An Ex to Grind in Deadwood (Deadwood Humorous Mystery Book 5) Paperback – September 4, 2014 (40 page)

“Then what are you doing?” I asked Cornelius.

“This is the symbol of the Freemasons,” Doc spoke up.

Of course. “That’s where I’ve seen it.”

“There’s often a capital G in between the square and the compass.” Freesia kneeled down and drew the letter G on the carpet with her finger. “My family has belonged to the Freemasons for generations.”

“Is there a reason you’re making four Freemason symbols on the carpet?” I asked Cornelius.

“Yes,” he said, lining them up more exactly.

When he didn’t say more, I growled. “Why?”

“Violet, your aura is going to turn black again.”

I was going to strangle him with my aura one of these days and make his match mine. “Please explain, Cornelius.” I used my nice Realtor voice.

“When we were here last, I noticed the Freemason symbol in the concrete at the base of the porch,” he explained. “In my experience, it helps the flow of energy if the ghost feels at ease with its surroundings. Based on all of the work done over time in Deadwood by Freemasons, there is a chance a ghost here tonight might have been a member of the Freemasons or married to one.”

I shot Doc a questioning glance.

He shrugged in response and continued to watch Cornelius make his preparations.

Next Cornelius dug in his wool coat pocket and pulled out four triangular shaped stones the size of his palm. He put one at each of the corners.

“What are those?” Freesia asked.

“They represent the four elements symbolic to the Lakota Indian culture—earth, fire, air, and water. Since the Black Hills is sacred ground to the Native Americans, and there is a chance that we may come across an even older ghost than one of the town builders, I want to cover both possibilities.”

I looked to Doc again, but he was staring toward the hallway as he had the other night, a frown on his face. I watched him closely for a moment, noticing the flare of his nostrils. He was picking up a scent of something; I could see it in the stiffness of his body.

“What a coincidence. There are four of us,” Freesia said, squatting down to take a closer look at one of the stones.

“No coincidence,” Cornelius said, adjusting the compass and square nearest to him. “Violet chose you for a reason.”

“I did?” My memory of this was me telling him I’d rather Freesia not know about our history with ghosts.

“Of course.” Cornelius unclasped one of the equipment cases Doc had carried in from the taxi. “As a conduit, you are continually working to open channels. You may not have realized it, but subconsciously you were seeking a fourth for our séance in order to create the stronger union needed to widen the channel.”

I was beginning to think he had me confused with that old oracle lady on
The Matrix
. Next he’d be handing me a spoon and telling me to bend it with my mind alone.

“If you say so,” I said. “But why four rather than five?”

Doc walked over into the shadowed hallway, moving slowly. Was something wrong or was he being cautious?

“The number four has great significance.” Cornelius pulled out his recorder that captured sounds at multiple frequencies and set it right outside of the square. “There are four cardinal directions, four seasons, four sides of a square, four ages of man, and four cosmic elements. The list goes on, but I really don’t need to tell you. You obviously know this.”

Or not so obviously.

“So are we going to form a circle inside of this square you’ve made?” Freesia asked.

“No.” Cornelius opened the last of his equipment cases and pulled out several odd-looking meters—some I recognized from before—and a video camera. “We’ll each sit at a corner, within the square but facing outward.”

Freesia watched him with her dark eyes glittering in the glow of the battery powered camping lanterns Cornelius had brought along. “Does facing outward have some meaning rather than facing inward?”

“Not especially,” he answered. “I’ve found that people focus better when sitting in a square formation if they have their backs to each other.”

I pointed at the video camera he was checking. “We’re not recording tonight, remember?”

“That is incorrect.” He unfolded a tripod. “I agreed not to film the four of us. I’ll set this up in the bedroom.”

“Filming what?”

“The mirror.”

The one with Layne’s picture. “Why that mirror?”

“Mirrors are sometimes windows to other worlds or dimensions.”

I followed him through the doorway, watching as he set up the tripod. “I always thought that was something Hollywood had made up to add suspense.”

“Mirrors capture souls, Violet.” He said it as if I were an idiot to think they were used only to look at oneself. “Since this was the victim’s bedroom, there is a good chance that if she’s still with us in spirit, she will show herself in here where she was probably most comfortable.”

Cornelius left me alone with the recorder and mirror.

I stared at the blinking red light on the camera. Had Ms. Wolff been standing next to me while I looked into her bedroom mirror days ago? The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I shuddered and tried to shake off the heebie jeebies that were crawling up my spine.

Doc’s warm hand on my back had a calming effect. When my gaze darted up to his, he smiled and tweaked my chin. “She’s not here,” he whispered in my ear.

My pulse slowed back to its regular rhythm. I followed him out to Cornelius’s square, which now had a candle placed on a plate in the center of it.

Cornelius checked his watch, and then peered out the window. “It’s almost time. Each of you take a corner.

Doc took the one facing the hallway. I didn’t want to face the bedroom or the wall of gruesome clocks, so I sat on Doc’s left, looking at the spot where Harvey and I’d found Ms. Wolff’s gnarled up body. Freesia sat kitty corner, the clocks in her sight.

“Should I be holding something?” Freesia asked.

“No.” Cornelius took his place diagonal from Doc, facing the bedroom. “I recommend the yoga Namaste position with crossed legs. You’ll need to focus on opening your thoughts, stepping outside of your conscious mind.”

Yada, yada, yada, I thought, yawning. I sat on the carpet cross-legged, wondering if anyone would notice if I grabbed a couch cushion so my butt wouldn’t go numb. I began some deep breathing techniques, playing along.

“It’s time,” Cornelius turned off the lanterns, leaving us lit by only the flickering candlelight. It smelled like vanilla, or maybe sweeter, like cookie dough. Was there a scent that worked better than others for luring the dead? I preferred fresh baked apple pie.

I checked on Doc. He had one arm resting on his raised knee, his other leg stretched out in front of him. He gave me a thumbs-up. I blew him a kiss back.

“Violet,” Cornelius’s voice seemed extra loud in the ticking apartment. “Open the channel.”

Right. This was the part where I pulled paranormal shit out of my ass.

I cleared my throat. Here went nothing. “If there is someone here, please tell me your name.” After pausing for a few breaths, I spoke again. “If someone is in this apartment with us, please step forward and tell me why you are here.”

Cornelius began to hum, as he had in our past séances. The clocks ticked rhythmically along with him, lulling me into calmer waters.

Closing my eyes, I tried another avenue. “My name is Violet Parker. I’ve come here to talk to you. Please tell me your name.” I knew as sure as Tom the cat would never catch Jerry the mouse that nobody was going to answer me, but if it distracted Cornelius long enough for Doc to touch base with the ghost in the hallway, then my work here tonight was done.

I let Cornelius hum for a bit longer, patting down another yawn, and then spoke. “Are you a woman or man?”

A look in Doc’s direction showed him with his head resting on his raised knee now, his back curved into a C shape. I stretched mine, resisting the urge to curl up and take a nap for a few minutes. My lack of sleep was catching up again now that I was sitting still.

“How did you die?” I played the
Changeling
movie over in my head, remembering that medium’s questions and the spine-chilling effect when the child’s voice responded. It was probably best not to go any further there.

“Were you young when you were killed?”

My thoughts shifted, beginning to swim, one floating past another as I drifted in the current, waves lapping, lapping, lapping …

I sank deep down into dreamland, then thrashed my way back to the surface.

I jerked awake, finding myself standing in front of the bedroom mirror in Ms. Wolff’s bedroom. What was I doing in here? I must have sleepwalked. I hadn’t done that in years. I looked for the picture of my son. Only it wasn’t there.

Crap, had I taken the picture in my sleep, my subconscious wanting to protect him? I checked my pockets. Nope. I wasn’t supposed to move it for some reason. Why was that? My brain felt foggy, my thoughts fuzzy notions.

I scrubbed my hands down my face and then looked at my reflection in the mirror. Something wasn’t quite right. I could see Cornelius’s camera, the red light blinking. The door was closed, the bed was made, the dresser was in the same place as usual.

I turned around to look at the scene and see if I could figure out why something felt off. The scene before me made me scratch my head. There was a completely different bed in front of me. Not just a different bed spread, but the whole thing was bigger with a headboard. I looked over at the camera to make sure it was recording so we could get this odd bed thing on film, but there was no camera there. No tripod. Nothing.

I looked back in the mirror. There the camera sat on its tripod, the red light blinking. When I turned away from the mirror, it was gone again, and the bed changed. The wall was different, too. The paint seemed darker. The dresser was gone as well.

What in the hell was going on?

I walked around the bed and stood where the tripod should be. I checked the mirror; it was right next to me in the reflection. Had Cornelius changed the mirror as a practical joke? No, Cornelius wouldn’t know a practical joke if it squirted him in the face. Something was off kilter. Was it me? My pulse picked up speed; I could feel it fluttering in my neck.

I started toward the closet. This wasn’t making any sense. The sound of a loud thump on the other side of the bedroom door made me stop. Had Cooper found us?

I slowly turned the bedroom doorknob, making only the slightest squeak. I peeked out through the gap and pulled back out of sight, my heart sprinting as fast as it could go.

The albino’s twin! Shit! Shit! Shit!

I stared across the bed at my wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. The video camera reflected there blinked its red eye.

Ohhhhh. I slapped myself across the forehead. Duh. Now I got it. This was a dream. That explained the mirror trick. Cornelius’s earlier explanation about mirrors had left an impression on my dream architect.

Okay. Only a dream. Been there, done that. Might as well see it through until I woke up.

I looked out through the crack again, bolder this time now that I knew it wasn’t real.

The albino’s twin hadn’t come for me after all. I was looking at my brain’s recreation of my Mudder Brothers’ nemesis. Out in the living room, the Donald-Duck looking fiend stood tall and frightening as ever, his face clenched in a manic smile, his eyes bulging more than usual as he raised a medieval looking ax over his head.

I looked down and grimaced. Great, another decapitation replay. One could never get enough of those.

Before I could turn away, the ugly duck swung the ax, severing the white-haired head from the body. The head bounced onto the floor, rolled a foot or two, and then stilled. I gagged. Sometimes my brain was such an asshole.

A bright light flashed, temporarily blinded me, heat making me step back. When my eyes readjusted and I looked back at the macabre scene before me, the head was gone … sort of. In its place was a shrunken, smoking raisin version of it lying there on the scarred plank floor. Another white flash made me shield my eyes and wince. This time a gnarled, shriveled body was all that remained. I covered my nose as a familiar odor wafted through the crack in the door. It was the same smell Harvey and I had noticed in Ms. Wolff’s apartment the day we’d found her.

The ugly duckling kicked the shriveled head, knocking it into two others just like it. All three rocked and rolled a little, then came to a stop.

Three shriveled heads? Oh, now I got it. This dream was about that old article Harvey had showed me. The mysterious shriveled heads piece. My brain had come up with an answer to the mystery. I wondered how Cooper would feel if I said to him, “Listen, I had this dream about those heads. I think I know who the killer is and how he did it.”

The detective would probably laugh his own head off.

Movement in the hallway across the way caught my eye. A skinny man with hair greased back and a black leather jacket peeked around the corner. His gaze landed on the shriveled remains of the three victims, his eyes widening to the size of silver dollars. His gasp of surprise resounded across the room, catching the ax-happy-albino’s attention.

I shook my head at the greaser’s mistake. What a newbie. He might look like James Dean with his cuff-rolled jeans and black boots, but he wasn’t nearly as cool as the iconic rebel.

Before the newbie could turn to run, the albino grabbed him inhumanly fast, lifting him by the neck. The greaser flailed, kicking in the air, trying to scream, but the albino’s chokehold left no chance. He stilled, his face turning blue-ish purple.

“What have we here? A nosey field mouse?” The albino spoke in that Slavic accent he’d had in the Mudder Brothers’ basement. My memory seemed to be flawless when I was sleeping.

“Put him down!” I demanded, halfway across the living room before I realized my feet had taken action. The stench of the gnarled bodies still hovered, making me gag a little.

The albino turned his head in my direction. His eyes were reptilian, his nose and mouth pushed out into what looked like a short snout. For a moment, he looked more like a white fanged beast than an ugly duckling, then he blinked back to normal dark pupils.