Medium Well (9781101599648) (8 page)

“What do you want, Biddy?” In the dim light of the restaurant, his eyes looked like emeralds again. She had the feeling they'd have gold highlights if she could look at them a little closer. Or a lot closer.

“I want . . . ,” she began.
Oh, man, talk about a loaded question.
“I want the band to be a success. We've all worked hard, really hard. We all have other jobs and then we rehearse and play around everyone's schedule. If we could just start making enough so that we could quit our day jobs . . .”

She closed her eyes. She could almost hear Araceli now. Her voice would probably be audible at dog frequencies. “Of course, quitting may not be an option for a while.”

The corners of Danny's mouth edged up, as if he were fighting a smile. “No, I imagine quitting wouldn't exactly go over big.”

She let herself smile back. “She's not really so bad, you know. She just wants to be the best at anything she does. She's worked her tail off from the time she was a teenager.”

He sighed. “The problem is, for her to be the best, it sometimes seems like everybody else has to fail. And there are times when she helps that to happen.”

Biddy nodded. “She's very ambitious. Always has been. But she's also really good at what she does, and she's an insanely hard worker. And I owe her so much. She basically gave up her career in Chicago to come back here and help me.” She picked up another olive, sliding it between her fingers. “Look, why don't we talk about your family for a while? Surely, you've got a few skeletons of your own.”

Danny's eyes narrowed. He picked up his wine glass and took another sip.

She would have given herself a swift kick if she hadn't been sunk so deeply in the leather couch. Mentioning something like skeletons was not a good idea right now. She managed to haul herself a couple of inches out of the couch. “Did you grow up in San Antonio?”

“Oh, yeah.” He relaxed marginally. “On the northeast side. Not exactly Alamo Heights but close.”

“MacArthur High?”

He nodded. “You?”

“Churchill. Does your family still live there?”

Danny leaned back against the couch, his legs stretched under the table in front of them. “My mom and dad do. My sister Rosie lives in King William. She inherited a house from my grandmother. My brother Ray moved to Boerne. It's pretty much your typical family.”

“Oh.”

As Biddy watched, something seemed to flicker behind his eyes. He grimaced. “I'm lying, of course. My grandmother had some kind of business, but I never knew what she did exactly. She and my mother didn't speak much to each other after my mother ran away with my dad. My mom's family is Irish—Deirdre Riordan. My dad's family is Mexican—Raymundo Ramos. Neither family liked it much when they got together, but the Ramoses came around eventually. The Riordans never did. Why my grandmother gave her King William mansion to my sister has never been clear, but she didn't give it to my mother because, I guess for her, my mom no longer existed.”

Biddy bit her lip. “That's . . . sad.”

He shook his head. “Not really. My mom's nuts about my dad, and he's nuts about her. She threw herself into being a Ramos, and the whole family loves her. I don't think she's missed being a Riordan at all. She didn't like Rosie moving into Grandma's house, but she sure as hell didn't want to move in there herself.”

Biddy took a sip of her wine, letting the warm fruitiness slide along her tongue. “Did you ever meet your grandmother?”

“Nope.” He shrugged. “Ma said she didn't like men much—sort of a family trait. Grandma divorced my grandpa back sometime after my mom was born. Great-grandmother did the same thing, after Grandma was born. She's the one who built the house, by the way, back when King William was a new development. Just shows you how much Ma broke the mold—two boys before she had her daughter. And she's still happily married to my dad. I figure Grandma washed her hands of the bunch of us.”

“What's your sister's house like?” She eased her grip on the couch's arm, letting herself slide a little closer. “Where is it anyway?”

“Over close to the river. Her back gate opens on the bike path.” He shook his head. “It's okay. Not particularly distinguished. Better on the outside than the inside, like a lot of the older ones. Rosie's not interested in selling anyway. She likes it there.”

“Sounds like a good location.”

“It is. Of course, Ma's still convinced that Rosie's living all alone in a burglar magnet.”

Biddy raised an eyebrow. “She's had break-ins?” Some neighborhoods around King William were marginal, but crime was still low.

“Nope. Just Ma being Ma. She doesn't like Rosie living there. I assume it's because of the crime factor. You know mothers.”

“But she let your sister go ahead and do what she wanted to do? She's okay with her being in the house by herself?”

His forehead furrowed as he snagged another olive from her plate. “Sort of. She's more resigned than okay, I guess. She still doesn't like the house, but Rosie's not somebody who can be bossed around.”

“Okay, you've got me beat. Your family is definitely more exotic than mine.”

He grinned. “Not exotic. Colorful. Riordan-Ramoses are definitely colorful. Did I mention my brother Ray does house restorations? I tried to get him to stick around here and work on the stuff Vintage sells, but he didn't have the stomach for it. Said King William was too weird.”

Weird.
The word seemed to vibrate between them for a moment, turning Danny's expression pensive.

Biddy pressed her lips together and tried desperately to think of something to say. Preferably something that had nothing to do with King William, weirdness, or old houses. “It's like a gold-plated rhinoceros,” she blurted.

He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“The carriage house is like this gold-plated rhinoceros here in the room with us,” she continued. “We both see it. We both wonder what the hell it is. We both want to say something about it. But neither of us is ready to discuss it.”

He sighed. “You got that part right at least.”

“But the thing is,” she went on as if he hadn't said anything, “the thing is we really need to discuss it. Because if we don't, I've got a feeling it's going to get a lot worse.”

He stared down at the glass of wine in his hand. She watched the gold flecks in his eyes. His emerald eyes. A veritable treasure chest. Although he really could use that diamond stud.

Finally, he sighed again. “Look, Biddy, I really can't talk about it. I don't know what's going on. Nothing good. But I can't explain it because I don't know how.”

“But something happens to you when you go into the place, doesn't it?” She picked up a piece of cheese and put it down again. She'd lost her appetite all of a sudden.

He nodded. “Yeah. But I can't talk about that, either. Besides, something happens to you, too. You act like you just stepped into a meat locker.”

She grimaced. “I would have said
freezer
. Yeah, it's very cold in there. Not just cold. Icy. Like frost on your hands. Mrs. Graves felt the same thing.”

Danny's face had gone the color of raw dough again, although not as bad as it had been in the carriage house itself. She pressed her lips together.
So
not what she wanted to talk about. “Is there anything we can do?”

He shrugged. “Maybe find out more about the house. The owners. The guy who built it.”

She nodded. “I can help. I've got the name of the builder and some basic construction information.”

“You don't need to do that.” He raised his emerald gaze to hers. “Not part of your job description, and it's going to be a pain in the ass to look all of them up.”

“I don't care. It's more interesting than what I have to do normally.” She bit her lip.
Terrific.
She'd just trashed her job working for him. Not at all what she wanted to say.

His lips moved into a half smile. “Okay, Biddy, I'll let you help on one condition.”

“And that is?” She raised an eyebrow.

“You will never miss a rehearsal or a performance because of this job.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I can definitely promise that.” She managed to keep from grinning ear-to-ear, but only just.

***

Danny parked in front of Biddy's building, then walked her back to her door. She lived in a tiny duplex apartment in King William. He figured Araceli had found it for her—an aged house with spreading oak trees in the front yard. Her door opened off the side, at the end of a cobblestone walk that dodged around mountain laurel and holly. Somewhere he could smell night-blooming jasmine.

“Well.” Her smile seemed a little tentative all of a sudden. “Thanks for dinner. And for seeing me home. And for being so nice about the boys. I know they can come on a little strong sometimes.”

He shrugged, trying for practiced nonchalance. “No problem. I enjoyed it. Dinner, that is.” He gave himself a quick mental kick. At this point he was supposed to be wise, sophisticated, urbane, all that stuff. Unfortunately, his urbanity seemed to be taking the night off. He felt like a sixteen-year-old coming home from the junior prom, hoping he'd get to first base at least.

First base?

Danny closed his eyes. He was a lunatic. That much had been clearly established by the events at the carriage house. But he wasn't a stupid lunatic. He was not—repeat, not—going to put any moves on Biddy Gunter.

“Danny?” Her voice sounded anxious. “Are you okay?”

“Super.” He managed to come up with a smile that seemed halfway authentic, although he'd never used the word
super
before, outside of the McDonald's drive-through line.

“Well . . .” She didn't sound entirely convinced, but she produced a slightly shaky smile of her own.

And then he did something absolutely boneheaded—he leaned close enough to smell her faint scent of performance sweat and gardenias, the mixture of sweetness and musk, the essence of woman that clung to her skin. Immediately, he was a goner. Almost before he knew what had happened, he leaned further and pressed his lips to hers.

Her mouth was warm and soft and faintly startled. Or maybe it was her eyes that were startled. He tried his best to pull back, not to lose it completely. But pulling back suddenly didn't seem to be an option.

His logical half screamed at him.
Get the hell back. Make it quick. Say something clever and move on. Do not—do
not
—get involved with Biddy Gunter.
Your assistant. The manager's sister. The one who's watched you becoming a first-class nutcase day by ghastly day.

And then Biddy's arms looped shyly around his neck, almost as if this was her first kiss, yet when her mouth moved against his, he knew it was far from her first. He pressed his hands along her sides and gently pulled her closer, feeling the warmth and softness of her breasts pressed against him. His logical half shrugged its metaphorical shoulders and took a hike, while other parts of his body began to clamor for attention.

For a few moments, he let himself feel the heat, the clenching in his chest, the rush of need in his groin, and then he pulled back, slowly, to rest his forehead against hers. “Holy crap, Biddy,” he whispered. “What was that? What just happened here?”

A millisecond later he wished mightily that he'd confined himself to a simple
Wow
.

She stared up, her forehead furrowed.

“That was . . .” He fumbled through the meager stock of adjectives his numb brain could supply. “. . . very terrific. Very, very terrific.”

Okay, the results were official. He was both a lunatic and a moron.

Her brow had furrowed even more. Of course it had. He was obviously certifiable and an idiot to boot.

“Terrific,” she said, slowly. “Very, very terrific.”

Her lips trembled, and, for one agonizing moment, he thought she might cry. Then he realized she was more likely to giggle.

He closed his eyes again. Once upon a time, he'd been able to handle a simple kiss without making his partner crack up. Of course, it hadn't been exactly simple, had it? “I should go home before I make an even bigger ass of myself.”

Then he felt cool fingers, gliding across his forehead. “It was terrific,” she murmured. “Even very terrific.”

Danny carried the memory of her touch all the way up Broadway to his house in Olmos Park. It didn't change the fact that he'd behaved like an idiot, but somehow it reduced the sting, even if only slightly.

Chapter 8

Danny sat staring out the French doors, watching the night breeze tickle the leaves on his ficus, thinking of Biddy Gunter. Not that that was a good or smart or even responsible thing to do. Not that he had any choice in thinking about her now.

He stared down at the drink in his hand. He didn't really remember getting it and he wasn't sure he wanted it. He walked to the kitchen sink and poured it down the drain, a waste of good Scotch, but par for the course. After all, nothing else had been working for him up until now, either.

Except Biddy. He could tell himself not to go there all he wanted, but it didn't help. Biddy was the real thing, the genuine article. And if he wasn't very careful around her, he was going to be in even bigger trouble.

The question was, how much trouble did he want to be in?

He put the glass in the dishwasher, glancing at the clock. Midnight. He might as well give sleep a try. He hadn't had much luck with it over the past few days, what with dreams of bloody handprints and general carnage, but maybe tonight would be different. Maybe he'd dream of Biddy. Not that that would be particularly restful.

He felt himself drifting off almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, sliding into a cool, clean, dreamless sleep. Just what he needed.

He wasn't sure how long the cool dreamlessness lasted—long enough that he'd relaxed totally, letting himself glide through gray mist, grateful for silence and blankness and no blood at all.

And then the mist began to clear.

He didn't know where he was at first—everything seemed coated in darkness. A light slid across the darkness like moonbeams, as if the clouds had parted and the moon suddenly shone through.

He was in a room. An unfortunately familiar room.

The carriage house, downstairs, his back against the wall, staring around the empty space. The moonlight played across the floor, circling the support posts, outlining the stones in the fireplace, climbing the steps at the side.

And then he was climbing those same steps himself, his feet heavy with dread. He'd never wanted to go anywhere less, but he couldn't seem to stop climbing.

Wake up. Come on, Danny. Wake up, damn it!

The door to the upstairs apartment loomed in front of him, and his hand raised to the knob.

Wake up. Sweet Jesus, wake up now, you idiot!

The door opened before him, and he stepped over the threshold.

Moonlight played over the apartment, too, but more dimly, seeping through the smeared glass. His heart pounded as his breath rattled in his throat.

What the hell? You shouldn't feel your heart pound in dreams, should you? Wake up, moron. Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!

The kitchen door began to open. Slowly, of course, because it stuck. Even for ghosts, apparently. Danny leaned against the opposite wall, as far away as he could get, given that, for some unfathomable reason, he couldn't seem to get away from this dreamscape.

The ghost that stepped through the door wore clothes from another time. Danny didn't know what that time was or even how he knew they were old. Dark coat and trousers. Dark shirt with a band collar. Heavy boots. The ghost's wrists extended slightly beyond the end of his sleeves, as if the jacket were a half size too small.

Danny raised his gaze to the ghost's face, his heart hammering again.

A ghost. No, a man. A man who looked surprisingly normal. Dark. Short beard. Hair down to the top of his collar.

The man's eyes were lost in shadow until he moved into a shaft of moonlight. And then the anguish Danny saw there rocked him again.

“Who are you?” he blurted.

The man stared at him, unmoving, his eyes burning with pain.

“Please,” Danny whispered. “Just tell me who you are!”

The man raised his head slightly, pulling aside his collar. In the moonlight, Danny could see a dark line stretching across his throat like an obscene necklace.

He understood then. The shirt wasn't really a dark color, not normally. It had been dyed with blood. The blood that spattered the kitchen. The blood that was the source of the handprints in the apartment. Not a man. A . . . thing. A ghost.

Danny closed his eyes, breathing hard, then opened them again. The ghost who was a man who was a ghost stood watching him, patiently.

“Can't you . . .” Danny cleared his suddenly dry throat. “You can't talk?”

The ghost-man shook his head slowly. Danny had a sudden, stomach-churning fear that it might fall off if he moved too quickly.

“What could . . . what can I do for you?” Danny took a deep breath. “What do you want from me? You do want something, right?”

The ghost-man nodded. Of course, he wanted something. Why else would he be haunting the carriage house? Why else would he be haunting Danny?

Danny blew out a quick breath. “Someone hurt you, murdered you, here, in this carriage house.”

The ghost-man stared back at him. Apparently, that statement was too obvious to need a response.

“But it happened a hundred years ago, at least. The guy who did it is long dead, right?”

For a moment, he could have sworn that the ghost-man's mouth quirked in a ghostly grin, but then it was gone.

“So you can't want justice, or even if you want it, you can't get it. Not if you want your murderer punished. What should I do now?”

The ghost-man took a step forward, and Danny stumbled back instinctively, reaching a hand to steady himself. He felt cool brick beneath his fingers. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “this is the most realistic dream I've ever had.”

The ghost-man stared at him, his eyes like dark holes in the mask of his face.

“No.” Danny shook his head. “No. I'm not here. Whatever is going on, I'm still at home. In bed. Right?”

The ghost-man nodded slowly.

“But I'm here, too.” Danny willed his pulse to slow down. “Some part of me is here with you.”

The ghost-man nodded again.

“Goddamn it, I don't know what to do! I don't know what you want.” Danny stared back at the black eyes burning through the moonlight. “I don't know why you brought me here. I don't even know how it's possible for me to be here at all. I don't know why I can see you, or why I see your blood when nobody else does. Whatever you want, I don't know how to do it! I'm the wrong guy for this. Totally the wrong guy!”

The ghost-man did nothing, said nothing, his eyes suddenly empty.

“Let me go,” Danny pleaded. “Let me out of here. I want to wake up now.”

The ghost-man stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded slowly.

Danny took a deep breath and blew it out, willing his pulse to slow down again.
Okay. Almost over. Calm down.

The mist began to rise again, swirling as the ghost-man reached upward toward his shirtfront, slipping the buttons loose quickly. The moon began to dim, the mist gathering across the light. Without thinking, Danny leaned forward.

The ghost-man pulled his shirt open, spreading it wide, and Danny found himself staring at a dark jagged hole in the middle of the ghost-man's chest, a void where the heart should have been.

“Christ,” he whispered as the mist closed around him again, blocking out the ghost, the room, the moonlight. “Oh sweet Christ!”

And then he was stumbling from the bed in his house toward the bathroom, clutching his stomach, only just managing to reach the toilet before losing the remains of his barbeque.

He didn't sleep for the rest of the night. No problem. Hadn't he always said sleep was overrated? Of course, that was back in the days when he stayed awake for a girl or a bonfire on the beach or another round of Hornitos instead of something out of a Wes Craven movie.

None of it made sense. None of it fit any pattern he could understand. None of it had anything to do with the normal Vintage Realty world he usually inhabited. Or the one he'd inhabited a couple of weeks ago. The one he inhabited now seemed to be made up of things from some supernatural fun house.

Are you having fun yet, Danny?

He made himself a pot of coffee and stared at the clock. Five was obviously too early to call. Maybe six. He tried to remember when everybody got up normally, but his brain felt too jumbled.

Finally, three cups of coffee later, he picked up his cell and pulled the number out of his address book.

It rang three times before she picked up. “Danielo, is that you? It's six thirty in the morning. What's wrong?”

Danny sighed. “Hi, Ma.”

“What's wrong, Danny?” his mother repeated as if he hadn't said anything.

Danny massaged his temples. “I think we need to have a talk, Ma. Maybe about Grandma.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, then his mother sighed back. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time. Come to breakfast, Danielo. I'll make chilaquiles.”