“All right, so what do you want to talk about?” Mike asked. “The girls we’re supposed to summon—”
He cringed. “Of course. Yes, murdered young women is a blatant ratings grab and feeds a disturbing cultural psychosexual interest. The beautiful victims, brutally murdered and violated. The stabbing only makes it worse, with the obvious sexual overtones. I knew you wouldn’t be happy. I remember the lecture I got after Death.”
It wasn’t a lecture. Just a forcefully stated opinion, when we’d met to celebrate the success of Death of Innocence. He’d lamented the fact that the victims were children. It helped the pity factor but also hurt sales, turning off those who found children’s deaths too disturbing. If only they’d been young women, he’d said. That would have sold much better. Particularly if they were young and attractive. That’s when he got the “forcefully stated opinion.”
A few years ago I’d have kept my mouth shut. Hell, I’ve made a career out of using my femininity—and, yes, sexuality—to my advantage. There’s no law that says you can’t be a feminist and embrace your femininity. Or if there is, I missed the memo.
So I let Mike blather on about how they were going to keep this tasteful, no graphic reenactments of the alleged murders. When he was done, I said, “Good. And I’ll hold you to that. But it isn’t actually what I wanted to talk about.”
He cursed under his breath as he realized he might have sacrificed viewers, jumping the gun to placate his star. That dismay lasted about five seconds—as long as it probably took him to realize he’d only promised no reenactments on the show. DVD extras were a whole other matter.
“I’ve checked all our correspondence,” I said. “And there was no mention of these girls or their murders. There was certainly no suggestion that we were focusing on a specific crime connected to this house.”
“That’s the idea. You and Gregor knew nothing about the crimes until today, which means you had no time to prepare. Anything you say, then, will be an honest communication with their spirits.”
He winked. “Or with your Internet connection in the next twelve hours.”
“Which brings me to point number two. Obviously I did my research on the house as soon as I got the address this morning. I only found a domestic disturbance call in the seventies. If Polly Watson was living here when she went missing, I’d have seen it.”
“Er, well, she wasn’t actually living here at the time …”
“When did she live there?”
“The summer she was seventeen. She had some disagreements with her parents and went to stay with her aunt and uncle for a few weeks.”
I sighed. “Fine. Gregor’s script said these girls vanished, never to be found. So what’s this about them being murdered? And three letters? I did a Google search ten minutes ago and there was nothing online about any letters.”
He leaned back with a smug smile. “Because it’s a closely guarded town secret. One that we are about to expose.”
“Uh-huh.” I beckoned for details.
He sat forward. “When we were planning the show, we were looking for some crime or scandal at any of the properties we were considering. We sent e-mails to local historians, reporters, bloggers. Finally, we got the Polly Watson link. That seemed the best we could do, so we bought the house, got things under way, and then, a month ago, we get an anonymous tip from someone who used to work at the Amityville Record. He said a journalist there received a letter after each of those three girls went missing. A letter from their killer, confessing to the deed.”
“And what does the Record say?”
“It denies all knowledge of the letters. Threatens legal action if we mention them on air.” He rolled his eyes. “Our lawyers are already on it. We just need to be careful what we say before we can prove a cover-up. Until then, the story is that we’ve been told someone at the paper received them—we don’t claim it went beyond that person.”
“What does your informant say?”
“Nothing. He sent us copies of the letters and then disappeared into cyberspace.”
“Maybe because he’s the one who received one of the letters. Or he’s a relative.”
Mike’s eyes gleamed. “You’re right. Driven by a conscience plagued with guilt—”
“Save it for the voice-over. Tell me more about the letters.”
As Gregor’s script said, they contained details about the victims only their killer could know—birthmarks and so on. A handwriting analyst confirmed all three were penned by the same person. Given the time span, that opened a whole lot of questions, none of which Mike could answer. So I got everything he did know and left.
We were walking from the trailer when a ghost dashed over. It was a middle-aged man dressed in modern garb, and I’d never have guessed he was a ghost if he hadn’t run right through two set workers.
“Ms. Vegas,” he said. “I need a message sent to my business partner.”
I kept walking. Jeremy glanced over at the ghost. He’d say he was just responding to my reaction, however slight, but his kitsune blood gives him a few psychic powers. He can’t see them or hear spirits, but he seems to know they’re there.
“Necromancers do not appreciate being approached in public,” Jeremy said, his voice conversational, as if chatting to me. “If you wish to speak to her, you’ll need to contact Eve Levine.”
“It’s just a message. And it’s urgent. He’s going to sell my shares to my son, and that lazy good-for-nothing will ruin everything I built—”
I lifted a hand to silence him.
“You’ll need to speak to Eve,” Jeremy said.
“Bitch,” the ghost snarled, and stalked off.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone else had turned from a conversation and was gaping at us. Gregor stared at the spot where the ghost had been … and he looked confused.
“Well, that’s interesting,” Jeremy murmured.
“He saw something,” I said.
“Necromancer blood?” Jeremy said.
“It’s possible.” I paused. “Either way, we are cohosting a show together and I haven’t said more than a few words to him. Do you mind if I ask him to join us for a drink?”
“Not at all.”
Gregor seemed pleased by the invitation. Relieved, too, as if he’d been unsure of his welcome. It wasn’t his fault I’d been duped. He wasn’t Bradford Grady, and he wasn’t Angelique. I shouldn’t shut him out because of what happened to them.
As for whether Gregor had necromancer blood, it was hard to tell. He’d seemed to react to the ghost earlier. It’s also possible that I’d reacted to it myself, and he’d been looking confused about that. He didn’t mention it and there was no easy way to broach the subject.
There was no easy way to broach the subject of his “gift,” either. You’d think there would be. After all, we’re professional spiritualists. I should be able to say, “So, how did you start seeing ghosts?” But it’s a tricky topic, because most spiritualists don’t see them. Of course, no one admits that openly. Some wouldn’t even confess it to their therapist. Most will do a little “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” with colleagues. There are some, though, who genuinely believe they have “the sight.” And they might.
I know a few spiritualists who seem to have necromancer blood. That’s still no guarantee of actual powers, and even then, it comes in varying degrees, from “I catch glimpses” to “I hear voices” to my full-on “I see dead people.” Real necromancers usually know what they are, from their families, and wouldn’t dream of entering the business professionally. That’s just crazy … as I’ve heard many, many times.