House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) (4 page)

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, Paul slept later than he’d planned, stood under a hot shower to loosen his shoulder, stowed his bags in his car, grabbed a couple of sweet rolls and a paper cup of hot, bad coffee from the lobby of his motel and drove east toward Rossiter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like somebody’s poleaxed you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So Trey’s real name is?”

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

“People have actually seen these ghosts?”

“To hear them tell it.”

“Are those all the ghosts?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

“Rode what?”

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

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

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

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

Ann laughed again. “I’m joking.”

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

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

“What’s second field?”

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

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

“Suit yourself.”

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

“I thought we’d finished with him.”

“And why he’s a ghost.”

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

“Let’s hope she doesn’t want me out.”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“Certainly.”

“Okay. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was definitely in the way.

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

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

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

Her handshake was brief but firm.

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

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

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

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

“Sure did.”

“Did you tell him who you were?”

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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