The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  “What about the medium? I mean, I’m about to tell you what I have on everyone, but I’m asking about her abilities.”

  “A performer, no more, in my opinion,” Dallas told her.

  “You’re alone now? You can talk—or rather listen?”

  Dallas looked at the two ghosts—both were watching him.

  “Well, I’m not exactly alone.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m in the presence of two very fine gentlemen of the dearly departed variety, but they’re doing their best to help us in every way they can,” he said, nodding appreciatively to the two. “I’m ready and set to go—or rather listen,” he said, and he leaned back.

  He had a feeling Angela had a lot to tell him.

  * * *

  Kristi awoke smiling, instinctively reaching a hand out to touch Dallas.

  But she touched nothing.

  She opened her eyes; his side of the bed was empty. He must be up early, showering, changing, getting ready for the day.

  She was anxious to find out what he was talking about—geophysical equipment.

  She wanted to get started. It would probably take a little time—even for Dallas—to acquire the tools.

  She reminded herself, cringing a little, that she wasn’t free that day—she had a funeral to go to.

  She closed her eyes and yawned and rolled to her back, and then opened her eyes.

  She nearly screamed, but managed to swallow it.

  She was actually getting better at this!

  There was a woman standing at the foot of her bed.

  No...

  Not quite a woman.

  Kristi could see right through the apparition who was there, barely appearing, her arms outstretched. Her face was the same face Kristi had seen in the crystal ball.

  And she knew now, of course. It was Eliza Malone.

  And no matter how she hoped otherwise, she knew in her heart that the woman was dead. And her body must be somewhere near.

  Eliza’s eyes were so sad; her lips moved, and the barest breath of sound seemed to escape from them.

  “Please, you must find me...must...help. I try so hard... I think you see me, I think you can help me...”

  Her voice drifted into nothing but air.

  And the pale, transparent apparition disappeared just as cleanly into nothing but air, as well.

  * * *

  “Well,” Angela said, beginning with her summaries on the people in the house, “I hope you’ll be pleased to hear that the young actor—Carl Brentwood—comes across as everything he appears to be. He was in a magnet theater school out in California, and he was picked up at the age of twelve to be on a cable show. He started becoming very popular in a sitcom, but even while filming, finished high school and went on to UCLA. He has an excellent work reputation, and he’s huge with the young crowd, online, and in person. I can’t find where he ever even got a parking ticket—never had any scandal involving drugs or alcohol.”

  “He’s a nice kid,” Dallas said. “I don’t think Kristi Stewart would have let him video here if he wasn’t.”

  “He seems to be a fine enough fellow,” Monty said.

  Dallas realized the two ghosts could hear Angela’s voice.

  “I don’t think he’s involved with anything,” Angela said. “He’s never been to Savannah before. His dad is a soundman with one of the major studios, and his mother is an artist. Her parents were immigrants as young children from the Ukraine. On his father’s side, the parents were also immigrants—English.”

  “So, he comes off as squeaky clean?”

  “Squeaky clean and polished.”

  “Sometimes that can be scary.”

  “True. All right, we’ll move on to his people—Claire Danson and Murray Meyer. The agent, Murray Meyer—interesting fellow. He’s been a theatrical and film agent for nearly forty years, and his roster has included many A-listers, and he’s often specialized in the young and up-and-coming. His wife of thirty-plus years died just four years ago. He could easily retire if he wished, or rest on his laurels and let his associates do the legwork. He picked Carl out of a school play, so he’s been with him now over a decade, and I guess he takes a special interest in him, traveling with him to film sites and so on. He has been in Savannah several times—he represented a number of actors in a major flick filmed in Savannah about ten years ago, and he’s traveled to Georgia three times in the last five years—a major television series has been filming there for the last several years. He’s originally from Massachusetts, and his parents before him were from Massachusetts. The only legal difficulties he’s had have to do with championing his actors during various negotiations—he’s a stand-up kind of guy for them. No children—his passion seems to be his work.”

  Justin sighed. “Not a bad man, a Hollywood type, wrapped up in his own concerns, with little care for others.”

  “What about Claire?” Dallas asked.

  “Claire Danson, divorced eight years, no children, born in New York City, worked down at a theme park in Central Florida for several years after graduating with a degree in graphic arts from Pratt Institute. She’s very good at what she does—Carl Brentwood has literally millions of followers. She turned her skill for graphic arts into a career in social media management, with spin and excitement—and has her people doing all kinds of video and podcasts and creating major splashes. Right now, Carl seems to be her own pet project, and he’s very happy with her. Now, while she was born in New York City, her mother was born in Atlanta and Claire spent a number of her formative years in Georgia. Her mother died a few years back, and Claire went to the funeral and spent some time in Georgia then—and it coincides with the time Eliza Malone went missing. And, she and Murray Meyer have both been in the city for several weeks now. They were first in a hotel on the riverfront, apparently checking out the smaller bed-and-breakfast establishments for Carl’s arrival. They’ve been in the city several weeks—yes, the timeline agreeing with the recent disappearance of Simon Drake and the deaths of Ian Murphy and Lachlan Plant.”

  “Still—why?” Dallas murmured. “They don’t live here. They have no real connections to the area.”

  “The police interviewed everyone down there associated with Simon Drake—several times, from what I understand.”

  “Yes, I spoke with people, too. A man and a woman with no real enemies disappeared just about two years apart. So, the answer isn’t going to be something we’ll grasp easily—no one was cheating on anyone, no one had a jilted lover, no one was rich enough for there to be a big inheritance...so, what the hell happened?”

  “That’s what you’re there to find out, you know.”

  “Yes, sorry, just working it aloud.”

  “Quite all right. Now I’ll get to the household. Oh, first, I checked out Jamie Murphy. The kid is fairly well exonerated—he wasn’t in the city, he was away at school when each of the events occurred—he only came home to bury his grandfather.”

  “So, the kid is cleared. That’s good to know.”

  “Jamie Murphy is a quite decent young man,” Justin said, nodding his conviction.

  “Indeed,” Monty agreed.

  “Anyway, on to Jonah Whitney. Born and raised in Savannah, a friend to both Murphy and McLane, a man who was in the same reenactment Civil War regiment with his friends, recreating battles year after year, lecturing at the fort at times—and very popular, by the way. He’s helped bring in physicians who are also historians to teach in the medical tents. He was a banker until he retired in his fifties; he started managing McLane House about fifteen years ago, right when Jedidiah McLane began to feel his age. Ian was about twenty years older than Jonah, Jedidiah about fifteen. He’s lived in the house for the last fifteen years, since he started managing it. The man barely had parking tickets. He appears to be a solid citizen. He was married, but his wife died al
most twenty years ago. Cancer. By all reports, he was never anything but a good friend to Murphy and McLane.”

  “Another stand-up citizen,” Dallas murmured.

  “What’s your take?”

  “He’s friendly, efficient and seems like...another stand-up citizen.”

  “I made your reservation through him. He said we were really lucky—I’d booked the last room for you.”

  “That is true. Genie Turner?”

  “High school education, married, two children, boy and a girl, adults now, one living and working in Atlanta, the other still in school in Chicago. She’s a widower—husband died about eight years ago. Born and lived her life in Savannah. She’s been offered jobs at restaurants in the city, but apparently, she had a great fondness for Jedidiah—and likes being the kitchen boss where she is.”

  “Not even a parking ticket, right?”

  “Well, she doesn’t drive.”

  “So, again, nothing. What about Sydney, our young one?”

  “Ah! We have an arrest!”

  “An arrest?”

  Angela laughed softly. “Don’t get excited. She was swept up with a few other protestors who got a little carried away during an ‘equality’ march in DC. She was released almost immediately, but as you know, we can find out just about anything when we dig deeply enough. She’s a student working her way through school, gets excellent marks and comments from her teachers, but we’re looking at an exact timeline—she came to school and started working at McLane House just a little over two years ago.”

  “I’m not seeing it, though, of course, more than one person might well be involved.”

  “Dallas, I know you know that children have committed murder, and many under ten have committed some pretty heinous and brutal murders.”

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  “But here, I do have a bit more for you.”

  “Two things. First, Shelley Blake—the performing medium.”

  “She has lived in Savannah the last twenty years, and she’s well-known and popular for her expertise with Savannah’s ghosts. Apparently, many people have witnessed unexplainable phenomena during her séances.”

  “Yep—her knee jostling the table,” Dallas murmured.

  “Well, before she was in Savannah, she was working for a private tour company up in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.”

  “She’s not from Savannah?”

  “No, she was born in West Virginia, and rather moved around the mid-Atlantic states with her schooling and work. She didn’t leave the tour company under the best of circumstances. The manager there now wasn’t there when Shelley was working, but read notes on her file. Apparently, Shelley liked to twist history around, telling people her own version of events. And she does have an arrest record—she got into a fight in a bar during a meeting that drew historians and guides from all over the country. The fight was over a great Florida Seminole chief, Osceola, and Shelley was determined they understand he died because the government cut his head off, while the Florida people were explaining he died of disease and his physician took his head later. Anyway, she was let go quickly, and the officer just seemed to think she was young and overserved—she was let go after a night in the drunk tank.”

  “It still sounds like we’re a long way from murder, especially carefully planned murders—four of them, if we’re seeing it clearly,” Dallas said. “We’ll work with this. I have the local detective, Joe Dunhill, the man who contacted Adam, sending out patrols, but...well, they think they’re just protecting the safety and sanity of a visiting celebrity. But I’d like to get someone down here with geophysical tools. We can’t just dig up a historic square, but Kristi owns the land here, and she’s eager to search it, so we can be sure if there is or isn’t something there.”

  “Maybe they’ll find me,” Justin murmured softly.

  “All of us,” Monty said quietly.

  “I’m just not sure how we keep this on the low—the FBI has not been asked in, and there’s no official confirmation that anyone has been murdered—we have a suicide, an accident and two disappearances.”

  “We can keep it quiet. I know just who to send,” Angela said.

  “Who?”

  “Jackson—and I’ll come with him, of course. We’ll just be taking a little trip down to Savannah. No one needs know—except for Kristi Stewart, of course. We’ll have to find accommodations somewhere close by—I understand that the McLane house is fully booked.”

  Dallas paused just a moment and saw that Kristi had come out the back door. She was walking toward him, nodding to Justin and Monty, and looking at him worriedly as she took the one empty seat remaining at the wrought iron table.

  “I’m sure we can switch some things around here. It’s best if you’re in the house, or... I have a thought. I’ll get back to you.”

  He hung up. “We’re moving forward,” he told Kristi. “I have some help coming down—and they’ll have the proper tools to look at the grounds without ripping them all to shreds. I’d been thinking we could switch rooms around a bit, but I have a better idea—they could actually go and stay at the Murphy place, as long as you could ask Jamie if that would be possible.”

  She didn’t answer him at first, she lowered her head and nodded, and then looked up at him. “Whatever you think is best,” she said, and then added, “Dallas, she was back. This time, when I woke up, she was at the foot of my bed. Eliza—Eliza Malone. She’s...not solid.”

  “Just learning,” Monty murmured.

  “She’s not strong,” Kristi continued. “And she didn’t say anything that gave me any clue at all as to what happened. She just asked again that we help her and then...then she was gone.”

  He reached over and took her hands. “And you’re all right?”

  She flashed a smile to him, and looked around the table. “I didn’t scream, gasp, run away or pass out. I think I’m moving right along in the right direction.”

  “Proud of our girl!” Monty said. “So, how soon does digging start?”

  “Not right away,” Kristi said, looking at Dallas again. “We’ve got a funeral to get to.”

  * * *

  The services were held right at the funeral home; Amy Simmons welcomed Kristi as soon as she saw her—Kristi and Dallas had made certain to arrive early. Amy greeted her, looking curiously at Dallas, so Kristi introduced them right away.

  “You’re friends with an old friend of his or something, right?” Amy asked Dallas, frowning slightly. “Mr. Harrison. He donated the money we needed for this service, and for his plot at the cemetery.”

  Dallas nodded. “Mr. Harrison is a good man,” he said simply.

  “Well, I know you didn’t know Lachlan, but we’re very grateful you’re here. I understand you’re a private investigator?”

  “I am, among other things,” Dallas said, smiling.

  “Well, thank you—and thank Mr. Harrison. Lachlan was wonderful at work, and he was so much fun when we went out at night. And half of the young women he worked with had crushes on him, but he wouldn’t give in to...even flirting. Work was work. When we’d go out together, he’d make us all laugh, and, I guess, most important, he loved to listen! He thought he’d found his home finally in Savannah, and he never wanted to leave. Now I guess he won’t have to—well, again, thanks to all the people who donated, because who knew that dying could be so incredibly expensive?”

  “It sounds like he was a good man, and I’m very sorry for your loss,” Dallas told her. “I’ll just pay my respects,” he said, and left the two of them, walking quickly to the coffin.

  He knelt on the pad by the coffin, and looked to be in prayer.

  Kristi wondered if he was trying to reach the dead man.

  “What a...what a beautiful man!” Amy said, looking after Dallas. “He must work out somewhere. He should come to the gym. But he doesn’t live
here, right?”

  “No, he doesn’t live here,” Kristi said.

  “He’s staying at your place? I didn’t see him in the video—and, wow, Kristi, not the time or place to talk about it, but oh, I loved that video. You’re amazing. Well, Carl Brentwood is amazing, too—and Shelley was terrific. Have you seen it yet? His people are good—really good. The video was super—well-edited, creepy, spooky. You’re going to be fighting off guests, now, you know. Oh, I was just thinking—maybe we should have had Shelley here instead of the priest. No, no, Lachlan loved the priest. It just seemed that, after this time, it was right to have one day—a service here, and then straight to the cemetery.”

  “I think you’ve done a lovely arrangement for Lachlan, Amy, and he’d be very grateful to you. And, no, I haven’t seen the video yet.”

  “You’ve got to see it! The way it’s all up on his site—there’s the séance itself, and then the before-and-after interviews with everyone. It’s so professional. And the house looks fantastic!”

  Kristi smiled; Boyd came up and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

  “A lot of the old guard seemed to have come out—and Lachlan’s clients from the gym. I’m so glad. We didn’t know what we’d get. I mean, he wasn’t from here.”

  “I was just telling Amy—this is all lovely. I think he’d be very happy. Excuse me.”

  She left them, aware they were staring after her, as she joined Dallas where he knelt on the pew before the coffin. She folded her hands prayer fashion—and did say a prayer.

  It was too sad and so unfair that Lachlan was gone.

  Then she glanced over at Dallas and asked softly. “Anything?”

  “No,” he said softly, and then she felt his penetrating green-gold eyes on her. “What about you?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’d best let others come up,” he said, rising and taking her hand. He glanced back to Boyd and Amy as they found chairs in the rows set up by the funeral parlor.

  Kristi knew many people there, and she greeted them, and when they were seated, she told Dallas who was a tour guide, who ran a restaurant and so on. She fell silent.