Carolyn Haines - Wishbones

I took my shoes off and crept up the stairs. A lot of mysterious things were happening on the third floor. Disappearing ghosts, locked-up dogs. It was hard to snoop when people were going to and fro to costume and makeup. This was a perfect opportunity.

I eased into the hallway and listened. I heard only silence, except for the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes that still hung outside.

Moving silently along the wall, I paused before each door to listen. If Estelle was hiding in the house, she was quiet as a church mouse. I thought I heard a dull pounding, but it was only my heartbeat in my ears. The silence was downright scary. I’d never heard a house so soundless, as if even the past had been sucked from it.

The doors to the ballroom were open, and I glanced around, half hoping someone was still working in costume or makeup. I’d managed to frighten myself just a tad, and some company would have been welcome.

White screens made small dressing rooms that were like ghostly alcoves all over the huge room. Dresses and outfits hung on dressmaker dummies, giving the illusion that someone was there. It was a creepy place. I was about to leave when I heard a soft thumping sound. This time I knew it wasn’t my imagination.

I couldn’t be certain, but it sounded like kicking. Or something thudding, step by step, down a flight of stairs.

Something really awful was nagging at the back of my mind, but I pushed hard to keep it submerged.

Walking through the sheet-draped alcoves, I felt like every idiotic teen in every idiotic teen horror movie. I’d sat in many an audience screaming, “Don’t go up the stairs! Don’t open the door! Don’t go in the laundry room!” And yet here I was, walking through a room that looked like a set for some psycho lurker to jump out and grab me.

I heard the thudding again, but it seemed neither closer nor farther away. In the maze of the screens, I’d lost my bearings in the huge room. I kept walking, slowly, moving and wishing that Tinkie or Graf or Sweetie or Chablis would appear and laugh at my foolishness. I’d just spied the exit and began to make my way there and back to the safety of the second floor when the strange notes of a pianoforte came from a corner of the ballroom.

In the times I’d been in costume and makeup, I’d never noticed such an instrument. The skin on the back of my neck and my arms marched crazily around in goose bumps.

I recognized the tune, though I couldn’t name it.

A woman’s voice, low and sultry, began to sing, “Hush, hush, sweet Charlotte.”

My blood literally ran cold. I knew that song. The movie had terrorized me as a child when “John’s” head tumbles down the stairs and lands at Bette Davis’s feet.

That was the thudding. That was the sound. John’s head thumping step by step as it rolled to the bottom!

I wheeled and spun to beat it back to the second floor when I heard a delicious giggle, warm and rich.

There was something about that giggle that stopped me. It came again, far too amused to be dangerous. I knew who it was.

“Jitty!” I’d been had by a haint. “Jitty, you’d better show yourself!”

She came out from behind one of the screens wearing the layered tulle ball gown that Bette Davis had worn in the movie. The front of the dress was covered in a huge bloodstain.

“John!” She came toward me holding out bloody hands. “John! Don’t leave me!”

“Stop it.” I backed away from her. I couldn’t help it, even though I knew she wasn’t “Charlotte.” She was thoroughly convincing.

She wiped her hands on the gown. “See, you’re not the only Delaney who can act. You should see your face. You thought my heel whackin’ the floor was ole John’s head tumblin’ along, didn’t you?”

“If you weren’t dead I’d probably kill you.” I was exasperated and panting from fear, but I was also glad to see her. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching out for you.”

“Thanks. You’ve got a real unique way of showing it.” I took a deep breath and regained my composure. “Got any good tips for me?”

She looked around the room. “There’s something really strange about this house. I haven’t gotten a handle on it yet, but I’ll get back with you. In the meantime, you’d better check in with that man of yours. He’s looking for you.”

She shimmered away, and before she was completely gone, I heard Graf calling my name.

“Be right there!” I yelled and beat it out the door before I had a chance to get lost again.

I ran into Graf’s arms with enough force to make him stagger.

“Sarah Booth.” He hugged me tight. “What’s wrong?”

“I scared myself.” It was as close to the truth as I would go. While I hadn’t hesitated to tell him about the woman in the red dress who seemed to haunt Federico’s house, I wasn’t about to tell him about Jitty.

He eased me back so he could look into my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t learn much from Dallas or Sally. They’ve heard noises, but nothing that really bothered them.” His beautiful eyes twinkled. “But Tinkie hit pay dirt.”

I didn’t want to look away from Graf. In his eyes I glimpsed an extraordinary image of myself. I was valuable, desirable, necessary. I liked that reflection far better than the one in my mirror. Graf saw the best in me and ignored the rest. What a wonderful gift.

I’d held back, but I needed to tell him something. I could make no guarantees, but I could be honest. “Graf, each day my heart opens a little more to you.”

He kissed me lightly. “I have no great faith that somehow I won’t screw this up. But I am trying.”

“Me, too.” It was all we could ask of each other, and the possibilities were terrifying. I changed the subject to something more manageable. “What did Tinkie find?”

“I’ll let her tell you.” He escorted me to the kitchen where Tinkie was whirling up a blender of celebratory margaritas. She met me with a full-wattage smile that reminded me of expensive orthodontic procedures.

“What did you find out?” I asked as I took a glass of “that frozen concoction” and passed one to Graf.

Tinkie licked the salt from the rim and arched one eyebrow-a newly acquired trait. “Federico said there was a floor plan for this house at an architect’s in Petaluma. I called, but the office had already closed for the day. Tomorrow morning while you’re filming, I’ll visit Senor Lopez and pick up a copy of the plans.”

“Tinkie! That’s perfect.” I checked my watch. It was six o’clock, which meant it would be four in Los Angeles. “I’m going to call Sheriff King and check on Suzy Dutton’s autopsy report. It’s peculiar that we haven’t heard a word from him. I figured for sure he’d have me taken back to the States in chains.”

“You do have a way with lawmen, Sarah Booth.” Tinkie turned on the blender to whip up another round of drinks, effectively blocking my reply.

While I took the telephone to the front hallway to make my call, she turned ice cubes into delicious tequila slush.

Sheriff King was leaving his office when my call went through, but he took it. My first question was direct and to the point about Suzy’s autopsy.

“Well, well, Miss Delaney. It isn’t every day that a suspect calls to check in with me.”

“Have you gotten the autopsy report on Suzy Dutton?” I asked for the second time.

“I’m trying to keep the coroner’s ruling out of the press,” he said, “but I don’t reckon you’ll be spreading the news. Word all over Los Angeles is that your movie is cursed. Rumors abound, and most of them center on your director. Folks are saying some of his past deeds are coming home to roost.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Talk like that isn’t good for a movie.”