Seance on a Summer's Night

  “Right. Of course.” He looked flatteringly disappointed.

  I was unexpectedly disappointed too. I did not want to say good night to Seamus—and that had nothing to do with not wanting to face those cold, dark rooms upstairs alone.

  I said slowly, “If you don’t mind sleeping together when it really is just sleeping…”

  He brightened, grinned, said immediately, “I don’t mind. Sleeping is one of my favorite things.”

  “Tell me the story of your life,” I said.

  It was about an hour after Seamus and I had retreated upstairs. We’d taken turns splashing around in the bathroom and were now settled in each other’s arms in the boat of a bed I’d used to lie awake in, dreaming of a guy like Seamus wandering into my life.

  Instead, Greg had wandered in, and I’d gone with that.

  At the time, I’d believed that being with the wrong guy was preferable to being alone.

  Now I knew better.

  Seamus grinned. “Am I auditioning?”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “Are you?”

  He made a sound of amusement, tipping his head as though to study me better in the lamplight.

  “Not a lot to tell. I’m a born and bred New Yorker—sorry, I lied; you guessed right that day in the garage. Age thirty-three, Protestant, O-positive blood type, unmarried, no kids, registered Independent, annual income just under $100K.”

  “The ideal man,” I said lightly. “Is that what you always wanted to be? A cop?”

  “I wanted to be a playwright.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.” He laughed without self-consciousness. “No. I’ve got a box full of terrible scripts to prove it.”

  I found this charming, which had to be proof I was seriously falling for Seamus Cassidy.

  “How did you end up on the force?”

  “Och, I come from a long line of Irish cops,” he said with a not-too-shabby Irish accent. “Anyway, no regrets. I like it. I’m good at it.”

  “Your interest isn’t solely financial crimes, is it? Don’t you have a background in cults and mind control?”

  “Cults? Me? No.”

  “Oh. I saw some textbooks on the shelf in your living room that made me think you had an interest in that kind of thing.”

  “No. Those books were there when I arrived. They’re not mine. Except the cooking with booze book. That’s mine all right.”

  I laughed.

  He said, “What about you?”

  “Did I grow up wanting to be a theater critic? Uh, no. I don’t think anyone grows up dreaming of being a theater critic.”

  “What did you want to be?”

  I made a face. “I wanted to act, dahling, of course.”

  “What happened?”

  “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, critique.”

  “You’re a very good critic. I love reading your columns.”

  I laughed. “Thank you.”

  “No, but I’m serious. I like the way you think.”

  I laughed again, self-consciously. “Okay. Tell me three surprising things about yourself.”

  “Now I feel like I really am auditioning.”

  “They don’t have to be big things.”

  He looked ceilingward, thinking. “Hmm. Well… I’m the oldest of triplets.”

  “Triplets!”

  “Yep. I’m allergic to honey.”

  “How can that be?”

  He held up three fingers. “And I have a cat named Milo.”

  “I like cats. How old is Milo? What kind of cat is he?”

  “Three. He’s a cool cat.”

  I snickered.

  Seamus said, “He’s not like a show cat or anything. I don’t know what breed he is. I found him as a kitten. Or he found me.”

  If this kept up, I was going to fall in love with Seamus in short order. “How is it you’re not already in a relationship with somebody?” I asked suspiciously.

  He made a thoughtful mmm sound.

  I raised my head. “Or are you?”

  He scowled. “Hell, no. I wouldn’t be lying here in bed with you if I was in a relationship.”

  I relaxed against him again. “Good.”

  He reached up to stroke my hair. It felt nice. His touch was sure and gentle. I thought how different it would be to be in a relationship with someone like him. Someone with a sense of humor. Someone who was sure of himself. Not arrogant, just…a guy who knew who he was and where he was going. Someone to whom gentleness came naturally, instinctively.

  “Can I ask you something, Artemus?” he asked softly.

  I closed my eyes. “How did I end up with a cheating asshole like Greg?”

  “No. Who was Anthony Clarke?”

  I was still for a moment. I opened my eyes to scrutinize his face. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “His name came up in conjunction with yours a couple of times.”

  I made a sound of disgust. “I bet. And people complain about unemployment when the local gossip mill is still operational?” Not that I was surprised. There had been plenty of talk at the time—and Tarrant and Betty had both been present at the first séance when Tony had supposedly appeared.

  Seamus said calmly. “Gossip is a useful resource in my line of work.” He stroked my hair again, and I knew he was trying to communicate silently that this was not something meant to threaten or hurt.

  “Tony was a friend.” I considered Seamus for a moment. Considered how open and honest he had been. Not with everything, but his interest—feelings—for me. I amended, “My first boyfriend. We were sixteen.” Sixteen. A different planet in a different solar system.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard. He killed himself.”

  “I did hear that. I’m sorry.”

  I sighed, and even I could hear what a long, weary sound it was. “It was a long time ago.”

  It was. And yet it still hurt if I opened my heart to it—something I had become practiced at avoiding.

  I said, “He was great. I…liked him. A lot. Everybody did. He was smart, funny, talented—there was someone who could actually act.” I sighed again. The memory of Tony was always going to be a weight on my chest. I said, “He was also bipolar, which none of us—his friends—knew.”

  Seamus gave a quiet ah.

  I was surprised by how much I wanted him to understand, to not blame me. But it was still hard to get the words out. “We hadn’t been seeing each other long. It was all still really new. We had an argument. It was something stupid. Trivial. So trivial, I honest to God am not sure to this day if I really do know what the argument was really about. At the time, I didn’t think a lot about it. It was just…a disagreement.” I cleared my throat. “I told him to go to hell.”

  Seamus made a pained sound as though he was watching it unfold with me.

  After a moment, I said, “He thought we were breaking up. He thought it was over. He drove out to Timber Landing and jumped off the cliff.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said again.

  My eyes stung. It was silly. But there had not been a lot of sympathy for me back then.

  “Thank you. It took me a long time to realize that it wasn’t my fault. That it wasn’t really about me. I did love him—was falling in love with him, anyway—but that’s not always enough.”

  Intellectually, I really did understand and believe that, but I can’t deny that hearing Seamus’s instant, heated, “Of course not. Of course you weren’t to blame. You were a kid. You weren’t equipped to deal with that,” felt like balm on an open wound.

  “Yes. We were both kids, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was a tragedy.” I added, “And a really bad introduction to romance and relationships.”

  Seamus started to respond but stopped at the sound of a floorboard creaking outside the bedroom door. We both sat up, listening. The floorboard squeaked again. I scrambled off one side of t
he bed. Seamus rolled in the other direction, diving for his clothes and pulling out a large and serviceable semiautomatic pistol out of the neat pile of jeans, T-shirt, socks, and briefs.

  At my look, he whispered, “Not usually in the bedroom, no.”

  I yanked open the door.

  A lamp sat on a long table midway down the corridor. The muted light cast sharp shadows across the ceiling and walls—and revealed that the hall stood empty. All was quiet.

  Seamus appeared at my shoulder, tense and alert.

  A light shone from beneath Aunt H.’s door. A paler band glowed beneath Liana’s.

  We waited. Nothing happened.

  “What do you think?” he whispered.

  I thought our nerves were wearing thin. I thought a night-light made all the difference in the world.

  I said, “Bathroom run? A craving for hot milk that won’t be denied?”

  We continued to stand motionless, not speaking, just listening.

  Wood creaked near the head of the staircase, but the landing was empty.

  It was an old building. Its bones ached and groaned at night. All the same…

  I whispered, “I’m looking for those blueprints tomorrow.”

  Seamus nodded.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three things happened the following day.

  The Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office crime lab reported finding blood in Tarrant’s—well, legally, Aunt H.’s—station wagon.

  Seamus was abruptly summoned to San Francisco by his superiors.

  Aunt H. informed me over scrambled eggs and English muffins that Liana wanted Roma to conduct a séance that night.

  “I hope you told her no,” I said to Aunt H. “I hope Roma had the sense to tell her no.”

  “There’s no reason for you to attend,” Aunt H. said. “In fact, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

  “There’s no reason for any of us to attend.”

  “Artemus…”

  “In what universe would this be a good idea?” I demanded.

  “You profess not to believe, so how can it hurt?” Aunt H. retorted, unexpectedly—and unfairly—turning my own words against me.

  “Let’s start with the fact that two nights ago Liana was galloping through the meadows and woodlands, insisting Ogden wanted her to join him in the Hereafter. What’s to stop her from deciding Ogden—Oscar—might require additional company, since he’s been none too subtle in hinting you’re his first choice of people he wants to spend here to eternity with.”

  “There’s no running away from this.”

  “Of course there is! I mean, running away from what? I don’t understand.”

  “The only chance of helping Ogden understand—”

  “Darling, there was blood in Tarrant’s station wagon,” I cut in. “Do you not see the ramifications of that?”

  “I don’t believe for one minute Tarrant killed himself.”

  “Me neither!”

  “Nor do I believe supernatural forces did away with him.”

  “Total agreement. I would love to know what you do believe?”

  Aunt H. eyed me without favor.

  “I’m waiting,” I said.

  Aunt H. said, “I believe that your mind is closed. I believe that the only way to deal with this situation is to confront it head on—with an open mind, yes, but also an open heart. Whatever remains of Ogden, whether we call it a spirit or a psychic echo—”

  “Or a total and complete sham,” I couldn’t help saying.

  Aunt H. gave me a level look. “—is angry, bitter, believes itself wronged. The only way to resolve that situation is to try to communicate with him—it. Roma has proven herself the best conduit for that.”

  I said, “Will you not even consider that this is all one big elaborate con?”

  To my astonishment, Aunt H. said cryptically, “Suppose it is? The path is still the same, isn’t it?”

  And to that, I really didn’t have an answer.

  Following our unsettling breakfast, I phoned Police Chief Kingsland and informed him of the evening’s scheduled festivities. I wasn’t sure what he could do about it, but I thought having a cop on call would not be a bad idea. I had to leave a message because he was in a meeting. I also had to leave a message on Seamus’s cell.

  “We’re going to have another séance tonight,” I said. “I hope you’ll be back in time to hold my hand.” I was trying to project a bit of sangfroid, but I couldn’t help adding, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

  After that, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. What could I do?

  I’d promised Seamus to try and get my hands on the original blueprints for Green Lanterns, so I asked Aunt H. about them.

  She said she had no idea where they were. She had not seen them in years. She said they might be anywhere.

  It was only sheer dumb luck that made me ask one more question.

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  Aunt H. looked vague. “I believe it was just before my last trip to New York.” Her expression changed. She said slowly, “Yes. That’s right. Ogden—Oscar—was asking for them.”

  I stared at her. It seemed too much to hope for. “Why?” I asked. “Why did he want them?”

  “I-I’m not sure. He had an idea that it would make sense to knock the wall down between the music room and his study.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  She ignored that. “It didn’t come to anything. Obviously.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw the blueprints to the house?”

  “Yes.”

  I left another message for Seamus after that conversation—from the front lawn, where I was sure I couldn’t be overheard.

  “You’re right. Somewhere in this house, there’s a secret passage. Og—Oscar was asking for blueprints right before the last trip my aunt made to New York. She stayed with me two weeks. The timeframe would be tight, but when money is no object, you can make things happen. Call me back when you can.” I cleared my throat, said awkwardly, “I miss you.”

  That bit of information—that one little piece of the puzzle—changed everything.

  I sat down on a sunny stone bench in the garden Seamus had hacked and chopped into submission and spent the next ten minutes using my phone to scour the Internet for everything I could find on Hart Lenton.

  There wasn’t an enormous amount of information on Lenton previous to his becoming a missing person. Cyril had been right. Lenton seemed to be a very ordinary guy. In fact, the kind of guy one might think—if one was a sociopath—could safely drop out of the world without leaving much of a hole.

  But that’s where one would be wrong—because Lenton had been loved.

  His parents loved him, his siblings loved him, his wife and three little daughters loved him. Even his in-laws loved him. And his neighbors. And his employees. And his minister. And the kids he coached in Little League. And his lodge brothers at the Loyal Order of Moose club.

  Maybe Lenton had gone quietly into that good night—maybe not—but the people he left behind had not stopped yelling about it since.

  I stared blankly into the green tangle of trees and vines beyond the paths that Seamus had cleared, trying to make sense of all these scattered nuggets of information.

  Six months before his death, Ogden had been looking at blueprints of Green Lanterns.

  Five months before Ogden’s death, Hart Lenton—a local contractor specializing in the restoration of historic buildings—had disappeared after meeting with an unknown client.

  There were obvious problems with the theory taking shape in my mind. To start with, if Ogden had murdered Lenton, his decision to disappear had not been spur-of-the-moment, had not had to do with the police closing in on him, had not had to do with Aunt H. asking for a divorce. He had been planning whatever it was he was planning for some time.

  Secondly, where would Ogden have stored Lenton’s body for five months?

  And finally, what had—what was he planning?


  It had to be more than faking his death, didn’t it? Why go to those lengths—why commit murder—when he could simply disappear and start over again?

  The only way it made sense was if he did not want to start over, if he had something to gain by not disappearing.

  But being declared dead was pretty much the same thing, so…

  No, I was missing something.

  I couldn’t see how Ogden being presumed dead got him anywhere. He could not inherit, should something happen to Aunt H. Wouldn’t anyway. I was next in line.

  I frowned, thinking that over, remembering Seamus’s suggestion that Liana might have deliberately lured me out to the garden.

  The first problem with that theory was that Liana couldn’t have had any idea I would be in lure-able range that night. The second problem was Liana was pretty unreliable these days. Would someone as calculating as Ogden would have to be, choose Liana as his accomplice? Unlikely.

  But he might use her as his dupe. Oh, hell yeah. That made sense. Liana, floating around in her grief-stricken fog, was about as suggestible an accessory before, during, and after the fact as one could hope to find. Then it simply became a question of logistics. How to best communicate Ogden’s wishes to Liana?

  Answer? Through séances conducted by Roma Loveridge.

  Which meant Roma was in on the whole charade. She had to be.

  It still didn’t really solve the question of what Ogden hoped to get out of faking his death. Even if there was some convoluted scheme to get me out of the way or convince Aunt H. to change her will in favor of Liana…then what?

  It wasn’t like Ogden could return from the grave and cash in. In addition to getting both me and Aunt H. out of the way, he’d have to figure out some means of getting Liana to hand over her inheritance to him. Granted, Liana could be in on the whole scheme. But no. I really didn’t think that was the case. I really did think Liana believed Ogden was dead. I believed she was going mad with grief.

  Maybe the plan was Liana, in turn, would leave everything to Roma.

  And then Liana too would be gotten out of the way?

  That was a lot of getting people out of the way. Three potential victims and counting—and that wasn’t even including Hart Lenton.