The Spook Lights Affair (21 page)

He walked for some ways, examining the surfaces. There was nothing here to indicate passage. The steep slopes that fell away on both sides were likewise smoothly scoured, barren but for occasional bits and pieces of driftwood.

Sardonically he thought: Whither thou, ghost?

21

QUINCANNON

The Meeker property was larger than it had seemed from a distance. In addition to the domino-styled home, there was a covered woodpile, a cistern, a small corral and lean-to built with its back to the wind, and on the other side of the cars, a dune-protected privy. As Quincannon drove up the lane, Barnaby Meeker came out to stand waiting on a railed and slanted walkway fronting the two center cars.

Quincannon drew the buggy to a halt abreast of him, hopped out, and joined him. The thin woman wearing a woolen cape who emerged from the car at this point seemed less impressed with Quincannon than his client was; her gaze remained cool and her mouth downturned as Meeker introduced her as his wife, Lucretia. Her handshake was as firm as a man’s, her eyes animal-bright. She might have been comely in her early years, but she seemed to have pinched and soured as she aged. Her expression was that of someone who had an unhealthy fondness for persimmons.

“A detective, of all things,” she said. “My husband can be foolishly impulsive at times.”

“Now, Lucretia,” Meeker said mildly.

“Don’t deny it. What can a detective do to lay a ghost?”

“If it is some sort of ghost, nothing. If it isn’t, Mr. Quincannon will find out what is behind these … manifestations.”

“Will-o’-the-wisps, you mean.”

“Do will-o’-the-wisps moan and shriek like banshees?”

“The wind did that. Plays tricks sometimes.”

“It wasn’t the wind. And it wasn’t will-o’-the-wisps, not on a succession of foggy nights with no moon or other light of any kind.”

“Your neighbor Crabb believes these sightings are genuinely supernatural,” Quincannon said. “If you’ll pardon the expression, the incidents have him badly spooked.”

“You’ve seen him, then, have you?”

“I have. Unfriendly gent. He warned me away from the abandoned cars.”

“Good-for-nothing, if you ask me,” Mrs. Meeker said.

“Indeed? What makes you think so?”

“He’s a squatter, for one thing. And he has no means of support, for another.”

“According to the counterman at the coffee saloon, Crabb told Lucas Whiffing he was in construction work.”

“The Whiffing boy.” Her persimmon mouth puckered even more. “Sly and irresponsible, that one.”

“Now, Lucretia,” Meeker said, not so mildly.

“Well? Do you deny it?”

“He has never been anything but pleasant and polite to us.”

“Yes, but only on Patricia’s account. You know that as well as I do.”

“That is of no consequence now.”

“Isn’t it? With him still living as close as he does?”

Quincannon asked, “Patricia is your daughter?”

“Our youngest child,” Meeker said.

“Not even eighteen yet,” Mrs. Meeker added. “And the Whiffing boy nearly six years older. If she’d lost her head when he came sniffing around her like a cur in heat…”

Her husband thumped his cane and drew himself up like a puffing toad. He said with a sharp bite in his tone, “Now that’s enough. I mean it. Mr. Quincannon’s interest is in the manifestations in the cars and on the dunes, not in matters of a personal and private nature.”

This was not necessarily true, but Quincannon made no comment. The Meekers were glaring at each other—a game of staredown in which she would be victorious most times they played it. His guess proved correct when Meeker lost his puff and averted his gaze.

“Leave your horse and buggy with ours,” he said to Quincannon, “and come inside where it’s warm.”

Quincannon did as he was bid, parking the buggy next to a Concord carriage in the lean-to. He unhitched the livery plug and turned it into the corral where a roan horse was picketed. He would deal with the animal’s needs later, he decided, and returned to join Meeker and his persimmony wife.

The interior of their home was something of an assault on the eye. The end walls where the two cars were joined had been removed to create one long room, which seemed too warm after the outside chill; a potbellied stove glowed cherry red in one corner. The remaining contents were an amazing hodgepodge of heavy Victorian furniture and decorations that included numerous framed photographs and daguerrotypes, gewgaws, gimcracks, and what was surely flotsam that had been collected from along the beach—pieces of driftwood, odd-shaped bottles, glass fisherman’s floats, a section of draped netting like a moldy spiderweb. The effect was more that of a junk-shop display than a comfortable habitation.

Quincannon accepted the offer of a cup of tea and Mrs. Meeker went to pour it from a pot resting atop the stove. Meeker invited him to occupy a tufted red velvet chair, which he did and which was as uncomfortable as it looked. The investment broker chose to pace rather than sit, the ferrule of his stick making hollow thumps despite the carpeting on the floor of the car.

Quincannon took a sip of his tea, managed not to make a face, and put the cup down on an end table. “Now, then—these manifestations. They have all occurred late at night, I understand.”

“After midnight, yes.”

“When the fog is generally at its thickest.”

“Yes, but not thick enough to have impaired my visibility, or my wife’s, or my daughter’s. Be assured of that. We saw what we saw, and no mistake.”

“Will-o’-the-wisps,” Mrs. Meeker said from her perch near the stove.

Meeker cast another glare in her direction, which she returned in kind. Again he was the first to look away. “I expect you’ll want to speak to my daughter,” he said to Quincannon. “She should be home from school fairly soon. Hers is a rather long commute from Sisters of Bethany. I’ve been thinking of buying her her own carriage—”

“Unnecessary extravagance, if you ask me,” his wife said.

“You weren’t asked. Be quiet, can’t you?”

“Oh, go dance up a rope,” she said, surprising Quincannon if not her husband.

Meeker performed his puffing-toad imitation again and started to say something, but at that moment the door burst open and the wind blew in a pair of individuals, one after the other. The girl who came in first was pretty and plump, bundled inside a beaver coat and matching hat. The young man behind her, swathed in a greatcoat, scarf, gloves, and stocking cap, was none other than Lucas Whiffing. Sabina’s description of him—lean, callowly handsome, blue-eyed, with a neatly oiled mustache—made that apparent even before Mrs. Meeker voiced her displeasure.

“Patricia! What’s the matter with you? You know Lucas is not welcome in this home.”

“Don’t blame her, Mrs. Meeker,” Whiffing said congenially. “I met Patricia when she arrived on the interurban and asked to accompany her.”

“What on earth for?”

“I understand your guest called at my home earlier, asking to speak with me.” Whiffing’s gaze shifted. “You are Mr. Quincannon, the detective?”

“I am.”

“Detective?” Patricia said. She had a thin, piping voice, the sort that grated on Quincannon’s nerves after long exposure. “What is a detective doing here?”

“Your father hired him to investigate the silly things that have been interrupting our sleep,” Mrs. Meeker said, and sniffed. “Of all the waste of money.”

“Oh. The ghost, you mean?”

“Whatever it is we’ve seen these past two nights, yes,” Meeker said.

Whiffing seemed to find the matter amusing. “A detective to lay a ghost. Are you a believer in such things, Mr. Quincannon?”

“I have an open mind on the subject. And you, Mr. Whiffing? Are
you
a believer?”

“Only in what I can see with my own eyes.”

“And have you seen the alleged apparition?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, I have,” the girl said. She had shed her coat and was warming her hands in front of the stove. “Seen it and last night, heard its unearthly shrieks. It’s a real ghost, Lucas. Truly. Of a man who died in one of the cars, or in a railway accident.”

“Bosh,” Mrs. Meeker said.

“You’ve seen and heard it, too, Mother.”

Whiffing asked Quincannon, “Are you planning to spend the night, sir, in the hope of seeing it yourself.”

“I am.”

“And if you do see it, what will you do? Chase it down?”

“Whatever is necessary to find out its true nature.”

“I shouldn’t think ghosts can be caught.”

“They can’t, but fake ghosts can.”

“And you believe this one is a fake? How does one go about faking spook lights and sudden disappearances? And for what purpose?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Patricia said, “Mother, why don’t you offer Lucas some hot tea? He must be as chilled as I am.”

“If I must.”

“Thank you, but I can’t stay,” Whiffing said. “I came only to find out what Mr. Quincannon wants of me. Perhaps if we were to step outside, sir…”

Meeker said, “That won’t be necessary. You may speak privately right here.” He herded his wife and daughter into one of the connecting cars and shut the door behind them.

“Well, then,” Whiffing said when he and Quincannon were alone. “Is it something to do with what happened to poor Virginia St. Ives that you want to speak to me about? Has her body been found?”

“Not yet. But it soon will be.”

“Oh? Where do you suppose it is?”

“Where it was taken on Friday night.”

“And where is that?”

“Where Mrs. Carpenter and I expect to find it.”

“You know why it was taken, too, I suppose?”

“I have a very good idea.”

Nothing of alarm or worry showed in Whiffing’s expression. He smiled faintly, as if puzzled. Unflappable, eh? Well, Quincannon thought, we’ll see about that.

“I understand you’re a friend of the girl’s brother, David St. Ives.”

“Whoever told you that is mistaken.”

“And a friend and school chum of Bob Cantwell.”

Still nothing changed in Whiffing’s face. “I vaguely remember Bob. But I haven’t seen him in years.”

“No? How long has it been since you’ve seen Jack Travers?”

“Who? The name isn’t familiar.”

“It should be. You’ve spent many an evening in the company of all three men at the House of Chance, the Purple Palace, and Madame Fifi’s Maison of Parisian Delights, among other Tenderloin gambling and bawdy houses.”

Whiffing’s smile wasn’t quite as fixed or puzzled now; it sagged slightly at the corners. “That is simply not true. I don’t make a habit of frequenting such places.”

“Their owners say you do.”

“Then they are also mistaken. Really, sir, what is the point of all these remarks? Just what is it you’re accusing me of?”

“Nothing at the moment,” Quincannon said, “if you have nothing to hide.”

“I haven’t. Nothing whatsoever. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” Whiffing drew the collar of his coat up over his ears and moved to the door. “Good luck with your ghost hunting, sir,” he said then, and bowed slightly, and went away into the gathering darkness.

22

SABINA

Where are you, Virginia?

Sabina almost gave voice to the words, but of course it would have been a waste of breath. Wherever the girl was, she was not about to respond to a shouted demand. The only way to find her cunning hiding place was another, even more intensive search of the barn’s cavernous interior.

At the Studebaker buggy, Sabina went to one knee with the lantern to peer at the undercarriage. Not there, and not beneath the spring wagon’s bed, either. There were no possible places of concealment in the workroom, or in the harness room at the rear. Another climb up to the loft? No point in it, she decided. The few hay bales there hadn’t been stacked, and they weren’t large enough individually for Virginia to have hidden herself behind one.

That left the three horse stalls. The loose, moldering hay in two of them might be deep enough to conceal the girl, but she would have had to burrow all the way down to the bottom to avoid Sabina’s surface poking. And if she’d done that, she wouldn’t have been able to breathe.

Unless …

Sabina’s memory jogged. The other lantern in the room upstairs—why was it missing its chimney? It would have smoked badly without it and was therefore useless. But the chimney alone could have another purpose, if Virginia had had the presence of mind to think of it and to snatch up the glass before fleeing down here.

A pitchfork leaned against the stanchion between two of the stalls. Sabina eyed it briefly, but decided using it might do more harm than good. She leaned into the nearest of the two deep-hayed stalls, sweeping the lantern close over the surface of the hay. Nothing caught her eye. But when she made the same sweep in the adjacent stall, the light glinted off something toward the rear. Glass. Chimney glass canted backward and all but hidden by mounded straw, which was why she’d missed it on the first search.

She set the lantern out of harm’s way behind her and then reached down into the hay and caught hold of the makeshift breathing tube. “All right, young lady,” she said as she yanked it free. “Come on out of there.”

There was a stirring, then a sputtering cough, and Virginia St. Ives rose up out of the hay like a dusty female Lazarus. She pawed particles of straw from her mouth and eyes, glared furiously, and said three words that Sabina was surprised she knew and that might even have shocked John. Then she scrambled upright and tried to lunge free of the stall.

Sabina blocked her way, pushed her back. This served only to infuriate the girl; she launched herself forward again, fingernails slashing like talons. One of the sharp nails narrowly missed gouging a furrow in Sabina’s cheek. The near miss raised her ire and she smacked Virginia across the face, as hard a slap as she’d ever administered to anyone. The blow was struck in self-defense, but the stinging pain in her hand was thoroughly satisfying. It was only a small measure of what this spoiled, destructive child deserved.

The force of the slap had driven all the fight out of the girl. She sat half sprawled against the stall’s back wall, her hand pressed to her reddened cheek, her expression already defeated and sullen. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” she said.