“The dowager’s butler, Fredrick Carlisle, was in on it from the start. We ran a background check on him, and it seems that in his youth he was anything but a good citizen. He did a short stint in prison for beating another bloke senseless, and it appears he was recruited by Lady Hathaway specifically for those credentials. She had him trained as a butler and gave him a small portion of the take from the women who came to her for help in disposing of their husbands.”
“What about Mary?” John asked. “She didn’t look like she had any money. How did she and her brother get wrapped up in all this?”
“Mary’s husband was a brute,” the inspector replied. “She confessed everything to me, and she claims that her husband beat her regularly. She says that there were rumors when she and her husband came here to work that wealthy troublesome men were drowning in the moat, but she held off asking the dowager for help until her brother, Arthur, came to manage the hotel. It was Arthur in fact who approached the Lady Hathaway about Mary’s husband, Richard Farnsworth, and Lady Hathaway agreed to take care of the groundskeeper in exchange for paying Mary and her brother a mere pittance of what they were worth to work here the rest of their lives. That’s the real reason why neither she nor her brother carried mobile telephones, Miss Holliday. She told me you’d asked about them on the night the drawbridge was tampered with. Neither Mary nor her brother could afford a mobile. They couldn’t afford much of anything, in fact, which is also why they took up residence here. They were allowed free room and board, but barely any salary.
“And for twenty-five years they looked the other way as husband after husband was found facedown in that moat. Mary swears that she never took part in anything else, but she was less forthcoming about whether or not her brother had assisted Fredrick with the killings. I suspect that Arthur was not involved in André Lefebvre’s murder; however, I do suspect he knew when and how it would be carried out by the butler.”
“Which is why he made sure to stay up late with Gilley and John the night I went to visit Heath in the hospital,” I said. “I did think it was a bit weird that he would’ve been up so late after such a harrowing day. I chalked it up to the fact that he was shorthanded without Merrick. But that brings me to another question, Inspector: Why did Arthur kill Merrick?” I’d been such a fool to believe the old man’s act. His shock and grief over the clerk’s death had rung so true for me that I’d never suspected he might be a killer too.
“Mary and Arthur were very nervous that Merrick was becoming a little too suspicious of the events taking place here at Kidwellah,” he explained. “Mary caught the young clerk eavesdropping on a phone conversation Mrs. Lefebvre had with Lady Hathaway—ostensibly to plan the murder of her husband and arrange payment—and Mary knew that Merrick might be perilously close to alerting me.
“She began to spy on him, and on a trip upstairs to bring Mrs. Hollingsworth her tea service, Mary happened to see you two unlock and enter the south wing. Knowing there was only one way you could have obtained a key, she confronted Merrick, who confessed that he suspected there were murders taking place here at the castle. He told her that he believed someone was using the Grim Widow to kill unsuspecting guests, and he hoped the two of you would help to expose the scheme and the murderer. He had no idea that Mary was a part of the evil plot, and after she told her brother. . . well, young Merrick had to be dealt with. Quickly.”
I sighed sadly. Poor Merrick. “I’m really glad we stayed and freed him from the Widow’s clutches,” I said after a lull in the conversation.
The inspector looked at me with a sad smile. “I’m very glad you stayed as well, Miss Holliday. For me, my brother, and my father. We owe you and your friends here a sincere debt.”
“What’ll happen to your mother?” I asked as gently as I could.
Lumley sighed heavily. “She’ll have to face the charges and stand trial. It’s the least I owe my father.”
I reached out my free hand and squeezed his. “I’m really sorry, Inspector.”
His sad smile remained. “Don’t be. Yes, I may have lost Mother to this mess, but in another sense I’ve gained back the honorable name of my father. I know now that he was a good and decent man, and bloody courageous to boot. Someone to be proud of, and someone I hope can be proud of me.”
“Oh, he’s proud of you,” Heath told him and I was suddenly aware of Clarance’s energy hovering right behind my sweetie. “He wants to thank you for helping him and your brother, and he also wants to let you know that they’ll be just fine, so don’t worry about them. Also, after this case is all cleared up he wants you to get your butt back to London. He says you belong at Met Pol.”
The inspector’s jaw fell open, and all he could do was stare at Heath.
Right about then I felt Clarance withdraw, and I knew he’d probably used up all the energy he could’ve mustered after being on the other side such a short while. “He’s gone,” Heath said, and the inspector nodded, attempting once again to smile, but it was still very sad. Heath must have noticed, because he added, “Inspector, I’ll make you a deal. Any time you need to hear from your dad or your brother, you call me, and I’ll give you a reading.”
I felt my eyes mist at Heath’s sweet offering, and across the table from us, the inspector’s smile lost all of its sadness, and I knew he’d be okay.
* * *
Two days later the whole crew was up early and everyone was packed and ready to move on to our next location shoot. We were all anxious to be away from this castle and its memories, even though we’d had the most successful shoot we’d ever recorded and Chris was thrilled with our footage.
Heath and I had made sure that all of the dowager’s victims had made it safely to the other side, and for kicks we’d also rooted out three other spooks haunting the main side of the castle and had gotten them over as well.
The crew had been doing a lot of high-fiving since Gopher told us that our bonus checks would be cut by the end of the week, and in general everyone was once again in very fine spirits. All except for Gilley, who was in the foulest of moods. I couldn’t understand it until I saw him having an almost tearful farewell to Michel.
As I watched the pair, I really felt for poor Gilley. It was a rare thing for him to put his heart out there. When we lived in Boston, he had a new guy on his arm every week, but none of them lasted more than a few days. He just didn’t let himself get too close to someone. But Michel was different. The photographer was sweet and gentle and a great conversationalist. He laughed at all of Gilley’s jokes and snarky comments, and Michel could keep up with him quip for quip.
I knew that they’d promise to keep in touch, but it wasn’t the same, and both of them traveled so much for their jobs that it wasn’t likely they’d ever be in the same place together.
But then I noticed that Gopher was eyeing the two of them with a sort of half smile, and my curiosity was piqued. At last I watched him walk over to the boys and say, “Michel, I was wondering. Would you be open to a permanent job? I mean, I know you’re mostly freelance, but we really benefited from having you on this shoot, and I could use someone like you for the rest of the season.”
“Ohmigod yes!” Gilley cried, and then he realized that he’d spoken for Michel.
I laughed softly and ducked my chin, pretending I hadn’t noticed. But I heard Michel say, “I’d like that, Gopher. I’ve nothing else lined up at the moment, and I had a grand time on this adventure.”
I lifted my eyes to see Gilley so happy and excited that he was practically dancing.
Next to me I heard, “About time Gopher made him an offer. I thought I was gonna have to step in there for a minute.”
I eyed Heath keenly. His look was a little too smug. “Wait. . . you did that?”
He grinned. “Gil deserves to be as happy as you and me, so I merely suggested to Gopher that now that Chris has
opened up the purse strings, we have room in our budget for a professional cameraman, and Michel’s footage was the best out of anyone’s. I also may have hinted that with Michel in the field, Gopher could hang back with Gilley and direct from a safe zone.”
I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then I wrapped my arms around him and said, “You are so getting lucky tonight, do you know that?”
Heath bounced his brows and replied, “We’ve got twenty minutes until the shuttle arrives to take us to the airport, you know.”
I grabbed his hand and took off for the stairs. “We forgot something!” I called to the crew. “Be back down in a few!”
We ended up being just a little late for the shuttle too.
Read ahead for a sneak peek at the next
GHOST HUNTER MYSTERY
Coming in January 2014 from Obsidian.
Being a psychic medium definitely has its downers. As a group, we’re a pretty haunted lot. (Yes, I went there. . . . ) Many, if not most, of us had troubled childhoods that caused us to develop a sixth sense in order to cope. And I’m no exception. My mother died on an autumn morning when I was eleven, and in his subsequent grief, my father turned to the bottle and his work. In many ways I lost both parents that day.
It took years, but Daddy finally let go of the grip he had on his daily half gallon of vodka and sought help. He’s been sober for about sixteen years now, but the residual damage to our relationship has remained. During my teenage years we fought constantly. In fact, I spent most of my junior and senior years of high school at my best friend Gilley Gillespie’s house, being looked after by Gil’s wonderful mother, who’d been treating me like one of her own from the moment my own mama passed away.
Things didn’t improve even after high school when Gil and I moved from Georgia to Boston. Daddy and I just couldn’t seem to make peace even with those twelve hundred miles between us. And every visit home thereafter was torture for me—usually ending with an early flight back to Boston. Recently, however, that’s changed, and I can safely say that these days we’ve never gotten along better. Although that could be because we haven’t spoken to each other since I started showcasing my talents on TV.
Daddy was willing to tolerate my rather, as he put it, “disturbing” ability to talk to the dead as long as I didn’t make a public spectacle of myself. Nearly two years ago I’d done a cable special on haunted objects, and since then I’ve landed a nice contract working on my own ghostbusting cable TV series, called Ghoul Getters. News of my success on the airwaves spread like wildfire in Valdosta, fueled no doubt by Mrs. Gillespie, who’s crazy proud of both Gilley and me. The consequences, however, are that now the only acknowledgments I get from Daddy are a Christmas present (picked out by his secretary) and a birthday card (also picked out by his secretary) with a check inside (probably forged by his secretary).
And as I brought the mail inside my office in Boston, so happy to be home again after a grueling four-month filming schedule, my mood dampened the moment I saw the return address on a small package mixed in with the mail.
“Well, I guess my birthday is next week,” I said with a sigh, passing through the inner lobby of the little office space I rent out on Mass Avenue, about three blocks away from my condo. After setting the other mail aside, I searched my desk for a pair of scissors.
“Come ’ere!” I heard a squeaky voice cry.
“In a sec, baby,” I replied.
“Come ’ere!” the voice insisted.
I ignored the command and fished around the drawer, finally coming up with the scissors, and began to carefully cut through the package.
“Come ’ere! Come ’ere! Come ’ere!”
I share my office (and my condo and my life) with a feathered red-tailed African gray parrot named Doc—whom I’ve had since fifth grade. He’s adorably sweet, funny, and maybe a teensy bit demanding. “I’m busy, honey,” I told him.
Doc climbed along the bars to exit the little door of his cage and hike his way up to the roof—which houses a nice play stand, and where he could perch and have a better view of what I was fiddling with. “What you do?” he asked. Doc speaks better English than most toddlers.
“Opening a package.” At this point I got the thing opened and managed to pull out a square black box with gold lettering on top that indicated it’d come from one of the finer jewelry stores in Valdosta—my hometown. Lifting the lid, I sucked in a breath when I took notice of an absolutely beautiful gold charm bracelet with three charms—a golden parrot, a small happy ghost, and a heart. For a moment I just stared at the gift, completely taken by surprise. “What’re you up to?” Doc called, trying to get my attention again.
I realized I had my back to him, so I turned and lifted the beautiful bracelet up for him to see. He cocked his head curiously.
“What do you think?” I asked him.
Doc blew me a really good raspberry.
“Everyone’s a critic,” I laughed. But I went back to staring at the charm with a mixture of bewilderment and delight, while Doc added to the raspberry a long litany of clucks, whistles, and happy chirps.
Doc’s been with me since right after Mama died. My paternal grandmother had given him to me after my mother’s passing to help bring me out of the terrible grief I was silently suffering.
The baby parrot was like a beacon of light in a world filled only with heartbreak. My mother had been the kindest, most wonderful and loving person I’d ever known, and her loss devastated me right into muteness. I spoke not one word for many months after her funeral. Even when I fell and broke a finger, I cried silently, unable to free my vocal cords from the crushing weight of my grief. Doc changed all that. Like a phoenix he pulled me from the ashes, and slowly, with his help and love of mimicry, I healed and started talking again. But the chatty, charming bird seemed to have no effect on Daddy. And I’ll never understand why, but right from the start Daddy had seemed to resent my delightful pet. In fact, he’d tolerated Doc a lot like he’d tolerated my ability to talk to dead people. . . as in, he’d barely tolerated him at all.
So, opening Daddy’s gift to reveal something so lovely and thoughtful as a parrot charm and a ghost charm was a real surprise. And the heart was also an out-of-character choice from Daddy. He just wasn’t sentimental or outwardly emotive. He was more like a closed door that I’d long since given up knocking on.
For a second I thought that it simply must have been his secretary’s choice, but she’d never shown one shred of sensitivity for me. Previous gifts were simplistic items, like a pair of candlesticks or a paperweight or a picture frame. I’d long thought of Daddy’s secretary of twenty years, Willamina, as a harsh, cold woman who preferred dressing all in black except for the bloodred lipstick she coated her thin lips with.
Her style made her look as if she were perpetually in mourning, and given how my mother’s death had turned Daddy into such a terribly cold and bitter person, I found some irony in that.
At last I tore my eyes away from the charm and fished around inside the envelope it’d come in, finding a card inside too. I opened it to read a lovely handwritten note in beautiful cursive, wishing me the happiest of birthdays and hoping to catch up soon. The handwriting wasn’t anyone’s I recognized, but the signature was clearly Daddy’s. And not the forged signature of his secretary, but Daddy’s real scraggly scrawl, which added even more mystery to the gift.
I moved to my desk and sat down, because I needed to sit down. Slipping the bracelet on, I stared at it and wondered first, what was going on with Daddy, and second, how should I respond to such a lovely, thoughtful gift?
The average person would have immediately picked up the phone to call and thank her father for the kindness, but as you may have guessed, I’m not exactly the average person, and our relationship was complicated. There were too many years of missed opportunities, broke
n promises, harsh words, and judgmental attitudes to be swept aside by a bit of precious metal.
Still, after taking off the bracelet to set it gently back inside the box, I did reach for the phone. “Sweet baby Jesus, gurl! Why are you calling me so early?” Gilley answered by way of greeting.
“I just got a package from Daddy,” I said, getting right to the point.
Gilley yawned, and I could imagine him bleary-eyed and mop-headed, tangled in his bedcovers. “Let me guess: This year’s check is for two hundred, right?”
“No. It’s not a check.”
“His secretary just sent a card? Jeez, M. J., why does that man even bother anymore? I’ll call Ma, she’ll make sure you get a nice present on your birthday.”
I smiled. Mrs. Gillespie had been making sure I received lovely gifts on my birthday for twenty-two years now, and she never needed prompting from her son, either. “No, Gil, you don’t understand. Daddy sent me a really nice gift.”
That won me another yawn. “Black leather gloves?”
“A solid gold charm bracelet with three charms: a parrot, a heart, and a little Casper ghost.”
Gilley was silent for about five seconds. “Is your dad sick?”
I leaned back in my chair and threw an arm over my eyes. “I have no idea. We haven’t spoken in almost a year and a half.”
“Leave it to me,” Gil said. “I’ll call Ma and get the scoop.” Mrs. Gillespie was tied to all the gossip in our hometown.
I hung up with Gilley but kept my arm over my eyes. What if Daddy was sick? What if he was really sick? I knew that with my abilities I could probably find out the answer, but I was too chicken. There was a part of me that didn’t want to know, because I’d already lived through one parent’s terminal illness, and it’d nearly been my undoing.
What a Ghoul Wants Page 33
