The Gallery of the Dead (Tropical Breeze Cozy Mystery Book 3) (3 page)

Paul stood up, stretched and said, “I think I’ll clean up in here. You guys go ahead.”

Okay, we were on our own.

As we approached the stairs and gazed up at the gallery railing from the polished marble floor of the foyer, Teddy murmured, “You’d better let me handle the interviews from now on. You can take notes and observe.” He gestured at the stairs. “After you.”

What Misty referred to as the gallery was a huge open square over the grand foyer, lined with railings over potbellied pickets. Around its four sides were wide hallways with access to the bedrooms. On the west side, a curving stairway rose to a point in the gallery just outside the master bedroom, or as Misty called it, The Ephraim. Teddy had taken that room.

I slowly circumnavigated the gallery, but I got no readings on my EMF meter. I consider them suspect anyway. Still, it’s best to observe the protocols.

“By the way, Ed, I’ve been meaning to tell you something, and I hope it doesn’t freak you out.”

“I’ll try to remain composed.”

“Don’t get testy. This has nothing to do with the haunting. It has to do with my fame.”

“I see.” I put the meter in my bag after recording my results. Teddy waited until I was done and he had my full attention. “All right, I’ve braced myself. What is it?”

“I’ve got a stalker.”

“Oh? Dangerous?”

“I don’t know yet. So far it’s just minor vandalism. A scratch on my car. Obscene letters. In my last stop in Denver, somebody broke into my motel room and stole all my underwear.”

“You got more, right?” I said, looking at him uneasily.

“That’s not the point, Ed. I’ve got a crazy fan after me, and I don’t know how far she’s going to take things.”

I mulled it over. “How do you know it’s all the same person? I mean, people will key your car even if you’re a nobody, and you’ve got a lot of fans, right?”

“Thousands,” he said smugly. “But this one signs off with a smiley heart.”

“She scratched your car with a smiley heart?”

“Not that one! You always pick up on the wrong things. The notes. She left one in my motel room, too. It’s what the FBI calls a signature.”

“It’s what the rest of us call it, too. I would like to examine the notes, if you’ve kept them.” Yes, Teddy was an investigator, who should have routinely docketed and preserved the notes, but Teddy was more into winging it than building a case file.

“You know what, Ed, never mind. Obviously you don’t believe me, and I only told you because anybody near me while I have a stalker could be in danger too. I know you’re not a physical kind of a guy.”

“I think I can handle a love-struck kid who draws smiley hearts. Shall we proceed?”

He looked away. “Whatever.”

I gave him a minute to get over it, then asked, “Do you know where the suicides threw themselves down?”

“Here,” he said with certainty. He had positioned himself at the back hall of the gallery, opposite the first floor entry door, which was visible from his standpoint. “It must have been from here that she jumped. Her father would have just come in and was still standing just inside the front door.”

“’It must have been’? Teddy, you should know better.” I wrote another note, because I was already realizing that if I didn’t follow up on it, nobody would. “You can’t assume that.”

“She’d been waiting for him,” he said, like the director of a silent movie, working up a scene. “She’s overwrought. On the edge of hysteria. Her father comes in. They stare at one another.” He struck a pose, presumably the daughter’s, since he was standing in her place. “They argue. She jumps to her death.”

“More assumptions? Really, Teddy! Also, I would rather that you didn’t do that,” I added as Teddy leaned out over the handrail in a way that I considered foolhardy.

Teddy was extremely tall and the gallery railing was somewhat low. He was trying to visualize, reaching, stooping, forming a square with his fingers and peering through it, and watching him was beginning to make me nauseous. Personally, I don’t have a head for heights, and Teddy was bracing his thighs against the railing without holding onto it, putting his center of gravity out over the foyer.

“Back up, Teddy,” I blurted when I couldn’t stand it anymore. He looked at me and smiled, but he did, in fact, back up. I exhaled heavily. “This railing would’ve never passed the building codes if this house were being built today,” I muttered, to his amusement.

A thought suddenly struck me, and I stared at Teddy open-mouthed for a moment.

“Do you think –?”

He was nodding. “Yes I do, little buddy.”

“It might have been an accident.”

I stared down at the marble floor some fourteen feet below – for me a dizzying distance – and quickly wrote another note:

“How tall was Cassandra Whitby?”

Transcribed from the dictation of Teddy Force

Edson quickly made an excuse and left. He is uncomfortable around women, and I think he wanted to avoid seeing Misty again, now that he had enough little notes to keep him busy and happy for a while. He’s one of those paranormal investigators who like to use scientific jargon and talk down to people.

I’m the other kind. The intuitive kind. I connect. Both with the specters and with the ordinary average Joes who have seen them and been freaked out by them. I have a genius for giving them what they need: a gentle shove toward the light for the specter, and compassion and understanding for the Joes. It’s my mission, and no skeptic is going to throw me off my game.

I wasn’t expecting Paul to come up to the gallery at all. I could hear dishes clattering in the kitchen, and had recognized him as the type of person who is shy around celebrities. I try to be accessible to my fans, but some people just can’t forget that the first time they saw me, I was on their TV screen.

Misty’s case was fascinating. I was sorry she hadn’t come to me sooner – before Ed – when I had my show,
The Realm of the Shadows
, which had given me greater scope. Because to be honest with you, Ed doesn’t have much in the way of people skills. During our preliminary interview, he kept scaring and confusing Misty. Frankly, I couldn’t wait to get rid of him, but he had brought the tape recorder, and we needed a transcript of the meeting to bring the rest of the cast up to speed. That’s the kind of thing he’s going to be good for. He’ll have the whole thing written up in quadruplicate for us and we can hit the ground running.

(Just a little side note: I’d been interviewing potential cast members for weeks. In fact in one case, I’d been after her for months, trying to get her for my last show. I’ve lined up some exciting personalities. I might be pushing the boundaries a little, but that’s how I roll.)

When Misty came up the stairs to join me in the gallery, she looked around for Ed. When I told her he had left, she relaxed.

I was doing a sweep with the MEL meter, (one of our little toys), but when I looked up I found her gazing at me for reassurance. I set the meter down immediately and managed to gentle her down by stroking her shoulder and murmuring some little thing.

“That man Edson is too serious, Teddy,” she said. “He
stares
at me and I can’t see his eyes, because the light is always flashing off his glasses, and then he asks me a question and I can’t
think
. It’s like being interrogated by enemy agents. He’s not like you, Teddy.”

“I know. Try to put up with him. He’s actually a leader in the field, believe it or not. We’ll have to send him to charm school, won’t we? Now, are you feeling better? Are you ready to go on? Because this could be kind of scary for you, having to relive these events.”

She put her shoulders back and said, “Ask me anything. I’m ready.”

“Good girl. Now. Where exactly were you standing when you had your first sensation that something weird was going on?”

“In my bed.”

“Standing in your bed. I see.”

She laughed, which was what I intended. I wanted to loosen her up.

“I wasn’t standing in bed, silly! I was asleep in bed. And then I heard something out here in the gallery. Then I – I came out to investigate.”

“That’s all right. I’m here now. Just tell me where it happened.”

“Over here,” she said, going to the wrong side of the gallery, away from where the girl had actually thrown herself over. She walked to the side of the railing next to the head of the stairs, so that she was standing directly over the front door. Then she patted her hands on the railing tentatively, as if she expected it to be hot. “Right here.”

“I see. And what time was this?”

“Oh, about two in the morning. Maybe an hour later. I didn’t look at the clock. You see, I heard a noise somewhere in the house and I thought it might be the cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“No. This stray cat has been hanging around the house and it looks like it wants to be friendly, and I wondered if it had gotten in somehow.”

“And had it? Was that the noise you heard?”

“N-no. I didn’t see it then, but I have seen it since. It’s a black cat, but I have the strangest feeling that this is a
lucky
cat. It has the prettiest green eyes. I’ve started putting a water bowl out by the back door for it, and you’ll think I’m silly, but I’ve actually bought some cat food – just a bag of that crunchy stuff – though I don’t put it out at night because I don’t want to attract possums and raccoons –“

“But there was no cat, so we can forget about that for now, can’t we, Misty? Just tell me about what you did see and feel.” One needs to control of the interview gently, another point I’m going to have to ram home with Ed. I had an inspiration. “Let’s try this. Just put your hands down on the railing, right there where you’re standing. Go ahead and take hold of it. That’s right. Just put them down lightly. Now close your eyes. Pretend it’s dark in here. It’s the middle of the night. You’re sleepy. Your feet are bare and you’re wearing your nightie.”

She giggled.

“You were dreaming, asleep, comfortable in your bed, and then you heard a noise.
What was that?
You got up. Was it a cat? No, it wasn’t a cat. You don’t know how you know, but you just know. What could it be? You walk out here. Can you feel your bare feet on the carpet?” She nodded. “You walked to the railing and put your hands down on it, just like you’re doing now. And then you felt . . . .”

I waited. She was occupying the moment, just as I had intended, reliving her experiences of that fateful night.

I held my breath. I began to wonder if I should say something, but I’m pretty disciplined, and I gave it a good ten or fifteen seconds. When her trance only seemed to be getting deeper, I moved closer to her ear and said, in a very soft voice, “You sense something, something alive, and yet not alive, something very near. The air around you is growing cold. You shiver.” She shivered. “
Behind you!
You feel a presence moving in the shadows. Suddenly it notices you, it stares at you, it
wants
you. You can feel its eyes on your back. Now it’s coming toward you. It’s right behind you . . . it’s reaching out to touch you –“

She let out a blood-curdling scream, popped her eyes open, stared at me, and fainted.

Oh, yeah. We had the real deal here. We were cooking now.

From the Journal of Edson Darby-Deaver

Many of the citizens of Tropical Breeze have lived there all their lives. It wasn’t going to be hard to find people who knew about the suicides at the Whitby House, but that would only be gossip, which I already had. I needed facts, and there were a couple of places I could go for them where I knew I’d be getting good information.

I walked away from The Royal Palm considering my options, but I soon realized that my mind had made itself up on its own. I was walking straight down Palmetto Street toward Bernie Horning’s house. She publishes the local paper from a back room in her house, and though she’s in her mid-eighties, she can outwit people half her age. As I walked, I glanced through my handwritten notes and organized my thoughts. A clammy breeze out pushed at me as I walked along.

People from up north think Florida is hot and humid all year long. Not so. Tropical Breeze is in the northeastern portion of the state, and it gets cold here. Fifty, maybe forty degrees. Sometimes it even gets down to freezing, but that’s mostly inland, by the orchards and potato farms. A Bostonian wouldn’t be impressed, but a “Conch” from Key West would.

Bernie was at home.

“Well, if it isn’t Edson Darby-Deaver,” she said upon opening the door. “What took you so long?”

“Ma’am?” I said, stepping inside.

“You’re investigating that phony ghost story of Misty McBain’s, aren’t you? What took you so long to see through her and come to me for the real scoop?”

“To be fair, Bernie, the formal investigation has only been going on for,” I consulted my watch, “ninety-two minutes.”

She peered at me closely with her sharp brown eyes. “Did she give you some of that awful tea?”

I shrugged. “The cookies were good.”

“And what did you think of Paul?”

I shrugged again. “He’s a passive personality. She’s not as grounded in reality as you’d hope a businesswoman would be. One fears for their joint enterprise.”

She was amused. She led the way into the house and took me back to her office. I was honored. Most interviews at Bernie’s house take place at the kitchen counter. Only the serious work is done in her office. It’s the only place she smokes those nasty little cigarillos of hers, and even though she didn’t light up, the air quality was roughly that of a biker bar on the morning after.

She sat herself behind the desk, and said, “If you want coffee, you know where to get it in the kitchen.”

“No thanks, I had several cups before leaving the house this morning. I’ve never seen you in yellow before. It doesn’t suit you.”

“It looked more like peach in the catalog. I only wear it around the house. Thanks for your honesty, though,” she said wryly. “You’re looking as plain-vanilla as ever,” she added, eyeing my immaculate polo shirt. “Well, then. What kind of whoppers is Misty telling now?”

I had taken a chair facing Bernie, but there was no space in the mess of papers on her desk for me to put anything down. When she saw me hesitating with my notes in my hands, she reached over and swiped a stack of folders aside.

I put my notes squarely in the middle of the open space, then took my pen out and held it over them, ready to write.

“The history of the Whitby House has come into question,” I began. “Have people always believed it to be haunted? And if so, would people – specifically children – from Flagler Beach be aware of it?”

Her smile broadened to a grin, bringing out a thousand wrinkles and a dry little cackle. “The Whitby House has never been haunted, and Flagler Beach is only one sand dune away from Tropical Breeze. What we know, they know, especially, the ghost stories. Misty grew up in Flagler, right?”

I agreed.

“Then she’s known about the Whitby House all her life and she knows the whole story.”

“Is it conceivable that she was never in the house until her real estate agent took her through it?”

She thought about it a moment. “That could be. The only time it’s been occupied that I can remember was when the Allen family came over the summers for a while. That was during the ‘eighties and ‘nineties, I think. They should have been snowbirds and come in the winter, but they had girls in school, and could only come in summer. Wait! They had girls who were about Misty’s age. I don’t know if she knew them, but it’s possible she did. The kids from Flagler Beach went to the same school as our kids, and she might have had friends here who knew them. I don’t know for sure, of course, but it’s something to check out.”

I was quickly writing notes. It happens sometimes: instead of getting a quick, clean answer, you only get more questions.

“The Allen family. They were only here part of the year? So they must have had a caretaker.”

She grinned. “Very good, Edson. They did. An old geezer named Jasper.”

I frowned. “Old? Dead?”

“Oh, no. We Florida geezers hang in there. He lives down A1A among the beach rentals. I believe he even owns a few. You know, the cinderblock ones. Last time I drove by there, he had it painted light turquoise, with pink shutters and a sea-green front door. It’s a block north of the new ice cream drive-in, just south of town. What’s it’s name?” She snapped her dry fingers a few times. “Sprinkles. That’s it. Sorry I don’t have the exact address, but you can’t miss it.”

“This is fine. This is great. Thanks, Bernie. Do you know his last name?”

She shrugged. “For all I know, that is his last name. Everybody just calls him Jasper.”

“I see.” I switched gears. “How well do you know Misty? Did she take her husband’s death hard?”

“I don’t know her at all. Sorry.”

“Have you at least met her?”

“Oh, yes. She’s joined the Chamber of Commerce, and I go to all the meetings and write them up for
The Beach Buzz
.”

“Impressions?”

“Of Misty? Good name for her, by the way. If they named girls ‘Foggy’ it might be even better. Her mind works like a wind-up toy. She brought her son Paul along, and he just sat there like a lump the whole time. Never said a word. She had to elbow him when the meeting started because he was playing a game on his cell phone. Frankly I expect her business to fail within the year. She invested her life savings in it, as well as her husband’s life insurance, so she needs the income from the B&B. My source says she’s dried up, financially.”

“Your source?”

“Florence Purdy. You know, two houses that way,” she added, inclining her head to the west. “She runs the animal shelter’s resale shop on Locust Street.”

“Oh, yes – Girlfriend’s. I know her boss, Taylor Verone.”

“Everybody does. Nice lady. Listen, Ed, what’s gotten into you?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I was never was so surprised in my life when I heard you’d hooked up with that flimflam artist, Teddy Force. What were you thinking?”

“Dollars.”

She crowed. “And how’s it going?” She was enjoying herself; I wasn’t.

I stared at her steadily. “You’re nobody’s fool, Bernie. You’ve got a shrewd idea of exactly how it’s going, but I went in with my eyes open, I signed a contract, and I intend to honor it if it turns out to be humanly possible.”

“Well, I wish you joy of it,” she said, chuckling. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“What do you know about the Whitby family? Specifically the ones who committed suicide?”

“I know the local gossip, though people don’t seem as interested in that kind of thing these days as they used to be. But if it’s facts you want, you should ask Barnabas, over at the book store. He has the ‘morgue’ from his granddaddy’s newspaper up in the attic. He’ll know more than I will. He’s sort of the grand old man of Tropical Breeze. The Historical Society keeps pestering him to write up a History, but you know Barnabas. He’s probably too busy reading Plato to his cat.”

“The two of you should collaborate,” I said.

“Come to think of it, I should go interview Barnabas and then do an article on the history of the Whitby House. One of those historical snapshots for
The Beach Buzz.
Everybody loves ‘em. Misty might appreciate it, since she’s only trying to drum up business with this phony ghost story.”

“Is that what everybody’s saying about it?”

“Oh, nobody believes there’s any ghost over there, and neither do I. I, for one, don’t blame her. But the bigger subject of gossip is the show you and Teddy are going to do on it. Everybody claims they never watched Teddy’s old show, but they did. It’s kind of a guilty pleasure, watching them run around in the middle of the night acting like they’re in a low-budget slasher movie. And people do love ghosts.”

“I suppose that’s the layman’s perspective,” I said. “It has always disappointed me that the subject isn’t treated as seriously today as it was a hundred years ago.”

She cackled, and I straightened my notes.

When I began to stand up, she said, “Sit yourself back down, Edson. Now you’ve interviewed me; turnabout is fair play. I’m doing an article on the show you’re doing. It’ll be a perfect companion piece for the historical snapshot on the Whitbys. Now – what the heck are you two doing over there?”

I sat down wearily. “Three. There are three of us. He’s bringing his dog.”

She let out a peal of laughter. “That bulldog that nearly tore down Taylor’s animal shelter while it was there?”

“The very same. Have you been in The Royal Palm since Misty refurbished it?”

“No, but I can just imagine. Lots of breakables?”

“Including Misty. Porter has been known to knock grown men down onto the ground. I’m leaving Teddy to deal with the dog,” I added, dismissing it with a wave of the hand. “We’ll be joined by the rest of the cast tomorrow. I haven’t met them. Teddy hired them, so you can just imagine. And there’s going to be a two-man crew: a videographer and sound man, plus a production assistant, who’s bound to be a bimbo.”

“Oh, no,” Bernie said, turning to type madly on her computer keyboard. “Don’t you monitor your own show’s website? He hired Carmilla to be in the cast. She’ll be the bimbo.”

My heart sank. “Carmilla?”

“You know, the late-night video hostess from that music channel.” She grew reminiscent. “I remember the old days, when those vampire vamps used to host monster movie festivals on cable TV. You talk about good old-fashioned slap-stick – none of this sick stuff people go for these days. There was a top-hatted ghoul with too much eyeliner on one channel that I used to like. I don’t know what was more lame – or funny – the host or the low-budget horror movies. They were better than cold pizza and beer when I couldn’t sleep.”

By that time she’d gotten into the new show’s website and turned the monitor around for me. I reared back.

“I’m going to be working with
that
?”

“I’m sure she’s very sweet when you get to know her.” She looked around at the monitor. “And when she takes that wig off. If it is a wig.”

The stuff of sadomasochistic nightmares stared hungrily out of the monitor at me. Punked-out black hair framed her head and hung down in spikes over her blackened eyes. She had a dead-white complexion with plum-colored cheeks and black lips. A thin trickle of red dripped from a corner of her mouth, and sharp teeth showed between her lips. A smaller window showed her from head to toe, popping out of a leather bustier and bristling with chains. She looked about seven feet tall in over-the-knee platform boots, and stretched between her hands was a long, braided whip.

I felt weak.

“That should be interesting,” Bernie said, delighted with my reaction. “I may just have to pop in and see this ghost rodeo in action.”

“Teddy won’t allow that.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Attention from the press? He’ll kiss my hand.”

“We’ll be working at midnight,” I warned. “From what I saw of his last production, they run it by the seat of their pants. Would you mind turning the monitor around so I can’t see it? Thank you. The shoot – oh yes – they usually just get a vague idea of what the haunting is about, start up the cameras and make it up as they go along. I’m going to try to keep things on a more professional footing, with as much research as I can do before tomorrow so the show won’t be completely bogus. I see this as a chance to elevate the standards of ghost-hunting shows, before they degenerate into full-blown comedy hours. After all, I have my reputation to think of. But even if I don’t get anything solid, we’ll probably jump right in and begin just before midnight tomorrow.”

“Perfect. I never sleep through the night anyway.”

“Really, though, Bernie, I don’t think Teddy is going to allow you at the actual shoot. Maybe you should come over in the morning and meet the cast. Teddy has called a meeting for 9:00.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there. He’s planning on doing the show on the suicide of the girl, since it’s coming up on 100 years?”

I nodded. “Tomorrow is the anniversary, though nobody seems to know the exact time of day that she died.”

“Well, good luck with that. And I’m looking forward to meeting
that
,” she added, looking fondly at the computer screen.