Die Job(57)

Arriving at Rothmere, I was astonished by the number of cars in the parking lot. With Hurricane Horatio off the coast, I’d figured the tourists would be sight-seeing in places where they were less likely to get drenched . . . say, South Dakota. But at least six cars and a couple of minivans sat in the small lot when I pulled up. The reason for the crowd became apparent when I pushed through the oak doors, box under one arm, and nearly tripped over a thick cable snaking through the foyer and up the stairs. A thin man with receding hair and glasses looked up at a burlier man on the landing with a large camera on his shoulder. “I don’t like the angle,” the cameraman complained. “That chandelier spoils the shot.”

They must be filming The Spirit Whisperer. Avaline wasted no time, I’d give her that. The two men ignored me completely as I stepped over their cables and wound my way back to Lucy’s office. Inside, I found not only Lucy and Avaline, but also Agent John Dillon. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a watchful look on his face. A slanting sunbeam touched his profile and turned his eyes marine blue. My gaze dropped to his firm mouth as Lucy bustled forward and took the box, saying huffily, “Finally!”

“Thank you, Grace,” Avaline said, sending a gracious smile my way. “I was just telling John here how excited I am to be interviewing Cyril. I expect he’ll have a fascinating story to tell.”

John? I raised my brows at him. He smiled but kept his eyes on Avaline, who was leaning forward in such a way that he couldn’t avoid the view of her robust cleavage offered by the white blouse unbuttoned to approximately her navel. Okay, only the top two buttons were undone, but they were enough.

“And I can’t wait to get John on camera. I’m sure he’ll be very photogenic. Just look at his bone structure!”

We all stared at Dillon and I thought he flushed under our scrutiny.

“You weren’t even here when Braden fell,” I said, sounding more accusatory than I wanted.

“I’m not doing an interview,” Dillon said, and I felt a rush of relief. I remembered his hostility toward the press from an earlier case and thought Avaline van Tassel might not find it so easy to get him on camera.

“I’m trying to persuade him to give us background on the investigation,” Avaline said. “The fact that the police can’t pinpoint a suspect makes it that much more likely that Cyril pushed Braden.”

“So you think Cyril dressed up like a werewolf and smothered Braden at the hospital when pushing him off the landing didn’t do the trick?”

Avaline was unperturbed by the hint of skepticism in my tone. “Spirits have been known to travel some distance from where they died, especially when the emotional impetus is significant enough. I interviewed a spirit—a woman—in Montana who journeyed more than a hundred miles in 1912 to be with her daughter who had gotten trapped in a well. And perhaps the nurse, startled by Cyril’s presence, was . . . less than accurate in her description of what she saw in that hospital room. I’m interviewing her, too.”

Dillon pushed off the desk he was leaning against and said, “Look, I’ve got a couple of questions for Dr. Mortimer so if you could excuse us . . .”

His firm tone dislodged even the smug Avaline from her perch on Lucy’s desk. Lucy looked startled and a bit nervous but said, “Of course, Agent Dillon. Not that I saw what happened, but I’ll be happy to answer your questions.” Her hands fluttered to the cameo at her throat and she blinked rapidly.

Dillon’s gaze settled on me, and he said, “If you could wait until I’m done here, Miss Terhune, I’ve got a couple of questions for you, too.”

I couldn’t tell from his tone if he’d heard about Althea’s and my car chase so I said, “Sure,” as casually as I could and followed Avaline into the hall. A short man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and highlighted hair gelled into short points hurried up to her. A Vandyke beard quivered as he talked. “Ava, darling, what do you think about doing the show live?”

“Live?” She sounded doubtful.

“Live,” he affirmed, nodding quickly. He spread his hands expansively and a diamond ring sparked on his pinkie. “We’ll have the spirit and the hurricane, just like in 1831 when Cyril moved on. And we can hire reenactors to play his wife and the party guests.”

“But, Les, you know the spirits don’t always respond to my overtures immediately,” Avaline said with a sidelong glance at me.

Studying a portrait on the wall, I pretended not to be listening. Despite myself, I was marginally interested. I’d never thought about it, but I supposed you couldn’t whistle for a ghost like you could for a dog. Could you lure it with . . . what? A ghost wouldn’t have much use for food or money or a complete set of Ginsu steak knives. Maybe ghosts could be tempted with promises of fame or a desire to accuse their murderers.