Spirit Seeker

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “I didn’t say that,” Dad told me, “but I don’t think he killed his parents for their money. What I see is a spoiled kid in a fit of anger. He argued with his parents, and he lost control. When we get all the facts together, it’s going to turn out to be as simple as that.”

  “You’ve got your mind made up already!” My heart was pounding, and I was so frightened I felt dizzy.

  “Already? Most murder cases are either solved within the first few days or not at all.” Dad hoisted himself out of his chair and stretched.

  “Wait!” I cried. “I’ve got another question to ask you. Please!”

  “All right. What is it?”

  “Have the police checked the shops that sell doughnuts between here and the lake?”

  “They’ve checked out every little food shop along the highway between Lake Conroe and Houston, and no one remembered Cody being there.”

  I gulped. “That doesn’t mean anything one way or another. People forget. Maybe whoever waited on Cody was busy and just didn’t remember him.”

  “Anything else?” Dad asked, and I could see exhaustion filming his eyes.

  “Just one thing, and I think this is important.” From my handbag I pulled the printouts from Mr. Garnett’s computer. “Dad,” I said, “Mr. Garnett made a lot of investments, according to Cody, and both Mrs. Garnett and Cody’s uncle, Frank, objected to some of what he was doing. Risky and shady. Cody remembers them using those words. If he was involved in a shady business deal, then the people he was in partnership with, like the warehouse … I mean, if it was something illegal … well, what if one of them committed the murders and set things up so that Cody would look guilty?”

  “A setup?”

  “Yes!” I insisted. “If all the evidence makes Cody look guilty, only he isn’t, then why couldn’t it be a setup?”

  “You’re getting melodramatic, Holly.” Dad’s eyebrows dove downward into a scowl. “What are those papers? What have you got there?”

  “Some personal records from Mr. Garnett’s home computer about his business and income.”

  “Where did you get them?” Dad’s voice was rising.

  I tried to answer calmly. “Cody gave me permission to look through his father’s computer.” As Dad’s face grew red, I practically shouted. “Cody wasn’t there! I went to the house with Sara!”

  “You had no business in that house! And dragging your friend along is even more irresponsible, Holly.”

  “I had to go there! If you look at the warehouse figures, you’ll see that they could be important! You can check them out—and the warehouse too.” I waved the papers at Dad, and he took them, but he didn’t bother to look at them.

  “What did you think you were doing?”

  “I was trying to find out who killed the Garnetts!” I yelled. “Which is what you should be doing! You weren’t even interested in the other people in Mr. Garnett’s life, you’re so sure the murderer has to be Cody!”

  “Holly!” Dad thundered. “This has gone far enough! I don’t want to hear one more word about Cody! You’re not an investigator! You’re an emotional kid insisting on dangerously risking your life!”

  “I’m not!” I shouted back. “I promised to help Cody prove that he’s innocent.”

  “You’re so obsessed with the idea of his innocence, you can’t see straight.”

  I was so angry I saw Dad through a wavering red haze. “Obsessed?” I yelled at him. “Me? Look who’s talking! You’re the one who gets so obsessed with your cases that there’s nothing else left in your life—especially Mom and me. You always put your job first! Always! Except for this time when Cody needs you to find out who really killed his parents!”

  Dad took a long breath, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him. “Give it up, Holly,” he said and thumped up the stairs.

  I hunched up in my chair, slowing down from a full boil to a simmer. Give it up? No way, I told myself. Not when I knew I was right.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday. 8:30 A.M. School the next day was another bad dream. Sara just said, “Hi” and smiled—sort of—but she kept to herself. I shouldn’t have been so rude to her, and I wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t. She and Dad and the whole world could think Cody was guilty, but I’d promised to help him, even if it meant I had to do it all by myself.

  I don’t know what went on in any of my morning classes. I couldn’t keep my mind on the subjects. Nothing made sense. All I could think about was Cody suffering through his parents’ private funeral service, without friends to be with him, and all because of Mr. Ormond’s decision. Mr. Ormond … It wasn’t until the middle of French class that I knew I needed to talk to Cody’s lawyer.

  I realized that Monsieur Duprée had been calling my name when the kids sitting near me turned to stare. Somebody snickered.

  “Faites attention, s’il vous plaît,” my French teacher said.

  “I don’t know the answer,” I told him.

  “No answer is called for,” he said. “The lunch bell’s about to ring, and I asked you to remain a few minutes after class. I want to talk to you.”

  The bell clammered so loudly I jumped. As the rest of the class shot toward the door, I walked slowly up to Monsieur Duprée’s desk.

  He sat on the edge of the desk, facing me, and said, “Holly, I know that Cody is your friend, and with all the problems he’s got right now, I can certainly understand why it’s hard for you to keep your mind on your work.”

  I just nodded. There was nothing to say.

  “I’m willing to let you make up the work, and I’m sure your other teachers will too, but right now the issue is you, yourself. Are you getting counseling?”

  Surprised, I answered, “No. I don’t need counseling. Cody’s the one who needs help.”

  Monsieur Duprée’s eyes were sympathetic. “Has he been arrested yet?”

  “No! And he’s not going to be! He’s not guilty!”

  I bowed my head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry I yelled,” I said. “I’m trying hard to prove that Cody didn’t commit the murders.”

  This time Monsieur Duprée was silent. When I finally looked up, I saw a deep concern in his eyes. “He didn’t do it,” I repeated.

  “Do you really believe this? In spite of all the incriminating evidence we hear on the news?”

  “I have to believe because I know it’s true.”

  “Holly, your parents aren’t allowing you to continue to see Cody, are they?” Monsieur Duprée asked, obviously concerned.

  “No, they’re not,” I said, shivering as I remembered my father’s angry face and words.

  Monsieur Duprée stood, the relief that washed over his face gathering into a gentle smile. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but you’re a girl with a strong purpose in life and good, common sense,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

  Like Cody is counting on me? For a moment the weight of what people expected and wanted of me was almost too much to bear. I reached out a hand and grasped the corner of Monsieur Duprée’s desk, steadying myself.

  “Now that you understand my concern, go on. Get your lunch,” he said and smiled again.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I will.”

  But on the way downstairs I realized there were more important things to do than eat lunch. I hurried to the pay phones, looked up Paul Ormond’s office number in the phone book, and placed a call.

  His secretary told me that Mr. Ormond would be back from lunch in about forty-five minutes. I asked for a few minutes to see him and got an appointment, so I wrote down the address of his office. I didn’t think twice about leaving school, as I ran toward the bus stop to go downtown.

  As I reached the sidewalk, I heard Sara call, “Holly! Where are you going?”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard her. The only person I wanted to talk to right now was Paul Ormond.

  Mr. Ormond’s office was small and plain, which surprised me, but it was on the twenty-fifth floor and
had a window wall with a great view of Buffalo Bayou and the theater district. The cars on the streets looked like minitoys, and the pedestrians seemed so tiny and insignificant I wondered if they were real people with real problems.

  Mr. Ormond strode in and shook my hand heartily. “Cody has told me all about you,” he said.

  Mr. Ormond was young and had the same shade of tan that Frank Baker had, but he’d lost a lot of his dark hair. His tie had bright flags and pennants on it and clashed with his suit. I felt a rush of disappointment. I guess I had hoped to see someone with the poise and forcefulness of an attorney in a TV show.

  “Sit down, Holly,” Mr. Ormond said as he waved a hand at his only visitor’s chair. He slid into the chair behind his desk, leaned his elbows on the desk, and smiled at me. “Tell me you can give Cody an alibi,” he said.

  “I wish I could, but I can’t,” I answered.

  He shrugged and continued to smile, which bothered me. Cody was his client and was suspected of murder. The least Mr. Ormond could do would be to look serious, if not sympathetic.

  I felt uncomfortable, as if we’d started all wrong, so I tried again. “I would have liked to come to the funeral service,” I said.

  Shrugging again, Mr. Ormond said, “According to Frank, Cody didn’t want anyone to be there.”

  “But I thought that the private service was your decision.”

  “Nope. Cody’s,” he answered. “And he was probably right. He broke down and cried all the way through it.”

  Why didn’t Cody tell me how he felt? I wondered. Why say it was his attorney’s idea? I burned with guilt for doubting him, as I realized that Cody may have wanted to be alone with his sorrow but was embarrassed to say so.

  “So tell me why you came to see me,” Mr. Ormond said.

  “I’m trying to find a way to help Cody,” I told him. “I thought if I could find out what you’re doing for Cody … I mean, if I told you what I know, and we thought about this together, we could come up with something that might help.”

  Mr. Ormond looked at his watch. “I’ve got an appointment in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Can we keep it brief?”

  Whatever I wanted to talk over with him went out of my mind. Instead I demanded, “Are you an experienced criminal defense attorney?”

  He answered slowly. “I’ve had a few cases—mostly assignments from the court, in which I’ve represented some defendants who were up on burglary charges. They were too poor to hire an attorney.”

  “What happened to them?”

  I thought he smirked as he said, “What else? They were guilty, which wasn’t any surprise to the juries, and they were sent off to serve time.”

  I kept cool and instead of asking, “What good did you do them?” I continued, “Did you handle any murder cases?”

  “Nope.” He cocked his head and studied me, a slow grin buttering his lips. “Does it matter?”

  I sat up a little straighter. “It’s going to matter a lot to Cody! What are you doing to help prove he’s innocent so he won’t be arrested?”

  “It’s not my job to keep him from being arrested or to prove he’s innocent. It’s my job to defend his rights when he comes to trial.”

  When he comes to trial! My ears began to buzz, and for a moment I grew so dizzy it was hard to focus my eyes. Mr. Ormond believed Cody was guilty!

  “You okay?” Mr. Ormond asked. “You look a little pale. Want a drink of water?”

  I shook my head and took a deep breath, pulling myself together. “If Cody is arrested, how are you going to prove he’s not guilty?”

  “I don’t have to prove he’s not guilty. I don’t even have to present a case. It’s up to the prosecutor to make a strong enough case to convince a jury that Cody’s guilty. So far, the police have nothing against him but circumstantial evidence.” He smiled. “Lucky for Cody there was no one around who could place him at the scene of the crime, and the police haven’t been able to turn up the murder weapon.”

  I caught my breath, suddenly hopeful. “Are you saying there’s a good chance he can’t be convicted if all the evidence is just circumstantial?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not the way it works,” he said. “There’s a lot against Cody—his returning to the house, arguing with his parents and threatening them, his unproven whereabouts at the lake.… He stacked the deck against himself pretty thoroughly.”

  He looked at his watch again and got up, which meant I had to leave. “Don’t worry so much, Holly,” Mr. Ormond said. “Frank Baker’s a good friend, and I’ll do my best to help his nephew. Trust me.”

  I wasn’t about to trust Mr. Ormond in anything he said or did. The express elevator that took me to the lobby plunged downward as fast as my spirits. As I searched my mind frantically, wondering what I could possibly do next, the answer came to me. Much as I dreaded what might take place, I knew there was only one option left. I walked down to the corner and caught a bus for West University. I was on my way to visit Glenda Jordan.

  Tuesday. 3:15 P.M. As I walked from the bus stop to Glenda’s street, I thought of a dozen reasons why I should change my mind, turn around, and go home. For one thing, I hadn’t telephoned.

  Maybe Glenda was out. Grocery shopping? Yes. This was a good time to grocery-shop. And I shouldn’t have come alone. Maybe Sara … No. This was something I had to do alone.

  My back was damp with sweat as I reached the shaded oasis of Glenda Jordan’s front yard. As I followed the curling, winding path to the door, my nervousness slid away. By the time I rang the bell, my mind and body were as numb as a tooth that’s been prepped for a filling.

  Glenda opened the door and smiled. “Come in,” she said. No questions, no surprise at seeing me. It gave me a strange feeling of comfort.

  I sat next to her on the sofa, soaking in the blue-green-gold light until I was at peace.

  “You invited me to go to the Garnetts’ house with you,” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered. She looked at my hair and smiled a satisfied smile. “You’re wearing the amber barrette. Good.”

  I knew the amber, pressed against my hair, would be growing warm. My scalp tingled, but I resisted the impulse to reach up and touch the stone. I asked Glenda, “When … when should we go?”

  “Do you still have a key?”

  I nodded, and she said, “Then we should visit the house as soon as possible. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” My whisper was so soft I repeated myself, but Glenda was already on her feet.

  “We will enter the house through the back door,” she said, “because that is the door through which the murderer entered and left.”

  I winced. The back door in most houses was the one used by members of the family.

  Glenda paused on the doorstep and turned her dark eyes full upon me. “The answer we receive may not be to your liking,” she said.

  I bristled. “Cody didn’t kill his parents!”

  “Be calm,” she cautioned. “In your search for the truth, you must keep an open mind. Otherwise our attempt to learn the answers will be of no use at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I do want to learn the truth. That’s why I’m here.” I pulled the key from the pocket of my jeans and opened the back door.

  As we stepped inside, I shivered with a chill that didn’t come from the air conditioners, and I almost lost my nerve. But Glenda put a firm hand on my arm. “There is nothing to be afraid of. You are sensitive to what happened in this house because you arrived open-minded and receptive to whatever you may encounter.”

  “When I was here before, I wasn’t afraid.”

  “That’s because you entered the house with a different purpose. This time you have come to make contact with those who violently left this plane of existence. You came to seek these spirits, and you have reached them. They know.”

  Legs wobbling, I allowed myself to be led through the kitchen and den and on into the living room, dim with its drapes cutting off much of the light. I stoppe
d at the door, horrified when I saw ugly, dried brown splatters on some of the furniture and one of the walls. Fortunately, someone had laid towels over a section of the carpet, covering the spot where the murders must have taken place. The sofas crouched like large, sleeping cats, and the baby-grand piano was a dark mound in the corner. I wavered, closing my eyes, repelled by the sight and by the room’s cloying, musty-sweet smell.

  “It’s good that we were able to come before the room was cleaned,” Glenda said. She propelled me toward a pair of wing chairs on the far side of the room and plopped me down into the nearer one. She took the other. Between us was only a small table on which rested a vase of artificial flowers and a telephone. She pulled a small tape recorder from her pocket, placed it on the table, and turned it on. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s important to record these sessions so they may be studied later.”

  I shrugged. “Okay,” I said.

  “Relax,” Glenda told me. “Stop clutching the arms of the chair. Place your hands in your lap, palms up.” As I obeyed, she said, “Fine. Now begin with your toes and work up to your head. Think about each part of your body and help it to relax.”

  She began to chant a little singsong relaxation formula, and I found myself falling into the spell. I sunk against the back of the chair, my shoulders sagged, and my breathing became light and shallow.

  Soon after Glenda had finished her chant, the downstairs air conditioner cycled off, and the house was totally silent. I listened for the sound of a car on the street, or the caw of a grackle, or a dog’s bark; but the Garnetts’ house and all that surrounded it were silent. I shivered, wondering what would happen next.

  Glenda’s whisper broke the silence so unexpectedly that I cried out.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Garnett, we are here only to help. We want to make known the identity of the one who murdered you,” she said. She stared into the room, and I squinted at the point on which her gaze was fixed. I didn’t see anything.

  “Are you here with us?” Glenda asked.

  So—she hadn’t seen them either. I began breathing again.