The Other Side - J. D. Robb [91]
“Shh.”
“Oh, who cares.” She laughed, but then she lowered her voice so the threesome on the sofa—Edwardia Darlington, Chester Grimmett, and Norah’s husband, Walker—couldn’t hear. “I’ll concede that you might have more . . . hands-on experience in that particular field.” Norah had to giggle at that. “But I’m more sophisticated than you in other ways.”
“You’re an infant, my dear.”
“No, I’m quite worldly.”
“A child.”
“Well, anyway—your advice has come too late. I’ve fallen in love with him.”
Norah put her hands over her ears. “Oh, this is terrible.”
“No, it’s not. Why?”
“Because where can it lead? He’s . . . ”
“A ghost detective? He’s not.”
“What is he, then?”
“I don’t know,” she had to admit, “but it doesn’t matter. After tonight we’re starting over.”
Across the room, Mrs. Grimmett looked at the watch pinned to her bosom and said something impatient-sounding to Henry.
“Norah, listen,” Angie said quickly, “if you should notice anything odd or—funny tonight, if anything should catch your eye that seems . . . ”
“Just say it. If I catch you faking some spirit manifestation, will I kindly keep my mouth shut?”
Angie blushed. “Just—you don’t have to lie. I’d never ask that, and I don’t want you involved in any way—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are many things about this whole business I disapprove of heartily, but I would never, ever betray you.”
Angie seized her friend’s hand and squeezed it in gratitude.
Mrs. Grimmett looked at her watch again. “Where is Mr. Darlington?” she asked the room at large. “It’s ten minutes past nine.”
They had been assembled since 8:30, the séance to begin promptly at nine. Everyone was here except Lucien.
“I’m sure he’ll be here any minute,” Edwardia said timidly.
“Did he tell you he was going to be late?” the great lady asked.
“No, only that I should come by myself, as he’d be leaving from the bank. I should think he’s just working late,” Edwardia turned to say to Mr. Grimmett and was rewarded with an approving nod.
“I suppose we could start without him,” Henry said, with admirably convincing reluctance, Angie thought. No one was looking at her, so she winked at him. His cheeks reddened faintly—her reward.
“But then we wouldn’t have a number divisible by three,” Mrs. Grimmett noted. “Do you think that would affect our powers?”
Henry frowned and hmm-ed thoughtfully. “In this case, I don’t really think so, given the goodwill, the collective intelligence, the intensity of our group as it enters the harmonious and social spirit of fraternal intercourse and endeavors to promote the most powerful magnetic mode for which . . . ”
Curses! A perfunctory knock, the squeal of the front door opening. Lucien appeared in the living room archway.
“Good evening. Sorry to be late, but something’s come to my attention that I think you will all find quite interesting.”
* * *
Angie had no idea what Lucien’s interesting news might be, but as soon as he spoke, a terrible sinking feeling came over her. A premonition. She clutched the top of the wing chair, just for something to hold on to, her only thought a hopeless Oh, no. Henry—she wanted to go to him, but he looked white and frozen with the same dread paralyzing her. Lucien began to speak. She heard “drunkard,” “knave,” “philanderer,” “habitual liar,” but the words sounded like dialogue in a play, descriptions of the villain in a cheap melodrama. Not real.
Mrs. Grimmett’s strident voice was like a slap in the face. “Mr. Darlington, please! You’re a guest here, sir. How dare you impugn Mr. Cleland’s character in this way? Unless you have proof, these insults are intolerable.”
“I do have proof, madam. Indeed, I do.” Lucien took folded papers from an inside pocket, and Angie’s sinking sensation threatened to swallow her. “I have a report. From an agent, my good lady, a reputable person I employed to look into Mr. Cleland’s, or should I say Mr.—”
“An ‘agent’?” Mrs. Grimmett cut in, patrician lips curled in distaste. “A detective, do you mean? To investigate Mr. Cleland?”
But Lucien wasn’t intimidated by her anymore. “Mr.