by Joanne Pence
“If it’s stopped raining tomorrow,” Chelsea said, “I’ll go down to the village and buy more.”
“Nifty,” Angie said. To think she used to like Chelsea.
“Whenever weathermen predict a big storm, like now, it’s often no more than a light sprinkle,” Chelsea chattered on. “Nothing to worry about. This’ll be another drought year, for sure.”
Angie glanced at Paavo. He’d bent over, his elbows on the counter, and was staring at a blank wall.
“I’ll melt the chocolate,” Chelsea said, “and make sure it doesn’t burn. Then we can all have some caffè mòca together.”
“I’ll just have my coffee plain, thanks,” Paavo said, turning abruptly to get a coffee mug and pour a cup of the fresh brew. The look worn by all frustrated males weighed heavy on his brow. “But go ahead, Angie. I know you love it. I need to get back outside.”
“I’ve lost the taste for it myself,” Angie said, wondering if the longing she felt sounded in her voice.
“Nonsense,” Chelsea said. “I can melt some in a jiff. I even brought more coffee.”
Chelsea took a clean pot from the cabinet beside the range, dropped the chocolates in, and put it on a burner. “I didn’t get to be this size not knowing how to make good things to eat and drink. Anyway, I figure ghosts don’t mind a little extra flesh on a woman. Heck, they’re probably happy for any flesh at all!” She laughed, then sat on a stool.
There’s no getting rid of the woman, Angie thought. She could see Paavo fidget, wanting his coffee to hurry up and cool so he could drink it and get out of here. Giving up, she set out cups for herself and Chelsea.
“All melted,” Chelsea said.
“I was,” Angie said forlornly.
Angie put some chocolate in the bottom of the mugs, poured in the coffee, then stirred them together before adding any milk. She wadded up the little foil candy wrappers and opened the big double doors under the sink to throw them in the trash. A pair of big blue eyes looked up at her.
14
Angie slammed the door again. It was all she could do to stop herself from screaming. Thankfully, she did. She hated screaming women. Unfortunately, this place was turning her into one.
Paavo hurried toward her, but she held up her hand, stopping him.
Swinging open the door, she said, “Come out of there.”
A boy, about eleven or twelve years old, crawled out. He glared at her from deep blue eyes under a black Chicago Bulls baseball cap.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He looked from her to Paavo, then turned and ran to the back door. Paavo grabbed his T-shirt by the shoulder, stopping him. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Tell us your name and what you’re doing here this time of night.”
The boy was thin and dirty. His lips were clamped shut and he shook his head.
“Where do you live?”
No answer.
“Do you know the people who live here?”
Same lack of response.
“At least tell me what you were doing in the kitchen,” Angie said. “Are you hungry?”
“No!”
Angie knew a hungry child when she saw one, especially when one protested so vehemently against hunger. “I’m sure I can find something to cook up fast.” She opened the refrigerator. “There’re eggs, butter, jack cheese, bacon.” She turned toward the boy. “How would you like a bacon and cheese omelet? I can make toast and maybe find some good jam or jelly to put on it.”
“Bacon? I never—” His eyes lighted for the briefest moment, then shuttered once more.
“I can leave out the bacon,” she said.
“No. That sounds good. Just the way you said it,” he replied.
“All right.” Angie and Paavo nodded in silent agreement not to question the boy any more until he’d eaten his fill. Paavo placed a stool beside Chelsea for the boy.
“You know, Angie,” Chelsea said, “if there’s enough of everything, I’m kind of hungry myself.”
“You eat meat?”
Chelsea shrugged. “I’m hungry. What can I say?”
Angie smiled. “There’s plenty. Paavo, I know you’ve hardly eaten today, and I haven’t either. Four omelets, coming up.”
Chelsea looked at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Well-mannered, isn’t he?” Chelsea said to Angie, then got off her stool to take charge of cooking the bacon while Angie beat the eggs and grated the cheese. Paavo made toast. Before long, the omelets were on the table.
The boy took a tentative bite of his food, then scarfed the rest down. Angie was heaped with praises for how good the meal was.
“Well, I don’t think the boy belongs around here,” Chelsea said as soon as she finished eating. “Guess we’ll have to hold him here until the sheriff arrives. Whenever that will be.”
“I live out there,” he offered.
“You’re Quint’s boy?”
“No. I’m nobody’s boy.” The boy ate the last of his food, then got off the stool, looking ready to make a run for the back door.
“Hold it.” Paavo took hold of the child’s arm and turned him around. “Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
The boy lifted his chin. “I don’t have to tell you.”
“No, you don’t.” Paavo let go of him. “But we can find someplace here for you.”
“I got someplace to stay already.” Distrust and caution lined his young face.
“Come by tomorrow,” Paavo said.
“Why should I?”
As Paavo looked at the hard stare and the ragged clothes, he was reminded of a boy many years ago who used to approach adults with the same defiant attitude. “No special reason,” he said, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.
“Maybe I got something else to do,” the boy said, adopting the same pose.
Paavo nodded. “Could be. But I saw a basketball hoop nailed to the side of an old shed. Thought I’d shoot some hoops if the rain lets up a bit.”
The boy frowned. “You like to do that?”
“Sure. Do you know Horse?”
A half smile filled the boy’s face. “Of course!” he said, then turned and ran from the kitchen.
They watched as he stopped at the end of the patio, reached behind a rosebush, and lifted out a long object.
“Oh, God!” Angie cried. “He’s got a rifle.”
“It’s all right,” Paavo said. “It’s a shotgun.”
“All right? He’s just a child. Stop him!”
“There are mountain lions around here. Wild boars. Snakes. I’m sure Quint showed him how to use it for self-protection.”
Angie felt as if all her blood had turned to ice. “You mean I’ve been walking around out there…”
Paavo chuckled. “Stay near the house or with others and you’ll be okay. Especially during the day.”
Angie wasn’t so sure about that. “I wonder if we should have let him go?” she asked.
“He said he has somewhere to stay—probably Quint’s. I want to know what drew him here in the middle of the night, though.”
“Maybe it’s just that Quint’s in town and the boy doesn’t like being alone,” Angie suggested.
“I’d say it’s more. He doesn’t seem the type who’s afraid to be alone.”
Angie began putting things away in the kitchen. “I wish he’d talk to us,” she said.
“He will.” Paavo put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “If we get his trust, the rest will follow.”
“That’s a beautiful thought,” Chelsea said, sitting on the stool again. “It explains exactly how I feel.”
“Oh?” Angie said.
“About Jack.”
Angie didn’t want to hear more of Chelsea’s ravings. She went outdoors with Paavo to see if the boy was anywhere nearby. If he showed any indication of changing his mind, they wanted to assure him he was welcome to come in with them.
Chelsea waited at the door while the
y searched. Coming back into the kitchen, they made one last inspection to be sure they had cleaned everything and put it all away, then turned off the light and crept back down the hall.
“Walk me upstairs, Paavo?” Angie asked.
He looked at his still wet slicker hanging on a hook, at Angie, and nodded.
“I wonder if Jack Sempler might come by tonight,” Chelsea said, then giggled as they climbed the stairs and crossed the gallery.
Suddenly, the soft sound of crying filled the house. “It’s Elise,” Chelsea whispered. “She’s probably upset because Jack is interested in me now and not her. This must mean Jack will be here sometime soon!”
Angie just stared after her as Chelsea hurried into her room and shut the door.
“Great friend you found there, Angie,” Paavo said. “She thinks she shares a room with a ghost.”
“That’s an improvement for her,” Angie said as she went into their octagonal room and turned to face him.
“Oh?” He put his arms around her.
“She used to think she saw Elvis.”
He lifted her sweater off her and tossed it aside. “Did she tell you Elvis is an anagram for lives?”
“Not to mention evils, veils, and even Levi’s.”
He unbuttoned her slacks, lowered the zipper, and let them drop. She stepped out of them and into his arms. “I’m almost afraid to kiss you,” he said. “The way things have gone around here, the roof might fall in.”
She ran her fingers up his arms, across his chest, and down to his belt buckle. “What’s the matter—do you think Miz Susannah would take displeasure at any goings-on in her room?”
He ran his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, while he eased her closer to the bed. “I could pretend to be a ghost myself, then she might not even notice.”
“I don’t know, Inspector,” she said as she stepped into his arms, feeling his arousal pressing against her. “I don’t think ectoplasm can do this.”
15
“I don’t want to even think about selling the inn, Mr. Bayman,” Moira said.
Angie stopped at the kitchen door, so irritated she didn’t know if she should go in or just turn around and leave. When she awoke that morning—long after she was supposed to have awakened—she discovered that Paavo had left.
Last night he’d made her feel like everything was all right; then before the sheets had even cooled, he was gone.
She knew she was being unreasonable. She knew he was right in going off to search for Patsy. Nevertheless, she would have enjoyed it, even liked it, if once, just once, during their so-called wonderful week together, she could wake up with him beside her in the bed. Not on top of the covers. Not telling her to get up to help Moira in the kitchen. But in it. Next to her. Ready to make love to her. Was that too much to ask?
Now she’d come down to help Moira, and instead of a quiet Norman Rockwell country-kitchen breakfast scene, she found Moira and Martin Bayman in a face-off.
“Why not sell?” Martin asked. “It’s the most natural thing in the world. You tell me Finley died intestate. As his only relative, you’re the one who’ll get all his property. Keep in mind that you’ll have to go through probate, so there’ll be court and attorney fees—no inheritance taxes if we can keep the value of this property low enough—but even so, there’ll be lots of other bills to pay. You’ll need cash—”
“I just lost my brother. This isn’t the time—”
“You have to face it, Moira. Now. I’ll help you.”
Moira shook her head. “There are complications.”
“Nothing that can’t be worked out.” Martin was beginning to sound like a used car salesman. “Trust me.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I used to be a lawyer. I’ve still got a few connections, and—”
“A lawyer? And you gave it up?”
He looked sheepish. “Well, a few years back…more than a few…Bethel was doing quite well. Her fame was spreading. We figured she was a shoo-in to become the next Jeane Dixon.” He shrugged. “Somehow, it all went to hell.”
“But you still have connections who tell you private things about people?”
“They don’t tell me a thing. Let’s say I know where to look. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s true, and that you’re a young, beautiful woman. Vulnerable. Helpless. You don’t want to stay in such a remote area alone. It’s too dangerous. For all you know, the next person who walks through the front door to take a room could be the moral equivalent of Jack the Ripper. The world’s a crazy place.”
“People attracted to an inn like this are not Jack-the-Ripper types, and I’m far from helpless.”
“Oh? Well, I hope you’re right. Anyway, I’m offering a solution so that you’ll never have to worry about it one way or the other. You can live where you want, with whomever you want. However you want.”
“That’s true,” Moira said thoughtfully as she turned away from Martin. “Perhaps for the first time I—oh!” She stared at Angie. “You startled me.”
“I’m sorry,” Angie said. “I see I missed helping you with breakfast. I wanted to apologize.”
“No problem. It was a simple meal of fruit, oat bran muffins, and granola.”
“What, no wheat germ?” Angie couldn’t help asking.
“I helped her,” Martin said.
“I didn’t know you cooked, Martin.”
“I’ve had to learn to do a lot of things, living with a channeler. When something needed to be done around the house and Allakazam was with me instead of Bethel, I’d do it myself. Four-hundred-year-old Eskimos are useless for doing anything that doesn’t involve blubber. So I learned to be a whiz with a steam iron, I can sew on a button faster than a ghost can materialize, and I know how to cook breakfast. I’d make someone a damn good wife.”
Angie looked from one to the other. She knew when she wasn’t needed or wanted. Not by them. Not by Paavo.
She was ready to make herself a pair of water skis and glide right off this damn mountain all by herself.
“See you later,” she said, and walked out of the kitchen. As she left, she heard Martin say, “I can offer you a good price besides…”
About ten that morning, Paavo and Running Spirit came back to the house looking defeated. Running Spirit sat in a chair in the living room without saying a word. Aware that they’d returned, Angie, Chelsea, Moira, Bethel, Martin, and Reginald Vane, their faces pale, their eyes wide and fearful, huddled in the entry to the drawing room.
“Jeffers found some cloth that he said was from a blouse of hers,” Paavo said to the group. “It was snagged on a bush a little way down on a cliff. If a person had jumped, some clothing might have become caught that way. The only thing that surprises me is that we didn’t spot it there before.”
“How horrible,” Angie said with a glance at Running Spirit. “She might have fallen. There’s no way she could have jumped—is there?”
Paavo recognized her hesitancy. “Jeffers and I talked about it already. When women do kill themselves, it’s usually neat—like sleeping pills. Rarely a gun, and almost never by hurling themselves onto sharp rocks.”
“Maybe she used Elise Sempler as her model?” Chelsea suggested. “Patsy talked about her a lot. And we all know that the night before she disappeared she was all upset about…you know.” Realizing both Moira and Running Spirit were there, she didn’t say more, but everyone knew exactly what she’d left unspoken.
The rain continued to fall in uncompromising sheets, and the wind blew strongly.
“The phone still isn’t working,” Moira said.
“And we can’t get through to town to ask for help,” Chelsea added.
Bethel rarely bothered to straighten her turban anymore, as the strain of these last few days wore on her. “If someone here was as good with OBEs as he says he is, he’d have been flitting about already, getting into places where no normal body could go, and would have found her by now.”
/> “What’s that supposed to mean?” Running Spirit jumped to his feet.
“God,” Bethel played with her star-burst rhinestone earring. “He’s even dumber than he looks!”
“Listen, you dirt-mouthed hag, I just lost my wife. You can have a little respect.”
“I have respect—for her. It’s the living I’m contemptuous of.”
“Anyway,” Running Spirit said, circling around her, “if you’re such a know-it-all, why don’t you ask Allakaket where she is? I think I now understand why your own husband speaks of your channeling with such contempt!”
“See here, R.S.,” Martin cut in, “she’s my wife, and if I want to joke about her little frozen buddy, that’s my business, not yours.”
“If you’re all through bickering,” Paavo said, his voice icy, “let’s get into some dry clothes and get back out there.”
Angie went upstairs with Paavo. She didn’t mind watching as he changed clothes. One thing about his being a cop—he kept up a strict regimen of exercise. Where other men she knew grew soft and flabby in their office jobs, Paavo was solid muscle. Beautiful, solid muscle.
“So, what do you think?” she asked. “Is the material from Patsy’s blouse?”
He quickly shucked his wet slacks, shoes, and socks. His shirt had stayed dry except for the collar and cuffs, but he took it off as well. “He says it is. But I don’t know how we could have missed it yesterday.”
“You think it was a plant?”
He reached for a heavy gray pullover and put it on. “Could be.”
“By whom?”
He picked up a fresh pair of socks. “That’s the question, Angie. Who wants us to think Patsy killed herself? It’s got to be one of these people.”
“Unless it’s Patsy herself,” Angie suggested. “What if she’s not dead, but hiding? What if she killed Finley and is now hiding so that she can make her escape once the rains let up?”
Jeans went on next. “True, but we can’t even be sure about Quint. What if he didn’t go to get the sheriff at all, but is hiding out there?”
She moved closer to him. “It could be any one of them. And the murderer’s planning to kill us off, one by one, in the most gruesome sorts of ways.”