The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  She set the picture back down and carefully closed the trunk. “I love that picture. I know Jamie wouldn’t care if I took it, but it’s there because—way back—the Murphy family and the McLane family were friends, and that Murphy ancestor was in love with what was new technology back then, and, well, Jamie wanted to hang on to the pictures. And I’m staring at this, and we were supposed to be searching the house.”

  “It was a good idea, searching the house,” he said.

  “But now we’re both up in the attic, and we haven’t found anything. And—”

  “Let’s try the basement,” he said.

  He headed back to the ladder; she quickly followed.

  They crawled back down the ladder and Kristi pointed out the back stairs that led directly to the kitchen. From there, they made their way down to the basement.

  It was very much like the rest of the house; clean and neat and yet cast in that aura of something left behind, something loved but abandoned, haunted by the years gone by. Old furniture sat in the center of the large space—the basement was the entire foundation of the house. Off to one side were the boiler and the furnace, all upgraded through the years. And beyond some supporting columns, there was a Ping-Pong table. There was a sink and paraphernalia for canning and jarring—Ian had still kept a garden with vegetables and herbs, and Jamie had dabbled with canning now and then himself. Mason jars filled simple shelves above the heavy iron sink.

  There was no one in the basement, and no sign that anyone had been there.

  Not to Kristi, at any rate.

  But Dallas Wicker hunkered down and ran his fingers over a section of the floor.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Looks like something might have been dragged through here,” he said.

  “Some of the yard tools are kept down here,” Kristi said pointing.

  “Right,” he agreed, and stood.

  “So...do you think someone has been in here?” she asked.

  “Yes—but whether it was just the yard guy or not, I don’t know. I don’t know the house. I didn’t know Ian Murphy,” he murmured. “So, now. The back is locked—two key bolts. Do you know if one key works on all the locks?”

  “I, uh, no—I didn’t even know I had a key until an hour or so ago. I’ve never let myself in here before. Apparently, we had a key just in case Jamie got locked out.”

  “But wasn’t Ian always here?”

  “Pretty much. But Jamie is a young adult. And he went out at night, and Ian was on sleeping pills. Jamie might be out at night with his friends, so...”

  “So, that key has been in a drawer in your house for a long time—years, right?” he asked.

  “I... I guess.”

  “Anyone could have copied the key.”

  “Hey!” she protested. “What—are you trying to add to my paranoia?”

  “Paranoia isn’t always a bad thing,” he told her. “Anyway, I’m here now. And, if someone was here, they’re not here now. Want to show me where all the debating and reading and whatever went on?”

  “Sure. This way.”

  She led him up the stairs to the office that connected to Ian’s bedroom. They’d scanned the room already, but now Dallas Wicker surveyed the extensive library.

  “There could definitely be something here,” he said softly.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her, hands on his hips as he looked at her. “If I knew...”

  “We’re in the Murphy place now, but you’re back to thinking that McLane House somehow is involved in two deaths and two disappearances,” Kristi said. “I have to tell you, I am feeling very uneasy about all this. Seriously, just what evidence do we even have?”

  “That’s what we’re going to look for,” he told her.

  She stared back at him, thinking of how he had arrived—on her doorstep. And how, suddenly, now, when she’d known the house all her life, the ghosts of Justin and Monty McLane had appeared before her, worried, certain something was wrong.

  Still, maybe she was truly having a psychotic break, believing this man—an agent for real?—saw ghosts just the same. Maybe she’d invented Dallas Wicker. He was unbelievably good-looking. Other people had seen him, right? Suddenly she was struggling to recall Dallas talking to other people at the house. No. He was real.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m wondering.”

  “Wondering what?” he asked her.

  “Well, I knew Lachlan Plant, and he was a super guy, so nice, enthusiastic. I knew Ian Murphy well, of course, and...”

  “What?”

  “Maybe they did know each other. Ian’s energy was down, but you know, people are supposed to keep up with exercise while they’re sick, both to keep the body strong, and for psychological reasons. And, like I said, Lachlan was just a good guy. Maybe Ian went to the gym—and maybe Lachlan was going to work with Ian. Maybe Ian told Lachlan about whatever he was working on, about something he might have discovered, about...” Kristi said, and then broke off. “About what—that’s what we don’t know. But if we find out they did know one another, we at least have a connection.”

  “My dear Miss Stewart, I believe you could be on to something,” he told her, and he pulled out his phone. He typed out a quick text, and when he looked up, he was smiling.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” he told her.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m working with a guy here—a police detective. Joe Dunhill. This is a start. We can also go to the gym and maybe verify the fact that Ian Murphy saw Lachlan Plant at some time. But maybe he just called him. Maybe Lachlan was even on his way over here when he died.”

  The house suddenly seemed to be closing in on Kristi. She wasn’t sure why; she’d loved Ian, Jamie was her friend and she’d always felt at home and welcome there. Maybe it was her proximity to Dallas, the feeling she had when he was close to her.

  She was so very attracted to him. And she needed to concentrate on the task at hand, and not be distracted by these new feelings.

  Maybe she was feeling too much.

  “Why don’t you look through these things—and I’ll run over to the gym?” Kristi suggested.

  He hesitated. “That would be logical.”

  “Great.” She turned to hurry out, but then paused, walking back over to the desk to retrieve her purse and hand him the key so he could lock up. “I’ll meet you back at my house!” she told him.

  And she fled.

  She didn’t understand it; she liked Dallas, really liked him.

  But her world, her peaceful little world she had just been creating and coming to know and love, had been shattered. First by the frightening realization that she could speak to the dead, and now by the notion that she maybe wanted someone else in her life.

  She hoped Dallas understood she was afraid, and she needed some space.

  To run.

  Run...or throw herself in his arms, bury herself in all the longing and attraction and beg him never to leave her.

  That thought startled her. That wasn’t going to happen.

  She ran across the square, and then she slowed her gait, and finally managed a brisk walk. At least, by going to the gym, she was doing something. Moving forward.

  Moving forward to get where?

  The gym was almost on the water; she walked quickly, and before another few minutes had gone by, she reached it.

  She saw the large sign above the door that advertised “World of the Body in Motion.”

  The gym was open from seven in the morning until eleven at night, continually brightly lit and offering machines and trainers for every age and body type. Therapists were also on call, and in the rear, there was a spa that offered massages and all kinds of body treatments.

  For a moment, Kristi stood just inside the doorway. She had a membership; she just
hadn’t been in a very long time, between the house and work and now...

  “Kristi! Hey!”

  She looked toward the reception desk. A woman named Amy Simmons was working the desk; she was a very pretty—perfectly fit—young blonde. She and Kristi had gone to high school together, and while they didn’t do lunch every week, they were still friends.

  “Hey, Amy.”

  “Have you come to work out?” Amy asked her. Kristi was dressed in a tailored cotton shirt and jeans—not exactly workout clothing. And she only had her small shoulder bag with her—she was obviously not carrying her clothing.

  “Uh, no, I—”

  “You should join one of my classes!” Amy said. “You’re young, and you’re agile, and you run around that house of yours and back and forth with your work. But there’s more to keeping in shape, you know, and longevity can be related to us all really respecting our bodies, you know?”

  “Yes, I really do have to get back into working out,” Kristi said. “But—”

  “I know, I know, so many people have been bummed out by what happened to Lachlan Plant. Such a great guy. And he was in such amazing shape—go figure that such an accident could happen to such a man,” Amy said. “So, so, sad. We all loved him here. Oh, and guess what? You know how we were doing a collection to get him buried? Somebody put in several thousand dollars—enough to get us up to goal, get him into a good funeral home, and into a plot in Bonaventure. He loved that cemetery—I know it would make him happy.”

  Kristi smiled; she and McLane House had put money into the fund, but she hadn’t had “thousands” to offer anyone.

  “Amy, did Lachlan work with older customers?”

  “Older, younger—you name it. He was a licensed physical therapist as well, you know.”

  She wasn’t sure she had known.

  “Did Mr. Murphy ever come in here?”

  “Mr. Murphy—you mean, Jamie Murphy’s grandfather?”

  “Yes.”

  “When he’s home, Jamie comes here. I don’t think I ever saw his grandfather. Sad, so sad, about him, too, huh? But of course, he lived a full life—he was in his eighties, right? I mean, we can live to a hundred or more, and the value of a life can’t be judged on age, but at least he got to live, you know what I mean?” Amy asked.

  “Yes, at least he got to live,” Kristi murmured.

  “Well, who knows?” Amy asked. “Maybe Jamie did ask Lachlan about working with his grandfather, or maybe he was even in at some time. He’s not in our records—just Jamie. But if he just came in and talked to Lachlan, I might not know. I work days from six in the morning to two—he might have stopped by at some other time. Hey, come back in and work out and ask around, if you want to know. Hey, why do you want to know?”

  “I was just thinking about him, I guess,” Kristi said. “He and Jedidiah were really good friends. Anyway, thanks.”

  “We’re going to have a service for Lachlan on Saturday, and then burial out at Bonaventure. It’s going to be in the paper and all, but I’m guessing you’re going to want to come,” Amy said.

  “Of course,” Kristi said.

  Séance on Friday, funeral on Saturday. What could be better?

  She smiled and turned to leave, but before she could do so, another of the gym’s trainers came hurrying toward her. Boyd Morris, an old friend—and a friend to Lachlan, as well.

  “Kristi, hey, you coming back in?” Boyd asked.

  “Yes, soon,” she assured him.

  He glanced at Amy. “She told you about us being ready to bury Lachlan, right?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be there. Hey, Boyd, do you know what he was doing around Johnson Square on the night that he died? Oh, and I know what I wanted to ask you—did he know Ian Murphy?”

  “Did Lachlan know Ian Murphy?” Boyd pondered, and then he shrugged. “Sure, he must have known him. Lachlan worked with Jamie sometimes. Jamie surely talked about his grandfather. Ian was a cool dude—well, didn’t expect what he did.”

  “Yep, it was shocking,” Kristi said. “He was a great guy.”

  “Well, who knows. I’m sure Lachlan must have met old Ian somewhere along the line. I mean, Jamie has been out in California for years now, but he always came home to be with the old man for Christmas and all that. I’m sure Lachlan would have met him somewhere in there. I mean, this is Savannah! We’re still kind of like host city for Southern charm, right? Locals know locals and all that.”

  “Yes, we do,” Kristi agreed. “Anyway, thank you. Amy, Boyd, I’ll see you at the funeral. Thanks for letting me know.”

  She smiled, waved and left the gym, and started on the short walk back to Johnson Square.

  Looking up at McLane House, she was surprised—for the first time in her life—not to want to go in.

  It was her home now; her family heritage. She walked up the path, the steps to the porch and into the house.

  Murray Meyer was there, in the front parlor, with Carl Brentwood and the videographer, Matthew Guyer. Guyer was enthusiastically pointing to all the wonders of the house he meant to capture in his video.

  “Kristi!” Carl greeted her with enthusiasm. “We’re just about all set here for now. I was going to take Matthew to the Olde Pink House for a drink and to see the place. Want to come along with us?”

  “Oh, thank you, that’s sweet of you. I’m sorry—I have to get some work done. But...”

  She spoke and then hesitated.

  “But?” Carl asked her, smiling broadly.

  “I’ll be the extra person you need at the table for the séance.”

  She spoke quickly, before she could change her mind.

  He thanked her profusely.

  She excused herself rushing up to her own room. She leaned against the door when she closed it, praying no ghosts would come to haunt her then.

  They did not.

  She wanted to bury her head beneath her pillow and pretend none of it was happening.

  Somehow, she managed not to do so. She glanced at her phone, and then quickly texted Jamie Murphy: Can you talk?

  He answered her quickly.

  Give me about ten minutes; I’ll call you.

  Kristi sat down on her bed to wait.

  * * *

  Dallas was completely absorbed in Ian Murphy’s office; his volumes seemed endless, and he wrote notes detailing new information in the margins, or just notations on what he had concluded from what he had read. Ian Murphy had been a true lifelong scholar.

  He had maps of Revolutionary battles, battles during the War of 1812 and more. There was volume upon volume on James Oglethorpe, the general, peer and philanthropist who had founded Savannah in 1733, and immediately became friends with Tomochichi, the Native chief who would be his lifelong friend. The man had been an idealist and a dreamer, taking part in the planning of the squares in the city that had lasted through time, making downtown Savannah one of the largest areas on the National Register of Historic Places.

  He had volumes on Justin McLane, the Patriot who had died while trying to smuggle British plans out of Savannah, but not before he had served with Francis Marion, the South Carolina “Swamp Fox,” who had so harried the British up in South Carolina.

  “Justin, you were a good man,” Dallas said aloud.

  Dallas sat at the desk, and mused on why Justin had stayed—he never did know exactly why some people stuck around as ghosts and some did not.

  Justin had been honored by his countrymen. He had nothing to prove.

  While Monty...

  Had Monty stayed on to prove his innocence?

  Or perhaps he was still searching the earth for his beloved Trinity.

  He gave his head a shake. He had to try to figure out why someone would have killed Ian Murphy and Lachlan Plant. And why a businesswoman would have disappeared, and why someone had recently taken
Simon Drake.

  How did it all come together?

  He looked at his phone, willing it to ring. He stood and slid the books he had taken down back on the shelves where they belonged, using a bookmark from the desk between the volumes, allowing him to see where he had left off.

  He looked at his phone again.

  The hell with it.

  He dialed Kristi Stewart’s cell phone number.

  She answered it, a wary note in her voice. “Kristi Stewart, may I help you?”

  “It’s me. Dallas.”

  “I didn’t know you had my cell.”

  “Jonah gave me this number and his number,” Dallas explained. “I...uh...did you find anything?”

  “I don’t know. I found out they’re going to bury Lachlan this Saturday.” She was quiet. “You know how it all came to be paid for, right?”

  “I do. I’d like to attend.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “Did you find anything?”

  “I’m still here, looking. Lots of things, but not what we’re looking for, I don’t think.” As he spoke, he idly opened the drawers of Ian Murphy’s desk, even though they’d been through them earlier. “Are you still at the gym?”

  “No, I’m back... Did you talk to Detective Dunhill?”

  “Yes, they’re going to pull phone records, looking specifically for any communication between Plant and Murphy. Poor Joe—they’re letting him run with this, but I don’t think they’re giving him a great deal of credence. How about you? Any confirmation from the gym?”

  “Maybe. One of the trainers thinks that it’s likely Ian and Lachlan knew one another. Jamie did use the gym, and when he was here, he often worked out with Lachlan. Jamie would have talked about his grandfather. I’m going to have a call with him soon.”

  “Good,” Dallas said. He wanted to say more. He wished she was back there with him.

  “Dinner?” he heard himself say; he winced, certain she would turn him down.

  There was a slightly too-long silence on the other end.