by Sonia Singh
Coulter pulled out a cigarette pack and tapped the bottom. “I’ve been dyin’ for one of these.”
Anjali pushed her hair back from her face and straightened her shirt. “That was a little awkward.”
“How so?” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and began searching through his pockets. “Got a light?”
“No, sorry. Well, awkward because…umm…Scott saw us. We’re supposed to be working here.”
“Who cares? I thought you meant awkward because Wilder’s jealous.” He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it. “I wonder if I can light this thing myself.”
“Scott can’t be jealous.”
Coulter quirked a brow. “Didn’t you see his face? Looked like he’d been punched in the gut.”
“It did?” Anjali hadn’t noticed. She suddenly felt very clueless for a psychic.
Coulter leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Aren’t you cute? Tell the boss I’ll meet ya’ll in the dead chick’s room.”
Anjali watched him walk away.
She stood there for a moment until the uneasiness hit. Hans was on the loose and she was all alone.
Which way was the upper deck again? Instead of a sixth sense, why couldn’t she have been born with a directional sense?
She’d barely taken a step when Scott’s voice crashed into her skull, startling her with its strength.
Anjali!
His voice boomed in her head, and the urgency made her run.
She ran down the metal gangplank, trying to zero in on his presence. She started toward a metal door, then backed up and headed down another hallway.
She reached out, focusing. Where are you?
She was in an isolated strip of corridor. On one side was the wall and on the other the railing, beyond that were the bowels of the ship. In front of her was another metal door, and she tried it. Locked.
Anjali.
Scott was here, she could feel him. With a smile of relief she turned around.
But it wasn’t Scott who stood behind her.
It was Hans Morden.
35
She felt a wave of cold fright slide over her body.
Scott’s voice coming out of Hans’s head was so wrong.
She backed away from him and moved toward the door she’d just come through.
It slammed shut in her face.
She turned around. Hans’s vacant expression was now twisted into something angry. “You can’t help Mary.”
Maybe if she learned more about the spirit controlling Hans she could somehow force it out? “Who are you?”
“I’m Mary.”
Great. They had a schizophrenic spirit on their hands. At any rate, Anjali no longer cared who’d killed Mary Chestnut. She just wanted to get off the damn ghost ship.
Hans moved toward her. “Mary is trapped here. You can’t help her.”
“I don’t want to,” Anjali said.
Hans sneered. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then we have a problem.”
Okay, she had to figure a way out of here. She didn’t know whether Hans was a willing host, but during the séance, she’d been able to push the presence out of her mind after hearing Scott’s voice calling to her, feeling him holding her hand.
“Hans? Hans, listen to me.” She kept her voice low and softly reached out with her mind, trying to connect with that part of him not controlled by the spirit. “Hans—”
The thing shoved her, hard.
The moment his hands touched her, it was like a flashbulb went off in her brain. A woman’s face—cupid’s bow mouth, dark blue eyes, and chestnut curls, staring at herself in the mirror, then lunging at the glass with a vicious snarl. The same woman, putting the barrel of a gun in her mouth, hands steady on the trigger.
Anjali lost her balance. She fell back hard, her head making painful contact with the metal. The world shifted out of focus. Hans—Mary, it was Mary—loomed above her, reaching for her. Gray eyes shifting into blue.
No more nightmare-free nights for me, Anjali thought.
If she survived, that was.
She raised her hands to ward off the attack, but then someone was yanking Hans away.
The world shifted back in and she saw Scott push Hans away. The man lost his balance and fell against the railing. He sat there, blinking, and then with a cry, scrambled off, fleeing through the door.
Scott was beside her, brushing the hair from her face. “Are you okay?”
“My head hurts.”
His fingers lightly probed the back of her head. “You’ll have a nasty bump but the skin isn’t broken. Do you feel nauseous or dizzy?”
“No.”
He helped her to her feet. For a second her legs felt like jelly, and she grabbed on to his waist to steady herself.
That’s when he pulled her into his arms.
She pressed her face against his chest. He felt so solid. “Mary Chestnut committed suicide—out of hate. That’s what I kept sensing, self-hate.”
Scott pulled away and looked down at her. “How do you feel?”
Like she wanted him to hold her again. “Okay, but Mary is still floating around this ship.”
“Vivica can deal with it. Let’s get out of here.” He started walking and held out his hand behind him.
Smiling, she caught up with him, put her hand in his, and they went to find Coulter.
36
“What in God’s name are you making?” Scott stared in horror at Coulter’s creation.
He had crammed ham, pastrami, tomatoes, pickles, jalapeños, cheddar cheese, onions, mustard, mayo, and several juicy slices of mango between two slabs of sourdough bread.
“Remember that mango chutney Angel’s sister brought over? I realized that mango tastes good on everything. Makes it tangy.” He took an enormous bite, managing not to spill a single drop. “Want some?”
“Not on your life.” Scott didn’t know what was going on between Coulter and Anjali’s sister. The guy made out with one sister and was being fed by the other.
Scott was staying out of it.
When the doorbell rang, he very thankfully left the kitchen, crossed the hall into the foyer, and opened the door.
Eddie Mirza stood there, a big grin on his face. “You’re about to owe me big time.”
“Spill it,” Scott said.
The three men were seated in the kitchen. Coulter was on his second sandwich, having fixed an identical one for Eddie.
“Well,” Eddie began and took a bite. “Hey, this is delicious!”
“I like a man with a sophisticated palate,” Coulter said.
Eddie grinned. “Well, you know Vivica and I have never seen eye to eye. So when this project came across my desk I didn’t pass it on to her even if she is my colleague.”
“Pass on what?” Scott asked.
“The thing is, I’m already committed to a case in Killarney—numerous sightings of free-floating orbs at Dunluce Castle. I’ve never been to the Emerald Isle. Have you?”
“What’s the damn project?” Scott demanded.
Eddie’s grin widened. “I’ll give you a hint. Pacific Grove.”
“The Booth House,” Scott said in a stunned voice.
Coulter popped the last bite in his mouth. “What the hell’s the Booth House?”
“Supposedly one of the most haunted historical homes in America,” Eddie answered.
“Haunted historical home?” Coulter said. “Say that three times fast.”
Eddie did.
Coulter shrugged. “Guess it’s not that tricky.”
Scott cleared his throat. “Back to the Booth House. We use the term supposedly because no one in our field has ever been allowed inside to investigate.”
“It gets even better,” Eddie said. “Dr. Madison from the NASPR will be on hand as a consultant.”
“The NASPR?” Coulter asked.
“The North American Society for Psychical Research,” Scott clarified. “Virginia Madison is on
e of the few parapsychologists respected by other branches of academia.” He smiled at Eddie. “Present company included. Dr. Madison has a Ph.D. in American history as well.”
“Well la-di-da.” Coulter got up and went to the fridge.
Eddie rubbed his hands. “This is gonna really knock your socks off, Scott. Now, if my Dunluce Castle contact wasn’t such a pretty Irish lass I’d—”
Scott groaned. “Honestly, Eddie, you take more commercial breaks than must-see TV. Get on with it!”
“Well, it’s funny you should mention TV because…the Sci Fi Channel will be filming the entire Booth House project! They’re sending in a camera crew.”
Coulter shut the refrigerator door and slowly turned around. “Did you say the Sci Fi Channel? We’re going to be on TV?”
Eddie glanced at Coulter. “You’re not camera shy, are you?”
“Is the pope Mormon?” Scott said dryly.
Wearing a big smile, Coulter sat back down. “Well la-di-da, boys.”
37
Pacific Grove was a ritzy beach town in Monterey County. Benzes, BMWs, and Ferraris roamed the tree-lined streets like sleek, expensive stallions.
Coulter stood outside the Lighthouse—a popular restaurant overlooking the ocean. He cupped his hand around his cigarette, struggling to light it before the sea breeze blew out the flame. Mission finally accomplished, he took a long drag and leaned back, one foot propped up against the wall. I could spend the rest of my days in a place like this, he thought, staring out at the expanse of blue sky and water.
A blond woman in a sweater set exited the restaurant, three adorable blond children in tow. She stared at Coulter with a look of dismay. “Okay kids,” she announced. “What do we do when we see a smoker? One, two, three, inhale!” All four of them held their breaths and ran to their car, a dark blue BMW X5.
Unperturbed, Coulter continued to stand outside and smoke. Several more diners glared at him as they entered the restaurant. He was tempted to light up again, but Scott and Anjali were waiting inside with their guest.
He took one last drag, then flicked the stub to the sidewalk, crushing it under his boot. Maybe Vegas was better suited to his tastes.
Dr. Virginia Madison was a short, stocky woman in her early sixties with enormous blue eyes that peered out at the world from behind rose-tinted glasses. Her thick brown hair was cut in a bob with bangs.
Coulter had the feeling Dr. Madison had worn the same haircut since the fifth grade.
“I’m thrilled the Booth family contacted us and not the ASPR,” Dr. Madison said, and beamed at them over a glass of sherry.
Coulter assumed it was sherry.
It looked like donkey piss.
“The ASPR?” Anjali asked.
“The American Society for Psychical Research,” Scott explained.
Dr. Madison smiled. “Yes. Not to be confused with my group, the NASPR. The ASPR is based out of Boston. We’re based out of San Francisco. And then of course there’s the SPR, Society for Psychical Research, which is based in London.”
Coulter yawned.
“Are you tired?” Dr. Madison asked with concern.
“No, just bore—”
“He doesn’t sleep well,” Scott interjected. “Night terrors.”
Coulter narrowed his eyes.
“Oh dear,” Dr. Madison said. “But then surely this job isn’t—”
“Could you tell us more about the Booth House,” Anjali asked. “Scott filled us in on most of it but…”
“You are the authority,” Scott said.
“Oh goody!” Dr. Madison practically bounced in her chair. “I love telling this story. I’ll just start from the beginning, shall I?”
Coulter had already heard the story in detail on the drive down and shot Scott and Anjali a pained look.
He was ignored.
“The Booths’ Victorian mansion was built in 1880 by Randall Booth for his new bride, Sarah,” Dr. Madison began. “Sarah was just seventeen and newly arrived from England. Randall was forty-two. Not uncommon in those days.”
“Seventeen?” Coulter mused. “All power to the fella.”
“Oh, Booth was quite pleased with the match,” Dr. Madison continued. She looked at Coulter. “Oh, not for the reason you think, Mr. Marshall, although I suppose there was that too. The marriage was strictly a business match between Booth and Sarah’s father. She was bringing quite a dowry with her—the deed to a large estate in Hampshire. Not that Booth needed it. He was worth almost twenty million back then, and in today’s dollars—”
“I suppose the man wanted to protect his investment,” Coulter said.
Anjali frowned.
“What?” he said. “I’m thinkin’ like a man from that time. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do as a historian? Walk in their shoes? Not force our modern values on ’em?”
“Er, yes,” Dr. Madison agreed.
“Let’s continue,” Scott said.
“Booth’s twin daughters were born soon after the couple moved in. For a while the family was happy; Randall was a known philanderer but he seemed to have settled down.”
“Or he was very discreet,” Anjali added.
Dr. Madison smiled. “Most likely. But the discretion did not continue. The year the twins turned six, Randall took up with one of the servants. Her name was Molly and she was sixteen.”
Coulter ordered another whiskey, neat.
“I think I’ll have one of those,” Dr. Madison said, looking at his glass. “I don’t know why I drink sherry.”
“I don’t know why you do either,” Coulter said and held up two fingers to the waitress.
“Now unlike his other mistresses,” Dr. Madison continued, “Molly believed Randall would leave his wife and children and marry her. Imagine her surprise when she discovered Randall in the arms of—”
“His wife?” the waitress asked.
They all looked up. The waitress set down their drinks. “Well…was it his wife? I’ve heard the Booth place is haunted. Everyone here has.”
Dr. Madison took a sip of whiskey and smacked her lips. “Delicious! No dear, it wasn’t his wife. Wouldn’t that have been a twist? Molly found Randall in the arms of a neighbor—a pretty young widow.”
“And here I thought history was boring,” Coulter said and widened his eyes as Dr. Madison knocked back her drink.
She smiled at the waitress and held out her empty glass. “Would you mind, dear?”
The waitress grinned. “Not at all. This one’s on the house if you tell me how it ends.”
Dr. Madison clapped her hands. “Oh goody! A fresh pair of ears.”
Coulter rolled his eyes.
By the time Dr. Madison resumed the story her cheeks were tinged pink. “Now this is where the account gets a little muddled. On the day of the twins’ birthday, Molly put a small amount of poison into the birthday cake. According to one servant, Molly wanted revenge. According to another eyewitness, Molly’s intention was to make the girls ill so she could nurse them back to health and maybe win back Randall’s favor. Both the twins had two slices of cake each, Randall and Sarah did not have any. By the next day the twin girls were dead. And Molly hanged herself in her room.”
“And the bastard Randall was left standing,” Anjali fumed. “He was indirectly responsible.”
“Wait, I haven’t finished,” Dr. Madison replied. “One year later Randall was murdered in his sleep. The case was never solved. Sarah passed away in 1922 at the age of fifty-nine. Just before her death she’d contacted a medium to help her communicate with the ghosts of her daughters and husband. It was a closed session, and the next morning Sarah Booth was found dead in her bed. No foul play or suicide, she’d suffered a stroke during the night.”
“Five possible ghosts,” Scott murmured.
Dr. Madison bounced in her chair. “Isn’t that exciting?”
38
They drove up the mansion’s gravelly drive, dead leaves and small branches crunching under the tire
s, and parked behind a dark gray van.
The granite three-story Victorian, graced with gables, balconies, turrets, and every other gothic cliché one could think of, loomed before them. Technically, Scott could find no fault with the architecture of the house, but the more he stared at it, the more unsettled he felt. Perhaps he was just projecting, perhaps he had an overactive imagination, but then he was a paranormal investigator; those traits came with the territory.
Dr. Madison literally bounced out and ran to meet the camera crew. Scott, Anjali, and Coulter followed at a more leisurely place.
Coulter surveyed Dr. Madison as she stepped from foot to foot, waving her hands, talking excitedly. “The poster child for ADD,” he said.
“I like her,” Anjali said.
Scott watched her walk away from the house and stare out at the ocean. A cold wind swept from the water and tousled her hair.
He came to stand beside her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. But something is definitely here.”
“Come along!” Dr. Madison clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to get started.”
Jane, Darryl, and Steve made up the camera crew hired to film the Booth House weekend.
Jane, the camera operator, was slender, with short hair and delicate features. She gazed up at the dark mansion and lit a cigarette. “I’d take a brownstone in Brooklyn any day.”
“The first thing we should do is set up a base,” Scott said.
Dr. Madison led them inside. “Let me show you the sitting room.”
They stepped into a hall of dark wood and paneled walls. They followed the professor across a polished parquet floor and into a beautiful room ornamented with brass wall sconces and a crystal chandelier, and dominated by a marble fireplace. A loveseat rested on one end of the room, a full-sized sofa on the other. Diamond leaded glass windows provided the softest hint of light.
“This should do,” Scott said and looked at Jane for confirmation. She nodded, and both crews began unpacking the equipment.
Anjali cleared her throat. “I think we should also make it a rule not to smoke inside. I have sinus problems, and besides, the smell will get into the carpet.”
