Chihuahua of the Baskervilles (2 page)

She twisted the lock above the handle and pushed open the door. “Petey-poo!” In the backyard, autumn grass crunched under her bare feet, frigid and brittle. She took a few more steps, gazing from side to side, then saw a faint glow at the edge of the workshop. “Petey, Mommy’s here!”

Charlotte made it halfway across the lawn before clouds covered the moon and she tripped on something in the dark. She went down with an “Oof!” and lay still for a moment, praying she hadn’t broken anything.

The back porch light came on, illuminating her. She pushed herself up as Ivan and Cheri came out.

Cheri’s silky black pajamas clung to her slender body. Without makeup, she looked about fifteen. “Grandma!” She ran forward and helped Charlotte stand. “What are you doing out here?”

“You won’t believe it.” Charlotte squeezed Cheri’s hand, then rubbed her hip and grimaced. “I thought I heard Petey, and then I saw something out here in the yard—something that glowed.”

Ellen joined them. “Where did you see it?”

“It went across the yard, then floated onto the workshop roof and disappeared,” Charlotte said. “When I got out here, I thought I saw something along the ground over there.” She pointed toward the workshop.

Ivan had brought a flashlight. He switched it on and walked toward the stone building, waving the light across the ground. The three women followed close behind as the flashlight’s beam cast harsh shadows across the ground. “Here?” Ivan asked.

Charlotte gestured vaguely. “Somewhere around the corner.”

“I see nothing,” Ivan rumbled. He switched off the light.

Charlotte pointed. “Look! What’s that?”

They moved in a clump, Charlotte gripping Ellen’s sleeve. “Does anyone else see that?” Her voice shook as she pointed.

The downspout of a gutter ran down the side of the stone building. In the muddy earth below, a few indentations shone faintly—the glowing tracks of a very small dog.

A sound came from behind the group, and they all turned. Charlotte gave a little gasp.

Thomas Baskerville stood there, hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “What’s going on?”

The others exchanged looks.

Finally Cheri said, “Charlotte thinks she saw a ghost.”

Thomas’s brows rose, and a smile flickered on his thin lips. “As I said, Charlotte, I’m worried about the state of your mental health.”

Two

Angus MacGregor’s cell phone woke him. His futon mattress had no frame, and he groaned a little as he got to his feet. At fifty-two, a man shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.

Two steps took him to his camel-colored corduroy jacket, hanging from a hook on the back of the bedroom door. He took the phone out of its pocket and flipped it open. “Hello?” Grogginess added gravel to his Scottish accent.

“Angus, it’s Pendergast. Are you busy?”

Angus hiked the waistband of his boxer shorts higher. “Not right this moment, but I can’t talk long.” His phrasing made it sound as though an urgent appointment were in the offing. In reality, his pay-as-you-go minutes were running low.

“Listen, I have a lead on a story, and what a story!” Pendergast spoke with an East Coaster’s rapidity. “Plus, it’s right here in Colorado.”

It was cold in the room. As goose pimples rose on his skin, Angus pulled on his jacket one-handed and buttoned it over his chest. “You told me
Tripping
magazine was finished. Your exact words were ‘dead as a stinking halibut,’ as I recall.”

“We’re only a month past when the last issue should have been out. I doubt the subscribers have noticed. We’ll bring it back with a bang.”

“What’s the story?” Angus looked around for his pants.

“There’s a woman in Manitou Springs, made her family’s fortune selling designer clothing for small dogs. This is after her husband lost the family’s previous fortune with some crummy investments. Anyway, the Chihuahua who started it all, Petey, has been dead for a year, but get this—last night,
his ghost
appeared to her. To put a frickin’ cherry on it, the family’s last name is Baskerville!”

“Who else has covered it?”

“No one! Charlotte Baskerville and my wife, Carol, are cousins. Charlotte called Carol this morning, wanting to talk to someone sympathetic. I listened in on the extension.”

Angus put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor before pulling on his pants. “I need my first two weeks’ pay in advance. And I want a photographer.”

“I’ve got one all lined up—used to work for
National Geographic
.”

“You’re kidding.” Angus paused with a sock in his hand. “When? In 1940?”

“No, she’s young. She got fired over some little question of ethics, but it doesn’t apply here. I’ve also lined up a writer-slash-graphic designer.”

Angus picked up the phone and took it off speaker. “Why do we need another writer?”

“Writer-slash–
graphic designer
. He has some great ideas for layout, and he works fast. We want this issue to hit the stands before anyone scoops us. Anyway, it’s too much work for you to write everything. Michael’s a novelist.”

“A graphic-designing novelist?”

“Is there any other kind? Speaking of which, where do you want me to send your check?”

“I’ll give you my bank-account number and you can deposit it directly. End of today?”

“End of tomorrow. I’ve got four sets of braces to put on today, and one of them has a mouth that looks like a broken Chrysler grille. I’ll e-mail directions to the Baskerville house and you can take it from there.”

“Right.” Angus hung up. He had sold Len Pendergast his first Lexus two years ago. Angus’s obvious Scottishness led to talk of the Loch Ness monster, and the two men found they had a common interest.
Tripping,
a travel magazine for aficionados of the paranormal, was the result.

Funded by Len and written and edited by Angus,
Tripping
had enjoyed some local success in the New Age community of Boulder, Colorado, but sagging sales caused Len Pendergast to abandon his expensive hobby. Now they were apparently back in business.

Filled with new purpose, Angus slipped on his loafers and squared his shoulders before stepping out of his bedroom.

In the kitchen, the three college students who rented the other bedrooms in the house sat around the table, eating cereal. They looked up as he entered, and Christine snickered. “Is it laundry day, or is stomach fur the new thing?”

Angus resisted the urge to look down at his shirtless chest beneath the jacket. “I had no idea young people were so prudish.” He headed back to his room.

Three

Angus asked his new staff members to meet him at a local tea place. Retail products filled the shelves, while tea drinkers sat at small tables.

Angus took a moment to order a pot of tea with three cups and looked around for a good place to sit.

A solitary woman sat at one of the tables. Her long legs were encased in high-heeled boots that laced to the knee, visible in the slit of a long velvet skirt. A brown leather bustier constrained a white blouse that ended in long sleeves and frothy lace cuffs.

She turned, and Angus got the full effect of her red-painted mouth, slanted eyes, and black hair, cut short beneath an improbable velvet hat. By the look of her features, she was part Asian.

“Suki Oota?” he asked as she stood to meet him.

“I hope you didn’t ask me to a tea shop because of the Japanese thing.” Her voice was pure Los Angeles.

“No. I thought Oota might be Dutch.” He offered his hand, and she shook it. “This is a regular spot of mine. I’m a fan of the Tung Ting oolong.” He pulled out the chair opposite her, and they both sat. “I understand you worked for
National Geographic,
” Angus said. “Did you bring a portfolio?”

She raised delicate eyebrows at him. “Do I
need
a portfolio, having worked at
National Geographic
?”

“Perhaps you only photographed insects. I need someone with wide scope.”

Suki bent and rummaged through a carpet-bag purse. “You can look at the pictures I’ve taken this week.” She handed him a bulky digital camera. “Use that button to scroll.”

The waitress brought the tea while Angus clicked through the pictures. Suki’s shots included candid portraits, swallows flying above Boulder Creek, and some night shots of the CU campus, all outstanding.

Angus handed the camera back. “You’re very good.”

“I am.” She shrugged. “I don’t actually need to work. Not that you shouldn’t pay me, but be aware that I can walk at any time.”

“What happened at
National Geographic
?” Angus asked, pouring tea for both of them. “So I can do my best to avoid losing you.”

She sighed. “Sexual impropriety on the staff’s part.”

“Ah.” Angus nodded solemnly. “Objectively speaking, you are quite attractive.”

“So was he, in a dark, loinclothed kind of way.” She frowned. “No one told me there was a hands-off policy with the natives. I guess you’re just supposed to
know
. Honestly, it was so clubby there.”

“Well, Ms. Oota, carnal temptations are rare in the world of paranormal travel, so I think you’ll do fine.” Angus looked past her as someone approached the table. “And this must be our writer-slash–graphic designer.”

The newcomer was a lean man in his late twenties with a worn messenger bag slung over the shoulder of his black leather jacket. Dark, shaggy hair touched the top of gold-wire glasses perched on his narrow face. He didn’t smile as he came over. “Angus MacGregor?”

“A pleasure.” Angus stood and offered his hand. “And this is Suki Oota, our staff photographer.”

Pendergast had told him Michael’s last name was Abernathy. Angus had looked forward to having another Scot on staff, even if he wasn’t native. But judging by Michael Abernathy’s olive-skinned good looks, the Scottish part of him was on one side only.
French,
Angus thought.
Or Jewish
.

Michael looked Suki up and down as they shook hands. “Nice outfit. Steampunk?”

“For the moment,” she said.

They sat, and Angus turned to Michael. “I understand you’re a novelist.”

Michael shook his head. “Writer. You don’t call yourself a novelist until you publish a book. I do sell a fair amount of magazine articles. They’re good for the résumé.” He took a battered laptop out of his bag and set it on the table. “Len said you need someone for layout, too.”

“That would be helpful, although we have a template that I use without any problems.”

“If it’s anything like the Web site, it needs updating.”

“Oolong tea?” Angus picked up the Yixing clay pot.

Michael didn’t look up from his computer. “Only if it’s Formosa.”

“What else?” said Angus, who had no idea. He went by smell and taste. He poured into the small, handleless cup.

Michael turned his laptop toward Angus. “This is my proposed look and feel for the Web site and cover design, using stock photos. My research showed that the most active paranormal groups revolve around UFOs, Bigfoot, and ghosts. I threw Stonehenge in there because it’s a well-known tourist destination and you’re working the travel angle.” He picked up his cup and inhaled deeply before sipping. After a moment he swallowed. “A little thin on the back note. Probably not spring pick.”

Angus used the laptop’s down arrow to scroll through the proposed site. “I like the blue.”

“I used blue because most of your readers are male, and men like blue.”

“They also like red,” Suki said.

“Blue is more calming. Good for when you’re asking someone to spend money.”

“But red incites action, so they hit that
BUY
button.” She smiled slowly, her red lips curving.

Michael stared at her a moment. “Maybe.”

Angus turned the computer back toward Michael. “I think we have a good team. Manitou Springs is a two-hour drive, and as you know, Len told Mrs. Baskerville to expect us after lunch. We’ll take my car.”

*   *   *

Michael took one sip of the coffee Angus brought on the trip before sticking the plastic thermos cup out the car window and dumping it.

“You can wash that off the fender when we stop for gas, lad.” Angus stepped on the pedal of his Mitsubishi Eclipse as he merged onto I-25.

“Happy to,” Michael muttered, turning sideways in the backseat. “You should always ask to smell the coffee before they fill the bag, to make sure it’s fresh.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Angus, who bought all his coffee at the Dollar Store. “Now let’s talk about Manitou Springs. It’s a perfect vacation spot for paranormal fans, close to cliff dwellings and a couple of ghost towns. They have a haunted cemetery, a haunted stately home—Miramont Castle—and of course, the Emma Crawford Coffin Race.”

“Who is Emma Crawford, and why did she like fast coffins?” Michael asked.

“She didn’t. The poor girl died of tuberculosis in 1891. She had just gotten engaged.”

“That was wishful thinking.”

“She hoped Manitou’s healthful waters would cure her, but when it became clear she was dying, she asked her fiancé to bury her at the top of Red Mountain, which wasn’t an official cemetery by any means. A dozen men, headed by the heartbroken beau, carried the coffin to the peak and buried her there.”

“So it’s a race to see who can get to the top of the mountain first?” Suki asked.

“Not exactly. As I said, it wasn’t an official grave site, and her coffin was moved once to make way for the railroad. After a few years, a rainy spell unearthed Emma and sent her remains hurtling down the side of the mountain on a tide of mud. So every year, folks build coffin-shaped vehicles, someone dresses as Emma and gets inside, and they push her as fast as possible down Manitou’s main street, as a way to remember Miss Crawford.”

“Well, that
is
touching,” Michael said.

“So you see, Manitou is perfect for
Tripping
. Pendergast is lining up advertisers as we speak. We’ll mention places to stay—”

“Where are we staying?” Suki asked.

“The Manitou Arms, which fits the budget of most of our readers. But we’ll tour the full spectrum—the bed and breakfasts, deluxe. We’ll need to list places to eat, as well. There’s a haunted restaurant, the Regency.”