by J. D. Robb
“You said my house stinks.”
“Ah, but think of the deterrent effect. Who wants to buy a house that smells like death?”
“That’s true.”
“I like that he capitalized Death,” Henry said. “You know, this is a very good article, all things considered.”
“I told you it would be.”
“Compared to a few other things I’ve had written about me, it’s a puff piece.”
“A puff piece?”
“Journalism term, I believe. I liked Hersh—he seems like a good fellow.”
“He is.”
“And I didn’t get the impression he’s a fool.”
“No.” She understood the question Henry was implicitly asking. “I admit, he’s also a friend. He knows what this means to me. Otherwise . . . you’re right, he might not have treated the author of ‘Examinations of the Metanormal with Scientific Proofs of the Odic Force’ quite so gently.”
She folded the paper and set it aside. “So. I call phase one a smashing success, don’t you? And phase two has already been set in motion, because today I received—”
“Angiolina.”
“Yes?”
“Angiolina,” he repeated, slowly, drawing out the ridiculous number of vowels. It didn’t sound silly when he said it. “An unusual name.”
“One of my mother’s fancies. She admired Angiolina Cordier, the French opera singer.”
“How interesting.”
That was how he charmed her, by looking directly into her eyes and saying, How interesting, as if he’d never said anything truer in his life. “Oh,” she said lightly, “you don’t know the half.”
“Tell me.”
“Should I?”
He had such an innocent face for a charlatan. And smiling made him even handsomer when it compelled that dimple on the side of his mouth. “Why not?”
“Oh, well,” she said—backtracking, now that she was going to tell him—“it’s not that interesting. She was a singer, my mother, as well as a dancer and an actress. And my father owned and managed”—she took a deep breath—“Wild Johnny Darlington’s Traveling Musical Theatre Extravaganza.”
Henry was speechless.
She laughed at his thrilled, amused, fascinated face—just what she’d wanted. No judgment, no veiled horror. Those she was used to.
“He fought in the Union cavalry during the war, and afterward I guess Paulton wasn’t exciting enough to come home to, so he joined a Wild West show and rode horses and shot guns and things. After a time, he formed his own theatrical company. He and my mother met when he hired her to play Eva in a musical version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Henry shook his head in awe. “Where were you born?”
“Where? In Wood River, Illinois. Wild Johnny’s had an engagement in St. Louis, but they never quite made it because I came a day early.” She smiled, thinking of all the times she’d heard her mother or her father tell the story, much embellished, of her untimely arrival. Even at birth, she’d been an inconvenience.
“So you grew up in a theatrical troupe?”
“Partly. Half the time I traveled with the company; the other half I stayed here with my grandparents.”
“Two different worlds.”
“Completely different.” His instant understanding prompted her to elaborate. “My parents never really planned to have a child. I’m not saying they weren’t fond of me, but in some ways they were children themselves, and I—well, I spoiled the wonderful party they’d been having.”
“So they sent you away.”
“But I was always longing to come home. My grandparents had their quirks, yes, but Willow House was a monument to peace and stability compared to—”
“A traveling musical theatre extravaganza.”
“Exactly. They used to try to put me in productions—once I had to play Little Nell! But I was no actress, as everyone soon realized, plus I was plain instead of beautiful, so that was the end of that. Thank God.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Henry said, eyeing her interestedly. “I can see you in both worlds.”
He must be remembering the dancing ghost. About whom the less said the better. “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “This is what I’m suited for, this is what I want—my little town, my independence, my music students. And my house,” she added, punching her fist into her hand. “I want my home back.”
“You’ll get it. When we’re through, no one will want to come near your smelly old house. Your cousin will offer it to you for a dollar.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll have to rehabilitate it. Can you exorcise ghosts as well as detect them?”
“You forget, I’m the president of the World Society for Harmonial Inspi-Rationality. I can do anything.”
“I almost believe you.”
He made a face, pretending to be hurt by almost. “You were about to tell me about phase two,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes.” She found her pocketbook and took Lucien’s folded note from it. “We’ve been invited to my cousin’s house for dinner!”
“You don’t say. I could’ve sworn he didn’t like me.”
“I’m sure he detests you—he’s not that fond of me either—but this is really a dinner to pacify Mrs. Grimmett. She’s the key to everything, Henry, even more than an article in the Republic . If we can convince her Willow House is haunted, we’ll be home free.”
“Literally. So she’s that powerful?”
“She’s the gatekeeper to Paulton society—and don’t you dare say ‘such as it is.’ ”
“Never.”
“She only deigns to notice me because she’s also the president of the Paulton Garden Club, where my grandmother was worshipped as a goddess.”
“When is this dinner?”
“Saturday night. So I was wondering, do you, um, have a . . . ”
“A good suit?” he guessed.
She put her hand on his sleeve. “I’m sorry to ask, but it’s bound to be formal. Edwardia never misses a chance to show off her jewelry.” Now, that was a catty thing to say. What was it about Henry that made her want to skip past reticence, a lifetime of it, and tell the truth?
“Edwardia?”
She loved the way he pronounced that name, too. “My cousin’s wife. She’s . . . well, you’ll see.”
“You’re frightening me. And yes, I can probably muster up some duds that won’t embarrass you.”
“It’s not me—”
“I know.” He smiled with his whole face. “I know it’s not you,” he said, and she was caught up in the warmth of that smile, those guileless eyes that seemed to say, I like you. I admire you.
She pulled herself together. “Ordinarily I’d ride my bicycle, but since this is formal, Lucien will send his buggy for me. But I don’t think we should go together, do you? We don’t want to look like a team.”
“No, indeed. Although we are.”
If he’d reached out just then, she’d have taken his hand. That’s how lost to discretion she was. “Good, it’s settled,” she said briskly and got up. “Seven o’clock, Saturday evening.”
He stood, too. “But perhaps we should meet before then. Lunch tomorrow?”
“Oh—do you think we should?”
“For planning purposes.”
“Ye-es, I suppose. We want to be on—”
“The same page,” they finished together. “Shall we say noon at Grogan’s again?” Henry asked.
Walking back to Mrs. Mortimer’s, the thought crossed Angie’s mind that having lunch in public twice in three days might send a message that they were a team even more than sharing a ride to Lucien’s would. But, oh well; business was business; first things first. The important thing was, she’d be seeing him again tomorrow instead of the next day. For planning purposes.
Eight
The home of Lucien and Edwardia Darlington was big, pretentious, and hot. So hot, the Darlingtons and their guests were having their before-dinner sherries outside in the “folly.”
The perfect name, thought Henry, for this domed, concrete thing supported by Doric columns and overlooking a nondescript field—pasture, really—on the outskirts of Paulton. He was sweating under his stiff white collar and necktie. He grabbed another glass of seltzer water from the tray of a passing maid and thought wistfully of the “oscillating fan” in the living room at Willow House. Angie had built it with a sewing machine motor and a wooden paddle. A little noisy, but otherwise quite a miraculous creation. She should patent it.
He liked watching her as she leaned against a column and chatted with her friends the Hershes, Walker and Norah. Fresh as a crocus she looked in a white linen dress—a subtle tribute to the dancing ghost? He could imagine that tickling her sense of humor. She laughed at something Walker said, and Henry smiled in sympathy, wishing he were with them, over there instead of over here. With Mrs. Grimmett.
“So exciting to think we have our very own haunted house right here in Paulton,” she was saying in her flutey bray, her face animated but not always visible because of the shifting angle of an ostrich plume attached to the bosom of her gown. She had iron-gray hair coiled in loops around her ears, like small animal appendages. “My own house has a cold spot, a definite cold spot, Mr. Cleland, right under the bay window in the library, and of course Chester says it’s a draft, but I remind him that the builder is dead, isn’t he, a Mr. Clyde Stottlewort of Boston, and I don’t see why it’s not possible that he’s come back to one of his creations, if not to haunt it, then perhaps merely for a visit. Have you ever heard of such a phenomenon?”
That called for an actual answer, not a “Well said!” or “Very astute,” with which he’d been deflecting Mrs. Grimmett for the last few minutes. What a dismal insight: that he knew her type so well, he could respond to most of what she said in his sleep.
“Indeed I have,” he said, leaning in confidentially. “Most people don’t notice, but these aural areas,” a term he invented on the spot, “are more common than you might imagine. And yet, only the very, very sensitive can discern them.”
“So true,” she simpered, “so very true. I know you’ll want to come to my house and experience the phenomenon yourself.”
He was saved from a commitment to visit Mrs. Grimmett’s cold spot by the arrival of the Darlington children, Lucien Jr. and Little Eddie, come to say good night. Angie had told him she would “rather die” than be their nursemaid or nanny or governess or anything else whatsoever—all posts she’d been offered by Cousin Lucien after her grandparents passed away. A tepidly handsome offer, he’d thought, depending on how you looked at it. Angie looked at it with horror. “Wait until you meet them,” she’d said.
Well, no one could claim they were attractive children, since the family resemblance had unfortunately gone cross-gender; the little girl looked like her thickset father and the little boy like his bloodless wisp of a mother. Otherwise, they seemed all right.
But then, after the joky introductions and condescending baby talk were out of the way and no one but Henry was looking at them, Lucien Jr. poked Little Eddie in the eye with his toy soldier, and Little Eddie retaliated by shoving Lucien Jr. down the two steps from the folly to the gravel path. Shrieking, wrestling, and hair-pulling ensued, leaving the combatants bloody, dusty, and vowing revenge.
Over the heads of the intervening parents, nanny, and servants, Angie caught Henry’s eye. You see? her expression asked. He made a terrified face and nodded back. I see.
“May I?” Walker Hersh asked, waving the lit end of a cigarette at him.
“Be my guest.” Henry held still while Walker flicked ash into the collapsible brass receptacle clipped to his lapel—Angie’s grandfather’s “traveling pocket ashtray,” patent pending. Henry was wearing it to please her, but it turned out to be a lot more useful than he’d thought.
Walker was about forty, according to Angie, but he looked older. He had narrow, slumping shoulders, tired eyes, and an air of amiable distraction that hid, Henry suspected, a shrewd and canny mind. “Norah and I used to want a big family,” he said in a wistful voice, watching the Darlington children being led away, still caterwauling.
Henry smiled. “It’s a good idea in theory.”
“I’ve got four brothers and two sisters. You?”
“Just a brother. Three years younger.” A straight answer, and it felt good. How long since he’d told the truth about himself to anyone? Under other circumstances, he could imagine Walker Hersh and himself becoming friends.
“I see you’re a smoking but not a drinking man,” Walker said, lighting his cigarette for him.
“True,” Henry said. “Nowadays.”
“But not always?”
“Not always.”
“Well, good for you while it lasts. Drink’s a ruinous thing,” Walker said, slugging down the rest of the sherry in his glass. “Runs like a river through my profession.”
“Does it?” Henry said innocently.
“Oh, yes. Something about newspapering just seems to bring on a powerful thirst.” He kept his tone humorous and impersonal, but Henry thought he saw something in the other man’s eyes. A spark of knowledge. A hunch.
Relax, he told himself. Hersh was no fool: why wouldn’t he have doubts about a strange man in town whose alleged profession was investigating ghosts? Henry was getting complacent, that was the problem. That, and Paulton had too many seductive attractions. Like Angiolina Darlington. The solution was easy—be more careful. Especially around agreeable, sensible, clever Walker Hersh.
Mrs. Grimmett dominated conversation at the dinner table, holding forth on a lot of subjects, including her view of xenoglossis (trance speaking in tongues). Henry valued any chance he got to speak to Norah Hersh, the lady on his other side, an attractive brunette as neat and tidy as her husband was disheveled. They said polite things to each other about the unseasonably early heat, how he was finding life in Paulton, if he’d dined at the Gryphon House yet. Then Mrs. Hersh leaned in and said in a low voice, “I count Angie as one of my closest friends.”
He replied that he knew that, and started to say something about how lucky both ladies were in their friendships. She interrupted him.
“Angie doesn’t have very many friends. That may surprise you, but think about it. She had the most unconventional upbringing imaginable, and some in this town regard it as nothing less than scandalous.” She lowered her voice another degree. “Certain people, I think you can surmise who, treat her as if she’s not quite respectable—they hold her at a distance.”
“I can imagine that,” he said slowly.
“On the other hand, people with not as much . . . social status to uphold find her the delight she is—and yet they, too, keep her at arm’s length, because they think she’s not one of them. Do you see what I mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Most people are kind, but each . . . class, if you will, believes she belongs to the other. So she’s betwixt and between. And, therefore, often neglected. You think she’s self-sufficient, that she revels in her independence—and she is, she does, but that doesn’t mean she’s not lonely. Why else would she want to hold on to Willow House so badly?”
Henry was silent, his mind churning.
“I’m telling you these things for two reasons, Mr. Cleland. One, because despite all the evidence to the contrary, you don’t seem like a dishonest person.”
He put his fork down and stared at her.
“Two, consider it a warning. If you do anything to hurt my friend, I’ll pay you back. I don’t know how, but I promise you won’t get away scot-free.”
He could think of absolutely no response. He felt angry, guilty, misjudged, enlightened. Across the table, Angie was saying something to gloomy-faced Chester Grimmett that actually made him laugh. She glanced over at Henry and smiled with her eyes, friendly, sweet, conspiratorial. How are we doing?
A rush of affection seized him, a palpable twist in his chest. He wanted to excuse himself, go somewhere and think—but Mrs. Grimm
ett was soliciting his views on what the Bible had to say about ghosts. Unbelievably, he was up to speed on that, and could cite 1 Samuel 28 and Job 4:15 for her.
For Cousin Lucien, who had been making subtly skeptical faces and scoffing noises whenever Henry said a word, that was the last straw. “Sir!” he burst out. “Do you really claim justification for this—this nonsense in the Scriptures? I know many people who would find that offensive.”
“The Scriptures say what they say,” Mrs. Grimmett pronounced, as if that settled it.
If Lucien had been paying more attention to her tone, it would have. “Indeed they do,” he retorted, “but Satan is wily. He has it in his power to easily fool the senses of the weak and the credulous.”
A thunderous silence fell.
Lucien quailed, realizing his error too late. A purple vein in his forehead began to throb.
But there was no explosion. Mrs. Grimmett merely pruned her lips at him and made a suggestion.
“Fortunately, there’s no need to argue this matter in the abstract. We have an actual edifice, a structure that appears to be the habitat of spirits from the Other Side.”
“We have a haunted house,” Angie simplified.
“Hypothetically haunted,” Henry said mildly. “More research is required.” With Angie as the true believer, he could afford to be the objective one, the scientist.
“Have you ever attended a séance?” Mrs. Grimmett asked him.
“Oh, yes, many times.”
“Have you ever conducted one yourself?”
“Yes, indeed. Many times.”
“Excellent.” She rubbed her jeweled hands together. “Then I propose we have a séance at Willow House, as soon as possible, to lay this matter to rest. I’ve heard that the optimum number of attendees at a séance should be divisible by three—is that true, Mr. Cleland?”
“Why, yes. Ideally.” His casual gaze locked with Angie’s for a split second. She was trying to look interested instead of jubilant—so was he. What luck! According to their plan, whoever got the most natural, least contrived-seeming opportunity to bring up the idea of a séance was the one who should broach it first. And now Mrs. Grimmett had done it for them!