Pen Pal(70)

“Go on.”

“I think we should conduct the séance in your husband’s office.”

A distant boom of thunder rattles the windows. Of course it would happen right then because even the goddamn weather wants to see me go crazy.

“Why?”

She and Fiona share that weird look again. “Because I sense that’s where the spirit wants to have it.”

We stare at each other. Nobody says anything for a while. Then I say, “Claire, I’m going to ask you something now, and I want you to be completely honest with me.”

“Yes?”

“Is this bullshit?”

“Oh, no, my dear,” she says vehemently, shaking her head. “I assure you, this is the farthest thing from bullshit.”

As more evidence of my crumbling grip on reality, I spend a moment debating with myself about the difference between the words furthest and farthest. Then I sigh and give up.

“Fine. We’ll do the séance in Michael’s office. But if the Ghost of Christmas Past shows up, I can’t be held responsible if I crack and bludgeon it with the nearest heavy object. Let’s get this over with.”

I turn and walk down the hall, listening to their footsteps behind me and wondering if it would be poor spiritual etiquette to drink wine during a séance.

I have a feeling I’m going to need booze before this is done.

I open the door to the office and switch on the lights. Stepping aside to let Fiona and Claire pass, I notice how cold it is in the room. It feels like a walk-in freezer.

Shivering, I say, “Sorry about the temperature.”

Ignoring me, Claire wanders around, looking things over as Fiona and I watch. She sets her bag down on an occasional chair and points to the round table next to it.

“Can we move this into the middle of the room?”

“What do we need that for?”

“A round table is most conducive.”

I don’t bother asking conducive to what because we’ve officially arrived in Loonyville. When in Rome and all that.

While Fiona and I move the table, Claire unpacks her duffel bag. From it, she takes a black cloth and shakes it out, murmuring something over it. I have to assume spells. She drapes it over the table, adjusting it so it’s even to the floor all the way around, then goes back to the bag and removes three white candles which she sets in the center of the table. Next is a small bowl of unwrapped chocolates that she places beside the candles.

“What’s the chocolate for?”

“A food offering for the spirit,” Claire replies, as if it’s obvious.

I can’t resist countering this nonsense with a little logic. “How’s it going to eat if it doesn’t have a real mouth?”

“Ah, but the spirit doesn’t know it doesn’t have a real mouth, now does it?”

When I look at Fiona, she shrugs. “A little suspension of disbelief wouldn’t hurt you, dear.”

I mutter, “A little gallon of Cabernet wouldn’t hurt me, either.”

“No eating or drinking during the séance!” reprimands Claire, lighting the candles. She sends me a stern look over the rims of her glasses. “And no jewelry, either. That will have to come off.” She jerks her chin toward my wedding ring. “Along with anything else you might be wearing. Also switch off any electronic devices, please. Fiona, will you dim the lights?”

I’m expecting Fiona to shut off the main overhead light and leave the lamps on, but she kills both, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the wavering glow of the candles on the table.

The distant boom of thunder rolls through the sky again, louder this time. A sudden gust of wind howls through the trees outside. Rain patters against the windows, sliding down like silvery tears.

If Claire was going for a spooky vibe, she couldn’t have picked a better night for it.

“Everyone pull up a chair,” she says, setting a pad of paper and a pencil on the table.

I roll Michael’s desk chair over and sit. Fiona drags a side chair from one corner of the room and takes her place to my left. Claire pushes the occasional chair over, removes her duffel bag from the seat, and sets it on the floor. Then she settles herself in the chair and looks at me.

“Dear?”

“Yes?”

“You need to take off your ring.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I slip the ring off my finger and shove it into the back pocket of my jeans.

Claire looks dissatisfied. “It can’t be on your body. Perhaps you could put it on the desk?”

I don’t know why it should be such a big deal, but I don’t want to wreck the possibility of finding out what the ghost who doesn’t exist and isn’t haunting me wants, so I take my wedding ring from my pocket and put it on Michael’s desk blotter.

Right next to the folded newspaper with the article about his death.

His face stares up at me in black and white from beneath that terrible headline.

Local Man Drowns.

My heart palpitating, I carefully move the ring to his picture. Then I nudge it over until it’s resting atop his face. I don’t know why, but it feels right. As I back up, it seems as if one of his eyes peers out from the circle of gold, following my every move.

Unnerved, I return to the table and take my seat. I wipe my sweating palms on my jeans and try to shake off the gathering sense of foreboding.