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Haunted. Heather Graham
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“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