The Other Side - J. D. Robb [69]
“Mr. and Mrs. Foster—Miss Darlington. My cousin,” he added grudgingly.
“How do you do? And this is Mr. Cleland,” Angie said with extra graciousness to make up for Lucien’s lack. More hand-shakes and how-are-yous. “Oh, and this is Astra, Mr. Cleland’s . . . um ...”
“My ghost dog.”
Mrs. Foster, who was blond, petite, and by Angie’s estimation at least five months pregnant, covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh dear! Do you mean to say it’s true?”
Lucien cut off a snarl with a cough. “Of course it’s not true! Ha-ha! The man’s joking.”
“Not in the least,” said Mr. Cleland. “I’ll show you. Astra! Astra, do you feel something?”
At once the dog stopped sniffing at Mr. Foster’s pants cuff and went still. His black eyes bulged; his nose lifted in the air. His peeled-back lips revealed a mouthful of stained teeth.
Mrs. Foster gasped and pressed back against her husband.
“Oh, for—” Lucien pinched his nose to rein in his temper. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Sir,” he remembered to add; he wasn’t a vice president of Paulton National Bank for nothing.
“Mr. Cleland,” Angie answered for him, “is an investigator of the paranormal. He’s a ghost detective!”
Mrs. Foster clutched at her rounded abdomen. “There, there,” said Mr. Foster, patting her shoulder. “My wife is very sensitive.”
“Come, let’s look at the house,” Lucien said, trying to move them away. “Never mind the elevator, an eyesore, I know, but it can easily be taken out. Unless you like it, in which case it’s quite a handy—”
“Mr. Cleland uses purely scientific methods in his research,” Angie said. “For which he is world famous. He’s going to study Willow House.”
“By God, he—”
“He is, Lucien—Mrs. Grimmett wants him to.”
“Who?” said Mr. Cleland.
“Do you really believe the house is haunted?” Mrs. Foster asked him, rubbing her arms as if they were chilled. “We’d heard the rumors, of course, but Walter said it was all foolishness.”
“It’s too soon to say,” Mr. Cleland said, stroking his clean-shaven chin. “When I’ve finished my experiments, I’ll be able to hazard an opinion. In the meantime, however . . . ”
“Yes?”
“In the meantime, relying on my many years of experience and a certain natural intuition, if I may, I would have to say . . . ”
“Yes?”
“The environment, the ambiance, a certain something in the aerosphere of the house . . . Yes, I would definitely have to say there is . . . something.”
Lucien snorted.
But that was enough for Mrs. Foster. “Terribly sorry—a pleasure to meet you—come, Walter.” Taking her husband’s arm, she made a wide berth around Astra and flew out the door.
“Who’s Mrs. Grimmett?”
Mr. Smoak’s Boardinghouse for Gentlemen had a side porch as well as a front porch, the former screened from the street by rangy, never-pruned hydrangea bushes. The furnishings were sparse, just a few pieces of mildewed wicker, and flies and mosquitoes were a nuisance, but what it lacked in comfort the side porch made up for in privacy. Respectable privacy, since it was outdoors and thus, technically, a public place.
Angie pulled her skirts aside to give Mr. Cleland more room on the damp love seat cushion they were sharing. “She’s the wife of Lucien’s boss at the bank. A great believer in spiritualism. She’s to Paulton what Mrs. What’s-her-name—”
“Beckingham?”
“What Mrs. Beckingham is to Hartford, only more so. Mrs. Grimmett founded ISIPP.”
“International Society for . . . ”
“Institute for Scientific Investigation of Paranormal Phenomena.”
“Oh, yes. Never heard of it.”
“It’s local.” She stopped petting Astra and turned to face Mr. Cleland. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the house is in foreclosure. I’m not sure why I didn’t, except—well, really, does it matter?”
“Not to me, and it won’t have any effect on my experiments. But I can see it matters a good deal to you. Maybe that’s why you didn’t tell me. Too painful.”
He said that so matter-of-factly, she surprised herself by telling him the truth. “It is painful. I love Willow House, and