Ghost in Trouble (2010)

The long, flagstoned dining room befitted a castle: arched ceiling, gleaming oak walls, slotted stained-glass windows, heraldic flags and shields, and a massive mahogany table. Shannon set crystal wineglasses at each place. She had changed from a tank top and shorts to a pale blue blouse and navy slacks.

Diane’s shoes clipped on the stone floor as she burst through the archway. “Shannon, is your mother in the kitchen?”

Shannon looked surprised. “Yes. May I get her for you?”

Diane, fluttery and frantic, interrupted. “I need to talk to you both. Now. Please come with me. I have to hurry.” She whirled and moved swiftly to the serving door and held it open, her body tense, her posture shouting her impatience.

In the kitchen, Margo stood at a counter, studying a recipe in a cookbook resting on a stand. An acrylic cover protected the pages from spatters. She looked absorbed, her at times discontented face relaxed and happy. Measuring spoons and cups and a mixing bowl sat to one side.

Diane rushed across the kitchen to the counter. “Margo, I need for you and Shannon to come to the library at eight.”

Shannon slowly followed, her face puzzled. “What’s going on?”

Margo frowned. “This is Wednesday. Are you talking about those seances Laverne puts on?”

“Laverne hears things from James.” Diane’s eyes were huge. “James wants everyone who was in the house the night Jack died to come to the seance.”

Shannon’s face lost its bloom. She looked both sad and angry. “That’s hideous. Jack’s gone. Don’t make him part of a stupid—”

Margo interrupted her daughter. “Everyone deals with loss in a different way.” Her tone, however, was cool and remote, rather than encouraging. “Neither Shannon nor I is interested in trying to contact the dead.”

“No one’s asking you to do anything but come.” Diane’s voice shook. “James told Laverne that someone was on the balcony with Jack. I don’t know what that means, but we have to be there tonight.”

Margo gripped the cookbook stand. The cherrywood base squeaked under the sudden pressure. The sound was loud in a suddenly stiff silence.

Shannon took quick steps and faced Diane. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?”

“That’s nonsense.” Margo’s voice was harsh. “Laverne doesn’t know anything.”

Shannon’s young voice wobbled. “Maybe she does. Maybe she knows everything. I’ll be there.”

Diane gave a glad little cry. “You’ll come. It’s important. Everyone has to be there.” Diane looked at Margo.

Margo’s face was hard. “Talking to the dead is nonsense. But I don’t suppose it will do any harm. We’ll come. Now, I’ve got to see to dinner.” She kept her voice even, but her quick glance at her daughter was uncertain and fearful.

Diane shut the library door behind her. Eighteenth-century unbleached wood bookcases sat against three walls. The pilasters and moldings of the French antique featured rosettes, sprays, and tiny pineapples. Louis XV chairs, their blue and gold paint muted by time, sat at either end of each bookcase, ready for a reader to select a book and sink onto a cushion and thumb through the pages. An unabridged dictionary lay open on a mahogany reading stand near one of four arched windows framed by gold velvet drapes. Natural light speared into the room, illuminating the parquet flooring. The reading stand was adjacent to a Victorian chaise longue upholstered in red velvet. Louis XV chairs were arranged on either side of a long English oak writing table in the center of the room.

The chair nearest the dictionary stand was turned a little, as if the occupant had just arisen and left the room. Horn-rimmed glasses rested next to a legal pad and an ornate silver-and-black Montblanc fountain pen.

Diane pattered to the table, pulled out the next chair, and perched on the edge of the cushion. “James, I’m doing what you asked, but I don’t know what will happen tonight. I’m afraid the others are skeptics.” She looked unhappy and fearful. “Laverne says you’re unhappy. You aren’t unhappy with me, are you?”

Old walls and thick windows made the room a cocoon of quiet.

Diane clutched at the Venetian glass beads of a blue-and-white necklace. “Are you sure you want Alison Gregory and the Dunhams to be here?” Her fingers opened and closed on the beads. “That’s what Laverne said. They were here the night Jack died.” Her hopeful face was slightly tilted to one side, as if straining to hear. “Bring them back. That’s what you told Laverne. I’ll call them, but I don’t know if they will come.”

Diane plunged her hand into her pocket and pulled out a sleek black cell phone. “I don’t like Alison. I don’t think she’s kind. James, you’ll come even if she says no, won’t you? Please.” She closed her eyes.

The stillness of the room was cavelike, but a cave might hold a spatter from trickling water or the rustle of a bat’s wing. The library held only the faint, uneven breathing of a burdened woman.

Diane opened her eyes, nodded twice. “I’ll call. I must, mustn’t I, James?” She punched numbers.

“Alison, this is Diane Hume. I don’t want to bother you, but I’d like to ask a favor since you are such an old friend of the family.”

I arrived in Gregory Gallery.

Alison sat behind a burled walnut desk in an office that was absolutely free of clutter. She leaned back comfortably in a green cushioned chair that made her white-blond hair even more striking. The office contained only one painting, a brilliant melange of colors, arresting, evocative, and faintly disturbing. The expensive surroundings provided a background that emphasized success and power. Alison’s smooth face held a trace of impatience, but her voice was friendly. “What can I do for you, Diane?”

As Alison listened, her finely drawn brows drew down. “I don’t understand.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Someone was on the balcony with Jack?” Her face was abruptly intent, her expression considering. Jack Hume had fallen from the balcony. Last night a vase had been dislodged from the balcony to crash into the garden. This morning Alison had insisted the vase had been vandalized until she realized Evelyn Hume was determined that its fall be deemed