Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [102]
“Your family is in danger. We were talking about the house before, but there’s something else you need to worry about—something very serious—”
Aha! Angling for a return engagement, Jeannie thought. An extra consultation—extra money. “I’m really sorry, Sister, but I am going to have major worries if I don’t pick up my son from school on time. I’ll see you this Friday, okay? Call me if you need directions.”
As Jeannie’s Humvee joined a stalled line of vehicles a quarter-mile prior to her turnoff from Northern to Roland Avenue, she felt her anxiety quicken. If only she could see ahead to whether or not it was an accident. Blocking her line of vision was a truck: a big white one with red lettering on the back that said, “REEVES ENTERTAINMENT. FOLLOW ME TO MARYLAND’S GREATEST PARTIES AND MAGIC SHOWS!”
Five minutes later, when she’d managed to make the right turn and proceed toward Ivan’s school, she turned over the connection in her mind. Hodder had mentioned that his father’s family owned a large party services company. She’d thought that the company dealt solely in tents and chairs and champagne fountains. But obviously there was something more.
There was a message blinking on the answering machine when Jeannie returned home with Ivan in tow.
It’s Hodder,” the voice on the recording said. “I was in Dewey and Rehoboth for a couple of weeks getting a jump on my spring listings, but I just returned this morning. Glad you want to get together! Can we do lunch?”
Had he heard, somehow, from Sister Natalie about the upcoming séance? As Jeannie was deliberating what to do, the phone rang. She listened to it ring, and when her answering machine picked up, she heard Hodder speak into the machine.
“Jeannie? You there?”
Jeannie picked up the phone. “I’m here.”
“Hey, did you hear my message about lunch? I called both your cell and the home, but nobody picked up.”
“Actually, Charlie and I want to invite you to join us at home Friday evening.” She had to force herself to sound normal.
“Ooh, dinner in my favorite house on Goodwood Gardens, with my favorite clients. It just so happens I am free. Let me bring some wine—would you prefer red or white?”
“Neither. It’s not exactly a dinner party, it’s a kind of—games night. There will be a couple of other people there. Could you come at 8, after Ivan’s in bed?”
“I’ll knock very quietly,” Hodder said in a low purr. “And how did you know I love games—grown-up games, especially?”
The séance was going to be a nightmare, Jeannie thought, as she spread out the skirts of her black silk taffeta gown so they wouldn’t crease while she sat reading Ivanhoe his favorite Dr. Seuss stories, even after his eyes had closed. Ivan’s tiny little hand was tucked in hers, making her sweat in the room that was already too hot. Sister Natalie had insisted on raising the temperature in the house, rather than dropping it, as if to prove how genuine her psychic feats would be.
Finally, Ivan’s hand relaxed in Jeannie’s and she carefully disengaged herself and arranged his coverings lightly over him. He was already covered in a faint sheen of perspiration, so she cracked open the window across the room.
Ivanhoe’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, and she could hear voices below. Hortense Underwood had come early, of course, and she was talking with Charlie about something, until a knock came at the door. It was Hodder, who after listening to Charlie’s booming description of the evening’s agenda, exclaimed loudly about what a great surprise the séance was. Jeannie suspected this was one instance where Hodder was genuinely surprised, and not up to his usual tricks.
It had been just a few hours earlier, when late afternoon sunshine had flooded Ivanhoe’s room, and the two of them had been putting away his laundry in the closet, when she’d found the trick: the quarter-inch nail hole in the closet door. She’d seen something flash in it, and realized, under closer inspection, that there was a very thin lens embedded in the hole that reflected its presence clearly under the glow of a flashlight.
“Ivan,” she’d asked