Medium Well (9781101599648) (12 page)

“Come on, sweetheart,” she repeated. “Come to me. We'll get you out of here so you can go home.”

“How the hell did it get in here in the first place?” Danny looked around the room. “These windows are painted shut and the doors were all closed.”

“Maybe it came up from downstairs.” She reached a little further, but the cat moved nimbly away from her. “Who knows how long it's been here.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “It can't have been here that long. Either Araceli would have found it, or it would have gone shooting out the front door as soon as we opened it if it hadn't eaten for a day.”

The cat paused to lick its paw, keeping a wary eye on Biddy's hand.

“Pretty baby,” she crooned. “I'll bet you're ready to go home now, aren't you?”

The cat stood still for a moment, staring at her, its head canted to one side, tail switching. She had the uncomfortable feeling that it understood every word she said. Then it took one definite step in her direction.

“Biddy?” Danny's voice sounded odd. She glanced back to see him staring at the cat.

She turned back to the animal again, her hand extended.

“Biddy!” he cried. “No! Don't touch it!”

“It's all right.” She leaned forward. “I'll be careful. I know cats. This one's not vicious.”

“Biddy, no!” He stepped beside her at the same moment that her hand finally reached the cat's nose.

And passed through it.

Biddy felt as if she'd jammed her hand in a vat of dry ice. The cold that flew up her arm went so deep it seemed to reach her bones. The cat blinked at her, unmoving, as her arm began to tremble.

“Oh, God, what . . .” She jerked her hand back, away from the cat, and the chill receded, leaving a trail of tingling pinpoints, as if her arm had been asleep.

The cat blinked at her once more and then, as she backed away, faded slowly into the twilight shadows. There, then not there, never there.

“What . . .” Biddy stammered again. Her pulse pounded against her temples. Spots danced in front of her eyes for a few seconds. And then she slowly crumpled to the floor as the spots merged and became darkness.

***

Danny scooped her up without pausing to think and headed out the door. If he'd been thinking, he would have considered that moving someone unconscious might not be the smartest thing to do. But by then he'd rejected any impulse that didn't involve getting out of the house as quickly as possible.

He made it down the stairs without falling or dropping her and then hit the door with one shoulder, slamming it behind them with a kick. He was across the porch and heading down the stairs when he looked down and saw turquoise eyes blinking up at him.

“Stop,” Biddy muttered.

“I have to get you to the car,” he panted. “Then we can get out of here.”

“Stop or I'll be sick.”

Her voice sounded slightly thick. He stopped abruptly, then dropped down on a bench under one of the live oaks, still cradling her tightly in his arms, trying to get his own breathing under control.

He glanced back up at the Steadman house, crisscrossed now by the late afternoon shadows reflected through the live oaks and pecans. The windows stared blankly back.

Biddy rested her head against his chest. “That was interesting,” she murmured.

“What part?” He rubbed his hand along her back. The warmth of her skin was oddly reassuring.

“Well, I've never fainted before,” she mused, “but all in all I'd say the ghost cat is probably more interesting than my faint.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah, I'd agree.”

After another moment, she moved off his lap to sit on the bench beside him. He felt slightly cold without her. She reached to the back of her head, pulling loose the barrette that had already slid partway down her ponytail. Her silvery hair swung free, catching the little light that remained in the yard.

She turned her gaze on him again. “Why did you tell me not to touch it? Did you figure out what it was?”

He blew out a breath. “It just looked . . . wrong. I don't know why exactly. Calculating.”

“Cats always look calculating.” Biddy sighed, but she didn't contradict him. Maybe she'd thought the same thing. “Did you know this house was haunted? Was that why you wanted to come here?”

He shook his head. “I just wanted to look at this house to see if it had anything to do with the carriage house, swear to God.”

She rubbed her arms again, staring out into the shadowy front yard. “But you knew the carriage house was haunted, right?”

Danny considered denying it, but what was the point? She'd just stuck her hand through a transparent cat. Chances were, she wouldn't be interested in strategic denials.

He nodded. “Yeah, the carriage house is haunted. But not with a cat. This is definitely something new.”

She shivered. “I'm feeling better now. I mean, I'm not going to throw up anymore.”

He wondered what he should say about that, other than the obvious. “Good.”

“What I mean is . . .” She grimaced. “I'd really like to get away from here now if it's okay with you. If you need to go back inside for something, I can wait in the car, but I'm feeling sort of . . . itchy about this place right now.”

He glanced around the yard full of gathering shadows. The wind made a sighing sound through the live oaks, rubbing a branch against the gallery roof. It took most of his self-control not to shiver himself. “Trust me, I'm done here. Let me lock up and then we'll get the keys back to Araceli.”

Biddy nodded. “Good idea. And then . . .”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “And then?”

“And then we can go back to my place. I'll cook something, and you can tell me just what's going on at the carriage house.” She gave him a level glance. “Believe me, Danny, I'm ready to hear it at this point. And you've got to admit—I've paid my dues.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am. I think it's time we did that.”

Chapter 12

Danny followed Biddy along the stepping-stone walk that led to the side of the house where she lived. He didn't think he'd ever seen a duplex that opened off the side of a house before, but King William houses were sometimes divided into slightly weird apartments, based on the shape of the original house.

He probably should have suggested they go to his place, but he had a feeling Biddy might have taken off toward parts unknown if he had. Judging from her expression as she'd gotten out of the car, she was still badly spooked. And he used that word advisedly.

Now he watched her fingers tremble as she unlocked her door, and felt vaguely guilty. True, she'd been the one who'd demanded to go with him to the Steadman house. But maybe he could have found a way to head her off. He probably should have.

On the other hand, she seemed to be taking her first ghostly encounter a little better than he had. At least she hadn't ended up ralphing in a sink.

Biddy tossed her keys into a redware bowl by the door, heading through the living room. Danny paused to look around. Mission-style couch and chair, reproductions but good ones. Rag rugs scattered across the stained wood floor. Posters on the walls—Willie Nelson at Floore's, Waylon Jennings in California, Joni Mitchell at some place in Fort Worth that probably didn't exist anymore.

“Is pasta okay?” Biddy's voice floated from the next room. “I've got some good olive oil and some tomatoes from the farmers' market.”

“Fine.” Danny thought about collapsing onto the couch and letting himself sleep for a couple of hours. Surely he'd earned it. But not yet.

Sighing, he headed after Biddy and a conversation he didn't look forward to.

The kitchen was the size of a postage stamp. Danny sat down at a café table tucked against the window, watching Biddy move between the refrigerator and a stove that looked one step up from a hot plate. “How long have you lived here?”

She shrugged. “A couple of years. It's convenient to the office, but not much else. On the other hand, it's surprisingly cheap, given that it's in King William.”

He pushed a sprawling rosemary plant out of the way so that he could lean against the windowsill. “Did Araceli find it for you?”

She paused, frowning slightly. “No, I found it myself. Araceli would have put me in a condo in one of those upwardly mobile yuppie nests out on Stone Oak or someplace like that.”

Danny managed a dry smile as he rubbed rosemary oil off his fingers.

“Oh, God,” Biddy groaned. “That's probably where you live, isn't it?”

He grinned for real this time. “Not anymore, but I did once. I've got a place in Monte Vista now.”

“Here.” She set a plate of sliced cheese and a baguette in front of him. “You can eat while I insult you. And you can open this.” She placed a bottle of red wine next to the cheese, sliding a corkscrew along the counter.

Alcohol seemed like an excellent idea. He hadn't missed the fact that Biddy's smile seemed far too bright and far too fixed, that her body was so rigid it looked like a support beam. Her gaze kept darting away from him. He had the feeling she hoped she could make the whole situation go away by ignoring it.

Not gonna happen, ma'am. Trust me on this one.

Danny pulled the cork from the wine bottle and snagged two glasses from a rack above the counter as Biddy set a pot of water onto one of the burners. She turned back toward him again, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes.

He felt a significant tightening somewhere south of his diaphragm.

“Look, would you mind if I changed out of these clothes into something more casual? I really feel like I'm being choked, and I want to sprawl.”

“Feel free.” He smiled, catching her gaze for once until she looked away.

The corners of her mouth edged up slightly, and then she brushed by him, heading for a door at the left. He had a quick view of a bright pink nightgown slung over a chair, and then the door closed behind her.

Danny did a little sprawling himself as he waited, spreading out in the chair beside the kitchen table. He tucked his tie in the pocket of his jacket, then took the jacket off and hung it across the back of his chair. Opening his collar made him realize just how damp his skin felt. He rolled up his cuffs and untucked his shirt, flapping it a little to let the air dry off the residual sweat. He felt cool for the first time since early morning.

Oh yeah, some alcohol was definitely in order. He poured himself a healthy serving of red wine and took a sip, letting the earthy flavor slide across his tongue. Maybe it would be a little easier to talk to Biddy if he had some lubrication beforehand.

Or not.

She came through her bedroom door wearing a pair of cutoffs that were pale blue with age, along with a black cotton tank that outlined her firm, rounded breasts. Her legs looked as if they were around a mile long. For one crazed moment, he pictured them wrapped around his waist. At least he managed to get his gaze back to her face before he checked for erect nipples.

“Much better.” She sighed. “Now at least I feel human again and not like some office android.”

Danny considered all the possible responses he could make to that—he'd never seen anybody who looked less like an android and more like a luscious woman in his life. He decided to ignore most of the ideas that floated disobediently through his mind. “Could I ask you something?”

Biddy shrugged. “You can ask. I won't promise to answer you, though.”

“Fair enough.” He stared down at his glass of wine. “Why do you dress the way you do at the office instead of the way you look onstage?”
To say nothing of the way you look right now.
Danny felt his ears turn slightly warm. “I mean, not that you'd wear evening gowns at the office, but, well . . .”

“You mean why do I look like a bad parody of a secretary out of an old movie most of the time?” Biddy reached for the glass of wine he'd poured for her. “A couple of reasons. For one thing, I don't have enough money for a good stage wardrobe and a good office wardrobe. So I buy my office stuff on the cheap.”

“Okay, what's the other reason?”

She shrugged again. “Araceli.”

“Araceli wants you to look like that?” He shook his head. Araceli had never struck him as the jealous type.

She frowned. “Not really. But I try not to draw Araceli's attention too much—I really don't want her trying to run my life any more than she already does. You've got to admit, those outfits do help me fade into the woodwork. If she forgets I'm around, she doesn't check up on me as often trying to find out if I'm learning the real estate biz. And then she doesn't notice when I go off and play with the guys.”

Danny had a sudden image of her playing interesting games with some unnamed males. He found he didn't like it too much. “The guys?”

“My band. My guys.”

“You think of it as your band?”

She shrugged. “Sure, it's my band. Gordy and Skip were already playing together when we got going three months ago, but the Chalk Creek Changelings were my idea. I found the others. I made it a group, more or less. They're my guys.”

He leaned back in his chair, frowning at his wineglass. “You put the band together. You're the lead singer. You're their manager, temporarily. Biddy, why the hell are you still working in that office instead of being a full-time musician?”

“Well, for one thing, I like to eat.” Her smile flattened slightly. “We may start earning some real money in another month or so, but right now, we're still working our way up.”

“So when you hit the big time, you'll quit?”

She sighed. “I have obligations, like my promise to Araceli. To coin a phrase, it's complicated.”

He had the feeling that was the most he'd get on that particular subject. “You said something about pasta,” he muttered.

“Oh, right!” She turned back to the stove.

He took another sip of his red wine. His life would be so much simpler if Biddy really were the good-hearted incompetent she'd seemed to be before they'd both stumbled into the carriage house. Instead, he found himself in a small apartment with an uncommonly sharp cookie, who was currently leaning over the stove in a way that made his temperature rise. He closed his eyes. It could be a long evening.

***

Dinner was linguini with fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, olive oil and a handful of parmesan. Danny ate like it was the most wonderful thing he'd ever tasted, and Biddy actually thought it had turned out pretty well.

The bottle of wine hadn't hurt, particularly considering the conversation they were getting ready to have. In fact, she had a second bottle on the counter on standby. She had a feeling they might need it.

She took a final swallow, then squared her shoulders, drawing a deep breath.
Go for it.
“Okay, now we've had dinner and been polite. So tell me about that carriage house.”

Danny grimaced. “Damn. I'd really hoped you wouldn't ask.”

“Hope away. I said I needed to know, and I do.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Okay, where should I start?”

“You tell me.” She leaned back in her chair. “Where did all this get started in the first place?”

He blew out a breath, leaning back further himself. “The stove. The goddamned cast-iron stove that can't be uprooted out of the goddamned kitchen in the goddamned carriage house.” His eyes had darkened to deep green in the evening light, the color of an angry sea.

She nodded. “I remember. You touched it, and then you acted like it was on fire.”

“It
was
on fire.” He sighed. “Or damn near it. I expected my hand to be blistered when I took it away.”

“But it wasn't.”

He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. But maybe it started something. Touching the stove, I mean.”

“That's right. It was the next time when everything began to happen to you, wasn't it? With Mr. Zucker.”

“Oh, yeah, ol' Herm.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Who's now absolutely certain I'm a loon. Anyway, that day when I walked into the kitchen with Zucker, it looked to me like someone had been slaughtering pigs in there. Blood everywhere—walls, floor, even the ceiling. And the smell! Jesus!”

She blinked at him. “You could smell it? You can smell a ghost?”

He shook his head. “I don't know what I was smelling, exactly. I mean, maybe that part was in my head. But the kitchen was covered in blood. And I got some on my hands, and my suit. That's why I freaked out. And that's why I ended up with my head in the sink.”

Biddy's fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. “You could touch it? Ghost blood? You could get it on your clothes? Crap, Danny, I've never heard of anything like that before!”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “Wait. It gets worse.”

She leaned back, trying to get her shoulder muscles to relax. “Oh God, I remember. Clark Henderson. What was it that time?”

“That time it was out in the apartment living room.” The muscles tightened around his mouth. “Bloody handprints moving up the doorframe to the kitchen. And a pool of blood in front of the door.”

“And Mr. and Mrs. Graves? What happened when they were up there?”

“Nothing new, but everything was still in place. The kitchen looked like a slaughterhouse. The handprints and blood pool were still in the outer room. Mrs. Graves felt something. Mr. Graves was a moron.”

Danny looked pale in the lamplight, but she knew it wasn't just the lamplight that made him look that way. “There's something else, though, isn't there? Something else happened.”

She could see him wrestling with it, trying to decide whether to tell her or not. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, then sighed.

“Dreams.”

A finger of ice ran down her spine. “Dreams? Like nightmares?”

“Sort of, but not exactly.”

Biddy felt a headache beginning somewhere around the base of her skull. She rubbed her eyes. “Okay, is this twenty questions? Because if it is, I can already tell you I suck at it.”

“It's just hard to describe. I think I dreamed about the guy who lived in the carriage house. I mean, I was in the carriage house with him. Sort of. And he didn't look to be in the greatest shape.”

“Dead people usually aren't,” she murmured and then wished she could get rid of the image that darted through her mind.

“Yeah, well, this guy had a sliced throat. And . . . other stuff.” He took a quick swallow of wine. “That was the nightmare.”

She sat very still. Part of her didn't want to ask anything else. Part of her knew she needed to. “Did he say anything?”

He shook his head. “I guess getting your throat cut sort of makes that difficult.”

“What did he look like?”

“Dark. Beard, longish hair, by modern standards anyway. Boots. Dark suit. And, of course, the cut throat.”

Biddy forced herself to breathe out. “Okay, here's the good news. Or the bad news. Or something. I saw him, too.”

***

Danny felt as if he'd just taken a solid punch in the gut. His hands jerked convulsively at his sides. “What? When?”

“Last night. I dreamed I saw somebody like that. And I don't usually remember my dreams, but I remembered that one because it was so . . . weird.”

Weird. Right.
“So were you at the carriage house in your dream?”

She shook her head, her gaze locked on her hands folded in her lap. “I don't know where I was exactly—nowhere in particular, I guess. It was misty, sort of, like I was looking at him through the fog.”

“Look, Biddy, it may not have been the same guy. I mean, I saw him at the carriage house, and the description I gave you is pretty generic—dark hair, dark suit, beard. You could have seen someone who looked sort of like that some other time. Freud could probably make a great case for some kind of syndrome here.”