“Oh. There’s a cheerful idea.” Becca closed her eyes. “My mother is warning me to run from a murderer who is still out there. Okay. You and Rachel were the only ones in the room when she yelled. One of you did it.”
“I was eight years old in nineteen seventy-eight.”
“Joanne. I was kidding. Rachel?” Becca leaned away from her. “You’re more likely to have shot my parents than Rachel Perry, eight years old or not. You have no idea what that woman’s been through, but she’s one of the strongest and most loving people I know. ”
“I’m not implying Dr. Perry shot your parents.” Jo felt the slight physical distance between them and was unsettled by a sense of loss. “I’m just saying your mother’s warning should be taken seriously, is all. You might be in some kind of danger.”
A bleakness passed over Becca’s expressive features that aged her in seconds. “I’m tired of this,” she said quietly. “All these questions, not an answer in sight. I’ve been asking these questions since I was sixteen, Jo.”
Becca’s gaze became uncertain, and Jo felt the air between them prickle oddly. Becca shifted closer to her, and lowered her head until it rested on Jo’s shoulder. A long breath escaped them both. Becca settled against her, her body relaxing in stages. Her cold fingers sought Jo’s in the thick grass and entwined in them.
Jo stared pop-eyed into the distance, her jaw clenched. Words ran through her head in rapid succession, punctuated by exclamation points. Words that rarely occurred to her, like “right” and “need.”
Becca’s touch was purely platonic. Jo had witnessed this phenomenon the other night, her easy physical affection with her friends. Becca was tired and afraid and she needed comfort. She apparently found something comforting in resting her head on Jo’s shoulder and holding her hand. Jo felt the firm swell of Becca’s breast against her arm, smelled the light vanilla scent of her hair, soft against her throat. Becca lifted her head and looked into Jo’s eyes, and her lips parted. They stared at each other in silence beneath the Lady’s kind gaze.
“I set up a Spiricom in the living room,” Jo said quickly. “It was active when the radio’s transmission came through.”
Becca sat up and blinked at her. “A spiri-what, now?”
“All signs look very promising for a repeat sending, Becca. You’ll need to take some time off work, and Dr. Perry needs to be informed not to show the house for several days.”
“Jo, what are you talking about?”
Jo braced herself. “In order to create the most favorable conditions for an additional message, you’re going to have to be physically present at the site of the last two transmissions. Namely, the house.”
Becca was looking at her with dawning horror, so Jo got the worst of it over with fast.
“I have to be there, too, to catch the transmission. You and I are going to move into your childhood home, and we’ll have to stay there until we hear from your mother again.”
Chapter Five
“You and Dr. Call are moving into the house tonight,” Becca’s Uncle Mitchell said slowly, “and you plan to stay there until your mother does what again?”
“Until she speaks to us again from beyond the grave.” Becca helped herself to another sauce-drenched manicotti shell. “And hopefully, tells us something relevant for once, such as ‘Here’s how I really died.’ You want more of this, Jo?”
Jo shook her head, not bothering to lift her baleful gaze from her plate. Apparently, if Becca’s new BFF didn’t like what was served, she didn’t eat. Well, she had briefed Jo about the menu at this dinner and warned her thoroughly about her uncle’s capacity to infuriate. Jo still insisted on coming, and Becca had only the foggiest notion of why. Given her love of socializing, this family dinner should have held all the appeal for Jo as dawn for a vampire. But Becca figured she was a big girl, she could deal.
“Rebecca, you’re serious?” Patricia looked to her husband for guidance. “For one thing, the house on Fifteenth isn’t really available, is it?”
Becca grimaced with the old mixture of irritation and fondness for her aunt. Trust Patricia to zero in on the crux of the matter. “It’s vacant right now, and Rachel sees no problem holding off on renting it for a while.” She nudged Rachel’s ankle gently with her shoe.
“Yes, that’s right.” Rachel patted her lips with a linen napkin. “The market’s abysmal anyway, Mitch. We’ll have a better shot at finding good tenants in the fall, when the universities are back in—”
“Becca, I don’t understand the purpose of all this.” Mitchell Healy had a mellifluous voice that served him well in charming white-collar juries in a courtroom. Around his own cherry wood dining room table, his tone tended toward the prosecutorial. “Since when did someone with your intellect suddenly start believing in séances and ghost stories?”
“Since my dead mother started yelling at me out of a radio.” Becca bit deeply into her third slice of garlic bread and tried to bank her impatience. It was expecting a lot, asking these two to take all this seriously. She still struggled with it herself, and she was less hide-bound than her aunt and uncle. She spoke with her mouth full largely because she knew it drove Mitchell crazy. “We’re trying to find out if Mom really committed suicide.”
“Becca, Maddie’s death — and my brother’s — were tragedies.” Mitchell’s patrician features grew less stern. He nodded to his wife, who refilled his coffee cup. “And no one can blame you for wanting a different ending to that grim story. But honestly. Electronic Voice Phenomenon? No offense intended, Dr. Call.”
“As I said, I heard that voice yesterday myself, Mitch,” Rachel said. “It was truly astonishing.”
Becca appreciated Rachel’s support, but Jo was frowning at her uncle with open dislike. Becca hoped she would never be the target of those spooky eyes when they lasered anger. She nudged Jo’s foot with her own. If the evening continued like this, Becca would be tap-dancing beneath the table, stepping on Jo and Rachel by turn. Jo ignored her, in any case.
“Sometimes tragedies can be explained by unconventional means, Mitch.” Jo had been introduced to Becca’s uncle as Mitchell. He was Mitch to no one but his wife and Rachel. “But only if we’re open to asking the right questions.”
“‘The question of ghosts,’ to quote Derrida.” Mitchell’s tone was polite. “I’m afraid I can’t follow you there, Joanne. Nothing in my philosophy or my life experience has ever given me reason to invest in the supernatural.”
“I appreciate the thought, but my work is quite well funded.” Jo was stone-faced.
“Patricia, you’ve outdone yourself, as usual,” Rachel said, and Becca slumped in relief. “I don’t see how you put in full days running that shelter and still manage to turn out such delectable din—”
“I’d like to know more about the scientific basis of your work, Joanne.” Mitchell steepled his fingers on the table. “In the research, has anyone ever actually produced empirical evidence of an afterlife?”
“All the research has produced empirical evidence,” Jo said blandly. “‘Empiricalʼ simply means information gathered by ob-serv-ation and experiment, Mitch. If you intended to say proof, it depends on what standard you’re referencing. But yes, EVP has provided ample proof of some form of afterlife existence to meet my professional standards.”
Becca stirred cream into her coffee hard, her spoon ringing inside the stoneware cup. She caught Patricia’s eye and saw her weary smile. Affection for her won over irritation, at least for now. She could remember a hundred times during her adolescence in this house when Patricia’s apologetic looks tried to ease Mitchell’s interrogations.