Читать книгу Haunted - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

From the moment she walked into the bar, Darcy felt at a distinct disadvantage.

It was called the Wayside Inn. It should have been called Bubba’s Back-then Barn.

She was nearly overcome by the wave of smoke that almost knocked her over when she opened the door; it sat like a fog over the decades-old plastic booths and bar stools. There were two pool tables to the left, stuffed away from what might have been used, at times, as a dance floor.

There were actually still a few spittoons for tobacco chewers scattered around.

When she stepped in and the door closed behind her, the place came to a standstill. The four pool players and the broken-toothed wonders watching the games all stopped their play and stared at her. Behind the bar, a heavyset woman with teased red hair styled in something like a sixties beehive looked up from washing glasses. In what looked to be a dining area, the four men seated at one of the chipped wood tables also looked up.

She stood in the miasma of smoke and stared around, taking it in as her eyes adjusted from the sunlight. And she knew, instantly, that Adam was the one who should have come here. And he should have worn jeans and an old plaid or denim work shirt. Of course, the concept of Adam dressed that way was an amusing one, but Adam was a determined man. And for some reason, he was determined that they were getting into Melody House.

She had come in a business suit, the same attire she usually wore when conducting business, she reminded herself, defending her choice of clothing when she was so obviously out of place. But though she hadn’t imagined the Wayside Inn to be a five-star restaurant, she hadn’t thought that it would be quite this…colloquial.

“Can I help you, honey?” the redhead called from behind the bar. Her voice was warm and friendly, giving Darcy a bit of encouragement. She smiled in return. But before she could reply, one of the men who’d been sitting at the table had risen.

“Miss?”

He was tall, somewhat lanky, and when he smiled, she saw that he had all his teeth, and a single dimple in his left cheek. Light brown eyes, and a pleasant way about him; he seemed to ooze accent and Southern charm with his single word.

“I’m looking for a man named Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here.” She hoped that one of the men knew Stone. She didn’t think that he was among them. She’d already pictured him in her mind. He was the descendant of a man who was practically a Founding Father. He would be tall, straight, and aging with incredible dignity. He might be one of the those fellows who sat around Revolutionary or Civil War round tables, rehashing the past. He might have a certain attitude about him, but he’d still be an incredible old gentleman.

“Hey, honey, you can meet me!” one of the pool players called out.

“Watch your manners, Carter!” one of the others said, and another sniggered.

At the table, another of the men stood.

“Come in, have a seat,” he said.

She had to admit, this fellow’s jeans fit him well, hugging leans hips, strong legs, and some solid length. He was wearing shades, even inside, in the cloud of smoke—maybe he thought that they’d protect his eyes from the haze. He was well over six feet, ebony hair a little too long, but apparently clean and brushed. He was clean-shaven, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Strong, solid features. While the first fellow to approach her had been polite and laid-back, his face splitting instantly into an easy grin in the first few seconds, this one looked as if he might have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. Though he had stood courteously enough and asked her to sit, he looked as if he were entirely impatient, more like a man about to suggest that she go jump in a lake.

She walked over to the table. The first man—he with the great dimple—had drawn out a chair for her. She looked at the other two who had been sitting at the table, now risen, as she approached. One was older, white-haired, white-bearded. She kept imagining him in a butternut and gray Confederate Army uniform. The fourth in the party was somewhere around thirty as well, had a decent haircut, and was actually in a tailored shirt and chinos, and looked as if he might have a real job somewhere in a civilized town.

“What’s your business here?” the tall, chiseled-face man asked abruptly, sitting as he did so. They all stared at her.

“My name is Darcy Tremayne. I had an appointment with Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here. I believe I’m in the right place. Do any of you know him?”

She spoke evenly and politely—she was here on business. But she felt as if hostility oozed around her. She longed to bolt from the chair and fly out the door. She knew that everyone in the bar was still staring at her.

“Know him?” the tall, lanky fellow with the dimple said.

But he was interrupted. The man Darcy had mentally begun to refer to as Chisel-face cut him off. “Are you one of the psychics?” he asked.

Darcy arched a brow. Be pleasant with the locals, Adam had told her.

All right, she could be friendly.

“I suppose you could say that. I’m with Harrison Investigations,” she said. This was definitely a small town. Okay, so she had come from a fairly small town herself, but this one seemed even more rural. Maybe that was because she’d spent so many years in New York, and had been living in the D.C. area for so long now. It seemed that any event regarding Melody House was news in the area, and that everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“A real live ghost buster?” the fellow with the dimple teased.

“Ghost buster?” She ever so slightly hiked a brow once again, sitting back, determined that she would be cool, cordial, and dignified. “Harrison Investigations is actually a small, private company, and what we do is investigate strange occurrences in old homes and the like.” She smiled. “Most of the time, we find squeaky floorboards and leaky plumbing, but when a place is as historically relevant as Melody House, the history alone could create a very old and spiritual feeling.”

“Melody House is pretty damned cool,” the dimpled man said, flashing another warm smile.

The old white-haired codger spoke up. “Ms. Tremayne, lots of folks have come wanting to set up cameras, tape machines, and all kinds of hocus-pocus stuff at Melody House. The owner has just flat-out told them no.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m anxious to meet Matt Stone. Mr. Harrison and he are well acquainted. Mr. Stone respects my employer, and knows that we’re not sensationalist in any way. We know history and architecture, and people, and naturally, we’re very discreet. I can understand any hesitation Mr. Stone has had in the past. I’m sure that many people come ready to cash in on the ghosts.”

“I see,” interrupted Chisel-face. “You’re here to investigate some of the eerie stories associated with the house, but you’re not trying to cash in on ghosts?” His voice was deep, the words were evenly spoken; somehow, they still dripped scorn.

“No. I’ve just explained. We’re investigators.”

“Um,” Chisel-face murmured. He stared at her hard. “You said that most of the time what you discovered was creaky floorboards or leaky plumping. What happens when it’s not ‘most of the time’?”

“We do our best to right matters,” she said, wishing that she’d never gotten into the conversation.

“And how do you do that? Without, of course, making a bid to fascinate people—or cash in on the ghosts.”

She hesitated. She didn’t really need to be having this conversation with a skeptic; she was looking for Matt Stone. But they were indeed in a small town. And Adam had suggested that she do her best to get along with the locals. In such a place, they were usually full of information, and could be very helpful. She shrugged. Adam wanted it; she could try to be social.

“Some ghosts are actually a part of history, and it’s the history that creates the legends that make them so fascinating to people. Some home owners and even corporations—especially those with places as significant as Melody House—want to have a resident ghost rapping on walls now and then to attract their clientele. Watch television, and you’ll know that there’s a huge population out there interested in being frightened. What we do is find out first if there actually is any inexplicable phenomena—or if someone is merely playing games. If there is something beyond the ordinary, we find out why, and deal with it from that point,” Darcy said, staring at the man, and returning all the attitude she was being given. Adam Harrison had already spoken with Matt Stone, and apparently, done so with enough dignity that he had agreed to the meeting. Actually, Stone had called Adam, after receiving his letter. And whether or not Stone wanted his property turned into a national center for the occult, he apparently could use the exorbitant fee that Adam had been willing to pay for his team to investigate the stories circulating about the house. She knew historic mansions were incredibly hard to maintain. Especially when they were being held privately. She was suddenly angry with herself for having been intimidated by the good old boys in the bar. Hell. She’d spent enough years in a very similar environment, and that should have prepared her to deal with any form of male that pretended to walk on two feet. She had also dealt with her fair share of total, mocking skeptics. Usually, no manner of behavior bothered her. She had her beliefs, and everyone else in the world was welcome to their own. People who really wanted help usually came and asked for it.

She’d been social enough, she decided.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but my employer has already been in contact with Mr. Stone, and apparently, he is willing to allow us into Melody House. I’ll make arrangements to meet him at a later date.”

“I know you,” Dimple-face said suddenly. He offered her his lazy smile once again. “I could swear I’ve seen your face before.”

Darcy hesitated. All she needed to do was tell this pack that she’d been a model for a cosmetics company for several years during and right after college and they’d never take her seriously. But then again, what the hell did she care? Her business was with Stone.

“I’m sure we’ve never met,” she murmured politely. “Thank you for your time. And excuse me.”

“’Original Sin’!” Dimple-face said triumphantly. He grinned sheepishly. “I wound up buying the men’s aftershave. Your face has been on billboards all over the country.”

Even in Hicksville? she was tempted to say, and then she was angry with herself, because she’d never felt that way about anything or anyone, her parents being really wonderful people who had taught her continually that people were people, didn’t matter where they came from, and everyone in any corner of the country or even on the earth deserved an open mind and respect.

“So…you’re a model.”

Chisel-face’s statement might as well have been, So you’re a dumb blonde with boobs. Except that she was more of a redhead and certainly not overly-stacked.

“I worked for Original Sins cosmetics, yes,” she said, again forcing her tone to be even. “I also have graduate degrees in American history and sociology from NYU.”

“I heard that Adam Harrison would be coming here himself,” Chisel-face said.

Darcy gritted her teeth. “Yes, Mr. Harrison will come down at some time during the investigation. He’s been delayed. At the moment, he is tied up with business in London.” She stopped, irritated that she’d felt herself obliged to explain anything to these men.

She was about to rise when the fourth member of the party—the man with the decent haircut and store-bought clothing suddenly leaned forward, extending a hand to her. “Sorry, we should have introduced ourselves, especially me, right away. I’m David Jenner, Jenner Equipment—and someone from your office approached me about renting some recording and video equipment.” He shrugged, flashing a glance across the table. “Should the project go forward.”

“David, nice to meet you,” she said. “Justin, our office manager, told me that he had talked to you.”

“You don’t have your own equipment?” Chisel-face asked.

“Of course, we have some very specialized equipment,” Darcy forced herself to say politely. “But we like to rent video cameras and tape recorders from local facilities. That keeps anyone from suggesting that we’ve rigged anything. Mr. Stone knows how we work and what we do—he was sent information on the company.”

Chisel-face inclined his head, and she wished that the idiot wasn’t wearing sunglasses in the middle of a smoky bar. “It’s good to hear that you think local facilities might offer you enough—you know, equipment up to the par of your…investigative techniques.”

“We’ve worked across the country—and abroad,” she said coolly, “and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in every area.”

“That sounds mighty fine!”

Darcy was startled when the voice came from behind her. She turned to see that the pool player who had been called Carter had come up behind her. He was taller than she had realized; she was fairly tall herself at five nine, and in her heels, she had another two inches. He wore a beard and mustache, and had intense green eyes. And beneath his worn flannel shirt, he seemed to be in exceptional condition. She did, however, feel as if she had completely stepped back in time. Put a uniform on him, and he might have been the cavalry general Jeb Stuart, having stepped off his horse and into the local tavern. He stared at her with a strange sincerity as he spoke. “Too many times, Yankees have come down South and thought themselves like almighty gods. But, hey, you know, this just might be the right one. Ms. Tremayne, I’ve seen your face all over on billboards, too. You just may be the one.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. Yankees had come south? She’d done a lot of traveling, but she’d never felt a time warp such as this before. “You know,” she said quietly, “my company isn’t really headquartered more than two hours away.”

“A popular face,” Chisel-face murmured. “Forgive me—it just seems so strange. A model. Hm. Maybe they sent you down to manipulate Matt Stone. Not a bad idea? I mean, could you possibly really be the business end of this deal? You are an exceptionally fine-looking Yank—even with a packet of degrees from NYU.”

Darcy felt fury suddenly take root in every limb of her body. Get along with the locals! Like hell! She’d had it. Everything she’d learned in college, in business, and in life, fled her mind, and her temper kicked in.

“It’s an excellent school,” she said, rising. “And I’m afraid, gentlemen, that the rest of the world has entered the twenty-first century. The Civil War was lost during the nineteenth. We’re all one big country now, you might recall. Washington D.C.—where I’m based—is extremely close. Busy. The world goes on there.”

“D.C.,” Chisel-face murmured, then grinned at his fellows. “I’ll bet the old boys considered it just one and the same as this area, eh boys?”

She rose, hands planted firmly down on the table, and assessed him coolly. Words seemed to spit from her before she took the time to think them out. “You know, I did forget to return your rather backward compliment. Actually, you’re not too bad-looking for a total asshole. You really will excuse me. In truth, none of this, me, my credentials, my job here—is any of your business. I need to discuss matters with Mr. Stone, and no one else.” She allowed her gaze to sweep with disdain over the lot of them and she turned and walked with crisply clicking heels to the door, where she turned back. “By the way, just for your information, the South lost the war. If any of you happen to see Mr. Stone, perhaps you’ll be good enough to let him know that I did come to meet him. I’ll be calling.”

As she stared at the men, they rose, staring back at her. The most friendly of them, Dimple-face, began to smile.

“What?” she demanded.

“Oh,” he said, “I think Matt Stone definitely knows you were here.”

“Really?” she grated. “And why is that.”

Chisel-face spoke up. “Ms. Tremayne, I am Matt Stone.”

Adam Harrison would have handled it all much better. He would have found a way to be both dignified and smooth. But of course, if Adam had felt that he’d cast himself into a den of testosterone, he would have had managed to gain respect immediately, no matter what.

Darcy couldn’t quite diffuse the steam rising in her.

“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, since you’ve done nothing but amuse yourself at my expense, Mr. Stone. And if you destroy this opportunity, it won’t hurt me in the least. My employer is the man who deems your house important.”

With that, she turned, exited, and let the door close behind her.

“Well, that was just great!” Mae said from behind the bar.

Matt set his sunglasses on top of his head and turned to Mae with a challenging look. “Mae, I didn’t know who the hell she was at first, and since it was my understanding Harrison was coming himself, she made me somewhat wary. We don’t need a bunch of crackpots thinking that they can come here and recreate a ‘Blair Witch’ scenario.”

“He’s right,” Clint said, grinning in a way that made his dimple deep, amusement lighting his eyes. “A goddess walks in—and he sends her out as rudely as possible. Good going, Matt.”

Clint was Matt’s second cousin, but though he carried the family name, his grandfather had been born on what they called the wrong side of the blanket. Probably a good thing; Clint’s commitment to enjoying life was often entertaining, but Matt was pretty certain that, had the property gone down to Clint, it was unlikely they’d be having this discussion now—the holding would have been long gone. Not because the fields might have fallen prey to plight or disease, but rather to the plague of gambling debt that never seemed to dampen Clint’s spirits.

Matt looked from Mae to Clint, shaking his head. “Doesn’t the concept of dignity mean anything to the two of you?”

“Not a hell of a lot,” Clint said cheerfully.

“Dignity? Do you think you allowed that poor girl to feel that she had any?” Carter asked.

“She’s accustomed to getting whatever she wants, I imagine,” Matt said with a shrug. “And don’t you tell me about dignity, Carter.” He admitted, only to himself, that he might have been rude—only a bit. But at least with reason. Still, he felt obliged to remind his friend about some of his own behavior. “If I remember correctly, you were so rude to your friend, Catherine Angsley, in this very bar, in front of far more people, that she left the county, never to be seen again.”

Carter shrugged. “At least I knew her first.”

Mae chuckled. “And you, young man,” she said to Clint. “You sent that beautiful Texan, what was her name? Salela Bennett, running all the way back to Texas!”

“Sasha,” Clint corrected.

“Sasha, that’s right. Sasha. Why can’t I ever remember that name?” Mae asked. “Oh! Maybe it’s because no one could possibly keep track of the women who come and go through your ever so charming lives!”

“Mae! We’re just looking for true love,” Clint said dryly.

“My foot! You’re looking for the next great body. But I think that the two of you could be left in the dust by this new visitor,” Mae informed them with a sagely spoken pleasure.

“Well, of course, because with Matt’s brand of charm, she’ll be heading straight back to Washington,” Carter said with a sigh. He arched a brow to Matt. “I can recall a few times when you might have been a little rough on Lavinia.”

“At least he married her first,” Mae said.

“I was never that rude to Lavinia—even in the midst of divorce,” Matt said, irritated with himself that he was still feeling defensive, and now being reminded of his disastrous marriage.

“See, Mae? You can’t rush into marriage,” Carter said. “Look at the whole Lavinia thing. There she was—the most gorgeous thing breathing on earth, and what a manipulative witch.”

“We just didn’t have the same concept of a life well lived,” Matt said, wondering why in the hell he should suddenly defend even his ex-wife. Simple fact, Lavinia had been a bitch. Rich, spoiled, and heedless of anyone around her.

“We’re all missing the point here,” old Anthony Larkin suddenly pointed out. “Mae, seems to me the world has changed a lot since I was a young man. Hell, yes, these young people should find out if they’re going to make it in an affair before tying the knot. Divorces are too easy these days, and they’re still hard as hell on people. Especially on their kids!”

“Well, thankfully, Matt and Lavinia didn’t have kids. A devil’s tail might have shown up on one of them,” Clint said. “I think Lavinia’s had plastic surgery to get rid of hers, but genetically, it would have still been there.”

“Lavinia is gone, and it’s over,” Matt said flatly.

“That Sibel, Shana, or Sheila girl Clint was dating wasn’t a bitch,” Mae said with a sniff. “Opinionated, and intelligent, and ready to take care of herself. But she wasn’t a bitch.”

Clint offered an exaggerated sigh. “Mae, her name was Sasha. Sasha Bennett. And the problem with our great affair was that she wanted me to move to Texas! And wait a minute—we’re getting off the subject here.”

Anthony shook his white head in a way that made his beard rake back and forth over his chest. “All right, here’s my opinion from an old geezer, Matt. Let’s forget about past transgressions—committed by the lot of you. Every woman isn’t a potential affair. This one seems darned regal and intelligent. She was sent here to work. Matt, you’re having trouble up at your place. You told me yourself, you called your grandfather’s old friend Harrison after you received his letter. Key concept here—you called him. So—just why were you such a jerk to that girl?”

“She looks too much like Lavinia,” Clint said.

“No, she doesn’t,” Carter argued. “She has the walk, the movement…kind of like a natural grace. That’s all that’s the same.”

Matt scowled at them both. “Hey, looks have nothing to do with anything, gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen?” Mae said with a sniff.

“I’m unhappy about the whole thing, I suppose. And yes, I called Adam after I got the letter, but that’s the point—I expected Adam Harrison himself,” Matt admitted ruefully. “And then again, maybe it all did have something to do with her appearance.” He glared at Clint and Carter. “Not that she resembles Lavinia in any way.”

“She doesn’t. She’s really much prettier,” Mae put in.

“But,” Matt continued. “She doesn’t look like any hard-core investigator, does she?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Carter said.

“Hey, they say you’re going to let Liz do a seance,” Anthony Larkin reminded him. “How hard-core would that be?”

“Liz was close with Gramps, too,” Matt said. “A really great nurse to him toward the end. I owe her.” He shrugged. “She begged when I told her that I had people coming down who were supposedly ghost experts. She wanted first crack at a seance, before any out-of-towners took over. She also holds her Women’s Town Meeting in the house once a month, and it’s a big event that makes the house a good income.”

Anthony shrugged. “Figured it had to be something like that. I ran into her down at the drugstore. She said that she’d been pleading with you, just for herself, since she’s so sure she feels all that cold stuff, especially in the upstairs bedroom. And she said that the writer could come in, and the new guy from the Chamber of Commerce. So…it’s a crock if you’re keeping out that pretty girl because she’s more about ghosts than finding out if something natural is going bump in the middle of the night.”

“And damn, but she is good-looking,” Clint supplied.

Matt nodded slowly. They were all right—and he had been one hell of an ass to the woman. She had just hit a raw nerve with him, he supposed, looking as if she had just stepped off a fashion page, heels clicking on the floor, manicured nails expressive in the air as she spoke, her face that of a sophisticated angel—or siren, one or the other.

Redheads were always trouble.

“I’m just irritated, I guess. Maybe I do owe her an apology.”

The phone rang stridently from the bar. He felt a surge of anger. She was already calling. Mae picked up the phone.

“Hello…yes, Penny, he’s here. He’s got his cell phone turned off again, huh? Well, he’s sitting here, sure as can be. Shouldn’t have that cell phone turned off, Matt, you know that,” she said, her hand over the receiver.

“Shirley at the station knows where I am, and that’s all that matters,” Matt said.

“Penny knows you’re here now, come on over and talk to her! Please!” Mae insisted, seeing the stubborn set to his jaw.

Matt cast Mae an evil eye, then rose to accept the receiver from behind the bar. Penny came on the line.

“Yes?”

“Matt, I heard you gave that girl from New York an absolutely wretched time!”

“Penny, I really did no such thing. And how did you hear so fast?”

Matt looked around. Sure enough, Marty Sawyer—Penny’s nephew—who had been watching Carter’s pool game was now nowhere to be seen. He’d slunk out already.

“Matt Stone! There is so much good to be done here! Principal Joe from the grade school was telling me how much the schoolchildren just loved the living history productions we did last summer, and you know as well as I do that you can’t keep that kind of program going if we don’t make sure that the house is entirely safe. And you’ve already agreed that we can let the seance go on.”

“Because even though I don’t believe in such a thing as a ‘medium,’ I like Elizabeth!” he said irritably.

“You’re going to make a tiny percentage off Elizabeth—compared to what Adam Harrison is paying to investigate your property. He usually charges people for his services. Now you know that I personally think that the ghosts are wonderful, but even I’m getting nervous here. Think about poor Clara’s face—and don’t go telling me she bumped into a wall. We need our ghost stories, some of them are so great. Passion, spurned lovers, murders, suicides! But…there’s something not at all right going on as well. Oh, Matt, please! If you really love the house and our history and want to keep the place open, not to mention in the family!—please let this girl come and get started on her investigations, no matter what it is, exactly, that she does.”

He gazed back at the bar. Everyone was staring at them. Penny was speaking loudly. They could all hear. “Penny—you’re right. Murders and suicides. The woman in white who’s been seen floating around the staircase. You know what? It isn’t going to matter what I do—the stories are going to circulate forever.”

“I’ve seen the woman in white,” Penny said stubbornly.

“Penny, you drank half the wine cellar that night,” he reminded her.

“Nevertheless, this is important. Yes, we’ll have stories, no matter what. But you said yourself that you were suspicious that someone was causing some of the ‘haunting.’ How will you ever know, or prove anything?”

“Penny, I am the sheriff. I know a few things about investigating occurrences on my own.”

“Matt, where’s your patriotism?”

“What?” he said incredulously.

“The house is so important. What if someone really gets hurt?”

He almost smiled. It was a new line of attack.

From the table, he heard the sound of David Jenner clearing his throat. “You know, Matt, things haven’t been that great. I could really use the work.”

“Right. You know, we’re not all rich, kind of famous, and born with absolutely legitimate names,” Clint said, grinning with a shrug.

“Matt, maybe you could do us all some good,” Carter told him.

“You won’t have to do a thing,” Penny’s voice said from over the phone wire. “Give Ms. Tremayne my number. And I’ll handle everything. You don’t have to come anywhere near the house if you don’t want to while she’s in it. But first, you go over right now and get her out of that ramshackle hotel where’s she staying.”

“Hey!”

Carter could obviously hear Penny. He owned the ramshackle hotel.

Again, Matt couldn’t help but grin. “Hell, all right.”

“Matt, honestly, you don’t even have to be involved, I’ll do everything, I swear! Dammit, Matt, you’re the one who called Adam Harrison, why are you balking now?”

“Because I expected Adam Harrison,” he said, feeling like a broken record, his temper rising. Impatiently, he said, “I’ll talk to her, Penny.” Then he hung up.

Mae grinned like a kid with a candy bar. “This is so cool—Melody House is getting real live ghost busters.”

“They’re not ghost busters, Mae,” Matt said.

“I’ve got to go to that seance!” Mae said firmly.

“You all really did hear every single word of that conversation,” Matt said ruefully.

A circle of nods answered him. He shook his head. “Hell—I guess I will start answering my cell phone,” he muttered.

“Well…?” Clint drawled. “When are you going to bite the bullet, give that girl a call and convince her that she is welcome here?”

“Soon. But not from here,” he said. He slid his sunglasses back down over his eyes, and strode to the door, taking his hat from a peg on the wall. He twisted his jaw; he didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits, haunts, or the goddamned Easter bunny, and he sure as hell didn’t believe in premonitions.

Still, he didn’t like this.

He shook his head, speaking with his back to the others.

“There’s an awful lot that’s bad in that place’s past,” he said.

He walked back into the sunshine of the day, letting the door slam behind him.

There was silence in his wake for several seconds.

“He’s going to let it happen, Mae, don’t worry, you’ll get to go to a real live seance,” Clint assured the woman still standing behind the bar, and still staring after Matt Stone.

“Yeah, well, it’s not the whole thing with the house that makes him so hostile,” Mae said quietly.

“He just never should have married that bitch from New York,” Carter agreed.

“Redhead, too,” David Jenner murmured.

“Well, living or dead, it’s always people that haunt the living!” Mae said sagely, offering a sad shake of her head. Then she brightened, sounding like a girl about to head for her first dance. “And you bet your butts, gentlemen! I’m going to get to see a real live ghost!”

“Mae, if you see a ghost, the point is, it’s not ‘live,’” Clint said dryly. “But what the hell? Things could get darned interesting around here.”

Thirty minutes later, Darcy was back in her hotel room, listening to the voice on her cell phone.

“You want me to do what?” she said incredulously to Adam. “Not apologize, right?”

Darcy actually pulled the cell phone away from her ear to stare at it, despite the fact that on an intellectual level, she knew she couldn’t see her employer’s face.

“Don’t apologize, just rethink things.” Adam, far away in London, was quiet for a minute. “Darcy, I have a vested interest in the house. I’ll explain when I get back into the country.” He sighed softly. “Darcy, there’s no one like you. I need you. Please don’t sound as if I’ve asked you to make peace with hostile aliens or some such thing.”

Darcy winced. She knew that there was something about Melody House that Adam hadn’t shared with her yet. Had to be. She was often certain herself that Adam, despite his own apparent wealth, was funded as well by another source—possibly governmental. They’d quietly gone in and out of a number of Federal buildings in previous cases. This was different. He really wanted in. For personal reasons, so it seemed. Reasons he wasn’t willing to share, as yet.

“Adam, if this was so important, you should have been here.”

“I know. But I had to be in London.”

She didn’t ask for an explanation, because he was a man who always kept business confidential, and even with her, information was shared on a need to know basis.

“Darcy, are you okay?”

“I’ve met a lot of skeptics,” she said, “I’ve just never had to actually work with anyone so openly hostile.”

“You can do it. I know you can,” Adam said.

“But,” she said quietly, “you don’t really want me to call this guy and apologize, do you?”

“I’d never ask you to do that.”

“So…?”

“Let’s let it lie for now. I’m willing to bet that you’ll hear from him.”

Darcy breathed out on a deep sigh. She hated the fact that she hadn’t handled the situation well at all. Her affection for Adam was very deep and real.

“All right. So what exactly do I do now?”

“Just sit tight. Is the hotel okay?”

Darcy looked around the room. “Sure,” she lied. As she did so, the hotel line began to ring. She stared at the phone distastefully. It was dirtier than a pay phone outside a heavily frequented gas station.

“I’ve got another call,” she told Adam.

“Any premonitions?” Adam said lightly. “I’m willing to bet that it’s Stone.”

“We’ll see. I’ll give you a call back.”

“Actually, you don’t need to,” he said, and hung up. Again, Darcy stared at her cell phone, shook her head, and forced herself to pick up the hotel line.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Tremayne, it’s Matt Stone.”

She was silent, waiting. Adam had been right.

Of course.

Apparently, Matt Stone could be stubborn, too. The silence stretched on.

“Yes?” she said again. She could almost see his teeth grate in the steel cage of his face.

“As you’re aware, I own Melody House. I don’t actually live in the main house all the time, though I stay now and then. However, I have a woman who manages the upkeep and the tours we allow through, and the events which are held there upon occasion. Her name is Penny Sawyer, and I’ll put you in contact with her. She’s incredibly anxious to have you and your company in.”

“But you’re not.”

“I did talk to Adam Harrison,” he said, not agreeing or disagreeing. “The house holds incredible historical importance,” he said flatly.

“Of course.”

“Look, Penny is supposed to handle everything. And she’s great with the place, knows all about it, and can help you with whatever you need. When you’ve got your plans down all pat, I’ll be back in on it, though. It’s still my place. And I want final approval on what you do.”

“Naturally,” Darcy said. She knew that it sounded as if her words were a flat fuck you, guess I’ve got no choice.

“Penny has suggested that you move on over to the house now.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—”

“You need to be in the house to investigate it, right?”

“I just meant that there was probably no need for that kind of hurry.”

“Penny wants you there as soon as possible. She’s very eager to have you. Also, her office is in the house. We have all kinds of documents there, so…you could get started.”

Darcy looked around her hotel room. It was stretching it to even call the place a hotel. She didn’t flinch at the sight of bugs, but she had gagged over the film of them she’d had to clean out of the bathtub before managing a quick shower.

Maybe Matt Stone was something of a psychic himself. His next words suggested that he had read her mind.

“Ms. Tremayne, I’m familiar with the hotel.”

“Fine. I might as well get started. You’re right.”

“I’ll be there for you in thirty minutes.”

She opened her mouth to protest. She could have used a little more time just to survey the area before entering the house.

Too late. He’d hung up.

Swearing, she did the same. She looked around the small room. Not much to pick up—she’d been too afraid of getting creepy-crawly things in her lingerie to unpack much. She fished her few personal articles from the bathroom and folded the few pieces of clothing she’d had out in less than ten minutes.

Which turned out to be good. Matt Stone’s concept of time was not at all precise. She had barely made a quick run-through to assure herself she hadn’t forgotten anything when there was a knock at her door.

She opened it. He stood there, sunglasses in place, a lock of his dark hair windblown and sprawling over his forehead. In her business heels, she was just a shade under six feet. He still seemed to tower. She didn’t like the disadvantage, even if height didn’t really mean a damned thing.

“Ready, Ms. Tremayne?”

She took a breath, forcing something of a grimace rather than a smile. “Mr. Stone, somehow you manage to drawl out a simple Ms. as if it were a word composed of one long z, and a filthy one at that. My name is Darcy, and I’m accustomed to going by it.”

He cocked his head slightly. She couldn’t read his eyes because of the shades. “All right—Darcy. I’m glad you’re capable of moving. I have to get back into the office so let’s get going, you know, quickly. Where’s your bag?”

“I can take it myself, thank you.”

“Would you just show me the damned bag?”

She set her hands on her hips. “Someone ought to call the local cops on you. You may be some kind of a big landholder in these here parts, bucko, but you’re the rudest individual I’ve ever met.”

“Sorry, but my time is limited. Please, Ms. Tremayne—sorry, Darcy, may I take your bag?” he said sarcastically.

“Fine. Right there. It rolls—unless you’ll feel that your macho image will be marred and lessened by taking an easy route.”

He offered her a dry grimace, grabbed the bag, and started out.

She followed him, exiting the spiderweb filled hallways of the place, out to the parking lot.

She didn’t see any regular cars—there were a few trucks, a code-enforcement vehicle, and a county cop car in the lot.

He had a really long stride, but had paused just outside the building and removed his sunglasses, waiting for her to catch up. He saw that she was staring expectantly out at the parking lot.

“Oh, sorry,” he told her flatly. “It’s that one. I guess everyone forgot to tell you. I’m the local sheriff. Guess Adam didn’t tell you, either. But then, since you’re supposed to be a psychic, you should have known.” He stared at her, a light of mockery in his eyes.

She smiled sweetly in return. “Mr. Stone, I’m not exactly a psychic. There are certain areas in which I can deduce things. There are certain things about people I don’t know. But then again, there are things that people really don’t want known that I can deduce very easily. I’m known for finding skeletons in closets, and I’m sure that there are dozens of them at Melody House.”

Staring back at her, he was dead still then. His eyes were dark, not brown, but a deep gray. Disturbing. They seemed to pierce right through her, and yet wear a protective veil that kept her from reading anything within them. Still, it seemed that she had given him pause.

“Shall we go?” she said.

“Oh, yes. I’m just dying to see what bones you can dig up, Ms. Tremayne. Just dying.”

“Great. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Be prepared. Sometimes, people don’t like the skeletons we find.”