Free The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told by Martin H. Greenberg Page A

location of every item in the room, then reluctantly departed, confident the looting would begin once the door clicked shut.
    The room was my mother. Elegant, well-appointed, tasteful, and traditional. I’m sure it was all “revival” something; but I couldn’t tell what. Even though she’d made an attempt to “civilize” me in my teens, very little had stuck. I did know that if it looked old, it was very old, including some Byzantine icons in the corner with a candle glowing in front of them. In a world where even people were disposable, antiques held a certain charm.
    Not so my mother.
    She swept into the room wearing a dark-blue dressing gown—clearly Anderson’s—and dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. For a moment I believed she might have been crying for him, but grief I could have felt radiating out from her.
    My mother doesn’t radiate emotions. She sucks them in. Like a black hole. I think that’s why her daughter is a nun in Nepal, I’m a waste of flesh, and my half-brother is the Prince of Darkness.
    “There’s nothing in his will for you, Patrick.”
    “Good to see you, too, mother. I hope he spent it all on himself.”
    Her blue eyes tightened. “It’s in a trust, all of it, save for a few charitable donations.”
    I chuckled. “That explains the tears. Hurts to still be on an allowance.”
    “Yours is done, Patrick. I know he used to give you money.” She fingered the diamond-encrusted crucifix at her throat. “He was too soft-hearted.”
    “He gave me money once , and it wasn’t Christian charity.” I opened my hands. “I came from the crime scene . . . ”
    Her eyes widened. “You beast! If you breathe a word!” Tears flowed fast. “How much do you want?”
    “I don’t want anything.” I shook my head. “Five people have died in the last two months, your husband included. All of them nasty. Sean Hogan, Amanda Preakness, Percival Kendall Ford, and Dorothy Kent.”
    “Dottie? They said it was a botox allergy.”
    “It doesn’t matter what they said, mother.”
    She blinked and quickly made the sign of the cross. “Are you confessing to me, Patrick? Have you done this? Have you come for me?”
    “Stop!” I balled my fists and began to mutter. Like most folks, she bought into the Vatican version of the talented . She figured I was going sacrifice her to my Satanic Master, or at least turn her into a toad.
    Tempting, so tempting.
    She paled and then sat hard on a daybed. “I’ll do anything you ask, Patrick. You don’t want to hurt me, your mother.”
    I snorted. If she had enough presence of mind to invoke the maternal bond, she wasn’t really shocked, just scheming. “How was Anderson hooked up with the others?”
    “Hogan did the trust work, damn him. Everyone else we knew socially. The Club, of course, the Opera Society. Various nonprofit boards.” She paused, her eyes sharpening. “Yes, this is all your fault.”
    “My fault?”
    “Absolutely. They were all on the board of the Fellowship. All of them.” Her accusing finger quivered. “I never wanted him to have anything to do with that place, but he did, because of you. And now he’s dead.”
    “The Fellowship never killed anyone.”
    “They saved your life, Patrick. I know. He told me.” Her eyes became arctic slits. “If they hadn’t, if you were dead, my husband wouldn’t be. Dear God, I wish it were so.”
    She burst into a series of sobs which were as piteous as they were fake, so I took my leave. It really hadn’t been her best effort at emotional torture. Anderson’s death had hurt her. Probably was more than having a leash on her spending. I wondered how long it would be until she realized that herself.

    From the Heights I descended back into my realm. People in my mother’s class acknowledge it exists, but only just barely. It’s where they go slumming when cheating at golf has lost its thrill. For the rest of us it’s just a waiting