Shades of Midnight (8 page)

Lucien had walked over to his mother, tugged at her skirt, and said, "Aunt Bliss said to tell you her brooch is in the top dresser drawer, in the back under some old linens. She wants you to have it."

Mary Louise Thorpe had turned pale and swayed on her feet as if she might swoon, then rushed to the dresser drawer to discover that the brooch she had often admired was truly there. A practical woman, she had taken her son on her lap and tried to reason with him. And herself. He'd been snooping and had found the brooch. He'd overheard her and her mother talking about Aunt Bliss. The color came back to her cheeks as she began to convince herself of a more reasonable explanation. And then Lucien reached out and touched his mother's red curls, and said, "She has hair like you, only hers is not so curly."

Since Aunt Bliss had died more than ten years before Lucien's birth, and he had never seen a photograph of the woman, Mary Louise had been unable to explain away his observation.

And she had been terrified of her son since that day.

As he stepped into Miss Gertrude's boarding house, Lucien closed his mind to the past and to the ghosts who were everywhere. In both cases it was like shutting a door, solidly and surely.

"Good afternoon." The gray-haired woman who greeted him stood behind the counter that stretched along one side of the large room that apparently served as both lobby and parlor. Her smile brightened considerably as she placed the book of recipes she'd been perusing aside. Since she was pleasantly plump and wore a wide smile, and the aroma of something spicy drifted his way from the dining room, he assumed the food here would be good, at least.

"Good afternoon," he said. "I'd like to procure a room."

The curious proprietor, Miss Gertrude herself, he assumed, glanced behind him. "Just for yourself, sir?"

"Yes."

"How long do you plan to stay with us?"

"I'm not sure." As he reached the counter, Miss Gertrude presented a leather-bound book for his signature.

"With or without meals?"

Lucien hesitated. Evie liked to feed him, usually, but she had been testy of late and might be more than happy to allow him to go hungry. "With, I suppose."

She gave him a decent price, and he paid for the first three days in advance.

Miss Gertrude glanced at the signature in her book. "Well, Mr. Thorpe, what brings you to Plummerville?"

Again, he paused to consider his answer. Eve did not want everyone to know her house was haunted. Mrs. Markham might tell, but perhaps he should not. While he detested lying, and even a lie of omission seemed very wrong, at the moment he didn't want to do or say anything that might annoy Eve any more than he already had.

"Business or pleasure?" Miss Gertrude prompted.

"A bit of both," he said, feeling that to be a safe answer.

"Then you must have friends or family in town," the curious landlady continued.

Lucien smiled. "That I do."

* * *

Eve placed her copious notes across one side of the dining room table, then sat in a chair and began to shuffle the papers this way and that. After several weeks of investigation, she had almost too much information to sift through.

Justina Markham's insistence that Viola would never have cheated on her husband rang true, even though it contradicted everything else Eve had heard. But then again, Mrs. Markham might have been simply defending her friend, protecting her already damaged reputation. She had confirmed what others had told Eve, that Alistair was no one's idea of the perfect husband.

And where was the wrapper? Eve had seen with her own eyes that Viola had been wearing it when she'd come down the stairs to her death, but Mrs. Markham had said twice that her friend's body had been unclothed.

The papers, the research, it was comforting work, and she needed work to take her mind off that kiss in the hallway. Lucien had always been good at kissing, but he'd never kissed her like that before! His
experiment
had shaken her all the way to her toes, had made her knees weak, had made her wonder... things she should not wonder.

She would have thought herself terribly weak if Lucien hadn't displayed his own response to the kiss. At least she was able to hide her reaction. Oh, she hoped her reaction had been well disguised! If Lucien knew she still loved him, she'd be in for a lifetime of always being second best, of always being forgotten. She couldn't bear that, to give her life and her heart to a man who could dismiss her so easily.

Since she'd lied and told Lucien she'd been totally unaffected by his kiss, they'd turned their minds to business. He'd procured a room in the boarding house, and she'd taken the time while he'd been gone to gather her wits. He'd returned, displaying his key as if he had to prove that he now had his own room, and for the rest of the afternoon they'd discussed what they knew of the night the Stampers had died.

Lucien sat on the floor by the buffet, studying the ectoplasm he'd collected last night. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and as he bent over the dish of gunk his dark hair fell across his cheek, hiding a portion of his face from her. He seemed to think he could decipher details about the spirits by examining the sticky goo he collected. On occasion he was successful.

"Viola wants to know why Alistair killed her," he muttered without looking up. "I think that's what keeps her bound to this house."

Like Justina Markham, Eve wanted to dismiss the notion that Viola Stamper might have betrayed her husband. But so many people swore it was true she couldn't completely ignore the possibility. "If she was unfaithful, she knows the why of it."

"What if Mrs. Markham was right and Viola wasn't unfaithful?"

"I want that to be true." She had come to like Viola. Too much, perhaps. "But everyone says..."

"Rumor, Evie," Lucien said absently. "Dismiss the rumors you've heard and concentrate on the facts."

"It's been thirty years." A familiar frustration bubbled up inside her. "All I have is rumor!"

Lucien pushed his dish of gunk aside and turned to face her, his body lying lengthwise across the floor, his head propped in his hand.

Evie frowned. A scientist wasn't supposed to have great muscles and strong legs. Maybe carrying around his damned specter-o-meter had built those muscles. She'd seen them close up now, after flying across the room and landing in his bed, where he'd been stretched out wearing nothing but a strategically placed sheet.

"Don't fret," he said, mistaking her consternation for worry about the case. "Start with what we know as fact."

"And that is?"

He smiled. "What we know from Viola and Alistair."

She refused to be intimidated. She would not be shy or coy or embarrassed with Lucien. "They were sexually compatible."

"Extraordinarily so," he added.

"And according to you, Viola wants to know
why
her husband killed her."

"Yes." His easy smile faded. "What other absolute facts do we have?"

"It was Halloween night," Eve said. "It rained. Since everyone remembered the storm that came through that night, I think we can take it as fact."

"I'll concede that one."

"Thank you so much," she said caustically. "We know that at ten-fifteen Viola and Alistair were... you know, and just minutes before midnight, Alistair stabbed his wife in the back. Sometime later that night, or in the early hours of the next morning, he killed himself."

Lucien screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his nose. "Stabbed himself in the heart. That's rather unusual. There was most likely a firearm in the house. Why not simply shoot himself? It's a much more common method of suicide."

"I think we can safely say that there was something not quite right with the way Alistair's mind worked." A man who would coldly murder a woman who adored him... no, that was definitely not right.

"Might he have forgiven her, as some of your informants have claimed, but then simply snapped on the evening in question?"

"Perhaps." Eve rested her elbows on the table and placed her chin in her hands. "We haven't much time. Halloween is in four days! Once that day passes, it'll be almost another year before the spirits who haunt this house will be forceful enough for us to see and hear them. If we can't solve this mystery soon, I might have to wait another year to get rid of the ghosts."

"And of course, you can't begin your
ordinary
life until Viola and Alistair move on," Lucien said dryly.

"There's nothing wrong with what I want," she said defensively.

"It's a waste," he said, returning his attention to the dish of ectoplasm on the floor. "A complete and total waste of an exceptional woman."

Apparently not exceptional enough.

When someone knocked soundly on the front door, Eve almost jumped out of her skin. Lucien, intent on studying his goo, seemed not to hear.

"I'll get it," Eve said, rising sharply to her feet. Lucien muttered something unintelligible, and she rolled her eyes as she walked past.

Eve opened the door to Douglas Hunt, Alistair's old business partner and the man who had sold her this house. From the expression on his face, something horrible had happened. In the last light of day, it was quite clear that he was livid.

"I want you out of this house," Hunt said as he pushed his way inside.

"Excuse me?" Eve asked. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes!" Hunt turned on her and raked a hand through his gray hair. "There is most definitely a problem. I hear you have ghosts, Miss Abernathy."

Word certainly traveled quickly. "Perhaps..."

"I took you for a sensible woman who would not become hysterical and imagine... ghosts."

"I'm not the first to report such sightings," Eve said calmly. "Isn't that why this lovely house stood vacant for so long?"

This house had been quite a bargain, since it had been sitting empty for so long. She could not have afforded anything so nice, otherwise. In the past three months she had painted, cleaned, repaired... all on her own. This was her house. She had come to love it.

Hunt gritted his teeth. "It's been years since anyone tried to drag up the past."

"That's because it's been years since anyone lived here." She cocked her head and studied the man's florid face. "Why are you so upset? If there are indeed ghosts, I'm the one who has to deal with them. Not you. If Alistair and Viola's spirits are present, then they are residents of this house and none of your concern."

Hunt's eyes examined every corner, much as Justina Markham's had, as if he searched for signs of another presence. Did he wish to see them? Or not?

"Alistair and I were partners in the mill for seven years," he said softly. "I introduced him to Viola, for God's sake. I thought..." He caught his breath, as if catching a confession before it could escape. "I thought they would suit one another well. If not for me Alistair never would have married Viola, much less..." He choked on the words that would not come.

"You have no reason to feel guilty." She didn't like Hunt, particularly, but at the moment she felt a little sorry for him. Thirty years of self-reproach was a heavy burden.

"I only begin to feel guilty when someone comes around asking pesky questions about things that should have been buried years ago." Hunt's face flushed red, his lips thinned. "I want you out, Miss Abernathy. Out of this house, out of Plummerville. I'll give you a tidy sum over and beyond what you paid for the house. Just... leave."

"No," Eve said calmly. "I've made this house my home and I won't be run off. Not by ghosts, and not by you." She cocked her head and studied Hunt's hard face, his tortured eyes. "Did you care for Viola very much? Is that why you suffer so?"

Hunt reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too tight. He didn't answer her question, which was answer enough for Eve. "You think a couple of ghosts are a problem? Tangle with me and you'll regret it. Sell me the house, make a tidy profit, and leave this town and this sordid story alone."

"And what will you do if I accept your offer?" Eve asked. "Sell the house to someone else? Let it stand here and rot?"

"I'll burn it to the ground, which is what I should have done thirty years ago." With that, he gave Eve a little shake.

Lucien came up behind Hunt and forcibly pulled the man away. Eve held her breath as a furious Lucien slammed Hunt into the wall and leaned in close, bending down to place his face close to the shorter man's. "Lay your hands on the lady again, and you'll regret it," Lucien said darkly. His neck corded with tension, his jaw tensed. His fists flexed threateningly.

Hunt, rightfully intimidated by the sight of an enraged Lucien, took a shuffling step to the side. "You must be the fortune-teller."

Lucien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Eve suppressed a smile. She knew he hated the label fortune-teller much more than medium or even exorcist. Hunt was in serious trouble.

"I'm not much of a
fortune-teller, "
Lucien said as he opened his eyes and laid them on Hunt, "but I do see that if you don't apologize to Miss Abernathy and get out of her home, you're going to be in serious pain within a matter of minutes."

Oh, she hadn't known Lucien could get so angry about a situation that involved living, breathing humans. Normally he saved his passions for the dead. He was intriguingly handsome and appealing when he defended her this way, though she would never tell him so. It was painful enough to admit such a thing to herself. Still, she couldn't help but smile as Hunt backed toward the door, mumbling an insincere apology and keeping his eyes on Lucien the entire time.