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“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Are you sure you’ll be right alone?”
“Yes, thanks. We’ll, um, be in touch.”
“Thank you,” he said with a nod.
Awkwardly, she started up her front walk. She knew he was watching her, and when she fit her key into the door, she turned around to wave. He waved back, then got into his car and eased out onto the street.
Inside the house, she closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She’d wanted to be alone.
Now she didn’t.
But she walked in and dug out her phone before tossing her purse on the sofa and sitting down next to it. She had to start returning calls.
But even as she decided that she had to call her mother first and then the board and her coworkers, the silence in the house seemed to weigh down on her. She got up and turned on the television. A news station was playing, with a reporter standing in front of the hospital. Mr. Dixon’s strange fall into a coma was being added to the tragic news about musician and tour guide Julian Mitchell.
She changed the channel. The speculation on the “evil” within the house on news stations struck her as overkill.
With a comedy repeat keeping her company, she looked at all the calls she’d ignored while she was with Tyler Montague. She called her parents, who’d gone to their home in Arizona for a few weeks, and made a point of being calm and sad and completely in control. As much as she adored her mom and dad, she didn’t want them coming back here because they were worried about her.
They’d met Julian a few times and offered their condolences, but when they questioned her safety, she made it sound as if the media were going wild—which they were—and described what had happened as a tragic accident. She assured her mother that as a Revolution-era woman or even as Lucy Tarleton, she didn’t carry a musket with a bayonet.
Next she spoke to Nathan Pierson. She told him she was fine, and he promised he’d be there for anything she needed with the police or the house. He’d talk to the rest of the board, too. She didn’t have to call anyone else, he said; she should just relax.
Nathan was the easiest member of board to deal with. He was a good-looking man who had never married. She wasn’t close enough to ask him if there was a long-lost love for whom he pined, but if so, it didn’t seem to affect his dating life. At various functions, she’d seen him with different women, all of them beautiful and elegant. He was unfailingly polite and courteous to her. Sometimes he teased her, claiming that he was waiting for her to notice him and ignore the age discrepancy; he teased a lot of people, though, and he had a way of making his words sound like a compliment rather than licentious.
He was the solid rock of the board, in Allison’s opinion. Ethan Oxford was like a distant grandfather, Sarah was like the family old-maid aunt—even though she’d been married. She was high-strung. And Cherry was…Cherry. She always considered herself a cut above the rest of the world.
Allison was grateful that Nathan was going to speak with the other board members, but she did have to call Jason Lawrence and Annette Fanning.
Jason still seemed stunned by the whole thing. She told him about the attic but said they were keeping that information from the media.
He, too, wanted to make sure she was okay.
After that she called Annette.
Annette was smart and fun and usually logical, so Allison was shocked by the tremor in her friend’s voice and the view she seemed to be taking of the situation.
“It’s not surprising, is it? Oh, Allison, I thank God for that root canal, and I never thought I’d say that. I wonder what happened. Did Julian freak out? One toke too many? But he’s never been out of it at work. That’s just the heavy-metal image he likes to portray. It’s the house, Allison. It terrifies me! I can always feel it when I’m there, like…like the house itself is breathing. I mean, when you’re out on the street, the windows seem like eyes, watching you. Maybe so much evil did happen there and it continues, on and on. Like something malevolent that waits and—”
“Annette! No! The house is a pile of brick and wood and stone. It’s a house. Horrible things take place everywhere. We go through life grateful when they don’t happen to us, and either sad or broken when they do.”
“Well, I for one am glad they’re closing it down. No, wait—do we get unemployment or anything? I’m out of a job! I don’t think they’ll be able to pay us—there won’t be any money coming into the house without the tours.”
“We’re not out of work, Annette. They’re closing it temporarily for an investigation. I’m sure they’ll provide us with some kind of compensation.”
“The house needs an exorcism!”
“No, Annette, it doesn’t. The house isn’t possessed. Or evil. And if the house could feel anything, it would be grateful to us for keeping it alive. Annette—”
“Ohhhhh,” Annette broke in. “You have another job. I don’t. In fact, you have a cool job, a real job. You’re a professor.”
“Annette, you do have a real job. The house will open again. It’ll just be closed for a few weeks. They’ll shore up the alarm system, and we’ll be bombarded when we reopen because people are ghoulish and they’ll want to stare at the place where Julian died. Besides, you work at the tavern as a singing waitress sometimes.”
“Yeah, thank God! I was there last night. I went for a drink after my root canal and to hang with some of my friends. I can ask for a few more nights.”
“The house won’t be closed that long.”
“Are you alone? Oh! You’re not still at the police station, are you?”
“No.”
“I saw some government guy on the news—not an interview, just a shot of him talking to the police. The U.S. government is in on this, Allison. It’s scary, scary. But, hey, have you met him? My God, he’s gorgeous! Whoops, excuse me, Barrie heard that. Barrie, he’s not as gorgeous as you, just, um, pretty gorgeous!”
“Annette, pay attention. Those guys are here because of Adam Harrison. You know, the nice elderly gentleman who’s been to a few functions at the house.”
“I remember him. Maybe there is going to be an exorcism! I heard that his people look into strange stuff. Like paranormal events.”
“Annette, if Barrie’s there and has the day off, please go and spend some time with him.”
“What kind of friend do you think I am? I’ll be right there—”
“No, no, please! I’m fine by myself. I’m going to try to get some rest. Okay?”
Annette was silent. “I’m not sure you should be alone.”
“Annette, I’m fine. I promise. I’m going to curl up on the couch and try to doze off.”
“Call if you need me, Ally. I can be there in five minutes.”
“I will,” Allison said. “Thanks.”
She was able to hang up at last. Setting the phone down, she rose and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She really hoped she could doze off for a while, and hot tea and an inane comedy on TV should help her quell some of the thoughts and images racing through her mind.
She loved her new pod machine; a cup of English Breakfast tea brewed as swiftly as a cup of coffee. Mug in hand, she left the kitchen and came around the counter—and froze.
She wasn’t alone in the house. There was someone sitting in the chair by the sofa.
A dark-haired young man in Colonial dress.
It was Julian Mitchell.
She blinked.
He was still there.
The cup fell from her hand. She heard it shatter on the tile floor.
Then she followed it down. She was vaguely aware that a few body parts hurt but not for long.
Mercifully, the world went black as she passed out cold.
4
Tyler stood in the attic of the Tarleton-Dandridge House looking at the disarray.
Someone had been searching—for what?
He wanted to straighten up the room; it was far easier to figure out what was missing when everything else was in the right place. He’d need to involve others with that, which he didn’t want to do quite yet. He’d had offers from the board to come in and help, but he’d turned them down. He’d actually lied to Nathan Pierson, telling him he preferred to wait until he was sure the police were finished with their forensics before bringing anyone else in.
The police were finished. And after speaking with Detective Jenson, he knew they weren’t expecting to find anything useful, unless by some unlikely chance they were to lift foreign prints—those not associated with the four guides or the board members, whose prints they’d already taken. If they were really lucky, they’d come up with prints belonging to someone with a criminal record.
He wanted to work with Allison Leigh for the obvious reasons. She was the one who’d found the body and who knew this house backward and forward, along with the history. He’d gone through the biographies and résumés of the employees and the board, and there was no one better qualified to help him than Allison. She was in denial right now; he assumed that would change.
So far, although he had a sense of being watched in the house, Tyler hadn’t seen a single movement, felt a brush of cold air or even heard an old board creak.
The house was waiting—or those within it were. Waiting and watching.
He left the attic and walked back down to the second floor, taking a few minutes to go into every room. He’d been glad to hear from Nathan Pierson that there was no plan by the board to give up the house. It was on the national historic register, of course, so there was virtually no threat that it would be bulldozed. Meticulously restored, the Tarleton-Dandridge House was one of the finest examples of early Americana he’d ever seen. It would be a shame if it was closed to the public to become the offices of an accounting agency or a bank.
Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look at the painting of Beast Bradley.
Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in youth.
Interesting.
Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many young women, dressed as Lucy, might look like the long-gone heroine.
Tyler stood very still, allowing himself to feel the house.
Again he experienced the sensation of being watched, but there were no sounds from the old place, nor did he see anything or notice any drafts.
He headed down to the study where he’d left his briefcase with his computer and the records Adam had arranged for him to receive.
They recorded many instances of normal life and death—many births had taken place in the house, although sadly two of the mothers had died in childbirth. A number of people had died in their beds of natural causes, one Dandridge at the grand old age of a hundred and five.
During the War of 1812, Sophia Tarleton-Dandridge and her husband had owned the house; they’d taken in a wounded soldier and he had passed away. He was buried with the family in the graveyard behind the stables. A family friend had come to the house after the Battle of Gettysburg. He was also buried in the family graveyard.
Sad and tragic deaths due to warfare, Tyler thought. Not unexpected and not the kind of thing that would produce anything terrible.
But then, Beast Bradley had been the terror that touched the house....
Looking further into the family history, Tyler saw that another death had been that of a young Dandridge girl in 1863. He wondered if she’d been in love with the Civil War soldier who’d died. She’d taken rat poison and killed herself soon after his death.
He shuddered. Hard way to die, rat poison.
And another hard way to die—a bayonet through the chin. He tried to imagine how it had happened. Julian had sat down, his musket held between his legs. He’d leaned forward and set the soft flesh behind his jawbone on the blade of the bayonet. Then he’d lowered his head with enough force for the blade to go through that soft flesh and his throat? It seemed almost impossible.
Unless he’d been helped.
Fascinating though the historical events were, Tyler was more interested in Julian’s death and the deaths of people who had died closer to the present. There’d been several of those, starting in the late 1970s.
One of the docents, Bill Hall, had been found at the foot of the staircase. While closing up at night, he’d apparently tripped and fallen down the stairs, landing at an angle that had snapped his neck.
Eight years ago, a college student, Sam Daily, had told friends he was going to break into a historic house and rearrange a few items as a joke. It hadn’t gone so well; he’d tried to dismantle the alarm and a wire had shorted out, sending electric volts shooting through him. He’d been discovered on the ground near the back door the following morning.
Tragically the joke had been on him.
Just three years ago, another of the older docents or tour guides, Angela Wilson, had been found dead in Tarleton’s study. She’d been sitting in the same chair, in the same position, as Julian Mitchell. She had died of a massive heart attack.
One death from a fall, one from electrocution and one from what might well be a perfectly natural cause for someone of Angela’s age, a heart attack.
And now a man dead of a bayonet shoved through his throat—as if he’d set his own chin atop it for the blade to run through.
Tyler drummed his fingers on the desk.
He was here because of Adam Harrison. Adam had a love of and connection to various historic properties. Technically, the Krewes were Adam’s teams, so they went where Adam Harrison requested they go. Everything that had happened here could have been natural or accidental.
But Adam had a knack of knowing when things weren’t right.
Add in the trashing of the small office in the attic….
Someone had been looking for something. What? And why?
And how did any of it relate to the fact that Artie Dixon was in a coma?
Tyler pulled out his cell phone and called Logan Raintree, one of his best friends, a fellow Ranger at one time, and now the head of their unit.
“Is it something—or nothing?” Logan asked. “Do you need the rest of the Krewe?”
“Something,” Tyler said. “And yes. I’d like you to come here.”
“Any idea as to what’s going on?”
“Nope. But the house has been closed down for the interim. I think we should set up here.”
“We’ll be in tomorrow night,” Logan promised him.
Tyler hung up and put through another call. When he reached Adam Harrison, he asked about keys to the attic.
“The board members all have a key, and so does Allison. There’s also a key in the small pantry or storage room, where the employees have their lockers and keep their street clothing. It’s always hung on a peg there.”
“Is the pantry locked during the day?” Tyler asked.
“No, not from what I understand. The employees slip in and out when they have a break or need to get to their own belongings. No member of the public goes into the house without a docent or tour guide, and they’ve never had trouble before.”
“I’ll see if that key is still in place, but a lot of people have keys. They could have been used—or copied at a previous date.”
