“No, I didn’t.”
“Of course you didn’t. I think I convinced her you aren’t that kind of person.”
Ann hesitated. “What did happen to your daughter? If you want to talk about it.”
“Leukemia. It was terrible. Truly terrible. Especially after losing my sister to cancer so soon before. Well, you can imagine.” He ran his fingers through his hair again. “When you saw her, was she ... clear?”
“Yes, quite clear. It’s not always like that.” Ann didn’t specify that it had never been like that. Even with Elizabeth Firth, who had been the most lifelike spirit she had seen before Dan’s daughter, she would never have mistaken her for a living person.
“What was she doing?” Dan asked eagerly.
Ann thought back to what she had seen. “She was sitting in the chair next to your wife, following the conversation. She looked interested in what was going on—very engaged. She looks like a smart little girl.”
Dan smiled. “Oh yes. She wanted to be an astronaut. One time she made a ‘Martian rover’ out of a coffee can and hitched it to the cat to pull around. You can imagine how successful that was.”
Ann smiled with him, and felt a tug at her heart. This was the Dan she had missed so much. She could just imagine the talk he would have had with his daughter after that incident—gentle but firm about her responsibility not to treat the cat like a toy.
“What’s her name?”
His smile widened. “I like that you ask that in the present tense. Her name’s Sylvia.”
“A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
Dan nodded, the smile still on his face. “Yes, she was. She was a sweetheart.” His voice caught a little on the last word. He glanced back at the pickup. “Listen, I need to get back. Amita was okay with me talking with you but she didn’t feel like she could handle it right now herself. We lost Sylvia less than a year ago.” He looked back to Ann. “But I really wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for doubting you. I was trying to find a scientific explanation for what you experienced, but now that doesn’t seem so important anymore. Maybe I had to have a child to be able to see that there’s more to life than science and logic. Do you forgive me?”
Ann felt tears burn and in her mind’s eye she saw the scene the way it might have been: her and Dan and their own child—a healthy child—going to a restaurant for lunch for a special occasion. Maybe it would be a little girl with curling, reddish-blonde hair and sparkling green eyes telling them about a Martian rover, and speculating about ways of powering it. Maybe that little girl’s pet would be Beau, who would be only too happy to tow a rover if it made his person happy. She nodded at Dan. “Yes. Of course.”
He stepped forward and extended his arms tentatively, and she walked into a hug that was both awkward and wonderful. It lasted only a moment before he stepped back.
“I’m so glad we ran into each other,” said Dan. “I read about you finding that woman’s murderer. I must admit that at the time I didn’t know quite what to make of it, but knowing what I do now, you have a lot to be proud of.”
Not trusting herself to talk, Ann made a dismissive shooing motion.
“But your dog—I was really sorry to hear about that. I remember how much you loved Kali. I know this dog must have meant just as much to you. What was his name—Beau?”
She nodded as tears threatened to spill over.
He gazed at her for a moment. “Are you okay?”
She nodded again.
“Well, I better go. All the best to you, Ann. Give my best to Mike and Scott, too.” He stepped forward again and gave her another quick hug, then turned and walked back to the pickup. He walked quickly, like a man with good news that he was excited to share.
Ann watched him go and in a moment Mike was by her side. “Did that go alright?”
Ann nodded and searched in her pockets for a tissue as the tears finally fell. “Yes. He believed me.”
Mike put his hand on her shoulder. “Of course he did, Ann. He’d be a fool not to.”
*****
They continued on as originally planned to Longwood Gardens. Mike went to the conservatory to see the latest display. He enjoyed the symmetry of the building and the plantings, and had confided to Ann and Scott his secret desire to sneak into the conservatory after hours and lie on the luxuriant, and off-limits, lawns around which the displays were arranged.
Ann begged off the conservatory and headed instead to the Meadow Garden, where she knew from experience that she could walk the perimeters of its eighty-six acres and never have to see a soul—living or dead.
Chapter 6
On Friday, Joe Booth, the Philadelphia detective who had been in charge of the Firth case, drove out from Philadelphia to West Chester for dinner. After Joe had exhausted the more traditional means of investigation, it had been at his invitation that Ann got involved in the case.
Joe arrived on the doorstep with a bouquet of flowers for Ann and a bottle of wine for Mike and Scott, looking uncomfortable in a snug sport coat, which he removed as soon as he saw that everyone else was dressed casually. Joe was a big man, a previously athletic physique softening a bit in middle age. He was in his mid-forties but looked older, due in part to the premature graying of his pale blond hair.
Mike had made rack of lamb, roasted potatoes, and asparagus, and opened a couple of bottles of Palmaz Cabernet Sauvignon. Now, they were all pushed back from the dining room table, too full and comfortable to move into the living room. Even Ann, relaxed by the wine and the company, was eating everything Mike served her.
She was just finishing up her last asparagus spear as Mike and Joe talked sports when she glanced over Mike’s shoulder and said, “Hey, it’s Scooter!”
The three men turned to look.
“What?” said Joe.
“Where?” said Scott.
“Our cat, Scooter,” said Mike.
“You have a cat?” asked Joe. “I’m usually allergic—”
“Scooter’s deceased,” said Scott. “Where did he go?” he asked Ann.
“He just crossed the hall, but he was very clear. I could even see the white tuft on his chest.”
“He was always just a gray fuzzy spot before,” said Scott to Joe.
“First Sylvia, now Scooter,” said Mike.
“Who’s Sylvia?” asked Joe, trying to catch up.
Mike looked to Ann. “Can I tell?” After a nod from Ann, he recounted the story of Dan and Amita’s dead daughter.
Joe looked at Ann. “That’s pretty impressive.”
She shrugged, embarrassed. “Now if I can just find a way to do something more productive than upsetting grieving mothers and locating dead household pets ...”
“A.—” Mike began.
Ann stood up. “I made chocolate chip cookies for dessert.”
“I can get them,” said Scott, popping up, but Ann returned him to his chair with a push on the shoulder.
“You guys have been spoiling me all week—I need to start acting like a grown up sometime,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“So, it sounds like her skills are developing,” said Joe to Mike.
Mike glanced toward the door to the kitchen. “Yes. I was hoping she’d be excited about it, but it doesn’t seem like it’s making her any less conflicted about her abilities. I’ll admit that the little girl’s mother was initially upset, but Ann doesn’t mention that the father was pretty happy she’d sensed his daughter’s spirit.”
“And I’m always happy to get an update on Scooter,” added Scott.
“If she’s really starting to be able to see dead people in detail, there’s a lot of good she could do,” said Joe. “And not just in criminal investigations. There was a plane crash in Lancaster a couple of weeks ago—no one knows what happened, the pilot and passengers died. If Ann could go to the site, maybe check things out—”
Joe’s sentence was cut short by a muffled cry from the kitchen, a crash, and an unmuffled, “Damn it!”
“What happened?” asked Mike.
“I got one of those damn pains in my hand right when I picked up the tray, and when I dropped it, the coffee spilled on my hand!”
“Let’s see,” said Scott.
Ann held her hand out to Scott.
He took it gently and turned it back and forth, examining the damage. “Ouch. And on the same hand you stabbed,” he tutted. “You keep running cool water on it.” He put his finger under the stream of water. “Good heavens, not that cold, you don’t want frostbite.” He adjusted the temperature and moved her hand back under the water. Meanwhile, Mike was swabbing mug shards, cookie fragments, and coffee into a dustpan and dumping the mess into the trash can.
“Sorry about that, you guys,” said Ann bleakly.
“It’s okay,” said Mike. “You’ve been having pains in your hands?”
Ann shut off the water, grabbed a dish towel, and flopped down on a kitchen chair. “Yeah, for the last couple of weeks. It’s like getting a charley horse in my hand, and it always seems to hit at the worst time and I end up hurting myself.”
“Is that what happened there?” asked Joe, nodding to her still-bandaged finger.
“No, that didn’t hurt until I impaled myself on a knife when I was unloading the dishwasher. That happened right after I cut my hand on a broken glass. But a couple of days before that, I got one of those hand cramps when I was splitting logs and I almost chopped my foot off.” She thought for a moment. “And before that, I tripped on the porch steps and tried to grab the railing but my hand cramped up and I missed it and fell.”
“Is this unusual, hurting yourself this much?” asked Joe.
“Yes, of course it’s unusual,” said Ann irritably, “otherwise I would have put myself in the hospital by now.”
Joe looked thoughtful.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I knew someone who hurt his hands a lot, although in his case it was intentional—self-inflicted injuries.”
“Sounds screwed up,” said Ann. “Who was that?”
“Biden Firth.”
*****
They retired to the living room with a plate of store-bought cookies and a fresh pot of coffee.
Joe said, “I remember when I was interviewing him and asked him about the conditions of his wife’s will, he got upset and did something to his hand with a pen or pencil. And at the autopsy, they found evidence of injuries to his hands and nails, likely self-inflicted.”
Ann said suddenly, “You know, I remember something like that. When I was alone with him in the shore house, I remember him playing with a letter opener, pushing the point into his hand ...”
“So what are you thinking—that Ann somehow picked up this habit from Firth?” Mike asked Joe. “I don’t think Ann would be intentionally hurting herself,” he added, a little defensive.
Joe took a drink of his coffee. “I’m not sure what I’m thinking. It just struck me as odd when Ann mentioned all the times she’s hurt her hands since Firth died, especially if it wasn’t happening before.” Joe looked questioningly toward Ann, who shook her head. “Maybe he sort of, I don’t know, hexed your hand?” he ended feebly.
“Hexed it?” said Mike, his eyebrows raised. “Now what do we have to do—kill a chicken to cure it?”
“I think the chicken-killing thing is voodoo,” said Scott.
Ann ran the fingers of her unburned hand through her hair. “I could buy that Biden Firth might be behind the injuries I got at the cabin—after all, that’s where he died—but they’re happening here too. Plus, Garrick checked the cabin when I was in the hospital and he said Biden’s spirit wasn’t there.”
“Let’s keep our minds open to the possibility that the great Garrick Masser might not always be right,” said Mike.
Ann ignored his tone. “But Garrick was there so soon after Biden died, I think he would have picked up something if there had been anything to pick up.”
Joe shrugged. “It was just a passing thought. You guys are the experts.”
After some more speculation about possible causes of Ann’s recent run of manual misfortune, and her assurance that she would finish the painting for Joe as soon as her hands were healed, Joe excused himself for the evening. After seeing Joe out, the three of them returned to the kitchen. Mike and Scott cleaned up while Ann sat at the table, her burned hand agitating for attention, in a state of forced inactivity she found increasingly irritating.
“I think it’s worth considering that Firth may have caught up with you at your cabin,” said Mike. “It’s certainly the kind of situation that could lead to a spirit staying at a location—a violent death, motive for revenge ...”
Scott shuddered. “You need to get out of there, sweetie, and not just for a long weekend. You should stay here with us for a while.”
Mike nodded his agreement.
“You’re both sweethearts,” said Ann, smiling wanly. “I’ll think it over.”
“Except you have to stop taking Mike out to eat every day, or he’ll get fat,” Scott said, and poked Mike in the stomach.
Ann levered herself out of the chair, feeling old and creaky. “Do you guys have some aspirin in the downstairs bathroom?” she asked, starting down the hall to the powder room.
“Want a shot of Scotch to knock that back with?” called Mike after her.
“Ha ha, very funny,” replied Ann as she sorted through the contents of the medicine cabinet.
She came back to the kitchen with a bottle of aspirin, which Scott opened for her. Swallowing them with a gulp of wine, she said, “You know, there is a common thread among all these times my hand has hurt.”
“What’s that, sweetie?” asked Scott, drying a platter.
“I had just sensed something.”
“Did you sense Firth at your cabin?” asked Mike.
“No, I had just seen Beau.”
“You’ve seen Beau?” asked Scott, putting down the platter. “That’s wonderful! So you have company at the cabin after all!”
“Well, no ... He’s taken up with someone else.”
“Who’s that?” asked Mike.
“An old woman. Very old. And from very long ago, I think.”
“Well, that’s ...” Scott said as he tried and failed to think of a positive spin to put on this.
Ann continued, “I had seen Beau—and sometimes Beau and the old woman—right around the time I had the pains in my hand. And tonight I had just seen Scooter. Maybe this is my new reaction to sensing—it used to be nausea, now it’s hand cramps.”
“That seems a little ...” Mike began, then stopped.
“A little what?” asked Ann sharply.
Mike considered. “Seeing past pets doesn’t seem like it would trigger such a dramatic reaction. Plus,” he said, perking up, “you didn’t have any pain when you saw Dan and Amita’s daughter, did you?”
“No,” retorted Ann, “but when I saw her, I didn’t realize she was dead.”
Scott put his hands up. “Kids, kids. It seems like there are lots of possible explanations for what’s happening, including just a straightforward, old-fashioned physical explanation. Maybe we should ask a hand specialist to check it out.”
“But you said that sometimes when you hurt yourself it wasn’t because you got a pain in your hand—like when you stabbed yourself when you were unloading the dishwasher. Maybe you’re just being klutzy,” said Mike.
“Gee, thanks,” said Ann. She sighed and finished up the last of her wine, then gave herself a small top-off from the almost-empty bottle of cab. “I’m turning in.”
Ann retired to the bedroom that was reserved for her visits, made snug with quilts, a set of first-edition N. C. Wyeth-illustrated children’s books, and an antique rocker Scott had recently found in
Adamstown. She paged through Treasure Island for a few minutes, then tossed it aside, got out her phone, and dialed Garrick Masser.
After a few rings, Ann heard the mechanical click of a landline phone being picked up. “Yes,” came the sepulchral greeting.
“Garrick, it’s Ann.”
“The celebrated Miss Kinnear,” said Garrick testily. Ann guessed he was a little put off by the publicity she had gotten as a result of the Firth case. “How may I help you?”
“Just checking in,” she said brightly.
“Hmph,” said Garrick, then was silent.
After a few moments, Ann sighed—she should know better than to try to make small talk with Garrick Masser. “I’ve been hurting myself lately.”
“Intentionally?”
“No, not intentionally,” replied Ann.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously, I haven’t been hurting myself intentionally.”
“Have you been hurting yourself seriously?”
“Oh. No, not very seriously. It all has to do with my hands. I’m getting these sudden pains in my hand.” She recounted the theories—Joe’s that it was Biden Firth’s influence, Scott’s that it could have some perfectly normal physical explanation, Mike’s that she was having a sudden attack of chronic clumsiness, and her own that it was a reaction to sensings.
“So the detective and your brother think you are being haunted by the spirit of the man you killed?”
Ann winced. Everyone else referred to Biden as the man she had brought to justice or the man who had tried to kill her. “Well, they floated it as a possibility, but I think it’s farfetched. Don’t you think it’s more likely that it’s a physical reaction to the sensing?”
She was warming to this theory. Ever since she had gotten out of the hospital, she had had looming over her shoulder the specter, so to speak, of the resumption of the spirit-sensing consulting engagements. If she was now actually suffering pain and injuries as a result of exercising her skill, there could be no question about her continuing it as a business, could there?
The Sense of Reckoning Page 3