Avaline didn’t seem offended by Althea’s blatant skepticism. “That’s right. And I’ve got a feeling Cyril’s got a lot to tell our audience. From what Dr. Mortimer told me, he was murdered—maybe by a family member—and has haunted his old home ever since. Well, maybe once he gets a chance to tell his story on national TV, he’ll be free.”
Mom and I exchanged looks. Even if I believed in ghosts—which I didn’t—I had a hard time thinking they were hanging around in the ether, waiting their chance to appear on a talk show like the desperate, dysfunctional people who squabbled about family issues on Jerry Springer.
“Well, good luck with it,” I said. “Sorry I can’t help.”
Avaline didn’t take the hint. Running the spangled scarf through her hand, she said, “Dr. Mortimer told me you have some documents that might shed some light on Cyril’s case. I’d like to use them—”
“There wasn’t anything interesting in them,” I said, determined not to let this woman get her hands on Clarissa’s letters. For some reason, it seemed like a gross violation of her privacy.
“Oh, you must let me be the judge of that,” Avaline said, narrowing her eyes. “Given the right spin, any historic document can be fascinating.”
I didn’t want her “spinning” Clarissa’s life. “Well, I’ll look for them,” I said with a false I’ll-get-right-on-it air. “Where are you staying?”
“Can’t you find them now?” she said, pointing to the ceiling.
“I don’t live here.”
“Oh.” Momentarily stymied, she said, “Well, the sooner the better. We were hoping to film this week and get out of here ahead of the hurricane. Normally, we’d take longer on a project, but we’ve had legal issues with one of the episodes we thought was in the can and we need a replacement. I’m at the Magnolia House if you want to drop off the documents, and here’s my cell phone number.” She handed me a card.
Magnolia House! That was Vonda’s B&B.
Tossing one end of the scarf over her shoulder, Avaline headed for the door. “Let me know if you change your mind about being on the show,” she said. “My producer can be very persuasive.” She rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together in the age-old sign for money. “He’s already secured permission to film at the mansion.” Her long hair fluttering in the breeze that sifted in as she opened the door. Avaline made her exit.
I had to admit that she was a beautiful woman, not at all what I would have expected a ghost hunter to look like. If asked, I’d have pictured a short, middle-aged woman with a squeaky voice, a lot like the frizzy-haired actress in the original Poltergeist movie.
“Why didn’t you want to give her the Rothmere documents?” Althea asked.
“I’m not done with them,” I said shortly, embarrassed to explain my real reason.
Mom seemed to sense something because she pulled Althea away by saying, “Let’s run over to the Piggly Wiggly and get some bottled water and ice before the girls come in to do Locks of Love.”
“I’ll stay here in case they’re early,” I said, giving Mom a grateful look.
I PAID FRED WHEN HE FINISHED PUTTING UP THE plywood and then brought a couple of lamps down from the bedrooms to brighten up the salon. It was light enough, I decided, stepping back to survey my efforts, but lightbulbs just don’t have the same quality as sunlight. I called Vonda to gab about Avaline and the film crew, but her ex-husband, Ricky, who still co-owns the B&B with her, answered and said she was at the hardware store. After a moment, I dialed Marty’s number, but got his voice mail again. Was he in Phoenix or Houston today? Was it significant that I didn’t know?
Feeling unsettled—it was probably the weather—I wandered out onto the veranda, leaving the door open to get a little fresh air and sunlight into the salon. I leaned my forearms against the rail and stared off in the direction of the sea. I couldn’t see it, but I could smell it. I took a deep breath, holding the air in my lungs for a moment, and blew it out. Birds chirruped and tweeted from the azaleas and oleanders growing against the side of the house, and a pair of squirrels chased each other around the magnolia’s trunk. I knew the storm wasn’t imminent; the animals would disappear and the yard would get eerily quiet as the hurricane drew near.
Noticing the hammock, I descended the steps to take it down, figuring it wouldn’t fare well in the hurricane. As I unwrapped the nylon cord from the magnolia’s trunk, a police car pulled up at the curb and Hank got out.