Haunted

“I’m aware of that.”

“If you come down here, I’m only having you because I think you’ll be able to prove that I don’t have ghosts.”

“Maybe,” Adam agreed.

“When can you come?”

“My schedule is a bit of a mess, but…I’ll arrange to see you soon.”

“And according to your letter, Adam, you’re going to pay me?”

“Yes. And like I said, I am anxious. I’ll arrange something as soon as possible.”

“You can usually find me around lunchtime at the Wayside Inn.”

“All right, my office manager will call, set a date.”

“Good,” Matt said. “Look forward to seeing you, Adam.”

Adam Harrison was still talking when Matt hung up the phone. He stared at it, already thinking that he had made one hell of a mistake.

On the other end, Adam Harrison, too, stared at his phone. He did so with fond amusement. He’d always liked Matt. “My boy. You’re about to learn a lesson. All the courage, brain power, and brawn in the world can’t cut it against a real ghost,” he said softly. “Ah, well.”

He had meant to warn Matt that he wasn’t even sure he could come himself right away, that he’d be sending his topnotch aide.

But he didn’t want to call back. Matt Stone wasn’t at all pleased with this arrangement, even though he was surely having trouble.

It would all be fine. Darcy could handle any man, living…

Or dead.

2

From the moment she walked into the bar, Darcy felt at a distinct disadvantage.

It was called the Wayside Inn. It should have been called Bubba’s Back-then Barn.

She was nearly overcome by the wave of smoke that almost knocked her over when she opened the door; it sat like a fog over the decades-old plastic booths and bar stools. There were two pool tables to the left, stuffed away from what might have been used, at times, as a dance floor.

There were actually still a few spittoons for tobacco chewers scattered around.

When she stepped in and the door closed behind her, the place came to a standstill. The four pool players and the broken-toothed wonders watching the games all stopped their play and stared at her. Behind the bar, a heavyset woman with teased red hair styled in something like a sixties beehive looked up from washing glasses. In what looked to be a dining area, the four men seated at one of the chipped wood tables also looked up.

She stood in the miasma of smoke and stared around, taking it in as her eyes adjusted from the sunlight. And she knew, instantly, that Adam was the one who should have come here. And he should have worn jeans and an old plaid or denim work shirt. Of course, the concept of Adam dressed that way was an amusing one, but Adam was a determined man. And for some reason, he was determined that they were getting into Melody House.

She had come in a business suit, the same attire she usually wore when conducting business, she reminded herself, defending her choice of clothing when she was so obviously out of place. But though she hadn’t imagined the Wayside Inn to be a five-star restaurant, she hadn’t thought that it would be quite this…colloquial.

“Can I help you, honey?” the redhead called from behind the bar. Her voice was warm and friendly, giving Darcy a bit of encouragement. She smiled in return. But before she could reply, one of the men who’d been sitting at the table had risen.

“Miss?”

He was tall, somewhat lanky, and when he smiled, she saw that he had all his teeth, and a single dimple in his left cheek. Light brown eyes, and a pleasant way about him; he seemed to ooze accent and Southern charm with his single word.

“I’m looking for a man named Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here.” She hoped that one of the men knew Stone. She didn’t think that he was among them. She’d already pictured him in her mind. He was the descendant of a man who was practically a Founding Father. He would be tall, straight, and aging with incredible dignity. He might be one of the those fellows who sat around Revolutionary or Civil War round tables, rehashing the past. He might have a certain attitude about him, but he’d still be an incredible old gentleman.

“Hey, honey, you can meet me!” one of the pool players called out.

“Watch your manners, Carter!” one of the others said, and another sniggered.

At the table, another of the men stood.

“Come in, have a seat,” he said.

She had to admit, this fellow’s jeans fit him well, hugging leans hips, strong legs, and some solid length. He was wearing shades, even inside, in the cloud of smoke—maybe he thought that they’d protect his eyes from the haze. He was well over six feet, ebony hair a little too long, but apparently clean and brushed. He was clean-shaven, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Strong, solid features. While the first fellow to approach her had been polite and laid-back, his face splitting instantly into an easy grin in the first few seconds, this one looked as if he might have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. Though he had stood courteously enough and asked her to sit, he looked as if he were entirely impatient, more like a man about to suggest that she go jump in a lake.

She walked over to the table. The first man—he with the great dimple—had drawn out a chair for her. She looked at the other two who had been sitting at the table, now risen, as she approached. One was older, white-haired, white-bearded. She kept imagining him in a butternut and gray Confederate Army uniform. The fourth in the party was somewhere around thirty as well, had a decent haircut, and was actually in a tailored shirt and chinos, and looked as if he might have a real job somewhere in a civilized town.

“What’s your business here?” the tall, chiseled-face man asked abruptly, sitting as he did so. They all stared at her.

“My name is Darcy Tremayne. I had an appointment with Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here. I believe I’m in the right place. Do any of you know him?”

She spoke evenly and politely—she was here on business. But she felt as if hostility oozed around her. She longed to bolt from the chair and fly out the door. She knew that everyone in the bar was still staring at her.

“Know him?” the tall, lanky fellow with the dimple said.

But he was interrupted. The man Darcy had mentally begun to refer to as Chisel-face cut him off. “Are you one of the psychics?” he asked.

Darcy arched a brow. Be pleasant with the locals, Adam had told her.

All right, she could be friendly.

“I suppose you could say that. I’m with Harrison Investigations,” she said. This was definitely a small town. Okay, so she had come from a fairly small town herself, but this one seemed even more rural. Maybe that was because she’d spent so many years in New York, and had been living in the D.C. area for so long now. It seemed that any event regarding Melody House was news in the area, and that everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“A real live ghost buster?” the fellow with the dimple teased.

“Ghost buster?” She ever so slightly hiked a brow once again, sitting back, determined that she would be cool, cordial, and dignified. “Harrison Investigations is actually a small, private company, and what we do is investigate strange occurrences in old homes and the like.” She smiled. “Most of the time, we find squeaky floorboards and leaky plumbing, but when a place is as historically relevant as Melody House, the history alone could create a very old and spiritual feeling.”

“Melody House is pretty damned cool,” the dimpled man said, flashing another warm smile.

The old white-haired codger spoke up. “Ms. Tremayne, lots of folks have come wanting to set up cameras, tape machines, and all kinds of hocus-pocus stuff at Melody House. The owner has just flat-out told them no.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m anxious to meet Matt Stone. Mr. Harrison and he are well acquainted. Mr. Stone respects my employer, and knows that we’re not sensationalist in any way. We know history and architecture, and people, and naturally, we’re very discreet. I can understand any hesitation Mr. Stone has had in the past. I’m sure that many people come ready to cash in on the ghosts.”

“I see,” interrupted Chisel-face. “You’re here to investigate some of the eerie stories associated with the house, but you’re not trying to cash in on ghosts?” His voice was deep, the words were evenly spoken; somehow, they still dripped scorn.

“No. I’ve just explained. We’re investigators.”

“Um,” Chisel-face murmured. He stared at her hard. “You said that most of the time what you discovered was creaky floorboards or leaky plumping. What happens when it’s not ‘most of the time’?”