Praise for New York Times Bestselling Author
HEATHER GRAHAM

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer

“[A] sinister tale sure to appeal to fans across multiple genre lines.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Death Dealer

“Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end.”

—Literary Times

“[A] solid trilogy opener…Dream messages and premonitions, ghostly sightings, capable detective work and fascinating characters blend to make a satisfying chiller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Night

“There are good reasons for Graham’s steady standing as a best-selling author. Here her perfect pacing keeps readers riveted as they learn fascinating tidbits of New Orleans history. The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham peoples her novel with genuine, endearing characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Séance

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

Heather Graham
Haunted

To the one and only Miss Barden…Liz

With lots of love and best wishes

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Prologue

A different time, a different place

Darcy Tremayne hadn’t expected her senior prom to be a dream evening. But neither had she expected it to be the beginning of a lifelong nightmare.

It started with Hunter being a total jerk.

She wasn’t sure what started their argument, only that it escalated into him saying that he didn’t intend to speak to her again until she apologized. She told him he’d better not plan on speaking to her again ever then, because she hadn’t the least intention of apologizing. She hadn’t done anything, other than suggest that despite the fact that he had been given an award in drama club, he hadn’t needed to kiss his leading lady quite so long, or so deeply, in the auditorium, in front of the world. Or their small part of it anyway—the entire high school. When he left her house that afternoon, she assumed that he’d call her and be the one to say that he was sorry.

The call never came. She heard the next morning that he had invited his leading lady, Cindy Lee, to the prom.

She avoided her friends, and allowed herself to indulge in some well-earned tears. She argued with herself all afternoon. Hunter was going to head straight out to California after graduation and try to make it big in Hollywood. She was heading to NYU, and she had been ecstatic about her acceptance there and the small scholarship that would allow her to go. Eventually, living across the country from one another, she and Hunter would have most probably fallen apart. She should have accepted the fact long ago that Hunter had an eye for other girls. He was young. So was she. They should spend some time without commitment.

But she didn’t really want to split. She had been in love with Hunter since ninth grade. They had shared the years since. Very long, good years, or so it had seemed.

In the end, Hunter did call her. He was so sorry. He’d ruined everything, but he couldn’t get out of going to their prom with Cindy Lee.

She accepted his apology with a maturity her mother assured her was beyond her years. And it was her mother who suggested that she ask her friend, Josh.

“Josh!” she’d said with surprise.

But it was only momentary. Josh was a loner. He was a genius with computers, math, and science. He was painfully shy himself, but delighted when she wanted to try out a song, a dance move, or a monologue on him. They had lived down the street from one another in their rather rural area for years, and had long ago become friends. They didn’t run in the same social circles, but Darcy had steadfastly maintained her friendship with him, no matter what anyone else thought. Over the years, some of her friends had accepted him.

And amazingly, Josh had been able to warn her about many of the pratfalls she might have encountered in life. Go with Hunter tonight for ice cream, he had urged her once. Don’t let him go alone. And she had done so, and Cindy Lee had been there, flirting with Hunter, until she had realized that Darcy was with him. There were other things. He’d made her stop her father from driving to the store one day when it turned out that his brakes were bad. Both her folks listened to Josh. She had learned to do so, too.

Other people, she knew, were frightened by some of his predictions. He had known when Mrs. Shumacher down the street was about to die of cancer. He had known when Brad Taylor was going to break his leg during a football game. A lot of the kids called him a freak. But despite her little spat with Hunter, she had always held her own in school. She could bring Josh to the prom, and he’d be accepted, because he’d be with her. Oh, they’d talk about her—and him—behind their backs, but what did she care? Hunter had already hurt her just about as badly as she could be hurt; she was cut right to her eighteen-year-old heart.

And besides, the whole high school thing was over. A new life was about to begin.

Josh hemmed and hawed at first, skeptical. “Darcy, I’ll just look like the geek you dressed up and brought along.”

But she’d laughed and assured him, “Josh, honestly, you’re a good-looking guy. Tall, lean, great eyes, and if you don’t mind, we’ll shop together. But if you’d feel uncomfortable, we won’t go. We’ll just see a movie or something that night. I mean, if you’re willing to keep me company.”

He’d smiled at that. “I’d rather be in your company than anyone else’s, that’s for sure. But you don’t have to take me. Half the school would go with you.”

“That’s doubtful and it doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.”

At that, Josh had given her a strange smile. “If you want to go to the prom with the class nerd, lady, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

To her amazement, the planning was fun. Although he usually dressed like a couch potato himself, Josh had a good eye for clothes. Hand in hand they went shopping together. They ran into a number of her friends at the mall, and she was delighted to see their eyes widen at first, and then seem to focus more deeply on Josh. He was able to help Cissy Miller with a math problem she’d been dragging around for days, and over tacos at the food court, he found a new friend in Brenda Greeley, a really beautiful girl, and the head cheerleader.

When they got back to shopping, he made Darcy try on a dress she hated on the rack, and loved once she slipped into it. It turned out that one of Josh’s computer buddies worked in the store, and he was able to give her his employee discount, so she could afford the gown. The young man’s name was Riley O’Hare, and he told Darcy he was actually in her auditorium class. She apologized sincerely for never having met him, and when they left the shop, she thoughtfully told Josh that she had never known that she could be so rude or careless herself.

“Darcy, you? Never,” he told her devoutly. “Rude and careless is when you don’t acknowledge someone when they talk to you, when you can’t even lift your hand for a wave. Or when you push over a thin guy just ‘cause he’s not on the football team, or can’t really join in on a jam with a guitar. Darcy, you know that I love you, and it’s one hell of an overused term, but you’re a special kind of girl, you know?” He looked embarrassed suddenly. “Hey, come on, we’ve got to find something for me. I can’t take out a girl like you looking the way I usually do.”

So next came Josh’s turn, and when she advised him on a shirt and suit, somewhat funky and retro, he, too was delighted, thinking that he looked something like a New Age Mozart.

There was only one fly in the ointment that day.

Mike Van Dam.

He was friends with Hunter, and dating Brenda. Darcy realized later that he must have seen them in the food court, and seen Brenda talking to Josh. When they were leaving the mall, the door suddenly swung back on Josh, who was carrying the bags filled with their purchases. Mike, broad shoulders thrusting forward, was suddenly there, standing over Josh, who had wound up on the floor. “Hey, there, geek-boy, having a problem standing?” He reached a hand down, which was accepted by Josh, except that as soon as Josh was halfway up, Mike released him. Josh fell again, hard, on his tailbone.

“Mike, what the hell is the matter with you?” Darcy demanded, infuriated, reaching down to give Josh a hand herself. Mike caught her by the shoulders, spinning her around.

“What the hell is the matter with you, Darcy? Trying to make fools of us all by taking up with the riffraff, the scum of the school?”

She jerked free from him. “Mike, you idiot. What? Are you going to live in your little high school tough-guy haven for the rest of your life? Scared for your future, because football star and all, you just might not get into college, and a decade from now, you’ll still be on the couch, an armchair quarterback, while Josh is making his way up the ladder in a top law firm?”

That got him, and she knew it did. Josh was on his feet by then. Mike stared at him furiously.

“I carry mace,” Darcy warned softly.

Mike cocked his square-jawed head, blue eyes burning, cropped blond hair seeming to stand on edge. He made a clicking sound and pointed a finger at Josh. “You’re a dead man,” he told him.

Josh stared back at him, a strange smile of amusement and irony curling his lips. “Maybe. But so are you,” he said very softly.

Mike was about to go into another fit of rage. Darcy grabbed the bags and pushed Josh out the door. For a moment, they could hear Mike raging behind them. “What’s that supposed to mean, geek-boy? You’d better be careful, I’ll—”

They never heard the rest of the threat. The door had swung shut once again.

Darcy looked at Josh uneasily as she quickly led him to the car. “What was that all about? You didn’t have one of your little premonitions there, did you?”

Josh laughed and shook his head. “No, kid, no. But he doesn’t know that.”

Darcy laughed as well, delighted. Josh had probably managed to scare Mike through the next many nights.

The night of the prom came. As long as Darcy had known Josh, she barely knew his father. His mom had died when he was an infant, and his dad had almost never been around. All Josh had ever said about him was that he was the head of a company with offices in D.C., which was why he had to spend so much time away from their small town in southern Pennsylvania. He was a nice enough man when Darcy saw him, though he had seemed ancient from the first day they had met. She hadn’t realized, though, until Josh picked her up for the prom just how much money his dad must make. Josh’s graduation present had been a brand-new Volvo, a sporty one at that.

Josh brought her the most beautiful corsage she had ever seen. Her mother fussed around the two of them, taking picture after picture while her father beamed.

Josh, she discovered that night, was also an amazing dancer. Flushing, he informed her that he’d had some experience because his father had brought him to cotillion classes when he’d been in junior high.

Her friends were good that night, especially Brenda, and even the guys had to toe the line somewhat, since their dates seemed to accept Josh. Hunter, however, never approached her once. She saw that he and Mike were watching them from a distance, however, and that Mike looked as if he were about to explode when she and Josh won the “Wild and Wacky” dance contest.

Hunter just looked sad.

Darcy smiled at Josh, and he looked at her, curiously arching a brow. “Thank you,” she told him.

“Me? Thank you! I’m like a male Cinderella tonight. Prince-not-so-charming, feeling like the beau of the ball.”

She shook her head. “No. You made me realize that my life wasn’t over without Hunter, and that there is a world ahead.”

He caught both her hands, squeezing them tightly. “Don’t you ever forget that, Darcy, you hear? The world is out there, and it’s yours. It’s a beautiful world.” He spoke urgently, staring into Darcy’s eyes. “Even when things don’t seem quite right. Some people, just with a smile here and there, a kind word, make it all a better place for everyone around them. You’re one of those people. Remember that. There are times in life to be sad, to feel pain, but you’re a giver. Don’t ever let yourself be downed by fear, hardship, or even sorrow that’s so deep, you may not feel like going on.”

A chill swept into her. “Josh, you’re scaring me.”

“Sorry, Darcy.” He seemed to return to himself again. “Hey, I don’t believe it. They’re playing a Charleston! Want to try it?”

“Why the hell not?”

In a while, she forgot his words, because they did just have so much fun.

She was vaguely aware of the amount of drinking going on, the punch being spiked, and even the drugs. Brenda was upset because she was sure Mike was getting smashed. She was uneasy about the guys driving, but she had no control over any of it and decided that she was just going to enjoy the miracle that occurred; Hunter had thrown her over just before their senior prom, and she was still there, and having the best time of her life.

At last, it was time to go. Darcy had booked a room at the hotel where most of the kids were going after the prom, but she didn’t want to go. Josh agreed that a perfect end to the evening might be watching a few movies, then seeing the sun come up. They were in his brand-new Volvo and heading out of the parking lot when the first warning that they were never going to make it occurred.

There was a tap against Josh’s bumper. Just a tap. It barely jerked them forward.

Josh turned around, swearing softly. “Too much alcohol in there, or kids who just can’t drive.”

With lights blaring around them, they really couldn’t see who was behind them.

Josh pulled out on the road.

“Care if I rifle through the CDs?” Darcy asked him.

“Be my guest.”

She was oohing over his Beatles collection when the next tap against the bumper came. This one was harder, slamming against the car.

“Dammit!” Josh swore.

“What the hell…?” Darcy said, looking back.

She didn’t really need to look back. A car pulled alongside them. Mike was at the wheel, in his souped-up old Chevy. The car was a battle-ax with an engine that might have made the grade at the Daytona 500. His window was down. He had a beer in his hand while driving.

“Ass!” Darcy said.

Josh was quiet, staring ahead. He didn’t seem frightened. Only…strangely resigned.

Mike was making signs for her to roll the window down.

“Might as well do it,” Josh said.

“He’s an idiot. Just drive,” Darcy told him.

She looked straight ahead as well. To her amazement, Mike slammed his Chevy’s tank side right against the Volvo.

She was wearing her seat belt; still, she slammed against Josh. Amazed, she straightened as Josh deftly maneuvered to keep the car on the road.

“Josh, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, real fear starting to trickle down her spine. She’d known that Mike could be a real jerk. She hadn’t known that he could be this insane. She stared furiously over at the Chevy, still driving neck-and-neck with them.

The problem with small-town Pennsylvania, of course, could be the roads. Miles and miles of them in almost total darkness, with no one around for help.

Mike knew that. She could tell the minute she saw the grin on his face.

Then, to her great dismay, she saw that Hunter was sitting next to him, in the passenger’s seat.

She rolled her window down. Surely, Josh’s father was going to have a fit about the car. And someone was going to wind up really hurt.

“Stop it! You idiots!” she shouted.

“Ah, come on, you want to play with the geeks?” Mike called back.

Wind was racing by them. Darcy was afraid her voice wouldn’t carry. “Hunter! Make him stop this, now!”

Hunter leaned forward and she saw his face. He was as white as a ghost. “Darcy, I’m trying!”

Mike laughed and slammed the car again. Darcy heard the terrible screech of metal against metal.

“Stop! We’ll just stop, Josh,” she said. “Hunter won’t let Mike hurt you. He’s still sober, I can see.”

Just as she finished speaking, the Chevy began to veer insanely. She grabbed hold of her seat with a death grip as the Volvo veered accordingly. There was a split second in which she saw Hunter trying to seize the Chevy’s steering wheel.

Then it all went out of control. The Chevy jackknifed with a roaring vengeance against the nose of the Volvo. Then it flipped, and rolled over and over in front of them. Josh pumped the brakes, but simple physics sent them flying into the body of the Chevy.

For a moment, Darcy felt the weightlessness of flight herself. An air bag suddenly exploded in her face. She felt a thud unlike anything she had ever known before, and the world suddenly turned to an absurd cartoon vision as stars in a field of black velvet swam before her eyes. Then, one by one, the stars twinkled out, and there was nothing but an ebony darkness.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Darcy attended Josh’s funeral with blackened eyes and heavy bruises. They told her that it was only thanks to the integrity of Josh’s Volvo that she was still alive.

Mike wouldn’t be buried for another two days. Somehow, again miraculously, Hunter had survived as well. Darcy thought that she must still be in shock, unable to really absorb what had happened because, as she stood by Josh’s grave site, supported on either side by her parents, she was able to look at Hunter. She could even think that, to his credit, he’d had the balls to come here, and that he was weeping like an infant.

The accident had been a wake-up call for the entire school, she thought, for those who had shunned Josh for years had come. He might well have been amused, she thought. But again, every face showed shock and sorrow. Those who had thought themselves young and immortal had discovered that life was fragile and death could come at any time. Who, in their realm of experience, had ever imagined that taunting a nerd could come to such a tragic end?

Josh’s father, grave, tall, ancient, and bowed, tenderly kissed the coffin, and laid a flower upon it. His grief seemed beyond tears, and still, when the last words of the priest had faded into the bizarre and beautiful blue beauty of the day, he came toward her. He managed a gentle smile, as if her pain could be as deep as his own, and reached for her hand. She took it, let him lead her to the coffin, where he offered her a flower to cast upon it.

It was a strange moment, for those who had attended seemed to want to come to him, to offer their condolences. Yet, he and Darcy stood in their own little world, and people hesitated, then let them be. Even Darcy’s parents, loving, kind people, allowed them that moment.

They stood in silence for the longest time. Oddly, Darcy became aware of a bird chirping. At last, she found her voice. It was broken and trembling, but she managed the words she wanted. “I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry. I—I’m responsible. That can’t help you any, I know,” she babbled. “But he was my friend, truly, my best friend, always there, and oh, God, I didn’t know…I….”

“Please,” Josh’s father said softly. “Darcy, you did nothing wrong. It’s never wrong to be a real friend. He loved you. Not romantically, of course. You didn’t love him that way, either. But he knew you really, truly cared about him. You were a special person to him. Incredibly so.”

She looked up at the old man who seemed bowed with sorrow, and yet so accepting. She offered him a teary, rueful smile. “Please, you’re trying to comfort me. You’ve lost your only child.”

He looked back at her a long time. “I always knew that I would,” he said quietly. “And still, what a fine, bright boy! The love we shared will remain in this old heart as long as it ticks. I was privileged to have him as long as I did. Remember this, those we love do live forever in our hearts. You’ll remember his voice. The things he said that made you laugh. I can’t explain this, but…Josh wasn’t really for this world.”

“He has gone to a far better place,” she whispered, wincing at the way the words, sincerely meant, could sound so trite.

“He was different, Darcy. You must have known that.”

“Smart, sweet, wonderful,” she whispered.

Josh’s father was still smiling. He reached into his wallet suddenly, producing a card. “I doubt if I’ll be around the old homestead here much anymore. Please, take this. If you ever need help, if you ever need to just talk, call me. Come see me. You have great folks of your own, Darcy. I know they’ll help you through. But if you’re ever confused, lost…call me. Remember that I am—was—his dad. I’ll always be there for you. You were always there for my boy.” He hesitated. “And you may find that you need me. Remember this, please, I’ll always be there.”

He touched her head gently, then walked away, leaving her at the coffin. She stood there for several seconds, feeling the breeze touch her face, noting again the unbelievable blue of the sky. Down by the road, her parents were waiting. They would give her all the time she needed.

She saw that Hunter, leaning on his crutches, was waiting as well.

She didn’t think that she could bear to talk to him.

She knelt down in the earth at the head of the coffin, suddenly overwhelmed with bitterness. “Oh, Josh, I will never speak to him again,” she whispered softly, then shook her head. “God help me!”

She closed her eyes. It seemed that Josh’s voice entered her head. “Darcy, hey, don’t be so hard on Hunter. You know, he realized that Mike was being a homicidal jerk. He tried.”

The voice was so real that her eyes flew open.

The day hadn’t changed. The sky was still blue, the breeze still soft. The coffin still lay in the mechanism that would shortly bring it deep into the ground.

Tears welled in her eyes again. She closed them tightly, and prayed. Then she rose, kissed the coffin, and murmured. “Josh, I will never forget you. And like your dad said, you will always be in my heart. Always. If I live to be a hundred.”

At last, she turned away. She started for the road where her parents, and Hunter, waited.

For a moment, the hate remained. She couldn’t even look at Hunter. Then she remembered Josh’s words, so real in her mind. Don’t be so hard on Hunter.

He was still crying. She managed to walk to him and place a hand on his arm. “You tried,” she said very softly.

“Oh, Darcy!” he whispered sickly.

“You tried,” she repeated. “One day…one day, we can talk again.”

Amazingly, she felt better. And she knew that Hunter had tried. She knew, too, that his leg would heal. His heart never would. He would live with the night in which Josh and Mike had died all of his life. And he would fight the guilt in his soul just as long.

Her mother was waiting with outstretched arms. Her father, too. She ran to them, and let them do all the right things they thought that they could do.

That night, her mother gave her a sleeping pill, since she hadn’t really slept since the accident.

And it was the pill, she was convinced the following day, that caused her strange dreams.

She was back at the cemetery. It wasn’t a blue day anymore. It wasn’t exactly gray, either. It seemed that there was a cast of silver, like a mist, over the day. Time had passed, and she walked through the old gnarled trees, ancient graves, and newer ones, that composed the cemetery. Josh had been buried beneath a beautiful old oak. She walked toward it, clad in black, bearing a bouquet of flowers.

And yet…

As she neared it, she saw a thin man standing by the old oak. Frowning, she came closer. And it was Josh.

He looked very handsome, dressed in the dark suit, tailored shirt, and crimson tie in which he had been buried. His dark hair was trimmed and brushed, as it had been for the prom. He was leaning against the tree, arms casually crossed, smiling as she came.

For a moment, she was afraid. Only a moment.

“Josh?”

“Darcy, poor Darcy,” he said softly. His rueful smile reminded her of his father’s when he had spoken to her over his son’s coffin. “Darcy, you’ve got to know. It’s okay. Honestly, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, you’re dead.” She frowned, amazed to realize that she was a little angry with him. “You knew it, Josh! You knew you were going to die. The day that Mike threatened you…you said that maybe you’d be dead, but he’d be dead as well. And he is!”

“I know. I’m sorry. He was a true jerk, but I didn’t really hate him.”

“Josh—”

“I’ve got to go, Darcy. I just wanted you to know that I’m okay. I’m really okay. And you’ve got to go on.”

“I will, Josh, but…I never knew how much I’d miss you,” she whispered.

He touched her hair. Except that…he wasn’t real, and of course, it was just a whisper of the breeze.

“I’ll always be with you, Darcy. When you need me, just think of me. Here.” He laid his palm against his heart.

“Oh, Josh!”

He was fading. Into the silver color of the day. Of course. It was a dream. A drug-induced dream.

He smiled. “You’re special, Darcy. You’ll need to be strong,” he said softly.

And then he was gone.

It began the next day.

Her father had determined that he wasn’t going into work; neither was her mother. They were going to spend the day with her, take a drive to the nearby mountains, and just spend time in that quite and beautiful part of their state.

He couldn’t find his Palm Pilot.

“You left it on the counter of your bath,” she told him.

“How on earth would you know that? Were you in our room, sweetheart?” her dad asked.

“No,” Darcy said, startled herself. “I just…well, I guess it’s a place you might have left it.”

He went upstairs to his bathroom and returned with his Palm Pilot, looking at her oddly. “Thanks. I guess you know your old man pretty well, huh, kid?”

Of course, that was it.

But then…

Little pieces of precognition began to come to her, now and then. A few that summer, a few during her first years of college, more after that.

They were disturbing at first. Then she came to accept them. She thought that they were maybe something that Josh had very strangely managed to leave her.

It wasn’t until later that she decided it was time to call Josh’s father.

When the ghosts came.

1

Jeannie Mason Thomas lay in the white expanse of the four-poster bed in the Lee room at Melody House in pure bliss.

Roger was snoring softly at her side. Men, she thought affectionately. Bless ’em. Whatever came, they could sleep.

She could not. She had to keep playing over the day, minute by minute. Her wedding day.

There had been the usual hassles in the morning. Her mom had gotten all teary every few minutes, and insisted on giving speeches about sex and marriage that were totally unnecessary. Alice, her matron of honor, had clipped off two of her newly purchased acrylic nails trying to fix Jeannie’s train. Sandy, another bridesmaid, had gotten too looped on the champagne they had shared while dressing for the service. The limo had been late. Her original soprano had come down with a sore throat leaving Jeannie desperately seeking a new singer at the last minute. But she’d managed to find an Irish tenor through the priest, Father O’Hara, and once she had reached the Revolution-era church just outside town, everything had gone perfectly.

Everyone claimed that it had been one of the most beautiful weddings they had ever seen. Roger had been tall, dark, and glorious in his tux. Her father had been stately, her mother beautiful. Her brother and sister, both part of the wedding ceremony, had been well behaved, joking, laughing, and wonderful. Her first dance with her new husband had been magical, but it was during her dance with her father that she had realized she was one of the luckiest human beings in the world with a tender, tight family, and an incredible groom.

The reception would be the talk of a number of counties for months to come. The Irish tenor had joined with the band. The music had gone from classical to rock and pop to theatrical. The food had been delicious, the cake stupendous.

Then, after fully enjoying their own reception, they had taken off at last for Melody House. And it hadn’t been as if making love had been anything new for them, but making love as man and wife was new and therefore, somehow, more sensual, more erotic, and so deeply satisfying. They’d been hot and heavy, they’d laughed, they’d joked over getting out of clothing, slipping in the shower in their haste, rolling off the bed, and all sorts of little foibles. They’d had a great deal more champagne, finishing the bottle that had been left in the elegant little silver bucket on the antique table set before the fireplace. They’d dined on the delicious little snacks left for them, caviar, quiches, chocolate-dipped strawberries and more. Then they’d made love again, all lazy and slow, and it had been incredibly luxurious as well. Melody House had offered everything they had wanted. In the morning, they could go downstairs and be served breakfast in the sunny little nook off the kitchen. They could spend a day indulging in the heated pool—a recent addition to the colonial manor. They could ride the trails that meandered through miles of forest when the sun was just setting. They could have both privacy and service. Jeannie had every right to be entirely blissful, and also, patient with the fact that her new husband could sleep, while she could not.

She rose, feeling as agile and luxuriously sinuous as a cat, naked in the coolness of the night. She stretched, thinking that the strenuous exercise program she had put herself through before the wedding had been well worth it—she didn’t think that she could be more than five percent body fat at the moment, and Roger had been delighted. She was glad, too, because she liked to think that she had talked Matt Stone into allowing them to use the seldom-rented room for their wedding night because she had just been cute and charming. Stone was known to be something of a hard-ass.

Walking over to the open French doors that led to the balcony, Jeannie almost pouted, then grinned instead. Roger had told her that Matt Stone had given in just because he knew the only way to keep Melody House as a private property had been to allow the house itself to earn some of the upkeep money such an estate so desperately needed. Roger had probably been right. But then again, maybe it had been a combination of Stone’s needs and her charm and persuasion. Whatever! It had all worked, and it had come together so beautifully. She was a lover of history, and to spend her wedding night in such an elegant and historic place was like the most delicious icing in the world on the most wonderful cake—her perfect wedding day. She parted the draperies, glad to feel the breeze against her bare shin, and feeling sensual all over again as it touched her. She was married now. She was Mrs. Thomas. She could slink right on back over to the bed, wake up her slight snoring husband, and live out her every fantasy.

Yet…

Suddenly, the delicious feeling wasn’t quite so delicious anymore. She felt a sudden, quick, bone-numbing chill. She spun around, and saw nothing in the dim night-light pouring out from the bathroom, or even from the faint glow of moonlight and property lights that seeped in from the open French doors to the balcony, just hemmed in by the drifting draperies where she stood.

She felt…

Fear. Deep and irrational.

She swallowed, stepping over to close the French doors and lock them tightly. She glanced at Roger. He kept snoring. She tried to calm herself. If she was feeling a sudden and totally irrational fear, all she had to do was run back to the bed, jump in beside him, and he would cuddle and hold her and everything would be all right.

That was exactly what she was going to do.

But she didn’t. She didn’t move. Because she saw…

The silvery movement in the night.

She blinked, but it didn’t go away. And it wasn’t the darkness, or the reflection of the lights, or a combination of the two. It was something, vague in shape, silvery-white, hovering, moving. It came from the side of the bed, where she should have been sleeping, and it was coming toward her.

She panicked totally. Her vocal cords were frozen. She stared, breathing out desperate little choking sounds, since she could find no voice. It came closer and closer. She felt ice trickles into blood and limbs and then…

It was almost touching her. She felt her hair move…pulled? Cold seemed to slap her right across the face. And she could have sworn that she heard a whisper, mocking, scornful. “Silly little girl! He’ll only kill you!”

Then again…her hair…lifting. On its own, in the grip of the vague, silvery-white substance. A substance that whispered or played havoc with the breeze. There was no breeze. She had closed the doors.

At last, she found voice, movement, and energy. She let out an hysterical, chilling scream, and ran.

She didn’t run for the bed and Roger—she headed straight for the door out of the Lee room. Jeannie wrenched at the knob so hard she nearly ripped it from the wood. The door itself flew open, and banged wickedly against the wall. This had no bearing on her. She barely heard it. She kept screaming, tore along the landing, and down the elegant, curving masterpiece of a stairway to the ground level below.

Matt Stone had chosen to stay in the caretaker’s cottage, fifty yards to the left of the main house. It had been his home for years before his grandfather had died, leaving Melody House—and the responsibility for its upkeep—to him. He had only moved into the main house recently because it had become easier on the upkeep side, and, he had to admit, he had come to like it. The grand master suite he had chosen afforded a lot of comfort. Big bedroom, dressing room, office or entertainment space, and it kept him right on top of whatever was going on with the property.

He liked the caretaker’s cottage, too. Since it had been falling apart so badly due to years of neglect he had rebuilt and refurbished it with every modern convenience. In contrast to the painstaking care they had used in keeping the main house historical, the caretaker’s house was far more state-of-the-art.

When he had given in to allowing the Lee room to be used as a honeymoon suite, he had opted to spend the night in his old haunts.

He had been sound asleep, however, when the scream brought him bolting from bed.

Despite the quiet tone of their small town, as sheriff of Stoneyville he was accustomed to being awakened in the dead of night. Therefore, he was up, into his jeans, and streaking across the patch of lawn that separated the caretaker’s cottage from the main house in a matter of seconds, the key to the huge oak front door in his hands. He burst into the house less than two minutes from the time he had heard the scream.

There was a light on in the foyer; there always was. Just as soft lights eternally flooded the front porch. He was prepared for anything when he burst through the door.

Or, at least, he had thought that he was.

Maybe not.

There was no apparent danger. Instead, there she was, the blushing bride, standing at the foot of the stairway, shaking and screaming in her altogether. Jeannie was a pretty girl, perfectly toned from months industriously spent at the gym in order to look perfect for her wedding day. Hard not to look, but he forced his eyes to hers first, then cast his gaze anxiously around, scanning the area for any hidden threat that might be the reason for this scene. Seeing nothing, his mind working in milliseconds, he wondered if the groom had somehow turned out to be a homicidal maniac or a simple wife-beater. Either choice seemed doubtful.

“Jeannie?” he said, his voice deep with calm and authority. Normally, he would have walked to her, set an arm around her shoulder, and patiently determined the cause of her distress. But she was standing in his foyer stark naked and screaming. “Jeannie, please, talk. What the hell…?”

By that time, her husband was rushing down the stairs as well. He was still half-asleep, and Matt would have sworn in any court that the young man appeared as bleary and stunned as anyone could possibly be. Certainly not fresh from a fight with his new bride.

“Jeannie!” Roger cried out in shock.

Matt crossed over one of the velvet cord barriers into the parlor and swept an antique throw from the fragile old love seat, striding across the room to cast it around Jeannie’s shoulders. She had stopped screaming, but she was still shaking like a leaf, eyes wide, dilated.

Roger, still dazed, and definitely horrified, thanked him briefly. Then he stared at his bride again, confusion once again reigning in his eyes.

“Jeannie, what is it?”

At last, she turned to focus on him, her expression blank at first, then filled with tension. “You didn’t see it? You didn’t feel it?”

“Jeannie, I was sound asleep! What are you talking about?”

By then, Penny Sawyer, in a terry robe, her graying hair frizzled around her handsomely constructed face, arrived. She stood in the frame of the front door, left open when Matt had come bursting in.

“What in the Lord’s name…?” she queried.

Penny managed Melody House. She kept accounts, and ran the tours. She loved the place, probably more so than Matt himself. She had worked as an historian for Matt’s grandfather, and slipped right into the role of managing the place after his death. She was like an aunt to Matt, as well as being incredibly efficient, and all but married to the place.

There was only one area in which they disagreed. And Matt silently grit his teeth then, certain that this episode was about to lead in that direction.

“Apparently, our bride has had a nightmare,” Matt said quietly.

“Nightmare!” Jeannie shrieked. She must have heard the shrill tone of her own voice because she fought to control it. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“So what exactly was the problem?” Roger asked, an underlying irritation rising beneath his concerned exterior.

“I think I should get some brandy,” Penny said.

“I think Jeannie should get some clothes on!” Roger said, his anger starting to crack through.

“Clothes?” Jeannie said. She stared down at herself and realized that she was covered in nothing but the antique quilt.

“I’ll make tea with brandy,” Penny said decisively.

“While she’s making the tea, Jeannie, you can run up and get dressed. Then we can all sit down and you can explain just what you’re doing,” Roger said, a thread of anger in his voice.

“What I’m doing?” Jeannie repeated, frowning. “Roger Thomas, I was scared to death, don’t you understand?”

“Scared enough to run around naked?”

Matt could have groaned aloud. He shouldn’t have been swayed to allow the Lee Room to become a honeymoon hangout. He glared at Penny. She had talked him into it, reminding him that they needed the money for Melody House.

Penny shrugged innocently, giving him one of her knowing looks.

Melody House was reputed to be haunted. Matt always saw the rumors as simply par for the course. The main house was well over two hundred years old. It had survived the American Revolution, the Civil War, and every manner of conflict in between. As he well knew, nothing that old went without a certain kind of history. And apparently, most of the world wanted to believe in things that went bump in the night. People couldn’t just look back on the personal tragedies of the past with sorrow—they just had to make something else out of them.

Matt simply didn’t believe in ghosts. He’d worked in the D.C. area long before he’d taken up working in his old home haunts, and he knew that the things that living men and women did to one another could be so violent, barbarous, and cruel, that there was simply no reason to worry about those who were long dead and buried.

“Go up and put clothes on!” Roger said, his voice almost a roar.

Jeannie, blue eyes still huge, stared at him in rebellion and defiance.

“I am not—get this straight!—not going back up to that room. Ever! There is a ghost up there, and it—it threatened me.”

Matt shook his head, praying for patience. He looked up at the bride and groom. Wow! How quickly there was trouble in Paradise.

“Jeannie,” he said patiently, “there are no such things as ghosts. Hey, I’ve lived here most of my life. I’ve spent nights in the place with no electricity, you know, in the pitch dark. I swear, there are no ghosts. I would know.”

He had tried to say the last lightly. He knew, however, that his voice had an edge. He was sick to death of the whole ghost thing.

“Look what you’ve done,” Roger said to Jeannie. “Great. Really good honeymoon we’re going to have here—you’ve just really pissed off Matt Stone.”

“Sorry, I’m not angry,” Matt said quickly. “I just don’t believe in ghosts. Jeannie, it was a big day for you. I’m sure for you both…I’m not saying that anyone is totally inebriated, but come on, now, you both had a hell of a lot to drink. You’re wired, Jeannie. Excited. Hey, it was the wedding of the century, huh? You don’t have to go back into the room. We’ll get your things. And you and Roger can finish out your honeymoon in the caretaker’s cottage, how’s that? I can clear it out in a matter of minutes, while Penny makes tea.”

Jeannie spun around again. She looked as if she wanted to run from Roger’s side and come flying into his arms.

Don’t do it, Jeannie, don’t do it! He pleaded silently.

“Not one of you has suggested coming up to see if there is something in the room,” Jeannie said indignantly.

Matt lifted his hands. “I’ll go up to the room.”

He strode past the newlywed couple on the stairs. As he neared the upper landing, he could hear Roger whispering angrily to his wife. “Ghost, hell! You’re a little exhibitionist. You’ve had a bit of a thing for Matt Stone your whole life, you know, Jeannie. What, you just had to have an excuse for him to see you naked?”

“Roger Thomas! How dare you suggest such a thing, you bastard!” she whispered back. Then her voice rose. “We don’t need the caretaker’s house! I’m going home. Home—back to my family. They’re not a bunch of idiot jerks!”

“Hey, there!” Penny protested cheerfully. “You know, everyone is really tired, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. Matt, he’s all he-man practical and doesn’t believe in ghosts, but I’m telling you, Roger, don’t you go being hard on your new missus! Lots of folks believe that this house is more than a little haunted, I do tell you!”

Matt walked on into the Lee Room. As he suspected, there was nothing there. The French doors to the balcony were open, and the drapes were drifting in. They must have been what scared the new bride so badly. Either that, or she just wanted the place to be haunted so badly that she had made it so.

He found Jeannie’s peignoir robe, then discarded it as being far too see-through for this situation. Her groom would not be happy with it, he was certain. Striding to the closet, he found a pair of robes with “Melody House” inscribed on the pockets—items Penny had insisted they needed to provide a real luxury touch for those few times when he decided to rent the room. He pulled one from the hanger and headed back downstairs.

By then, Penny, Jeannie and Roger had headed into the kitchen. It was vast. The integrity of the historical aspects had been maintained with the massive hearth and the many copper pots and herbs that adorned wall mounts, but the huge refrigerator, sub-zero freezer, and stainless steel stove were all necessary modern conveniences for the many social events, dinners, luncheons, and meetings that were held at the property.

The newlyweds were seated at the table with Penny. She had apparently moved like lightning, microwaving water and hurriedly supplying brandy, because they were all sipping out of huge earthenware mugs already.

They had been joined there by several of the other residents of the property, probably all awakened by the screaming. Matt’s cousin Clint, who, like Penny, lived in one of the apartments above the stables, was seated at the table. Clint’s eyes flashed with humor as they met Matt’s. Sam Arden, the caretaker, old, thin, and crusty, his white hair wild, was at the table as well. He shook his head and rolled his eyes when he saw Matt. Rounding out the group was Carter Sutton. He was actually an old college friend of Clint’s from the next town over. He owned a lot of local property, and had just bought a house nearby. Since it was still being held hostage by construction workers, he’d taken a room over the stables as well. It worked well. Carter made his living off his investments, and was sometimes “paper rich and cash poor,” so he was happy to look after the horses and serve as stable boy and trail guide when they rented out the horses.

Matt silently offered the robe, and walked around to take a seat at the end of the table. Penny was happily talking about ghosts. Roger was convincing his wife that there had been nothing there at all, other than the excitement of the day.

“And if there was a ghost, it was probably more scared than you,” Clint assured the bride.

“Hell, there are ghosts,” Sam said sagely, nodding his old head.

“Sam,” Matt protested.

“She meant to hurt me!” Jeannie said with certainty.

“I don’t think that ghosts are supposed to hurt people,” Carter said. His mustache twitched. He was as bearded as a goat, since he enjoyed a high military position in the “Rebel” unit in which he participated in many battle reenactments.

“She meant to hurt me,” Jeannie repeated.

“I’ve slept in that room,” Clint said, “and honestly, nothing ever happened to me.”

“I know the Lee Room like the back of my hand,” Carter teased. “It holds the fondest memories in my heart,” he told the bride with a wink.

She flushed and laughed uneasily.

“Matt,” Penny said, “There’s a cup of strong tea for you right there, end of the table.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll reheat it in a bit. I’m going to get a few things out of the caretaker’s cottage, so you two can slip on over when you want.”

“Hey, Mr. Stone, I…I don’t want to put you to any more trouble,” Roger said.

“I can’t sleep in this house!” Jeannie wailed.

“It’s no trouble,” he assured them both.

All he wanted to do right then was get out—he didn’t think he could bear to hear another of Penny’s speeches on ghosts. He allowed her, on Friday and Saturday nights, to give a “Legends of Melody House” tour, during which she liked to go on and on about various stories involving the house, and how it was rumored to be haunted by different characters, including historical figures.

He had adamantly refused to let her call it a ghost tour. But since she did attract dozens and dozens of paying tourists, people staying as diversely far away as Williamsburg, Richmond, Harpers Ferry, and even D.C., he had to allow the endeavor. She served cider, tea, cookies, and pastries in the middle of the tour, and he knew that she was right—they paid a whole lot of bills thanks to those tours. He still didn’t like them, or anything that suggested that Melody House was really haunted. However, he tolerated it all, for the sake of the house.

“Go on, Matt—we’ll keep them entertained for you,” Clint told him laconically. Matt arched a brow. Clint could be openly lascivious. He had surely enjoyed the spectacle of the bride, wrapped in the antique quilt and nothing more.

“Thanks,” Matt said dryly, and left them all to their arguments on whether there was or wasn’t a ghost.

An hour later, he was moved back into his room at the main house, and he and Penny and Roger had packed up the newlyweds, who were now happily settled in the caretaker’s cottage. Penny returned to her apartment over the stables.

Matt had barely gotten back to sleep before he heard a ringing sound. He fumbled around to turn off his alarm, but it was the phone instead. One of his officers was on the other end, anxiously urging him to get moving; they had a domestic violence situation threatening to turn explosive.

Matt hurriedly dressed, his thoughts half on the night gone by, and half on the day to come. There it was—the truth again. As his dad had once told him, when he had shivered at the sight of an old cemetery, the dead were the safest people around.

It was the living you had to watch out for.

That day was hell for Matt. He was so tired most of it, he could have toppled over. It began with the situation at the Creek-more house, old Harry threatening to kill his wife and kids, accusing her of sleeping around, claiming he didn’t even know if the kids were really his or not. Thayer had kept the situation under control until he got there. Matt had managed first to get Harry to let him in, then pretended to share most of a bottle of whiskey with him, convince him he could do DNA testing on his kids, finally get the shotgun, and haul Harry off to jail.

Somehow, he endured the rest of the week, staying in the main house, hearing the honeymooners in the pool at all hours, day and night.

Jeannie came to thank him personally for not throwing them out. Her honeymoon, between the pool and the horses and the incredible Jacuzzi in the caretaker’s house, was bliss.

She had forgotten about the ghost. She admitted that she’d had a lot to drink.

Penny kept insisting that there was a ghost, and he was being a blind fool to ignore it. Either something bad was going to happen, or—on the bright side!—were they to prove that a ghost existed, they could get so rich they’d never have to worry about the upkeep of the place again.

Finally the honeymooners departed and everything went back to normal. Then, Penny started at him again. She wanted to have a seance.

He said no.

She persisted.

He begged her to leave him alone. He had too much work on his plate at the moment.

At last, Penny backed off and contented herself with her tours. Matt thought that life was pleasantly back to routine.

Until she came to him with the letter from Adam Harrison, Harrison Investigations.

It was a month later that Clara Issy, one of the five daytime housekeepers, stopped dead in her tracks.

It was a sunny morning. The beautiful old bedroom in Melody House was as it always was. The bed she had just made with its shiny four-poster and quilted cover sat against the right wall. The polished mahogany bureau held the modern touch of the entertainment center within it. The television was off. The French doors to the balcony and the wraparound porch were ajar because it was such a nice day and the breeze was fresh and clean, causing the white draperies to stir and dance. That was natural, and she was accustomed to the smell and feel of fresh air. She loved it, and she wasn’t at all fond of the air-conditioning that ran through the summer months. No, the room itself was just as it always was.

She stood near the open French doors, jaw agape, and stared.

Because she was alone in the room, yet something else was moving. Something that drifted from the bed. Something in a hazy form, something cold, something that felt threatening.

It approached Clara. She felt something touch her face, almost like the stroke of fingers against her cheek. Very cold fingers. Dead fingers. She thought she heard a whispering. Scratchy, against her ear. Something that pleaded…or threatened.

Her hands were frozen in a vise around her broom handle. Her body felt as if it had jelled into ice. Fear raced up and down her spine.

The cold…wrapped around her. Tightly. More and more tightly.

At last, her jaw snapped shut. She broke the sensation of terror. She screamed, not a bloodcurdling sound, but one that barely held a gasp of air.

Then she found life, and ran.

Out to the second floor landing; there was no one there. Down the flight of stairs to the grand foyer, where again, the house was empty. She headed toward the second doorway to the right of the sweeping stairway. Surely, for the love of God, someone would be in the house office—Penny, a tiny bastion against anyone evil, but someone, at the least.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief. Matt was there. Bursting out the doorway before she could reach it. He was in his work uniform, but he hadn’t headed out for the station yet; it was still very early. Thank God.

He hurried toward her, as if he had heard her cry—being Matt, of course, he had heard it!—and had been preparing to rush to her rescue. Except that she had fled the room upstairs with greater speed than a greyhound. And so she was here, spurting into his arms.

“Clara! What is it?”

She was fifty-five. Twenty years older than Matt, at least. But he was Matt; solid as a rock. A tall man in his prime with a way about him that commanded respect which in turn offered her a feeling of security that allowed her to speak when her mouth was still all but completely contorted.

“I—I—quit!” she gasped out.

“Clara, what on earth?” he asked kindly, holding her at something of a distance from himself and searching out her eyes.

“Let me tell you, that bride was not crazy. There’s a ghost in that room!”

“Oh, Clara, please. We both know the silly stories about this place! We’ve both heard them since we were little kids. But come on, we’ve also worked in this house, both of us, for years and years. Clara, I feel like a broken record here, but believe me—ghosts don’t really exist. People want them to exist sometimes. Penny is dying to have a few authentic ghosts to give the place a greater reputation. Seems like being an historical masterpiece doesn’t always cut it these days.” He smiled, smoothing back her graying hair.

“There’s a ghost in the Lee room, and it just touched me.” Clara planted her hands on her hips. “How long have you known me? Forever? Haven’t I always agreed with you, saying that it was just silly airheads who felt they had to make up ghost stories? But you have to believe me—there’s something in that room. It threatened me. Matt, it wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a memory of ghost tales told over and over. It was real. I could see it. Come up and see for yourself!”

Matt sighed deeply. Still, there was concern for her in the depths of his dark eyes. “All right, Clara, let’s go take a look.”

Clara edged behind him, then followed as he left the office and strode with long footsteps through the foyer, up the stairs, and to the Lee room.

Naturally, there was nothing there.

Clara walked over to her broom. “I was standing right here.”

“Clara, maybe you saw the draperies drifting in. The French doors are open.”

Clara indignantly straightened her five-foot-one frame. She could see that Matt felt as if he was living a repeat of a silly performance. He was trying to be patient; he felt like throwing his hands up as if the whole world had now gone insane. “I know the difference between drapes and a ghost!”

Matt ran his fingers through his ink dark hair, shaking his head. “Clara…I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing here at all.”

Clara sniffed. “Matt, it’s gone now. But there was something here! Why can’t you believe me? You should. It wasn’t all that long ago that we rented the room to the Thomases. She came running out of the room in the middle of the night, stark naked, and screaming! All right, I wasn’t here when it happened, but I sure heard all about it.” Clara paused, biting her lip. “Okay, I laughed like hell, I’ll admit, but…Matt, there’s something going on.”

“Clara, Jeannie Thomas herself said later that she’d had a lot to drink that night. Her husband didn’t see or hear a thing, and all it did was cause a big argument on the first night of their marriage. Clara, Jeannie drove me crazy and came here and specifically asked for this room, having heard that it was haunted. Don’t you see? The bride wanted there to be a ghost, and so there was. History can be tragic, Clara. And there was some tragic history associated with the place. But come on, now! You’re a sensible woman. In your heart, you know that you’re just letting your imagination run riot.”

“Matt, I quit.”

“Oh, Clara!”

She knew that he couldn’t afford to lose another maid.

“How about this, Clara. You don’t quit, but you don’t clean this room. How’s that?”

She reflected on his offer. “Who is going to clean it?”

“We’ll let Penny come in here and take care of this room. Penny thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world that the place has a reputation for being haunted.”

“You know, Matt, I can’t help it. I was definitely one of those to scoff at such absurdity, but I can tell you now—this house is haunted!”

“Clara, maybe it’s haunted, and maybe…hm.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe Penny is playing tricks, she wants the house to be haunted so badly. Or maybe someone is…I don’t know. Breaking in here. Making things happen.”

“How?” Clara asked incredulously.

“Who knows,” he murmured.

Clara again planted her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “Who the hell would break in here? Who would have the balls—since it’s your place—the town sheriff?”

“I don’t know. But since you think there was someone in here, I intend to find out.”

Clara shook her head. “We’re the ones who have been lying to ourselves, Matt. The whole darned house may be haunted, but this room…this room is menacing!”

“Ghosts don’t menace people, Clara.”

She sniffed. “You don’t believe in ghosts, so how do you know what they do?”

“Clara, I don’t believe in ghosts, but from everything I’ve seen and read, I’ve never heard of a ghost actually hurting anyone.”

Clara shook her head again, appearing to be the one wise beyond all earthly knowledge. “Well, Mr. Matt, I’ll have you know, that isn’t true at all! Haven’t you ever heard of the Bell Witch in Tennessee? They say that even old Andrew Jackson was afraid of her, that she pulled people’s hair and threw the children around and even caused the death of the master of the house. You refuse to accept anything that isn’t cut-and-dried, and you’re blind to things going on in your own house!”

Matt leaned against the door frame, smiling. “Clara, once again, I believe that people can make things real with their imaginations.”

“You think old Andy Jackson was an imaginative guy?”

“You’d have to show me written proof that Andrew Jackson was afraid of a ghost. And I don’t mean any hearsay on a Discovery program or even in a book of ghost stories.”

Clara pointed a finger at him. “You’d better do something, before the stories about this house become so real that no one will pay for the tours. You can’t keep this place up on a sheriff’s salary alone.”

“Thank you, Clara. I’ll take that under advisement. But then again, you know, Penny is certain that a documented haunting would make us as rich as Midas.”

Clara was startled when Matt frowned suddenly and walked over to her. “What happened to your face?”

“To my face?” Clara frowned as well, and walked over to the mirror. Her cheek was red and mottled, as if she’d been slapped, and slapped hard.

She turned and stared at him. “Ghosts don’t menace people, huh?”

“Clara,” Matt said. “Think about it! You must have run into something in your hurry to get out of the room!”

Clara eyed him sharply and shook her head. “Matt, the stories have circulated for years. People have sworn that they’ve seen soldiers in the downstairs rooms. They’ve seen a lady in white, floating down the stairway. Ghosts that fit in with history. It’s only been in recent years, since your grandfather died, that things have gotten really serious. Remember how Randy Gustav quit after staying a night in the Lee Room? He wouldn’t even explain what happened to you. It’s only in the last few years that…that the ghosts kind of threaten to get violent.”

“There are no such things as ghosts.”

“Oh, yeah? One just gave me a bruise!”

With that, Clara indignantly walked out on him, calling back over her shoulder, “Matt, you’re a hell of a man. That’s why I’m staying. Believe it or don’t, but you’d better do something about that particular ghost—that doesn’t exist in your mind.”

That evening, having returned home very late from work, Matt sat at the desk in his suite in the main house, going through correspondence.

There was a tap at his door.

“Come in.”

Penny stuck her head in. “Am I bothering you, Matt?”

“Not at all.”

She walked in and sat on the corner of his desk. “Matt, you have to do something over this latest episode with Clara.”

“Oh?” He leaned back in his chair.

“Clara was hurt!”

“Penny, please. I’m sorry, I think the world of Clara, we’re friends from way back, and I gave her the rest of the day off with pay. She had to have run into something.”

Penny shook her head.

He leaned forward suddenly, abruptly. “Penny, you wouldn’t be playing some kind of game up there, determined to convince the rest of the world, if not me, that the place is haunted?”

She gaped at him in such affront that he was immediately sorry.

“Matt, I would never—”

“But maybe someone would.”

“Maybe,” Penny agreed grudgingly. She wagged a finger at him. “You know, you are far too trusting at times. Too many people could have access to this place.”

“Penny, I’m not too trusting. We’re a fairly small town.”

Penny shook her head decisively. “You’re right, of course. But you’ve got to remember that even in our small town we have had a few pretty grisly murders. Why can’t you just accept the fact that something strange is going on?”

“Penny, you’ve wanted nothing more than a real ghost for years.”

Penny shook her head, suddenly troubled. “Ghosts…that cause a cold spot, or breeze by, or…I don’t think this is a good ghost,” she murmured.

She patted his desk, rummaging through the unopened letters. “What about that letter you got from Harrison Investigations? Call Adam. You respect him. He was friends with your grandfather long ago.”

He groaned.

“Please, Matt. You’ve suggested that maybe someone is breaking in, or doing something to make it appear that there are ghosts. Adam can tell you what’s real, and what’s not.”

“What he perceives as real,” Matt muttered.

“Hey, I’ve followed some of what he’s done. Last year, he and some of his colleagues proved that the haunting of an old mining camp was nothing more than two modern prospectors digging for gold.”

“Great. I call in Ghostbusters and become the laughingstock of the town. I might as well find a new place to live.”

Penny shook her head. “Matt, maybe they can just do the same thing here.” She hopped off the edge of the table. “Please, promise me you’ll think about it, at least.”

She left him, closing the door softly in her wake.

Matt walked to his own set of French doors out to the wraparound balcony. The moon was full. In the distance, he could see the vague shape of the mountains, and the sweep of the valley. God, he loved this area. Loved the house, the stables, but mostly, just the natural beauty of the area.

He returned to his desk, reflective. Clara’s face had been marked, as if she had been hit. He still didn’t believe in ghosts, but…

He reflected on the number of people who lived on the property. Penny, Sam, Clint, Carter, even Clara now and then, and through the years gone by, various friends and relatives. Could someone have set the place up so that it appeared haunted?

He strode to the Lee Room, searched under the bed, in the closet, all around. Nothing.

Still…

He returned to his own suite, toyed with Adam Harrison’s letter for a moment, and picked up the phone. He dialed Harrison’s number. They spoke briefly. “Matt, good to hear from you.”

“You weren’t certain that you would?” Matt queried dryly.

“Nope. Not this time.”

“You know I don’t believe in the supernatural in any way, shape, or form.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“If you come down here, I’m only having you because I think you’ll be able to prove that I don’t have ghosts.”

“Maybe,” Adam agreed.

“When can you come?”

“My schedule is a bit of a mess, but…I’ll arrange to see you soon.”

“And according to your letter, Adam, you’re going to pay me?”

“Yes. And like I said, I am anxious. I’ll arrange something as soon as possible.”

“You can usually find me around lunchtime at the Wayside Inn.”

“All right, my office manager will call, set a date.”

“Good,” Matt said. “Look forward to seeing you, Adam.”

Adam Harrison was still talking when Matt hung up the phone. He stared at it, already thinking that he had made one hell of a mistake.

On the other end, Adam Harrison, too, stared at his phone. He did so with fond amusement. He’d always liked Matt. “My boy. You’re about to learn a lesson. All the courage, brain power, and brawn in the world can’t cut it against a real ghost,” he said softly. “Ah, well.”

He had meant to warn Matt that he wasn’t even sure he could come himself right away, that he’d be sending his topnotch aide.

But he didn’t want to call back. Matt Stone wasn’t at all pleased with this arrangement, even though he was surely having trouble.

It would all be fine. Darcy could handle any man, living…

Or dead.

2

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.”

3

“To me, it’s simply one of the most incredible houses—and historical sites—on the face of the earth!” Penny said enthusiastically.

Darcy smiled, thinking that she agreed—despite the difficulty involved with the place, and that difficulty being Matt Stone.

He had maintained something of a pleasant conversation on the drive over, pointing out Civil War skirmish sites, and telling her that at one point, on his way to battle, the great Southern general Robert E. Lee had stayed at Melody House. Then they had reached the house, and though she couldn’t say he had practically thrown her out of the car, he had delivered her to the front door and Penny Sawyer as quickly as possible, explaining simply that he was on duty.

Hm. She wondered if he’d been on duty while sprawling around at the Wayside Tavern as well.

But Penny Sawyer was wonderful. Darcy couldn’t quite determine her age. The woman was certainly somewhere between forty and sixty, which was quite a span. She was slender, about five-five, with an attractive shag type of short haircut in a natural salt and pepper, and had beautiful, bright blue eyes. She was also nicely dressed in a stylish pantsuit, and as friendly as her employer was rude.

“The house is quite incredible,” Darcy said. “A number of historical homes—usually those owned by preservation societies—have been restored with painstaking authenticity, but it’s amazing to see the integrity of this house, especially when it’s been a family home all along.”

“Ah, well, the old gentleman, Matt’s grandfather, really loved the place. Treated the house like a baby. He wanted it to be a home while maintaining all that it had been. He was a remarkable old fellow.”

“Apparently.”

Penny gave her a funny little rueful smile. “Oddly enough, believe me, Matt is just as dedicated to the preservation of the house. He wants to maintain it himself, though—you know, he doesn’t want it going to any societies, no matter how good they might be, because he would lose control. He knows that house has to hold its own if he’s going to hang on to it. Upkeep on these places is staggering. And sheriffs just don’t make that kind of money. Oh! That didn’t really sound the way it should—he’s a man of incredible integrity. What I mean is, no matter how he loves the place, he’d never do anything illegal. Of course, you didn’t suggest such a thing!” Penny broke off with a laugh. “There would never be such a thing as graft involved in Matt’s life. He’s a great sheriff. The people love him. He can defuse the most ungodly situations, speak to the youngsters around here and all…but what it means is that he has to have tours going through here, and he has to make the house pay. That’s all. So! What kind of a feel do you get from the place? Is it haunted?”

Darcy smiled again at the question, wondering how to answer. “There’s a tremendous feel of the past about the place, I can tell you that.”

“But you…well, you see ghosts, right?”

Darcy hesitated again. “For the most part, I would say that, so far, the house actually has a warm feel to it. As if whatever remains of the distant past is mostly benign. But there is a feel to the house. That’s natural when so much has occurred through so many years. Many people believe that since we—humans—are made up of energy, and energy cannot actually be destroyed—that trauma forces that energy to remain, when the soul should have gone on.”

Penny arched a brow to her. “I know what most people feel and think. But you are a psychic. So—what do you think? Actually, no matter what you say, you won’t change what I feel and believe. I know that ghosts exist. I’ve seen one.”

“Oh?”

Penny shrugged. They were in her office, a very nicely done room on the ground floor, near to Matt’s, as Penny had pointed out.

“I’ve seen the woman in the white peignoir who runs from the Lee room and down the stairs. And I’m beginning to believe that she’s not a benign entity at all. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I personally love the ghost stories that abound around here. They’re important—they draw visitors to the house. But lately, the ghost seems to be getting—physical.”

“Exactly how so?”

“Well, not long ago we had a bride and groom staying in the room. She woke up in the middle of the night and the ghost spoke to her, or pulled her hair, or something. She wasn’t terribly clear. She came running down the stairs stark naked in the middle of the night, and refused to go back to the room even to pack up her things. Then, Clara Issy, one of the housekeepers, and a wonderful woman, came flying out because of the same thing happening. The ghost left a mark on her.”

“What did Sheriff Stone have to say about that?” Darcy asked.

Penny waved a dismissive hand in the air. “He says he’s convinced Clara ran into something. Matt simply refuses to believe in anything that doesn’t have full dimensions. However, he has said that we can have a seance here. None of this is making any sense to me. Matt may not know much about Harrison Investigations, but I do. Adam Harrison is supposed to be one of the most credible and influential investigators of psychic phenomena in the world! Matt knew that you all were coming—well, all right, he expected Adam himself—but he told Liz that she could carry on a seance. Go figure. Of course, he doesn’t really believe that anyone will contact the spirits, so maybe he wanted to make Liz happy, and annoy those who might have been able to make a special connection with whatever is going on.”

“It will be interesting to take part in a seance here, no matter who is acting as the medium,” Darcy told her tactfully.

“Well, it’s going to be tomorrow night,” Penny told her. “I’m setting up in the parlor, since Elizabeth says we should be using the center of the house, the heart of it.”

Darcy lifted her hands. “Sounds fine to me.”

“Well, I’m relieved. After all—you’re the professional.”

Darcy smiled. “I’m not so sure there is such a thing as a professional in this particular area. I’m sure Elizabeth will prove to be a fine medium.” Darcy rose. “Mind if I take a walk around?”

“Of course not, dear! Your bag has been taken up to the Lee Room—where the phenomenon has occurred. I imagine that whereas others might wake up in terror, you would wake up and try to talk to the ghost, right?”

“Something like that,” Darcy agreed.

“Well, then, you just make yourself at home.” She handed Darcy a pamphlet. “These are, as you’ll see, obviously for the tour groups. But the little map will help you get your bearings, and there are a few little tidbits of history about the house in there as well.”

“Terrific,” Darcy said. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure, and please, should you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask me. I’m delighted to have you.”

“Thank you.”

Darcy took the little map and exited Penny’s office. It was one of two on the right side of the hall that connected the foyer and the grand stairway.

For a moment, she paused. This was the most important part of her work, as she saw it. Adam Harrison was excellent with machinery. Gauges that registered temperature changes, recorders that caught the slightest hint of sound. There were even gadgets that could record any rise or fall in a magnetic field. When he came, he would work with a Trifield Meter, and measure electromagnetic pollution. He also used a Trifield Natural EM meter, which measured electric as well as magnetic fields—showing disturbances where there should be none—and, as Adam was fond of telling clients—it was also a great tool for finding out if your microwave leaked or not. In his work, however, he knew that any kind of physical manifestation required a certain amount of energy, moving air, heat, cold, all and any changes that might take place in an area.

Adam worked from a seriously scientific point of reference.

But for her, it was the feel of a place. It was getting to know it.

And often, when she first arrived at a place reputed to be haunted, she would feel that Josh was with her. Ready to be beside her, vigilant, her guard in the strange world, perhaps.

She waited. But she didn’t feel his presence. She waited several minutes, dead still, making an effort to clear her mind, which wasn’t usually necessary. And still, she had no sense or feel of him, which was very unusual.

And yet the house seemed more alive with past energy than any other place she had ever been.

She walked back first to the entry, or foyer, and stared at the little map, getting her bearings. Not that the house was that complicated. From the wraparound porch, one entered the foyer, with the superb staircase. The house had been built like many a colonial with the hall—or what was really a massive breezeway—immediately to the right of the stairs. It made a straight and direct path to the back doors. At one time, before air-conditioning, such a breezeway allowed for the house to be cooled in summer by the continual flow of air, since both front and back doors would have been left open for that precise purpose.

There was one room other than the offices on that side of the house, the library. Darcy took a quick peek in at the room. Shelves lined three of the walls while a fireplace with a handsome carved hearth took up a majority of the fourth. The hardwood floor here was covered with a very fine, probably antique, Persian carpet. A huge mahogany desk sat in the room, while overstuffed reading chairs sat by the fire. She wondered if Matt Stone was aware of the value of the many ancient tomes that filled the cases—along with a lot of modern material as well.

The desk had a computer, printer, and seemed well set for any business purpose. She assumed the arrangement of the equipment here was for the convenience of the guests, since it had appeared that Penny’s office was supplied with all the technology she might need to run Melody House. Matt’s office was probably equally as well appointed.

Standing in the library, she closed her eyes for a moment and felt the room. The atmosphere was rich. A great deal of passion, emotion, and simple life had taken place within the room. But there was nothing here that seemed to hint of evil or malignance. She opened her eyes and exited the library, heading back to the foyer.

The staircase seemed somewhat disturbing, which Darcy didn’t find at all odd. She wondered how many men had walked down that stairway, followed by wives, lovers, or children, only to ride away to war, and perhaps never return.

The parlor was truly beautiful. She ignored the velvet ropes that kept the area protected from the sticky fingers of visiting children, the abuse of too many feet, and the overall damage that could be caused by large groups coming through on a frequent basis. Like the library, the parlor had a feel. When she closed her eyes, it drummed with the energy of the past. But again, she felt nothing evil.

Beyond the beautifully appointed parlor were the dining room—elegantly set as if for a dinner party of twenty in the mid-eighteen-hundreds—and the kitchen, kept entirely charming while being in a state-of-the-art condition. She instantly loved the room. There, the back door gave way to the wraparound porch. The view from the porch was exquisite. It was a beautiful day and the mountains could be seen in the distance in a riot of greens, violets, pinks, oranges and golds. The season was rich with flowers and foliage.

Darcy stepped back in. Rather than return to the foyer to take the grand stairway to the second floor, she walked up the far-less-spectacular servants’ stairway, winding from the rear of the kitchen up to the back of the hall on the second story. She gazed at her map again. Originally, there had been six bedrooms up here. Now, there were five, since the master suite these days consisted of a second office or sitting room as well as the master’s—Matt’s?—bedroom.

She assumed his personal area was off-limits to her. For the time, at least.

The rooms had apparently all been named after Southern generals, the Lee Room, or course, being the most prominent and assumably elegant, with the Stuart, Longstreet, Beauregard, and Amistad rooms being a bit smaller, judging by the map. Darcy entered each of the rooms, noting that they were all period, and quite charming, clean as a whistle, and inviting. The crew here kept the place up beautifully.

At last, she stood in front of the Lee Room, and closed her eyes. The atmosphere was heavy, cloudlike, dense, wrapping around her instantly. She opened her eyes and entered the room.

French doors were open to the porch. The breeze swept in. The room was quiet, and touched by the sweetness of the breeze.

Deceptive, Darcy thought. An aura of tremendous turbulence lay just beneath the apparent peace and serenity.

She imagined trying to explain the sensations she felt to Matt Stone.

It was not a pretty picture.

She didn’t think that there was any way she would ever be able to explain her particular talents to Matt Stone. Adam would understand. He was an amazing man. He had some abilities, but his true talent was in understanding that there were people in the world with special senses. She might have gone mad, seeing and hearing what others didn’t, except for Adam. First, he had believed. In his belief, he afforded her great trust. While he worked on a scientific level, proving different levels of heat and electricity, she worked purely through the visions and feelings that came to her—whether she wanted them or not, most of the time. Adam had taught her how to channel the strange images and feelings that came to her. And when she had thought herself a misfit who could live only in fear, he had taught her that she could bring peace and relief to lost souls, and given her purpose—as well as a very decent living that kept her feeling not only sane, but tremendously useful.

In this room, the feelings and impressions of trauma rushed around like a swirl of dark storm clouds.

However, it was incredible. Not a bad place to stay. Far, far, better than the hotel. Her bag was at the foot of the bed. She began to unpack, humming as she did so, yet completely attuned all the while for the slightest shift in the atmosphere.

All that touched her was the feel of the breeze and yet…

She was certain that she was watched. She could feel an unease streaking down her spine. It was as if the eyes of someone—something—were intently upon her, creating a trickle of sensation. An unearthly gaze seemed to reach out and touch her.

Feelings…intuitions. The hackles rising at her nape.

She paused for a moment.

But…

There was nothing solid. Nothing whatsoever. But Darcy knew.

Whatever lay within the room would wait, observe, and bide its time.

Summer hours kept the area light until well past eight in the evening.

Matt arrived home at about six and checked in at the house. He was certain that he’d find Penny and his visitor busily discussing the many ghosts they had already discovered. Maybe they’d even have the Ouija board out.

But Penny was in the kitchen with Joe McGurdy, their chef. Matt hadn’t known that Joe was coming in that night; he usually arrived only when they had a function planned. Finding the two in the kitchen, he arched a brow at Penny while Joe greeted him with a friendly smile.

Penny stared at him reproachfully. “Well, of course, we’re having dinner!” she said.

“We?”

“You, me, Darcy, Clint, and Carter.”

“Of course. Eight-course meal?” Matt asked dryly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. But you didn’t want me to serve beannie-weannies on her first night here, did you?”

“Goodness, of course not,” Matt said. “Where is our guest?”

“Carter saddled up Nellie for her. She’s taken a ride out to see some of the country around here.”

“Do we know that she can ride? There’s some really thick forest if she headed west.”

“Matt, she is an adult. She said she could ride.”

“Maybe I’ll take a ride out to find her anyway,” he muttered, shaking his head at Penny. Great—they were already bringing the chef in and stretching out the welcome mat. He wondered why Carter hadn’t chosen to ride with their visitor.

When he’d changed to jeans and sweater and headed out to the stables, he found out why. Carter shrugged, watching Matt as he led Vernon, his quarter horse, from his stall. “She said that she wanted to do some exploring alone, that it was important for her work. Naturally, I offered to go with her. Are you kidding? The woman is one looker.”

“One kooky looker,” Matt reminded him, slipping a bridle over Vernon’s nose.

“Hey, everybody’s got to make a living somehow, right?” Carter said.

Matt slung a saddle over Vernon’s back. “I imagine she probably had a few other choices.”

“Maybe she’s for real,” Carter said. He thoughtfully chewed a blade of hay, eyes amused as he watched Matt mount up. “You know, I just bought the old Reed place, next county over. If you don’t want her looking for your ghosts, I’ll be happy to have her take a look at mine.”

“I’m sure you intend to have her looking for ghosts,” Matt said, shaking his head. “For the moment, just let me go make sure she’s not lying on a trail somewhere with a broken leg. Whatever possessed you to let her just ride out alone?”

“Let’s see—maybe the fact that she said she didn’t want company?”

“She doesn’t own the place,” Matt reminded him.

Carter shrugged, stroking his beard. “Hell. I don’t own it either, do I now?”

Matt urged Vernon on out of the stable. “Hey—don’t be late for dinner!” Carter called. “Seems like Penny’s got Joe cooking up something good.”

Matt felt his resentment grow, and put a check on it. Adam Harrison had paid a fair price for coming in to do what he was referring to as “research.” And so, hell, they had to feed the woman. Joe would be in again tomorrow night to prepare a meal for those attending the seance. It wasn’t all that big a deal. And as to the horse…

He could just see lawsuits all over the place. She’d ridden out alone. What if she couldn’t really ride? She’d be suing over her injuries.

The logical course was across the vast field to the south of the property, leading into trails that veered to the west. Matt could see that his chosen trail had recently been traveled; hoof-marks dotted the dirt and as he reached the field, flattened grasses assured him his instincts had been right.

Matt crossed the field, and entered into the broad riding trail that led westward, sloping upward from the valley toward the mountains.

Another twenty minutes worth of riding and he came to the narrow little rivulet that meandered its way through the woods. The area was much as it had been for hundreds of years—only the continual use of the trails kept them in such sustained and clear condition. The air was cool, the scent of pine sweet.

When he saw Nellie, riderless, drinking by the stream, he felt a twinge of fear, wondering where the mare might have thrown her rider.

But even as he dismounted, a quick search of the area showed him that he needn’t have been so concerned—nor so certain that his visitor couldn’t ride. Darcy was seated calmly on a fallen log, idly doodling in the dirt with a bonelike length of a broken branch. She watched him without welcome or rejection as he left Vernon to join Nellie, drinking from the crisp, cool water.

“Hello,” he said, striding toward her.

There was still plenty of daylight, but in the forest, the thick canopy of trees created strange slashes of darkness, shadow, and eerie green light. Her hair seemed to shine with an exceptional depth of red, while her eyes appeared a deeper forest shade than the trees themselves. Her complexion appeared paler here, and in her jeans and sweater, she might have been something of an elegant woods nymph. Except, of course, if she were to stand, he knew she would be far too tall to be any elfin creature. It struck him again that what most irritated him about her was that tall, sinewy elegance of hers, the poise and calm that seemed to sit about her shoulders like a cloak.

She clasped her hands around her knees, eyeing him with a certain dry hostility. “Hello, Sheriff. As you can see, I’ve not broken my fool neck, raced your horse into the ground, or gotten lost in the depth of the forest.”

“Did I ever suggest that such things might happen?”

“Only because you had no idea I might ask to ride about the area.”

“You might have mentioned your intentions.”

“When? As you pushed me out of your car at the entrance to Melody House?”

“I did no such thing.”

She shrugged, not deigning to reply. He felt the itch of irritation again. He understood some of what he was feeling. She wasn’t just tall and elegant, but almost absently sensual, her movements smooth and sleek and feline. She seemed to hint of something that smouldered, richly carnal, and yet on top, she was all wrapped up like an ice princess, lips far too often drawn tight and prudish.

“I’d expected to find you exploring the house.”

“I did explore the house.” The green of her eyes rested contemptuously on him.

“And you haven’t found my malignant ghost as yet?”

She replied in an even, dismissive tone, eyes steady on him. “I explored the house, and then the grounds, and now, I’m exploring the area.”

“Ah.” He took a seat on the log beside her. He stared through the trees towards the water, caught now in the sunlight, dazzling like a thousand gems. Then he looked back to her. “The woods are supposed to be haunted, too, you know. And not because of Melody House.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said strangely. “Just what is the legend associated with the forest here?”

“Ah, well, long ago—as far back as the late seventeen-hundreds, I believe, there was a family with a small farm a little closer toward the mountains. A father and mother, and a bucketful of kids. The oldest sister was plain, the youngest beautiful. The oldest sister’s suitor fell madly in love with the younger sister. The fellow had to head back east to take care of business, and when he left, he kissed his dearly beloved, the younger sister, goodbye, and they were both deeply happy, because they would be wed as soon as he returned. Little did they know that the oldest sister was a total psychotic—a scorned one, at that. She lured her younger sister into the woods, pretending they were walking to a neighbor’s. She got her to lean down by the stream…and whap!”

“She killed her with a hatchet, nearly decapitating her. And now, the younger sister’s ghost has been seen running through the forest, blood oozing from the gash in her throat, screaming in terror,” Darcy finished for him.

Matt lifted his hands. “Someone told you the legend!”

She didn’t reply for a moment, then asked him, “What happened to the older sister?”

“Well, the young man came back and hanged himself in misery, thwarting the hopes of the young murderess. I guess they didn’t have much evidence they could use at the time, so no one went to trial. But the older sister went completely insane. She was locked up in the family barn until she died, an old woman of eighty, confessing in her later years, and spending many a day screaming that her sister was coming after her in vengeance.”

“Well, there you have what one might call a truly dysfunctional family,” Darcy said pragmatically.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” He looked at her. The lines of her face were truly classical, yet her sculpted, porcelain beauty seemed unique as well. She’d been a makeup model, he reminded himself, and she must have made some good money. Why give it all up for this—especially if she was really so heavily laden with academic degrees?

“The body of the younger sister was uncovered by a local dog that had been digging,” Darcy said. “But they didn’t find the skull, and it didn’t receive a decent burial with the body. If someone finds the skull and buries it with the rest of the bones, the haunting in the forest will stop.”

“How simple. How cut-and-dried and simple. Hell, we should all start digging up the place to find a skull that may or may not be there. Hm. Then again—where, oh where, do we start? If there were such a relic of humanity remaining from way back when, animals might have carted in anywhere. The stream might have washed it down to Florida by now. But what the hell—people love the ghost stories. So what if the poor ghost goes racing through the trees, screaming and bleeding?”

“Because it’s pretty damned sad,” Darcy told him.

“Well, when you have time, you feel free to dig around in the forest. It’s county land, but we’ll try to ignore the fact that you’re bound and determined to dig it all up. Just don’t leave any potholes—lots of people use this area for riding, and we wouldn’t want a new ghost running around with its head dangling from a broken neck.”

He stood impatiently.

He must have roused her somewhat from her continual, stiff poise, because she leapt up immediately after him. “What is the matter with you? Why on earth do you have to be so hostile?”

“Because all you’re going to do is feed into the idiots and drunks who should behave intelligently but go all ga-ga over a ghost story! History can be tragic. Tragic—but past. Let the dead lie, Darcy.”

“You brought me here!”

“No. I told Adam Harrison that he could come here.”

She planted her hands on her hips, head cast back, green eyes as dark and dangerous as the embers of a fire. “No—you signed a contract that allowed Harrison Investigations into your house. I am as much a part of Harrison Investigations as Adam.”

He arched a brow slowly and was pleased to see the slightest sign of a flush entering her cheeks.

“Almost as much a part of the company as Adam is himself. And very good at what I do. So—since you hired me to do it, perhaps, just for a while, you could quit being such a macho jerk?”

He wanted to shout back, to put her in her place. He didn’t have the words, or the intelligent argument he needed. He threw up his hands. “We need to get back. Dinner will be ready.”

He turned away, starting for his horse.

“You know, every redhead isn’t a total bitch.”

Startled, he turned back. His voice was far rougher than he intended. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Your ex-wife Lavinia Harper,” she said simply.

“I see. You know this because you’re psychic?”

“You dislike redheads. One doesn’t need to be a psychic to see that. Penny told me about Lavinia.”

“Red hair can be bought in boxes for right around ten bucks. I would never dislike anyone for the color of their hair, skin, eyes, or anything else,” he informed her, meaning to sound as calm and staid as a schoolmaster, displaying his anger nevertheless.

She gave a stiff smile as she walked by him. “Sure. Sorry, then. Excuse me.”

He let her pass him while he fought his simmering temper, wondering why the hell she could get such a rise out of him, when he was usually level, sane, and careful in any judgment or assumption. Tension rippled through his muscles; he got a handle on it and turned, determined that he would politely help her mount back up on Nellie.

But before he could do so, she was already in the process of easily swinging up on the mare.

By the time he mounted Vernon, she was headed back through the forest trail.

He followed her, staying slightly behind and noticing, just as they left the forest trail, that dusk was falling at last.

Across the field, Melody House stood on its little hillock, bathed in a strange and eerie glow of crimson and gold.

The brilliance of light lasted only a few seconds; the sun dipped.

Night was coming in earnest, wrapped in shadow.

Despite Matt Stone, or maybe even because of him, dinner at Melody House was an entertaining affair, and Darcy found herself laughing a lot throughout the meal.

Matt and Penny didn’t seem to agree on anything, but the affection between them was visible and real. Penny wanted to tell legends. Matt wanted to correct her when her legends became too lurid, romantic, or too anything.

“It was as if the entire Southern army was taking refuge at Melody House!” Penny said.

“The entire Southern army!” Matt snorted. “A company at best. Twenty men, Penny.”

Penny waved a hand in the air. “They were exquisite soldiers,” she said, shaking her head and dismissing Matt’s correction. “They might as well have numbered thousands. They beat back the Yankees—”

“What? The entire Northern force?” Matt queried, a sparkling light in his eyes.

“There were at least one hundred!” Penny said, glaring back at her employer. “The point is, our boys wouldn’t give up, and they saved the day, but their leader, a young captain, was killed. Shot in the heart by a minnie ball that whizzed right through the parlor windows. Now, he is said to be here, still guarding Melody House.”

Matt leaned low across the table, amusement in his eyes as they met Darcy’s. “And no one seems to have told him that the war is over, that the South lost. He’s not at all fond of Yankee accents—so they say.”

“Thank God, then, that I don’t have one,” Darcy told him sweetly. “All those years watching late-night shows seems to have paid off.”

“But you trained to be an actress—of course you can get rid of an accent!” Carter applauded her admiringly.

“An actress, hm,” Matt said.

“I was going to study acting,” she corrected. “I never did. Not in college, anyway.”

“That’s right. She majored in everything else,” Matt said.

“You can’t major in ghosts these days, can you?” Clint asked.

“Don’t be silly!” Penny reprimanded.

Both Carter and Clint shrugged.

Dessert had been served. An exceptional baked Alaska. Darcy was certain that at any moment, an immaculate butler was going to walk in and suggest that the ladies retire to one room, the gentlemen to another, for brandy and cigars.

But there was no butler—not tonight, anyway. They had all helped to serve the meal.

“So?” Penny said excitedly, looking at Darcy expectantly. She had a feeling that she was going to hear the word “so” from Penny a lot.

“So?” Darcy repeated, smiling.

“Do you see him?”

“Who?”

“Our captain!”

“The captain who saved Melody House from the marauding Yankees who were going to burn it down,” Matt reminded her dryly.

Darcy shrugged. “I try just to get accustomed to a house the first few days I’m in it,” she told Penny.

“Oh! Of course. Let all the vibrations get through to you,” Penny said, nodding sagely.

“Something like that,” Darcy agreed.

“So, are there vibrations?” Matt asked, seemingly polite.

She stared straight at them. “The place just trembles,” she murmured.

“With?” he prompted.

She widened her eyes. “Hostility.”

Clint burst into laughter. “The living give out vibes, too, huh?”

Matt stared at Darcy, the flicker of a rueful smile curving his lips. A remarkable transformation came over him. He was almost devastatingly appealing, when he looked so.

“If I’m giving out hostile vibes, it’s not with intent of malice.”

From him, Darcy decided, that was the best apology she was going to get.

“Sometimes it’s not easy to pinpoint just where vibes might be centered,” she said, surprised to realize that she was smiling as well.

And that Penny, Clint, and Carter were all staring at them.

She rose, her movement not as fluid and easy as she would have liked. “It was a wonderful dinner. Thank you all very much. I’ve just realized how late it has gotten. If you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

Matt, Carter, and Clint stood as one. A certain amount of courtesy seemed to have been bred into these men; it was as natural as breathing.

“You’ll be fine,” Carter told her. “I’ve slept in the Lee room. And I’m still here.”

“He didn’t even run down the stairs naked,” Clint said with a wink.

“Thank the good Lord for that!” Penny breathed.

“Hey!” Carter protested. “I look good naked.”

Darcy laughed softly. “Well, I imagine I’ll be all right.”

She was startled to see that Matt looked just a little concerned. “I’m in the house tonight, if there is any trouble, just scream.”

“Ah, but you don’t believe in ghosts!” Darcy reminded him.

He shrugged. “I believe in the power of men to do evil,” he murmured. For a moment, his strange deep gray eyes fell on hers. “I’ll be down the hall.”

She nodded, bid them good-night, and headed out of the dining room and for the stairs to the second floor. She walked slowly, thinking it somewhat amazing that Matt Stone couldn’t feel a thing regarding his house. Penny had asked about vibes. The house throbbed with them. Gentle, lost souls for the most part.

The only malice seemed to come from the Lee Room.

Upstairs, she decided on a quick shower, then brushed her teeth, and prepared for bed.

The room was cool, cooler than it should have been in summer. She ignored it, and the feeling of being watched.

She crawled into bed, somewhat exhausted. She fell asleep with the television on, watching a program on the history of Britain.

Deep into the night, she began to dream. She was herself, sleeping upon the bed, and yet she was not, for she moved, and moved within another persona. Fear clutched the heart of her sleeping self for a moment, for from the moment she felt the coming of the Other, she sensed the anger, a fury that was deep and dangerous. And then…

She was the Other, seeing, feeling, knowing everything he did.

A woman scorned…was a deadly one.

He came in deep thought and silence that evening, angry, but not at all sure, in his conscious mind, just what he intended. In the darkness, he stared at the house, and reflected on all that had been, and all that might come to pass.

The house…the majestic house sat as always. A place with as rich and deep a character as any living person. So it had been from the moment they had first broken ground. Time did nothing but add to the drama that must exist in such a place, as he well knew.

She was there.

He knew that she was there.

And there were things that must be said. Things that must be cleared, or ended, between them.

Still…

He stared at the house. And waited. He denied in his mind that he had come with any malice as to his intent.

His heart felt like stone. Seeds of ideas played deep down within his soul, truth and the physical essence of what must be banned from thought. What happened must happen.

At his sides, his hands flexed, eased, and flexed again, as if already slipping around the throat of the lover he knew to be inside.

Because a woman scorned…

Just might as well be dead.

Darcy awoke with a start, shaking. She had felt the past, as if it had entered into her. Felt not so much a person, but the fury and malevolence that had been part of a distant time.

She sat up in bed, and looked around the room, closed her eyes again, and opened them.

Whatever had been with her, whatever remnant of emotion, was gone.

And yet…

Something else was there.

Something, someone, quiet, stealthy.

Watching.

Waiting.

4

“We all know why we’ve come.” Elizabeth Holmes’ voice, though feminine, had a deep resonance. She wasn’t exactly what Darcy had been expecting when she had heard that a local novice—who had found her dedication to the occult in the last year—had begged Matt Stone to allow her to run a seance. She wasn’t theatrical. There was no turban wrapped around her head, and her eyes weren’t dark and deep set and heavily lined with makeup to add to a mystical image. Rather, the woman was about fifty-five or sixty, slender, tall, elegantly slim, with nicely styled silver-white hair and pleasant, powder blue eyes. She looked like a typical businesswoman.

Only her voice might have fit the image of the eerie Gypsy fortune teller.

It seemed to fill the dining room at Melody House with a strange tenor, as if the walls themselves were part of a state-of-the-art speaker system.

And thankfully, the woman hadn’t opted to rename herself. She wasn’t going by Madame Zara, or anything like that. She was Elizabeth Holmes, a native of the northern Virginia area, and a real estate agent by day. Darcy had wondered at first if this medium wouldn’t prove to be a slightly crazy friend who was convinced that she needed only to dress the part to have the powers. She seemed to be a very nice woman, and committed to what she was doing. Whether she really had any ESP or not remained to be seen.

And her opening was intriguing.

“Melody House. She has stood upon this hill since the year of our Lord seventeen-seventeen. And she has, in her years, hosted both joy and tragedy. She is one of the few such surviving grand old homes of our nation still owned by descendants of her original builders. George Washington slept here!” Elizabeth paused, smiling at the group gathered around the dining room table in the muted candlelight. “George got around, it’s a wonder Martha wasn’t a great deal more upset! But I digress. Washington wasn’t her only well-known guest. The likes of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and others of tremendous renown who lived in Revolutionary times came here as well, and later, she was hostess to many great statesmen and generals of another sad period of war—Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, and then, even Ulysses Grant and Abe Lincoln were thought to have taken rest at this place. Bullets once riddled the walls, and many still remain, from battles fought on the ground. Soldiers perished within her walls. Naturally, there were other sad occurrences here, not having to do with the specific pain of battle. There is the case of the beautiful Melody herself, daughter of the builder, distraught by her suitor’s argument with her father. She is said to have been rushing to his defense when she careened down the stairway, only to die in her lover’s arms on the foyer floor, just feet from where we now sit. There was Eliza, the daughter of General Stone, who might well have been poisoned by her rival, Sally Beauville, who was, when accosted, shot dead by the girl’s father, who then faced the hangman’s noose. Those are not all the stories. There are so many more.

“Melody House has stood for nearly three hundred years, and in that time, we can only imagine all the dramas that have been lived—and the passions and dreams that have perished here as well. They say that we are energy, and energy cannot be destroyed. Just as they say that Melody House is haunted. If ghosts and spirits are those who remained, their energy still fiercely alive due to trauma or tragedy, then there would be nothing more natural than the fact that Melody House indeed be haunted! Throughout the years, many have seen, or have believed they have seen, the ghosts of those tragic souls. In the early eighteen-hundreds, the courageous Andrew Jackson, later to be president of the United States, once spent only half a night here, and mentioned to someone later that he’d rather face the British army again than spend another night at Melody House. Some swear there is a woman in white, still walking the halls. Others have seen soldiers, still, perhaps, fighting their long-lost battles.” Elizabeth paused, something of a rueful smile on her face. “So. We shall all join hands, in the circle here created, and see what haunts or specters might wish to appear, to convey last words, wishes, or needs.”

Electricity had long ago come to Melody House, but tonight, other than the lights attached to the cameras, there was no illumination within the dining room except for a single candle burning in the center of the table.

Darcy had already felt the cold. Whether Elizabeth was able to communicate with any of the “energy” remaining in the house or not, Darcy again felt the sense of being watched. Whatever entity or entities remained at Melody House, they were watching. Across the table, she saw Penny shiver.

Darcy felt herself nudged. Hands, yes, hold hands. She set hers upon the table. She was next to Jason Johnson, a local writer and historian, and, naturally, another friend of Matt’s, and Clint Stone. Carter was on Clint’s other side. Clint covered her hand warmly with his own, and seemed both amused and curious, as if he might have an open mind to the happenings. Matt was across the table, seated next to Elizabeth. He wore a look of carefully restrained impatience on his hard-sculpted features. Mae, the woman who had been welcoming to her when she had first walked into the Wayside Inn, was there, attractively dressed and groomed, her round face split into a smile of excitement as she sat on Matt’s other side. To round out the group, a pretty young woman with the improbable name of Delilah Dey, newly elected to the town council, sat between Jason Johnson and Mae.

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