Spirelli Paranormal Investigations Box Set Page 7

  “Spirelli, two rooms, booked for three days.” A deep furrow appeared between the man’s eyes. “You canceled.”

  Jack almost didn’t want to argue, the guy seemed that put out. But he needed a place to sleep. “I did not.”

  The man heaved a frustrated sigh, then immediately his demeanor changed. “My apologies. Please come in and have a seat.” He motioned to a grouping of chairs placed next to the winding staircase. “It will be just a moment for your rooms. My name is Milton. I’m one of the owners.”

  Marin caught Jack’s eye, and said quietly, “Bags.”

  Jack nodded and threw her his keys. Then, ignoring Milton’s offer to sit, he approached the counter. “Does that happen a lot?”

  Milton stopped typing on his computer. “Hmm?” Again, his brow furrowed.

  “Do reservations get canceled in error frequently?”

  “We’ve had a few odd occurrences recently. Maybe our new reservation system...”

  Milton seemed unconvinced his reservation system was to blame, which opened up too many questions. Jack hated complicated jobs. And this check-in mess was beginning to reek of complications.

  “We may need to stay longer than three days.” The words reluctantly left Jack’s lips.

  Milton nodded in an agreeable fashion. “We’d be happy to have you. Our snowbirds are long gone, and there’s not been a summer rush yet. Plenty of room.”

  Jack nodded, still uneasy, and accepted the two keys Milton handed him.

  “Dottie Wallace called. I talked to her myself—before the cancellation—so don’t you worry about the bill. That’s to go directly to her.”

  Marin came in with two bags, so Jack didn’t answer. He smiled in thanks then turned to grab his bag from Marin. He headed up the stairs, hoping nothing bizarre was hiding in the closet or buried in the garden. Because something definitely felt off.

  Maybe Marin felt it too, because she followed him to his room.

  After he unlocked the room, she said, “I’ll just have a quick look. Maybe check for any signs of a recent magical signature.”

  Jack held the door open for her. “Please.” His warded, magic-spotting glasses were still in his bag. After she slowly walked around the room, he said, “Anything?”

  Marin didn’t answer immediately.

  Jack walked into his room, letting the door close behind him. “You found something?”

  Again, she hesitated. Finally—“No. But something’s weird.”

  “If nothing’s crawling out of the woodwork to melt my flesh, let’s call it good. I’ve got some work to do.”

  Marin’s lips pinched. “I don’t perceive an immediate physical threat.” She gave a small shake of her head then turned and walked out of the room without another word.

  ~*~

  Jack’s eyes shot open. He glanced at his rumpled clothes then at the clock. Two thirteen. He pushed his laptop, perched precariously half on and half off his stomach, onto the bed next to him. He rolled out of bed, stretched, and unbuttoned his jeans. Before he’d shucked them, he heard a woman bellow. Shit.

  He tried to shake off the last remnants of sleep before he walked into the hall. Blinking at the image he stumbled into, he figured he’d failed. He was hallucinating, dreaming, something. A huge-headed creature—a cat?—was plastered on the front of a T-shirt that swallowed Marin. And her feet were covered in fluorescent-pink fuzzy socks.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  Marin scowled. “Button your pants. And hurry up.” She was already headed down the stairs.

  Jack tucked in the half of his shirt that had escaped while he’d slept, and buttoned his pants, all while following closely behind Marin. “Do you have any idea what that woman was yelling?”

  Marin paused on the stairs, cocked her head, and said, “Something about being late for school?”

  “What the... School? Aren’t we the only guests?” But he was talking to the back of Marin’s head.

  About halfway down the stairs, Jack could hear faint kitchen sounds. He and Marin followed the sounds around to the back of the house, where a spacious kitchen was situated. Sounds of clattering dishes and humming emanated from within.

  Jack shared a glance with Marin and he motioned her ahead.

  “Thanks,” Marin mouthed quietly. But she walked in.

  Jack followed directly behind her.

  “Sleepyheads, you’re going to be late for school. Sit down at the table and eat your breakfast.” An older woman with neatly styled hair, a practical but tidily pressed dress, and a slightly damp apron motioned to the table located in a small eating area adjacent to the kitchen.

  Marin started to move in the direction of the table. Jack grabbed her arm and shook his head.

  “What if she’s sleepwalking?” Marin whispered. “If we wake her up and she realizes two strangers are in the kitchen with her in the middle of the night, she might freak out.”

  “Do you really think it’s that simple? We both know something freaky is going on.” Jack turned to the older woman. He tried to catch her eye but she wouldn’t look directly at him. “Ma’am? I’m Jack.”

  “Yes, dear. Eat your breakfast. You’ll miss the school bus.” The woman washed dishes as she spoke, her attention completely absorbed by the task.

  “Where’s Milton?” Jack had directed the question quietly to Marin, but it caught the woman’s attention.

  “Milton?” The woman Jack was beginning to think might be Mrs. Milton wiped her hands on her apron and turned in Jack’s direction. “Milton shouldn’t miss breakfast.”

  “I’ll just fetch him quickly.” Marin headed back the way they’d come.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Ah, Mrs....” Shit. What was Milton’s last name? “Um. We’re not your children. Do you understand that? I’m Jack and—” Marin paused in the doorway when Jack pointed to her. “This is my colleague Marin.”

  The woman paused, her hands bunched in her apron, with a blank look on her face. And then her face changed. Like she’d just woken. “Of course you’re not my children. You’re guests. Mr. Spirelli plus one.” And she made eye contact for the first time. Looking at Marin, she smiled. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  Marin came back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name. Are you Milton’s wife?”

  Extending a hand, she smiled again—a relaxed, comfortable smile. “Rose Perrin. Yes, I’m Milt’s wife.”

  Marin shook her hand gently, as if she might break. Rose didn’t look frail; she looked like a fit, active woman. But her physical appearance aside, she conveyed a sense of fragility.

  Marin backed a step away, giving Rose room to move about the kitchen. Already, Rose was hand-drying the dishes she’d washed earlier. “Rose.” Marin waited for her to turn. “You know it’s the middle of the night?”

  Rose slowly, carefully stacked the dish she’d dried on top of several others on the counter. Her shoulders stiffened. “No. I didn’t know that.” She smoothed her hair and turned around. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed your sleep. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll let you get back to bed.”

  After Rose left the kitchen, Marin tipped her head to the kitchen table. “Late night snack? That early dinner we had was a while ago.”

  “I’ll keep you company.”

  Jack let a few minutes pass, long enough for Marin to finish her eggs. “So?”

  Marin swallowed. “These are really good. You’re sure...?” She pointed to his plate.

  Wordlessly, he handed her the plate.

  “I think she understood the situation enough to be embarrassed.” Marin stuffed half a slice of thick-cut bacon in her mouth.

  Jack watched in fascination as the rest of the bacon disappeared off her plate. “How can you eat that much and not be fat?”

  Marin wiped her mouth and placed her napkin on the table. “I don’t think she was sleepwalking.”

  “Agreed. Not that I have any evidence.”

  “A gut feeling? Me too
.” Marin stood up and pushed her chair in.

  Jack looked at the pristine countertops, the neatly stacked dishes on the counter, and the dishwater in the sink. “I guess we should do the dishes.”

  Marin grabbed both plates. “Yeah.”

  Standing side by side, him washing, her drying, Jack figured this was probably as close as they’d ever come to being friendly.

  Marin took the last plate from him. “Only jackasses ask women about their weight.”

  Okay—not so friendly.

  “Sorry.” Jack pulled the plug on the dishwater.

  “Just a friendly piece of advice. In case your dating pool broadens beyond coeds.” Marin yawned. “What time are we meeting in the morning?”

  “Breakfast is from seven thirty to nine, and we have an appointment with Dottie’s mom, Betty Lasserre, at ten. But maybe you’ll want to skip—”

  “I’m always hungry. I’ll catch breakfast at eight, in case you want to meet before we leave.”

  Jack headed upstairs. “Good.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jack had eaten breakfast around eight thirty and had an awkward encounter with Milton. He’d apologized profusely for the late night disturbance, which was fine—but there was an underlying desperate tone to the conversation. Jack suspected Rose of previous bouts of similarly disturbing behavior.

  If there was a magical excuse for her behavior, Jack would be thrilled to find it. And this time it wouldn’t be about a paycheck.

  “You have a plan?” Marin asked from the driver’s seat of her Range Rover.

  “Sure. Dottie’s been vocal about her suspicions. So when she told her mom she’d hired us to vet her psychic, it didn’t exactly shock her.” Jack turned his phone to silent. They were almost there.

  “But was she upset?”

  “You tell me. When Mrs. Lasserre found out we were arriving yesterday, she immediately invited us for coffee.”

  “Strange,” Marin said, but her attention had already turned to the modest house on the right. “This is it?”

  “Yeah—not exactly what I expected either.”

  Dottie Wallace had possessed a sleekness, an elegance, and a huge diamond that had indicated to Jack a certain level of wealth. But her mother’s home didn’t fit that image.

  Marin pulled slowly into the drive, clearly double-checking the house number. She must have gotten the same impression of Dottie as Jack. “Huh. This is the right address.”

  Marin parked the car, and they both approached the house with more caution than either the tidy house or its elderly inhabitant warranted.

  When Betty Lasserre opened the front door, Jack held back a grin. Elderly his ass. The woman who opened the door vibrated—with energy, with vitality, with cheerfulness. She didn’t look elderly, though she was surely well into her seventies, and she didn’t look like a recent widow.

  “Mrs. Lasserre?”

  Betty smiled warmly. “Yes. And you must be Jack Spirelli and Marin Campbell. It’s nice to meet you. Please call me Betty.” She motioned for them to come inside. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your visit to DeRotan.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Marin led the way into the living room.

  The house was even smaller inside than it had appeared from the driveway, and the front door opened directly into the living room. Though small, the room was beautiful. The furnishings were sparse but elegant—antiques, probably quite valuable.

  Betty invited them to sit. She’d laid out a coffee setting, complete with a silver urn and fine china.

  Marin sat down on the sofa Betty had indicated. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

  After Betty had seated herself in a matching brocade chair, Jack sat down next to Marin. The setting, the whole situation, was a mix of casual and formal that Jack found confusing.

  “When my daughter told me she’d hired an investigator, I thought it best to speak with you directly. I see no reason for anything but a forthright conversation.” Betty leaned forward and poured a cup of coffee for Marin. “Cream or sugar?”

  Marin shook her head and accepted the black coffee.

  “My daughter’s talent for managing financial transactions doesn’t extend to managing her personal relationships.”

  Jack wasn’t sure how to respond to that bomb, so when Betty turned and asked about his coffee, he had to bite back a thankful sigh. “Cream, please. Thank you.”

  Jack shared a quick glance with Marin, just long enough to see she was equally at a loss.

  After pouring herself a cup and adding two lumps of sugar, Betty said, “You know my daughter’s an attorney? She has an amazing head for numbers and did fabulously in law school.”

  Apparently Jack needed to make an effort to check some of his rampaging stereotyping tendencies. He most certainly did not know Dottie Wallace was an attorney. Mergers and acquisitions? Tax law? Why hadn’t he run his usual check on her? Not that it mattered—he just hated looking and feeling like an under-prepared, ill-informed twit.

  Jack declined the small piece of cake Betty offered. “She’s concerned that Conrad is taking advantage of you at a time when you might be vulnerable.”

  “Do I look like I’m in a fragile, susceptible state?” Betty sipped at her coffee, giving Jack a bright, inquiring look.

  Marin must have thought Jack enough of an ass to actually answer that question, because she quickly intervened. “I’m sorry for the loss of your husband. Were you married long?”

  An inane question. The kind that popped out of a person’s mouth when confronted with an uncomfortable topic like death.

  A blank look passed over Betty’s face. It was as if the animation and liveliness of her features were stilled for a brief moment—then she recovered. “Years. We were married for years.”

  Marin nudged his foot. As if he was an idiot. No recently bereaved widow forgot how long she was married.

  “I’m sorry, Betty. When did your husband pass?” Jack quickly pulled together a few questions that he could almost reasonably ask a recently bereaved spouse.

  “It’s almost six months now.” Betty didn’t hesitate in answering.

  “You’re both from the Lake Charles area originally?” Marin asked.

  “My family has lived in DeRotan for almost a hundred years.” Betty took another sip of coffee, blithely ignoring the question regarding her husband’s origins.

  Jack asked, “Where did you meet your husband...? I’m sorry—what was his name?”

  Panic flashed across Betty’s face, and her lips opened without releasing a sound. “Robert,” she finally said. “My husband’s name was Robert.” She spoke firmly. Trying to reassure herself she hadn’t forgotten?

  “Did you attend the same school as your husband? Maybe you met there?” Marin tipped her head to the side, looking politely inquisitive.

  That same blank look crossed Betty’s face and then it was gone. She smiled, but it was thin. A different thing entirely from the broad, welcoming smile earlier. “That’s enough about me. You’re here to discuss Conrad.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Conrad is a good man. He’s helped me to deal with the grief of losing a loved one.”

  The consistent shift from her husband to herself was noteworthy. And her reactions to questions about Robert were at the least strange, if not disturbing. Jack stared into his coffee. What was he saying? The woman had lost her husband. Grief expressed itself in a variety of ways. Damn. Not enough information.

  Jack took a drink of his coffee, savored the strong, smooth flavor, and swallowed. “Can you tell us something of how Conrad works?”

  “His process, you mean? Certainly.” Betty immediately became more comfortable. “I bring him small objects, little trinkets that remind me of my husband or that had special meaning to us as a couple.”

  “Can you give us an example?” Marin’s voice was low and undemanding.

  Betty smiled. “Yes. I’m to bring his car keys. The fob was a gift on his sixtieth birthday.”

  “
I see. And what other items have you brought?”

  Again that blank look. After a moment, Betty said, “When I give him the object, we talk about why it’s special.”

  Marin shot Jack a worried look. “And Conrad uses these special items to reach your husband, to reach Robert?”

  “It’s not like Conrad can speak directly with him. He gets feelings and impressions. And Conrad shares those with me.”

  Jack placed his coffee cup and saucer carefully on the coffee table. “Mrs. Lasserre, Betty, what happens to the items you give Conrad?”

  Betty’s gaze drifted away from Jack, alighting on a clock placed on her mantel. “I’m so very sorry. I have an appointment in town. If you don’t have any more questions, we’ll just finish up. And you can let my daughter know everything is all right. She’s such a worrier.”

  Jack and Marin both stood up.

  “The coffee was excellent. And I appreciate you making the time to see us.” Jack paused, taking a moment to scan the walls. “I don’t suppose you have a picture of your husband I might see? It’s just that we’ve been speaking of him, and I’d love to see a picture of the two of you.”

  Betty gave Jack a small, polite smile. “I’m afraid they’re all packed up.” And before Jack could squeeze in another question, Betty had ushered them both out of the house.

  Marin slid into her seat and slammed the door. Staring at the car key in her hand, she said, “That sweet woman’s brain is Swiss cheese.” She shoved the key into the ignition and started the car.

  “But only on the subject of her husband,” Jack responded grimly.

  “You mean the one whose name she can’t say? Whose name she can’t even remember?” Marin thumped the steering wheel with the heel of her hand. “This is just wrong. And actually—we don’t know she’s only hazy on her husband. There could be any number of topics we didn’t cover that have faded away.” Marin blew hard at a piece of bright red hair that hung in her eyes. “Ugh. For all we know, she has some form of dementia, and this has nothing to do with Conrad. Or with magic.”

  “What about her inability to reconcile her complete confidence in Conrad with her bizarre memory loss and the apparent theft of several personal items? And her rapid mood swings? She was happy to have us, but she didn’t want to discuss her husband at all.” Jack grunted. “What am I saying—that sounds like grief.”