by Mary Bowers
She paused with a calculating look in her eyes. “Yes. But that came later.”
“Clay Brownlee hired you before Alison went missing.”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“It has nothing to do with your skeleton. When Alison went missing, the other investigation was put on hold so I could try to find out what happened to her.”
I stood up.
“At least tell me this: are the three things related? Alison’s disappearance, whatever Clay hired you to do, and the dead man buried in the scrub?”
“I don’t know. Actually, the way you’re going, you may figure it out before I do.”
I scoffed at that. “How much do you know about our skeleton?”
“Nothing but what I’ve already told you. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Robin’s father. That’s all I know.”
I glared at her. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Taylor, I haven’t lied to you. You just did me the biggest favor of my life, introducing me to Dan Ryder. I’d tell you everything I know if I could. But I’m working with the Sheriff, and I have a client too, and there are some things I just can’t go into yet.”
“But you’ll tell me just enough to drive me crazy, is that it?”
“I’m not trying to do that. It’s just that you have a way of figuring things out. I thought it couldn’t hurt to let a few things slip and see what you made of them. By the way, when I told you that your skeleton wasn’t related to Robin, you weren’t surprised. Why was that?”
Grudgingly, I said, “Michael found some notes his grandfather made, back in the day. He managed to trace Garrison Carteret to New York after he left Tropical Breeze. He wasn’t here to be murdered and buried out there at Cadbury House. He’s buried in New York.”
She was nodding, interested. “Do you think Michael could let me have a look at those notes?”
I shrugged, not too happy with her just then. “Ask him. We’re staying in town for a few days. His grandfather’s files are at Michael’s house, but if you want to look at them, you’ll have to ask him.”
“I will. Is it all right if I come over tonight?”
The stupid séance. I didn’t want her looking at those notes when I wasn’t there. “Tonight’s no good. Maybe you could try tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Thanks. I will.”
“I’m not saying he’ll let you. It’s up to him.”
“Understood. Are we okay?”
“We’re lukewarm right now. And when you look at those notes, I’m going to be there, agreed? We’ll discuss things afterward.”
She became wary again.
“Look, Rita,” I said. “You know this and I know that, and Michael’s grandfather probably knew a lot of other things. Add what we can find out from Robin and Wanda, and we might come up with some answers. I might even be able to get a few things out of Ginny. We seem to be friends just now.”
As I’d reeled off the list of names, she’d gradually smiled. “And don’t forget that magic cat of yours.”
“No, you can forget the magic cat. If it’s Bastet you’re talking about, she’s decided not to help.”
“Really? Then we haven’t got a hope.” The smile had broadened into a smirk.
“I think we can do without her just this one time.”
“I don’t know,” she said by way of a parting shot. “Personally, I think we need all the help we can get.”
Chapter 22
I’ve heard that some mediums fast before a séance. As further proof that I’m not a medium, I don’t believe in fasting. Ever. I knew I’d be a little late getting to Ginny’s house for the big event, but I didn’t care. I went to Michael’s house after the nursing home and ate a sandwich with him, telling him all about my visit with Robin – and Rita.
“So,” I said, wrapping up, “please don’t show Rita your grandfather’s file unless I’m here, if you decide to show it to her at all. I’m leaving it up to you.”
“I don’t see the harm. It might shake something loose. If I let her look at that file, there has to be a quid pro quo, though. She doesn’t get to pull a ‘client confidentiality’ scam on us. She’s not a doctor or a lawyer. She has to tell us what she knows about all this, or the answer is no.”
“I like how you think,” I said, leaning over to kiss him. “And now I’d better get going. Gotta do some housecleaning over at Ginny’s house.”
“Have fun,” he said. “And if you do contact Phoebe Carteret and manage to eject her from her current place of occupation, make sure she doesn’t follow you home.”
“Perish the thought,” I said with a shudder. “Not that I believe in that stuff.”
* * * * *
Nobody seemed to notice or care that I was late. I was kind of disappointed. My lateness had been a softcore protest, my way of saying, “Séance? Meh.” When Teddy opened the door for me, he just said, “The girls are upstairs. Why don’t you go on up.”
“Thanks,” I said, walking by him without looking at him, “I will.”
I was relieved to see they hadn’t brought Porter.
The inside of the house matched the outside – very Prairie, with an open floorplan, a vista full of low, square furniture and lots of clearly defined angles. Prairie style is making sort of a comeback under the guise of Mission, but original oldies never look as snappy as the new versions. Ginny’s stuff was original.
Her uncomfortable-looking upholstered chairs were too low to be welcoming, and the carpet, though clean, was downright sad. An enormous double-sided fieldstone fireplace stood between two large rooms, one obviously a dining room, the other a kind of family room. Everything was in earthy neutrals, ranging from cream to dark-toned wood, relying on contrast to keep it interesting. It had been a very toney home at one time, but I didn’t like the place.
The stairwell to the second floor was altogether too cute for my liking. Disconnected treads were bracketed into the wall in a way that made you feel you couldn’t trust them, and – ick – they were carpeted.
Upstairs, I followed the sound of Wanda’s voice down a hallway and walked into a wide-open living museum, with horizontal windows shaped like slats of wood filling the far wall, making the room look open-ended. It was the wall of glass I’d seen from Wanda’s backyard. Ornamental lighting in the yard below quietly glowed among bushes and trees, and in the dark of night, the neglect didn’t show. Somehow amid all this rock and wood, the floor-to-ceiling curtains needed to cover all those windows struck a sour note. I wondered if the original architect had objected to them, but after all, this was a bedroom.
In this room, Phoebe Carteret seemed to have said, “Nuts to you,” to the decorator, and she had filled it with heavy, ornate furniture that had to have come from the plantation. It was mahogany, the primo wood of the early 1900s, so she probably had inherited it. The ladies’ dresser was massive, with lots of little shelves and nooks filled with heirlooms: a china doll, a lady’s fan, a pair of opera glasses, and – striking me with a chill – a porcelain figurine of a couple in formal dress, dancing. They brought me back to the night Barnabas had first played the waltz, and the couple that had paused before me, striking the same pose before dancing on.
“Isn’t it fab?” Wanda said. “After all those years of looking up at that wall of glass, I was just dying to see this room, and Ginny was nice enough to let me.”
She let out a delighted cry as Ginny aimed a small remote at the cornice over the curtain; like magic, the curtain slid across the windows and closed us in.
I let my fingers flutter along the fat twist of carved wood that formed a corner of the armoire and thought, “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.” But I didn’t say it. I wasn’t sure how Ginny would take it.
“Gorgeous,” I said instead, looking at the floral carvings on the armoire’s doors. “What craftsmanship those carpenters had. And it’s been kept in pristine condition.”
“Thank you. Now, maybe we should get back downstairs –“
“Is this where you found the diary?” Wanda said, pouncing on an antique hope chest.
“Uh, yes,” Ginny said. I could tell she was uneasy at the invasion of her bedroom, and I wondered if the last person who’d been in it besides Ginny herself had been her grandmother, Phoebe.
“May we see it?” Wanda said. “We won’t peek inside, but I’d just like to see what a diary-book from the 1930s looked like.”
I could tell she’d gone too far. Ginny didn’t like it.
“Ginny’s right,” I interceded. “We should get on with the séance. I’m always a little nervous before these things, and I’d like to get it over with.”
It wasn’t true, the nervous part, but it did the trick. Wanda offered me comfort; Ginny just looked grateful.
As we went back down the awful stairs (I could see through them to the floor below, which made it even worse), Wanda went where no guest should go once again, and asked if Phoebe had sold the bedroom furniture at the estate sale. “I can understand you wanting to keep the house ‘dressed’ while it’s for sale, but of course you won’t be bringing that furniture with you to your little apartment,” she said. “I’ve seen the bedrooms of those oceanfront condos. You’d never be able to cram it all in.”
“No, I didn’t sell it. I just couldn’t part with it. I’ll manage somehow. It doesn’t all have to go into the bedroom, you know.”
“Wow,” Wanda said. “Well, once you see how it all fits, you can get rid of whatever doesn’t work, I suppose. You’ll have built-in closets, so the first thing you want to get rid of is the armoire.”
“I’m keeping the armoire,” Ginny said, getting angry. “That’s one piece I’ll never part with.”
“Are we having the séance in the dining room?” I asked a little too loudly.
Teddy had walked over when he heard us coming down the stairs. “I’ve been walking around feeling the vibrations, and I don’t think this area is going to work for us. It’s too wide-open. We need something more intimate, I think.”
“We could use the butler’s pantry,” Ginny suggested. “It’s kind of narrow, but I think we can set up a table in there and still have enough room for chairs.”
We looked it over, with its old cabinets and its rack of corked bottles. Wanda made a joke about setting up among the wines and spirits, and Teddy, ignoring her, decided it was just right.
“No windows,” he commented. “Just enough space. The right feel. All right, guys, let’s do this.”
As Teddy was setting up a little end table and four chairs, Ginny asked tentatively if we’d be needing a candle.
“Naturally,” Teddy said, as if she were backward.
“I’ll see if I can find one,” she murmured, wandering off.
Within fifteen minutes or so, we were seated and ready, a votive candle flickering feebly on the table in front of us.
“Taylor,” Teddy said.
“What?”
“You may begin.”
“Ah.” I pulled myself together. Wanda was looking at me brightly, no doubt hoping to pick up a few pointers, and Ginny was gazing dully at the candleflame. I tried to remember how the medium had kicked things off at the few séances I’d been to.
“Join hands, clear your minds, don’t speak,” I said quietly.
“Would you like to pray?” Wanda asked.
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“She said not to speak,” Ginny whispered.
“Oh, right. Do you have a spirit guide on the other side? Oh, sorry! I won’t talk anymore.”
I was grateful. I hadn’t thought about details like spirit guides, and I didn’t want to start making stuff up on the fly. I figured I’d just stare into the candle a while, maybe hum or something (the medium at one séance had started singing a nursery rhyme, but that was out), then declare the spirits uncooperative. If Wanda wanted to step up and try to reach Phoebe Carteret, she was welcome to dive right in.
Staring at the candle started to bother my eyes, so I closed them. Hum? I suppose I could. In fact, it felt natural, even comforting. I let myself go with it. I became altogether comfortable, in fact. Not exactly sleepy. More like I was floating in warm water, weightless, all my aches and pains soothed away, the soft sound of my own voice giving me ease, even pleasure. I became so relaxed, so disconnected, that I wasn’t surprised when she touched me. My shoulders. A flutter of fingertips, tapping, then taking hold, then gripping. A chill ran down my body as something moved toward my neck, but still, I was oddly unconcerned.
I sheared off to the left and far, far away I heard Teddy say, “Hold her!”
Reassuring hands gripped mine and kept me anchored.
Her face came against the back of my neck, soft but clammy, sniffling at me, frigid breath burning my skin and making it feel dead.
I wanted to get away, but I knew with a kind of fatalism that I couldn’t. She was on me, easing her face around mine, pressing her cheek into my cheek, inhaling my life.
“Tell her.”
I tried to pull away, but she kept her face pushed against mine.
“Tell her what?”
“Tell her it’s all right. I’ve taken care of everything.”
“Who should I tell?”
“Geneva.”
“I don’t know any Geneva.”
Ginny’s voice penetrated the shroud that was wrapped hard around the two of us, the dead woman and me.
“It’s me. I’m Geneva. She means me. Is it my grandmother? Is it Phoebe?”
“She says it’s all right. She’s taken care of everything.”
Teddy’s voice, carefully modulated: “Taken care of what? Does she know something about Alison?”
“Tell Geneva to leave him alone.”
“Who?” I whispered. “Leave who alone?”
Ginny: “What did she say?”
“You’re to leave him alone.”
Teddy: “Leave who alone?”
Wanda: “What does she say about Alison?”
“He is death to her. Tell Geneva to leave him alone or die.”
Teddy: “Well, I’m the only man here. Does she mean me?”
I was released, unwrapped so quickly I felt my skin expand outward. I could breathe. I could see. I opened my eyes and looked around.
I pulled my hands away and folded them under my chin.
Questions poured out at me and I couldn’t tell them what I’d heard, what I’d seen. I didn’t want to. In the end, I lied.
“I don’t remember anything,” I said. “What did I say?”
They repeated the few sentences back to me, and I pretended I had no idea what it all meant. But I knew. And so, I realized, did Robin, that harmless old soul back at the nursing home. I was very sure now that the old man was not as confused as he pretended to be.
* * * * *
Michael looked up as I came in. “How did it go?” he asked. Then he stood up suddenly and came to me. “Come and sit down.” He didn’t tell me how I looked, and I was glad. Then he surprised me by calling out, “She’s back,” as if someone else was in the house.
I looked to the right, and Edson Darby-Deaver came out of the library holding a page from Gordon’s notes.
I’d forgotten all about Ed. Even when I’d worried about Barnabas, I hadn’t thought about Ed. I assumed he was on the job, holding things together at The Bookery, and left it at that.
“Ah,” Ed said, looking at me. “As I feared. It went badly, didn’t it? I should have been there.”
My legs were shaky, and I took a seat on the sofa. “Just let me collect myself for a moment. I’ll be fine.”
“It was the dancer, wasn’t it?” Ed said. “The lady of the waltz. The one who danced with the two men, the night Barnabas played Valse Triste for you.”
“Oh. Yes. It was. I could smell her. I could smell her. Oh!” Michael quickly sat down beside me, putting his arm around me.
Ed was concerned, too, but there was a grimly satisfied look on his face. “Our Phoeb
e. Well, your brush with her revenant probably told you all we need to know. Was it love? Or hate. Does she know who the man is, and why he was buried at Cadbury House?”
“It was love,” I said, “and hate. And he needed to die. It was him or her. Michael, we were all wrong. It is Garrison Carteret’s body.”
“No, honey, it isn’t, remember? The DNA doesn’t match.”
Ed caught on more quickly than Michael, and said, “Yes, yes, it all makes sense. He realized that he wasn’t Robin’s father. He confronted her, and –“
“She killed him,” I said. I looked Michael full in the face, desperate to be believed. “She killed him, Michael. Phoebe Carteret murdered her husband, and she got Jasper’s father to bury him where she hoped he’d never be found.”
“No, Taylor,” Michael said gently. “Garrison Carteret went to New York and started a law practice there. Are you saying he came back again?”
“No. He never left. I’m saying she killed him, had him buried, and then got Cary Jessop to go to New York and impersonate him. Maybe she realized your grandfather was suspicious of her. But Jessop didn’t cheat Phoebe – she paid him off. She must have given him her husband’s diplomas and personal records, too, so he could pull off the impersonation. But Jessop was a failure in Tropical Breeze, and he was a failure in New York, too. Even with the money Phoebe gave him and the use of Garrison Carteret’s sterling record, he couldn’t make a go of it. He ended up in a pauper’s grave. Garrison would have made a success of it.”
“Well, if Garrison Carteret wasn’t Robin’s father, who was?” Michael asked. “Jessop?”
“No. Barclay Lodge,” I said. “Phoebe’s original lover. The one Garrison murdered.”
“I still think Cary Jessop murdered him,” Michael said stubbornly.
“Or Cary Jessop. Whichever one. The point is, when Lodge died, Phoebe was already pregnant. So she quickly accepted Garrison’s proposal, and hoped he’d never know the child wasn’t his. But one day, he took a good look at his son and saw Barclay Lodge’s face, and he knew.”
Michael was looking at me skeptically. “She told you all this at the séance?”
