Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 16

"More to it than that. Have to get you ready for the stampede. Lets practice. Stand up."

I rolled my eyes and let out a resentful grunt, but complied.

Fran stood across from me and squared my shoulders. "Starts with the business card. Put those babies in your right blazer pocket."

"I'm not wearing a blazer," I said reasonably. Fran had begun this pointless demonstration as soon as I'd returned from a three-mile jog on Seventh Avenue Parkway, and I was still dressed in a tank top and running shorts, no pockets on either.

"Pretend. The card comes out every time your hand moves to greet and shake. Left pocket, that's for the ones you land. Give it a try."

"Do I have to do this?" I whimpered. I felt lightheaded, possibly from the physical exertion of the past hour and weekend, more likely from the emotional exhaustion of the past weeks.

"Not as easy as it looks, is it?" Fran commented, when I accidentally put an invisible card she handed me into the wrong imaginary pocket. "Let's move on. Gotta perfect the elevator speech."

"What the h.e.l.l's that?" For the ninth time in ten minutes, I regretted having agreed to attend the chamber meeting.

"Follows what you'd say to someone in an elevator. Also known as the thirty-second promo. All the pros got one. You say your name, name of the business, product or service you sell, benefits. Wham, bam, no more, ma'am."

"What am I supposed to say? I can't go as a private investigator."

"Got a point there. Tell you what, we'll whip up a set of cards on the laser printer. Make you a multilevel marketer. Perfect cover. Gives you a reason to talk to folks, and no one will linger or call later. No one clears a room faster than an MLMer. What do you want to hawk?"

"Nothing," I said stoutly. "I didn't successfully build and sell a business only to come back as a Mary Kay lady."

"Loads of other possibilities. Sc.r.a.pbooks, prepaid legal, kitchen items, household products, s.e.xy underwear, you name it."

I sulked.

"How about candles?"

I closed my eyes tightly. Unfortunately, when I opened them, Fran still stood before me, smiling expectantly. "Fine," I muttered.

"Key to these luncheons, keep moving. Meet as many folks as you can. You won't offend someone if you cut her short. Everyone does it. Don't take offense if someone's talking to you, looking at you with one eye, meantime scanning the room with the other. Unseemly, but common."

My shoulders slumped. "This is disgusting."

"Pay attention, Kris. Next tip, divide prospects into categories: gold, silver, bronze. Gold, you'll exchange cards, engage, nail down a date for a follow-up meeting. Silver, same thing, except push for a meeting but don't schedule it. Bronze, skip the meeting. Give some excuse about your schedule being booked."

I glared at her. "You do realize that I'm not really trying to get business?"

"Just telling you how it works. You may not use the technique, but watch out or someone will lay it on you."

"How do you stand to go to these meetings?"

Fran smiled in response to my dark look. "Got nothing at stake." I shook my head, suspicious. "What's the real reason you go?"

"Better than a bar. Lots of gals in one room, most of 'em sober."

I laughed loudly. "You go to chamber meetings to pick up women!"

"You never know," Fran said with a wink.

After I'd satisfied Fran that I remembered which business card went where, she dismissed me, and I drove over to Hazel Middleton's.

My intention was to pick up the key to the lab room in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Fielder mansion. In applying down-to-earth logic to the illogical spirit world, I'd decided to spend time in the room that had changed Nell Schwartz's personality. Why chase ghosts across four floors of a mansion if I could narrow my search to one small area?

The plan might have worked, except Hazel greeted me at the front door of the carriage house with the news that the key was nowhere to be found. She invited me in, and I followed her to the kitchen, where she hit a b.u.t.ton on the blender and shouted over the whir. "The secret to my longevity."

I cast a skeptical eye at the unattractive mix.

"My own juice concoction. Carrots, celery and apples."

She offered me a taste, but I declined, certain a mere sip would curdle in my stomach.

"Do you have any other secrets?"

Hazel nodded. "I read as often as I can, and I write in a journal every day, to keep my mind active."

We moved to the living room, where we sat in matching wingback chairs.

"What do you write about?"

"This and that. Would you like to see?"

"I'd love to."

From the circular table between us, Hazel Middleton handed me a perfect-bound book with a pink floral pattern on the cover. I opened it to the bookmark in the middle and read two recent entries.

July 22: Charlotte came over. Brought some yummy cookies. Said Dee won't be able to make it for pinochle on Monday. Been feeling puny. Will send her a card. Washed blouses, nightgown, bras and panties. Also put new bulb in nightlight in bathroom. Watered the cactus.

July 27: Nell and Lyndon Flax came by, and we had a picnic in the park. Ham sandwiches and deviled eggs. Afterward, we went to the grocery store. They told me to load up as there were two people to help me. They carried all the stuff to the kitchen, and I took my time putting it away.

"That's nice," I said. "Every time I've tried to keep a journal, all I did was complain."

Hazel smiled faintly, a move that drew attention to her light green juice mustache. "I like to emphasize the good. The more you focus on the good, the better life becomes. The better life becomes, the easier it is to focus on the good."

No wonder my brief journal-writing stints had brought on depression. I'd taken a different approach than Hazel Middleton, highlighting fights with lovers and slights from family members, spotlighting frustrations and failures, and I'd never felt the therapeutic effects of purging others claimed to enjoy.

Maybe I'd try again, this time doc.u.menting the superficial, pleasing aspects of life.

I started to close the book, prepared to set it on the table, when a familiar name caught my eye.

July 29: Philip stopped again, with chocolates, wrapped truffles from bodiva. I like them, but they don't like me. Too rich. He's a kind man. Wants me to reconsider his offer. I'll leave that up to Nell.

After I read the entry, which undoubtedly referred to Philip Bazi, the menacing developer, I excused myself from Hazel Middleton, and drove back to the office, at unsafe speeds.

When I burst through the door, out of breath, I startled Fran, who nearly tipped over in her chair. Her legs fell off the desk, awkwardly hitting the floor, and the letters in her lap, more replies to her Westword ad, flew in all directions.

While she gathered them, I sat at my desk, fanning myself with a client file, recounting my visit to Hazel Middleton's.

"Roberta Franklin has to make a decision," I said frantically. "Philip Bazi is worming his way into Hazel's life."

"Cool it," Fran said, straightening up. She handed me a tissue, which I used to wipe the sweat from my forehead. "Bert can't move forward till she has conclusive evidence. What's the verdict, ghosts living there or not?

I threw up my hands. "Who knows?"

"That won't satisfy her, Kris. You need to make a recommendation."

"How can I?" I said defensively. "Hazel, who should know best, laughs at the suggestion. She claims the spirits exist only in her daughter's imagination."

Fran handed me a battery-operated, hand-held fan from her bottom desk drawer. "The daughter claims the place is haunted?"

I nodded. "Nell spent almost two hours telling me about incidents. In ninety-degree heat, I had to weed her entire front lawn and act sympathetic."

Fran smiled broadly. "Hot sun, chilling tales."

"Funny," I countered tersely. "If you'd taken this case, you might not be joking about it."

"Easy there, girl."

"Sorry," I said half-heartedly. "I've never felt so confused."

"Give me the five-minute recap of Nell's two-hour spiel. Helps to have two noggins tackle it."

"Nell Schwartz is sure that at least four or five ghosts live in the main house," I said with a heavy sigh. "She believes they were there when the family moved in. She and her parents lived in the north wing, on al' three floors, which were originally the library, a suite of bedrooms and a children's play area. Almost from the first night, she heard clicks in the dark."

"Clicks?"

"Rhythmic, soft ones. Only after dark, and only in her bedroom, which had been the playroom. She attributes these to a benevolent presence. Maybe the toddler who died in the house in nineteen oh-five, the son of Dr. and Mrs. Benedict."

Fran shrugged. "Sounds harmless."

"Maybe, but it's hard to discount the mirror incident. One night, a heavy mirror moved from hanging on the wall to resting against a couch.

Fran guffawed, as she moved her hands in circles. "Fat chance."

"Several friends of Nell witnessed it, too," I said steadfastly. "They were upstairs when they heard a noise on the main floor. They thought someone was breaking into the house, but when they came down, the only thing out of place was the mirror."

Fran's lips turned downward. "Could have fallen."

"It cleared two love seats and a coffee table and ended up leaning against the outer edge of the couch."

"Intact?"

"Not a hairline crack."

"Someone playing high-jinks on the family," Fran said, more a statement than a question.

I moved the fan to the back of my neck. "Nell also heard footsteps off and on. One night, they approached her bed, evenly paced as they crossed the room. At the bed, they stopped, and seconds later, she heard a ferocious bang." To emphasize my point, I brought my fist cras.h.i.+ng to the desk, which made Fran jump.

She said harshly, "Could do without the sound effects."

I grinned. "Nell felt a thump in the middle of her mattress, under the box spring. It shook the bed and terrified her. She remembers running into the hall with her eyes closed, screaming."

"Were the parents clued in on these mysteries?"

"Yes, but neither believed her. Nell did have an advocate in high school, a teacher who told her to pray for the beings to move on." Someone told her prayer would solve this mess?"

"Nell swears from the time she started talking to the spirits, they s.h.i.+fted their energy. When the clicks would start, she'd plead that she had a test the next day and had to get to sleep. They'd stop immediately."

Fran sucked her teeth. "You been in the mansion?"

"Not in the main house. Only in Hazel's carriage house and side yard. I don't want to go in there. I'd probably break my ankle in the rubble. And," I added half-seriously, "I'm scared about what happened to the Dobermans in nineteen fifty-nine, when the LaTourettes tried to convert the mansion into office suites."

"Nell spin a tall tale about pooches?"

"Not Nell. Elvira Robinson, from the historical group. Two dogs were hurled out of a second-floor, locked room, through a window, over a security fence, to the sidewalk." I clapped my hands together. "Splat! Instant death."

Fran raised her eyebrows, first the left, followed by the right, back to the left. "Another episode like that could ruin Roberta."

I nodded. "It would if she were partway through construction and had to sell."

Fran cupped her chin with both hands. "Way I see it, we have but one choice."

"Tell Roberta to walk away?" I said hopefully.

"Not so fast, skipper. Can't break Bert's heart without proof. Nope. We need to hire ourselves a paranormal investigator."

I c.o.c.ked my head. "And where will we find one of those?"

"As it happens, I know an expert. Didn't want to interfere as you plodded along, but-"

"Plodded along-"

"Know you've been doing your best, but time to speed it up. Witchy Woman. I'll call her tonight."

I groaned. "Witchy Woman?"

"Real name's Ca.s.sandra Ambrosia Antonopolus. Course that's a made-up handle, too. Born Joanne Berger. Changed her name in her teens."

"Where did you meet her, in a graveyard on Halloween?"

"No need for sarcasm. Hooked up with her at Gay Bingo."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" I huffed.