Ninth Key (8 page)

Then we were inside again in a surprisingly ordinary-looking hallway. It was at this point that my guide bowed to me for a third time and said, “Wait here, please,” then disappeared through one of three doors off the corridor.

So I did as he said, though I couldn’t help wondering what time it was. I don’t wear a watch since every one I ever owned has ended up getting smashed by some evil spirit. But I hadn’t planned on spending more than a few minutes of my time with this guy. My plan was to get in, deliver the dead lady’s message, and then get out. I’d told my mom I’d be home by nine, and it had to be nearly eight by now.

Rich people. They just don’t care about other people’s curfews.

Then the Japanese man reappeared, bowed, and said, “He will see you now.”

Whoa. I wondered if I should genuflect.

I restrained myself. Instead, I went through the door — and found myself in an elevator. A tiny little elevator with a chair and an end table in it. There was even a plant on the end table. The Japanese man had shut the door behind me, and now I was alone in a tiny room that was definitely moving. Whether it was going up or down, I had no way of knowing. There were no numbers over the door to indicate the direction the thing was taking. And there was only one button…

The room stopped moving. When I reached for the doorknob, it turned. And when I stepped out of the elevator, I found myself in a darkened room with big velvet curtains pulled over the windows, containing only a massive desk, an even more massive aquarium, and a single visitor’s chair, evidently for me, in front of that desk. Behind the desk sat a man. The man, when he saw me, smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “You must be Miss Simon.”

“Um,” I said. “Yes.”

It was hard to tell, because it was so dark in the room, but the man behind the desk appeared to be about my stepfather’s age. Forty-five or so. He was wearing a sweater over a button-down collared shirt, sort of like Bill Gates always does. He had brown hair that was obviously thinning. CeeCee was right: It certainly wasn’t red.

And he wasn’t anywhere near as good-looking as his son.

“Sit down,” Mr. Beaumont said. “Sit down. I’m so delighted to see you. Tad’s told me so much about you.”

Yeah, right. I wondered what he’d say if I pointed out that Tad didn’t even know my name. But since I was still playing the part of the eager girl reporter, I smiled as I settled into the comfortable leather chair in front of his desk.

“Would you like anything?” Mr. Beaumont asked. “Tea? Lemonade?”

“Oh, no thank you,” I said. It was hard not to stare at the aquarium behind him. It was built into the wall, almost filling it up, and was stocked with every color fish imaginable. There were lights built into the sand at the bottom of the tank that cast this weird, watery glow around the room. Mr. Beaumont’s face, with this wavy light on it, looked kind of Grand Moff Tarkin-ish. You know, in the final Death Star battle scene.

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I said in response to his question about liquid refreshment.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Yoshi can get it for you.” Mr. Beaumont reached for the phone in the center of his giant, Victorian-looking desk. “Shall I ask him to get you anything?”

“Really,” I said. “I’m fine.” And then I crossed my legs because I was still freezing from when I’d stood outside by the guard’s house.

“Oh, but you’re cold,” Mr. Beaumont said. “Here, let me light a fire.”

“No,” I said. “Really. It’s all…right….”

My voice trailed off. Mr. Beaumont had not, as Andy would have done, stood up, gone to the fireplace, stuffed wadded-up pieces of newspaper under some logs, lit the thing, and then spent the next half hour blowing on it and cursing.

Instead, he lifted a remote control, hit a button, and all of a sudden this cheerful fire was going in the black marble fireplace. I felt its heat at once.

“Wow,” I said. “That sure is…convenient.”

“Isn’t it?” Mr. Beaumont smiled at me. He kept looking, for some reason, at the cross around my neck. “I never was one for building fires. So messy. I was never a very good Boy Scout.”

“Ha ha,” I said. The only way, I thought to myself, that this could get any weirder would be if it turned out he had that dead lady’s head on ice somewhere in the basement, ready for transplantation onto Cindy Crawford’s body as soon as it becomes available.

“Well, if I could get straight to the point, Mr. Beaumont —”

“Of course. Ten most influential people in Carmel, is it? And what number am I? One, I hope.”

He smiled even harder at me. I smiled back at him. I hate to admit it, but this is always my favorite part. There is definitely something wrong with me.

“Actually, Mr. Beaumont,” I said, “I’m not really here to do a story on you for my school paper. I’m here because someone asked me to get a message to you, and this is the only way I could think of to do it. You are a very hard person to get a hold of, you know.”

His smile had not faltered as I’d told him that I was there under false pretenses. He may have hit some secret alarm button under his desk, calling for security, but if he did, I didn’t see it. He folded his fingers beneath his chin and, still staring at my gold cross, said, “Yes?” in this expectant way.

“The message,” I said, sitting up straight, “is from a woman — sorry, I didn’t get her name — who happens to be dead.”

There was absolutely no change in his expression. Obviously, I decided, a master at hiding his emotions.

“She said for me to tell you,” I went on, “that you did not kill her. She doesn’t blame you. And she wants you to stop blaming yourself.”

That
triggered a reaction. He quickly unfolded his fingers, then flattened his hands out across his desk, and stared at me with a look of utter fascination.

“She said that?” he asked me, eagerly. “A dead woman?”

I eyed him uneasily. That wasn’t quite the reaction I was used to getting when I delivered messages like the one I’d just given him. Some tears would have been good. A gasp of astonishment. But not this — let’s face it — sick kind of interest.

“Yeah,” I said, standing up.

It wasn’t just that Mr. Beaumont and his creepy staring was freaking me out. And it wasn’t that my dad’s warning was ringing in my ears. My mediator instincts were telling me to get out, now. And when my instincts tell me to do something, I usually obey. I have often found it beneficial to my health.

“Okay,” I said. “Buh-bye.”

I turned around and headed back for the elevator. But when I tugged on the doorknob, it didn’t budge.

“Where did you see this woman?” Mr. Beaumont’s voice, behind me, was filled with curiosity. “This dead person?”

“I had a dream about her, okay?” I said, continuing to tug lamely on the door. “She came to me in a dream. It was really important to her that you knew that she doesn’t hold you responsible for anything. And now I’ve done my duty, so would you mind if I go now? I told my mom I’d be home by nine.”

But Mr. Beaumont didn’t release the elevator door. Instead, he said in a wondering voice, “You
dreamed
of her? The dead speak to you in your dreams? Are you a
psychic
?”

Damn
, I said to myself. I should have known.

This guy was one of those New Agers. He probably had a sensory deprivation tank in his bedroom and burned aromatherapy candles in his bathroom and had a secret little room dedicated to the study of extraterrestrials somewhere in his house.

“Yeah,” I said, since I’d already dug the hole. I figured I might just as well climb in now. “Yeah, I’m psychic.”

Keep him talking, I said to myself. Keep him talking while you find another way out. I began to edge toward one of the windows hidden behind the sweeping velvet curtains.

“But look, I can’t tell you anything else, okay?” I said. “I just had this one dream. About someone who seems like she might have been a very nice lady. It’s a shame about her being dead, and all. Who was she, anyway? Your, um, wife?”

On the word
wife
, I pulled the curtains apart, expecting to find a window I could neatly put my foot through, then jump to safety. No biggie. I’d done it a hundred times before.

And there was a window there, all right. A ten-foot one with lots of individual panes, set back a foot, at least, in a nicely paneled casement.

But someone had pulled the shutters — you know, the ones that go on the outside of the house and are mostly just decorative — closed. Tightly closed. Not a ray of sunshine could have penetrated those things.

“It must be terribly exciting,” Mr. Beaumont was saying behind me as I stared at the shutters, wondering if they’d open if I kicked them hard enough. But then who was to say what kind of drop lay below them? I could be fifty feet up for all I knew. I’ve made some serious leaps in my life, but I usually like to know what I’m leaping into before I go for it. “Being psychic, I mean,” Tad’s dad went on. “I wonder if you would mind getting in touch with other deceased individuals I might know. There are a few people I’ve been longing to talk to.”

“It doesn’t” — I let go of those curtains and moved to the next window — “work that way.”

Same thing. The window was completely shuttered up. Not even a chink where sunlight might spill through. In fact, they looked almost nailed shut.

But that was ridiculous. Who would nail shutters over their windows? Especially with the kind of sea view I was sure Mr. Beaumont’s house afforded.

“Oh, but surely, if you really concentrated” — Mr. Beaumont’s pleasant voice followed me as I moved to the next window — “you could communicate with just a few others. I mean, you’ve already succeeded with one. What’s a few more? I’d pay you, of course.”

I couldn’t believe it. Every single one of the windows was shuttered.

“Um,” I said as I got to the last window and found it similarly shuttered. “Agoraphobic much?”

Mr. Beaumont must have finally noticed what I was doing since he said, casually, “Oh, that. Yes. I’m sensitive to sunlight. So bad for the skin.”

Oh, okay. This guy was certifiable.

There was only one other door in the room, and that one was behind Mr. Beaumont, next to the aquarium. I didn’t exactly relish the idea of going anywhere near that guy, so I headed back for the door to the elevator.

“Look, can you please unlock this so I can go home?” I tugged on the knob, trying not to let my fear show. “My mom is really strict, and if I miss my curfew, she…she might
beat
me.”

I know this was shoveling it on a bit thick — especially if he ever happened to watch the local news and saw my mother doing one of her reports. She is so not the abusive type. But the thing was, there was something so creepy about him, I really just wanted to get out, and I didn’t care how. I’d have said anything to get out of there.

“Do you think,” Mr. Beaumont wanted to know, “that if I were very quiet, you might be able to summon this woman’s spirit again so that I could have a word with her?”

“No,” I said. “Could you please open this door?”

“Don’t you wonder what she could have meant?” Mr. Beaumont asked me. “I mean, she told you to tell me not to blame myself for her death. As if I, in some way, were responsible for killing her. Didn’t that make you wonder a little, Miss Simon? I mean, about whether or not I might be a —”

Right then, to my utter relief, the knob to the elevator door turned in my hand. But not, it turned out, because Mr. Beaumont had released it. No, it turned out somebody was getting off the elevator.

“Hello,” said a blond man, much younger than Mr. Beaumont, dressed in a suit and tie. “What have we here?”

“This is Miss Simon, Marcus,” Mr. Beaumont said, happily. “She’s a psychic.”

Marcus, for some reason, kept looking at my necklace, too. Not just my necklace, either, but my whole throat area.

“Psychic, eh?” he said, his gaze sweeping the neckline of my sweater. “Is that what you two were discussing down here? Yoshi told me something about a newspaper article….”

“Oh, no.” Mr. Beaumont waved a hand as if to dismiss the whole newspaper thing. “That was just something she made up to get me to see her so she could tell me about the dream. Really quite an extraordinary dream, Marcus. She says she had a dream that a woman told her I didn’t kill her.
Didn’t
kill her, Marcus. Isn’t that interesting?”

“It certainly is,” Marcus said. He took hold of my arm. “Well, I’m glad you two had a nice little visit. Now I’m afraid Miss Simon has to go.”

“Oh, no.” Mr. Beaumont, for the first time, stood up behind his desk. He was very tall, I noticed. He also had on green corduroy pants. Green!

Really, if you ask me, that was the weirdest thing of all.

“We were just getting to know each other,” Mr. Beaumont said mournfully.

“I told my mom I’d be home by nine,” I told Marcus really fast.

Marcus was no dummy. He steered me right into that elevator, saying to Mr. Beaumont, “We’ll have Miss Simon back sometime soon.”

“Wait.” Mr. Beaumont started to come around from behind his desk. “I haven’t had a chance to —”

But Marcus jumped into the elevator with me and, letting go of me, slammed the door behind him.

A second later we were moving. Whether we were going up or down, I still couldn’t tell. But it didn’t really matter. The fact was, we were moving, and away from Mr. Beaumont, which was all I cared about.

“Jeez,” I couldn’t help bursting out as soon as I knew I was safe. “What is
with
that guy?”

Marcus looked down at me.

“Did Mr. Beaumont hurt you in any way, Miss Simon?”

I blinked at him. “No.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Marcus looked a little relieved, but he tried to cover it up by being businesslike. “Mr. Beaumont,” he said, “is a little tired this evening. He is a very important, very busy man.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that guy’s more than just tired.”