I cursed my trepidation and set one foot on the stair. It creaked loud enough to be heard three counties away. We crept up slowly and paused on the landing when we heard a shout just beyond us, behind the closed door. A full moon shone through the stained-glass window, overlaying my sister’s green face with a kaleidoscope of jewel tones. We pressed our ears to the heavy door.
“I know you’re in here somewhere. I’ll just wait you out.”
“That sounds like—” I reached for the doorknob.
“Ezra!” Rachel lifted up her shovel and held it in front of her like a lance.
Ezra took one look at her green visage and screamed.
“What are you doing here?” I half shouted, then toned it down, since there was a chance my mother was still sleeping.
“What’s on your face?” Ezra stared at Rachel in horror.
“It’s a beauty treatment.” She jutted out her chin. “Care to tell us what you’re doing here?”
“I thought you were the intruder.” He shook his head in impatience. “He must’ve gone down the stairs while I was searching the rest of the third floor.”
“What intruder?” I didn’t lower my poker, but I didn’t hold it out in front of me like a jousting stick, either.
Ezra ran his hands through his hair with quick, nervous movements. “I’ve been keeping an eye out here for the last week,” he admitted, his eyes downcast then pleading.
“I don’t recall the police tasking you with that.” Rachel took a step toward him. “And you do have a key to the house. How do we know you aren’t the person sabotaging the renovation?”
“This doesn’t look good, Ezra.” Rach was right. Ezra had access to the house whenever he wanted, and he knew his way around construction. He could have rigged any of the accidents.
“You have someone else in your house now.” Ezra looked panicked and frustrated all at once. “If we hurry, maybe we can catch them on the front lawn.” I willed my pulse to slow down.
“I don’t believe you,” Rachel’s green eyes were filled with skepticism. “You just want a chance to escape.”
Ezra shook his head. “I’m not lying! I wanted to protect you. I sat outside in my truck and saw him approach from the south end of the house. He disappeared around the back, and when I let myself in, I caught him on the main stairs.” Ezra was convincing, but he’d been stalking this house for weeks and we’d been none the wiser, so maybe he was just a good actor.
“Likely story,” Rachel tossed her head and an avalanche of Dead Sea Scrub flaked off and landed at her feet.
“Where is this person now?” I wanted to believe him, but I was seriously creeped out.
“I told you, he must’ve slipped out. I followed him to the third floor, then it got utterly quiet. I searched every room, but he must’ve been hiding in one and doubled back.” He frowned. “I don’t have to take this.” Ezra sniffed and wiped at his eyes in a rough motion. “I was just trying to protect you.”
“Call the police.” Rachel slowly lowered the shovel and burst into tears.
* * *
“He’s fired.” Jesse took off his Penguins cap and rubbed his head, his face a sad cast. “You think you know someone, but Ezra turned out to be a rotten egg. And no amount of rotten eggs will make an omelet.”
His quintessential malaprop couldn’t even make me smile. Truman and Faith had arrived as Ezra was getting into his truck, and it hadn’t been pretty. He couldn’t deny being on the premises, and his story didn’t hold much weight. He was charged with trespassing and released, and Jesse had also released him from his employment.
“I feel double-crossed. I trusted him.” Jesse cursed and clapped his hat back on his head. “And he was a darn architectural genius. I probably didn’t give him enough credit. Lots of the ideas for this place were his.”
I gave Jesse a sympathetic glance. “You gave Ezra credit. And we do need him. We’re running out of time and could use every single hand. But not if he’s going to be skulking around here after hours, possibly undoing everyone’s hard work.”
“Possibly?” Rachel’s eyes were filled with disbelief. “Accept the most logical explanation, Mallory. Ezra sabotaged this renovation to get attention. He was jealous of Hunter and me, and he tore this place apart to distract us.”
“Then there are no ghosts here, and Ezra must have been behind the hauntings. Now that we figured that out, Ezra’s probably been sabotaging things, so we should cancel the séance.”
“No!” Rachel toned down her voice and looked sheepish. “Just because Ezra was sabotaging things doesn’t mean there aren’t ghosts.”
You just don’t want to cancel your chance at being on TV.
I glanced around. The B and B was nearly finished, but a conservative estimate told me there was a whole week in store of painting and laying down tile and buffing and refinishing hardwood floors. The furniture wasn’t back yet. My voice echoed through the empty shell of a room. And we had three days, counting this one, until Whitney’s wedding.
“It’ll be okay.” Jesse had picked up on my worried vibes, and his already high voice reached almost falsetto range. “Let’s start now.”
We cracked open cans of paint in a gorgeous pistachio color. “Historically accurate and everything,” I chirped, trying to sound cheerful and encouraging. “Let’s see how much we can paint before the TV crew gets here.”
Jesse groaned. “I can’t believe you’re going through with that. All I ask is that they stay out of our way.”
Jesse, Rachel, Mom, and the new crew from the Senator painted and painted and painted, stopping for a quick lunch break around one. We’d barely made a dent when four vans emblazoned with HAUNTED HISTORIES rolled down the drive.
“Eeek! They’re here!” Rachel dropped her roller brush with a splat, and creamy-yellow paint for the library spread out in a circle on the floor. She wiped her hands on her parachute cargo pants.
“How do I look?” She flashed us a grin.
“Like you should keep painting,” Jesse drolly reminded her as he cleaned up her mess.
“Be right back.” She skipped out of the room. Rachel was waiting to be discovered and thought if she played her cards right, she could finagle a pastry reality show out of this TV crew visit.
“Mallory, thanks again.” Hunter strode into the room with an attitude of unadorned pride, and with Rachel and a man in tow.
“I’m Xavier Morris,” the man said smoothly. He was tall and thin, his angular cheeks highlighted by a gorgeous honey tan too perfect in October not to have been gained on some tropical vacation or more likely a tanning bed. His teeth were blindingly white, and his gray hair stood in gelled spikes. “Thank you for having Haunted Histories in your home. This is some house.” He blinked and took in the library, which was impressive with its two fireplaces and tin ceiling.
“Thank you.” I wiped some paint off my hand to give his a hearty shake.
“This could be perfect,” he mused, walking around the room and stopping to peer out the window at the vivid foliage. “Do you get a lot of snow?”
“Does a bear poop in the pot?” Jesse rolled his eyes. “Of course we do.”
Xavier stared at the giant man for a moment, then turned back to me.
“Dakota Craig is getting married this winter, and we’re scouting locations for her. For I Do.”
A tiny bubble of excitement percolated in my chest.
“The I Do?” I Do was a reality show based on D-listers’ weddings. It was unintentionally hilarious and had a great following. The fallen stars and starlets always married in gorgeous resorts, and though the show was more about prefabricated drama than wedding venues, the locations were featured well. I was sure the B and B and our wedding business would get a boost if we were on the show.
“The very one.” His teeth came back out and nearly knocked me out with their gleaming pearles-cence.
My sunglasses were in my purse or I’d have put them on to protect my eyes.
“And the Dakota Cra
ig?!” I tried to hide my excitement. Play it cool.
Dakota was the washed-up but endearing former teen actress from Silverlake High, a mean girls teen soap opera from my youth. She’d been making a comeback and last year played a small but critical part in a highly praised indie film, Roberta’s Bastard. There was Oscar buzz about her role, and she was the hottest thing at the moment: a teen starlet who’d fallen on hard times and risen from the ashes, phoenix-like in her late twenties, to recreate her career.
“Dakota was born here in Port Quincy, but her mother moved her to LA to star in commercials when she was three. I think this place has potential, and I can tell it’ll film well. I’ll run it by Dakota and Beau tonight.”
My heart did a loop-de-loop. Beau Wright was one of the most popular country music stars and engaged to Dakota Craig.
“That would be great,” I croaked. That’s smooth. “I mean, I’d love it if Dakota and Beau picked Thistle Park and took us up on our wedding-planning services for I Do.”
Xavier’s lips parted, and his teeth made another appearance, and he was gone, back with the crew in the van to set up for the séance.
“Ohmigodohmigodohmigod!” Rachel clasped my forearms, and the two of us jumped up and squealed.
“Can you believe it?! We might be featured on I Do.” All of Rachel’s excitement over a bit appearance on Haunted Histories vanished at the prospect of a longer, bigger feature on I Do.
Jesse shook his head and stared at our roller brushes, willing us to pick them up and start painting again.
* * *
Three hours later we were showered and in fresh clothes for filming the séance. Xavier had already ticked off Rachel by suggesting she change into something a bit more “low key,” and she’d hid her irritation until his back was turned, then flounced out in her glittery halter top and returned in a more sedate, if low-cut, scoop-necked T-shirt.
“I’m not so sure about Xavier.” Rachel settled into a worn-down chair.
We were all ensconced on the third floor in the living room of what was to be our apartment, next to the hallway nearest to the widow’s walk. It was a mess, and I was wistful we weren’t filming in one of the completed bedrooms, but Haunted Histories hadn’t been impressed with my knitting-needle paranormal experiences. At least the floor had been replaced in the third story.
“I’ve gotten my strongest readings here,” Hunter said to the host, Nigel Stone.
Nigel nodded and looked around the room. “The bedrooms downstairs are too small for the séance, but we’ll get some good shots here. Provided the ghosts show.” His clipped British accent expressed some skepticism, but Hunter seemed unfazed.
“This house has the clearest manifestations of ghosts I’ve ever encountered, and they’re ticked off about the renovations.”
I shivered at his confidence in the reason for the hauntings and hoped he wouldn’t be mad when he figured out I was trying to debunk them. Jesse had stayed to paint and was going to help me in my last-ditch effort to prove whether there were truly spirits here at Thistle Park, or if we were just victims of a cruel joke. Ezra was a skilled contractor who knew his way around electrical work and could have perpetrated the whole thing. Truman was concealed a few houses down the street in an unmarked car and was watching to make sure no one approached from the front of the house. Delilah was grumpily stationed in the doorway between the living room and the widow’s walk, and Hunter had given her his night-vision goggles. He didn’t know she was a double agent and thought she just wanted to catch some ghosts. Her role in debunking her idol, Hunter, hadn’t stopped Delilah from dressing up for the show. Jesse and the Senator Hotel contractors carried her and her scooter up to the third floor, and she wheeled into the room wearing an electric-blue, sequined dinner jacket, her inky hair piled atop her head in a dramatic bun. This séance had more glitter and razzmatazz than a beauty pageant.
“It’s go time, people!” Xavier clapped his hands, and the camera crew got into place.
“This is so fun!” Mom giggled and settled into her chair. She turned to Hunter expectantly, as Xavier called, “Action!”
Hunter sat on a tall wingback chair, wearing his white Port Quincy Paranormal Society T-shirt. He clasped hands with his fellow ghost hunters. My sister settled with a pout in a chair five spaces away in the circle. She’d wanted to sit next to him to get into the shot, but Xavier wanted Hunter flanked by his fellow ghost hunters.
Dozens of candles flickered en masse on the battered coffee table in front of Hunter and threw long, dancing shadows up and down the walls and on the ghost hunters’ faces. Hunter touched several articles resting on a black felt cloth in front of him on the table: a hat that had belonged to Evelyn McGavitt that we’d dug out of storage, its once jaunty black and white swan feathers now a bit dusty, bent, and bedraggled; a lilac glass perfume decanter just like the one Tabitha had shown me a picture of at the Historical Society; and a photograph of Evelyn holding Keith’s grandmother, Sylvia.
It began to rain, and a bolt of lightning pierced the dark sky. A second later a crash of thunder ripped through the air, shaking the windows. The lights flickered, and Nigel looked up, impressed. Perhaps I wouldn’t need to do anything to prove whether there were ghosts or not.
“Couldn’t ask for better sound effects,” I heard my mother whisper over her shoulder to Jesse.
Xavier shot my mom a look, and she wiggled in her chair.
“Spirits from the beyond,” Hunter intoned, gathering his hands in front of him. He closed his eyes and dropped his voice an octave. “We’re here to talk to you. Who are you? What do you want?” He joined hands again with the ghost hunters flanking him.
The crew waited patiently in the semidarkness. They must be used to this. The show did ghost-hunting features in historical buildings, and editing probably heightened what passed for paranormal activity: shots of shadows moving, strange lights and orbs, and objects moved and knocked off of surfaces.
So when the sibilant whisper slithered through the air to reach our ears, the crew nearly jumped out of their skin.
“Evelyn . . . ,” the disembodied voice sighed, just barely audible because of our intense concentration.
Xavier’s eyebrows shot up, and I nodded to Jesse. The big man was surprisingly light on his feet and disappeared down the hall to the back stairs. No one noticed, as their heads were all trained in the direction the voice had emanated from.
Hunter’s eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.
This is real, or he’s an exemplary actor.
“Evelyn McGavitt, are you with us? What do you want? What has disturbed you?”
We all waited with bated breath, and I scooted forward in my chair.
The newly installed electric fireplace blazed to life, the orange and red crackling flames surprisingly lifelike.
“Arrgh!” Rachel jumped up and broke the séance circle. She moved away from the fireplace and rubbed her arms, which were now covered in goose bumps.
“What the . . .” My gaze strayed to the remote control that powered the fireplace, still and unused on the edge of the coffee table.
“Get . . . out!” A gust of wet air blew into the room as the door to the widow’s walk blew open. The lights went out.
Rachel screamed, and there was a scuffle.
“Power’s completely out,” one of the cameramen lamented.
The lights blinked on in a flash, and Ezra ran through the room chasing someone.
“What’s he doing here?” Rachel stood and pointed to Ezra, who turned around and shot her an exasperated look.
“She’s getting away! Come on!”
“The ghost?” Hunter stood and bounded toward the hallway, in hot pursuit of his brother.
The two men jockeyed on the short flight of stairs, and we all crowded around them. While they pushed and shoved each other, we heard a scream and a sickening thud.
We all raced up the short flight of stairs to the roof and peered down from the widow’s walk.
Charity Jones lay on the ground, three stories down. The full skirt of her antique gown billowed out around her like a fan. The rain pattered softly on her face, which was frozen forever in a look of utter surprise. Her still hands twined around a useless sisal rope, and she stared up with lifeless eyes at the empty fire escape.
Rachel began to cry. Truman strode through the slick leaves on the front yard around to the side of the house, his face a grim, closed mask.
“Everybody get back inside. Now.” His eyes flickered up to the cameras trained on Charity. “And turn off the damn cameras.” He knelt to take her pulse.
“She’s gone.”
Chapter Eighteen
“She did special effects for Cirque du Soleil.” Truman delivered the news the next day.
“She wasn’t an acrobat?” Confusion registered on Rachel’s face, and I shook my head. “I guess she never claimed she was. She just insinuated, and we believed her.”
Jesse and his crew were busy removing the tiny microphones Charity had installed in the millimeter-wide gap the picture rails of the house provided. The subtle decoration feature allowed the former owners of the house to hook and hang wires from the gap, which looked like it sat flush against the ceiling but really provided just enough space for Charity’s theatrics.
“We found walkie-talkies and transistors in her house.” Truman looked as amazed as I’m sure I did. “All she had to do was wait to see your lights go on, or off, stand in the garden or at the side of the house, and turn on her ghostly effects. That night she huffed over here and gave us a talking to? It was all an act. She’d just locked everyone in their rooms, then slipped out.” Truman shook his head. “She also had notes about the history of this house and its inhabitants. Tabitha remembered her spending some time with the files at the Historical Society.”
“What about the smells?”
“Your olfactory hallucinations?” Truman leaned forward. “She had lilac water in spritz bottles and probably snuck in to spray them when you were sleeping. She was coming and going via a rope tied to the fire escape. That way she could avoid the security system on the first floor doors and windows. She must’ve dropped that handkerchief you found on the roof by accident and then snuck in to take it back from your bedside table. She wasn’t a professional acrobat, but she was a yoga teacher and strong and limber. She climbed up the rope and shimmied down, and you were all none the wiser.”
Murder Wears White Page 21