Brainert hesitated a moment, then answered. "Evil spirits. Demons from hell. That sort of thing."
Harlan Gilman leaned forward on his cane. "I have a bad feeling about this."
In silence, everyone gazed down at the weird design. I dropped to one knee beside Brainert.
"What are these symbols?" I asked. "They look familiar."
"Astrological signs. You see them every day in the paper.
"Oh, yes, I see."
He pointed. "And over there, those are the Greek symbols for alpha and omega."
"It looks like these designs were carved into the wood and then painted."
Brainert gingerly touched the edge of the circle, then sank his index finger into the groove. "No, it's not painted. I think it's burned in."
"Burned?" My aunt gasped. "How?"
"By Hell's fire—wooo-woooo," Gilman said in a spooky voice.
"Cut the crap, Gilman," Bud said. With one arm, he hugged my aunt's narrow shoulders. "The design was made with a wood burner, honey. Satan had nothing to do with it."
"How old is this?" Brainert wondered aloud. "I suppose that it's possible Miss Todd didn't even know what was under her rug."
I rubbed my own finger inside a groove and it came away clean. "You're no housewife, Brainert. Look, there's no dust. And candles have been burned here." I pointed to dollops of melted black wax at each point of the star, then rubbed the wax with my thumbnail. "Recently. The wax is still soft."
"Ah ... Listen, guys," Seymour said. "I saw this design somewhere else in the house, besides the wrought-iron fence out front, I mean—"
The doorbell rang, its bing-bong startling everyone.
"I'd better get that," Seymour said. He glanced down at the magic circle. "Cover that up, please!"
Seymour headed off to the foyer and Fiona reached for the carpet. I stopped her and pulled my cell phone out of my pants pocket. After snapping several images of the circle from different angles, I helped Fiona cover it up again.
A minute later, Seymour returned holding a black bottle with a velvet ribbon around its neck. At his side was that intense young woman who'd manned the front desk at Emory Stoddard's run-down law office.
"Hey, everyone, I'd like you to meet Ophelia Tuttle. Ms. Tuttle works for my lawyer."
Tonight Ophelia Tuttle wore a form-fitting sleeveless dress of crimson silk. Her dark hair was piled on her head and held in place by a gold clasp in the shape of a scarab. Around her long neck she wore a choker of black velvet. Her sophisticated hair, low-cut dress, black polished fingernails, bloodred lipstick, dark eye shadow, and heavy black liner beneath severe rimless glasses contrasted dramatically with Ophelia's pale complexion and obvious youth. I saw more than a few of Seymour's male friends take immediate notice.
I noticed one other thing about her—a very important thing. With her glossy raven hair in an upsweep, I could now see the shape of the tattoo on her upper arm. It was a gold ankh, just like the ankh ring Stoddard had been wearing.
Was it pure coincidence? Or had she gotten the tattoo because of Stoddard's ring? Had she given him the ring? Either way, it seemed to me Miss Todd's lawyer and his assistant were more than employer and employee.
"And what's she doing here anyway?" I silently wondered.
The mailman invited her, remember?
"I remember, Jack, but he invited her to come with Stoddard. I don't see him, do you? As far as I know, Miss Tuttle doesn't live on Larchmont and she only met Seymour the other day. Why would she come alone?"
Maybe she's charmed by the size of Seymour's, uh... property.
My eyes narrowed. "Which makes her a suspect, right? In fact, now that I think about it, didn't Ophelia Tuttle leave Stoddard's office before anyone else the other night? As far as she knew, Seymour would be driving himself home in his VW bus."
You 're right, doll. Ghoul Girl was in the perfect position to have sabotaged those brakes.
"That's the opportunity—but what about a motive?"
Think about it, baby. I count at least two.
"You're right. If Miss Todd's sister wanted Seymour dead, then Ophelia Tuttle is in one of the best positions to help her do the dirty work. That's one. As for two: Ophelia's working for Mr. Stoddard. And it was Stoddard who appeared to be pushing for Seymour to sell this place to the Lindsey-Tilton group for their bed-and-breakfast plan."
The slip-and-fall jockey would get a big, fat commission for handling that sale, wouldn't he?
"Yes, which means Stoddard could be in on it, too. In fact, it could be a little conspiracy on the part of the estranged sister—"
Sure, kill the old lady and make sure the sucker she left her property to also ends up six feet under.
"It's a solid theory, Jack. But how do we prove any of it?"
Just keep your pretty peepers peeled, baby. Criminals always give themselves away. You just need to set up some bait and wait for them to take it.
CHAPTER 15
Unexpected Guests
A bleak house ... a corpse ... and three suspects— that's the problem Detective Mike Hanlon faces!
—Teaser for "Hotel Murder," Steve Fisher, Thrilling Detective, 1935
"MR. STODDARD ASKED me to send his regards and his regrets," Ophelia announced to Seymour. "Business forced him to Newport, and he won't return until tomorrow."
"Sorry he couldn't make it." Seymour lifted the champagne bottle. "I'll have my bartender chill this. May I offer you something in the meantime?"
Ophelia pondered the question. "Green tea on ice with fresh lemon peel," she said at last.
"I... I think we have Lipton in bags."
The woman smiled. "That will be fine."
After Seymour scurried off to the kitchen to prepare the Lipton's tea, I kept a wary eye on Ophelia. A minute passed, then two, and no one approached her—even men who were clearly interested seemed intimidated by her powerful aura. Sadie offered Ophelia a fried mozzarella stick and she declined. I watched while they chatted a moment. Then my aunt moved on with the tray, and Ophelia began to slowly circle the room. I kept moving, too, feeling uneasy about the woman's ability to see my ghost.
Relax, doll. Even if she knows I exist, what can she do about it? Conduct an exorcism?
"Maybe. It does give me the creeps that she can see you, Jack. I mean, I can't even see you—unless I'm dreaming."
Aw, you're just jealous there's another dame out there who can appreciate my mug. And she ain't a bad looker, either, if you can get past the sailor tattoo and Cleopatra makeup.
"Well, if she can see you, maybe Ophelia can see other spirits. Maybe she summoned an evil spirit to frighten Miss Todd to death."
And how you gonna prove that to Chief Cornpone and company?
"I have no idea."
Ophelia paused in the center of the rug, where we'd found the hidden magic circle. The woman blinked in surprise. She stared at the rug under her heels. After a long moment, Ophelia scanned the faces in the room. Then she stepped right over the spot, in the middle of the circle, where Miss Todd's body was found.
I held my breath, waiting to see her reaction. Would the young woman feel the cold spot the way I did when I found Miss Todd's body?
It was obvious she didn't. After glancing at the faint bloodstains, Ophelia turned around and moved to another part of the room, where Seymour approached her with a tumbler of tea on ice. I moved close enough to eavesdrop.
"How do you like the place?" he asked.
Ophelia raised an eyebrow. "How do you like it, Mr. Tarnish? Have your nights been ... restful?"
Seymour seemed taken aback by her frank question. Not Harlan Gilman.
"He hasn't seen any ghosts yet, if that's what you mean." Tottering on his cane, the heavy man moved closer to the woman. "If you ask me, it's only a matter of time before he does." His tone was snappish.
Seymour shifted uncomfortably and shot Gilman a dark look. "Don't be stupid, Harlan."
Brainert edged closer to me. "I'm not surprised Har
lan's gone negative," he said quietly. "There's bad blood between him and Seymour since Seymour decided to move out."
Bad blood? Did you hear that, doll?
I frowned. "I thought maybe Seymour might reconsider the split and invite Harlan to move in, too."
Brainert shook his head. "Apparently Mr. Gilman took Ghostbusters and The Exorcist a. bit too seriously. He's heard the wild rumors about Miss Todd being frightened to death in this house, and he says he won't take any chances."
Ask him if ol’ Harlan is in acute need of lettuce. "Brainert, do you know if Harlan is having any money troubles?"
Brainert nodded. "I'm sure he is. With Seymour moving out, he's asked Hardy Miles to be his housemate. Hardy's still thinking about it, but I hear Harlan's got some serious credit card debt."
I didn't like the sound of that and I took a harder look at the fat man. Was that cane just a prop? Could Harlan really get around much easier than he was letting on? Could he have been the one to cut Seymour's brakes for, say, a cash payoff from Miss Todd's sister?
My gaze drifted to Ophelia, who appeared to be wringing the life out of her tumbler of green tea. "Don't discount your friend's opinion so fast," she told Seymour rather loudly. "This house could very well be haunted. It's not outside the realm of possibility."
Seymour looked at her askance. "Do you really think it is? Haunted, I mean?"
Ophelia scanned the room again. Her eyes lingered on me—or Jack, I couldn't be sure. I shifted from foot to foot.
Steady, baby.
"There are spirits present," Ophelia finally said with authority. "I'm not certain they are connected to the house, however."
While everyone within earshot began to murmur uneasily,
I sighed with relief. The last thing I needed was for Ophelia to accuse me of traveling around with my own personal ghost.
"Well," Seymour said, "until I actually see an apparition, call me a skeptic. I mean, what does an actual ghost look like, anyway?"
"Maybe like the spook on that hokey movie the other night. What was it called?" Leo scratched his beard. "The one on Channel Ten—"
"Oh yes, that was The Screaming Skull? Brainert said before catching himself. He looked away, but it was too late.
Harlan Gilman snorted. "You actually watched The Screaming Skull?"
"I... I was only flipping channels," Brainert stammered. "I just happened to see—"
Seymour cackled. "One of the cheesiest horror films ever made. The ghost is just a lot of dry ice and a cheap anatomical skeleton. And I mean cheap! You can actually see the wires holding it together, and the saw line across the forehead where you can remove the skull cap and look inside."
Everyone giggled. Everyone except Ophelia Tuttle.
"Of course it all looked rather silly in the movie," Ophelia said. "But I'm sure your reaction would be very different if you actually saw a screaming skull in your bedroom one dark night."
The laughter faded quickly.
Ghoul Girl here sounds like she's best friends with Skull and Bones—and I'm not talking Yalie social clubs.
The conversation went dead for a moment (appropriately enough) and then (mercifully) the doorbell rang again.
"I'd better get that," Seymour said, running off.
"Ophelia seems convinced this house is haunted," Brainert said quietly to me.
I gulped my drink. "Brainert, what exactly do you think about that sort of thing?"
"Well..Brainert stroked his chin. "Some of the greatest minds of Western civilization believed in the occult, even attempted to practice magic."
"Like?"
"The poet Virgil. He was said to possess supernatural abilities. Then there's John Dee, the English mathematician who was also the court astrologer for Queen Elizabeth the First. And did you know that Casanova, the legendary Renaissance lover, once summoned evil spirits inside the Coliseum? He wrote in his autobiography that malevolent ghosts followed him through the streets of Rome, bedeviling him for an entire night."
"Hear that, Jack?" I whispered.
Back off, babe. It wasn't me.
"Of course, that's just the ancient world," Brainert continued. "If you prefer more modern examples, there's the poet William Butler Yeats, who belonged to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, along with fellow scribblers Algernon Blackwood and Arthur Machen. Mark Twain was active in the Society of Psychical Research. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies and earth spirits and tried to communicate with them. And some of psychologist Carl Jung's writings about the collective unconscious could be mistaken for a mystical treatise."
"Really?"
"Oh, yes!"
For the next two minutes, my academic friend continued to talk—lecture, actually. The one-sided discussion included grimoires, alchemy, and highlights of the life story of Cornelius Agrippa.
I nursed my drink, which only slightly impaired my ability to follow his conversation. I do remember that at some point, Seymour swept back into the party like a Nor'easter hitting the Rhode Island shoreline.
"Everyone!" he announced with a huge grin on his face. "I'm pleased to introduce you to an unexpected guest. Ms. April Briggs."
All male eyes, once again, turned toward the new female arrival clinging tightly to the arm of Seymour's royal blue smoking jacket.
"Briggs," I silently repeated to myself. "Now why does that name ring a bell?"
Maybe she's a Feline Friend or a Yarn Spinner or one of the other half dozen groups of yakking dames you've got traipsing through my habitat.
"Oh, my God, Jack, I think I know who April Briggs is."
Who?
"There was an 'A. Briggs' who signed Miss Todd's funeral home guest book. No address, just the first initial and last name."
So she knew the old woman ?
"She must have. Why else would she have come to the funeral home!"
You better brace her then, doll, 'cause except for me, the spirits ain 7 talking in this haunted house and you need all the leads you can get.
Having lived in Manhattan, I immediately recognized April Briggs as an obvious come-from-money type. So chicly thin she could have been a poster child for Tom Wolfe's "social X-rays," she possessed matinee starlet teeth, high cheekbones, and long, model-straight blond hair—which may well have been brunette and kinky before the salon got finished with her. She had runway height, health-club muscular legs, and leather sandals that were hand-tooled in Italy or my son doesn't have red hair and freckles.
April's crepe party dress appeared to be designer quality. The turquoise color perfectly matched her eyes— which may or may not have been sporting contacts to enhance the electric blue-green shade. Her tasteful string of pearls gave off the whiff of money, too. The woman's appearance was so polished I had to get a bit closer before I could pinpoint her age, which (once I saw the fine lines around the edges of her mouth and eyes) I pegged at closer to fifty than forty.
"She's not old enough to be Miss Todd's sister," I whispered to Jack. "But she could still be related—a niece or cousin, some relative who has an interest in Seymour's inheritance."
Just then, an elderly woman strolled in. Her slender frame was elegantly sheathed in a finely tailored navy pantsuit of summer silk. Her eyebrows were lightly drawn in with pencil, her shoulder-length hair dyed a rich chestnut and smoothed into a neat ponytail, and a delicate black lace shawl was draped around her narrow but still-straight shoulders.
Dean Pepper approached her. "Ah, Mrs. Fromsette, how have you been?"
My eyebrows rose. "Jack, that must be the other woman who signed the book at Miss Todd's funeral: Mrs. Arthur Fromsette. She also wrote down a Larchmont Avenue address."
Though advanced in years, Mrs. Fromsette's blue eyes were bright and her movements vigorous. As Dean Pepper took the older woman's hand, I edged closer to the couple.
"I haven't seen you since, well..." His voice trailed off.
"Yes, Wendell, not since Mr. Fromsette's funeral. How are you, Professor? And how are thi
ngs at Mr. Fromsette's alma mater?"
"Very well, thank you. And as always, St. Francis is on the move. Have you come tonight to greet our new neighbor?"
Mrs. Fromsette nodded. "My daughter saw the invitation I received and insisted we drop by. She's happy to see this old house lit up again." Lifting a wrinkled hand, she gestured to the attractive blonde attached to Seymour's side. "You know my daughter, of course, April Briggs. She's visiting again from Boston."
"Yes, April and I bumped into each other at the bakery and caught up."
I sighed with that exchange. "Another lead bites the dust," I told Jack. "Mrs. Fromsette is just an old neighbor, and A. Briggs is her daughter. No mystery there."
Maybe she's more than a neighbor. Maybe she's the sister, too. Get her maiden name.
Dean Pepper brought the older woman over to Seymour.
"Ah, Mrs. Fromsette," Seymour said. "Did you find the restroom then?"
"Yes, dear boy. It's been a long time, but I still remember where it is."
"Can I take your wrap?" he asked.
Mrs. Fromsette shook her head vigorously. "No!" She pulled the black shawl around her more tightly, her blue eyes suddenly looking like a wounded animal's.
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 16