Getaway

by Fern Michaels

  Sophie entered the kitchen. “Hey, you two,” she called out when Bernice and Robert didn’t bother to acknowledge her and Goebel’s presence.

  Bernice held a hand in the air. “We’re trying to decipher this recipe. Wade found this in some dead woman’s brassiere, and thought we might want to use it for the cookbook. Take a look, see if you can figure it out.”

  Sophie looked at the yellowed page. Beautiful cursive handwriting had faded with age, but she didn’t have too much trouble reading the recipe. “You two need new glasses. This is a recipe for white chicken stew.” She gave the paper back to Bernice.

  Bernice held the page out as far as her arm allowed. “I guess these dollar-store glasses need to be replaced with the real thing.” She continued to scan the old paper. “Says here it’s from Dabney House. Isn’t that what they used to call your place?”

  Sophie stopped dead in her tracks. “Where did you say you found that recipe?”

  Robert spoke up. “Wade found it in an older woman’s . . . the upper part of her unmentionables.”

  Goebel laughed so hard tears welled up in his eyes. Sophie’s eyes looked as big as saucers.

  “I’m assuming the woman he took it from is dead?”

  “Yes, she is. I’ll ask Wade if he can poke around and find out more about her if it’s that important. Shit, this is just an old recipe,” Bernice said. “You can have it if you want.”

  “No, I can look at it later if I need to. It just reminded me of something, that’s all. I take it Toots is still upstairs with Ida?”

  “Haven’t heard a peep from either one of them. A small miracle.” Bernice laughed.

  “I’ll be right back,” Sophie said, and headed for the stairs.

  Upstairs, Sophie peeked inside Toots’s room. Toots sat in a chair by the bed, reading a magazine. Ida was dead to the world. She gave a light tap before entering.

  “Shhh,” Toots said, holding an index finger against her lips. “She’s sleeping sound as a baby now. Hasn’t been moving around at all.”

  Sophie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was concerned but knew you could handle things. We’re meeting Ted Dabney for dinner at seven. Maybe he can tell us more about our house’s history. I had sort of a breakthrough a while ago. I had another dream about the woman I tried to contact in the séance the other night. If my dream is to be believed, and I think it is, this woman fell down the staircase but survived the fall. My gut tells me this is what she wanted me to know.”

  Toots walked over to the window that overlooked her magnificent gardens. Sophie stood next to her. “That’s it? Surely there’s more to the story. If Ida’s possessed”—she whispered the last word—“then where does this woman factor in? You don’t think she’s evil, do you?”

  “Of course there is more to the story. I just haven’t figured that part out yet. I’m sure the woman isn’t evil, but there is an entity in the house. You wouldn’t believe your eyes if you saw the disaster in my kitchen. The cupboards are ripped off the hinges. My pantry has been totally demolished, food and all. It made me sick when I saw it. Goebel put so much hard work into designing that room. It is a room, too. No one I know has a pantry that large.”

  “Mine is close, but I agree, the design is ingenious. Do you want me to round up the gang to come help with the cleanup?”

  “Hell no. I’m hiring a cleaning crew for this. I might need to use my old room at your place for a few nights, if that’s okay. The house smells awful, plus there’s something dead in the attic. Speaking of attics, what do you think of this?” Sophie took the tiny silver bracelet out of her purse. “I found this in one of the trunks. It was totally tarnished before I cleaned it. Does that name ring any historical-society-lady bells with you?”

  Toots took the small bracelet from Sophie and held it close to the window. “Margaret Florence Dabney, 1923. Other than your place being called Dabney House, no. But it makes sense. Though I can’t understand why the family didn’t take this with them when I bought the place. This is good silver, from what I can tell.”

  “It is. They don’t make baby bracelets like that anymore. As long as you’re okay with Ida, I’m going to dinner with Goebel so I can meet this great-great-nephew of the original owners. Who knows what he’ll tell us?”

  “I bought your place for practically nothing, and there has to be a reason they were in such a hurry to sell. Places like yours are going for three to four million dollars these days. Had I not been so wrapped up in the Informer, I would’ve researched its history more thoroughly.”

  Sophie sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m sure the great-great-nephew can fill us in on whatever gory details there are. Bernice has a recipe Wade gave her. It’s for chicken stew. The recipe originated from the Dabney House. Is that weird or what?”

  Toots moved away from the window and spied Frankie, her dachshund, hiding in the corner. She picked him up and carried him across the room. “Nothing seems weird to me anymore, Soph. These past five years have been so full of strange incidents and coincidences, I feel quite odd when nothing out of the ordinary takes place. Maybe it’s time for me to make some changes, add a bit of spice to our lives, now that we’re all settled in the South.”

  Sophie sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Ida. “Please tell me you didn’t say you needed to add ‘a bit of spice’ to our lives? How much spicier do you want it? My house is haunted, Ida’s probably possessed by some poor soul who can’t or won’t cross over to the other side, and you think we need to make changes?” She paused, a look of bewilderment on her face. “You and Phil. Is there something you’re not telling me? Because if I find out you two plan on getting married after the fact, I will personally slice your tits off, as well as his nuts.”

  Now in her seventies and eight husbands later, Toots still blushed. “I can’t believe you would even think of something so . . . so ridiculous! I have no intention of getting married again. Eight times was enough for me. I like my life just the way it is, thank you very much. I do not need a man telling me what to do and how and when to do it, like you and Ida do.”

  “By your reaction I can tell I hit a nerve. You’ve thought about it—don’t lie. Remember, it’s me, Sophie De Luca. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes. Now, have you discussed marriage or not?”

  “You’re supposed to be un-possessing Ida. Why are we even talking about marriage? No, we have not . . . we haven’t gone into great detail. Phil is busy with his book. He’s almost finished with book two. Remember, you predicted his book will be a rip-roaring success? I know his second book will be as successful as his first. Like Robin Cook, he’ll follow up with another book, and another, then maybe a movie deal. Where in the world would he find time to marry an old broad over seventy? I’m sure it’s the last thing on his mind right now.”

  “Do I detect a bit of jealousy?” Sophie asked.

  Toots began pacing the width of her large bedroom, maintaining a death grip on the little dachshund. “No you do not. Absolutely not! Phil and I have a wonderful . . . arrangement. He’s happy, and so am I. So, to answer your question, no, I have no immediate plans to marry Phil. Nor he me.”

  “Good grief, you sound like a prim old bitch who hasn’t had a piece of ass since losing her virginity. I was just asking. You don’t have to get so defensive. Forget I mentioned the M word, okay?”

  “Just because you and Goebel have the perfect marriage doesn’t mean it’s right for me, or Ida, or Bernice, for that matter. We’re all happy and busy. All of us have so much money, we’re practically giving it away. No, scratch that, I am giving it away. We’re in a good place, Soph, so why would we, rather I, want to mess with things when they’re this good?”

  “If you weren’t my best friend in the world, I’d smack you. I simply asked you a question. I get that it’s a touchy subject with you. Eight times is a frigging world record, but who’s counting?”

  “Apparently you are. And Bernice. And Ida. The only one who doesn’t r
emind me of my marriages is Mavis. She’s the kindest woman I know. I need you to know that, okay? Mavis is much nicer than you. Or Ida.” Toots felt her blood rush to her ears.

  “Bullshit. There is something you’re not telling me. I’m not going to delve into it anymore tonight since I need to get out of here, but I will not forget this conversation. We’ll finish this later.”

  Frankie chose that very moment to leap from Toots’s arms and jump on the bed, where he proceeded to pee smack-dab in the middle of the bed.

  Chapter Five

  Cristof’s was located in Charleston’s historical district on Woolfe Street, near St. John’s Episcopal Chapel. Formerly a plantation home, it now had the reputation as one of Charleston’s finest places to dine. Each floor had a theme designed according to the menu. The first floor, the most sought after, served up Southern food with a modern flair. The second floor served sushi and some Thai dishes, and the third floor was strictly vegetarian. Something for everyone. Because of its diversity, securing a reservation was considered an accomplishment.

  A hostess dressed in a black pencil skirt with a crisp white blouse led Goebel and Sophie to a table on the first floor. Apparently, Ted Dabney dined at Cristof’s often enough that getting a last-minute reservation wasn’t as difficult for him as it was for most others.

  “Mr. Dabney is running late and asked that we suggest a bottle of wine.” The girl couldn’t be a day over twenty-one. When she smiled, she revealed unnaturally white teeth. Her bleached blond hair hung perfectly straight. Sophie was positive that she had ironed it. No one’s hair was that straight. “No, we’ll pass on the wine, but thank you.”

  The girl nodded, smiled again, and stepped away from the table. Two seconds later another young woman, dressed in an identical black-and-white outfit, arrived at their table. Sophie concluded that this restaurant was not going to be conducive to discreet conversation. “May I bring you a drink?” she asked in a rehearsed voice.

  “We’ll have iced tea, one sweet and one unsweetened,” Goebel said, then winked at Sophie.

  As soon as the waitress left the table, a man in his late fifties or early sixties came to their table. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Blevins. Sorry about the lateness, but I had a meeting that lasted much longer than I’d anticipated.” He held out his hand for Goebel, who stood up to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Dabney, nice to meet you,” Goebel said, then sat down.

  Sophie remained in her seat, but like the typical Southern woman, she held out her hand for Mr. Dabney. “Pleased to meet you,” she said in her most professional voice.

  Ted Dabney was an ugly man, Sophie thought as she observed him. Too tall and much too thin, he seemed uncomfortable with his size. His shoulders were rounded from years of stooping; he hunched in the chair, reminding her of someone who knew he was about to get slapped and was preparing for the hit. His eyes bugged out of his head. Maybe he had a thyroid problem. His skin was so pale it appeared translucent.

  The waitress delivered their iced teas and took Mr. Dabney’s drink order. He ordered a martini. Sophie would never have pegged him as a martini type of guy. She equated martinis with James Bond, and by no stretch of the imagination was Ted Dabney James Bond. No, had she been asked to guess what kind of drink he would order, she would have said a glass of white wine. Wimpy and light. But she knew better than most how much looks could be deceiving.

  The waitress returned with his martini. “Would you care to hear the dinner specials now, or would you prefer to wait until you’ve finished your drinks?”

  “We’ll have our drinks. Please leave us for a while,” he said with so much authority that Sophie knew that in this case, looks really were deceiving.

  “Now, you want to know about the house.” Ted Dabney’s demeanor changed from sophisticated businessman to one who’d known fear.

  Sophie took this as her cue to begin her story. Never one to mince words, she dove right in. “Why did you sell the house so far below its market value?”

  Ted Dabney took a sip of his martini and traced the rim of the glass with his long index finger. He took a deep breath, as though the mere thought of talking about his ancestral home was painful. And maybe it was.

  “I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t need it, so that was never an issue when I put the house up for sale. A Realtor friend of mine put it on the market. I’d had it listed for a few weeks when my friend called me to tell me that an offer had been made on the house. It was the first offer, and I told her to take it. She laughed and asked me if I’d lost my mind. Little did she know had I stayed in that house any longer, I probably would have. She said the offer was a joke, and added that if I took it, I was an idiot. She actually called me an idiot. Needless to say, I’m not friends with that woman anymore. Ms. Loudenberry offered three hundred thousand dollars, and I took it.” He took another sip of his drink. “I hired movers to pack up the place and moved to Atlanta.”

  “Tell me what frightened you so badly,” Sophie questioned. “I . . . well, I know things about people.”

  Ted Dabney nodded. “Yes, I know who you are. I . . . well, you understand I’m a businessman. It would be suicide to go into battle without investigating your adversaries.”

  Goebel took her hand and squeezed. She returned the gesture of affection.

  Dabney took another deep breath. Sophie felt the fear radiate off him. He was truly afraid to talk about the house. She needed to reassure him that he shouldn’t be.

  “Then you know that I can see things that you can’t. Ted—if I may call you Ted?” She paused. He nodded. “Ted. This isn’t going to sound even remotely normal to you, but it does to me and my husband. We do psychic investigations and encounter people who fear the unknown, people who’ve been frightened simply because they’ve been conditioned to fear what they don’t understand. However, there really isn’t anything to be afraid of when you’re . . . when you see life from the other side.” Sophie wasn’t quite sure how to explain her position to this frightened man. She didn’t want to scare him any more than was necessary, but she also wanted to assure him that not everything paranormal should evoke fear.

  “I’ll have to take your word on that,” he said.

  “Good. Because I know what I’m doing. I was alarmed when I first discovered I had the gift. It isn’t everyone’s normal, but it is my normal.” She couldn’t remember when she’d been so conversationally challenged.

  “What my wife is trying to say is that it’s okay for you to be afraid of the unknown, but you shouldn’t be frightened by whatever events took place in your house.”

  “I grew up in that house, and trust me, if you’d lived there as a kid, you would have been frightened. I remember how I hated having to go to bed at night. The long walk upstairs, the creaks, the coldness. I hated it. I begged my parents to leave, to move anywhere else, but there was nowhere to go then. They’d lost all the family wealth right after I was born. The only thing they owned was the house. My father gave piano lessons. Mother took in ironing. They were the complete opposite of their parents, my grandparents.”

  “Tell me about your grandparents,” Sophie coaxed.

  Dabney downed the rest of his drink. “What do you want to know?”

  “You tell me. What are your memories of them?” Sophie didn’t want to influence him in any way, yet she needed to know about the earlier generations that he’d lived with.

  He lifted his glass in the air. Within minutes a second drink was placed in front of him. Both glasses of tea were discreetly refilled.

  “My grandfather was the meanest old son of a bitch, pardon my French, I have ever had the bad fortune to know. I remember always being afraid of him when I was a kid. My mother—she was the youngest—was afraid of him, too. She never actually said so, but I could tell. I couldn’t have been more than five or six, but I remember when he, my grandfather, was still alive and lived with us. I think he hated my mother because she was normal and her older sister wasn’t.”

&nbs
p; “What do you mean by normal?” Goebel asked before Sophie could.

  “Aunt Maggie was born blind. My grandfather never let a day pass that he didn’t remind my grandmother how useless she was.”

  Sophie’s heart raced. “Aunt Maggie?”

  “She’s still alive, if you can believe that. She’s in her nineties now, lives in Charlotte, in an assisted-living facility for the blind. I had promised my parents I would take care of her if they couldn’t. Of course, they both died in 1976, in an automobile accident, when I was away at college—they were only in their late forties when they died—so at the time it was a tough promise to keep, but I kept it.” For the first time that evening, Ted Dabney’s smile lit up his pale face. “Aunt Maggie never married, but she would have been a terrific mother had she had children.”

  Sophie reached for her purse. Inside, she found the silver bracelet and held it in her hand. Could it be possible that Aunt Maggie and Margaret Florence Dabney were one and the same?

  She had to ask. “Was your Aunt Maggie’s given name Margaret Florence?”

  Dabney focused his gaze on Sophie’s hand. “Yes.”

  Like a blooming flower, her hand slowly opened to reveal the silver baby bracelet she held in it. “Does this belong to your Aunt Maggie?”

  He took the tiny circle of silver from her hand. “Yes. I’ve seen it before. I stored all of my wife’s personal items in the attic after she died, and I remember seeing this. Why? Is there something significant about it that I should know?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me,” she said, hearing the defeat in her voice.

  “Only that it belonged to Aunt Maggie.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me more about this. Possibly it meant something to your Aunt Maggie? Or your mother?” She couldn’t explain to him what her feelings had been when she found the bracelet earlier that day, but she had immediately known in her gut that it was significant. She’d been counting on him to reveal some big secret, and so far, beyond what he had said about his grandfather, he’d told her nothing useful. Nothing that would lead her to believe any of his ancestors had taken possession of Ida.