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“Mr. Dare, you sound defensive to me,” observed Case. “Is it possible you secretly believe?”

“The suspension of my disbelief would require more cables than the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Yeah, Dare is doubt,” Freeboard murmured, eyes hooded.

“Precisely. But merely for the sake of my article,” said Dare, “even if there were such things as ghosts, why on earth don’t they beetle on along to their reward instead of drifting and clotting around the old clubhouse making thoroughgoing pains in the ass of themselves?” Case lifted an eyebrow. “Mrs. Trawley?”

But the psychic mutely demurred, lowering her eyes and shaking her head before again looking up at a sound from Freeboard as the Realtor, with a heavy and impatient sigh, bowed down her head and closed her eyes; she’d awakened at approximately four that morning, after tossing and turning in a restless sleep. Case glanced at her un-readably, then turned to answer Dare. “Well, who knows?” he began. “But assume that when you die you’re convinced—as you are, I presume, Mr. Dare—that death is the end of all consciousness. And then you die, but you remain fully conscious, so that the moment immediately after death seems no different from the one that came before. So in that case would it really be so terribly odd if there were some of us who simply didn’t notice that we’re dead?”

“I would notice,” Dare insisted.

“Three months’ notice,” muttered Freeboard, half awake.

“Joan, I’m marking you absent,” said Dare. He reached over and poked her in the side with a finger. Freeboard’s head snapped up and her eyes opened wide. “Yeah, what’s up?” she said, attempting to sound alert.

“Dr. Case was just implying that ghosts are nonbelievers; a rather nice irony, that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’s great.”

“Yes, I thought you might say that.”

“Quit staring.”

“I’m not staring.”

“Yes, you are, Terry! Quit it!”

“I will.”

The author returned his attention to Case.

“And so why wouldn’t some sympathetic angel just come and tell these spirits to wake up and smell the coffee?” he asked.

“Good point. Perhaps they have to find it out for themselves.”

“I think not knowing that you’re dead is shocking ignorance, frankly.”

“Maybe ghosts can’t let go of their attachments,” said Case.

“Lucky rocks,” mentioned Freeboard.

Dare ignored it.

Case turned to Trawley and stared at her intently. “I meant mainly emotional attachments. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Trawley? Or do you?”

Trawley lowered her eyes and shook her head. Softly, barely audibly, she said, “I don’t know.”

“What precisely do you know?” Dare demanded. “What is it, in fact, that you do, Mrs. Trawley? You’re the quietest person I’ve ever met. Do you talk to the spirits, at least?”

The noted psychic stood up. “You’ll excuse me just a moment?”

“Yes, of course,” murmured Case. He looked embarrassed.

“You didn’t say she was sensitive, you said a sensitive.”

“Terry, you’re a hemorrhoid,” Freeboard told him quietly.

“I’m just going for some water,” said the psychic, smiling thinly.

She opened a door and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I respect and adore you!” Dare called after her. “I kiss your ectoplasm.”

“Shall we leave it at that, Mr. Dare?” Case suggested. Freeboard glared. “ ‘I am doubt’ could be ‘I am dead.’ ”

In the kitchen, Trawley went to the double sink where Morna was standing washing dishes. “May I have a clean glass?” she asked. “I’d like some water.”

Silently, the housekeeper rinsed her hands, dried them, then reached to the cupboard for a glass and began to fill it from the tap.

Trawley was staring at her intently.

“You’ve been with Dr. Case for many years?”

“Many years.”

Morna’s voice was colorless and quiet.

She turned off the tap and handed Trawley the glass.

“Such an awfully pleasant atmosphere to work in,” said the psychic. “Dr. Case lives near the campus, does he, Morna?”

“Very near.”

“And you?”

“Very far.”

Morna had returned to the washing of the dishes.

“Oh, well, thank you for the water,” Trawley told