Haunted (7 page)

“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…”