The fascinating art show ends as we walk through a gilded archway into a library three times the size of Mr. Willoughby’s, and nearly as large as the Bell, Book & Candle.
Violet, Roman, Iris, and her husband sit on the opposite side of a massive oak table, each of them looking much the worse for wear.
Violet still has streaks of smeared mascara under her eyes and her plump skin is an unhealthy ashen hue.
Roman is smoking, and the ashtray in front of him would indicate he’s mowed through half a pack, waiting for our arrival. He certainly bears some portion of the responsibility for the wretched smell clinging to the walls. Although, I can’t believe he’s allowed to smoke near such priceless artwork.
Iris does not look up. Her hands continue to fidget in her lap, while her husband tightens the protective arm already around her muscular shoulders.
This is honestly the first time I’ve taken any notice of the husband. He’s much older than his late-thirties bride, has obvious hair plugs, and his eyes scream, “We’ve been tucked one too many times.”
Mr. Everett gestures to two of the rolling wooden chairs on our side of the table. “Please have a seat. Do you care for water, Mr. Willoughby?”
I’m about to mention that I’d like some water, but I remember I’m a mousy unassuming assistant and wisely keep my mouth shut.
Silas for the win. “Yes. Two waters would be most appreciated, Mr. Everett.”
The executor gestures to a servant who had been standing in the corner, and, let’s be honest, had completely escaped my notice.
He then opens his thick leather folio and begins going over the extraordinarily boring preamble to Liliané’s will. “I won’t reread the personal gifts and family heirlooms. There shall be no change in those bequests. However, the estate, the art collection, the grounds, the vineyards, and all of Liliané’s liquid assets are to be divided 30/70 between the Queen of Heaven Pet Cemetery and the Pin Cherry Harbor Animal Shelter.”
Roman throws his half-smoked cigarette on the carpet and shoves his chair back in anger.
Violet screams and stamps out the cigarette butt.
Iris turns and buries her head in her husband’s chest, as her shoulders shake with sobs.
Her sorrow has nothing to do with her departed mother. My special gifts indicate her anguish is one hundred and ten percent in response to the loss of her inheritance.
Roman storms out of the library, muttering unrepeatable epithets under his breath about his recently deceased mother, Euro-trash, and filthy animals defecating on his birthright.
Violet puts her hand over her tiny, rosebud mouth, and, even with the help of my extra senses, I can’t quite tell if she’s offended or about to be sick.
She runs out whimpering.
Mr. Everett takes it all in stride. “Iris, do you have any questions for Mr. Willoughby?”
“Just one.” Her sharp features pinch in disdain. “How can you live with yourself?”
Silas smooths his mustache and replies, “Were you and your mother close, Mrs. Barnes-Becker?”
Unfortunately for poor Iris she has no idea who she’s dealing with. But I have the advantage of knowing that when Silas answers a question with a question, he’s about to serve up a lesson.
Mr. Becker steps in to defend his wife. “I’m not sure what business it is of yours.”
“It may, in fact, not be my business, Mr. Becker. However, your wife asked me a question and I feel I am duty-bound to respond.”
Iris stares quizzically at Silas. “Everyone in this town knows my mother and I had a falling out. That doesn’t mean she has the right to cut me out of the will. I paid my dues. I was born in this house, grew up in this house, endured her endless insults in this house. I deserve compensation.”
This time, she makes no attempt to hide her tears.
Silas nods compassionately. “I wonder, would you have any interest in serving on the board of the Pin Cherry Harbor Animal Shelter?”
Her head snaps up and my initial read of her energy pulses with negativity. But as a light flickers in her eyes, I can feel her whole essence shift. “I could do that. I like animals.”
“Very well. I shall put a motion before the board at our next meeting. Perhaps you would entertain the use of the Barnes manor as a permanent fundraising location for the shelter and other nonprofits in town. We would, of course, require a full-time caretaker to live on the property, and see to the day-to-day affairs here. This position would come with compensation.”
For a split-second Iris emits a flicker of pleased energy, which rapidly shifts towards guilt.
I’d like to know if that guilt is solely connected to her affair with Vassili, or if there’s more to it. Time to snoop. I lean toward Silas and whisper, “I need to use the restroom, Mr. Willoughby.”
He nods. “Mr. Everett, would you be kind enough to point my assistant toward the nearest lavatory?”
“Of course. Follow me, Miss.”
Stepping out of the library, he gestures down the long hallway. “And then you’ll make a left, go down three doors, and the Cerulean Bath will be on your right.”
Bowing my head in an awkward partial curtsy, I shuffle down the hall, turn the corner, and, once I’m out of sight, lean up against the wall next to a marble bust of Shakespeare on a pedestal. I whisper into the stone ear of the somewhat-disputed king of tragedies, “Violet and Roman are not going to be happy when they find out about the deal that Iris struck.”
And before I can enter the Cerulean Bath, an icy chill sweeps down the corridor and goosebumps rise on my arms.
All of my senses, the regular and the extra ones, are on high alert. I dive into the bathroom and close the door.
But right behind me something bursts through the door.
And I mean through the door. Through the closed door!
“Liliané?”
The swirling mist coalesces and definitely resembles the woman whose face I saw in the casket a little more than twenty-four hours ago.
“You can see me?”
“Apparently.”
She exhales dramatically and fans herself with one hand. “Fantastic, darling. I’ll take a dry martini, dirty, two olives.”
“You know you can’t actually drink a martini, right?”
“Don’t lecture me! I’m Liliané Barnes! If I can have a martini delivered to the top of the Eiffel Tower, I can certainly have one in my own home. Now, scoot!”
“I mean, you can’t drink a martini because you’re dead.” I cross my arms and raise one eyebrow.
“How inconvenient, darling. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“We’ll bump that up to your supervisor later. At least someone can see and hear me. Now we can get to the bottom of things.”
“Get to the bottom of what?”
“My murder, of course.”
Chapter 8
A small portion of my shock and awe can be attributed to seeing a ghost other than Grams, but the majority is hanging on this one’s last words. “I’m sorry, your what?”
“My murder. Are you hard of hearing as well as poorly dressed?”
I sincerely hope this ghost can’t hear my thoughts, because I’m starting to get a real feel for why her children are estranged! “Oh, I heard you. Except, according to the official report, you died of natural causes. There was no autopsy and no suspicion of foul play. And your family physician said you had a long history of emphysema and died in your sleep of respiratory complications.”