“Yes.”
It was his turn to draw in a breath then exhale. “I think it was someone very mortal. I’m not discounting that there’s a—a haunting, for lack of a better term. But if you’re thinking poltergeist or something likethat—”
She was already shaking her head. “No, I don’t think it’s a poltergeist. Just a plain old unsettled, unhappy ghost. The closest thing to a pubescent girl around here is Stephanie, and she’s only been here that once for our interview. That’s the way the poltergeists manifest, right? Through hormonal, pubescent—and troubled—younggirls.”
“That’s what they say,” he replied. Now it was his turn to glance up the stairs. Then he looked at her. “Whether or not there’s really a ghost, I think this mess was made by a person who thinks there’s something hidden here. That old legend about Red Eye Sal—I’m assuming you’ve heard aboutit.”
“Yes, I have. I’m pretty sure those jewels in the paintings in the speakeasy are the ones of legend. There was a topaz necklace that definitely existed—it was stolen about thirty years ago from a high school girl after herprom.”
Declan frowned. “I think I remember hearing about that. A friend of mine’s brother use to tease us about going into the woods at night, telling us that was where a girl got strangled orsomething.”
Leslie shivered, suddenly very cold. Her fingers felt like ice. All at once, everything felt so repressive here in this unsettled foyer, with the open speakeasy doorway leading down into darkness, and the place in shambles—a sign of ugliness and violation. It struck her so sharply that she felt a nauseating chill and eerie, hair-raisingsensation.
She glanced toward the top of the stairs and stilled. Her breath caught, and she grabbed blindly for Declan. Was that a faint light? Somethingshimmering?
“Leslie?”
She exhaled. Nothing was there. Or…whatever had been there, ever so faint, was gone. “Let’s sit down,” she said, and abruptly turned. The kitchen, she hoped, would be more inviting. At least it washerplace, her space: rebuilt, reconditioned, and stamped with her own intention andcaring.
“You’re going to call the police now, right? Joe Longbow is the chief, and he’s a really goodguy.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” She made good on her words, sitting at the sturdy kitchen table—thank God whoever broke in hadn’t dared to inflict damage on her beautifultable.
Declan had gone to the fridge—the stainless steel side-by-side big enough to hold a horse—and opened it. “Beer? Or do you have wine—or even better, whiskey? Might be just what you need. A little toddy in your tea.” He glanced around to give her a reassuring grin, but before she could respond, the police station answered her call and she had to give it her fullattention.
To her shock and utter embarrassment, as Leslie began to form the words “My house was broken into,” her voice stretched and broke, and she felt tears burn the back of her throat. It was as if by saying the words, it had become permanent. Real. Inescapable.Someone had come into herhome.
But by the time she finished the call, her tones were firmly back to confident business mode. She felt a little foolish for showing such weakness at the beginning, but then again…she’d been violated. Her home, her space, her world had beenviolated.
“Try this.” Declan set a cup in front of her. It was steaming, and it smelled really good—of cinnamon and cardamom, honey, and some very strong liquor. “I—uh—used one of those chai tea things for your coffee maker, and added a good dollop of whiskey and honey andlemon.”
Leslie took a sip, and her eyes widened. It was good. Really good. And the whiskey…it burned delicately through her body, having the immediate effect of relaxing her. It was almost as warm and luscious as Declan’s kisses. The thought of that added desperately needed warmth and pleasure to themoment.
“I took the liberty of calling your aunt,” he said, leaning against the island. He had a longneck in his large, freckled hand, and Leslie felt a spark of affection that he’d made her a fancy drink and settled for his own twist-off beer. “She’s comingover.”
“I’ll bet she is,” Leslie said wryly, and took another fortifyingsip.
“Listen, Leslie…I hate to bring this up, but…Baxter’s article about you and the bed and breakfast. That was publishedbeforewe found thespeakeasy.”
She nodded slowly. “I know. Obviously whoever broke in here knew about it—where it was. How to find it. Which could be good or bad, I guess,” she said, heaving a sigh. “Good in that it would limit the intruder to being someone in a defined group—someone who heard about the hidden room within the last day or two. Bad because…well…”
“Yeah.” He drummed one set of fingers on the granite island. “So who knew about it? Besides me, of course.” His grin was a little crooked, but his eyes were serious. “And I didn’t mention it to anyone except Baxter, just casually—and that was tonight, while we were up in the press box during the second half of the game. And our other friend, Ethan Murphy, who was in from Chicago for the weekend.” Declanfrowned.
So he’d been talking about her to Baxter James, had he? Leslie’s whiskey-softened thoughts swam into a contented little cove and nestled there as she drank again from the spiked tea. Then she was dashed with cold water and brought abruptly back to the ugliness athand.
“Who knew about it? Well, Aunt Cherry and Orbra, of course. And Iva and probably her main squeeze Hollis,” she added. “And iftheyknow, Maxine and Juanita probably do as well. The Underwhites and Trib. They were all there when I was telling Cherry and Orbra about it—the day you and I found it. Later that night we were all at Trib’s.” She frowned. “I can’t think of anyone—oh, wait. JohnFischer.”
“Right. The famous writer. Maybe. Do you really think it’s him? Here in WicksHollow?”
“That’s what the rumor is, but I can’t find a picture of him online anywhere. Yes, I looked,” she added with an unabashed grin. “Anyway, he and Iva came over today, to look at the speakeasy—so they actually saw how I opened up the door and went down.” Leslie bit her lip. “A famous writer wouldn’t jeopardize his career by breaking into a house, would he? Plus, why would he need the gems anyway—he’s got to be doing pretty well with all those movie deals and a new release everyyear.”
“Right,” he said very casually. “Was there anyone else here at the time who might have seen the opening to the speakeasy? Any contractors? The UPS guy—did he deliver your light fixture?Anyone?”
She shook her head. “No. Even Iva’s boyfriend Hollis didn’t come—not that I would suspect them for even a minute. Iva’s all about the ghosts and Hollis only cares about his law firm—andher.”
Declan looked as if he were about to say something else, but just then they heard the sound of crunching gravel. Light scanned the parking area outside the kitchen window as the police car came around the driveway bend and turned to park next to Declan’scar.
Leslie stood and went to meet the police. As she opened the door, something moved—streaking from the door to around the house. It took her a moment to realize it had been the butterscotch cat—but only after she swallowed her heart back intoplace.
