Muffin to Fear, page 5
She was holding back, I could tell. Rishelle had claimed Dirk was a blowhard phony, while Millicent was a pretentious twit. Or words to that effect. “I’ve heard that he’s a phony. What do you think?”
She slid a glance at me. “I would never be one to accuse someone of being a phony. That’s the most hurtful thing you can say, in our industry.”
There was more coming, I just knew it. “But . . . ?”
“But he does play fast and loose with the truth. Like what he did to you earlier, claiming you didn’t know what you were talking about with the history of this castle.”
“I’ve known enough people like him to know when it’s pointless to protest. I’m interested in your . . . gift, though.”
She smiled, a secretive quirk of her lips. “I can tell you don’t believe. That’s okay. I can’t explain what happens—I just know what I see and feel.”
I considered Janice’s earlier interference and guidance of her vision. “Millicent, earlier you were about to say you saw soldiers out on the lawn, but when Janice Grover redirected, you agreed that it was inside by the window.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass her.”
“Trust me, you cannot embarrass Janice.” At least, not after the Queen of the Night fiasco, I thought, remembering her disastrous attempt at one of the most iconic soprano arias of all time, which she had flubbed so masterfully in front of a fairly large audience that people in Autumn Vale are still talking about it. If you’re going to fail, she told me, fail magnificently.
“It didn’t matter too much. I really did see Revolutionary soldiers, though. You ought to look that up; there may be more to this property than you even know.”
I stood, stretching out the kinks in my muscles. It had been a long—very, very long—and tiring day. I wandered over to the table where the three were playing cards. The psychic was still wearing his heavy trench coat. The castle was chilly, but not that chilly, I didn’t think. He held his hand of cards oddly, and fidgeted a lot. Felice eyed him and frowned, then looked up at me with a frown. “I’m sorry about the state of that card table,” I said, noting it was a little wobbly and not big enough for them. The psychic was leaning on it fairly heavily, and I worried it would collapse.
She was about to say something, when her attention returned to Dirk. “For crying out loud, I saw you palm that ace, Dirk! Really, if you’re going to cheat at least be a little more subtle.”
“I didn’t cheat!” he said, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re seeing things, Felice, and that’s my job.”
I couldn’t help it, I chuckled. He smiled up at me, and that expression lit his face with a charm I did not expect.
Stu threw down his hand. “I don’t know what you saw, Felice, but Dirk did not cheat.”
“Typical. You guys stick together and I’m always the outsider. I’m fed up.”
I left them behind to squabble and toddled off to the kitchen, followed by Becket, who then yowled to go outside for his evening perambulation. I let him out, returned to the kitchen, and made a pot of coffee and one of tea. Dirk Phillipe surprised me by strolling into the kitchen and offering his help.
“Sure. Can you get the big wood tray down from the top shelf?” I asked, pointing to the shelves over the fridge where I keep trays and other serving dishes.
He was so tall he easily grabbed my large Indian carved wood tray. I have an array of trays, including a Sevres porcelain and a couple of silver trays that I found up in the attic, but the wooden tray was still the most serviceable, and in this case, largest. He set it down on the trestle table and I moved the thermal urn of coffee to it.
“You have an amazing place here.” He leaned on the counter and stared out the window to the darkening woods. He had shed his trench coat and seemed more normal.
“Despite it being Gilded Age at best?”
He shrugged, and didn’t take the bait.
“It is amazing. It came as a complete surprise to me when I saw what I’d inherited.” I filled my largest teapot, a monstrous Brown Betty, and put it on a big serving tray beside the coffee. Over the last year I had become accustomed to serving groups.
He turned from the window and watched me. With his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing a shawl collar tweed sweater with suede elbow patches, he looked more like a philosophy professor than a TV psychic.
“So, I’m genuinely curious about one thing.” I got out a container of mini cinnamon muffins, tumbling them into a pretty Royal Doulton bowl to add to the tray. “How did you get started as a TV psychic?”
“What, you don’t believe in my gift?” He swayed back, hand over his heart, a mocking lift to his brow.
“I’m asking seriously.” I was intrigued, and wondered about the man as opposed to the manufactured façade with which he appeared to cloak himself.
He looked down at the tray, rearranging things randomly, finding a balance spot for the coffee urn, the teapot, and the platters I was adding of cookies, bars, and mini muffins. “In college I got involved in a randomized experiment trying to find out if people could predict what cards would be shown behind a barricade. I scored high, much higher than the average. No matter how many times they did the test, I kept testing high, but only with certain people on the other side. It was like some people were open to me, and some closed.”
He paused, and changed the balance on the tray. “Since then I’ve done a lot of research, and that’s how I ended up on Haunt Hunt. Is it all real?” He met my gaze and smiled. “Of course not. How much reality TV is real?”
“I asked Serina why you all have a special effects guy on the set if you’re supposed to be discovering genuine haunted locations.”
He nodded and smiled. “Chi doesn’t do a whole lot of effects. I don’t even know why he’s stuck on this show when he’s worked on the most amazing movies.” He named a couple of big-budget movies on which Chi was the special effects tech. “He’s really talented!”
“But why employ him at all?”
He shrugged. “Chi was on the crew before I was hired. Beats me why he’s here. Anyway, you may think it’s all fake, but Todd and Stu are onto something. They do catch voices, noises, knocks, whispers, movement, shadows, and other things. I’m interested in how much is genuinely from the spirit world.”
“Why Haunt Hunt, though? Why not strike out on your own? Isn’t the ‘psychic medium’ thing big right now?”
He looked me directly in the eye and said, “You may think I’m a fraud, but I believe in what I do. However, it isn’t one hundred percent accurate, and if you’re a medium in it to make money, you have to at least pretend you’re sure of a lot more than I am.”
I wasn’t sure how much I believed of what he said. “So what’s your end plan?”
“You mean for me?”
I nodded.
He smiled and waggled his eyebrows. “I have plans. Big plans. If everything goes right in the next little while I’ll have my own HHN show, Dirk Phillipe’s Psychic World. I’ll travel all over and talk to other psychics about their abilities and tape their successful sessions.”
“You’ve already got that in the works?” It actually sounded like a good idea, if you like that kind of thing.
He put one finger to his lips. “Shhh! I don’t want to jinx anything. I have a plan, but plans are delicate things.”
He carried the huge and heavy tray into the parlor for me, then took Hugh aside for a talk while I organized the coffee, tea, and food. The two men were in some intense conversation. Hugh ended it by patting the psychic on the shoulder with a kindly smile. I would bet that Dirk required quite a bit of handling. I retreated to the kitchen and came back with more, adding to the trays a wedge of Brie and some fig preserves, along with some water biscuits. “Coffee, tea, and snacks, everyone!” I said, gathering them all in my gaze.
“You’re too kind,” Hugh said, unfolding himself from the slipper chair. He made himself a cup of tea and returned to my good friend to chat some more. It was nice for Pish to have someone around who could match him in talking about opera, classical music, and art museums.
Dirk took his coffee and plate of goodies outside to sit on the flagstone terrace and stargaze, he said. I saw him grab his cell phone, though, and would bet he was doing some business or calling someone. Felice and Stu both got coffee and returned to the card table, bending their heads together in a strident conversation. It didn’t seem secret, so I ambled over and took Dirk’s empty chair.
“You know I’m right, Stu,” Felice said. “It’s all her. Not my fault.”
“What can we do? She’s Todd’s wife. No chance he’s going to tell her to take a hike.”
“Everything okay?” I asked, brightly.
“Yeah. No, but yeah,” Felice said, grimacing. “That witch Rishelle . . . since she arrived on the scene it’s funny how little screen time I’m getting. She’s a jealous cat, that’s what she is.”
Someone was jealous, all right, but I wasn’t sure it was Rishelle. I don’t attribute jealousy to women lightly, but in this case it was clearly true. Nor did I think it was Rishelle’s physical attributes that had Felice green. “So she’s new at paranormal investigation?”
“Just in the last six months. She used to be a paralegal or something,” Felice said, flapping her hand dismissively, as if paralegal work was nothing.
“You feel pushed aside, and that she’s responsible?”
“I know she is.”
“You don’t know anything, Felice,” Stu protested. He always appeared to be the voice of reason in a crowd of hysterical overreactors. Or, he was the kind of guy who hated conflict and would do anything to minimize legitimate anger.
She gave him a troubled look, her mouth drawn down in a dour expression. “You’re as bad as the rest,” she snarled. “Held hostage by cleavage and a boob tattoo.”
“I am not! Felice, you have got to quit—”
The knocker in the hall startled me; it is loud and echoes through the whole place, which was a good thing. I jumped up, threaded my way through to the great hall, opened the door, and found that Serina Rogers, Chi-Won Zhu, Arnie Ball, and Ian Mackenzie had returned from Ridley Ridge. All except for Serina, who was sober and driving, were a little worse for wear with half-price shots. Dirk followed them in, and I guided them up the stairs, Dirk to his room and the others to their two rooms, which they shared.
I have seventeen bedrooms in the castle, but not all of them were habitable yet, so some of the cast and crew members were sharing. Dirk had absolutely insisted on having a room to himself, so I gave him the smallest of those I had ready. Todd and Rishelle had a room to themselves. Chi, Arnie, Ian, and Stu bunked together and Millicent, Felice, and Serina shared a room. The rest of the crew stayed at a motel on the highway.
Todd and Rishelle returned home from their walk while I was upstairs; Pish led them up and showed them to their room, guiding Hugh, who also had a room to himself as befit the head honcho, to his.
I descended to the main floor and sat on the bottom step, thinking about how often my castle had been invaded by barbarian hordes, from movie crews to a legion of miserable little old ladies to tea-swilling locals; it was like a fortress, and I the forlorn maiden in desperate need of saving. Just then my very own knight came home, striding into the castle with a grin on his face that changed to tender concern when he saw how tired I looked. He pulled me to my feet, wrapped me in his arms, and held me for a long minute in the quietude of the great hall. “I’m taking you to bed,” he murmured. “This whole thing is Pish’s idea; you should be letting him deal with it.”
“I’ll meet you upstairs,” I said. “I have to make sure Becket comes in. I don’t like him out this late with coyotes around.”
“He survived for a year on his own; I think he knows to avoid coyotes.”
“Go! I’ll be up in a minute.”
While I was in the kitchen, Millicent crept in and asked if I minded if she got a little warm milk to take back up to help her sleep. She never slept well on the first night of a shoot, she said. I led her to the kitchen, got out the milk and pan, and went to open the butler’s pantry door. I called Becket and waited.
“Merry, how do I turn the burner on?” Millicent called out.
I left the door open so Becket could come in, and showed her what to do. I then went to the half bath in the hallway and was washing my hands when I heard a shrieking and wailing.
Crap, what now!
Chapter Five
I BOLTED FROM the bathroom to the kitchen to find Millicent up on the trestle table, crouching and crying. “What’s wrong?” I cried.
“That . . . that thing!” She pointed.
There was something dark, furry, and wet on the floor near the fridge. Becket sat a ways away, licking his paw. He paused and looked up at me. If a cat could, he would have shrugged as he swiveled to look up at Millicent, who was still whimpering.
I was dismayed, but not frightened. I got out a dustpan and whisk. “Millicent, as unpleasant as this is, it’s just a rabbit. A dead rabbit,” I said, moving the poor creature onto the dustpan with a shudder of distaste. “Becket has brought me a welcome home present. It’s not something he does often, but that’s what it is.”
“That’s disgusting!” she said, and fled upstairs, leaving me to not only dispose of my cat’s catch, but also to clean up after her, scalded milk and all.
I scolded Becket, which did absolutely no good, but didn’t know what else to do. He had his habits and had been an indoor/outdoor cat his whole life. He had survived in the wild for a year by eating only his own kills, so I hardly thought I could—or should—stop him now. By his standards humans are unreliable at best, and it behooved him to keep his hunting skills sharp in case he needed to fend for himself.
When I joined my husband, Virgil and I had a good laugh over Millicent’s horror and screaming fit. I felt bad for laughing at her, but I had already had enough of the whole group and we’d only begun. Virgil and I showered together (a rather lovely way to get clean and dirty at the same time!) then huddled in bed, both exhausted from an extraordinarily long day, but wearily wide-awake. I looked up Haunt Hunt on my laptop, finding that many episodes were online to view. The first thing that interested me was an aspect I attributed to Hugh’s influence, the use of spooky classical music to introduce the episodes. Berlioz’s “Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath” and Rachmaninoff’s Isle of the Dead, in a couple of cases. And over some dramatic parts Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain (or Night on the Bare Mountain, depending on who translates).
Awesome music, but . . . “Lipstick on a pig,” I muttered.
Virgil kissed the top of my head. “What, don’t you think ghost hunting is a classy profession?”
I laughed. “It’s entertainment. I get that and I am not a snob!”
We sped through parts and soon found that the episodes followed a pattern. The two leads, Stu and Todd, talk about where they are going. They arrive and set up. I had noticed the filming at intervals, mostly of cast members setting up things that had already actually been set up. I had a feeling a lot more would be staged carefully and filmed the next day. There were then interviews with someone who either owned the structure, in the case of homes, or worked there, in the case of public structures and historical monuments. In some instances they interviewed locals who had once worked there, or who had experienced phenomena while there. Most of the experiences consisted of shadows, sounds, creepy feelings, and unexplainable sensations of cold, or overly emotional responses.
“Hah. They’ll have a field day with this town,” Virgil said. “You can’t go two feet in Autumn Vale without running into someone who has experienced something creepy at Wynter Castle.”
Nestled against his bare chest with my laptop in front of us, I craned my neck around enough to give him a dirty look. “Ow!” I exclaimed. “Got a crick in my neck.”
“Serves you right. Keep watching . . . Look—Stu feels a spiderweb and shrieks!”
Stu did indeed flail in a highly entertaining way, while Felice laughed at him. It looked like genuine camaraderie, the type you build over time with those you work with. This was an older episode, before they added Dirk, Millicent, and Rishelle. Felice certainly seemed happier. The investigative pair then did some tests; Felice opened a window in the room, then had Stu open another door down the hall, and the bedroom door slammed shut. In this case the homeowner had reported slamming doors as one of the paranormal occurrences, but Stu and Felice proved it was a matter of air pressure. One door being opened in another part of the house created an air rush or a vacuum, and another door slammed as a result.
That was the “debunking” aspect of the show. The cast made some effort to eliminate natural explanations rather than leaping to supernatural conclusions. The skeptic in me, and Virgil, too, postulated that it was actually included to give the show the aura of scientific inquiry and authenticity. Odd sounds were often debunked as plumbing, and lights the result of the headlights of passing cars outside, reflecting in mirrors or on windows.
I queued up another episode, this time with the psychics. I must admit I was fascinated with the very differing styles of Dirk and Millicent. Dirk was moody; he argued with spirits. He browbeat and confronted those he considered angry. This was especially the case in homes where the owners felt harassed. He threatened the spirits with psychic violence and talked about the hounds of hell and avenging demons as if he were familiar with the beings.
Millicent on the other hand cajoled and coaxed, feeling vibrations and sensing auras, in tune especially with lost children and fragile spirits who were confused. She wept, overcome by the pain experienced by those who had passed but remained entangled in the earthly world. In one memorable episode she held a séance and the homeowner was involved; by the end of it, he looked completely spooked by her explanation that there had been a dramatic schism in the home among two parents and an adult child that resulted in murder. He said she was right, though there was no way she could have known because he hadn’t told her about it.
