoings, either. So…”
“Oh my lord! Poor Wilfred…” She clutched her chest. Then she looked me straight in the eyes. “Fine, Ms. Meyers. I’m dropping the charge because I am so over this drama.”
“Excuse me?” I almost shouted. “You can’t just drop a charge.”
“Why not? It’s a free country, and I have every right to drop any charges I wish to drop.” She snorted. “Even if someone pushed me in some form of a practical joke, everything is forgiven because I’m forgiving. Why are you so obsessed with finger-pointing? Don’t you have better things to do, rather than bothering us?”
“Well, I mean…” I was compelled to run away, but at the same time, there was no getaway exit for me. Besides, she was bound to discover her death sooner or later, as Brian Powers was coming to exorcise her. “Madame Giselle McCambridge, please calm down and listen carefully. I have bad news. You died following the incident, and NYPD is investigating your death as a possible murder.”
CHAPTER 5
“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows twitched. She was practically glaring at me, and there was obvious confusion in her eyes.
“Following the blunt-force trauma to your head, you suffered a subdural hematoma, which resulted in your premature death.” At first, I tried to convey the bad news matter-of-factly in order to avoid an emotional drama, but as I saw her face blanch, I added, “I’m sorry to be the messenger of such terrible news. I really wish we could have met each other when you were alive. I’m sure you were a very elegant, charming, and generous lady.”
The last sentence was a stretch, but she looked like the villain queen from some Disney movie, and I was desperate to bring out her inner grace.
Still, my tactics failed.
“I am… dead?” Her eyes were blazing with a mixture of emotions, such as anger, fury, indignation, and something much stronger and fiercer. Her Helen Mirren hair had spiked up like that of Bret Michaels’s back in 1985.
And then came the apocalypse…
First, there was an explosive noise, which sounded something in-between a gunshot and thunder. And the next thing, the room started shaking like it was being attacked by a M7-class earthquake, followed by all the doors leading to the foyer bashing open. Rushes of wind as powerful as a category 4 hurricane started blowing.
Paintings and sculptures flew up and then busted on the marble floor. The windows shattered into pieces. The officers in uniforms tried to respond, only to bounce back and slam onto the floor and walls.
I caught a bone-chilling noise as a chandelier moved back and forth like a giant swing from Cirque de Soleil… except it wasn’t for show and it was happening over my head. Assuming from the squeaking of the ceilings, the giant chunk of heavy glass could drop on me any minute, or second.
A smart woman would have run like hell, but I stood there, totally fixed on the floor, shrieking like a banshee. “OhmigodohmigodOHMYFUCKINGOD! Hey, you don’t need to smash all this wonderful artwork! You can just send them to me, so I can put them on Christie’s or Sotheby’s, make a fortune, pay off my debt, and live happily ever after!”
Though I was just making my point, it seemed like my comments further infuriated this already cranky ghost. “You… little…” Groaning with her pursed lips parting into an evil sneer, she responded with a huge porcelain vase gliding across the room in my direction, as if I had a big bullseye on my face.
Only seconds before I got my head smashed like Humpty Dumpty, my body was swept away from the spot and thrown several feet. I heard a thud, but I didn’t feel any shock or pain. It was totally like an out-of-body experience.
Wow, flying with Peter Pan must feel just like this. I shut my eyes and zoned out, thinking dying while you’re sort of dozing off is better than dying when you’re wide awake, fearing for the worst.
Meanwhile, my head was filled with the song “You can fly!” I caught my boss’s voice shouting at the ghost who was invisible to him.
“Madame Giselle!”
Strangely, his voice sounded close to me, like he was shouting in by my ear. “You can act out as much as you want. Then again, are you sure you want to destroy the home you built with your beloved husband Patrick and where you raised your family?”
At that moment, the storm and the shaking stopped altogether as suddenly a
s they started.
I was still on the floor, dazed and more than keen to escape from reality. I was humming, “You can fly… You can fly… You can fly…”
Rowling’s voice grabbed me back to the real world. “Hey, Tinker Bell, get up. It’s too early for bedtime.”
Reluctantly, I opened one eye. I was on the floor scattered with junk that used to be pricey vases and sculptures. Under normal circumstances, I would have been devastated by the mess, but I wasn’t. Because something even more shocking was happening to me—I was in Rick Rowling’s arms, and he was keeping me from harm’s way.
The officers were either slouched on the floor by the walls or hanging onto the pillars. DeLaurentis still tightly held onto the sofa where she used to sit. Approximately ten feet from us lay the demolished remnants of the menacing vase that almost cracked my head open. Without asking, I knew what happened. Rick Rowling rescued me from the deadly harm. Sweet. Also, he smelled good, like citrus with hints of woody notes.
“Um… Rick, thank you for everything,” I said, and I meant it.
“You’re welcome,” he said nonchalantly.
Oh my God… My heart was pounding like a Tommy Lee drum solo. I knew he was good looking. I had been persuading myself that my feelings toward him were pure products of an optical illusion.
But I was wrong.
He looked hot, and man, but he never looked this seductive. His brown hair that was usually styled in a conservatively messy ’do was now totally disheveled, but somehow managed to look like something between Mohawk and punk-rocker chic. His Prada tie was askew, and dirt was on his previously impeccably flawless suit, yet he managed to look so sensual, provocative, and… smoking hot.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t fool myself anymore. I was practically lusting after my boss. I wanted to kiss him, rip his clothes off, and—
My fantasy went on until he said, “Mandy, can you move off my left arm? I don’t want to end up with nerve damage. By the way, you recently packed on like five pounds, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t!” I shot back, pulling away from him. I was upset that he pointed out my weight gain, because I had actually gained ten pounds. I was blaming it on stress.