“Try for a modicum of control, Diane.” Behind the thick lenses, Evelyn’s milky eyes stared fuzzily at the convulsed face of her sister-in-law. “What brings about this hysterical plea?”
Tears trickled down Diane’s cheeks. “Laverne doesn’t know what’s wrong, but James is very upset. James has sent her messages. He’s very clear.” Her voice was earnest. “Everyone who was at The Castle that night must come.”
Evelyn’s gaunt face was impassive. “Laverne has heard from James? That’s very interesting.” Those milky eyes narrowed in thought.
Evelyn was unlikely to be persuaded that James’s spirit desired this gathering. I watched her with growing interest. If she were not concerned about revelations that might be forthcoming from so-called spirits, she would dismiss Diane’s passionate request. I recalled her cool comment about her sister-in-law welcoming charlatans, as Evelyn described them: …fools deserve to reap what they sow.
Diane’s face flushed. “You don’t believe me. But James told Laverne someone was on the balcony with Jack when he fell.”
Evelyn sat utterly still. “Who?”
Diane shivered. “I don’t know. I’m afraid that’s why James is upset.”
“Indeed. However, one might expect that Jack would be the proper spirit to consult.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Diane’s voice shook. “We may find out tonight.”
“Laverne’s claims are interesting.” Evelyn’s tone was thoughtful. “Very well, Diane. I am not a believer in the occult. However”—there was the slightest dryness in her voice—“I would hate to disappoint James.”
I remained a moment after Diane’s departure to study the self-possessed woman seated at the elegant desk. She appeared to be deep in thought, the art catalog no longer of interest. Was her willingness to attend the séance dictated by fear or curiosity?
Her features were somber. “Laverne. What a second-rate, cheap, lying fake.” She spoke with distaste. “Diane is a fool. I wonder what kind of trouble Laverne plans to cause?”
I assumed talking aloud to herself was a habit of long standing. Perhaps Evelyn believed herself to be the only intelligent conversationalist in The Castle.
“Someone else on the balcony…” Her dark brows drew down into a frown. “I’d better go.”
Jimmy turned and looked up from a paperback of The Amber Room by Steve Berry. I admired the striking bright red (nice color) cover.
Diane began without preamble. “Jimmy, I never ask you to do things for me. But I want you to promise you will do as I ask.”
He looked up at his mother with a mixture of affection and wariness. “What’s up, Mom?”
She bent forward, stretched out a shaking hand. “Please. Promise me.”
He frowned, his good-humored face puzzled. “Promise you what?”
“I need—your father needs—”
His face tightened.
“—for you to come to the library tonight.”
He pushed to his feet. “Mom, I can’t stand that stuff. If it makes you feel better to hear that woman mutter in the dark, I guess it’s okay. But I don’t want to listen to her act like Dad’s speaking. It makes me sick.”
“Jimmy, please, just this once. Your daddy’s upset about Jack.” Diane’s words tumbled out; her eyes were bright and glittering. “It’s all about Jack. Not your dad. Maybe we’ll hear Jack tonight. Somebody was on the balcony with him.”
Jimmy stared at his mother, his face taut. “Who said so?”
“Your daddy told Laverne. Everybody who was in the house the night Jack died has to come. Please, Jimmy.”
“Laverne.” Jimmy looked tough, pugnacious, and worried. “Yeah. I get it. Mom—” He broke off, shook his head. “I’ll be there.” His voice was grim.
The long, flagstoned dining room befitted a castle: arched ceiling, gleaming oak walls, slotted stained-glass windows, heraldic flags and shields, and a massive mahogany table. Shannon set crystal wineglasses at each place. She had changed from a tank top and shorts to a pale blue blouse and navy slacks.
Diane’s shoes clipped on the stone floor as she burst through the archway. “Shannon, is your mother in the kitchen?”
Shannon looked surprised. “Yes. May I get her for you?”
Diane, fluttery and frantic, interrupted. “I need to talk to you both. Now. Please come with me. I have to hurry.” She whirled and moved swiftly to the serving door and held it open, her body tense, her posture shouting her impatience.
In the kitchen, Margo stood at a counter, studying a recipe in a cookbook resting on a stand. An acrylic cover protected the pages from spatters. She looked absorbed, her at times discontented face relaxed and happy. Measuring spoons and cups and a mixing bowl sat to one side.
Diane rushed across the kitchen to the counter. “Margo, I need for you and Shannon to come to the library at eight.”
Shannon slowly followed, her face puzzled. “What’s going on?”
Margo frowned. “This is Wednesday. Are you talking about those séances Laverne puts on?”
“Laverne hears things from James.” Diane’s eyes were huge. “James wants everyone who was in the house the night Jack died to come to the séance.”
Shannon’s face lost its bloom. She looked both sad and angry. “That’s hideous. Jack’s gone. Don’t make him part of a stupid—”
Margo interrupted her daughter. “Everyone deals with loss in a different way.” Her tone, however, was cool and remote, rather than encouraging. “Neither Shannon nor I is interested in trying to contact the dead.”
“No one’s asking you to do anything but come.” Diane’s voice shook. “James told Laverne that someone was on the balcony with Jack. I don’t know what that means, but we have to be there tonight.”
Margo gripped the cookbook stand. The cherrywood base squeaked under the sudden pressure. The sound was loud in a suddenly stiff silence.
Shannon took quick steps and faced Diane. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?”
“That’s nonsense.” Margo’s voice was harsh. “Laverne doesn’t know anything.”
Shannon’s young voice wobbled. “Maybe she does. Maybe she knows everything. I’ll be there.”
Diane gave a glad little cry. “You’ll come. It’s important. Everyone has to be there.” Diane looked at Margo.
Margo’s face was hard. “Talking to the dead is nonsense. But I don’t suppose it will do any harm. We’ll come. Now, I’ve got to see to dinner.” She kept her voice even, but her quick glance at her daughter was uncertain and fearful.
Diane shut the library door behind her. Eighteenth-century unbleached wood bookcases sat against three walls. The pilasters and moldings of the French antique featured rosettes, sprays, and tiny pineapples. Louis XV chairs, their blue and gold paint muted by time, sat at either end of each bookcase, ready for a reader to select a book and sink onto a cushion and thumb through the pages. An unabridged dictionary lay open on a mahogany reading stand near one of four arched windows framed by gold velvet drapes. Natural light speared into the room, illuminating the parquet flooring. The reading stand was adjacent to a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in red velvet. Louis XV chairs were arranged on either side of a long English oak writing table in the center of the room.
The chair nearest the dictionary stand was turned a little, as if the occupant had just arisen and left the room. Horn-rimmed glasses rested next to a legal pad and an ornate silver-and-black Montblanc fountain pen.
Diane pattered to the table, pulled out the next chair, and perched on the edge of the cushion. “James, I’m doing what you asked, but I don’t know what will happen tonight. I’m afraid the others are skeptics.” She looked unhappy and fearful. “Laverne says you’re unhappy. You aren’t unhappy with me, are you?”