Читать книгу Unhallowed Ground - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7

Now

The area near the nature preserve was overgrown. Salt flats and marsh met Matanzas Bay and the Intra-coastal, and the water went from shallow to deep, from sloping sand to a sudden drop-off leading to a misty and strange world of fish, tangled plant growth and, despite the best efforts of local and federal lawmakers, de facto garbage dumps.

Caleb Anderson had been drawn to a shopping cart down at about twenty feet, then on to a tire rim beneath a tangle of seaweed at thirty-five, but neither one turned out to be hiding what they were looking for.

The problem was, the authorities were searching blindly. A girl named Winona Hart had disappeared. She had been at a party, but none of her underage drunken friends—half of them potheads to boot—seemed to know when she had left, where she had gone, or with whom.

He looked at his compass, then up through the filter of light to the cable from the police cruiser serving as their dive boat. In his mind, if anything was going to be found, it was going to be closer to the shore. Unless, of course, she’d been kidnapped by a boater and dumped somewhere beyond the bay and out in the Atlantic. If that was the case, their chances of finding her were almost nonexistent. The ocean was huge. True, if caught in a current or an undertow, a body might wash up on land. And if they came up with a suspect who regularly followed a certain route, even a weighted body might somehow be discovered.

But at the moment they were searching blindly. Still, he hadn’t wanted to miss the opportunity to be in on the search, not when he had promised he would do everything humanly possible to find Jennie Lawson. Admittedly, this grim attempt was not to find Jennie but a local teen who had now been missing for nearly forty-eight hours, a case that might or might not be connected to Jennie’s. No one knew if Jennie Lawson had actually made it to the beach in St. Augustine, her intended destination. They only knew that she had landed in Jacksonville, gotten off the plane and picked up a rental car. Neither she nor the car had been seen since.

He didn’t have much hope of finding Jennie alive. Her mother had told him that she knew Jennie was gone, because her daughter had come to her in a dream the night before her disappearance was reported and said goodbye. Caleb wasn’t sure what to believe, because Mr. Lawson seemed to think that Mrs. Lawson had lost her mind when their daughter had disappeared, and he had, in fact, made a motion behind his wife’s back to indicate as much.

Caleb had heard of stranger things than ghostly midnight visits, however, so he had simply smiled and vowed to Jennie’s mother that he would do everything he could to find out the truth, even if he couldn’t return her daughter to her. That had comforted her. Closure was something people needed. Perhaps it was too painful to live with eternal hope.

So Caleb was also looking for Jennie, or any sign of her, even if he was officially on the trail of another young woman for whom many were still holding out hope. But this dive was important for other reasons, too; it was giving him a chance to get to know the local authorities and the local expert on the surrounding waters.

As he moved toward the marshy shore, he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him, but he was accustomed to such conditions. His dive light illuminated the surrounding area as he searched, and he was methodical in covering his assigned section of the bay. He had seen the grid, and he meant to search his assigned area thoroughly, leaving no possibility that anything had been overlooked. As an out-of-stater, he was the odd man out here. If he did anything to make the other men—and the one woman—on the local forensic dive team resent his presence, he would end up ostracized, and that would be a real problem in his search for Jennie. For that reason, getting along with the police lieutenant in charge of the case, Tim Jamison, and Will Perkins, the dive master, was crucial. Caleb was there mainly as a courtesy. He worked for a private agency, Harrison Investigations. The cases they took generally had an unusual twist, something inexplicable, even supernatural, that required their very specific professional services, but in this instance it was Adam Harrison’s personal friendship with Jennie Lawson’s father that had brought Caleb here.

He noted a glitter of light, just this side of the drop-off. He focused his dive light, and headed toward the glint, knowing full well that it might be just another shopping basket.

But as he neared the object in the water, he knew that this was no shopping cart.

It was far too large, for one thing. The full size of it became clear as he drew closer. It was an automobile.

All too often, people intentionally discarded cars in the water. Sometimes they were just junkers and nothing more.

Sometimes they held human remains.

And as he approached the Chevy mired in the mucky, seaweed-laden sand, he saw that this car was not empty. A solid kick with his flippers brought him to the driver-side window.

A face stared out at him, the mouth widened in a giant O, as if in a desperate quest for breath.

The eyes…

Did not exist. Already, the creatures of the deep had started to feed.

“Maybe Osceola was a hero, but they still tricked him and caught him and cut his head off. They chopped it right off!” a young boy said. He was about ten, cute and normal-looking in a T-shirt that had clearly just been purchased at the local alligator farm, jeans and sneakers. But he spoke with a relish that unsettled Sarah McKinley. Caroline Roth, seated at the computer and running the audiovisual end of the Heritage House presentation, let out a soft laugh, stared at Sarah, then grinned wickedly and shrugged.

“No,” Sarah said firmly, and smoothed down the skirt of her period outfit. She was a good storyteller and knew how to handle a large—and diverse—group like the one in the lecture hall that day, which was a mix of kids and adults, tourists and locals, couples, groups and singles. They were into the tail end of summer, so she was getting classes from schools that started early and teachers from schools that started late. There was a Harley event down in Daytona that week, so she was getting a lot of bikers, too.

One man in the crowd, though, seemed to stand out. He was tall, but not inordinately so, maybe six-three. He was dressed as casually as the next tourist in blue jeans and a polo shirt, but he didn’t look like the usual tourist. He wore sunglasses throughout her lecture—not an odd thing, lots of people didn’t take them off when they came in. He was built as if he were in the service and worked out heavily on a daily basis, or as if he were an athlete. He was tanned and rugged, the way a man who spent his day sailing might be, tawny-haired and attractive. What was odd about him, though, was that he was alone. He seemed the type who should be with a beautiful woman, one who was as lithe and athletic as he was himself.

“Decapitated!” another kid called out.

Sarah’s attention was drawn back to her lecture. She had been talking about Osceola, the most famous leader of the Seminole people, who had galvanized friend and foe alike when he had struck a knife into a treaty that would have been a death knell for his people. Like so many others, he had been imprisoned at the Castillo de San Marcos, the coquina shell bastion built by the Spanish that was the most imposing architectural feature of the city.

Leave it to a kid to dwell on the most gruesome fact he could think of—not to mention that he had it wrong.

“History records lots of terrible things that were done, but that wasn’t one of them,” she said.

“Hey, I heard he was decapitated, too,” a grown man interrupted.

Sarah took a deep breath. She couldn’t really blame the guy—who had a sunburn identifying him as out-of-state—when even Florida schoolchildren often had the story wrong. “Osceola was a great leader, and respected even by his enemies. The treachery that led to his capture was deplorable, and despite the Indian wars raging across the country at the time, people despised General Jesup for the way he treated Osceola, who came in peace, with his safety guaranteed, and was taken anyway. But he wasn’t decapitated by the U.S. Army. He was held for a while at Fort Marion, originally known as the Castillo de San Marcos, but he died of malaria up at Fort Moultrie, in South Carolina. He was attended by a shaman from his own clan, and an American doctor, a man named Frederick Wheedon, who did have his head removed and embalmed, but only after he was already dead. And,” she said, unable to resist, “legend has it that Dr. Wheedon used the head to punish his children. If they behaved badly, he would leave the head on their bedposts at night. In fact, he bequeathed the head to his son-in-law—just in case his grandchildren misbehaved. His son-in-law passed it on to a man named Valentine Mott, another doctor, who kept it in a pathology museum, but the museum burned down, and the head was lost.”

She had gained the silent stares of everyone in the room, of every age, and she offered them a broad smile. “You can learn a lot about Osceola and Florida’s Native Americans over at Fort Marion, and we have wonderful books on Osceola and the history of the area in our bookstore. Remember, St. Augustine is over four hundred years old.” She grinned at the boy who had first brought up the subject of decapitation. “All kinds of gruesome things have happened here.”

She announced that her speech was over and was given a nice round of applause, and a number of people thanked her as they walked out of the lecture hall. A few lingered to examine the artifacts in the cases that lined the walls, but she noticed that the tall stranger who had drawn her attention wasn’t among them.

Caroline, rising and stretching, started laughing as soon as the last of the four o’clock lecture group walked out of the room. “A few of those kids are going to wake up in the night imagining a head on their bedpost.”

“Yeah?” Sarah asked. “I don’t think that many kids have bedposts anymore.”

“I’m sure lots of them are staying at local B and Bs. And lots of those beds have bedposts,” Caroline reminded her.

“Well, what’s a story without something scary?” Sarah asked, sinking into one of the front row seats. “And I didn’t make anything up.” She looked at Caroline and sighed. “Now you’re going to give me a speech on being nice to tourists and downplaying our more gruesome history, right?”

Caroline shook her head. “No, not today, I’m not.” She frowned suddenly, distracted. “Do you think we know him from somewhere?”

“Him who?” Sarah asked.

Caroline looked at her and laughed again. “Him who was studly and cool. Oh, come on. You couldn’t possibly have missed him.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” Sarah said. Caroline could only be talking about the man she had noted earlier in the crowd. “But what about him?”

“I felt like I knew him, or should know him, from somewhere.”

“He was good-looking—”

Caroline stared at her hard.

“Okay, I admit he looked a little bit familiar, but maybe he’s just so gorgeous he reminds me of a movie star or something.”

Caroline shrugged. “I don’t know, I just had a feeling about him…. It’s like he looks like someone we once knew, only…different. I wonder if he signed in? I’ll go look. And as for you scaring tourists, have some patience with the kids, huh? It’s no wonder they’re sounding a little gruesome. Have you seen this?”

She picked up the local newspaper, which had been lying next to her computer.

“Seen what?” Sarah asked. “I didn’t read the paper today—I left right after I woke up and came here.” She winced. “It’s all that hammering, you know?”

“Oh, how’s that going?” Caroline asked.

“Loudly.”

Which was the understatement of the year, Sarah thought. She loved the historic property she had bought after her recent return to town, but it was badly in need of not just refurbishing but reinforcement, as well. The previous owner, Mrs. Douglas, had tried to salvage it before the days of community awareness, when it might have been torn down but she hadn’t had the funds to do all the necessary work. When Mrs. Douglas turned eighty, she had decided she was never going to get to it, so she decided to sell and offered the house to Sarah first, because Mrs. Douglas had been friends with Sarah’s maternal grandmother. Given the house’s history, the price had been amazing, another special deal because she had been so close with Sarah’s grandmother, and also because Sarah’s grandmother’s grandmother had been born a Grant, and the property was known as the Grant House. As far as Sarah knew, her mother’s side of the family had actually come from Savannah, but since the name—whether the connection was real or imaginary—had helped her to acquire the property, she was willing to go with it.

“I’ve wanted to live in that house for as long as I can remember,” Sarah said.

“I remember, and I always thought you were crazy. Old Mrs. Douglas never did anything with it, and we’ve been watching it crumble all these years,” Caroline said. “Remember when Pete Albright went in that Halloween? How we made up the most horrifying stories and then dared him to go in? Some head of the football team! He came out white as a ghost, saying he’d quit being quarterback before he’d sleep in the place all night. He said he heard ghosts in the walls and could feel them trying to touch him. He was absolutely terrified.”

“Of course he was. We were just terrible. We told him all those old tales about the woman who sold potions and voodooed people to death. And we told him it was full of corpses—which it had been, of course, since it was a mortuary for years.”

Caroline wrinkled her nose. She was a petite blonde, cute and winsome, even when she made a face. She’d dated Pete Albright back in the day.

“We were horrible. But he could be pretty macho, so I kind of think he deserved it. And as for you, well, you’re just crazy for living there. That house is spooky.”

“I’ve slept in the house, and it’s just fine. And I applaud Mrs. Douglas. She couldn’t begin to afford to fix it up, but she kept it from the wrecking ball. I say good for her.” Sarah shrugged. “Although I do wish she’d fixed at least a few things.”

Caroline smiled. “Hey, you wanted history. Not me—not to live with, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I like history fine or I wouldn’t be working here,” she was quick to say. Not that she really had much choice. The Heritage House was a private museum, owned and operated by her parents. They had come to St. Augustine the year before she was born, embracing everything about the city and quickly making it their home. They were delighted to boast that St. Augustine was the oldest continually inhabited European-based community in the country, founded by the Spaniards in 1565, long before the English stepped foot in Jamestown and even longer before the Mayflower sailed across the sea. They were history buffs, and they hadn’t started up their business to get rich; they simply loved what they did. Caroline’s father, Harry, wrote history textbooks, and that endeavor, not the museum, was what supported them.

“Give me plumbing and electric that work any day. And a roof that doesn’t leak,” Caroline told her.

“I hear you,” Sarah admitted. “But the house is magnificent. And in a year’s time, I’ll have it all set up as a bed-and-breakfast, and I’ll run a collectibles and antiques business out of it, as well. You’ll see,” Sarah assured her.

Caroline laughed. “We should both live so long.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry. You’ll get it done. I just don’t envy you the process. I grew up in the middle of constant renovations, remember? Every bad storm that came through, we were in the dark for weeks. No closets—they all had wardrobes back then. No whirlpool tubs.” Caroline frowned. “And I’m not sure you should be staying there alone. It’s too big. With everything that’s going on, I don’t think it’s safe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I meant to show you the paper right away. I get sidetracked too easily.”

“What happened?”

“Another missing woman. This one a local.”

“Oh, no,” Sarah said, reaching for the paper.

“A student from the community college,” Caroline said. “She lived at home, but she went out a couple of night ago with a group of kids for a bonfire on the beach out on Anastasia Island…and didn’t come back. There’s her picture,” Caroline said, tapping the paper.

“That’s horrible,” Sarah said softly. The picture was of a young woman, pretty and blond. It was her high school graduation photo. She had bright eyes full of hope, and long shining hair beneath her cap.

“Scary, huh?” Caroline said. “She looks a lot like the girl who disappeared last year, the one who was on vacation from D.C.”

“That girl disappeared from Jacksonville,” Sarah said. But she stared at the picture. The girls really had been similar in appearance. The big bright eyes, the long blond hair. Serial killers often picked a certain physical type, and if there was a serial killer working somewhere in the area, he had obviously chosen his. Pretty blondes with large eyes. She looked at Caroline, who was still studying the paper. “They don’t know that the other girl ever even came this far. Jacksonville is a big city, and with traffic these days, an hour away.”

“What? Serial killers don’t have cars?” Caroline asked her.

“I know, I know. But look on the bright side. Maybe this girl will turn up,” Sarah said. “Thing is, you can’t obsess, or you’d never leave your house. You just have to be smart and careful.”

Caroline shook her head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m the world’s biggest coward. I wouldn’t live in your spooky old house alone for all the tea in China. I’m worried about you. Nothing scares you, and I think some things should.”

“Not true, trust me. I have a healthy respect for being careful. I lock my doors, and I got friendly with my neighbors right off the bat,” Sarah protested.

Caroline sniffed. “Oh, right. To the left, the pregnant teenager whose husband is in the service. And to the right, the octogenarian. They’ll be a big help in a pinch.”

“Brenda Cole isn’t a teenager, she’s twenty-one. And Mr. Healey is not an octogenarian, he’s only in his seventies—and he has a dog.”

“A teacup Yorkie!” Caroline said.

“One vicious teacup Yorkie, I’ll have you know. He barks like a son of a bitch,” Sarah assured her, then laughed. “Which he is, of course. But seriously, I’m okay, honestly. I have a baseball bat, I will have an alarm system, and I can dial 911 faster than a speeding bullet.”

“Just be careful,” Caroline warned her.

“Yes, ma’am, I promise.”

“Okay. Hey, want to have dinner?”

“I can’t. I have to get home. Gary is at the house.”

“And he’s going to work all night?” Caroline asked.

“Until dark. He’s trying to finish tracing all the pipes today. I have a leak in one wall. So I’m going to head home and call up for pizza delivery.”

“Stop for a six-pack on the way home, too,” Caroline warned. “Make Gary happy. He’s the best. He’s nice, and he can do anything. Funny how all that works out, huh? Gary was such a shop geek in high school, and now he’s doing great. Pete Albright was a star, and I hear he’s working in a fast food restaurant up in Atlanta. Go figure.” She yawned. “Anyway, I’m meeting Will with Renee and Barry. You should grab Gary and go with us.” When Sarah started to reply, Caroline waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I know, the house comes first. Anyway, let’s go get changed.”

“Will, huh?” Renee Otten and Barry Travis were fellow docents who had struck up a romance, and Will Perkins was Sarah’s second cousin. Their mothers had been close, so he was almost like a brother to her, practically a fraternal twin, since they were both the same age, born a day apart, and shared the same coloring. And lately he and Caroline had become quite the item.

“He’ll be disappointed that you’re not coming. You haven’t been home that long,” Caroline said, turning on the reproach.

Sarah laughed. “I’ve been here six months. And Will and I see plenty of each other. In fact, he has threatened to move in once the place is done.” While she had attended Florida State—not all that far away in Tallahassee—for her bachelor’s degree, she had gone to Virginia for grad school, and then taken a job with an Arlington historical research and tour agency. But when Caroline’s parents had needed another docent, especially one with her knowledge of local history and lore, she had decided it was time to come back. Virginia was beautiful, and she would always love it, but nothing could compare to the city in which she had been born and raised.

“Fine, be that way. In the meantime, I’m changing into something cute and cool and sure to wow them over at Hunky Harry’s.”

“Honey, all you have to do is walk into Hunky Harry’s to wow everyone,” Sarah assured her. “Trust me, you’re ‘wow’ material even in what you’re wearing now.”

The lectures they gave covered topics ranging from the coming of the first Spaniards to British rule, American rule, the Confederacy, Henry Flagler and the railroad, Prohibition and beyond, and they had different outfits to wear for each. Today they were focused on the Seminole Wars and the Civil War. So today they weren’t dressed in silk and satin as would befit a pair of Southern belles.

Today they wore homespun cotton skirts and prim shirts that buttoned chastely to the neck. They were middle-class women of the era, those who churned butter and milked cows. And still, Caroline looked adorable. Sarah had yet to see a style from any era that Caroline didn’t wear well.

“Why, Miss McKinley, you do go on,” Caroline said with a mock simper. “And my, my, but if you aren’t just a plate of buttered grits yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, Missy-yourself, let’s just change and get out of here,” Sarah said as they left the lecture hall. Barry Travis, in breeches and a homespun cotton shirt, was also heading toward the door marked Cast Members Only. He was a tall, handsome man of thirty, with longish brown hair that worked well in historical context.

“I hope you two can get changed quickly, because I’m starving. Renee is ushering the last of the book buyers out the front door, and we are officially closed,” he said cheerfully.

“Sarah’s not coming,” Caroline informed him.

“Can’t,” Sarah said. “My house needs me.” She smiled to acknowledge that even she knew how silly that sounded.

“You know,” he said, studying her and shaking his head, “you could have bought a nice new condo.”

“There will be other nights,” she said.

“What if the world ends tomorrow?” Barry demanded.

“My house will be one day closer to done, and Gary won’t hate me,” Sarah said.

“I give up,” Barry said. “We’ll miss you as we dine on succulent burgers—oh, wait. You didn’t suddenly become a vegetarian, did you?” he asked her.

“She’s a fish-a-tarian, I believe,” Caroline.

“Pescatarian,” Barry said.

“Whatever,” Caroline agreed.

“Doesn’t matter. You can torture me with thoughts of food and I won’t care. Besides, I’m not sure anything at Hunky Harry’s is actually succulent. Anyway, have a great time, and drink a beer for me.”

“It’s a good thing Harry didn’t hear you say that. And it’s not true—the food there is good,” Barry protested.

“Yes, you’re right. The food is very good, especially the fish. But I can’t go. Not tonight,” Sarah said.

She hurried into the women’s locker room and quickly changed. Caroline had been right about one thing: she should stop and pick up a six-pack. Maybe a twelve-pack. Gary had a few employees working overtime right along with him.

She managed to escape without getting into further conversation, because when Caroline came in, she headed straight for the showers. Was she primping so hard for Will? Maybe. The two of them had always liked one another, but Sarah had never seen any signs that their relationship was anything beyond friendship. Then again, who knew? They said that friends made the best spouses. She certainly didn’t know.

She’d fallen in love once, and it had been a brief and poignant affair. Clay Jenner had been a soldier. They’d met in Newport News, and had quickly discovered they both loved Buddy Holly, Peggy Lee, lounge music and historic ships. They’d spent a few months laughing, talking, listening to music and exploring historic sites. Then he’d been deployed. He’d been wonderfully romantic, going down on one knee when the cherry blossoms had been exploding all over the park, and he’d offered her the diamond she now wore on a chain.

He hadn’t come home. That had been three years ago now, and although she would probably never get over the pain of losing him, she had accepted that he wasn’t coming back. He had gone into the military for the schooling and the benefits, but, as he had told her, he’d signed the paper swearing that he would obey his superior officers and defend his country. It would have been nice if he could have served out his time somewhere safe, like Germany, but it hadn’t happened that way.

He had been killed in a sniper attack. A bullet straight through the brain. He had probably never known what had hit him.

For that she was grateful. As her dad had told her once, every man and woman would die. An easy death was something that meant even though God might take a man early, he loved him enough to keep him from suffering.

Now she was glad to be home, where there were no memories of Clay, and glad to have moved into her house.

She didn’t drive to work anymore; her house and the museum were in the area that was referred to as Old Town. After stopping for a twelve-pack and walking another four blocks through enclaves of tourist-centric businesses, she was thinking that a six-pack would have been fine.

She was almost at the walk that led up to her house when she saw him. The man she had noticed during her lecture.

While many buildings in Old Town sat right up near the sidewalk, there was actually a stretch of lawn in front of her place, along with a front walk and driveway—they’d needed a place for the cars and hearses to go. The man was only on the sidewalk, but he was right at the start of the coquina shell walk that led to her front porch. And he was staring at the house.

He must have sensed that she was watching him, because he turned, looked at her gravely, then smiled as she walked toward him, eyeing him carefully.

“Well, hello. It’s Ms. McKinley, right?” he said. “Excellent lecture—thank you.”

She nodded, staring at him warily. “Can I…help you?”

“I was admiring the house,” he said.

She wasn’t sure if she should say that it was hers or not. People had a tendency to be friendly in St. Augustine. In fact, there were dozens of B&Bs in the city, most of them homes that were open to strangers. In fact, she couldn’t wait for her own house to be one of them.

But at the moment, she apparently had a bigger-city attitude going. And the first rule was never let a stranger know where you live.

He didn’t look like a stalker. In fact, he was extremely attractive.

She reminded herself that many a serial killer had been attractive. They weren’t all wild-eyed Charles Mansons. Ted Bundy had traded on his boy-next-door good looks.

She decided she was being ridiculous. The odds were strongly in favor of his being a tourist, one with an interest in history, given that she’d first seen him at the museum. Plus, there were still plenty of people about on the streets, and though the day was dying, there was still lots of light.

He didn’t seem to need a reply. “The architecture is striking. It’s quite a compelling place. Haunting, even.”

“Thanks,” she said. When he looked at her curiously, she added, “I own it.”

He studied her for a moment, then laughed. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised that a historian owns a piece of history. I see you have a lot of work going on.”

“When you buy an old building, you have to be prepared for a lot of work,” she told him. The twelve-pack was getting heavy but she fought against shifting the weight. She didn’t want him offering to carry it and walk her up to the house. It wasn’t a B&B yet, just a big old place without an alarm, and she didn’t own a dog—not even a teacup Yorkie.

Of course, he didn’t seem the menacing type. He looked far more likely to go after what he wanted with wit and charm. My, how her thoughts had quickly wandered.

“Well, congratulations on owning such a beautiful old place. Oh, by the way, my name is Caleb Anderson. And I know you’re Sarah McKinley. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. Then she startled herself by what she said next, because he had already turned to walk away. “Are you in town long?” she asked him.

She thought he hesitated before answering—only a half second, but a hesitation all the same.

“I’m not sure. I’ll be around a few more days, at least. Thanks again. I really enjoyed your lecture—especially the way you handled those kids.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He lifted a hand. “Hope to see you again,” he said casually and walked on, heading in the direction of Old Town and the shops that stayed open into the night.

She watched him go, then felt the heaviness of the twelve-pack again. She turned and hurried inside, and was immediately glad of her efforts. Gary Morton, all muscles and friendly smiles, kissed her cheek and told her she was brilliant. The two men working with him were equally happy.

“Although I did wonder when you were actually going to make it into the house,” Gary said. “Who’s the hunk?”

“Hunk?” she asked, pretending not to know exactly who he was talking about.

“Tall, well-built guy you were just talking to out front?” he teased.

“Oh. Just some guy who was at one of the lectures today. He was admiring the house. This is the historic district—people are supposed to admire my house.”

He grinned. “Are you sure it was just the house he was admiring?”

She laughed. “Since he was staring at the house before I got there, I’m assuming that, yeah, it was just the house he was admiring. Anyway, we—as in you and me—were invited to dinner,” she told him. “Will, Caroline, and Renee and Brad from the museum.”

“What? You didn’t invite Mr. Gorgeous?” he queried, grinning.

“Gary…” she said warningly.

“Okay, okay. Don’t hit me.” He put up a hand as if to protect himself, smiling all the while. “But pizza is good enough for me. I want to get this place in shape for you, so I need to knock out that last wall. I know it means a lot of work and a lot of mess, but you can’t have a leaking water pipe. It will destroy the whole place on you, given time. You can go ahead if you want to. You don’t have to be here wielding a sledgehammer.”

“No, no, thank you, but I’m just as happy to hang around while you knock down walls,” Sarah assured him, pulling out her cell phone. “I’m dialing the pizza guy right now. What do you guys want…?”

“One cheese, one pepperoni, that’ll be great, thanks,” Gary said, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Sarah ordered the pizza, then took a minute and looked around.

At the moment, everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of white dust. But even as she noted the dust, she was happy. It was such a beautiful place. So what if it had been a mortuary for a while? It had originally been built as the home of an American politician’s aide soon after Florida became a territory. She had a sweeping porch that led to the original etched glass entry door. There was a small mudroom, still with the original tile. The house boasted a huge foyer, with a hall that stretched back toward a multitude of rooms that, while certainly viewing rooms during the house’s tenure as a mortuary, had been planned as an office, a formal dining room, dual parlors—one for ladies and another for gentlemen—a music room and a laundry room. Somewhere along the line, a kitchen had been added to the house proper. The original kitchen had been a separate building out back; it was now empty but would one day make a beautiful apartment. The old carriage house had already been turned into an apartment, and though it, too, needed work, it was livable. The plumbing worked, and she’d put new sheets on the old four-poster bed in the large downstairs room. She’d put in sink, refrigerator and a microwave, just in case some of Gary’s crew should ever need to stay. The carriage house stood just to the left of the driveway, creating an L with the main house. She couldn’t help but take a moment to bask in the fact that she actually owned such a beautiful house. Well, she and the bank.

So far, Gary hadn’t had to rip apart either of the front parlors. The men’s parlor, on the right, was done in wood and dark tones. The ladies’ parlor was light, with soft beige-toned wallpaper and crown molding painted to match. It was peeling, but that was all right. She could handle the cosmetic details later. There was a grand piano in the parlor, out of tune, but it had come with the house, and she intended to have it tuned and lovingly repaired eventually. There was also a small secretary, where she worked when she was home. Now she took one of the beers for herself, sat down at her desk and started looking at the articles she had collected on old St. Augustine, looking for anything about the house.

She found herself musing rather than reading.

There was no reason to think there was anything suspect about the man from the museum staring at her house. There was plenty to admire about it, and this was a tourist town, after all. And that was what tourists did. They stared.

He wasn’t the usual tourist, though. Of that she was sure. He had an air about him. Like a…cop. No, not a cop. A CEO. No, not a CEO, either. She wasn’t quite sure what it was that made him so striking, even over and above his looks. Maybe it was that build, sleek and powerful, and a stance that seemed to speak quietly of confidence.

Strange. Caroline had thought he seemed familiar. There was something familiar about him, but Sarah couldn’t begin to figure out what it was. She was certain she would have remembered if she had ever met the man before.

“Hey!”

She had been so lost in her thoughts that she was startled when she heard Gary’s voice.

“What is it?”

“Sorry, I think you should see this.”

She looked at him, surprised. She didn’t know a thing about construction, and she had told him so when she hired him to supervise the restoration of the mansion. Whatever he came across, he was supposed to deal with it. He knew what would fly with both the contemporary codes and the demands of the historic board. He knew walls and leaky water pipes. She didn’t.

“What?” she asked again, worried by the look he was giving her. Things had been going so well, so incredibly well, and she didn’t want anything to change that.

This wasn’t going to be about leaking pipes. Instinctively, she knew that.

Just the tone of his voice was disturbing as if she had suddenly rounded a corner to find herself in an alien world. A creeping feeling of terrible unease began to fill her, slowly at first, then cold and sweeping, like skeletal fingers of ice reaching from a grave on a winter’s day.

“Bones,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

“Bones?” she repeatedly blankly. “What, you found a dead squirrel?” she asked weakly, though she knew full well that wasn’t he had found.

“No, Sarah. Human bones.”

“Well, the house was used as a mortuary,” she reminded him, though she knew she was being stupid. She just didn’t want it to be true. It was as if everything had suddenly shifted. The world had been good, and now, from this moment on, it was going to be something altogether worse.

“We found them in the wall, Sarah. The wall. Mortuaries didn’t usually wall up the dead,” Gary said, then looked at her questioningly, as if waiting for her to decide what to do.

She nodded. “I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them we have a skeleton in the wall.”

“A skeleton?” Gary repeated, staring at her blankly.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Bones. A skeleton.”

“Sarah, please. Just come look.”

She stood at last and followed him back to what she intended to one day be a beautiful library.

She knew then what he had wanted her to see. There was no skeleton in the wall.

There were dozens of them.