“Come on upstairs, it’s quieter there.” She slipped past him and then hugged the staircase wall to avoid falling through the space left by the missing posts. Dante sighed and trudged up behind her.
She walked into the back bedroom, held the door until Paul and Dante had cleared it, then shut it firmly against the noise. March had turned cool even during the day, and the caulking between the sleeping-porch windows and this bedroom left much to be desired.
“You’re going to freeze in that shirt,” she said practically, and perched her bottom on the nearest windowsill. “You still planning on staying here at night?”
He ran his hand over his forehead. “At this point, I have no idea. I’ve checked out of my motel, but I’m sure they’d take me back.”
“Work quits about five, so if you can stand the chill and the possibility of a cold shower—and if you don’t mind the occasional ghost—I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here. Just don’t try cooking on that stove.”
“Buddy warned me about that.” He glanced at her. “What ghosts?”
“All old Southern mansions have ghosts.” She laughed. “Let’s see.” She began to tick off on her fingers. “There’s Deirdre Delaney who died in the last really big yellow-fever epidemic. She’s supposed to sit on the bottom step and cry.” She lifted a second finger. “Then there’s Paul Adam—the son of the man who built the house. It’s very confusing that every generation names the first son Paul. Fortunately each generation has a middle name starting with the next letter of the alphabet. That’s the only way to tell them apart.”
“So Trey’s real name is?”
“Paul Edward. He prefers Trey. Anyway, Paul Barrett is supposed to clank chains like Morley because he was such a nasty old miser in life.”
“People have actually seen these ghosts?”
“To hear them tell it.”
“Are those all the ghosts?”
“Not by a long shot. Let’s see. Great-uncle Conrad’s son David—he was actually Paul David, but nobody ever called him that.” She must have caught his expression because she said, “Hey, are you okay? I don’t really believe in ghosts, you know.”
“I’m not upset. Tell me about your uncle David.”
“My gram could tell you more. He died when I was pretty young, so I’m not certain how much I really remember and how much comes from Gram. I do remember that he was the sweetest, gentlest, saddest man I ever knew, when he was sober, that is. Toward the end of his life he wasn’t sober very often.”
Paul had no desire to hear about what a sweet, gentle man his father had been. He would have preferred the kind of ogre he’d dreamed of for years. He fought to keep his breathing even and his fingers from tightening into fists.
“So why would he haunt this place?” Because he killed somebody here, Paul answered his own question silently.
“He wanted to be a painter and live in Paris, but of course that wasn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because the family needed him,” Ann said as though it was the most obvious reason in the world. “When his daddy had a heart attack, he called Uncle David home. He never went back to Paris. I think that’s why he was sad. And probably why he drank like a fish and rode like a madman.”
“Rode what?”
“Horses, of course. The Delaneys have always been masters of the local hunt. I can remember my first few hunts when I was still riding my pony. I was certain the sweet old uncle David I knew couldn’t possibly be the crazy man in the pink coat flying over the fields screaming like a banshee. Not that I knew what a banshee was at the time, of course.”
This was more like it. “So he liked blood sports, did he?”
Ann laughed at him. “Foxhunting the way we do it down here is not a blood sport. We never ever kill anything—well, not foxes or coyotes, at any rate. We don’t have such a great track record with people.”
Paul struggled to remain calm. “What…what do you mean?”
Ann laughed again. “I’m joking.”
Paul nodded. “But this Uncle David chased innocent foxes?”
“Sure. But the foxes seem to enjoy it. They actually sit out in the fields and wait for hounds. I swear they can tell when it’s Wednesday or Saturday. I’ve hunted since I was five years old and I have never seen a drop of blood drawn from any animal we chased. When the foxes get tired, they go to ground and leave hounds baying and frustrated. And of course the coyotes can outrun hounds any time they feel like it. It’s a big game and an excuse to go yee-hawing over the fields on a horse. Do you ride? You can come along in second field if you’d like.”
“What’s second field?”
“The old fogeys’ field. A nice quiet trail ride with no fences to jump and no pressure. We also have carriages that follow along sometimes. You can ride in one of them if you like. We hunt until the farmers put the crops in.”
“I’ve never been on a horse in my life and don’t plan to start now, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
“We’ve gotten rather far afield from your uncle David.”
“I thought we’d finished with him.”
“And why he’s a ghost.”
“He’s not, of course. But if there were ghosts, he’d be a good candidate. So sad in life. As though he searched for something he never found.” She shook her head. “Then if you want a tough ghost, there’s Aunt Maribelle, his mother. If she turned ghost, you’d know about it for sure. In life, there was never anything shy about Aunt Maribelle. So as a ghost I’m sure if she wanted you out of here, she’d find a way to boot your behind down the front steps.”
“Let’s hope she doesn’t want me out.”
“Probably happy to have you.” She checked her watch. “Oops. Buddy’ll kill me if I don’t get back to work.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve covered the mural in the dining room so it won’t collect any more dust, and I’ve started stripping the overmantel in the music room. The goo should be just about ready to remove. Want to see what’s under the layers?”
“Certainly.”
“Okay. Come on.”
As he followed her down the stairs, he asked, “Do you know what sort of chandelier hung up there?” He pointed to the elaborate boss surrounding the hanging lightbulb.
“Sure. A big old brass thing that originally used gas—the first house in Rossiter to have it, by the way.”
“You wouldn’t know who bought it, would you?”
“No clue, but if I know Trey Delaney, he’s got meticulous records on every purchase from the estate sale, even piddly little stuff like the things I bought.”
Excellent. The perfect entrée to introduce himself to Trey Delaney.
He watched Ann’s heavily gloved hands meticulously remove layers of black varnish from the relief on the over-mantel. She used what looked like dental instruments to get into the cracks and crevices.
He was definitely in the way.
Even Buddy in his trips from basement to Dumpster hardly did more than nod at him. He finally sat on the fourth step of the staircase and merely watched.
He’d about decided to leave when a tall, slim woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a turtleneck sweater strode in the front door. Her hair was short and snow-white,