But first, he wanted to get back to McLane House.
And Kristi.
* * *
“This is wonderful, Kristi. Thank you so much!”
Kristi smiled broadly at Carl Brentwood. She was amazed what her night with Dallas had done for her mood... Yes, her mind strayed now and again to his hands, the way they felt upon her flesh...
And today she felt she was looking at the world with new strength and optimism.
“I’m happy to do this,” she assured Carl.
“I’m going to get the whole interview with you right in front of the monument, between the cherubs in the ground there,” Matthew Guyer told her. He had his camera set on a tripod in the back of the courtyard. “I’m thinking you two just talk. Conversational. Tell Carl what you think he needs to know about McLane House. And don’t worry about mistakes, do-overs or hesitations. I’m an excellent editor.”
“Okay. Tell me when you’re ready.”
Matthew did a countdown and cued her. “We’re rolling. Whenever you’re ready.”
Kristi began, “Savannah was captured by the British in early 1778. But all the powers that be knew it was important to hold the South, and especially the port of Savannah. Major General Benjamin Lincoln had just been appointed the Southern commander of the Continental Army. He needed people, first, and he needed more, and he asked for help from the French—and the Battle of Savannah was planned. During the war, Washington employed all manner of spies—and Justin McLane was one of those spies. While Lincoln planned his assault, Justin made his way into the city, pretending to be a merchant sympathetic to the loyalist cause. He gathered information to be brought to the troops outside the city—Savannah was surrounded by marshes, making it easier for men like Justin to navigate, and not so easy for those who did not know the terrain. Justin was able to come and go several times, and was aware of the plans being made in 1779. Meanwhile, sadly, mistakes were being made. General Casimir Pulaski came down with his Polish troops, and Admiral d’Estaing was enlisted to bring in his French naval fleet. Things might have gone well, but there was too much hesitation on the part of the Patriot forces, one section waiting for another when, if they’d attacked swiftly, they might have prevailed.”
“That’s history, isn’t it?” Carl said. “We can always see clearly with hindsight.”
“That’s the way it is,” Kristi agreed.
“Go on, please—what happened?”
“The Siege and Battle of Savannah turned into one of the bloodiest events of the revolution, and, in the end, many heroes were killed, and the British did not leave Savannah until 1782. The renowned Pulaski was killed in the engagement, as well as hero Lieutenant Justin—my ancestor. On his last trip out of the city, he was captured while leaving a tavern. Furious, his captors found out he was a loyal Patriot, and he owned property in the city. Legend has it he was dragged here on a cart, and hanged from one of the old oaks on the property. Luckily, his wife and son were in Charleston, and they survived, and when the war was over, this property came back to the McLane family. But Justin’s body was never found, and it’s presumed he was buried here in an unmarked grave. And, thus, you see, we have a lovely monument erected to him, honoring him, no matter where he may lie.”
“And...cut! Perfect!” Matthew Guyer cried. “Just what we wanted—short and sweet and beautifully to the point. And the light was perfect. Oh, did you sign the waiver Claire had for you?”
“Yes, I signed a waiver,” Kristi assured him.
Carl walked over to review the footage, and Kristi asked if they were finished with her.
They effusively thanked her again, and she headed into the house through the side doorway.
Genie and Sydney were busy setting out trays—food wouldn’t go on them for a long time, but they were ready to roll things out when the time came.
“Tell me, isn’t this going to be a little bit weird? Shelley is a psychic, right? But we’re having our little tea and cocktail party before the séance—doesn’t that mean she’ll talk to people and figure them all out before we get to the séance?”
“Yes, I’m sure she plans on that,” Kristi said, opening the refrigerator door and finding a bottle of water.
“Does it matter?” Sydney asked, hugging her arms to her chest rapturously. “We’re going to be in a video with Carl Brentwood. Oh, Kristi, you’d see it, if you weren’t so enamored of Mr. Wicker. Okay, okay, I get that, too, he’s tall, blond and übermasculine! But hey—I’m younger. And Carl Brentwood is so hot!”
“Still, you two have to keep an eye on Shelley for me, huh?”
“We’ll be there, the three of us,” Genie assured her.
Kristi smiled and started into the back parlor. She hesitated; the room was empty. Walking to the back windows, she looked out.
Back out by the monuments, Carl and Matthew were chatting with Granger and Janet Knox’s pretty young teen daughter, Lacey. Lacey was going to be interviewed about her stay at McLane House.
Shelley was also out in the yard, deep in conversation with Claire Danson. Carl’s agent, Murray Meyer, went hurrying over to them; he seemed concerned.
The women glanced at one another as he approached, seeming cautious. Then they beamed broadly at him, laughing at something, and the moment was gone.
And, yet, walking through the house, and then back to the kitchen, Kristi couldn’t help but wonder if Shelley had been planning something with Claire, something very sensational for the night to come.
8
Coming around the corner from Johnson Square and into the McLane house yard, Dallas saw Jonah, carefully pruning one of the magnolias in the front yard.
“Hey, there, son, heading back into the house?” Jonah called to him. And, as Dallas neared him, he added, “Be afraid. Be very afraid!”
Dallas stopped by the tree and Jonah. “Why’s that?” he asked.
Jonah shook his head. “They’ve got ghosts coming out of the woodwork—and the séance hasn’t even started yet,” he said.
“Well, I guess Carl Brentwood will make the house famous,” Dallas said.
Jonah scrunched his face as he looked up at his work. “The house is famous enough, the way I see it. Hell, whatever happened here...well, it was in the past, and a man was just doing what a man had to do, one way or the other.” He shook his head.
“As far as bed-and-breakfast establishments go, yours is pretty small—seven rentable rooms. With this exposure, you know you’ll get the attention you need to stay booked all the time,” Dallas offered.
“She’s a flimflam artist,” Jonah said.
“You mean Shelley?” Dallas asked.
Jonah nodded. “She’ll say whatever those people want to hear. You mark my words—she’ll say anything at all.”
“Well, Kristi will be at the séance—she’ll watch what’s going on.”
“She will. That Kristi, she’s a strong one. Stronger than she lets on.” He grinned suddenly. “But then, you know that.”
Dallas studied Jonah. The man obviously knew something was going on between Dallas and Kristi. He almost felt as if he needed to ask Jonah’s permission to see Kristi, as if they had slipped back a hundred years and he needed someone’s blessing.
“And thank the Good Lord!” Jonah said. “That girl, she gave up just about everything to make sure Jedidiah was okay, that he got out, that he did things. She looked after old man Murphy, too. She needs some fun, she needs someone...well, I guess you’ll move on soon enough, but it’s a fine thing to see her spending some time with you.”
Dallas lowered his eyes for a moment, and then raised them to Jonah. “Jonah, I know she appreciates you—everything you do. Thanks to you, Genie and Sydney, she does have the help here to keep her being able to...have a life.”
“She’s a beautiful girl—and a fine one. Don’t you forget that,” Jonah said.
“I won’t,” Dallas said. He offered Jonah a smile. As he looked up, he saw the mannequin of Monty McLane, standing in the central second-floor window. “Guess I’ll go on in and see what’s going on. What time is the séance?” he asked.
Jonah laughed. “Not until darkness falls, of course. You and me—we’re going to watch out for all those candles they’ll have burning. Shelley is bringing in her crystal ball, and they’re getting the table all set up. You ask me? That Carl Brentwood should be filming something at the Sorrel-Weed House. It’s a museum—and it’s got a legend, too. Mathilda Sorrel was supposed to have suffered fits of depression and then threw herself off the balcony to the courtyard. But there’s also the story that Francis Sorrel was seducing a beautiful young slave. Those would be some interesting ghosts, right?”
“Right,” Dallas agreed. He waved to Jonah and went up to the house. He didn’t see Kristi in the parlor; he did run right into Shelley, Carl and the videographer, Matthew Guyer. Guyer introduced him to another three men: one who would be on the second camera after setting up some inconspicuous extra lighting around the room, and two soundmen.
“Will you be here?” Carl asked him.
“Oh, wouldn’t miss it,” Dallas said.
“Perfect—if you don’t mind, we’ll have you stand here—next to the mantelpiece. The main light switch is there—if anything goes terribly wrong or someone winds up too scared, we’ll have you hit the lights right away,” Carl said.
“Sure,” he told Carl. “I’ll be ready.” And then he fled up the stairs. He tapped on Kristi’s door, but she wasn’t in her room. He started for his own room; he needed to call in to Krewe headquarters and report in—and find out if they had any new information for him.
But instead he walked down the hall, hesitated and then pushed open the door to the little room that had been set up something like an employee lounge—the little room that held the mannequin of Monty McLane.
He closed the door—he was looking at the back of the mannequin. But as he watched, it seemed that the mannequin turned, and approached. It was the ghost of Monty McLane.
“I like to invade my likeness at times—and watch the streets below. Sometimes I move a little and there’s someone on the hearse tour or a walking tour who has a bit of a sense of something, and they see me—I give them a thrill,” Monty told him.
“I’m sure the ghost tour operators are appreciative,” Dallas said.
Monty shrugged and sat haphazardly down on the employee sofa, dangling a leg over the far-right arm of it.
“They’re going to make a mockery of me tonight!” he said softly.
“Kristi won’t allow it.”
“And what shall she say? That her dead great-great whatever assured her he didn’t kill his wife, that he loved Trinity with all his heart? They’ll all just say, well, of course, that’s the way you want to see it.” The ghost let out a sound like a sigh. “There is no way to prove the truth—it all died all those years ago in 1864.”
“Monty,” Dallas asked, “who else is here? Am I missing anyone?”
Monty shook his head. “Justin is here...and I am here.”
“You’re sure?” Dallas asked.
“I have spent time eternal praying my Trinity was with us as well, that I could see her again, tell her how sorry I am...she died because of me.” He looked sadly at Dallas. “Trust me...if she was here... I would have found her by now.”
“Dallas?”
Kristi was calling him.
“Excuse me,” he told the ghost of Monty McLane, and he stepped back out in the hallway.
“I heard you were back,” she said. “I thought you might want to come with me...over to Ian’s house. I just did a little bit about Justin McLane in the back. I’m getting aggravated, staying around here while they set up. Shelley is holding court, going on and on about the way she ‘knows’ the ghosts of McLane House, and I...”
He pulled her into his arms. They were alone in the hallway.
“Kristi, you can stop all this,” he told her softly. “If it’s bothering you, if you think Shelley is going to come out with all kinds of outlandish things...”
She shook her head. “No. I’m going to sit at that table—and if I see her moving the damn thing with her knee again, I’m going to call her out!”
“All right,” he told her. “I’ll be nearby. Watching out for...well, I’m not sure what I’ll be watching out for her. Shelley can only do so much damage,” he said, and tried to assure her. “And, if you’re worried, I’ll be right there.”
She nodded.
“So, shall we head to Ian’s house?” he asked her, letting her out of his embrace.
“Of course, yes, yes, but—did you learn anything this morning?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes, I learned that Eliza Malone did know Ian—and she might well have been on the way to see him when she disappeared.”
Kristi shook her head. “Eliza has been gone for two years—it doesn’t make any sense that Ian might have some interesting information all the way back then that cost her...well, caused what happened.”
“Let’s see what we can find,” he told her.
* * *
Kristi looked at the title of the book she was reading. It was not an imaginative title, but she noted the copyright on the book was 1908, and it had been written by a man who had been a Confederate soldier during the conflict. She’d known and read bits and pieces of several of Ian Murphy’s books on the Civil War, and each time she did, she marveled that he had such an extensive library of collector’s quality books.
This one had been written by a young enlistee named Anthony Jenkins who had joined the army at the tender age of eighteen, right after Georgia had become one of the first Southern slave states to form the Confederacy in 1861.
His parents had worked for a newspaper; he’d never owned a slave. In his preface, he talked about looking back over the years—while the years of Reconstruction had been brutal on many, he was glad the war had ended with the Union intact. The Great Conflict had brought together one of the greatest nations on earth. He was not trying to whitewash the South, just set the record straight. Many men in the Confederate government and army had been abolitionists—their loyalty to their native states had caused their involvement in what had been proved to be the wrong side of the war.
“Anything?” Dallas asked her.
She glanced up quickly, amazed to realize the tome she was reading had drawn her attention to the point where she’d lost herself.
And, she’d been drawn from the point as well that Ian’s house now somehow disturbed her; it seemed at all times it was enshrouded in a strange mist, something that weighed heavy on the house, or on her.
Imagination... She expected a ghost to jump out of the woodwork at any minute.
Or worse...a killer.
Besides the fact that in a matter of days, she had become way too enamored of Dallas Wicker, she was very grateful he was there.
He carried a big gun.
“Regretfully, I’ve become totally engrossed by this man’s writing—and it has nothing at all to give us. Ian has such an amazing library here, Dallas. This book—it’s in excellent condition and it was published in 1908 by a young Confederate who survived the fighting, returned to Savannah and wrote his own impressions of the war.”
“I hope Jamie Murphy appreciates this library,” Dallas said.
“Oh, not to worry there. Jamie is a good kid. He’d never be careless with this treasure trove.”
“Good to hear,” Dallas murmured. He lifted the book he was reading. “This one is similar. It was actually in Ian’s desk drawer, so I thought I’d read it next. It was written by a Union soldier who survived the war—he was with the troops who were billeted in what’s now the Colonial Park Cemetery. He regrets the vandalism he and his fellows practiced in the cemet
ery—moving stones around and changing dates on them. Thing is, these books are so personal. This man, a career soldier named Emory Huntly, writes about the bitterness everyone was feeling by the end of the war. And, in his book, he admits that in hand-to-hand combat in the woods of Virginia, he and a Confederate came face-to-face—almost shot each other, and then walked away, as if they both knew they were family men, they had children, that, by then, they just wanted to survive.”
“Would someone have killed over any of these stories?” Kristi asked. “The Civil War ended in 1865.”
“And now, over a hundred and fifty years later, we’re still trying to get past it. I don’t know, Kristi. I don’t get it either—but it does seem everyone who died or disappeared had something to do with Ian or Ian’s house.”
“Makes no sense,” Kristi murmured.
Kristi sighed and walked over to where he had taken a seat on the floor in the midst of a pile of books. “I think it’s fun and enlightening to read them,” she said. “But history is known. There was a lot of ugliness. We all know that. History does not paint us as a very pretty people at times,” Kristi added.
She hunkered down by him, but she didn’t touch him. Something about Ian’s house was making her feel uncomfortable. It was that miasma, as if something was just...maybe not evil, but horribly sad. And it shouldn’t have been; Ian had led a great life. Jamie was a good man...the house should have had a feeling that was...good.
He looked at her curiously. “What is it?”
“I don’t know...just a feeling. Like the air is somehow...wrong here. And I don’t want to touch you here because I...don’t want us tainted by it. That makes no sense, I know, but...”
He stood, drawing her to her feet. “We have to get back for the séance. But do you think it’s okay if I take this book with me? I’d like to keep reading it.”
“As long as you return it, I don’t think Jamie will care in the least.”
The Summoning Page 14
