"They made a ghost? That's crazy.”
I shrugged. "Maybe it is. But I thought I'd better talk to Amanda about the night Mark got hurt.”
Phoebe stared at me. "You think some ghost-thing hurt Mark. For real?”
"I don't know. But you don't get answers unless you ask questions. I need Amanda's address.”
Phoebe pushed her lips together and frowned. "OK, but you be nice t'her!”
"I will.”
Poppy wouldn't let Phoebe go to get Amanda's address until she finished eating and he wouldn't let me go with her to get it once she was done, either. As soon as Phoebe had disappeared through the kitchen door, he turned a searching gaze on me.
"What you really think, Harper? You think some duppy killed Mark?”
I turned my eyes toward the tabletop. "I don't know.”
"You can' go lyin' t'me, girl. You know somethin' that you wish you don' never know.”
"You don't need to know it, too, Poppy," I said, shaking my head.
He put his free hand over mine. He waited a minute, but I didn't confide in him or look up. He patted my hand and sighed, sounding very old and tired. "Dem sure give you a basket f'carry water," he said, shaking his head.
I made excuses to leave as soon as Phoebe returned with Amanda's information. Phoebe and her father both watched me go through narrowed, thoughtful eyes.
CHAPTER 23
It turned out that Amanda had been staying with her parents in Shoreline. Once I had the address from Phoebe—and had been fed enough food to fatten up most of Ethiopia—I drove to the Leamans'. Although Mark and Amanda hadn't dated in months, his death had thrown a veil of misery over her that tinted her eyelids a perpetual pink and her skin ashen. She had the house to herself at the moment, but preferred to sit on the porch swing nestled under the wide overhang of the front porch and watch the intermittent drizzle.
"The house gets too stuffy," she said, pulling her feet up onto the seat and huddling over them with her arms wrapped tight around herself and a depressed olive green cloud clinging to her in the Grey. I sat on the other end of the swing, listening to it creak in time with the slight swaying we made.
"Manda," I started, keeping my voice low, "do you remember the day Mark got hurt in the shop?”
She kept her eyes on the mist. "Yeah. The detective asked me. I remember, but I'm not sure I told him everything right. I was still pretty freaked." Her voice was too bland. "Do you mind telling me, too?”
She shrugged, setting the swing rocking aslant. "It was kind of late. Monday. A couple weeks ago, now. Mark was stacking some books in Biography and there was this guy talking to him. Arguing, I think. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but they sounded mad. You know—kind of snapping at each other and their voices going up and down. And then the guy kind of. . threw out his fists. Like this. You know—like a cross." She spread her arms out straight from the shoulder and almost caught my cheek with the back of one closed hand. She didn't notice and dropped her hands back around her knees again. "And I saw something black flying through the air in the mirror. And it smacked into the bookshelf by Mark's head.
"Then Mark started to turn his head and look at the guy—he'd been looking at the books—and this big book fell down off the shelf over his head and hit him. He sort of. . um. . shied away from it like maybe he saw it falling. And I heard him shout. I don't know what he said, just some noise like he was surprised or angry. And then the book hit him and he fell off the stool. And the guy ran away." She slapped her hands against her shins. "That was it.”
"Did you know what the object was that flew through the air?”
"Oh, yeah. It was one of the gargoyles from the fireplace.”
"How do you know that?”
"I went back to help Mark pick up the books. He dropped the whole pile he was stacking. So I saw him pick it up and put it away.”
"What about the book that hit him? Do you know what it was?”
"Umm… a biography of Schopenhauer, I think. Not sure. Mark didn't make a big deal about it.”
"Can you describe the person he was talking to?”
"Not too well. The mirror makes people look kind of short and funny—you're always looking at the tops of their heads. Anyhow, I don't know how tall he was, but not very short or very tall, I think. Dark hair, wearing a dark jacket and jeans—I think it was jeans.”
"Did you get a better look at him when he ran out?”
"No. I was going back to help Mark. I shouldn't have left the cash desk, but I didn't think of that, then.”
It wasn't much of a description, and the only people it let out of the suspect list were the Stahlqvists and Wayne Hopke. Even distracted, Manda would have noticed their pale hair.
"Are you certain the person was male? Could it have been female?”
"A woman?" She thought about it, rocking in the seat. "I guess. She couldn't have been very. . curvy, though.”
"What about the hair? Was it long, short, black, brown?”
She thought, then shook her head with her brows drawn down in an unhappy scowl. "I don't know. I can't remember. It was just. . hair. Dark hair. I wasn't paying much attention.”
"Could you see a part in it?”
She kept shaking her head. "I just can't remember.”
I tried to bring back any other details, but the longer we went on, the less Amanda knew. She wouldn't agree to anything she wasn't certain of or try to describe something she had to guess at. Finally I gave up, thanked her, and started to go.
"Oh," she said. "Are you coming tomorrow?”
"Coming? To what?”
"The funeral. Its at Lake View Cemetery at two. I'm sure it would be OK if you want to come.”
"Oh. Thank you, Amanda. I may come. I liked Mark very much.”
"Yeah. He was a great guy." She bit her lower lip and stood up. "I think I'd better go inside." She let the door swing closed on its own and I heard the first quavering breath of a sob before the lock clicked shut between us.
I went back to my truck and started south, toward Seattle.
Unlike Solis, I didn't care about motive. I only needed to know who controlled Celia. If the incident in the bookshop had been the precipitating event, then the person Amanda had seen in the mirror was Mark's killer. That person couldn't have been either of the Stahlqvists or "Wayne, and Patricia wouldn't have passed for a man even in a badly foreshortened mirror. I was back to Ian, Ana, and Ken, again. Or not. Carlos had left room for error in his guess. The business at the bookstore might not have been the precipitating event or had anything to do with Mark's death. And Amanda might not remember as well as she thought.
If I assumed that I was right so far, then I might need to figure out a motive. All three of my suspects had demonstrated some control of Celia—the last séance had convinced me of that, though the evidence wasn't clear enough to determine who had done what. I could imagine some sort of motive for Ken or Ian—anger over the fakery, jealousy over the women—but not for Ana. Although she had said that it would be up to Celia to take revenge. .
I pulled into a parking lot and looked for her phone number.
Ana wasn't enthusiastic about meeting me again and this time she insisted it not be at her parents' place. She was working downtown and reluctantly agreed to meet me in the building lobby after work, but she had an appointment and could only spare a few minutes.
The west lobby of the City Centre building poured light down from the two-story windows and focused track fixtures onto collections of glass objects housed in display cases on both levels. The light ran over the glass escalator and the brass trim, turning golden and breaking into sudden bright sparks that pierced the greenery pressing against the cluster of food kiosks at the street level.