“No. I mean, yes. No one uses it except on Mondays. Not unless there’s a special need. Say, if someone gets sick overnight or something.”

“Ah.” So why, then, was there a neatly folded sheet and blanket sitting in the washing machine? I didn’t ask Mrs. Bissel, primarily because I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have an answer for me. Also, if the sheet, blanket, damp water bowl, and spaghetti tin signified a mortal presence in her basement, and if I managed to get whoever it was to move out, I didn’t want Mrs. Bissel to know it hadn’t been a spirit. Or a ghost. I wanted to get paid, and I wanted to get paid in dachshunds.

Anyhow, I didn’t know for sure that my surmise was correct. After searching for another few minutes, I decided I’d learned all I could learn from the empty basement. “I’ll have to go home and meditate about this, Mrs. Bissel.” I made sure I sounded extremely serious and mystical. “This is a knotty problem. I doubt that there will be an easy solution.”

“I feared as much.”

For so large a woman, she could move in a sprightly manner when she chose. She popped up from the bottom step and charged up the staircase, heaving a huge breath of relief when she shoved the door open and escaped into the security of her kitchen. I wasn’t far behind her. There’s something about basements, even in the daytime, that make me feel creepy, as if there might be ugly, hairy monsters lurking down there behind, say, the mangle, ready to grab me by the ankle, yank me downstairs, run my body through the wringer, and eat my liver for lunch.

When I stepped into the kitchen after Mrs. Bissel, I saw Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, and Susan Farley, the other housemaid, all huddled together at the sink and all gaping at us as if we’d just returned from beyond the grave itself.