by Tamara Berry
Beast twitches a whisker.
Heaving a sigh, I give up. Communing with spirits is easy enough to fake, but animals are a much more unpredictable niche. “Fine. I’ll do all the work on my own. As usual.”
But something I either said or did seems finally to have gotten through to the animal. Beast steps close enough to the food to begin eating it—and in so doing, places herself well within my reach. Tentative at first, I extend a hand to give the sleek, glossy fur a pat. When Beast doesn’t move away—or, as I halfway suspected, dig her teeth into my flesh—I grow bold enough to slip a hand under her belly, warm to the touch.
And that’s it. I lift, and the cat is in my arms. Not purring, mind you, and not the least bit interested in a snuggling embrace, but with her head pulled back so she can stare at me with those uncanny yellow eyes.
Fine, human, those eyes seem to say. We’ll do this your way. But I don’t like it.
“Well, I don’t like it either,” I reply as I surreptitiously reach behind me for the cardboard box. It’s not the most elegant method of transport, but I couldn’t find a basket. “Sometimes, we have to do unpleasant tasks to get rid of unpleasant things.”
With a laugh, I realize I may have just landed on a new business model.
Eleanor Wilde: spiritual medium, cat wrangler, doer of unpleasant tasks. Cleanses homes of ghosts and murderers. Sometimes in the same day.
And usually without getting herself arrested—or killed—in the bargain.
* * *
The task of sneaking a boxed cat into a castle isn’t one I plan to repeat anytime soon. Or, if I have any say in the matter, ever again.
Fate smiles upon me for once, which means the only person I run into as I try to saunter nonchalantly through the front door with a screeching box clutched to my chest is Vivian. She takes one look at me, blinks, and says, “Is that Thomas’s coat you’re wearing?”
It takes me a moment to register her question, a task not helped along by the sudden thumping of Beast as she hurls herself at the walls of the box.
“Um, yes?” I say. A sharp claw digs through the cardboard and into my forearm, but I bite back my yelp of pain. My voice only slightly strangled, I add, “I borrowed it for my walk. It was hanging in the closet—I didn’t think anyone would mind.”
“How odd,” Vivian murmurs. She returns her attention to a still life painting overhanging the fireplace, rapt in her contemplation of a bowl of grapes. “He never goes anywhere without that coat. It was his father’s.”
At this, a spike of alarm moves through me, but it’s nothing compared to the spike of Beast’s claw finding purchase in my flesh.
“I’ll put it back when I’m done,” I promise through a gasp. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
Vivian waves, no more concerned with my box than she is with the fact that she’s staring at what is quite possibly the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. I assume she’s lingering in the foyer in hopes that Xavier will whisper some more instructions to make my life difficult, but she could also be waiting to deter any more visitors laden with food. I don’t put either task past her.
I’m not a monster, so I don’t leave Beast in the box for long. I’m also not willing to risk exposure, so it’s into the cleaning closet off the dining room she goes. Ideally, I’d prefer to keep her in the yellow bedchamber, where the chances of anyone else finding her are slim, but the door to that room remains obstinately shut.
“Now, I know this isn’t ideal,” I tell Beast as I tip her out of the box and onto the closet floor. The inside of the cardboard is riddled with the deep scratches of her discontent, but she does no more than settle into a stately position where she lands, her long tail curled around her body. “But I have yet to see anyone in this house so much as hold a mop, so you should be pretty safe in here. And it’s not so bad, is it?”
I stand and look around, pleased with my choice. The closet is one of the three doors I tried when looking for the kitchen that first morning, a narrow, deep room lined with cupboards on both sides. I imagine it was used as a storeroom once upon a time, holding silver and linens and chafing dishes for food service. Now it’s all crusted mops and cleaning products—not very charming, of course, but utilitarian enough for my purposes. There’s plenty of room to lay out some food and a pan of loose soil for a litter box.
“It’s practically palatial,” I tell Beast, feeling guilty at the sight of the feline accepting her fate so calmly. “And it’s only for one day. I’ll check on you as soon as I can.”
I’m not sure how I expect her to respond—a meow, a growl, another claw in my forearm—but all she does is begin a painstaking bathing ritual and turn her back on me, no longer interested in anything I have to say or do.
I close the door with a quiet click. Pausing only long enough to ensure no protests are immediately forthcoming, I leave the cat to her solitary and stately bath.
It’s not as if I have any other choice. If I’m going to pull this thing off successfully, there’s quite a bit of work still to be done.
Chapter 21
“With your permission, Mrs. Hartford, I’d like to hold a séance.”
As I’d hoped, my announcement has the effect of rousing the Hartfords out of their various states of postprandial stupor. Well, stupor might be pushing things, since Nicholas is reading his invariable newspaper and Rachel is giggling as she texts something on her phone, but the casual indolence of the rest of those sitting around the parlor is palpable. Honestly, until I arrived, I have no idea how these people entertained themselves for twenty-four hours of every day.
“What’s that, dear?” Vivian asks from where she stands over the sherry. She pours out a glass and hands it to me. “A séance? Delightful. I was wondering what was taking you so long.”
I ignore the rebuke and continue my prepared speech. Unfortunately, I’m still in Rachel’s clothes, and I now have a crystal glass in my hand, so it looks more like a friendly toast than a mysterious announcement.
“The timing isn’t ideal, since the moon is in its waning cycle, but my summoning draught worked. Xavier’s presence is stronger than ever before, and he has something he wishes to tell us—something that could shed some light on his origins and purpose here. If we don’t give him a medium for providing a voice, it’s likely that you’ll begin to see irreparable damages throughout your home.”
“But he does have a voice,” Vivian points out. “He talked to me yesterday, remember?”
As I’m being forced to plan and conduct a séance entirely without my supplies, which remain behind the door he told her to lock, I remember just fine.
Nicholas clears his throat. “And one might, if one were particular, argue that human remains under the stairs already constitute irreparability. We’ll never get that smell out.”
I swivel to glare him into silence. My tolerance for this man’s genteel irony has reached its nadir. Amusing at first, that irony is now nothing more than an obstruction.
If he’d only told me that the castle is set to be passed down to Fern, all of this might have been solved ages ago. All that strutting around, pretending like he owned the place, when in reality he’s no more than a temporary caretaker like Thomas—what was the point? Pride? Arrogance?
Or, a niggling worry adds, something darker?
I shake off the worry. I can only accomplish so much in one day. First on my list is to get Cal to admit to being Xavier for the sake of getting his hands on Castle Hartford. The other lingering questions can wait.
“Are you alright?” Rachel asks when I don’t speak right away. “Is he here now?”
“He’s always here,” I say with a level look at Cal. Lowering my voice so that he knows I mean business, I add, “I require that all of the family be in attendance at the séance, so please open up your schedules and your minds.”
“Are you sure that includes me?” Cal asks, scratching his nose. “Seeing as how I’m not strictly family?”
“Yes. And Thomas,
too.”
Rachel glances at her grandmother. “Has he come back yet?”
Vivian shakes her head, a frown pulling at the edges of her brightly painted lips—pink this evening, a little rubbed off at the edges, but still plenty visible. Even though it’s still technically Sunday and therefore Thomas’s weekend off, his continued absence is starting to worry even her. “Not that I’m aware of. Nicholas—?”
Nicholas’s calm exterior shows no sign of worry as he voices a similarly negative response. “I wish we’d stop raising a hue and cry over a man who is not, as of yet, the least bit missing. There’s time enough for panic after Madame Eleanor swindles us all with this séance of hers.”
Rachel bristles, opening her mouth to defend my honor—a thing I appreciate but in no way need. For the first time since I’ve arrived here, I’m fully in charge.
“Afraid of what will be revealed?” I ask.
He flattens me with a stare and a calm, “No. I’m afraid you’re going to string a puppet on a wire and make a bad situation even worse.”
A bad situation? That’s all he thinks this is?
“Ten o’clock tomorrow night,” I announce. “You must all be in attendance. Your very lives depend upon it.”
“But what do we wear?” Fern asks.
I bite back an exasperated sigh. I’m pulling out all the stops over here, making ominous commands and taunting them with events to come. My past clients could attest to how rare it is for me to go full séance, but these Hartfords have yet to recognize even a hint of my genius.
“Black,” I say, since it seems the most obvious choice. “Particularly items of sentimental value or that Xavier has interacted with in the past. Any emotional or spiritual energy will be useful in calling his spirit to us.”
“But what about you, Madame Eleanor?” Nicholas asks— taunts, I should say. “With all your belongings locked up, what will you wear?”
I know what he’s really asking: How will I manage to pull off a séance if I don’t have access to any of my usual supplies?
Too bad this man has no idea what I’m capable of, how many years I’ve spent scraping to get by. I basically live in a hearse. I spend my holidays in a long-term-care ward. Almost every penny I earn goes to my sister’s maintenance or the job necessary to continue that maintenance.
Besides, there were mediums faking séances long before the invention of electricity. I’m not without options.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow night,” I repeat with a tight smile. “I think you’ll find the results to be very interesting, Mr. Hartford. I think you’ll find them very interesting indeed.”
* * *
Just as Nicholas predicted, Thomas saunters through the parlor door with mere minutes to go until midnight.
“Ah, Thomas. There you are.” Nicholas looks up over the newspaper he’s been rustling nonstop for the last half hour, almost like a man anxiously awaiting an arrival. “We’ve missed you.”
We’ve missed you? A man is dead, and someone dug up a corpse and relocated it to the kitchen—and all Nicholas can think to say is that Thomas’s absence was a slight emotional burden?
Thomas sets down the cooler in his hand and nudges it with his foot. “I tried to come in through the kitchen so I wouldn’t disturb anyone, but the outer door was locked. This is for your mother. Flounder, mostly, and a bit of dab.”
Nicholas casts a very obvious glance my way. “And how was the fishing this weekend?”
“Cold,” Thomas says and laughs. As if just now noticing me sitting there, he turns and grins. “It always is this time of year. I hope there wasn’t too much excitement while I was away. Any more birds come shooting out of the chimney?”
I have no idea how to begin the task of relaying the events of the past three days, so it’s just as well that Rachel jumps in and does it for me. Despite the lateness of the hour, the three of us have remained awake and gathered in the parlor in a stalemate to see who would give up the Thomas vigil first. Vivian took herself off a few hours ago, tottering up the stairs with what was left of the sherry bottle, and Fern and Cal slipped out to enjoy their indecencies as soon as decency allowed.
“Oh, Thomas—you won’t believe what’s happened!” Rachel cries. “First Madame Eleanor got all her electronic voice phenomena equipment smashed, which was strange, because even I didn’t know where she’d put half of it. Then she fell down the kitchen stairs because Xavier pulled that step up again, and then—”
“What?” Thomas’s glance is sharp, his voice full of alarm. “That’s not possible. I used the fifteen-centimeter nails. They should have been almost impossible to pull out. Eleanor, are you alright?”
As he’s the first person to show any concern about my physical well-being, I’m inclined to forgive him for disappearing on us and causing so much trouble. But then I remember his cat’s empty food dish and pause. Beast might be the least pleasant animal I’ve had the misfortune to come across, but that hasn’t stopped me from sneaking into the cleaning closet three times since I locked her in there to make sure she’s comfortable.
“I’m fine,” I say with a tight smile. “I hurt my toe a little, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
“She didn’t get hurt because she landed on a dead body,” Rachel supplies before continuing to tell the rest of our grisly tale.
I watch Thomas’s face as the story unfurls. Nicholas, I note, is doing the same to me—gauging my reaction, trying to read clues in the expressions I allow to cross my face. I imagine he’s just as disappointed as I am by the end. Nothing Thomas says indicates anything but horror and disbelief.
“Is that why the kitchen door is locked?” he asks, looking between us in growing bewilderment. “Because it’s a crime scene?”
“Well, no,” Nicholas admits. “The police are interested in uncovering the origin of the bones, obviously, but Madame Eleanor’s discovery isn’t being actively investigated. I locked the door merely as a precaution.”
“My discovery is perfectly active,” I retort. “Even Inspector Piper seems inclined to believe me at this point.”
“That’s another thing,” Nicholas says. “The inspector will want to interview you in the morning. You don’t know anything about those bones, do you?”
“How could I?” Thomas asks in some confusion. “That area under the stairs hasn’t been used for storage since we were kids. I can’t remember the last time I was in there.”
“And you were really fishing all weekend?” I ask, unable to help myself. “You took a boat out that late on a Thursday night?”
“Of course,” he says, looking to Nicholas as if for confirmation. “I can’t get my clipper out unless it’s slack water. You know that, Nick. You can check with the harbormaster. He saw me go out. We chatted about lures.”
“Oh, I know,” Nicholas says with his imperturbable calm. “I called him the moment Rachel told me it was your weekend off. I gave the inspector a line, as well, so he shouldn’t give you too much trouble.”
It takes a moment for my shock to wear off and anger to take its place. “You knew?”
Startled by the vehemence of my outburst, Rachel’s eyes grow wide. “Knew what?”
“That Thomas—That the boat—That I—” There’s no way to finish any of those sentences in a way that paints me in a positive light, so I allow myself to sputter out.
Each of Nicholas’s placid assurances, every time he promised me that Thomas was fine . . . It wasn’t just lip service. He’d known from the start that Thomas’s movements were both accounted for and easily explained away.
But not once did he actually tell me how he knew it. Not once did he mention a harbormaster I could call for confirmation.
“I didn’t realize you were such an avid fisherman, that’s all,” I say in a manner that convinces no one. “But I’m glad you’re back. I borrowed your coat, by the way.”
Thomas blinks at me. “My coat?”
“Yes, from the front closet. My room is locked, and Vivi
an lost the key, so there’s no way for me to get in there. I needed it to keep me warm.”
Two thoughts suddenly occur to me. The first is a welcome one, and I nurse it against my bosom with an avidity that borders on the perverse. “Speaking of, if you could find a way to get me in there before you leave, I’d be eternally grateful,” I say. “Apparently, Nicholas is physically incapable of breaking down a door, and I’m dying to get my hands on my phone charger.”
“I’m sure Thomas is exhausted and wants to get home,” Nicholas says with a slight choke.
“But—” I begin and immediately clamp down on my lip. I have to, because the second thought is causing me a serious pang.
Beast.
She’s still in the cleaning closet. I don’t know Thomas well enough to judge, but I’m guessing that if I admit to cat-napping, he’s going to have a few questions as to why. Saying I panicked because he was gone for all of seventy-two hours makes me sound deranged, but not nearly as much as the fact that I plan to use his pet as a prop for a séance.
“I suppose tomorrow will work,” I say, flushing slightly. “We’ll talk then.”
An amused look flickers across Nicholas’s face, but he doesn’t say anything. He does, however, rise elegantly to his feet and nod a dismissal at both me and Rachel. “I think it’s best if you ladies call it a night. Thomas, I’ll walk you down to put the fish in the freezer. They’ll be a welcome addition to our bounty.”
“Bounty?” he echoes.
Nicholas laughs and begins to regale him with tales of the influx of food from inquisitive neighbors. Other than holding the door as Rachel and I file out of the parlor, he dismisses us from his mind.
I only wish I could so easily dismiss him from mine. For whatever reason, Nicholas is determined to make me as ineffective at ghost hunting as possible. Withholding information, sending me on errands to dovecotes and churches, plying the suspicion on with a trowel—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he wants me to fail.
But at the rates he’s paying me, that would be preposterous.
