Chihuahua of the Baskervilles (6 page)

They walked the roughly two miles of main street, pausing frequently for Suki to take pictures.

About halfway through their walk, they stopped and looked down at a sunken courtyard with a small decorative building in its center. Water poured from a spigot mounted on the side.

Angus consulted his tourist map. “This is the Shoshone Spring.”

Suki took a picture and lowered her camera. “Is this why it’s called Manitou Springs? I thought there’d be hot springs.”

Angus shook his head. “It’s named for these natural drinking fountains—about a dozen of them, each with an individual flavor from the various minerals. Can you believe they paved over a lot of them in the sixties? I call that outrageous.”

When the commercial buildings petered out, they crossed the street and went back on the other side. Finally they wound up in front of a restaurant called Rhumbalicious. “This looks more my style,” Angus said.

Inside, the atmosphere was festive, with bright colors and lighted flower garlands. A hostess led them to the back of the large main room.

“Would you look at the size of those daiquiris?” Suki pointed to a glass the size of the drinker’s head. “Anyone want to split one?”

“I don’t know if they’d pour it into two glasses,” Michael said.

“Alcohol kills the cooties, Michael. How about you, Angus?”

“Not for me, thanks, and you’ll have to pay for it yourself. Liquor doesn’t go on the expense account.” He nudged Michael and tilted his head toward a table where a lone woman sat, wearing glasses and reading a thick book. “There’s the girl of your dreams.”

“Would you shut up?” Michael hissed.

“Ach, she can’t hear me over this din.”

“What if your hearing is going and you’re louder than you think?” Michael asked.

Angus looked taken aback. “Am I loud?”

“No, but it’s something to think about.”

Angus put an arm around his shoulder. “It’s good I have you to remind me of old age and decrepitude. You’re like the son I never wanted.”

They sat. Suki put in her order for one of the enormous daiquiris before studying the menu. “I’m ready,” she said after a while, slapping the laminated pages down. “Hey, there’s Thomas Baskerville.” She tipped her head toward the front door.

Angus watched Thomas and another man thread their way between tables. “Out for a relaxing evening with a friend, assuming he has such a thing,” he murmured. “You’d certainly never know it by his face.”

Thomas Baskerville looked as dour as ever, his mouth turned down in lines of discontent. He wore a button-down shirt above his slacks, and carried a coat. His companion appeared to be in his thirties, and was dressed more casually in jeans and a sweater beneath a leather jacket.

The waitress returned to the table. “Do you know what you’d like?”

“Almost,” Angus said absently. “Do you see those two men?” He pointed, keeping the gesture behind the menu. “Isn’t the younger one Christopher Peters, the actor?”

She peered for a moment. “No. That’s Martin Carson.”

“The doctor?” Angus asked.

She shook her head. “Lawyer.”

“Of course.” Angus looked at his menu. “I’d like the two-fish combo, and iced tea to drink.”

The waitress scribbled it down and turned to Michael. “How ’bout you?”

“Curry from Hell.”

While the waitress took Suki’s order for jerk chicken, Angus watched Thomas Baskerville. After a moment, Thomas looked around the restaurant and caught sight of him.

Angus nodded slightly while Thomas glared back at him.

Martin Carson looked up as Thomas slid out of the booth. Thomas said a few words. Carson seemed to argue for a moment, then sighed and stood. The hostess watched them leave and changed a mark on her seating chart.

“I’ll be right back with your drink,” the waitress said to Suki.

Michael turned from watching Thomas and Carson walk out the front door. “A lawyer, huh? If Pendergast is right about Thomas wanting to have Charlotte committed, do you think Thomas faked the ghost? Or”—he held up his wrapped silverware—“maybe the ghost will tell her to shut down Petey’s Closet and start making açaí-berry dog food.”

Angus chose a plantain chip from the basket. “I think it would take more than a ghost to make Charlotte Baskerville give up her business. And there’s no reason to believe the ghost is fake.”

Suki leaned back in her chair. “If it comes to faking ghosts, my money’s on Ivan.”

“Why?” Angus asked.

“He
really
likes attention.”

“Is that the only reason?” Michael said.

“There doesn’t need to be more. Take it from someone who likes to be noticed—and I’m not trying to get on TV.”

The waitress came back and carefully set an enormous daiquiri by Suki’s plate.

“Oh, yeah,” Suki murmured, and took a healthy swig.

Angus rested his clasped hands on the table. “As I said, there’s no reason to think the ghost is fake. But if there were, you’re both missing the most obvious candidate.”

“Who?” Michael asked.

“Ellen. She’s the one most likely to whip up a ghost costume.”

Suki shook her head. “What has she got to gain? Anyway, a costume is so low-tech. If I were going to fake a ghost, I’d use some sort of projector.”

Michael unwrapped his flatware. “I could see where you could project it against the workshop wall, but what about when it floated onto the roof?”

“Smoked glass, or even a sheet of plastic.”

Angus squeezed lemon into his tea. “It’s all moot, because as far as we’re concerned, this is a real ghost, and if we’re lucky, it’ll make an appearance tonight.” He turned and looked out the front windows of the restaurant. “Looks like it’s already dark.”

*   *   *

As it turned out, some of the darkness was due to weather. By the time Angus and his crew finished their meal, a heavy rain was falling. They stood just inside the restaurant’s door, staring out at the deluge.

“So much for seeing if those paw prints glow without light,” Michael said bitterly. “They’ll be completely washed away by now.”

A man and woman in their fifties came up next to them, shrugging on coats. “Good thing we parked right outside,” the man said conversationally. “You folks might want to wait a little if you’re not parked close.”

“Actually, we walked,” Angus said. “I don’t suppose Manitou Springs has a cab service.”

“I think it’d have to come from Colorado Springs, which would cost you a mint. Where do you need to go? We could give you a ride.”

“That’s very kind of you. We’re practically around the corner,” Angus said.

By the time the man and his wife dropped them off in front of the Baskerville house, the pounding rain had become the barest sprinkle.

Someone hailed them as they trotted up the walk to the house. Looking around, Angus spotted Thomas’s dog-food partner waving from the second-floor deck of the neighboring house.

“Hellooo, magazine people! It’s Bob Hume!”

“Oh, hello, Bob,” Angus called back, without enthusiasm. He turned to Michael and Suki and muttered, “You two go in. I’ll get rid of him.”

They hustled inside the front door with no argument.

“Stay there, Mr. MacGregor, and I’ll come down,” Bob called. “I have something to show you.”

Angus stepped onto the front porch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hume, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Have to set up for the ghost watching, you know, and it’s already dark.”

Bob had started toward the door that led inside his house, but now he came back onto the deck and leaned over the railing. “But this is completely pertinent to that. I was looking through some old photos of Petey that I have, and I think I’ve spotted a spectral face in one of them!”

Angus hesitated. Spectral faces were always good. “Is it a spectral
dog’s
face?” he shouted.

“No, it’s much better! I’ll be right there!”

Angus sighed and stayed where he was.

Bob emerged from the front door of his house moments later and ran over to join Angus on the porch. “Take a look at this.” He reached inside his coat and took out a photograph.

Angus took the photo and angled it toward the porch light.

Bob, panting slightly, bent down and adjusted his slip-on shoes, the backs of which were folded under his heels.

“Where’s this face?” Angus asked.

“Let’s go inside where it’s dry and the light’s better,” Bob said, straightening. He led the way inside and glanced around the empty foyer. “Where’s the rest of your crew? They should see this, too.”

“I’d rather not interrupt their preparations.” Angus went into the parlor and felt for the switch of a floor lamp with a stained-glass shade. “That’s better.” He held the picture under the bright light.

Bob pointed. “That’s Petey. He was a nice little dog. Charlotte had him on the kitchen table to dress him.” In the photo, Charlotte appeared to be fastening the closure of a hooded red sweater under Petey’s belly. “Now look in the kitchen window behind them.”

Angus did. It was a flash photo, and light shone off the window in a smudgy glare. “Is it this?” He pointed. “You said it was a face, but that looks like someone’s hand.”

“It does a little. No, it’s a woman’s face. See, here’s her nose and there’s the chin, and she’s wearing a sort of bonnet. Victorian, I think.”

Angus squinted. “Now I see it.” His mind kept trying to make it a hand, but he persevered. “Who do you think it is?”

“Charlotte’s aunt,” Bob whispered. “The one who gave her this house. Perhaps she’s been trying to tell Charlotte something all this time, but they didn’t have a strong enough connection. Now that Petey is dead, she’s trying to send a message through him.”

Angus looked at the little man with admiration. “Have you ever thought of writing, Mr. Hume? Just one minor detail—the Victorian era ended around 1900. The house may be that old, but Charlotte’s aunt was probably an adult in…” He did some quick math. “Oh, somewhere around 1920. They did wear hats of various sorts then.”

“But not bonnets?”

“Not so much, no.”

Bob studied the picture. “It could be a spectral shower cap.”

Angus revised his view of Bob as a regular contributor to
Tripping
. “Regardless, it’s an intriguing photo. Was it you who took the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll give you a photo credit. And I know it was some time ago, but do you remember feeling anything odd when you took it?”

Bob looked at him blankly.

“A sense of unease? Possibly a drop in temperature?”

“Oh,
right
. Um, I heard a voice, whispering. At the time, I thought it was the radio.”

“Excellent.” Angus gestured with the photo. “I’ll keep this for now, if it’s all right with you. We’ll get it back to you as soon as possible.” He headed toward the stairs, then realized Bob was following him and turned back. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me while we set up. Trade secrets, you know.”

“Oh, sure.” Bob nodded. “Can the photo credit mention Petey’s Pride dog food as well as my name?”

“That’s a bit long for a credit. We’ll try to get it in the article, shall we?”

Bob’s face lit up. “Great! Thanks!”

Angus started up the stairs, then realized he hadn’t heard Bob use the front door. He turned.

Bob was gazing toward the kitchen.

“Perhaps you should see if you can find any more photos of Petey,” Angus said, gesturing toward the door.

“Okay.” Bob left.

Angus went upstairs to the shared parlor and closed the door behind him.

Suki looked up from attaching one of her cameras to a tripod. “What took you so long?”

Angus held up the picture. “Yet because of his importunity, he will rise and give him a photo credit.”

“Huh?” Michael said.

“I’m quoting a biblical parable, about nagging.”

“And is God for nagging or against it?” Michael asked.

“For, as is Bob Hume, but we got a nice photo of Petey with a spectral form behind him.”

They crowded around him, and he pointed to the shape.

“Is that a guy on a snowboard?” Suki asked. “They don’t die as often as you’d think.”

“No, it’s a woman’s face. There’s her chin and there’s her mouth, and she has something on her head.”

Michael squinted at it. “A dead Chihuahua, maybe.”

Angus handed him the picture. “Poke fun if you want, but he says it’s Charlotte Baskerville’s deceased aunt trying to get in touch with her through Petey’s ghost.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.”

“I’m glad you recognize good material when you hear it.”

Suki picked up a nylon bag from the floor and hung it from her shoulder. “Where do you want to set up tonight, Angus? Ideally, the ghost would appear where I can shoot him with the tripod, but I’m prepared to go with video and take a still from that.”

“I’d say the back patio, but if our ghost is shy, we might be better shooting out a window.” He held up a hand. “Listen.”

From out in the hall, they heard voices and the sound of footfalls on the wooden floor.

“
Now
what?” Michael muttered, as Thomas Baskerville’s hectoring voice became recognizable.

“No!” This was shouted by Charlotte Baskerville, and was followed by the sound of a door slamming.

Angus opened the door and strode into the hall.

At the end of the corridor, Thomas Baskerville banged on his wife’s closed door.

A nervous-looking man in a suit stood next to him. As Thomas paused, the man glanced back at Angus and said, “Mr. Baskerville, I’m not sure I—”

“Charlotte!” Thomas shouted through the door. “If you’re fine, then why won’t you talk to the man?”

“What seems to be the problem?” Angus said, coming up to them.

The door opened and Charlotte stood there, clutching Lila. She stabbed a finger at her husband. “If you think I’m going to talk to your hired psychiatrist, Thomas, then
you’re
the one who’s crazy.”

Thomas smiled ingratiatingly. “It’s not me who sees things, dear.”

“Have I ever struck you as a stupid woman?” Charlotte patted Lila nervously. “If I get therapy, which I probably need from living with you, it won’t be with some shrink you’ve paid to show I’m incapable.”