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deep and steady again. Whatever spell she had suffered, she appeared fine now.
    The planchette eased back and settled on the “O” again. Donald called out the letter as he wrote it.
    The bystanders gathered closer around the table, straining forward to see which letter the planchette would select next. The metallic tang of tension hung in the air, mixing with the air freshener that the maid had used to cover the room’s must.
    The plastic squeak of the planchette was brittle in the room’s silence.
    Donald announced the next stop: “N.”
    Burton smiled. Amelia had read the same books he and everyone else in the field had read. She was serving up the identity of “No one.” It was the perfect riddle, used by Ulysses to trick the Cyclops in “Odysseus” and used in a variation by Captain Kirk in “Star Trek” to outsmart an evil computer. Of course, in the paranormal world, “no one” could be anyone, even the Prince of Lies himself, or Prince Albert.
    “Noon?” Baldy said.
    “Shh,” said a red-haired woman. “She’s not finished.”
    Wayne’s expression had shifted from curious mirth to one of concern, his brow furrowed. Burton figured he was putting on a show.
    Amelia pushed the planchette to the “I.”
    “I,” Donald asked. “Are you sure?”
    Amelia, whose eyes were closed, gave a slight nod. A pendant on her bosom caught the faint golden glow of the lamplight.
    Wayne’s face was nearly white, a shade of pallor that Burton didn’t think could be faked.
    The planchette moved again, skidding across the slick cardboard.
    “E,” Wayne said, flatly.
    As if obeying his command, the planchette rested on the letter. Amelia took her hands from the device and opened her eyes.
    “Noonie?” Donald said.
    “Wayne?” Burton asked. His boss looked as if he had swallowed a live snake.
    “Is that all?” Baldy said. “What does ‘Noonie’ mean?”
    “I don’t know.” Amelia said. “I saw an angel.”
    Several of the bystanders nodded as if that was a perfectly obvious explanation.
    “Let’s keep going,” Donald said. “Maybe we can flush it out. Might be a poltergeist at play.”
    “You sure you want to mess with a poltergeist?” Baldy said.
    “That’s why we’re here,” Burton said, checking his EMF meter. The baseline reading hadn’t changed, suggesting no spirit had visited the room and nobody’s cell phone was close to the meter.
    Wayne turned away, and Burton saw his face in the mirror. Wayne was pale, as if he was going to throw up, and he staggered to the door. The group of necromancers didn’t notice, too intent on Amelia’s wielding of the planchette. Burton clicked off his EMF meter and left the room.
    Wayne was slumped against the wall, eyes staring straight ahead.
    “Did you feel something, Digger?” Burton asked, annoyed because his FLIR thermal imaging system might have recorded any temperature fluctuations in the room if Wayne had actually spoken while the trail was still warm. Or cold, in this case.
    “Noonie,” he whispered.
    “Yeah, keep them guessing, right?”
    “No guess. It’s her.”
    Burton tried to square the nonsense word with the known historical hauntings but came up empty. “Which ‘her’? Margaret?”
    “My wife.”
    Burton inhaled sharply. It always came to this. Most people became interested in the paranormal to deal with a personal loss. Maybe the Digger was human, after all.
    “She’s dead, Wayne.”
    “She promised.”
    “I don’t—”
    “She promised to meet me here.”

 
     
    Chapter 11
     
    Janey Mays walked through the kitchen, past pots and pans dangling from hooks, a wooden rack of overpriced wine, stainless-steel tables covered with cabbages and yellow squash, a cart loaded with dirty cookware, and a large sink where Irish potatoes were soaking. The music from the bar was piped into the kitchen, and at the moment a growly hard-rock tune was blaring loudly enough to shake the utensils by the grill.
    One of the legends Janey