Seances Are for Suckers Page 4

  “Uncle Nicholas?” Through Rachel’s muffled layers, I see one of her brows raise. “I didn’t think he was coming back. Before he left, he said he’d rather slit his own throat than hear one more word out of Xavier.”

  Interesting. “Xavier talks to him?”

  “Oh, no. Not directly.” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t talk to me, either. Most of his information passes through Grandmother.”

  Ah, yes. That makes sense. Latching onto the most gullible party is common in cases like these.

  “I find it interesting that Xavier is able to communicate at all, given the violent nature of his death,” I muse, and purposefully turn my back and examine the room around me.

  I soon find that the term room is pushing things a little. A room has four walls and a ceiling, contains finite space and definable boundaries. What I’m in right now is a portal to a different world. It’s a foyer of sorts, which opens to the second floor via a winding staircase that looks dangerous enough to cause several more ghosts to be created. There’s very little furniture to alleviate the vast openness of it—just a few pieces I imagine date back to William the Conqueror and are worth enough to pay for all the care Winnie will need for the rest of her life. There’s also a pair of heavy axes hanging above the fireplace, confirming my belief that many a murder has taken place inside these hallowed walls.

  It’s not the slightest bit warm or welcoming. I love it.

  “What did you mean by that, you’re surprised Xavier can talk?” Rachel asks from behind me.

  I turn with cool disinterest. “Oftentimes, spirits exhibit limited abilities based on the cause of their death. A spirit who drowned may be hesitant to enter a bathroom or kitchen. One who hurt his legs may be unable to move or walk without a thumping limp. Since Xavier had his voice box cut when he was killed, it’s odd that he’d retain the capabilities of human speech.”

  Rachel gives a slight gasp.

  “Odd, but not unheard of,” I reassure her. “I promise it’s not in any way extraordinary.”

  “But how did you know his cause of death? Did Uncle Nicholas tell you?”

  “Your uncle said nothing except that he finds this whole thing a nonsensical farce,” I say with perfect honesty. “I got the impression he’s not very open-minded about these sorts of things.”

  A round of slow applause sounds from the doorway to the house. I’m unsurprised to find the prodigal uncle standing on the threshold with all the looming lankness I remember from Happy Acres. Although I half expected him to show up in a tuxedo—or, now that I’ve seen this place, a suit of armor—he looks surprisingly casual in a wine-colored sweater paired with gray wool slacks.

  Warm clothes, I note with some amusement. He came prepared.

  “No, no, don’t stop on my account,” he says in that soft, yet powerful voice of his. “I’m merely showing my appreciation for a performance well done. I didn’t intend to bring it to a close. Tell us, Ms. Wilde—how did you know the cause of Xavier’s death?”

  The true version of events would be that Rachel herself told me as soon as we walked into this room. She noted that her uncle had claimed to want to slit his own throat rather than hear from Xavier, which implied that Xavier had met a similar fate. People often let small pieces of their personal history fall that way.

  But although I have the feeling that the cynical Nicholas Hartford III might appreciate hearing that story, divulging my secrets so soon would ruin my reputation with his niece.

  “Xavier’s imprint is all over this place,” I say with a prim smile. “His misfortunes are woven into its primeval energy.”

  Rachel gives a shiver of delight at my words, but Nicholas only chuckles and moves further into the foyer, bringing the door to a heavy close behind him. Sealing that wooden portal is like closing off all the light and air, and the house plunges a good five degrees as a result.

  Rachel squeaks. “He’s here. Is he here?”

  No. It’s just the magic of drafts at work, but I incline my head and close my eyes, breathing deep. “Not in full,” I say after a long pause. “He’s testing his boundaries, toying with me. He’s shy.”

  “Uh oh,” Nicholas says with a heavy tsk. “There’s your first error. Xavier isn’t the least bit shy—according to my mother, he’s gregarious and outgoing in all things. Personable, too. She likes him.”

  I smile tightly. “Yes, but he’s never before encountered someone who specializes in eliminating his kind. Naturally, he’d react differently to me than he would to family.”

  Rachel nods as if this makes perfect sense. Which, if ghosts were real, it absolutely would.

  “I assume your things are out front?” Nicholas turns to Rachel, the heavy lines of his face deepening into a genuine smile. I’m starting to realize it’s not a smile he shares all that willingly—or that often. “Brat, will you please have Thomas load up her belongings and take them to the yellow bedchamber?”

  “The yellow?” She pushes back her head blanket, revealing herself to be younger than I realized—no more than a teenager, really—and remarkably pretty. The soft roundness of youth has yet to flee her face, and her hair is a beautiful wave of tawny straw that makes me feel like a wizened crone in comparison. “But that’s the room—”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where Xavier manifests most often?” I guess. From Rachel’s widened eyes, I know I’m right. “Lovely. It’ll give the two of us a chance to get to know one another.”

  “You’re braver than I could ever be,” she says, but I notice that one curt movement of her uncle’s head has her complying with his request and loping off to find Thomas. The help, I’m assuming. I hope he’s wise and elderly and full of local folklore.

  As soon as she’s out of earshot, I level Nicholas with my best glare. It’s bad enough that he knows me for the fraud I am; he doesn’t need to broadcast it to all and sundry before my work has even begun. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Immensely.” His grin—that genuine, devastating one—deepens. “You’re even better at this than I expected. You’re worth every penny of your—ah, what did we decide your fee would be, again?”

  We didn’t decide on one, as he’s well aware. He paid me a deposit of five thousand dollars to cover the initial expenses, and I have every intention of racking up the final price based on how difficult he makes this. So far, things aren’t looking good for him.

  “You could take it a little bit easy, you know,” I say. “Belittling me in front of your niece isn’t going to help.”

  He offers me his arm in a gesture so smooth and gallant, I’m taken aback enough to accept it. I’m even more flustered when I realize how firm it feels under my own. There’s no hesitation in this man, no uncertainty. How wonderful it must be to live like that every day of your life.

  “On the contrary, belittling you is the only thing I can do,” he says. “If she or anyone else in this household suspects me of having warm feelings toward you, they’ll know it’s a trap to catch the perpetrator. Come along. I’ll introduce you to Mother.”

  “Are you even capable of warm feelings?” I wonder as he leads me toward the staircase.

  “In this house?” he asks. Yet another cold draught descends upon us. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  * * *

  My premonition that I would enjoy the company of Nicholas’s mother is proven one hundred percent accurate.

  “And I know how it looks, a woman of my age talking to ghosts, but it’s not senility. I know what senility looks like. It’s muttering to yourself and forgetting where you put your spectacles even though they’re perched on top of your head.” Vivian Hartford, the family matriarch, smiles at me with the kind of warmth my own mom had always been far too preoccupied to bestow. With triplets and a full-time job waiting tables, one could hardly blame her. “I’m not like that. My elocution is always precise, and I have no need for corrective lenses. My eyes are as good as an eagle’s.”

  “Is that the medical description of senility?�
�� Nicholas murmurs. “And here I thought it was a series of complex symptoms of decreasing mental acuity.”

  “If you can’t contribute to the conversation in a meaningful way, then I suggest you go make yourself useful” is her tart reply. Tart is the only way to describe this woman, and I mean that in the most literal sense of the word. She appears to be in her mid-seventies, with the same lean build and erect bearing as her son. But while Nick is all languid indolence, she’s clearly cut from a different cloth. Lycra, from the looks of it. Hot pink Lycra. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” he asks, and then sits more comfortably in his chair by the fire. Whatever can be said for the temperature of the rest of the house, Vivian’s fireplace seems to be in full working order.

  I sit on the other side of the fire with my pen poised over a pad of paper. “So you wouldn’t call Xavier an evil spirit, then?”

  “Not at all. He can be quite annoying at times, but he’s not malicious.”

  Nicholas coughs but doesn’t look up from the newspaper spread out in front of him. “It wasn’t malicious when that tray almost hit Rachel in the face last week?”

  “Of course not, darling. I thought it was rather cruel of him at the time, but you convinced me it was nothing more than Thomas being clumsy with the dishes.”

  He coughs again. “Oh? And what about the time he tried to push me out that open window?”

  “But that wasn’t Xavier, either,” she protests. “Don’t you remember? You decided you tripped on the curtain.”

  I bite on the end of the pen to avoid laughing out loud. I didn’t think it was possible, but I almost feel sorry for poor Old Nick. His mother isn’t the type to meekly knuckle under. No wonder he had to come to me for help.

  “Would it make the pair of you feel any better if I told you that it’s not uncommon for a family to be divided in this way?” I ask. “Spirits will often only manifest themselves to those who have a—shall we say—sensitivity to these sorts of things.”

  “How convenient for them,” Nicholas says.

  “It’s not convenient for any of us,” Vivian says. “Least of all me. Did Nicholas tell you what he’s going to do if I don’t admit that Xavier is nothing more than a figment of my imagination? He’s going to have me declared legally insane.”

  At that, Nicholas finally glances up from his paper, one corner folded down. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Well, you wanted to move me to the group home in Crawley, which is essentially the same thing.” She gives an airy wave and leans toward me, an impressively firm set of breasts pushing up over her athletic top. I don’t know what kind of genes this family has, but I want some of them. “Do you know what they do for fun there? Whist. Whist and television game shows.”

  “That sounds . . . terrible?” I offer.

  “Yes, I know. I may be old, but I’m not dead.” She laughs and casts a furtive look around. “Poor Xavier. I shouldn’t say things like that. It might hurt his feelings.”

  “I doubt it,” I reply.

  Nicholas tsks gently. “Are you saying the dead don’t have feelings? How callous of you.”

  “Not at all,” I reply. “I’m saying he probably doesn’t even realize he is dead. Spirits who linger rarely do.”

  “And you’ll really be able to communicate with him?” Vivian asks with the eagerness of a child. When I nod, she breaks out into a wide smile. “Excellent. Then I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t mind Xavier living with me, but it would be so nice if you could convince him to tone down his antics while I have houseguests. He upsets them.”

  I set down my pen and paper so I can focus my attention more fully on Vivian. Already, it seems, we’re getting to the meat of the problem. “Are you saying that his behavior worsens when you have company?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I cast a sideways look at Nicholas. “Any company in particular?”

  She tilts her head, considering. “Well, he especially seems to dislike Nicholas. I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true—it’s no use looking at me like that. He’s always at his worst when you’re here.”

  Once again, I find it a struggle to keep my laughter down. Darling Nicholas hasn’t changed his expression in the slightest, but it’s clear his mother can read his moods anyway. Despite our short acquaintance, I’m pretty good at reading them, too. It’s time for Madame Eleanor Wilde to earn her fee. No matter how much Vivian might like her ghost, she can’t be allowed to keep him.

  I place a hand to my temple and draw a deep breath. “Restless ghosts like Xavier only grow worse with time,” I warn. “It sounds like a cliché, but I can promise you that until we help his spirit find peace in this world, he’ll never be able to move on to the next one.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Nicholas murmurs. I look at him, surprised, until he adds, “That does sound like a cliché.”

  “Well, I’m off to my spin class, so you’re free to roam around looking for Xavier on your own.” Mrs. Hartford leaps out of her chair with the sprightliness of a woman half her age. “We don’t dress for dinner, but we do meet for sherry in the parlor beforehand. You’ll like that.”

  “Sherry? I don’t think I’ve had it before, but I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “That’s not why I think you’ll like it,” she says enigmatically, and bounces out of the room.

  I wait until the vibrant pink of her top is well out of sight before turning to Nicholas with interest. “Why am I going to like sherry in the parlor? Is she expecting me to start smashing wine bottles already? I usually save that for the climax.”

  “I have no idea what she’s cooking up.” He returns his attention to his paper. “But if you want to prove yourself worth your exorbitant rates, I suggest you make an effort to find out. For all we know, she’s planning to hold a séance. You’ll want to put magnets in the table and set up fog machines.”

  “I don’t use magnets and fog machines,” I say with a huff. And then, because it only seems fair, “I’ve always been more of a wind power and tricks of the light sort of girl.”

  Chapter 4

  As it turns out, I do like meeting for sherry before dinner.

  “So I said to him, ‘If you want the cemetery attached to the vicarage that bad, I’ll go ahead and include it in the purchase price. But don’t come crying to me when the dead start walking at night.’” The man in the middle of the story, a crass fellow American by the name of Cal Whitkin, slaps one massive hand on an even more massive knee. “Guess how long it took to settle the negotiations after that?”

  “One hour, four minutes, and fifteen seconds,” Nicholas says with perfect solemnity.

  Cal slaps his leg again. It’s the tenth time he’s done it since I walked into the parlor, each blow a little harder than the last. I can only assume his nether limbs are crafted of iron. “Not even close! The papers were signed in ten minutes flat.”

  Nicholas is careful not to meet anyone’s eye. “Fascinating. As a general rule, do you time all your real estate transactions, or is it only the difficult ones that get the honor?”

  Instead of taking offense, Cal hooks a thumb at me. “Did you ever meet anyone like this guy back home? I can’t get enough of him. Quick—tell her what you said when I asked if you liked my new haircut.”

  “I don’t need to hear—” I begin, but it’s too late.

  “He told me he once saw something similar on a baboon’s backside,” Cal says. He follows it up with a crack of laughter. “Get it? Because my hair’s so red.”

  “Actually, that wasn’t the resemblance I was referring to,” Nicholas corrects him, but he needn’t have bothered. Cal has fallen into another knee-abusive fit of the giggles, delighted to find himself the recipient of such distinguished scorn.

  I’d feel bad for the man, suffering at the hands of the dubious wit of Nicholas Hartford III, but he seems impervious to insult. To be perfectly honest, he seems impervious to everything. It’s not just the size of him—th
ough that’s substantial enough—so much as the way he commands the attention of everyone in the room. His curly thatch of red hair threatens to take over his whole head, his voice booms so loudly it actually causes a damp patch to shake off some plaster over by the fireplace, and he’s dressed in a beige linen jacket that’s better suited for a 1980s buddy-cop show than a stately drawing room.

  “Was the graveyard really haunted?” I ask, if only to keep Cal at center stage as long as possible. I don’t know how long pre-dinner sherry is supposed to last, but by the way everyone is settling in their chairs, I imagine it’s long enough for me to start digging for clues. No one has yet mentioned why this man is staying at the castle, but I have no doubt all will be revealed to me soon enough.

  The truth almost always is.

  “Well, I don’t know,” says Cal. He considers the question with the rub of his finger along one side of his nose. “I don’t go in for that sort of nonsense, no offense, but I suppose it could have been. I never visited the vicarage at night.”

  “It’s a common misconception—almost a cliché—that ghosts are more active at night.” I glance pointedly at Nicholas as I say this, but other than a slight twitch of the lips, he doesn’t acknowledge my hit. “In reality, spirits don’t operate on any kind of schedule—at least, not schedules as we know them. They’re often stuck reenacting a loop of their own past events irrespective of time or place.”

  “What do you mean, irrespective of time or place?” Rachel asks. She’s once again wrapped in layers of blankets and shawls, the pale jut of her nose all that’s visible of her face.

  I turn to her, eager to have such an interested audience. “We have to remember that our realm isn’t their realm, even though we share a physical space. Most people see their ghosts over and over again in the same location, right? Say, in the garage window or walking through a wall at the end of the hallway. There’s a reason for repeat appearances. It’s usually because that’s a significant moment in their own life story—the moment of their death or of severe emotional trauma.”