“I don’t know.” And then a thought occurred to me. “See if there’s anything connecting him specifically to Glenn Porter.”
Heath’s brow shot up. “That’s right! He’s a real estate developer, right?”
“Yeah,” Breslow said. “That could be the connection.”
“Glenn . . . Porter,” Gil repeated, and I suspected he was taking notes. “Anything else?”
I set the phone on the table and hit the SPEAKER button so that Heath and Beau could hear. “I think that should do it. So tell us, what did you find?”
“Well, for starters I think I’ve figured out who crafted that Ouija board.”
“You did?” I said.
“I did,” Gil confirmed. “I got ahold of an art historian in Louisiana who was an awesome source of information. He’s an expert on the occult history in that region, and especially knowledgeable about Ouija boards. I sent him the picture you took, and he was able to tell me immediately who created it and gave me some history on it.”
“Do tell,” I said anxiously.
“To begin with, the board is actually an incredibly rare piece and insanely valuable. In fact, he’d like me to put him in touch with the owner so that he can make an offer.”
“How much is he offering?”
“Twenty-five grand,” Gil said. “And when an art historian is offering you a giant wad of cash like that, you know he can get double or triple that price on his own.”
“Whoa!” I said.
“I know. Crazy, right? Anyway, the elaborately painted flowers and filigree indicate a style that was popular in Portugal in the early nineteen hundreds before showing up here. The board from the playroom was designed and created by a much sought-after artisan, named Paco Padesco.”
“Where did Padesco settle when he came here?” I asked.
“New Orleans, of course,” Gilley said. “Anyway, my source in Louisiana happened upon Padesco’s journals, which include sketches and receipts for all the Ouija boards he sold. Padesco was pretty well-known in his day, and his boards were very popular with the wealthy spiritualist set. He sold them on a fairly exclusive basis, demanding crazy money for them. Oh, and he also designed the planchettes, which he said would only work on his boards.
“Now, the planchettes Padesco designed were a sort of interesting device. Most of the traditional planchettes were solid with a small hole where you were supposed to put a pen or a pencil to aid with automatic writing. That morphed into the creation of the Ouija board, which had the letters of the alphabet and a set of numbers printed on it, and the planchettes became solid and ended in a point, which would point to the letter in question. But other sets took the original planchette, with the small hole for a pen, and enlarged the opening so that a letter could be seen through the hole.
Padesco took his boards and planchettes to the next level. He created very elaborate boards with lots of color, which he said would awaken the senses of the living and attract the dead. And then he had his planchettes molded out of sterling silver and he sold a bunch like that, but he saved his most expensive creations for his wealthiest clients. In these planchettes he’d put a gem in the hole rather than just leaving them open. He theorized that by using a pure metal like silver and putting a highly polished gem in the loop instead of leaving it empty, the energy of both the spirit and the medium would be exponentially magnified, throwing open the floodgates to communicate with the other side.”
“No doubt he was onto something with that theory,” I said. “The Sandman didn’t get here from some crappy cardboard-and-plastic Ouija set—that’s for sure.”
I looked to Heath to see if he agreed, but he was staring at the phone with his brow furrowed. “Can I see your phone for a sec?” he said. I motioned for him to go ahead, and he picked it up and began to tap at it.
“What’s happening?” Gil asked.
“Hang on,” Heath told him while we all waited for him to show us what he was doing. And then he simply stared at my phone and said, “Gil, are you looking at the photo M.J. took of the board and the planchette from the playroom?”
“Uh, no, do I need to?”
“Yes,” he said, setting my cell down in the middle of the table again, and I saw that he’d pulled up the last image I’d taken of the board and the planchette. To Beau and me he said, “Does anything look out of place to you?”
The deputy and I leaned forward to look closely at the screen. “No,” I said, and Beau also shook his head.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Gil said from the speaker.
Heath pointed to the planchette. “Em,” he said to me. “Look close.”
I did and all I saw was the beautiful silver planchette with its amethyst crystal gleaming in the light from my flash. “I am, Heath. I don’t see anything odd. What is it that you’ve noticed?”
Heath leaned in too. “See how the board is covered in dust?” he said. Beau and I nodded. “But the planchette doesn’t have a speck of dust on it. And if it’s made out of sterling silver, why isn’t it tarnished?”
My jaw fell open, and we heard Gilley say, “Holy shit! Heath’s right! That thing looks practically showroom ready.”
Heath then swiped his finger across the screen. “And look here,” he said, moving to another image that I’d taken much earlier of a section of the playroom near the door. “See that?”
“It’s a footprint,” I said, of the imprint in the dust.
“Yeah,” Heath said. “But Beau and I were never over on that side of the playroom. It’s to the left of the door and we stuck to the right. Now, I can’t say for sure that it’s not your footprint, Em, but neither one of us walked over that way.”
“Neither did I,” I whispered, amazed that I hadn’t noticed the footprint in the dust when I’d photographed that section of the playroom. “I walked in to the right too, and I’d kept Everett on my left, circling around the table with the tea set to photograph the room. That’s not my footprint, Heath.”
“Can someone catch me up to speed, please?” Gil said.
“Someone else entered that playroom before we did and planted that planchette,” I told him.
“But who and how?” Beau said. “The room was sealed tight.”
“Could there be another entrance to the playroom that we don’t know about?” I asked.
Everyone fell silent while we all considered that. “I don’t see how,” Heath said. “I mean, it’s easy to see how the architecture of the playroom was hidden on the outside by the magnolia tree, but there didn’t seem to be any other doors or windows in it. And it wouldn’t make sense anyway because this footprint is facing into the room from the door. Someone came through that door and planted the planchette; then they probably walked back out the way we came in, and I think their footprints might’ve been obscured by ours when we walked in to investigate.”
“So, how the heck did they get into a sealed room?” I asked. “And why was that planchette planted there?”
“To wake up the Sandman,” Gil said. “Remember, Padesco said the planchette wouldn’t work without his board, and probably vice versa.”
I shook my head. None of this was making any sense. “So the board and the planchette have been separated for forty-five years, and now someone thought it was a good idea to put them back together? Why? For what purpose?”
“It’s got to be Glenn Porter,” Heath said. “I mean, you guys saw his office. He must have three hundred planchettes nailed to the wall.”
“Wait. What?” Gil asked. I filled him in on our visit to Porter’s office and he whistled appreciatively. “That’s just playing with fire,” he said.
“But how does that work?” I asked them all. “I mean, why would Porter make it so obvious by displaying all of those planchettes in plain sight? He’d have to know we’d think he was responsible
for both Scoffland’s murder and Everett’s.”
“He is an arrogant SOB,” Beau pointed out.
“Arrogant I’ll give you, but he’s not stupid, Beau. And again, I gotta ask, why would he use the Sandman to kill Scoffland, and, if we really want to get technical with this, why would he then kill Cisco?”
“He committed suicide,” Heath said, referring to the construction worker who’d thrown himself out the window at the mental hospital.
“Did he?” I said. “Beau, you remember what Matt said? He said that the windows at the hospital were triple-paned. No one should’ve been able to break through all three—so how did Cisco manage that kind of a physical feat if he wasn’t possessed by the Sandman at the time?”
Heath nodded. “She’s right. You’d have to have superhuman strength to do that, and only someone possessed or on serious drugs would be able to do something like that.” And then Heath seemed to have another thought. “You know what else bothers me?”
“What?” I asked.
“Do you remember when we first got to the Porter house, and that stuff was being thrown off the balcony and we went inside to get away from it and the air was a little thick with dark energy, but then . . .” Heath paused, as if he was searching for the right words.
“Then there was a shift,” I said, remembering back to when he and I were in the yard after escaping the house through the window and he’d told me he’d felt it.
“Godzilla,” Gilley said.
I rolled my eyes at the phone, but Heath was nodding. “Yeah, Em. The energy shifted right before that big black shadow showed up and tried to attack Gil. I felt it.”
“So what are you saying?” Beau asked him, and I knew he had to be confused.
I sighed heavily, because I suddenly realized exactly what we were up against. “He’s saying that there isn’t just one evil spirit at work here. It seems we might be dealing with two.”
“Two?” the deputy gasped.
“Yep,” Heath said. “One significantly less powerful than the other, but two separate dark entities were at work in that house.”
“But when we went back there to look for the Ouija board, you guys said you didn’t feel anything weird.”
“That’s true, Beau,” I said. “Which means both spirits were either dormant or on the move.”
“Do you think they were both being controlled by Padesco’s board and planchette?” Gil asked.
I shrugged even though I knew Gil couldn’t see me. “I don’t know, buddy. But I hope so.”
“Why do you hope so?” Beau asked me.
Heath answered for me. “Because once we destroy the board and the planchette, we can safely lock those spooks up together forever.”
“Still, it would help to know who the other spook is.”
“He felt way more powerful than just a grounded spirit,” Heath remarked. “I mean, those planters were heavy and that took some serious power.”
“Very true,” I said. The whisper of an idea was starting to form in my mind, and I so hoped I was wrong.
“Okay, so we have more questions than answers,” Beau said. “If we go back and push Porter on all this, I know he’s gonna lawyer up. We’ll need to come up with a different angle to work.”
“We’ve already got one,” I said. “Sarah Porter. I think she knows what happened in that playroom, and maybe if she can admit that her brother had a hand in Everett’s murder, we won’t have to look to him for answers.”
Heath and Beau nodded and we started to get up to pay our bill when Gil said, “What should I do?”
“Gil, I still need you to connect Mike Scoffland to Glenn Porter. Maybe if we can find some bad blood between them, we’ll have a motive that will lead us to more evidence for Scoffland’s murder. Oh, and I really want to know more about the Sandman. If Glenn Porter has had that planchette for all of these years, and if he knew where the board was, maybe he used it before now. See if there’s been anything to hint that the Sandman has been around in Valdosta. Maybe there’s been some freaky occurrences that no one’s reported to the police, but maybe they’ve talked about online.”
“That’s a lot of work,” Gil grumbled.
“Yes, but no one else could do it,” I said, stroking his ego a tad.
“Fine,” Gil said. “But you’d better bring me back some ice cream tonight.”
“Cookies and cream?”
“Yeah, that sounds good. And don’t forget the sprinkles.”
• • •
We headed out, backtracking our way over to Sarah Porter’s again. This time we made it all the way up the front steps and Breslow knocked. The door was opened by a woman wearing a maid’s uniform, who looked warily at the deputy. “Yes?”
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Deputy Breslow. Is Miss Porter available?”
The maid put a hand to her heart and sighed with relief. “Oh, then she’s all right?” she asked.
“All right?” Beau repeated. “I’m sorry, but I’d like to speak to Miss Porter. Is she in?”
“Oh, no, sir,” the maid said. “She’s at the hospital.”
“The hospital?” I said. “Is she ill?”
The maid focused her large brown eyes on me. “Well, in a manner of speaking, ma’am. Miss Porter, sometimes, she don’t get along so well, you know?” The maid tapped her forehead to give us an indication of Sarah’s issues. “Anyhow, she checked herself into the psychiatric clinic the day before yesterday, and wouldn’t y’all know it? There was some sorta riot and she got herself hurt. They took her to South Georgia to treat her, and she’s supposed to be home later on today, which is why I’m here makin’ sure everything’s all neat and tidylike.”
Heath and I exchanged a look. Sarah had been at the mental hospital when the Sandman had wreaked such havoc?
“What time is she due back here?” Beau asked.
“Oh, sir, I don’t rightly know. Maybe in an hour or two? I could have her call you, but she might be tired. Maybe it’s best if y’all call on her tomorrow?”
He tipped his hat and said, “Thank you, ma’am. It’s nothing pressing, so we’ll do just that.”
With that, he turned and we followed him back to the car. “We’re really going to wait until tomorrow to talk to her?” I asked once we’d loaded ourselves inside and Beau had started the car.
“Nope,” he said. “But I didn’t want the maid to let Sarah know we were coming back today to interview her. I’d rather show up at the hospital where she has some support if she gets upset about our questions, and doesn’t already have a heads-up that we want to speak with her beforehand. She’ll be more honest if she’s off guard.”
“She’s pretty fragile, though, huh?” I said.
“Yes. And one of the sweetest, most caring people you’d ever want to meet. It really bothers me that Everett was found in her playroom. Wait till you meet her and you’ll see what I mean.”
We arrived at the hospital for the second time that day and headed inside. Breslow tipped his hat and inquired about Sarah and we were given a room number. We found it on the second floor next to the stairs, and the deputy knocked lightly before entering. “Miss Porter?” he said, opening the door a fraction.
“Yes?”
“It’s Deputy Breslow, ma’am, and two others. May we come in?”
“Oh, Beau, is that you?” she said. I couldn’t see Sarah, but I could hear her. She had a wavering, thin voice without much strength. “Come on in here and let me look at you!”
Heath and I followed Beau into the room and found Sarah sitting up in the bed. My first impression was that she was a tiny creature, no taller than five feet by my estimation, and reed thin. She was very pale as if she really didn’t get out to enjoy the sun, and her hair was rather wispy, graying at the temples, and pulled back into a sever
e-looking bun, but tufts of it had come loose, giving her a disheveled appearance.
She was fully clothed, and I swore she was even wearing shoes, but her legs were mostly covered with an afghan and there was a bandage on her head and a bruise under her right eye. “We heard you had some trouble yesterday,” Beau said.
“Well, you heard right,” she told him, pulling at the afghan to better cover herself. “I was just starting to feel better too when all that trouble started.” Then she seemed to notice Heath and me and she added, “And who are these two, Beau? Did you bring friends to see me?”
I stepped forward and offered her my hand. “Hi, Miss Porter. I’m Mary Jane Holliday, and this is Heath Whitefeather. We’re assisting Deputy Breslow on an investigation he’s working on.”
She took my hand, smiling and nodding, but then she stopped shaking my palm and looked closely at me. “Did you say Holliday?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She put a hand to her lips. “You’re DeeDee’s daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stared at me and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe she was looking at me. “You look so much like her,” she finally said. Her hands trembled a bit and she attempted to cover it by pulling on her afghan again, then trying to smooth her hair. “I . . . I wasn’t prepared to have guests,” she said, the lightest blush touching her cheeks.
“We’re so sorry to intrude,” I told her.
“I loved your mother,” she said suddenly. “Dearly. We were once very, very close, she and I.” She looked at me again and I saw her eyes water. “I miss her,” she said. “Life just hasn’t been the same for me since she left, you know.”
I blinked hard myself. Her words moved me and I could only nod. She reached out a tentative hand and put mine in hers. She closed her eyes and sighed, and it was such a sad and strange moment. I’d never met Sarah Porter—of that I was certain—but she had been so close to my mother and her love for her still clearly showed. After a moment she opened her eyes again and attempted a smile. Then she let go of my hand and fiddled with the buttons on her sweater.