Seven

Beck and Frannie voted in favor of the new séance. Glyn expressed no opinion but regarded the situation with the air of a man watching the creek rise.

Amelia was disturbed. We can't let him carry on with this, not without telling him why the last one went wrong.

Cormac didn't trust any of these people enough to tell them about Amelia.

We need to tell him because if he knows, he can work around it, and might actually be able to contact Monty Connor's spirit.

Amelia believed in Vane, anyway. Maybe the guy could do it. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try. And maybe a séance would keep everyone distracted enough for a little while to not keep pacing around the house like caged raccoons.

At some point, everyone managed to dress for the day, but they watched each other travel up and down the stairs with suspicion, as if no one wanted to let anyone else out of their sight. The others gave Cormac a wide berth, which he normally wouldn't notice, much less mind. But it was annoying, how easily they all assumed he'd done the deed.

We really do seem to encounter more than our fair share of murdered bodies.

Cormac didn't like thinking about it. He'd taken the number of dead bodies in his life for granted until recently. Might be nice, being the kind of person murders didn't happen around.

"Don't you have to do a séance at night?" Frannie asked.

"That's mostly for atmosphere." Vane had retrieved his bag and was setting up in the dining room. The sense of mystery and showmanship he'd evoked the night before was gone. Now, he was practical and workmanlike, setting up the cloth and candles—plain white tapers this time, a dozen of them across the table. "Darkness helps—can you close the curtains, shut out the light as much as possible?" Frannie got to work doing so, both in the dining room and the parlor.

Cormac approached, trying to be casual and nonthreatening. He wasn't very good at it. "I need to talk to you."

Vane actually flinched back. "What? Why... what do you want?" He glanced at the doorway, prepared to bolt.

Like he was holding him up at a liquor store or something. "You think I have a garrote in my pocket? That I did in Connor and you're next? Look, I know what happened during the séance yesterday. I know about the spirit you sensed."

Vane grabbed his arm and drew him into the kitchen. "What?" he asked when the door was closed. "That was real? I wasn't imagining it?"

Cormac wasn't quite sure how to explain it. He could never make their situation sound reasonable.

"Well?" Vane urged.

"She's a spirit... she was hanged a little over a hundred years ago and now she lives in my head... sort of." Vane stared blankly. Yeah, this wasn't in any of the books. "Maybe I'd better let Amelia explain."

"Amelia?"

Cormac took a breath and stepped to the back of his own mind, letting Amelia slip forward, to occupy nerves and flesh. This had gotten easier over time, but it didn't make the sensation of being simultaneously awake and sedated any stranger. Especially when she started speaking. His voice, her words.

"Yes, hello. Here we are then. My name is Amelia Parker, and over a hundred years ago I was wrongfully executed for a murder I did not commit. Not a murderer, but murdered, as you said last night. Delightfully accurate, I must say. I have been Mr. Bennett's companion for a number of years now, since his time in the same prison where I... well, now, that's quite a long story and not relevant. You called for a spirit to make its presence known, and you sensed me. I thought you should know before you attempt another séance and confront the same obstacle. Now, do you have any questions?"

The man stared. His mouth worked, as if he meant to say something, but the words didn't come. Cormac—Amelia—waited expectantly.

"This... isn't a trick?" Vane asked weakly.

"I can understand why you might think so, which is why we don't advertise our... situation."

"How... is it outright possession, or some kind of spirit transference?" His brow furrowed. Cormac could almost see the neurons firing behind his eyes, trying to work it out.

Amelia felt a thrill at meeting someone she could talk shop with. "Spirit transference of a kind, yes. Beyond that I'm unwilling to divulge details. Trade secret and all, you know how magicians are. I wasn't ready to die yet. So... I didn't."

Vane finally seemed to collect himself, straightening with a little shiver. "Thank you for revealing yourself. I'm honored. So... Cormac didn't do it, is what you're saying? Or is this one of those situations where you don't remember what he does and he doesn't remember—"

"I'm right here, I remember everything, and no I didn't," Cormac said, and Vane once again flinched back, because it might have been the same voice but it was clear that Cormac had regained control.

"That is so weird," Vane murmured.

"That's kind of hilarious, coming from you."

"So, you can channel her, just like that?"

"She needed a body, I needed to get out of jail. We came to an arrangement."

You make it sound so mercenary.

Well, what else were they but mercenaries? She chuckled.

Suddenly, Vane reached out to touch his arm and it was Cormac's turn to flinch. "Can you help? I can sense spirits sometimes, and I can usually fudge the difference. But this... solving a murder. Anything you can do." His shrug conveyed helplessness.

"Amelia's a magician. She isn't psychic—"

I'll do whatever I can.

"But she'll try," Cormac said, hedging. Vane's expression brightened; he seemed so relieved. "You'll need a focus. Something that belonged to Monty. His guitar, maybe."

"Of course. Perfect." He raced out of the kitchen.

Cormac's shoulders sagged. "I thought this weekend was supposed to be a vacation," he muttered.

Let's just concentrate on keeping you out of prison, shall we?

He left the kitchen, to see Vane striding into the dining room with Monty's guitar, and June rushing after him.

"No! I won't allow it! You put that down!" she said.

"I need something important that belonged to him, this is the best we've got."

"This is a travesty—"

Lora stepped next to her and gently turned her aside while Vane arranged the guitar in the center of the table. "Mrs. Connor, please. Vane's going to do this with or without your cooperation. Wouldn't you rather be here and know what's happening than sit it out and wonder? We need you for this. If Monty wants to speak to anyone, he'll speak to you."

"Oh, I don't know about that." June seemed torn, glaring with contempt at the new séance Vane was arranging, and looking at the others, pleading. "Beck?"

"I think he should try, hon. It can't hurt, can it?"

"Not entirely sure that's true," Glyn murmured.

It would hurt whoever was the murderer, assuming the séance revealed anything.

"Glyn," June said. "Is there anything else we ought to be doing?"

"Search all the rooms. See who argues against it the most. I still want to know where that knife went."

Cormac didn't repeat what he suspected: that the knife was outside, under a snowdrift, and wouldn't reemerge until spring.

"I'm ready," Vane said. "And I could really use all your help. I'm assuming we all want to know what happened."

"All of us except the murderer," Cormac said. Once again, they glanced suspiciously at him—but he wasn't arguing against the séance. A point in his favor?

They gathered around the table.

The room was surprisingly dark with the curtains drawn. This time, the plain candles glowed with normal yellow flames. The blond wood of the guitar, resting in the middle of the table, gleamed buttery in the light.

Lora started setting up her video camera, but Vane put a hand on her arm. "Not now."

She put the camera away. Just a séance, then. No show this time.

As they sat around the table, they were aware of the gap. The empty chair where Monty had sat the night before. Glyn got up to pull the chair away, but Vane said, "No, leave it. It's an invitation."

The gap remained. No moaning wind outside this time, at least. The stillness was almost worse. The candle flames barely flickered. Vane lit incense, and the air's smell turned spicy.

"Friends, I have called you here to find answers. To seek what contact we may find beyond the veil." His voice was somber and imploring. No banging fists, no ringing gongs. "Together, I believe we can call the spirits to us—and learn the truth of what happened here. Settle yourselves, please. Put away your grief and fear, and come with me on the journey ahead. Now, join hands."

June and Beck had to reach across the gap where Monty had been. They did so nervously, as if the space was actually—or might soon be—occupied. Frannie was on Cormac's right again, and this time seemed reluctant to hold his hand, drawing away even as she reached out. On his other side, Glyn held on like he expected Cormac to try to flee.

Steady there. Focus on the task at hand.

Breathe. Open his mind. Let Amelia step forward.

Vane had placed Cormac across from him, so the two could look directly at one another. Their gazes met, and Cormac—Amelia—nodded.

Now you see me, Vane, don't you? Now, step past me. I'm just another soul sitting at the table. You are searching for someone else.

Vane flashed a thin, satisfied smile. Whatever she had done to put herself outside his awareness must have worked. Maybe it was like filtering white noise from a recording.

"If any spirits, any visitors from alternate planes linger here, we greet you and call on you to join us."

A spike of worry came from Amelia: with such a broad invitation, one never knew what might decide to show up. The sense of anticipation grew heavy. Frannie's hand was trembling.

"The veil has grown thin," Vane murmured. "I feel a presence drawing close. Spirit... we greet you. If you are willing to speak to us, make a sign."

One of the candles winked out.

June bit off a scream; Frannie gasped. Glyn leaned in, his gaze narrow and searching. There was no draft, no puff of air. The candle itself hadn't changed. Vane didn't appear to be manipulating anything, but then he wouldn't.

Vane maintained his calm. "We have received a sign. Welcome to our circle, spirit. May you find comfort here. We humbly ask you to share your secrets, in the manner you've chosen to communicate. Did your life end in this house? I beg you, give us a sign."

A second candle went out. With a dozen others still lit, the room's brightness didn't dim, but the shadows seemed to deepen.

Then the air turned cold. Gooseflesh crawled up Cormac's arms, and his breath fogged. Even Amelia's presence shivered. This was the sharp, bone-stabbing chill of a winter night in the mountains. If they'd gone out to the porch last night, this was what they'd have felt.

It felt like death.

"Spirit," Vane murmured. "Were you murdered?"

The flames of every candle wavered, shuddered, and stayed lit. And this was the problem with trying to speak to spirits with signs and symbols: ambiguity.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Beck asked in a strained voice.

Vane met Cormac's gaze across the table and seemed uncertain what to do next.

Cormac—Amelia, rather—said, "You died in winter. You died in cold."

A third candle went out, and the hair on the back of Cormac's neck stood up.

"Am I speaking to Monty Connor?" Vane asked eagerly. Too eagerly, Amelia thought. He would scare off whatever was in the room with them.

The candles didn't waver. No change, no answer.

"Monty would have hated this, he'd never take part in this," June hissed. "It's all bunk."

"Shh!" Lora hissed at her.

Vane was undeterred. "Spirit, we feel your presence. The cold haunts this place, haunts your death. Was your passing from the material plane recent?"

No change.

We're not speaking to Monty.

That seemed clear, and Cormac wondered if June had the right of it: Monty would never have put up with this. He wouldn't do anything Vane asked him to.

"In the past, then." Vane could be forgiven for sounding disappointed. Imagine, solving a murder through a séance? Not tonight, apparently. "Fifty years ago? A hundred years ago?"

Confusion. The candles flickered, but this time the movement seemed in time with the breathing of those seated around the table. The normal wavering of candle flames.

Vane kept trying. "Did you die before your time? Was your death violent? What is your connection to this place?" Wincing, he shook his head. That wasn't a yes-no question.

The cold continued. Next to Cormac, Frannie was shivering.

Murdered, but not...

Amelia, speaking through Cormac, asked, "Are you Tobias Wright?"

All the candles went out. The room went totally dark.

A woman screamed, and there was scrambling as chairs pushed back from the table. Something fell over, maybe one of the candles. Suddenly, with a shushing of fabric, one of the curtains swept open to reveal the blinding glare of snow in daylight. Everybody winced and turned away.

Glyn stood at the window, hand on the curtain. "Well, Beck. I think your house is haunted."

"And we don't have it on video," Lora said despairingly. "How could we not have it on video?"

"Wouldn't matter," Vane said. "People would still say it was a trick."

"What about Monty?" June demanded. "Where's Monty? If you can call up spirits why not Monty?"

"Maybe he didn't have a reason to stick around," Cormac said.

Beck looked at him. "Not even to talk to his own wife?"

It was Tobias Wright's spirit, I know it... but there's something about it I'm missing, another part of the mystery...

Across the table, Vane sat with his hands steepled before his face, his eyes closed. Maybe shivering, just a bit.

"Vane?" Lora prompted.

The psychic sighed. "We could try again, maybe after dark—"

"This is all theater," Glyn said suddenly. "You could summon the ghost of Sherlock Holmes himself and it wouldn't bring us any closer to learning what happened to Monty Connor and which of us is the murderer."

"Maybe the ghost did it." Frannie said. She was hugging herself.

"Ghost wouldn't have needed a knife," Cormac said.

"It's time to get back to good solid detective work," Glyn said. His look hardened, a determined glint lighting his eyes. The manner of someone used to bowling over obstacles when he needed to. He marched to the stairs.

"Wait, does that mean he's going to search all our rooms?" Lora said. She and Vane looked at each other—and raced after him. She called after Glyn, "You can't do that—!"

"I'd better keep an eye on him." Beck went after them. June, eyeing Cormac nervously, followed Beck.

Frannie gave him a wide-eyed, mildly terrified look. "I think I should go help Beck." She fled after the others. Safety in numbers, maybe.

I'm offended that no one wants to be left alone with you.

"I'm not," he murmured. This gave him the chance to go back to the coat tree, to check on those papers in that inside pocket of Monty's coat. Maybe it was nothing, but maybe it would point to why someone would want to kill the man. Pulling back the other coats, he exposed the tan duster.

Someone else had been here since he'd searched. The front lapel was turned back, and the inside pocket was empty. "Well, I guess it was important."

Who else has been by here? Who else had time to search?

Everyone did. Everyone had been going up and down stairs to change clothes, to linger by the door and look out the window at the snowscape. Cormac himself had been back and forth from one room to the other. He hadn't watched the stairs the whole time. Maybe he should have.

What do you think was in that pocket?

Information about his land dispute with Beck? A blackmail letter? Lyrics to a new morose cowboy poem?

"And there he is, the man himself."

A crowd of footsteps rattled down the stairs and stopped on the landing above the foyer. Glyn Farrow stood behind the banister, like an actor in a play. He was holding something, a towel-wrapped bundle.

June came up next to Glyn and leaned on the banister. "What are you doing with that?"

Cormac was still holding Monty's coat. And didn't that just look guilty as hell? He didn't bother explaining himself; this was exactly what it looked like.

"What is it?" he said tiredly to the crowd looking back at him with undeniable shock and horror.

On the other hand, Glyn seemed to be enjoying himself, wearing a small, eager smile. "We found this shoved behind the dresser in your room. Wondered if you could comment on it."

He unfolded the towel to reveal a gleaming chef's knife, the brown handle a match for the set in the kitchen. A red tint of blood still marked the point.