by Mary Bowers
Ed was regarding him with an open mouth, and Dobbs intensified. “I mean it, Ed. They’re still worried about their father’s soul. After I talked to you last night, I called Tiffany – that’s Alan Pissarro’s daughter. She wants to hire me now, for the same thing. She wants the investigation completed and the house exorcized, in case he’s still there. We ought to go over there today. Together.”
“Can we get in? Paradise Island is gated and guarded. And isn’t her house a crime scene?”
“Jessamine died on the beach, or at least she was found there. She drowned herself. The house is fine. The cops just looked around a while and took some of her stuff, but they’re not interested in the same things we are. I gave Tiffany a heads-up and she put me on the list with the guard, so that’s all right, he’ll let me in. When I mentioned your name – she’s really glad you’re consulting with me, Ed. Of course, she knows who you are. And she’s not holding it against you that you . . . you know, turned Jessamine away.”
Ed winced. “What about a key to the house? Will Tiffany be there to let us in?”
“Actually . . . I have a key. Jessamine gave me one and I still have it. I forgot to leave it when I, um, you know, left.” Ed was staring at him, and he went on quickly. “And I know the security code, unless somebody’s changed it. No, I just talked to Tiff last night. If it had been changed, she would’ve told me.”
“I see,” Ed said, disturbed by the “Tiff” as much as the house key and the security code.
“Actually, I was staying at her house during the investigation. Hey – don’t give me that look, Ed. I live in Chattanooga. I could hardly commute, and she wanted a man in the house at night. She was scared.”
Ed nodded. “So, will you be staying at Jessamine’s house, then, investigating further?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what Tiffany has in mind. It may be necessary, I guess. Would you be willing to bring your equipment and help me? Your stuff is a lot better than mine.”
“Of course,” Ed said a little absently. Things were moving faster than he had anticipated, and in another direction entirely. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at the house and make a few readings. And, looking on the bright side, it would mean Dobbs had a place to stay other than Ed’s house.
The irate waitress smacked Ed’s bill down on the table and pivoted smartly back to the front counter.
Ed looked at the plastic-looking remains of his omelet.
He caved.
“Look, let’s get out of here and go back to my office so I can pick up the equipment we’ll need. While we’re there, I can show you the video of my interview with Jessamine. You can tell me if her approach to you was different from what you see in the recording. Once I turned her down, she may have worked up her story a bit before coming to you. Then we can go see her house and I’ll give you my assessment. But that’s all,” he emphasized. “This is your gig, Dobbs.”
Dobbs nearly cried. Speechless, he couldn’t even say thank you.
* * * * *
After viewing the video, Dobbs sat back, nodding wisely.
“Is that how she seemed when you first interviewed her?” Ed asked.
“Actually, our first interview was over the phone, and no, what you suspected was right: she had a more elaborate story for me, and she had specific instances all lined up and ready. For example, she reported seeing his image on reflective surfaces for a split-second – standing behind her in the bathroom mirror, walking behind her on a city street when she glanced into store windows – you know the kind of thing. Also smelling his aftershave and hearing his voice, but I tend to rely less on aural or aromatic encounters than ocular ones. Actually, I’m working on my own Existential Interface Scale, sort of like the one for alien encounters. Aural and aromatic encounters rate the second tier, as II-B-a and II-B-b, respectively. Now the first tier – ”
“I heard nothing about reflected images or smells,” Ed said quickly (very quickly). “And you feel her affect was different with you?”
“Oh, definitely. On your video, she was definitely groping. No doubt about it.”
Ed was uneasy with such confidence. He never felt confident about anything early in an investigation. But the important thing was that Dobbs’s account reaffirmed his refusal to accept Jessamine Pissarro’s case, which should have made him feel better. Somehow, it didn’t.
“And when you finally met her in person? Was it on neutral ground, like the coffee shop?”
“No,” Dobbs said, a little hang-dog. “She had me come to her house. Was that a mistake?”
“Not at all, not at all. Many times, the home is the scene of the haunting. Seeing a new client in that setting is a good idea.”
Dobbs was relieved. “I can see now why you didn’t take her on as a client, though. She’s not believable. She was different when I met her. Hey, what’s that?”
The younger man’s attention had wandered, and he was looking avidly at a large contraption sitting on the floor behind Ed’s desk.
“Oh, that? I call it the Sensitainer. It’s a containment device.”
“A ghost containment device?” Dobbs asked a little wildly. “Is anybody in there?”
“Not at present. Please, er, Dobbs. You stated in Karma Café that you definitely felt the haunting was real. Have you now changed your mind?”
The young man frowned attractively. “No. No, Ed, I haven’t, and I’ll tell you why. It’s mostly the way the family was acting. They had all had encounters. They couldn’t all be lying.”
The older, wiser man let that slide. “Even the ex-wife?”
“Oh, no, not her. I don’t know about her, but the stepchildren, Tiffany and Kent, they both said they saw the ghost. I didn’t get a chance to ask Tiff’s boyfriend, Britt Bascombe, but he wouldn’t have made a good witness anyway.”
“Ah, she has a boyfriend?”
“A real stiff. Not her type at all, I would’ve said.”
From being relieved, Ed began to worry again. Dobbs was so very attractive.
“And Alan Pissarro’s business partner, Roy Angers,” Dobbs went on. “He lives right next door to Jessamine’s house. He says he’s seen the ghost, too. Wanted to have a séance. Says he’s got questions for Alan.”
Ed nodded, getting his thoughts arranged. “So despite the fact that the stepchildren resented Jessamine, they united with her in trying to lay their father’s spirit to rest, and in the course of your investigation, you became familiar with them all?”
“Yeah. Tiff is easier to get along with than Kent. He’s still kind of resentful, but now that Jessamine is dead – ”
“Does this affect their inheritance at all?” Ed said suddenly.
“Nope. The divorce settlement spelled it all out in black and white, and Jessamine signed a pre-nup. She inherited the house and got a pretty good income, but now that all reverts to the kids, too. There was a time limit or something, and Jessamine and Alan had only been married for 13 months, nowhere near long enough.”
Ed stared at Dobbs, wondering if he understood the implications of what he’d just said. Golden-eyed and eager, Dobbs stared back innocently.
“And the stepchildren are prepared to be cooperative now?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dobbs said, bobbing his head up and down. “They’re all in. They’re excited you’re on board, by the way. At least Tiffany is.”
“I see.”
“I think they feel guilty or something,” Dobbs said musingly. “They’re worried about their father. They really rejected him when he divorced their mother. It got ugly. Anyway, you’ll get the whole story when you meet Tiff. I called her while I was following you here and told her we were going to Jessie’s house, and she said she’d meet us there. She’s a sweetie. You’re going to like her.”
“I’m sure I am,” Ed said woodenly, gazing across his desk at the naïve youngster.
“It’s great we’re going to be working together,” Dobbs said in a burst of excitement. He suddenly looked like a t
eenager. “You know, with our different approaches and all, we’re going to make a strong team. Kind of like you and Teddy Force, only I think I’m a more serious investigator than he is. You’ll see. I’m going to prove myself to you.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Chapter 8
They left Ed’s house soon after that, and Ed’s mind was so full of a number of things that when he heard a woman’s voice coming out of nowhere, he froze to the spot. He quickly located the source of the honeyed voice: Trixie Dare was just standing up from her flower garden with a spade in her hand.
“Aren’t you that famous investigator?” she had said, and with a friendly but determined look about her, she began to move toward them.
Ed had never seen her digging at her flowers with a spade, and he stood firm, glaring at her. She ignored him and extended her hand to The Marvelous Dobbs. “I saw you on TV one time. My, you’re even more handsome in person. Your name is Dobbs, right?”
“Dobbs, this is my neighbor, Trixie Dare. Good-bye Trixie, we’re leaving now.”
“Goodness, where’s a piece of paper when you need it?” Trixie said, fluttering at Dobbs and ignoring Ed. “I’d just love to have your autograph.”
Dobbs said something about always obliging ladies and whipped out a business card, signing the back of it. “Trixie, is it?” he said, writing. “What a cute name.”
Ed took the card from Dobbs’s hand, shoved it at Trixie and ordered his new assistant to get in the car.
“Shouldn’t we take the Sensitainer with us?” Dobbs asked. “Just in case?”
“Get in the car,” Ed repeated firmly. He got in on the passenger side of Dobbs’s car but left the door open, keeping a wary eye on Trixie, as if she might try to jump into the backseat.
“Are you going to catch a ghost?” Trixie asked, all agog. “That poor dear lady, Jessamine?”
Dobbs became smoothly professional and rested his hand on the fender of his car while Ed watched tensely. “We’re still in the preliminary stages of the investigation, Trixie. I don’t think my partner and I expect anything to happen today, but you never know. It’s best to be prepared.” He turned back to Ed, wanting to press the point, but decided not to when he saw the look in Ed’s eye. Instead, he said, “Nice meeting you, Trixie,” and reached for the driver’s side door handle.
“Pleasure’s all mine, darlin’. Let me know if I can help in any way. I DVR’d all the local news reports about the cases – both of them – him and her. They go into a lot more detail than the national ones did. You come on over and look at them any time you like. You too, Eddie.”
“Good-bye, Trixie,” Ed said again, slamming the passenger door and glaring at Dobbs, who finally got into the car.
“She seems nice,” Dobbs said as he backed out of Ed’s driveway. Trixie was waving the spade at them, and only Dobbs waved back.
* * * * *
Ed had never been inside the castle walls of brick and landscaping that hid Paradise Island from the common horde. As a rule, big houses didn’t impress him, but since the development was only visible to residents, sightseeing helicopters and spy satellites, he was mildly curious.
Occupying a small barrier island, connected to the rest of the world by bridges, the enclave had lazy stretches of ocean beach on one side and impressive yachts bobbing at riverside docks on the other. The aerial shot Ed had seen of it made the houses look tightly-packed, but he was sure his impressions would be different as he traveled along its streets on the ground.
The guard recognized Dobbs in a chummy way, and Ed wondered again how much time he’d spent knocking around Jessamine’s neighborhood.
Ed’s first impression of the homes was one of massiveness. He wondered idly how many square feet per person these people required. No doubt they had intercom systems so they could communicate with one another as they wandered the echoing halls.
His second impression was that with all that wealth, it was still a cookie-cutter development. If you’re going to spend six or seven million dollars on a beach house, wouldn’t you want it to be unique? The houses of Paradise Island had a sameness that Ed found disappointing. They were crowded together on tight lots with only token yards, and they all seemed to be vaguely Mediterranean, built to look as if they were made of stone, with fat-picketed balustrades and very similar elevations: central entry doors with symmetrical side windows and upper balconies. Daylight seemed to flood the houses like yellow clouds behind sparkling windows. It made the interiors look alive and inviting on this clear October day, but with slight variations, they all looked alike.
Though they were only days away from Halloween, there were minimal decorations in the neighborhood. There were pumpkins on some doorsteps, but they hadn’t been carved into jack-o-lanterns, and here and there were bales of hay with autumn arrangements tastefully done, but in this neighborhood, witches didn’t fly into trees and skeletons didn’t hang from the carriage lamps.
Jessamine Pissarro’s house was in a row at the back, on the riverfront. These and the beachfront ones were just slightly more massive and smug than the mid-packers in between. As they stood at the front door, Ed was surprised at how far he could see into the house; it was brightly sunlit and full of wide-open spaces.
Dobbs unlocked and opened the front door and the house began to shriek at them.
“I got it,” Dobbs said over the alarm. He flipped a panel open, tapped in a numerical code and the noise stopped abruptly.
Ed stepped onto black-and-white marble tiles and paused in the entry, gazing at a large, round mahogany table with an enormous floral arrangement dying in an urn. It felt more like a hotel lobby than the entryway of a home. Two stories above them was a painted dome, and beside them, stairs wide enough for an elephant stampede wound up the walls to the right.
“I’d better get rid of those,” Dobbs said, addressing the dead flowers that seemed to tower over his head. “Jessie loved fresh flowers,” he added in a quieter voice.
“Better get a ladder,” Ed muttered, and he stepped around the mahogany table and moved down a hallway into the back of the house.
“Go ahead and spread out your stuff on the counter in the kitchen. Come on, I’ll show you. I’ve got to go in there to get a garbage bag for the flowers. It’s just up here on the right.”
Ed wandered into the cavern and looked around. Beyond the entry hall and front sitting rooms, it was an open floorplan, with a conversation pit on the left, the kitchen on the right and a fairly large bar tucked in beside the kitchen. Facing them was a windowed wall overlooking a large lanai and the river, with a small breakfast nook just past the kitchen.
“They were serious about their drinking, weren’t they?” Ed asked, looking at the full-service bar, complete with a bartender’s counter, sink, and three walls lined with wine racks behind the counter.
“Oh, that’s for when they had parties and they hired a bartender,” Dobbs said absently. “Darn. We’re out of garbage bags in here. I’ll have to go upstairs; there might be some in the other kitchen. I won’t be a minute.”
Ed turned around. “How many kitchens are there?”
“Two. No, two and a half. I forgot the half-kitchen in the master suite.”
“Why?”
“I never spent much time in the master suite,” Dobbs said primly.
“No, why more than one kitchen?”
“Oh. Well, one for the hostess and one for the caterers, I guess. Or a whaddaya call it – a mother-in-law apartment. Heck, I don’t know. My one and only kitchen back home is smaller than the powder rooms here.” He dodged into a hidden staircase behind the kitchen and Ed heard him going up two steps at a time. “You know what,” he said when he came back with a roll of black garbage bags, “let’s set up on the lanai; it’s a nice day. I’m just going to go out back and dump these. I hope I don’t hear from the Homeowner’s Association about it,” he added with a grin. “Unauthorized flower dumping.”
He opened the French door to the lana
i and the house gave three little beeps, as if startled at the breach. “Door alarm,” Dobbs said when Ed looked around at the sound. “Come on.”
The lanai was a modern version of a Victorian conservatory, with a screen enclosure rather than greenhouse glass. Set gracefully within the curve of a swimming pool was a giant, three-tiered fountain, and scattered around them were wrought iron furniture and way too many tropical plants. Redbrick pavers accented the many shades of green, lime and yellow growing out of urns, pots and cut-outs. A hot tub burbled in a corner of the pool, delicately shaded by a trio of pygmy date palms. In the turquoise depths of the pool, water moved and glistened as the filtration system kept the water crystalline. Beyond the screen enclosure was a view of the river. There was a dock, but no yacht.
As he rotated his head, observing, Ed stopped abruptly, rigid, and seemed to pull himself in. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the presence of a life force surrounding him. He tried to hit back with reason, his personal weapon of choice, but the throb of life kept pressing at him, like a curious animal.
He understood intellectually that the illusion came from the sound of moving water, the playful splashing of the fountain, the breath of steam rising from the hot tub, the steadily moving river. Playful. Breath. Moving. Human things. Living things. Inside the house, the HVAC system cooled or heated, constantly testing for temperature variations. Like the synapses of a nervous system, the security system watched with dead, electronic eyes that stared down from high corners, waiting for any movement.
It was a house. It wasn’t alive. It was a thing. Even if a lost soul wandered within it, trapped, that wasn’t the feeling Ed was having now. He was feeling the pulse of a thing that had never been alive, and the sensation unnerved him.
The roly-poly clown, he reminded himself. Smack it. Prove there’s nothing there. Even as a toddler, Ed had been able to master illusions like these, but he found to his own amazement that this time it wasn’t working.
He swiveled his gaze toward his new protégé, who was coming back into the lanai enclosure, dusting his hands. Together, they walked across the pavers to a large, oval wrought-iron table and Ed began to unload his satchel. Dobbs hovered, intensely interested in everything Ed was taking out of the bag. He didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about Ed; he clearly didn’t notice anything unusual about their surroundings.
