“Yeah, I do,” I said. “No offense.”
That clearly threw him. After a startled moment, he said, “How would I? And why would I do something like that?”
I shook my head. “But I notice you don’t deny it.”
Belatedly, he noticed the same thing and said, “Of course I deny it. It’s so…out there, I didn’t think I’d have to deny it. Not in so many words.”
I sighed. “And this is why I don’t trust you. Because you’re lying.”
I have a trained eye. I can spot bad acting in all its forms, and lying is just another type of acting.
He was silent. “Have you shared your suspicion with your aunt yet?” he asked finally.
“Yes.”
Again, he seemed to have no response.
I said, “I’m not sure if she believes me or not. Good help is hard to find, and frankly, I don’t think she cares that you’re a fake so long as you mow the lawn, weed the flower beds, and don’t murder us during the night.”
“She’s not planning to fire me?”
“I doubt it.”
The set of his shoulders relaxed. “Good.” He added, “I promise I mean no harm to you. Or Mrs. Hyde.”
I wasn’t crazy about the fact that Auntie H. was clearly an afterthought. And not a very convincing afterthought.
“But you can’t—or won’t—tell me what you’re really doing here?”
“I’m really working in the garden.” Seamus held out his palms for me to witness his blisters. “As you can see.”
“Okay. Have it your way.”
I turned away to go through the French doors, and he said quickly, “Artemus?”
I glanced back in inquiry.
“If you change your mind—if you decide you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
I quirked an eyebrow, though I doubted he could see in the indistinct light. “Hopefully by ‘here,’ you don’t mean here,” I said. “Because it was pretty creepy walking outside to find you lurking behind the potted plants.”
Seamus opened his mouth, but I firmly closed both doors, bolted them—and pulled the drapes shut.
To my relief, Aunt Halcyone had abandoned the music room by the time I returned. I hoped she had retired for the night, though I couldn’t imagine any of us sleeping soundly in this house ever again.
On impulse, I went through to Ogden’s study, switched on the light, and looked around for a sign. Not a sign from the Great Beyond. Definitely not. A sign of human agency at work. Dropped ash, muddy footprints, a matchbook, a missing button, a monogrammed hankie… How about a signed confession? That would have been useful. There was nothing. Not a single clue. The thick, springy carpet held no trace of anyone’s passage, not even my own.
I examined the crowded bookshelves. I’d always been skeptical of Ogden’s publishing business. He had been vague about the details, but I’d gathered it was some kind of hybrid vanity press devoted exclusively to nonfiction. Nonfiction, but not scholarly or academic work. In fact, Ogden had seemed to prefer authors who specialized in being crackpots and eccentrics. From crazy diets to weird science to peculiar religions, no topic was too uncommercial for Hyde Publishing. If any of Ogden’s titles had turned a profit, I’d never heard it mentioned.
I suspected a lot of Aunt H.’s financial resources had gone into propping up Hyde Publishing, but she’d never discussed it, and certainly had not complained. Nor was it my business how she chose to spend her money. It was her money.
Ogden’s shelves included tomes on sharing the joys of solo sex, supercharging quantum touch, a diet based on Gertrude Jekyll’s garden design, and how to meet and date on the astral plane.
The funny thing was Ogden had never struck me as particularly imaginative or spiritual. Not the kind of man who would have an interest, let alone choose to encourage belief, in astral planes and new religions. He had been conservative to the point of stuffiness.
I turned from the bookshelves, studying the room. His sanctuary, he’d called it. It was exactly what one would expect from a guy who wore yachting leisurewear without irony.
Leather club chairs. Framed prints of perplexed pheasants and dead hares, varied golf trophies on the side table, a marble bust of Julius Caesar on a pedestal near the bookshelves, assorted pipes in a carved, circular rack.
I sat down in one of the leather club chairs and switched on a small lamp.
Sanctuary. Sanctuary from what? I wondered. What had Ogden been hiding from in this room? What the hell had he thought about all those hours he had spent alone in here?
The lamp seemed to throw a spotlight on the large, immaculate desk, reminding me of an overpriced stage prop. Had Ogden actually done any work in here? I didn’t know. At the time, I had been more interested in avoiding Ogden than observing him.
I rose and went to the desk, taking the tall leather chair and swiveling slowly around to scrutinize the room from Ogden’s perspective.
Originally, the study had been the domain of Aunt H.’s first husband, Edwin. The framed maps and encyclopedias were all from Edwin’s era. In fact, other than the introduction of golf trophies and the bust of Julius Caesar, it hadn’t changed much from master to master. In fairness, it probably hadn’t changed much from generation to generation.
I didn’t remember Edwin well, but he had always seemed pleasant and even-tempered. He had been kind to a grieving child and patient with a moody, touchy teenager. I don’t suppose his marriage to Aunt H. was a great love match. They’d known each other all their lives. But I did remember Aunt H. and Edwin laughing a lot and always having something to talk about. It had been a very different house then.
But then Ogden had been a very different husband.
I reached out to finger a crystal paperweight shaped like a globe of the world. That too had been Ogden’s. The crystal globe and the bust of Caesar seemed very much like things Ogden would have owned. The publishing company devoted to New Agey, spacey philosophy and religion? Not so much.
I leaned back, resting my head against the leather cushion. How late was it now? Well after midnight for sure. Beyond the long French windows, the black night was salted with bits of cracked and chipped stars. As I stared, another of those pallid balloons floated past, ambling its way across the heavens.
What the hell with the balloons? Was the circus in town?
No, there had been something on the news. Something about a show of balloons to get the media’s attention for some cause or another. Hopefully not the air-pollution crisis.
The uneasy shadows around the periphery of the lamp seemed to quiet, settle down.
I closed my eyes. I was tired. Completely drained. Something was very wrong at Green Lanterns, but I had no idea what it was or how to fix it. And sitting here worrying about it wasn’t solving anything. I should go to bed. I would in a minute.
I might have drifted off. In fact, I must have. Because when I opened my eyes again, the room was in complete darkness. I blinked in confusion, still seeming to hear the echo of a sharp, distinct click.
I sat up straight, listening tensely.
Nothing.
It was so quiet, I could hear the dust falling.
Had I imagined it? Maybe I’d been more deeply asleep than I realized.
Click.
There it was again!
I had some vague idea that a secret door was about to swing open, and I leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair, watching for motion in the gloom.
Nothing happened.
I continued to sit in straining, rigid silence, waiting…
Someone laughed. A soft, deep chuckle that seemed to come from right behind me.
I jumped out of the chair, knocking something from the desktop. I heard the smash of glass on the floor—the crystal paperweight landing between the edge of the carpet and the wooden floor. I could just make out small shattered chunks glittering in the moonlight as I backed away from the desk.
No one stood behind the chair.
At least
…not that I could see. And what the hell was I doing standing here in the dark?
I reached out, ignoring the fact that my hand was not steady, and snapped the lamp on.
There was no one else in the room.
Of course not. Because I had dreamed the whole thing up. I was probably dreaming now.
I did not feel like I was dreaming, though. I didn’t feel remotely sleepy. My heart was thundering in my ears, and every muscle in my body was tense and ready to jump.
Even if I had imagined the laughter, who had turned out the lights?
Chapter Eleven
I had no intention of telling Aunt Halcyone about my unsettling experience in Ogden’s study.
For one thing, after a good night’s sleep I was inclined to think my nerves had gotten the better of me. The séance had shaken me—as it had shaken everyone in the house with the exception of Liana, who had been almost giddy with excitement—and naturally, I’d been predisposed to believe something else might happen. Understandable then that I’d dreamed something else up in the form of mysterious clicks, ghostly laughter, and lights turning themselves on and off.
And if I hadn’t dreamed it, then someone in this house was deliberately, maliciously trying to terrify the rest of us. To what purpose, I couldn’t guess. But I was pretty sure that person was Vadim Tarrant.
Anyway, I wasn’t going to worry Aunt H. with any of that, but unfortunately, she caught me in Ogden’s study the morning after the séance, replacing all the books I’d dragged from the shelves and dumped on the floor in my quest to find the entrance to the secret passage I was convinced—or had been at two o’clock in the morning, anyway—must exist.
“Artemus!”
I wheeled.
“What on earth are you doing?” Aunt H. stood in the doorway, her expression horrified. “Why are you in here? What’s this about?” She pointed to the books strewn helter-skelter across the carpet and balanced in precarious stacks on the desk. Books were everywhere, some open, their spines cracked, some resting face up. I’d been pretty ruthless about clearing the shelves.
I said tersely, “I’m looking for a secret passage.”
“You’re…” Her expression changed. Grew stricken. “Why? Why in here? Why now?” The color drained from her face. “Did you—?” She swallowed. “Was it…him?”
“Him? Him who? No. I didn’t hear him. I heard something.” I looked back at the partially filled bookshelves. “I heard a clicking sound.”
“You’re lying,” Aunt H. said in a wondering tone. She took a couple of steps forward to better examine my face. “You did hear something.”
“I told you what I heard.” I shoved another volume back onto a random shelf.
I don’t think she heard me. “And it frightens you,” she said. Her tone was incredulous.
“It doesn’t frighten me. It makes me mad. This is all bullshit, Aunt H. I don’t know what the point of it is, but I plan to find out. Has anyone made an offer on the property recently?”
“No. Of course not. Nothing would convince me to sell this house. The house will go to you and your children one day.”
I said shortly, “I live in New York. I like New York. I’m sorry, but I don’t see myself moving back here—nor do I see children in my future. So if you want to sell this place and move to a healthier clime, I say go for it.”
“Sell Green Lanterns!”
“Yes.” I added ruthlessly, “That’s all I’d do if I had possession of it.”
She repeated in that same stunned tone, “Sell Green Lanterns!”
“Aunt H., you yourself told Liana my life was in New York now.”
“Yes, of course. Now. But you’re still young. Things change. This house is part of your inheritance. This house is part of your family legacy.”
“Has someone made an offer on Green Lanterns?”
“No.”
“Is that the truth?”
“Of course it’s the truth!” she said indignantly.
“What about the adjacent properties? Is the old Carter School House still for sale?”
Built in 1873, the Carter School House had served as the local elementary school for generations of Russian Bay kids, though it had been abandoned by the 1960s. The property had been purchased by out-of-towners, who began construction to turn it into a single residence, but after a year or two the plans had been scrapped and the structure once more left to rot. Local rumor was that the building was haunted. A far more likely explanation was the new owners had run out of cash. Renovating a very old house in the middle of nowhere is a costly proposition.
The property had not been inhabited since.
“No,” Aunt H. said. “It was purchased a few months ago.”
“Was it? By whom?”
I was thinking farming conglomerate or some other evil corporate entity out to annex Green Lanterns as part of their final game plan, but Aunt H. said with a tinge of exasperation, “By Reverend Ormston. What on earth does the Carter School House have to do with you tearing apart this room?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. I’m trying to think of a reason someone might want us all out of Green Lanterns.”
Aunt H. began to splutter. She’s not a woman for spluttering. “You prefer to believe that there’s some complicated criminal conspiracy to drive us from our home rather than accept that Ogden’s spirit might be restless and wandering?”
“Yep!” I snapped. I don’t often snap at Aunt H. “I do.”
“Do you hear yourself? You’re willing to entertain the idea there’s a sinister plot to drive down the price of Green Lanterns—when no one has shown any interest in purchasing the house or land—over even considering the possibility that what ails this house is rooted in the spiritual.”
“You’re not talking about the spiritual. You’re talking about the supernatural. I don’t believe in the supernatural.”
Not exactly true. I didn’t think I had all the answers when it came to the afterlife. As much as I preferred a rational approach to life and death, when it came to heaven, hell, ghosts, spirits, and haunted houses, I had my share of questions. I think most people—somewhere deep down—suspect there’s at least a possibility ghosts might exist. Or if not ghosts, an afterlife of some kind.
Aunt H. said, “I’m genuinely shocked that you, of all people, would be so closed-minded.”
“I don’t know why me of all people,” I protested. “There’s open-minded, and then there’s gullible.”
Aunt H. drew herself to her full height—which, frankly, was still pretty petite. “I’m sorry you find me gullible simply because I’m not willing to dismiss the evidence of my own ears and eyes. It’s only fair to warn you that Liana is hoping to persuade Roma to return this evening for another session. Assuming she’s fully recovered from last night. If you would prefer to dine out or meet friends, I’ll completely understand.”
“Are you kidding me? Again?”
“I am not joking,” Aunt H. said grimly.
“Then I’ll certainly be here.”
Aunt H. opened her mouth, and I said, “And don’t worry about my negative energy interrupting the cosmic flow since I clearly couldn’t stem the tide last night.”
She closed her mouth, nodded, then turned and left the room.
I resumed banging books onto empty shelves.
Shortly before lunch I drove into Russian Bay to meet a couple of old friends at a pub called Hops and Barley. I hadn’t realized how oppressive I found Green Lanterns until I was having my second microbrew and catching up with Cyril and Deedee over the best fish and chips on the West Coast.
“Last man out alive,” Cyril said mockingly as we clinked mugs. “Congratulations.”
“Come off it,” I scoffed. “You guys could leave anytime you wanted. You just didn’t want.”
Cyril cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t I? Don’t I?”
“Do you?”
Cyril shrugged. He was a tall, lanky towhead, mildly cynical but mostly amiable. In high
school he’d had dreams of someday winning a Pulitzer. He was currently working as the lead reporter for the Russian Bay Navigator. It wasn’t the Washington Post, but there was something to be said for being the big fish in a little pond.
“Cy’s right,” Deedee said. “You got out just in time, Artie.”
Deedee, pretty, popular, and always top of our classes academically—well, to prevent Deedee from leaving for the big-city lights, her father had bought her a local boutique, which she was apparently turning into quite a success. Not exactly the career in fashion design she’d hoped for, but she too seemed to be making a go of it.
I said, “Yeah. Well.”
Cyril gave me an inquiring look. I shrugged.
Deedee said, “That’s right. You didn’t get on with your uncle. That’s why you left so suddenly.”
“He was not my uncle,” I said, and they both laughed.
“Good thing you weren’t around when Ogden went over—” Cyril swallowed the rest of it as Deedee directed a death stare his way.
I said, “It’s okay. I already know there’s gossip about Aunt H. cutting Ogden’s brake lines.”
“There was nothing wrong with the brakes of his car,” Cyril said.
Which was true. Ogden’s car had skidded out of control and gone over the edge of a cliff on the seacoast road. The official verdict had been Accidental Death. A lethal combination of high speed and bad weather.
At the same time, Deedee said, “Nobody with a brain believes that.”
“I don’t know. Something sure as hell put the kibosh on Aunt H.’s plans to turn Green Lanterns into an inn. Maybe guests were afraid they’d find ground glass in their Beef Wellington.”
“Your aunt doesn’t do the cooking,” Cyril objected.
Deedee rolled her eyes. “I don’t think it was anything to do with the inn or with people believing Halcyone killed Ogden Hyde,” she said. “To be brutally frank, I don’t think most people would have cared if she’d bumped him off. It wasn’t just you. He wasn’t very popular around here.”
“It’s her ruthless streak I like best,” Cyril said of Deedee. She grinned back at him.
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