Medium Well (9781101599648) (18 page)

Chapter 18

Deirdre Ramos took a long sip of her iced tea, then folded her hands on the table in front of her. All around them, Alamo Heights matrons were having chicken salad and cosmopolitans, seated at tables that echoed the subdued peach and gray color scheme of the walls. It was all so civilized. Biddy felt like an interloper.

“I'm not a professional medium.” Deirdre's eyes burned with the same emerald hue as her son's. “Let's get that straight right off the bat. I'm a middle school guidance counselor with a few extra abilities.”

Biddy managed to keep her expression fairly blank. “I didn't really think you were a medium, honest.”

Deirdre grimaced. “Well, lots of other people have made that mistake over the years—people who knew about my family. My mother
was
a medium—so was my grandmother. But I didn't think like they did, and I didn't want to be like them, either. I left home when I married Ray, and I lost contact with my mother after that.”

Biddy nodded, as if this were the most rational conversation in the world. “I understand.”
Down the rabbit hole, Biddy.

“What is it you want to know, exactly?” Deirdre squeezed a lime wedge into her tea.

“I've gotten a lot of information from the Historical Society,” Biddy explained. “I know who lived in the Steadman house now, someone who's probably involved with the ghost—a man named Prescott Palmer.”

Deirdre frowned slightly. “Prescott Palmer. I know that name. I've heard it before somewhere. Who was he?”

“He was a medium in the 1890s. He apparently made a lot of money by passing on financial information to some of the rich and powerful men here in town.”

Deirdre nodded. “Right. Now I remember. Prissy Palmer, the man who consulted the spirits and found the answers to life's little mysteries, such as which gold-mine stock was sure to be a winner.” She grimaced. “My grandmother mentioned him a few times. She always looked like she wanted to spit when she did.”

“Well, he was one of the men who owned the Steadman house, and he disappeared.” Biddy shrugged. “And he had a beautiful wife who lived there, too. It could be a coincidence—he really could have taken off for the border with his ill-gotten cash. But it just seems to sort of stretch probability that the Steadman house could have both a disappearing con artist and a murder without those two things being connected.”

“I agree. But what does this have to do with the carriage house? Why would Palmer haunt it rather than the main house?”

“I don't know,” Biddy admitted. “But I've got an idea—you remember the cat?”

“The cat? You mean the ghost cat?”

“Right. That one.” Biddy took a deep breath. “I think it's Beatrice Steadman.”

Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “Why would you think that?”

“She raised Persian cats, and she told Gracie DeZavala at the Historical Society that she wanted to come back as a cat when she died.”

Deirdre went on staring. Biddy suddenly realized just how loony that theory sounded. “Well, I mean, maybe not. It just seemed like a possibility . . .”

Deirdre nodded. “It
is
a possibility. A very real possibility. Souls have been known to migrate, and if Mrs. Steadman was serious in her wish, she might have gotten it. The question is, how would this help you find out what's going on in the carriage house?”

“It might not. But then again, it might. I mean, I can't believe Mr. Black and his lady friend only popped up now, just when Danny and I walked in.”

“No, that's very unlikely.”

“So that might mean the ghosts were there when Mrs. Steadman lived in the main house. After all, she lived there for forty or fifty years. And if they were around, maybe she knows something about how they got there.”

Deirdre's smile was dry. “Particularly since she now seems to be a ghost herself. Ghosts do communicate with one another.”

Biddy took a quick bite of her sandwich. Somehow the conversation didn't seem quite so bizarre when she had a mouthful of food.

“But my question is still, what do you want to do about it, Biddy?” Deirdre tapped her long, slender fingers on the table.

Biddy took another deep breath—this was the hard part. “I'd like to talk to her. If that's possible. I mean she's a cat and all, but maybe . . .” Her voice trailed off as she watched the woman sitting across from her. The middle school guidance counselor with the son who made her own pulse accelerate every time she thought of him. Everything she'd planned on doing sounded wildly unlikely all of a sudden.

Deirdre's lips thinned. “I'm not a medium, Biddy, I told you. I can't hold a séance.”

“Would I need to hold a séance to be able to talk to her?” Biddy rubbed the back of her neck, willing the tension to go away. “I saw her, after all. I don't know what that means exactly. Am I a medium, too?”

Deirdre shook her head. “Probably not. Some people are just more sensitive than others to the presence of the dead.”

Biddy managed not to shudder. “What would it take to be able just to have a conversation?”

“You could probably talk to her with help. Assuming she
can
talk to humans. She came to you and Danny—perhaps she has something she wants to say to you.”

“What kind of help would I need?”

Deirdre stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Me. I'm not a professional, but I'm what they call a ‘sensitive.' I can't do a séance, but I might be able to help you communicate. I learned some things from my mother.”

Biddy felt a mixture of jubilation and guilt. This was what she wanted. Wasn't it? “Would you be willing to do that? I don't want to make you do something you don't feel comfortable doing.”

The corners of Deirdre's mouth edged up slightly. “I'd be willing. I spent a large part of my life not doing anything like this. But I'm beginning to think that may have been my way of getting back at my mother for trying to plan my life out according to her own ideas. I admit—I'm curious about what's going on at that house. And about how many of the things I learned from her I can still do.”

“You don't mind?”

She shook her head. “I don't mind. Going to the carriage house with Danny was sort of . . . exhilarating in a weird way.”

Biddy took a final deep breath. “Great. I brought the key.”

“You got the key?” Deirdre frowned. “I thought that was difficult.”

“It is, but Araceli's assistant finally went to the ladies' room, and I did a better job of switching the keys around on the board this time. Hopefully, nobody will notice anything is missing.” Biddy gave her a bright smile that probably didn't fool either of them.

“How . . . brave of you.” Deirdre took another sip of her tea.

“Could we go now?” Biddy tried to look chipper and excited rather than as nervous as she really felt. She didn't want to think about what Araceli would do if she found out what was going on. To say nothing of what Danny might do.

“You don't want to wait for Danny to come along?” Deirdre raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded Biddy very much of her son.

“I don't think Danny should be involved this time. If Araceli found out he was there, she might fire him. And Big Al would probably back her up. With me, she'll probably only screech for a while. She's used to me doing things I shouldn't.”

Deirdre gave her a long look, then shrugged. “All right, let's give it a try. The cat appeared in the afternoon the first time—maybe she'll do it again.”

Thirty minutes later, as Biddy walked up the drive behind Deirdre, she reflected that she wouldn't have lived in the Steadman house for fifty years if she'd had a choice. The grayish walls looked particularly dingy in the afternoon sunshine. Mrs. Steadman must have liked the place, but Biddy wasn't sure anybody else would. On the other hand, maybe Mrs. Steadman liked the place enough to still be in residence.

Deirdre stood beside the door while she fitted the key into the lock. The door creaked as she opened it. She wondered if that was some spirit's idea of a joke.

Deirdre glanced around the lower floor. “Dreary, isn't it?”

“It's big, but that's about all I can say about it.” Biddy followed her into the living room.

“Is this where you saw her?” Deirdre peered into the darkened corners.

Biddy shook her head. “We were upstairs. I thought it was a real cat that had gotten in through a window or something.”

“All right. Let's go up there.” Deirdre headed toward the staircase. “I don't mind telling you, dreary or not, this place is better than the carriage house.”

“Absolutely.” A quick, reminiscent shiver moved down Biddy's spine. “Of course, a ghost cat is still a ghost.”

“Yes. Let's just hope it's more interested in talking than the carriage house ghosts were.”

Biddy reached the door to the middle bedroom, stifling the sudden chill that ran across her shoulders. Now that she knew what was inside, she shouldn't be afraid of it, right? On the other hand, even though she knew what to anticipate, she couldn't say the project filled her heart with gladness.

Deirdre stepped into the room behind her, squinting at the shadows. “I don't see anything.”

“I didn't either the first time. It may take a minute.”

Something moved like a swirl of leaves in the corner. If she hadn't been able to hear the asthmatic whir of the air-conditioning in the background, she might have thought the wind was blowing a dust devil.

The swirl became darker, coalescing, becoming opaque, like clouds, like smoke, and then like an animal's gray fur. Biddy forced herself to stand still and watch, while the hair rose on the back of her neck. After a moment, Deirdre reached for her hand, never taking her gaze from the cat as it emerged from its whirling chrysalis. Her fingers felt cool.

A moment longer and the gray Persian stood in front of them, golden eyes blinking in its odd, pinched face.

“Mrs. Steadman?” Deirdre said politely. Her voice sounded like she was addressing a society matron at a charity tea.
Down the rabbit hole, Biddy!

The cat stared a moment longer, then began licking her paw. Biddy felt a quick pinch of disappointment.

“Mrs. Steadman, we'd really like to talk to you. About the carriage house.” Deirdre held tight to both of Biddy's hands.

The cat flopped down on its side, staring at them with eyes the color of topaz. “I'm sure you would.” The voice was low, rasping in a way that tickled Biddy's ears.

She was so startled she lurched backward.

“Steady,” Deirdre cautioned. “Don't let go of my hands. We need to be in contact to talk to her.”

“Amateurs,” the cat growled.

Or at least Biddy thought it was the cat. Her mouth didn't open when she spoke. Maybe it was mind-melding or something.

Deirdre narrowed her eyes. “Yes, well, we really need your help. As I said, we need to know about the carriage house.”

The cat looked down at her silky gray feet, batting at a bit of fluff in the carpet. “Tuna. Salmon. Not turkey. Not chicken. Chicken bones kill.”

“I'm sorry,” Biddy stammered, “were we supposed to bring something? I didn't . . .” She turned to Deirdre. “Can ghosts eat?”

Deirdre shook her head. “But they can remember. About the carriage house . . .”

“Rats.” The cat raised her head, blinking at them. “In the carriage house. Lizards. Snakes. Snakes taste like rot. Lizards tickle.”

Deirdre nodded patiently. “Yes. Some may still be there. What about the people?”

“People in the house.” The cat licked her paw again, rubbing it against her ear. “And tuna. Nobody in the carriage house. Locked. Tight.”

“Is that Mrs. Steadman?” Biddy whispered.

Deirdre shook her head. “
That
is a cat. Who can talk.” She leaned forward slightly. “Why is the carriage house locked? To protect the carriages?”

The cat cocked her head to the side, staring. “Evil,” she muttered. “Keep the evil in.”

Deirdre's back was suddenly rigid. “Evil,” she repeated.

The cat rolled onto her back again. “Cream,” she crooned. “And doves. Delicious doves.”

“Evil.” Deirdre's voice was sharp. “Tell us about the evil.”

The cat ignored her. “Tuna. Salmon. No chicken.”

Biddy licked her lips. “If I promise to bring you tuna, will you tell us about the evil thing in the carriage house?”

“How much tuna?” The cat peered at her over her paws.

Biddy shrugged. “A can?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” Assuming she could get the key again. Maybe she could just put the tuna on the back stairs—ghosts could go through doors, couldn't they?

“The evil,” Deirdre repeated. “Tell us about it.”

“Evil in the carriage house.” The cat's voice took on a singsong quality. “He called it to kill, but he couldn't keep it. She took it away, and it ate him. Then she went away and left me here. Until she came back.”

“Did she take it with her?” Deirdre's voice was soft.

“No, no, no. Left it in the carriage house. Along with the other one. The driver man.”

“Who left it?” Biddy shook her head, trying to clear it. “Mrs. Steadman?”

The cat gave her a look of utter contempt and began to clean her ears again.

“Mrs. Palmer,” Deirdre murmured.

Biddy swallowed hard. “And the driver man? Not Palmer.”

“Not Palmer.” Deirdre nodded.

“I turned the lock,” the cat sang. “I closed it in. Keep the lock on and it can't get out. No one in the carriage house. Keep the lock on and it can't get out.”

“That,” Deirdre murmured, “is probably Mrs. Steadman. But it's also Mrs. Palmer's cat, which makes things a little confusing.”