Intermezzo: Spirit Matters Read online

  “It’s snowing,” I told them. “How many customers are left?”

  “None, unless we get some walk-ins,” Dee said. “The last reservation just left.”

  “We’re closing early,” I decided.

  Iz shot me a grateful look. She had a bit of a drive to her family’s house in Tesuque Pueblo.

  “You can go as soon as you’re done with that. Be careful going home,” I told them, then went down the hall to lock the front door and turn around the sign to show “Closed.” I turned off the gift shop lights for good measure, after collecting the day’s receipts from the cash drawer.

  Before going back upstairs, I looked into the kitchen. Mick was finishing the last of the dishes. He had his earbuds in, but looked up and gave me a thumbs-up and a grin, by which I inferred that his sister had told him we were closed for the day.

  “It’s coming down harder,” I said to Willow as I reached the top of the stairs. “Do you need to go?”

  “I’ve got all-wheel drive. I’ll be fine. I’d really like to read those letters, if you don’t mind.”

  “All right.”

  I fetched the letters from my desk, carefully setting aside the ancient ribbon with its dried rosebud. The small stack of yellowed, folded pages, I carried to Willow.

  “Please keep them in the same order.”

  She nodded. “Of course.” She laid the letters on the table before her and took a pair of reading glasses out of her purse.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Then I’ll be in my office.”

  I left her to read while I balanced the day’s receipts and made up the bank deposit. A very slow day; compared with most of October it was almost dead.

  Why had I thought of that word?

  Shaking it off, I locked the bank bag in my desk, then rejoined Willow. My teacup was there, full of tea that was now cold. I dumped it out and started a fresh pot. By the time I returned, Willow had finished the letters.

  “What a lovely friendship they had,” she said, straightening the little pile. “Thank you for letting me read these.”

  “You can read Spanish?”

  “Pretty well, yes.”

  I gestured with the teapot, offering tea. She pushed her cup toward me.

  “So, any insights?” I asked.

  “Not immediately. I’ll think about it. Have you done any research into Reynaldo?”

  The last couple of letters mentioned Reynaldo, apparently a relative of Maria’s. She had been concerned about his disapproval.

  “No, I haven’t followed up on that. I did check for Maria’s papers, but the archives don’t have anything.”

  “She probably destroyed them,” Willow said. “Or if not, the family might have kept them.”

  That was something I hadn’t thought of. “I wonder who would know about that.”

  Willow sipped her tea. “I think the Hidalgos still own Hidalgo Plaza. That might be a place to start.”

  I nodded. “I’ll ask. And I’ll check the archives for anything on Reynaldo,” I said.

  “Good. I’d love to hear about whatever you find.”

  My gaze drifted to the window, where the snow had stopped swirling and was now falling at an angle. With the storm to the west, it was prematurely dark.

  “Would you like a demonstration of ether?” Willow asked.

  I nearly dropped my teacup.

  “Uh...”

  “Not yours. Mine. It won’t affect you.”

  “Um. OK.”

  Willow smiled, then put down her cup and got up to fetch her coat. She draped this over the back of her overstuffed arm chair seat and sat to one side of it, then held her hand in front of the black cloth.

  “Watch my hand,” she said, then closed her eyes and took a long, slow breath, letting it out equally slowly.

  I felt silly and embarrassed as I stared at Willow’s motionless hand. Her manicure was immaculate, reminding me that I was overdue to freshen my own. Her fingers were slender and rather long. Good for piano playing, though she’d never mentioned any musical inclination.

  “What do you see?” she said softly, recalling my wandering attention.

  I bit back a sarcastic reply, and focused on her hand. I’d expected to be able to report nothing, but now I thought I saw the faintest cloudiness around her fingers and beyond her fingertips. I blinked and glanced toward the window. Despite the storm, the daylight coming through was brighter than the light from the chandelier behind us.

  “There’s a sort of fuzzy ... I don’t know.”

  Willow nodded, then moved her hand, folding her splayed fingers except for the index finger. This she moved in a slow circle.

  The cloudiness hadn’t dispersed; instead, with the motion of her finger it coalesced into a little spiral: a tiny, spinning vortex. The back of my neck prickled.

  “What do you see?” she said again.

  I told her. She nodded and lowered her hand. The spiral remained for just an instant, then faded.

  “How did you do that?” I asked.

  “Concentration,” she said. “But it’s natural. We all use ether all the time. We’re just unaware of it, because it’s normal.”

  “We do? We are?”

  “Sure. What do you do when you bang your elbow on something?”

  I shrugged, then put one hand on the other elbow.

  “Exactly. Ether can be used to heal. You’ve heard of ‘laying on of hands,’ right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Entirely natural and normal. But we don’t realize that we’re using ether. We just do it.”

  I looked back at the space before Willow’s coat. No trace left of the ether.

  “So that—stuff—is what Captain Dusenberry used to make a flash of light?”

  “Probably.”

  “And what he uses to turn things on and off?”

  Willow nodded. “It doesn’t take much ether to trip an electrical switch.”

  “What about the piano?”

  “That would take a little more. Were the keys moving, or was it just the strings sounding?”

  “Uh ... I didn’t notice.”

  “I’m guessing the latter. It would take less pressure to move the hammer alone than to move a key. Less pressure means less effort and less ether required.”

  I polished off the tea in my cup and reached for the pot to refill it. “And he borrows the ether from me.”

  “Or from any willing person who’s around. Contributing a small amount doesn’t do any harm to the donor.”

  “Oh? What about a large amount?”

  Willow picked up her teacup. “That doesn’t happen very often, unless you’re talking about a malicious or low-level spirit. They can draw on the medium too much, either from ignorance or irresponsibility, and that can result in exhaustion.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Usually all. Sometimes headaches, dizziness. Don’t let this worry you. It isn’t likely to happen with the kind of contact you’ve experienced. That kind of exhaustion is the result of extensive and prolonged drawing on a medium’s ether, the sort of thing that might happen in a séance, when there are multiple and complex manifestations.”

  I took a swallow of tea. “Do you do séances?”

  “Me? No.” Willow chuckled. “If I want to communicate with a spirit, I usually just talk to them. Silently, mostly.”

  She talked to spirits. OK. It wasn’t a big surprise, considering her profession.

  “Do you do that often?” I asked.

  “Not often, no. I don’t like to intrude unless it’s something important. It’s not a séance, but it still requires a bit of effort on both sides.”

  “And what do you consider important?”

  She smiled. “Helping solve a problem, usually.”

  I looked down at my cup. “Have you talked to Captain Dusenberry?”

  “A couple of times. As I said, I don’t like to intrude, and he’s rather retiring
.”

  I looked up at her, ignoring a flash of envy. “What did you talk to him about?”

  A corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. “Well, the first time I came here I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t cause you trouble. I just wanted to get a feel for him. We didn’t actually talk.” She sipped her tea, and added, “Spirits often don’t use words, you see. They’re more likely to communicate in emotions or ideas. Words have to be formed, or found, and that takes energy.”

  “Oh. So you couldn’t just ask him who killed him?”

  “I could ask, but the answer might not be straightforward. Or he might not know; remember, he was shot in the back.”

  “I’ve wondered if that’s why he stayed around,” I said. “If he wants to know who did it.”

  “I’ve wondered that, too.”

  The chandelier at the peak of the ceiling blinked off, then back on. We both looked over our shoulders at it.

  “Brown-out,” I said, a bit doubtfully.

  “The light in your office stayed on.”

  I glanced toward my office, then back at Willow. She carefully put her teacup on the table and turned in her chair, looking up at the chandelier.

  “Captain,” she said gently, “if that was you, please blink the light again.”

  Off. On.

  Holy crap!

  I twisted around so I could see the chandelier. It was similar in style to the one in the dining parlor downstairs—very traditional, with five branches adorned with crystal drops—but it was both smaller in circumference and longer, hanging from the highest point in the upper hall’s pitched ceiling. Nothing was moving.

  “Thank you,” Willow said. “If you would, please blink twice now.”

  The light obeyed. My breath came in short, almost-gasps. I put my cup on the table. It rattled in the saucer before I got it there.

  “Please use one blink for yes, two blinks for no,” Willow said, her gaze on the chandelier. “Do you know who killed you?”

  Two blinks.

  “Do you want to know?”

  One blink.

  Willow gave a slight nod. “Is that why you’re still here?”

  A pause, then three blinks. Willow looked at me.

  “Yes and no?” I croaked, my throat dry.

  “Probably.” She looked back at the chandelier. “Captain, do you think we can find out who killed you?”

  One blink.

  “Can you tell us where to find that information?”

  Two blinks.

  “All right.” Willow paused, appearing to muse over her next words. “Is there anything more you want to tell us now?”

  Nothing. Then, a single blink.

  We waited. Willow frowned in thought, her attention shifting to the little pile of letters on the table before us.

  “Something about Maria?” she said.

  One blink.

  “You loved her, didn’t you?” I blurted.

  Long pause, then one blink. I looked at Willow, who met my gaze.

  “He may be getting tired,” she said quietly. “This is a lot for one session.”

  I nodded, suddenly contrite. Had I wasted a rare chance, asking a question whose answer was obvious?

  “Are there more letters?” Willow asked, returning her attention to the chandelier.

  A pause, then one blink. I held my breath.

  “Here in the house?”

  Two blinks.

  “In Hidalgo Plaza?”

  One blink.

  I covered my mouth with one hand to keep from shrieking. As it was, I gave a strangled squeak.

  “We’ll look for them,” Willow said, glancing at me. “Is there anything else you want us to know now?”

  Pause. Blink. And a second blink.

  “All right. Thank you, Captain.” Willow nodded, then closed her eyes. I watched her, keeping a nervous eye on the chandelier, but it didn’t blink again and none of the drops had moved.

  After a minute Willow took a deep breath, then sighed and opened her eyes. Seeing me staring at her, she smiled. “Well, that was interesting!”

  “No—no kidding!” I said. “Oh, my God!”

  “Maybe you should hold onto those letters a little longer. Just until we get this sorted out.”

  I nodded and picked up the little stack, cradling them in my lap. “There are more,” I said.

  “Yes. I should have asked whether they were letters Maria wrote, or ones he wrote. Maybe another time.”

  “You could ask now!” I said.

  Willow shook her head. “I’ve said goodbye for now. Best let him be. He probably needs to rest.”

  I looked at the chandelier, wishing that wasn’t so. “Did he use your, um, ether?” I asked.

  “Most likely he borrowed from both of us,” Willow said, reaching for her cup. “It’s not something you really feel, unless you’re extraordinarily sensitive. Is there any tea left?”

  I picked up the pot and poured for her, careful not to crush the letters in my lap.

  “Thank you. Borrowing the ether was just part of it,” Willow said. “Probably the smallest part. Manipulating it takes effort, even just to push it through an electrical line.”

  “So that’s why he doesn’t move the chandelier drops more often.”

  Willow nodded. “Disappointing as that is to our tour guests.”

  I gave a little gasp of laughter. Willow sipped her tea and smiled.

  The adrenaline coursing through me began to dissipate. I picked up the letters.

  “I’d better put these away.”

  “You might consider transcribing them,” Willow called after me as I headed to my office. “You could read them aloud and record yourself, then work from the recording to keep from handling the letters too much.”

  “Good idea,” I called back.

  My hands trembled a little as I unlocked my desk. Not trusting myself to slide the ribbon back onto the letters, I laid it on top of them in the small box where I kept them, then locked them safely away.

  When I returned to the hall, Willow was putting on her coat. “I’d better go,” she said. “The snow isn’t letting up.”

  I took her hat from the coat rack and held it out to her. “Be careful.”

  She smiled and put it on. I followed her downstairs to let her out, momentarily worried that Mick and Dee might have heard us, but Mick’s car was gone; just mine and Willow’s sat in the little parking area behind the house.

  “Thank you, Willow,” I said, unlocking the back door. “I can’t thank you enough. I feel like I should pay you.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “No, no. This is interesting. Don’t go to Hidalgo Plaza yet, all right? I’d like to do a little checking first.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll call you. Thanks for the tea and the scone. And the coffee earlier.”

  “Thank you,” was all I managed to say. I watched her go to her car and drive away, then double-checked that I had locked the door, and turned toward the stairs.

  The house was quiet, dark except for the lights in the hall and the stairwell. I looked toward the dining parlor, where I’d found the letters. The room where Captain Dusenberry had died.

  The door stood open, as usual. The room was silent, dark.

  “Thank you, Captain,” I whispered.

  I waited, holding my breath, but nothing changed. On a whim, I held up my hand in front of the darkened doorway and peered at it, looking for ether. After a few seconds I thought I saw a fuzzy outline, but then I realized I had shifted my gaze slightly. I shifted it again and confirmed that it was just an illusion; the fuzziness was outline of my fingers.

  Collecting myself, I went upstairs, turning off lights as I progressed.

  It was going to be hard to sleep.

  3

  The next morning, Kris was late. It was so unlike her that I almost called, but there was the snow (fast melting now), so instead I made tea and sat at my desk and attacked the paperwork.

  The never-end
ing stack of messages sat silently reproaching me. I looked through a few, answered a couple, then turned to the folder of candidates for the two part-time positions we had advertised for the holiday season: one server and one kitchen worker.

  The kitchen worker would probably be a nice young Vietnamese college student, who had interviewed well and had a good, if short, résumé. As long as she passed muster with Julio, she was the obvious choice.

  The server was a less clear-cut decision. There were three good candidates. I leaned toward hiring Dale Whittier, Kris’s friend, simply because he had shown he could keep his head and act promptly during an emergency.

  That was unfair to the other applicants, who had not had the opportunity to show me what they’d do when a depressed, drunken female tried to cut her own wrists in their presence. Still, I was pretty strongly inclined toward Dale. I felt I could trust him, even if (please, God) there were no more suicide attempts in the tearoom.

  I pulled out his résumé and went over it again, looking for details I should consider more carefully. He was a Goth, of course. That wasn’t on the résumé. It shouldn’t influence me—his private life was none of my business—but I could hardly pretend I didn’t know. Maybe the slight nervousness the knowledge gave me would serve to offset my appreciation for his quick thinking.

  When I finally heard Kris’s brisk step on the stairs, I glanced at my clock and saw that it was nearly ten. Very unlike her to be so late. I watched the doorway, hoping to gauge her mood from the glimpse I would catch of her as she went into her own office, but she surprised me and came into mine instead.

  She still had on her coat. It was open, revealing a long knit tunic over leggings and boots, all black. Pretty casual for a work day, but there was the snow.

  She looked as if she hadn’t slept well. Dark circles were beginning to form beneath her eyes. Very Goth, but not like my poised, confident (if slightly cynical) business manager.