McCann's Manor (20 page)

Liz wiped her eyes, hugged him close to her, “Oh, John. How could anyone have been so vile as to have done this to Ben?"

"Spencer again?” he asked as led her to a low bench, sat her down.

"Yes,” she sobbed and then she poured out the whole sordid story to him.

"Wow, that's pretty low. No wonder McCann hated him so much. Here, you're trembling. Sit down. What can I do for you?"

She shook her head. “You're here; that's enough.” Then she laughed hard.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking, you used to have the jitters every time you came here—and we're ridding you of that reaction by shocking it out of your senses every time you come in."

He laughed, too and said, “Yes, that
is
a hoot, isn't it? Before you're through, I'll think I have to come here every day just to get my shock treatment."

Liz took a slow breath, looked deep into his eyes, said, “Thank you for being there for me."

"You would be there for me if the situation was reversed."

"Maybe..."

He looked at her.

She smiled. “Okay, I
would
be there for you,” she admitted.

"You were there for me last night. I needed someone to talk to after—after my little chat with Missy. You were there."

She cleared her throat, rubbed her nose with the handkerchief. “This is soft—silk?"

"You like it?"

"Yes, I like it very much."

"Then it's yours—and I'll bring you a dozen more just like it."

"That's very generous of you, but I don't cry that often,” she said, feeling more than a little self-conscious.

He knelt in the floor in front of her. “Then maybe you can find some other uses for them."

She bit her top lip, tried not to look silly when she grinned at him. “If they all smelled like this one, I would just put them all over the house to remind me of you."

He studied her face, cupped her chin in his hand, and drew her close to him. “Liz, I—"

"Well, well! So we meet again! I suppose, Ms. Carr, that you have another spellbinding tale for me today?” Humphrey greeted as he stepped into the spacious room. “This place could use a good dusting, you know."

Liz jumped; John stood and turned to face Humphrey. “You've a great sense of timing, Pete."

"Yes, well, I didn't get to be sheriff for nothing, you know."

John pursed his lips. “Yes, I know."

"So, what's the story on this one?” Humphrey asked.

"This is Constance Spencer, Sheriff Humphrey,” Liz said as she pointed to the body in the coffin.

"This McCann was quite a colorful character, wasn't he? Smuggler, body thief—what other talents did he have?"

Liz looked around the room, “He seems to have been quite a remarkable architect."

Humphrey nodded. “Yes, yes. You look to be right with that one. Look, Ms. Carr—I checked with the Austin police and they told me you're quite a gifted psychic who has helped them solve several mysteries. They said they're still at liberty to call on you and your friend, Kim to help with other cases in the future—is that right?"

"Well, yes, it is. Most of the psychics with the Parapsychology Group are
on call
whenever they need us."

"Yeah, well, seems like I owe you an apology. Would you accept it?"

This was a switch, and it surprised her; then she wondered what Humphrey might be up to. “Yes, of course,” she said.

"Okay,” he said, sitting beside her on the low bench. “I'm ready to hear your story on this one. By the way, the coroner got a few of his historical society pals together and they all pretty much agreed our body from yesterday is indeed Benjamin McCann. They also seem to concur with your assessment he and Spencer were enemies and Spencer probably did kill McCann."

Liz nodded. “Well, it's the truth, Peter. Please call me Liz."

"All right, Liz. You say this is—was—Spencer's—
wife?
"

Liz ran through the story for Peter Humphrey, who listened while Jack Lance wrote down her statement.

"Peter, what are you going to do with Ben's body?” she asked after she had finished the tale.

Peter shrugged, “Plant it in the ground and hope it don't grow,” he laughed.

Liz smiled at his attempt at humor. “May I make a suggestion?"

"Suggest anything you want—within reason,” Peter said.

"I would like to see him buried here on top of this hill overlooking the river—with Constance."

"I can see burying him with his cat, but I'm not so sure about burying Constance Spencer here. The family might have a problem with that."

"But she was Ben's wife. Somewhere there are marriage papers to prove it. David Spencer somehow forced her to marry him—I'm certain of it—or forced her to live with him telling everyone she was his wife."

"That's very interesting, Liz,” Peter admitted, “but why would he have done that?"

"I have given that question some thought, but I don't have any answer for it yet. I was hoping maybe Ben kept some kind of journal or something that would give us some idea about the relationship he had with Spencer. They seem to have known each other for most of their lives. Spencer may have come to Ben's rescue when Ben got into some kind of trouble—but Spencer had no love for Ben and his primary intention in helping Ben was to use him to make himself richer."

"Is this pure speculation on your part, or do you have some kind of proof?” Peter asked.

"It's neither. I believe it because of the psychic link I established with McCann in a vision where I saw him writing a letter to Constance, but I have no proof."

"I see,” Peter said. “Well, what else have you garnered from your
psychic link
with McCann?"

"I haven't been able to give it much attention yet and I would rather not speculate until I have the chance to meditate on it a bit."

Peter nodded. “I suppose that's all right. Will you please let us know should you come up with any additional information?” He looked toward the passage where Willard was busy fussing over the body of Constance. “You got anything to add?"

Willard came out, handed Humphrey a small metal box. “I found this in her coffin. It is pretty well rusted shut, but it might contain some useful information. The body is pretty much in the same state as McCann's, although she was interred in the ground for a few days before she was brought here."

"How can you tell?” Jack Lance asked.

"There is clay on the casket, here—came into the cracks pretty well—like it would have when the thing was covered. This is clay, mind you—the Spencer plot is close to the river where there is lots of clay instead of plain dirt. Six feet down over there, the clay stays wet all the time. It would explain why the coffin has so much clay still clinging around the edges."

Humphrey registered some surprise, “You mean you can tell that it has been buried and that it was buried in Spencer's plot by the clay on the casket?"

"Well, I can't prove it was
Spencer's
plot without lab tests, but I do know it wasn't the cemetery."

"How do you know it wasn't the cemetery?"

"Pete, you're pretty dense sometimes. The cemetery is over ten miles from the river. There's no clay like this there. This is river mud mixed with clay. Besides, the community cemetery didn't exist until the mid eighteen hundreds; remember Bastrop wasn't even a community when Constance died. Spencer and McCann both were pioneers in the area,” Willard said.

Humphrey took a deep breath, blew it out again before he spoke, like counting to ten, Liz noted. He said, “So you think it
is
Constance Spencer?"

Willard nodded, “I think it's probable. McCann only loved one woman and she was
Spencer's
wife. ‘Course, I know you don't like to hypothesize, Pete, so why don't you get the paperwork together and go dig up the plot where Constance is
supposed
to be. If you can't find her coffin there, then this is probably the lady herself."

"Well, thanks for that bit of wisdom, Willard, but I already know what protocol is in order, you know.” He turned to Liz and John, then, “In case you haven't already guessed it, Willard here is our local history expert; he knows more about the past around here than a lot of us know about the present. You got questions about anything that went on two hundred years ago, this is your man."

Liz smiled. “That is useful information, Peter. May I call on you for confirmation, should I need it, Willard?"

Willard shrugged. “Sure. I'm always glad to help. So far, though, you have pretty well nailed everything."

"Sometimes I need validation, though. I'm glad to know you're available."

"Why, yes, Ma'am. I would be pleased to help."

Peter looked at the ceiling, sighed, “If we're through with that, let's get this thing out of here. Willard, if there was any poison or anything in her, would it still show up?"

"Poison?"

"Yes, poison, Willard. You know what that is, right?” Peter pressed.

"Sure, Pete, I know what poison is. They weren't embalming around here back then—so it would all depend on what kind of poison it was, I guess. You want me to check for poisoning?"

"What do you think? I want to know cause of death. If poison was involved, I want to know
that
."

Willard scratched his head, asked, “Don't I always check all the bases?"

"Just use extra care with this, all right?"

Willard grinned out of the side of his mouth, winked at Liz. “Oh, I get it, you're just getting me back for suggesting you dig up Constance's grave, that it? You can rest assured, I'll do my utmost to determine a clear cause of death, Sheriff."

"Yeah, well, see that you do, Will. Liz, keep me informed on anything you find out about McCann, will you? Even if it is just a strong psychic impression, I want to know about it."

Liz smiled. This was at best a mock investigation—a murder that occurred two hundred years ago left no one to bring to justice. Peter was making fun of her—and Willard—in his own unique way. He thought this whole thing was a waste of his time.

"Not that it matters to anyone around here now,” Liz said, “But it matters to Ben and Constance—I'll let you know, Peter. Will you see about burying them here?"

Peter nodded, headed from the room. “I'll be talking to you later. I have an appointment."

Jack Lance was close behind Humphrey, but he called back over his shoulder, “Dental appointment; makes him a little more testy than usual."

John and Liz came down the stairs after the coroner and other investigators left and joined Kim in the living room. “I had no idea there was going to be a body in every secret passage. Maybe you won't want to find any more of the passages,” John said.

"Liz has promised me this is the last body,” Kim replied. “Right, Liz?"

Liz smiled, shrugged. “I did say that. Of course, I'm not positive. Finding out things about your own life and surroundings is the hardest, as you well know."

"Wonder why that is,” John mused.

"It's the human doubt factor—no matter how psychic a person is, he or she is still human and where you have humans, you have doubts,” Kim said.

"Don't you have doubts about other people and their
things
?"

"Sure,” Liz said, “but doubts about them don't interfere as much somehow. I can't explain that. You're a dabbler in the paranormal mysteries; don't you sometimes
know
things about or for other people better than you know them for yourself?"

"Hmm—well, I suppose so, but I don't get much psychic information. The subject fascinates me and I've read everything I can get my hands on, but I'm just not a good psychic. People like you blow me away,” he said.

"I believe everyone is psychic. It's an inborn talent we all have; most of us just learn at a very young age to block most of the information we receive,” Liz said.

"I have heard that, but I haven't ever experienced it,” John said.

"Well,” Kim inserted, “it does help if you can allow yourself to believe you're psychic. You have to accept that you do receive hundreds of psychic impressions every day; trust those impressions and they begin to make sense for you."

"That sounds
logical
, but I still have trouble with it,” he confessed.

Liz and Kim smiled. “You have to practice believing and trusting—a
lot
,” Kim explained.

John pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don't know that I will ever be able to believe and trust enough to say I'm psychic. I do have a question for you, though, Kim."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Well, Gracie and Wade told me you're both empathic, clairvoyant, clairaudient channels."

Kim looked at the floor. “Yes, that's true, but those are merely labels, you know. Most psychics are a combination of one or more of the categories and most psychics can display any or all of those attributes during the course of a paranormal investigation. What you call it doesn't matter."

"Okay, I know that; but I
have
been wondering though, why Liz has talked about her psychic impressions and you haven't. Gracie said you're the one who is the most open about your abilities—so I'm a little confused, I guess."

Kim looked at Liz. “I'm going to make us something to drink. Tell him what's going on."

"Thanks, Kim!” Liz said with sarcasm. “I appreciate it. How come I get stuck with the explanations?"

Kim looked back over her shoulder, replied, “Because you are the one who has trouble declaring—so
declare!
Iced tea?"

"Sounds good,” John said.

"Back in a few minutes. Go ahead, Liz—
declare
."

"Declare?” John asked.

"Yes. Well—how to put it? Have you ever seen two or more parapsychologists working on the same project together?” Liz asked.

"No, I can't say that I have. Everyone I have had out here has been a loner. Why?"

"Kim and I always work as a pair on this kind of project because of the inherent dangers involved in working with spirits. One parapsychologist working with his impressions alone puts himself in a very vulnerable position, as you have seen with those who have come here before.

"You see, whenever a spirit is stuck on this plane, for whatever reason, it means that spirit hasn't gone to the light yet. He or she is no more trustworthy than he or she was in life. Spirits who haven't been through the light can lie, trick and cheat—there is no law that says they have to tell you the truth or even deal with you honestly,” she explicated.