The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  “Mr. Wicker,” Murray acknowledged. “I guess we’re both night owls. Something happened near here, across the square.” He hiked his shoulders and let them fall. “There’s a breaking news story about a body being found across Johnson Square. They’re speculating that it’s the woman who went missing years ago.”

  “Yes,” Dallas said. “That’s been keeping you up?”

  Murray nodded. “I was up working—it’s three hours earlier in LA, you know. A lot is done at night, after-hours, friends just talking to friends. Kind of like New York lunches. Anyway, I... You had something to do with it right?” he asked Dallas. “You were here to investigate for the kid who knocked himself dead on the curb, but...you seem to know the cops around here well.”

  “It was at the Murphy house,” Dallas said. “Kristi was good friends with Ian Murphy and his son had given us permission to use his library.”

  Murray Meyer nodded, looking out at the yard. “I remember when she disappeared. I was here.” He shook his head. “I have family in this city, Mr. Wicker. Not family that makes one proud, but family nonetheless. My cousin was in trouble—his wife died. Fell off a balcony. He swears they were both drinking and when they argued, they were pushing each other around, and he swore that while he didn’t push her, it was his fault. They shouldn’t have been drinking and arguing. He went away for manslaughter, but he’s out now, trying to put some kind of life back together.”

  “He’s paid his dues, I guess,” Dallas said.

  “Yeah, I sent Claire off with Carl the other day and went to see him. I’m trying to get him some work. I suppose I believe him. I have to, I guess. He is my family, and I never knew him to do another mean or cruel thing in his life. This just all...made me think about the past. I’ve been lucky—my life is good. And I remember that I was thinking—back when I was here for the trial, trying to help set some things in order—that the woman would show up, that maybe people had been wrong, maybe there was some bad business and she’d run away to Paris or something. Wishful thinking, I guess. And, then, of course, when Genie was picking up some things, she was saying that Mr. Murphy went over his balcony, and that made me think that life was ironic, and... Whatever, it’s late, and I didn’t mean to drone on about the past and things that haunt me.”

  “It’s all right. They say that every man has skeletons in his closet.”

  “And some have them in their backyard,” Murray said, shaking his head. “Guess it’s a good thing Kristi found an ancestor, and a sad thing that another woman was evidently killed because of someone else’s...agenda.”

  “Or the skeletons in their closet,” Dallas added quietly.

  “All the news about her said that she was an exceptional woman. Well, I suppose it’s good to know the truth, or, to at least know... Someone needs to be caught and punished for what happened. Unless the old man did it—and he’s far beyond our retribution now.”

  Kristi stepped up behind Dallas and said, “The old man did not do it!”

  “Miss Stewart, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Well,” Dallas said, setting his hands on Kristi’s shoulders, “I do believe we’ll find out in the days to come. I think we’ll go up. Good night, Mr. Meyer.”

  “Would you like some tea or anything?” Kristi asked Murray.

  “No, no, I’m fine, thank you. I was just awake, and Carl is still out with Claire—he discovered that if he went out late enough, he didn’t cause any commotion. They won’t be much longer. I’ll just wait up a bit. If that’s all right?”

  “Of course,” Kristi said. “Turn on a light, if you like.”

  “I rather like the darkness tonight,” he said.

  Dallas directed Kristi toward the stairs and she hurried up ahead of him. When they reached her room, he strode to the window that overlooked the courtyard. Jonah was still there—sleeping on guard.

  “I have to go back down,” he said.

  “I can go with you,” she offered.

  He shook his head. “No, you need some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be hard, and you’re the one who has seen Eliza. You need sleep. I just need to figure out how to be there and watch over you at the same time. In the morning, I can get Angela or Jackson back over here. But tonight, I find that I’m agreeing with Jonah. And he’s not much of a guard dog while he sleeps.”

  He turned to her and began looking around the room.

  “Do you have any rope?”

  “Up here?”

  “I guess not,” he said, looking around the room, frustrated.

  “I have scarves,” she said. “Some really long scarves. Would that work?”

  “They might do,” he said.

  Kristi brought him several scarves in an assortment of colors and he began to tie them together.

  “I’m really not afraid of Lacey,” Kristi told him.

  “No, and I don’t think you need to be. But Lacey found the key. And that means others were able to find the key, and now we don’t know how many copies of a master key might be floating around somewhere.”

  “Great,” Kristi murmured.

  He rigged a rope from her scarves, and showed her how to attach it from her doorknob to the dresser, creating something of a bolt. It could be broken, of course—but not without pulling a drawer out of the nearby antique dresser and creating a commotion much like an alarm.

  “You understand?” he asked her anxiously.

  She smiled. “I got it. I don’t know how I’ll sleep with you down there, but I’ll try. And I definitely need a shower again, but I’ll wait until morning when you are back!” She paused for a minute. “I could read,” she said. “Somehow, reading what I love and what fascinates me always lets me fall asleep when I’m tired. You still have that book we took from Ian’s house?”

  “Always on me,” he told her. “Our skeleton key thief has been in my room, too.”

  Reaching into his jacket, he handed her the book.

  He smiled and left her. Downstairs, he looked into the front parlor; Murray Meyer was still staring out at the night, waiting.

  The man’s cousin had been convicted of manslaughter when his wife had gone over a balcony. Just like Ian Murphy.

  “You’re sure you are all right?” Dallas asked him.

  He hadn’t heard Dallas come downstairs, and started at the words, and then smiled, giving himself a little shake as Dallas apologized for startling him again.

  “Now I’m just waiting for my prime client to return. Ah, and there they are!” he said, pointing out the front window.

  Dallas walked over by him and saw a black sedan pulling up to the house. Carl Brentwood got out—followed out not by his manager, but Lacey. They were laughing, heads close, as they came up to the house. Before either could use a key for entry, Murray opened the door for them.

  “Hey, you—waited up?” Carl asked Murray, perplexed.

  “Where’s Claire?” Murray asked.

  “Still dancing the night away somewhere,” Carl said. “Hey, I couldn’t make her come back. She’s all grown up.”

  “And you ran into Miss Knox. How nice,” Murray said.

  It didn’t sound as if he thought it was nice at all.

  Lacey looked at him, and then at Dallas. “I’m going upstairs!” she said. Hurrying by Dallas, she said softly, “Please.”

  Lacey had slipped out after her parents had gone to bed. She was, however, eighteen—and it seemed that she and Carl did like one another.

  Not Dallas’s business.

  “Guess I’m going up,” Carl said. “Murray, sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting up for me. Oh, Mr. Wicker, hey—the gossip was about finding an old body here, but it seems they also found a woman who disappeared years ago? People are talking about it all over town. I guess—oh. You were somehow involved, huh?”

  “Somehow.”

 
Carl nodded, and then looked at Murray again. “Thanks, Murray. I’m good.”

  “I’ll see that Claire gets in safely,” Murray said.

  “Okay,” Carl told him. “Well, good night.” He headed to the back parlor, and up the stairs.

  “I would imagine she’ll be back soon. And, of course, she’s definitely an adult,” Murray told Dallas. “Honestly, I’m just restless.”

  “I’m actually going to be out in the courtyard, if you need me,” Dallas said.

  “Thank you,” Murray said, smiling. “I might head up soon—hey, I really am all right. Thanks for being concerned—or worried. I swear, I’m not having an episode of any kind, and I’m not going to go nuts and break up the furniture.”

  Dallas laughed softly. “Sorry—just holler if you need anything.”

  He headed out to the courtyard and woke up Jonah, telling him to go sleep in his bed.

  Jonah agreed.

  Dallas sat down to keep vigil over the hole in the yard, the now vacant dig where Trinity McLane had so recently lain.

  * * *

  At first, Kristi sat in the chair where she had so often rested while she’d talked to Jedidiah.

  Where she had first seen Monty McLane.

  She stared at the strange rigging Dallas had created for her door. No one was entering without creating a hell of a lot of noise—that was for sure—unless she let them in.

  She should have just gone down with Dallas; she was never going to sleep.

  She looked wistfully at the bathroom door. She really needed a shower. Then again, as the thought consumed her, she had visions of the Janet Leigh shower scene from Psycho.

  Hm, maybe not.

  She looked outside, down to the courtyard. Dallas had taken up a position in the courtyard, at the table closest to the recently dug hole.

  He was reading something on his phone, obviously awake and aware. He looked up, as if aware she might be at the window.

  Kristi smiled and waved.

  She sat again, and then, the feel of the dust and dirt from the woodpile suddenly seemed to be too much.

  This killer wasn’t going to come after her in her own room, in her own house. The killer was clever and hidden, making people disappear—or die on a curb or go over a balcony.

  She was going to have to squash any visions of Psycho and bite the bullet; her door was locked, and she had a makeshift extra lock. She was safe.

  Leaving the bathroom door open and drawing the curtain only halfway, she hurried in. Soap, shampoo, all applied quickly and with purpose—and with one eye watching out of the curtain toward the bathroom door at all times.

  Her shower proved to be completely uneventful.

  Clean and much happier, Kristi emerged. She didn’t slip into a nightgown, but changed into a knit top and a clean pair of jeans. For a moment, she panicked, looking around the room. The book!

  She ran back into the bathroom and found it underneath the pile of her dirty clothing; she hadn’t meant to leave it out of her sight for a minute.

  Book in hand, she headed back to the big chair, sat and flipped it open, wondering if any of the incredible volumes in Ian’s library had ever been reprinted.

  The copyright on this book was 1899—thirty-four years after the end of the war. It had been written by Emory Huntly of the 15th Corp. He had been lucky; he had survived the war and gone on to have five children, and, as of the writing of the book, seven grandchildren.

  He had titled his book, Valor and Lesser Evils, a Soldier’s Journey through War.

  Starting at the beginning, Kristi quickly knew why Dallas had liked this book in particular; Huntly managed to give facts and figures, but there was a human element to the book that made it entirely readable. It was also prefaced by the fact that every man who had fought might well have a different vision of what they saw, and what they did.

  He’d been from Massachusetts, a farm boy who had followed Lincoln’s call to arms with a passion at first.

  He’d never been to the South.

  As the war escalated into 1862 and then 1863, he saw far too much. Fierce battles in Virginia—he wrote an especially poignant page on the battle at Shiloh.

  He wrote a lot about people, battle camps, nurses, orderlies and those who had helped. He watched Union doctors who were true to their oath—determined to save a life, be it an ally or enemy life. He saw cruelty as well—practiced on both sides.

  He saw field after field of dead men, their bodies and scattered parts food for the crows, their blood seeping into the soil, helping to irrigate the hate that would live on when the last gun was fired.

  Kristi read, fascinated, and realizing more and more that she would have really liked the man, and, as she had always been taught, good men came in all kinds.

  The words began to blur before her. She was just getting to Emory Huntly’s role in Sherman’s March to the Sea.

  Sleep claimed her.

  * * *

  It wasn’t easy staying up through the night, but Dallas intended to do so. He concentrated on going over files, over everything he had learned through Angela’s research and his own interactions with people.

  He found a large file the Krewe had compiled concerning Murray Meyer. His reputation as a Hollywood agent was sterling. He was a man who fought for his clients and looked after his employees. During an interview, he said that it was important to get the best deal, and to be reasonable at the same time; celebrity was easy come, and easy go.

  Finishing with Murray, Dallas flipped to the information they had on Granger.

  The man had started his political campaign, and there was a good deal of information available about his beliefs and platform. Lots of pictures of him at community events.

  Dallas had focused on these two men because of the seeming links to the case. Both had been in Savannah several times in the last years—including when Eliza Malone had been murdered.

  But what would it have to do with McLane House?

  He realized that he needed to speak with Kristi, Jonah, Genie and Sydney again. Kristi hadn’t even been living at the house two years ago, and Sydney had apparently just started back then, but Jonah and Genie had been with Jedidiah a long time. Maybe, just maybe, something had happened at the house back then, or they’d had a guest who had perhaps registered under a different name.

  Wouldn’t they have been recognized?

  As he wondered about what might have gone on, he suddenly heard movement.

  The sun wasn’t quite up; it would be another half an hour or so before Genie and Sydney were due to arrive.

  Dallas stood and moved closer to the house. He watched as someone came around the side of the house by the kitchen entrance, moving furtively, heading toward the back, the monuments—and the large dirt pit where Trinity McLane’s body had so recently rested.

  16

  Kristi woke with a start, dropped her book and realized that she had slept several hours in an extremely awkward position. She stood and stretched, and looked to her door.

  No one had attempted to break through her scarf alarm-lock, and Dallas hadn’t returned.

  She retrieved the book from the floor and stuffed it into her over-the-shoulder bag, determined that she would keep it with her at all times—just as Dallas had.

  She started down the hallway, then noted that the door to their tiny employee lounge was ajar.

  She opened the door. There was someone standing next to the mannequin of Monty.

  “Jonah?” she said.

  He turned and smiled at her. She walked over to him, and saw that, by his side, the mannequin had been knocked against the wall.

  “Are you angry—with Monty?” Kristi asked, frowning.

  Jonah shook his head. “Oh, I didn’t do that. I came in and the thing had fallen over. I meant to set it right, but I started looking out
the window.”

  “You look tired.”

  “I am tired,” he said, and smiled at her sheepishly. “I mean to watch the pit out in back, but kept falling asleep. And then Dallas came down, thankfully, and I got a few hours of sleep, but—go figure, I used to sleep like a log. These last days... I don’t know how to explain this, I just think that we should have left Trinity in the ground. Legend being told and retold is one thing, but bringing everything to light... I don’t know.” He shook his head painfully. “Now you’ve found Eliza Malone. I remember so clearly when she disappeared. And before she disappeared, Ian was excited. He told us he was going to have a meeting, and that we were going to shake up history. Ian was in deep with Jedidiah about some piece of information he thought that they could put together, but then...well, everything stopped. I didn’t put it together right away—the city was in an uproar when Eliza disappeared, and then after that, well, I never heard either of them say anything about meeting anyone, or searching harder for some little bit of information. Now I’m wondering, but none of it makes sense... Time went by, and age takes its toll. Ian got sick, Jed just got older and older...and then, they were gone.”

  Kristi frowned, looking at him. “I didn’t know any of this.”

  “Kristi, you weren’t living here then. And even I didn’t even pay any attention at the time. Now I can’t help but feel this jumble in my mind, and be unhappy about Trinity—and horrified that Eliza Malone was found in Ian’s basement.”

  “Jonah, they will find out who killed her,” Kristi said, straightening out the mannequin of Monty McLane.

  “And maybe Ian,” he said softly. “I could never figure him going off the balcony. He had plenty of morphine—all he had to do was go to sleep.”

  He was looking out the window again. “They’re up early,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Brentwood’s crew. Look.”

  She looked out the window.

  Claire Danson might have come in late, but she was wide-awake that morning. She stood on the sidewalk, arguing with Murray Meyer. She was gesturing, indicating the backyard.