Intermezzo: Spirit Matters Read online

  “The second one was here.” I walked past her a couple of steps to the place where I’d seen the second flash of light. It was a junction of two small footpaths, just flagstones, that wandered through the garden. Dee had been standing on the spot when I arrived on Saturday night. I looked up, as she had been looking then, to the place where Gabriel had died.

  “The third one was up there,” I said, pointing toward the second story.

  The hanging flower basket had been removed from the massive hook that Gabriel’s lanyard had caught on. In fact, all the flower baskets had been removed. The garden was devoid of cheer.

  “On the balcony, or on the hook?” Willow asked quietly.

  She was well-informed. I recalled her telling me once that she had a friend in the police department.

  “On the balcony,” I said.

  “Let’s go up for a minute.” She started up the wooden stairs, and I followed. The balcony ran along the west side of the plazuela, and several shops opened onto it. Willow stopped at the point I had indicated, a space between two storefronts.

  I joined her, remaining silent. She appeared to be listening as she gazed out over the plazuela, After a minute, she turned to me.

  “One flash?”

  I nodded. “One in each spot.”

  Her focus shifted to the hook. The balcony railing, ancient and made of wood, was too low for safety. Gabriel must have gone straight over it. If the hook hadn’t caught him, he might have died from the fall.

  Or he might not, but he would probably have been badly hurt. Not that it mattered.

  Willow let out a sigh and pressed her lips together. “All right. Let’s go inside.”

  We returned to the garden and crossed it. The fancy restaurant on the north side was closed until dinner hours, but the bistro on the east side was open. We went in past the long, polished oak bar and sat at a small table in the back. A sleepy waiter came to see what we wanted, took our orders for coffee, and left.

  “Why did you say these lights were like a chandelier flash?” Willow asked, removing her hat and setting it on the empty chair beside her.

  “Because I saw one a day or so later, and it was exactly the same.”

  “Saw one where?”

  “In my dining parlor. You know—the chandelier there—”

  Willow nodded. “Yes. Captain Dusenberry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think the flashes here were sent by him?” Willow’s gaze was direct and uncompromising, reminding me for an instant of Tony. I brushed that aside.

  “It’s the only thing that makes any kind of sense,” I said slowly. “If they weren’t sent by him, I don’t know why they appeared.”

  “Why do you think they appeared?”

  “Um. Well, maybe the captain was trying to warn me about ... what was going to happen. On Saturday.”

  “Why would he do that? What brought him here?”

  I shrugged, feeling helpless. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  She gave a brief nod, then looked thoughtfully at the table top. The waiter returned with our coffees and glasses of water. He discreetly placed a bar menu by my elbow, then left us alone.

  Willow drank some water, then folded her hands on the table and looked at me. “This is the first time Captain Dusenberry has manifested outside of the tearoom, that you know of.”

  It wasn’t a question, but I nodded.

  “And yet, his energy feels very familiar here,” she said, reaching for her latté.

  “Does it?”

  “Very familiar. Almost as if it was a second home.”

  I picked up my cappuccino, but it was too hot to drink. After kissing the foam I put it back down.

  “This was the Hidalgo family’s home,” I said.

  “Yes. Are you aware of any connection between Captain Dusenberry and the Hidalgos?”

  Well, there it was. Time to confess to my hoarding.

  “Yes. I found some letters.”

  Willow’s delicate brows lifted slightly. “Letters?”

  “From Maria Hidalgo to the captain. He saved them.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “Under the floor in the dining parlor.”

  “Which was his study.”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  Willow drank some more water. Frowning slightly, she closed her eyes. I watched, fascinated. Was she communing with the dead?

  “Oh,” she said after a minute, opening her eyes. “He was courting her.”

  My heart gave a hard thump. I hadn’t said anything that would lead Willow to conclude that. Even the letters didn’t say anything about courtship; they were strictly friendly, though I was convinced that the Captain had loved Maria.

  I sipped my still-too-hot coffee, burning my mouth. I put the cup down. “Maria Hidalgo was an aristocrat, descended from the first Spanish settlers,” I said. “Her family would have frowned on her being courted by an American army officer.”

  “Yes.” Willow picked up her cup. “It must have made things difficult. Do you have copies of the captain’s letters to Maria?”

  I shook my head. “Only hers to him.”

  “May I see them?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t bring them. You’ll have to come back to the house.”

  “Quite right. They should be preserved.”

  I ignored the pang to my conscience. She was absolutely correct. “I’m planning to donate them to the museum, eventually.”

  Willow nodded but refrained from further comment, for which I was grateful. “This clarifies things,” she said. “I’ve been wondering why Captain Dusenberry hasn’t moved on. If he has unresolved feelings about a relationship with Maria, that may be part of what’s keeping him close to Earth.”

  “I didn’t know ghosts needed a reason to haunt people. I thought they just did it for fun.” I took a cautious sip of coffee. It was cool enough now.

  Willow shrugged. “Some low-level spirits enjoy malicious mischief, but Captain Dusenberry isn’t like that.”

  “No. He’s not malicious. He’s the opposite, if anything—he’s been helpful. That’s why I’m wondering what he was trying to tell me with the lights.”

  She tilted her head, looking thoughtful. “You may be right that he was trying to tell you about ... Saturday. Could be he was present because of his association with the location, and when you arrived he saw the potentiality for an event, and took advantage of your presence to manifest a sign acknowledging that.”

  “Wait—what? You lost me.”

  She sipped, then put down her cup. “If he was here, doing whatever he does here, and you arrived, he might then have noticed that a significant event for you was going to happen here soon.”

  “Ghosts can see the future?”

  “They’re not limited by our linear timeline. That’s a physical-world thing. In the spirit realm, there’s no time—not the way we perceive it. But they know that we’re on a linear timeline, and they can communicate about events in our future or past if they choose to.”

  “OK,” I said slowly, taking that in.

  “So: you arrive here, the captain senses your presence and can see a significant event happening here for you. He decides to tell you about it, and the easiest way is to use the same manifestation he’s created for you at the tearoom—the gleam of light from your chandelier.”

  “But there was nothing here to cast a gleam,” I said.

  “He probably borrowed some ether from you to create it.”

  “Wait. What?”

  2

  Can I get you ladies anything else?” said the waiter, shuffling up to our table.

  I froze, wondering how much he had heard. Willow, unfazed, gave him a pleasant smile. “Just the check. I think we’re about ready to go.”

  She slid me a querying glance, and I nodded, then gulped some coffee. Willow picked up her cup and took a leisurely sip.

  “You’ll be wanting to check on your
tearoom,” she said. “Maybe we should continue this conversation there?”

  “Yes,” I said, grateful for her tact. “Did you say, ‘ether’?”

  “Not the chemical ether. There’s another kind. I’ll explain, but I really would like a peek at those letters before you close for the day.”

  “Sure.”

  The waiter returned with our check, which I paid. Willow and I donned our hats and coats, and stepped out into the plazuela, where the breeze had become a full-on, bitter wind. “Did you drive?” Willow asked, turning to me.

  “No, I walked.”

  She smiled and nodded toward the north zaguan. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  She led me to the parking lot behind the plaza and a lush teal blue sedan. In a few minutes we were at my house, where Willow slid her car into the space beside mine. We hurried in through the back door and were met in the hall by Dee.

  “Hi, Willow,” she said, smiling. “Is there a tour today?”

  “No, we’ve just been discussing some business,” Willow said.

  “Would you like me to make you some tea?” Dee asked, looking at me. “It’s pretty slow.”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “And bring up a couple of scones. We’ll be in my office.”

  I led Willow upstairs. As we reached the top I paused, having heard something that sounded rather like a smothered sob. I glanced at Willow, who became absorbed in hanging her hat on the coat rack. I went on through the office doorway and looked in at Kris, who was at her desk, hastily gathering several tissues into a wad.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She shot me a glance, and I saw that her eyes were red. “I’m fine,” she said.

  I looked away and unwound my scarf. “It’s getting nasty outside. Not snowing yet, but feel free to go home early if you want to beat the traffic.”

  She was silent, and I snuck a peek at her face as I unbuttoned my coat. Kris sat frowning and blinking, hands clenched before her on the desk, apparently wrestling internally. “Things are slow downstairs,” I added, and went back to the hall, giving her space to decide.

  Willow had hung up her coat and moved to the little sitting area by the window, where she was examining the sugar skulls. She looked up as I joined her.

  “Some of these were in Violet, but not all of them,” she said.

  “Yes, I decorated several besides the one I did for Vi.”

  Willow nodded, gazing at my skulls. I heard footsteps on the stairs and went to meet Dee, relieving her of the tray she’d brought up.

  “Thanks, Dee. All quiet below?”

  She nodded. “Like a t- ... library.” She shot a regretful glance toward the office, then went away. I brought the tea tray to the sitting area and slid it onto the table, shifting a couple of the skulls to make room.

  “I think I recognize some of these,” Willow said.

  “Oh?” I picked up the teapot and poured. I didn’t really want to know if Willow had made contact with my parents or the murder victims I’d known. One ghost was enough for me.

  “From the news,” she added, and let it drop. I handed her a cup and pushed the small plate of scones within her reach. “I’ll get those letters.”

  “They can wait a bit. I was going to tell you about ether.”

  “Oh, yes.” I poured tea for myself and took a scone. “Not the chemical.”

  “Yes. It’s matter, but a different form of matter than what we’re used to. It’s less substantial. You may have heard of astral projection?”

  I carefully spread lemon curd on half of my scone. “Yes.”

  “Well, the so-called astral body is made up of ether. It’s sometimes referred to as the etheric double.”

  “So … that’s what ghosts are made of?” I asked, feeling out of my depth already, but game to follow along.

  “Yes and no,” Willow said. “The etheric double is actually discarded at death along with the physical body. Usually.”

  I didn’t like that qualifier. With my mouth full of scone, I gave her a look of polite inquiry.

  “Sometimes things go wrong,” she said, “but that’s not important to this discussion. The point I wanted to make is that we each have an etheric double, and the etheric matter that makes it up is more malleable than physical matter. For example, it can be used to create seemingly physical manifes­tations.”

  “Like a flash of light?” I said.

  “Yes.” Willow paused for a sip of tea. “In the late 19th century, when séances were all the rage, many of the manifestations that took place were created from ether by the visiting spirits.”

  “Flashes of light?”

  “Usually more dramatic than that. One of the reasons there were a lot of manifestations in that era was that they were used to prove to the sitters in the circle that the spirits really did exist, that the human soul survives physical death.”

  “Oh,” I said, and picked up my cup. I hadn’t made up my mind about that question.

  Or had I? I lived in a haunted house. I was, by now, absolutely convinced that Captain Dusenberry was real. That implied that I believed in the survival of the soul.

  “A spirit could manifest an etheric hand, for example,” Willow went on, “and use it to pick things up or to touch the people in the circle. Or a face, or sometimes even an entire body.”

  “Why didn’t they just show their own bodies?”

  “Because they didn’t have bodies that could be made visible to people in the physical plane. Remember, the etheric double gets discarded. The spirits had to build a visible manifestation out of ether.”

  “So where did the ether come from?”

  “Borrowed from the medium, usually. Or sometimes from more than one person in the circle, but the medium was the one who best understood what was going on.”

  “Borrowed from the medium...?” I was feeling lost again.

  Willow set down her teacup and gave me a patient smile. “From his or her etheric double. With his or her permission, implied if not explicit.”

  I frowned and put down my empty cup. “You said Captain Dusenberry might have borrowed ether from me.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’m not a medium.”

  Her lips curved in amusement. “Maybe you are.”

  “But I ... I didn’t give my permission!”

  “You might not have, but your higher self could have.”

  “My what?”

  “I don’t want to get too complicated, but you need to understand that only part of your soul is inhabiting your body. Your soul is a greater being, and that’s often referred to as your higher self.”

  I was getting cranky. Too many new ideas. I’d heard the term “higher self” before but had never taken it seriously. Now Willow was asking me to do just that.

  I reached for the teapot and refilled my cup. “So Captain Dusenberry could get permission from my higher self to use some of my ether, and I don’t have a say?”

  Willow smiled kindly. “Your higher self would never permit anything that’s not for your greater good. Does it make you uncomfortable to think of Captain Dusenberry borrowing your ether?”

  “Well, yeah!”

  “You can ask him to stop, and he’ll never bother you again.”

  I stared at her.

  “Of course, there would be no more lights, no more moving chandelier drops.” She sipped her tea and returned the cup to the saucer. “It’s up to you.”

  I put down the teapot. “That’s it? I just ask him to stop? No exorcism required?”

  Willow gave a soft laugh. “He’s not a malicious spirit. If you ask, I think he’ll respect your wishes.”

  Her words gave me a strange exhilaration, a feeling of unexpected power. I could get rid of the ghost, if I wanted to.

  “I would miss him,” Willow added. “Probably a lot of people would. But it’s your house.”

  She was being very generous, telling me this. Captain Dusenberry was a prominent stop on her spirit tours. Not to ment
ion that she and I had both made a nice profit on the tour-and-tea combos. Apparently she was willing to give all that up for the sake of my comfort.

  I felt a little ashamed. I owed Captain Dusenberry a lot, not only because of the tours. He’d communicated with me before, trying to warn me about things. He’d also kept me company. There had been times when I’d felt miserable and alone, and he’d cheered me up by turning on the stereo, or the lights. Or both. A couple of times, he’d even played my mother’s piano.

  Of course, there had been occasions when he had done such things in circumstances that were ... inconvenient. Still, on the whole, I liked my ghost roommate.

  “It’s possible that he’s still here trying to resolve something about his death, or about his romance with Maria Hidalgo,” Willow said. “You could help him with that, and he might then move on.”

  “To heaven?”

  “You could call it that. Heaven is a whole different discussion, and I think I’ve thrown enough at you for one day.”

  “You’re saying he might go someplace else.”

  “I’m saying that heaven, or more accurately the afterlife, is more complex than most people realize.”

  I gazed at her, trying to understand all she had told me. It would take me a while to digest it, and she’d dropped some hints that I wasn’t sure I liked.

  “Do you believe in Hell?” I asked her in a small voice.

  She looked out the window briefly, then gave a slight smile. “I believe we create our own hell.”

  That raised more questions, but I didn’t have the courage to voice them. This was perhaps the most uncomfortable conversation I’d ever had with Willow. I followed her gaze to the window, and saw that it was snowing. Big fluffy flakes, tossed into swirls by the wind.

  The sound of a desk drawer closing drew my attention to the office. Kris came out and took her coat from the coat rack.

  “I’m taking you up on the offer to leave early,” she said. “Can you do the deposit?”

  “Sure.” I stood, turning to Willow. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  Willow nodded. I went over to Kris. Her cheeks were dry, but her brow was creased with strain. “Stay safe,” I added.

  She flashed me a small smile, glanced toward Willow, then flung an end of her black scarf around her neck and headed down the stairs. I followed, feeling mother-hen-ish, though I knew she’d resent any clucking. I watched through the lights around the back door as she got in her car, backed out, and drove down the driveway. When she was out of sight, I went into the butler’s pantry, where Dee and Iz were putting away clean china. The wall clock read 4:44.