The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  As she left, he followed her journey up the stairs. She was now showing self-consciousness about her apparel, clutching the back of her nightdress, making sure it extended below her round derriere. He smiled, watching her go, bemused, and somewhat seduced. Probably the stunning way they had met. He hadn’t felt such a fascination in...he couldn’t remember when.

  His attention was drawn to the framed paintings and old photographs that lined the stairway wall. They included a painting of a distinguished man in a frock coat with long hair tied at the nape of his neck, a lovely woman in an antebellum dress, and a soldier in a Confederate Calvary officer’s attire—a real photograph from the day, he thought. There were four more framed images, all photographs, their attire indicating they had lived and perhaps died in the house in later decades, from the later 1800s up into the 2000s.

  The house itself was charming, immaculate—without being so pristine that guests, even children, couldn’t be comfortable. Period furniture, tastefully restored, graced both the front parlor and the back parlor. Setting his case down and looking out to the screened porch, he saw the extent of the courtyard beyond, the outbuildings and a depth of yard behind it that was unusual, especially in the historic district. It was an exceptional piece of property, he thought. Possibly as nice as it was because it had stayed in the same family for years—the only exception being the years following the Civil War, after which—he’d learned through the massive file Adam Harrison had given him—Josiah McLane had petitioned for the property, and it had been returned to him during the waning years of Reconstruction. Even the current owner, Kristi Stewart, was a descendent, though her branch of the family tree was a bit extended. But other family had long since left the area; Miss Stewart had distant cousins in both California and New York.

  An older man came down the stairs; he was tall and lean with a time-wrinkled face, a head of snow-white hair and a quick smile.

  “Mr. Wicker!” he greeted. “Welcome, I’m Jonah Whitney. I was told you’d be early, but...well, you’re really early! Welcome, welcome indeed! Did Genie let you in?”

  Dallas stepped forward, offering his hand to the man. “No, sir. I met the owner. She was...apparently stepping out for a breath of air when I arrived.”

  “Ah, yes, well, Kristi does like to rise early. She helps out in the kitchen. We’re renowned for our breakfasts here. Bed-and-breakfast, you know. We try to keep the beds comfortable and our breakfast excellent. Coffee? The pot is automatic—already brewed for those who come in to get the rest of world going.”

  “Coffee would be excellent,” Dallas said.

  Jonah Whitney beamed. “Come along then, and see the kitchen.”

  They went through an arched doorway to a large kitchen, complete with massive, state-of-the-art appliances and a large butcher-block workstation. The coffee brewed on a tile counter; the window above the sink overlooked the yard and a gray brick pathway that curved and headed into the back, skirting around the courtyard and haphazard oaks that dripped hauntingly with Spanish moss.

  “Beautiful place,” Dallas murmured.

  “It is.” Jonah poured coffee and handed a cup to Dallas. “Cream, sugar?”

  “Black is fine,” Dallas assured him.

  “I love the house. Old Jedidiah—he just passed a few months back—and I went way back.” He grimaced. “We’re reenactors. Men playing at silly war games, but... I always say it’s a good thing, too. We taught the past, about the inventions that led up to many tools and conveniences we have today—and the bad things about the past, too. We both did Revolutionary War and Civil War reenactments. Jedidiah was a young commissioned officer during World War II. He was a big proponent of remembering history—lest it ever be forgotten. He was a fighter in the Civil Rights movement—just a great man.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, Jedidiah had a great run at life. He hated it when we had to move him to assisted living, but his last days were comfortable. And he had Kristi with him so much of the time. He loved her—she listened to his stories from the time she could crawl up on his lap, and enhanced his values. She’s great with history and tells the truth of it—and what is assumed, and what might be true and what not, be it the good, bad or the really damned ugly. Ask her anything about the city, if you’ve a mind.”

  “That’s great to know,” Dallas said.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Wicker?” Jonah asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Ghosts, sir, ghosts. The house is famous for them. Now, Kristi, she’s a believer in facts, but...this house is well-known to be haunted. We’ve a very popular local woman who will come in and do a séance for you if you like. She’s reasonable—price-wise, I mean.”

  “Do you have...current ghosts wandering in here?” Dallas asked.

  Jonah seemed confused. “Current ghosts?”

  “I understand a man died on the sidewalk, almost across the street.”

  “Sad business, that, so sad. He was a friend of Kristi’s. Not a good friend, but a friend. Well, I should say that Savannah is a friendly place, but...he worked at a gym where Kristi went now and then. Good fellow—tragic, almost unbelievable. Such a loss,” Jonah said, shaking his head.

  As they spoke, Dallas heard a key twisting in the lock. He turned and saw a small hallway, lined with hooks for outdoor clothing, leading to a door. He imagined that, once upon a time, it would have been a servants’ entrance to the house.

  A woman entered and beamed as she greeted Jonah. “Morning!” She was probably in her early forties, with gray appearing in her dark hair, cheerful brown eyes and a plump body. She saw Dallas and paused. “Well, hello.” She immediately extended her hand to him. “I’m Genie Turner.”

  “Dallas,” he told her. “Dallas Wicker. A new guest.”

  “Well, welcome, sugar!” she said, grinning, and setting down a brown bag of groceries she had carried in. She studied him unabashedly. “And are you alone, sir? Is there a wife or a pretty miss along with you?”

  “Just me,” Dallas told her, unable to stop from smiling back at her.

  She kept studying him. “California,” she said sagely. “Blond hair, tan...”

  “Genie, please, let’s be polite to our new guest,” Jonah said.

  “I am being polite,” Genie said. “I’m getting to know the man, Jonah.” She looked at Dallas again. “Surfer—that tan, that hair...those muscles!”

  “Genie!” Jonah protested again.

  Dallas laughed. “No, ma’am. I’m down from the DC area.”

  He decided not to add the fact that he’d spent his first ten years of his life just on the outskirts of the city, not more than twenty miles away.

  “My, my,” she said. “A politician?”

  There was obvious disapproval in her tone.

  He smiled. “Not a politician. Actually,” he told them, “I’m an old friend of that young man who died on the street near here.”

  “Oh!” Genie said, staring openly.

  Jonah was doing the same.

  “They just want me to verify some facts, that’s all.”

  “I see,” Genie said. She clearly didn’t see at all.

  He added, “I’m happy to be here, nonetheless. McLane House is beautiful, and there’s nothing I like as much as a chance to stay in such an incredible place.”

  “Sure,” Genie said.

  “Are you a cop?” Jonah asked.

  “No, sir. Private investigator, and I’m just down here to ease everyone’s mind. Neither of you happened to see anything, did you? He died not a half a football field from here.”

  “We heard the sirens,” Jonah said.

  “And saw the police, the crowds, the media—the ambulance,” Genie said.

  “Of course,” Dallas agreed.

  They were all silent for a minute, and then Genie said, “Well, both of you�
��out of my kitchen. Breakfast is a morning meal, you know, and I need to be getting to it. Sydney will be along any second now, Mr. Wicker, and if you’ll just give her a chance to run up and make sure that your room is all spick-and-span, we’ll get you in there early. For now...”

  “I’d love to take a walk out back—in that glorious courtyard,” Dallas said.

  “Please! There are monuments behind the old stable building,” Jonah told him. He winked. “To our ghosts! Enjoy.”

  “Breakfast is from 7:30 a.m. until 9:00 a.m.,” Genie said. “But we’ll have your room all set within thirty, so...”

  “I can go out that door and down the path?” Dallas asked.

  “Yes, sir, you can,” Jonah said.

  “Thank you.”

  Dallas went out and down the steps that led to the path, fully aware that the two he left behind immediately began to speculate on his purpose in the city—and just what he thought he could find about such a tragic, and senseless, accidental death.

  * * *

  Only total humiliation had allowed Kristi to open the door to her room—and then close it again behind her.

  She looked carefully about, even under the bed.

  There was no one—in the flesh, or not.

  She forced herself into the fastest shower known to man, and dressed so quickly she had to check in the mirror to make sure she was fully clothed.

  She gave her hair a few swipes with her brush and promised herself to do better later.

  Before leaving, she paused to look around again.

  Had she been dreaming?

  It had been so real.

  And then, running straight into a man on the porch. A tall, blond, striking, muscle-bound stranger. Beyond attractive, with a smile that could stop her heart, and a way about him...

  He was a guest. And she had literally thrown herself into his arms.

  Her face reddened with the thought.

  He must think that she was an idiot...or worse!

  With a shake of her head, she rued the fact that he hadn’t just been a delivery man—rather than someone staying here, someone she’d have to see again.

  She took a deep breath and looked around the room again. It was empty. No images of anyone or anything...

  No sense of anything other than being alone.

  She’d been up so early, and now she was running late. It wasn’t that Genie and Sydney, Genie’s energetic young helper, couldn’t manage without her—they could. It was just that it was her place, and she liked helping and even being the house’s hostess.

  She hurried out into the hallway and this time, almost crashed into Sydney. She was just twenty-one, majoring in hospitality at the university every other semester. Eventually, she wanted to manage her own house, and she was certain that her experience at McLane House was going to prove to be important.

  “Sorry!” Kristi said.

  Sydney was bearing a can of room freshener and a little vase of fresh flowers.

  “Morning—our new guy is in seven, and it was clean, but you know Genie. Have to check, fresh sheets, no dust whatsoever and...”

  “Right, right,” Kristi said. “Seven...the only room left.”

  The door was just feet from her own. She winced inwardly, and hoped he wouldn’t be horrified that he was so close to the crazy owner of the house.

  “He’s something, huh?” Sydney said, her brown eyes wide. “Carl Brentwood is cool—I mean, he’s super famous and still so nice. So cute! But this guy...he’s like...wow.”

  “Yeah, wow,” Kristi murmured.

  “A private investigator.”

  “What?”

  “Like Veronica Mars,” Sydney said.

  “I...what?”

  “Mr. Blond Hunk. He’s a private investigator,” Sydney told her. “He’s here because he’s some kind of a friend of the family to...”

  She paused for a minute, staring unhappily at Kristi.

  “To who?”

  “To your friend—Lachlan Plant,” Sydney said.

  Kristi frowned, experiencing the little ache she always felt when Lachlan was mentioned. He’d been such a great guy—not that she’d known him that well, and not that she’d been great about showing up at the gym when she really needed more workout time.

  Lachlan had been new to the city; so enthusiastic about making a life for himself there. And he’d died in the most ridiculous manner.

  She still felt his loss, the disbelief and sadness that so many of his new friends had felt. He had no family; he’d come from Chicago after a stint in the military—he’d fallen in love with Savannah, and taken a job at the gym.

  He’d been just settling in, and she’d been busy with Jedidiah. They had teased and flirted a few times.

  His death was such a stupid accident and so sad.

  She shook her head. “Investigating? What can he be investigating? Lachlan fell. Apparently, he hit his head wrong and his brain swelled and...”

  “I’m sorry, Kristi, I’m so sorry. I’m just telling you what Genie told me. He—I mean, this Dallas guy—he seems really nice. I met him when I was coming in. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m just—surprised. I mean, the police were there, there was an autopsy, and... I don’t know what there is to investigate.”

  “He’s just being a friend, I think,” Sydney said, hoping to improve her words or maybe even their guest himself in Kristi’s mind.

  “Sure,” Kristi said softly. “Well, we now have a full house. I’ll run down and help Genie.”

  She left Sydney and hurried down the stairs.

  Carl Brentwood, Murray Meyer and Claire Danson were in the back parlor, sipping coffee and going over papers with one another. Carl and his retinue seemed to be an odd crew to Kristi, but he’d explained what the two did for him when they had all checked in.

  Murray Meyer booked Carl’s work for him, and advised him on whether a role was a good one to take—or possibly harmful to his career. Claire, on the other hand, managed his time—helping him accept the right public engagements, make all the right social media moves and keep his life and career in good shape. They all seemed to be friends, though Carl was reliant on the good advice of the other two.

  Murray had been at his job forever—at the moment, he had told Kristi, he was keeping his roster of clients small and A-list. He was working only with people he liked—and he liked Carl. The young actor sincerely cared about people.

  Claire was far newer at the celebrity game; she was very pretty, in a very thin way. Her features were beautifully crafted—high, defined cheekbones, big brown eyes. But she had a tendency toward nervous energy that seemed far too high-powered—especially for a small bed-and-breakfast establishment in the heart of Savannah.

  The three of them greeted Kristi cheerfully.

  She smiled, greeting them in return.

  “Can’t thank you enough for that séance last night!” Carl said.

  “Who could have imagined how amazing it would be? I can’t believe we didn’t have a camera running last night. We’re all set for tonight, though. We’ll have papers for you later—permissions and payment for filming,” Claire said.

  “Kristi, it will be so good for the house and the city and... I promise you,” Carl said earnestly, “we’ll make it all good, and at the end, you’ll have final approval of everything.”

  He was so sincere. She smiled weakly.

  Maybe the new guest would protest. Maybe a private investigator wouldn’t appreciate being filmed, or having his stay disrupted by a film crew.

  She excused herself and went to find Genie in the kitchen, working away.

  “New guy seems cool,” Genie told her, and turned, her eyes wide and twinkling. “And wait until you see him.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Kristi said drily.


  Genie was oblivious.

  “He’s outside now, admiring the place.”

  Kristi looked out the window to the back.

  He was there, tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a casual sports coat, tailored shirt, dark jeans.

  Private investigator...

  He was in the far back, staring at the monuments.

  She didn’t know why...

  Something about seeing him there oddly warmed her—and chilled her at the same time.

  She was bizarrely afraid of the things that were now to come.

  * * *

  McLane House—beautiful, fascinating, old, historic, Dallas thought. He figured he’d heard of it at some time when he’d been young, but what he really knew stemmed from what seemed like volumes of material he’d received from Adam Harrison.

  The land’s original owner, Justin McLane, supposedly haunted the property that had been his when Georgia had been a Crown Colony, before anyone in Georgia had known that one day, they’d be living in what would become the United States of America. He’d been discovered with stolen documents during the short-lived and failed siege of Savannah in 1779—and hanged purposely on his own property, a warning to others who might secretly be aiding Revolutionary forces. It was assumed his body had been left on the grounds somewhere, but after being hanged as a spy, his body might have been dumped anywhere—possibly right into the Savannah River.

  With the war over, the property had been regained by his son, and then, come the early 1800s, the McLane house had been built.

  Now there were handsome monuments along a garden trail that led past the old stables and smokehouse. Justin McLane was depicted as a statue in his Patriot uniform, as if he was about to stride across the yard in his passion for his cause.

  There was no fine sculpture to Monty McLane—the Civil War rebel who had gunned down his father and his wife; there was a stone to him, one that declared him a casualty of the War Between the States. There were also little sculptures of deer and cherubs and praying angels, and a plaque reading, “Hearts beat loyal where they will, and our Great Maker will one day judge us all.”