I was reading a book of Appalachian ghost stories at my desk when Bernard called with all the enthusiasm of scheduling a tooth extraction.

I greeted him with, “Delighted to hear the sound of your voice.” And I meant it too.

With some “polite” prompting from myself, he provided me the contact information for Avalon. I reached for my bookmark that had wandered off when I answered the phone. As Bernard droned on with details, I realized I needed a pen more than a bookmark.

My desk was less of a desk and more of a cross between high art and a metal contraption. In its day it had been a status symbol. But those days have long since passed, and it became an object out of place with the rest of the world.

On one side was a stack of paper pads lifted from hotel lobbies, and way on the other side was a collection of three pens from the same hotels resting in a chipped coffee mug.

As Bernard mumbled something about a museum, I tried to write it down, but the pen was completely dried out. I put it back and drew another, which suffered from the same affliction. I put that one back and drew the last one, which teased a little bit of ink before going bone-dry.

Bernard mentioned something about Avalon’s roommate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you say her name was?”

But he didn’t repeat the name.

“Could you hold on a second, I need to find a pen to jot this down?” I asked.

The man did not pause. If anything, he talked faster.

I stood up and walked out of my office into the lobby of the suite. The vacant receptionist desk had piles of books toppling over, but no pens. A quick scan of the small room was not much more hopeful.

I returned to my desk, determined to make do with the pen that had ink it until recently. I removed the cap and licked the ball. Of course this was when the ink decided to rush out.

“Could you repeat that?” I asked one last time.

I took his uninterrupted monologue as a “No.”

Well, at least now I was able to follow along.

“Did you get all that?” he asked after a minute.

“You know I didn’t.” I rested the pen down next to the pad of paper and picked up a mug of coffee. It was cool. The dregs had lost their heat over an hour ago, but I needed something to get the taste of ink out of my mouth.

Bernard added, “It’s not my fault you conduct your business in such a way that leaves you unprepared to handle the needs of an exceptional client.”

“If this is to get back at me for the stunt Bernie pulled, it never would have happened if the valet followed my advice and treated the car with respect.”

Bernard did not like the fact that he shared the same name as a ghost, and he had no reservations about sharing his theories of how I had changed the color of my car.

“It’s a clever ruse you have going,” he whined in my ear.

“Just remember Mrs. Camelot has now hired me for two cases. The first one is closed, and I expect prompt payment for the ten hours of work I am billing you for.”

“Ten hours! You were here for less than half an hour.”

If I were new at this, I would be surprised at having this conversation yet again with the same individual.

I held firm. “Tell Mrs. Camelot I’m not starting this second case until I receive payment for the first.”

“This is unacceptable. I will inform Mrs. Camelot about this matter.”

“Exactly what I wanted you to do so she’d pay the bill and I could get started. Good-bye, Bernard.”

“I’m onto you.”

I dropped the call before I had to hear any more of his attitude. If anyone had a ruse, it was Bernard. In the presence of Mrs. Camelot, he was a yes-man. When she was away, he spoke as if the household, wealth, and status were all his.

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair only to find a pen tucked behind my ear. I knew before I wrote anything down that it was full of ink.

So began the process of writing down the bits of information Bernard had rushed through. Which was nothing more than the name of the museum Avalon volunteered at and the name of the street she lived on. He had given better contact information such as her phone number and the full address of her apartment. If either one of those was in my head it was probably next to all the pens I didn’t seem to have.

After that I added what I could recall from yesterday’s events at the Camelot Estate.

When I didn’t have anything more to write, I put the pen down and spread out the notes. Stared them down. God, what a mess of information. It was time to put some thought into them.

The first thing that stood out was Avalon living in an apartment in the city without a full-time job. She volunteered most of her time to an art museum I didn’t recognize, Arte del Mostro. This was consistent with Mrs. Camelot’s statement about an allowance for Avalon.

But it probably wasn’t a lot in terms of what Mrs. Camelot could be giving. She lived on Piatta Street which ran a short distance in total in a trendy part of the city, but it wasn’t anywhere near the area where the wealthy called home. And Avalon had a roommate. Were they splitting rent? Or was Mrs. Camelot not as wealthy as she projected? Was this a lover? That could fit with Avalon wanting her to keep receiving the allowance.

The museum where she volunteered had tours available tomorrow. Assuming Bernard followed through on my payment, I would introduce myself at her work.

I know approaching a stranger at work to talk about their private life has a heavy amount of creepiness to it. But showing up at her apartment could be more intrusive. The museum seemed like a safe bet to have a private conversation. I couldn’t imagine many people being interested in the type of art they featured.

Private investigators do this stuff all the time, and I wondered if I should outsource this part of the job. But a regular PI would likely miss some of the nuances a person demonstrates when concealing a paranormal encounter. Hell, I can’t even name all the different ways people don’t talk about things they are afraid to explain. I’ve done it so much, picking someone out is second nature. But that’s just the beginning. Spotting a person who has had an experience is one thing, but getting them to talk to a stranger about it is another.

I wasn’t even sure anything about this case was paranormal at all. Most cults are just cults. But some are secretive magic practitioners who occasionally get misidentified as being members of a cult.

No, I couldn’t farm this one out. I had to do it myself.