Seances Are for Suckers Read online

  Across the room, Nicholas sighs. “I suppose that means I’m doomed to this dinner party for all eternity, doesn’t it?”

  Everyone in the room ignores him.

  “We tend to think of flitting across windows and through walls as an eerie spectacle designed to frighten us, but the reality is almost always that the house has been modified in the years since the spirit was alive,” I explain. “We see them walking through that wall—but to them, it’s just a regular hallway that used to exist in their lifetime. The same thing is true of time. Ghosts don’t come out at night to scare us; they come out whenever their own past disturbances occurred.”

  “But my Xavier is always more active at night,” Vivian puts in. She’s dressed, inexplicably, in a white track suit that rustles like plastic bags every time she moves. “I’m sure you’ll see what I mean later. I understand you requested the yellow chamber in order to be closer to him. Very well done of you, my dear.”

  Nicholas lifts his glass of sherry at me in a one-sided toast.

  “But that’s just it,” I say, doing my best to block him out. “Of course I’ll think he’s more active at night—I’ll be inside the room for eight hours in a row. I’m not there now, nor have I been there for much of the day except to unpack my things and get settled in. And if we did hear anything from that direction, it would be easily explained away by our conversation or the dinner preparations. We’re more attuned to the sounds and sighs of the household at night, when we’re left to lie alone in the dark with only our own thoughts for company.”

  “Bravo.” Nicholas claps his hands politely. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  “Speak for yourself, young lady,” Cal intervenes. “You might be lying there without anyone but your own thoughts for company, but when I stay overnight at Castle Hartford, I’m not alone. I’m far too busy enjoying—”

  Rachel shrieks and claps her hands over her ears. I think for a moment that Xavier has made an appearance that I somehow missed, but Cal dissolves into hearty laughter, and Nicholas’s face takes on such a martyred expression that it doesn’t take me long to come to a conclusion.

  “Mrs. Hartford?” I ask before I can stop myself. I didn’t realize the old girl had it in her. “I had no idea. Have you and Mr. Whitkin been seeing each other long?”

  “Lord, bless you. He’s not my beau.” She cackles and tops off her sherry for the third time. A few more glasses of this wine down her hundred-pound frame, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have found the source of our ghost. “Cal is Fern’s gentleman friend.”

  “Fern?”

  “My sister, Rachel’s mother,” Nicholas explains. “Don’t worry—she’ll be down about ten minutes after dinner starts. She likes to make as theatrical an entrance as possible. You’ll like that. You can share tips.”

  I bite my tongue to keep my sharp retort in place, but it’s difficult. And not just because I’d love to get the better of that man for once. Some of it is caused by shame. In my preemptory reconnaissance of the castle, accomplished when I’d claimed to be unpacking my things, I hadn’t come across anything that indicated Rachel’s mother is currently in residence.

  That such a person exists is, of course, perfectly natural. However, when I peeked inside Rachel’s room, everything about the space made it appear that she’s a permanent resident with her grandmother. Not only were her clothes and electronics scattered about the room as though she shed them like a skin, but she also had several drawings tacked up to cover the delicate pink flowered wallpaper of her room. They were beautiful drawings, all done in black ink, full of tortuous, elongated figures and morose landscapes.

  They were the exact type of drawings a troubled, angst-ridden teen who may or may not get her kicks from pretending to be a ghost might draw. They were also clear signs that her grandmother was raising her, with the occasional not-so-helpful aside from good ol’ Uncle Nick. A mother never figured in the conclusions I drew.

  Oh, dear. It’s not good for a medium to overlook an entire person living in a house. I hope I’m not losing my touch.

  “If you ask me, Fern’s entrances are worth the wait,” Cal says, his words leveled as if daring us to disagree. “It’s just that you’re all so used to them, you don’t know how to appreciate her the way I do.”

  “I’m sure you appreciate her more than enough for everyone,” I say with a smile that invites him to open up. And then, on a hunch, “Xavier doesn’t like her much, does he?”

  Cal releases a huff, his whole body heaving with indignation. “No, he doesn’t, and if you ask me, it just goes to show how the living and the dead should never share the same house.” His booming voice fills the corners of the room. “Fern has more of a right to be here than he does, and if Xavier doesn’t like it, then that’s his problem. He can take his business somewhere else.”

  Business? That sounds promising, and I’d like to follow up, but there isn’t an opportunity. Without any kind of warning, the door to the parlor swings open with enough force to cause a cold blast of wind to move through, flickering the flames of the fireplace and dropping the room at least ten degrees. The doorknob also slams against the wall, shaking a nearby painting until it’s askew and dangling, a leafy frond in one corner shivering long after the intrusion has been made.

  I half expect a ghostly apparition to appear in the doorway, but all that happens is a well-built young man in a flannel shirt and work boots apologizes for the noise.

  “It’s my own fault,” he says to Nicholas. “I greased the hinges on all the doors this morning, like you asked.”

  “Yes, I noted as much. I’m sure Ms. Wilde appreciates your efforts, as this will allow her to move more stealthily through the house and around our private rooms. To, ah, investigate the ghost,” Nicholas adds when I open my mouth to protest.

  As he speaks, Nicholas also rises to his feet. It’s the first real movement he’s made in fifteen minutes, so I assume that means the flannel-clad man is Thomas, the butler-slash-manservant come to inform us that it’s time to head into our meal. With his stocky build and full head of golden hair, Thomas couldn’t be further from the wizened old folklorist I’d imagined. Especially when he winks at me, his playful blue eyes daring me to mention the indiscretion to my hosts.

  I’d put the man at around my own age, give or take a few years. He’s also much nearer to my own class—a thing that’s evident in both his boots and his bearing. It’s enough to reinforce that he and I are the hired help, the toiling drudges, the two bastions of sanity under a roof that probably doesn’t see much of it. Even though I make it a point never to get too friendly with anyone on a job, I flash him a knowing grin. It’s nice to know there’s someone under this roof who finds these people as bizarre as I do.

  “Welcome to Castle Hartford,” Thomas says with a mock bow as he holds open the door.

  We file out of the room with much less pomp than expected. I’d assumed we’d pair off in twos like animals boarding the ark, a gentleman’s arm to support each lady, but it’s more of an ennui-fueled shuffle. Nicholas does have the decency to motion for me to precede him, but Cal’s hand prevents me from making good my escape.

  “Wha—” I begin, but he shakes his head in such a fierce way that I drop silent at once.

  Cal’s hand stays on my arm until everyone else has moved out of earshot, causing my interest to pick up. When I come to a troubled house such as this one, it’s not uncommon for my role as ghost hunter to transform into that of impromptu therapist. See, all families have their dramas and problems, and to get an unbiased outside opinion—especially from someone who’s sensitive to these sorts of things—is like winning the lottery. You’d be surprised how many people confess their deepest, darkest secrets within hours of meeting me.

  “Yes?” I ask as gently as I can. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

  “Yeah. Take these.” He shoves one of his fists at me.

  I’m so startled that I don’t stop him as he opens his fing
ers to drop a handful of cookies into my palm. I recognize them as the ones from the biscuit tin over by the sherry table.

  I stare at the chocolate-covered treats as if examining them for clues. “O-kay. What do I need them for? Does Xavier like biscuits?”

  He shakes his head and opens his jacket to flash me the interior breast pocket. It bulges with more cookies, a candy bar, and what I suspect might be a can of tuna.

  “You’re a tiny scrap of a thing already,” he says. “I just wouldn’t want you to starve, that’s all.”

  And on that bizarre pronouncement, he adopts the role of gentleman and offers me his arm. There’s not much else for me to do, so after tucking the biscuits into one of the folds of my scarf, I take it.

  * * *

  The reason for the biscuits becomes apparent about five seconds into dinner. I wasn’t sure what kind of meal to expect from a bona fide English castle, but I had visions of whole roasted pigs, rich sauces poured over fifteen kinds of fish, and towering desserts that wobbled when brought in.

  What I get is a thin, watery soup with chunks of what might be potatoes but are more likely turnips, and a roll of bread so hard I suspect it might be part of the home’s original stonework.

  “We don’t bother with multiple courses here, so eat up,” Mrs. Hartford informs me around a mouthful of potaturnip. “We go all out on special occasions, but most days we prefer to keep things cozy. I hope you don’t mind that we consider you one of us already.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” I manage before I catch Cal’s eye across the table. He pats his breast pocket knowingly.

  As I make an attempt at softening the bread by soaking it in the soup, I sneak a covert glance around the table to see how England’s elite fares over fare like this. They must be used to the food—or at least have a direct pipeline to the kitchen later—because both Rachel and Nicholas calmly spoon in their meals.

  I’m wondering how best to clandestinely smuggle a few biscuits from my scarf to my mouth when a distraction in the form of Fern Hartford appears. The double doors are thrown open, and yet another breeze gusts through, robbing our soup of the wisp of steam that was the only enticing thing about it.

  The discomfort is soon revealed to be worth it. I’m not sure what I expected Nicholas’s sister to look like—maybe a cross between Rachel’s fresh-faced beauty and his urbane calm—but what I get is a vision of one of the most glamorous women I’ve ever seen.

  She’s severely underdressed for the weather inside the castle, her dress a silky, cream-colored sheath that looks fantastic on her long, lean form. I have no idea what kind of undergarments have to be worn to show no lines or creases like that, but she’s perfect from head to toe. A voluminous fall of blond hair is swept off to one side, and her only concession to the cold is a muff she carries in one hand. I suspect she’s using it to hide a few snacks of her own and make a note to come up with something similar. If my stay here is going to be an extended one, food-smuggling tricks are going to have to be added to my lineup.

  She’s a few years older than me, but still young enough that I have to do some mental arithmetic before I’m able to figure out how Rachel can be her daughter. My best guess is that Fern is in her mid-thirties. That would have given her enough time to enjoy a teenage pregnancy before investing in some great beauty products to keep people on their toes.

  “You couldn’t have waited ten more minutes to serve dinner?” she asks as she moves the rest of the way into the room. Slinks, really, moving like a fox or a minx or some other animal that makes liberal use of the end of the alphabet. She drops a kiss on Cal’s forehead, leaving behind a bright red mark before seating herself next to him, “Really, Mother. I don’t think it’s asking too much to be able to partake in the family rituals.”

  “We have a guest staying with us,” Vivian says without looking up from her soup. “It would’ve been rude to ask her to starve because you can’t be bothered to invest in a watch.”

  “She’s going to starve no matter what,” Cal mutters under his breath. Only I hear him, which means only I’m forced to choke on my laugh.

  “Good evening, Nicholas. Rachel, darling.” She nods at each person as she speaks, finally landing on me. “You must be the guest in danger of starvation. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Ms. Fernley Patrice Hartford. You may call me Fern.”

  She reaches across the table to offer me her hand, which she does not in the gesture of a handshake, but limply, with the palm faced down, almost as though I’m expected to bestow a gallant kiss. Since I’m not accustomed to kissing rings—papal, noble, or otherwise—I merely take her limp fingers in my own and give them a wiggle.

  “Madame Eleanor Wilde,” I say in tones to rival her own. “You may call me Madame.”

  Across the table, Nicholas looks up from his meal with a glint in his eye. I note, with some satisfaction, that although he seems to be bringing his spoon to his mouth in regular intervals, the level of liquid in the bowl hasn’t gone down in the slightest. Either he’s good at discreetly refilling it, or he, too, has a candy bar hidden in his lap.

  “Oh, are you French?” Fern counters with a pert air. “Où avez-vous étudié?”

  “Not French,” I reply just as pertly. “I commune with the dead.”

  “I can’t decide if that’s better or worse,” Cal says with a loud chortle. “Can’t stand the French, but then, I don’t much care for dead people either. What say you, Nick, old boy?”

  “I make it a general rule not to disparage an entire nation in one glib comment,” Nicholas replies without blinking. “Besides—it’s not possible to commune with the dead based on the simple fact that they’re dead.”

  “Oh, nice,” I’m goaded into saying. “You won’t disparage a nation without cause, but you have no problems disparaging my profession.”

  He glances at me over the top of his empty wineglass. The wine is of a much higher quality than the food, which would account for so much of it being drained from our glasses already. “Show me actual proof of Xavier’s existence, and I’ll amend my words. Until then, I retain the right to consider him nothing more than a figment of my mother’s overactive imagination.”

  “Xavier! All we ever talk about is that stupid ghost,” Fern scoffs. I can’t say that I’m surprised at her outrage. This is clearly a woman who doesn’t enjoy being upstaged. “If you want my opinion, Madame Eleanor, he’s nothing but a whiny, spoiled brat who didn’t get enough attention in his own lifetime, so he’s trying to make up for it now.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “But you do believe he’s real?”

  “He’d better be,” she says icily. “He ripped up four of my favorite gowns.”

  Ripped gowns, eh? I don’t know for sure which family member is responsible for that sort of juvenile acting out, but I make a mental note to add it to my notebook later. So far, Xavier’s manipulations extend to making a cold, draughty castle even colder, whispering to Vivian through walls, and destroying the wardrobe of a woman who I’m sure has plenty of dresses to spare.

  In other words, no real manipulations at all. The lack of any major monetary damage or personal harm indicates that the culprit is most likely a member of the family. Someone is going to extreme measures to send a message, but not so extreme that the losses will be irreversible. That’s an inside job if I’ve ever seen one.

  A ping of disappointment fills me at such an easy answer to the Hartford ghost. When Nicholas swooped in with his promises of intrigue and ancestral estates and private jets, I thought for sure there would be something extraordinary afoot. But his family is much the same as every other one I’ve dealt with so far: a little delusional, a lot dysfunctional. Fifty bucks says Xavier turns out to be nothing more than Rachel acting out against her mother’s crass beau. A broken bottle of wine and a stern talking-to, and all will be at peace again.

  Alas. This is what I get for being optimistic. I, of all people, should have known better.

  “Is everything alright
?” Nicholas asks.

  “Do you sense something?” Rachel adds.

  “I hope it’s not the soup,” Vivian says. “This is one of my favorite recipes.”

  Since I’ve already let my disappointment show on my face—an amateur move, if there ever was one—I place a hand to my head and feign intense concentration. “Xavier isn’t happy that I’m here,” I say, casting my own emotions onto the family’s ghost. “He’s pushing me away, I can feel it.”

  Nicholas’s voice is sharper than I expect. “Does this mean you’re not going to stay?” he asks.

  “You can’t go!” Rachel cries with every appearance of real distress. “You knew all those things about Xavier’s death and how spirits act and stuff. You’re like a ghost genius. We need you.”

  Cal adds his entreaty to Rachel’s. “It does seem a shame to come all this way before you’ve even met the guy. Er, ghost, I mean.”

  When I look up at Nicholas, he appears to have recovered whatever caused his outburst, but he’s watching me with a closeness bordering on the uncomfortable. “The decision whether to stay or go is, of course, yours,” he says, his tone level. “But I do hope you’ll stay.”

  I have no intention of leaving before this job is through—and not just because of the potential to hike up the costs. Strange as it may seem, I like this family. Liam is a great brother, and Winnie can hardly be blamed for her lack of sparkling conversation, but it’s been a long time since I felt so comfortable anywhere.

  Spiritual medium or not, I can feel that this family—that this house—welcomes me.

  “I only meant that it wouldn’t be surprising if Xavier’s activities start to increase or decrease at an accelerated rate,” I explain. “A medium’s presence is often perceived as a threat, which means he may adjust his usual activities.”

  “Oh, right,” Rachel says knowingly. “Because he knows you’re out to get him.”

  Well, yes. That and the fact that whoever is behind Xavier’s tricks will either amp things up in an attempt to get rid of me before I find him out, or he’ll run into hiding out of fear of discovery. Naturally, I don’t say that part aloud. One of a ghost hunter’s most valuable tools is restraint.