Demon on a Distant Shore: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery, #5

By Linda Welch

Recovering Gertrude Hackenbacher's catnapped kitty pays off when she recommends us to Scott and Patty Norton of Boston. Scott wants us to deliver a message to his nephew, once we find him. So off we go to England, all expenses paid. Royal is sure we can squeeze in a little sightseeing.

Royal is ever the optimist.

England is very confusing. To begin with, not all Brits seem to speak English, and what they eat . . . oh my goodness. Then there is the investigation - finding the client's long-lost nephew is not as easy as we supposed, and as usual, I am distracted by dead people who could use my help. And in ancient Little Barrow, when a creature of myth and magic cries out its pain, only Royal and I can hear.

Young Paul Norton is missing, and he's not the only one. Is our helpful innkeeper really a witch? Why did an upstanding member of the community run down and kill a teenager? With the assistance of some uncooperative British shades, we'll figure out what's really going on and bring peace to a demon on a distant shore.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nordic Valley Books
• Release date: Apr 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781501484872

Book preview

Foreword

Demon on a Distant Shore is dedicated to my family, friends and readers in England. Some will recognize the cities, towns and villages, but Little Barrow is entirely a figment of my imagination. Some of the words and phrases used by older generation characters—my generation—are not widely used by the younger generation nowadays. There is a small glossary in the back of the book for those who are utterly baffled, or you could check out my ancient website British English: A Translation for the American.

Chapter One

I tucked the cream spaghetti-strap camisole into the navy-blue cotton slack’s waistband and stepped into navy-blue pumps. Looking in the mirror, my hand went to a silver pendant necklace Royal had given me, a tiny crucifix inside an endless knot. I smiled as I recalled the day he waltzed into the house with the necklace around his neck and asked if I liked it.

Okay, I felt ready to meet Patricia Lillian Norton. Patricia discovered a distant relative or some such and wanted us to track him down.

After trotting downstairs, I snatched my keys from the hall table and went in the kitchen.

Who are you and what did you do with Tiff? Jack said.

Ha ha.

You look nice, from Mel.

My dead roommates are accustomed to my casual style of dress. I had met clients when wearing my preferred jeans and a T-shirt, but Mrs. Norton was old-family Boston and I didn’t want to come across as a slob. Hoping I looked professional, I self-consciously smoothed the slacks over my hips. With Royal busy on a stakeout, I represented Banks and Mortensen and wanted to give a good impression.

Working from the office was still a novelty. Mel and Jack thought I should look the part of a private detective in a long trench coat and carry a briefcase. At six-four, with long silver-white hair, I already draw way too much attention in public. I don’t imagine the addition of a trench coat will help me blend in.

I eased the navy-blue jacket off the back of the kitchen chair and slipped it on.

Will you be going away again if you take this case? Mel asked from where she stood in front of the old stove.

I don’t think so. I figure she wants to hire us because we’re familiar with this area. Why else would she come to Utah when there are plenty of agencies in Boston?

Jack wandered to the kitchen window and looked out at the street. Why didn’t she go find them herself?

I don’t know. I checked the kitchen clock. Must be on my way. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.

I went outside and climbed into my new (used) red Jeep Cherokee, backed down the short driveway and reversed into the street. Mel waved from the window, but I didn’t wave back in case a neighbor was watching.

Driving downtown to Twenty-Second took less than ten minutes. I parked in the residents’ lot across from Royal’s apartment, locked the Jeep and dashed over the road. Twenty-Second baked, all that concrete throwing the heat back into the already hot air. The lunch crowd bustled along the sidewalks, going to or coming from lunch, or fitting in a little shopping. Jazz music tootled merrily, and sunlight sheened bronze statuary and faux antique lampposts.

I trotted up the wrought iron staircase to the first door, opened up and went inside the office. The door to Royal’s living room stood open, so I close it before settling in a chair. Twiddling my fingers, I waited for the client.

She arrived at nine on the dot. I stood and went around the desk to shake her outstretched hand.

Miss Banks?

Patricia Norton looked in her fifties but could be older. Hard to tell nowadays with the treatments you can get, and Patricia could certainly afford them. She stank of money. I can’t recognize Prada or Gucci or any of those fancy labels, but I know quality when I see it. Her cream, gauzy big-shirt floated on a tall, slim figure, the pale-teal cropped pants were perfectly cut, and I could imagine how comfortable those teal sandals felt despite the three-inch heels. The teal matched the color of her eyes—tinted contact lens no doubt—and her upswept silver-gray hair framed a triangular face with narrow silver brows, a thin wide mouth and short, square-tipped nose. She carried a fashionably large navy-blue purse and a tiny ball of fluff.

I inwardly cringed. One of those so-called designer dogs that are actually mutts of mixed parentage, sold for outrageous prices. I never thought to see the day when people proudly advertise maltipoos or schnorkies or whatever for hundreds of dollars, instead of offering them free to a good home. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think price is a consideration for a canine companion you want to bring into your home and love with all your heart, but I hold very strong opinions of people who purchase them because they are the current rage, and of breeders who take advantage of a fad by churning out puppies.

I smiled and swept a hand at the facing chair. Please take a seat, Miz Norton.

Patty. She settled on the chair and caressed the fluff-ball. She had a deep, slightly nasal accent. Do you mind if I put Charleze down? She’s a very good girl.

Images of what my Scottish terrier Mac would do if he knew another dog invaded his territory whipped through my mind. I would rather you don’t. I bring my dog here sometimes and he’ll mark the place if he finds her scent.

Mark? Oh, you mean. . ..

Apparently, pee is too indelicate a word for some people. I nodded.

Miz . . . Patty, before we discuss how Banks and Mortensen can help you, would you mind telling me how you heard about the agency?

She twirled her fingers in Charleze’s hair. You were recommended by my good friend Gertrude Hackenbacher.

You know Gertrude? Royal and I tracked down and rescued Gertrude’s catnapped kitty in Fresno, California.

I have friends all over the country.

What would it be like to have a host of friends? Someone once said you are a lucky person if you have three true friends in your lifetime. I’m getting there. I have one true friend, who is also my partner and lover.

Mr. Mortensen is engaged elsewhere?

I nodded. He’s on a case. He said you’re looking for a distant relative. I presume they’re in Utah.

She methodically stroked Charleze’s head. My husband’s nephew, and no, he’s not in Utah. Her eyes got a faraway look. Scott had a brother, younger by two years. Jonathan moved to England in 1966. I don’t know what happened between them, but it must have been traumatic because Scott never spoke of Jonathan until six months ago. I knew nothing of him. Scott wanted to initiate reconciliation, so we tried to find Jonathan. We discovered he died in 1998.

She paused, as if expecting me to comment, so I obliged. I’m sorry.

She smiled faintly and nodded. Yes, a terrible shock. It devastated Scott. But Jonathan had a son.

I pulled the pad of ruled paper to me and poised my pen. This is the person you want us to find?

She wriggled in her chair as if to adjust her buttocks on the hard surface. The pup squirmed. She used one hand to anchor the dog and with the other groped in her enormous purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She pushed it over the table to me.

I put down my pen, unfolded the paper and read a single typewritten sentence: Paul Norton, born January 22nd, 1979, in Little Barrow, Wiltshire, England. Married May 3rd, 2006 to Sylvia Rowlands, also of Little Barrow. And an address in Little Barrow.

Where did you come by your information?

"Our attorneys were able to access the UK’s register of births, deaths and marriages. The address is where they lived when they married. As both Paul and his wife were born in Little Barrow, and married there six years ago, we hope they still live in the area. If not, someone in the village should know their location. I think a private investigator is the best option for us.

I want you to find Paul and invite him to meet his uncle. Now Scott’s health is failing, he desperately wants to find this young man, I think as a conciliatory gesture.

England? Whoa! I thought some more. You don’t want to use a professional over there to find the Nortons? Made sense to me. Probably cheaper too, rather than send someone from the States to Great Britain.

I did consider it, but trying to locate and hire a detective in England . . . I wouldn’t know where to start.

She did have a point.

Have you tried to contact Paul? A letter, perhaps?

Letters can go astray, Miss Banks. This is far too important to Scott to entrust to a letter.

You could phone them­—it would be more meaningful, personal, than a stranger turning up and telling them.

We are well aware of that, but we couldn’t find a telephone number for them.

Her lips were tight, as were her shoulders. My questions and suggestions gave her the impression I was reluctant to take the job. We would go ourselves, but Scott is in no condition to travel and I cannot leave him.

I smiled brightly. "In that case, I think you’re right. If you can’t go to England and track them down, a private investigator is the best option."

Her shoulders relaxed.

Patty wanted us to go to England. And while I’d no inclination to travel overseas, it would look damned good on the agency’s resume.

We discussed Banks and Mortensen’s retainer. Rather, I named the fee and was surprised when she didn’t as much as blink. Then she shocked me by saying she would pay all expenses on top of that.

I was still speechless when she rose to her feet. I’ll need to know by this evening.

I summoned my voice. I’ll speak to Royal. I’m sure we can come to a decision by then.

I walked her to the door. You’ll hear from us soon.

Arms occupied with the purse and pup; she wiggled her fingers at me in lieu of a handshake.

After I let her out the door, I fell back against it with a huge smile spread across my face.

~*~

England! Jack screeched after I told him and Mel about the assignment.

I turned my head to find his frozen expression inches from my face. Oh, calm down, Jack.

I headed for the stairs and looser, more comfortable clothes. There’s a lot to be taken into consideration before we decide.

Such as your lonely roommates? Mel suggested, so close on my heels I’m surprised I didn’t back-kick her knee.

Not that I’d notice. I can’t feel Jack or Mel. Nope, no chill aura, no eerie sensation, nothing.

I went in my bedroom, thankful they waited outside, for once. But they waylaid me when I came out. I whistled through my teeth, pretending I didn’t hear them as I went downstairs and through the front door.

~*~

Hello, Sweetheart.

Hi. Are you still on stakeout?

No. I have what we need. I’m with some friends, Michael and Brienne Eccleston. I think you may be able to help them.

"The Ecclestons? You didn’t tell me they’re friends."

It never came up in conversation.

True. Why should he mention a friendship with Clarion’s wealthiest, most influential family?

I dredged my memory for what I knew of the Ecclestons. If I remembered rightly, Michael inherited the estate when his elder brother Gordon died in Guatemala in 2007. One-year-old Gordon Junior became Michael’s ward. Michael and Brienne married two years ago. They were in their early forties and this was the second marriage for them both. Brienne had a stroke three years ago.

Gordon Junior is missing. The lad likes to hide but he hasn’t been seen for over twenty-four hours this time, Royal was saying.

They haven’t called the police?

They don’t believe foul play is involved. They’re convinced he hid in the house and put himself into somewhere he can’t escape from.

Losing a kid in your own house sounded far-fetched, but far be it for me to turn down the Ecclestons if they wanted our services.

I signaled left onto Montgomery. The car idled while I waited for a break in traffic. Okay, but what makes you think I can help?

A staff person was murdered in the house thirty years ago.

Ah, so that was it.

Despite it happening three decades ago, I had heard of the murder. I doubt anyone in Clarion had not. The butler Nicholas Jordan was stabbed to death in the mansion’s kitchen. A maid found him the next morning. Nothing was taken from the house. The verdict was an unknown assailant entered the estate with the intent to kill Jordan, and made his escape unseen after the deed, leaving no evidence with which the police could work. They didn’t have security cameras on the estate back then.

Ah, right. Maybe. If the murderer is still alive.

Chances were Nicholas Jordan lingered in the Eccleston place, and the dead see everything.

~*~

David Eccleston came to Clarion from Scotland in 1802 as a boy of fourteen, made his fortune and left a mark on the economy that continues to this day. I’ll say this for the Eccleston families, they spread the wealth around. Their various foundations support the arts, education, family welfare and a dozen other worthy causes.

The Eccleston patriarch built his home on Michigan, high in the Avenues where the wealthy have estates running to six or seven acres. The mansion sits on a small hill, elevated above the rest of the estate. It’s a magnificent eight-bedroom house of brick and red sandstone with cylindrical towers, steeply pitched roofs with eyebrow dormers, heavy leaded glass windows and cookie-cutter moldings. A large brick porch extends from the west entrance. I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle as I drove up the gravel driveway and parked out front.

The door was open. I stepped inside a grand entryway of polished parquet floor and walls papered in a pale gold and cream pattern. A small chandelier hung at the front door and another farther back beside the broad oak staircase.

I tapped the door. Hello?

A butler came through one of the two doors on my right. An honest-to-god, stiffly starched butler in a penguin suit. Eyebrows over deep brown eyes were lifted enquiringly.

I smiled. I’m Tiff Banks, here for Mr. and Mrs. Eccleston.

They don’t want to see you. Now piss off, he said without a change of expression.

Before I could lever up my dropped jaw, Royal came through the first door on the right, light from the chandelier sparkling on his copper-gold hair.

He took my hand. Come and meet Michael and Brienne.

The butler spun on his heel and walked away, moving quickly through the hall to a passage beside the staircase. A darker splotch marked the back of his black jacket.

The shade of Mr. Nicholas Jordan. I could deal with a shade better than a rude employee, but I already had the feeling getting anything from the cantankerous old bastard would not be a breeze.

Royal led me into the library, and what a library, with the ceiling sixteen feet high, mahogany paneled walls and a stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow. Books lined the entire west wall, with a gallery reached by a narrow staircase for easy access to those at the top. The room, while not cozy, was welcoming despite the size, with armchairs, two sofas, occasional tables and a big mahogany desk taking up most of the space. Vases of flowers stood among stacks of books, elegant ornaments and tocking clocks.

Wearing a white, short-sleeved linen dress cinched with a wide brown belt, Brienne Eccleston waited in front of the fireplace. She came toward us slowly, cautiously, leaning on her cane. Her right eyelid drooped at the outer corner and her mouth turned down slightly on one side. She was still a pretty woman, tall and slim with shoulder-length ash-blond hair and hazel eyes.

Michael remained at the fireplace, thin, tall but slightly bent-shouldered, short blond hair already graying at the temples and sideburns, and washed-out blue eyes. His tan Bermuda shorts and white polo shirt looked good on him.

Brienne presented her hand. Miss Banks, thank you for coming.

I hope I can help, Mrs. Eccleston. I took her hand and gently squeezed

She smiled. Brienne, please.

Call me Tiff.

She released my hand, though Royal’s big warm hand still held my other. Shall we make ourselves comfortable? She let herself down on the nearest armchair and propped her cane against it.

Michael didn’t say a word and his eyes regarded me disapprovingly from under crunched brows. I had the feeling he was not a believer.

Royal and I settled side by side on a long couch.

Understand, we wouldn’t consider your services had not Royal recommended you, Michael said sternly.

Royal’s hand increased the pressure. I gave him a thin smile, which didn’t reassure him I wouldn’t tell Michael Eccleston into which orifice he could insert his job offer.

Michael, Brienne reproved. How she gets results doesn’t matter. Her expression turned somber. We last saw Gordon yesterday morning.

What time?

Around ten. This isn’t the first time Gordon’s taken himself off. He likes to explore and he likes to hide. We lost him for ten hours one day last month, until we found him in a corner of the attics. He planned his adventure, took his laptop, some books, and a veritable picnic basket of goodies and settled in for the duration.

Did he take anything this time?

Not that we can see.

I presume you made a thorough search?

We tore the place apart.

And he didn’t sneak outside?

We have the best security coverage available. We reviewed footage of the grounds. He’s in here somewhere. We hope you can find him.

I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t believe you don’t know every inch of your own home.

But that may be the issue. There have always been rumors of hidden passages and tunnels in the house.

My brother and I never found any and God knows we spent enough time searching for them, said Michael.

Brienne’s eyes turned dewy. I suppose we’re clutching at straws.

I’ll get started then, shall I? I got to my feet, pulling my hand free of Royal’s. Can someone show me the way to the attics?

The attics? Brienne echoed.

I like to start at the top and work my way down, I lied. I really wanted to start as far as possible from other people.

Brienne slowly got to her feet. Michael dear, will you find someone to show her the attics?

Brienne’s stroke left her with impaired peripheral vision and weakness in one side of her body. Getting around must be a slow, careful process for her and tromping through the house with me would be exhausting. I hoped Michael didn’t volunteer. I didn’t want him in earshot.

Michael humphed as he left the room.

Brienne smiled at me. "Don’t mind