Betrayers(5)

There was a small silence.

Mrs. Alvarez, who was Margaret Abbott’s neighbor, friend, watchdog, and benefactor, shifted her long, lean body and said patiently, “Margaret, ghosts can’t ring the telephone in the middle of the night. Or break windows. Or dig up rosebushes.”

“How do we know what spirits can or can’t do? Perhaps if they’re motivated enough . . .”

“Not under any circumstances. They can’t put poison in cat food, either. Now you know they can’t do that.”

“Poor Spike,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Carl wasn’t fond of cats. He used to throw rocks at them.”

“It wasn’t Carl or his spirit or anybody else’s spirit. Living people are behind this deviltry and you and I both know who they are.”

“We do?”

“Of course we do. The Pattersons.”

“Who, dear?”

“The Pattersons. Those real estate people.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Why would they poison Spike?”

“Because they’re vermin. They’re greedy swine.”

“Helen, dear, don’t be silly. People can’t be vermin or swine.”

“Can’t they?” Mrs. Alvarez said. “Can’t they just?”

I put my cup and saucer down on the coffee table, just hard enough to rattle one against the other, and cleared my throat. The three of us had been sitting here for about ten minutes, in the pleasantly old-fashioned living room of Margaret Abbott’s Parkside home, drinking coffee and dancing round the issue that had brought us together. All the dancing was making me uncomfortable; it was time for me to take a firm grip on the proceedings.

“Ladies,” I said, “suppose we concern ourselves with the facts. That’ll make my job a whole lot easier.”

“I already told you the facts,” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“I’d like to hear them from Mrs. Abbott as well. I want to make sure I have everything clear.”

“Yes, all right.”

I asked Mrs. Abbott, “This late-night harassment started two weeks ago, is that right? On a Saturday night?”

“Saturday morning, actually,” she said. “It was just three a.m. when the phone rang. I know because I looked at my bedside clock.” She was tiny and frail and she couldn’t get around very well without a walker, and Mrs. Alvarez had warned me that Mrs. Abbott was inclined to confusion, forgetfulness, and occasional flights of fancy. At least there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her memory today. “I thought someone must have died. That is usually why the telephone rings at such an hour.”

“But no one was on the line.”

“Well, someone was breathing.”

“Whoever it was didn’t say anything.”

“No. I said hello several times and he hung up.”

“The other three calls came at the same hour?”

“More or less, yes. Four mornings in a row.”

“And he didn’t say a word until the last one.”

“Two words. I heard them clearly.”

“ ‘Drop dead,’ ” Mrs. Alvarez said.

“Yes. It sounds silly, but it wasn’t. It was very disturbing.”

“Can you remember anything distinctive about the voice?” I asked.

“Well, it was a man’s voice. I’m certain of that.”

“But you didn’t recognize it.”

“No. It was as if it were coming from . . . well, the Other Side.”

Helen Alvarez started to say something, but I got words out first. “A long way off, you mean? Indistinct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Muffled. Disguised. “Then the calls stopped and two days later somebody broke the back porch window. Late at night again.”

“With a rock,” Mrs. Abbott said, nodding. “Charley came and fixed it.”

“Charley?”

“My nephew. Charley Doyle. Fixing windows is his business, you see. He’s a glazier.”

“And after that, someone spray-painted the back and side walls of your house.”

“Filthy words, dozens of them. It was a terrible mess. Helen and Leonard cleaned it up.”

“Leonard is my brother,” Mrs. Alvarez said, purse-lipped. “It took us an entire day.”

“Then my rosebushes . . . oh, I cried when I saw what had been done to them. I loved my roses. Pink floribundas and dark red and orange tears.” Mrs. Abbott wagged her white head sadly. “He didn’t like roses any more than he did cats.”

“Who didn’t?” I asked.

“Carl. My late husband. And he sometimes had a foul mouth. He knew all those words that were painted on the house.”

“It wasn’t Carl,” Helen Alvarez said firmly. “There are no such things as ghosts; there simply aren’t.”