As he spoke, he gave the ballroom a final glance and headed toward the door. We walked in silence down the hall, but he grabbed my arm to steady me when I tripped over a black cable left by the TV crew. “You know,” I said when I regained my balance, “I’ve got an idea for how to get some proof.” Dillon’s hand slid down my arm to my hand and squeezed it, generating tingles that made me stutter. “B-but we’re going to need some help.”
Chapter Twenty
“YOU WANT MY HELP? I’M FLATTERED,” AVALINE VAN Tassel said half an hour later when Dillon and I cornered her in the Magnolia House parlor. She lounged against the back of a rose-colored settee, her black hair and another white blouse striking against the rose velvet. A mischievous smile played at the corner of her lush mouth.
Was it my imagination, or was Dillon focused too intently on her lips?
Sitting near the window, I shifted uncomfortably on the upholstered chair with the brass studs that dug into the back of my thighs. My hand went to the fringed tassel on the drape tieback, and I let the silky strands sift through my fingers as Dillon talked. We’d agreed while still at Rothmere that Avaline would be more receptive to the idea if it were an official GBI request.
“But I don’t know that I can use my gift to trick our viewing audience,” Avaline continued. She took a sip of the iced tea supplied by Vonda, Avaline’s throat working as she swallowed.
“We’re not asking you to use your gift,” Dillon clarified.
I gave him points for not stumbling over the word “gift,” since I strongly suspected he didn’t believe in Avaline’s—or anyone’s—ability to chat with ghosts.
“We need you to pretend to contact Cyril and pretend that he’s revealing the name of the person who pushed Braden McCullers. You’d be helping to bring a murderer to justice,” he added when Avaline hesitated. “You’ll invite all the people who were present last Saturday to attend the filming—some of them have evacuated, but most of the main suspects are still in town—and tell them that Cyril has let you know he has something important to reveal. Curiosity should get them all there.”
“And you won’t really air this episode,” I put in, “so you won’t be tricking anyone except the murderer.”
Tapping a ruby red nail against her iced tea glass, Avaline looked from Dillon to me. “We were going to tape the program tonight,” she said. “I don’t see how we’d have time to put on a bogus production for you and get the show done. On top of which, spirits are sensitive. Cyril might not choose to communicate with me if there are hordes of people clomping around the house, disturbing the atmosphere. And then where would I be? I can’t risk disappointing my fans.”
Dillon made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and leaned toward Avaline. “Miss Van Tassel, I can’t compel you to cooperate—”
“No,” she said sweetly, “you can’t. But you’ll have a better chance of persuading me if you call me Avaline.”
The sultry glance she sent Dillon made me want to gag. With a quick “Excuse me,” I left the room, intending to track down Vonda in the kitchen. Dillon would have a better chance of talking the Spirit Whisperer into doing her civic duty if I wasn’t there. Crossing the wide entry hall with beveled glass on either side of the oak door and the grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor, I almost bumped into a man who blasted out of the dining room carrying a plate piled high with little meatballs, undoubtedly from the hors d’oeuvres spread Vonda and Ricky put out every afternoon for happy hour.
Two meatballs fell and rolled toward the front door when the man jolted to a stop. “Sorry!” he said. “Damn.” He tried bending to retrieve the meatballs but wasn’t going to be able to do it without spilling his plate or the drink in his other hand. As he looked around for somewhere to set the plate, I tweaked a toothpick from his plate and speared the meatballs.
“Thanks,” the man said, taking the toothpick from me with the fingers wrapped around the stem of his martini glass. “Ten-second rule.” He popped the meatballs into his mouth and chewed, his Vandyke beard bobbing up and down.
Yuck.
“Want one?” He held the plate out to me, and the diamond on his pinkie sparkled. His gelled hair had lost a bit of its spikiness and the points drooped slightly. Georgia humidity will do that.
“No, thanks,” I said. “Aren’t you the producer for The Spirit Whisperer?”
“Guilty as charged. Les Spaulding,” he said. “I’d shake, but—” He indicated the glass in his left hand and the plate in his right. “Didn’t I see you at the mansion?” He studied me from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “You had something to do with the kid dying.”