Cooking Up Trouble (5 page)

“Who’s the older man in the portrait in the dining room?”

“That was Ezra, the father. The man who built Hill Haven.”

Angie couldn’t stop looking at Jack. “You’re right—Jack Sempler was very handsome.”

“Wasn’t he? This was made when he was young. About the time Elise came to live with the Semplers. He was only twenty-two, Elise eighteen, and Susannah twenty-five. You can see why Elise fell in love with him.” Chelsea faced Angie. “There are no pictures of him after he returned home from sea. He was only thirty-four when he died.”

Angie shivered. That was Paavo’s age. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“No one knows,” Chelsea said softly. “All we know is that he died in this house.”

Like Miss Greer, Angie thought. And Finley? The idea had come unbidden, and she forced it away. Gazing up at the painting once more, she could almost feel Jack Sempler’s presence, could almost imagine what it would be like to have those intelligent eyes meet hers.

“I’m staying in his room,” Chelsea continued, “and at night I can feel his presence there with me.”

“You’re giving me goose bumps, Chelsea. Stop it!”

Chelsea’s story wasn’t all that was making Angie’s skin prickle. Someone was watching her. She turned. A dark form filled the high-backed wing chair behind her. She couldn’t quite make out who it was. Stepping backward, she bumped into Chelsea.

“Be careful,” the man’s precisely accented voice said. Angie started, then felt decidedly foolish as Reginald Vane leaned forward into the light.

“Mr. Vane, you startled me,” she said, then laughed. “Too many of Chelsea’s stories, I guess.”

“Miss Worthington is rather taken with the boy in that portrait, isn’t she? He was quite the young Romeo, I understand.”

With his black suit, white shirt, black tie, and thinning hair slicked straight back, Vane looked even more like the quintessential English butler than he had the first time they met.

Angie sat once more, unsure of the propriety of a situation like this. Miss Manners never covered what one should say or do when there was a dead body in the house. Or when one’s host was missing. She waited for someone else to make the first move.

“I know what,” Chelsea said after a time. “Let’s hold a séance. We can ask the Sempler ghosts to come and help us find Finley.”

“Don’t be silly,” Running Spirit said. “Moira’s too tired for such foolishness.”

“It’s not foolish,” Reginald Vane said. “I like Miss Worthington’s idea. Do try, Miss Tay.”

“Have you ever contacted a ghost before?” Angie asked, skepticism all but dripping from her tongue.

“I may have,” Moira replied, enigmatic as always. “It’s hard to say if my apparent success was only because the desire for the ghosts was so powerful among those with me. They believed the ghosts were there, whether they were or not. In other words, I might have produced no more than a manifestation of the beliefs of the living, and not the dead at all.”

“In that case,” Running Spirit said, “given the strength of Chelsea’s belief in young Sempler, you might end up with a dozen ghosts of the seafaring Jack instead of just one.” He laughed.

“You can shut your mouth, Greg Jeffers,” Chelsea cried. “You don’t know anything about me or Jack Sempler.”

He smirked. “But I know gullible when I see it.”

“You are totally hateful! Why aren’t you gone instead of Finley—” Chelsea clapped her hand to her mouth and, wide-eyed, looked at Moira. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“We will hold a séance,” Moira said.

The group pulled a table away from the wall and placed chairs around it. Moira lit a candle in the center of the table while Chelsea blew out the others. Everyone joined hands.

For a long while, no sound existed but that of incessant rain and harshly blowing wind. Then Moira slowly intoned, “Jack Sempler. Elise Sempler. Susannah Sempler. Join us here, we beseech you.” She waited a heartbeat or two, then began to drone the words once more.

Angie wondered what Paavo would think if he walked in now. Probably that she was as flaky as the rest of them.

Moira stared at the candle. The table didn’t shake. Nothing flew across the room. The candlelight didn’t even flicker. As a séance, this was a dud.

“Jack…Jack Sempler,” Moira called. “I feel your presence. Won’t you give us some sign you are here? Please. Some sign.”

“He’s here,” Chelsea cried. “I know he’s here. He’ll let us know.” She jumped to her feet. “
There
! Look!”

Angie’s hair stood on end as she whirled around to look where Chelsea pointed. She saw nothing.

“He was there,” Chelsea cried.

“I believe you,” Reginald Vane said. “Please sit, Miss Worthington. Don’t overexcite yourself.”

“But it
is
exciting.” Chelsea’s eyes were shining.

“Jack,” Moira called. “Come back to us, Jack.”

Nothing happened.

“Elise?” Moira called. “Susannah? Tell us you are with us. Help us find my brother. Will you talk with us tonight?”

They waited. Angie held her breath, hoping to hear or see something, despite her skepticism. “Who can tell with ghosts?” she said after a while. “Maybe they had a previous commitment. You know, couldn’t fit another haunting into their schedule tonight.”

“That could be,” Chelsea agreed, ignoring the glares directed at Angie.

Angie looked at her incredulously.

“Well,” Chelsea said, not seeming to notice, “I guess I’ll go up to bed. At least in my room I feel as if Jack Sempler is nearby.”

The grandfather clock in the drawing room began to strike twelve.

“The witching hour,” Reginald Vane said.

“On second thought,” Chelsea said, “I think I’ll wait until it’s through striking.”

They grew quiet, silently counting the strokes.

A chill went down Angie’s spine. She’d seen this scene
a zillion times on TV. Old black-and-white movies, in particular, had corny scenes about ghosts at midnight. In fact, in real life it was still a corny scene.

The clock stopped. Chelsea didn’t make a move to leave. What nonsense, Angie thought. There were more important things to do tonight than to sit here quaking. Things like going to bed. With Paavo. Where was he, anyway? “I think I’ll say goodnight,” she said and stood.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait a few minutes?” Chelsea asked, her eyes round.

Angie put a hand on one hip. “I ain’t afraid o’ no ghosts.”

Chelsea was just beginning to join in the others’ nervous laughter when a slow, dull, pounding sound reverberated through the room.

Angie sat down again, quickly. “What was that?”

No one answered.

The pounding continued.
Tha-thump. Tha-thump
. It grew louder.

Moira clasped her hands as if in prayer. Her eyes searched the ceiling and the walls.

Running Spirit grasped her wrist. “Who’s doing that?” he called out. “What’s up there?”

“Chelsea’s room is directly above,” Moira said. “I presume it’s empty.”

“Jack?” Chelsea cried, staring at the ceiling.

“The noise doesn’t seem to be coming from there,” Running Spirit said.

“It seems to be coming from the walls,” Angie said.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump
.

“It sounds like a heartbeat,” Reginald Vane whispered.

“Maybe it’s something evil,” Chelsea cried. “We wanted the Sempler ghosts, but these are bad ones. What did you do, Moira?”

“What if Miss Greer didn’t die of a heart condition?” Reginald Vane asked. “What if she died of fright?”

“Make it stop!” Chelsea cried.

Tha-thump-tha-thump. Tha-thump-tha-thump
. The beat quickened.

Angie’s heart raced as fast and loud as the pounding. “I’m getting out of here.” She turned to run to her room.

In the doorway stood a white, unearthly figure. Elise? Susannah? Angie screamed.

“Patsy!” Running Spirit bellowed. “What the hell are you doing here?” He let go of Moira and stepped toward his wife.

“It’s the ghosts,” she cried, running into the room. She wore a flowing white nightgown. Her hair was frizzy and wild about her head, and her face had even less color than her gown. “They’re going to kill us. We’ll be dead. Like Finley.”

Tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump!

“No!” Moira cried, her hands over her ears.

Suddenly, magically, the house fell quiet. No one breathed.

A moment later, Paavo casually strolled into the room, taking in each member of the little group before him.

Moira looked ready to collapse, as did Chelsea. Running Spirit appeared worried the others might think he’d lost his nerve. The previously absent Reginald Vane was devoid of expression.

Then there was Patsy Jeffers. Paavo found her most interesting, even though he suspected she was the type who had spent most of her twenty-nine or thirty years being ignored or forgotten about. Her uncombed hair was closer to dull beige than to blond or brown. Her eyebrows and lashes, if they existed, blended with her skin tone. Her flat brown eyes darted about continually,
except when she looked at her husband. She gazed upon him with awe, as if in the throes of pure rapture.

They had to be one of the most unlikely couples ever.

Now, as Patsy clutched Running Spirit’s arm, she searched his face, then bowed her head and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. Raising her hand to his chest, her fingers splayed over his heart. The chunky gold band on her third finger was too big for her, and her fingernails had been chewed to little half-moons.

“Paavo, thank God you’re here.” Angie hurried to his side. “Could you tell what that noise was? Was it as loud in the rest of the house?”

“It seemed to be coming from in here,” he said.

“God, it was the ghosts!” Chelsea cried.

“I’m sure these noises have a logical explanation,” Moira said. “Probably something to do with the pipes. Don’t you agree, Greg?”

Running Spirit caught Paavo’s eye, seeking his agreement. “Sure,” he said. “It could be the pipes.”

“I think we should all retire,” Moira announced nervously. “The storm is terrible tonight. That’s what made the noise. It was the wind through some open part of the house. Or something.” She stopped, aware she was clutching at straws.

“Or maybe,” Patsy said, staring at her husband, “it was Finley.”

No one replied.

“It appears everyone’s here but the Baymans,” Paavo said, breaking the uneasy silence. “Would you get them, Miss Tay?”

Fear crossed her face momentarily before she masked it. “You want them to wait with the rest of us for the sheriff?”

“Everyone should be here.”

“It might be very late before the sheriff can get through,” Moira added. “Perhaps morning. Since Miss Greer’s already dead, I see no reason for the sheriff to hurry. We’re wasting time down here for nothing.”

“The Baymans, please, Miss Tay,” Paavo asked again.

She paled, but left without another word.

“You haven’t met Mr. Vane yet, Paavo,” Angie said. The two men shook hands as Angie introduced them. “Mr. Vane is another investor. He’s from British Columbia,” she explained.

Vane’s grip was loose. His hands were pasty and smooth and, like the others’ hands, showed no marks or scratches. “Have you been down here long?” Paavo asked.

“Miss Tay knocked on my door earlier and told me what happened to Miss Greer. I’m afraid I would have slept through all the excitement otherwise. I decided to come down to await the sheriff with the rest of you.”

Paavo nodded.

“Mr. Smith’s a homicide detective,” Chelsea told Reginald. “It’s good there was no foul play or we might all be suspects.”

“You’re making way too much out of this.” Running Spirit’s voice boomed across the room. “An old lady got sick and died. What’s the problem?”

Paavo didn’t want to go into just what the problem was. Until the sheriff arrived, he’d keep his own counsel.

Earlier, in the kitchen, he’d used the top of his pen to push down Miss Greer’s high collar and expose her neck. Dark bruises and abrasions indicated she had been strangled. Careful examination of her hands showed the possibility of blood and skin under her fingernails, as if she had struggled with her killer.

The kitchen, however, was neat and undisturbed, with no sign of her being taken by surprise either while working
or perhaps just getting a late snack. Deep scuff marks marred one portion of the otherwise immaculately waxed linoleum floor.

He suspected it had been a brief but desperate struggle with a killer she had known well enough that he or she could get close to her without arousing suspicion or fear. The killer had struck before she could even cry out.

What, though, was Miss Greer doing in the kitchen at that time of night? And why was the killer there? Could it have been a planned meeting? All of this information and speculation he’d share only with the sheriff, and perhaps Angie. Right now, in this house, there were only two people who knew how Miss Greer had died. Him and the murderer.

Moira led the Baymans
into the library. For two people who’d retired for the night an hour or two earlier, they appeared surprisingly awake.

Paavo stood before the assembled group. “I had hoped the sheriff would have arrived by now. Since he hasn’t, there’s a good chance he can’t get through. All of you should understand that Miss Greer’s death coupled with Mr. Tay’s disappearance is suspicious in itself.”

“Oh, my God,” Chelsea cried. Everyone faced her. “What if Finley Tay killed Miss Greer? And he disappeared to establish an alibi?”

“Why don’t you stick with your horny ghosts?” Running Spirit said disgustedly. “You’ve got vapors for brains.”

“Miss Worthington isn’t the only one who will draw conclusions,” Paavo said. “As a police officer at the scene, I need to ask each of you a few questions.”

They grumbled loudly.

“The sheriff’s investigation will go much faster if you cooperate with me now,” he said. “Stay here until you’re
called into the living room. Miss Worthington, I’ll start with you.”

“Me?” Chelsea squeaked the word, her face paler than Moira’s. Following him from the room, she looked like a death row inmate making that final walk.

Angie was proud of Paavo’s take-charge demeanor. If she’d been wearing a shirt with buttons, she’d have popped them. If murder was afoot, he’d figure it out. Maybe even tonight.

She could see it now. After grilling them one by one, he’d gather everyone into the drawing room. Then, just like Nero Wolfe, he’d announce the name of the murderer.

But what made Paavo think there was a murderer? Miss Greer died from her heart condition, didn’t she?

“He has no right to do this to us!” Bethel Bayman said, standing up. “I’m going to bed.”

“That would look mighty suspicious, if you ask me.” Angie spoke the words disinterestedly, as if she couldn’t care less what Bethel did.

Bethel gave her a haughty glare, then with a swish of her robe, sat down again.

In the drawing room, Chelsea sat on the sofa catty-corner to the chair Paavo took. He faced her, a notebook in his hand.

“Just relax, Miss Worthington, and answer the questions as best you remember,” he said.

“Yessir.”

“When did you last see Finley Tay?”

“You think he’s dead, don’t you?”

“Let me ask the questions, Miss Worthington.”

She pouted and folded her hands. “After dinner Saturday night. I saw him leave for his walk.”

“Did anyone go with him?”

“I thought everyone did, Inspector. Everyone but me and Angie. Finley’s nature walks were supposed to be an event.”

“Did you actually see anyone go with him?”

“I guess not. I don’t pay too much attention to what other people do sometimes. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Miss Worthington. Can you tell me when you last saw Miss Greer?”

“After dinner. She was putting a dried-flower arrangement on the dining room table.”

“What time was that?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t pay too much attention to time.”

“What did you do afterward?”

“I think I talked to Moira for a while, then maybe Angie. No, not Angie. Reginald was with me in the drawing room, but then he got a headache and I went up to my room to read. Later, I heard Moira scream.”

“Did anyone else see you in the drawing room?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t pay too much attention to—”

“I know. Thank you, Miss Worthington.”

Reginald Vane was the next guest facing Paavo.

“What did you do after dinner?” Paavo asked.

“I missed dinner, staying up in my room. A bit later I went to the library for a new book. The only person I saw all evening that I can remember was in the library.”

“And who was that?”

“Patsy Jeffers.”

“I never left my wife’s bedside all evening,” Running Spirit told Paavo. “After all, she was feeling poorly. Oh, I did go down to dinner without her. I forgot about that.”

“I was at Martin’s side the whole evening,” Bethel said. “We’re a devoted couple and Martin expects me to be with him.”

“I never left Bethel,” Martin said. “Marriage is, after all, a life sentence.”

“After Miss Greer and I finished cleaning up the kitchen,” Moira said, “I went into the drawing room to spend a few minutes with my guests, then invited everyone to the library at nine o’clock for some herbal tea or soy coffee. It’s a way to sooth the nerves before going to bed. I talked for a long time with the Baymans, I believe.”

Patsy lifted dull eyes to Paavo. “I was alone in my room all evening,” she said. Her hands shook nervously. “I guess that means if I need an alibi I don’t have any.”

“Your turn, Angie,” Paavo said, standing in the doorway of the library.

“Me? You’ve got to be joking.”

Bethel snickered.

Angie marched from the library, nose in the air, and followed Paavo to the living room.

“You were here, Angie,” he said when they were seated. “I wasn’t. Tell me about it.”

“There’s not much for me to tell. The first night only Reginald, Chelsea, and I had dinner with Finley, and I
went to my room before he left for his nature walk. Tonight, Miss Greer wouldn’t let me help, so I didn’t see her at all after dinner.”

“That’s all?”

“Maybe it’s not much, but it’s the truth. Now you just have to figure out who’s lying.”

Paavo quietly turned the knob on the door that led into the kitchen. There was no light, no sound at all.

He flicked on the flashlight, looked over the kitchen, and walked over to Miss Greer’s sheet-covered body.

He had arranged the sheet so that it formed a tiny pleat by her left shoulder, another by her right foot. The pleats were still there. Nothing about the sheet looked as if anyone had touched it.

Proceeding to a corner, he sat on the floor and shut off his flashlight. If anyone came in here tonight, he wanted to know who. And why.

This house was filled with a looney-tunes group doing their best to scare each other away, and the man who put it all together was missing. Now the cook had been killed. It didn’t make sense. But it would, in time.

Particularly if whoever killed Miss Greer came down to dispose of any evidence that might have been left behind.

His vacation with Angie would have to wait a while after all. Footsteps. He broke off his thoughts and watched the kitchen door.

The door opened. Light steps entered the room then stopped. Paavo silently got to his feet. He was just about to turn on the flashlight and find out who had snuck in here when the kitchen lights were turned on. He blinked from the sudden brightness.

“Moira,” he said.

She gasped, her hand at her chest, staring at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing.” He was guarded, watching her carefully.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Moira said, slowly walking toward him. “All of this…my brother missing, now Miss Greer dying. I just wanted to sit with her a while. She’d only worked with us this past month, but I feel like I’ve lost a friend.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Paavo slid his hands into his pockets. “It’s been over five hours since Quint left,” he commented.

She rubbed her forehead. “The road up here washes out easily, and runs so near the edge of the cliff that it can be very dangerous. They’ll wait until it stops raining, or at least until the sun comes up so that they can see the road better.”

“Could be.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “If you’re waiting for the sheriff, why do it in the dark, Inspector Smith? Do I detect something going on here?”

“Curiosity.”

“Two can play at that game.” She shut off the kitchen lights.

He flicked on the flashlight as she crossed the room to sit beside him on the floor.

“How did Miss Greer come to work for you?” he asked.

“Is this twenty questions?” she replied.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I know.” In the darkness, he could hear the resignation in her voice. “She showed up at our door one day. She lives in town and said she needed work, that if we had anything at all, she’d be interested. When my brother learned she was willing to cook whatever he told her—he has very definite ideas about food—he hired her to do that and to help me with the housecleaning.”

“Did she live here or in town?”

“In town. If the inn ever got very popular, and I needed help with breakfast, we thought we might offer her a room. But for now our arrangement was that she’d arrive in time to prepare a light lunch, help with the cleaning in the afternoon, and then make dinner and do the cleanup.”

“Did anyone from town come to visit her here?”

“No one.”

“Do you know if she has family or friends there?”

“No family. No close friends that I could tell. But she knew almost everyone.”

“Any enemies, or anyone she was afraid of?”

“Why do you ask?” Her voice, which had been monotone while answering his earlier questions, suddenly registered alarm.

“Just curious.”

“Ah.” Her relief was evident. “None that I know of.”

“Did your brother like her?”

“Yes. He thought she was ‘a treasure,’ as he put it. He’ll be very upset to learn she’s passed away. Poor Finley—none of this is going as he planned.”

“What about the investors? Are things going as they planned?”

“Oh, yes. Except that Finley isn’t here,” she said, then paused before continuing. “Up to that time, though, they were happy as clams about the inn and its prospects.”

Angie stared at the ceiling while lying on the bed. Alone.

Paavo said he’d be downstairs waiting for the sheriff to arrive. What if the sheriff didn’t show up all night? He didn’t exactly seem like the type who’d jump out of a warm bed to traipse up to this hilltop because someone had died of natural causes.

If they were natural causes. But they must have been. Moira said she had a heart condition, that it was just a matter of time.

Things like that happened all the time. But then, with Finley missing…

Angie turned over. She really ought to get to sleep. Morning would come soon and she needed to help Moira with breakfast. Poor woman, between her brother disappearing and her cook dying, she had to be falling apart.

But then Angie remembered the way Moira made a big deal about holding hands with Paavo during the séance. She was certainly good at hiding her sorrow!

Maybe, Angie thought, instead of lying here thinking about Finley and Miss Greer and Moira, she should just get up and help Paavo keep his vigil for the sheriff. But she’d told Paavo she’d wait here for him, and she was always a woman of her word. For the most part.

She shut her eyes. Instead of the peacefulness of sleep, though, she again saw Moira Tay fawning over Paavo. Moira was beginning to annoy her mightily. Even more annoying: Why was Paavo being nice to Moira in return? What was it about Moira that was causing that strange reaction in him?

She didn’t think the blond wraith was Paavo’s type. But then, what was his type? The longer she lay alone in what was supposed to be their bed for their vacation together—their big get-to-know-each-other-better week together—the more she decided it certainly wasn’t her.

She threw back the covers and sat up. There was no way she was going to get to sleep tonight. She might as well spend the time with Paavo. That’s what this so-called vacation was supposed to be about, wasn’t it?

She put on slippers and a robe and walked quietly downstairs. In case he’d fallen asleep, she didn’t want to disturb him.

Night lights cast a faint glow in the drawing room and the foyer. To her surprise, he wasn’t in the drawing room. He must be in the kitchen, she thought with a shudder. Why anyone would want to sit in a room with a corpse didn’t make sense to her. But then, he was a homicide inspector. Maybe that explained it.

She went into the hall that led to the kitchen. The lights were out. He wouldn’t be down there in the dark, would he? She went a couple of steps closer and was just about ready to turn back when she heard a faint chuckle.

She froze. Ghosts? But they cried, not laughed. Or so she’d been told. But who could tell with ghosts? She took another couple of very quiet steps closer to the dark kitchen.

She heard Paavo’s low murmur, and with it, Moira Tay’s slow, serene voice before all fell quiet again.

Shocked, she turned around and somehow found her way back up to her room.

She dreamed the house was making strange noises again. Only this time, instead of a thumping heartbeat, it was a loud, shrill cry. Elise Sempler, perhaps? The wailing ghost.

Then she dreamed an earthquake struck.

Then Paavo, shaking her shoulder, was saying, “Angie. Angie. Wake up!”

She opened her eyes. Her alarm, which she’d foolishly set for six
A.M.
in order to take care of breakfast, was blaring. She reached over and hit the snooze button, then shut her eyes again. Paavo put his arms around her and she rolled toward him. Her hand touched his chest. She felt clothes, a sweater. He wasn’t in bed, but was lying on top of the covers. Still, he felt warm and solid. Her Paavo. She loved the feel of him, his clean, masculine scent.

He kissed her mouth, her cheek, her ear, then whispered, “Don’t you need to go down to help Moira?”

She jerked awake. Everything from the night before came back to her with a resounding crash. Pushing him away, she rolled to the edge of the bed and covered her head with her pillow. She remembered seeing the clock by her bed read four
A.M.
before she fell asleep. Obviously he hadn’t even bothered to come to bed last night. He must have spent the whole night with Moira Tay. And now his first coherent words to her were about the Other Woman. Damn him.

He pulled the pillow off her head. “Time to get up, Angie.”

She stumbled out of bed and into the shower without even giving him a backward glance.

Angie stood in the drawing room, doing her best to remain balanced on one foot, her other foot pressed against her knee, her arms raised over her head with her palms touching. The room was icy cold. There was either no central heating in the old inn or it had been shut off during the night to save money.