The Other Side - J. D. Robb [75]
They passed no one on the quiet, empty streets—as she’d predicted. “We have a lot to discuss, a lot to arrange,” she said, resettling Margaret in her pillowcase. “The first thing is to get a story published in the newspaper about Paulton’s new ghost detective. I’ll take care of that; you just wait for a call from Walker Hersh.”
“Of the Republic,” Henry recalled.
“After that, I’m quite sure you’ll be getting an invitation from Mrs. Grimmett. She’s dying to meet you.”
The moon had set. Nothing stirred on pitch-dark Lexington Street, not even a cricket. But when they arrived at Mrs. Mortimer’s, they huddled together under the branches of a white dogwood to say good night. Just in case.
“Shall we meet tomorrow, Mr. Cleland?” she asked softly. “I have a music lesson in the morning, but we could have lunch—”
“Please. If we’re going to be partners, don’t you think you should call me Henry?”
“Henry, then. And I suppose you should call me Angie.”
“A pleasure.” He smiled.
She frowned. “We still haven’t discussed the nature of our new partnership. I said I would pay you more, but we never settled on a fee.”
“Partners don’t charge each other fees. They’re partners.”
“Oh. Well.” She sounded surprised, almost incredulous. “Well. That’s . . . Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. What instrument are you studying? Could it be the Gypsy violin?”
He was growing addicted to that delighted burst of a laugh. “No, I teach the violin,” she said. “And the piano. I did it at Willow House as well, to supplement my grandfather’s . . . irregular income, but now I do it to keep body and soul together.”
“He left you nothing?”
“The house and his debts. They’ve canceled each other out.”
Her wistfulness made him want to cheer her up. “I forgot to tell you: the dancing ghost is an absolute triumph. Quite a brilliant illusion.”
She shifted Margaret in order to clap her hands—gently, so they made no sound. “I know! Isn’t it? I’ve only done it twice before, but people are completely convinced.”
“What, ah, what garment is that the ghost is wearing?” he couldn’t resist asking.
“Oh, just my nightgown.”
“Your summer nightgown, I assume.”
“What do you mean?”
“The, um . . . ” Why was he getting into this? “The, um, transparent nature of it.”
“Trans—” She stood very straight. “Surely not. Do you mean it’s—you can—”
“See through it.”
“No, that’s impossible. Dear heaven.” The whites of her eyes went very big. “You’re teasing me.”
He shook his head.
“But no one’s ever said that, never even hinted—and they would, you know they would, if you could—if you could—”
“Oh yes, they would. So it must’ve been just tonight,” he said quickly. “Perhaps the lighting was different.”
She seized on that. “The light! When I’ve danced on the balcony, I’ve always shined the lantern from the side, but tonight, in the hall, I had to do it from below, and I stood on a footstool. Did it look like I was in midair?”
“Amazingly.”
“That’s it, then. The light.” She buried her face in the pillowcase. “You’re not teasing?” came out a cottony mumble. “You really could—see—”
“No, not really, hardly anything. Don’t know why I mentioned it. The barest glimpse, a mere suggestion, certainly nothing—lewd, just the reverse, in fact, quite natural and delightful—”
A soft, rising scream in the back of her throat finally shut him up. She backed away, clutching the cat to her chest, pivoted, and ran.
“Oh, well done. Good job.” Henry rapped his knuckles against his skull. “Blockhead.” But crossing the lawn to Smoak’s back door, he looked up at the sky and laughed. What a day this had been. It didn’t say much for the quality of his life lately, but he couldn’t remember when he’d had so much fun.
Seven
“ ‘ “I know what I saw,” said Cleland, “but I never rely on my senses alone. That’s what my extremely sensitive gauges and sensors are for; the tricks of my trade, as it were.” ’
“Hm,” Angie said, looking up from the front page of this morning’s Paulton Republic. “Not sure you should’ve put it quite like that.”
“Come at