Seance on a Summer's Night

by Seance on a Summer's Night [MM] (retail) (epub)

  “A rich widow,” I said bitterly.

  “Yes.”

  I thought it over. “None of that proves he couldn’t have decided to strike out for greener pastures and pulled the plug.”

  “Why would he?”

  “You just said he bled my aunt dry. He’d need a new mark.”

  “It would be a lot simpler to divorce your aunt than fake his death.”

  True. Ogden faking his death was tremendously more complicated—and risky—than just telling Aunt H. he wanted out. Plus, faking his death meant starting over completely, starting from scratch, rather than capitalizing on the social and financial network he’d spent time and effort building.

  “Maybe he knew you were closing in on him. Maybe he didn’t have a choice.”

  Seamus shook his head. “No. There’s no way he could have known that because we weren’t closing in. We weren’t even sure we’d located him until shortly after his death.”

  I said stubbornly, “The guilty fleeth. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe his criminal instincts told him it was time to pull up stakes.”

  “No. Trust me on this. No. Foxworth had dug in for the long haul. I believe he was completely invested in this identity. Even if he did decide to run, why not just disappear? Why attempt something as dangerous and problematic as faking his death?”

  “Maybe he was more desperate this time around. How many times can he successfully fake a new identity? He’d already used the plastic surgery trick. You said yourself he expected to remain Ogden Hyde for a long, long time.”

  Seamus was shaking his head again. “You’re arguing my case for me. Anyway, again, to fake his death, Foxworth would need a body, and where would he get that body? Violence was never part of his MO.”

  “You know whose MO has never included any crime of any kind? My aunt’s.” I didn’t wait for his response. “You didn’t answer me about Liana. What’s her rap sheet look like? Maybe she’s your femme fatale.”

  “She doesn’t have a rap sheet.”

  “Is she really his sister?”

  He hesitated.

  “She’s not, is she? Jesus Christ. So then who is she? His ex? His girlfriend?”

  “I’m trying to be honest with you, but you’ve got to give me your word you’re not going to do something stupid like confront—” He broke off, both of us freezing at the unmistakable sound of footsteps fading down the hallway.

  We jumped for the door together, both jockeying for position and managing to get completely in each other’s way. I settled matters by jamming my elbow into Seamus’s ribs. He woofed out a breath like an outraged German shepherd but gave way, and I yanked the door open and shot into the drafty hallway.

  Which was as dark as a dungeon and silent as a tomb.

  I felt for my phone, nearly dropping it as Seamus lurched into me. We both stumbled forward, automatically steadying each other. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and shone it down the long, empty corridor.

  Where the hell had the owner of those footsteps disappeared to?

  “Damn,” Seamus muttered. “Tarrant. I wonder how much he knows.”

  “Tarrant?”

  I felt rather than saw his nod. “He prowls this place at night.”

  “That makes two of you. At the least.”

  “I haven’t been inside the house until tonight.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. That wasn’t me the evening you thought you were chasing a ghost. I was peering through the window all right. But I hadn’t been in the house yet.”

  I tried to read his face in the gloom. “Then how do you know it’s Tarrant wandering through the halls?”

  “I’ve watched him. I’ve got a perfect view of the house from my front window.”

  “And a trusty pair of binoculars, presumably?”

  He avoided that one. “Tarrant doesn’t just stick to the main house either. He’s been snooping inside the garage, the pool house, the greenhouse.”

  I said slowly, “He’s looking for something.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Maybe your missing three million. Or whatever it’s down to by now.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded noncommittal. Why? Why wasn’t Tarrant as good or better a possible villain as Aunt H.?

  I said, “It wasn’t Tarrant I chased down the staircase. And it wasn’t Tarrant I heard laughing in Ogden’s study. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so much as a titter from Tarrant.”

  “What laughter in Ogden’s study?”

  Seamus and I had covered so much territory that evening, it only then occurred to me he didn’t know about the eerie chuckle that had seemed to emanate from behind the walls of Ogden’s study. I filled him in, sure now I hadn’t dreamed up that ghostly laughter.

  “Some kind of recording device,” Seamus guessed. “Triggered when you sat down at the desk. Or when the light went off.”

  “But who turned off the light?”

  “Could it be on some kind of timer?”

  I scoffed, “Talk about an elaborate scheme. You can’t suspect my aunt of faking the haunting of Green Lanterns.”

  “No. That seems pretty unlikely.”

  “And what’s the point of it anyway?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Yet.”

  I could feel his gaze. I met it directly.

  Seamus said, “A lot of these Prohibition-era houses were built with secret rooms.”

  “I know. That was my first thought too. Aunt H. always insisted there were no such rooms at Green Lanterns. And frankly, if there was a secret room or a hidden passageway, I think I’d have found it by now.”

  “Those rooms were built to foil full-scale police searches, let alone one pissed-off theater critic with a tape measure.”

  I made a face. “Fair enough. The thing is, someone hiding in a place as large as Green Lanterns wouldn’t require a secret room. If he’s clever—and patient—he could cover his presence, sneak food from the pantry and larder, sleep in a different room every night. It could be done.”

  I could see this thought had already occurred to Seamus. Instead of answering, he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me in the direction of the staircase. “We should finish this conversation later. When there’s no risk of being overheard.”

  “You may not be here later,” I said grimly.

  His hand closed tight, stopping me in my tracks. “I meant what I said, Artemus. If you hinder this investigation in any way—”

  “Go. To. Hell.” I glared back at him. “My aunt has the right to know she’s got an undercover cop on staff—not to mention the fact that said cop is conducting what I’m pretty sure are totally illegal searches.”

  It was impossible to tell in the weird light thrown by my flashlight, but I thought his face darkened. I know it tightened into angry sharps and planes. “I confided in you so that you could pro—”

  “You confided in me because I caught you red-handed,” I burst in. “So don’t try to pretend you were doing me any favors.”

  “I am doing you a favor,” he snapped. “And your aunt as well. If I can find that money, if most of it is still intact, we might be able to come up with a believable story for its safe return that exculpates your aunt.”

  I stopped glowering. “What about the rest of it? The fact that you think Aunt H. murdered Ogden or whatever the hell his real name was.”

  He said bleakly, “I don’t know if she killed him or not. I’m not a homicide cop. That case is officially closed. Who am I to second-guess the findings? I don’t have any concrete reason to request the case be reopened.”

  As brief as our acquaintanceship was, I knew instinctively that halfhearted attitude was not typical for Cassidy.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked slowly, suspiciously.

  “I just told you.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re up to something. Again.”

  A f
licker of some emotion crossed his face. Irritation? Offense? Surely not hurt?

  Seamus released a long, weary breath. “Because… Because you would never forgive me otherwise.”

  Now that, I did not expect. I was too confused to find it even remotely reassuring.

  “You’re right. But why would you care? How do my feelings come into it? You don’t even know me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Seamus said. “I know pretty much everything there is to know about you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Uh, possibly you don’t realize how creepy that sounds,” I said after an astonished moment.

  “I do realize. Which is why I had no intention of telling you yet.”

  Yet?

  “Tell me what?”

  Seamus said almost desperately, “Can we please go somewhere we can speak in private?”

  If Tarrant was wandering around up here, I sure as hell did not want him overhearing us. I nodded. “We can talk in my room.”

  But Seamus shook his head. “No. There’s no place in this house where I trust we won’t be overheard. Let’s go back to my place.”

  I glanced down at my blue dressing gown and pajamas. “I’m not exactly dressed for social calls.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s not cold tonight.”

  No. True enough. It was a warm summer’s eve. My reluctance was more about feeling…out of uniform. There’s something sort of vulnerable about traipsing around in your PJs, and I did not want to feel vulnerable around Seamus.

  I did not want to feel much of anything around Seamus, now that I knew whose side he was on. Or whose side he wasn’t on.

  I shrugged. “If you like. I don’t plan on staying long.”

  I led the way as we crept down the stairs and went out through the dining room French doors. Though the night was warm, it was moist with humidity, mist rising from the newly mown lawn and cultivated flower beds.

  The windows over the garage were dark, as were the windows of the main house. Seamus and I could have been the only two people awake in the entire world. It felt a bit like that. I had the impression he was marshaling his argument for the coming confrontation. I was pretty sure the evening was going to end with me firing him and ordering him off the property. The knowledge gave me no pleasure. I had liked him. Liked him enough that I had imagined there was maybe even potential for more.

  And yeah, there probably had been—though I’d never pictured myself dating a cop—but it was all moot.

  Though neither of us spoke as we picked our way across the dew-glistening grass, the night was alive with the sound of crickets and other insects. The full moon, drifting languidly as a lost balloon across the black canopy of sky, illuminated the empty drive and turned the garden silver, transforming it into something vaguely magical.

  I was suddenly reminded of the night of the first séance and the pale balloons I had seen skimming through the purple-edged clouds. At the time I had been too distracted to do more than register the curiousness of so many stray balloons. Now, belatedly, I began to consider their significance. I vaguely recalled hearing something on the radio about an anniversary or a memorial service of some kind. I couldn’t remember the details—and maybe I’d got it wrong anyway. Maybe I was clutching at straws.

  We reached the old carriage house, and Seamus led the way around the side of the building. He unlocked the door, and we stepped into the dark, diesel-scented interior. He flipped the wall switch, and the tube lights overhead buzzed into gray-green life.

  Seamus started for the metal staircase, and I said, “This is fine. We can talk here.”

  He said, “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,” and continued up the stairs, his boots ringing on the metal rungs.

  I hesitated.

  He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a funny smile. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

  I said in acid tones, “Yes, that’s it. It’s your animal magnetism. I fear I can’t resist your charms.”

  Seamus laughed. “I meant, maybe you were still thinking I was one of the bad guys.”

  Oh, right. I felt my face turn red and hoped the poor light would provide adequate cover. I said curtly, “You are one of the bad guys,” and started up the stairs after him.

  When we reached his living quarters, he felt his way across the dark room, pulled down the window shades one by one, and then turned on one of the table lamps.

  “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I raised my arm to illustrate I was already about as comfortable as one could get, and Seamus said admiringly, “That is quite a bathrobe. What is that, brocade? I didn’t know people outside of old movies actually wore things like that.”

  “Ha. Ha. Anyway, it’s a dressing gown.” And a Christmas gift from Aunt H. I didn’t actually swan around in brocade dressing gowns most of the time, but I’d figured if I was ever going to wear it, Green Lanterns was the place. “So what is it you have to tell me that couldn’t be said back at the house?”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  I resisted the urge to shout: NO, I DON’T WANT A DRINK, and sighed loudly enough to be heard in the back row. “No,” I said with exaggerated patience. “I don’t want a drink, thank you. I want to know what the hell ever it is you think you know about me that’s going to change my intention of tossing you out of here on your ear.” And then, because there’s a little bit of frustrated thespian in every theater critic, I swept over to the sofa, flung myself down, and crossed my legs. If I’d only had a foot-long cigarette holder, my performance would have been perfect.

  “Well, I’m having a drink,” Seamus said.

  “Jesus. Then pour me one as well,” I said irritably.

  He brought back two tumblers and the bottle. We clinked glasses briskly. “Sláinte,” Seamus murmured.

  I downed half my drink. There’s something really comforting about good whisky. This was Bushmills, my own brand—not to mention the brand of a few million other people—and I said, “What do you mean you know everything there is to know about me?”

  Instead of answering directly, he said, “We met once before. A few years ago.”

  “When?”

  “You won’t remember. It was opening night for Outside Mullingar.”

  I frowned. “I go to a lot of opening nights. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Seamus offered a rueful smile. “My timing was off. Then and now. You were in the middle of arguing with your boyfriend.”

  Greg and I had argued a lot, so that didn’t ring any particular bells either.

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  “It was at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre. I came up and introduced myself, told you I was a big fan of your reviews and essays in the New York Magazine, and then your boyfriend walked up, you threw your drink in his face, and exited stage left.”

  “Oh, that opening night,” I said. I still didn’t remember Seamus—or much about the play, for that matter—but now I knew why. That had been the night Greg broke it to me he was still technically married.

  And even then, it had taken me another two years to figure out that whether Greg got around to divorcing his wife or not, there was no future for us.

  “Anyway.” Seamus shrugged. “When your name popped up in connection with the Foxworth case—”

  “And why would that have been?”

  “We were trying to figure out if there was some reason Foxworth chose Russian Bay of all places in the world to resurface as Ogden Hyde. You seemed to be his only remaining tie to New York. Or the theater world.”

  I opened my mouth, and Seamus said quickly, “It didn’t take us long to see that the connection was purely coincidental.” His smile was apologetic. “It’s no secret around town that you detested Hyde.”

  Huh. I thought I’d hid my feelings better than that. Apparently not.

  “I see.” That was overstating it a bit, but a picture was beginning to form.

  Seamus said, “While we were as
sessing your potential involvement, I had to sort of…study you.” He grimaced. “Which hopefully doesn’t sound as stalkerish to you as it does to me putting it into words. Honest to God, it wasn’t like that. It was my job to learn everything I could about you, and I’m good at my job. That’s all.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. The more he protested it was just his job and he hadn’t been particularly interested in me personally, the redder and more self-conscious he got. Which, weirdly enough, was unexpectedly and disconcertingly flattering. He was so pained by the situation, it defused a lot of the voyeuristic element.

  I raised my brows skeptically—mostly because I still couldn’t think of a good response—and Seamus got still more uncomfortable-looking and burst out, “I mean, I did of course still find you attractive. But I wouldn’t have dug into your background if my agenda hadn’t been professional. I’m not a creep.”

  “Okay,” I said mildly, because I did believe him about that part. “But assuming that’s all true, I still don’t see why you’d let Aunt H. slip through the dragnet simply because of me.”

  Seamus let out a long breath, like someone about to jump into a very cold lake. “It’s not only because of you,” he said, “although I admit I want you to like me and think favorably of me. My sister was in an abusive relationship. She’s a smart, independent, beautiful woman, but it took a broken nose, blacked eyes, and three cracked ribs before she was able to call it quits. And then it took me calling in favors to get her the support she needed and protection from that asshole.”

  “I didn’t— I’m sorry.”

  He nodded tightly. “I know firsthand that the system can fail victims.”

  “You think Ogden—Oscar—was abusive toward Aunt H.?” I shook my head. “He wouldn’t dare.”

  Seamus looked sympathetic. Sympathetic?

  I said, “I don’t believe she wouldn’t tell me. She would know she could come to me for help.”

  “There are all kinds of abuse,” Seamus said. “But either way…victims don’t always come forward, don’t ask for help. For different reasons. The point is, I’m sympathetic to your aunt’s situation. It’s not my case. It’s not my business. Okay? All I want is to close my case. I want to recover as much of the embezzled funds as I can—that’s my job—and figure out whether—”