I knock, get no answer, and open the door. Pratt is glaring at me, sherry in hand.
“Ms. Raven, please come in.”
I’m already in, but go to his desk with my best poker face.
“What can I get you to drink… other than sherry?” The man almost smiles.
“Nothing,” I say. “What can I do for you, Doctor?” It’s occurred to me while I was making him wait that Jankovic complained about me and his intent is to send me back to New Mexico. Instead of obediently standing before him, I could be on the road.
“Please have a seat. Are you sure you wouldn’t like something? A warm brandy? Zinfandel? I insist on you joining me.”
I unclench my fists and sit down. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry you couldn’t come to dinner this evening. I hope to see you tomorrow—
“You won’t. Not tomorrow or any other evening. I’m not here to entertain you, and I will not have you micromanaging my time or trying my patience. I’m here to work, period. If I’m here another second, it will be on my terms.”
Pratt’s eyebrow twitches, and this time he does grin then pauses to twirl his drink and take a self-indulgent sip. “It is not my intent to micromanage you. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. You’re staying on my property—
“Perhaps I should stay at a hotel in town. I don’t appreciate you not respecting my privacy. I trust you didn’t also instruct your housekeeper to go through my things while she was leaving the note in the guest house. It would have been easier to have returned my call.”
Pratt’s staring into his drink. He sets the glass in front of him and nods his head. I’m ready to go pack my things.
“I’m sorry. I instructed Mrs. Jankovic to leave you a note. I didn’t specify where. I’ll tell her not to go in the guest house again. I do want you to remain here so this matter can be resolved as quickly as possible. You said a week, and I’m hoping it won’t take longer.”
“Then stop assuming how I spend my time is for you to dictate. I am not a member of your staff and never will be.”
Pratt’s mind is too scrambled to read. He goes to the bar and refills his glass. I wonder how many times he does that each night. I get an uncomfortable feeling that the spirits are toying with his overindulgence.
“No, of course you’re not a member of my staff, but I would like to know what’s going on in my home and especially with your progress.”
“Like I said when we first spoke, I need to investigate before I can help release the spirit. I spent time in the house this morning. I’d appreciate your clarifying for Mrs. Jankovic that I’ll be doing that again. She did her best to disrupt my efforts and she succeeded. Are you sure she hasn’t experienced the activity in the house?”
Pratt isn’t smiling anymore. He’s staring into his glass looking more relaxed than I sense he really is with my comments. Without looking up, he shakes his head no.
I start to suggest that he ask her to be sure, but he’s looking too pathetic. “Once I gave up on trying to do my job, I attempted to get information from your neighbor Martin—
Pratt cringes like he’s been struck by a low watt electrical charge then he rubs his forehead. “I didn’t know you would do that. I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the man. He’s harmless, but sometimes… what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Slimy?”
Pratt actually laughs but his aura is muddled. His thoughts are many, all slamming into each other like bumper cars at a carnival. He wants to drive one of those bumper cars back over to the bar and refill his glass.
“I was thinking immature when it comes to relationships with females. In his mind, his behavior is, dare I say, endearing?”
“Only if it amuses you to do so. I’ll be going to Brookstone tomorrow to meet Joe Collins.” Pratt’s medicated expression doesn’t change.
“Joe Collins. The name’s familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“You bought the house from Mr. Collins,” I say.
“Aw, yes, of course. My attorney handled the transaction. I never met the man. It sounds like you’re successfully proceeding with your research. I assume you want to ask him if he experienced anything in the house.”
“Yes, and find out what I can about the owner prior to his purchase. I’ll also be researching the county records to learn more about the land before the house was built. I expect to be gone most of the day. Before I leave in the morning, I’ll be spending time in the house. Again, I’d appreciate your talking to your housekeeper about respecting my time.”
Pratt nods, but I’m not sure he’s really listening. I decide to find out.
“I’d also like to spend tonight in the house. Not to sleep but to observe, get a sense of any shifts in energy.”
Pratt looks into his empty glass. “Where would you be in the house?”
“All the rooms, just as I will be in the morning. I need to know of any changes in the energy that occur, sense any sort of presence. You said your daughter will be home tomorrow so it’s probably best that I do it tonight. Since there’s been activity in your bedroom, please sleep in one of the guest rooms. You can lock the door, but please leave all the others unlocked.”
“Yes, well… is that really necessary? I’m not sure it would be appropriate, appearances wise. Although all the activity has been in the evening hours, you did indicate you’re able to detect a presence even without observing activity. Did I misunderstand you?”
Pratt’s got a smirk that I want to smack off his face. The face that’s years younger than the one I saw on the beach. Now I’m thinking the spirit is really a doppelganger: a double-goer, an evil twin or alter ego spirit. A Mr. Hyde, perhaps. That would explain my intense fear and maybe what Jankovic mistakes as a lidérc.
“You did not misunderstand me. I wouldn’t ask to stay in the house if it wasn’t necessary. Of course, I’ll do my best not to disturb you. I’ll be here several hours. Let’s say ten o’clock to perhaps two or three.”
Pratt’s brow is tight, his jaw looks clenched. He’s turning his empty glass– right, left, right. I’m enjoying this too much. I should be concerned by his reaction not amused by it. He looks up and I jump before relaxing my smile.
“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Ms. Raven.”
Chapter Fourteen
§
Before I can offer a rebuttal that this isn’t the nineteen century and that both our reputations should survive my being alone in the house with him, Jankovic taps on the door to say goodnight.
Pratt’s at the bar refilling his glass. What is that three in the last half hour? I hope he doesn’t have any surgeries scheduled for tomorrow.
After a sip or two, he returns to his desk and tells me he’ll give me full and private access to the house from Sunday to Monday morning. That’s fine with me, but I’m doubting his puritan values. The more he drinks, the more I’m sure a menacing spirit is at work. And I have a sick feeling that the spirit is making at least some of his decisions.
I leave him to his sherry to go back to the guest house. After bringing it up a third time, he said he would speak to Jankovic about not disturbing me while I’m in the house, and he assured me that no one would enter the guest house without my permission. I walked out the door believing none of it.
When I get back to the guest house, Mojo is spread out on my bed. He paws back at me when I try to push him over. I do an online search for Dr. Douglas Pratt and find him on a number of physician review sites, all with glowing praise. He’s a Harvard graduate who did his residency at the University of Washington in Seattle. A very proper Dr. Jekyll.
I turn off my laptop and check the photos on my phone. Pratt’s bedroom is still dark. I place my fingers over the room and ask for a message. I don’t get Pratt’s angry face this time and my iPhone isn’t smoking, but I do hear the words in my mind, Shame on you.
Shame. Why didn’t I remember Maybelle’s words? A loss of dignity, honor, and death of the soul. “What is yo
ur shame Dr. Pratt? Too many sherries that are splitting your soul in two?”
∞
When my alarm goes off the next morning, I open my eyes to see Mojo on the bed, standing over me with his face inches from mine.
“What are you doing?” He steps in the middle of me and goes to the door. “Stay away from the housekeeper,” I tell him as I let him out.
It’s a little after seven when I see Pratt’s car idling in the driveway. Jankovic doesn’t arrive until nine, and I’m hoping to get a clearer sense of the house without her in it. I’m at the door as he steps out.
“What’s that?” he shouts, and steps back inside.
“Mojo, my partner. He’s certified in ghost tracking.”
Pratt looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I don’t like dogs.”
Mojo is standing at the bottom of the porch, staring at Pratt with his head lowered. “That’s okay,” I say, “he’s a wolf, and I can tell he doesn’t much like you either.”
“Please call him. Doesn’t he have a leash?”
“It’s hard to track ghosts with a leash on,” I say, with a semi-straight face. I wave to the wolfdog to join me on the porch, and loop a finger in his collar. Pratt walks sideways out the door then runs down the stairs to his car. Who doesn’t like dogs?
“Please don’t let him in the house,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, as we walk in the door and I shut it behind us. “Let’s find a ghost,” I tell him. He goes upstairs to get comfortable under the stained glass window. “I mean after your nap.”
I have about two hours, and I’m not wasting any time. I start in the kitchen and go room to room. I never use ghost meters or cameras to find the spirits. I ask, listen, and feel their presence. None are in the kitchen, pantry, or laundry room.
Next I go to Pratt’s study. The room is heavy, the air too thick. “What is your message?” I ask. After more time than I have, I start sensing worry and depression. The burdens and secrets of the proud ego– but no spirits, not even a doppelganger.
The rest of the downstairs is light and fresh. Jankovic may be a strange woman, but she’s a great housekeeper. I give up sensing and asking for a spirit and go to the kitchen to get some water. I see I forgot to close the laundry room door. When I reach for it, I notice a door I didn’t see behind the folding table. I assume it’s a utility room.
It’s not. It’s a very small bedroom– or shrine. The walls are covered with religious paintings. Figurines set on a desk and nightstand, one is a very pregnant Mary on a donkey that’s lost its ceramic head. I count no less than seven crosses hanging from the ceiling like mobiles, three are hanging upside down. I feel nauseous and nosy.
When I walk back into the kitchen, Jankovic is standing with her arms folded across her chest glaring at me. “No phenomenon in there,” I say. Her eyes are big and scary as I walk past her to go upstairs.
The next thirty minutes is spent in Pratt’s bedroom. I’ve brought four rock salt candles and place them around the room. I usually sprinkle salt for protection but want to save Jankovic the cleanup.
Mojo climbs on the bed while I sit on the floor and spray sage essential oil. After praying for a few minutes, I say, “If there is a spirit in the room, please make your presence known.”
I hear a crash downstairs and force myself to ignore it. “I’m here to help you crossover. Please come forwa—
Another crash and now the vacuum is running and some kind of polka music is blaring downstairs. Great. If Pratt talked to the woman, he’s made things worse. Now I have a pompous, controlling, alcoholic doctor and a deeply pious, chicken fearing, polka dancing housekeeper. Seems like the ghost is the one needing an eradication of the living.
I gather my things and walk out the front door with Jankovic watching me with crossed arms and two evil eyes.
Since I have more than enough time before my eleven-thirty lunch date with Collins, I stop at the assessor’s office to get what I can on the house. The clerk is fast and efficient and a little more than irritated that I didn’t get the information off the internet. She tells me I could have found it “easily.”
With a straight face, I ask her what this here internet thing is and where I can get me one. She gives me a baffled look, takes my fifteen dollars, and hands me a stack of papers. “Is this here internet something I can buy me at the hardware store?” She rushes to the backroom.
The Ocean View Nursing Home in Brookstone doesn’t have a view of the ocean, but it does have a friendly and trusting staff. Without showing ID, I’m led to a large room filled with chatty seniors.
“I don’t see him,” I say, as the attendant goes to leave.
“Right there,” she says, pointing with a silly-you grin at a man sitting in front of me.
“You my lunch date?” the man yells.
“If you’re Joe Collins, I am.”
The attendant hears this exchange, but doesn’t question me or Joe either. I was wondering why Pratt didn’t recall Collins, other than the sherry, when mentioning the good doctor’s name was what got me in to see the man. I hope to find out.
I explain who I am– Pratt’s niece, the history buff– and ask Collins if he would mind talking to me about his former home. Turns out he doesn’t have a clue who Pratt is, but is more than happy to talk to me. He’s just not good at staying on track.
In the twenty minutes we have before our Tuna Surprise Friday luncheon, I learn about his wife Sally who died a year ago, her cousin who has gout, his brother who lives in Utah, and the cost of putting a new roof on the house.
We turtle walk to the dining room. Our plates are already waiting, cooling off nicely. He brags to some men who are checking us out that I’m his girlfriend and we’re planning on getting married. I get a whistle and Joe gets a thumbs up.
“What caused the roof to need replacement?” I ask.
“Worn out from all the rain,” he says.
“Ever have any other problems in the house? Noisy furnace, creaks upstairs?”
Joe assures me the house is as solid as steel and built to last two hundred years or more. There’s no surprise in the tuna dish, and I’m giving up on getting anything useful out of my new fiancé when Joe shakes his finger at me.
“I’ve been racking my brain to remember this Pratt guy you keep talking about, and now I figured it out. He’s that good for nothing doctor who murdered his wife a dozen or so years ago.”
Chapter Fifteen
§
When lunch ends at Ocean View, there is no lingering by the seniors or staff. The room empties like grade school at summer break, without the running.
Joe gives me his arm as we walk out, and I ask how he knew about Pratt’s wife. He says everyone knows about the wife who disappeared and was never heard from again– everyone but me.
We part in the lobby, but not before he kisses my hand. Oh, the bliss of old-fashioned love. An attendant herds him to the rec room and with a chuckle, wishes me a good day.
Somehow, I think if everyone knows about the alleged murder of Pratt’s wife, so would the police. I doubt there’s anything to it but still plan on researching it later. Joe didn’t recall anything about the people who owned the house before him, but he was sure they were both alive when he and his wife bought the house. His own wife died in the hospital. I’m checking her off the bottom of my list.
The property records will help me with my search for the previous owners. Other than to make sure they experienced nothing supernatural and no one died in the house, I won’t waste any more time on the matter.
I need to sort my thoughts, so I drive to the nearest beach and me and the wolfdog walk in a cold, fierce wind. Pratt said the house on Shem Bay was meant to be a fresh start for him after the death of his wife and Mackenzie’s stepmother. There was no reason for him to mention a first wife, but that doesn’t quiet my unease since I know that the man is keeping secrets.
When it begins to rain, we race back to the jeep. With the heat blasting, I pull o
ut the records I got from the assessor’s office and find the prior owners. The assessor’s website is working today, and I write down the couple’s new residence then move on to the land owners. Three total.
One from the early nineteen hundreds, another some sixty years later, and the final in nineteen ninety four. Three years later that same owner built the house, which he quickly sold. I figure that owner was an investor and probably never intended to live in the house, but make a note to double check.
I place my fingers over each of the documents. House buying is stressful and exciting. I get both from the signatures of Joe and his wife and the previous owners. The land owner slash house builder is all business, serious, and determined.
The final documents are Pratt’s, and I hesitate. I don’t like to come to any conclusions about a haunting or my clients by using my logical mind, but it seems I already have. I place my fingers over his signature on the deed and close my eyes. “Please give me a vision,” I ask. I take a deep breath and let the humming of the engine and the rain pounding on the roof of the jeep take me into trance.
Just as I’m getting something from spirit, lightning crackles. I jump and drop the document. Thunder rumbles and Mojo does his werewolf howl right in my ear as I sit up. I turn on the wipers to see the storm and see a black box low in the sky instead. It’s there and gone. Mojo is spread out on the backseat. “You okay?” I ask, and he almost wags his tail.
The rain is coming down so hard I hate to drive, but I’ve picked up a menacing vibe. It’s not even two o’clock and the thick gray clouds are giving it a midnight gloom.
What did I see? The box looked something like a disc player… or a box that holds secrets, like the knife Pratt plunged into his first wife’s heart. My mind’s gone too far to the gruesome side; I need a cup of tea.
I drive back to Shem Bay and troll the town’s main street to find a friendly diner. I find a quaint tea house instead. Probably not the type of place to pick up some small town gossip about the doctor, but it might calm my nerves.
The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Page 7
