Chapter Seven

 

I spent the better part of the morning checking Seamus Cassidy’s job references despite Aunt Halcyone’s nervous reminder that we couldn’t afford to fire him even if he had faked his résumé.

“At least we should know what we’re dealing with,” I told her, and she reluctantly agreed.

But what we were dealing with remained an enigma. To me, anyway.

Apparently, Cassidy had spent three years working for the city of San Francisco in what was termed a Gardener 2 position. According to his former supervisor, his duties had been to maintain lawns and flower beds—including applying fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides—participate in greenhouse cultivation and transplanting operations, supervise employees by assigning duties and checking work for completion, and perform other duties as assigned.

Three years of that and he couldn’t tell a begonia from a dahlia? Three years of that and he didn’t have a respectable callus to call his own?

But according to the Recreation and Parks Department Director of Operations James Rosario, Cassidy had performed his job with knowledge, ability, and skill.

“So you’d rehire him?” I asked.

“In a heartbeat,” Rosario assured me.

I remained skeptical.

Before working for the city, Cassidy had been employed by a Mrs. David Honeycutt of Honeycutt House in Pacific Heights. Mrs. Honeycutt remembered Cassidy very well. She said he had spent one year as an Under Gardener (Did they still make those?) and, after the retirement of her Master Gardener, had taken on that position. Mrs. Honeycutt praised Cassidy’s knowledge, ability, and skill.

Was there an echo in here?

“The job sounds perfect for him. Why did he leave?” I asked.

“Seamus wanted to work for the city,” Mrs. Honeycutt replied promptly. “Higher wages and better benefits than we could offer. Unfortunately.”

“Would you rehire him?” I asked.

Mrs. Honeycutt gave a little trill of laughter at the very question. Of course they would! In a heartbeat!

 

 

“Then it’s good news,” Aunt Halcyone said when I reported back to her.

I didn’t know if it was good news or not. I didn’t like the fact that Mrs. Honeycutt and James Rosario seemed to be reading from the same script. But seeing the relief on my aunt’s face, I kept the thought to myself.

“It could be worse,” I admitted.

Auntie H. laughed and patted my hand.

My next move was to phone a locksmith. By the end of the day, we had brand-new locks on all the windows and doors of the ground floor.

My aunt was unconvinced this was a move in the right direction.

“I’m afraid Tarrant is going to be offended you didn’t even consult him, dear. He’s so…sensitive these days.”

I said blandly, “I hated to bother him with this kind of thing when he’s already had to take on so much extra work. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be in favor of anything that helps Betty feel safer at night.”

Aunt Halcyone grimaced. “I don’t believe Ulyanna is any more afraid of burglars than I am.”

“Well, I’ll feel safer,” I told her, and she shook her head.

I did feel better after the locks were changed. For a little while, anyway.

Until the séance.

The day after I had the locks changed, Aunt H. informed me Roma Loveridge would be conducting a séance that very evening in the dining room.

“I guess it’s Taco Bell for me tonight,” I said. I was kidding—about eating at Taco Bell, anyway—but gave it up at her look of real dismay. “Now don’t look like that. If you want me there, I’ll be there. I just thought nonbelievers messed with the celestial vibrations.”

“You could try to keep an open mind,” Aunt H. said.

“I could. That’s true.”

“It means so much to Liana— Dear, don’t roll your eyes like that. You’re not eleven years old, after all.”

I grinned and kissed her cheek. “For you and only you, I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

I was lying about keeping an open mind, though. Not that I didn’t believe there might be more to the afterlife than earth and worms. I freely admit there’s plenty of things beyond my simple comprehension, from man buns to the Standard Model. I’m undecided on the power of prayer, but one thing I’m pretty sure of is that paying a professional medium to act as go-between for you and your dearly departed is the equivalent of throwing money in a wishing well.

Regardless of my private feelings, no way was that séance taking place without me being there to observe the famed Ms. Loveridge in action.

Aunt Halcyone had confided to me that Roma Loveridge preferred to have at least nine people present at her soirees because, according to the Bible, nine represented finality and the last judgment—or something like that. It was all moot because Liana didn’t want any “outsiders,” i.e., former friends who might question what the hell the two of them were thinking, so they’d dispensed with the idea of nine attendees and relied on using the Tarrants to help fill out the sitting.

I could finally see where Tarrant might have a legitimate complaint about work conditions.

“Since we’re still a few bodies short of a full séance, why don’t we invite Cassidy to sit in?” I suggested. I’m not exactly sure why the idea occurred to me, beyond the uneasy feeling that if something went wrong, I’d be pretty much on my own. I might not trust Cassidy, but I did think he’d be a good man in an emergency. Unless the emergency had to do with knowing toadstools from mushrooms or something like that.

My aunt’s eyes lit up. “Oh! Do you think he might be willing?” The next instant, the light died out of her face. “No, never mind. Liana wouldn’t want a stranger to attend.”

“I have no idea if he’d be willing or not, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. As for what Liana wants or doesn’t want, this is your home. You get to decide who attends the parties here.”

“Of course, dear. It’s just that when Liana works herself into a state, it’s…rather exhausting.”

I was ashamed of my impatience. It was easy for me to say Liana could like it or lump it. Auntie H. was the one who had to deal with the woman.

“If you want Cassidy, I’ll ask him,” I told her. “If you don’t want to risk Liana coming unglued, we’ll forget about it.”

“Maybe next time, dear,” she said apologetically, as though she imagined not having Cassidy there was going to be particularly disappointing for me.

I shrugged. “Sure. It was just an idea.”

* * * * *

Roma Loveridge arrived promptly at eight o’clock.

We were waiting for her in the drawing room. The dustcovers had been whisked away for this special occasion, but somehow the room still felt like something left wrapped for years in mothballs. Tarrant and Betty hovered uncomfortably near the windows. He looked much put-upon (and I couldn’t blame him). Betty’s eyes were popping in anticipation. Liana, wrapped in a flowing black kaftan, sat before the Italian-marble fireplace, her face shuttered as she gazed at the cold, empty grate. Ogden seemed to stare down benignly on her from his portrait above the mantel.

Weirdly, it was left to my aunt to escort the evening’s guest of honor to the drawing room. Aunt H. was saying in a bright, slightly breathless voice, “Of course, you know everyone with the exception of my nephew. Artemus, dear, this is Roma Loveridge.”

I said, “How do you do?”

I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting. Someone straight out of central casting? A modern variation on the theme of Maria Ouspenskaya? A new incarnation of Miss Cleo? In fact, Roma was an attractive fortysomething. Tanned, trim, and blonde. She wore a classic black sheath—and she wore it well. Despite the black mantilla shawl draped over her slim shoulders, she looked like a successful lawyer or the CEO of a lucrative female-centric startup. She did not look like someone trading in the occult. I wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not.

We shook hands, and her grip was warm and firm. She smiled straight into my eyes. “How very kind of you to make time to join us, Artemus.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said, which was quite true.

A little smile trembled on her lips, as though she understood me perfectly.

“Oh, Roma!” Liana interrupted, rising and twisting her hands. “Do you think tonight will be the night?” Her voice wavered.

“It’s not up to me, Liana.”

“The night for what?” I looked uneasily from Roma to Liana.

“Perhaps we should get started,” Roma said, not bothering to reply to my question.

“Everything is prepared in the dining room,” my aunt said, and Roma smiled graciously.

“Thank you, Halcyone.”

Without further ado we adjourned to the dining room, which was certainly an elegant setting but kind of an odd choice. Weren’t these affairs typically conducted in small rooms with black curtains and spirit cabinets?

Here too the dustcloths had been removed, though the room still felt stuffy and closed off. That was partly due to the windows being shut and the heavy brocade draperies drawn, despite the warmth of the night. All the leaves had been removed from the long, gleaming tortoiseshell table, presumably so that the six of us could gather round, and it looked weirdly diminutive in the large room. Two tall silver candelabra sat on either end of the sideboard. A crystal water carafe and several goblets sat in the center. As refreshments went, I’d have preferred something a little stronger.

On the bright side, holding the séance at Green Lanterns ensured there could be no piped-in creepy music and no rigging of special effects like ghostly lights or floating tambourines and trumpets—assuming that was the kind of thing Roma went in for. (My idea of séances was very much influenced by old movies.)

We took our places around the table. I sat on Roma’s left, and Liana took the seat on her right. My aunt sat next to me. Betty sat next to Liana. Tarrant took the foot of the table.

Roma turned to me. “This is your first séance, Artemus?”

“Not counting taking the occasional Ouija board for a spin in college.”

Roma permitted herself another of those tiny smiles. “And you consider yourself a skeptic.”

It was not a question, but I answered anyway. “I think most people would consider me a skeptic.”

She nodded as if in approval. “Diderot said: ‘Skepticism is the first step on the road to philosophy.’” Her pale gaze wandered to the foot of the table. “Mr. Tarrant originally believed himself to be a skeptic as well. Isn’t that so?”

Tarrant glowered at me—why me?—and said nothing.

“Perhaps you believe that endeavors such as ours are something good Christians should avoid?”

I said sardonically, “Like no tattoos and not eating shellfish? I’m not unduly worried about what participating in tonight’s festivities will do to my immortal soul.”

“Artie,” my aunt murmured in soft protest.

“The séance is a facet of spiritualism, and spiritualism emerged out of Protestant Christianity; however, many Christians are uncomfortable with spiritualism these days. I can assure you that I do not consider myself a practitioner of the occult. My gifts, such as they are, do not arise from the demonic. I am a priestess, if you will, of the light.”

“Okay,” I said tersely. I didn’t trust myself to say more.

She studied me. “While it can be challenging to work with hostile sitters, it can be done. I only ask that you empty your mind and keep your thoughts as neutral as possible.”

“Roger wilco.”

She scanned our small square, her gaze resting on Liana. “Be calm, Liana. Have faith.”

Liana fluttered her hands and said, “I’m trying.”

Roma smiled at her. She unhurriedly removed the mantilla from her shoulders, shook out the folds and gracefully draped the lacy veil over her head. As an on-the-fly costume change, it was peculiarly effective.

When she spoke to Aunt H., Roma’s voice sounded subtly different, distant. “Will you lock the door, please?”

I held out my hand, and Aunt Halcyone handed me her key. I rose, locked the door, and gave back the key, which Aunt H. slipped into the pocket of her pantsuit. She gave me a tentative smile. I smiled back.

“Tarrant, will you please turn down the lights?”

Tarrant rose and went to the wall switch. The room was plunged into darkness. A few faint sparks seemed to crackle in the globes of the crystal chandelier overhead. Betty emitted a squeak. The darkness wasn’t complete, though. Silver moonlight sliced through the narrow gap where the draperies did not quite join.

Tarrant muttered beneath his breath as he shuffled his way back to the table. Static electricity caused little blue sparks beneath his feet.

Aunt Halcyone’s cold fingers crept into mine. I squeezed them reassuringly.

“Are we ready to begin?” Roma asked. There was a murmur of assent. “Let us join hands.”

Her hand, a pale blur in the gloom, reached out to me. I took it. Her grip was steady as a rock. Across the table Liana did the same, taking Roma’s hand and then reaching impatiently for Betty. Betty joined hands reluctantly. Her eyes looked white-rimmed and enormous in the gloom.

Roma said quietly, “Close your eyes and empty your mind of all negative thoughts. Be at peace. We are safe here.”

I stared at her. She met my gaze and then closed her eyes. I glanced around. The others all appeared to have obediently shut their eyes as well.

I looked back at Roma. Beneath the lacey shadow, her face was thrown into strange, exaggerated relief by the band of moonlight, enlarging her elegant nose, deepening her eye sockets, shadowing her cheeks so that she looked disturbingly crone-like. A sense of foreboding crawled down my back.

I waited for her to open her eyes and take a peek around. She did not. Her eyes stayed firmly shut. Her chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths.

Everyone else followed her lead. The silence was total; no one stirred beyond those deliberate inhalations and exhalations. I grimaced and went back to watching Roma.

Aunt H.’s fingers quivered in mine. Liana let out a shaky breath.

Roma uttered a hoarse, strangled moan. I jumped—and so did she. Her body seemed to jerk upward. Her face contorted, her head fell back, and she began to mumble.

I couldn’t quite understand the words. It took me a second or two to identify them as non-English.

Oh, right. Because Roma’s spirit guide was a disgraced ancient Egyptian vizier named Rekhmire. Although, if that was 18th Dynasty Egyptian, I was Mortimer Brewster.

With a shuddering sigh, Roma’s body relaxed. Her head, eyes still firmly closed, rose to face the rest of us. She said in normal tones, “Are you there, Lord Rekhmire?”

In the pause that followed, Roma tilted her head and listened attentively.

“Do you have a message for any of those present?”

Another inquiring tilt of the head. Roma said dreamily, “Is there one here whose name begins with the letter A?”

My aunt’s hand jumped convulsively in mine. I gave her a squeeze.

“I’m here,” I said. I was slightly amused, slightly disgusted.

“There is someone with Lord Rekhmire. A young man. Hardly more than a boy. His hair is red. No, chestnut. He wears glasses. He says you must not blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done.”

I was no longer amused, and disgusted didn’t begin to cover it.

“I see, Spirit,” I said coldly. “And you are—were…?”

Aunt H. gulped. Roma communed with the spirits. She said in a talking-in-your-sleep kind of tone, “He says you know who he is. He says he’s Tony.”

Aunt Halcyone gasped, tightening her grip on my hand. I was too angry to speak.

“Tony!” Aunt Halcyone whispered.

By then my eyes had adjusted to the dark. I saw Liana open her eyes. She looked from me to Aunt H. “Tony? Was that the boy who…”

She didn’t finish it. No one answered her. There was a prolonged silence. Then Roma moaned. “He’s gone.”

Someone echoed that moan. Betty?

My heart was beating so loudly in my ears, I wasn’t sure if anyone spoke or not. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been that furious.

I had to give Roma credit for doing her homework. Tony had killed himself over a decade ago. I didn’t even think Ogden, let alone Liana, had known about it. It had all happened before their time. But it was a small town and people gossiped.

Roma’s head dropped forward as though she was dozing. I thought about rising and turning on the lights. But no. I wanted to find out exactly how far the fake medium was willing to take this.

After a minute or two, Roma lifted her head and stared blindly before her. She said in a faint, husky voice, “Another spirit has joined Lord Rekhmire.”

Liana whimpered. Aunt H. sucked in a breath.

Roma intoned, “This presence is very strong. Male. He has spoken to us before.”

“Ogden!” That cry was from Liana.

“Yes,” Roma whispered. “Yes…Ogden.”

“Ogden,” Liana said. “Oh, Ogden, I’m so glad you’ve come! I knew you would. I knew tonight would be the night.”

Listening to her babble, I felt a weird mix of pity and revulsion. She really did believe this nonsense. Really believed in Roma Loveridge’s psychic abilities, believed Lord Rekhmire had found gainful employment in the afterlife as a spirit guide, believed Ogden Hyde had returned from the dead to chat with—

My thoughts broke off as a deep, masculine voice somewhere to my right suddenly spoke.

“Liana…my dearest sister…”

A cold wave washed over me. I knew that voice. That was not Roma speaking. That was not mimicry or ventriloquism. No. I didn’t want to believe it, told myself it couldn’t be true, but I recognized the familiar silky baritone, the precise enunciation that was characteristically his.

I knew Ogden Hyde’s voice when I heard it, and that was Ogden Hyde speaking.