by Janni Nell
“‘Donna! Donna!’
“I charged inside flicking on the light. Pieces of her favorite vase were smashed on the floor. A puddle of water soaked slowly into the rug. The red roses I’d bought her that afternoon were scattered everywhere. Despite the heating, there was a chill in the air. That’s when I saw the open window. She straddled the sill. One leg dangled over into darkness but the rest of her body was still inside.
“‘Donna!’ I screamed but she didn’t hear me. She shifted, bending her head, easing her upper body through the open window.
“I ran across the room. Pieces of broken vase sliced my feet but I didn’t notice. I dived for Donna, grabbed hold of her ankle. ‘Wake up!’ I yelled, struggling to pull her inside. ‘Wake up.’
“‘Marty?’ She sounded confused. Confused but awake. Definitely awake. ‘What’s going on?’ Why am I out here?’
“‘It’s okay, don’t panic, I’ve got you. I’ll pull you inside.’
“‘I’m falling.’
“‘No.’ I still had hold of her ankle but it took all my strength to haul her up a few inches. ‘Don’t struggle,’ I yelled. ‘Keep still.’ But she wouldn’t or couldn’t. And I wasn’t strong enough—her soft skin slipped through my fingers.” He covered his face with his hands.
I put my arm around his shoulders. “Can I get you something? Brandy? Cup of tea?”
“All I want is Donna to come back.”
We sat in silence until I sensed he could deal with another question. “Was anyone else here? An intruder?”
“What do you mean? Are you implying someone pushed her? The police think I did it. If they could find a motive they’d charge me.”
“That isn’t what I meant. You said the door to your apartment was open. Who opened it?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it was Donna. Maybe she intended to go downstairs and changed her mind.”
“Look, Martin,” I said, laying all my cards on the table. “There could be something paranormal going on here. If you saw anything strange, anything inexplicable, I need to know.”
“You mean like ghosts or something?”
“Uh-huh.” I sat quietly waiting for him to go on while the choir of cats purred.
He chewed his lip. “You won’t think I’m crazy?”
“Of course not.” Probably not, anyway.
“Right after she fell, I heard—this is insane—but I thought I heard a kind of laughter—I don’t know how to describe it—”
“Wheezing over rusty pipes?”
“Well, yes. It did sound a bit like that. Am I going crazy?”
“No, but you’ve been extremely helpful.”
“Was Donna possessed? Is that why she…?”
I shook my head. There was one last question I had to ask. “Did you see a mist on the night Donna passed? It might have looked like a beautiful woman wearing old-fashioned clothes.”
“A ghost?” He shook his head. “No. I didn’t see any kind of mist. It was a clear night.”
I put away my notebook and pen. “Thanks for talking to me. I know how hard it was.” I squeezed his hand. “I promise I won’t let you down. I’ll find out why Donna died.”
When I stood up to go, he grabbed my hand again. “Wait! You talk to ghosts, right? You’re a ghost whisperer?”
I hated being called a ghost whisperer almost as much as I hated being called a ghostbuster, but for different reasons. The comical concept of a ghostbuster undermines my profession, which is in fact a very serious and often dangerous occupation. As for being called a ghost whisperer, I wouldn’t have minded if it were true, but the only ghosts I could see were the kind anyone could see if they were in the right vicinity. Martin didn’alkeserve my usual snarky reply and, since my toe wasn’t itching, it was fair to assume Donna’s spirit wasn’t hanging around the apartment.
Hoping to give Martin some comfort, I said, “Donna’s moved on. I believe she’s in Heaven.”
Martin said, “We don’t believe in Heaven.”
Well, he was in for a shock when he died.
I squeezed his hand. “Donna’s resting in peace.” Either that or she was one of Casper’s new angel buddies in his home on Cloud 9.
As I was leaving, Martin’s sister arrived. Glad that he had someone to care for him, I headed back to Mayflower Avenue. Mom had coaxed Steven into a change of clothes. He was sitting at the kitchen counter, consuming a sandwich and some juice. Soon afterwards, he stretched out on the sofa and fell asleep. Mom asked me to watch him while she visited Lily, who had been complaining of something called Braxton Hicks contractions. I probably should have known what they were, but I didn’t. I’m not into that whole maternal thing.
It was a measure of Mom’s distress that she’d left Steven’s beer cans all over the floor. I was putting them in the trash when Casper suddenly appeared beside me. He knows I hate that. He does it on purpose.
“I have to get changed for the awards,” he said.
Getting back at him for appearing suddenly and startling me, I asked, “Need any help?”
He gave me a look that said, Don’t go there.
“Your tux is in my closet,” I told him, and he trotted upstairs.
I tried not to think about Casper stripping upstairs. It did no good to torture myself by imagining a possible future where we could be together. Not that it was physiologically impossible. We could do the horizontal Mambo any time we wanted so long as we were prepared to suffer the consequences of immediate separation. I’d never discussed this with Casper but so far as I was concerned, losing all contact with him wasn’t worth the brief pleasure of scratching a physical itch. Nor was it worth setting Casper’s chances of entering Heaven back hundreds, maybe thousands, of years. However, there were times when I managed to touch him in ways that bent the rules without breaking them.
I sat near Steven and watched his chest rise and fall. In the interest of solving this case, I hoped he’d sleepwalk again, but that didn’t happen. I was ready to doze off myself when Casper’s footsteps descended the stairs.
Is there anything sexier than an ex-warrior in a tux? I don’t think so. It’s the combination of all that barbarian muscle confined in garments that scream civilized elegance. You just want to tear them off and let the barbarian out.
“Are you alright, Allegra?”
I closed my jaw and wiped the drool off my chin. “Just fine. You look—” Lots of words leaped to mind. Gorgeous. Handsome. Hot. Edible. Before I could choose just one—didn’t want to overdo it or anything—Casper spoke.
“So long as I look appropriate.” Not the word I’d have chosen. But guardian angels are nothing if not modest. A vain guardian angelogild lose a lot of credit points.
“There’s just one thing,” I said. “You have some fluff…” I ran my hand along the shoulder of his black jacket, savoring the feel of the muscles beneath. Nice. Real nice.
“Must be a lot of fluff there,” said Casper.
“Heaps of it,” I said brushing the last of the imaginary fluff away. “Oh look, you’ve got an eyelash on your cheek—let me just…” Okay, it was an oldie, but I moved in quickly before he could protest. My thigh touched his as I stood on tiptoe to remove the eyelash. Such a shame I lost my balance and fell against him. “Gosh, I’m so clumsy,” I murmured, steadying myself against his broad chest. His face was so close to mine I could feel warm breath on my cheek. If time had stopped, I’d have been happy forever. But time moves on and if I didn’t want to piss off the Powers-That-Be, I had to remove that imaginary eyelash.
Casper’s cheek was freshly shaven. I brushed my fingertips along the tanned skin beneath his eye. “There, that’s better.”
“Thanks,” said Casper, but he had the presence of mind not to ask to see the eyelash.
I straightened his bowtie and said, “Good luck.” Not that I wanted him to win and leave me but he’d been trying to enter Heaven for two thousand years—give or take—and if this was his time I was determined to be happy for hi
m. Even if my teeth were clenched behind my smile.
“Okay,” he said, fastening a button on his coat. “I’m off to walk the sky-blue carpet. By the way, how’s Wanda?”
Now why would he mention her at a time like this? Come to think of it he’d asked about her a lot lately. Did he have a thing for her? A lot of guys did. Wanda was cute and blond and bubbly.
I snapped, “As far as I know she’s fine.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Not for a couple of days. I told you that. And if you’re so interested in Wanda why don’t you fly over to the West Coast. It’s not like you’d have to take a plane or anything. You could be there in—what? Five minutes?”
Casper sighed, “I don’t want to see Wanda.”
“Then why do you keep asking about her? If she was in trouble she’d call me.”
Casper pricked up his ears as though he could hear some high frequency sound that wasn’t accessible to the living. “The awards,” he said. “Angels are starting to arrive. I don’t want to miss anything. The host this year is Gandhi.”
“The Gandhi?”
He nodded. “It should be a good night. Better than last year when they wanted a Hilton and ended up with Hitler.”
“Bet you’re sorry you missed that one.”
“They tell me the acceptance speeches were mercifully short.” He paused for a moment as though listening. “I really have to go now.”
“Can I give you a k0;Ther luck? Would the Powers-That-Be mind?”
“Not so long as it’s a sisterly peck on the cheek.”
Oh well, that was better than nothing. I pressed my lips against his cheek, inhaling his unique scent of mountain streams, rugged earth and hot male warrior.
“Good luck,” I whispered, trying to be happy for him.
“Thanks,” he said and disappeared.
Denial was my new best friend, and in an effort to forget about the Angel Awards, I flipped open my notebook and reread the scribbles I’d made during the Martin Crain interview. He had denied seeing a misty ghost and I believed him. But he had admitted to hearing wheezing laughter, which indicated the presence of the crone. I already knew the misty ghost and the crone were linked—I’d seen one changing into the other at The Hollows—but what my interview with Martin seemed to confirm was that all those affected with this odd sleepwalking epidemic were Steven Hampton’s blood relatives. There hadn’t been many of them to start with, but now that Donna and her father were dead, the only ones left were Steven, SJ and the patriarch of the family, Steven senior. Had he been sleepwalking too? And why were the crone and the misty ghost killing Hamptons?
Chapter Five
Lily offered to come with me to Steven senior’s mansion. I’d have preferred to phone him but she pointed out that (a) he was unlikely to admit to sleepwalking over the phone, and (b) since he didn’t really approve of me, he was more likely to admit it to her. She was probably right and since she was trying to be helpful, despite the obvious discomfort of her huge belly, I returned the favor by volunteering to drive.
Misinterpreting my offer, she snapped, “I’m pregnant. Not stupid. I can drive.” She squeezed determinedly behind the wheel.
Everything was fine while she silently concentrated on getting through the suburban traffic, but once we got into more open country, she spoiled our uneasy truce by saying, “If you like, I could take you shopping this afternoon. Give you a makeover.”
Huh? Did I need a makeover? I liked my jeans and jacket. And I especially liked the silver thistle brooch on my lapel, which had been a thank you gift from the people of Furness, in Scotland, where I’d solved my last case. “Um, thanks Lily, but no thanks.”
She hooked her ash blond hair, the exact same shade as Mom’s, behind her ear and said sharply, “Really, Allegra, with a smart suit, a bit of makeup and a decent hair color you’d look quite presentable.”
No, actually I’d look like a taller version of Lily.
There was a time when I’d wanted to look as smart and feminine as my sister. She’d been seventeen, I’d been ten. I sneaked into her room, used her makeup and tried on the dress and shoes she’d been planning to wear to the prom. Everything would’ve been fine if I hadn’t gotten a sudden thirst for orange juice. I’d clumped downstairs in her too-big shoes, poured myself a glass and splashed the juice down the front of her gorgeous dress.
I’d scrubbed the lovely cream material until my han were raw but it did no good. In the end I gave up. Too scared to tell anyone, I returned the dress to her closet.
She didn’t discover the damage until the night of the prom. Mom never forgave me for ruining Lily’s big night, even though my sister took her revenge by ripping out a handful of my hair and leaving deep scratches on my arm. The hair grew back but I still have scars on my arm. Okay, you need a magnifying glass to see them, but still. Anyway, it was fifteen years ago. I’ve moved on.
“So what do you say, Allegra? I’d love to give you a makeover.”
“I’ve already said no thanks.”
“Fine. If you don’t want to look your best, who am I to stand in your way?” she huffed, keeping her eyes on the road. I was kind of glad I didn’t have to see her pitying expression.
Neither of us spoke again until we reached the home of Steven Richard Hampton XXXI, a.k.a our step-grandfather. I’d been to his mansion only twice before. Once to celebrate Mom’s wedding and once to celebrate Lily’s. Each time he had pointedly insisted I call him Mr. Hampton, leaving me in no doubt as to where I stood in the family hierarchy. Today I had the unenviable taste of getting information out of him and that would involve major sucking up.
His housekeeper opened the door. Mrs. Johnson, a shapely woman in her fifties, must’ve been a great beauty in her youth. With her charcoal trouser suit, subtle makeup and expertly colored brown hair, she oozed good taste and professionalism.
Spoiling the illusion of good taste, she patted Lily’s belly and asked, “How is the great-grandson today?” It was very presumptuous of her, since Lily and SJ had decided not to know the sex of their baby beforehand. Still, as an employee of Mr. Hampton, she was influenced by his opinion and he was determined Lily would have a boy to inherit the Hampton name.
“Doing well, Mrs. Johnson,” said Lily, stepping back so her belly was out of the other woman’s reach. She must have been terrified that if the baby was a girl, Mr. Hampton would drown it at birth. “I don’t think you’ve met my sister, Allegra.”
“Pleasure,” said Mrs. Johnson shaking my hand.
I don’t much care for small talk so I asked right out, “Is Mr. Hampton at home?”
“He’s out riding.”
“At his age?” Okay, I don’t know much about riding. Maybe octogenarians did it all the time.
Mrs. Johnson said, “He’s very fit but he generally doesn’t ride farther than the village of Ravenswing. He’ll be back within the hour. Would you like to wait in the conservatory? I’ll bring refreshments.”
I opted for coffee—black no sugar. Lily, who had avoided coffee all through her pregnancy, had orange juice and proceeded to show me how to drink it without spilling a drop.
When her passive aggression got unbearable, I said, “Lily, I was ten. I’ve apologized a million times since then.”
She put on an innocent expression and said, “What on earth are you talking about?” But she knew. And she was looking at my hair like on,”anted to rip out another handful.
I got out of hair-ripping range, taking a stroll to the big windows that overlooked the Hampton acres. Amongst the tastefully planted trees stood the chapel where all the Hamptons had been married and the earlier ones buried. Rumors abounded that there were still bodies in the old crypt.
Far beyond the chapel, at the edge of Mr. Hampton’s property, were the yellow and orange leaves of Ravens Wood, which formed a natural barrier between the property and the village of Ravenswing. Both places had been named for the birds but I couldn’t see any today. Maybe they were
all huddling in their nests, trying to keep warm.
When Mrs. Johnson returned to offer more refreshments, we both declined. Mr. Hampton had still not returned and, Lily, clearly bored, suggested she show me around the mansion. I think she meant for us to go alone but Mrs. Johnson offered to give us the guided tour. Trying to look interested, I trudged upstairs after them.
Mrs. Johnson gave us a brief history of all the antique furniture, including the four-poster bed in the Abraham Lincoln room. According to family history, the sixteenth president had actually spent the night there. Call me a cynic, but I wasn’t convinced by the crude carving on the footboard, Abe Slept Here. However, viewing the bedrooms reminded me of the reason we’d come and gave me the perfect opportunity to raise the subject of sleepwalking with Mrs. Johnson.
After telling her about Donna Hampton falling to her death while sleepwalking, I asked, “Does Mr. Hampton sleepwalk?”
Mrs. Johnson raised penciled eyebrows and answered smoothly. “How would I know? My room is a long way from his.”
“Yes, but if he was sleepwalking he might have gone past your room. Have you heard footsteps in the night?”
“No, but as I’ve already told you, my room is a long way from Mr. Hampton’s.”
Well, that wasn’t very helpful. Looked as though I’d have to put the question to him. I wished he’d get back soon. Mrs. Johnson’s history of the Hamptons was about as interesting as one of Steven’s speeches.
“Now, I’m sure you’d love to see the portrait gallery,” said Mrs. Johnson. “It contains a portrait of every Hampton.”
“All thirty-three of them?”
“And many of their wives.”
“I can’t wait.” Then I whispered to Lily. “Is your portrait there?”
“Not yet but Mom’s is.”
The portrait gallery ran the length of the upper floor of the mansion. Some long-ago Hampton had sensibly chosen the north side, thereby avoiding sun damage to the pictures, which filled three of the walls. On the fourth wall was a line of long windows interspersed with the busts of old Romans. I wondered if Casper had known any of them.
