Liza closed her eyes tightly; she seemed to fall back in her chair—almost as if she had passed out. But she quickly opened her eyes and stared at the two of them,
“Did you see him, did you hear him?” she asked them, sitting straight.
“Franklin Verne?” Griffin asked.
“Yes, of course, Franklin! He was here, poor man! Desperate for me to somehow convey to Monica how he loved her—and to beg her pardon that he so woefully failed!”
“He woefully failed?” Vickie asked.
“He couldn’t help himself, you see,” Liza explained. “He’d been asked so many times to come to the restaurant—and he meant to, of course. I mean, I had asked him and he would have been happy to have done me a favor. But you know, as John Lennon said, ‘Life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans!’ So, Franklin thought that he’d slip in and maybe grab a selfie or the like to show that he’d been to the Black Bird and loved it! But then...he went down to the wine cellar. And there was his undoing! Like Fortunato, he couldn’t resist the call of a good Amontillado. And thus, so sadly, he perished! But you see, I can tell his story. I can say that he meant just to be there and show the world what a lovely place it was.”
“May heaven help us and save us from fools! And they say that I suffered from delusions!” Poe suddenly expounded. “How dare this would-be poet! Oh, that’s something that she had not told you. Fool woman is forever spouting poetry, yet—by the saints who strive to preserve us—very little has been published. There she is—vilifying Franklin Verne.” He pushed away from the mantel and strode toward the table, staring from Vickie to Griffin. “You will put a stop to this! You will find the proof. The man was murdered!”
“Yes,” Griffin heard himself promise.
Poe swung around and disappeared into the woodwork.
“So! You did see him, you did hear him—and you know the truth, as I do!” Liza exclaimed.
“What?” Griffin asked, frowning.
“You just said yes,” Vickie reminded him sweetly.
“Did I? I’m so sorry—power of the moment. No, Ms. Harcourt, I’m afraid I saw nothing, heard nothing and certainly felt nothing of Franklin Verne.” He stood quickly, and Vickie followed his cue, doing the same. “I’m very sorry, and we thank you sincerely for your time.”
She stood as well, looking baffled.
“But—but you jumped!” she told Vickie.
“I did. Just a muscle spasm, I’m afraid,” Vickie told her.
Liza sighed. “It’s so incredibly hard to find anyone with the least tinge of the gift, of the sixth sense,” she said. “Hardly your fault. Perhaps tomorrow, at the restaurant.”
“Perhaps.”
Soon they were out the front door. And when they were, Griffin slipped an arm around Vickie, pulling her tight. “Oh, dear God! Can you believe it! She thinks she’s turned her family room into a portal through the veil by using the Clapper! And Poe was there, right there...”
“One damned good ghost,” Vickie said.
“What else would he be?” Griffin asked. “I mean, he’s—Poe!”
“And not at all what I expected.”
“Well, he was egotistical and more than a bit arrogant.”
“But still—his biographers were not always kind. Anyway, I’m going to look up everything I can about him again. Friends of his did something of an investigation.” She paused. “Griffin, he has reason to be so upset about people—like Liza—being so certain that Franklin fell back into his old ways. Maybe Poe is hanging around because he’s desperate to prove that he didn’t fall back himself. There are a number of theories. I want to work on them.”
“We do have to solve the current murder, you know. The death of Franklin Verne,” Griffin reminded her.
“I think that they will go hand in hand,” she said. “Anyway, where to now?”
“The hotel. It has been one hell of a long day. Dinner—and bed.”
“Dinner, lovely. Bed, lovelier!” Vickie said.
She smiled. And his heart, and his libido, seemed to catch fire.
5
Vickie thought they were lucky to catch the last few minutes of the dinner hour at the Italian restaurant just down the street from their historic hotel; she was ravenous, since they hadn’t given much thought to food throughout the day.
While she wasn’t Italian herself, it had been almost impossible to grow up in Boston and not fall in love with an Italian restaurant or two. This one was excellent; their pasta was homemade and the piece of parmesan-crusted cod she had was out of this world.
Griffin had chosen a giant appetizer tray of oysters.
Vickie watched him enjoy the oysters.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he told her.
“I’m sorry. They look just like—”
“I know what they look like.”
She smiled.
“It’s what they taste like that matters,” he assured her.
“So I’ve heard,” she said.
“And you never know if it’s true or not, you know,” he said softly.
“What’s that?”
“Prowess, so they say,” he told her seriously.
Vickie couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Griffin shook his head sadly. “Great!”
“No!” She laughed. “Hey, it’s just... Hmm, well, you know, you’re far too much a manly man already—no oysters needed!”
“Good save,” he said, looking around for their waitress to ask for the check.
Ten minutes later, well fed and thus feeling the length of the day even more, they teased one another as they headed down the hall from the old elevator to their room.
Griffin threw open the door, making a leading remark about oysters and leaning in to kiss her when she jumped back, gripping his arm.
“Hey!”
They weren’t alone.
The ghosts of Dylan Ballantine and Darlene were stretched out on the bed. They had apparently been watching television.
Dylan was a massive fan of The Walking Dead. He would watch whole seasons over and over again if there were no new episodes or discussion groups going. He was a talented ghost, having worked hard to manage certain spectral feats, as he called them. Turning on the television was one of them.
“What are you doing here?” Vickie asked.
“You’re not happy to see us?”
Dylan was truly puzzled.
“We’re just surprised to see you. In our hotel room. In our bed,” Griffin said.
“We left you back at the Ballantine house,” Vickie reminded him.
“Oh, Dylan, I told you that we shouldn’t come!” Darlene said, gently touching his chest. “I mean...they’re on their way to a new life, they aren’t really involved here, they stumbled into this... They don’t need us, Dylan.”
“The man was killed—kind of like Poe!” Dylan protested. He grimaced, and Griffin and Vickie frowned, looking at one another. “Hey, I watch the news, too, sometimes. We saw everything about the murder. Well, if it is a murder. But I say it is. And I say that we can help!”
“I’m sure you can,” Griffin said politely. “But...this is a hotel room. A little awkward, you know?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah...we’ve got our own room. We just needed to let you know that we’re here,” Dylan said.
“You have your own room?” Vickie asked.
“Well, of course, Vickie, you know we’re not rude...that we would never just pop in on you unannounced...awkward, awkward, really, I mean, we’re not voyeurs...or...”
“You’re lovely ghosts, always polite,” Griffin assured her. “But I think what Vickie is asking you is—how do you get your own room?”
“Oh, well, we look, of course! We check registration, a
nd find out what rooms aren’t taken. Believe it or not, it’s easy to figure out what rooms won’t be taken, which are given out last at any hotel. Such as this one!” Dylan said.
“They’ve redone most of them,” Darlene explained. “Except for this floor at the other end of the hall. We’ll be down there. In fact, we’re going now.”
“Hey, is Edgar Allan Poe hanging around here by any chance?” Dylan asked.
“Here? No,” Griffin said quickly.
“I don’t mean in this room,” Dylan said. “I mean...” He let his voice trail as he looked from Griffin to Vickie. “He is! Oh, my God. He’s here! Well, maybe not a surprise—he died here. Not that hanging around where you died is a cool thing, but...maybe he’s looking for something. Of course, he’s looking for a way to clear his name. Wow. Oh, wow. Poe. A real writer!”
Vickie couldn’t help but clear her throat.
Darlene gave him a ghostly jab in the ribs; apparently, he could feel it. “Ouch! Oh, I’m sorry, Vickie. But he created incredibly wonderful and creepy tales. He’s legendary. He’s a mystery. Amazing. He’s...Poe!”
“And I’m sure he’ll be glad that you’re so enthused,” Vickie said. “Tomorrow.”
“So far, he doesn’t hang around our bedroom at night!” Griffin said.
“Oh, we’re going, we’re going right now,” Darlene said. “We didn’t think you’d be this late. We hopped a train down and just wanted to let you know. That we’re here, I mean. We’re going now.”
“See you,” Dylan said.
Darlene had his hand. She was dragging him out of the room. Though they could pass through any substance, Vickie and Griffin moved, allowing them to exit.
“They’re gone,” Vickie whispered, smiling.
“Ah, but they’re here. In Baltimore,” Griffin said.
“Out of our room.”
“Yes.”
“Time to let the oysters kick in,” she told him, leaning close, then turning away and shedding her clothing as she headed for the shower.
He joined her shortly.
There was hot water.
Steam.
Deliciously slick and bubbly soap.
Teasing words about all that oysters could do for a man...
And then they were laughing and slipping and sliding a little too much, and Griffin managed an impressive lift to bring them both out of the shower. They dried each other and wrapped up in the massive fluffy towels, and then laughter faded and they were touching and kissing and the towels were discarded.
And then they were together in the bed. It had been a very, very long day.
And yet the nighttime activity seemed to wash it away.
They made love, and whispered, and curled together.
They made love again.
And then they drifted, drowsy, replete. Vickie thought that she would surely sleep, and sleep deeply. That she wouldn’t dream. She didn’t need to dream about the ghost of Poe; she had already seen him. Certainly she would see him again on the streets of Baltimore, once the sun rose and the dawn became another day.
But...she did dream. She dreamed again that she was walking in darkness. And then she heard distinct sounds—the shouts of political advocates, declaring for their candidate. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves on the streets.
There were smells that came to her...
Nasty ones, for the most part. Sweat and dirt and manure of horses and other animals in the streets.
Someone shouted, “Guard-a-loo!”—an American bastardization of the French for “watch out for the water” as they tossed a chamber pot.
“They’re in the street. Do you feel them, do you sense them?”
Vickie looked to her left. Edgar Allan Poe was walking by her side, looking at her soulfully with his large eyes. “Since I came here, to Baltimore...I have felt them. You understand? I felt eyes on me, felt that wretched discomfort one feels when they know that they are being watched, and watched with malicious intent!”
And then, of course, she did sense it. She turned quickly—and it was as if whoever followed them had slipped straight into the shadows.
She felt her heart pound.
Yes, they were being followed...!
They turned a corner. This street was very dark; no one was shouting. She could hear no horses’ hooves.
“Hurry... What a fool I am. We’re on the wrong street... Hurry!” Poe urged.
She quickened her pace. Somehow, she and Poe had become one. She felt what he had felt, once, long ago; her heart beat, as his must once have beat.
A tell-tale heart!
And then...
She heard the flurry of footsteps behind her. She tried to turn; tried to fight them off. But there was something suddenly thrown over her head. It was rough and coarse—a burlap bag, she thought. It smelled of coffee. It was stifling and she could barely breathe. Then she realized that there was some other scent in it...something sweet. Some kind of opiate...
It made the world spin.
She couldn’t fight.
She was falling, and rugged arms were catching her.
No!
But she had no power, and she could only scream silently in her mind.
* * *
“Vickie... Vickie! Vickie!”
She was tossing and turning—and fighting an invisible enemy. She was, in fact, so determined that she would win her war that she managed a not-too-shabby right hook to the jaw on Griffin as he tried to hold her still and awaken her.
He’d woken early. Showered and dressed for the day, he’d been sitting at the desk, messaging with Angela Hawkins—one of the first Krewe agents and Jackson Crow’s wife—when he’d heard Vickie start gasping and moaning and fighting the pillows and the sheets.
“Vickie!” he said firmly, trying to grasp her and draw her to him, stop her from the violence of the war she was waging with the bedding.
Her eyes flew open and she looked up at him, letting out a gasp. She seemed to stare at him and not see him for a long moment before she blinked—and then moaned and cried out his name softly. “Griffin!”
“Dreaming?”
“He was kidnapped, Griffin.”
For a moment, he was confused. “Franklin Verne?” he asked tensely. “You saw something that had to do with Franklin Verne?”
“What? No, no. I’m sorry. Poe. He was on the streets downtown. There was a dark and heavily shadowed alley...gaslights, but the lights didn’t help, they just made shadows.”
“Poe?” he said.
She nodded at him, very seriously.
“Okay,” he said softly. “You’re okay. You’re awake now.”
She threw her arms around him and he realized she was trembling; that wasn’t like Vickie. She was really shaken.
He held her tightly. Touched her cheek gently and let his hands smooth down her hair.
“I’m here,” he said, his tone still quiet. “I’m here.”
Her dreams, he’d learned, could tell them things. They went above and beyond the usual, Griffin thought, but then, it was hard to say what was normal. The agents with the Krewe of Hunters were extraordinary—even before whatever their mystic talents might be. And for some, the talents were stronger, and for some, those talents included seeing the dead—and therefore, events around them—through their dreams.
Her trembling slowed.
She pulled back, looking at him, stressed and confused. “I’m sorry! I don’t know why I’m not getting anything on Franklin Verne...just Poe. But I think that he may be around because everything written about him was wrong...it was a lie. He did keep his promise—he meant to keep sober. That’s why Poe wants to help us. If I can follow his path, figure out what happened to him...”
“Of course, I hope that...I h
ope that you can.”
“You’re disappointed.”
“No, I’m not!” he said firmly. He was only lying a little. Hell, it would be just too nice if she actually saw what had happened to Franklin Verne, even in a dream. Then all they would have to do is prove what happened. As it stood...
So, okay, he was disappointed. He was truly sorry, but Poe was long dead. His killer was long past a time when justice might have been served.
Franklin Verne...
Wasn’t even in the ground yet.
“Hey. We’ve just begun our investigation,” he told her. “And that’s what we do—investigate and get to the truth.” He offered her a smile. “Krewe members aren’t just, as they like to say, ghost busters, Vickie, you know that. You’re about to go through the academy. It is hard training. Lots of people don’t make it.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“No! I’m saying that we do know how to work as the rest of the investigators around the free world work. We talk to people, we look for clues...we investigate. And we both know that whatever is going on here with Poe haunting you—night and day—might help in the end. I just don’t like to see you so shaken. It’s good when the dead can help. They don’t always. We’re still damned good at what we do.”
“I know.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m okay. It took a minute. It was just strange, Griffin. It wasn’t as if I was with him when it happened—it was as if I was him.”
“As if you were—Poe.”
“I felt it happening to me.”
“Well, if he doesn’t know, you can tell him that you know he was innocent.”
“If we see him again.”
“I’m sure we will.”
He kissed her forehead and pulled her close again. They stayed together for a moment. Then, he moved away from her. “Shower quickly, please. I want to get over and see Alistair Malcolm and then I’d also like to meet with Brent Whaley.”
“I’m up, I’m up,” she promised.
She was. Her hair was tousled; her body seemed to be glistening.
Griffin turned and headed toward the door. “I’ll go downstairs and get a couple of cups of coffee.”