“Katie?”
She was suddenly weary of the doubt from her own brother. “Isn’t that what you taught me to say, Sean? People will think that you’re crazy, don’t ever tell them that you speak to ghosts?”
Sean groaned. “Oh, God, Katie, please!”
“Sean, I’m telling you the truth!”
He walked away from her, slamming his palm against his forehead. “I should never leave you. Screw the whole career thing. My only sister is going to wind up locked away in a nuthouse.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for the vote of confidence!”
“Katie, the dead are-dead.”
“Fine. As you say. Therefore, I wasn’t talking to anyone.”
He stared at her and walked to the end of the table.
Right where Bartholomew was sitting.
He walked by Bartholomew, pacing. “All right, Katie, you talk to the dead. If you talk to the dead, why don’t you mumbo jumbo up one of the murdered girls and ask her who killed them?” Sean demanded.
“They don’t know who killed them.”
“Right.”
“The killer walked up behind them with some kind of plastic bag, slipped it over their heads and then strangled them.”
“How convenient. They never saw his face.”
“Well, it’s true,” she said stubbornly.
He reached for the chair at the end of the table. “Call one of them. Let me ask a few questions through you.”
He started to sit. She gasped as Bartholomew stood and angrily tugged at the chair. To Katie’s amazement, it moved.
And Sean plunked down on the floor.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
Katie cast Bartholomew a glance and hurried to help her brother to his feet, but Sean was already up.
And confused. He gripped the chair hard before sitting in it again.
He stared at Katie, folding his hands slowly before him. “Katie, you’re beautiful. And brilliant. And you have the voice of a lark. You love it here, you want to live and work here, and that’s all great. But maybe you shouldn’t be here. Maybe you’re just too steeped in the history-and water sports,” he added dryly.
“Sean, I talked to ghosts when I was in school, in New York, and in Boston,” Katie said.
“Is there a ghost in here now?” Sean asked.
“Yes.”
“One of the dead women?”
“No.” Sean was waiting. “A pira-a privateer named Bartholomew,” she said. “He moved the chair because you were mocking me.”
“Bartholomew. Bartholomew, can you hear me?” Sean called out loudly in a deep voice.
“Will you tell him that I’m dead-not deaf?” Bartholomew demanded.
“He said that he’s dead, not deaf,” Katie said.
Her brother shook his head. “Katie, I want to believe you. If he’s here, why can’t I see him?”
“Why can’t he see you?” Katie asked Bartholomew. “By the way, you can ask the questions yourself. I don’t need to repeat them.”
“He can’t see me the way some people can’t hear a tempo, the same way some people have no empathy for others, the same… He doesn’t have the right sense for it, and he just isn’t willing to try,” Bartholomew said. “No insult-most people don’t.”
“He says that you don’t have a sixth sense,” Katie said.
“Why is he here?”
“To protect you, of course!” Bartholomew said.
“He wants to protect me,” Katie said.
“Tell him that I’m home now.”
“He can see that.”
“So why won’t he leave?”
“Because he’s got the sense and intuition of a peg leg!” Bartholomew said.
“You’ve got the sense and intuition of a peg leg,” Katie told her brother.
“Lord help us all!” Sean muttered.
“All right, Katie, he’s your brother, but he’s just about daft,” Bartholomew said. He walked to the book. She saw him concentrate.
Then he picked it up; it floated in the air.
He let it fall with a heavy thud.
Sean leapt out of his chair, staring. He looked at Katie, then at the book. Naturally, he picked up the book, searching it for wires.
“I told you,” Katie said, “I am good friends with this fine fellow, Bartholomew.”
Sean set down the book. “Katie… Look, whatever this was, whatever you see…hear, you still have to keep it quiet. Do you understand? A man like David will think you’re crazy.”
“I didn’t think that you were happy about David to begin with,” Katie said.
“David was my friend. An all-right guy. But he’s bitter, tainted. Life hit him hard, and now he’s back, and there’s been another murder. It’s almost like someone is trying to frame him-or he is a murderer and brilliant and I’ll have to shoot myself when I haven’t saved you from him.”
“He’s not a murderer.”
“And how do you know that for a fact?”
“Because he was sleeping with me when the last murder was committed.”
Sean groaned. “Oh, good God, I don’t want details.”