A Question of Ghosts by Cate Culpepper Read Free Book Online

and Jo turned to see Becca scowling at the stairs.
    “You know why she wouldn’t come up with us, right?” Becca brushed her hand across her eyes. “She’s too weak to climb the stairs. Jesus, Jo. I had no idea.”
    Jo shifted uncomfortably. “Dr. Perry isn’t a young woman, Becca. Many older people have a hard time with stairs.”
    “She just turned sixty,” Becca snapped. “She and my mother were the same age. She just looks ten years older because she’s sick. Rachel doesn’t have any family now. Who’s been taking care of her?”
    “She strikes me as the independent and resourceful sort.” Jo tried to think of something rational but comforting. “Perhaps you’re overestimating how much she needs you.”
    “For heaven’s sake, Joanne, everyone needs friends!” Becca sighed and turned to Jo. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bark at you. Come on, I’ll show you these rooms and you can set up your equipment, or whatever. I’d like to get out of here as soon as possible.”
    Jo bit her lip. That would pose a problem. Becca hadn’t yet grasped the commitment necessary for this project.
    The upstairs rooms struck Jo as generic and unpromising, at least compared to the rich acoustic potential of the lower level. She looked them over swiftly, then followed Becca to the stairs. For once, Becca was moving faster than she was, and a moment later Jo realized why.
    “Chocolate,” Becca murmured, trotting down the stairs. The savory aroma was filling the house, and Jo’s mouth watered. Rachel backed her way out of the swinging kitchen door carrying a tin pan.
    “In truth, I may not be able to eat these,” Rachel said, “but I can sit with you two and drool while you do.” She set the pan on a small table, straightened stiffly, and frowned at the brownies. “Oops, Rachel’s bad. I’ve forgotten the frosting.”
    “No frosting on my brownies. That’s another sin to add to your torrid past.” Becca had regained her good spirits, or at least she was making a convincing show of it. She lifted the pan and headed for the kitchen. “Allow me.”
    Rachel straightened, frowning. “Are you sure, Becca?”
    “I’m sure I require frosting.” Becca hesitated a bare moment before she swung open the door to the kitchen, the room where her parents died. Then she walked through it.
    Jo surveyed the space for the best placement of the Spiricom. She slid her pack off her shoulder and opened it.
    “Becca tells me you have a degree in transpersonal psychology, Dr. Call.” Rachel lowered herself in stages into an armchair.
    “That’s correct.” Jo freed the Spiricom from its protective foam casing and cradled it in her hands. It was a silver beauty from 1976, one of the first made. She had paid an exorbitant amount of money for it. Its design was rudimentary, given the tonal complexity of later models, but still her favorite. She’d had good luck with it.
    “Did your studies include working with people with a history of trauma?”
    “Most lives involve trauma, Dr. Perry, just as most death involves loss.” Jo positioned the Spiricom on a side table, switched it on, and adjusted its settings. “But if you’re asking if I have clinical counseling experience, the answer is no. My degree centered on research.”
    “Then it’s possible you don’t realize the vulnerability of your current subject.” Rachel spoke politely, but her diction had grown more precise. “I don’t like Becca’s color, Dr. Call. She seems fragile to me. This focus on mysterious ghost messages has called up some very painful memories from her earliest childhood.”
    “Yes, Becca has no end of defenders, warning me to handle her gently.” Jo wondered why she was being so peevish. The woman was only expressing concerns she shared herself. “Where is the radio in this room?”
    “That’s the only radio I see.” Rachel gestured shortly. “I’m just asking you to proceed with caution. There’s no need to rush Becca through these