The Other Side - J. D. Robb [72]
He froze, one foot on the first stair tread. The dancing ghost swayed above him as if in thin air, and the light seemed to shine through her slender body. Certainly it shone through the thin white—alabaster—robe or billowy dress she wore, so that he could see . . . just about everything.
Afterward he would tell himself that that was what kept him motionless for so long, simply the pleasure of beholding a lovely naked lady, dancing. But the more complicated truth was that he could not have moved if he’d wanted to. For the length of time the apparition turned and bent and arched so gracefully, long blond hair rippling to her waist, her arms ethereal, like pale scarves floating in an unseen breeze, he honestly didn’t know if she was real or not.
Only after the unearthly light dimmed and finally disappeared was he able to move. And by then it was too late. He and Astra—whom he’d completely forgotten about; what was his excuse for doing nothing?—rushed up the steps to find the hall . . . empty.
But the portico doors were open.
And there was a scent in the air, a subtle perfume of . . . roses.
He searched every room in the house, including the basement. Also the elevator, although he had no idea what he was looking for there. He didn’t expect to find anything, and he didn’t. Last, he checked his equipment, although he had less than no faith that his thermometers, barometers, wind socks, compasses, and chimes could actually detect anything. If only he’d had some notice, some warning—if only he’d taken a picture of the dancer with one of his cameras. Then he’d know.
Then he’d know? What rubbish. He knew now! Angiolina Darlington had outfoxed him, that was all. He wasn’t used to that. He was the spooker, not the spookee.
In bed, he talked himself back into a state of calm. Look how rational I am, he thought. About to drift off to sleep in a haunted house. If I believed in ghosts, I’d be up all night.
He made the mistake of opening his eyes and letting his drowsy gaze drift to the mirror over the bureau.
The message had changed.
Who loves
Believes the Impossible.
Very literary ghost. Either that or he’d just been visited by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Five
Then Angie went too far.
But she was having such fun, and everything was going so well. Besides, after she’d gone to all the trouble of bringing Margaret and the leftover halibut, it would be a shame not to use them.
She got the music room ready in no time, making hardly a sound—easy when one was barefooted. And when one’s “ghost dog” antagonist was either deaf or the dimmest terrier on earth. She took a final look around. Window ajar so Margaret could escape, check. Fish bits scattered on and between piano keys, check. Door closed, check.
“It’s up to you now, sweetheart,” she told the cat as she released her from her pillowcase prison. “Hope you’re hungry. Make a lot of noise, Margaret; otherwise they’ll both just sleep through it.” Instead of waking in fear and confusion to the eerie, tuneless sound of piano music in the dead of night. And finding nothing but—
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Psssst, a spray of rose cologne: the dancing ghost’s signature scent. Also, it would mask the smell of halibut.
—And finding nothing but an empty, moonlit room, redolent with the mysterious odor of roses. And then, just when Mr. Cleland decided he was imagining things, what would he hear? Chilling strains of the Gypsy violin again, coming from . . . he knew not where. And by the time he figured out where, it would be gone. And so would Angie.
All in all, an excellent night’s work.
Setting Margaret gently on the piano bench, she gave her a kiss, retrieved the pillowcase, perfume atomizer, and fishy-smelling paper wrapper, went to the mantel, tilted the portrait of her parents over it (dressed as Beatrice and Benedick for a burlesque production of Much Ado About Nothing), and disappeared into the black maw of the fireplace.
Luckily she knew these stairs, wasn’t likely to stumble in the pitch black en route to the second floor. When she reached the tiny