Shannon swung toward Alison. “How can you act like this is all funny? Jack’s dead. Jack’s dead!” She burst into tears.
Jimmy took a step toward her. “Don’t cry, honey.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide, her face stiff. “I heard you say you were going to hurt him. Did you?” She plunged past him.
Margo hurried after her running daughter.
Jimmy looked shocked. He called after her. “Shannon, come back.”
Running steps were his answer.
His mouth twisted in despair. He walked heavily toward the hallway.
His mother reached out a hand. “Jimmy…”
He didn’t look back.
Diane was alone in the library. She stumbled to the chair that had belonged to James Hume, sank into it. She picked up his glasses, cradled them in one hand. Tears streamed down her face. “James, I’m frightened.”
Upstairs, Ronald stood at the wet bar in their suite. He poured Scotch into a tumbler, added soda.
Laverne slumped back in an easy chair. She looked ill, her eyes staring and glazed, her face raddled. “That was terrible.”
He lifted the glass in a toast, took a deep drink. “To the contrary, you were never better. That’s the best James you’ve ever done.”
She lifted a shaking hand. “Didn’t you feel it?”
He was impatient. “You know it’s bogus.”
Her lips worked, and the words were almost indistinct. “I used to feel things. I could help people. I knew things no one else knew, but you pushed me and made me tell people things for money. Now there’s nothing there. I said what you told me to say, but there was something terrible in that room. Didn’t you feel the hatred?”
He smiled. “Hatred? Who cares? They’re scared.” His voice was soft. “I watched them. If you think we got money before, wait and see what I do now.”
A sudden flush stained her cheeks. “I hate you.”
“Poor Laverne.” There was cold dislike in his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t like money. I know better. If you want money for Jenny, you’d better keep your mouth on straight.”
She stared at him and spoke as if she hadn’t heard his words. “Tonight you had me say that Jack Hume was murdered. Is that true?”
He looked amused. “Of course. Why do you think someone tried to kill Kay Clark last night?”
Laverne moved uneasily in her chair. “Someone pushed that vase?”
“Someone pushed that vase and I know who.” He sipped at his drink.
“What are you going to do?”
He gave a little shrug. “Nothing for now. I’ll let the pot simmer tonight. Tomorrow I’ll make some calls, offer some constructive advice, and pick up some consulting fees.”
“Ronald, I feel danger. Something dark and terrible—”
“‘I feel danger.’” He mocked her. “Save your performance for the fools, Laverne.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice rose. “I know—”
“I like that vibrato. It gives Diane chills. It doesn’t do a thing for me. Look”—and he was suddenly good-humored—“you’ve had a long day. You’ll feel better tomorrow. You may have to do some hand-holding with Diane.” He walked to wet bar, splashed water in a glass, carried it to Laverne. “I’ll get you a pill. All you need is a good night’s sleep.”
She sank back against the chair, waited until he returned, handing her two capsules. She swallowed them submissively. “Yes. I’ll go to bed.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. She rose and moved heavily into the bath. When she returned in a pale ivory nightgown, she was already drowsy.
I wondered if she often took powerful, quick-acting narcotics.
He placed his drink on a coffee table and strolled to a closet. He returned in a moment in a T-shirt and boxers and settled on the sofa. He picked up the glass and smiled, a man enjoying a nightcap, obviously pleased with a productive day.
I popped to Kay’s room.
No Kay.
I took a deep, steadying breath. She’d promised to stay put. Of course, she very likely had expected me to make a prompt report on the séance. With her door open, she’d have been sure to hear people walking to their rooms.
I wasn’t as fearful now for her safety. I expected the murderer was totally occupied assessing what danger might emerge from the séance. Evelyn Hume’s cold conclusion that nothing could be proved might reassure the murderer. Everything depended upon how much Ronald knew and what he intended to do with the knowledge.
But I didn’t like the idea of Kay roaming around The Castle.
I pressed my fingertips to my temples. Hadn’t I seen Myrna Loy do that in a film? Lo and behold, an answer came. When I didn’t return, Kay must have gone to the library seeking me. I dropped through the ceiling into the library. Such a fun way to maneuver.
Kay sat next to Diane.
Diane was a wreck, her makeup streaked by tears, her nose red from rubbing with a handkerchief, her untidy hair more frazzled than usual. She looked earnestly at Kay. “…you’re very kind to offer to help me make sense of everything.”
Kay spoke soothingly. “Start at the beginning, from the moment you reached the library…”
I hovered next to Kay, whispered in her ear: “I’ll be in your room in half an hour.”
She froze for only an instant, gave a tiny nod.
“After everybody finally came…”
In a marble-walled bathroom, Gwen Dunham sat at a vanity counter. She poured facial cleanser onto a washcloth. Her movements were automatic. Not even the harsh light from theater-dressing-room-style lights diminished the perfection of her features. Whether young or old, she would always be beautiful. She wiped away makeup. Her deep-set violet eyes stared unseeingly into the mirror. Whatever she saw, it was not her image.
A step sounded. Clint stood in the doorway. He was still dressed. He looked toward his wife, his face anguished. “We have to talk.”
She stiffened. “Not tonight, Clint. Tomorrow.” She rose and turned on a spigot, held the cloth beneath the rushing water. Squeezing out the excess, she lifted the wet cloth to her face, covering her eyes and nose and mouth.
Her husband waited a moment, but she made no move, said nothing. Slowly, he turned away.
Her shoulders quivered. She pressed the cloth harder, muffling sobs.
In the bedroom, he gathered up a pillow and a light blanket. He turned and moved out of the bedroom. The sound of the closing door brought Gwen into the room. She saw the pulled-down spread and missing pillow. She turned and leaned against the frame of the door, defeat and misery in every line of her body.
In the den, Clint tossed the pillow onto a leather sofa. He made no move to undress. Instead, he slumped into a chair, massaged knuckles against one temple. His face was hard with anger.
Kay worked at Jack’s desk. She wrote quickly, her face absorbed and intent.
I had much to report, but I was desperately thirsty. I opened the small freezer compartment, scooped ice into a tumbler.
Kay’s head jerked up. She stared toward the wet bar. “Will you please announce when you’re here? An ice scoop dangling in the air bothers me. There’s something awfully weird about it.”
“Certainly,” I murmured agreeably. “Here I am. Almost.” I enjoyed my reflection in the mirror behind the wet bar, the colors wheeling and whirling and solidifying, and there I was. I gave a satisfied nod. The carnelian necklace was very attractive. “I aim to please.” I filled the tumbler to the brink with water and drank it half down.
She raised an inquiring dark eyebrow. “Thirsty work?”
“Very.” I took another drink and described the séance. “Diane was anxious for the séance to begin but obviously afraid of what she might learn. Jimmy…”
Kay wrote furiously to keep up. When I concluded, she flipped back a few pages of her legal pad. “Your account is a good deal more coherent than Diane’s.” She paused. “Thank you.”