LITMIR.BIZ

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paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look at the painting of Beast Bradley.

      Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in youth.

      Interesting.

      Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many young women, dressed as Lucy, might look like the long-gone heroine.

      Tyler stood very still, allowing himself to feel the house.

      Again he experienced the sensation of being watched, but there were no sounds from the old place, nor did he see anything or notice any drafts.

      He headed down to the study where he’d left his briefcase with his computer and the records Adam had arranged for him to receive.

      They recorded many instances of normal life and death—many births had taken place in the house, although sadly two of the mothers had died in childbirth. A number of people had died in their beds of natural causes, one Dandridge at the grand old age of a hundred and five.

      During the War of 1812, Sophia Tarleton-Dandridge and her husband had owned the house; they’d taken in a wounded soldier and he had passed away. He was buried with the family in the graveyard behind the stables. A family friend had come to the house after the Battle of Gettysburg. He was also buried in the family graveyard.

      Sad and tragic deaths due to warfare, Tyler thought. Not unexpected and not the kind of thing that would produce anything terrible.

      But then, Beast Bradley had been the terror that touched the house....

      Looking further into the family history, Tyler saw that another death had been that of a young Dandridge girl in 1863. He wondered if she’d been in love with the Civil War soldier who’d died. She’d taken rat poison and killed herself soon after his death.

      He shuddered. Hard way to die, rat poison.

      And another hard way to die—a bayonet through the chin. He tried to imagine how it had happened. Julian had sat down, his musket held between his legs. He’d leaned forward and set the soft flesh behind his jawbone on the blade of the bayonet. Then he’d lowered his head with enough force for the blade to go through that soft flesh and his throat? It seemed almost impossible.

      Unless he’d been helped.

      Fascinating though the historical events were, Tyler was more interested in Julian’s death and the deaths of people who had died closer to the present. There’d been several of those, starting in the late 1970s.

      One of the docents, Bill Hall, had been found at the foot of the staircase. While closing up at night, he’d apparently tripped and fallen down the stairs, landing at an angle that had snapped his neck.

      Eight years ago, a college student, Sam Daily, had told friends he was going to break into a historic house and rearrange a few items as a joke. It hadn’t gone so well; he’d tried to dismantle the alarm and a wire had shorted out, sending electric volts shooting through him. He’d been discovered on the ground near the back door the following morning.

      Tragically the joke had been on him.

      Just three years ago, another of the older docents or tour guides, Angela Wilson, had been found dead in Tarleton’s study. She’d been sitting in the same chair, in the same position, as Julian Mitchell. She had died of a massive heart attack.

      One death from a fall, one from electrocution and one from what might well be a perfectly natural cause for someone of Angela’s age, a heart attack.

      And now a man dead of a bayonet shoved through his throat—as if he’d set his own chin atop it for the blade to run through.

      Tyler drummed his fingers on the desk.

      He was here because of Adam Harrison. Adam had a love of and connection to various historic properties. Technically, the Krewes were Adam’s teams, so they went where Adam Harrison requested they go. Everything that had happened here could have been natural or accidental.

      But Adam had a knack of knowing when things weren’t right.

      Add in the trashing of the small office in the attic….

      Someone had been looking for something. What? And why?

      And how did any of it relate to the fact that Artie Dixon was in a coma?

      Tyler pulled out his cell phone and called Logan Raintree, one of his best friends, a fellow Ranger at one time, and now the head of their unit.

      “Is it something—or nothing?” Logan asked. “Do you need the rest of the Krewe?”

      “Something,” Tyler said. “And yes. I’d like you to come here.”

      “Any idea as to what’s going on?”

      “Nope. But the house has been closed down for the interim. I think we should set up here.”

      “We’ll be in tomorrow night,” Logan promised him.

      Tyler hung up and put through another call. When he reached Adam Harrison, he asked about keys to the attic.

      “The board members all have a key, and so does Allison. There’s also a key in the small pantry or storage room, where the employees have their lockers and keep their street clothing. It’s always hung on a peg there.”

      “Is the pantry locked during the day?” Tyler asked.

      “No, not from what I understand. The employees slip in and out when they have a break or need to get to their own belongings. No member of the public goes into the house without a docent or tour guide, and they’ve never had trouble before.”

      “I’ll see if that key is still in place, but a lot of people have keys. They could have been used—or copied at a previous date.”

      “How are you doing?”

      “I lost my guide,” Tyler told him.

      “I can call someone else.”

      Tyler hesitated. Maybe that was the right thing to do. Bring in someone who hadn’t discovered a dead friend at the house. Someone who wasn’t derisive of the investigation.

      But he realized he didn’t want anyone else.

      And as far as her attitude was concerned… It didn’t matter if you believed the world was round or not, because it was round regardless of what you believed.

      Eventually, Allison would accept the fact that something existed in the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

      And as Todd had suggested, it liked her.

      “Thanks, Adam. I’ll move along on my own for a bit, see if Ms. Leigh begins to show some interest. I’m sure her heart is in the right place. I’ll give her more time. The rest of the team will be in tomorrow night, and we’ll see where we are then.”

      Adam agreed with him and they hung up. Tyler immediately went to the guides’ room; the key hung on a peg there, so access to the attic was ridiculously easy. He returned to the study, picking up the folders that held information on the board members. Pausing, he looked at the painting of Beast Bradley.

      He’d been perceived so differently by the two artists.

      He stood, fascinated by the painting, and walked over to it. A Plexiglas cover protected it and he saw that, apparently from the time it had been hung, it had resided on that wall to avoid direct sunlight.

      He tried to read the signature of the artist and was surprised to realize that the name was T. Dandridge. He squinted to find the date; the painting had been done in 1781. The year the Colonies had finally achieved their independence.

      He smiled.

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