“Well, we didn’t,” he said shortly.
Dr. Solomon and Ari entered in their wake, Dr. Solomon holding fast to her daughter’s forearm. “I’ll be with my friends,” Ari said, pulling away from her mother. Flipping her hair, she hurried toward the clump of high schoolers gathered near the parlor door. Dr. Solomon, worry in her eyes, looked like she would call her daughter back.
Before she could speak, a huge man in jeans and a Spirit Whisperer tee shirt stepped into the middle of the hall and clapped his hands. “If I could have your attention! My name’s Bruno and I’m the stage manager.”
With the competence of someone who had done this many times, he explained that Avaline would be on the landing, ready to talk to Cyril if he appeared. The audience—Bruno gestured to all of us—would be standing in the foyer. He pointed to taped Xs on the floor. We were not to make noise of any kind or leave during the taping for any reason.
“If I hear a cell phone during the taping, I will personally shoot the owner,” he said.
I wondered if he and the rest of the crew knew this taping was fake. Everyone scrabbled in their purses or pockets to silence their phones.
A grin split Bruno’s face, showing a gold canine tooth. “Just kidding.”
Relieved laughter filtered through the group and everyone cooperated as crewmembers positioned them on the taped Xs. I ended up near the front, directly under the chandelier, with Rachel to my left and Mark Crenshaw to my right, with Lindsay still clinging to his arm. Dillon came in from a side corridor and positioned himself near the foot of the stairs. We locked eyes for a moment and then he looked away, scanning the room. I didn’t see any other cops, but I figured they were there somewhere.
“What’s he doing here?” Lindsay whispered to Mark. She made a tiny motion with her head toward Dillon.
He shrugged. “I guess to haul away the murderer if the ghost points a finger.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“Quiet on set,” Bruno bellowed, and silence fell over the group.
The lights dimmed until it was difficult to make out the features even of the people standing closest to me. Red lights glowed atop the cameras. We stood uneasily, listening to the increasing anger of the wind as it slapped at the old house and tore at the trees, producing eerie creaks and groans. Raindrops rattled like bullets against the windows, startling me. It sounded like Horatio might be arriving a bit ahead of schedule.
Before I could start to worry about the hurricane, a movement on the landing caught my attention. A bluish light picked out the figure of Avaline van Tassel as she glided to a spot just at the top of the stairs. She must have been waiting in one of the bedrooms, I figured. I had to admit she looked beautiful, with her black hair streaming down her back and wearing a simple gown—little more than a shift—of white or gray that made her look pretty ghost-like herself. Smoky makeup around her eyes and red lipstick on her mouth made her features stand out against her pale skin and the pale dress.
“Cyril Rothmere,” she breathed. Her hands came up in a gesture of supplication and a gem winked darkly from one of her rings. “Cyril, will you join us?”
Nothing happened. Someone shifted, clothes rustling. I could hear each breath Rachel took through her nose and felt soft exhales against the back of my neck from whoever stood behind me. I resisted the impulse to turn and look.
“Cyril,” Avaline implored. Her throaty voice was that of a woman pleading with her lover.
I shivered. The woman was good. I didn’t believe she could hobnob with ghosts, but she was mesmerizing as a performer. All of a sudden, I felt a chill. From the sound of indrawn breaths, I knew others felt it as well. The cold seemed to pool at my feet and then move up, bathing my calves and then my thighs in chilled air. Simultaneously, a new light appeared on the landing, little more than a glimmer. It grew, expanding to the size of a tennis ball and then a basketball. The light was opalescent, shimmering with tones of green and blue and occasional flashes of yellow. It reflected off what seemed to be a creeping mist. A fog machine, I told myself, stifling a shiver. Special effects wizardry. I almost wished for one of those Mel 87-whatever gadgets to see if weird things were happening in the electromagnetic realm.
“Will you show yourself?” Avaline asked.
I looked around surreptitiously; as far as I could tell, every eye in the place was glued to the landing, except Dillon’s. I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed to be facing the onlookers. When I glanced back at the landing, I almost gasped. A form was taking shape. The eerie whiteness gradually solidified into the shape of a man, a man wearing the waistcoat, breeches, and long hair of a plantation owner from the 1800s. His eyes and mouth seemed no more than dark holes. Special effects, special effects, special effects, I chanted to myself. I didn’t believe in ghosts, I knew this whole thing was staged, and even so the man’s appearance made me shiver.