by Joanne Pence
Angie shivered. That was Paavo’s age. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“No one knows,” Chelsea said softly. “All we know is that he died in this house.”
Like Miss Greer, Angie thought. And Finley? The idea had come unbidden, and she forced it away. Gazing up at the painting once more, she could almost feel Jack Sempler’s presence, could almost imagine what it would be like to have those intelligent eyes meet hers.
“I’m staying in his room,” Chelsea continued, “and at night I can feel his presence there with me.”
“You’re giving me goose bumps, Chelsea. Stop it!”
Chelsea’s story wasn’t all that was making Angie’s skin prickle. Someone was watching her. She turned. A dark form filled the high-backed wing chair behind her. She couldn’t quite make out who it was. Stepping backward, she bumped into Chelsea.
“Be careful,” the man’s precisely accented voice said. Angie started, then felt decidedly foolish as Reginald Vane leaned forward into the light.
“Mr. Vane, you startled me,” she said, then laughed. “Too many of Chelsea’s stories, I guess.”
“Miss Worthington is rather taken with the boy in that portrait, isn’t she? He was quite the young Romeo, I understand.”
With his black suit, white shirt, black tie, and thinning hair slicked straight back, Vane looked even more like the quintessential English butler than he had the first time they met.
Angie sat once more, unsure of the propriety of a situation like this. Miss Manners never covered what one should say or do when there was a dead body in the house. Or when one’s host was missing. She waited for someone else to make the first move.
“I know what,” Chelsea said after a time. “Let’s hold a séance. We can ask the Sempler ghosts to come and help us find Finley.”
“Don’t be silly,” Running Spirit said. “Moira’s too tired for such foolishness.”
“It’s not foolish,” Reginald Vane said. “I like Miss Worthington’s idea. Do try, Miss Tay.”
“Have you ever contacted a ghost before?” Angie asked, skepticism all but dripping from her tongue.
“I may have,” Moira replied, enigmatic as always. “It’s hard to say if my apparent success was only because the desire for the ghosts was so powerful among those with me. They believed the ghosts were there, whether they were or not. In other words, I might have produced no more than a manifestation of the beliefs of the living, and not the dead at all.”
“In that case,” Running Spirit said, “given the strength of Chelsea’s belief in young Sempler, you might end up with a dozen ghosts of the seafaring Jack instead of just one.” He laughed.
“You can shut your mouth, Greg Jeffers,” Chelsea cried. “You don’t know anything about me or Jack Sempler.”
He smirked. “But I know gullible when I see it.”
“You are totally hateful! Why aren’t you gone instead of Finley—” Chelsea clapped her hand to her mouth and, wide-eyed, looked at Moira. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“We will hold a séance,” Moira said.
The group pulled a table away from the wall and placed chairs around it. Moira lit a candle in the center of the table while Chelsea blew out the others. Everyone joined hands.
For a long while, no sound existed but that of incessant rain and harshly blowing wind. Then Moira slowly intoned, “Jack Sempler. Elise Sempler. Susannah Sempler. Join us here, we beseech you.” She waited a heartbeat or two, then began to drone the words once more.
Angie wondered what Paavo would think if he walked in now. Probably that she was as flaky as the rest of them.
Moira stared at the candle. The table didn’t shake. Nothing flew across the room. The candlelight didn’t even flicker. As a séance, this was a dud.
“Jack…Jack Sempler,” Moira called. “I feel your presence. Won’t you give us some sign you are here? Please. Some sign.”
“He’s here,” Chelsea cried. “I know he’s here. He’ll let us know.” She jumped to her feet. “There! Look!”
Angie’s hair stood on end as she whirled around to look where Chelsea pointed. She saw nothing.
“He was there,” Chelsea cried.
“I believe you,” Reginald Vane said. “Please sit, Miss Worthington. Don’t overexcite yourself.”
“But it is exciting.” Chelsea’s eyes were shining.
“Jack,” Moira called. “Come back to us, Jack.”
Nothing happened.
“Elise?” Moira called. “Susannah? Tell us you are with us. Help us find my brother. Will you talk with us tonight?”
They waited. Angie held her breath, hoping to hear or see something, despite her skepticism. “Who can tell with ghosts?” she said after a while. “Maybe they had a previous commitment. You know, couldn’t fit another haunting into their schedule tonight.”
“That could be,” Chelsea agreed, ignoring the glares directed at Angie.
Angie looked at her incredulously.
“Well,” Chelsea said, not seeming to notice, “I guess I’ll go up to bed. At least in my room I feel as if Jack Sempler is nearby.”
The grandfather clock in the drawing room began to strike twelve.
“The witching hour,” Reginald Vane said.
“On second thought,” Chelsea said, “I think I’ll wait until it’s through striking.”
They grew quiet, silently counting the strokes.
A chill went down Angie’s spine. She’d seen this scene a zillion times on TV. Old black-and-white movies, in particular, had corny scenes about ghosts at midnight. In fact, in real life it was still a corny scene.
The clock stopped. Chelsea didn’t make a move to leave. What nonsense, Angie thought. There were more important things to do tonight than to sit here quaking. Things like going to bed. With Paavo. Where was he, anyway? “I think I’ll say goodnight,” she said and stood.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait a few minutes?” Chelsea asked, her eyes round.
Angie put a hand on one hip. “I ain’t afraid o’ no ghosts.”
Chelsea was just beginning to join in the others’ nervous laughter when a slow, dull, pounding sound reverberated through the room.
Angie sat down again, quickly. “What was that?”
No one answered.
The pounding continued. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. It grew louder.
Moira clasped her hands as if in prayer. Her eyes searched the ceiling and the walls.
Running Spirit grasped her wrist. “Who’s doing that?” he called out. “What’s up there?”
“Chelsea’s room is directly above,” Moira said. “I presume it’s empty.”
“Jack?” Chelsea cried, staring at the ceiling.
“The noise doesn’t seem to be coming from there,” Running Spirit said.
“It seems to be coming from the walls,” Angie said.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.
“It sounds like a heartbeat,” Reginald Vane whispered.
“Maybe it’s something evil,” Chelsea cried. “We wanted the Sempler ghosts, but these are bad ones. What did you do, Moira?”
“What if Miss Greer didn’t die of a heart condition?” Reginald Vane asked. “What if she died of fright?”
“Make it stop!” Chelsea cried.
Tha-thump-tha-thump. Tha-thump-tha-thump. The beat quickened.
Angie’s heart raced as fast and loud as the pounding. “I’m getting out of here.” She turned to run to her room.
In the doorway stood a white, unearthly figure. Elise? Susannah? Angie screamed.
“Patsy!” Running Spirit bellowed. “What the hell are you doing here?” He let go of Moira and stepped toward his wife.
“It’s the ghosts,” she cried, running into the room. She wore a flowing white nightgown. Her hair was frizzy and wild about her head, and her face had even less color than her gown. “They’re going to kill us. We’ll be dead. Like Finley.”
Tha-thump-tha-thump
-tha-thump-tha-thump!
“No!” Moira cried, her hands over her ears.
Suddenly, magically, the house fell quiet. No one breathed.
A moment later, Paavo casually strolled into the room, taking in each member of the little group before him.
Moira looked ready to collapse, as did Chelsea. Running Spirit appeared worried the others might think he’d lost his nerve. The previously absent Reginald Vane was devoid of expression.
Then there was Patsy Jeffers. Paavo found her most interesting, even though he suspected she was the type who had spent most of her twenty-nine or thirty years being ignored or forgotten about. Her uncombed hair was closer to dull beige than to blond or brown. Her eyebrows and lashes, if they existed, blended with her skin tone. Her flat brown eyes darted about continually, except when she looked at her husband. She gazed upon him with awe, as if in the throes of pure rapture.
They had to be one of the most unlikely couples ever.
Now, as Patsy clutched Running Spirit’s arm, she searched his face, then bowed her head and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Raising her hand to his chest, her fingers splayed over his heart. The chunky gold band on her third finger was too big for her, and her fingernails had been chewed to little half-moons.
“Paavo, thank God you’re here.” Angie hurried to his side. “Could you tell what that noise was? Was it as loud in the rest of the house?”
“It seemed to be coming from in here,” he said.
“God, it was the ghosts!” Chelsea cried.
“I’m sure these noises have a logical explanation,” Moira said. “Probably something to do with the pipes. Don’t you agree, Greg?”
Running Spirit caught Paavo’s eye, seeking his agreement. “Sure,” he said. “It could be the pipes.”
“I think we should all retire,” Moira announced nervously. “The storm is terrible tonight. That’s what made the noise. It was the wind through some open part of the house. Or something.” She stopped, aware she was clutching at straws.
“Or maybe,” Patsy said, staring at her husband, “it was Finley.”
No one replied.
“It appears everyone’s here but the Baymans,” Paavo said, breaking the uneasy silence. “Would you get them, Miss Tay?”
Fear crossed her face momentarily before she masked it. “You want them to wait with the rest of us for the sheriff?”
“Everyone should be here.”
“It might be very late before the sheriff can get through,” Moira added. “Perhaps morning. Since Miss Greer’s already dead, I see no reason for the sheriff to hurry. We’re wasting time down here for nothing.”
“The Baymans, please, Miss Tay,” Paavo asked again.
She paled, but left without another word.
“You haven’t met Mr. Vane yet, Paavo,” Angie said. The two men shook hands as Angie introduced them. “Mr. Vane is another investor. He’s from British Columbia,” she explained.
Vane’s grip was loose. His hands were pasty and smooth and, like the others’ hands, showed no marks or scratches. “Have you been down here long?” Paavo asked.
“Miss Tay knocked on my door earlier and told me what happened to Miss Greer. I’m afraid I would have slept through all the excitement otherwise. I decided to come down to await the sheriff with the rest of you.”
Paavo nodded.
“Mr. Smith’s a homicide detective,” Chelsea told Reginald. “It’s good there was no foul play or we might all be suspects.”
“You’re making way too much out of this.” Running Spirit’s voice boomed across the room. “An old lady got sick and died. What’s the problem?”
Paavo didn’t want to go into just what the problem was. Until the sheriff arrived, he’d keep his own counsel.
Earlier, in the kitchen, he’d used the top of his pen to push down Miss Greer’s high collar and expose her neck. Dark bruises and abrasions indicated she had been strangled. Careful examination of her hands showed the possibility of blood and skin under her fingernails, as if she had struggled with her killer.
The kitchen, however, was neat and undisturbed, with no sign of her being taken by surprise either while working or perhaps just getting a late snack. Deep scuff marks marred one portion of the otherwise immaculately waxed linoleum floor.
He suspected it had been a brief but desperate struggle with a killer she had known well enough that he or she could get close to her without arousing suspicion or fear. The killer had struck before she could even cry out.
What, though, was Miss Greer doing in the kitchen at that time of night? And why was the killer there? Could it have been a planned meeting? All of this information and speculation he’d share only with the sheriff, and perhaps Angie. Right now, in this house, there were only two people who knew how Miss Greer had died. Him and the murderer.
7
Moira led the Baymans into the library. For two people who’d retired for the night an hour or two earlier, they appeared surprisingly awake.
Paavo stood before the assembled group. “I had hoped the sheriff would have arrived by now. Since he hasn’t, there’s a good chance he can’t get through. All of you should understand that Miss Greer’s death coupled with Mr. Tay’s disappearance is suspicious in itself.”
“Oh, my God,” Chelsea cried. Everyone faced her. “What if Finley Tay killed Miss Greer? And he disappeared to establish an alibi?”
“Why don’t you stick with your horny ghosts?” Running Spirit said disgustedly. “You’ve got vapors for brains.”
“Miss Worthington isn’t the only one who will draw conclusions,” Paavo said. “As a police officer at the scene, I need to ask each of you a few questions.”
They grumbled loudly.
“The sheriff’s investigation will go much faster if you cooperate with me now,” he said. “Stay here until you’re called into the living room. Miss Worthington, I’ll start with you.”
“Me?” Chelsea squeaked the word, her face paler than Moira’s. Following him from the room, she looked like a death row inmate making that final walk.
Angie was proud of Paavo’s take-charge demeanor. If she’d been wearing a shirt with buttons, she’d have popped them. If murder was afoot, he’d figure it out. Maybe even tonight.
She could see it now. After grilling them one by one, he’d gather everyone into the drawing room. Then, just like Nero Wolfe, he’d announce the name of the murderer.
But what made Paavo think there was a murderer? Miss Greer died from her heart condition, didn’t she?
“He has no right to do this to us!” Bethel Bayman said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”
“That would look mighty suspicious, if you ask me.” Angie spoke the words disinterestedly, as if she couldn’t care less what Bethel did.
Bethel gave her a haughty glare, then with a swish of her robe, sat down again.
In the drawing room, Chelsea sat on the sofa catty-corner to the chair Paavo took. He faced her, a notebook in his hand.
“Just relax, Miss Worthington, and answer the questions as best you remember,” he said.
“Yessir.”
“When did you last see Finley Tay?”
“You think he’s dead, don’t you?”
“Let me ask the questions, Miss Worthington.”
She pouted and folded her hands. “After dinner Saturday night. I saw him leave for his walk.”
“Did anyone go with him?”
“I thought everyone did, Inspector. Everyone but me and Angie. Finley’s nature walks were supposed to be an event.”
“Did you actually see anyone go with him?”
“I guess not. I don’t pay too much attention to what other people do sometimes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Miss Worthington. Can you tell me when you last saw Miss Greer?”
“After dinner. She was putting a dried-flower arrangement on the dining room table.”
“What time was that?”
“I’m not sure
. I don’t pay too much attention to time.”
“What did you do afterward?”
“I think I talked to Moira for a while, then maybe Angie. No, not Angie. Reginald was with me in the drawing room, but then he got a headache and I went up to my room to read. Later, I heard Moira scream.”
“Did anyone else see you in the drawing room?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t pay too much attention to—”
“I know. Thank you, Miss Worthington.”
Reginald Vane was the next guest facing Paavo.
“What did you do after dinner?” Paavo asked.
“I missed dinner, staying up in my room. A bit later I went to the library for a new book. The only person I saw all evening that I can remember was in the library.”
“And who was that?”
“Patsy Jeffers.”
“I never left my wife’s bedside all evening,” Running Spirit told Paavo. “After all, she was feeling poorly. Oh, I did go down to dinner without her. I forgot about that.”
“I was at Martin’s side the whole evening,” Bethel said. “We’re a devoted couple and Martin expects me to be with him.”
“I never left Bethel,” Martin said. “Marriage is, after all, a life sentence.”
“After Miss Greer and I finished cleaning up the kitchen,” Moira said, “I went into the drawing room to spend a few minutes with my guests, then invited everyone to the library at nine o’clock for some herbal tea or soy coffee. It’s a way to sooth the nerves before going to bed. I talked for a long time with the Baymans, I believe.”
Patsy lifted dull eyes to Paavo. “I was alone in my room all evening,” she said. Her hands shook nervously. “I guess that means if I need an alibi I don’t have any.”
“Your turn, Angie,” Paavo said, standing in the doorway of the library.
“Me? You’ve got to be joking.”
Bethel snickered.
Angie marched from the library, nose in the air, and followed Paavo to the living room.
“You were here, Angie,” he said when they were seated. “I wasn’t. Tell me about it.”