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Jonas shook his head in bemusement. “Beats me why anyone would want to be scared, even a little. But then there’s no accounting for tastes and that’s a fact.”
“It’s also one of the first premises of any advertising campaign. Now then, Mr.... What did you say your name was?”
“Didn’t. You can just call me Jonas. Captain Jonas Middlebury.”
Role immersion, Cassie thought in approval. “What we need, Jonas, is for you to put in an appearance most days for a few hours and judiciously allow yourself to be seen once. At most, twice. We don’t want to saturate the market and destroy our credibility.”
“Do you speak English, gal?” Jonas frowned at her. “Didn’t understand a blamed thing you said. Ain’t natural for a woman to talk like that.”
“Don’t get too far into the nineteenth century,” Cassie said dryly. “Some modern woman is liable to strangle you. What I meant was that I don’t want you to show yourself too often because people won’t believe it.”
“They’ll believe in me,” Jonas stated with a conviction Cassie found heartening. “I’ll give you good value.”
“What do you charge?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.” Jonas scratched his beard reflectively. “Haven’t got much use for money, being a ghost and all.” He shot a covetous glance at the freshly baked raspberry tarts sitting on the counter. “But now food, that’s another matter.”
“Ghosts don’t eat.” Cassie couldn’t resist pointing out the flaw in his logic.
“Don’t know about ghosts in general, but this ghost eats.” He inched a little closer to the tarts.
Cassie found herself smiling at him. He was such an interesting mixture of belligerence and charm. “How about if we say five dollars an hour and all the food you can eat?”
“Deal.” He sat down at the kitchen table, still staring at the pastries. “Starting now.”
“Starting now,” Cassie agreed, well pleased with their bargain. Jonas was absolutely perfect for the role. She couldn’t have done better if the real Jonas Middlebury himself had materialized. She scooped a tart onto a plate and then, at his hopeful expression, added a second.
Yes. Things were definitely shaping up. This was going to be a very interesting vacation, she thought happily. Anything was possible with a ghost in the kitchen and Dan Travis in an upstairs bedroom.
Two
Dan unlocked the door to Room Fourteen and pushed his bag through with his foot, wincing when his leg protested the jerky movement.
He absently rubbed the healing flesh of his abused thigh as he looked around for the phone. He located it on the maple nightstand beside the king-size, white iron bedstead.
Gingerly, he sank down on the antique blue-and-white Irish-chain quilt, sighing when the pain in his leg eased. He wiggled slightly, finding the most comfortable position on the firm mattress and then reached for the phone. The sooner he let Harry know he’d arrived, the sooner he could find out exactly what his assignment in this godforsaken corner of the New Hampshire coast was.
To his surprise, Harry himself answered, and on the first ring. It was almost as if he’d been sitting at his desk waiting for the call.
“You all right, Travis?” Harry demanded.
Dan smiled at the impatient tone. He could almost see the man’s bushy mustache quivering.
“Careful, you’re starting to sound more like a mother hen than a hard-boiled newspaper editor,” Dan said.
“I asked you if you were all right?” The volume of Harry’s voice went up considerably. Dan shifted the phone to his other ear.
“Of course I’m all right. New York to New Hampshire is hardly a suicide run.”
“I know, but...”
“But what?” Dan asked curiously. “Suppose you tell me exactly what this earth-shattering news story that only I could cover is?”
“Well...actually, I sent you to New Hampshire to avoid a story.”
Dan frowned at the delicate floral prints hanging on the wall above the bed. “Harry, have you been drinking?”
“No, dammit! I’ve been thinking.”
“Which might turn out to be every bit as dangerous in the long run,” Dan said dryly.
“This is serious,” Harry replied slowly. “You remember those articles you wrote on Buczek last month while you were still in the hospital?”
“Termite Buczek is not the kind of vermin one is likely to forget.”
“Yeah, well, he’s about to become even more memorable. The district attorney has decided to ask a federal grand jury for an indictment against him on racketeering charges. Directly as a result of your articles.”
“Score one for our side.”
Harry’s sigh sounded across the phone line. “As long as that score doesn’t come with a body count.”
Dan’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Meaning exactly what?”
“Meaning that Buczek has aspirations. Aspirations that you have just put a nasty crimp in, and he is not a forgiving man. The word on the street is that he’s put out a contract on you.” Harry finally got to the point.
Dan sagged back against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed as a feeling of utter exhaustion washed over him. Ten years ago, even five, he’d have found the news that his articles had upset a crook to that extent exhilarating. He’d have relished the challenge of pitting his wits against a hired assassin. But now...
He shifted restlessly, wincing as a sharp pain shot up his thigh.
“Hell!” Harry exploded in frustration. “You haven’t even healed from the last attempt on your life.”
Dan’s lips lifted in a grim caricature of a smile. “Ah, but there was nothing personal in that attack. They were simply firing at the UN convoy, and I just happened to be in the truck that took a direct hit.” He snorted. “Nothing personal at all. I was just caught up in the generalized hatred that mankind spreads around.”
“Careful, my friend. You’re beginning to sound like a cynic.”
He was beginning to feel like one, too, Dan thought uneasily. Somehow he was finding it increasingly difficult to care very much about the corruption and graft that he was continually uncovering. Exposing it didn’t seem to help. It simply went on and on. Only the names and nationalities of the victims changed.
“Thanks for the warning, Harry,” he finally said. “But as for hiding out up here, I have never run from a two-bit thug before, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“Think, man. The stories you normally write are about international upheavals. The people you expose can’t get to you because by the time your stories appear in print you’re out of their country. This is one of the few times you’ve done a story about corruption in the States.”
“Yes, but—”
“No, dammit!” Harry interrupted harshly. “Last year I let Addison talk me out of his going into hiding until we could find out who was behind those death threats he was receiving. He swore he could take care of himself. They fished his body out of the East River two days later. I had to sit there at his funeral and listen while his wife and kids sobbed hysterically. Not again!” He was yelling. “Not ever again.”
But that wouldn’t be the case again. The unpalatable truth hit Dan with the force of a blow. There wasn’t anyone Harry would have to comfort if Buczek killed him. There wasn’t anyone who would weep hysterically over his coffin. A hard knot twisted painfully in his chest. There was not one single person in the whole world who would feel that his life had been shattered because he was dead. A numbing sensation began to spread through him. He had friends. Lots of friends who would be sad to think that he was no longer alive. But they would continue their own lives with barely an interruption and he would disappear into a void. As if he’d never lived. He felt stiff and chilled at the thought.
“This time we’ll do what I think is right,” Harry ordered. “China View is a perfect place for you to lie low while we try to find out whether Buczek is serious about hiring a hit man or merely bluffing to try to save face. Thank God you use your first name in your byline instead of the one everyone knows you by.”
“God had nothing to do with it. It was my youthful sense of self-importance. Leland sounded so much more worthy of a Pulitzer Prize than just plain Dan.” Dan grimaced at the memory. Seventeen years separated him from the young, idealistic college graduate he’d been then. Seventeen years filled with covering man’s inhumanities to man. A lifetime of seeing things that no one should ever have to know even existed, let alone deal with. He swallowed at the metallic taste of hopelessness that coated his mouth.
Maybe it was time for a long vacation away from it all. And this place did have its compensations. An image of Cassie’s bright face popped into his mind.
“You did remember to use cash, didn’t you?” Harry demanded.
“Yes, Harry,” Dan said soothingly. “I know all about tracing people through their credit-card purchases. And your contact was waiting at the airport in Portsmouth with the rental car just like you said he’d be.”
“You be careful, you hear?” Harry thundered. “Get yourself killed and, by God, you’re fired!”
Dan unexpectedly laughed. “I think firing me under those circumstances would come under the heading of the absolute, final straw. Call the minute you hear anything. Goodbye, Harry,” he said and then hung up.
“Goodbye, Harry,” Dan repeated as he got to his feet and walked over to the window. “Goodbye, New York. Goodbye, murder and mayhem.” He took a deep breath of the salt-laden air drifting through the sheer white curtains. “And hello possibilities.”
A smile unconsciously lifted his lips. The most intriguing possibility he’d seen so far was meeting him downstairs in—he glanced at his watch—right about now. He hurried toward the door, his movements awkward in his haste. She might think he’d changed his mind and not wait for him if he were late.
He found her sitting in a gorgeous vintage car in front of the inn.
“Where did you get a Packard in mint condition?” Dan asked reverently as he slowly circled the car, admiring it from every angle.
“My aunt bought it back in 1939.”
“And she still has it?”
Cassie grinned at him. “It still works.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting your aunt,” he said as he got into the passenger seat.
Cassie shifted gears and accelerated down the steep driveway with the casualness of long practice. “Forget it,” she said, having no trouble interpreting the covetous gleam in his eye. “My father has been trying to get his hands on this car for as long as I can remember, with absolutely no success. Although she did threaten to sell it to a collector in Portsmouth last year when they raised her collision rates again. What does your insurance company charge for vintage cars?”
Dan blinked. “What?”
“You said you were in insurance. What do you charge?”
“Um, we don’t handle car insurance. We mostly do large commercial buildings and the like,” he answered, improvising hastily. He should have claimed to be an author, he realized with the wisdom of hindsight. Something that didn’t have a body of knowledge that he should know.
“I see,” Cassie murmured, wondering whether to believe him or not. He could be telling the truth. Large commercial buildings did have insurance, so someone had to sell it to them. And it was possible that he wouldn’t know much about the rest of the industry. So why did she have the nagging feeling that she was being lied to? And what would be his purpose? He didn’t even know her. Maybe he was just an inept insurance man, she decided, glancing at him sideways as she turned onto the rugged coast road.
He was surreptitiously rubbing his palm over his right thigh, as if trying to massage a pain that was bone deep. A pain that he refused to give in to. Instead, he’d come with her. She would have expected a man with that kind of dogged determination to be a very knowledgeable insurance agent who knew all the ins and outs of the business.
But then, she didn’t really know him, she reminded herself. Despite the inexplicable sense of recognition she’d felt when she’d first seen him, she didn’t really know him. But perhaps she would by the time her vacation was over. The possibility lent a happy sense of anticipation to her thoughts.
The ride into Levington took only twenty minutes, despite the abysmal condition of the road.
“My God, don’t they ever fix the potholes?” Dan gasped as she swerved perilously near the side of the road to avoid a particularly bad one. He peered out the window, his eyes widening as he calculated the sheer drop off the cliff to the shore below. “You were right to be concerned about insurance,” he muttered. “Sooner or later you’re going to need it. Or your survivors will.”
“It’s not that bad. No one’s ever tumbled off that drop yet. At least, not sober they haven’t,” she amended. “One can’t eliminate all of the dangers in life.”
“No.” The curtly spoken word held a bitterness out of all proportion to her casual comment. “And that, I take it, is the town of Levington?” Dan gestured toward the buildings that had came into view.
“Uh-huh. We’ll stop by the newspaper office first.” Cassie decided to start her rumors of ghost sightings there.
“Newspaper?” Dan frowned as she parked in front of a small, redbrick building, trying to decide what the chances of his being recognized by the staff were. Slim, he finally concluded. He had never used a picture with his stories and they’d be highly unlikely to connect Dan Travis who walked in off the street with Leland Travis, Pulitzer Prize winner. Besides, for him to suddenly refuse to go into the newspaper office would be bound to make Cassie suspicious of him. Something he didn’t want to do.
“It’s a pretty good little paper, even if it is only a weekly.” Cassie climbed out of the car. “Ed Veach has run it for as long as I can remember.”
“It must be nice to publish a weekly.” Dan looked around curiously as he followed her into the building. “Just local news, with a minimum of carnage.”
Cassie shot him a curious glance, wondering at the wistful tone in his voice, but before she could think of a way to phrase a question, she caught sight of Ed coming out of the storeroom in the back and hurried over to him.
“Ed, I have something I want to talk to you about,” she said.
He eyed her suspiciously. “Whatever good cause you’re selling raffle tickets for, I don’t want any.”
“I’m not selling anything,” she told him.
Ed opened his eyes in mock surprise. “Will wonders never cease! You’ve actually come to buy some advertising?”
“No, not that either. Ed, this is Dan Travis, who’s a guest at the inn. Dan, this cynic is Ed Veach.”
Ed automatically shook the hand Dan held out. He stared intently into Dan’s face for a long, puzzled moment, and then his mouth fell open. “Say, aren’t you—”
“I’m Dan Travis, an insurance agent from New York City.”
Cassie blinked, taken aback at the tone of Dan’s voice. It had gone from casual pleasantness to... She peered uncertainly at him. For a moment he had sounded capable of... Of what? She scoffed at her imagination.
“Certainly, certainly. My mistake. Insurance, you say?” Ed continued with a knowing smile that made Cassie feel as if she’d missed something. “I’ll bet you use lots of computers in the insurance business, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Dan said cautiously. “I would imagine most businesses these days are heavily into computers one way or another.”
“You may not know this, Cassie—” Ed turned to her “—but we have a school bond issue coming up next month to raise money to buy computers for the kids.”
“That’s nice,” Cassie murmured, having no interest whatsoever in it. She had more than enough to worry about with her aunt’s vacancy problem.
“It occurs to me, Dan, that you might be willing to write a guest editorial for me,” Ed said blandly. “Something along the lines of a businessman telling the voters why it would be a good idea to educate their children to compete in the twenty-first-century job market.”
Cassie blinked, surprised at Ed’s request. Her surprise grew at Dan’s response. Instead of politely declining, as she would have expected, he gave Ed a rueful grin and muttered, “I’d love to.”
“Good. Good.” Ed rubbed his hands together in gleeful enthusiasm. “Now then—” he turned again to Cassie “—if you aren’t selling and you aren’t buying, why are you here?”
“I want your opinion.” She tried to inject an uncertain note into her voice. “Being a newspaperman for as long as you have, I imagine you’ve seen it all, and the most extraordinary thing happened yesterday. I saw something on the back stairs, and then again in the attic.” She shuddered and paused, giving the tension time to build.
“Spit it out, woman,” Ed ordered.
“If I believed in ghosts,” Cassie said hoarsely, “I’d say I saw the ghost of Jonas Middlebury.”
“The ghost of—” Ed sputtered to a halt. “How do you know it was him?”
“Whatever I saw looked exactly like Jonas Middlebury was supposed to have looked, and since he died a hundred and fifty years ago...” Cassie allowed her voice to trail away suggestively.
