Chapter Ten

 

“Who’s there?” I demanded.

The sharpness in my tone couldn’t quite conceal the fear. Mostly, I was just startled—especially after the evening I’d had—but not entirely. My nerves were not as steady as I’d have liked, and I did feel an instinctive and irrational flash of alarm at the glimpse of that shadowy, unknown figure.

Except, embarrassingly, I did know—or at least was pretty sure—who had to be lurking outside on the terrace, even before Seamus said quietly, “It’s me, Artemus.”

He stepped into the long oblong of light from the dining room, and—unnervingly—I had the strangest, strongest urge to throw myself on his manly chest and pour out my tale of haunted happenings so that he could wrap his muscular arms around me and assure me there was no such thing as ghosts.

Which I already knew, and which would be pretty weird since I didn’t know or trust the guy as far as I could throw him.

I reacted instead by shouting, “Jesus Christ, you scared the life out of me! What are you doing out here?”

Seamus answered, “Watching you search the dining room.”

“You… What? How were… Huh?”

“What happened tonight?” he asked. “What were you looking for?”

I snapped, “How is that any of your business?”

He closed the distance between us with a step, pulled me to him, and covered my mouth with his.

That’s not the kind of thing that happens to me, and for a very long second or two, astonishment held me openmouthed and wordless as Seamus’s firm, warm lips pressed insistently against mine. Everything seemed to stop. My heart. My head. The very breath in my lungs. Nobody had ever kissed me like that. I didn’t know there were kisses like that—sweet, hot, hungry—outside of movie theaters.

Then I came back to life with a jolt, like a surgeon had slapped defibrillator paddles to my chest and jump-started my heart. I felt the piercing, unexpected delight of that kiss in every fiber of my being—right down to the unraveling threads and overstrained seams.

Like the hymn says, Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve; and press with vigor on.

And holy smoke, I did indeed want that vigor to press on. My lips parted, my hands—flattened against the broad planes of his chest—slid caressingly up to lock behind Seamus’s head to pull him still closer. I molded my lips to his, kissing him back with a passion I didn’t think I still possessed for anything outside opening night on Broadway.

I was thinking about dragging him into the rose bushes, when somehow, from somewhere, sanity reasserted itself. I stopped pulling, started pushing, and Seamus let me go with a suddenness that sent us both staggering.

“Sorry,” he said huskily. “I didn’t plan that.”

“That would be some plan,” I agreed, equally unsteady.

“It’s just—” He broke off.

“Exactly,” I said. “Twelve months at sea is a very long voyage.”

He blew out a hard breath and shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer, then asked in a brisk, businesslike tone, “Are you going to tell me what happened here tonight?”

Was I? I was tempted to—though I wasn’t sure why. Or rather, I knew why I was tempted, but not why I thought giving in to that temptation would be a good idea.

Instead, I hedged, “What makes you think anything happened?”

“I saw the Loveridge woman tear out of here like demons were after her.”

“Happily, demons were not part of the evening’s festivities. At least, I don’t think so.”

“She held another séance?”

“No, no. She dropped by for dinner. It turns out she strongly dislikes apple crumble for dessert.”

Seamus made a sound that fell somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Artemus.”

“Seamus.”

“You know, you can trust me,” he said.

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of another colorless balloon—actually a pair of them—drifting toward the tall wall of eucalyptus. Weird.

I turned my attention back to Seamus, who was waiting for me to say something. “Unfortunately, I don’t know that,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t been entirely honest with either me or my aunt.”

He seemed surprised. “Didn’t my references check out?”

“Yes, your references checked out.”

“Then I’m not sure what the problem is.”

“Neither am I,” I admitted.

Seamus said lightly, “Do you think maybe I faked my résumé?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “No offense.”

That clearly threw him. After a startled moment, he said, “How would I? And why would I do something like that?”

I shook my head. “But I notice you don’t deny it.”

Belatedly, he noticed the same thing and said, “Of course I deny it. It’s so…out there, I didn’t think I’d have to deny it. Not in so many words.”

I sighed. “And this is why I don’t trust you. Because you’re lying.”

I have a trained eye. I can spot bad acting in all its forms, and lying is just another type of acting.

He was silent. “Have you shared your suspicion with your aunt yet?” he asked finally.

“Yes.”

Again, he seemed to have no response.

I said, “I’m not sure if she believes me or not. Good help is hard to find, and frankly, I don’t think she cares that you’re a fake so long as you mow the lawn, weed the flower beds, and don’t murder us during the night.”

“She’s not planning to fire me?”

“I doubt it.”

The set of his shoulders relaxed. “Good.” He added, “I promise I mean no harm to you. Or Mrs. Hyde.”

I wasn’t crazy about the fact that Auntie H. was clearly an afterthought. And not a very convincing afterthought.

“But you can’t—or won’t—tell me what you’re really doing here?”

“I’m really working in the garden.” Seamus held out his palms for me to witness his blisters. “As you can see.”

“Okay. Have it your way.”

I turned away to go through the French doors, and he said quickly, “Artemus?”

I glanced back in inquiry.

“If you change your mind—if you decide you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

I quirked an eyebrow, though I doubted he could see in the indistinct light. “Hopefully by ‘here,’ you don’t mean here,” I said. “Because it was pretty creepy walking outside to find you lurking behind the potted plants.”

Seamus opened his mouth, but I firmly closed both doors, bolted them—and pulled the drapes shut.

 

 

To my relief, Aunt Halcyone had abandoned the music room by the time I returned. I hoped she had retired for the night, though I couldn’t imagine any of us sleeping soundly in this house ever again.

On impulse, I went through to Ogden’s study, switched on the light, and looked around for a sign. Not a sign from the Great Beyond. Definitely not. A sign of human agency at work. Dropped ash, muddy footprints, a matchbook, a missing button, a monogrammed hankie… How about a signed confession? That would have been useful. There was nothing. Not a single clue. The thick, springy carpet held no trace of anyone’s passage, not even my own.

I examined the crowded bookshelves. I’d always been skeptical of Ogden’s publishing business. He had been vague about the details, but I’d gathered it was some kind of hybrid vanity press devoted exclusively to nonfiction. Nonfiction, but not scholarly or academic work. In fact, Ogden had seemed to prefer authors who specialized in being crackpots and eccentrics. From crazy diets to weird science to peculiar religions, no topic was too uncommercial for Hyde Publishing. If any of Ogden’s titles had turned a profit, I’d never heard it mentioned.

I suspected a lot of Aunt H.’s financial resources had gone into propping up Hyde Publishing, but she’d never discussed it, and certainly had not complained. Nor was it my business how she chose to spend her money. It was her money.

Ogden’s shelves included tomes on sharing the joys of solo sex, supercharging quantum touch, a diet based on Gertrude Jekyll’s garden design, and how to meet and date on the astral plane.

The funny thing was Ogden had never struck me as particularly imaginative or spiritual. Not the kind of man who would have an interest, let alone choose to encourage belief, in astral planes and new religions. He had been conservative to the point of stuffiness.

I turned from the bookshelves, studying the room. His sanctuary, he’d called it. It was exactly what one would expect from a guy who wore yachting leisurewear without irony.

Leather club chairs. Framed prints of perplexed pheasants and dead hares, varied golf trophies on the side table, a marble bust of Julius Caesar on a pedestal near the bookshelves, assorted pipes in a carved, circular rack.

I sat down in one of the leather club chairs and switched on a small lamp.

Sanctuary. Sanctuary from what? I wondered. What had Ogden been hiding from in this room? What the hell had he thought about all those hours he had spent alone in here?

The lamp seemed to throw a spotlight on the large, immaculate desk, reminding me of an overpriced stage prop. Had Ogden actually done any work in here? I didn’t know. At the time, I had been more interested in avoiding Ogden than observing him.

I rose and went to the desk, taking the tall leather chair and swiveling slowly around to scrutinize the room from Ogden’s perspective.

Originally, the study had been the domain of Aunt H.’s first husband, Edwin. The framed maps and encyclopedias were all from Edwin’s era. In fact, other than the introduction of golf trophies and the bust of Julius Caesar, it hadn’t changed much from master to master. In fairness, it probably hadn’t changed much from generation to generation.

I didn’t remember Edwin well, but he had always seemed pleasant and even-tempered. He had been kind to a grieving child and patient with a moody, touchy teenager. I don’t suppose his marriage to Aunt H. was a great love match. They’d known each other all their lives. But I did remember Aunt H. and Edwin laughing a lot and always having something to talk about. It had been a very different house then.

But then Ogden had been a very different husband.

I reached out to finger a crystal paperweight shaped like a globe of the world. That too had been Ogden’s. The crystal globe and the bust of Caesar seemed very much like things Ogden would have owned. The publishing company devoted to New Agey, spacey philosophy and religion? Not so much.

I leaned back, resting my head against the leather cushion. How late was it now? Well after midnight for sure. Beyond the long French windows, the black night was salted with bits of cracked and chipped stars. As I stared, another of those pallid balloons floated past, ambling its way across the heavens.

What the hell with the balloons? Was the circus in town?

No, there had been something on the news. Something about a show of balloons to get the media’s attention for some cause or another. Hopefully not the air-pollution crisis.

The uneasy shadows around the periphery of the lamp seemed to quiet, settle down.

I closed my eyes. I was tired. Completely drained. Something was very wrong at Green Lanterns, but I had no idea what it was or how to fix it. And sitting here worrying about it wasn’t solving anything. I should go to bed. I would in a minute.

I might have drifted off. In fact, I must have. Because when I opened my eyes again, the room was in complete darkness. I blinked in confusion, still seeming to hear the echo of a sharp, distinct click.

I sat up straight, listening tensely.

Nothing.

It was so quiet, I could hear the dust falling.

Had I imagined it? Maybe I’d been more deeply asleep than I realized.

Click.

There it was again!

I had some vague idea that a secret door was about to swing open, and I leaned forward, gripping the arms of the chair, watching for motion in the gloom.

Nothing happened.

I continued to sit in straining, rigid silence, waiting…

Someone laughed. A soft, deep chuckle that seemed to come from right behind me.

I jumped out of the chair, knocking something from the desktop. I heard the smash of glass on the floor—the crystal paperweight landing between the edge of the carpet and the wooden floor. I could just make out small shattered chunks glittering in the moonlight as I backed away from the desk.

No one stood behind the chair.

At least…not that I could see. And what the hell was I doing standing here in the dark?

I reached out, ignoring the fact that my hand was not steady, and snapped the lamp on.

There was no one else in the room.

Of course not. Because I had dreamed the whole thing up. I was probably dreaming now.

I did not feel like I was dreaming, though. I didn’t feel remotely sleepy. My heart was thundering in my ears, and every muscle in my body was tense and ready to jump.

Even if I had imagined the laughter, who had turned out the lights?