Good grief, a butler? “Yes? May I help you?”
“I’m Agent Cheney Stone, FBI, and this is Mrs. Julia Ransom. We have an appointment to speak with Mr. Tammerlane.”
“I know who Mrs. Ransom is. You’re looking well, Mrs. Ransom. Let me say I am relieved that you’re looking well. A pleasure to see you. Come in.”
“Nice to see you, Ogden.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about all this misery, Mrs. Ransom.” They were shown into a Victorian living room, stuffed with hundred-year-old dark Victorian furniture, down to elaborately crocheted antimacassars spread over the backs of the twin sofas and chairs. The walls were covered in dark red silk flocked wallpaper. Doodads, the term Cheney’s father used for all the knick-knacks his mother displayed in their living room at home, were everywhere— dozens of little carved wooden animals that looked vaguely African, and scores of tiny teacups and saucers, doubtless at least as old as or older than the furniture, covering the shelves of glass cabinets. Cheney didn’t see a speck of dust.
Old portraits marched up and down one entire wall, all of them showing nurses and soldiers from what looked to be the Crimean War. There didn’t seem to be any family photos or portraits. “Good morning, Julia, Agent Stone.”
Julia turned, let him hug her. “Hello, Wallace. Thank you for seeing us.”
Wallace Tammerlane smiled at her. “It’s good to see you, Julia. I couldn’t very well say no, now could I? I’m worried about you, about this maniac trying to kill you. You do know, don’t you, that I had nothing at all to do with these attempts on your life—that I know nothing about them?”
“Of course, Wallace. Agent Stone is now looking again into August’s murder, and he needs to speak to everyone.”
Wallace nodded. “I will do what I can to help. Agent Stone, I understand why you wish to speak to everyone again about August’s murder. But let me say, you may be wasting your time. I don’t know anything, nothing at all.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. Tammerlane,” Cheney said easily. “I’m not here to accuse you of anything.”
“I should hope not! Sit down. Julia, would you care for anything to drink?”
She shook her head. They sat. Wallace Tammerlane, however, moved to stand by the ornate fireplace, and leaned against the mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. Cheney couldn’t see a single strand of gray in the inky black hair on his head. He wondered if he dyed it. When he’d met the man yesterday he’d thought he was about fifty, but now, he looked to be about a decade older. He looked tired, but still his dark eyes seemed almost terrifyingly alive and focused. What did those eyes see that he couldn’t see? Ghosts? Dead people? Aunt Marge’s lost wedding ring?
He was focusing those eyes on Cheney’s face, as if memorizing what he saw, and looking deeper. It was a creepy feeling, Cheney thought, and a bit frightening because the man acted as if he knew about hidden things, things burrowed deep inside Cheney that even he didn’t know about or remember.
He was dressed all in white this morning, in sharp contrast to his black-clad butler. He had the look of a European aristocrat, lean and long and ineffably bored, except for those eyes. “What is it you wish to know, Agent Stone?”
“What’s your butler’s name?”
“My what? Oh, Ogden. His name is Ogden Poe, always compares himself to Edgar. He’s always fancied wearing black. I, however, have to pay the cleaning bills.”
“Seems to me that keeping white clean would cost much more,” Cheney said. “How long has Ogden Poe been in your employ?”
Wallace Tammerlane shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe fifteen years. I don’t understand that question, Agent Stone. You will appreciate, as Julia already does, that my time isn’t my own. I have a client coming in twelve minutes. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me what you thought of Dr. August Ransom.”
“He was a great man, a compassionate man. He helped scores of people throughout his life.”
“You believe he was a legitimate medium?”
Wallace Tammerlane didn’t move a muscle. A faint sneer appeared. “This is an outrage, an insult. How can you ask such a thing? Haven’t you assured him of August’s integrity, Julia?”
“He’s a skeptic, Wallace, as everyone should be. No one should automatically buy what every psychic is selling.”
“Listen to me, Agent Stone, skeptic or not, August was one of the greatest psychic mediums of our time. Why, I cannot tell you how many grateful people he’s connected to loved ones who’ve passed over. He was revered by thousands. I admired him, respected him, as did everyone else I know.”
“Well, not exactly everyone, Wallace,” Julia said. “Someone murdered him, after all, and it wasn’t me.”
“Of course not, Julia, but I’m convinced, I’ve always been convinced, that his killer was an outsider, someone jealous of him, someone who took offense at one of his consultations, and this blighted individual held a grudge, wanted revenge.”
Cheney said, “Why would a person hold a grudge against him for telling them that their loved one was happy or content, or whatever they are in the ether?”
“You mock what you don’t understand, Agent Stone. Not unexpected, I suppose, given who and what you are. August also occasionally helped people who called with an illness.”
“You mean he gave them medical advice?” Wallace Tammerlane nodded. “I didn’t realize Dr. Ransom had a medical degree.”
“He didn’t,” Julia said. “August said that sometimes he could hear a person’s voice and visualize what was
