“She has an Edison phonograph? Are you sure it was an Edison?” She sounded agitated.
“It was in the parlor. She even demonstrated it for me. Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s probably nothing, but several months ago, Richard brought an Edison phonograph home from a house he was selling to settle an estate. He told me the deceased homeowner was a distant relative of Edison’s and that there were several mementos of the inventor in the house. He said he brought the phonograph home because he thought Mark would be interested in seeing it. Then he took it back, so it could be sold at the estate auction. Now, I can’t help wondering if …”
“If Richard gave it or sold it to Sylvia?”
“Yes. After seven years of marriage to a congenital liar, suspicions pop easily to mind. Come to think of it, it was right after that that he started dropping Edison’s name into conversations.”
“How so?”
“Oh, he’d make little comments about what a genius the man was. Hinting that Edison had invented things no one knew about. Stuff like that. Tori, I’ll bet Edison’s the subject of the research he’s doing to get into the Historical Society.”
“Jeez, Alice-Ann, you don’t think he’s dumb enough to think no one else knows that Edison invented the phonograph?” That made us both laugh.
As we continued down the footpath, Alice-Ann said, “I’ll bet he found something valuable in that house and kept it.”
“Then I wonder why Sylvia wanted this information from the library?”
“Maybe she and Richard are hatching up something together. That could be why she’s got the Edison phonograph. She’s as bad as he is about thinking she’s better than anyone else. I don’t know how her poor sister could stand living with her all these years. Rose is so quiet and modest and always content to remain in the background, while Sylvia is just the opposite. I think she’d rather be dead than not be the high-society leader of Lickin Creek.”
We arrived at the castle. A few cars were parked in the circular driveway but no other people were outside. Alice-Ann rang the bell, and we waited for several minutes before LaVonna opened the door. She was dressed even more strangely than before, in a light purple dress covered with chartreuse roses. Her skirt, unfashionable and unflattering, stopped at midknee, revealing black stockings, held up by old-fashioned rolled garters, and high-top sneakers. Strands of gray hair were escaping from her white net prayer bonnet.
“Come on,” she ordered curtly. Her mouth was pursed like a prune. “Never seen such goings-on in all my days. And on top of it, me with this whole house to redd up before that mystery thingamajig.”
“I’ll be glad to help you, if you like,” I told her, ignoring Alice-Ann’s exaggerated gasp of amazement. I admit house-cleaning is not one of my strong points, but it would give me a great opportunity to explore the castle.
“Well, that’s right nice. I sure need helped.” She stared pointedly at Alice-Ann as she spoke.
“I’ll help, too,” Alice-Ann said with little enthusiasm.
LaVonna accepted her offer with a nod of her head. Then she turned to me and spoke in a low voice as if she were afraid she’d be overheard. “When you’uns come over in the morning to clean, I have something I need to talk about. I don’t got no one to talk to anymore, now that my family’s all. Don’t say nothing to nobody.”
She spun around and started walking down the long, dark hall to the library, leaving us to follow or not, as we chose.
“What did she mean, her ‘family’s all’?” I asked Alice-Ann.
“Just another colloquialism. It means ‘all gone.’ “
I jumped a little, startled by a soft, rustling sound coming from behind the heavy draperies that closed off one of the parlors. Mice, I shuddered. I hate mice. That’s one reason I love cats.
Only a few lamps were lit in the library, and the bulbs were so dim that the corners of the room were in darkness. Heavy wine-colored velvet drapes were drawn to keep out any light from outside. A small fire in the stone fireplace cast dancing shadows on the antique Persian carpet. The fire had obviously been lit to create a certain ambience, since the temperature outside was in the high eighties. With no air coming through the closed windows, and the fire blasting its heat into the room, it was, in teen jargon, “the room from hell.”
CHAPTER 9
In the center of the library stood a large, round mahogany pedestal table, with lion’s-paw feet. Thirteen oak chairs, carved to resemble thrones, were placed around it. Some were already occupied by some very serious-looking individuals, most of whom I recognized from the previous night. The judge was there, as were the Seligmans. And Michael, naturally. I was stunned to see Twanya Tweedy.
Alice-Ann caught her breath sharply at the sight of the secretary, but gamely kept a smile on her face as she sat down at the table.
Sylvia Thorne entered the room, took a look at the book I handed her, and thrust it back at me. “I’ve already read it,” she said curtly. “You can take it back.”
“You’re quite welcome,” I muttered under my breath as I dropped the book into my pocketbook. Michael’s eyes were twinkling with amusement as he motioned to me to sit next to him.
“She has her good qualities, but politeness is not one of them,” he whispered with a chuckle.
On my right side sat an Asian man, who appeared to be around fifty years old. I had seen him here last night but hadn’t actually spoken with him.
Sylvia said, “Victoria, allow me to introduce you. This is our mayor, Prince Somping.”
To cover my surprise, I extended my hand. “How do you do?”
“Sabaydi bo,” he said with a mischievous smile, shaking my hand enthusiastically.
Judge Parker, who as usual appeared to be asleep, opened his eyes and said, “Speak English, Mayor. We all know you can.”
I ignored the judge. “Kopchai sabaydi.”
All heads turned to stare at me in astonishment. The mayor, still holding my hand, seemed to have an asthma attack.
I continued, enjoying myself. “Khoy pak phasa lao day laknoy.”
“I’ll be damned,” said the judge. “What the hell is all this about?”
“I simply told him I spoke a little Lao. Learned it when I was a kid,” I explained.
The mayor pulled himself together. “What a great pleasure it is to meet an American who speaks my language. And such a wonderful writer, too. I just read your book, Miss Miracle, and found it fascinating.”
“I find you fascinating, too. Are you really a prince?”
“I was a prince in Laos. When the Communists seized control of the government in 1975, they deposed the royal family. After several years of near star-
vation, I escaped across the Mekong River, where I spent a number of unpleasant years in a refugee camp in northern Thailand. Eventually, I was sponsored by a missionary group to come to this beautiful country. They found a kind family here in Lickin Creek willing to take me in until I was able to support myself.”
Judge Parker snorted. “The guy was absolutely useless. He’d never had anything to do back in Laos. Then Mayor Buchanan died, and it occurred to us that there was a good job for him. All he has to do is cut ribbons at supermarket openings and go to parties. With his background, he’s perfect for the job.”
“Only in America,” sighed the mayor-prince with a smile.
“Perhaps I knew some of your relatives. When did you leave Laos?” I asked.
“It is too painful for me to talk about,” he said with a long, sad face.
“I’m sorry. Kfoo thot.”
“Bo pen yang” he said, using that wonderful Lao phrase that means everything from “you’re welcome” to “it doesn’t matter.”
A stern-faced man in his early forties stretched his arm across the mayor and shook my hand. “I’m Dr. Jones. Call me Meredith.”
There were still two empty seats at the table.
“Where’s Richard?” Sylvia asked Alice-Ann.
Before she c
ould reply, the judge mumbled, “Probably busy conning somebody out of their life savings.”
While we waited, I had time to notice that both Sylvia and Rose were dressed in black, Victorian mourning dresses, with long, full skirts and high-necked, long-sleeved blouses that must have been suffocating in the heat of the room. At their throats they each wore one of those disgusting gold pins that contain braided hair from dead people. They also wore black kid gloves. They might have raided the attic looking for their idea of proper garb for a seance, but I had a nagging suspicion that they dressed like this on a regular basis. If it got any hotter in the room, I could picture them melting away like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy threw the water on her, leaving little heaps of black clothing on their chairs.
Sylvia rapped on the table for attention. “Before Praxythea arrives,” she said, “I’d just like to remind you all that she is a well-respected psychic who has worked with many police departments on numerous cases. I have asked her here to help us solve a very old mystery.”
She paused for dramatic effect. “Tonight, we hope to learn who murdered the first Sylvia Thorne and to discover the whereabouts of her fabulous diamond, Sylvia’s Star.”
Alice-Ann caught my eye and made a face as if she were smelling a crock of shit, which was just what I thought of this whole seance idea. Sitting in a stifling, almost airless room, trying to solve a murder that had happened about a hundred and thirty years ago, was not my idea of a fun evening.
I sensed a slight movement of air behind me, and I smelled the spicy scent of carnations. The twelfth
member of our group gracefully moved into view and sat in the empty chair between Sylvia and Rose Thorne.
“My friends, allow me to present Praxythea Evan-gelista.” Sylvia was trying much too hard to sound grandly dramatic. She then introduced each of us.
Praxythea looked at me, and I felt as though I might drown in the emerald green sea of her eyes. She was absolutely the most stunning woman I had ever seen, on or off a movie screen. Her dark red hair was piled high on her head and surrounded her perfect face like a soft cloud, while several curling tendrils escaped to lie softly on her white, unblemished shoulders.
I think she was tall, but she was so ethereal that she made me feel like a giant klutz. She wore something long and black and so sheer that it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. This woman had probably never even heard of control-top panty hose. Her only jewelry was an enormous emerald and diamond ring she wore on the index finger of her right hand.
She spoke to me softly—intimately. “Tori Miracle. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. Your book about the Mark Twain house was outstanding. It shows that you have remarkable understanding of the occult and the powers of darkness. You must be very proud.”
Actually, I was, but modesty kept me from saying so. I shyly murmured my thanks, hating myself for sounding more like a schoolgirl than a published author.
The emerald green eyes turned to Alice-Ann, and a tiny frown line appeared on the perfect forehead.
“You have great sadness in your heart. Perhaps I shall be able to help you.”
Sylvia was smirking with pleasure, but I didn’t think it took much psychic ability to tell that Alice-Ann was miserable. Bags under her red, swollen eyes were a pretty sure giveaway.
“It is getting late,” Praxythea said. “Let us begin.”
There was still one empty chair.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Richard?” Sylvia asked.
Praxythea shook her head. “We don’t have to have thirteen people. Besides, I detest tardiness. Will someone please take the extra chair away?”
Michael moved one of the thrones, and the rest of us scooted around a little to fill in the gap.
Praxythea placed both hands on the table, palms down. For the first time, I noticed a Polaroid photograph lying on the table. The subject was out of focus, but I recognized it as the painting of the first Sylvia, the one Richard had hung in the parlor the evening before.
“First let me explain how I work,” Praxythea said softly. “When I concentrate on something, I get a clear mental picture in my mind of the subject. I see people and locations in color, just as you would see a picture on a TV set. I see dead people and communicate with them in some way, although they don’t actually talk to me. Now, I want you all to help me by concentrating on the photograph.”
We all stared intently at the Polaroid.
“Please clear your minds. You must be open and receptive to any attempts at communication.”
The more I tried to clear my mind, the more my
attention wandered. By now, my eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, and I noticed a black box, about two feet long by a foot wide, sitting on the floor in the farthest corner of the room, looking terribly out of place. It hadn’t been there yesterday when I’d visited the library with Rose. A tiny ruby-red dot, like the tip of a lit cigarette, glowed on the top. I wondered if it was a tape recorder.
My thoughts were interrupted when Praxythea whispered, “Hold hands. Don’t let go under any circumstances.”
She closed her eyes, and we sat for a long time, holding hands, watching Praxythea’s sexy breasts rise and fall rhythmically.
My hands were starting to sweat, and I was wondering if I could pull away for just a moment to blot them on my lap when Praxythea startled us all by inhaling sharply.
Her face suddenly contorted as if she were in great pain, and her long, bloodred fingernails were digging hard into the gloved hands of the Thorne sisters on either side of her. Although her eyes were still closed, I got the distinct impression that she was staring at something far away.
Then we heard her voice, coming as if from a great distance: “Ask your questions. But do it quickly for I cannot stay here long.”
She was good. This was most impressive. She’d probably gotten started with one of those ads that used to be in the back of comic books: learn ventriloquism and astound your friends.
The room was growing cold; the ridiculous fire must have finally died down. I shivered and wished I’d brought a sweater with me.
Then a crackling sound from the fireplace caught my attention, and I saw that the fire was actually burning more furiously than before. Still, the room temperature continued to drop.
I felt as though I were trapped in a tangle of cobwebs. The room became so dark, I might as well have been trying to see through deep, murky water. The others seemed to be moving away from me, although I could still feel their hands holding on to mine.
My heart almost stopped beating; this was it—the fear, total and absolute—that I’d felt once before, the day I stood alone in the Marie Twain house in Greenwich Village, where unspeakable horrors had gone unchecked for generations. That was when I learned that there was an evil so strong it could become a physical presence.
Praxythea laughed, an unpleasant sound. “Ask your questions. Your time is flying faster than you know.”
Although a cold wind blew through the room, nothing moved.
I clung tightly to Michael’s hand, feeling I would lose my sanity or my life. Nobody could survive this terror twice in one lifetime. The air currents wrapped around my body, touching my breasts, caressing my face, pushing up between my legs. For a moment I surrendered to the pleasure, then gagged with disgust as I realized what was going on.
“Please don’t touch me,” I whispered softly. “I can’t bear it again.” To my surprise, it stopped.
From far away, I heard Sylvia’s voice. “Do you know where Sylvia’s Star is?”
“It is with her murderer.”
“Who murdered her?”
“A friend.”
“Who?”
“The dead have no names.”
“Can you see the diamond? Where is it?”
“In the darkness by the edge of running water.”
“Can you communicate with the murderer? Ask him where the diamond is?”
“It is not possible. There are no gh
osts here.”
Sylvia’s voice became shrill. “There have to be ghosts here. Aren’t there always ghosts when there are violent deaths? What about Sylvia? And my father? Maybe others who died here during the Civil War? Where are their entities? Edison said entities live forever.”
“There are no ghosts here,” Praxythea repeated, and opened her eyes. The wind stopped immediately, and the room began to warm up. The gray, gauzelike web that had covered me was gone.
She smiled prettily. “It was so dark. I’ll have to try again.”
Sylvia jerked her hand away and rubbed the spots where Praxythea’s sharp red fingernails had almost dug through her glove.
“She said there are no ghosts here.” Sylvia sounded indignant. “You’d think with all the violent deaths we’ve had, we’d have a whole damn gaggle of ghosts.” She seemed more upset about finding out her home wasn’t haunted than she was about not learning where the diamond was.
I looked around. There was nothing in the room to cause the fright I’d felt. It was just your average castle library: books on shelves where they belonged, dusty knickknacks on marble-top tables, and the dying embers of a fire.
“Quite a show she puts on,” Michael said to me.
“Are you sure it’s just a show?”
“What else could it be? You’ll notice she didn’t give out any information we didn’t already know. It’s hardly a surprise that Sylvia’s murderer stole the diamond. Even Inspector Clouseau could figure that one out.”
“But the cold …and the wind?”
He had a puzzled expression on his face. “I didn’t notice,” he said, and my blood turned icy in my veins. Could I have been the only one to experience the horror that had just occurred in this room? I looked at the others. None of them seemed particularly upset, except perhaps for Sylvia, who was still grumbling about the absence of ghosts.
I was about to ask the princely mayor what he thought of it all when we were startled by the sound of the doorbell.
1 Death Pays the Rose Rent Page 10