Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  After waving to the fresh-faced watch officer who had known all about ghosting and shouldn’t have, I sloshed back up to the department offices to check my box for messages. Even the main door was locked, and everyone had left. So I used my key. There weren’t any messages, except for a note from David Doniger, as chairman, requesting that we keep photoduplication to an absolute minimum in view of the energy costs to the department and to ensure the department set a good example. Why hadn’t he just brought it up in the departmental meeting?

  I left David’s pedantic sermon in my box and locked the main door behind me. Then I trudged back across the south green to the steps to the Music and Theatre Department and along the corridor. Unlike the Department of Natural Resources, the building was filled with people. Sometimes I wondered how the music professors ever got the reputation of laziness. They worked longer than almost anyone else, except maybe the poor library staff, and they got paid less.

  Martha Philips was still at her desk in the main departmental office. I stepped inside.

  “Martha.”

  “Doktor Eschbach, Llysette is in her studio.” Martha was stolid, square, open, and seemed honest.

  “I think I’m early.” I glanced at the wall clock. “I saw Doktor Geoffries at the memorial service. How is he taking this?”

  “We are all in shock, I think. You read about murders in Asten or New Amsterdam, but they are cities. You don’t think it could happen here.”

  “I know. It must make things hard for Dierk.”

  “You don’t know how hard. Between Doktor Branston-Hay and the watch, and Miranda’s ghost—sometimes it—she—drifts by here, but she never stays, and all she says is something about not listening and screaming no. It must be hard on Llysette, because her office is one of the closer ones, but at least it never enters her studio. One of her students ran off screaming yesterday.”

  “That must have upset Dierk.”

  “It upset everyone.”

  “I can see. Has the watch said anything about coming close to a suspect?”

  “Not to any of us. The way they keep asking questions, I don’t think they know.”

  I shrugged and glanced at the clock. Martha smiled, and I headed out of the main office and down the hall. Before I went to Llysette’s office, I turned toward the piano studio. The glow strips outside the studio were off, and the hall was dim there, almost gloomy. I stopped when I saw the video camera mounted and trained on the padlocked door.

  I retraced my steps and took the outside doorway, then walked along the wall of the building until I could look in the studio window. Despite the dimness, I could see the covering on the piano—and what looked to be a Babbage console, a small video camera, and a cable running between them. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw a flicker of white, but I kept walking. A ghost and now Babbage engines connected with the ghost? Just what else was Gerald hiding?

  When I reentered the building, I made my way back to Llysette’s studio, where, by placing my ear against the door, I could barely hear the piano and her voice. After she came to a break, I opened the door.

  Llysette lifted her hands from her studio piano when she saw me inside the door. “Johan … I did not expect you here … so soon.”

  “I went to Miranda’s memorial service,” I said.

  “I also. She had few true friends, I think.” Llysette frowned. “I did not see you there.” ,

  “I was in the back. Philippe was not all that eloquent.”

  “He did not seem so.” She cleared her throat before asking, “And why are you here?”

  “Because time is short.” I smiled. “An old client called me up and offered me a consulting job. I must go to Columbia tomorrow morning.”

  “You did not tell me this morning. I had thought …”

  I tried to smile apologetically. “You sounded so rushed, as if you wanted me off the wire, and you said you would not be free until now. If I had known, we could have gone to the service together.”

  “Ah, yes. That I would have liked. I knew so few there.”

  “I thought we might at least have dinner.”

  “But then, then you must drive back …”

  “You at least deserve a dinner at Cipoletto’s.”

  “Johan, the food, it is good, but it is not …”

  “I understand. But I am tired, and so are you, and we do require some form of bodily sustenance, even a little luxury. I could follow you home. That way you could leave your steamer, and we would only take one.”

  For a moment her green eyes were hard, as if she were looking straight through me. I smiled apologetically once more and waited.

  “Ah, well, it is not as though we were children. I will be but a moment.”

  She began to pick up music and stack it on the old wooden desk in the corner. Her office was really a studio, with the old Steinbach in one corner and bookcases on the inside wall. The glass in the three windows was all graying, except for the two panes that had clearly been replaced recently. The hardwood floors sagged slightly, even after last year’s refinishing. A rag rug beside the piano added a touch of warmth, but it should have, since I’d offered it to her when I’d turned the old parlor into my study.

  “I am ready.” Llysette carried her coat over her arm.

  “No music? No umbrella?”

  “The umbrella, if I do not keep it here,” she lifted her shoulders and dropped them, “then I do not have it when most I need it.”

  The rain had diminished to a scattering of droplets by the time we emerged through the side door and walked up to the car park. She climbed into the tiny Reo runabout. As usual, she didn’t wait long enough for the steam pressure to build fully, and the Reo lurched out onto Highland Street.

  I followed Llysette up Highland and out old Hebron Road until we reached the stone-walled and white-windowed cottage she rented. As in almost every other Dutch-owned house, the front windows showed lace curtains. She put the Reo almost right in front of the porch.

  I set the brake and stepped out onto the damp packed clay. “Do you need anything?”

  “A moment I will just be.” She was already unlocking the door.

  “I’ll just wait here.” Somehow Llysette’s cottage depressed me. It was neat, although she had a tendency to stack her music in piles. Perhaps it was just that it was so modest, so little, really, for a woman who could have been a great diva in old France, had Ferdinand not annexed it.

  The top branches of great oaks behind the cottage waved gently in the wind, barely visible in the growing darkness, and a few more droplets caressed my face as I waited and watched. Llysette left on the porch glows.

  “Voilà—I am not long.”

  “Not long at all.”

  I held the Stanley’s door open for Llysette, then closed it and walked around and climbed in myself. As I turned back onto the old Hebron Road toward Vanderbraak Centre, I asked, “Have any of the watch been back to talk to you?”

  “Yesterday, the young one, he stopped by to ask a few questions.”

  “About you, or about Miranda?”

  “First, about where she lived he must know. Then about her working hours he wanted to know. Then he asked why Professor Miller was working late on a Saturday.”

  “Did you know why she was there? That does seem strange.” I edged the steamer to the right edge of the road to avoid a fast-moving Williams that was taking the big turn too fast.

  “They should not travel so quickly.”

  “Not on wet roads. Did you know where she lived?” I prompted after I turned back onto Highland.

  “I did not know where she lived. And as I have told most, the hours she worked were …” Llysette shrugged. “They were not terribly long. I told the watch officer I did not know why Professor Miller was there that night.”

  After another silence, I turned right at the edge of the square and continued past the Anglican-Baptist chapel toward the south end of town.

  “Perhaps she was waiting for someone?”
I eased the throttle down as we neared the edge of Vanderbraak Centre and the bend in the river where Cipoletto’s overlooked the weirs. Only a handful of steamers were parked outside the restaurant, but it was early for the college types and late for the burghers.

  “How would one know?” Llysette pointed out reasonably. “If one had meant to meet Professor Miller …” She shrugged again.

  “Then that person either killed Miranda or would be afraid to admit the meeting because of being accused of the murder.” I pulled up beside another Williams, this one a racing model that few in New Bruges could afford and fewer still would want.

  “This is most kind of you, Johan,” she said as I helped her out of the Stanley. “You do not need to pack?”

  “It’s a one-day trip, perhaps an overnight. Clients never like to pay extra, and I’m certainly not in the mood to pay federal city prices.” I offered my arm, which she took, and we crossed the brick-paved courtyard with the light wind flicking the faint odor of woodsmoke around us. I held the door for her.

  “You have not a good opinion of your capital city?”

  We stopped by the raised table where Angelo waited with his book and list of reservations.

  “Not of its prices.” I nodded to Angelo. “Two, in the red room.” The red room was for nonsmokers.

  “Doktor Eschbach, of course. I even have the table where you can see the river.” He bowed, and I nodded back.

  “You would like some wine? Red or white?” I asked as we walked through the main room toward the small corner red room.

  “White, I think.”

  Angelo gestured to the table set in the bay window. A brass lamp cast a flickering light over the red tablecloth. He pulled out Llysette’s chair.

  “A bottle of your house white, Angelo, if you would.”

  “Of course, Doktor Eschbach.” He smiled, and gestured to the slate propped on the stand against the wall. “Tonight’s fare.”

  In the flickering lamplight, we studied the slate.

  “Fettucini alfredo again?”

  Llysette pursed her lips. “I think the pasta primavera.”

  “Then I will have the fettucini.”

  Angelo returned with a green-tinted bottle. I did not recognize the label, but it was from California, and most of his wines were good. So I nodded, and waited for him to pour some into the glass. I sniffed, and then tasted. “Good.”

  He filled both our glasses and set the bottle in the holder by my elbow.

  I raised my glass, and Llysette followed. The rims of our glasses touched, and we drank from our glasses without speaking.

  A waiter I did not know appeared. “Have you decided, sir and lady?”

  “The pasta primavera, with the tomato rice soup,” said Llysette.

  “I’ll have the fettucini alfredo with the barley soup. Two of the small salads with the house dressing.”

  Llysette nodded in confirmation.

  After the waiter left, I took another sip of the white. I liked it. So I looked at the label—San Merino. While I was looking, Llysette finished her glass, and I refilled it.

  “I saw Miranda’s ghost,” I volunteered.

  “This ghost you saw recently?”

  “No. I meant the night she was killed.”

  The waiter placed warm cranberry rolls on the butter plates and set our soups before us.

  Llysette took another solid sip of the San Merino. “You did not tell the watch.” She lifted her soup spoon.

  “I walked out of my office, and there she was. She mumbled some meaningless phrases, and then she was gone.” I tried the barley soup—hot and tangy with a hint of pepper and basil, an oddly pleasing combination.

  “That woman, always was she talking meaningless phrases.”

  “How is your soup?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça. Less of the tomato, I think, would be better. How do you find yours?”

  “Quite good. Would you like a taste?”

  She inclined her head, and I held the bowl so she could try the barley soup.

  “Better than the tomato,” she confirmed. “You should see.”

  I tried hers, and she was right. The barley soup was better, fuller. I broke off a corner of the cranberry roll, still almost steaming, then finished my soup.

  “I really never knew Miranda,” I said, after the waiter removed the soup bowls. “Was she always talking nonsense?”

  “Nonsense, I would not say. She always repeated the small … the trivial. One time, she spoke at a meeting four times about the need to revoice the concert Steinbach. And Doktor Geoffries, he had agreed to approach the dean for the necessary funds after she spoke the first time.” Llysette finished her second glass of the white. My glass remained about half full, but I refilled hers.

  I frowned. “Did she keep confidences?”

  “Confidences?”

  “Secrets. If you asked her not to repeat something …”

  “Mais non. A tale she knew, everyone knew.”

  “Still, it is very sad.”

  “Very sad,” Llysette agreed.

  The waiter arrived with our pasta, and another cranberry roll for me. Llysette had scarcely touched her roll.

  The fettucini alfredo, especially with the fresh-ground Parmesan, had that slight tang that subtly lifted it above the mere combination of cheese, cream, garlic, and pasta.

  “How is the primavera?”

  “It is good. You would like a little?”

  “If you could spare it.”

  “I eat all of this, and into no recital gown will I fit.”

  I didn’t have a witty response. Instead I leaned over and tasted some of her dinner. The primavera was as good as the fettucini, but you expected that when you paid Angelo’s prices.

  “It is good,” I said. “Would you like some of the alfredo?”

  “Non. I will not finish what I have.”

  Several minutes passed before Llysette wiped her mouth on the red linen napkin and took a swallow of her wine. Then, glass still in her hand, she asked, “Johan, what was it—did you miss something the most when you left the capital?” Her eyes were thoughtful.

  I finished a small sip of my own wine before answering. “Most times, when you leave a place, you do miss things, especially at first. I thought I might miss things like the museums, or that something was always happening. At first, I missed the newspapers. I missed the up-to-date radio and even the stuffy television news. But I noticed something after a while. I started missing items in the news, and nothing changed. I mean, the names change, but the problems continue, and they go on and on.” I shrugged. “What do you miss about France?” I grinned. “The food?”

  “Ah, yes, the food I miss.” Her eyes clouded for a moment, and she swallowed more wine.

  “Or the singing, the culture?” I prodded gently.

  “Johan, you understand … and still … you are here. She shook her head.”That I do not understand.”

  “There is little more culture in the Federal District of Columbia than here in Vanderbraak Centre. The most popular play at Ford’s Theatre is the updated revival of The Importance of Being Earnest. The most popular classical music is either Beethoven’s Ninth or the 1812 Overture. Yes, there is more to choose from, but given the choice …” I let the words drop off.

  She finished her wine, and I poured the last of the San Merino into her glass.

  “You sing better work than often appears in Columbia.”

  “And yet, I am here, forced to teach spoiled Dutch burghers who believe one note is much the same as another.”

  After looking at the remainder of the fettucini, I nodded to the waiter, who removed both plates.

  “Some coffee?”

  Llysette shook her head.

  “Perhaps a brandy?” I asked.

  “Not this evening, Johan. Perhaps we should go. You must rise early.”

  “The check, please?” I beckoned, and the waiter nodded. He returned as Llysette drained the last of the wine.

 
I left a twenty and a five, and we walked to the front, past a scattering of couples in the main room.

  “How was the dinner?” Angelo stood by the door as we left.

  “Very good, as usual. The barley soup—I’d like to see that more often. And,” I winked at Llysette, “perhaps a shade less tomato in the tomato rice potage.”

  “What can I say, Doktor? Your taste in wine, women, and food is impeccable.”

  “The lady is even more discriminating in wine and food, but more tolerant in men, thankfully.” I nodded.

  Angelo bowed to Llysette.

  Once we were in the courtyard, Llysette glanced back toward the restaurant, and then toward me. “Here, no one believes a woman has taste—except you.”

  “That’s because few men or women have taste.”

  “Johan, sometimes you are more jaded than I.”

  “Only sometimes?” I helped her into the steamer.

  A light rain began to patter on the roof of the Stanley as I drove back out the old Hebron Road to Llysette’s cottage. Her tiny Reo runabout was still parked in front of the porch, and her trousers got damp when we scurried up to the front door, despite my trying to keep the umbrella over her.

  “Thank you for the evening, Johan.”

  “Thank you.”

  I bent down and kissed her. Her lips were warm, welcoming, but not quite yielding. I did not even suggest I should come in. The next morning, I knew, would come all too early, and I had an hour-and-a-half drive westward to the Blauwasser River to catch the train in Lebanon.

  “Good night, dear lady.”

  “Good night, Johan.”

  I stepped back into the rain, and to the Stanley, but I waited until she was inside before I pulled out of the graveled drive and onto the road back to Vanderbraak Centre.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I caught the early-morning Quebec Express in Lebanon and took it into New

  Amsterdam, and then the Columbia Special from there to the capital—the Baltimore and Potomac station just off the new Mall. Even with stops, it took only a bit over six hours, and the sun was still high in the autumn sky when I stepped into the heat and looked toward the marble obelisk on the edge of the Potomac.