The Sense of Death: An Ann Kinnear Suspense Novel (The Ann Kinnear Suspense Novels Book 1)

by Matty Dalrymple

  When she had first moved to the Adirondacks her companion had been her black lab Kali but a few years previously Kali had died and when Ann started her search for a new dog Mike had suggested a guard dog. Ann’s talents earned her some unsolicited attention and from time to time an unwanted—although so far friendly—fan had appeared at her door.

  A few months later Ann reported to Mike that she had obtained a guard dog; curious, Mike got a ride from Walt up to the Adirondacks to check it out.

  Beau was a big, shaggy Shepherd mix whose pant-y geniality, and the fact that Beau made not a sound when Walt drove up Ann’s gravel driveway, made Mike skeptical of his ability to guard. Ann produced what she called a “dog bite sleeve” and invited Mike to put it on which Mike, beginning to regret his skepticism, did. They went out to the clearing near the fire pit.

  “Hold your arm out as if you’re fending off an attacker,” said Ann.

  “‘As if’?” muttered Mike, pulling on the protective arm cover and striking the pose. Beau instantly became very interested.

  Ann gave a fast ascending whistle followed by five quick high whistles and Beau galloped over to Mike, grabbing his encased arm and knocking him down.

  “Whoops,” said Ann.

  “Holy crap!” said Mike. He was less worried than he might have been because it seemed as if the knocking down had been accidental and, unlike attack dogs Mike had seen on TV, Beau didn’t worry his arm, he just held it in his mouth as he stood over Mike. Then he sat down on Mike’s legs.

  “Uh, Ann…” said Mike.

  Ann gave the recall whistle and Beau released Mike’s arm, trotted over to Ann, sat by her side, and received a treat.

  Mike sat up and pulled the sleeve off.

  “Where did you say you got him?”

  “I didn’t,” said Ann cheerfully. “I got him from Walt’s brother-in-law.”

  “Is every person in this entire area related to Walt?” Mike asked irritably, standing up and brushing himself off.

  “It does seem that way,” said Ann, stroking Beau’s big head.

  “Walt happens to have a brother-in-law who trains attack dogs?”

  “Well, no, he raises basset hounds. But he is a dog trainer. He helped me pick Beau out and we decided this was a sufficient amount of attack training.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be, I don’t know, fiercer?”

  “I didn’t want fierce. But I think the grabbing-the-arm trick could be a pretty effective deterrent.”

  “Not to mention the knocking-people-down trick.”

  “He’s not supposed to do that,” said Ann apologetically.

  Beau snapped at an invisible bug near his head and panted at Mike in a friendly manner.

  “Doesn’t he even bark?”

  “I came here for the quiet,” said Ann. “I don’t want barking.”

  *****

  When Ann and Beau got back to the cabin after a cup of coffee with Helen Federman (and surreptitiously offered cookies for Fizz and Beau) she changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, poured herself a glass of Pinot noir, and took it and a dog toy down to the dock. She tossed the toy into the water for Beau who, she believed, fetched only as an excuse to go rocketing off the end of the dock and into the water with a dramatic splash then scramble out of the water onto the small, stony beach and create a spray of water with an enthusiastic shake. When Ann got bored with the game she told Beau “That’s enough” and he flopped down on the dock to gnaw the toy while Ann walked up the log stairway that led from the water to the cabin.

  Most of her painting supplies were at the studio but she did have some sketch paper and pencils at the cabin. She collected her materials and settled down at the dining room table. She tried mentally to put herself back in the Rittenhouse Square house, to see now what she had seen, or at least glimpsed, then. The person she had seen was female, she was quite sure of that, and petite, but definitely an adult. She sketched in some limbs but the figure needed context.

  She began drawing in the garage behind the figure from the perspective of someone standing in front of the metal cabinet—garage doors on the opposite side of the garage, the Porsche in the bay to the right, the door to the alley just beyond it. She began adding other parts of the room—the workbench to the viewer’s right, the stairway to the kitchen to the left—warping the perspective to get them into the view. She added more detail—some tools hanging on a peg board over the workbench, a plastic garbage can between the garage doors—and sat back to examine her work.

  Wonderful, a picture of a garage—Mavis would be so pleased. She tossed her pencil down in frustration and went to the kitchen to refill her wine glass and to let in Beau who had been peering at her patiently through the screen door. She closed the inside door against the chill of the May night and locked it, then went back to the dining room table.

  She tentatively drew in some locks of long dark hair falling to behind the woman’s shoulders and sat back again. Another minute passed and she added a few lines suggesting a blouse with a low V neckline. She had intentionally pushed the image of the woman in the photographs at the Rittenhouse Square house out of her mind in an attempt not to let it influence her but now she thought back to the photograph and compared it with the drawing and realized to her surprise it was not the same person. Similar in the dark hair but dissimilar in some other, impossible-to-define way. She had hoped that the act of drawing might bring the figure she had glimpsed into focus for her but if anything it became more elusive the more she concentrated on it.

  She went into the kitchen, opened a can of New England clam chowder, dumped it into a small pot, put it on the stove to heat, and returned to the dining room. She began gathering up the materials, meaning to throw out the drawing, then sat down again. At the bottom of the drawing she sketched in the metal cabinet and then added to the figure an outstretched arm, its finger pointing to the cabinet. It wasn’t true to what she had seen but it was true to what she had felt—the woman she had seen wanted her to get something out of the cabinet. Something blue.

  She knew it would drive Mike crazy not to know what was in the cabinet but she was just as happy not knowing. Whatever had happened in that house was something she would just as soon not be a part of.

  But the drawing was an interesting souvenir of a new experience of sensing—whether she was pleased by this development or not she wasn’t sure. She tore the drawing out of the sketch pad, went to the kitchen, and stuck it to the front of the refrigerator with a couple of magnets. She poured herself another glass of wine.

  Chapter 23

  The day after Ann’s second visit to the Firth house, Joe was typing up a report when his direct line rang. “Booth here,” he answered.

  “Hey there, Joe, this is Adrian Brunauer of the Lewistown police, how you doing?”

  “Pretty good, Adrian, how are you?”

  “Fielding lots of phone calls about ancient history lately,” he said. “I got a call yesterday about Beth Barboza and Ann Kinnear.”

  “Who called?”

  “Some guy named Jim Smith who claimed to be with Sports Illustrated but they don’t have anyone by that name working for them and they don’t know anything about any caving safety article. I tried the number he gave me before he hung up but it didn’t work. Then I auto-called back the number the call had come in on. Turned out to be a public phone—I thought it was, I could hear street noises in the background when he called—and a guy answered but he claimed he was just walking by. Sounded like a different voice too. I asked him if he had seen anyone on the phone, or saw anyone hanging around, but he didn’t. We did get a location, it’s a public phone at a library in the Philly area.” Brunauer paused. “Probably shouldn’t have called back, might have been able to lift some prints if that other guy hadn’t picked up the phone. Not as quick-thinking as I used to be.”

  “No problem, it would have been a long shot,” said Joe, “by the time we got a print tech out there, there probably would have been a bunch more
people who had used the phone. What was he asking?”

  “Not much, he rang off in a hurry when I told him he wasn’t the only one interested. Realized I probably shouldn’t have said that either. About time for me to retire and leave the business to the sharper tacks,” said Brunauer despondently.

  “No problem,” said Joe, somewhat less convincingly this time. It looked like luck had been with Biden Firth once again.

  Chapter 24

  Mike got a call Wednesday morning on the number listed on annkinnear.com.

  “Hello. I’m calling for Ann Kinnear,” the man said.

  “This is Mike Kinnear, I coordinate Ms. Kinnear’s engagements. How may I help you?”

  “I think I might have a need for Ms. Kinnear’s services. I have a house at the shore that I think is …” The person on the other end of the line cleared his throat. “… haunted. I saw your sister on the show on the History Channel a while ago and it seems like she might be able to tell me if I’m imagining things or if it’s true.”

  “Certainly,” said Mike. “Have you eliminated other possible causes of the symptoms that lead you to think the house may be haunted? For example, sometimes old houses have plumbing or heating problems that can explain odd noises such as banging and thumping.”

  “The house isn’t that old.”

  “What symptoms are you experiencing?”

  There was a pause. “I can hear people talking.”

  “Really?” said Mike. “That’s quite unusual. You hear people talking when you have reason to believe you are the only person in the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not an apartment building, is it?”

  “No, it’s a single house. It’s a whispery sound, I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying.”

  “If you saw the History Channel show you’ll know that my sister doesn’t actually speak with spirits, but she could certainly tell you whether or not there is a spirit in the house. Then if she senses a spirit you might further pursue it with ... someone who does that sort of thing.”

  “That’s fine, I don’t need to know what it’s saying.”

  “Very good,” said Mike. There was a pause and a shuffling as of someone collecting pen and paper. “Does this happen more at certain times of the day?”

  “Usually during the daytime.”

  “Continuously or occasionally?”

  “Fairly continuously.”

  “When you’re alone in the house or when other people are there?”

  There was silence on the line for a moment. “I definitely hear it when I’m alone in the house. I can’t remember if I’ve heard it when there have been other people there.”

  “Think about that,” said Mike. “If you think of a time when you heard the sound when other people were around, let me know, it might be helpful.”

  “Sure. So, could your sister come and check it out?”

  “Very likely,” said Mike. “If it’s continuous she may not need to stay too long to hear it and get a sense of what is causing it. If neither of you hear anything then she may have to stay longer to get a sense, or may not be able to get a sense at all. That’s why I asked about whether you’ve heard it in the past when other people are there. If you hear it and she doesn’t, there might be another factor at work.”

  “Like what?” said the caller irritably.

  “Tinnitus, for example,” said Mike. “Ringing in the ears. But it could certainly manifest as a whispery sound. Perhaps you’d like to eliminate that as cause before you bring us in?”

  “No,” said the caller. “If it were that, I’d hear it other places too, right?”

  “That’s true,” said Mike. “Well, why don’t we plan on a visit of a couple of hours and if Ms. Kinnear hasn’t perceived a spirit we can discuss alternatives—extending that visit or coming back on another day.”

  “That sounds good,” said the caller. “There’s another house that I’m thinking of buying and I’d like for her to check that one out too. I wouldn’t want to move and find out there’s the same problem in the new place.”

  This request made Mike suspect that the problem was with the caller and not with the house. “Certainly. What timeframe were you looking for?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Mike paged through his calendar. “I would have to confirm with Ms. Kinnear but I believe she would be available this coming Monday. We do require payment of half the agreed-upon amount of the engagement in advance.”

  “That would work for me but I would need to do the visit to the current house on Monday afternoon and visit the other house the next morning.”

  “We could do that, we would just need to factor in overnight accommodations for me, my sister, and her pilot for that night.”

  “Do you always accompany your sister when she’s … uh …”

  “Consulting,” prompted Mike.

  “… consulting?”

  “Yes, I take care of all the logistical details so she can focus completely on the matter at hand.”

  “How much will the fee be?”

  “I’ll need to get some more information from you and then I can send you a quote and a contract.”

  The man on the phone hesitated. “Um, listen, my wife doesn’t know I’m doing this, she wouldn’t be happy if she knew, so I’d like to do everything over the phone or in person, I don’t want to have anything mailed to me and I’d like to pay cash.”

  This was not an unusual request from Ann and Mike’s clients. “Certainly, I understand. All our engagements are strictly confidential with the client who engages us. However, I would need a signed contract and half the payment in advance. I could e-mail the contract to you and you could use a money order for the payment.”

  After a moment the man said, “That sounds OK.”

  “Very good.” Mike said. “Could I have your name?”

  “Bob Dormand.”

  “And where are the houses you‘d like us to look at?”

  “Harvey Cedars, New Jersey.”

  *****

  Biden Firth hung up the phone in the business center of a hotel near the airport. He wanted to see this psychic at work himself, see what it was that had caused Joe Booth to have formed such a collegial relationship with Ann and Mike Kinnear. Although he couldn’t imagine how it could be possible, he would see if she really had this skill she was claiming. And he would find out where she lived. Then he would decide what to do.

  Chapter 25

  Amelia sat in Sophia’s room, looking at, but not actually reading, a book in her lap. The house was quiet, the faint hum of traffic and an occasional dimly heard honk from a car horn being the only accompaniment to the tiny snores coming from Sophia’s crib. But Amelia was listening for another sound, one even fainter than the sounds of the traffic. And then it came to her, not so much a sound as a sense. It was her daughter, telling her to take care of Sophia.

  She looked around the room, turning her head, trying to locate where the sound was coming from, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

  “Elizabeth?” she whispered.

  There was no response to her question, just the directive, hanging in the air.

  “Honey, I will, I promise. But can you hear me?”

  Her daughter was fading, fading back into the background noise of the house.

  “I’ll take care of her, I promise. Can you hear me?”

  “She’s asleep,” said a voice from the door.

  Amelia shot to her feet, the book falling from her lap. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “No,” said Biden, “I doubt you’d be here if you knew I was going to be home. I notice you never come by when you think I’ll be home.”

  He’s drunk, thought Amelia, even though it was barely five o’clock.

  Biden walked to the crib and looked down at Sophia. She was fussing a bit in her sleep. “She’s asleep. Why were you asking her if she could hear you?”

  “I don’t know,�
� said Amelia. “It’s about time for her to be getting up. I’ll be going.” She bent down to pick up her purse which was on the floor next to the rocking chair. When she straightened up Biden was standing only a foot or so away from her.

  “Why won’t you stay?” he asked, now sounding wounded rather than angry. She could smell alcohol on his breath. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore? You used to like me.”

  “I do like you, Biden,” she said stiffly, “but I have to go. I’ve actually stayed later than I intended.” She tried to pass him but he blocked her way.

  “You think I did it, don’t you?” said Biden.

  It felt to Amelia like everything became still—no traffic noise, no honking horns, no mutters from Sophia in the crib.

  “Why do you say that?” she said eventually, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.

  “Because of how you treat me. Avoiding me. Leaving when I get home. Jumping like I was a ghost at the reception.”

  “Biden, you’re drunk,” she said coldly. “I’m not going to speak to you when you’re like this.” She tried again to go past him.

  “That’s what she said,” said Biden.

  “Who?” said Amelia, her heart going cold.

  “Elizabeth. She told me not to drink too much.”

  “When?”

  “The night she died.”

  Amelia stared into his eyes and they were glazed and listless. “How do you know when she died?” she asked, the tremble in her voice finally beyond her control.

  “She must have died that night, right?” said Biden. “She walked outside and someone hit her over the head and took her jewelry and dumped her body. Let’s hope she died that night, because if whoever it was had her for a while before they killed her—”

  “Biden, stop it,” said Amelia in a ragged whisper. “She was my daughter.”

  “She was my wife,” said Biden, and took a step even closer to her.

  “Mrs. Dormand?” said a voice over Biden’s shoulder and they both turned to see Joan standing in the doorway with a basket of laundry. “Mr. Firth? Is everything all right?”