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  “Well, I recommend no one leaves this room until the authorities arrive,” said Dover. “Perhaps you should make the suggestion,” he said, turning to Tamaya.

  “Me, why me?” she fretted.

  “Because you invited everyone here!” exclaimed Dover. “It was your big idea!”

  “Don’t forget, you had a hand in this too!” she raged.

  “Come, come, why all the arguing? It won’t help anyone if you lose your heads!” Peri reminded them.

  “Yeah!” cried Goldie from the far side of the room. “You’re loud enough to wake the dead!” But while her words were intended to break the tension, they didn’t, and all she received was an icy stare from Ms. Rosebud.

  “Maybe we should play a game,” suggested Norman. “It might help us all get out of our foul moods.”

  “Like what, Russian Roulette?” snubbed Wolfe. The response struck a nervous chord with the guests, all except Harold Dover.

  “Well done!” provoked the man as he commenced to clap. “Don’t you think Mr. Wolfe is deserving of a round of applause?” He rose to his feet while the hostess sat in panic-stricken astonishment, yet no one else seemed to think this line of talk worthy of a reaction, not even the sharp-tongued Goldie.

  “I certainly hope this is not contagious,” said Peri.

  “What?” asked Tamaya

  “This nervous chatter. I’ve seen it before in other cases. Eventually, someone always cracks, and it’s not always a good thing.”

  “Well, just how long do we have to sit here?” asked Norman, pacing the floor.

  “Until the roads are clear,” remarked Jay perking up from his chair-nap.

  “Crap, and when will that be?” Norman asked, casting blame at the seaman.

  There was a long sigh of disgust crushing the spirit of the entire body of guests. The rain tumbled against the windowpane like beads in a bamboo stick. It was a gentle sound, and if it weren’t for the undercurrent of the day’s insidious event, it would be soothing. But solitude was short-lived, and was suddenly exchanged for a fretful cry of, “He’s gone!”

  Javotte and Tisbe flew downstairs like a pair of frightened chipmunks, one behind the other. It was almost comical had it not been their sincerity. “It’s Stiltskin, he’s not there!” cried Tisbe breathless.

  “Gone, like he got up and walked away?” said Goldie.

  “Ridiculous,” remarked Harold.

  “It’s true; he’s not there!” squealed Javotte. “The bed is empty! Go up if you don’t believe us.” Her hands were shaking, nervously twisting a red piece of cloth.

  “My word, what have you got in your hands?” The lawyer eyed the cloth. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Javotte looked down, and then as if she were going to say something, the cloth was snatched away. “It was on the floor,” she remarked. But Peri’s accusatory look startled the woman. “For heaven’s sake, what do you think? That I had something to do with that little man’s murder?”

  Peri unfolded the cloth and then looked from person to person. There was a ring of curious onlookers. “Let me see that thing!” grumbled Wolfe and pulling it free from Peri’s hand he held it up and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Harold snapped.

  “Nothing,” announced Mr. Wolfe and, with a silent sigh of relief, tossed the sash back to the lawyer.

  “Where on the floor was this?” Peri asked.

  “By the bathroom, the hall bathroom,” Tisbe remarked. “But who cares about this when Ray is missing. He can’t be dead; I mean dead men just don’t walk away!”

  “She’s right,” snapped Goldie, “where the hell could he be?”

  “In the wine cellar,” said Ms. Rosebud. “I had Salisbury carry him down.”

  Mr. Wolfe raised his eyebrow. “So, he’s in cold storage,” he interjected.

  “Well, if you want to be crass, I suppose we could say that,” Tamaya noted. “We certainly couldn’t keep him upstairs for very much longer.”

  “It wasn’t wise to move him,” cautioned Peri. “This is a murder investigation.”

  “Well, I am afraid the police will just have to make do with him elsewhere.” Tamaya pulled her cane towards her knees and raised herself. “Why don’t you say what’s on your mind, Peri. Tell us, who do you think the killer is? If we know, then we can at least get some rest.” Her sarcasm was biting, but she was too tired to care. She snatched the red sash and then waved it like ribbons on a kite string. “Does anyone want to claim this?”

  But it had now become evident that her announcement intended for theatrics was being tested. The dress Goldie had changed into was a ruby red shirtwaist neatly pressed but devoid of its sash. “It’s mine,” the older woman said. “I must have dropped it.”

  Tisbe permitted herself to smile as she made clear of her intentions. “Then it’s you!” she charged. “You killed Ray!”

  “Don’t be an ass!” mocked Wolfe. “All she said was that the sash belonged to her dress.”

  “Well, if she didn’t do it, then who?” sulked the other sister.

  The ball was in everyone’s court, and the general anxiety of murder had turned into a parlor game. Only Peri Cason seemed to understand the gravity of their situation. She turned her gaze towards the hostess and then along the line of guests. Any one of them could be the killer. “That, my friends, is the mystery,” she concluded.

  Chapter 8

  The second night

  “I believe you will be among your favorites,” said Salisbury. “A most fitting resting place.” The houseman lay the corpse on top of a plaid blanket. He didn’t know why, but it just seemed in poor taste to leave him on the bare floor. “The Italians are over there,” he said, pointing to the rack on the left. “And the French over here,” this time pointing to the right. “Unless you want a Chablis, they are in the back.” Mr. Stiltskin was beginning to show the physical ravages of his situation, being dead. “You are quite pale now, Sir,” said Salisbury. “I will leave you.” If this had been his first bout with a body, he might not have been quite so callus. However, a houseman’s duties go beyond personal valet or server. He was a man of many trades, and most important, he was an excellent confidant.

  ***

  “Mr. Stiltskin is resting comfortably, Madame.”

  “Thank you, Salisbury. Now, if you could get the weather to clear up, we might have a chance of getting to the bottom of this. Did you turn the air up?” she asked.

  “Just a trifle, you know that the reds don’t like it much below 55 degrees.” She nodded her head and smiled. “Yes, he’ll be fine there,” she agreed.

  “Did he like wine?” the butler asked.

  “I imagine Ray was fond of most anything that came in a bottle,” she remarked. “He was, however, more of a spirits man.”

  “Indeed,” said Salisbury with regret.

  “But we couldn’t keep him here by the liquor cabinet, now could we?”

  “No, Madame,” agreed the houseman. “It would have been most improper.” His pause was interrupted by a need to yawn. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “One thing, before you retire. Do you think dinner was awkward? I didn’t see anyone going back for seconds. Except for Norman.”

  “I don’t think so. Everything was in order, and if I must say so, quite delicious.”

  “Hmmm, perhaps it was when I sent you to the cellar for more cognac, there seemed to be a lull in the conversation until you returned.”

  “I hadn’t noticed, Madame.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would have. But I’m very sensitive to these things.” She placed her knitting into the bag and then began to speak as if she had retrieved her thoughts. “Just how was Mr. Stiltskin?”

  “I believe quite the same as I had left him earlier,” Salisbury replied.

  “Good,�
� she muttered. “Well, why don’t you go on down to bed. I can shut the lights when I go up.”

  “As you wish, Madame.”

  Tamaya Rosebud watched as Salisbury glided across the floor and opened the hall door leading to his quarters. His feet never touched the ground, or at least that’s what it seemed since she did not hear even the slightest tap of his feet as he walked down the back stairwell. She heaved a great sigh and, with her foot, kicked the knitting basket beneath the ottoman. She was working on a shawl and was almost out of red yarn. “Red,” she thought to herself. “It was a popular color today.” All that stirred was her breathing and the old clock on the mantle. It had a life of its own and made itself known each hour. She glanced at the gold hands and wondered where the time had been. She was sure the roads would be clear enough tomorrow to send for help.

  “It is an unpleasant thing to say, but you are a most cunning hostess.” It was a woman’s voice, Tisbe’s, to be exact. The matron was dressed in a hat and coat and was carrying a small valise. “I’m going to go home, even if my sister doesn’t want to.”

  “At this hour?” questioned Tamaya. “With the phone out of service, I can’t even call you a cab.”

  “Yes, I forgot,” and becoming suddenly forlorn, she fell into the chair and began to cry.

  “Now, now, I hope you’re not weeping on account of Mr. Stiltskin because he is quite all right. Well, as all right as a dead man can be,” explained the hostess. “Besides, you can’t possibly leave now.”

  “And why not?” mumbled the upset guest.

  “Because you might be the murderer!” expounded Tamaya. At which point, hearing these words, the sister retreated into herself with a series of wails and sobs. “Come, come; I don’t really believe you’re that upset. You forget that I know you as well as you know yourself!”

  “You do?” replied the sister, suddenly appearing to have recovered from her melancholy.

  “Certainly, I have every book you and your sister are in. In fact, I have the most comprehensive collection. I am an authority on all of you.”

  “I imagine they are worth quite a bit of money if they are as valuable as you say.”

  “Oh, indeed. A small fortune.”

  This testimony served Tisbe with reason to be more cooperative. “I am afraid that I have been more than rude, Ms. Rosebud. I wish to apologize.”

  “Thank you, Tisbe, your apology is accepted. Now, what do you say we get to the bottom of all this suspicion? I have an idea that might draw the real culprit out into the open.”

  Tisbe had, at this time, taken off her hat and coat and was sitting beside a pot of tea. She touched the side. It was still warm. “May I?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” replied the hostess and offered her a cup.

  The two women sat and sipped their teas, and as Tisbe waited, she pondered what Tamaya could possibly have in mind. Finally, she broke the ice. “So, what is this idea you have, I am fascinated to hear.”

  Tamaya set her cup down and slunk forward in her chair. “Well, have you ever been to a séance?”

  “Séance, like one of those occult things?”

  “Well, not occult, but spiritual. If we could summon Mr. Stiltskin back, he would be able to tell us who killed him.”

  “You wish to bring a dead man back to life?” Tisbe tried to sound objective.

  “No, not him back from the dead, just his spirit. It’s probably wandering around here right now,” she said and smiled.

  “In this room?”

  “Ah, huh. And more likely than not, listening to every word we are saying.” Ms. Rosebud could tell that the sister was trying very hard not to appear strained, although she was now unusually pale. “Perhaps we both ought to retire,” she suggested and pulled herself up by the arms of the chair. “Tomorrow we will have a séance.”

  “Tomorrow then,” repeated Tisbe and patiently waited as the hostess began to walk from lamp to lamp, shutting off the lights.

  “I think you had better get on ahead, Miss Tisbe,” she emphasized with her hand hovering over the last lamp. “I wouldn’t want you to run into Mr. Stiltskin on your way up to your room.” And as she turned towards the light, the frightened woman’s silhouette moved quickly up the stairs half-hidden in the darkness of the hour.

  ***

  Chairs, one for each of the guests and the hostess, were assembled around the kitchen table cloaked in linen that brushed against the floor, and although it was a tight fit, their placements were well suited for the occasion. The weather continued to be gloomy; however, Mr. Jay insisted that he was well enough to bicycle back to the lighthouse. And although Peri Cason cautioned him that it was unwise to leave the scene of the crime, his conviction as a sailor was greater than her reason for him to stay.

  Ms. Rosebud told Salisbury to shutter the windows. “It must be dark, except for candlelight,” she explained. “Otherwise, Mr. Stiltkin’s spirit might not join us.”

  “Don’t we need a medium?” asked Goldie.

  “We are going to summon him with the Ouija board,” said Ms. Rosebud. “Now, is everyone comfortable?”

  “No, I think Mr. Wolfe’s foot is in my space,” complained Javotte.

  “Your space, your big canoe of a foot is encroaching into my space,” snapped Wolfe.

  “Please, will you two stop arguing?” nudged Tisbe elbowing her sister.

  An anxious ring fell over the room, and it took several minutes for the group to settle down. Norman was making ghoulish faces at Goldie, while Mr. Dover, who was generally composed, pretended his arms were levitating and unable to control their erratic behavior. Even Peri Cason had a difficult time trying not to snicker. Only when Salisbury brought to the table the irregular shaped board and pulled over a chair between Mr. Wolfe and Javotte did the party become serious.

  “What about the lights?” Ms. Rosebud asked, turning to the houseman.

  “Oh yes, lights,” he said. And with a bit of wriggling and pulling out of chairs, he stood up, struck a match to several wicks before shutting off the overhead fixture. This time the tenor of the room had taken on a strangely ominous mood. Ms. Rosebud reached forward and pushed to the center of the table, the Ouija board. Uneasiness in their eyes deepened with the wondering of its painted letters, numbers, and golden drawings of the sun, moon, stars, and other odd symbols. She then placed on it a small heart-shaped plank with three hind legs and a pointer front. “At the right time,” she whispered, “Goldie and I will lightly place our fingertips on this planchette.”

  “The what?” asked Mr. Dover.

  “Planchette,” repeated Goldie. She glared at the man with disgust.

  “When we ask a question,” said Ms. Rosebud softly, “the Ouija board will answer by spelling out words and transmit a message from the spirit.” Her explanation seemed cryptic yet entertaining for such a dreary day. “But, before we begin, I need everyone to place their hands on the table, close your eyes, and be silent.” She waited a moment before administering the next set of instructions. “Now, take hold of the persons’ hands seated next to you and be still. Don’t peek, Norman!” she scolded. “If you open your eyes, you’ll ruin the experience.” Convinced that everyone was now in sync, Tamaya held Mr. Dover and Peri’s hands and shut her eyes. Masked in stillness, they remained quiet for several minutes until Ms. Rosebud spoke abruptly. “There is an unbeliever among us,” she said. “I can feel someone is fighting us.”

  “Only one,” smirked Wolfe. He opened his eyes and scoffed.

  “For crying out loud, Wolfe! For once, can you simply go with the flow!” complained Goldie.

  “Shhhh,” whispered Ms. Rosebud. “The unbeliever is not seated at the table; I believe it is someone else. Yes, it is Clarence, the spirit of the last owner of the house. I have encountered his presence before.” Mr. Wolfe opened one eye and peeked. No one else was looking. The entire gro
up seemed as if they were genuinely buying into the idea of a spirit. He felt Goldie squeeze more tightly, a signal perhaps. He closed his eyes and listened.

  They remained in this position for several minutes when finally, Ms. Rosebud spoke. “Open your eyes.” As if in a hypnotic trance, she signaled for Goldie to place her fingertips on the planchette with hers. “Clarence, are you here?” The words came from Tamaya’s mouth but did not resemble her usual speaking voice. No one stirred except Salisbury, who wanted to itch his nose but refrained from moving his hands away from the Javotte’s hold. Suddenly the planchette moved effortlessly across the board and spelled out, Y-E-S.

  “Can you find Mr. Stiltskin’s spirit and bring him here?” asked Ms. Rosebud, in a whisper that ran around the room. The women placed their fingertips on the planchette when something like an impulse whisked the plank across the board.

  “I-Will-Try,” it spelled.

  Mr. Dover, who would have admitted to being a skeptic, appeared astounded. “It’s talking to us!” he uttered loud enough for all to hear.

  “Shhhhh,” chastised Salisbury.

  The room was tomblike as all parties remained deathly silent. “Clarence, are you still here?” asked the voice that now resembled an Italian waiter.

  Suddenly the planchette shot across the board and pointed to the letters Y-E-S. Goldie’s heart thumped with anticipation.

  “Is Ray with you?” the possessed asked. All eyes were on the planchette. Goldie’s fingertips were barely touching the plank when the question was posed again, only this time with the pageant of combat. “IS RAY WITH YOU?”

  The planchette that had once led to definitive responses began to make circular motions; slowly at first and then gathering momentum, it darted from corner to corner. “What’s going on?” asked Peri. But as the medium continued to demand Ray, neither woman’s fingers could remain planted on the erratically moving planchette. “No, Clarence, no!” the voice shouted just at the moment the plank soared in the air.