Happy Medium: (Intermix) (2 page)

And then there was the fact that Gabrielle preferred her haunted houses somewhat more decrepit than the ones Emma saw here. In Gabrielle’s opinion, the more broken down the mansion, the more believable the haunting. And believability was the key. In fact, it wasn’t really necessary that the houses they used be actually haunted. It was only necessary that the audience believe the houses could be haunted. Then when Gabrielle inevitably found spirits to talk to, nobody would be terribly surprised, except possibly the owners.

Emma turned down a street that ran beside the river. Couples walked along the hiking path hand-in-hand, dodging around the occasional dog on a leash or mom with stroller. Dark water flowed slow and thick between the grassy banks while Frisbees sailed through the air and children giggled in the twilight.

Nice. Probably way too nice for
American Medium.
The river didn’t seem to have the necessary ghostly mood. On the other hand, spending some time there would definitely improve Emma’s own mood. She wondered if she could take a few minutes to just sit on one of the wrought-iron benches and enjoy the way the slowly fading afternoon sunlight cast shadows across the water.

Probably not.

The houses along the riverbanks all looked much too nice for the show, even though they were the right vintage. She headed up one of the side streets at random. Surely not all the homes in the King William District had been restored to their former glory.

Of course they hadn’t been. In fact, the farther she got from the river, the less grand the houses seemed. They were old, but several of them had peeling paint and splinters. Still, none of them were exactly right for the show. Some had been divided into apartments, which would make it tougher to get releases from all the tenants. Others looked dilapidated but tacky, which wouldn’t satisfy Gabrielle. She might put up with peeling paint, but broken-down plastic flamingoes would probably disturb her aura.

Emma turned down the next street, which seemed to be in a sort of transitional state. Some of the houses looked good, like they’d been painted and reupholstered recently. Some looked like they were in the middle of being renovated. Some looked like they were ready for a total overhaul.

Like the one on the corner. Emma slowed and then parked the car, pulling into an open spot at the curb. The house was fairly large with a couple of stories. Limestone with gray trim, the kind of gray that came with a lot of punishing weather and not much in the way of repainting. Live oaks shaded the front gallery with its slender columns and gingerbread trim. A large pecan tree cast shadows toward the rear of the lot.

It looked like it had once been respectable, maybe even grand. But now it was a few degrees past prime. It also looked like the kind of place where a spirit or two might be willing to take up residence.

She wondered if anybody lived there right now. The front windows were dark, and nobody was working around the yard. But the grass had been cut, and the bushes looked like they’d been trimmed lately. Gabrielle would love the way the live oak branches dipped low over the front gallery. The shadows would make for some really spooky shots as she walked up to the front door.

Emma rested a hand on the steering wheel, trying to decide what to do. If she talked to the owners before Gabrielle decided she liked the house, they might be disappointed if Gabrielle didn’t want to use it. On the other hand, it might be a good idea to have at least one house signed, sealed, and ready to be delivered when Gabrielle stepped off the plane. There was always the risk that she could reject San Antonio altogether if the preliminary steps took too much time. Patience was never Gabrielle’s strong suit.

Emma liked San Antonio. It had all sorts of possibilities.

After another moment, she blew out a breath.
Screw it.
She might as well at least knock on the front door. The owners might not be around, but if they were, it would definitely save some time. She opened the car door and stepped into the street.

***

Ray was working off some of his frustrations by pulling up the carpet. No matter what else they did to the house, the Goddamned shag had to go. The sound of the fabric ripping away from the carpet tacks turned out to be therapeutic, although the clouds of dust made him glad he’d put on a mask before he started. He yanked and rolled, being careful not to impale himself on the strips of nails at the sides.

Underneath was an ancient rubber pad, so worn that it was basically lumps of crumbling gunk. He’d have to scrape parts of it up off the floor where it was stuck, and the rest of it was too brittle to be rolled. In fact, it could hardly be picked up. He’d have to use a broom, or maybe his shop vac.

He moved a couple of the pieces aside and saw the first good news of the day—hardwood floors that were still intact. They’d have to be cleaned up, maybe sanded and refinished, but they were solid.

He’d just leaned down to finish pulling the end of the carpet loose when someone rang the doorbell.

He blew out a breath. Kevin would have just walked in. That left salesmen and people collecting for charity. Or maybe some nosy neighbors hoping to get a quick glimpse inside. Whoever it was, chances were it was somebody he didn’t have time or patience for.

The ringing came again. Persistent sucker.
Might as well get it over with.
He pushed himself to his feet and headed down the hall, glancing through the beveled glass in the front door.

The woman on the other side didn’t look like a door-to-door salesperson or a collector for the March of Dimes. In fact, she sort of looked like somebody’s executive secretary. Her gray skirt dropped to the tops of her knees. Her white blouse had pearl buttons and a hint of lace around the collar. She wore black leather shoes with low heels that reminded him a little of ones Granny Ramos wore to church when she was serving at the potluck lunch afterward.

If she’d been sixty or so, she would have looked stylish as hell. Since he gauged her age as in the mid-twenties, she didn’t. On the other hand, she had a kind of sexy librarian thing going on that wasn’t half bad. Maybe she intended to save his soul—he couldn’t think of any other reason somebody dressed like that would show up on his doorstep.

At the last minute he remembered to yank the dust mask down below his chin before he opened the door. “Can I help you?”

Ms. Dress-For-Success gave him a startled look, her blue eyes wide. Apparently, she hadn’t been expecting a guy in a sweat-stained T-shirt.
Tough shit, baby cakes.

“I’m looking for the owner of the house,” she said a little tentatively. She pushed a slightly frizzy lock of reddish-brown hair behind one ear.

“That’s me. And I don’t want a security system and I’m really happy with my cell phone provider. So if you’re selling something, this isn’t the place.” He folded his arms across his chest, dislodging a little dust as he did.

“No, I didn’t . . . I mean, that’s not why I . . .” She paused, taking a quick breath before she slapped on a smile. “My name is Emma Shea. I’m with DeVere Productions.” She pulled a business card from her purse, shoving it in his general direction.

Nice smile. Eyes the color of clear skies. Complexion like roses and cream. Shea was probably her real name—she looked about as Irish as his mom did. He was ready to revise his earlier critique of her appearance. The body beneath that shapeless gray skirt looked nicely rounded. Her clothes were really bad, but the rest of her had potential.

Ray took the card from her fingers, doing an exaggerated job of squinting at the print. At least he could entertain himself by drawing this encounter out for a few minutes before heading back to the rotten carpet. “Never heard of it.”

If his mother saw him now, she’d no doubt slap him upside the head for rudeness. Fortunately, she was cruising toward Alaska with his dad, who’d probably slap him on the other side of the head on principle. Then again, he was enjoying himself for what seemed like the first time today. Ms. Shea had very nice blue eyes.

Her jaw firmed. “It’s a television production company. We’re filming in San Antonio next week.”

“Yeah? So why do I need to know this?”

“Because your house might work as a location for the show.” She took another deep breath. “Could I come in and look around?”

He took another glance at the business card, for real this time. At least it looked legit. And television could mean money. “Sure.” He stepped back to let her walk in front of him, then watched her enter the parlor on the left.

He hadn’t gotten around to ripping up the carpet in there yet. And it had its own problems with gouges in the baseboards and more chewed molding. Still, once he pulled up the shag, it wouldn’t be bad. Afternoon light trickled in from the triple window at the front, and there was a good view of the pecan tree in the side yard from the windows in the sidewall.

Ms. Shea’s nose wrinkled, probably from the carpet dust. “Are you renovating?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Like it wasn’t obvious.

She frowned. “We might need to clean up a little to make it look better on film. Are any of the rooms intact?”

Ray pulled the mask over his head to get it out of the way. “Okay, before we go any further with this, what’s the show that you’d be shooting here?”

She licked her lips a little nervously. “It’s called
American Medium.
Starring Gabrielle DeVere. Are you familiar with it?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Nope.”

“It’s very popular on cable. The network’s highest-rated show, in fact. I’m sure it’s on here in San Antonio. I’ll see if I can find out when it’s being broadcast.” Her gaze flicked to his face and back to the shag carpeting.

Ms. Emma Shea suddenly seemed uneasy about something. Ray figured it probably had to do with this show, whatever the hell it was. He folded his arms across his chest. “What goes on in this show?”

“Well, various things.” She licked her lips again.
Definitely nervous
. “Gabrielle visits houses in a particular town. We’re based in Houston, but we’re on the road quite a bit.”

“And what does she do when she visits these houses?”

She shrugged. “She talks about the history of the house, whatever I’ve been able to find out.”

He nodded. “And then?”

Ms. Shea sighed, dropping her gaze again. “She holds a séance and tries to contact any spirits living in the house,” she said very quickly.

Ray blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but that wasn’t it. Then again, the name
American Medium
should have been a tip-off. He shook his head. “There aren’t any ghosts in this house.”

“You can’t really be sure of that. Gabrielle usually finds something. She won’t visit a house where she doesn’t sense a presence.” Ms. Shea was looking at him again, her blue eyes earnest.

“Then she won’t want to visit here.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “There’s nobody living here but me. And I haven’t run across anything ghostly since I’ve been around. Unless you count the great horned owl that likes to hang out in the oak tree in the backyard.”

“Gabrielle still might like to visit the house. Sometimes she senses things other people don’t.” She was looking very determined now, which was sort of cute but not particularly convincing.

He sighed in exasperation. “Look, Ms. Shea, I don’t have a whole lot of time to spend on something like this. I’m on the clock for these renovations.” And he’d already wasted more than enough time talking to her—not that it hadn’t been an interesting break.

“We’ll pay,” she blurted.

Ray paused. “How much?”

“If we use your house, say five hundred.”

He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the quickening of his pulse. Five hundred would be a drop in the bucket. “Total?”

She shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

“Not enough.” He wracked his brain quickly, trying to remember what his brother Danny had gotten when a production company had shot a commercial at one of his properties.

She chewed on her lower lip, which was, he noted, nicely pink. “What would you consider enough?”

“Five hundred an hour, with a minimum. Say five hours.”

Her jaw tightened again. “I might be able to go three hundred an hour. With no minimum.”

“Split the difference. Say four. And a three-hour minimum.” Twelve hundred bucks would definitely help.

She nodded. “I can probably do that. Assuming that Gabrielle wants to use the house. She’s coming in tomorrow and she’ll want to look it over.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe. More probably the day after tomorrow.” She glanced around the admittedly crappy-looking living room. “Could you possibly clean it up a little between now and then? Maybe pick up some before Gabrielle comes to see it?”

He shrugged. “Possibly. For four fifty an hour, I’d say certainly.” Given that he was already going to be working the place over, he might as well get paid for it.

One corner of her mouth edged up. “Let’s go with
possibly
.”

“Okay.” For the first time since he’d seen the chewed-up molding, his shoulders relaxed. “Want to see the rest of the place?”

She nodded. “Might as well. That way when I go over it with Gabrielle, I’ll at least know what I’m talking about. By the way . . .” She gave him another slightly crooked smile. “Who are you?”

“Ray Ramos.” He wiped off his hand on the rag he had tucked in his back pocket, then stuck it out. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ramos.” She shook his hand, then nodded toward the hall. “Shall we?”

The last of the afternoon sun caught the red in her hair, bringing out the cream in her skin.
Interesting.
“Let’s.”

***

Emma worked on keeping her attention on the house rather than Ray Ramos. He was certainly worth her attention—probably more than the house was, at least at the moment.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when he’d opened the door—maybe a sweet little old lady living her twilight years in the family home. What she undoubtedly hadn’t been expecting was a six-foot Adonis in a sweat-stained T-shirt and low-slung jeans. If he’d been wearing his carpenter’s belt, she’d probably have thrown herself at his feet. She’d never been quite this close to somebody who looked like him.