Medium Well (9781101599648) (20 page)

“Demons.” She rested her elbows on the table. “The cat said someone, some man, called in demons to kill off someone else, also a man. But the one who called them in also got killed by them. And a woman was involved somehow, a woman who did something to turn the demons on the man who'd called them up in the first place.”

“And this has what to do with the carriage house?”

She shrugged. “The demons were in the carriage house. They still are, if you believe Mrs.-Steadman-the-cat. She claims she locked them in and they can't get out. But no humans are supposed to live there.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he muttered. “It would take a very special buyer to want to move into a demon condo. So who called them up in the first place—Palmer?”

She nodded. “That would be my guess. Maybe he wasn't so phony after all.”

“And the woman who was involved and who's now our faceless ghost is Mrs. Palmer?”

“She's the only candidate so far, but I guess it could be some woman we haven't come across yet.”

“So what about the man who was demon bait?” He rubbed his eyes again. “Is he Mr. Black? Or is Palmer Mr. Black?”

Biddy shook her head. “Not Palmer.”

“Why not?”

“His suit doesn't fit. Mr. Black's, I mean.”

His eyes narrowed again. “And this is relevant because . . .”

“Palmer had his suits custom-made—he used to claim they came from London. He'd never wear a suit where you could see his wrists because the sleeves were too short. Like Mr. Black does.”

He sat staring at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Okay, so we're back to square one. We've got a couple of unknown ghosts in the carriage house. Maybe killed by Palmer's demons. Or maybe they
are
Palmer's demons. What the hell does a demon look like, anyway? Cloven hoofs?”

Biddy shook her head. “Your mother said that ‘demon' is just a generic term for an evil spirit. I guess they could look like anybody. And Mrs. Steadman or Mrs. Palmer's cat or both of them said the dead man was the ‘driver man.' I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm willing to bet that's Mr. Black. Maybe he was the chauffeur.”

“Not in 1895. Coachman?”

“Maybe.” She chewed her lip. “Maybe Mr. Black was the Palmers' coachman and Palmer killed him—or called up some demons to do it for him. The question is why would he do that? Why demons? Mr. Black doesn't look all that formidable. Why wouldn't Palmer just take care of him himself? Or hire some human being to do it?”

Danny shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Palmer liked doing things the hard way. Maybe Mr. Black saw something, or heard something, or knew something. Maybe something happened in the carriage when he was driving—or in the carriage house when he was living there.” He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of his chair. “Does the motive matter? As long as we know Palmer killed him.”

“Do we know that for sure?” Biddy mused. “Do ghosts always tell the truth?”

He stared at her. “I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Do ghosts always tell the truth? How the hell would I know?”

The thought floated between them unspoken.
You could ask your mother.

He rubbed his eyes fiercely. “Mom said something about bringing some tuna to Mrs. Steadman tomorrow. What was that all about?”

“I promised,” Biddy said stiffly. “I said if she told us about the demons, I'd bring her a can of tuna. I'm going to do it tomorrow.”

“I'll come with you. I've got a few questions of my own.”

“I don't know if the two of us can talk to her. Your mother was the contact. I had to hold her hand to talk to Mrs. Steadman.”

“I'm not bringing my mother back there,” he snapped. “Her brief career as a medium is over, as far as I'm concerned. What do you think Araceli would have done if she'd found the two of you there?”

Biddy shrugged. “Araceli's tied up with a sale in Grey Forest, the Tupper place. She won't be in the office tomorrow until very late, if then.”

“Good.” He stood up again. “That means the two of us can go in there without worrying about her. I'll meet you there at three.” He stood watching her for a moment, then he closed his eyes. “Biddy, I'm more sorry than I can say that I got you into this. I'll try to think of a way to get you back out.”

She managed a tiny smile. “Don't blame yourself. I think Mr. Black got me in. And I want to help.”

“Him? Or me?”

She met his gaze. “Both of you. If I can.”

He stared at her a moment longer. Then he leaned down, brushing his lips lightly against hers. “Goodnight, Biddy,” he whispered. “Sleep well. No dreams.”

She nodded. “You, too.”

She watched him turn and walk away, listening to the door latch behind him. Biddy sighed. Apparently, she was sleeping alone tonight.

***

At midnight, Danny still sat at his computer and tried to think of some way to head his mother off. Knowing her, he was fairly certain Biddy was being accurate—it probably was Ma's idea to go to the house, just as Ma had undoubtedly been willing to tell Biddy all about the Riordan family and their unfortunate profession. He was only glad his mother hadn't shared her own conclusion that he himself was some kind of woo-woo throwback.

His fingers froze over the keyboard. Surely she hadn't shared that idea, had she? If she had, Biddy would have said something about it. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his burning eyes. Unless she was being polite.

Of course, the evening hadn't been one of his finest hours overall. Snarling at Biddy for doing something he'd done himself didn't strike him as a great way to keep the relationship going. And only now did it occur to him how much he wanted to keep the relationship going.

He leaned over the keyboard again, typing “Prescott Palmer” into the search box. Never overlook the obvious. Biddy had been concentrating on the Historical Society—she might not have gotten around to the Internet.

Google happily served up several Palmer Prescotts, some Prescotts who appeared in the same paragraph with somebody else named Palmer and some pages where the connection wasn't clear even to him. He was just getting ready to check page two of the search results when his phone rang.

Biddy!
The thought jumped to his brain before his rational self could squelch it. Why would she call him? They'd pretty much covered anything. And she wasn't likely to ask him back to share her bed tonight. Unfortunately.

He sighed and flipped his phone open, groaning as he saw the number. “Hi, Ma.”

“Danielo, how stupid have you been?” His mother's voice sounded simultaneously amused and annoyed. “Did you talk to Biddy tonight?”

“Yes, ma'am. I talked to her.”

“And?”

“And we'll take it from here. Thanks for your help.”

“Oh, Danny, don't be such an ass!” his mother snapped. “You can't just brush me off like some stranger. I'm already far too deeply involved in this thing.”

He rubbed his eyes again. Clearly, he was spending way too much time on the damn computer. “Look, Ma, I don't
want
you getting deeply involved in this thing. The more we see, the more dangerous it gets. I'm trying to find a way to get Biddy out of it. Plus her sister will go postal if she finds out any of us are wandering around in the main house.”

“Yes,” his mother mused, “we'll have to do something about her eventually. She's making Biddy unhappy.”

“Hell, she's making
me
unhappy, but she's also my boss—and Biddy's. We don't get to make the rules on this one.”

“Whatever,” his mother said airily. “At any rate, I imagine we can get around her for one more visit. If we need to spend any more time there after that, we can improvise.”

His shoulders immediately began to tense. “Ma . . .”

“Stop trying to talk me out of it, Danny,” his mother's voice was crisp, “and don't you dare order me around. You need me there. I can make it possible for you to talk to Mrs. Steadman. Without me, that won't happen.”

“No, Ma, I really don't want you to do that,” he stammered. “Look, here's the thing . . .”

“I told you not to argue with me.” His mother sounded oddly serene, given that she was telling him to go to hell. “And don't try to charm me, either. I'm immune by now. I know you, remember?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he murmured, “you most certainly do.”

“Good. Now, what time are we meeting tomorrow and where?”

Danny rubbed his eyes again. If he gave her a phony time, he'd never hear the end of it. Plus, his father might kill him. If he refused to tell her, he had a feeling she'd park in the driveway at the Steadman house and wait for him to show up. Either way, he'd been outflanked.

“Three o'clock. At the house.”

“Wonderful. See you there. Oh, and Danny?”

He had a feeling he knew what was coming. “Yes, Ma?”

“If you've hurt Biddy's feelings, apologize. Life will be a lot easier if you do.”

Danny was absolutely certain his mother was smiling as she hung up. He only wished he was doing the same.

He slumped down in front of his computer again, scrolling through the second search page to the bottom. More Palmer Prescotts, more tenuous connections. At the bottom, however, he found a page called Texans Notorious. It looked more promising than anything he'd seen so far.

The page on Palmer didn't really tell him anything he didn't already know from Biddy's research. Palmer conning the rich and gullible out of several hundred thousand dollars in cash. Palmer disappearing without a trace, carrying his ill-gotten gains in a carpetbag. The carpetbag was a new detail, but it came from a stable boy who'd supposedly seen a tall man “with eyes like burning coals,” carrying a carpetbag as he galloped up Commerce Street on a gigantic stallion.

Right.
Danny knew just how much credence to give that particular story.

Along with the stable boy's tale and the familiar information, the page also contained the first picture of Palmer Danny had seen. He was a good-looking man, assuming the engraving was accurate. He also definitely wasn't Mr. Black, given his fair hair and clean-shaven cheeks.

A link at the bottom of the page led to another page about Palmer's brief stay in San Antonio high society. His clothes, his furniture, his palatial home. Danny stared at the engraving of the Steadman house as it had looked in 1895—oddly bare without the fringe of live oaks that surrounded it now. Sort of a nineteenth-century McMansion.

He scrolled down to the end of the page and stopped, his hand frozen to the mouse. There was a photograph of Palmer with a woman, identified in the copy as “his wife, the beauteous Devora.” Devora Palmer wore a white dress with a sash at her waist. Her sleeves were made of some diaphanous material that showed the line of her rounded arms underneath. The tight nineties corseting emphasized her bosom and hips. She wore a multistrand pearl choker that outlined her long, graceful neck.

He stared at her face. Dark eyes, dark hair, lush, full lips, her slightly pointed chin tilted up at a queenly angle. “Beauteous Devora” was right.

At least this time she had a face.

He clicked on the close box and sat trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, he needed to figure out just what to ask Mrs. Palmer's cat.

Chapter 20

Shadows slanted lazily across the curving gallery at the Steadman house as Danny jiggled the key in the front door lock. If he'd been selling the place, he'd have spent as much time as he could out here—the gallery reeked of King William–charm and jasmine. Get the buyers to sit on the glider that hung in the shade at the side, give them a little of that warm summer afternoon magic, maybe even a glass of iced tea, or, better yet, lemonade. Then take them inside while they were lost in a pleasant haze of nostalgia, hoping they'd be too hazy to notice the interior.

Fat chance. The inside of the house would clear up that haze in record time. The rooms were even shabbier than he remembered—dim, slightly dusty, faded. He wondered if Araceli had suggested some minor renovations and a cleanup to Petrocelli. A little staging might improve the place. Of course, Petrocelli wouldn't even authorize clearing out the junk in the carriage house—he must think historic King William houses sold themselves. Give him a few months with a couple of unsold white elephants and their hefty property taxes and see if his opinion changed.

Danny watched his mother survey the interior. Her smile was bright enough to light even the dim living room. A good thing, too, since Biddy seemed to be operating on autopilot. She'd glanced at him once after he'd unlocked the door, then stood rubbing her arms. His mother had given him a what-did-you-expect shrug and followed Biddy down the hall.

All in all, a fun afternoon ahead at the old Steadman place!

“Shall we go upstairs?” His mother looked back and forth between them with a determined smile.

“Y'all don't really need me, do you?” Biddy raised a wary eyebrow, still not looking at Danny. “I mean, the two of you can probably handle this. I'll just leave the key with you.”

“Don't be silly.” His mother put her arm around Biddy's shoulders, pulling her toward the stairs. “You're an integral part of this. Of course, we need your help. Who knows? Maybe Mrs. Steadman took a shine to you.”

Biddy didn't look like that idea gave her the warm fuzzies, but nobody said no to Ma when she was in this kind of take-charge mood. Danny climbed the stairs behind them, pretending to study the stains on the wallpaper while he covertly watched Biddy's beautiful backside. Still beautiful, even in that miserable navy blue suit she was wearing.

At the top of the stairs, his mother paused, glancing toward the middle bedroom door in the dim light. “Are we ready?”

He considered saying no, but he knew how little good that would do. His mother wasn't going to back down, no matter what he said. “Let's do it,” he muttered.

Inside the room, he watched a whirling ball of shadows become fur, tail, paws, and, finally, bright golden eyes. His mother took hold of his hand, gesturing for him to grab hold of Biddy.

Her hand felt chilled against his palm. He glanced at her face and realized her complexion was the same shade as her white cotton shirt. “Biddy?” he murmured. “Are you okay?”

She licked her lips. “Sure. Let's get on with it.”

“Mrs. Steadman? Beatrice?” His mother's voice was light, pleasant. As if she were talking to a neighbor across the back fence rather than a ghost cat slowly becoming visible in the middle of the room. “We'd like to talk to you again.”

The cat ignored her, sniffing at Danny's shoes. He fought down the impulse to move his feet away from it.

“We have a new person with us—my son, Danny. He's interested in the carriage house, Beatrice.”

The cat began to rub against his right shoe, turning her head so that her ears scratched against his toes. He felt as if a chill breeze were caressing his legs. Her golden eyes slitted as she pressed her side more firmly against him, rubbing slowly up and down.

“What does that feel like?” Biddy whispered.

“Like someone's dripping ice water down my pants,” he said through gritted teeth.

Biddy snickered, turning her head away.

“Children,” his mother snapped, “behave yourselves. We're guests.”

A low rumbling sound whispered through the air, gradually becoming louder until it filled the room. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

“What's that?” Biddy gasped.

His mother rolled her eyes. “Purring.”

The cat flopped heavily to the floor, then rolled to her back, waving all four feet in the air. “Ears,” she growled, “head, back.” She turned to rub against his feet again. “Oh, ears.”

“I think she likes you.” His mother's voice was dry.

“Groovy.” He sighed. “Now what?”

“Mrs. Steadman?” his mother called again. “Just a few questions.”

“Demon,” the cat purred. “Carriage house.”

Danny took a deep breath. “Yeah, about that. You say it's still there?”

“She locked it in,” the cat sing-songed. “It can't get out. Nobody goes in. Nobody comes out.”

“What happens if someone goes in? Will it get out then?”

“Nobody goes in, nobody comes out,” the cat crooned. “Tuna. You promised.”

Biddy started to reach for her purse, but his mother tightened her grip on her hand. “Not yet, Biddy. That's not an answer, Beatrice. When you've answered our questions, you'll have tuna. Lots of tuna. A big can.”

“Tuna.” The cat rolled over again, rubbing one paw along her ears. “Tuna, tuna, tuna.”

His mother sighed. “This is getting us nowhere. We have to separate them so that we can talk directly to Beatrice without having to deal with Mrs. Palmer's cat.”

“What do we do, try rolling a ball of yarn by her nose?” Danny grumbled. “It's not like you can talk to one without the other being around.”

“Yes I can. If I can remember how to do this, that is.” His mother took hold of Biddy's hand again, forming a circle. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Don't let go of my hands now. That's very important.”

“Ma . . .” A chill slid down his spine that had nothing to do with the cat rubbing against him.

The cat paused, staring up at his mother, her golden eyes suddenly sharp.

“Beatrice Steadman!” His mother's voice sounded hollow as it boomed through the empty room, like a messenger from someplace he really didn't want to go.

Danny stared at her. Her eyes were shut tight, her head bowed. Her shoulders moved as her breath went in and out.

“Ma?” he muttered.

“Beatrice Steadman!” Her voice echoed again. “We would speak with you. Come forth to us, Beatrice Steadman. Come forth now!”

On his other side, Biddy's hand tightened on his like a vice. His fingers tingled.

“Beatrice Steadman!” His mother raised her head, squaring her shoulders.

At his feet, the cat sank down on its haunches, staring at the corner of the room. He felt another cool breeze tickle across his arms, raising the hairs again.

The cat gave a low growl that slid down to a grumble.

His mother inclined her head, her eyes still closed. “Who calls?” she said.

It wasn't her voice. It wasn't any voice Danny had ever heard before or wanted to hear again. Low, rasping, grating across the back of his neck. “Ma?” he whispered.

“Who calls?” the voice was more insistent, almost angry.

“We do,” Biddy whispered beside him. “All of us.”

***

Fright, Biddy reflected, was relative. She'd thought she'd been frightened before in the carriage house, but, obviously, she didn't really know what fright was until now. Her throat felt like sandpaper, the muscles so tight they almost choked her. She wanted to run away so badly that her knees shook.

Deirdre's hand trembled in hers, almost as if a fine current were passing through her body. Her eyes were shut tight as she grimaced. The voice seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, but Deirdre wasn't speaking in any way Biddy had ever heard before.

She took a deep breath and forced her tongue to move again.

“Tell us—what happens if someone goes into the carriage house. Will that set the demon free?”

“No.” The word dropped into the room like a stone.

Biddy waited until she was sure Mrs. Steadman wasn't going to elaborate. “Is it still in the carriage house, then?”

“Yes.”

“Why did Palmer call it up?” Danny grated.

His voice sounded choked, but at least he could talk again. His hand clasping Biddy's felt like frozen iron.

“To kill,” the voice snapped.

Biddy wondered if all ghosts were this chatty. Oh, well, Gracie had said Mrs. Steadman was contrary. “Who did he want to kill and why?”

“His wife. Her lover.”

Which pretty much took care of both questions. “Who did the demon end up killing?”

“The lover.”

“Not the wife?” Danny's hand relaxed marginally.

“Not directly.”

“Who was the lover?” Biddy cut in, before Danny could go on. They owed it to Mr. Black to at least find out his name.

“Coachman.”

“What was his name?”

The pause was much longer now. “Coachman,” the voice repeated.

Right.
She promised herself she'd find out Mr. Black's real name if it took all month.

A muscle jumped in Danny's jaw. “What happened to Palmer?”

The silence in the room seemed to have a form of its own, billowing out to fill the corners. “Mrs. Steadman?” she murmured.

“What happened to Palmer?” Danny's voice snapped through the space like a whipcrack.

“Dead. Very.”

“All right.” He sighed. “How do we cleanse the carriage house? How do we get rid of the demon?”

“You can't.” Mrs. Steadman sounded like she was smiling.

Biddy bit her lip, glancing around the room. Somehow it looked different. The light seemed to slant from the windows, making the curtains appear to dance in the breeze. The breeze that shouldn't have been there at all since the windows were closed tight.

“He's dead now. Very. Dead.” The voice was like an echo this time, far away, whispering across the floor, up her spine like a shiver.

Deirdre moaned suddenly. And then Danny stepped forward quickly, catching his mother as she slumped toward the floor.

“Ma!” he cried, scooping her up in his arms and heading for the hall.

Biddy followed him out the door and down the stairs, wondering if the room was jinxed. Women seemed to drop like flies in there.

Apparently, he was thinking something similar. “Goddamn house. I'm always carrying somebody down the goddamn stairs,” he muttered, kicking open the front door.

On the front porch, Deirdre pulled away from his grasp, punching him in the shoulder.

“Put me down, you idiot,” she snapped. “I'm perfectly all right. Somebody's going to see you and think something horrible has happened. The last thing we want is the police showing up here.”

“Okay, first of all, ouch! You fainted, Ma. Take it easy.” He shifted his mother so that she was standing, rubbing his shoulder where she'd hit him. “The same thing happened to Biddy.”

“Well, not exactly.” Biddy turned back to lock the door. “I was just surprised the first time. This time your mom had to deal with Mrs. Steadman.” Biddy dropped the key into her purse. “I'd say she had it a lot tougher.”

Deirdre stepped away from his protective arm. “Absolutely. She's one tough old bird.”

“Goddamn it, Ma, I told you not to do this,” he snapped. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Danny, believe it or not my life doesn't always revolve around yours. I'm here because Biddy needed me. I thought I could help her, and I did.” Deirdre smoothed her honey brown hair back from her face. “And to tell you the truth, I was a little curious about whether I could do this.”

“So now you know.”

“I do. Good for me.”

His jaw was clenched tight. “Would one of you mind explaining what happened back there? Or should I go back upstairs and ask the damn cat?”

“The cat!” Biddy clapped a hand to her cheek. “I forgot to put down the tuna.”

“Put it here on the front gallery.” Deirdre gestured toward the far end of the porch. “I don't think you want it sitting inside in all this heat.”

“But will she be able to find it?”

Deirdre shrugged. “If she wants to. After all, she can walk through walls.”

Danny looked like he was holding onto his temper with his fingernails. “I repeat . . .”

“I was being a medium, Danny, only not a very good one.” Deirdre sighed. “I've never tried it before, but mother showed me how it was done back when I used to live with her. Mrs. Steadman spoke through me—she used me as the medium for communicating with you.”

“You fainted.” His face looked like a thunderstorm.

“Yes, I did. It takes a lot out of you—which I really didn't understand before. Gives me a whole new perspective on your grandmother.” Deirdre smiled, but her eyes were bleak. “Maybe she had some good reasons for being cranky all the time.”

“Could you hear what she was saying, or were you in a trance?” Biddy asked. Danny gave her a dark look, but she ignored him.

“Oh, yes, I could hear her. I was sort of semiconscious all the way through. I could hear everything, but I couldn't speak.” She put a hand to her mouth, yawning. “All right, I'm ready for a margarita and a long talk about strategy. Where's the nearest bar?”

“Ma, you fainted,” Danny growled. “You need to go home and get some rest.”

His mother rolled her eyes. “What would be your second choice? I'm getting stronger by the minute, and we need to discuss how you're going to handle this. Believe it or not, I have some information that could help.”

“I believe it, Ma.” Danny folded his arms across his chest. “I'm just not sure I want to.”

Deirdre gave him a look that combined affection and exasperation. “Will you stop? I told you I wanted to do this. And now I can help. If you don't choose to come, I'll go with Biddy and she can tell you later. If she feels like it.”