Liliané crosses her arms haughtily and scoffs. “You seem to have a lot of information for a lowly assistant. What’s your story?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I dive in. “Since there’s not a lot of people you can tell, I’ll give it to you straight, Mrs. Barnes. I’m a psychic. I’m Isadora Duncan’s granddaughter—”
The grande dame of Barnes manor sighs and rolls her eyes. “Of course. Even in death that woman is spying on me.”
Ignoring her poke at my family tree, I continue, “As I was saying, I inherited her bookshop, and I’m a pretty good amateur sleuth. I’m actually here, undercover, investigating Vassili’s murder.”
This information rocks her world, and the all-too-familiar translucent ghost tears that leak from her eyes give me a surge of guilt.
“Sorry. I thought you would know. Isn’t his ghost on the other side with you?”
She angrily swipes her tears away and once again looks down her ethereal nose at me. “For a psychic, you don’t seem to know very much about the afterlife, darling. Clearly, I’m trapped here in this mansion because I have unfinished business. I had no idea my gorgeous Vassili had crossed over. Poor little lamb.”
There’s way too much to unpack in that tirade, so I choose to back up to the information that’s actually important. “We can debate the finer points of extrasensory perception at a later date. You claim you were murdered. What evidence do you have, and why should I care?”
Her eyes widen. Obviously she’s not used to being spoken to as an equal. “The cheek of you. Do you have any idea who I am?”
Time to knock this ghost down a peg. “Of course I do. You’re the utterly powerless ghost of a woman who lived her life so completely self-involved that none of her three children even mourn her passing.”
“Powerless, eh.” Liliané swirls into an angry mist and surges toward me.
I instinctively put my hands up over my face, as if that can stop a ghost from passing through me, but, after a moment of anticipation with no consequences, I crack open my eyelids and peer around the bathroom. “Liliané? Was there gonna be a demonstration?”
A whimpering sound causes me to turn toward the tub. And there, sulking on the edge of an enormous blue-glass bathtub, is the defeated ghost of Liliané Barnes.
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I am utterly powerless. I’ve tried to move objects. Tried to leave this place. Tried to frighten my children. But no one can see me. I can’t move anything. I can’t intimidate anyone.”
It’s difficult for me to imagine my greatest regret after death being the inability to intimidate someone, but far be it from me to want to live in this poor woman’s world. “Look, I’m sorry to be so harsh. If you really were murdered, I’ll absolutely help you. It’s kind of my thing.” I lean down and attempt to pat her shoulder.
She jerks away. “What are you doing?”
“Apparently, making the horrible mistake of attempting to comfort you.”
“Why would you be kind to me?”
“I learned the hard way that everyone deserves a second chance. Plus, I lost my mom when I was eleven, and I actually loved her.”
Liliané brushes her bleached grey-blonde hair back from her face. “I may have made a few mistakes as a mother, but I amassed a fortune and a singular collection of fine art. Not to mention, I still hold the record for most ex-husbands north of the Mason-Dixon.”
There’s no time for all the counseling this diva needs. “Let’s try to stay on topic. I’ve got to get back to the library before they start to think there’s something seriously wrong with my digestive tract. Why do you think you were murdered?”
“Simple, darling. I woke up to grab a ciggy and found a pillow smashed over my face. I struggled and thrashed, but whoever was shoving the pillow down was stronger than me. He or she just kept pushing that pillow tighter and tighter, until I couldn’t get air in my—”
“There’s no need to finish, I believe you Liliané. But I need more time to search the house, question your children, look into your affairs.”
“How did you know I was having an affair?”
“Having a what now?”
“Oh, were you referring to my financial affairs? Never mind.”
Note to self: This family is full of lechers, and did she say a cigarette? With emphysema? Unbelievable. “I need more time. How do I get back into the house? Legitimately?”
“What day is it?”
“Saturday. Why?”
She swirls around the bathroom, fluffing her hair and dabbing a finger under each eye. “Let’s see, tomorrow is Sunday. Oh, Upstairs Maid has Sundays off, darling. Show up tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. Come in through the servants’ entrance and take a maid’s uniform from the closet. You’ll have free access to the house for at least eight hours. Sometimes Upstairs Maid works ten hours . . . That should give you enough time.”
This woman is a real piece of work. “And no one will be suspicious that Upstairs Maid looks like a completely different person and came to work on Sunday?”
“Oh dear, you really are a blue-collar girl. No one even knows Upstairs Maid’s name. I doubt very seriously they’ve noticed what she looks like. You’ll be fine.”
Before this is all over, I will figure out how to punch a ghost squarely in the face. “Perfect. Looks like you found yourself a new upstairs maid.”
She checks her fingernails and sighs. “I don’t suppose you have any references?”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Well, one can’t be too careful.”
“Listen, Liliané, I’m going to help you, but don’t misinterpret that to mean I like you. I’d advise you not to push your luck with me. In the meantime, why don’t you make yourself useful and listen in on any conversations that seem suspicious or secretive. You might not be able to scare anyone—poor you—but you can definitely eavesdrop. All right?”
“How gauche.” She wipes a manicured hand across her creaseless brow. “If you insist.”
“I do. Now I have to get back.”
Hurrying down the long hallway, which I’m nicknaming Passageway of the Masters, I find the library empty of Liliané’s offspring.
Silas raises one bushy eyebrow and I subtly shake my head.
Mr. Everett stands. “Let me walk you out, Mr. Willoughby.”
“You’re too kind.” Silas hands me his briefcase and I take it with a sigh.
We head back through the grand mansion, down the wide carpeted staircase, and across the polished marble floor.
“I’ll be in touch with Iris about the board’s decision.”
“Such a generous offer, Mr. Willoughby. Perhaps more generous than she deserves.”
Despite the superficial gratitude of the statement, my clairaudience picks up an entirely different phrase. Mr. Everett is actually thinking that Iris is the least deserving and most conniving of the children.
Silas opens the car door for me.
Taking a moment to suck down a gulp of fresh, non-ashtray-scented air, I slip into the Model T and wait impatiently while he goes through the lengthy cranking startup process.