The Other Side - J. D. Robb [76]
“That’s the idea.” She went back to the newspaper. “ ‘Besides witnessing a dancing ghost, Cleland claims to have heard violin music “coming from everywhere and nowhere.” In addition, mysterious writing appeared on the mirror in the bedchamber in which he was sleeping.’ Oh, that’s good; everybody loves mysterious writing. What did it say?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Me?” She laughed. “Even I can’t be in two places at once. ‘ “Taken by surprise, I was unable to photograph the ghost at the moment of her appearance. However, often a spirit’s ectoplasmic shadow can be captured after a materialization, and I submit that this photograph represents just that: the vestigial imprint of a spirit manifestation on the atmosphere.”’ Ha-ha!”
They chortled together. When Henry leaned in to see the photograph better, she could smell the bay rum on his freshly shaved cheek. “Came out pretty well, don’t you think?” he said.
“Considering it’s crumpled tissue paper on a string, I think it came out beautifully.” More chortling. “How long have you been a photographer?”
“Not long,” he said vaguely—but he was vague on almost anything that had to do with his immediate past. She, on the other hand, found herself telling him all sorts of things about herself she normally wouldn’t tell someone, especially a man, on a mere three days’ acquaintance. But Henry was so easy to talk to. And unshockable, at least so far. He seemed more of a friend than he possibly could be—so much so that she’d begun telling herself to be careful.
“Here’s the only part I don’t like.” She pointed to a paragraph in the article. “ ‘In addition to changes in temperature, wind direction, and barometric pressure in the vicinity of the ghost’s materialization, Cleland claims there was also a bad smell. “It permeated the house. Indescribable. I can only call it the odor of Death.”’”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You said my house stinks.”
“Ah, but think of the deterrent effect. Who wants to buy a house that smells like death?”
“That’s true.”
“I like that he capitalized Death,” Henry said. “You know, this is a very good article, all things considered.”
“I told you it would be.”
“Compared to a few other things I’ve had written about me, it’s a puff piece.”
“A puff piece?”
“Journalism term, I believe. I liked Hersh—he seems like a good fellow.”
“He is.”
“And I didn’t get the impression he’s a fool.”
“No.” She understood the question Henry was implicitly asking. “I admit, he’s also a friend. He knows what this means to me. Otherwise . . . you’re right, he might not have treated the author of ‘Examinations of the Metanormal with Scientific Proofs of the Odic Force’ quite so gently.”
She folded the paper and set it aside. “So. I call phase one a smashing success, don’t you? And phase two has already been set in motion, because today I received—”
“Angiolina.”
“Yes?”
“Angiolina,” he repeated, slowly, drawing out the ridiculous number of vowels. It didn’t sound silly when he said it. “An unusual name.”
“One of my mother’s fancies. She admired Angiolina Cordier, the French opera singer.”
“How interesting.”
That was how he charmed her, by looking directly into her eyes and saying, How interesting, as if he’d never said anything truer in his life. “Oh,” she said lightly, “you don’t know the half.”
“Tell me.”
“Should I?”
He had such an innocent face for a charlatan. And smiling made him even handsomer when it compelled that dimple on the side of his mouth. “Why not?”
“Oh, well,” she said—backtracking, now that she was going to tell him—“it’s not that interesting. She was a singer, my mother, as well as a dancer and an actress. And my father owned and managed”—she took a deep breath—“Wild Johnny Darlington’s Traveling Musical Theatre Extravaganza.”
Henry was speechless.
She laughed at his