Everyone froze, and Iva turned slowly to look at her. “An appearanceearlier?”
So the cat was out of the bag, and Leslie had to field even more questions about the supernatural activity in her house. Fortunately, their waitress was on her game, and she brought a second beer just as soon as Leslie finished her first. She needed thelubrication.
“Mind if I joinyou?”
Leslie and her companions looked up to see John Fischer standing there. His dark hair was charmingly disheveled, and the design on his bronze and blue plaid shirt looked less lumberjacky and more trendy than previous ones he’dworn.
“Yes, of course,” Cherry said, shoving Orbra’s chair aside—or at least attempting to—in order to make room for a sixth person between herself and Leslie. “Have a seat. Les was just telling us about herghost.”
“So who do you think it is?” Iva asked. She was the one who kept bringing the conversation back to specifics, and Leslie felt a little like an insect being pinned to a board when the older woman fixed her with those bright blue eyes. “The ghost, I mean. Why is it haunting the place? What does it want? Did you find anything in yourresearch?”
“Not really. Nothing obvious, anyway. From what I can tell, she—it—looks like she’s wearing a flapper’s dress: it’s straight and ends well above the ankles. I mean, it’s definitely not Victorian clothing, and it’s too long to be forties or fifties. I suppose it could be a nightgown.” Leslie’s cheeks warmed as she felt John Fischer’s regard settle on her withinterest.
She felt ridiculous describing the clothing—or what appeared to be clothing—on a phantom. It might not be a dress at all—just a figment of her imagination, or the way the edges of the figureflowed.
Nevertheless, Leslie continued, sharing what she’d learned during her marathon research session in the early hours of the morning. “The only thing of interest I came across was there was a young woman who went missing in 1926 by the name of Dorothy Duchene. She was never found, dead or alive. She was a housemaid who’d worked for Red Eye Sal, so there’s a connection there with Shenstone House. But the conclusion was drawn that she’d run off with her youngman.”
“Duchene?” John said, his brow furrowing. “Why do I know that name?” He sat back in his seat and frowned more deeply. His lips pursed behind the neat mustache andbeard.
“So it’s definitely a young woman,” said Iva. Her eyes were sparkling as if she’d just won a million dollars. “Any otherdetails?”
Leslie hesitated, then plunged on in. Why not? “Both times I’ve heard music—yes,” she added, glaring at Cherry. “There was one timebefore.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Iva cried, forgetting herself and slamming her hand on a naked part of the table. “IknewI felt something when we were there. Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Fischer? I told you I felt somepresence.”
He nodded absently, for he was absorbed with tapping on hisphone.
“The music sounds a little familiar to me, but I can’t quite place it,” Leslie went on. “And the first time, there was a noise—it sounded like something was falling down the stairs. Or someone. But it was sort of amplified. The sound filled the room—almost what you imagine that big rolling stone inRaiders of the Lost Arkwould sound like if it were coming afteryou.”
“It’s the supernatural element,” Iva said wisely. “Everything is bigger, louder,scarier—”
“Ah! I knew it!” John bolted upright in his seat, brandishing his phone. “I knew I knew that name. Duchene, Freddy Duchene, was an infamous gambler from Chicago in the late twenties. But more interestingly, he was accused of fleecing an elderly woman out of her fortune. Maybe,” he said, his eyes sparkling in the same way Iva’s had, “Dorothy was his sister…or his wife. And maybe they set up a heist to steal Red Eye Sal’s jewels. And that’s why she disappeared without atrace.”
“So they somehow stole the jewels and escaped,” Leslie said. “I don’t remember reading anything about Freddy Duchene—but then again, if he was from Chicago, I wouldn’t have found anything in my initialsearch.”
“Or,” Iva said, leaning forward on the table, heedless of her cashmere sweater brushing against the sticky wood, “what if…what if that was theplan, for her and Freddy to steal the jewels—but what if they got caught! Red Eye Sal caught them—no, he caughther—yes, that makes more sense. Freddy Duchene set up his wife or sister with references so she could get a job at Shenstone House, and the plan was for her to lift the jewels—or to let him in so he could steal them. Working there, she’d be able to learn where Sal hid them and how to findthem.
“But something went wrong, and she was caught, and Sal—well, there aren’t a lot of nice things to be said about him. He was a gangster and a bootlegger. He might have murdered her right then and there, and then hid the body so she’d never be found.” Iva was breathless, and everyone else around the table was listening withinterest.
“That’s a pretty good story,” said John with a wry smile. “You ever thought about writing abook?”
“Well, I— No, not really.” Iva settled back in her seat looking very pleased withherself.
“What if he didn’t exactly murder her in cold blood?” Leslie said slowly. “What if…what if there was a struggle and she fell down the steps? And broke her neck, and that’s why she’s haunting the stairway?” Now she felt a rush of excitement. “That could explain that loud rolling sound—she made it both times I saw her. And tonight, she was halfway down the stairs, and she pointed. I thought she was pointing at me, but now that I think about it—I was a little disoriented—maybe she was pointing down the stairs, as if to indicate what happened. Iaskedher what she wanted. Maybe she was answeringme.”
“Youaskedher?” Cherry said from the other side of John. “You mean you actually spoke toit?”
“Yes. Well, why not? Obviously the ghost wants something. I wanted her—it—to know I was willing to help.” Leslie lifted up her beer and took a long drink, then set it back down, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I’m having thisconversation.”
Iva patted her hand. “It’s all right. The first time is always strange. But after a while, you get used to it. Unless you’re Hollis,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “He doesn’t quite get my interest in the metaphysical. It’s a good thing he’s at the football game in East Lansing tonight. He’d be bored silly listening tothis.”
Their food arrived at that moment, and conversation was suspended while the plates were distributed. Apparently Leslie wasn’t the only one uncomfortable with the topic in front of anyone outside theirgroup.
“Hi there, Baxter,” said Orbra, looking upsuddenly.
The good-looking brewmaster and journalist paused at their table to say hi. He was a little younger than Leslie; probably just around thirty. He kept his afro very short, buzzed almost to his dark scalp, and he had a neat mustache and beard. He was dressed in expensive jeans that fit perfectly and a white shirt shot with metallic bluethreads.
“Hey, Leslie. What do you think of that one?” he gestured to the B-Cubed longneck she had in herhand.
