Читать книгу House of Strangers - Carolyn McSparren - Страница 11

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Paul slept later than he’d planned, stood under a hot shower to loosen his shoulder, stowed his bags in his car, grabbed a couple of sweet rolls and a paper cup of hot, bad coffee from the lobby of his motel and drove east toward Rossiter.

He’d planned to arrive before the workmen, assuming they showed up. He’d had enough experience with contractors and their crews when Giselle was remodeling her kitchen. Half the time they simply didn’t show—no excuses, not even a telephone call.

Not this morning. Overnight a large blue Dumpster had appeared outside his back door, and half-a-dozen pickup trucks festooned with equipment stood haphazardly on his front lawn. He could hear hammering and shouting before he even got out of his car. He walked up his front steps and through the open door.

A moment later he ducked as a man in overalls carrying a bundle of two-by-fours swung around the corner from the basement steps. He barely glanced at Paul.

“Hey, toss me that hammer, will ya?” a voice called down from the stair landing. “Right there on the tool-box—the claw with the blue handle.”

Paul looked around, found the hammer and made the mistake—one he still frequently made—of tossing it with his right hand. The pain made him suck in his breath. The hammer clattered to the staircase several steps down from the man who needed it.

“Sorry,” Paul said, and moved to retrieve it.

“Okay, I got it.” The man disappeared behind the stair railing. A moment later Paul heard the thud of the hammer against one of his balusters.

“Hey! Should you be taking that thing out? Won’t the banister fall off?”

The man reared. He was thin with graying hair and skin like old cypress left too long in the creek. “Yeah, I should be taking it off and no, the banister won’t fall down. All right with you?”

Chastened and feeling way out of his element, Paul went in search of Buddy.

He found him and a crew in the basement removing rotten joists and replacing them with good wood. Paul backed out without disturbing them.

At the rate they were going, the structural work could be done in a week. He hadn’t even talked to Buddy about any schedule, and he had no idea whether the plumbers came before the electricians or the telephone linemen or the utilities. He had a sudden longing to be sitting in his rented condo in New Jersey. But he’d sublet it.

He could take Giselle up on her offer of a bed.

No way. That house with two teenaged boys was considerably noisier and more confused than this one.

He needed an island of peace and quiet. Simply slipping out and taking up more or less permanent residence at the café next door seemed cowardly. Before the accident he’d have pitched in and at least swung a sledgehammer at the broken concrete of the parking area behind the house. Now he couldn’t even do that.

“You look like somebody’s poleaxed you.”

He heard Ann’s voice from behind him with a mixture of relief and happiness that surprised him.

A moment later Dante thrust his slobbery maw into his hand. “Next time you warn me about chaos I’ll listen to you.” He removed his palm from Dante’s jowls and rubbed it dry on the dog’s broad head.

Her gray-blue eyes danced and she grinned at him.

“You get off on this, don’t you,” he said.

“You caught me.” She turned away from him, her arms spread wide, embracing the entire house. “I adore helping old buildings spring to life again, and since I love this house, this job is pure joy.”

“It’s pure madness, is what it is.” He had to shout over the sound of at least three power saws and three or four hammers.

“Come on upstairs, it’s quieter there.” She slipped past him and then hugged the staircase wall to avoid falling through the space left by the missing posts. Dante sighed and trudged up behind her.

She walked into the back bedroom, held the door until Paul and Dante had cleared it, then shut it firmly against the noise. March had turned cool even during the day, and the caulking between the sleeping-porch windows and this bedroom left much to be desired.

“You’re going to freeze in that shirt,” she said practically, and perched her bottom on the nearest windowsill. “You still planning on staying here at night?”

He ran his hand over his forehead. “At this point, I have no idea. I’ve checked out of my motel, but I’m sure they’d take me back.”

“Work quits about five, so if you can stand the chill and the possibility of a cold shower—and if you don’t mind the occasional ghost—I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here. Just don’t try cooking on that stove.”

“Buddy warned me about that.” He glanced at her. “What ghosts?”

“All old Southern mansions have ghosts.” She laughed. “Let’s see.” She began to tick off on her fingers. “There’s Deirdre Delaney who died in the last really big yellow-fever epidemic. She’s supposed to sit on the bottom step and cry.” She lifted a second finger. “Then there’s Paul Adam—the son of the man who built the house. It’s very confusing that every generation names the first son Paul. Fortunately each generation has a middle name starting with the next letter of the alphabet. That’s the only way to tell them apart.”

“So Trey’s real name is?”

“Paul Edward. He prefers Trey. Anyway, Paul Barrett is supposed to clank chains like Morley because he was such a nasty old miser in life.”

“People have actually seen these ghosts?”

“To hear them tell it.”

“Are those all the ghosts?”

“Not by a long shot. Let’s see. Great-uncle Conrad’s son David—he was actually Paul David, but nobody ever called him that.” She must have caught his expression because she said, “Hey, are you okay? I don’t really believe in ghosts, you know.”

“I’m not upset. Tell me about your uncle David.”

“My gram could tell you more. He died when I was pretty young, so I’m not certain how much I really remember and how much comes from Gram. I do remember that he was the sweetest, gentlest, saddest man I ever knew, when he was sober, that is. Toward the end of his life he wasn’t sober very often.”

Paul had no desire to hear about what a sweet, gentle man his father had been. He would have preferred the kind of ogre he’d dreamed of for years. He fought to keep his breathing even and his fingers from tightening into fists.

“So why would he haunt this place?” Because he killed somebody here, Paul answered his own question silently.

“He wanted to be a painter and live in Paris, but of course that wasn’t possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because the family needed him,” Ann said as though it was the most obvious reason in the world. “When his daddy had a heart attack, he called Uncle David home. He never went back to Paris. I think that’s why he was sad. And probably why he drank like a fish and rode like a madman.”

“Rode what?”

“Horses, of course. The Delaneys have always been masters of the local hunt. I can remember my first few hunts when I was still riding my pony. I was certain the sweet old uncle David I knew couldn’t possibly be the crazy man in the pink coat flying over the fields screaming like a banshee. Not that I knew what a banshee was at the time, of course.”

This was more like it. “So he liked blood sports, did he?”

Ann laughed at him. “Foxhunting the way we do it down here is not a blood sport. We never ever kill anything—well, not foxes or coyotes, at any rate. We don’t have such a great track record with people.”

Paul struggled to remain calm. “What…what do you mean?”

Ann laughed again. “I’m joking.”

Paul nodded. “But this Uncle David chased innocent foxes?”

“Sure. But the foxes seem to enjoy it. They actually sit out in the fields and wait for hounds. I swear they can tell when it’s Wednesday or Saturday. I’ve hunted since I was five years old and I have never seen a drop of blood drawn from any animal we chased. When the foxes get tired, they go to ground and leave hounds baying and frustrated. And of course the coyotes can outrun hounds any time they feel like it. It’s a big game and an excuse to go yee-hawing over the fields on a horse. Do you ride? You can come along in second field if you’d like.”

“What’s second field?”

“The old fogeys’ field. A nice quiet trail ride with no fences to jump and no pressure. We also have carriages that follow along sometimes. You can ride in one of them if you like. We hunt until the farmers put the crops in.”

“I’ve never been on a horse in my life and don’t plan to start now, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“We’ve gotten rather far afield from your uncle David.”

“I thought we’d finished with him.”

“And why he’s a ghost.”

“He’s not, of course. But if there were ghosts, he’d be a good candidate. So sad in life. As though he searched for something he never found.” She shook her head. “Then if you want a tough ghost, there’s Aunt Maribelle, his mother. If she turned ghost, you’d know about it for sure. In life, there was never anything shy about Aunt Maribelle. So as a ghost I’m sure if she wanted you out of here, she’d find a way to boot your behind down the front steps.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t want me out.”

“Probably happy to have you.” She checked her watch. “Oops. Buddy’ll kill me if I don’t get back to work.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve covered the mural in the dining room so it won’t collect any more dust, and I’ve started stripping the overmantel in the music room. The goo should be just about ready to remove. Want to see what’s under the layers?”

“Certainly.”

“Okay. Come on.”

As he followed her down the stairs, he asked, “Do you know what sort of chandelier hung up there?” He pointed to the elaborate boss surrounding the hanging lightbulb.

“Sure. A big old brass thing that originally used gas—the first house in Rossiter to have it, by the way.”

“You wouldn’t know who bought it, would you?”

“No clue, but if I know Trey Delaney, he’s got meticulous records on every purchase from the estate sale, even piddly little stuff like the things I bought.”

Excellent. The perfect entrée to introduce himself to Trey Delaney.

He watched Ann’s heavily gloved hands meticulously remove layers of black varnish from the relief on the over-mantel. She used what looked like dental instruments to get into the cracks and crevices.

He was definitely in the way.

Even Buddy in his trips from basement to Dumpster hardly did more than nod at him. He finally sat on the fourth step of the staircase and merely watched.

He’d about decided to leave when a tall, slim woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a turtleneck sweater strode in the front door. Her hair was short and snow-white, her face nut-brown with crinkles at the edge of her eyes. One glance at her hands told him she must be in her sixties, but she moved like a teenager.

“Hey,” she said as she came forward and extended her hand. “You must be Mr. Bouvet. I’m Sarah Pulliam. I’m a terrible busybody. Couldn’t stay away any longer. Had to see what was happening to the old place.”

Her handshake was brief but firm.

She glanced around at the organized chaos and then at him. “Welcome to Rossiter, although why in God’s green earth you’d want to move to a little town like this is more than I can see.” Without waiting for his answer, she strode off through the living room. “You tore down those godawful drapes, thank God. I told Maribelle when she hung them that they were heavy enough to suffocate any small child that got caught up in them. Ugly, to boot. For a woman with strong tastes, Maribelle never did take much to color in her decorating.”

He trailed this dynamo without speaking. He had no idea who she was, but she obviously knew the Delaneys well. He had no intention of interrupting the flow of her talk.

“There you are, Ann,” she said. “Goodness, I had no idea that was golden oak.”

“Neither did anybody else until I started stripping it.” Ann smiled at the woman who offered a cheek to be kissed. “I guess you introduced yourself, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Did you tell him who you were?”

“Huh?”

“Paul, this is my grandmother, Sarah Pulliam. She and Maribelle and Addy were sisters.”

“I was the youngest and the only one who wasn’t half-crazy,” Sara said with a touch of smugness.

“Crazy how?” Paul asked. Maybe his father’s gene pool had been tainted by schizophrenia or manic depression.

“Maribelle had a terrible temper, but she managed to get what she wanted when she wanted it. I suppose that’s not really crazy, except that she had tunnel vision about her own needs. And poor Addy probably didn’t start out crazy, but she sure wound up that way. Toward the end Esther—the woman who looked after her—said she used to wander around in her nightgown wringing her hands like Lady MacBeth and mumbling stuff that made no sense whatsoever.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “She had every reason in this world to hate Maribelle, but they still managed to live in the same house together, God knows how.”

“And did you like them?” In New Jersey, Paul would never have considered asking a bald question like that. But these people seemed to delight in a new audience to tell a good story to.

Ann gave him a sharp glance, but if Sarah noticed the rudeness of the question, it certainly didn’t bother her.

“Actually, I was devoted to Addy. Only men loved Maribelle. Women saw through her. Men never catch on to that sort of selfishness and greed.”

“Sarah, where’d you come from?” Wiping the perspiration from his face with a white towel that said Golf and Country Club on it, Buddy Jenkins walked into the library and came over to kiss Sarah’s cheek.

“Had to pick up some laying mash for the chickens, so I thought I’d stop by, maybe take you all to lunch. How about it, Mr. Bouvet? You eaten at the Wolf River Café yet?”

“Indeed I have. Thank you, Mrs. Pulliam, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Intrude? Buying this house sort of makes you a member of the Delaney clan—which we sort of are. You look like you could use a good country fried steak.”

He allowed himself to be persuaded. This woman was a fount of information. He prayed he could keep her talking.

AT LUNCH Paul couldn’t steer the conversation back to Paul Delaney, Sr., without seeming too nosy even for these people. He contented himself with listening to Sarah banter with Buddy and her granddaughter.

He had never been around a family whose generations kidded and laughed together. His tante had been a strict disciplinarian who spoke formally always. He’d never seen her smile.

For a man who had done very little since morning, he felt awfully tired. Not physical exhaustion, but the weariness that came from always being on the alert for some tidbit of information about this family of his, about his father.

And from being on guard against revealing that he knew or cared more than he should about the Delaneys. One of his friends from the Air Force Academy, Jack Sabrinski, who had grown up speaking Serbo-Croat and Bulgarian with equal facility in English, had done some spy missions. He told Paul that the two months he spent spying in Bosnia took more out of him than five years of a bad marriage and a nasty divorce.

Paul could believe him. Since meeting Ann last night, another element had been added to the mix. Until yesterday these people had been strangers without faces, without personalities. Faceless entities he felt justified in using.

Now they were real to him. Ann especially. She seemed to be completely vulnerable and open. The perfect mark for a con man, which was what he was.

As he and Buddy stood by the counter waiting to pay their bills—they’d refused to allow Mrs. Pulliam to pick up the check—he heard Sarah’s voice behind him.

“Hey, come meet the new owner.”

Paul turned as Sarah slipped her arm under that of a man close to Paul’s size and weight, but with hazel eyes and a shock of blond hair already bleached nearly white by the sun. He wore immaculate chinos that hadn’t come from a discount store, an equally immaculate and expensive plaid shirt, and work boots that were polished to a high shine. Paul glanced at the man’s hand as he took it.

Manicured fingernails.

“Trey, honey, this is Mr. Paul Bouvet who is redoing your grandmother’s house. Paul, say hello to Trey Delaney.”

“Thought I’d see you when you closed on the house, but I had to be out of town,” Trey said. “Glad to meet you at last.”

Paul expected to feel a shock of electricity between them when he touched the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, but his eyes searched for features he could recognize from the only picture he had of his father. A second later he wondered whether anyone looking at him and Trey could see any resemblance.

“My real name is Paul Edward Delaney, but nobody ever calls me anything but Trey.”

The picture of Paul’s father had been taken with his mother in Paris when his father was no more than twenty-five. It wasn’t a very good one, either, and had begun to fade. Paul was now thirty-five, which made Trey thirty-three.

Trey had their father’s eyes and light hair and skin, already roughened by days in the sun.

Paul had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair, but for anyone who looked closely, the resemblance was noticeable. Paul decided that it would be better if he kept his meetings with Trey as private as possible and away from the knowledgeable eyes of someone like Ann, who must be used to analyzing faces for her restoration work.

Only Paul knew that they were half brothers, one raised as a wealthy planter’s son in west Tennessee, one raised by a plumber uncle and a French aunt who baked bread in Queens, New York. He intended to keep it that way for as long as possible.

To everyone around them, it was a casual introduction in a small-town café. Nothing special.

“Glad you’re bringing the old place to life,” Trey said, “though Lord knows why you’d want to. Sue-sue—she’s my wife—and I thought we’d never unload that monstrosity. Oops. Better keep my mouth shut.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to live there yourself.”

Sarah laughed. Trey laughed. Ann snickered.

“Aunt Sarah,” Trey said, “can’t you just see Sue-sue living in a house with itty-bitty closets and no whirlpool? No, Mr. Bouvet. You’re welcome to it. Too much ancestor worship around this town, anyway, and a damn sight too much in my family. Doesn’t matter who you came from, just what you do on your own, am I right, Annie?”

“It helps if you start by inheriting a bunch of land, a few million dollars and a couple of thousand head of cattle.”

“Can’t make a dime farming, isn’t that right, Aunt Sarah?” Trey turned to Paul. “You ever hear the one about the farmer who won the ten-million-dollar lottery? When they asked him what he was going to do with it, he said, ‘I guess I’ll just keep farming till it’s gone.’” He laughed. A little too loud, a little too long.

Paul smiled back.

“Well, y’all, I got to get my nose back to the grindstone.” Trey waved over his shoulder and walked past them out the restaurant toward the square.

Bills paid, the three others went out to where Dante waited patiently with his leash looped around the rail. Paul realized he hadn’t asked about the bear in front of Trey’s office. He’d make it a point to find out when he spoke to Trey about the people who’d bought the antiques at Miss Addy’s house sale.

“Gotta get back to work,” Buddy said. “Ann, you coming?”

“In a minute. Dante needs a walk.”

“Okay.”

She unhooked Dante’s leash and walked off toward the little park beside the railroad track. Dante glanced over his immense shoulder as if to say to Paul, “You coming?”

Paul ambled after the pair.

“I promise I’m not sloughing off,” Ann said. “You’ll get your money’s worth out of me, Mr. Bouvet. I’m planning to work late tonight—unless my being in the house will bother you, assuming you decide to stay there.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot. I’m off to stock up on things like an inflatable mattress and some kind of chest of drawers to stow my stuff in. Never did get used to sleeping on a cot even in flight school.”

“Flight school? You were in the military?”

“Air Force. Went to the academy, then served out my time before I left to fly transports for a private company.”

“So you flew F-15s or whatever number they’re up to now?”

“I usually flew C-150s—low and slow. The perfect training to fly civilian package transport.”

“Why’d you quit? Uh…retire?”

He grimaced. “Couldn’t pass the transport-flight physical any longer. I got hurt in a work-related accident. Left me with a bum shoulder.” Technically, the near-crash had been work-related, which was why the payoff had been so large. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t prevented the whole incident. His wound and scars embarrassed him further. He talked about the details as seldom as possible.

She must have heard something in his voice, because she dropped the subject. “I think Dante’s ready to go back to work. See you tonight, Mr. Bouvet.”

“Isn’t it about time you dropped the Mr. Bouvet stuff? I’ve been calling you Ann all morning.”

“Sure. Paul. Do you have a middle name?”

“I have one, but unlike the Delaneys, no one ever uses it. Actually, my middle name is Antoine. My mother was French.”

“You don’t look like an Antoine. You need a nickname. How about Top Gun?”

“I was never that. How about One Wing? More appropriate.”

They had reached the sidewalk in front of the mansion. She waved goodbye and ran up the walk and the stairs. Her ponytail bounced as the bright red scarf she’d tied around it flew in the breeze. Those jean-clad hips had a great sway to them when she ran.

No way. It wasn’t that he was some kind of saint when it came to romancing women, but even he drew the line at seducing a woman merely to gain information. Besides, she was some sort of cousin.

He’d thought he would do anything to find out what happened to his mother. Since meeting Ann and Sarah and Buddy, he knew he had limits. As far as Trey Delaney was concerned, the jury was still out. He seemed pleasant enough, if a little arrogant. No, actually, a lot arrogant. Even Ann picked up on that self-made man crap. Big frog, small pond.

Wonder how Trey would feel if suddenly he was faced with losing it all?

Wills were a matter of record. All he had to do was go to the local county seat and request a copy of Paul Delaney’s will from probate court files. He knew that his parents had been married at the time of his birth so no matter how the will was written, he, as the oldest legitimate son, would be entitled to a portion of it. He hoped, however, that he’d find that the oldest son was heir to everything. He could cut Trey out of everything he owned. Not that Paul intended to keep it, of course. What the hell did he know about farming or cows or cotton or soybeans?

But to be able to take it all, if even for a moment, then graciously give it back would be sweet.

Of course, the people in Rossiter would not take kindly to him if he did that. He’d have to sell the house and move away whether he wanted to or not.

But wasn’t that what he’d intended from the first? Why should he suddenly feel conflicted?

He looked up at the house from the sidewalk. Not so much an old harridan as a sad, gracious lady fallen on hard times. His gracious lady. She needed him.

The only thing on earth who did. He felt the stab of loneliness that always came when he thought of how isolated he’d allowed himself to become since Tracy had left him. She’d kept the friends they’d made together. He hadn’t bothered to make new ones.

After he made his run to the discount store and shoved his air mattress and pump into the back of his car, he decided to drive the thirty-five miles to the county seat. He arrived at three twenty-five, only to find that the clerk’s office closed at three.

On his way out of Somerville, he passed by a rose-brick building with a small sign that said Library in front of it.

Might be as good a time as any to get started on his research.

The man Paul now felt certain had fathered him had died in 1977. He’d discovered that much on an Internet search. Should be some sort of obituary in the country newspaper.

Actually, there were two weeklies. The librarian told him proudly that both had been in operation since Reconstruction. He asked for the microfiche for the time around when his father died and began to reel through.

Maybe he remembered the date incorrectly. There seemed to be nothing in the obituaries about his father. He scrolled back through to rewind the microfiche when suddenly a banner headline on the front page caught his eye.

His father’s death had been reported not on the obituary page, but on the front page.

Leading Citizen Killed in Tragic Riding Accident.

Killed? Nobody said he’d been killed. Paul had assumed his father’s liver or heart had given out.

Paul Francis Delaney, one of Fayette’s leading citizens, was tragically killed in a freak riding accident Sunday morning. Mr. Delaney served as master of foxhounds for the local Cotton Creek hunt. During a chase last Sunday morning at his farm, Mr. Delaney was thrown when his horse fell while jumping a fence. He died before emergency services could reach him. An autopsy revealed that Mr. Delaney’s neck was broken in the fall.

One of Fayette County’s largest landowners, Mr. Delaney was also known for his charming and sometimes caustic caricatures. Many local citizens frame these quick sketches and display them prominently. The local fairs, bake and Christmas bazaars, and church fetes will sorely miss his talents, as he has over the course of the years raised considerable amounts of money both with his artistic skills and his personal philanthropy.

Mr. Delaney leaves his wife, Karen Bingham Delaney, his young son Paul Delaney III and his mother, Mrs. Maribelle Delaney, widow of the late Paul Delaney, Sr. A scholarship fund to send a talented high-school student to the Art Institute each year for the summer program has been established in Mr. Delaney’s name. The family asks that in lieu of flowers memorials be sent to this fund. Time and place of services are pending.

Paul sat back in the hard wooden chair and ran his hand over his face. A charming caricaturist? Philanthropist? Sorely missed? He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. How could such a man have deserted and then killed a wife who loved him?

Paul stared down at the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph that someone had dredged up from the files. In what could only be a pink hunting coat, his father stood with his gloved hand on the reins of a big bay horse. A woman sat on the horse and smiled down. Too old to be this Karen Bingham, his wife. Paul’s grandmother Maribelle?

He looked closer. Neither he nor Trey had inherited that aquiline nose, but Paul could certainly see where Trey got his arrogance. This was no knitting, sit-by-the-fire granny. From the casual ease with which she sat on her horse, she was used to command.

“Sorry, sir, we’re closing the library,” the librarian whispered.

“Oh, sure.” He smiled up at her and received a timid smile in return. “I’d like to come back and look some more.”

“Certainly. We open at ten o’clock every morning and close at five.”

He started to rewind the microfiche.

“I’ll be happy to do that, sir.”

Paul nodded and walked out, vowing to return as soon as possible to look up obituaries on everyone he could think of in the direct line of Delaneys.

And then there were social events. Didn’t hunts have balls and things? Sure the county weeklies would report on them. And graduations. Weddings. There would be names of others who had known his father. He had to discover as much as he could.

He climbed into his car and turned on the air conditioner. It might be March with chilly nights, but the afternoon sun had heated the car beyond his comfort zone. He pulled out and started the drive back to Rossiter.

Weddings. Birth announcements. When had his father married Karen Bingham? Or rather, when had his father committed bigamy with Karen Bingham? He had been, whether he acknowledged it or not, legally married to Paul’s mother, Michelle, until she died.

Even longer. He had been legally married to Michelle until seven years after her disappearance when Uncle Charlie had finally convinced Aunt Giselle to declare her sister dead.

He wondered where the Delaneys were buried. Would he feel anything if he stood over his father’s grave? Could he curse him then as he had cursed him many times before?

Maybe there was a historical society that kept personal correspondence and histories that were of no interest to anyone except scholars.

Ann’s mother would probably be younger than his father would have been, but she must have known him. He needed some excuse to see her again.

And what about Karen Bingham, his father’s so-called widow? Was she still alive? How could he wangle an invitation to see her?

By the time he pulled his car into a parking space in the road in front of his house, the workmen had apparently left for the day. There were several lights on both upstairs and down, but no trucks parked on his lawn.

He carried the package containing his air mattress and pump to the front door, then set them down so that he could unlock and open it.

As he stepped in, he called, “Hello! Anybody here?”

He heard the click of Dante’s toenails on the wooden floor before the dog skidded around the doorway to the butler’s pantry, slid to a stop in front of him and sank onto his haunches, waiting to be petted.

“Good boy. This time you didn’t knock me down.” He rubbed the dog’s wide forehead. “Where’s your mistress?”

“In here,” came a muffled female voice. He followed Dante through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen. For a moment he didn’t see her, then he spotted a pair of jean-clad ankles sticking out of the dumbwaiter. A moment later Ann emerged. Her face was dust-smeared and so was her shirt. She carried a large hand lantern.

“Hi,” she said, and wiped her free hand down the front of her jeans. “I figured if we could get this thing to work I could use it to carry supplies to the bedrooms so that I can strip the fireplaces.”

“You checked it out by climbing into it?”

“It was a tight fit, but there’s plenty of room for paint and stripper and stuff. It’s actually in good working order.”

“Ever hear of rust? What if those cables had broken? You could be in the basement with a broken back and no one to hear you yell for help.”

“I was careful. Besides, for its time, this is a top-of-the-line dumbwaiter. It’s got automatic brakes. If the cable breaks, these little feet keep it from going more than one floor down. I don’t normally do truly stupid things. I do not like risk. I’ve had more than my share for one lifetime.”

“I doubt if we could replace you easily.”

“There are plenty of other people who do what I do. I worked for a really high-class restoration firm in Washington before I came home. I still freelance for them when Buddy doesn’t have any work for me. They’d send someone—for a bunch more money than you’re paying me.”

“I don’t know what I’m paying you, but I’ll bet it’s not chicken feed.”

“I’m worth it. Now, I’ve got to start working that stripper off before it dries too much. Then Dante and I will get out from under your feet until morning.”

He followed her to the front hall and started up the staircase. Halfway up he leaned over the banister. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then join me for dinner.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m alone. If you’re alone, why not be alone together?”

She laughed. “The café?”

“I was thinking about maybe driving into town. Don’t you have good barbecue in this area?”

“Oh, for sure. If we do that, I’ll have to stop by my place to shower and change. I’m filthy.”

“Fine. I prefer to eat late, anyway.”

“It’ll be midnight if I don’t get started.”

Upstairs he unloaded his mattress. It took barely ten minutes to turn the lump of plastic into what looked like a comfortable double bed. He’d already hung the few clothes he’d brought with him in the small closet, but he would have to start looking for suitable furniture for this room soon. He had a few decent pieces of furniture from his old apartment, but they were sleek and modern, nothing that would be suitable for this house.

Maybe he could enlist Ann’s help. He planned to sell the place furnished. He didn’t want any souvenirs of this little venture.

Or did he? He wandered out onto the sleeping porch that ran across the back of the second floor. With nightfall the air had grown chilly again after the afternoon warmth, but there was no breeze. He felt as though he were in a tree house. Except for the glow from the parking lot next door, he might as well have been in the wilderness.

Someone had left an old folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it, turned it to face the backyard, sat down and propped his feet on the railing in front of him.

He let the darkness envelop him. Somewhere close by a bird called, and frogs were already making noises. His father should have loved growing up in this house. Why had he run away to Paris?