That Awful Sound: Psychic Detectives - The Joliet Sisters by Lynn Emery Page A

upstairs, not a cat. Be careful. Maybe Mrs. Fontaine is just
a superstitious lady with a bit of paranoia tossed in. But you
never know.” Charmaine walked to a glass cabinet. Crystal and blown
glass figurines stared back at her. A collection of animals and
tiny people seemed to question what she was doing disturbing them.
“Fortune worth of doo-dads just on one shelf.”
    “Huh?” Jessi’s said over a shoulder just as
she went through an archway to the hall.
    “Nothing.” Charmaine figured it best not to
give little sis ideas for bringing in extra income. She wasn’t
totally reformed yet.
    “Yes, mother,” Jessi wisecracked. “Damn.
This staircase is bigger than the shotgun house we grew up in.”
    “The closets are bigger than the house we
grew up in,” Charmaine joked to herself, because she was alone
downstairs.
    Totally alone. Nothing moved except leaves
on the house plant stirred by the cool air from heating vents. The
formal living room looked like something out of Architectural
Digest. Rich dark oak tables and chairs contrasted with oak wood
floors in a lighter color. Not that much of the floors could be
seen. Beautiful cream and ruby red wool rugs covered them. Pale
green draperies were pulled back from the windows. Cream gauzy
curtains beneath the draperies let in light but kept a private
feel. Charmaine gave up resisting the urge to touch the rich
fabrics of the sofas. A few leather chairs were mixed in as
well.
    She moved across the hallway that bisected
the mansion. A long formal dining room that doubled as a ballroom
took her breath away. She marveled that people lived like this. She
glanced up at the elaborate crystal and gold chandelier. The
plaster of Paris ceiling was painted in a pattern that complimented
the enormous wool rug. A table capable of seating twenty-five
people stretched down the center. More chairs lined the walls.
Beautiful and untouched. That’s what felt weird. The place didn’t
feel lived in. She moved through the other rooms and picked up
human vibes, stronger in the kitchen.
    “The cook or hired caterers for her
parties,” Charmaine said aloud to no one. Still it was spotless
with everything in place.
    The sprawling library was a different
matter. Raw male energy filled the room. Two walls contained large
bookcases. A narrow yet sturdy looking staircase on one wall led up
to a balcony with another bookcase. Furniture just as rich filled
the room. The massive oak desk dominated the room. Along another
wall a set in credenza held a computer with two monitors and
another chair. An oil portrait of a stern looking man hung over the
fireplace.
    “My husband’s domain,” a husky female voice
said firmly.
    Charmaine started and spun around. “Shit, I
almost...”
    “What?” The tall auburn-haired woman
strolled in with one professionally perfect eyebrow raised.
    No need to say she almost pulled a gun and
shot her crazy ass, which was on the tip of Charmaine’s tongue.
Rule number five on Charmaine’s small business tip list – don’t
shoot your client; especially one with deep pockets. Your creditors
will not be pleased.
    “Sorry Mrs. Forstall. I thought you’d be
gone until at least seven tonight,” Charmaine said, recovering
quickly. Images of bills due helped her overcome being royally
pissed by the woman. Again.
    Mrs. Forstall chuckled deep in her throat.
She shrugged and tossed her purse onto a nearby chair. Then she
crossed to the bar. “I got curious about how ghost hunters work.
Can you get rid of whatever is menacing this house today?”
    “We’re not ‘ghost hunters’. And I’m afraid
it doesn’t work like that,” Charmaine drawled. The woman must have
majored in annoying the lower classes at her fancy private
school.
    “Well how does it work then?” Mrs. Forstall
gracefully turned to Charmaine again. She held a tumbler of brandy
in one hand.
    “We assess security first off. You’d be
surprised at how many ‘ghostly’ happenings turn out to be a