Pacific Grove was a ritzy beach town in Monterey County. Benzes, BMWs, and Ferraris roamed the tree-lined streets like sleek, expensive stallions.
Coulter stood outside the Lighthouse—a popular restaurant overlooking the ocean. He cupped his hand around his cigarette, struggling to light it before the sea breeze blew out the flame. Mission finally accomplished, he took a long drag and leaned back, one foot propped up against the wall. I could spend the rest of my days in a place like this, he thought, staring out at the expanse of blue sky and water.
A blond woman in a sweater set exited the restaurant, three adorable blond children in tow. She stared at Coulter with a look of dismay. “Okay kids,” she announced. “What do we do when we see a smoker? One, two, three, inhale!” All four of them held their breaths and ran to their car, a dark blue BMW X5.
Unperturbed, Coulter continued to stand outside and smoke. Several more diners glared at him as they entered the restaurant. He was tempted to light up again, but Scott and Anjali were waiting inside with their guest.
He took one last drag, then flicked the stub to the sidewalk, crushing it under his boot. Maybe Vegas was better suited to his tastes.
Dr. Virginia Madison was a short, stocky woman in her early sixties with enormous blue eyes that peered out at the world from behind rose-tinted glasses. Her thick brown hair was cut in a bob with bangs.
Coulter had the feeling Dr. Madison had worn the same haircut since the fifth grade.
“I’m thrilled the Booth family contacted us and not the ASPR,” Dr. Madison said, and beamed at them over a glass of sherry.
Coulter assumed it was sherry.
It looked like donkey piss.
“The ASPR?” Anjali asked.
“The American Society for Psychical Research,” Scott explained.
Dr. Madison smiled. “Yes. Not to be confused with my group, the NASPR. The ASPR is based out of Boston. We’re based out of San Francisco. And then of course there’s the SPR, Society for Psychical Research, which is based in London.”
Coulter yawned.
“Are you tired?” Dr. Madison asked with concern.
“No, just bore—”
“He doesn’t sleep well,” Scott interjected. “Night terrors.”
Coulter narrowed his eyes.
“Oh dear,” Dr. Madison said. “But then surely this job isn’t—”
“Could you tell us more about the Booth House,” Anjali asked. “Scott filled us in on most of it but…”
“You are the authority,” Scott said.
“Oh goody!” Dr. Madison practically bounced in her chair. “I love telling this story. I’ll just start from the beginning, shall I?”
Coulter had already heard the story in detail on the drive down and shot Scott and Anjali a pained look.
He was ignored.
“The Booths’ Victorian mansion was built in 1880 by Randall Booth for his new bride, Sarah,” Dr. Madison began. “Sarah was just seventeen and newly arrived from England. Randall was forty-two. Not uncommon in those days.”
“Seventeen?” Coulter mused. “All power to the fella.”
“Oh, Booth was quite pleased with the match,” Dr. Madison continued. She looked at Coulter. “Oh, not for the reason you think, Mr. Marshall, although I suppose there was that too. The marriage was strictly a business match between Booth and Sarah’s father. She was bringing quite a dowry with her—the deed to a large estate in Hampshire. Not that Booth needed it. He was worth almost twenty million back then, and in today’s dollars—”
“I suppose the man wanted to protect his investment,” Coulter said.
Anjali frowned.
“What?” he said. “I’m thinkin’ like a man from that time. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do as a historian? Walk in their shoes? Not force our modern values on ’em?”
“Er, yes,” Dr. Madison agreed.
“Let’s continue,” Scott said.
“Booth’s twin daughters were born soon after the couple moved in. For a while the family was happy; Randall was a known philanderer but he seemed to have settled down.”
“Or he was very discreet,” Anjali added.
Dr. Madison smiled. “Most likely. But the discretion did not continue. The year the twins turned six, Randall took up with one of the servants. Her name was Molly and she was sixteen.”
Coulter ordered another whiskey, neat.
“I think I’ll have one of those,” Dr. Madison said, looking at his glass. “I don’t know why I drink sherry.”
“I don’t know why you do either,” Coulter said and held up two fingers to the waitress.
“Now unlike his other mistresses,” Dr. Madison continued, “Molly believed Randall would leave his wife and children and marry her. Imagine her surprise when she discovered Randall in the arms of—”
“His wife?” the waitress asked.
They all looked up. The waitress set down their drinks. “Well…was it his wife? I’ve heard the Booth place is haunted. Everyone here has.”
Dr. Madison took a sip of whiskey and smacked her lips. “Delicious! No dear, it wasn’t his wife. Wouldn’t that have been a twist? Molly found Randall in the arms of a neighbor—a pretty young widow.”
“And here I thought history was boring,” Coulter said and widened his eyes as Dr. Madison knocked back her drink.
She smiled at the waitress and held out her empty glass. “Would you mind, dear?”
The waitress grinned. “Not at all. This one’s on the house if you tell me how it ends.”
Dr. Madison clapped her hands. “Oh goody! A fresh pair of ears.”
Coulter rolled his eyes.
By the time Dr. Madison resumed the story her cheeks were tinged pink. “Now this is where the account gets a little muddled. On the day of the twins’ birthday, Molly put a small amount of poison into the birthday cake. According to one servant, Molly wanted revenge. According to another eyewitness, Molly’s intention was to make the girls ill so she could nurse them back to health and maybe win back Randall’s favor. Both the twins had two slices of cake each, Randall and Sarah did not have any. By the next day the twin girls were dead. And Molly hanged herself in her room.”
“And the bastard Randall was left standing,” Anjali fumed. “He was indirectly responsible.”
“Wait, I haven’t finished,” Dr. Madison replied. “One year later Randall was murdered in his sleep. The case was never solved. Sarah passed away in 1922 at the age of fifty-nine. Just before her death she’d contacted a medium to help her communicate with the ghosts of her daughters and husband. It was a closed session, and the next morning Sarah Booth was found dead in her bed. No foul play or suicide, she’d suffered a stroke during the night.”
“Five possible ghosts,” Scott murmured.
Dr. Madison bounced in her chair. “Isn’t that exciting?”