Bernard led me into the only oval shaped library I’ve ever seen. We entered through a set of double doors on the long end of room. Across from me I could view the grounds through a window paned in a diagonal pattern. I took a few more steps in and admired how the bookshelves stretched to the ceiling and curved with the wall all the way to either side of the window. Dust found no quarter here, and unlike my collection of books, everyone fit on a shelf. There weren’t any scattered across piles while they waited for a spot to open up.

Her study lacked a desk, but in the middle of the room were two luxury sofa chairs facing each other and a matching long couch that faced the door. The whole room reminded me of the waiting area in my office, but the best imaginable version of it.

“That couch is probably more comfortable than my bed.”

Bernard did not respond. I found the door shut and figured he had closed it after he left to show the others out. I could be wrong, but I think he disliked me more than the other paranormal people. Which was weird. The others wouldn’t be taken seriously even by alien conspiracy theorists. My offenses against him only amounted to arriving a little late and preferring to be called by my first name. And not taking his shit.

I sat down on the couch and confirmed it was, in fact, more comfortable than any piece of furniture I owned.

The doors opened, and Mrs. Camelot entered wearing a pair of clicking high heels and a new dress, designer no doubt, hand sewn by angels from unicorn thread and paid for by the devil. I think her hair may have changed too.

“You have a nice study,” I complimented. She didn’t walk toward. Instead she made her way to one of the curved ends of the room.

“This is the waiting area; my study is through here.” She didn’t bother to look at me.

She opened a door that had been concealed by one of the uniform bookcases. I’m no expert on fire codes, but I was pretty sure this was a no-no. No point in bringing it up. Mrs. Camelot lived by a different set of rules. Ones she could buy.

“Follow me,” she said in a tone suggesting she wouldn’t wait.

We entered a rectangular room. Again, full bookshelves from floor to ceiling. I was hoping her private study would be a mess, revealing her to be a slob just like the rest of us.

No such luck.

“Mr. Krelig.”

She walked behind her desk and faced me, her back to the window.

“Call me Viktor, only plaintiff—”

“Yes, Bernard told me about your clever quip, Mr. Krelig. And I promise you that should you upset me, I will frighten you more than any lawyer has before.”

I’ll admit, she scared as much as any living person could. Emphasis on living. The undead stirs a terror inside of me that surpasses Mrs. Camelot’s threats.

“Out of all the people I hired,” she continued, “you were the only one to tell me I wasn’t being haunted. I want to know why.”

“Because everyone else is a fraud, and they were trying to feed your delusion.” Maybe I was being too harsh. She did just warn me about the consequences of upsetting her.

“Do I look delusional to you, Mr. Krelig?” I was beginning to get the impression I should be addressing her by her formal name each time I spoke.

“Mrs. Camelot, I didn’t mean…”

“So, you chose not to feed the delusion. But how did you know there wasn’t a ghost?” At this point, I just wanted to collect my payment for ten hours worth of time and get out ASAP. My fear was she would spend the entire ten hours arguing with me.

“Because, Mrs. Camelot, you hired me and the others to determine if there was a ghost.”

“Explain.”

“There’s never a question about whether someone or someplace is being haunted. Hauntings are clear. It’s like when you get a flat tire. You don’t need to hire someone to tell you if it’s flat or not. When I am hired by people with a legitimate concern, my job is to advise how to resolve the ghost’s spiritual dilemma so all parties can move on.”

For once she didn’t cut me off. Instead, she studied me as I spoke.

“I’m going to confess, Mr. Krelig, there is not a ghost in the house. You may have already suspected my motivations were different from what was initially communicated. I am unfamiliar with your world, and there are a lot of fraudsters. I have a matter requiring an investigation by someone competent, and I needed a way to separate the experts from the rabble. What I have is a more severe and personal matter than a haunting.

“My daughter Agatha fell in with a bad crowd in a wrong way, or however you put it.” For a moment, she appeared vulnerable. Then her steel returned, and her voice carried unmistakable disapproval as she said, “They were your sort of people, Mr. Krelig.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Most of the people in my crowd are bookworms.”

She ignored my remark, probably assuming I was being sarcastic. “We’ve been estranged for decades and didn’t know we… I had a grandchild until recently when she, Avalon, approached me. She ran away from the life her mother set her on. After confirming with medical professionals about the legitimacy of her claim, I accepted her as a Camelot to the extent that she let me.”

While I guess some people may consider me a private investigator, it’s not really my strong suit. But I had to wonder if Mrs. Camelot was the victim of an elaborate con.

“But I’m afraid it was too late for her. I don’t understand her dilemma at all. All I know is she believes she is in a desperate situation that I wouldn’t comprehend. I don’t have any interest in the occult.”

“Why do you think the problem is paranormal?”

“I offered her the best therapists money can buy, but she refuses. Says they’ll say she’s crazy.”

That is a common fear among people who’ve had a paranormal experience.

She continued, “I can’t separate fact from fiction quite as easily as you can. It all seems absurd to me.”

She said absurd, but tragic was what crossed her face. “My last conversation with Avalon has left me extremely uncomfortable,” she said with an unsteady voice. “It reminded me of some of the conversations my husband had with me before he passed.”

She was finally telling the truth.

“How so?”

“She was talking about going away for a while. When I asked where, she couldn’t say. And when I asked when she said she didn’t know.”

“Forgive me for bringing this up, but how does this relate to your late husband?”

“He kept his cancer hidden from me.”

“Is it possible she’s doing the same?”

“I have her medical records, and they are clean.”

To which I suspected she meant healthy and drug-free.

“You think she’s keeping a secret?”

“I think so. I think she is afraid for her life, or at the very least is in some sort of danger.”

“Did you share your concern with her?”

“I did, and she ignored my comment altogether and then asked if after she goes away her allowance could continue on to her roommate.”

This was going nowhere.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Camelot?”

“Mr. Krelig, I want you to meet with her. Tell me if she’s in trouble and how to get her out of it.”

“You’re used to dealing in certainties, and I might not be able to tell you for certain if she’s in trouble. Besides, in my line of work, once a person is in trouble, there usually isn’t a way out.”

“Are you proposing an alternative arrangement, Mr. Krelig?”

“I’m offering you the same services I offer all of my paying clients. I’ll dig into the case and share any conclusions I’ve made.”

“And by conclusions you mean opinions?”

“Professional opinions.”

She danced around the terms of the arrangement a little longer. Throwing in a jab each time she could. The one that landed the hardest was the insinuation that “professions” carried a weight of respect, and, in my case, the respect I had was insufficient to use the word.

She didn’t think I had a real job. It’s not the first nor the last I’ve heard the comment. Still, it upset me this time. I guess that was the point of all her social jabs. Wear a person down so the lightest punch knocks them off-balance.

She didn’t see me as an equal. But I didn’t need her to. I just needed her check to cash.

After agreeing to the terms, she rang for Bernard and told me to wait in the oval room for him to see me out. I had been dismissed.

Bernard was already waiting for me in the oval room and had no intention of tolerating me one moment more than necessary. His presence made me wonder how long he had been there and if he had been trying to listen in on the conversation.

When we reached the front entrance, I asked him, “What do you think of all this?”

“I think you indulge the same delusions your colleagues do. I dislike the idea of you indulging them in Miss Avalon any further.”

“So, you think your boss is delusional.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth Mr. Krelig, or you will find yourself unprepared for the ferocity of my rebuttal.”

There it was again. That odd similarity between Bernard and Bernie, my mechanic. Always so sensitive.

“Just get my car.” I wasn’t going to waste my breath on him anymore. Besides, I suspected Bernie was giving the valet some grief. Bernard wanted me off the property ASAFP, and the fact that my car wasn’t ready when we stepped out of the twin front doors meant something was up. It was only a matter of time before Bernard learned he was in over his head.

“The valet left a moment ago. Your vehicle should be here any minute.”

I let my posture tell Bernard everything I thought of that statement. A moment later, a walkie-talkie clicked, and he pulled it out.

There was babbling.

Bernard spoke into it, “Repeat.”

There was more babbling. The words were too garbled through the electronics to hear, but I understood clearly enough.

Bernard put the receiver up to his mouth and in a voice meant not to be overheard said, “A Mercedes-Benz SE, 1970s.” The man, despite his obnoxious personality, knew his automobiles.

“chhk — White?”

“Correct.”

Bernie may be the silent type, but he had a great sense of humor.

Bernard stared at me as the voice on the other end of the radio crackled again.

“Forgive me, but the Mercedes you arrived in. What color was it?”

“White.” I said the word slowly as if I were blowing a smoke ring.

Bernard disapproved of my answer, and instead of relaying it to the valet, he said, “He’s the only one of them left and there is only one car left. Just bring it around.”

A minute later, the valet drove a deep red 1971 Mercedes-Benz 280 SE under the awning.

The valet exited the car, leaving it running. He shared a tense glance with Bernard. I walked over to where he was holding the door open for me.

Bernard stepped in front of the Benz before I sat down inside.

“Care to explain yourself?” He wasn’t going to move until he got an answer.

I rested my right forearm on the solid roof of the car and had my left hand on the top of the open door.

“It’s like I told Mrs. Camelot. There is never a doubt when something is haunted. Isn’t that right, Bernie?” The car honked before I could get inside, spooking Bernard enough to get him to jump out of the way. I shut the door before the valet could do it for me. Then Bernie and I drove off.

Some truths can withstand doubt, but, unfortunately, any truth can be denied. And denial was the state of mind Bernard was in. From the rearview mirror, I saw him scolding the valet. Probably claiming I had conned them.