"Don't tell him a thing," Jack warned. "Okay, then," I said. "I guess we're off to Great Neck then."
"Great Neck?" Brennan echoed as we began to move past him. "You two investigating the deaths in that fire?"
"What fire?" Jack asked.
Brennan slapped a newspaper into Jack's hand. "Read all about it, buddy. Eight dead in mansion land. Rich guy's place burned to the ground. Could be arson. And if it is, it's eight counts of homicide."
"I'll read it," Jack said, then hustled me out of the bookie's lair.
When we hit the street, I asked Jack how we were getting to Long Island. The weather was looking pretty lousy by now; clouds were smothering the sun. The daylight was dying.
"Close your eyes, baby. We don't have much time left." "We're not done, are we? I still haven't solved the case!"
"Close your eyes."
I did and all of a sudden the balmy September weather felt much colder. The hard street under my pumps turned soft, as if I were now standing on damp earth. A chilly wind blew and I smelled the acrid scent of charred wood. I opened my eyes and gasped.
I was no longer in Manhattan. I was standing in front of the Long Island mansion that had burned to the ground. The stone foundation was left, but the structure itself was a smoldering wreck. I glanced around, looking for Jack, and noticed the wrought-iron fencing around the property.
"Oh, my God."
The design in the fence was wholly unique—a series of pentagrams, each with a fleur-de-lis at its center.
Jack walked up to me, took off his double-breasted coat, and draped it around my shoulders. For a moment, he hugged me close from behind, and then he turned me in his arms.
"The officials on the scene are still assessing the damage," he said quietly and pointed to two men in suits and three in uniform. "They pulled eight bodies out of here. The way they found six of the bodies, they suspect they may have been drunk or drugged. The last two were found in the basement tied to chairs—a man and a woman."
The weather was getting colder, the evening darker. A low mist began rising off the damp grass. I shivered. "Was the woman who died in the fire—was she J. J. Conway's mother?"
Jack nodded. "She was. Her body was identified within the week."
He handed me a newspaper, the same paper Brennan had given him, the same newspaper J. J. had been peddling earlier. There was a small photo with the article about the fire. It showed the owner of the home that burned to the ground.
He was a fat man in a three-piece banker's suit with dark hair brushed off his forehead. He was the man in Miss Todd's portrait. He was the ghost in Miss Todd's mansion.
The caption gave me a name: GIDEON WEXLER.
"But I still don't understand, Jack. What does it mean? Who is this man? And what's his connection to Miss Todd's place?"
I looked up, but Jack's solid form wasn't near me anymore. He was just a silhouette, at the edge of the grounds, fading into the fog.
"Keep digging, baby," his voice called from the rising mist. "The case is in your time now ..."
"Wait, Jack, don't leave me! I need you! Jack!"
"PEN? PENELOPE!"
My eyelids lifted. Sadie was sitting on the edge of my bed. "What century is it?" I asked, feeling disoriented.
My aunt smiled. "It's the twenty-first, dear. And the day is Sunday and the time is nearly five. Do you feel up to working in the shop?"
"Oh, yes." I nodded. "No problem."
"Good. I'll see you downstairs in a little bit then." Aunt Sadie smiled, stroked Bookmark, and got up to leave. Sensing a snack in the offing, Bookmark jumped off the bed to follow her.
I rubbed my eyes, feeling groggy. Part of my mind was still stuck in the past—Gideon Wexler was the name of the man in the portrait. But that name didn't mean anything to me. And it made no sense. Who was Miss Todd to this man? A relative? A friend? A lover? And what did it matter, anyway?
I called silently to Jack, but he was gone. Once again, reliving his past memories had exhausted him.
"An envelope came for you, by the way." Aunt Sadie called from the doorway. "I left it on the dresser."
"An envelope?"
"Yes, Dilbert found it earlier, stuffed in our door's mail slot."
"But this is Sunday. We don't get mail on Sunday. And we're open. Why didn't the person who delivered it just come inside?"
"Yes, it's a little mysterious, isn't it?"
I could tell my aunt was curious, if not a little worried. I threw off my bedcovers and went to the dresser. The envelope was white and plain with MRS. MCCLURE typed on the front—no address, no stamp, no other markings. I opened it, unfolded the paper inside. There was only one sentence typed: nine black words on a field of white.
"What is it, dear?" Aunt Sadie could see something was wrong from my expression. She moved back into the room, took the paper from me and blanched at the simple message:
BRAKES AREN'T THE ONLY THINGS THAT CAN GET CUT.
CHAPTER 21
Happy Medium
She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
—The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler, 1939
"A LITTLE MELODRAMATIC, isn't it?" I pointed to the burning candle in Fiona Finch's hand.
She shrugged. "No electricity. That's the way they wanted it."
"Who's they?"
"RIPS—they're the ones conducting tonight's seance."
"RIPs?" I repeated. "Rest in—"
Fiona cut me off. "It stands for Rhode Island Paranormal Society. Rachel explained it all to me after checking in this evening."
It was close to midnight and I was standing with Fiona in the foyer of Chez Finch. Despite the threatening note, I was determined to attend this seance.
Of course, I'd already notified Eddie Franzetti about the threat. He'd raced over to the shop as soon as I'd called, impounding the letter as evidence. I doubted he would get any useful fingerprints. He said the state forensic lab could analyze the paper and ink, but I didn't put much faith in that getting us anywhere, either.
Aunt Sadie and Dilbert insisted on staying with me until we closed the store. I agreed, but I wasn't going to cancel my plans for the night. One stupid note wasn't going to stop me—if anything, it made me more determined than ever to keep digging into this case. My one concession was asking Eddie to have a patrol car include the Finch Inn on its watch as long as Seymour was staying there. "RIPS?" I repeated to Fiona.
She nodded her head. "The group's been around since the 1920s and the current membership takes this all quite seriously." She gestured toward the archway that led into the restaurant's large dining room—completely dark now except for a single taper burning on the room's largest round table. Two human silhouettes were standing near the wall of windows overlooking Quindicott Pond.
"Are you going to this thing?" I asked her.
"Not me. But you can fill me in after the seance is over. I have some other things to discuss with you, as well—"
Girlish laughter echoed loudly through the darkened dining room, followed by a very familiar guffaw: my mailman.
"Sounds like Seymour's getting along pretty well with someone in there."
Before Fiona could reply, we both heard the honk of Barney's electric golf cart. "The other guests are arriving." Fiona waved me forward. "Go ahead inside, Pen. Seymour will introduce you to Rachel."
Beyond the restaurant's wall of windows, the pond appeared black as outer space, the inn's solar-powered footlights marking nearby trails like tiny stars in the distance. The moon was full tonight, its glow rippling on the dark water and providing much-needed ambient light in the murky room.
I found Seymour chatting with a young woman dressed casually in a denim skirt and high-top yellow sneakers.
"Hey, Pen!" he called with an energized grin. "This is Rachel Delve. Rachel, this is my friend Penelope McClure."
Smiling, the woman took my hand. Rachel was petite, shorter than me—and I wasn't ve
ry tall to start with. Her freckled face, framed by a tangle of reddish-orange hair, was so round it was almost cherubic. Even in this dim light, I could see her complexion was rosy from laughter.
"Nice to meet you," she said, taking my hand.
At first I doubted Rachel was part of the RIPS group. She seemed so normal, so bubbly. She came off more like a member of the restaurant staff—until I noticed the ankh symbol dangling from a gold chain around her neck.
Jack might have had an opinion, but I'd deliberately left his buffalo nickel back home. He'd disappeared after our dream—which was par for the course—but I wouldn't have brought him anyway. I'd never been to a seance, and I didn't know what to expect. After Ophelia Tuttle's little display, the last thing I needed was a public gathering where someone might announce that Penelope Thornton-McClure secretly lived with a bad-boy, sandy-haired PI last seen breathing in 1949. And that wasn't even the worst of it—how did I know what these people had in mind? Jack could be accidentally exorcised or spook-zapped or something.
Anyway, I was on my own. So I took a deep breath and greeted Seymour with a smile. "Sounds like I interrupted a funny story."
"We were talking about the old Popeye cartoons, the ones featuring Goon Island," Seymour explained. "Check out Rachel's watch."
She presented her wrist to me.
"That's a vintage Popeye timepiece," Seymour informed me. "Turns out Rachel's into the Sailorman, big-time."
"I love anything connected to the sea," Rachel said. "Probably because I fell in love with Popeye when I was six years old."
"Well, blow me down," Seymour joked, with a wink to Rachel. "If you like seafaring stuff, you should see the amazing painting Fiona gave me. She has more of them hanging in her lighthouse. The artist is awesome."
Rachel listened with amused interest while Seymour described his painting. That was when I noticed Ophelia Tuttle sitting alone at the big round table, hands folded in her lap. Seeing her there, I took a deep breath—on the one hand, I was surprised and alarmed, but then I realized it made perfect sense, given her obvious ability to see the dead.
She wore a long dress of ebony. It was sleeveless and with her hair twisted high, I could clearly see her gold ankh tattoo.
"Good evening, Ophelia," I said.
She observed me for a long, silent moment. "Decided to come alone tonight, I see."
"Actually, Pen isn't alone," Seymour piped up, not understanding the young woman's remark. "She's here with me. We both experienced something weird last night. Supernatural”
"Really?" Ophelia sniffed. "Well, you should talk to Rachel about it. I have my own concerns." She looked away after that, clearly not wishing to talk anymore.
I wasn't surprised. I didn't trust Miss Tuttle. Not one bit.
"Is there anyone else here I know?" I asked, glancing into the dark room.
"Yeah," Seymour said. "You know Leo."
"Leo Rollins?"
I turned to see his shadowy form sitting in a dim corner, far away from everyone else. He nodded a silent greeting, one hand stroking his trimmed beard. Then he turned away, to stare out the wall of windows.
Ophelia and Leo? Neither of the two sat well with me; seeing them here together made me even surer that something was up. The threatening note came to mind again— the word cut had been prominent—and Leo's dagger remained highly suspicious to me. I swallowed hard, trying to assure myself that there'd be too many witnesses here tonight for anyone to hurt Seymour or me.
As Seymour and Rachel went back to their conversation about Popeye, sailors, and comic books, Barney Finch ushered a new guest into the dining room.
"Hey, Mr. Stoddard!" Seymour called. "Are you here as my lawyer?"
Emory Stoddard shook his head. "Tonight I'm here to represent the society, Mr. Tarnish." Then the lawyer offered me his hand. "Good to see you, Mrs. McClure. Fiona told me about your experience last night."
I did my best to cover my reaction. Something was definitely up here. He offered me his hand, and I shook, once again noticing the ankh ring.
"You lied to me about this ring, didn't you?"
Stoddard frowned.
"This symbol has something to do with your affiliation with the Rhode Island Paranormal Society, doesn't it?"
"Yes," Stoddard admitted. "When the society was founded by my great-grandfather and others, they adopted the ankh as their talisman. For them, the symbol represented the gift of life, both on the physical plane and eternally, in the realm of the spirit. It's too hard to explain to unbelievers, so we don't even try."
"And Miss Tuttle is also a member of your group?"
Stoddard lowered his voice. "She came to our Newport headquarters several years ago, a troubled spirit seeking a way to cope with her burgeoning psychic gifts. I have been guiding her way ever since."
"I was under the impression Miss Tuttle was your employee."
"Ophelia is much more than that," he said. "She's the most gifted medium I've ever known."
I raised an eyebrow. Now I knew where a reserved and mannered lawyer like Mr. Stoddard crossed paths with a young woman as dark and edgy as Miss Tuttle. Apparently it was somewhere on the astral plane.
"You said the society is headquartered in Newport? Didn't you have an office there, Mr. Stoddard?"
"And I will again, once the building our group has purchased is refurbished. My Millstone office is only temporary."
"Inconvenient for your Newport clients," I noted, wondering whether to believe him.
"There are so few of them nowadays," he replied. "I've given up most of my practice to devote more time to the society. Our architects are creating a facility that is specifically designed to aid our psychic investigations. My legal offices will be on the premises."
"I see Leo Rollins is here." I gestured to the dark corner. "Is he a member?"
"Leo is working on our facility in Newport, and he's assisting us tonight with the electrical system." Stoddard frowned. "You see, electrical fields interfere with communications from the astral plane, so we banish all such devices from our psychic sessions."
It was also a neat dodge to avoid having the results of such sessions verified by recordings and video, but I kept my mouth shut. We all turned when two more guests entered the room.
"Ah. There you are, Mrs. Fromsette."
I was stunned to see the woman from Seymour's party, black mourning shawl still swaddled around her narrow shoulders. Her daughter, April Briggs, was here with her— which was what stunned Seymour. He suddenly found himself caught between two eligible women who both obviously liked him.
"Er, hello, April," he said, shifting uncomfortably. Rachel had been reading his palm. His hand was still cradled in hers and it didn't appear she was letting it go anytime soon.
April's face flashed with obvious jealousy. She quickly masked it with a tight smile. "Good to see you again, Seymour. I didn't know you were interested in... all of this psychic stuff."
From the way April was glaring at Rachel, I didn't get the impression she'd actually meant "psychic stuff."
"Well, I guess I could say the same about you," Seymour replied.
April rolled her eyes. "It all seems silly to me. No offense, but I'm not here to commune with the spirit world. I'm here to support my mother."
"Perhaps we'll change your mind," Stoddard said, "for tonight we're going to attempt to contact the spirit of Mr. Arthur Fromsette—" He glanced at Seymour. "And if we can, we'll also seek an answer to your vexing mystery, see if we can't get in touch with the spirit of Miss Todd."
Mrs. Fromsette blinked back tears. "I know my Arthur is gone, but I hope to learn what really happened to him. I feel very hopeful about tonight because Miss Delve comes highly recommended."
I tensed, my mind racing. Stoddard and his group operated out of Newport, a place with old family histories as well as old money. Could this be a brand-new version of what Gideon Wexler was most likely doing on Long Island back in the 1940s: bilking wealthy, gullible people o
ut of their fortunes—only this time, using real spirits instead of fake scares?
Miss Tuttle strolled past me, a smirk on her pale face. "It's time to start."
I moved to sit down at the big table. Instead, Mr. Stoddard told me to stand back. Ophelia and Leo Rollins then moved the table out of the way. They placed the chairs in a tight circle. Ophelia set that single burning candle in the center of the darkened dining room.
"Please be seated, everyone," Stoddard said. "Take any chair."
Rachel Delve sat down beside Stoddard, feet together, hands folded in her lap. Seymour tried to grab the seat beside her, but April was faster and snagged it.
"Sit here, Seymour," she said, patting the empty seat on her opposite side. I saw a flash of relief on Seymour's face when April's mother took that chair instead. I grabbed the spot beside Mrs. Fromsette, and Seymour sat beside me. The circle was uncomfortably tight. I had to be careful not to knock over the candle.
When everyone else was seated, Miss Tuttle sank into the empty chair beside Emory Stoddard. To my surprise, Leo did not join the circle. Instead, he closed the heavy draperies, covering the wall of windows. The ambient light was completely cut off. As Leo melted back into the shadows, the only illumination was the candle inside the circle.
"Let us begin," Stoddard said, barely above a whisper. "Everyone, please gaze into the flame. Imagine that it is the glow of existence, burning bright in the void of the universe. That's it... Keep watching the flame ... Keep watching..."
He droned on for a few minutes, until I began to suspect Stoddard was trying to hypnotize us—so, rather than concentrate on the flame, I glanced at the other members of the circle. Most everyone was following Stoddard's cues. Everyone but April Briggs. Instead of watching the flickering flame, her eyes were closed tight, her full lips pinched into a tense frown. Finally, Stoddard ceased to prompt us, and addressed Miss Delve directly.
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 23
