Chihuahua of the Baskervilles (8 page)

Cheri squinted at the speakers. “I don’t think that first word starts with
T.
I think they all began with
D.
”

“Maybe.” Michael frowned in concentration. “Duhvohz, duhvor—”

“Divorce,”
Charlotte whispered, hands clutching her upper arms.

They stared at her.

“Divorce Thomas,”
she said.

Seven

Half an hour later, Angus paced the floor of the upstairs parlor as Suki put her equipment away. “I don’t like the idea of Charlotte being here alone except for that girl,” he grumbled.

“Charlotte said she wasn’t going to tell Thomas tonight,” Suki said. “And Ellen is here, although she’s not in the house.”

“Apparently she sometimes spends half the night in that hut. She wouldn’t hear a thing if Thomas decided to throw his wife out a window.” Angus sat on the settee and drummed his fingers on his knees.

Michael came in and closed the door softly behind him. “Jay’s gone home. I talked to Cheri and she says this is one of Ivan’s evenings to go to the casinos in Silver City. He has dinner there and then gambles. There’s no telling when he’ll be back.”

“That’s it.” Angus pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to ask Charlotte if I can stay the night.” He went into the hall.

Michael sighed and sat down in a chair. “So much for the distance between a reporter and his subject.”

Suki looked up. “That’s exactly what they said at
National Geographic.
”

*   *   *

The room at the Manitou Arms had two double beds and a small table with two chairs. Michael, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, sat on the bed, studying back issues of
Tripping
. As far as he could tell, Angus had written every article. The style was florid and the layout needed a lot of work.

He tossed aside the issue featuring mystery cats, pulled his laptop onto his thighs, and typed some possible headlines for the Baskerville story. Faithful Unto Death, and Beyond? Phantom Pup Stalks Manitou Springs. The Curious Incident of the Chihuahua in the Nighttime. He smiled and shook his head at the last one but kept typing. When he had twenty possible titles, he stopped and considered a first line.
Charlotte Baskerville’s dog refuses to leave her side, even though he’s dead
. That was a grabber, and short enough that even the most ADD reader shouldn’t lose interest halfway through.

Michael spent the next couple of hours transcribing notes from his recorder and writing. Finally he backed up his work and closed the document before opening the file for his own book—his baby.

Sonia knelt and rested her hot forehead against Don Juan Conejo’s cooler silken one, until his ruby eyes blurred into the surrounding white fur, like blood on melting snow.

“You shore do love that rabbit, don’t you?” Earl drawled.

Michael studied the screen. Then he added
li’l
before
rabbit
. Then he took it out. Don Juan Conejo weighed seven pounds, after all. Some rabbits were much smaller. But would Earl Buckhalter know that? He chewed his lip.

An hour later, he put the computer away and lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head. Was Earl’s accent too thick? Would Sonia, a woman who had grown up listening to Bizet’s
Carmen
over and over, seriously consider marrying a man who said
shore
? Wouldn’t pride keep her from loving him?

Pride had certainly destroyed the Baskervilles’ relationship. Charlotte and Thomas had raised a son, weathered financial loss, and fussed over a dog together, but now Thomas seemed determined to undermine his wife’s success, even if it meant ruining a business that benefited him.

Looked at that way, anyone who profited from Petey’s Closet would want Charlotte to divorce Thomas. Presumably she wouldn’t have listened to Ellen, Cheri, or Ivan, but she was certainly listening to Petey.

Michael wondered how Angus was doing at the Baskerville house.

*   *   *

Angus rolled over carefully. The cot Charlotte had provided was not big, but at least it had a thin pad. Still, whichever shoulder he lay on ached after a while.

Angus had couched his offer to spend the night in terms of ghost watching, and Charlotte Baskerville had accepted eagerly. He even had his little digital camera, in case the ghost decided to show itself.

After a quick trip to the motel, he’d returned with the essentials: toothbrush and paste, razor, and a change of clothes. Now he lay on the cot in plaid boxers and a white T-shirt, wide awake.

He had managed to sleep for a little while, but had woken when he heard heavy, irregular footsteps in the hall. He opened his door a crack. The hall light was off, but he could still see Ivan walk carefully to his room, one hand on the wall.

That had been shortly after one o’clock. No sooner had he gone back to his cot than he’d heard a door open somewhere in the hall, and then the sound of someone quietly knocking on a door. Peeking out again, he saw Cheri standing outside Ivan’s room, a robe wrapped around her.

She tapped again, and the door opened. Cheri murmured something and slipped inside Ivan’s room with a giggle. Angus waited until it became obvious that Cheri wasn’t coming out immediately. Then he tiptoed quietly into the hall and put his ear to Ivan’s door.

He heard the sound of voices—Ivan’s low and ponderous, Cheri’s light, with lots of laughing. Was that the clink of bottle and glass? He pressed his ear closer but the heavy wood let no more sound out.

Finally he went back to his room and lay on his back for a change. He was just starting to get drowsy when he heard a door open again. He rose quickly, took two large steps across the room, and went into the hall.

Cheri closed Ivan’s door carefully, then turned and saw Angus. “What are you doing up?” she asked, her expression pouty.

“Bathroom.” He took a few steps toward Charlotte’s end of the hall. It was the opposite direction from the guest bathroom, but put him directly in Cheri’s path to her bedroom. She took a few steps toward him. Was she weaving?

“Other way,” she whispered, pointing back toward the stairs.

“Sorry, what?” Angus whispered. He put a hand to one ear and bent over.

She obligingly stepped closer. “You’re going the
wrong way
. It’s there.” She pointed again.

Angus sniffed. “That’s quite the strawberry breath you have.” Was it covering something, like vodka?

“It’s my toothpaste. Good night, Mr. Ghost Man.” She giggled.

“Good night.” He walked the correct way down the hall, glancing back briefly. Cheri opened her door with no sign of difficulty, and her steps didn’t seem unsteady.

With a sigh, Angus went into the bathroom, switched on the light, and closed the door. One side of the counter held someone’s personal toiletries, and he remembered that the guest bathroom was also Ellen’s.

As he took a leak, he thought about mousy Ellen. She seemed to be lowest on the totem pole, always opening doors and showing people around, yet Petey’s Closet was built on her designs.

That wasn’t strictly true. It was built on Ellen’s designs plus Charlotte’s networking, marketing know-how, and money. Presumably they were partners. Ellen was simply the kind of person who opened doors and fetched things, whereas Charlotte was not.

Angus flushed the toilet, then opened the door and checked the distance to his room before turning off the light. Second door along.

He switched off the bathroom light, then paused as something caught his eye.

A small green dot shone up from the floor where the bathroom threshold met the wood floor of the hall. In shape, it resembled nothing so much as a paint drip.

Angus squatted and ran his finger over it. It felt dry. He looked at his fingertip and thought he saw a faint glow there, as well. It was difficult to tell, as his eyes struggled with shades of darkness.

Angus stood and flipped the bathroom light back on, then dampened some toilet paper under the tap and squeezed it out. He turned the light back out and rubbed at the spot, using his thumbnail behind the paper.

When he was finished, only the tiniest glow remained from where the stuff had run into a crack in the wood. Someone would have to really look to spot it.

Angus flushed the wad of damp toilet paper down the toilet, washed his hands, and went back to his cot.

Eight

The next morning, Angus called Suki and Michael and told them to meet him at a local breakfast place at ten.

They took their seats, and Michael studied Angus’s face. “Everything quiet last night? You look a little tired.”

“There was some to-ing and fro-ing during the night, but Thomas and the ghost stayed away.” Angus leaned forward and whispered, “The granddaughter may be drinking. She may also be sleeping with Ivan.”

“Interesting,” Michael murmured.

“Not something we can write about, however.”

“Well, we
could,
” Michael countered.

“But we’re not going to.” Angus took the menu the waitress handed him.

“The special today is cherry French toast,” she said.

They all ordered the special. When the waitress had left, Suki pointed to the front window, awash in sunshine. “A beautiful day like this is great for detail and color but not so good for spooky. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

Angus shrugged. “We’ve never tried for atmosphere in the travel-oriented photos.”

“I could go for odd angles and framing,” Suki said. “Shoot from down low, catch the sides and backs of people passing. That’s more interesting than standard shots, but doesn’t sacrifice information.”

“It sounds a great deal more effective than my little snapshots,” Angus said. “I leave it in your capable hands.”

Their food came shortly afterward. Michael looked at his plate. The triangles of French toast were red with cherry preserves, making them look like a smiling mouth, and two circles of whipped cream had been squirted above them to look like eyes. “This is disturbing.”

Angus squeezed lemon into his cup of tea. “Too cynical to enjoy a bit of innocent whimsy, Michael?”

“You guys should shut up and eat,” Suki said. “This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth for a month.”

Michael took a bite of food. “Mmmm! Uhmum mmph.”

“Told you,” Suki said.

They ate in silence for a while, pausing only to nod in appreciation when the waitress asked how everything was.

“So what’s the plan?” Michael asked, after scraping his plate clean.

Angus took a sip of tea. “At some point, I’d like more information from Charlotte as to what her ghost experience was like. But I suppose we should stay out of her hair today and focus on the town, seeing as how she might be asking her husband for a divorce.”

“I wouldn’t mind a few more photos at the Baskerville house,” Suki said, “but I can make do with what I have.”

Angus nodded. “We’ll see how it goes. In the meantime, Michael, I want you to go to Miramont Castle and ask about their ghosts. Officially it’s too late to get tickets to Emma Crawford’s wake, but tell them you’re a reporter and see what they’ll do for you.”

“So this is a different event than the race,” Michael said. “Emma’s corpse isn’t really in the coffin, is it?”

“No,” Angus assured him. “It’s one of the local girls, very much alive. They serve a buffet dinner, and there’s a history lesson by people dressed as notables who visited or lived in Manitou Springs at the time. They have photos online that they’ll probably let us use, but do you have a camera?”

“Yeah, but where’s Suki going to be?”

Angus turned to her. “Suki, I’d like you to go to the Regency. It’s supposed to be one of the most haunted restaurants in America. I set things up so they know you’re coming. There should be a packet of materials waiting for you.”

Suki nodded. “So all you need from me is pictures?”

“Yes, but I hope you’ll feel free to ask questions and take notes,” Angus said.

Michael wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And where are you going, Angus?”

“I’m going to talk to the Chamber of Commerce and see who might want to advertise in
Tripping
. I also think Manitou Springs is just the kind of place that might be interested in a festival to honor Petey.”

*   *   *

Michael walked from the restaurant to Miramont Castle, taking notes as he went. Manitou Springs’ downtown appeared to be thriving. He passed several of the natural springs. A well-muscled man in his sixties rode his bicycle up to one, leaned against the wall without dismounting, and filled up a bottle before riding on.

Miramont Castle lay on a side street off Ruxton Avenue. It wasn’t a castle in the fortress style, but rather a three-storied, many-chimneyed mansion made of red stone. It did have one crenellated section. In fact, the general effect was of five or so imposing houses squeezed into one.

Before going inside, Michael waited until a thin cloud covered the sun, and then squatted to take a picture of the castle’s face. The result looked properly imposing. “Not bad,” he murmured, pocketing the camera and trotting up the stairs to the entrance.

A pretty brunette sat at the wooden reception desk, wearing a blazer over a purple satin blouse. “May I help you?”

“I’m Michael Abernathy, from
Tripping
magazine. We write about travel destinations with paranormal aspects. I understand you have some ghosts?”

The woman’s face lit up. “We certainly do!” She opened one of the desk drawers. “I’m Phoebe. You know, I don’t show these pictures to everyone.” She came around the desk with a small stack of photos in her hand.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation, for the article?”

“Go right ahead!”

The first photo was grainy and looked as though it had been shot in a dark room with a flash. Two pale spots floated in the middle. They had been circled with a ballpoint pen.

“Do you know what those are?” Phoebe asked, pointing to them.

To Michael, the spots looked like they might be caused by water spots on the emulsion. He stopped himself from saying so. “What?”