“What the hell has been happening?” I asked, and I couldn’t hide my consternation.
“Oh!” Her gaze evaded mine. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if I’ve…”
“If you’ve what?”
“Let things…get me down. So much has happened. I can’t blame it all on Liana.” Abruptly, she turned away, clearing a space on the bed and sitting.
“Liana. What’s Liana got to do with it?”
“You know how close she and Ogden were.”
Yep, and I’d always thought it was a little peculiar, but then I’d been an only child. “I realize Ogden’s death must have been hard on her. It was hard on you too.”
“Yes. Of course. But Liana is…older.”
What the hell did that mean?
“You were his wife. How could it possibly be harder for Liana?”
She was avoiding my gaze again. “She’s always been very sensitive.”
I snorted.
“But she has, Artie. Anyway, she was in shock at first. We both were. But a few months after the funeral, I think it all hit her. Very hard. That’s when everything began to change.”
“What everything?”
“Liana locked herself in her room and refuses to see anyone except me and the Tarrants. And Roma, of course. She’s become a-a literal recluse.”
“Liana?” I wasn’t sure who Roma was, but this picture of Liana as a hermit was hard to believe. Liana Hyde-Kent put the word social in socialite. Okay, it was to be expected she might take a break from the endless rounds of luncheons and cocktail parties and charity balls while she was in deep mourning, but Ogden had been gone for a year. Or close enough.
“She just sits up there, day after day, with the drapes drawn, dealing out tarot cards.”
“Tarot cards. Seriously?”
Aunt H. nodded. “That’s not the worst of it.”
“What’s the worst of it?”
“Roma Loveridge.”
“And she is—”
“A medium.”
“A…”
“Yes. A medium. A very interesting person.”
“As in odd? Well, yeah. I would say so.”
Aunt H. threw me a quick, chiding look. “Not because she’s a medium. I know you’re a skeptic, but there are more things in heaven and earth.”
“That’s right, Hamlet. There’s fire and water.”
She laughed and caught my hand, gripping it tight. “I have missed you so much, dear.”
“I’m not surprised, with Liana locked in the attic and the very interesting Roma Lovebridge for company.”
“Loveridge, dear. The thing is, Liana seems to live for those séances. For the chance to speak to Ogden once more.”
I recalled Tarrant’s comments about the maids claiming to have seen ghosts. No wonder, with this kind of bullshit going on. I said, “Isn’t it time Liana was thinking of getting a place of her own again?”
Aunt H.’s eyes widened. “Throw her out?”
“I’m sure there’s a tactful way to dislodge her.”
Aunt H. looked pained. “Oh, Artie. I couldn’t do that to her. Especially now.”
“Especially now is when a change of venue might be good. For everyone involved.”
As mentioned, I always thought Liana’s attachment to Ogden was the stuff of bad seventies’ horror flicks.
“But this is where she’s…comfortable. This has been her home for so many years. And I know what you’re going to say, but this is where she’s been able to make contact.”
Under my scrutiny, Aunt H. lifted her chin with self-conscious stubbornness.
“My darling Auntie,” I said. “It’s one thing to be open-minded about the possibility of the supernatural. It’s another to bundle the Psychic Hotline with other phone and Internet services. Don’t tell me you believe Liana is up there chatting with Ogden over a friendly hand of tarot cards?”
“Well, no. That is, Roma uses a Ouija board to speak to Ogden when she requires the use of a divining tool.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Artemus, please don’t look at me like that. The thing is, Roma might be an oddball, but I’m absolutely convinced she is not faking.”
A log settled, shooting a shower of sparks upward.
“No?” I said. “All right, then. What do I know? I guess I’d like to believe there was life after death.”
Aunt H. said eagerly, “After all, the greatest religions in the world are founded on the idea of life after death.”
“True enough.” I was still neutral, still doing my best not to show my increasing dismay.
Aunt H.’s eyes searched my face as though trying to determine if I was sincere or not.
In the ensuing silence, a gust of wind outside rattled the windows. Somewhere overhead a floorboard creaked. My aunt’s hand seemed to go ice-cold, and her face had suddenly gone very white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Shhh!” Aunt Halcyone put a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear it?” she whispered.
“Hear what?” I tried not to show how freaked out I was by this, but I was pretty sure a photo would show my hair standing up in porcupine quills.
“Someone walking…”
I listened. “It’s the wind. A couple of floorboards settling. That’s all. That’s what you used to tell me,” I reminded her gently.
Her eyes flashed to my face. “We can’t keep servants anymore. Only the Tarrants. The others have all left.”
“Tarrant told me. Superstitious nonsense.”
“I don’t know, Artie. There are so many strange things happening here.”
I wrapped an arm around my aunt’s slender shoulders. “Of course it’s nonsense. Don’t tell me you’re starting to get caught up in Liana’s fantasies?”
“It might not be fantasy. If she and Roma have truly managed to contact Ogden—”
Once again I had to hope my expression didn’t give me away.
I said firmly, “Now look, darling. You’re tired. It’s late. We’re starting to go in circles with this. We’ll talk in the morning. How about that?”
“But the thing is…” Halcyone lifted stricken eyes to mine. “Oh, Artie. If it’s true—”
“It’s not true. How can it be?”
“If it is true, Ogden says…”
I sighed. “What? What does Ogden say?”
“Ogden says he was murdered!”
Chapter Two
After ushering Aunt H. back to bed, I retreated to my own room and undressed, frowning over my thoughts.
I shoved the suitcases off the bed and crawled between the sheets. The soft brushed cotton smelled freshly aired, which I was grateful for. I settled my head on the firm pillow and listened to the rain on the roof. For once I did not find the sound soothing or restful. I kept thinking over the last hour: Tarrant’s mutterings about ghosts, the unkempt state of the house, Aunt H.’s uncharacteristic strain and nervousness.
The last thing I remembered was the soft, distant chime of the downstairs clock counting out the hour in four solemn knells.
I woke just after six and pulled open the drapes to look out at dazzling blue skies and a morning as fresh as the first day of summer. In the daylight, I felt convinced I’d let exhaustion from the flight and Aunt H.’s unease get to me.
I showered, finished unpacking, and looked in on Aunt H., who was snoring gently in the soft gloom. I eased the door shut and headed down to breakfast.
As I passed Liana’s room, I thought I heard her voice. Making an early morning phone call? Wishing Ogden good morning?
Aunt H.’s nervous condition was understandable, really. Regardless of the state of her marriage when Ogden had died, his death had to have been a shock. She had cared enough for him to stay married, so maybe more of a shock than I’d realized. Add to that the morbid direction Liana’s grieving for her brother had taken, the new business venture not turning out to be the hoped-for success, the complaints of her longtime staff, and the simple reality of living ou
t in the middle of nowhere in this oversize and isolated white elephant of a house… Yes, maybe I should have anticipated something like this.
When I reached the first floor, the velvety layer of dust on the small tables was more noticeable in the daylight. The house felt unnaturally still. Usually there was a busy, cheerful hum of activity behind the carefully cultured peace. Today it almost felt like I was walking through an empty house.
I needed coffee. Hot, black coffee and plenty of it.
On my way to the kitchen, I paused at the double doors of the drawing room and pushed them open. For a crazy instant I thought I’d walked in on… Well, I’m not sure. Ghosts holding a séance to try to contact the living? White-shrouded forms sat around the long room. Taller draped figures stood in the corners.
I reached for the wall switch, flicked on the overhead light, and recognized the ghosts for dustcovers. The elegantly carved chairs, the velour sofas, the graceful, polished tables, the beaded lamps I remembered so well were all in winding sheets, silent as a cemetery.
It was another unpleasant shock. Like finding Tarrant and my aunt suddenly grown old. This elegant room had always been the heart of the house. Warm and bright, lively with laughter and conversation whether my aunt had company or not—and most of the time there had been company. So many parties and social gatherings. Chic, bare-armed women, their ears and fingers sparkling with jewels; smiling men—all handsome, it seemed to me then—in formal tuxedos; and the maids—their stark black uniforms offset by frilly white aprons—passing among the guests, balancing trays clinking with crystal goblets.
Now this was more like a room in a house closed up and forgotten. The silver brocade drapes were drawn against the shuttered windows. The room smelled of dust, decay. Only the gilt-framed mirrors were still uncovered—and Ogden’s portrait, which hung over the Italian-marble fireplace.
I went to stand beneath the painting, gazing up at the smiling face, the soulful eyes under thick, raven brows, the chiseled jaw and perfect nose. Ogden had been the most handsome man I had ever met.
Even now, I couldn’t stand him. He’d always been cordial enough, but it irked me that he had treated me like a guest—a welcome guest, but still a guest—in the house I had grown up in. But then he had treated Aunt H. much the same.
That wasn’t why I had detested Ogden.
At first, I think he amused Aunt H. Ogden was younger than her, though in some ways he seemed older. That probably had to do with his more conservative and stuffy outlook. He had been courtly, even chivalrous in his treatment of her—well, on the surface. It was seeing him in private with Andi Althorpe, in that very alcove, that changed my initial attitude of resigned tolerance to active dislike.
Aunt H. was nobody’s fool, and I think she figured out the truth for herself not long afterward.
“Mr. Artemus?”
I jumped at the sound of that rather shrill voice. Turning, I saw Betty—Ulyanna Tarrant—in the doorway leading to the kitchen.
“Betty!”
“Mr. Artemus,” Betty repeated in a different tone. She came forward to take my hand in her work-roughened ones. I don’t think I imagined the look of relief on her face. Who had she feared was in here? “I didn’t realize… We don’t use this room anymore.”
“No, I can see that.”
Betty hadn’t changed much. A bit thinner and a lot grayer. Her father’s daughter, she was tall and spindly in her severe black dress, the feminine version of his funeralesque attire, and with a suggestion of wicked witch in her profile. Her iron-gray hair was habitually worn scraped back from her face in a tight bun. By now it probably fell that way naturally, no hairpins needed.
She offered a shaky smile. “My, but you’re looking as handsome as ever. Still not married?”
By “married,” Betty meant officially yoked to a nice girl from a good, i.e. wealthy, family. I’d been out since my teens, but Betty seemed to think homosexuality was something I’d eventually grow out of.
“Can’t find anyone to make an honest man of me,” I said.
She gave another of those weak smiles. “Well, a man can take his time to pick and choose.” She nervously tweaked the small pearl earring in her left lobe; a long-ago gift from Aunt H. and Edwin. “Coffee’s ready, if you’d like a cup?”
“The magic words.”
I followed her across the wide hall. I could hear the radio broadcasting the news from the kitchen. Always local news. Tarrant was not interested in national headlines and did not care for music.
“We don’t use the dining room much these days either,” Betty said, almost apologetically, as we passed another set of white double doors. “Mrs. Hyde-Kent has her meals in her room. Sometimes your aunt joins her, but most times she eats in her own little sitting room.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s a lovely, cozy room.”
Yes, it was, but the idea of Aunt H. not feeling up to presiding over her dining table as she had for the last thirty years was yet another disturbing bit of news.
We entered the enormous kitchen as Tarrant was seating himself at a long, much-scrubbed wooden table. He had a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of fresh doughnuts set before him, but at the sight of me, he jumped to his feet.
“As you were,” I said. It was a lame effort at a joke, but for the first time in my life I felt awkward, out of place in this kitchen.
Tarrant met my gaze bleakly before retaking his seat. He resents me, I thought. He’s come to resent us all. Why?
Tarrant had come to Green Lanterns through his marriage to Amy Bent, and he’d spent his entire adult life in service. He was proud of having achieved the rank of butler—and with good reason. It was hard to imagine the kind of sea change taking place where Tarrant would feel justified in almost open insolence.
“I hope you were able to get back to sleep last night,” I said.
He grunted a noncommittal reply and dunked a sugared doughnut into the coffee.
In the old days I wouldn’t have thought twice about sitting down at the table with them. Now I hovered, distinctly uneasy.
The radio announcer filled the silence. “Four hundred and three silver balloons will be released at sunset this Saturday. Mrs. Lenton says she hopes the event will revive media interest in her husband’s case. In other news, zoning permits have finally been granted to Rational Christians United…”
Betty was busy at the stove, moving pans around, scraping at cooking food with a spatula. “It won’t take me but a minute to fix a fresh pot. What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Artemus? Bacon? Sausage?” She moved to the long counter, dumped out the dregs from the coffee maker, and added water.
“Just coffee, thanks.”
“Oh, but you have to have a real breakfast!”
“Leave man alone, dóčka,” Tarrant muttered.
Betty pursed her lips in disapproval and glared—at her father, not me.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” I said heartily. “Hard to believe it was raining buckets when I got off the plane.”
Raining buckets? Really? I sounded like someone in a community theater production of The Mousetrap.
Betty shivered. “I don’t like the rain in summer. I don’t like the sound of it whispering outside the windows.”
Her words were followed by a sharp silence broken only by Tarrant’s dunking and slurping. Nice. He was never what you’d call garrulous, but he’d always been pleasant enough. Certainly courteous.
I was trying to think how to tactfully broach some of the recent events at Green Lanterns, when Tarrant abruptly wiped his chin and got to his feet. “I must fix shutter. I hear it knocking all night.”
“It didn’t sound like any shutter to me,” Betty said.
They exchanged odd, almost angry looks, and I knew if I hadn’t been standing there, they would have argued.
What the hell?
Tarrant stomped off without another word, and Betty poured the freshly brewed coffee and brought a white-a
nd-gold cup and saucer to the table. Wedgwood Oberon. I’d grown up with that china pattern, but it was discontinued now. Like a lot of other things, it seemed.
“You really don’t have to wait on me, Betty. I’m used to doing for myself, you know.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Artemus. I like having someone here.”
I’d been planning to grab my coffee and go, but I changed my mind and sat down at the table.
“Pancakes?” Betty suggested hopefully. “Waffles?” She brightened. “French toast?”
“Really. Coffee is all I need.”
She opened her mouth but was forestalled by the distant bang-bang-bang of a hammer. We listened for a moment.
Betty sighed. “Father’s not much of a handyman.”
“No, why should he be? Why in the world is Tarrant out there trying to fix the shutters? That’s no job for a butler.”
She seemed to avoid my gaze. “We all have to pitch in these days. It’s hard to get people to come out this far from town.”
“But… It’s not that far from town.”
“Far enough.”
I thought this over, frowning. I couldn’t see any reason for Betty to lie about finding it hard to get help. Clearly, there was some issue. Better to blame it on geography than ghosts.
I said instead, “Is that what’s bothering him? Having to do these menial kinds of jobs? Odd jobs?”
Her cheeks pinked, though I was trying to sound neutral and not critical.
“Perhaps. Father is a…a disappointed man.”
A disappointed man? What did that mean? Personally? Professionally? Politically?
She did not elucidate, so apparently it was a sensitive subject.
“I haven’t seen Liana, er, Mrs. Hyde-Kent yet,” I said. “What time does she get up?”
“I bring her coffee and juice at ten. She doesn’t come downstairs.” She stared at me.
“What, never?”
Seance on a Summer's Night Page 2
