“It doesn’t matter who hired us,” said O’Brien. “I’m working for the community. Now, what have you got going for you here? Not much, conventionally speaking. There’s some morbid interest in the, what did you call it? The Teardrop Killer. There’s a certain dark appeal to death tourism, sure. Did you know that the Lizzie Borden house is a bed and breakfast?”
“I shudder,” said Dr. Cherubino.
“It’s not for everybody. Or at least, not everybody wants to admit it. But what if we underplay it? People know about that part of the town’s history, sure. What Smythe did with those industrial rolls of silk. It can be the hook, maybe. No pun intended. Because he also used a hook. We don’t have to concentrate on the murders, not exclusively. We’re inviting people to the Most Haunted Town in America. Isn’t that what you said? Isn’t that what you call it? Isn’t that what it is?”
“I made some general remarks about the fifty-mile radius surrounding the bar,” said Dr. Cherubino.
“Oh, details,” said O’Brien.
“Many towns and cities claim to be the most haunted in America,” said Dr. Cherubino. “Including St. Augustine, incredibly, which is balderdash. I admit that I’ve let the falsehoods of such feckless city fathers rankle me, and sometimes at night, abed, I have considered what steps I might take to correct the rampant misinformation, the sloppy guesswork that passes for statistics in paranormal circles, the lack of regard for serious research. Were I to compose a stern form letter to various chambers of commerce, would that be just my human vainglory talking?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, sir,” said O’Brien. “I think you have to stand up for what you believe in. You’re already a local celebrity. I think you could be a national one. I see you leading tours, acting as a spokesman for the town. I see a school dedicated to the study of the ghostly sciences, with you as the dean in a special robe. I see a series of TV movies stimulating the local economy, shot on the sites of the actual events. My BF is a respected DP.”
“And my uncle was a world-class dipsomaniac,” said Dr. Cherubino. “Is. He is still with us at a hundred and ten, and so many of his betters cold in the ground. I am sorry. This is all so overwhelming. I wish there were a way to consult with my late wife.”
“Isn’t there?” said O’Brien.
“I have never had much luck.”
“Those things are evil,” said the bartender through another mouthful of cheese and crackers. “Ouija boards.”
“My Julia would have agreed with you. Some things stand out in my memory, chiefly the amazing speed with which the phrase ‘yellow fever’ was spelled out. The planchette fairly flew from our hands.”
“I have one,” said the bartender. “My great-aunt and uncle, this was her second husband, she met him in the Army. Well, they broke off from the Baptist church because she started speaking in tongues. One day she just started speaking in tongues and the deacons didn’t like it. And my great-aunt, you know, she’s pretty stubborn, so she’s like, ‘Fine! I’ll start my own church.’ So there was this preacher that was coming through town, one of these revivalists with the tents, they were going to set up out there behind the old fruit stand. You know that place. What it had for a roof was this huge slanting sheet of rusted-out metal that used to be the back of the screen for the drive-in movie. That’s all gone now. You remember the old fruit stand, Doc?”
“I do not,” said the doctor.
“Maybe I’m not describing it right. The front of the fruit stand was the back of the old drive-in movie screen. Is this ringing a bell?”
“I fear not,” said the doctor.
“You’d drive about two miles out of town and oh, never mind. It’s gone now anyway. Anyhow, nobody wanted this traveling preacher around. He was supposed to look like a praying mantis. Now, you’re not going to believe what happened next. It just may chill and surprise you.”
Dr. Cherubino took up his conversation with O’Brien again, as if the bartender weren’t there. “I must have some assurances if we are to continue any sort of discussion. My work is important to me.”
“Of course,” said O’Brien. “And I’d never use any of it without permission, if that’s what you’re worried about. Is that why you’re worried, Dr. Cherubino?”
“How did you know my name?”
“Oh! This guy told me.”
“Bill Dawes,” said the bartender.
“Is that your name?” asked O’Brien.
“Bill Dawes,” said the bartender.
Dr. Cherubino seemed to be considering many things. Finally, he spoke. “During my time in Greece I belonged to a secret society of thirteen individuals, each of us with a different talent. Are either of you familiar with tyromancy?”
O’Brien and Bill Dawes said they were unfamiliar with tyromancy.
“It is the telling of fortunes through the medium of cheese. Each tyromancer possesses his own peculiar methodology. One, for example, might have a rat as a familiar. The answer is given according to which cube of cheese the rat decides to eat.”
“Like throwing the I Ching,” said O’Brien.
“A fascinating comparison, and not an altogether ludicrous one. Yes, you intrigue me. I am inclined to trust you, young lady. In so many ways you bring to mind my Julia. The fact remains, however, that I am not able to consult oracularly on the matter as I would like. You have eaten all the cheese.”
“Sorry,” said Bill Dawes.
“No apology necessary. As your host, I provided it to be eaten, along with these delicious crackers from Israel. I had not considered that tyromancy might be required this evening. Truth be told, I seldom have occasion to practice that art any longer. It is a lonely business, practicing tyromancy for one’s self.”
“Do you want me to run out and get some more cheese?” said Bill Dawes. He took his mulberry Goober hat off his knee, placed it on his head, and rose.
“The cheese I require must be ordered specially through the mail services,” said Dr. Cherubino.
“Well, that was some good cheese,” said Bill Dawes.
“I didn’t get any,” said O’Brien.
“I’m a pig,” said Bill Dawes. “Hey, so do you want to hear about my cousin that threw up a demon or not?”
“We do not,” said Dr. Cherubino.
“Huh,” said Bill Dawes.
Dr. Cherubino took Bill Dawes’s vacated spot on the loveseat and motioned for O’Brien. She sat down next to him. He looked into O’Brien’s eyes.
“What I propose is a test,” he said. “I will tell you the story of ‘The Black Parasol.’ If you can bear to hear it from beginning to end without going mad, without screaming or begging me to stop or fleeing this house in terror, I will give serious consideration to your business proposal.”
“Sounds great,” said O’Brien.
“I need to use the can,” said Bill Dawes.
“All the way down the hall, to the left,” said Dr. Cherubino. “Please use the latch or the door will spring open on you while you are attempting to conduct your business.”
“The haunted toilet,” said Bill Dawes.
“Merely inadequate carpentry, I fear,” said Dr. Cherubino.
He watched Bill Dawes disappear down the dark hall before turning back to O’Brien.
“The facts of the case are well-known,” said Dr. Cherubino. “I mean, of course, the mundane, earthly facts. The fire occurred in 1885. I have all the clippings, the eyewitness accounts. The house of the Black Parasol stood on the corner of Hellman and Magnolia, which you must have passed on the way here. The lot contains the shuttered remnants of a gas station and convenience store.”
“I don’t remember,” said O’Brien.
“No matter. At the time of which we are speaking, it held a rambling, almost ludicrous structure, a prominent boarding house with a few unusual features. For one thing, the house was built directly onto the street. That is, there was no lawn. The immense boarding house was immediately accessible from Magnolia and took up a great deal of the lot. The family who owned and ran it were…” He gave her a look. “Woodbines. Mr. Woodbine was an older gentleman. His wife was some years younger but had never given him offspring. It was widely suggested that she could not. They had, however, adopted a young ward, Marcella by name, who, at the time of our story, was seventeen years old and to be married the following month. Now, I must tell you that another unusual feature of the boarding house was that the Woodbines had given over a portion of the ground floor to a lazy young grocer, who set up a small shop there.”