Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 24

"The basic idea," Ca.s.s explained, "is that background noise, white noise, acts as a carrier for other sounds."

"Voices of the dead?" I said, my own squeaking.

"Precisely. The voices are generally too weak to detect, but in the presence of white noise, they become quite clear, sometimes loud."

"You've heard dead people speak?" Flax asked in an awed whisper.

"Many times," Ca.s.s said nonchalantly.

His disappointment was obvious. "Too bad we don't have that tonight."

"Yeah," Fran joined in lightly. "Why are you holding out on us?"

Ca.s.s flashed a disarming smile. "I didn't want to get too complicated."

"I wish I could be your partner," Flax said, scooting next to Ca.s.s.

Sensing my dismay, Fran hurried to deflect the insult. "You gotta keep an eye on Kris, techno-man. Me and her get on a team, first thing we'll do is run out that door."

Flax pouted. "You would not."

"Yes, we would," I a.s.sured him.

"Know what we'd do next?" Fran asked.

"No," Flax said, his lower lip protruding a full inch.

"Keep running down the block."

"And out of the neighborhood, and that wouldn't accomplish anything, would it?" I said reasonably.

"I guess not," he said grudgingly. "I better stay with you."

"That's a plan."

"The key to our success," Ca.s.s said, wrapping up the training, "lies with recordkeeping. We need scrupulous, accurate notes we can later match with photographs. In a typical overnight investigation, no single piece of evidence is conclusive, but when it's all compiled, you begin to see compelling patterns. If we can link positive EMF or temperature readings with photographic evidence-"

"Eureka!" Fran shouted. "Nothing flighty about that."

"We're aiming for practical research, under controlled conditions, without bias."

"Got it," Fran agreed.

"Understood," I said.

"Let's go!" Flax cried.

Chapter 21.

Nothing like two hours of inactivity to dull any enthusiasm for activity.

When Flax and I had entered the bedroom on the second floor, my heart was racing at 200 beats per minute. Now, I could barely keep my eyes open.

We'd begun our vigil by taking elaborate notes of the contents and layout of the room in the turret.

A casual observer would have thought the bedroom was in active use, its occupant having stepped out for the evening. The rocker in front of the window was c.o.c.ked at an angle to take advantage of views and suns.h.i.+ne, and a polyester light blue blazer was draped carefully over the back. The twin bed, dresser, vanity and nightstands were made of light maple and in showroom condition. The quilt, bed skirt and needlepoint throw pillows all had floral patterns, not matching but complementary.

Scattered throughout the room was further evidence of a life interrupted. An open jewelry box atop the dresser contained clip-on earrings, watches, broaches and necklaces neatly arranged by matching sets. A collection of Easter cards, addressed but never sent, remained on the dresser. In the drawers, underpants, nylons, bras, unders.h.i.+rts, pullovers and sweaters lay neatly folded, all smelling faintly of perfume. And on the nightstand were March 1980 issues of Ladies' Home Journal and Redbook, with mailing labels addressed to Constance Ferro.

The last tenant.

Nell Schwartz had claimed that Constance disappeared suddenly, in the middle of the night; Hazel Middleton had countered that she moved to California to be near her niece.

Canva.s.sing the room, I was inclined to believe Nell.

Next to the magazines sat a framed headshot of Hazel. If Flax found it unusual that his great-grandmother's photo was in another woman's room, he didn't comment.

Shortly after our inventory and mapping, a frightening thought occurred to me. I pointed toward the window. "What direction is that?"

"North."

I gestured toward the doorway. "Do you notice anything unusual about the woodwork and trim?"

"It's different than the rest of the room."

"And the door itself?"

"It's not st.u.r.dy like the others. Why?"

"Excuse me," I said as I pressed the two-way radio to my chin.

"Green here," came the reply to my buzz.

"Why did Ca.s.s put us in the room the dogs jumped out of?" I whispered tersely.

"That you, Kris?"

"Who else would it be?"

"All kinds of weirdoes on these airwaves. Better repeat the question."

"The Dobermans," I said between clenched teeth. "We're in their room. Why did Ca.s.s choose it?"

The ghost supervisor herself answered. "Is something wrong?"

"Not yet."

"Do you want me to come down?"

My mouth felt dry. "If you don't mind."

"I'll be right there."

Unable to wait, I instructed Flax to stay put, and I left the room and started up the ma.s.sive stairway, meeting Ca.s.s halfway through her descent. "We're in the room the Dobermans dove out of," I said, fl.u.s.tered.

She stood in absolute repose. "I'm aware of that."

"Did you pick it because of the possessions left behind or the tortured dogs?"

Ca.s.s tossed her straight hair over her shoulder. "Neither, really."

"Why then?"

She gave me a funny look. "Because it felt the most active."

"Felt how?"

"Instinct. Experience."

"Good active or bad active?"

"That's what we're here to measure tonight," she said evenly. "Would you prefer to switch rooms or partners? I could trade places with Flax."

"No," I said, momentarily disconcerted. "We'll be fine."

Ca.s.s smiled slightly and squeezed my arm for rea.s.surance before I retraced my steps to the northwest corner bedroom, where I spent the next few minutes deflecting Flax's questions about why I'd left so abruptly. He accepted my evasive replies but seemed edgy.

To settle us down, I suggested we play twenty questions, using famous people, not objects. He agreed, and we played a number of rounds, only managing to stump each other once. He flummoxed me with Paul Allen, the cofounder of Microsoft, and I confused him with Aunt Jemima, the syrup queen.

Six questions into our last round, he snapped a photograph, catapulting me into alertness.

I scrambled to retrieve the clipboard. "Did you get a reading?"

"No, but Ca.s.s said we could take pictures anytime we felt something was near us or watching us."

"And you did?" I said excitedly.

"Not really. I was bored, but she'll never know the difference."

"Flax," I said, my chest heaving, "we have to doc.u.ment everything. I'm writing this down."

He pulled a face. "No, don't tell her."

"I can't lie. It'll throw off the data," I said flatly.

"Write down the camera went off by accident at nine-oh-seven p.m. Please!"

"Okay," I said, comfortable with that level of deceit. "Do the toilets still work on this floor?"

"Some of them, but there's no water. You have to go to Grandma Hazel's house."

"Fine. I'll be back."

On my way to the carriage house, I inadvertently set off one of the motion detectors, because I'd forgotten to call ahead on the two-way to tell Ca.s.s and Fran to disengage the system with the hand-held remote. In the ensuing chaos, I had to endure a piercing screech from the alarm and a good-natured harangue from Fran.

By the time I returned from my bathroom break, the lack of activity had caught up to me.

I could have cared less whether the house was haunted or whether I'd ever see a ghost.

Roberta Franklin's concerns meant nothing to me, and neither did this project.

Who had I been kidding?

Delegate the Destiny/Carolyn case to Fran and focus my attention on this one?

What the h.e.l.l was the matter with me?

I'd never experienced a time in my life when my priorities were more out of whack.

I couldn't have cared less about the dead.

I had too much to worry about with the living.

I made a deal with Flax. He would show me a back exit, down the servants' stairs and out to the street, a route that wouldn't trip any of Ca.s.s's motion detectors. I'd be gone an hour or less, and he'd cover for me, if I'd bring back a Big Gulp and a bag of Skittles. I told him I had an errand to run, and he didn't press for details, funneling all of his interest to the sugar bribe.

I scurried out, hoping Fran and Ca.s.s wouldn't discover my dereliction but not concerned enough to change course. Five miles away, I brought my Honda Accord to a stop and pondered definitions.

Breaking and entering? Technically, no, not if I could find and use a key.

Criminal trespa.s.s? Maybe. But I wasn't really a criminal, and I didn't intend to do anything nefarious.

Simple trespa.s.s? I could live with that.

I was debating these potential legal perils as I sat outside Carolyn O'Keefe's house on Holly Street. After several minutes of conscience-gauging, I exited the car and walked up a concrete path, which cut across the lawn. On the porch, I nudged past a wooden table and chairs and veered toward a clay planter.

I was bending down to look under the planter when a loud whisper startled me more than a scream. "Howdy!"

I ma.s.saged the elbow I'd hit and slowly turned. "Hi," I said to a man thirty feet away, sitting on the porch of the house next door. He was partially hidden by a bamboo sun shade, which gave me hope that my silhouette was equally blurry. In case it came down to a police lineup, G.o.d forbid.

"Dr. O'Keefe told me you'd be coming."