“Great! Thank you. How sweet.”
“Not so sweet—avoiding temptation!” he told her, grinning.
She grinned, too. She was all right. She dashed for the shower while he let himself out, made sure the door locked behind him and headed down for the coffee.
* * *
Alistair Malcolm was evidently quite wealthy, too.
He lived in a mansion on a hill, but he opened his own door. He had the benefit of expecting them; Griffin had called ahead. But it was evident that everything about the man was different from Liza Harcourt.
Alistair Malcolm was a big man, not fat, but sturdy, with a strong jaw, a bald head and bright blue eyes that looked steadily on. Griffin noted that the handshake he gave Vickie was just as strong as the handshake he received himself.
“Family money,” he said, ushering them in. “I’m kind of a simple guy myself. As you see, sadly, I haven’t a whit of design sense about me—this stuff is the old Victorian trappings my mother kept about. I think her grandmother kept it about, too. Anyway, I’m glad to meet you. I hear that the cause of Franklin Verne’s death is being held back pending an autopsy. But surely, if you’re here, being FBI, there must be grave suspicion—no pun intended—that Franklin was murdered?”
“It’s a possibility, I’m afraid.”
Alistair Malcolm seemed to be open, forthright and solid as a rock. He would obviously form his own opinion. He led them into the parlor with the old, almost shabby, Victorian furniture and indicated that they should sit and be comfortable.
He did have his own opinion and he was ready to voice it.
“You ask me, it’s impossible. Impossible that the man walked down to a wine cellar and drank himself silly. Franklin loved Monica, I mean, he really loved Monica. The two of them had something special. You know, some kids don’t do things because they don’t want to get punished—some don’t do things because they don’t want to disappoint their parents. Well, Monica wouldn’t have left Franklin or anything if she’d caught him drinking. He just wouldn’t have done it because he wouldn’t have hurt her or disappoint her in any way. Not only that, but if he was going to go crazy and start drinking again, it sure as hell wouldn’t be wine. The man would buy himself some kind of really fine single-malt scotch.” He paused to sigh. “I’m sure Liza is convinced of the opposite, of course. Maybe it’s not her fault. She was married to a total ass. Rich man, complete jerk. He’s dead—sorry about that, but he wasn’t a good man. Liar, cheater, rude...ass. Anyway, she can’t accept the good in any man, so... But hey. I’m talking and I don’t know if I’m answering anything at all.”
He appeared eager to help them and perplexed—and sorry. It was nice to see someone—besides Monica—who seemed so sorry that a man was dead.
“You’re actually doing fine,” Griffin told him. “But here’s the real question—who would have killed him? I keep hearing that he didn’t have any enemies.”
“That’s what is so strange. Hey, sorry, I don’t like people hovering around me so there’s no butler or housekeeper—would you like coffee or some iced tea or something? It’s a bit early, but some people are different. I have a full bar in the basement, too,” Malcolm said.
“We’re fine, thanks!” Vickie assured him. “Can you tell us more—anything that comes to your mind, really?”
“I wish there was more! I mean, Franklin Verne knew literally thousands upon thousands of people. He loved conventions—writers’ conventions. He would autograph at stores around the country. He was generous and giving and people loved him. Thing is, of course, you just never know. There could have been someone out there who was jealous—no matter how they behaved toward him. I mean, he was fun—even on his commercials. He knew he wasn’t beautiful, or the funniest guy. He played upon his own weaknesses. He never said he was brilliant—and I don’t believe that he thought he was. He thought he was lucky, getting by.”
“What about here—in Baltimore?” Griffin asked.
“What do you mean?” Malcolm asked.
“Do you know of anyone here who was jealous of him?” Griffin pressed.
Alistair Malcolm lifted his hands, pursed his lips, and shook his head, at a loss. “He was always friendly when he was in town. He would have eventually come by the Black Bird for dinner, and I’m sure he would have endorsed the restaurant.”
“But he wasn’t friends with anyone from the restaurant?” Vickie asked.
Alistair Malcolm took a moment and then thoughtfully shook his head. “Franklin Verne was hot stuff around here. He might have traveled a lot and he might have owned property elsewhere. But he was still a native son. Over the years, he’d been at dozens of events. He’d been out in public, at bookstores, at other venues. He’s a friendly guy—was a friendly guy. I’m sure he might have met everyone associated with the restaurant. But to the best of my knowledge, he was actually friends with me, Liza and Brent.”
“You’re a writer, too, I understand,” Vickie said.
He shrugged. “I try my feeble best. I’ve had non-fiction articles published. And, yes, I’m working on a book.”
“Nice,” Griffin murmured. “We’re going to talk to Brent Whaley, too,” Griffin said. “But we haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Brent travels a lot, too. But I’m sure, wherever he is, he’ll let us know. I mean, we’re all supposed to be at the séance today,” Malcolm said.
“Liza Harcourt’s séance?” Vickie asked.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Yeah. The woman is eccentric, to say the least. She really thinks she has some kind of special power—she’s convinced that she’ll raise Franklin’s spirit and he’ll just tell us what happened to him, and solve it all!”
“So—she sent out invitations to her séance?” Vickie asked.
“She did. To the Blackbird Society,” Malcolm told them. “Are you going to be there?”
Griffin glanced over at Vickie. She turned and smiled at him.
They hadn’t been invited.
They were definitely going to be there.
Vickie smiled at Griffin and turned to Alistair Malcolm.
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
* * *
“You’re going to a...séance?” Carl Morris asked. He had a good poker face—he stared straight at Griffin, betraying little of what he was surely feeling. “A séance?” he repeated. “And you think that the dead are going to talk to you?”
“It’s not what I’m hoping to find out from the dead,” Griffin said, silently adding, Though if they did choose to speak, it would be damned nice! “I want to see what we can learn from the living.”
“Of course,” Morris said. They’d met up outside the Black Bird. They’d met there so that Griffin could show him the false wall and explain his theory—the only workable theory in his mind—as to how Franklin Verne had come to be in the wine cellar.
Morris agreed. He and his men had been scouring the streets for witnesses. None had come forward and none had been found.
“You know, he could have just been killed by any jackass out there who knew about him and had a Poe hang-up,” Morris said. “Or an obsessed fan. Random. Then...well, hell, you know how hard it is to find a random killer.”
Griffin asked, “You haven’t picked up Brent Whaley yet, have you?”
“No, he’s not home. Whaley belonged to a ton of groups, too,” Morris explained. “He could be at any number of conferences...or just on a research trip. We haven’t been able to find him. He lives alone, so there’s been no one to ask.”
“Okay, so, we’ve got nothing! A séance couldn’t hurt.”
Morris made an odd sound of revulsion. “You won’t mind if I leave?”
“Not in the least. I’ll keep you posted—if there’s anything,” Griffin told him.
&n
bsp; They were in the cellar—near the chair where Franklin Verne had been found. Morris looked up the stairs and visibly shuddered.
“You do that—you keep me posted,” he said. He gave Griffin a grim smile. “Back to the streets. Someone out there had to have seen or heard something. Of course, the tip lines are ringing off the hook.”
“Yes—they’re getting a lot of folks calling here, too. Including Liza Harcourt—who is about to conduct our séance,” Griffin said.
Morris rolled his eyes and shook his head.
He turned to head up the stairs and Griffin followed him.
At the landing, Morris didn’t stay; he lifted a hand to acknowledge Gary Frampton, who was behind the bar, and he hurried out the front door.
The restaurant wouldn’t open for another hour and a half. That didn’t matter. Liza was gathering her select few while the others—just ordinary employees who understood nothing of just how special Poe had been—were busy setting up for business. Liza, Griffin knew, was in one of the private dining rooms. It had a round table with a bust of Poe for decoration in the middle. The table could seat twelve, but there wouldn’t be that many of them. Liza wanted only those who mattered—herself, of course, and then Alistair Malcolm, Brent Whaley—if anyone had managed to find him—Alice, Lacey and Gary. And, since they seemed to be intruding here and wouldn’t go away, Griffin and Vickie were reluctantly welcomed. That made for a table of eight, which, in her mind, was an excellent number.
“We might as well get on with it,” Gary told Griffin.
“Sure. Lead the way.”
Gary did so.
Liza had candles set all around the dining room. That it was daytime hadn’t bothered her in the least—ghosts didn’t tell time, she’d assured them.
It might as well have been night. The private room was enclosed by the restaurant itself and when the lights were out, it was pitch-dark. It was a special-occasion room, used most often for family celebrations, Gary had told them, and sometimes for meetings. A replica of an 1850s Persian carpet sat over hardwood flooring; the walls were covered with an intriguing mid-nineteenth-century paper as well—replica, but extremely well crafted and really beautiful; it was white with delicate little gold hourglasses creating a pattern of lines. A number of serving mantels in rich wood lined the walls. One of them held a long metal lighter, used for table candles on regular days, Griffin imagined, and useful in here for Liza’s séance as well.
“This won’t do. I really thought the number was perfect!” Liza said, as he entered the room.
Vickie was by her side. She had been listening to Liza go on and on already, Griffin was certain, but she was standing her ground without screaming or running.
There was little one could do with Liza—other than listen.
Alice and Lacey had been seated at the table; Lacey looked annoyed and bored.
Alice had her head on her arms on the table—napping, possibly.
Alistair Malcolm had arrived, and he nodded to Gary and Griffin from his position at the table across from the two women.
“No one has talked with Brent Whaley yet,” Liza said. “I don’t begin to understand how the man isn’t aware of just how important this is! He’s ignoring the death of a great author!”
Vickie looked at Griffin pointedly. He nodded to her. The powers that be were aware Brent Whaley was unaccounted for.
“Just bring in Jon. He’s out there setting up,” Alice said. “Jon Skye.”
“But he’s no real part of the restaurant or the shop—he doesn’t belong to the Blackbird Society!” Liza protested.
“He loves Poe!” Lacey argued. “We talk all the time. And I’m certain he has at least read a Franklin Verne book, which I’m sure that not everyone else here has!”
“I’ve read many of Franklin’s books!” Liza said indignantly.
“I didn’t say you. Agent Pryce, have you read a Franklin Verne book?”
“I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” Griffin said. “I do believe that Vickie has enjoyed a number of his novels.”
Vickie waved a hand in the air. “Yep. I have!”
“And we’re trying to find out what happened to Franklin—not Poe!” Gary said, his tone aggravated.
“All right, all right. Bring Jon in. Then we’ll have eight. Lacey, Alice, Gary, Alistair and me, and then Agent Pryce and his assistant, Vickie, and Jon. Fine. Not perfect, but as good as I’m going to get. Okay, we have eight chairs at the table. Let’s make sure the candles are lit and the lights are off and the door is closed. Then place your hands on the table. We don’t have to join hands—just see that your fingertips are touching.”
“I’ll get Jon,” Alice said.
She disappeared out the door. As soon as she returned with Jon—who looked baffled but not unpleased—they all took their seats; Liza spent a moment assuring herself that the candles in the room were burning. Then she turned off the lights and closed the door to the room.
“We won’t be disturbed, right?” Liza asked.
“We won’t be disturbed,” Gary assured her impatiently.
Vickie was to Griffin’s left side; Liza was to his right. Alistair Malcolm was across the table from him. He grinned at Griffin and rolled his eyes.
The room was eerie in the candlelight. The Poe bust in the center of the table cast some uncanny shadows about the room. Not bad for atmosphere, Griffin thought.
“We have gathered here today in the name of humanity, in the name of love, in the name of the great universal care that we give to one another as human souls. We have gathered here to speak with our dear friend, a special friend, a friend now lost to us in our earthly coils!” Liza said dramatically.
Lacey coughed; Griffin was pretty sure the sound had become a cough, that it had been Lacey’s way of controlling her laughter.
“I call upon the great power of the universe, that power that we call God! I call upon the saints and angels who guard the gates of heaven and hell!” Liza continued.
“Franklin Verne, dear friend! We have gathered near the very place where you drew your last breath, where you went into the eternal land of the dead. Please, let us hear you. Let us know you again. Let us help you tell the truth of your story.”
The sound that came to Griffin then was light. It sounded like a tapping, or a knocking. No one else seemed to notice, so he assumed that it had something to do with preparations for the busy restaurant day that were going on beyond the private room.
“Dear friend, we have not come to judge! Whether pain became intense, whether you were lured, tricked...murdered! We are not here to judge. We are here to love you in death if leaving this earth was your choice. We are here to find who did this, if you were taken from us!”
The tapping sound had grown louder. Griffin looked around the room. No one else seemed to be paying it the least heed. But by his side, he felt Vickie twitch. Her fingers—just touching his—moved, falling over his.
He looked at her. She was frowning.
Yes, Vickie heard the sound. She returned his look and slightly hiked her shoulders, telling him that she had absolutely no idea what it was.
“I feel you!” Liza Harcourt suddenly called out. “Yes, I feel you, Franklin. Remember, in life, I was your friend. You may still come to me. I will always do what I can for you.”
Thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump...
What the hell?
“A slight chill has wrapped around me, Franklin. I know that you are here. I know that you may as yet not be able to tap or make the lights flicker...if you cannot, you mustn’t worry, Franklin. We know that you are with us—we will be steadfast!”
“I think it actually is colder!” Lacey murmured incredulously.
Griffin didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything unusual at all.
But the sound
was nearly driving him crazy. How was it that none of the others seemed to hear it?
“Yes!” Liza exclaimed. “We feel you, Franklin. My dear man, you may try, do your best...let a candle go out...let us hear a soft tap, telling us that you’re near.”
“Tell us that he’s near!” Gary exploded. “No! We need him to tell us what the hell happened! Did he just come in here by himself? Was he lured here? Was he forced to drink wine? Liza, if he’s here, we need some answers! If he’s here! What the hell am I saying?”
“Dad!” Alice admonished.
“Well, it’s true.”
“I do feel...cold, too!” Jon Skye said.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump...
Griffin stared around the room.
Why was no one else mentioning the sound? How the hell didn’t they hear it?
“Franklin, dear, Gary Frampton is a terrible doubter. I know that you are with us. Perhaps you could find a way to flicker the candles—oh! You could even turn the lights on and off if you wanted. You could tap on the table, shuffle something on the floor, or perhaps make a rapping sound—”
“Make a rapping sound!” Vickie suddenly said, her voice explosive. “What is the matter with you all? It sounds as if legions of the dead are trying to break out of the floor! What the heck is wrong with your hearing?” she demanded.
All around the table, their fellow séance participants just stared at Vickie. Then they stared at one another.
And then back at Vickie.
Then, to Griffin, the sound was suddenly so loud that it was painful.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump...
“All right, that’s it,” Griffin said, keeping his voice level and calm. He stood. “That’s the end of this. I—”
“She’s crazy, right?” Alice asked in a small voice.
“What?” Griffin said.
“There’s no sound! There is no sound!” Jon Skye told him.
But there was. Griffin looked at Vickie.
Yes, there was a sound. Maybe they were the only ones who could hear it, but...
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