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“Correct, we don't have the proper forensic technology to confirm that," I say, keeping my voice level, “But we do know that the Weatherby Island Gazette, the newspaper that ran the article about Beatrix's death, was owned by Timothy Idylewylde, Martin's younger brother."
“So, Martin killed Beatrix and then had his brother run the story about the drowning," Elaina murmurs. She sounds awestruck.
“Precisely," Evan confirms.
“We need to run this exhibit. We need to call the Gazette. Eleanor, this is incredible!"
“No, we don't. We've already scheduled a Christmas Trees of Old exhibit for the third floor!" Ivan blubbers.
Elaina rolls her eyes, “Ivan, respectfully, the trees will still be here next year. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Wonderful job, Eleanor." I beam as Ivan glowers in the corner, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. A heavy silence settles in the room.
Finally, Ivan relents, “I'll consider it. Elaina, if you're so gung-ho about this, you can give Eleanor the number for the Gazette.”
Evan can't suppress his grin. “Thank you for your time. Ivan, if you have any further questions, feel free to email Eleanor.”
Ivan exits the room in a huff. As I pack up the materials, Elaina lingers by the door. "Thank you," she says.
"For what?"
"For telling Beatrix's story. Someone had to do it."
"It's been my honor," I say-- even though the relationship between Beatrix and I can be described as tense at best, I'm glad I've provided her with a sense of justice.
After Elaina leaves, Evan helps me pack up. “Did you see Ivan's face? That was an early Christmas present!”
“It was pretty good,” I admit.
“More than good, it was incredible! Now, onto our next order of business: Seance prep 101.”
I laugh, “What a day.” We head over to my desk, and I show Evan the rest of the materials I've gathered. Dante suggested we find as many of Beatrix's personal effects as possible to draw her energy near during the seance.
“So, we’ve got the diary, of course,” Evan says.
I spy a hint of dark velvet in the corner of the box. I pull it up, and a ribbon unravels. It’s the exact shade of matte black in the ribbon I thought Iphigenia was wearing Thursday night.
“This is her ribbon,” I say. I know it in my bones.
“I mean, it’s not labeled or anything.”
“Evan, you’ve got to trust me on this one.”
“Oh-kay. Then, we also have several letters between Beatrix and Martin. Do you think that counts as enough ‘personal effects’?”
“It sure does. How do you feel about a trip to the fifth floor?”
“I never thought you’d ask.”
Evan and I track down a dozen books about the ins and outs of casting out an unwanted ghost. Evan takes notes in blocky handwriting. I take dozens of photos with my phone.
“It’s funny; I never pegged you as someone who believes in the paranormal.”
“I didn’t until I met Dante. You know what they say about love. It makes you believe in all sorts of crazy things.” Evan hums contentedly as he flips open another book.
“Now, this one says we should also use selenite for protection.”
“I’ll put it on the list! Is that with an S or a C?”
“S.”
