Chapter 14: THE FAN
The doorbell rang at 2:17 PM.
Alberta had been standing by the front window for forty-five minutes, pretending to examine the curtains while actually watching the driveway. She straightened when the car pulled up — a sensible sedan, slightly dusty from the drive.
"He's here," she announced, as if anyone in the house might have missed it.
Sam opened the door.
Todd Pearlman was in his fifties, average height, unremarkable features, wearing a corduroy jacket that had seen better decades. He carried a binder under one arm — thick, overstuffed, bristling with colored tabs — and his expression was the particular combination of nervous and hopeful that came from meeting someone you'd admired from a distance.
"Mrs. Arondekar? I'm Todd. We emailed."
"Come in, come in." Sam stepped aside. "This is my brother Logan. He's helping with the B&B."
Todd shook Logan's hand — a firm grip, slightly sweaty — and stepped into the foyer. His eyes moved over the walls, the architecture, the faded grandeur of a house that had seen better centuries.
"This is where she lived," he breathed. "Alberta Haynes. She walked these halls."
"She certainly did," Sam said, glancing at the ghost who was now standing approximately two feet behind Todd, examining the back of his head with critical interest.
"His bone structure is acceptable," Alberta pronounced. "Not exceptional, but acceptable."
Logan bit back a smile.
They settled in the parlor — the restored one, with Hetty's 1889 wallpaper preserved in all its aging glory. Todd opened his binder on the coffee table, and the depth of his research became immediately apparent.
Newspaper clippings. Recording archives. Genealogy charts. Photographs of playbills and concert programs. A handwritten timeline of Alberta's career, cross-referenced with contemporary accounts.
"I've been researching Alberta for fifteen years," Todd explained, spreading pages across the table. "She was one of the great unrecognized talents of her era. If she'd been born fifty years later, she would have been a star."
Alberta made a small sound that might have been a sob or might have been vindication.
"She was a star," Sam said carefully. "Just... not as widely recognized as she deserved."
"Exactly." Todd pulled out a photograph — Alberta in performance attire, mid-song, face illuminated by stage lights. "This is from 1923. The Regal Theater in Harlem. She performed there twelve times before—"
He stopped.
"Before what?" Sam prompted.
"Before she died." Todd's expression shifted. "That's the other thing I've been researching. Her death was... unusual."
Alberta went very still.
"Unusual how?"
"The records are incomplete. The official cause of death was listed as 'natural causes,' but she was only thirty-two. And there are rumors — nothing confirmed — that her death might not have been natural at all."
The room was silent.
Logan looked at the binder. At the stack of newspaper clippings. At the corner of one particular page that was half-hidden beneath the others — a yellowed article with a headline he could just barely make out.
"He's focused on her career. Not her death. The investigation needs a push."
"Excuse me," Logan said. "I need to use the restroom."
He stood and walked toward the hallway, passing the coffee table. As he did, his hand brushed against the binder — and he activated Nudge.
[NUDGE EXECUTED. GE: 98/100.]
The newspaper clipping shifted. Just slightly — a quarter inch, maybe less. Enough to move the partially hidden article to the top of the stack.
Logan continued to the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
When Todd returned his attention to the binder, his eyes landed on the newly visible headline.
"Wait," he said. "This article — I'd forgotten I had this."
He pulled it free. The yellowed newsprint showed a photograph of Woodstone Manor and a headline that read: MYSTERIOUS DEATH AT WOODSTONE ESTATE — SINGER FOUND DEAD IN GUEST ROOM
"Mysterious death," Todd read aloud. "Singer Alberta Haynes, 32, found deceased in her room at the Woodstone estate following a weekend gathering. Cause of death remains under investigation."
Sam leaned forward. "Under investigation?"
"The investigation was closed a week later. No charges filed. But look at this—" Todd pointed to a paragraph near the bottom. "It says several guests were questioned, including members of the Woodstone family. There was suspicion of foul play."
Alberta stood behind Sam's chair, transparent hands pressed to her transparent heart.
"Foul play," she repeated. "That's what I've been saying for a hundred years. Someone killed me. And everyone just... forgot."
Logan returned from the hallway, face carefully neutral.
"What did I miss?"
"Your brother found something," Sam said. "About Alberta's death."
Todd looked up from the article, eyes bright with the particular excitement of a researcher who'd stumbled onto something real.
"I think there's a story here," he said. "A real story. Someone at this house might have murdered Alberta Haynes, and the investigation was covered up."
Alberta turned to Logan. Her eyes were wet — could ghosts cry? — and her voice was steady in a way that came from decades of performing through pain.
"If this man finds out who killed me," she said, "I will owe you nothing. Because I'll owe the truth."
From the hallway came the sound of footsteps. Logan turned to see Hetty standing at the edge of the parlor, face pale, expression frozen in something that looked very much like fear.
She'd heard everything.
She knew what this investigation meant for her family.
And she was watching Logan with eyes that had just realized he might be more dangerous than she'd thought.