“I’m going to take care of that in a minute,” Garth said easily, “just as soon as I get you breathing normally. It won’t do for you to have a heart attack. I’m here, and I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I’m going to see what I can do about taking care of your ghost problem. Now take a deep breath and tell me you’re not afraid any longer.”
Gradually, the woman’s color and breathing became more regular. She took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. “I’m... not afraid.”
“Tell me again.”
“You’re here, Garth. I’m not afraid.”
“Good,” Garth said as he rose from the bed and picked up the flashlight. “Now just sit there; be calm, and keep breathing normally.”
He stepped to the foot of the bed, swept the light around the floor, finally spotted the thing in a corner. In three quick strides he was across the room. He bent down as the creature was about to leap away, gripped it firmly around the haunches, picked it up. Thick, powerful legs with webbed feet clawed at the air as the animal writhed in Garth’s hand.
“Oh, my God,” Elsie said, putting her hands to her mouth. “What is it?!”
“Just what it looks like, and it certainly didn’t come out of the Hudson. Do you need to use the bathroom right away?”
“I... don’t think so.”
“Good,” Garth said evenly as he casually tossed the creature into the bathroom adjoining the bedroom, then closed the door. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“Do you believe me now about the ghosts, Garth?”
“I most certainly do, my dear, and I plan to do a little exorcising. Listen to me: I’m going downstairs to get the lights back on; it’ll take me about five minutes. I want you to just sit where you are, keep taking deep breaths, and think happy thoughts. I’ll be right back. Things are going to be all right now. Okay?”
“O... Okay.”
The living carpet of cockroaches scattered from the beam of light as Garth descended from the second floor and crossed the living room, flipping light switches as he went. The smell of rotting garbage grew more pungent as he went down into the basement. He opened the circuit-breaker box and found all the switches, and the lights in the house came back on. Next he moved around the cavernous, dust-filled basement, brushing aside thick, intricate tapestries of cobwebs as he went. The wine cellar that hadn’t been used in decades was empty, save for a mound of broken black plastic bags that was piled to waist height, spewing garbage. River rats as big as woodchucks scurried away as Garth swept the beam of his flashlight over the expanse of rotting food. He found a second cache of garbage in a tool room, and in another five minutes found an unlocked basement window. He locked the window, then went back up to the second floor, where he found Mary, dressed in jeans, sandals, and a baggy sweater, sitting on the bed next to Elsie.
“We owe our friend and neighbor an apology, Mary. She really has been haunted, and somebody did, in fact, touch her neck — probably after soaking his hand in ice water. Now I plan to do a little haunting of my own.”
“What the hell is that?!” Mary said, almost jumping off the bed as the creature in the bathroom smacked against the door.
Garth opened the door, went into the bathroom, and once again grabbed the animal, which had landed in the bathtub. He brought it into the bedroom, held it up. “It’s just a big frog.”
Mary’s eyes went wide as she stared at the creature, and she laughed nervously. “A very big frog!”
“It is that. I’d estimate this guy weighs upwards of fifteen pounds, and, unless it was stolen, it set Elsie’s ghosts back about a thousand dollars. These big guys come from South America. You may remember a few years back when some guy imported one and tried to enter it in that famous frog-jumping contest. It was finally disqualified after a lawsuit, but not before it had eaten half the competition.”
Mary shook her head. “Garth? I saw all the cockroaches downstairs, and the whole place reeks of garbage. You and I do know that Elsie keeps a clean house. What’s going on here?”
“Elsie’s going to tell us,” Garth replied, tossing the giant frog back into the bathroom and once again closing the door. He went to the bed, put his hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “Elsie, you said once before that you couldn’t afford to, as you put it, sell the house for a song. But somebody has been trying to buy it for a song, haven’t they?”
“Well, I don’t...”
“Did somebody come to you and make an offer after the stories about this house appeared in the papers and you couldn’t get any more buyers?”
Elsie brushed a wisp of white hair away from her eyes and looked up at Garth. “Yes — a really nice young couple. They came to see the house two or three times, looked all around from the attic to the basement. They made me an offer, but it was way too low. How did you know?”
“Being in this house must enhance my psychic powers. Elsie, I want you to tell me all you know about this nice young couple.”
She did, and in a few days Garth had compiled sufficient information from computerized bank files, motor-vehicle records, credit bureaus, former employers, real-estate agents, the former owner of the house in an expensive section of Westchester where John and Linda Luft now lived, and their current neighbors, to visit the Luft home, where there was a large For Sale sign stuck in the front lawn.
“John Luft?”
The young man who had answered the door stared at Garth, making no effort to hide the suspicion in his dark eyes. He had the look of a man who was suspicious of a lot of people, and with good reason.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“My name’s Garth Frederickson. I’m a friend of Elsie Manning. She asked me to come around and speak to you.”
At the mention of Elsie’s name, the suspicion left John Luft’s eyes, instantly replaced by an expression of innocence and charm. “Elsie Manning. What a lovely old lady. How is she?”
“Actually, she’s not doing too well — that house is really too much for her. She’s very anxious to sell it, and you and your wife were the last people to express an interest. That’s why I’m here.”
Now other things moved in Luft’s eyes, greed and triumph. He started to laugh nervously, cut himself off, licked his thin lips. “Uh, sure. Come on in.”
Garth entered the house and followed John Luft, who was walking jauntily and snapping his fingers, into a living room decorated with huge, garish, abstract paintings that Garth judged were expensive, but of dubious artistic merit.
“You want a drink or something?” Luft continued, motioning for Garth to sit down in an overstuffed chair.
“No, thanks,” Garth replied, easing himself down into the chair and casually crossing his legs.
“Garth Frederickson,” Luft said as he sat down on a sofa and studied the rangy, powerfully built man with shoulder-length, thinning, wheat-colored hair and soulful brown eyes who was also studying him. “You’re pretty well known, right?”
“Am I? I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen your picture in the papers. You’re a private investigator. You’re married to Mary Tree — my wife and I love her music, buy all her records — and you’ve got a weird little brother who’s even more famous than you are.”
Garth smiled thinly. “It sounds like you’ve got me pegged.”
“Uh, how come Elsie sent a private detective to talk to me?”
“She didn’t send a private detective; I’m here as her friend and neighbor. She asked me to speak with you on her behalf.”
“She’s... ready to sell the house?”
“Yes. Are you and your wife still interested in buying it?”