Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 23

"How'd the online auction go?" I said half-heartedly.

"Okay."

When I'd phoned to arrange a pickup time, Nell had explained that her grandson might be occupied. With equal parts pride and astonishment, she'd relayed that one of her friends had hired him to select and purchase a laptop computer, printer and accessories. Flax charged by the hour for his expertise and used his father's credit card to process online transactions. He'd begun the sideline business in North Carolina and, for the summer, was operating out of the guest bedroom in Nell's home.

"Did you have the winning bid?"

"It hasn't closed."

"When will it close?"

"At midnight."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. Too bad my sister's not here. Back home, I pay her ten dollars an hour to stay on eBay when I have to go to the orthodontist."

"How much do you charge the client?"

"Fifteen."

"Couldn't you make the same arrangement with your Grandma Nell?"

"She offered for free, but she sucks with computers. I try to teach her stuff, but she's too old."

I nodded sympathetically. "One time, I tried to teach my grandma chess. What a nightmare! And Clue, forget about it. Halfway through the game, she wanted to know when I was going to deal out more cards."

Flax laughed, a deep sound that seemed to come through his nose. "I tried to show Grandma Hazel my Game Boy, and she said it hurt her eyes."

"Back to the auction, couldn't you run over to your Grandma Hazel's and use her phone line to dial up?"

"She doesn't have DSL."

"Sn.o.b," I chided, before he added, "Or a computer."

We rode in companionable silence for several minutes.

"Grandma Nell thinks we'll see a ghost tonight," he said softly.

I shot Flax a quick look, but he didn't seem concerned. He'd lowered his seat to its most reclined position, and his eyes were slits. Only his right hand drumming on his baggy jeans betrayed any hint of disquiet.

"What do you think?" I said.

"I dunno. Who's gonna be there?"

"You, me, Fran Green-" Who's she?"

"My business partner."

"Is she cool?"

"Very. You'll like her. We've also hired a specialist, Ca.s.sandra Ambrosia Antonopolus, but she goes by Ca.s.s."

"Ambrosia, what kind of name is that?"

"It's a salad."

"With lettuce?"

"Mandarin oranges, marshmallows, coconut and something that holds it all together. And as far as names go, I wouldn't talk, if I were you, Mr. Flax."

He snorted. "What's she like?"

"We just met," I said, as I pulled up to the Fielder mansion. "You'll have to judge for yourself."

Flax's eyes widened at the sight of the vintage Cadillac and almost popped out of his head when Ca.s.s came leaping off the porch.

Fran exited the house a step behind Ca.s.s, patting herself down, shooing away imaginary bugs.

I made introductions all around, and the four of us took a tour of the house, with Ca.s.s in the lead.

Lucky for me, I didn't have allergies. A thick coat of dust lay on every surface, a fact which tickled Ca.s.s (because of the ghost-tracking possibilities) but made me sneeze. Fran handed me a tissue, which I used to wipe my nose and block the smell. If I'd had to develop a recipe for the strange odor, I would have mixed mildew, rancid cooking oil and urine.

In the dim light, we stepped around droppings, which I hoped had come from squirrels, rats or mice. Anything but bats.

Ail of us used flashlights to navigate, not only because the last rays of sun had faded from the day, but also because daylight wouldn't have made a difference. The few windows that weren't boarded up were opaque with streaks of dirt.

The deeper I went into the house, the more I believed that Roberta Franklin's estimate of a million dollars for renovations might be low.

In the bathrooms, which we glanced into but never entered, chunks of porcelain were missing from the tubs and toilets, and ceramic tiles were chipped and cracked. Cla.s.sic claw-foot tubs sat askew next to light blue stools; many of the tubs had been ripped from the floor, presumably to correct plumbing problems, which must have been plentiful. Water stains marred the ceilings of most rooms, visible through thick shrouds of cobwebs.

I could see the home's rich history in the mahogany wood, high ceilings, rounded walls, wainscoting, antique fixtures and period wallpaper, some of it crafted from leather and fabric, but the present intruded in every glimpse.

The hardwood floors were stained black and warping, baseboard heating had been installed above gorgeous trim, storm windows were affixed to plastic strips nailed to original window casings, and wainscoting and wallpaper were peeling from the walls.

All attempts at modernization had only cheapened the original beauty. Patches of carpet had become teal and gold petri dishes for mold. Laminate cabinets in the kitchen and baths were falling apart at the seams. Pale green linoleum, which had been installed indiscriminately in four or five rooms, was pockmarked. A trash compactor in the pantry had frozen with rust. Metal miniblinds, crooked and bent with use, dangled helplessly. And in random pockets throughout the house, signs of long-ago plumbing and electrical repairs were still evident, because no one had bothered to patch holes in the walls or sweep plaster from the floors.

The trek through three floors left me restless and apprehensive, but it didn't have the same effect on my companions. Ca.s.s kept up a brisk, excited pace throughout, Flax shadowed her eagerly, and Fran made copious notes but no judgments.

The entryway was the only area of the house where I felt relaxed, and only because of its proximity to my car.

When we returned there, Ca.s.s sprang into action. "We'll split into teams. Kris, you take Flax and stake out the second-story bedroom in the turret. Fran and I will monitor the attic."

"What do you want us to do?"

"You'll be in charge of the EMF detector. Flax can run the thermal scanner. You'll record data on this sheet." Ca.s.s handed me a hand-held detector and a clipboard with a three-part carbonless form.

Flax received a gadget the size of a cordless phone. He turned the device over in his hands, mesmerized by the pistol-grip design and backlit display. "How's this work?"

"Point and shoot. A red dot appears on the object you're scanning, pinpointing a specific area. Don't aim it at Kris's eyes."

"No kidding," I said loudly.

"Stay in one place," Ca.s.s continued. "Try the rocking chair in the corner of the room first. Don't aim at windows, doors or the fireplace opening, or you'll receive false readings. Your temperatures may vary by up to five degrees. That's fairly normal, but when the scanner shows anything close to a ten-degree variation-hotter or colder-that could indicate a presence. Have Kris start snapping pictures."

"Which camera should I use?"

"All of them. The Polaroid's useful because it provides instant feedback, but it's the least perceptive. Use one of the thirty-five-millimeter cameras next. I've loaded them with highspeed film. One has color in it, the other black and white, Kodak Gold."

"Nothing but the best," Fran said, twirling a whistle on a rope.

"Click off a few shots and try not to twitch between shots. Then switch to the digital. You can shoot up to fifty-six shots on one memory card, and I've brought extra cards and a battery recharger, so go for it."

"Hundreds of shots?" I asked.

"If you like."

"How much time will I have?"

"Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. React as fast as you can, but stay calm and focused. The quality of the contact is more important than quant.i.ty. Note everything on the data form. Time, location, temperature and EMF readings, as well as your own sensory perceptions. The form's easy to follow."

"Thorough, too," Fran chimed in, glancing at her own clipboard.

"That's it?" I said.

"Pretty much. I have video cameras, tape recorders and motion sensors staged in other parts of the house, but if we can maintain active surveillance in these two rooms for the next three or four hours, that should take care of phase one."

"How does that EMF thing work?" Flax asked, pointing enviously at the device I cradled like fragile goods.

"It's an electromagnetic field detector. It operates on the principle that spirit ent.i.ties are energy forms. If their energy disrupts the electromagnetic field, the meter will detect it."

"Sounds simple," Fran said, shaking hers like a bottle of dressing.

"You scan the area you're investigating by using a swaying motion."

I was afraid to move mine. "Side to side or up and down?"

"Either. Not so fast, Fran. Use a more gentle, even pattern."

"Can I try?" Flax said.

"Sure." Ca.s.s handed him her detector. "Easy, don't jerk it into position."

Flax moved his like a pro. "How come this one's different than theirs?"

"It's a more sophisticated model, the Trifield Meter."

Fran aimed hers at me. "Someone invented these to hunt ghosts?"

"No, they just happen to work for this application. The Trifield was designed to read activity of geomagnetic storms."

Fran, Flax and I resembled symphony conductors in slow motion.

Ca.s.s watched us protectively as she continued the training. "Anything registering in the two to seven milligauss range probably represents a spirit phenomenon."

"Can't wait," Fran said.

"I've set the alarm threshold at two so you won't have to continually stare at the meter. If it goes off, don't panic. Start snapping pictures and record the information. After that, mark the disturbed area with the bright-colored tape I gave you."

Flax double-checked his back pocket for yellow tape, and Fran patted the roll hanging from her toolbelt.

"Radio me on the two-way, and I'll come and recheck the area. If continued high readings occur, that's a bad sign. It means the anomaly is Probably related to something electrical, not spiritual."

"How we gonna snag false positives if the juice to the house is shut off?" Fran asked.

"It's less likely, but I've seen it happen with outside power lines, typically, though, a reading of two milligauss or more indicates a ghost."

"I want to do the EMF," Flax said. "The thermometer sounds boring."

"I'd prefer Kris use the EMF. It's tricky to operate."

Catching the crestfallen look on Flax's face, I hastily intervened. "He'd probably be better at it. People hire Flax to purchase and install computer systems."

"Please let me do it."

"It's up to you," Ca.s.s said, turning the decision over to me.

"We'll take turns," I replied diplomatically.

"Never knew you were such a gearhead," Fran ribbed Ca.s.s.

"You wouldn't know it, but I kept it simple tonight. I left the infrared film at home because it's easy to ruin. And I'm skipping the white noise generator, ion detector and Geiger counter."

"What do those do?" I asked.

"I know, I know," Flax said, jumping up and down. "An ion detector measures ions in the air, and I'll bet they show a disturbance when a source of energy is present. The Geiger counter's easy. Any fluctuation in radiation would also point to a disturbance, right? Does yours measure alpha, beta, gamma or x rays?"

Ca.s.s stared at him, openly impressed. "All of the above."

"I used one at a science fair in fifth grade," he said modestly, but his fidgeting indicated he'd enjoyed the compliment.

"Researchers have found that ambient radiation seems to increase or decrease in the presence of ghosts. Paranormal investigators have used Geiger counters since the nineteen seventies," Ca.s.s elaborated. "I'm glad someone on the team can appreciate the sophisticated techniques."

Flax beamed. "But I don't know what the white noise generator does."

"Stumped me, too," Fran readily agreed.