by Madelyn Alt
Felicity joined me a moment later. "Are you all right? You look white as a sheet."
"Let's just go, okay?"
I didn't want to tell her what I'd imagined. What I must have imagined. It seemed just too incredible for words. Even now—especially now?—having left the apartment and the situation behind, it seemed downright impossible. How could I help but doubting?
And yet, it happened. I knew it did. I hadn't been asleep. I hadn't been watching television or listening to the radio. Someone or something had whispered my name.
What that something was, was beyond my immediate comprehension.
"Maggie. Maggie?"
Someone was patting my hand.
"I'm sorry. Did you say something?" I shook my head, coming out of the haze of my thoughts with a start as I recognized the ornate Victorian building looming ahead of us, lights blazing not so much in welcome but more as a funereal rallying cry. "We're there already?"
"Actually, we arrived at least a minute ago." She peered at me with sudden interest.
"You're a bit of a lost lamb tonight."
She had enough on her mind. She didn't need my idiosyncrasies clogging up her brainwaves. It was bad enough that the terrors of my childhood were coming back to haunt me.
Of course there would be a perfectly reasonable, logical, normal explanation for what had happened. There must be. This was the twenty-first century, and I was no longer the strange, introverted child I once was. There was no real reason not to tell her, was there? We could laugh together over it. She could pat me on the head and tell me how silly I was being, and I could feel ridiculous and foolish and get on with things.
I took a deep breath. "Felicity, something… happened tonight. Something… I don't know how to explain it. I'm sure it was nothing, but—"
"At your apartment?" she interrupted.
I nodded. "A voice. Or something that sounded like a voice. It said my name. I thought… I thought someone had broken into my apartment—but—"
"But there was no one there." Her brow furrowed. "I knew there was something wrong when I arrived. I could see it in your face. I was, unfortunately, too preoccupied with my own thoughts to really listen." She shook her head ruefully. After a moment she patted my hand again. "It's quite likely there's nothing to worry about, however. Most spirits are perfectly harmless, as benign in death as they were in life. How did the experience make you feel?"
"Terrified," I said emphatically.
"Ah. Yes. Perhaps I should rephrase that. If this was your first experience with a spirit entity, your reaction is perfectly understandable. Man readily fears that which he does not understand, and what he does not fear, he typically ignores. What I want you to do is to close your eyes and think back. Reflect on what was happening in your body at the time. Feelings. Emotions. Smells. Random thoughts that might have popped into your head. Anything that might occur to you."
Skeptical though I was, I did as she asked, going back in time to relive the experience in too-vivid slow motion. What had I felt? Shock, initially. Incredulity. A mistrust of my own perceptions. I searched deeper, certain I was missing something. Felicity had mentioned smells. There was something… I'd assumed it to be fabric softener or some such at the time—but it wasn't that. Something flowery. Strong. Old-fashioned. Lavender, I think. Strange that I didn't take special notice of it at the time.
"Was it a male presence? Or female?"
"Female," I said softly, my eyes still closed. "I smelled flowers. Lavender. I remember that smell. My grandmother used to line the edges of her garden with lavender in a kind of minihedgerow. It kept the animals out."
I heard the creak of the leather seats as she relaxed. "Excellent. Your powers of recall are very good indeed."
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. I opened my eyes, surprised at how calm I felt now.
"Maggie, have you had other experiences with things you couldn't explain? Now, or as a child?"
"I was afraid a lot when I was a little girl—seeing and hearing things that weren't there—but my mom always said I had a big imagination and not enough self-control to temper it."
"I see."
"I did have an imaginary friend. An old woman with long hair and a funny accent. Her name was Anna." I smiled, remembering how I would pretend that Anna would sit in the haymow with me, telling me stories about faraway people and places. "But that's not exactly remarkable. Lots of kids have imaginary friends."
"Of course they do. Has there been anything else? Anything since your invisible companion?"
"Well…" I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "There was the, uh, dog at your house."
She smiled indulgently. "I should have told you before, my dear. That was Cecil."
I frowned. "I thought you said you didn't own a dog."
"I don't. Cecil is my family's animal totem. A spirit guardian. When I moved to the States, he followed me."
Witchcraft, ghosts, animal totems. It was all just a bit too much. I tightened my fingers around the soft leather of my purse, because it, at least, was real. "I don't think I believe in any of these things."
"You don't have to believe. They can exist with or without your permission or acknowledgment." She eased off then, perhaps sensing that the conversation was straining the limits of my comfort level. "It's getting late. Perhaps we should go in now."
At that point, any diversion would have been a welcome one.
Hinkle & Binder Funeral Parlor was typical of many other small-town Midwestern funeral homes. That was to say, it was a large, elaborate Victorian-era mansion, complete with turrets and iron balconies, that had been converted over from a private family dwelling midcentury, the whole of it lit up like the Fourth of July by a covey of strategically positioned floodlights. For a moment I allowed myself to ponder the sheer number of dead bodies that had passed through its halls over the years.
Maybe I'm not the only one who's a little bit afraid of the dark.
The steady flow of traffic spilling from the parking lot should have prepared us for what we would find inside the genteel old building. Inside the small foyer, at least forty would-be mourners chatted elbow-to-elbow as they awaited their turn inside the viewing room. I joined the crush gingerly, squeezing into a small air pocket with all the enthusiasm of a doomed inmate being led to the gallows. Large crowds were not my thing.
Panic is a sign of a weak constitution, Margaret. You should pray harder to be relieved of such an infirmity.
Prayer had been Grandma Cora's answer to everything. Prayer and badgering. Each served a special purpose.
I knew I'd better find a distraction if I wanted to avoid becoming a quivering puddle of nerves, so I allowed myself a good long look around the vestibule. The last time I'd been to Hinkle & Binder, or any funeral home for that matter, had been about fourteen years ago. The walls at the time had been an ugly, outdated green that had gone out with shag rugs, lava lamps, and macraméed anything. Now everything in my immediate view sported the sophisticated tones of a monochromatic color palette. No pea soup walls here. The paint chip stand at the local hardware store gave these hues names like Whispering Sand, Butterscotch Malted, Buttery Kiss, and Willow Bark. The room oozed quality and refinement. Of course, the slick, contemporary design of the interior was the antithesis of the Victorian exterior, but I supposed that didn't matter when a business wanted to attract a more upscale crowd.
Slowly the throng moved en masse toward the more generously proportioned viewing room. Which, I noticed as we approached the door, was just as tastefully outfitted in shades ranging from sage to forest green. A noteworthy improvement over pea soup, I must say.
Felicity went stalk still as we reached the doorway and she put her hand on my arm. "There he is," she said faintly.
I followed her line of sight to a tall, well-dressed man standing near the high-gloss mahogany casket. I'd never seen him before—I would have remembered this one. In a professionally tailored navy suit complete with lapel
kerchief and cufflinks—actual cufflinks!—he projected a kind of ultrasmooth appearance not often seen in our little town. "Who is he?"
Next to me, Felicity's gaze never wavered from her target. "Jeremy Harding. My sister's unfaithful husband."
Her breath was coming shallow through her nose, and her face had gone pale, except for the fever in her eyes and the flush of color at the centers of her cheeks. Lord have mercy, she looked pissed. This was a first. I'd never seen her look anything but a model of calm and composure. Somehow this little chink in her armor of English elegance made her seem more human to me.
"Cheating, hm?" I echoed speculatively as I let my gaze travel the length of Jeremy Harding. The carefully kept body. The lanky ease of movement. The tasteful dash of silver in black hair as thick and touchable as that of a man half his age. The relaxed confidence. Especially the confidence. He wore it like the mantle of a god, with the full knowledge that he was worthy of the admiration of all.
Felicity gave the merest of nods. "Don't let his looks deceive you. Jeremy may be attractive, but he's as shallow as a teaspoon."
"Wow. That shallow."
"What else would you call a man who brings his paramour to his wife's funeral?"
This was news. More than news, this was motive. I wondered if our good Deputy Fielding had uncovered the husband's… side interests.
I scanned the faces in the room, wondering which female was the guilty party. I was about to ask Felicity to enlighten me when a young woman approached us, her arms outstretched toward my boss.
She gave Felicity a brief, stiff-armed hug then stepped back. "Auntie. So good of you to come tonight."
"Hello, Jacqui dear. I do hope my presence won't prove disruptive tonight. It's the last thing I want."
Jacqui said nothing. Not a single soothing word.
Charming.
"I'm so sorry about your mother," Felicity continued. "We may not have been on the best of terms, but this… this is an abomination."
"I'm sure Mother would appreciate your thoughts."
Felicity patted her on the arm. "Your mother's death must have come as quite a shock. How are you holding up, dear?"
The young woman shrugged, her shoulder-length sweep of ash blond hair shifting gracefully with the movement. "As well as can be expected, I suppose. I was out of town when Mother… when it happened. A business trip for Father. Imagine coming home to news like this. A terrible thing." She pushed her hair back, and her gaze flicked to me. "Hello. I don't believe we've met. I'm Jacquilyn Harding."
"Good heavens, where are my manners," Felicity exclaimed. "Maggie O'Neill, my niece Jacquilyn Harding."
Since she had not offered her hand, I kept my own closed tightly around my purse. "I'm so very sorry for your loss, Ms. Harding."
"Thank you."
"Maggie is my new assistant at the store," Felicity told her niece by way of introduction. "She's been a fantastic help for me already."
Though she did not move an eyelash, I could see Jacquilyn withdraw. "Ah. The store. How interesting." Her tone made it clear she found it anything but.
Felicity gave her niece a slight smile. "You know, my dear, I simply have to tell you. You sound more and more like your mother with every year that passes, did you know? What a blessing that must be for your father now."
The woman's pale eyes showed no emotion. "A blessing. Yes." She cast an obvious glance over her shoulder. "Well. I'm afraid I must move on, Auntie—duty calls, and I would never forgive myself if I allowed Father to shoulder it all alone at a time like this. But I thank you both for coming."
She walked away without a backward glance, smoothly transitioning to another acquaintance who had come to pay his respects. I watched her for a moment from the corner of my eye. She was a strange one, to be sure. Young, almost pretty in a quiet sort of way, but the way she held herself was formal in the extreme and…
Subdued. Yes, that was the perfect word to describe her. Here she was, getting ready to bury her mother, and while she made all the right overtures and said all the right things, the words were dead. But then, people handle stress in different ways. Maybe hers was to withdraw from public displays of emotion.
One thing had not escaped my notice—her disapproval of Felicity had been readily apparent, even though she'd maintained that level of courtesy one kept intact when speaking with relatives.
Was it the store that she disapproved of? Or did she, too, suspect Felicity?
Felicity nudged me, breaking my train of thought. "There."
With the path of her gaze, she indicated a woman standing in a circle of polite strangers. A leggy blonde with permed curls teased high, she was striking in a hard sort of way, like a truckstop waitress wearing a pair of red satin shoes. And yet she wore clothes and jewelry that would have made my sister and her shop-'til-you-drop cronies sit up and beg. "Who is she?"
"Jetta James. Jeremy's personal assistant."
It didn't take much to read the writing oh the wall, especially when it was written in such big, bold letters. What Ms. James lacked in polish, she made up for with a presence that was impossible to deny.
Or maybe it was just her teeny tiny black sheath dress with the slit up one thigh. It looked pricey, but that wasn't the issue. Evidently Ms. James did not have a grandmother like mine, who would happily have strung me up from the clothesline before allowing me to show any measure of my thigh in the presence of the dearly departed. But perhaps that was too harsh. She had, after all, covered her calves with a pair of knee-high leather boots, so maybe that made up for the funereal faux pas.
I tried not to be too obvious as I checked her out, taking careful note of her proximity to the mourning husband. "So. They're lovers?"
Liss broke her deathwatch to give me a sideward glance. "Well, I'm not sure love has anything to do with it, but they do seem to be all too familiar with each other."
"Do you know this for a fact?"
"Jeremy has all the subtlety of a hungry dog sniffing after a meal that's being kept just out of his reach." She chuckled softly, humorlessly. "There is a set of railroad tracks that runs along one edge of my property. A dirt trail follows along the tracks to the woods. Hunters used to use that trail before we bought the property. These days it's used more often as a lover's lane by young people when they think no one's paying attention. And evidently, by Jeremy. I've seen his SUV there more than once. Rather stupid of him, really. I have it on good authority he also has taken his lady love to Crooners, that country and western pub in Noble County—perhaps he thought no one would report back to Isabella." A sigh, long, weary. "I suppose that doesn't matter so very much now."
I turned my head to look back at Jeremy, calmly receiving his dead wife's mourners and looking all too much like the glib host of a cocktail party. "Do you suppose your sister knew about their affair?"
"I don't know. I never told her. What would have been the point? She'd had her share of… indiscretions… as well."
Including Felicity's own husband, if what Mel had told me was true. But a wife, even one who cheated, did not like another woman sniffing around her territory. What if she had found out about her husband's trysts? What if she had confronted him? What if he'd told her he wanted to be with his mistress and a violent quarrel had ensued?
Did Jeremy Harding have a motive for murder? Oh yeah.
"What about Ms. James? What do you know about her?" I whispered.
"Hush," Felicity said under her breath in lieu of an answer. Then she turned her attention past me, toward someone approaching on my left. As I watched, some part of her rose up, until it seemed to me that she had grown physically taller and straighter and more imposing before my very eyes. "Hello, Jeremy."
He sidled to a halt, his confidence turned aggressive. "Felicity." A curt nod.
From a short distance away, Jeremy Harding was the kind of man who made a woman suck in her stomach and touch a hand to her hair. Up close, the passing of years were apparent in the deep lines that fanned at
the corners of his eyes and traced parentheses around his mouth, but I had a feeling most women over thirty would neither notice nor care.
Me? I couldn't get past the cold hard fury I saw in his eyes.
I knew that Felicity saw it as well, but honor ran deep in her veins. She was too much of a lady to acknowledge it. Instead she offered the proverbial olive branch.
"I've not had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about Isabella's passing."
"Are you?" He ran a hand back through the thick sweep of his hair. "I rather thought you might have come to enjoy the aftermath."
My mouth fell open. Even if the man was crazed with grief over his wife's death, no matter how unlikely that seemed considering Felicity's recent revelations, that was no excuse for a complete lapse in good manners and good taste. Recovering myself, I straightened my shoulders and prepared to leap to Felicity's defense.
But before I could do just that, Felicity placed a staying hand on my arm. "Fabulous to see you, too, Jeremy," she cooed in a soft tone that possessed all sorts of newly exposed sharp edges, "And may I just say, your assistant is looking particularly lovely this evening as well. Dear, sweet Jetta. Has she had her breasts done? They look a bit larger than I recall."
And the velvet gloves come off…
My respect for my boss deepened in spades.
An ugly look passed over Jeremy Harding's face. He threw a wary look back over each shoulder before snarling, "Keep your voice down."
"What's the matter, Jeremy? Don't you want anyone to discover the truth about your relationship with Jette?"
"This is neither the time, nor the place, witch."
Felicity drew herself up to her full five feet eight inches, looking every bit the queen in her understated wool suit. "I am comfortable with what I am. Are you equally at ease with what you are?"
Toe to toe and glaring daggers, they were beginning to attract curious stares from those closest to us. Jeremy became aware of the attention first. Like the flick of a switch, his face morphed into a mask of perfect, terrible respectability as he withdrew as unobtrusively as possible. Only his eyes showed the truth depth of his rage.