The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  Dallas smiled at that. Brenda seemed to be a great promise of good for the future. She’d fallen in love with the politics of an ethical man.

  “Idealism certainly existed. The signers of the Declaration of Independence knew they were risking their lives and everything they owned, that they would be hanged as traitors if caught. But the founding fathers were men as well—I understand they could get fiery in their debates, and that they weren’t all angels. But yes, we did start out with our politicians wanting to serve more than to find reward in what they did. But, Brenda, what makes you so sure that Simon Drake made it all the way to Johnson Square when he left you?”

  “I was still talking to him, and so I was with him halfway down the street until we were done talking. I watched him walk—straight toward the square.”

  “Did he say who he was meeting—did he tell anyone who he was meeting?” Dallas asked.

  “He just said he thought he was going to get some very interesting information, that’s all. He...he was really excited about whatever he was going to find out about. When I left him, he smiled and winked at me and said he had to hurry—he even raised a finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Shush!’ It was as if we were sharing a secret, only I didn’t know what it was. I got the impression that maybe...”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe he was going to learn something that would help his campaign. I don’t know, Mr. Wicker. I just don’t know more. I’m so sorry!”

  “Please, don’t be sorry. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

  “I haven’t really given you anything. I’ve told all this to the police. Like I said, they’ve had videos out, they’ve begged for help. It’s as if he just vanished.”

  “No one vanishes.”

  Brenda looked out the café’s window at the passing people. Then she lowered her head, and said softly, “No, they just wind up beneath the earth, forgotten.”

  “I’m going to find him, Brenda, wherever he may be,” Dallas told her.

  A promise.

  Somehow, he was going to have to make sure he fulfilled it.

  * * *

  Afternoon tea at McLane House did offer tea—also coffee, sodas, pastries, beer and wine. And it was early evening, but afternoon tea was what it had always been called.

  Kristi’s presence wasn’t required for the preparation, the service or the cleanup. Jonah, Genie and Sydney had it easily covered. As with breakfast, things were set out as a buffet in the front parlor, and guests were welcome to enjoy whatever they had chosen in either parlor or out in the courtyard.

  But Kristi was restless; she’d spent an hour on actual work—without being disturbed by anyone, or so much as a breath of cold, ghostly air. So she decided to go back downstairs.

  Genie loved to bake, and the offerings as far as pastries went were homemade creations and highly touted in the reviews for McLane House on almost all booking sites.

  Kristi walked around checking on little things, but when Jonah mentioned to her that she really didn’t need to micromanage, she flushed and apologized.

  “Why don’t you quit looking for dust and go smile at the guests?” he suggested.

  She found her visitors—all six, other than Dallas Wicker—out in the courtyard. The sun was low, the day was balmy and beautiful and it was just such a time when the courtyard should be enjoyed.

  “Miss Stewart!” Carl Brentwood said, apparently delighted that she had appeared. “Will you join us?”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Thank you.” He had drawn out a chair.

  She noted that Shelley’s séance must have been a bonding experience for all of them—Granger Knox was relaxed, a beer in hand, one leg crossed over the other. His daughter, Lacey—beneath his watchful eye—was seated next to Carl, with his wife on the actor’s other side. Janet Knox seemed pleased they were all so chummy-chummy with the young up-and-coming actor. Young Lacey was staring adoringly at Carl, while Murray Meyer rolled his eyes. Clare Danson seemed obsessed with her smartphone, barely glancing up.

  “Everyone is excited to start filming,” Carl told Kristi.

  “This is awesome! I can put that I was in a video with Carl Brentwood on my résumé!” Lacey told Kristi. She was a pretty girl, and so enthusiastic. Kristi realized she should just be happy for this group—they all wanted to do the same thing.

  And it wasn’t as if plenty of people didn’t come to Savannah looking for ghosts.

  She’d taken it all with a grain of salt—until she’d come across her own ghosts, she realized.

  “Well, then, it’s set,” Kristi said.

  “We really can’t thank you enough,” Clare told her, finally tearing her eyes away from the small screen in front of her. “I mean, I know you set up séances all the time, but to allow Carl to film, well, we’re truly appreciative. We have paperwork for you. For the house, and for you. We’re hoping you’ll be available for an interview. If you’re willing.”

  Kristi smiled—not ready to commit until she’d figured out what she might say.

  “Well, there’s great history to the house,” she said. “And I do know the history.”

  “I haven’t seen Mr. Wicker again,” Carl told her. “But I swear, we’ll convince him, we’ll make it worth his while...we’ll handle it...however he wishes.”

  “It’s fine. I spoke with him,” Kristi said. “I don’t think he wants to be part of the séance, but he’s okay with your camera crew.”

  “Whatever he wants,” Claire Danson said, obviously delighted. “I guess you don’t really understand what we’re doing... Carl has a huge online presence. He does videos all over the country, kind of hip history, or hidden hot spots, and we’ve been working on a piece about Savannah, but when we booked here and found out about the ghost stories...well, the hits on this are going to be amazing. We’ll draw in all kinds of new sponsors.”

  “Claire found the booking here,” Carl said. “She knows Georgia.”

  “I had family here at one time,” Claire said. “There are so many great and historic places! I love the 17Hundred90 Inn and Restaurant, the Olde Pink House Restaurant...the Ballastone, the Mercer House...made famous by Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! But for history and intimacy—and a place with a fabulous reputation, there’s just nothing like McLane House,” she finished, inclining her head with compliment.

  “Well, thank you. Thank you very much,” Kristi murmured.

  Darkness was falling for the night. There were massive streetlights all around Johnson Square, stretching out to cover most of her yard. But while the courtyard itself was well illuminated, beyond that, past the old stables and smokehouse, shadows reigned.

  Kristi squinted. She thought that she’d seen a shadow move within the darkness.

  “Excuse me,” she said, rising.

  She left them and hurried along the path that led to the monuments, now shrouded in the edges of the night.

  While they were due for a full moon that weekend, cloud cover now was heavy. At first, Kristi didn’t see him. And then her eyes adjusted—Dallas Wicker was standing with his hands on his hips, staring around the far rear of the property.

  “You know, you’re also a guest here, and the courtyard is open with all kinds of people who would be delighted to see you,” she told him. She frowned. A patch of earth near the monument looked like it had been dug up, or at least disturbed, and he was suspiciously close. “Have you been digging in my yard?” she asked.

  “I have not,” he assured her.

  “You know, we really, really, really frown on people digging in the yard.”

  She realized suddenly that she wasn’t alone; the ghost of Justin McLane was by her left side. Monty was to her right.

  “They’ve been digging since the revolution,” Justin said wearily. “Always looking for old bones, or artifacts, treasure... Lord knows what!”


  “I wasn’t digging in your yard,” Dallas informed her, his expression amused. “Evidently, however, someone was. Maybe they weren’t looking for old bones.”

  Kristi gasped when she caught his strange emphasis. “You’re insinuating that...that someone might be digging for new bones? Fresh...bones?” she demanded.

  “Such indignation,” Monty said, laughing softly.

  She wished that she could kick a ghost—and make it hurt. She tried not to blink; tried not to look at him.

  “Two people have disappeared from this area recently,” Dallas said.

  “And...you think that there might be bodies in my yard?” She was nearly sputtering at the ridiculousness. “What exactly are you suggesting?” she demanded.

  “That someone somehow associated with the house just might be involved in the disappearances,” Monty said.

  “Exactly,” Dallas said.

  Kristi froze.

  Dallas Wicker had replied to the ghost.

  She blinked; she must have imagined it. Maybe he had misheard her?

  “I would really appreciate it if you weren’t out back here this late at night. We don’t like people interfering with the monuments and the garden area.”

  Monty made a snorting sound. “Someone should be watching out,” he said.

  “Yes, they should be,” Dallas agreed.

  “Should be—what?” Kristi asked.

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Justin exclaimed, “Mr. Wicker, will you please tell her that you see us quite clearly, and that your hearing is excellent. It will make the next few days far more pleasant if you both stop running around pretending that you don’t commune with the dead.”

  Dallas Wicker shrugged, looking at her. “I see Lieutenant Justin McLane and Captain Monty McLane as well, Kristi.”

  She stared at him.

  Then she simply turned and walked away.

  Her other guests had left the courtyard. They were tidy guests; they had taken their cups, glasses and pastry plates from the tables back into the house. Nice, no mess.

  At the moment, she wouldn’t have cared. She would have gone striding right past any mess.

  She hurried through the parlor and up the stairs to her room. She closed the door, twisted the old key in the lock and threw herself on her bed.

  She wished she could go back two weeks. She wished desperately that she had known Lachlan Plant would be heading somewhere at a ridiculous hour, passing by the Johnson Square area. She could have run out, grabbed him, dragged him into the house, and the sweet and optimistic man might still be alive and...

  Ghosts wouldn’t be haunting her.

  Deep in her thoughts, she was startled to hear something at her door.

  The ghosts themselves again?

  She dragged herself up and went over to her door. No one had knocked; she’d heard the doorknob rattling—as if someone wanted to gain entrance without knocking.

  Her ghosts had just promised to knock...to be polite!

  A guest? What guest in her house wouldn’t knock?

  She hesitated. The doorknob wasn’t moving. She gripped and turned it, throwing the door open.

  The hallway was empty.

  She stood there, staring down the length of hall. Foolish. The sound had been her imagination. Or had it? If she’d jumped right up and immediately opened the door, would she have seen someone there?

  The door next to hers opened; Dallas Wicker stepped out, looking at her.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

  Was something wrong? She was being plagued by the ghosts of her ancestors, and, apparently, this man saw them, as well.

  “No, nothing. I thought I heard someone in the hall.”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard someone out here, too.”

  She swallowed hard. “Ghosts?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “Not that I know about. You know, I’ve had some good conversations with Captain and Lieutenant McLane. They’re outside tonight—watching.”

  “For whoever was digging in the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  She just stood there, staring at him. “And you really see them?”

  “I really do.”

  “And you see—others?”

  He nodded gravely. “I do.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  “Because people have died and gone missing.”

  “You’re not a private investigator.”

  “Yes, I seriously am.”

  “But you’re more.”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  “You want me to trust you,” she said. “How can I, if you won’t trust me? I don’t understand any of this. Sad things happen, bad things happen, but...”

  She wanted to protest again that McLane House could have nothing to do with anything that was going on. She wanted to point out the ridiculousness of linking the strange events taking place in the city together. Then again, she’d never been plagued by ghosts before, and they’d appeared to warn her of danger.

  “What are you? A ghost hunter of some kind?”

  He smiled at that. “No.”

  “You don’t have to hunt them—they just walk right up to you, right?”

  “Sometimes,” he said.

  “Then why don’t you just find some ghosts and ask them what happened?”

  “I wish it worked that way.”

  “Then what way does it work?”

  He turned and glanced down the hallway. They were alone.

  Or so it seemed. But she was suddenly certain that he didn’t trust any kind of a hallway—in fact, he’d be very careful about what he trusted, period.

  She stepped back into her room. “Please,” she said softly.

  He nodded and joined her. She backed into her room, finding the chair where she had sat when her great-uncle had still been alive, and she had spent her days reading to him, holding his hand, just laughing because to him, life was funny, life had been good, and if his end was coming, well, yes, it had been a really good run. She found the familiarity of the cushions comforting.

  “You’re new to...the dead?” Dallas asked her.

  “New to the dead...” she repeated, watching him.

  “You’ve just started seeing the dead?” he asked. He knelt down by her chair, smiling oddly and gently. “It’s new to you. In fact, I’m thinking maybe you just saw them for the first time before you plowed into me on the front porch?”

  Hands gripping the arms of the chair, she nodded. “But—but I guess, they’re...my ghosts? They are my ancestors. But I saw...”

  “You’ve seen others now?” he asked.

  “Just one. A Revolutionary soldier. At the cemetery.”

  “Once you realize the ability, it opens you up to others.”

  “You’re not new to ghosts,” she said drily.

  “No, I’m not.” He hesitated a minute. “I had an experience when I was very young. A ghost helped me out, and since then...well, anyway, here’s the thing you must remember. Ghosts are—people, essentially. They don’t become omniscient. Some barely gain any more wisdom than they had while they were living. Some are better than others at being seen. Some talk easily, many don’t. There are certainly many about who never learn to materialize for anyone. Most people do not see the dead—they may sense them, but they don’t see them, and they certainly don’t get to carry on conversations with them. You have to remember...people are people, and there are things that do not change with death.”

  Kristi shook her head. “Why do some stay around—and some go? Monty said Trinity wasn’t here anymore.”

  He hesitated, and then said, “I don’t know. I don’t have the answers to the universe, or God, or the hereafter. I just know that for some, there is a reason to stay. They need to help solve the
ir deaths...they’ve left someone behind they feel they can help. Maybe they even stay because history may not tell all the truth, or because they don’t want history to be forgotten. I’m not sure. Some stay only so long, and then move on. Some seem pleased to be here, to do what needs to be done, to watch over the living.”

  She began to smile slowly.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s all too unbelievable,” she whispered.

  “Except that it’s not,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “Okay. But the ghosts are worried. I just don’t understand. How could these local deaths be related, and how could they be linked to this house?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know. But that is why I’m here.”

  “But you’re not a ghost hunter.”

  “No. I came to find out what is happening.”

  “Are you really friends with Lachlan Plant’s family?”

  “I am associated with someone who cares about him, someone who plans on being responsible for the burial. He’s put in all the extra money that’s needed for Lachlan to be buried here, where he found his last friends, in Savannah.”

  “And who is that?”

  He hesitated again.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  He sighed deeply, looking away for a moment. “Kristi, I am here just in the capacity of a private investigator.”

  “But what are you really?”

  “FBI. Part of a special unit.”

  She shook her head, frowning. “FBI... I thought that they only got involved in serial killing, kidnapping... I don’t know, cybercrimes, things that cross state lines.”

  “Yes. That’s just it—we haven’t been asked in officially. So, I’m here as a private investigator—until things change.”

  “You’re sure they’re going to change?”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Because?”

  “We’re going to find a body,” he told her.

  5

  The household started early; Dallas had barely come downstairs when he heard Jonah’s footsteps behind him. The older man beamed. “You are an early bird—I think I just hear Genie and Sydney arriving now.”