by Joanne Pence
“Do you think there’s much chance of finding her?”
“I don’t know.”
Angie nodded and crossed her ankles on the footstool, her fluffy pink bedroom slippers pointed toward the fireplace. By her side was a glass of white wine, a bottle, and a clean glass. “Would you care to join me?” she asked. “Bethel gave me the wine. She said the ancients originally used alcohol for its medicinal effect as a relaxant, so it was quite acceptable for us to have a sip now and then. I think she just may be right.”
He grinned. Despite himself, Angie could get him to smile at the most mundane of things. “Are you saying Bethel’s gone on a politically correct toot?”
Warm, brown eyes caught his, crinkling up into infectious laughter. “Very good, Inspector.”
He sat in the rose-colored chair beside her, wanting to get closer, but still leery. It was too easy to say the wrong thing to her lately. As if his every word, every nuance, was under a microscope here in this small, phony world.
She poured him a glass of wine and then told him about her afternoon with Danny—her belief that he was Moira’s son and that Quint was his grandfather.
Paavo had expected something like that and was glad Angie could confirm it.
She went on to tell him about Susannah’s diaries and Jack Sempler’s letters.
“So,” Angie said as she finished the tale, “we now need to consider a missing heir lurking around somewhere—a grandchild or even great-grandchild of Jack and Elise. What if the missing heir is here, with us? What if he, or she, is one of the guests? Then wouldn’t it make sense that he or she would kill off Finley and Moira, then reclaim the property?”
“There are a few problems with that,” Paavo said. “First of all, Benjamin was illegitimate. It’d have to be proven that Jack Sempler was in fact his father. Remember, Jack had been away for a while. No one knows what Elise was doing to ease her heartbreak. Also, Susannah inherited Jack’s share of the property upon his death. That part of the inheritance would have to be overturned. Then, depending on what Susannah’s will stipulated—”
“All right, all right. Still, it seemed plausible to me.” She rubbed her eyes, feeling herself growing weary. “Maybe the heir is just really pissed off that Moira and Finley are living here instead of him or her, and for that reason decided to kill them.”
“Then why is Patsy missing?”
“Maybe she saw who bumped off Finley?”
“That’s all too possible. Much as I hate to think it, it seems one of these people must have killed him, the cook, and maybe even Patsy.”
“What a group,” Angie said. “Right before our very eyes—greed, hypocrisy, con artistry, lust, naïveté, self-delusion, arrogance. Just about every frailty except gluttony.” Then she remembered Chelsea’s stash of candy and the way she and Chelsea devoured it. All right—gluttony, too.”
“Given all that,” Paavo said, “what was the one thing that drove someone to murder?”
“I don’t know.” Angie took another sip of her wine, then lay her head against the back of the chair and shut her eyes. “Maybe no one killed anyone. Finley cracked his head on a rock as he fell, Patsy jumped and was carried out to sea, and Miss Greer’s heart gave out. All we have to worry about is Running Spirit starving to death because he won’t shut up long enough to eat.”
Between not having a decent night’s sleep since she arrived and drinking a glass of wine now, she knew she wasn’t making much sense. Who cared, anyway? She was weary, but sleeping was one thing she wasn’t going to do. She planned to stay awake and find out exactly what it was that kept Paavo occupied every night.
Besides that, going to sleep in this place seemed just a little too dangerous. You might not ever wake up again.
She yawned. My eyes are open, she told herself. My eyes are open. My eyes…
Suddenly, she felt herself being lifted. She put her arms around Paavo’s neck as he carried her to the bed, then set her down on it and pulled the covers over her. “You’ve had a busy day, little one,” he said, then kissed her.
She shut her eyes, a warm, lethargic feeling coming over her. “I’m not going to sleep,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered shut.
20
Angie awoke with a start. In the darkness of the room, it took her a moment to orient herself, to remember the inn and the ongoing nightmare her vacation had become.
The chilling sound of Elise Sempler’s cries broke the silence.
She turned, flinging her arm across an empty bed. Paavo wasn’t beside her, but then he hadn’t been throughout their few days together.
“Paavo?” It was foolish to call, perhaps, but she was always a fool where he was concerned.
The room, the inn, seemed absolutely still.
She checked the dressing room and bathroom. As she’d expected, Paavo wasn’t there. She opened the door to the hallway and peered down it. Only a small night-light lit the long corridor.
The memory of the diary and letters she’d read came back to her, and she could imagine Susannah, alone in this house, looking down this very hall, thinking she heard a strange noise in the night.
She shut the door and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck.
Paavo must be downstairs with the others. Maybe, hearing the sounds of Elise, he went off to investigate. Decided to check on Moira. Went to her bedroom…
Impossible! She was letting her imagination run wild.
Slowly, as she came more and more awake, the quiet of the night struck her. The rain had stopped, and so had Elise’s cries. For the moment, at least. Angie sat up. That’s no ghost, she told herself. And with startling clarity, she knew her thought was the absolute truth. Who or what was making that noise? And why? Why was anyone going to such lengths to scare her and the others at the inn into believing the place was haunted?
She threw back the covers and went to the window. The soft mist created a halo around the moon. Beyond the lawn, the trees appeared as no more than black shadows. Just as she was ready to turn away, a beam of light appeared back by the trees. It seemed to be moving. A flashlight?
She could just make out a shape—Paavo! She’d know that man anywhere.
Quickly putting on her shoes and a robe, she stuck her head into the corridor and listened. No sobs from Elise, no strange thumps, not even humanlike footsteps. Scurrying down the hall, she paused by Chelsea’s door. No sounds of Jack Sempler, either.
She flew down the stairs and out the front door.
As she ran across the lawn, her pale robe billowing, the mist swirling, and the moonlight streaming down upon her, she gave a quick glance back to the dark mansion. She felt like the heroine on the cover of a gothic novel.
But no supernatural mystery was involved here. The troubles at the inn were being caused by a very human, very dangerous person. That realization was a lot more frightening than the possibility of it being one, or even three, unhappy spirits.
The flashlight she’d seen from her window had either been turned off or Paavo had gone in another direction, because ahead of her all was dark. Reaching the trees and shrubbery where she’d seen the light from her bedroom, she stayed on the edge of the lawn area and strained to see into the thicket. “Paavo?” she called in a loud whisper. “Paavo? Are you here?”
Suddenly someone grabbed her arm. She began to scream when a hand clamped down over her mouth.
“Ouch! Angie, stop kicking and don’t yell. You’ll wake up the whole house.” He lifted his hand from her mouth. “What are you doing out here?”
“What were you trying to do? Scare me to death?”
A voice from behind Paavo slurred, “Don’t be annoyed, fair damsel. He was trying to save me.” Martin Bayman leaned against a tree, swinging a bottle of bourbon as he spoke. “Trying to save me from the creatures of the night, from the powers of the occult, and most of all, from myself.” With that, he attempted to bow with a flourish, and nearly toppled over.
“I heard some noise,” Paavo e
xplained. He grabbed hold of the shoulder of Martin’s jacket and helped Martin stay upright. “I looked out the window and there was Martin sitting on the lawn. I came out to see what was wrong.”
“I’d slipped on the wet grass,” Martin said, still swaying. “That’s all. No need for worry. Never need for worry. Eat, drink, and be merry. As long as it’s not soybeans or soy milk.”
“Are you all right?” Angie asked.
“Just fine, lovely lady.”
She glanced at Paavo. “Should we get him inside and up to bed?”
“The problem is, Angelina,” Martin waved her closer, then changed his voice to a stage whisper, “I don’t want to go inside. And I want to go to bed even less. How easy do you think it is to live with someone who channels?”
Angie felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach as she saw how the clever, poetic man under the moonlight was now reduced to this slurring mess. “I don’t know. I never have,” she said.
“Well, don’t, if you can avoid it.” Martin hiccuped. He grabbed hold of a low-lying branch, then tottered as the branch swung from side to side. “Bethel’s been at it for years and years. She’s got quite a following. Or at least she used to have. Once lots of people wondered what Allakazam had to say. Lots and lots of people. In the sixties, he used to talk—should I say yak?—about planetary cooling and the coming of the next ice age. These days he worries about just the opposite—the polar ice cap melting and drowning us all.”
“Maybe we should help you inside,” Angie said, trying to take hold of his arm.
He kept moving it out of reach, and the branch he held swayed further, making him totter more, like a drunken Tarzan, until Angie stepped away, afraid she was doing more harm than good.
“Did you know that Bethel still has people who throw good money at her to get this joker’s advice on how to deal with global warming? Who would know better than a dead Eskimo, right?”
Martin planted his feet, let go of the branch, then started to unscrew the cap on his bourbon bottle. Paavo reached out and stopped him. “Time to go in now, Martin,” he said firmly. He took Martin’s arm with no trouble and began walking toward the house.
“Go in, goin’, gone!” Martin shouted, waving his arm, then turned around to go in the opposite direction. “Beautiful dawn,” he cried to the sky. “No, poor dawn. It’s time for Running Mouth to come out and destroy you.”
“Destroy dawn?” Angie asked, walking around in circles beside Martin as Paavo tried to get him headed toward the inn.
“If he’s not astrally projecting himself,” Martin said, “he’s out here beating on his drum trying to commune with his brotherhood or sisterhood or whatever damn thing he last heard he was supposed to commune with. Why the hell doesn’t he project himself into another dimension?”
“Maybe he should have been called Drumming Spirit,” Angie suggested.
Martin stopped moving around. He laughed bitterly, then said, “I wish to God and the devil he’d turn into Disappearing Spirit.”
Angie grabbed his other arm and she and Paavo were finally able to steer Martin toward the house.
“Have you and Bethel known Running Spirit long?” Angie asked.
Martin tried to think. “Five days? Six? It seems like an eternity. No, actually we met Greg Jeffers the first day. Then he had a session with Moira and found out that he was Running Spirit in another life. Or something like that. Who the hell knows anymore? Who cares? It’s all over, anyway.”
“What’s over?” Paavo asked.
“It was supposed to be empty. That was the whole idea.”
Angie asked, “What was supposed to be empty?”
“Let me ask you,” Martin began. “Does this look like a well-run establishment?”
Paavo frowned as he and Angie took hold of Martin’s arms again. “It doesn’t look like anything in the middle of the night. Come on, Bayman.”
“Nanook of the North told her to worry, but Nanook never explains anything. I’m the one who has to do that. It’s all up to me.” Martin looked at Paavo. “She’s thinking of opening an institute. To study psychic phenomena. Can you believe it? She thinks she’ll attract government grants. She’ll probably attract the IRS. Then what?”
“Come on, Martin,” Angie said soothingly. “Let’s get you inside.”
“There’s no money in it. I know how to get money. Disneyland. That’s the way.”
“Let’s go, Martin,” Angie coaxed.
“No, listen.” He stopped walking. “A Disneyland for the ages—the New Ages—get it? I’ve got it all worked out.”
“I’m sure you do,” Angie said as she and Paavo finally got him walking toward the house again.
“All those books, all those talk shows, and where are we now? Too much competition. Channelers are coming out of the woodwork. Like cockroaches.”
“Aren’t you a believer, Martin?” Angie asked.
“What does it matter?” He sighed wearily as Paavo walked up to the front door and held it open for him. “One way or the other, ‘The ghosts are gonna get you if you don’t watch out.’”
21
Angie sat on the bed, Paavo in a chair.
“Is everyone acting stranger than ever, Paavo, or is it just my imagination?” Angie asked.
“It’s not your imagination at all.” Paavo’s expression was as grim as his words.
“It’s as if this inn is part of a spring that’s being wound tighter with each passing day we’re stuck here,” Angie said. “Whoever killed Finley for sure never imagined we’d be marooned here. They probably thought the investors and townspeople would travel back and forth, arguing and hurling threats about opening the inn. If, in the midst of all that, Finley was discovered murdered, there’d have been all kinds of suspects.”
“Instead of just one houseful,” Paavo added.
“I wonder if Miss Greer might not have died, or if Patsy might not have disappeared. Now, though, how much more will whoever is behind this try to get away with?”
Paavo shook his head. “Whoever’s behind it all is smart. Smart enough to know the noose is tightening with every passing day, with every statement made. There’s a possibility that someone will slip, that something will be said or done that will turn suspicion around to the right person.”
“Besides the murderer worrying about getting caught, the others see people dying or disappearing—and are getting more and more nervous that the same will happen to them. No wonder it’s as if we’re sitting on a powder keg ready to ignite.”
“It’ll blow soon, Angie.”
“Will it?”
She never heard his answer. They jumped up. The sound of a crash from the next room had jarred them. Was it danger, or just an accident? Then a voice, a woman’s, was crying out for help.
“Oh, God!” Angie cried. “Chelsea!”
Paavo grabbed his .38 revolver from the bureau. Angie hurried down the hall behind him. He tried Chelsea’s door. It was locked. Ramming it hard with his shoulder, the door and frame sprang apart. Chelsea screamed again.
Paavo flicked on the lights.
“In there,” she cried, pointing at the dressing room.
Paavo stepped to the side of the dressing room door. Holding his gun barrel up, he pushed the door open. Once, twice, he darted his head to look into the room, and when no one shot at him, he entered. The dressing room and the bathroom beyond were empty.
The walls in the dressing room were paneled—the kind that opened up in old movies to reveal secret passages. But that was only in the movies, wasn’t it? God, Paavo thought, he was starting to think like Angie.
Chelsea sat on her bed in Angie’s arms, sobbing quietly. Swathed in a loosely billowing pink ruffled cotton nightgown, she looked three times bigger than Angie, rather than the usual two.
“What happened?” Paavo asked her as he slid the gun under the waistband at his back.
“I’m not sure.” Chelsea’s sobs grew louder. Her body shook like warm custard. “I was asl
eep, and suddenly I felt someone in the room with me. I reached for the lamp but knocked it over. I saw him step forward, almost as if he were going to help. I screamed, hoping you’d hear. Thank God you did.”
“Then he ran into the dressing room?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes!”
“Describe him to me, Chelsea, as best you can.”
“I don’t know!” she wailed. “It was so dark.”
“It’s all right, Chelsea. Take your time.” Paavo sat on the edge of the bed. His voice nearly purred. Angie gawked—she’d never heard him sound that way outside of the bedroom. “All I’m wondering is if he was big or little, short or tall.”
“He didn’t move.” Chelsea pulled at her thick red hair. “He was just a blob. A scary blob.”
“What was your impression?”
“Big. Huge, actually.”
“Do you mean muscular or just heavy?” Paavo asked. “Was he big like Running Spirit?”
“Running…” Chelsea stopped speaking as she thought a long, long moment. “I couldn’t say. To me, he seemed a lot bigger than even Running Spirit. More like the ghost of John Wayne.”
“Running Spirit, of course!” Angie jumped up. “That loud-mouthed blowhard, that disgusting creep. After the nasty things he was saying at dinner, who else—”
“No!” Chelsea covered her ears.
“I think we should find him.” Angie waved her fists in the air, more convinced with every word she spoke. “Confront him and see what he has to say for himself!”
“Don’t!” Chelsea screeched. “Please, don’t do that.”
“Leave it for now, Angie,” Paavo said. “We have no proof. Anyway, whenever someone breaks into a person’s room or house, the intruder seems to be at least ten feet tall.”
“Who else could it be?” she asked.
He looked back at Chelsea. “Are you certain it was a man?”
“Well…”
“Could it have been a woman?” he asked.
“I thought…maybe…it was…Jack.”