"But Celeste Talbot must have died fairly young if she was thrown from a horse. Which would mean the evil had happened a whole generation before her daughter was strangled. I don't see the connection, Fergus; that trail is even colder than the one we're on.
But even as Emily said it, an image of moldy, leather-bound journals peeping out from a desk drawer ripped through her thoughts. Who was more likely to keep a diary than a religious woman torn from her homeland and married to a workaholic millowner? She dismissed the thought; it was wildly speculative. Still, the feeling that Maria Salva was hiding Talbot secrets was growing stronger by the minute. "I've got to go back to Talbot Manor," she said, leaning against the counter and sipping her coffee. "Help me think of an excuse."
"Ye cannot go back," Fergus said, incredulous. "I've told ye that."
"For heaven's sake, how am I supposed to get to the bottom of this thing? I'll be careful," she added absently. "I know better now." Her mind was deep in the case.
"I forbid it!" Fergus said angrily. "Get what ye need some other way! Ye claim to be so clever. Show it!"
It was her turn to be surprised. She stared into the angry depths of his green eyes and thought, Is it possible he cares for my welfare? But no, she'd been right the day before. If he did care, it was because she was his ticket to eternity. If something happened to her, happened to the necklace, he might be trapped forever in nothingness. "All right, Fergus," she said calmly, not wishing to distress him. "Have it your way. I have another lead I can follow up on for now. Have you ever been to Martha's Vineyard?"
"Never," he said, as if the resort island were somehow beneath contempt. "There's no decent wages to be made on an island."
"Don't worry. I doubt that anyone's going to offer you a job in this economy," she said in a deadpan voice.
He broke into a good-humored grin. "I like that in ye. Ye're a good woman, Emily Bowditch. I begin to believe in ye."
That's my problem, too, she thought. She was pleased at the compliment nonetheless.
Two hours later an express courier handed Emily an envelope with a ticket to a fund-raiser for Senator Lee Alden to be held on Friday at the Copley Plaza. The price for cocktails and a handshake with the senator was five hundred dollars, which basically meant only one thing to Emily: that she couldn't possibly dress as well as the high rollers who were actually paying to get in. It was a silly concern, she knew, but it occupied the better part of her day.
For the first time in her life she wanted to make an impression. It mattered. She was very aware that she'd never had a bona fide date with Lee Alden, much less bothered to dress up for him -- unless she counted her palmist's getup. Nicole Alden, beautiful concert pianist, would've been dazzling at a top- drawer fund-raiser. So would Cara Miles. And so, come hell or high water, would Emily Bowditch.
By the time Friday came Emily had spent several hundred dollars on a complete overhaul (hair, nails, facial) and a silk and beaded dress from an upscale thrift shop in the Back Bay. The dress was a sensational buy, a designer original; she used it to rationalize the extravagant amount she'd forked over without a whimper at Phillip's, the trendy salon on Newbury Street that Cara had recommended.
On Friday evening Emily slipped the dress over her head, stared at herself in the full-length mirror, and decided once again that the crystal necklace she wore was guiding nearly every step of her life. The dress was the perfect choice. It looked as if it were made to accessorize the necklace. The subtle swirl of colors in the patterned silk -- mauve and rose and faded pink -- perfectly complemented the iridescent hues of the crystal, and the beaded cummerbund offset the heavy costume effect of the chain around her neck. Best of all, the dress fitted like a glove.
Emily ran her fingers through her new, short, sophisticated hair, still a little dazzled by the effect. Phillip, a magician of sorts, had tracked the natural fall of her hair with offhand precision; when he was finished cutting away the excess, all that remained was a soft brown frame that showed her cheekbones to perfection. He'd made a fuss about her cheekbones. She had no idea that her cheekbones were worth fussing over. And now as a bonus her eyes looked larger, her lips fuller, her skin more pale and creamy.
I could get used to this, she thought guiltily, touching up her lip gloss. To being rich and pampered and dressed to kill. For now she decided to enjoy the pretense. She'd be turning back into Cinderella soon enough -- probably in about twenty-four hours, when her hair needed its first maintenance shampoo. She scooped up the tiny handbag she was carrying for the night and laughed; it was such a useless little thing. Maybe I should've just donated the cost of this make-over to Lee's campaign; it'd be a heck of a lot more practical.
When she walked into her living room, Fergus was there, watching the evening news. He was shaking his head in sorrow over the latest shooting of an innocent bystander; she knew that of all the depressing developments in the past century, it was the wholesale arming of the nation that bothered him the most.
"If the Soviets can beat their swords into plowshares," he began, "then I don't see why—"
He stopped in mid-sentence as he beheld her. She saw the pained expression on his face change to stunned surprise, then to a look that she had trouble reading, she who was learning to read him so well. It was a look of admiration, but it was more than that. There was something elemental in it, something that she would not have expected from a ghost. It was very much the look of a man taking the measure of a woman. Yet it was even more than that. There was a hint of class warfare in it, as if he were going to have to tip his hat to her and didn't much care for the idea.
Whatever it was, it flustered her. She looked away and said flippantly, "Well, I'm off."
"Ye would do well to go slowly, my friend," he said softly.
She smiled shyly and answered, "I will. Good night, Fergus." She left feeling warm and reassured; it was nice to have a friend.
****
The Copley Plaza was not quite Emily's cup of tea. The gilding, the marble, the trompe l'oeil paintings but especially the maître d' in turban and tuxedo conspired to make her feel very much like what she was: a tourist sneaking a look into how the other half lived.
No, indeed, Emily thought, surveying the glittering and black-tied group mingling comfortably with their own. It ain't exactly the rubber-chicken circuit. For a moment she faltered; the air in the room was rippling with too much money, too much power. She backed into someone -- good Lord, the governor's wife -- apologized and moved on, searching for the guest of honor. She wished she had Stanley Cooper alongside. She could look terribly amused as he regaled her with too, too delicious gossip about the swells all around her. And she'd have something to do besides juggle a silly little handbag, a napkin, a shrimp, and a glass of champagne.
As it was, there was no one at her side, and she had to fend for herself. She located the senator, engulfed in a tight circle of well-wishers. She saw the back of the top of his head and heard the low murmur of his voice and the instant, inevitable laughter from those around him. It was all pretty much as she'd expected: King Arthur and his minions. The laughter sounded unforced; the minions genuinely liked their king. She tried not to feel depressed about it.
"He has them eating out of his hands, as usual."
She turned to see two women -- one blond, one raven, both thin, both tall -- comparing notes on the senator. Miss Manners would've told Emily to move politely out of earshot. Miss Manners could jump in the lake. Emily edged a bit closer, hanging on every word.
"Gloria had him to a dinner party last month, paired off with her. He had no idea she'd got a divorce since he'd seen her last. I think it was a shabby trick, but Gloria said he was wrapped up in her all evening."
"He couldn't have been too wrapped up; I don't see Gloria here tonight."
"Darling, didn't I say? Gloria lives in D.C. now."
The two women moved closer to the senator's circle, probing for a break in the crowd.
Well, nuts to this, thought Emily. Let Gloria have hi
m. I'd rather go home and watch Perfect Strangers with Fergus. She was eyeing the door when she was approached by Jim Whitewood, the senator's aide. Had he been there all along?
He was as slippery smooth as ever. "Miss Bowditch! Quelle surprise! Let me introduce you to one or two people." He took her by the arm and led her away from the senator's circle and up to a lively group of men and women, all of them younger than she was. It was like being seated at the children's table at Thanksgiving.
"So tell us, Emily," said one of them, a knockdown gorgeous blonde in shrink-wrapped black. "How do you know the senator?"
"He's a hard man not to know," Emily answered evasively.
"I just met him and I am in love," the blonde said, followed by an all-too-stagy dip that showed off her thighs.
Another one of the women said, "He belongs to Daddy's club. I've wanted him since I was twelve. He was married then," she said, raising her glass to her date with a seductive smile, "but he isn't now."
"You're trying to make me jealous, Tiff," her young man said. "But it won't work. Besides money, what've you got in common? He reads; you party. He sails; you shop. He thinks the flag's for saluting; you think it's for a jacket lining. He's the jealous type; you like a man on each arm at all times. Get real, Tiff. You'd be bored in a week."
Tiffany was eyeing the senator over Emily's shoulder. "Maybe you're right," she said, sighing. "But what a week."
They fell to chatting about other things, leaving Emily to feign an interest. Since she'd never been spring skiing in Aspen, that was hard to do. Her mind began to wander. It was becoming pretty obvious that to talk to Lee Alden, she'd have to take a number. To go to bed with him would, of course, mean taking another number and probably paying money down. It was amazing. She'd never known a sexual icon before, but as far as she could tell, Lee Alden was right up there with Warren Beatty, Mick Jagger, Paul Newman, and New Kids on the Block. His appeal cut across all ages and all incomes. From Swansea Mall to Copley Plaza, he was the man to beat. His reelection was a shoo-in.
Emily was yanked from her reverie by Heather, of the shrink-wrapped dress. "Oh, no," Heather wailed, "look who my mother's brought. Darryl Douglas. God, I can't stand him. He's, like, such a creep."
Emily became very still. Darryl Douglas was one of Boston's most discreet slumlords, hiding modestly behind half a dozen different corporate blinds. After a week of work she'd tracked him down and presented him with a list of complaints from his tenants, who'd come to her in desperation. He threatened to sue her for harassment and threw her out of his offices. The repairs were now being done, but not exactly with enthusiasm.
"I've enjoyed meeting you all. Please excuse me," she said politely, and beat a retreat. It was time to go home. It had been very educational. She wasn't sorry she'd come, but she saw no point in staying. Cinderella had managed to get to the ball, but clearly she would not be dancing with the prince. With a kind of nothing-to-lose recklessness she elbowed her way through the crowd until she caught Lee's eye.
"Senator," she said, extending her hand to him. "Good luck in the campaign."
He held her hand a fraction longer than was necessary. "You look very nice," he said.
Very nice. That's all she'd been able to afford. What did it take to rate a you-look-sensational? A credit line at the Bank of Switzerland?
"Thank you, Senator," she said, and turned to go.
But her luck had run out. She found herself eyeball to eyeball with a complete stranger, a woman older than she but stunningly preserved, who put her hand on Emily's wrist and said, "Darling, it looks much better on you than it did on me."
It was like being pinched, hard, by a passerby. It took Emily's breath away. She looked askance at the woman and fled, unsure whether Lee had heard the remark or not. But she did hear his voice before she was out of earshot, saying, "Fiona! You look fantastic."
She should have seen it coming, she told herself over and over in the cab. Buying a designer original at a secondhand shop was the dumbest faux pas in the world. Probably it had appeared -- on that woman's body -- in every society column in Boston. Dumb, dumb, dumb! Had they been snickering all evening long? She should've shopped at K mart; no danger there of the dress being recognized. Then she remembered that her dress had been displayed in the thrift shop window for all society to remark on: "Oh, look, Fiona's Armani. A really stunning creation. But of course, she's worn it once." Emily buried her head in her hands. She had tried to be someone she was not, and God had punished her. It was as simple as that.
When she got home, Fergus was watching Wall Street Week. "Back already?" he said, surprised.
She slumped in the side chair and let the hated little clutch bag drop to the floor. "Yep. Big day tomorrow. We're taking the first ferry out of Woods Hole."
"Fine with me," he said, zapping Louis Rukeyser into oblivion. He turned to her with a friendly smile. "And were ye the belle of the evening?"
"I would have been," she said dryly, "if they'd taken out every other female between twenty and forty and shot her."
"Quite the shindig, then. And the senator? What were his thoughts on it all?"
"You mean, did he break through the admiring throng and take me in his arms? As a matter of fact, he did not."
"What did he do?"
"He said, 'You look very nice.'"
"I see." He nodded meditatively. "Well, then." He continued to nod. "Ye had a nice time."
"C'mon, Fergus. Look at me," she said morosely. "Do I look as if I've had a nice time?"
"What ye look," he said in a low voice, "is fair beautiful."
It caught her off guard; she'd been so expecting it from Lee. She stared at her new shoes for a moment, then said awkwardly, "Thanks, Fergus. For trying to cheer me up."
"It's a fact, Emily."
It was the first time he'd ever used her name. She used to wonder why he didn't. Now she was wondering why he did. "I'm being an awful bitch, I know," she said, trying to shift to firmer ground. "I guess it's because I felt so out of my league at the Copley Plaza."
"It's Fiona was the bitch," Fergus said calmly.
"Fiona? Fergus, you were there!" she wailed. Now she was mortified.
"Ye forget, I know how it feels," he said. "Anyway, all's well that ends well. Fiona left early with a cigar burn in her hindquarters. At least that's what she thinks it was."
She was scandalized. "Fergus, don't tell me—" She caught her lower lip in her teeth, repressing a smile. "This is awful. You're cheering me up."
"That was the intent, ma'am," he drawled.
"Well, I appreciate it." She dragged herself up from the side chair. "Good night again," she said softly. At the door to her bedroom she turned and said, "Fergus? Did she howl?"
"A little," he said with a wink. "Sweet dreams."
Emily had been asleep for a couple of hours when the phone rang. That's how the call about her mother had come, so now whenever she picked up the phone late at night, it was with a fearful, hammering heart.
"Emily? It's Lee. Did I wake you?"
No one was in the hospital, then. She felt relief, then anger. "Yes, you did," she said, annoyed. "It's late."
"I know; I should've waited until morning. But I wanted to know if you got home all right."
"I'm safe," she said ironically. "The cabdriver was a perfect gentleman."
"I mean -- well, where the hell did you go?" he demanded. "I looked around, and there was no you."
"I decided we should do all our talking by phone. It's easier. And cheaper, I might add."
"Right after you walked into the room, I was working my way toward you --"
"I can't believe you knew I was there."
"Of course I did. But Jim dragged you over to Tiffany and her crowd, God knows why."
"Oh." He'd knocked her a little off center with that one. "Tiffany wants to marry you," she said, trying to regain the offensive.
"She's a good kid. A bit of an airhead."
"Gloria wants you, too," she
added evilly. "And Heather, whom you met only briefly." Why was she doing this? "And I'm not sure about Fiona, but probably."
"All right, all right. That's what campaigning is about, Emily. I'm sorry if somehow I've offended you, but without contributions there are no reelections, and without pressing the flesh there are no contributions."
"Well, there was plenty of flesh around to press, so you should do just fine," she said coolly.
There was a very cautious-sounding pause at the other end of the line, and then he said, "When do you want to do the interview?"
She sighed. "Soon, I guess. If I want to keep my job."
"I'll be up here this weekend. How about tomorrow morning?"
"No, tomorrow's impossible. I'm going to the Vineyard on -- on assignment."
"Before you leave, then."
"I'm taking the first ferry."
There was another pause. "All right. Sunday, anytime?"
She'd rather walk on hot coals, but she said, "Sunday at three?"
"That'll be okay. Millie will be in the office. We'll meet there if that's all right."
"Sunday it is, then," she said, ringing off.
Once again he was choosing to meet her in the public arena. Not that she was surprised. After the Newsweek rumor Lee Alden obviously was going to play it safe. His days of candor about the paranormal were over, at least until after the election. As she drifted off to sleep, she realized that things had come full circle: a few weeks ago he'd been afraid of what she might print about him; now he was afraid of what others print about her.
Chapter 13
Somewhere around Plymouth it became apparent that they were going to miss the seven-fifteen ferry out of Woods Hole. Between the accident near Braintree and the line for the Egg McMuffin, Emily had used up all the extra time she'd allowed.
"No big deal," Emily told Fergus, who was along for the ride -- his first in a horseless carriage. "We'll be there in plenty of time for the eight o'clock," she added, swinging out between two eighteen-wheelers into the passing lane.
Emily's Ghost Page 15
