The Raven Master

“The place only looks haunted, but it does have a rather colorful history. It, uh, used to be—” she cleared her throat and smiled wanly “—a bawdy house.”

He arched a brow. “Complete with red velvet wallpaper?”

“I, uh…” She coughed away an embarrassed tickle. “I wouldn’t know. This has been a respectable dwelling for over sixty years.”

“And before that?”

“Before that, this lovely old mansion was the highlight of Darby Ridge social life.” She couldn’t help smiling at his bemused expression and found herself relating the ancient gossip with considerable zeal. “Apparently, turn-of-the-century loggers were quite a rowdy bunch, and when the townsfolk finally got tired of the riffraff, they hired a marshal to clean up the town. The rumor is that the marshal took his job seriously, but after months of nightly raids never made a single arrest.”

“Why not?”

“There was never anyone to arrest. The deputies would stake out the place and see dozens of, uh, clients enter, but when the posse stormed inside they found no one except the ladies.”

A gleam of amusement lightened his gaze. “So where did the men go?”

“No one knows for certain, but there was whispered speculation that when the marshal came through the front door, the brothel’s clients escaped through a secret tunnel leading to the ravine behind the house, then forded the little creek and crept quietly back to their homes.”

The amused twinkle faded. “Where is this tunnel?”

“As far as I know, there isn’t one.” Janine was surprised by his serious tone and sudden interest. “The story is just folklore.”

“Folklore is usually based on fact.”

“Perhaps, but over so many decades, facts are frequently embellished to the point of fiction. Besides, I’ve lived here for three years and can assure you that there’s not a hidden door or secret passage in the entire house.”

He considered that for a moment. “You’re probably right. Still, it’s an intriguing story, isn’t it?” He paused. “Well, I’ve held you up long enough. I’ll leave you to your work.”

As he headed toward the stairs, Janine stopped him. “Mr. Coulliard?”

Hesitating on the third step, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

She smiled sweetly. “You forgot the bucket.”

CHAPTER THREE

After rubbing cleaning foam into the stained carpet, Janine dropped the sponge into the bucket and decided that it was a losing battle. She sat back on her heels, disgusted. Even if she got the stupid spot out, the carpet would still be ugly. The putrid color reminded her of rotten lettuce and the original sculpted contour had long ago been tromped flat.

Eventually she hoped to scrape together enough money to replace the matted mess—she’d already managed to recarpet all the bedrooms except her own—but until then there was little she could do to keep the upstairs hallway from looking like a moldy meadow.

With a resigned sigh, she protected the wet spots with colorful plastic barrier, gathered the cleaning supplies and hurried downstairs. Since Jules and Edna were doing volunteer work at the church bazaar and Althea’s shift at the diner ended somewhere around midafternoon, there was little time left to complete her Saturday chores before the tenants returned.

As for the mysterious Mr. Coulliard, Janine hadn’t seen him since breakfast. His van was still parked at the edge of the gravel cul-de-sac so she assumed that he hadn’t gone far. But then the man was constantly disappearing and popping up in the most unexpected places. His random schedule was puzzling. None of her business, of course, but definitely odd.

As Janine replaced the cleaning supplies in the sink cupboard, she idly wondered if her newest boarder was a nature lover who enjoyed taking solitary hikes through the surrounding woods. Or perhaps he walked into town and spent long hours warming a bar stool at one of the town pubs.

That was doubtful, though, since he never smelled of alcohol and hadn’t exhibited even the slightest symptom of inebriation. Besides, it seemed unlikely that a man who had once counseled alcoholics would spend his spare time in a bar—assuming, of course, that Quinn had been truthful about his background. That might be a rather large assumption but Janine believed him. At least, she wanted to believe him and at the moment she had no reason not to—except for a nagging intuition continually whispering that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t precisely what he seemed.

Shaking off the disquieting notion, Janine focused on her chores by setting a package of pork chops on the counter to thaw. As she removed the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet, an agitated yowl in the backyard was followed by a peculiar rustling and a hollow wood-on-wood clunking sound. Then there was a horrible, bloodcurdling shriek.

Rushing to the kitchen window, Janine saw the source of the ruckus was a huge black raven perched on a stack of firewood. One of the bird’s massive wings was fully extended; the other slanted down at an awkward angle. A stalking cat circled the woodpile, then flattened into a threatening crouch. The bird screeched, hopped to the edge of the woodpile and tried to intimidate its feline adversary with bristling feathers and a fierce hiss.

The cat was not impressed. As Janine watched in horror, the animal leaped onto the woodpile and tried to bite the bird’s neck. The gutsy raven pecked viciously, forcing the thwarted feline into a temporary withdrawal. Janine feared that in spite of such bravado the injured raven would be hard-pressed to fend off another attack, so she snatched up a flimsy flyswatter and ran out the back door.

An angry male shout greeted her. She jerked to a stop, and glanced around in confusion just as Quinn Coulliard appeared and shooed the frustrated cat away. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Quinn knelt, extended his hand and spoke softly to the terrified bird. In less than a heartbeat, the raven hopped down from the woodpile and limped toward his rescuer.

Quinn stroked the animal, smoothing the injured wing, then gently gathered up the bird and carried it toward the back porch. When he’d nearly reached the steps, he saw Janine and hesitated.

Awed by what she’d seen, Janine stared at the placid raven nestled in the crook of Quinn’s arm. “How in the world did you do that?”

She hadn’t really expected an explanation and wasn’t surprised when he ignored the question and nodded toward the kitchen door. “Would it be all right to take him inside and tend his wounds?” he asked.

“Of course.” She stepped aside and followed him into the kitchen. “Is there something I can do to help?”

When he glanced over his shoulder, a tingling sensation brushed her spine and she realized that the man’s Svengali effect was not limited to feathered creatures. “His wing is broken,” Quinn told her. “I’ll need something to bandage it.”

“I have some gauze and first-aid tape. Will that do?”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

As he turned away, Janine called out, “The hall carpet is wet. Watch out for the barrier.”

He acknowledged her warning with a nod, then carried the injured bird upstairs while Janine gathered the supplies.

Minutes later, she entered the open doorway of Quinn’s room and saw that he’d placed the raven beside a folded newspaper on top of the dresser. He glanced up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Would you mind closing the door?”

Assuming he was concerned about keeping the bird confined, she complied without comment and laid the first-aid items on the bed. “I brought antiseptic, in case you found any open wounds.”

“Thank you.” As Quinn tossed the newspaper onto the bed, a small scratch pad-size square fluttered to the floor.

Janine started to mention the dropped item, but became completely intrigued watching Quinn’s expert examination of the injured bird. He carefully stretched the twisted wing to its full eighteen-inch span. The animal hissed a warning, parting its impressive beak to reveal a stumpy round tongue, which was as black as its feathers.

With its peculiar yellow eyes darting wildly, the raven tried to back away but Quinn laid a restraining palm on its back. “I know it hurts,” he murmured softly. “Just a few more minutes.” The raven cocked its head and, seeming somewhat mollified by the reassurance, displayed uncanny trust by docilely allowing Quinn to fold the feathered appendage back into place.

Janine rubbed her eyes. This was without a doubt the strangest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

“I could use those bandages now.”

“Hmm?” Janine blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

He accepted the cloth roll she handed him, gently bound the injured wing to the creature’s body and secured the bandage with surgical tape. Duly impressed by his expertise, Janine peered over his shoulder. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

Quinn used a fingertip to stroke the shiny black head. “When I was a kid, my dad raised pigeons. He let me help.”

“But those were domestic birds.”

“They weren’t built any differently than Edgar.”

She backed away, feeling stupid. “Well, of course not, but I’ve never seen a wild bird that would tolerate human contact…Edgar?”