Medium Well (9781101599648) (10 page)

The office line buzzed and she picked it up. “Vintage Realty, Ms. Gunter speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“I'm not sure,” a woman's voice said. “I need to tell someone Danielo Ramos won't be in to work this morning.”

Biddy felt a quick pinch of some emotion she didn't really want to identify—a strange woman, calling to say Danny wouldn't be in after a tough night. And then she stopped.
Danielo?
She didn't think she'd ever heard Danny called Danielo before.

“I can help you,” she said quickly.

“Wonderful.” The woman's voice was warm and low, with a hint of gravel. For some reason it reminded Biddy of maple syrup. “He's not feeling well. He may be able to come in after lunch. I'll have him call.”

“Oh, well, fine, I hope he feels better later.” She frowned, trying to figure out what was happening. Was this some bimbo that he'd picked up after dropping her off? The woman didn't really sound like that. But if she wasn't a girlfriend, who was she? The answer struck her like a beam of light through the window. “Mrs. Ramos?”

“Yes?” Danny's mother sounded slightly guarded.

“I'm Biddy Gunter, Danny's assistant. I'll make sure all his appointments are rescheduled.”

“Oh. Thank you, Ms. Gunter, that's very kind of you.” Mrs. Ramos's maple-syrup voice flowed over her, making Biddy feel like the most important person on the planet for a few seconds. The woman must be some kind of magician.

“Perhaps he could call later if he's feeling better.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Ramos agreed. “I'll tell him what you said. Thanks again, Ms. Gunter.”

Biddy hung up, letting the residual warmth from Mrs. Ramos's voice drain away slowly. She and Danny Ramos had shared a transcendent kiss and now he was sick. She really hoped there was no connection there. But at the moment, she had other things to worry about. She took a deep breath and dialed Araceli's extension.

“Yes, what is it?” Araceli snapped. “I've got a client on the other line, Biddy.”

“Mr. Ramos won't be in this morning. He's not feeling well. I'll have to reschedule your meeting.”

There was a short silence on the other end, then Araceli was back, her voice colder by at least five degrees. “Come down here, Biddy. Right now. We need to talk.”

Biddy sighed. She wondered if she could maybe talk to Mrs. Ramos again before talking to her sister, just to warm up a little. Probably not. She gathered up a pad and pen and headed down the hall.

Araceli still held her phone as Biddy walked in the door to her office, smiling the kind of plastic smile she used when she talked to clients.

“Yes, Cam. Yes, I can do that. We'll see you this afternoon, then.”

Biddy hovered in the doorway, hoping she could slip out again, having made a token appearance. Araceli frowned, motioning her forward, then smiled back into the phone.

“Yes, absolutely. Okay then, I'll look forward to it.” She hit the disconnect button, dropping the smile as if it had never been there.

“All right, Biddy, what's going on? What's Ramos up to now?”

Biddy assumed her most bewildered expression. “Up to? He's sick, Araceli. You know what happened last time he came to work when he didn't feel well.”

Araceli snorted. “Right. Tell me another one. You're supposed to be on my side, Biddy.”

Biddy clutched her pad and pencil so tightly that her fingers ached. “Araceli, all I can tell you is what his mother told me—he's not feeling well. He may be in this afternoon.”

“His mother?” Araceli raised one faultlessly groomed eyebrow. “His mother called? Not Ramos?”

Biddy nodded. “A few minutes ago.”

Araceli pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Great. Now he's got his family involved. He's up to something, Biddy. I just know it. And I need to know what it is before he springs something on me. If anything goes wrong because of him, Big Al's going to blame me, not Ramos. You've got to help me with this.”

Biddy ran through a quick list of counterarguments in her mind, leading off with her sister's apparently advanced state of paranoia. None of them seemed likely to have any effect, though. “All I know is what he told me, Araceli. Or what his mom told me.”

Araceli flipped through a stack of papers on her desk, finally pulling out a single sheet. “No, you can do more than that. I told you to send me a daily report. Is that what you call this?” She waved the sheet of paper in Biddy's general direction.

Biddy peered at the sheet. “I told you everything that happened yesterday—what more do you want?”

“I want to know what he was thinking,” Araceli snapped. “I want to know why he couldn't close the damn sale. It sounds like Graves was interested—Ramos should have been able to bring this one home.”

Biddy shrugged. “Mr. Graves was interested. Mrs. Graves hated the place. She walked out before Mr. Ramos even got there.”

Araceli's eyes lit up. “And that was all his fault! If he'd been there in time to show them the carriage house, he might have been able to talk her out of her objections.”

Biddy had a sudden memory of Mrs. Graves's pinched expression, her shaking voice.
How do you stand it?
“Trust me, Araceli, nobody could have convinced Mrs. Graves to like that house. Like I told you before, it's a very tough sell.”

“It's his job to sell it, Biddy. He has this reputation for being able to sell anybody anything. A reputation he apparently doesn't deserve.” Araceli's gaze darted around the room, a sure sign she was planning something. “I think Big Al should hear about this. Maybe it's time he faced a few facts about his favorite salesman. Let Ramos take some heat for once.”

Biddy felt like kicking something, preferably her sister. “But we haven't had the listing that long yet—we've only been working with the place for a week or so. Let me see if I can get the carriage house cleaned up before you do anything. That might help the sale.”

Araceli narrowed her eyes. “You're not authorized to do any cleaning up. Petrocelli won't pay for anything like that. And Big Al should know Ramos is having problems. He always gives him a break.”

“Big Al likes Danny.” Biddy managed to keep her expression neutral, instead of narrowing her eyes right back the way she wanted to do. “If you go to him too soon with this, he might think you were jealous. That could hurt you instead, Sis.”

Araceli gave a huff of outrage. “How dare you! I am not jealous of that pip-squeak!”

“I didn't say you were, but look at it from Big Al's point of view. He might think you were trying to undermine one of his best salesmen because you don't like him. You need to give Mr. Ramos more time, Araceli. For your own sake.” Biddy managed a thin smile.

Araceli stared at her a moment longer, probably trying to come up with a counterargument that would let her do what she'd already decided to do. Biddy widened her eyes a bit to convey Concerned Sister, wishing she could tell Araceli what she was really thinking.

“Oh, all right,” Araceli snapped. “But I won't give him much more time, Biddy. He's got to show some progress on this, or I'll have to talk to the front office about it. I'm damned sick and tired of Ramos getting all the breaks around here while I do all the work.”

Biddy nodded, easing her death grip on her notebook slightly. “You're making the right decision here, Sis, trust me.” She turned back toward her office.

“And Biddy?” Araceli called.

Biddy stopped, gripping the notebook tightly again. She had a feeling whatever her sister had to say wouldn't be good.

“I still need those reports on Ramos.” Araceli's eyes had taken on that glacial look. “Every day. In detail.”

Chapter 10

Danny awoke sometime after noon, having slept heavily and dreamlessly for around five hours. He only woke when he did because his mother threatened to bring him lunch on a tray, which made him feel like two parts hypochondriac and three parts wimp. Grudgingly, she allowed him to sit at the kitchen table while she served him soup and a roast beef sandwich the size of an unabridged dictionary.

“I'm not starving, Ma,” he sighed, when she tried to give him a peanut butter cookie for dessert. “I'll have to hit the gym for a couple of days to work off everything you've fed me today.”

His mother narrowed her eyes but put the cookie back in the jar, then leaned against the kitchen counter. “What are you going to do now, Danielo?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Go back to work after I go home and clean up a little. Although I've already missed three appointments. I hope Biddy managed to reschedule.”

Her lips quirked up slightly. “She seems like a nice girl.”

Muted warning bells clanked in his mind. The last thing he needed was for his mother to shift into matchmaking mode. “She's my assistant. She's okay,” he muttered.

His assistant whom he'd kissed last night.
Last night?
It seemed like a week ago. Still, he'd have to face up to the implications of that little encounter sooner or later.

“I'm sure she took care of everything. I told her you might not be in at all.” His mother picked up a sponge and began to wipe the already-immaculate counter behind her. “But I really meant, what are you going to do about your situation?”

A small knot of tension formed below Danny's breastbone. “I don't know exactly, Ma. I need to think about it some more.”

“I want to see that house.” His mother turned back to study him again, emerald eyes bright, her chin at a combative angle. “Maybe I can help.”

“Help how? What do you have in mind?” The tension began to spread to his shoulders.
Damn!
He'd enjoyed sitting at the table and feeling nothing.

She shook her head. “I don't know. I told you—I didn't really ‘practice' as a medium. But I've got Mama's gift. I feel things.” She raised her wary gaze to his. “I might be able to make contact with your ghost.”

Danny considered how little he wanted to make contact with his ghost. How much he wished his ghost weren't his. How happy he'd be if his ghost decided to go back to being ice-cold dust.

How unlikely that was to happen.

“But you said you weren't a psychic,” he grumbled. “You said mediums could only work with some kind of intermediary spirit.”

His mother shrugged. “It's easier with an intermediary, but not strictly necessary. I may not see anything—I never have before when I walked into an old house. But I might this time since you'll be there.”

“Since I'll be there?” His shoulders felt tight all of a sudden.

“You might be the intermediary between me and the ghost. Because you've already been in contact, and because the two of us share . . . abilities.”

Share abilities. And ghosts.
Terrific.
Not something he really wanted to share with his mom. “I don't have any ‘abilities,' Ma. Or I never had before I walked into that damned carriage house.”

His mother narrowed her eyes. “Didn't you?”

“No.” The muscles in his jaw clenched tight. “I've always been normal. Or what I thought of as normal, anyway.”

She pursed her lips at “normal” but let it go. “You're very good at your job, aren't you? Why is that?”

His jaw clenched tighter. “Maybe because of my degree in business and my experience. I've been at this for a few years now.”

“Come on, Danny. You know it's more than that.”

He said nothing, staring down at his hands and wishing he and his mother could skip this conversation.

“You have a gift for old houses. Al Gutierrez told me that at your last Christmas party, after he'd had a couple of margaritas. He said the houses speak to you. He thought he was kidding, but I don't think he was.”

Danny grimaced. “You mean they really do? I never noticed it.”

“I mean you get feelings from the houses. Intimations. That could be your Riordan gift at work.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Any way I can give that gift back now?”

“Let's just go to the carriage house together, Danny.” His mother placed her hand on his. “Let me help.”

“Okay. We can give it a try. I've got the key.”

The afternoon shadows had spread across the walk leading to the carriage house by the time they got there. The swing beneath the live oak tree moved slightly in the faint breeze, almost as if someone were sitting in it.

Danny gritted his teeth. Time for his imagination to cool it. Briefly, he wondered if the carriage house would look any different in the morning light—brighter, maybe. Less threatening.

Not that it mattered. He was here now and stuck with the place.

His mother waited patiently as he unlocked the door, then drifted in behind him. He stared around the lower floor, feeling the vague sense of oppression he always felt when he walked inside.

“Oh,” his mother whispered.

Danny turned to look at her. She stood in the doorway, rubbing her arms, her forehead furrowed.

“This is an awful place,” she muttered. “Something horrible happened here.”

He nodded. “That seems to be the consensus. Which doesn't help much in selling it.”

She walked slowly toward the far wall, hugging her arms against her sides. “It's freezing cold. But of course you know that.”

“I've heard other people say it. I don't feel it myself. Just cold drafts occasionally.” He glanced around the room again. “Biddy feels it.”

His mother turned back toward him. “Biddy feels the cold in here? She must have some sensitivity, then. Have you told her what's going on?”

He shook his head. “She saw me lose it the first couple of times, so she knows there's a problem. But I didn't tell her what I saw.”

“You should. She should know exactly what's happening here for her own sake. You need to tell her, Danny. Soon.”

He shrugged. “I figured the fewer people who knew the better. I'd just as soon the information concerning my craziness didn't circulate too far.”

“You're not crazy. You're a medium. There's a difference.” She circled the space slowly. “I don't get any feeling in this room except the cold. Do you see anything here?”

“This floor doesn't do anything except depress me, mainly because it's such a hard sell. The trouble's all upstairs.”

His mother's lips thinned. “Then let's go upstairs, Danny.”

The afternoon sunlight seeped through the leaded glass as they stepped inside the apartment, casting shadows along the edges of the wall where the roof angled most steeply. His mother walked slowly into the center of the room, her head bowed.

He took a moment to inventory the contents: blood pool in front of the kitchen door—check, bloody handprints spreading up the wall—check. His stomach clenched, but at least he wasn't nauseated this time.

Oh, yeah, he was really crazy about this place. Or maybe just really crazy, period.

He glanced toward his mother on the other side of the room. She stood with her back to him, her shoulders oddly stiff. Ice dripped down his spine. “Ma?”

She shook her head, raising her hand to still him, then bowed her head again.

Danny's throat tightened. He considered how little he wanted to explain to an emergency room doctor why his mother had had an attack of something or other while visiting the carriage house.

She raised her head slowly, her gaze still fixed on the far wall. “Do you see him?” she whispered.

He peered at the far wall, trying to see what she saw. There was something . . . like a disturbance in the dust, a slight movement in the shadows. “Maybe,” he croaked. “Sort of. Do you?”

His mother nodded. “Not well, but he's definitely there. Medium-sized. Beard. Boots. Bad suit. Cut throat. Is that him?”

“Oh yeah. That's my boy.” Danny took a deep breath. “What does he have to say for himself?”

She shook her head. “He's not speaking. I don't think he can, perhaps because of his throat. I'll have to try another channel.”

“Another channel?”

His mother raised her hand again to silence him. Just as well. He didn't really want to know what other channels she could use.

He stared again at the space along the far wall. It was almost as if a breeze blew through the building, stirring up the dust into small whirling clumps. Only it wasn't dust. Shadows. Swirling dust devils of shadows.

Danny bit his lip. He wished he knew the guy's name, suddenly. It might make the person behind the ghost more real if he had something to call him. “Ma,” he murmured. “See if you can get me a name.”

His mother's shoulders stiffened, and he felt immediately contrite. She had enough to do, didn't she?

She took a deep, shuddering breath, then raised her head again. “No. I can't sense anything more. I'm sorry. Maybe it's because of the nature of the murder.”

“Murder?” Danny took hold of the support post next to him.

She nodded. “Of course. You already knew that, although you may not have spelled it out to yourself. The man was murdered here.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, he'd known it, but he hadn't
known
it. Not the way he knew it now.

“I need to see the kitchen.” His mother drew herself up to her full five feet six, a half foot shorter than Danny.

“I don't think that's a good idea, Ma.” His stomach lurched at the memory.

“I know it's bad, Danielo. I still have to see it. Don't worry. I'm tougher than you might think.”

“Ma, you're the toughest lady I know, honest. It's just . . .” He rubbed a hand across his head. “It's very bad, Ma. Worse than you know.”

She nodded again. “Of course it is. I can tell from looking at him. What happened to him was horrendous. But I'm ready, Danny. Let's do it now.” She stepped around him, walking toward the kitchen door.

He considered trying to stop her, but he doubted he could head her off. And maybe she wouldn't see what he'd seen, exactly.

His mother pulled once on the recalcitrant door, then jerked harder. The door swung toward her, and she stepped into the room. Danny heard her gasp.

He stepped beside her in an instant, his hand on her elbow. She stood with both hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Danny took a moment to glance around the kitchen. Spattered blood trickled down the walls, pooled on the floor, dripped from the cast-iron stove top.

“Oh, poor man. Poor man,” his mother moaned. “He must have suffered so much!”

“C'mon, Ma,” Danny muttered, pulling on her arm. “Let's get the hell out of here.” The smell was already pricking at his nostrils.

She shook her head. “Not yet. I'm not through yet.” She glanced around the room again, searching for a moment, then frowned. “He's not here, Danielo. He was in the other room, but not here.”

“Good choice on his part. Could we go back there now before I upchuck in the sink again?”

His mother took one last survey of the room, then turned back toward the door. “Whoever did this was a monster. Or someone who could turn himself into a monster when he wanted to.”

She walked through the door without glancing back. Danny followed her gratefully, pulling the door shut tight behind them.

He paused in the living room, peering into the corners. No dust devils in the shadows. “Seen enough, Ma?”

She sighed. “Yes. Let's go.”

Danny led the way down the stairs and out the front door. The shadows of the live oaks spread further across the sidewalk. Somewhere nearby a mockingbird was running through a scale.

His mother stood, watching him lock the door. “I wish I could have communicated with him somehow. I'm afraid there's not much more I can tell you about his story. Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

He slid an arm around her shoulders. “You did great, Ma. At least you let me know I'm not nuts. That may not help much in figuring out who old spooky is, but it helps me a lot.”

His mother shook her head. “Of course, you're not crazy. But you do need to find out who the ghost is and what he wants.”

Danny turned to look back at the carriage house. The upstairs windows stared back, blank, like sightless eyes. “I'd rather just sell the place and be done with it.”

“But you can't be done with it. That's the whole point.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Until you find out what happened and who the ghost is, you won't be free of him.”

“I thought you said you didn't know what he wanted.”

His mother waved an impatient hand. “Oh, Danny, that's just good sense. Think about it. Why else would you be seeing all of this? Why would he be appearing in your dreams? Why would he have chosen you in the first place if he hadn't wanted someone to know what happened here?”

He closed his eyes, rubbing the tension at the back of his neck. “Chosen me?”

She nodded. “Of course he chose you. Think of all the people who've been through that carriage house in the past hundred years. He never approached anyone else.”

“As far as we know.”

“Well, all right, as far as we know.” His mother held up her index finger, counting off. “Number one, you see the murder scene.” Another finger. “Number two, you see where the struggle took place.” A third finger. “Number three, the victim himself comes to you in your dreams. Of course, you were chosen.”

Danny shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, Danny, for heaven's sake . . . ,” his mother began.

“No.” Danny held up his hand. “Your number one is wrong. Number one, I touched the damn stove. I forgot about that until now.”