Now You See Her Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Cecelia Tichi

  All rights reserved.

  Mysterious Press

  WARNER BOOKS

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: April 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56128-0

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  References

  About the Author

  For Bill, my partner in crime

  Acknowledgments

  A book is a team effort, and I thank Bill Tichi first and foremost for unflagging zest for plot and being first reader. Susan Robinette, mystery reader extraordinaire, helped keep an eye on the big picture, and Thad Davies cued the time travel, while the Nashville chapter of Sisters in Crime is the best mix of readers and writers. I thank my agent, Meredith Bernstein, for keen editorial advice as well as adroit agenting, and my Mysterious Press editor, Beth de Guzman, for the level of editing that’s often said to be a thing of the past. Not so: Beth eyed the manuscript line by line and challenged this author to meet the higher standard. Bill Betts’s copyediting of the finished manuscript has been scrupulous, and I am grateful for his eagle eye. Like every writer across the broad spectrum of mystery fiction, I thank the readers who support our death-dealing enterprise.

  Chapter One

  They say nighttime fog is romantic, but a woman walking alone on dark city sidewalks gets a Jack the Ripper feeling to the marrow of her bones. The streetlights cast a sick haze. You can’t see a damn thing in any direction. And footsteps are approaching right now—coming from behind, amplified in the fog.

  I speed up, just three blocks from my destination on Marlborough. The steps get closer. A woman was murdered walking by the Charles River last month, less than a mile from here. Point of fact: the steps pound harder, faster, a man’s stride. He’s broken into a run, catching up.

  Or closing in? Should I thrust at the groin with my umbrella? Smash his nose with the heel of my hand?

  Or is it two people running? I hear many footsteps, so it’s hard to tell. One or two? The murdered woman was struck from behind while walking, bludgeoned to death. I veer to the curb and stop, silent, invisible, I hope. The soles strike hard enough to crack cement.

  Then a noise erupts in the fog just feet from where I stand—a sudden grunt, a scuffle. A cry of pain sucked in and stifled. Muffled? Gagged? A gargling sound too. It’s over in a flash. A sound bite.

  I don’t move. It feels like forever. The steps recede, but with a new sound—a scraping. Dragging a heavy bag? A body? Every muscle in my body clenches.

  What did I hear?

  I force myself down Dartmouth to Marlborough, fighting fear as I hurry along a vapor trail of odors—exhaust fumes, balcony barbecues. Also garbage, pet waste, mildew.

  At 9:06 p.m. this third of May, I meet Meg Givens at the Marlborough townhouse front door. Huge relief just to get here. Sensibly, she drove. We stare at this house in somber silence, and my pulse rate hikes back up. Neither of us wants to be here tonight. No one comes to greet us. There’s no welcome mat beneath our feet. Not a single lamp glows from any window, upstairs or down. A small campaign sign for the Massachusetts governor’s race pokes from the tiny front garden, but the whole townhouse is dead black, and I don’t expect the interior to be a bit cozy and welcoming, not with the task ahead of us.

  Meg’s Lanvin wafts in the thick air, along with hints of something rotting. Compost? Sewage? Rain starts falling, thick drops mixed in the fog and mist. Should I tell her about the footsteps? The sickening sound, the dragging? As a Realtor, Meg found a tenant for my upstairs flat, but she’s not a close friend. Why didn’t I drive tonight?

  “I appreciate your willingness to do this, Reggie,” she says. “So let’s get going.” Meg keys in. We step into the pitch-black interior, and a sweet, sharp odor hits my nostrils.

  Gas. “Meg, gas. Let’s get out of here.”

  “They should’ve left a light on.” Her nails scratch the wall like chalk on a board.

  “Out. Now.”

  “Here, got it.” Click.

  Light flares to reveal a front room sectional sofa in hot orange and wall-mounted hunks of scrap metal. No, they’re armor: a breastplate, a visor, a mailed glove. It’s like a dismembered knight. Then I see the chandelier, a massive work of medieval blades, halberds, swords, knives. Some are fused, others swing free. The whole fixture hangs from slender wires. We’re ankle-deep in a rug that needs mowing with a John Deere.

  “My God, a hall of armor. What do I smell?”

  “It’s sandalwood, Reggie.”

  Not gas, but sandalwood. The joke’s on me. I’m wound way too tight from the weather and the footsteps and noise…and those ghastly blades that look ready to crash. “Meg, I think somebody just got mugged.”

  “Muggings in the Back Bay are fairly common, Reggie. Should’ve warned you about the scent. I recommend citrus air fresheners, but this couple loves sandalwood. It’s the night noises that wake them up. Random noises.”

  “That’s it, Meg—some disturbing noises that I heard when I was walking over here.”

  “You walked? Reggie, I forget you’re new to the city. I’ll drive you home. I insist. And this shouldn’t take us long. The owners are out for dinner. They prefer we leave by ten. Let’s get to it.”

  I wrench my mind to the task at hand. Let go of that sidewalk incident, forget the weaponry of the Middle Ages, focus on the here and now—which feels, however, like a setup for failure. I tried to duck out of this, but Meg begged me. “You say these people hear slamming doors?”

  “Hard slams, Reggie, always late at night. The noises started the week they moved in. I sent our firm’s best handyman. Every door latch works perfectly. I hope you can help. Are you ready to start?”

  “I’m ready, but are you certain there’s no object or artifact left in the house from previous owners?” She shakes her head no. As I’ve told her, I work hands-on. To start off, I need something tangible to hold. Bare-handed, it probably won’t work.

  “Just give it a try, Reggie.”

  Closing my eyes, I try to clear my mind and concentrate on rhythmic breathing. And I wait. We wait together. Five minutes? Fifteen?

  Meg’s knuckles crack. She whispers, “How’re you doing? Any vibes?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Take your time. I’ll lower the light.” She turns the dimmer, and the room goes sepia. Minutes pass.

  “Anything?” I shake my head. “Maybe if you sit down? Or walk into other rooms? Are you concentrating?”

  “I’m conce
ntrating.” But I sound as tense as I feel in this nineteenth-century Boston townhouse whose owners think it’s haunted. That’s why I’m here this gloomy evening. I’m supposed to ID the ghost.

  The fact is, I sense nothing but a mix of sandalwood and Lanvin. Maybe there is no resident ghost. Or maybe my sixth sense is blocked, since I’m both empty-handed and distracted by the sidewalk episode. In either case, no vision, no spirits.

  Meg twists the dimmer down to brownout and stands close. “Let me prime the pump. I’ll tell you some terrible things, Reggie. These quaint Back Bay houses the tourists love—the slate roofs, the ornamental ironwork, the old brick—the naive tourists think they’re so charming. So do our clients.”

  Her voice drops low and gets grainy. “How wrong they are. Dark secrets haunt these houses. We Realtors know the true stories of Back Bay murders. Daggers, Reggie, and poisonings from tonics laced with mercury.”

  Is she making this up just to coach me?

  “Imagine this, Reggie: under the Victorian facades, under the stiff collars and lace, are crazed opium addicts, jealous younger brothers cut from parents’ wills. Fratricide, parricide. A cousin in formal evening attire trampled by a carriage horse. A beloved uncle strangled. On a night like this, Reggie, angry spirits can stir. They can slam doors. And psychic powers can summon them. You, Reggie, can hear them if you concentrate.”

  I try. I imagine a rearing carriage horse, the uncle whose eyes pop as the killer crushes his windpipe. I picture it all. So would you. Which doesn’t make it psychic.

  “You don’t feel anything?”

  “Wait—” Behind closed lids, I see pricks of light and hear a sudden whoosh. Ghost? No, the ventilation system. “Meg, my sixth sense is vacationing.”

  My laugh sounds brittle. Wrapped in her own troubles, Meg can’t possibly know why I’m on edge. It’s not only the sidewalk scare in the fog but also my entire new Boston life. Or, as my businessman ex used to say, the whole enchilada.

  Stifling her disappointment, Meg runs a hand through her dark brown hair. Her face is heart-shaped, dark eyes quick. She’s wearing a purple dress with a brooch shaped like a festive red hat, oddly jaunty in this somber scene. “It was worth a try. Anything to block a lawsuit.”

  “You really think they’d sue? For ghosts?”

  “Or disturbing their peace, whatever. The wife is convinced the house is haunted. They paid top price in last year’s hot market and spent big bucks renovating. A lawsuit could drag on for years and cost a fortune. As the listing agent, I could be named as a defendant. Even if they don’t sue, they could smear our firm. The husband is a new player in big development deals in the city. They’re political people. They host fund-raisers. You saw the yard sign outside for the primary.”

  We move through the dining room, and suddenly, I recognize the pattern in the wall covering: neat rows of clenched fists. “Aren’t these the fists of the Black Power movement?” She nods. “They papered this room in Black Power salutes?”

  “This paper was custom-milled in France.”

  “Are your clients black?”

  “He is. They moved in two months ago, even though the kitchen’s still not done. Here, sit down a minute while I write them a note.”

  We’re now in the kitchen, a construction zone of tile and stainless steel. I verify that all kitchen door latches do work. “The new owners are the first to complain about the slamming, right?”

  Her pen stops. “Why do you ask?”

  “A house can have a history.”

  “Reggie, the whole Back Bay is historical.”

  “Let me ask this: I won’t say ‘haunted,’ but is the house notorious for unexplained incidents? Do the Realtors gossip about its ‘dark secrets’?”

  She pauses and taps the pen. “Nothing specific, but for some reason, this house goes on the market every few years. For Realtors, it’s a merry-go-round with a brass ring. The insider joke is, who’s next to grab the sales commission?”

  “What do the sellers have to say?”

  “When they leave? The usual, job transfer, out-of-state move.”

  “No compaints about night noises?”

  “A seller wants a good price, Reggie. And ‘ghost’ isn’t on the disclosure sheet.” Meg meets my gaze. “Some of the Realtors are … shall I say, a bit superstitious? One of our younger agents did some research on the history of the house, and we teased her because she got so obsessed and moody and complained about cold and chills. Bad for business, I told her. We called her Igloo Sue.”

  “What did she find out?”

  “We never knew. She met a pilot and moved to Dallas, one of those whirlwind romances. Personally, I think the problem is the style of the house. It’s the only neo-Medieval on a block of Italian Renaissance. It doesn’t get enough light on the first floor. That’s my theory.” Meg finishes the note and manages a grin. “Guess you’re not a ghostbuster psychic, Reggie.”

  “Guess not.” My faux buoyance hides a certain angst. Not about this Marlborough house in particular, but my health as a psychic. True, this gift has bruised and scraped me raw, scarred my arm, nearly killed me, yet it has provided a surge of energy the NFL could use in Super Bowls. The care and feeding of my sixth sense is topmost priority.

  But on that sidewalk, I felt plain fear, and in this house, nothing. At the moment, I’m a psychic flatliner who can’t handle the city on a foggy night.

  So what? you ask. So first thing tomorrow morning, I’m discussing a homicide case with Detective Francis Devaney. He’s counting on the newfound psychic ability that recently put me in a working relationship with the Homicide Division of the Metropolitan Boston Police. No, it’s not a paid position. I’m an unofficial adviser. The reward is beyond a Wall Streeter’s comprehension: quite simply, it’s adventure beyond my wildest dreams. Me, Reggie Cutter, ex–executive wife and twenty-five-year authority on ensembles for ladies’ luncheons, volunteer committees, banquets, teas, corporate galas. I tell you, as the ultimate makeover, helping cops solve a murder beats a face-lift by a light-year.

  For the past month, Devaney has waited while my wounded arm healed from my “rookie cop” adventure. Well, my arm is now hoisting ten-pound free weights, and I’ve counted down the hours to tomorrow’s talk. Devaney’ll offer me a psychic’s deputy badge, so to speak, and I’ll salivate like Pavlov’s dog. I’m just that eager. But if I blank out, I’ll be sidelined. He’ll be polite and distant. “No hard feelings, Reggie.” “Of course not, Frank.”

  Oblivious, Meg clicks her ballpoint and reaches for her briefcase with a pro’s nimbleness. “My car’s at the corner. Maybe lunch next week,” she says. “And love that green jacket, Reggie. Bet it’s terrific in decent light.”

  “I like your purple too, Meg, and your brooch.”

  “It’s my Red Hat outfit. You must know the Jenny Joseph poem about wearing purple and a red hat when a woman gets older? It’s about breaking free.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It’s a great women’s group. You have to be over fifty.”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “We’ll welcome you. You’ll love us. It’s a fun bunch. I’m flying to this year’s convention. I’m looking for a hard-shell hatbox for the overhead.”

  Outside on the stoop, I fumble with my umbrella as Meg reaches to close the front door. Neither of us can explain the next moment. Meg’s arm is outstretched, fingers ready for the knob. Before she can grasp it, the door starts to move. We watch it, standing still as two statues. Neither of us touches the door, but both of us feel a sharp cold draft. All by itself, the massive front door swings shut with a hard slam.

  Chapter Two

  At 8:11 a.m., Devaney arrives, a burly man with a barrel chest and graying hair cut short. Blue eyes, crooked nose. “Reggie, I’m early.”

  “Detective Frank Devaney, come right in.”

  He fills the room in his tweed sport coat and a mustard tie with ovals like slide specimens. His usually ruddy cheeks are a bit colorless,
like the morning.

  “How about some coffee? How about a muffin?”

  “Water’s good,” he says.

  We sit in the front room among my late aunt’s furnishings, the carved oak chest and hurricane lamps and shelves of books. I, in navy slacks and a cream blouse with light makeup and a natural-tone lipstick, have claimed the bentwood rocker. It was my late Aunt Jo’s, as was this South End townhouse condo here on Barlow Square, which I inherited and moved into after my divorce. Devaney commands the sofa, his feet flat on my favorite of Jo’s kilims. “Where’s the pup?”

  “Biscuit’s with her co-owner. I’m now dog sharing.”

  “Vacation time-share pets?”

  Joint custody of Biscuit the beagle is a twisted tale. “My dander allergy,” I say, and let it go at that.

  “How’s the arm? Soreness gone?” He tells me that the scar from my first crime case will fade. Actually, my dimple-size scar feels like a badge.

  “And how’s the upstairs dentist?”

  Is this cop-style chitchat? H. Forest Buxbaum, D.M.D., is the new tenant Meg found for the upstairs flat, which is a huge chunk of my post-divorce income, since my settlement stocks have crashed.

  “The acid test, Frank, will be when I knock at Dr. Buxbaum’s door with a midnight toothache.”

  He chuckles, asks about my kids.

  “Jack’s still drawing a paycheck in Silicon Valley, and Molly’s probably got a sleeping bag in her sculpture studio in Providence. Both fine. And your boys, still overseas?”

  “One in the desert, one at sea on a destroyer. Their mother wants them back stateside.” He rubs his eyes. “I do too. They’re adults, and still we worry.”

  I nod. “They’re out on their own but still our kids.”

  “Maybe I will take that coffee.”

  It occurs to me that he’s stalling. He looks tired. “Frank, was a crime reported on Dartmouth Street last night at about nine? It’s on my mind. I heard footsteps and scuffling on the sidewalk in the fog.”

  “Walking by yourself? Reggie, you’re not in a gated community anymore.”