“Just making sure you’re okay,” Gary Frampton said.
“Thank you!” Griffin told them.
“If you need anything, just holler, okay?” Alice said.
“Anything!” Lacey added.
“Will do!” Griffin said.
The door to the cellar at the bottom of the stairs was closed.
It was sealed with crime-scene tape. Griffin slipped out his Swiss Army knife and slit the tape; he opened the door.
There were “night” lights on in the cellar: small lamps with low-wattage bulbs that had been crafted to look like old gas lamps.
They burned softly now.
The dead man was gone. All that remained was what the crime-scene people had left behind; traces of powder here and there for lifting fingerprints and footprints, sticky remnants of spray—even a sense of violation.
There was nothing about a death investigation that suggested kindness or gentility toward possessions, property or space.
“What else do you think you’re going to find down here?” Vickie asked. “This place has been gone over and over. The crime-scene techs were here for a good five hours.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“You just wanted to see if they thought you could find a clue?” Vickie asked.
“Something like that.”
“They did all follow us,” Vickie said.
“Yes, they did.”
“Conspiracy?” she asked him.
“I don’t know, Vickie. Right now I can’t believe any of that crew is guilty.”
“Because they seem so gullible?”
“Gary Frampton does appear to be a trusting man. He created a business that he really loves. The man is obviously a literature fanatic.”
“A very nice thing,” Vickie said.
“Question is—and something we’ll look into, of course—just how well is the restaurant doing? This kind of place is someone’s dream.”
“You think that Gary Frampton might have killed Franklin Verne—just to make his restaurant famous?”
“You did hear them. They’re completely booked for tomorrow.”
“True. But...”
“We both know that sometimes the murderer proves to be someone we just can’t believe—or don’t want to believe!” he reminded her.
“Lacey,” Vickie suggested. “She’s...opinionated.”
“And there’s the very lovely and sweet Alice!”
“You just said you don’t believe that any of them are guilty,” Vickie reminded him.
“At the moment, I don’t. I just like to keep watching—and not eliminate suspects too quickly. That said...”
“What?”
He laughed. “I can’t wait to meet Liza the medium!”
Vickie went back to the doorway and looked up the stairs. The little troop was gone.
“Our resident ghost chose not to join us here,” she said.
“He seemed to have a plan of his own that did not include us,” Griffin said. “I imagine that Mr. Poe might well be visiting either Liza Harcourt, Brent Whaley or Alistair Malcolm. He’s lurking around to see if any of them is acting suspicious—perhaps gleefully watching television, especially when a newscaster is of the opinion that Franklin Verne fell off the wagon.”
“When do you think we’ll see him again?”
“When he wishes to be seen!” Griffin reminded her softly.
Griffin started to pace the room, going around and around the rows of fine wine.
Vickie found herself looking at the foundations—close to two hundred years old, she reckoned. But the cellar had an air about it that suggested that it had always been part of the present, always part of life. It was a special place now—housing exceptional wines. Years ago, it might have held wine, barrels of beer, salted meat, canned vegetables—and even farm implements or farm animals.
There were doors—built-in niches—in the brick here and there. They had all been opened.
One housed bottle openers, and one coasters and various other accessories necessary to the restaurant trade. Some were long—as if they had once held rakes or brooms, perhaps, or something of the like. Some were even deep.
Griffin called to her, “There’s an entrance just over there—the double doors at the service entry.”
“There is? I don’t see it!” Vickie said.
“Come!” he encouraged her.
She followed him around a few of the racks. She thought she was staring at more brick; Griffin pushed at it and the brick, she realized, was a false door. It wasn’t even anything like the other brick in the foundations; it was lightweight, only a shell. And when pushed, it opened to a narrow hallway. Down the hall were the double metal doors that led to the delivery drive.
“I believe they came in this way,” Griffin said. “There is no video camera here. I don’t know if maybe, just maybe, we can see some kind of vehicle if we look at the security footage from the front again. I don’t think that a ninety-pound woman did this—at least, not alone. I’m pretty sure that Franklin Verne was incapacitated before they came here, that wine was forced down his throat and that his killer gloated while he died.”
“Horrible,” Vickie murmured.
“The thing of it is,” Griffin said, “at the very least, I think I’ve figured out the how. I’m going to call Carl Morris, have him come back here. I don’t know if Gary Frampton even knew he had a false wall down here. These old buildings have all kinds of secrets, and new buyers—and real estate agents—don’t always know what those secrets are. Someone knew about the wall, of course. The delivery doors lead straight into the prep kitchen, so the back-basement passage isn’t as well traveled as it might have been. But...I do believe we definitely have the how. I really wish we knew why.”
“The who would be extremely useful as well, too,” Vickie reminded him.
He gave her an exasperated look and then inclined his head and smiled. “Yes, of course. Well, we’ll find out soon, won’t we?”
“We will?”
“Of course,” he told her cheerfully. “We’re going to pay a visit to the medium!”
* * *
They were greeted at the door to a palatial estate by a traditionally clad dark-haired young maid who spoke English with only a slight foreign accent. Griffin couldn’t quite place it, but she hailed from somewhere in Eastern Europe, most probably a country that had once been part of the Soviet Union.
They asked to see Ms. Harcourt, and the young maid left them in the foyer as she hurried away to find her employer, Griffin’s card in her hand.
“Spiffy, huh?” Griffin said. The foyer was an octagonal shape. The hardwood floor was inset—maple and pine, he thought—and handsomely designed. Crown moldings adorned the ceilings, and vases—collectible or historic pieces, most probably—filled niches around the room.
“Spiffy?” Vickie asked. “Been watching too many classic movies?”
He grinned and spoke quickly, aware of heels clicking toward them on the hardwood floor.
“Nick and Nora. I love classic movies!”
Liza Harcourt arrived in the foyer on her own. She was petite and elegantly slim. As they had learned at the Black Bird, she was tiny. She was also close to seventy, Griffin knew—he’d called in to Krewe headquarters and had the woman researched. She was apparently a fanatic about physical fitness—and he had the feeling that she would maintain her attractiveness at any age. If she’d had any kind of plastic surgery, it had been done very well.
“Excellent work—subtle, not pinched!” Vickie whispered to him, winking as the woman approached them regally.
“Hello?” Liza said, looking from one of them to the other as they stood there, waiting for her.
“Ms. Harcourt, my name is Griffin Pryce,” G
riffin said, offering his hand. “Special Agent Pryce. I’m with the FBI.”
“Yes,” Liza said. “I saw that on your card.”
“And this is my associate, Vickie Preston,” he continued.
“We spoke this morning,” Vickie said.
“Oh. Oh!” Liza said, and her eyes were disapproving as her gaze focused upon Vickie. “Hmm. So, what do you want? What are you doing here?”
“Well, of course, we were incredibly impressed!” Griffin said.
“By...?” Liza asked carefully.
“Your abilities. And, of course, we’re here because you were such good friends with Franklin Verne. We’re hoping you can help us shed some light on what happened—either through things you remember, or through a séance,” Griffin said.
Liza seemed to brighten at first, but then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re mocking me, sir.”
“Oh, no, not at all!” Griffin assured her.
Liza stared at Vickie. “You, young lady, are rude.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Harcourt,” Vickie said. She glanced at Griffin, evidently realizing that complete pandering and flattery were the best tools they could use with the woman. “I didn’t mean to be. Please understand, they’ve been upset at the restaurant by the amount of fake psychics who have been calling in. I answered the phone specifically because of that situation—and then, of course, afterward they explained to me who you were.”
Liza Harcourt sniffed. “Well, all right then. You may come in.”
She turned and walked through the large double-arched doorway that took up two sides of the octagon shape of the foyer. They followed her to an immense parlor with a large fireplace and carved wooden mantel as the focal point—with the famed painting of Washington crossing the Delaware above it. The sofas surrounding the fireplace were modern and comfortable, as were the glass-and-chrome tables between them. An elegant winding stairway sat to the back-left side of the room, while to the right Griffin could see a formal dining room. He saw that the fireplace was double-sided, and that it serviced the great room that stretched behind the parlor as well.
She led them on through.
The back room offered a circular table with a beautiful large crystal ball set upon it.
Liza Harcourt took her “powers” very seriously.
She stretched out a hand, indicating that they might take seats at the table.
They did.
“We thought that we might begin with asking you what you might know about Franklin Verne—or his acquaintances and friends—that we might not know yet,” Griffin said.
“You’ve spoken to Monica, of course,” Liza said.
“Yes, but sometimes a wife can see no ill in her husband. Monica has publicly declared that her husband was murdered. What do you think? I mean, you, as a friend, might have known if he...well, if he was falling back into old ways,” Vickie said.
“Friends do know—often—what wives do not,” Liza said, shaking her head sadly.
“What is your opinion?” Griffin asked.
“Overrated!” Liza said. “Sorry, I’m talking about his work, and the body of his work is the man, really. I mean, I do beg your forgiveness, and I know that I am judging harshly perhaps because of the dismal standards of our day, but Franklin—while a good and generous person, if saddled with personal demons—was overrated. Now, I do realize that men such as Shakespeare, Dickens and even our dear Poe were, in a way, the popular fiction of their day. I just don’t believe that Franklin’s drivel will come to be known as classic literature. The man had blood and guts and lots of technical skill, but to my mind, at least, no heart—no soul. Ah, but still his death is so tragically sad.”
“Sad. Hmm. So you don’t see his death as a murder, either?” Griffin asked.
Liza waved an elegant hand with heavily ringed fingers in the air. “Monica is distraught. She doesn’t want to believe that her dear beloved husband, was, in truth, a dreadful addict. He was found in a wine cellar, for God’s sake. And that’s it with people like that, you know—one drink. Maybe it was a lark for him, slipping down to the wine cellar. He was probably jealous that the restaurant was dedicated to Poe—and not him. Ah, yes, sip a bit of secret Amontillado! And a bit...well, it’s poison to such a man. He went on to kill himself. That Monica. She will have the police running in circles. She will not be able to accept the truth.”
“How do you think that he got down to the cellar?” Vickie asked.
“What do you mean?” Liza countered.
“He hadn’t even been to the restaurant before. How would he know the alarm code?” Griffin asked.
“Well, that’s no great mystery,” Liza said.
“No?” Vickie asked.
“Gary Frampton,” she replied, shaking her head. “The poor man has no sense. He is a reader—a sweet fellow, and semidecent as a restaurant entrepreneur. But what an addle brain when it comes to trusting the people in his life. That daughter of his! Why, it’s quite amazing she isn’t in jail. I’m sure—just sure—the girl shoplifts. Not to mention the smoke going in and out of her lungs—from all kinds of sources, if you know what I mean. And Lacey... Oh, she’s so convinced she’s an expert. But almost anyone else can tell you more about Poe.”
“I see. But what does that have to do with the alarm?” Griffin asked.
Again, Liza sent a hand flying into the air, bedazzling them with the sparkle of her jewels. “Well! That Lacey is an addle brain, too. And God knows! Alice is a criminal. She might have sold that number to anyone out there!”
“The alarm code to her father’s restaurant?” Griffin asked. “It’s her livelihood as well, and, I’m assuming, she is her father’s heir.”
“Her mother left when she was just about three or four,” Liza said. “She had no guidance.”
“She left—and she never saw her daughter again?” Vickie asked.
“The woman died—and I do believe she willed herself to die!” Liza said dramatically. “I mean, that was her way of leaving. At the time, Gary Frampton was trying to make it as a writer. But he just couldn’t sell. It was a very sad state of affairs. And so, with no guidance, Alice grew up more than a bit of a mess. She was a wild child in high school. Gary did manage to sell a few short stories—not a lot of money there. Then he sold a couple of nonfiction books—and he bought the restaurant.”
“What kind of nonfiction?” Vickie asked her.
Naturally, Griffin thought, Vickie was keenly interested. She loved working on her own books, he knew—she’d recently completed a piece on Cotton Mather for a university press—but she also loved hearing about other biographies and just about any kind of history. She might have determined that she was going to join the agency and become part of the Krewe of Hunters, but history—and the people who created it—would always have a tremendous role in her life. And it all fit in nicely with being part of the Krewe of Hunters.
Liza laughed softly. “Cookbooks! Regional cookbooks. But hey...nice pictures. They do sell. I’m surprised you didn’t see them or hear about them in the gift shop.”
“Friday night—it was quite busy,” Vickie told her.
“Even without Franklin’s patronage!” Liza said. “Imagine!” she added dramatically. “It was just hours before poor Franklin would find his way there—down to the cellar, down to his death!”
“Yes, just hours before,” Vickie murmured.
“So! Shall we?” Liza asked.
“Shall we what?” Vickie asked, frowning.
Griffin forced himself not to laugh. Vickie had forgotten all about the fact that Liza was more than willing—anxious, even—to have them engage in a séance.
“See if we can speak with Franklin himself!” Liza said.
Griffin had to admit that she took even him by surprise when she suddenly clapped loudly twice�
�and most of the lights in the room went out. Only small, rose-shaped night-lights remained on with a very soft glow.
“Let’s join hands here, shall we. Just fingertips touching!” she advised.
Vickie glanced at Griffin, frowning. He shrugged.
They were on either side of Liza Harcourt, pinkies and thumb tips just touching.
Liza asked for no more.
She began her speech.
“I speak to the powers of the darkness and the night! I speak to those who hover in the veil, that place of mist between life and death. I speak to friends who may need my help or my guidance. I speak to friends who just might need their story told. I am your light. I am your way. I will be your voice and I will speak for the dead!”
“What rubbish! What complete and utter rubbish!”
This time, Griffin managed not to jump. At his side, Vickie started violently.
It was Poe. Leaning with one elbow on the mantel this side of the double fireplace, he stared at the three of them at the table, his eyes registering absolute disbelief.
“Yes!” Liza cried excitedly, feeling Vickie’s movement. “I can feel you—we feel you. Franklin, is that you, dear? Can you tell me, in any way—give me a sign? I feel you, and I know that Vickie feels you. You are here among us!”
They waited. Poe let out a sound of disgust.
“Can you give us a sign, Franklin?” Liza asked.
Still nothing, but Liza said, “I know, Franklin. I will do my best. Poor Monica! Addiction is a true curse, Franklin, and we all loathe it and loved you... I will see that she knows.”
Vickie stared at Griffin. Then she glanced over at Poe.
He’d moved; he’d walked over to the table and placed himself between Vickie and Liza Harcourt. He waved his hand in front of her face; he touched her cheek.
“Franklin, you are here!” Liza said. “I see you. I feel you.”
Poe let out another grunt—this time, sounding aggravated. He looked at Vickie and winked.
“Indeed, alas, the seers of the world must take care! This woman is a medium!”
He walked away then, leaning upon the mantel once again. “I must say, I do wonder what will come next in her dog and pony show!”
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