Ghost in Trouble (18 page)

The chair nearest the dictionary stand was turned a little, as if the occupant had just arisen and left the room. Horn-rimmed glasses rested next to a legal pad and an ornate silver-and-black Montblanc fountain pen.

Diane pattered to the table, pulled out the next chair, and perched on the edge of the cushion. “James, I'm doing what you asked, but I don't know what will happen tonight. I'm afraid the others are skeptics.” She looked unhappy and fearful. “Laverne says you're unhappy. You aren't unhappy with me, are you?”

Old walls and thick windows made the room a cocoon of quiet.

Diane clutched at the Venetian glass beads of a blue-and-white necklace. “Are you sure you want Alison Gregory and the Dunhams to be here?” Her fingers opened and closed on the beads.
“That's what Laverne said. They were here the night Jack died.” Her hopeful face was slightly tilted to one side, as if straining to hear. “Bring them back. That's what you told Laverne. I'll call them, but I don't know if they will come.”

Diane plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out a sleek black cell phone. “I don't like Alison. I don't think she's kind. James, you'll come even if she says no, won't you? Please.” She closed her eyes.

The stillness of the room was cavelike, but a cave might hold a spatter from trickling water or the rustle of a bat's wing. The library held only the faint, uneven breathing of a burdened woman.

Diane opened her eyes, nodded twice. “I'll call. I must, mustn't I, James?” She punched numbers.

“Alison, this is Diane Hume. I don't want to bother you, but I'd like to ask a favor since you are such an old friend of the family.”

I arrived in Gregory Gallery.

Alison sat behind a burled walnut desk in an office that was absolutely free of clutter. She leaned back comfortably in a green cushioned chair that made her white-blond hair even more striking. The office contained only one painting, a brilliant mélange of colors, arresting, evocative, and faintly disturbing. The expensive surroundings provided a background that emphasized success and power. Alison's smooth face held a trace of impatience, but her voice was friendly. “What can I do for you, Diane?”

As Alison listened, her finely drawn brows drew down. “I don't understand.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?” Her face was abruptly intent, her expression considering. Jack Hume had fallen from the balcony. Last night a vase had been dislodged from the balcony to crash into the garden. This morning Alison had insisted the vase had been vandalized until she realized Evelyn Hume was determined that its fall be
deemed an accident. Alison surely saw a link between the two events.

“What does that have to do with me?” Her tone was puzzled. “My presence at The Castle the night of Jack Hume's death is completely coincidental.” She listened. “Eight o'clock? Diane, I fail to see how my presence is necessary.” Her face folded into a tight frown. “Oh. Very well. I'll come.”

Alison clicked off her cell. She pushed back her chair and rose. Her expression suggested she was thinking and thinking fast.

I wondered if she was remembering chisel marks on the pedestal that held the vase. Or perhaps, she was focused on Jack Hume's visit to her gallery and his grim words about Evelyn:
My sister hates me. If she had the chance, I think she'd shoot me.

 

In the Dunham house,
Clint was alone in the den. He sat in a brown leather chair, holding an open newspaper. He wasn't reading. He stared at the wall of family photographs. His roundish face sagged in despair.

Quick steps sounded in the hallway.

He lifted the paper.

Gwen stood in the doorway. “Does salmon sound good tonight?”

The paper was lowered. He looked up, his face genial, though his eyes were somber. “Are you sure your headache's gone? I can pick up hamburgers.”

Gwen forced a bright smile. “I'm fine now.” She didn't meet his gaze.

The phone rang.

Clint picked up the portable phone from the small table next to his chair. He looked at the caller ID. “Diane Hume.” He an
swered. “Hello…Hi, Diane.” There was no warmth in his voice. “Gwen?” He looked toward his wife.

Gwen walked to him and took the phone. She turned away, walking swiftly toward the hall. “Got a minute, but I'm in the middle of dinner.” Gwen hurried down the hallway and pushed through a swinging door into a cheerful kitchen.

I liked the yellow daisies blooming in the wallpaper and a golden cherrywood table in a clean contemporary design.

Gwen stopped short in the middle of the room. If she'd looked pale before, now her face was stark, blank white. “I can't.”

Her back was to the swinging door. The panel ever so slowly and carefully eased open a crack.

I flowed through the door. Clint was an odd figure for melodrama in a stylish white-, pink-, and gray-striped poplin shirt, gray cotton twill slacks, wrinkle-free, and highly polished cordovans. He bent forward, every muscle rigid, and listened to his wife's soft, halting voice.

I flowed back into the kitchen.

“Oh, Diane, I simply can't…Someone on the balcony with Jack?” Gwen reached out to grip the kitchen counter.

For a moment, I thought she would faint.

The door widened a half inch.

Gwen braced herself against the counter. “I don't understand…Laverne Phillips? Oh, that's—” She broke off.

I wondered if Gwen had intended, in a natural, rational response, to insist that Laverne could not possibly have heard from James, that whatever Laverne said was a figment of her own imaginings. Or did Gwen realize in the same, chilling instant that Laverne Phillips might well know something and have learned that fact in a purely worldly way.

Gwen asked sharply, “What exactly did Laverne say?” She closed her eyes briefly, opened them. Her voice was wooden. “I
understand, Diane. I don't believe in this kind of thing at all, but if it matters to you that much, I'll come.”

The swinging door eased shut.

When Gwen reached the den, Clint was seated, holding the paper.

“Clint.”

Once again he lowered the paper. He looked inquiring, but the newspaper rustled until he made his arms rigid.

Gwen tried for a smile. “Darling, the most absurd thing. Diane and that awful woman are having a séance tonight. Poor Diane. They have one every Wednesday night.” It was as if she kept talking, her words would fill the emptiness in her husband's face. “Everyone who was at The Castle the night Jack Hume died will be there. It sounds perfectly dreadful. I don't like the idea at all, but I was afraid Diane would be hysterical if I refused. Do you mind terribly”—her hands twisted, belying the studied casualness of her tone—“if we go?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Diane's a fool.” His voice was gruff. He dropped his eyes, lifted the newspaper to hide his face. His words came from behind the shield. “All right.”

Gwen turned away.

When the swinging door to the kitchen soughed shut, Clint crumpled the newspaper in his hands. Fear glittered in his eyes.

 

Kay sat at the
dressing table. She opened a jewel box, selected a necklace of large, diamond-cut blue beads separated by silver oblongs. The blue matched her summery blue chiffon dress with a pattern of silver swirls. She reached back to fasten the necklace. In the mirror, she looked elegant, her feathered-short dark hair flattering to her fine bone structure. “Blackmail.” Her voice was crisp. “Ronald thinks he knows something someone will pay him
to keep quiet about. I don't get the public venue. Maybe the idea is, here's what we know and more can come out. Maybe he plans to put the touch on several people. The evening will be like a houseware party. Everybody come and look over the goods.

“While confined to quarters this afternoon”—her glance at me in the mirror was chiding—“I had an idea. It's time to add Sturm und Drang. I could call everyone together and announce that Jack was murdered. But Ronald may save me the effort. Now, I need to wangle an invitation to the party.” She glanced at her watch. “I'll catch Diane before dinner.” At the door, she gave me a brilliant smile. “Fortunately, you don't need an invitation.”

I started to speak, but the door closed. I shook my head. Kay might be eager for Sturm und Drang, but I knew what was verboten for me. No séances, thank you. I strolled to a chaise longue and settled comfortably. However, I was uneasy. I wondered if there were a way to warn Ronald Phillips against a risky gamble. Unless, of course, he was the killer and hoping to cast suspicion on others.

I popped to my feet and disappeared.

In the Phillipses' suite, Laverne lay on the bed, a damp washcloth on her face. “I can't do the séance tonight.”

Ronald looked up from a leather chair. His blue eyes were cold. “You will do as I say.” He looked down at a thick travel brochure with a picture of dark blue water and an elegant cruise ship. “This one visits seven ports. We'll fly to Copenhagen.”

I carefully eased open the drawer to a writing desk. I found a pen and cream-colored stationery with the emblem of a castle.

“I'm frightened.” Laverne's voice was muffled.

I wrote in block letters:

He turned a page in the brochure. “You don't have to do anything but be a dandy little parrot tonight. Say your piece and say it right.” His tone was threatening. “You won't have to do anything more. I'll take care of everything else.”

I scooted the sheet of paper across the floor, going slowly so a flicker of movement wouldn't catch Ronald's eye. I placed the sheet just inside the door, as if it had been slipped beneath the panel.

I flowed into the hall, rapped smartly on the door, returned to their bedroom.

Ronald looked around. His expression was alert with a feral wariness. He flipped the travel brochure to a side table and walked to the door. As he reached for the knob, he saw the sheet of paper. He bent, picked it up. He yanked open the door and looked into the hall.

The hall lay quiet and empty.

Ronald shrugged and closed the door.

Laverne propped up on one elbow. “What was that?”

A swift, exultant smile touched his face. “Oh”—his tone was careless—“just a little confirmation of my theories. Nothing for you to worry about.”

 

I paced back and
forth in Kay's room.

The door opened and Kay stalked inside, her expression frustrated. “Diane's always had the backbone of a noodle.”

“Not this time?”

Kay dropped onto the small seat at the dressing table. “I was sure I could finesse an invitation. I knocked on her door and smiled prettily and said I hoped we could have a few minutes after dinner, there were some points in my notes that weren't clear. She looked frazzled and said we'd get together tomorrow, but
tonight there was the séance. I pretended utter, heartfelt fascination and said in a tremulous voice that I wanted to reach out to Jack. Instead of embracing me as a convert to the Hereafter, she got this stricken look and muttered that the evening was only for those who were here when Jack died. She shut the door in my face. So”—she pointed at me—“you have to do your thing and find out what Ronald knows.”

My reply was swift and definite. “Count me out.”

She frowned. “Come on, Bailey Ruth. Tonight will be a gold mine of information. We have to find out what happens.” She looked exasperated. “Why are you staring at me like I'm Dracula?”

I glanced at my reflection. I admired my black jersey dress with a dramatic white floral print. It was perfect for a summer-evening dinner at The Castle. The vivid black was an excellent choice for a redhead. I smoothed back a shining curl. I wasn't, of course, being prideful. I simply took to heart the charge against hiding a light beneath a bushel. But my normally vivacious (even though I say so myself) expression was gone. In fact, I definitely looked perturbed. “Leviticus 19:31.”

Kay blinked in surprise, then shook her head. “I remember. Summoning the occult is a bad, bad idea.” She drew out the
a
in the adjective. Her tone was amused. “Chill, dearie. Laverne isn't summoning the occult. She'll be working off hubby's script. And”—she was abruptly serious—“if your spook routine was ever essential, it's tonight. I can't be there, ergo you take the baton.”

“I can't attend a séance.” I wasn't sure I could make Kay understand. “There will be the trappings of the supernatural. Wiggins wouldn't want me to be part of that.” I suddenly felt as though I were bathed in a beatific glow. I looked around.

“Uh-oh.” Kay stiffened.

My expression of seeking someone clearly hadn't escaped Kay.

She made a little shushing motion with one hand. “Is he back?
Honestly, one of you is enough. Really and truly. But you have to be at the séance tonight.” She swung around on the cushion, her eyes darting around the room. “Wiggins.” She sounded a little choked at using his name. “Hear me out. We don't believe in séances. Right? None of us here believe in that kind of thing. Although—but no, no. I remember. You sent Bailey Ruth. I didn't ask for her to come. Oh, that's for da—That is definitely true. No request came from me. Anyway, I understand the distinction between an authorized emissary and attempts to make a fraudulent connection with the beyond.”

I nodded in admiration. Kay put the matter very well indeed.

“However, you know and I know and Bailey Ruth knows that our participation—”

Was there a faintly heard rumble?

Kay continued hurriedly. “Actually, her unwilling presence, very unwilling, would in no way signal approval of the fraud perpetrated by Laverne Phillips upon poor Diane. However, since we are well aware the séance is a fraud, that knowledge surely permits Bailey Ruth to attend. Ronald Phillips intends to blackmail Jack Hume's murderer. Bailey Ruth may gain evidence to avenge Jack. Possibly if we follow those leads, we can prevent Ronald from putting himself in grave danger.”