Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (10 page)

“You’re helping Agent Montague?” she asked Allison, who nodded.
“Well, naturally, Allison knows her history. We’re delighted to have such a
scholar among our guides, but…of course,
I
know the
history of the house as no one else does. So when you need my assistance…”

“Yes, of course. We’re scheduled to meet in the morning,” Tyler
reminded her.

“Ten o’clock. I believe we’ll be at Ethan’s place.” She
shuddered. “I’m glad we’re not meeting at the house. However, I look forward to
speaking with you tomorrow. Needless to say, the board is anxious about the
house. We take its preservation very seriously. Because of what’s happened—so
tragic—it seemed necessary to close for a period. But should you need my
personal assistance in any way, don’t hesitate to get in touch. I will make
myself entirely available to you.”

“That’s kind of you, thank you,” Tyler said. She still just
stood there, staring at him.

“Well, good evening, then, ma’am. I’ll see you in the
morning.”

“Yes, good evening. Allison, have the best night you can, my
dear,” she said, and moved into the restaurant.

Tyler held the door until she was inside. She looked at him
again, gave him a lingering smile and headed to the bar.

When he closed the door, he saw that Allison was grinning.

“Well, that was the famous descendent,” he said. “What’s so
funny?”

“She was ready to devour you.”

“I don’t think she expected to see either of us here.”

“I don’t think she could care less about seeing
me.
But you’re a big boy. You can handle her…and her
assistance.
”

“What does that mean?”

“She
is
a Dandridge
descendent.”

“She doesn’t work at the house every day.”

“Technically, I’m part-time.”

He smiled and didn’t reply. She seemed to be in a good mood,
still amused by Cherry Addison’s reaction to him.

But as they walked, her smile faded. She moved more slowly as
they left the restaurant behind.

He was surprised. She was trying to draw out their evening
together.

Fine. He slowed his pace, as well, curious about her
reasons.

They walked back along Market Street and the quiet of night
made the experience of looking at the facade of Independence Hall seem even more
hallowed. He tried to imagine how the hotheaded politicians of the time had
managed to work together well enough to “make thirteen colonies chime as
one.”

“A penny for your thoughts,” Allison said.

“A penny? With inflation? My thoughts are worth at least two
cents.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure I could afford them these days.”

“I was thinking that it’s a miracle we exist as a nation. Could
you picture our Congress today cooperating to make that kind of decision?”

“Good point,” she said. “Patrick Henry and Sam Adams were
fierce and fiery orators, and they didn’t always agree with each other. They
made it work somehow.”

“They had the same goal.”

She laughed. “And they put aside their differences to achieve
that goal. We can keep hoping! They realized that society would change over
time. When you think about the past two-hundred-plus years, they didn’t do so
badly. Most of them knew the slavery question would arise, but they felt they
had to create a country before dealing with such a serious issue. We’ve made
mistakes as a nation and we’ll continue to make mistakes. That’s human nature.
The American dream is one thing, while men and women are flesh and blood and
real. All we can do is try to avoid those mistakes in the future. You know the
famous quote about learning from history or else being doomed to repeat it.”

He nodded. She was interesting, reasonable…and, yes, charming.
Fun to be with.

He realized it wasn’t a sudden desire for his company that had
her stalling, dragging her feet, walking slowly. She seemed loath to go in the
direction of her house.

“Is something wrong?” he asked her.

“No, no, nothing. I was thinking maybe I’d go to the
Tarleton-Dandridge House with you now.”

He arched a brow. “You’re afraid the intriguing Cherry Addison
will step in—and give me incorrect information. Or that she’ll convince me the
ghosts of her ancestors are running around and our investigation would make a
great TV show.”

She sent him a stern glare. “You wanted me to talk. You wanted
my opinion on people there. You want to know about the history of the house. I’m
too keyed up to sleep, so I’ll come back with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’m a big believer in plunging right in.”

He kept a smile in place.

He wondered what was going on with her. The last thing she
really wanted to do, he thought, was to go to the Tarleton-Dandridge House with
him.

She just didn’t want to go home. Why?

* * *

She was surprised that he hadn’t come right out and
demanded to know what she was lying about.

But he hadn’t.

She sounded like a liar to herself, and she was seriously
worried about her sanity.

What a choice!

Home—where Julian Mitchell might suddenly appear to be sitting
in the chair by her sofa. Or the Tarleton-Dandridge House with Tyler
Montague.

Montague was alive. That meant he won.

The question was, how long could she pretend to be helping him
at the house?

She’d already been through the crime scene. The idea of walking
through it again just made her feel numb.

They went into the mudroom and then the foyer. The entry was
large, which was convenient when they were doing tours. People could disperse
and look into the different rooms so they weren’t all trying to crowd into one
area at the same time.

“Here we are,” Tyler said.

“Where are you sleeping?” she asked him.

“The master bedroom. I’m the first one here, so I get first
choice.”

“That’s a rope bed. The quilt on it is from the 1800s.”

“The quilt is safely in a closet. I brought sheets and a
blanket.”

“What about the rest of your people?”

“They’ll come with bedding, as well.”

“As well,”
Allison repeated. “As
well as cameras and all their
ghost-hunting
equipment,” she said scornfully.

He stopped and turned to her. “I’m sorry you find us laughable.
My unit has an extraordinary record of solving every case we’ve been brought in
on.”

“There really isn’t a case here—I mean, not worthy of your
effort. I can’t see how there could be.” She thought she must have sounded
desperate and tried to calm her voice. “There is nothing in that attic. Nothing
worth taking. I keep thinking that Julian had to be playing a prank and it got
the best of him. Who knows, maybe he thought he’d create a mystery for us, and
that I’d find him in the study playing Beast Bradley and he’d scare me.”

“That may be the case,” Tyler said mildly. “If so, we won’t be
here long. Look, Allison, there’ve been a lot of deaths in this house.”

She unfastened the red velvet cord that sectioned off the
period sofa and sank into it. “It’s an old house,” she said stubbornly. “People
die.”

“I’m not talking about the natural deaths, and you know
it.”

“The unnatural ones, like the poor kid who electrocuted
himself?” Allison asked. “Sam Daily. That was eight years ago. I never met him.
I was a college student back then, working occasionally on my breaks. There is
no real protection against human stupidity. He started ripping out wires and got
an electric shock. That’s what happens.” She winced, remembering. They’d shut
down the house then, too. But only for a few days.

“You were here?”

“Like I said, I never saw the student—or the police or anyone.
It was horrible, tragic. As tragic as when a spring-breaker gets drunk and goes
over a balcony at a Florida hotel. Everyone felt terrible, especially for the
parents. When we came back to work…it was uncomfortable. And still, there was
nothing any of us could have done, and certainly nothing that any form of law
enforcement could have done. He thought he could trip the alarm and play games
in the house. A live wire killed him. That’s all I know.”

“I didn’t say you should know more.”

She lifted a hand. “The thing is, that kind of tragedy could
have happened anywhere. There’s no reason to assume that ghosts are running
around this house. People can do crazy things, and sometimes they pay horrible
consequences.”

“Sadly, that’s true.” Tyler took a seat next to her. “What
about the other incidents?” he asked.

She cast him a wry glance. “I wasn’t alive when Bill Hall fell
down the stairs.”

“Angela Wilson?”

She felt a little pang squeeze her heart. “I loved Angie. She
was so knowledgeable and she was the grand matriarch here. I knew her from when
I was really young. She encouraged me to love history and books and…she was a
role model for me. She had a wonderful career, wrote several fantastic
historical novels, married a great guy and had kids. She was seventy-two—not old
at all these days, and in great shape. But she had a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Thank you,” she murmured just as softly.

He rose. “I’m going to take a walk around the house and make
sure all the doors are closed and the windows are secure and ready for the
alarm, so I can go right to sleep when I get back. Then I’ll stroll on over to
your house with you and pick up my car. I’m exhausted. You must be, too.”

She nodded.

He stood up and started for the stairs.

Allison was dismayed to realize that she wanted to call him
back. She wanted to leap to her feet and go with him.

She was terrified of being alone.

Somehow, she managed to stay seated.

As his footsteps disappeared up the stairs, she got up, too.
She couldn’t sit still—and she didn’t want to go home.

Check into a hotel? That was ridiculous!

But it was better than going home. Thankfully, she knew some
good therapists and she’d go see one first thing in the morning.

All she had to do was get through the night.

“Allison!”

She heard the whisper of her name, but denied it to
herself.

The sound came again, more urgent.

“Allison, please!”

She turned and there he was, Julian Mitchell, still in period
costume, in the doorway that led to Angus Tarleton’s study.

She backed away from him. She backed up so far that she
couldn’t move any farther; she could feel the sofa against her legs.

Julian Mitchell came toward her.

Once again, it was too much.

This time, she didn’t hurt herself. She passed out onto the
period sofa that sat just inside the entry of the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

* * *

Tyler didn’t think he’d taken that long to walk around
and assure himself that the house was secure.

He must have been longer than he’d thought.

When he returned to the foyer, Allison was stretched out on the
sofa, sound asleep. He gazed down at her for a moment. Maybe she’d awaken soon.
He hated to rouse her when she’d been through so much and was so exhausted.

There was more work he could do in the study; he decided he’d
get to it and wait for her to wake up.

He ran upstairs and got a pillow—one he’d brought himself, with
a twenty-first-century pillowcase bought at Target—and slipped it beneath her
head. On second thought, he went back up and returned with a blanket. When he’d
covered her, he went into Angus Tarleton’s study.

While he continued to read about the people involved with the
house throughout its history, he found that he was continually distracted.
Looking up at the painting of Beast Bradley, he knew why.

The portrait didn’t bother him. It was the work of an excellent
artist, someone capable of imbuing a painting with character. He’d shown a
handsome man steeped in cruelty, a portrayal that was so different from the
painting in Lucy Tarleton’s room.

Granted, the one in the study had been executed by a Dandridge.
Did that mean anything? Naturally, the Dandridges hated the man who’d caused the
death of Lucy Tarleton, Sophia Dandridge’s sister. And Bradley had probably
brought so much misery to Angus Tarleton that he’d died years earlier than he
should have.

So what exactly was the truth about Beast Bradley? Did his
infatuation with Lucy turn him into a monster or had history been written by the
victors—the patriots in this case? Maybe he’d been nothing more than human,
having virtues along with his faults.

Then again, how did anyone forgive a man who’d cut the throat
of a young woman in her own parlor?

The house seemed silent. Nothing even seemed to shift. He
yawned, exhausted, then went back out to the parlor.

Allison Leigh was still sleeping soundly.

“Allison?”

He touched her shoulder. She didn’t awaken.

She looked young and vulnerable lying there, and angelically
beautiful. Her dark hair was sleek and lustrous against the crimson velvet of
the sofa; her long lashes swept ivory cheeks.

“Allison?” He shook her slightly but she still didn’t wake.

Perplexed, Tyler straightened, studying her for a minute or
two.

It probably wouldn’t look proper to leave her sleeping there.
But…they were living in the modern world. He was going upstairs, she was
downstairs, and he really didn’t give a damn what people said. She lived alone,
and he was pretty sure she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

“Sleep tight,” he murmured.

He walked the stairs up to the second floor, heading for the
master bedroom.

He paused to glance at the other painting of Beast Bradley.
Here, there was strength in the eyes, but not that expression of brutal cunning
and cruelty.

“Talk to me?” he offered.

But the house was silent.

He went on to bed, open to the spirits who might roam the
house.