evergreens, but clumps of dirt and pieces of vase were visible. She whirled and stalked toward Evelyn. “I came the minute I got your message. That vase can’t have fallen. I’m telling you”—she spaced the words for emphasis—“the vase absolutely could not have fallen. The balance was perfect. I placed a slight glaze around the base to prevent erosion, but the stability of the vase was maintained by its weight and design. There is no way that vase could have fallen.” She stood beside the table, face flushed, hands outflung.
Evelyn was crisp. “No one is blaming you. I want your expert judgment. Please go up on the balcony and examine the pedestal.”
“I don’t need to go up on the balcony. The only way that vase could come down is by someone using a tool.” She mimed gripping, jamming, and pushing down. “It’s criminal. That vase was Chinese porcelain. What barbarian did this?”
“Sit down, Alison.” Evelyn’s hand wave was peremptory. “The police claim a vandal was at work. Unfortunately, Kay Clark was in the garden, apparently standing in the cul-de-sac, and she barely managed to avoid being crushed. She was there very late at night, conferring with her assistant, who had just arrived in Adelaide.” There was a singular lack of conviction in Evelyn’s voice.
Alison’s face reflected a cascade of responses: surprise, wariness, suspicion. “It’s odd the vase came down when someone was standing in the cul-de-sac.” There was the faintest hint of a question in her voice.
Evelyn spaced the words for emphasis. “That’s why it’s important to be clear that the vase’s fall was an accident. I’m sure when you oversaw the installation of the vases, you directed that every precaution be taken to assure their stability. Now, if you find evidence of, say, erosion, despite the application of a sealant, we can inform the authorities and insist that the matter be dropped.”
Alison’s head turned to look up at the pedestal. Her white-gold hair glistened. I judged she likely spent quite a bit of money on her hairdresser.
“I’m confident you can find an excellent replacement.” Evelyn’s voice was smooth. “Perhaps an antique porcelain. We might replace all of the vases. That would be an interesting project.”
And such a lucrative one.
Evelyn added casually, “I’ve always depended upon your good taste. You’ve done an excellent job of reframing some of the finest paintings. I think several others might be enhanced by a change. Perhaps we might consider some Baroque frames in the upper gallery.”
I could almost see dollar signs dancing in Alison’s blue eyes. She spoke quickly. “I’m always happy to help improve the setting for pieces in your collection. I’ll take a look at the vase. I should have examined everything before I spoke. I was remembering how carefully the vase was installed. But time does pass and weather can affect stone.” Alison walked swiftly toward the steps to the balcony.
A hint of movement behind the cottonwood caught my eye.
In the shadow of the huge trunk, Ronald Phillips watched Alison climb the steps. His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. He soundlessly clapped as if in admiration of a performance, then turned and stepped lightly, making no sound, to a line of evergreens. He was natty in a green polo and white linen slacks.
I followed him to the front of the house. He hummed as he walked up the front steps. I thought I recognized the tune. Oh. Of course. “Happy Days Are Here Again.” How last century.
Inside, he bounded up the stairs and walked swiftly to his and Laverne’s room. His thin lips curved in a satisfied smile.
I flowed into the combination bed and sitting room. Laverne huddled in one corner of a lime-colored sofa with a faintly pebbled fabric. She clutched a bright orange cushion and stared unseeingly toward chrome bookcases filled with books too evenly aligned, books meant for decoration, not enjoyment. As the door clicked, she drew in her breath and turned to look.
Ronald flung himself into a chair opposite the sofa and gave a bark of laughter.
She stiffened, her eyes wide with apprehension.
He gave her a contemptuous glance. “Pull yourself together.”
She lifted long, thin fingers to clutch a gold chain. “I talked to Diane a little while ago.”
His good humor fled. “What have you done?”
“I told her we needed to go home to Dallas, that Jenny was sick—”
He was up and out of the chair, gripping her arm and pulling her to her feet. They stood close enough for a lovers’ embrace, but there was no love, only fear and anger.
I sensed this was a long-standing pattern. There was no physical abuse, but emotional control.
“Tell Diane”—the softness of his voice was chilling—“the Great Spirit has assured you that Jenny is going to be fine and your duty is to remain here, that you sense turmoil and danger which can only be warded off by summoning the Great Spirit. You have been bombarded by fragments of thought, but one thing is clear. The Great Spirit must be invoked tonight for protection. Otherwise, Death”—he smiled with relish—“will walk these halls again.”
“I get such dreadful headaches.” Her voice was faint. “I can’t do the seances anymore.”
“You will perform tonight. If you do a good job, we’ll go and visit Jenny.” The tightness of his grip eased. He patted her shoulder. “I’ve got a few more things to check out. Isn’t this Diane’s afternoon with James?”
Laverne looked at him with pleading eyes.
“Don’t make me mad.”
Her hands clenched. She nodded.
“When does she go?”
“At four.”
He looked pleased. “Plan on meeting her. You can tell her James has been talking to you. I’ll have everything worked out by then. The Great Spirit’s going to put on a good show tonight.”
