Dead Man Talking

by TM Simmons

  Chapter 12

  Time to talk to Katy, ready or not. I’d barely started up the stairwell before the faint sound of a blaring horn floated in. Must be somebody down by the gate. Well, they could blow their horn elsewhere. I wasn’t driving down there. The policeman on guard would investigate.

  Katy lay in bed, staring in the open drawer of her nightstand. She shushed me with a finger, reached in the drawer, and pulled out what at first I took to be a cell phone. The horn sound blared clearer when she handed it to me. “The intercom to the front gate,” she whispered. “You answer it. Please.”

  “I didn’t even know you’d installed an intercom,” I muttered. The button labeled “Transmit” gave under my thumb and I spoke into the tiny, round speaker. “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “Katy!” a vaguely familiar voice called through static, but at least the horn quit blowing. “Katy, it’s Irene! I’ve come to help!”

  “Irene, this is Alice, Katy’s cousin. I’m sorry, but she’s not receiving this evening.”

  “You let me talk to Katy! She’ll see me!”

  I took great satisfaction in retorting, “Katy’s not receiving anyone. And there’s a police officer on the grounds. I’d suggest you leave before he investigates the ruckus!”

  “I know every policeman in this county!” she spat. Damn, she was persistent. “Now, put Katy on right now!”

  Katy sighed and reached out, but I shook my head. “I hear you." Bitch. “My answer’s the same. Katy’s not up to visitors.”

  Irene muttered a disgruntled curse but said, “Will you at least tell her I was here?”

  “Yes. And since you’re a friend, you can pass the word along that Katy will let people know when she feels like receiving again.”

  “Anything!” Irene shrilled. “I’ll help out any way! Katy has my four phone numbers!”

  “Good night, Irene." I clicked off the intercom in the middle of her “Gh — ” and laid it back in the drawer, then thought better of it and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ll take care of this, Katy. You rest. I promised Jack we’d be at the station tomorrow morning at nine.”

  “You’re a dear, Alice. But first . . ." She fiddled with the answering machine.

  A new message played back. “Payback’s hell, bitch." Click.

  Damn. The call that I’d ignored while talking to Jack. “Do you know who that was?”

  “No. It sounds like someone I’ve spoken to before, but I can’t put a face or name to her." Given the nature of the message, Katy’s intonation was far too calm. She yawned. “I’m sorry, Alice. Sue Ann gave me a tranquilizer, and I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “You need to eat,” I reminded her. “And from now on, let’s leave this answering machine off." I turned off the offending machine, then removed the tape. Drat, at this rate, Wal-Mart for more tapes loomed — if even that everything-in-one-stop store carried outdated technology supplies. “I’ll give this tape to Jack. And I’m turning off the ringer on your phone. I’ll keep an eye on the Great Room phone answering machine.”

  I flipped the ringer to “off,” then punched star-sixty-nine on the off-chance the caller hadn’t blocked the source. The nasal recorded message informed me that I couldn’t reach the previous caller that way. Katy’s eyes drifted closed, and I touched her arm to get her attention. “Don’t you have call filtering on your phone?”

  “Ummm, guess not. No caller ID on this one, either. Just on the Great Room phone. People who have this number are supposed to have it.”

  She started to snooze off, but I shook her shoulder, making a quick decision not to tell her about Bucky...yet. “I talked to Twila a while ago. She’s coming in tomorrow to help out with Sir Gary. Until then, she wants us to keep some protection near.”

  “Whatever,” Katy murmured. “I trust Twila." Her eyes snapped open, however, when I pulled the asafetida from my pocket, even though I’d also halved the plastic and wrapped the pieces in it. “Oh, no! I’m not wearing smelly garlic. Sir Gary’s a ghost, not a vampire.”

  “It’s not garlic, it’s asafetida. Please, Katy.”

  Stealing myself to expose the fact that Bucky’s ghost was roaming the manor house, no matter how that would scare Katy, I sighed in relief when she asked, “Twila said we had to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you get my locket out of my jewelry box? The one Uncle Clarence gave me.”

  I rummaged around in the jewelry box until I found the one she was talking about, shoved the piece of asafetida not on the thong in it, then gave it to Katy. She held her breath and secured the chain around her neck, but the locket contained the smell. Wishing I had a similar one, I patted her arm.

  Sue Ann came in without knocking, carrying a tray wafting smells in a wonderful contrast to the asafetida. “Your supper’s in the kitchen, Miss Alice,” she said, “if you don’t mind eating with Gabe. Otherwise, I’ll bring you a tray after Miss Katy eats.”

  The implied caution puzzled me. “I have no problem eating with Gabe, Sue Ann. What would make you think that?”

  She just smiled and settled on the bed, placing the tray across Katy’s stomach. My stomach grumbled and I left, detouring to the Peach Room to wash my face. I’d never met Sue Ann’s husband, Gabe, I realized, descending the stairwell a moment later. Well, I’m as friendly a person as the next outside the isolated writer’s life.

  Gabe Purdy might just be the one person impervious to friendly chatter. He was six inches shorter than Sue Ann, but as slim and wiry. He wore bib overalls and a neat plaid shirt, but a stubble of graying beard covered his craggy face. He didn’t look up as I entered — only shrugged and continued eating after I said hello. I shrugged, too, which he didn’t see, then headed for the bowls and dishes on the counter. Yum. Gumbo, rice, and fried green tomatoes. A bowl of bread pudding with what smelled like lemon sauce, my absolutely favorite dessert. I dished up gumbo over rice and laid a few of the crusty tomatoes on a plate. Food on the table, I opened the refrigerator, found a pitcher of iced tea, and poured a glass.

  “I’m Alice Carpenter." I sat and extended my free hand to Gabe. “Katy’s cousin.”

  Gabe grunted, ignored my hand, and popped the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth. I grimaced. He’d layered his fried green tomatoes between bread. What a waste of delicious delicacies, I mused as he finished off his bread pudding in three bites, then picked up his bowl and silverware. Wandering unhurriedly over to the sink, he clattered them in before he fixed another bowl of bread pudding and carried it through the Garden Room, on out the door.

  “Nice evening,” I said to the empty chair. “How was your day? Yes, that was a horrible story on the news. Do you think we should vacation in Cancun or the mountains?" Shaking my head at my silliness, I called, “Trucker! Miss Molly?”

  They both bounded into the kitchen, evidently over their anxiety about the new ghost prowling the manor house. Maybe Bucky had found his own way into the light, without any help. I sure as hell hoped so, but honestly doubted it. Pets on guard, I spooned up a heap of spicy gumbo and rice, sniffing the welcoming odor, tongue and stomach eagerly anticipating.

  The spoon stalled as questions in that ever-questing brain of mine overrode the hunger growls rumbling in my stomach. Why the heck hadn’t the cop on the grounds investigated the ruckus at the gate? Maybe he had, but only after I finished talking to Goodnight Irene. Esprit d’Chene grounds were expansive. Still, I would have thought Officer O’Neil would stick close to the house. I’d heard the horn all the way from the gate, so where was he?

  It was full dark now, although every security light blazed bright enough to make me wonder how we would sleep. Still, I didn’t want to roam around looking for Officer O’Neil while keeping an eye over my shoulder for Bucky. Damn, why hadn’t I asked Gabe to check on the cop? The smart thing would be to call Jack and see if the officer had reported in. I pushed the gumbo back and stared at the bread pudding. Reluctantly, I rose and started out through the Garden Room. Tru
cker whined and shot ahead of me, blocking the door when I reached for it.

  “Do you want out?" I opened the door wide enough for him, but he didn’t budge — only stared outside and growled low in his throat. I looked past him. Saw nothing unusual. The pool, pool house, yellow crime tape flittering in the night breeze. I’d avoided that area like the plague. The vibes there would curdle my stomach and leave me shaking with the willies, even if I protected myself with white light.

  No Officer O’Neil there. No Gabe. Then...in the back yard a crumpled figure lay beside the concrete bench where Katy had cried that afternoon. Overalls and plaid shirt. Gabe! The bowl of bread pudding shattered on the walkway. Someone had attacked him!

  I started out the door. Trucker grabbed my jeans-clad leg and hung on. Frantic, I yanked against him before it dawned that he was protecting me. The dog didn’t want me out there right now for what he considered a very important reason. Suddenly Trucker let loose of my jeans and pricked his ears toward the kitchen. Faster than he’d ever moved except when he attacked that drunk cowboy, he raced away. Miss Molly stood on my chair, nose reaching for the bread pudding, tongue flicking out.

  Trucker hit that chair with a whomp! Miss Molly screeched and sprawled on the floor. The chair clattered over with a crash. And I crashed over the chair to the brick floor, since I was right behind Trucker, my mind racing with implications. No one had attacked Gabe — except maybe some tainted food. Trucker’s dash to prevent the cat from tasting my dessert could mean nothing else. Tainted, spoiled...or poisoned! Something was horribly wrong with the food.

  There wasn’t time to worry about the pain in my hands or the bruises that would show up on my legs tomorrow. I lunged upright and grabbed the bowl of bread pudding. Then dumped it and the pan containing the rest in the sink and covered it securely with a plastic dishpan.

  The gumbo! Maybe it, too — ignoring shooting knee pain, I ran back across the kitchen and grabbed that bowl. Slammed it into the sink along with the pudding and checked the crock pot to make sure the lid was secure. Then, screeching louder than Miss Molly, I half-galloped, half-limped out of the kitchen. “Sue Ann! Katy! Don’t eat the bread pudding!" Leaning on the welcome assistance of the handrail, I rushed up the stairwell, two steps at a time. “Sue Ann! Damn it, Sue Ann! Answer me! Don’t let Katy touch that bread pudding — ”

  Two pair of confused eyes met mine as I dashed into the bedroom. Sue Ann gaped at me, and Katy groggily held a spoonful of bread pudding a few inches from her mouth.

  “Dooon’t!” I screamed. “Poison!”

  Katy blinked sleepily. Sue Ann gasped. I rushed the frozen pair and slapped the spoon away from Katy’s mouth, slung the tray to the floor.

  “What in the name of heaven?” Sue Ann asked, stark alarm registering.

  “I think someone poisoned the bread pudding,” I gasped.

  “Where’s Gabe?”

  “In the Rose Garden. On the ground. Go, while I call Jack." She sped out of the bedroom, and I hollered after her, “Take Trucker outside with you!”

  Katy appeared more alert as I grabbed the phone. She stared at the mess on the floor and shook her head. “Gumbo roux will never clean out of my carpet.”

  Jack answered in mid-ring. “What’s wrong?”

  “Poison!” I gasped. “Someone poisoned the bread pudding!”

  “Where’s O’Neil?” he barked.

  “I don’t know. Gabe’s lying on the ground in the Rose Garden. We’ll need an ambulance! Hurry, Jack!”

  “I’ll send the ambulance from here. Stay inside!”

  “Don’t worry." But I spoke to a dead phone.

  Katy scooted up in bed, rubbing her face. “Someone tried to poison us?”

  “Get up!" Sheets flung back, I urged her to her feet. “Come wait in the kitchen. I want all of us together.”

  Katy balked at the foot of the bed to pick up her robe and slide into her slippers. Far be it for Katy Guyedan to leave her room without a robe, even if someone had just tried to poison her. I closed the door firmly, not taking a chance that Miss Molly would slip off and find another bowl of pudding before we cleaned that mess up. By the time we got to the kitchen, Katy was even more alert. She headed for the coffee grinder and dumped in some beans.

  “Better not,” I cautioned. “We need to check all the food.”

  Katy whirled, dread dawning. “Someone’s been in here? In the kitchen?”

  “We can’t take any chances.”

  In the Rose Garden, Sue Ann had Gabe on his feet. “Thank God,” I murmured as they stumbled up the path. Trucker plodded behind them, protectively on guard, ears up and head swiveling side to side as he sniffed the air. They came into the Garden Room, and I helped Sue Ann sit Gabe on a chair beside the tea table. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach, groans nearly drowning out the ring of the phone in the kitchen.

  “I made him vomit,” Sue Ann said. “But he needs a doctor fast.”

  “Jack’s got medical help on the way." I started back into the kitchen, then halted and asked Sue Ann, “Did you give Officer O’Neil any food?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “A few minutes before I fixed Miss Katy’s tray. He had some sandwiches with him, and only wanted puddin’.”

  “God,” I murmured.

  In the kitchen, Katy hung up the wall phone. “Jack,” she said. “Reminding us that we need to open the gate. Darn, I wish I had some coffee.”

  “You’re doing fine, Sugar." Duly impressed at how she’d overcome her semi-drugged stupor and seemed to be coping — actually helping — I groped in my jeans pocket for the gate opener. But only the answering machine tapes met my seeking fingers. Exasperated, I recalled leaving the gate intercom/opener on the bathroom sink while I washed my face.

  “I left the damn gate transmitter in my room,” I told Katy. “Oh, no! Where’s Miss Molly?”

  In a panic, Katy and I searched the kitchen until we found my cat cowering in the pantry. Katy picked her up, and Miss Molly cuddled in her arms, eyeballing Trucker apprehensively. Her huge buddy had never done anything like that before.

  “I’m going after the gate opener,” I said.

  “Take the dog,” Katy insisted.

  At my finger click, Trucker padded along behind. I stared up that long, winding stairwell. Even with the lights gleaming brightly, I hated to climb it. Even with Trucker. But we needed that gate opener.

  Trucker nudged past me. Following in his wake, I kept a cautious eye out, but nothing bothered us. It dawned on me to try to contact Sir Gary, but my psychic powers were in shambles right then. I had a real-dimension problem to handle, and contacting the other side would have to wait. And no matter how I tried to stifle that questing mind, the possibility that the new entity haunting Esprit d’Chene had just tried to poison us wouldn’t extinguish. As Sir Gary had reminded me, there were ways . . .

  I inched past Katy’s bedroom door, down the hall to the Peach Room. Carefully, I peered inside. Trucker tried to edge past me, but I laid a hand on his neck and ordered, “Stay." He sat, vigilant, a whine in his throat. I hurried across the room, into the bathroom, and grabbed the gate opener from the sink. Back in the bedroom, Sir Gary stood beside Trucker, stroking his head.

  “What’s going on?” the ghost asked.

  “Someone put something in the bread pudding to make us sick. Where’ve you been?”

  He tossed me an irritated look. “Surely you don’t think I — ?”

  “No, damn it. But we can’t find Officer O’Neil. I thought you might know where he is.”

  “A while ago, the housekeeper gave him a bowl of something at the Garden Room door.”

  “Will you please go look for him? He could be dying.”

  With a grim nod, Sir Gary dissolved.