The Haunting of Josie (2 page)

“Have a seat,” Josie invited, gesturing toward one of the stools at the breakfast bar. She went to the counter beside the sink, where her percolator was already set out with the bag of coffee. There were several boxes on the counter containing her kitchen things, and a number of dry goods stacked here and there ready to be put away in the pantry; she had already unpacked perishable groceries earlier and placed the food in the refrigerator.

“I meant to tell you before,” she commented. “This is a great house.”

“Thanks, I think so. Plenty of character. It was in pretty good shape when I bought it a few years ago,” he offered, taking a stool at the bar. “Structurally, anyway. It was built back when houses were intended to stand for a hundred years.”

Josie filled the percolator and set it up, looking over at him curiously. “You said this place had belonged to your family since it was built?”

“Yes—though it hasn’t been lived in for any length of time since Luke Westbrook’s death.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think anybody had the nerve at first; the house was probably closed up for a good ten years or so after his younger brother—my grandfather—inherited it. Since then, it’s been mostly used as a summer house, and passed fairly rapidly from hand to hand until I bought it from an uncle.”

Josie turned and leaned back against the counter, frowning slightly. “Wait a minute. You don’t think anybody had the nerve to live here? Have I missed something?”

“Mmm. The realtor told me there were things tenants had no need to know, but…” He eyed her, a slight smile playing about his mouth. “Do you spook easily?”

“Not so far.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Out with it. I’ve leased a haunted house?”

Marc shook his head. “Nothing so colorful, I’m afraid. I stayed here during quite a few summers while I was a kid, and I can tell you there was never so much as a creaking floorboard or the rattle of a ghostly chain to disturb the night—to the intense disappointment of my cousins and myself. No, it’s human tragedy rather than the supernatural, but quite a few people are either spooked by it—or squeamish. Luke Westbrook committed suicide here in 1944.”

She winced. “How?”

“Shot himself. In that front parlor. At the time it was his study.”

Great. Just where I plan to work.
But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead she said, “I knew who he was, of course; I love mysteries, and I’ve read most of his books. But I had no idea he’d killed himself.”

“It was a hell of a story in those days, and got worldwide coverage even with the war going on,” Marc said musingly. “He was fairly young—in his late thirties—and a very successful mystery writer.”

“Then why did he kill himself?”

“According to the note he left, he was convinced he couldn’t write anymore—it had been more than a year since his last book was published—and didn’t want to live the rest of his life trading on existing work and trying to recapture past glory. Or words to that effect. He seemed to feel his only worth was as a writer, and if he couldn’t do that, and do it as well as he had for the better part of ten years, he didn’t want to go on. Apparently, he was well known for having a mercurial temperament, so nobody was much surprised.”

“So the death of a famous mystery writer wasn’t a mystery?”

“Ironic, huh? Judging by some of the remarks I heard from older relatives when I was a kid, I gather the family rather thought old Luke had let them down in more ways than one. A juicy murder would have been preferable to a tawdry suicide.”

“People being what they are,” Josie agreed ruefully.

“Yeah.” He studied her for a moment, the pale gray eyes intent. “So you aren’t bothered by the shadow of violence under this roof?”

“That’s a nice way to put it. No, I’m not bothered. I imagine most old houses have seen episodes of violence. In fact, I once lived in a house where two separate murders had taken place years before. But since there were no mysterious stains on the carpet or ghostly footsteps on the stairs in the wee small hours of the night, I wasn’t disturbed.”

He smiled. “In case you’re wondering, that front room has been completely redone a number of times during the last fifty years. Even the fireplace has been sandblasted.”

“I wasn’t feeling squeamish,” she assured him.

“Good. Now…since you’ve heard all about this house and me, what about you? What compels you to spend a winter way out here in the back of beyond—alone?”

Josie stepped aside to rummage in one of the boxes for a couple of coffee cups and spoons, hoping the action looked more casual than it was. With only a brief hesitation she replied in a light, slightly dry tone. “If you must know, I decided to take a year off my job—I’m a teacher—and find out if I really have the guts and the ability to write.” Which was certainly true, as far as it went.

“You don’t look old enough to be a teacher.”

Josie knew he was fishing. She also knew that she looked a good ten years younger than she was. Resigned, she said, “I’m twenty-eight.”

“You still don’t look old enough to be a teacher.” He was smiling.

“The eight-year-olds I teach haven’t noticed.” She put cups and spoons on the bar, then rummaged in another box for the canister of sugar she remembered packing.

“None of my teachers ever looked like you. Even when I was eight.”

It was the sort of comment, Josie thought, that was usual between a man and woman, expressing tentative interest and inviting a response. She was too much a woman not to feel pleased, but too wary to respond with encouragement. This was hardly the best time in her life to get involved with anyone, given what she had come here to do. And, besides, a mending lawyer on the verge of ending his country exile was doubtless not the best man with whom to get involved.

So, ignoring what he’d said, she merely said, “Ah, the sugar. I knew it was here somewhere. Do you take cream—milk?”

“Milk if you have it.”

“I have it. I think.” She got a slender carton from the refrigerator and placed it and the sugar on the bar. Behind her, the percolator was bubbling, and the rich aroma of coffee filled the room.

He sniffed appreciatively, but what he said had nothing to do with coffee. “Do you wear contacts?”

“No. And my hair is really this color. I swear.” Her voice was resigned once again. He was hardly the first to ask that question, and she understood all it implied; nobody ever believed that someone with hair as red as hers could also have pale violet eyes.

Marc chuckled suddenly. “Sorry. I seem to be asking all the obvious questions.”

Reminding herself that a lawyer was trained to hear nuances in people’s voices and adept at reading them correctly, Josie managed to smile at him. “Well, a few of them. I know I look like a kid, and the coloring is a bit weird. And, before you ask, I’m a lot stronger than I look—and not at all sickly.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” He didn’t say anything else until the coffee was poured. After taking a sip, he sighed and murmured, “If there’s a secret, I wish you’d share it.”

Josie nearly gasped in surprise before she realized that he was talking about the coffee. Of course he was talking about the coffee. But if she started jumping whenever he said things like that, she was going to arouse his courtroom instincts for sure, she knew that.

“No secret. I guess some people are just born with the knack,” she managed.

“You’re definitely one of them.”

“Thanks.”

There was a short silence that Josie was too unnerved to break. It was left to Marc, who asked what he probably assumed was an innocuous question.

“So this is a kind of sabbatical for you?”

“You could say that, I guess. I worked hard during the past few years to save enough so I could take a year off and get out of the city to try writing. I taught during the day, and did research and typed term papers for college students at night. I lived in Washington.”

He nodded slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “Did you pick this place because of Luke Westbrook?”

She shook her head. “No, the realtor told me about him only after I’d signed the lease. I didn’t go looking for the former home of a writer. I wanted a place out in the country, peace and quiet. As soon as I saw the photos, I knew this house would suit me.”

“Am I being too nosy?” he asked her, having obviously noted her dry voice.

“It’s probably a character flaw of lawyers,” she replied, still dry.

“I should probably try to defend myself on that point—but all I’ll say is that it’s nice to have somebody to talk to, and you’ll have to forgive me if I get carried away.”

Josie wondered how a grown man could sound so damned wistful, and even as she warned herself that lawyers were also innate actors, she could feel herself weakening. With a sigh, she said, “I don’t really mind—but don’t you think we’ve both asked enough questions for the first hour?”

“Is that a polite request for me to leave?”

“Of course not. You haven’t finished your coffee.”

Chuckling, he did so. “All right, Josie Douglas, I’ll get out of your way and let you get settled in. But you have to let me repay you for the coffee. I happen to make the best spaghetti sauce in the state, and it’s no fun at all to cook for just one. Tomorrow night at the cottage?”

Josie’s hesitation was momentary. “If I can bring the bread and salad, you’re on.”

“Great. Is seven all right?”

“I’ll be there.”

She saw him out the back door, and as he went down the steps and walked away from her, she noted that he was favoring his right leg, though it was more of a tentativeness than a limp. Obviously, it was a lingering effect from the broken leg. With the cast off two weeks, he was probably regaining strength and mobility slowly but steadily.

Josie watched from the back door as he wound his way through the overgrown garden toward the cottage she could barely make out beyond tall and unruly hedges, and wondered if she was crazy. Her interest in Marc Westbrook was perfectly understandable, of course, but it was out of character for her to let down her guard—even a little bit—so quickly.

Out of character…and dangerous. She couldn’t afford to trust anybody, not until she’d done what she had to do, what she’d planned for so many long years. It could all fall apart if the wrong person found out. Even now—especially now—she had to be careful.

Her purse was on the counter not far from the percolator. She went to it and slid a hand inside, then drew out a dark and deadly little automatic. She held the gun in her hand, the weight familiar and reassuring. She wouldn’t need it, she told herself firmly. Not out here.

But she kept the gun within reach, nonetheless.

TWO

T
HE FURNACE DIED
with a gasp and a thud around one in the morning, and she was too tired and sleepy to get out of bed and try to figure out what was wrong with it. Hardly an emergency situation, she assured herself drowsily. A few hours without heat wasn’t going to kill her. Surely she’d be all right until morning….

Unfortunately for Josie, the night was a cold one, and a brisk wind searched out and explored all the chinks in the old house’s armor with sadistic glee. She could feel several drafts blowing through her bedroom every time she poked her head out from under the scanty covers.

Bedding hadn’t been included as part of her lease, so she’d brought her own, but most of that was still packed in one of the boxes downstairs; Josie had made her bed with sheets and only one thin blanket, too weary to take the time to hunt for the thick quilt and several other blankets she’d brought along.

Shivering, she invited the visiting black cat, who had remained companionably in the house all evening and accompanied her to bed, to get under the meager covers with her. She was pleased when he accepted. Some cats didn’t like to sleep under covers or other things, but this one promptly curled up at her side, his unusually large and warm body radiating enough heat to counter some of the chill.

Even so, it was hardly the most comfortable night she’d spent, and when Pendragon woke her early the next morning by licking her nose and murmuring to her urgently, she felt the leaden weariness of someone whose body had been tensed against the cold for too many hours.

“It’s like an icebox in here,” she grumbled, pushing his face out of the way so she could draw the covers up over her head. The black cat was stubborn, burrowing his way back under the covers until he could find and lick her nose again.

Since even the gentlest cat was gifted by nature with a tongue like sandpaper, Josie knew her nose would soon be raw if she didn’t give in to his determination. She pushed both him and the covers away and snatched the robe lying across the foot of her bed. Not that the thin garment helped; the room really
was
like an icebox.

She found her bedroom slippers, which were plush and offered real insulation against the chill of the wooden floors. It was only then that she noticed the face of her electric alarm clock was dark, and an experimental flick of the light switch confirmed her suspicions.

Great. Not just the furnace, but the power.

Accompanied by Pendragon, she went downstairs. His urgency was explained when he went immediately to the front door, and she let him out with a murmured apology. Cats, she knew, disliked having to ask the aid of their humans in their comings and goings; if Pendragon decided to stick around, she’d have to ask Marc about installing a pet door.

The house, dimly lit in the gray morning, looked a bit eerie as she passed through on her way to the kitchen. Boxes were stacked here and there, and dustcovers remained over most of the furniture downstairs. But, as she’d told Marc, Josie wasn’t easily spooked, and she was too cold to care about anything except restoring power to the house.

A box of kitchen utensils yielded one of her flashlights, and the cellar door opened with a groan when she used a little muscle. She went down the wooden steps and into total blackness; the cellar had no windows to admit even dim light.

In the beam of her flashlight, she saw an incredible jumble of crates, boxes, and trunks crammed into the dark, earthy-smelling space. Shelves lined one wall and held dozens of sealed jars from the days when canning had been prevalent in “country” households, and another wall was covered with pegs holding items ranging from two shovels and a rake to bits of leather that looked to Josie like something from a horse’s harness.

Shaking off fascination, she ignored the lure of old steamer trunks and stacked boxes, reminding herself that she was only a tenant here; the Westbrook family might have saved everything they’d ever owned, but that didn’t mean she had any business pawing through their stuff. Her only legitimate business down here was to find—ah, there it was. The switch box.

The realty company had assured her that the house boasted a completely updated wiring system
and
a new furnace—a heat pump, actually—but Josie was familiar enough with old houses to check the obvious first. And sure enough, she discovered that something had kicked off the main breaker during the night. If it happened again, she told herself, she would definitely call an electrician out here to find out what was going on.

She cautiously reset the breaker and was instantly rewarded when a light near the foot of the steps came on. She also heard the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and was pretty sure of the distant thud of the heat pump coming on.

She picked her way back across the cellar, frowning a bit as she eyed the naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling near the foot of the steps. That was odd. She distinctly remembered opening the cellar door yesterday just long enough to glance into the black maw of steps; there had been no light on down here, and she hadn’t turned one on.

She went back up the steps and the light went out obediently when she flipped the switch just inside the door.

“Gremlins,” she murmured to herself. She shut the cellar door firmly, turned off her flashlight, and went about the normal morning business of fixing coffee and trying to wake up.

Pendragon made his reappearance a few minutes later, and she let him in the back when he rattled the screen door imperiously. He obviously expected breakfast, so she rummaged among boxes until she found a can of tuna, which he was pleased to devour delicately; a big cat, he had a big appetite.

Mindful that the hot-water heater needed time to get back up to speed, she elected to skip her usual morning shower. She carried her coffee back upstairs, braved the cold water to wash her face and brush her teeth, then dressed in jeans and a comfortable knit sweater.

By the time she returned to the ground floor, the coffee and warm clothing had made her much more comfortable. She wandered through a few of the downstairs rooms, musing about which ones she would use and ultimately deciding that the house was too nice to have any part of it closed up. She avoided the front parlor, not so much because of the tragic death that had occurred in the room but because all the file boxes containing twenty years of hard work were waiting there for her.

She wasn’t ready to face that just yet.

It was barely eight o’clock when Josie went out onto the wide, inviting porch that ran along the front and one side of the house. She strolled toward the rear of the house, sipping her coffee and enjoying the crisp, chilled air of the morning. When she ran out of porch, she leaned against the sturdy railing and stood gazing over the garden. It must have been lovely once, she mused, with neat paths and the heavy and rich scent of flowers. It was a shame it had been let go.

She’d lived in apartments for most of her life, but Josie had always felt drawn to plants and flowers, and she’d frequently spent a few dollars of her weekly grocery money on houseplants. She had a green thumb, apparently; plants did well for her. She’d had to give all hers away when she left Washington, choosing not to try moving them.

Maybe, if Marc didn’t mind, she’d work on the garden here this spring. After all, she couldn’t spend every hour in the house, and the physical work out in the fresh air would certainly do her good. She could even do some work before spring, pruning and clearing away brush….

Her gaze drifted across the garden as a movement caught her attention, and she saw a dark man in jeans and a sweatshirt moving away through the woods beyond the cottage. Marc. He seemed to be following a very faint path, Josie thought. Probably one he followed every morning. The doctor would have suggested walking to strengthen his leg after the cast came off, and the rolling hills around here would provide a good workout for the various muscles.

She watched him until he disappeared over a rise. She sipped her coffee, then held the cup away and stared at it thoughtfully. After a moment she went back into the house and to the kitchen. Pendragon was sitting on one of the barstools washing a forepaw, but looked up to greet her politely.

“You’re a responsive cat, aren’t you?” she commented, digging into the last remaining box in the kitchen to be unpacked.

“Yah,” Pendragon replied, and bent his head to begin chewing on one of his claws.

“It’s a bad sign to bite your nails,” Josie told him severely. “Still, I’d rather you bit them than ruined Marc’s furniture sharpening them.”

“Ppprupt,” the cat mumbled, still working on his manicure.

Josie decided she’d better stop talking to him until he finished; he could bite off something important while trying to answer her. Anyway, she finally found what she’d been looking for. She studied the thermos, checking it for cracks or other damage, then went to the sink to rinse it out. This was probably not a good idea, she told herself. For her to go to all this trouble demonstrated far too much interest in Marc. He could get the wrong idea about her intentions.

But she could stick a note on the thermos when she hung it from the cottage’s doorknob to greet him when he came back home, explaining this as being no more than a neighborly gesture. After all, anyone would appreciate hot—and good—coffee waiting for them upon their return from a long walk on a chilly morning. She was just being a good neighbor.

That was all.

She had the last of her things out of the van by ten that morning, and it didn’t take long to get everything put away. The morning had warmed enough so that she elected to turn off the heat and open a few windows; airing out the house for a few hours seemed like a good idea, since it had stood empty for so long, and all the activity had her warm enough.

By lunchtime, the dustcovers were off all the furniture, the kitchen was spotless, and the den was well on its way. Josie took a break to make herself a light meal, and that was when she discovered she had no bread—but all the fixings to make several loaves as well as a few batches of muffins. Though she couldn’t remember buying the stuff, she wasn’t surprised; she frequently made her own bread because it was one of the things her mother had taught her as a child.

Perked coffee
and
fresh-baked bread? The man would probably think she was aiming for his heart by way of his stomach. Great. She’d insisted on cleaning the house herself, and even if he didn’t know it yet, she had designs on his garden. And she taught school to little kids.

Just your typical tough-minded career woman.

Josie sighed and began making bread. She had to eat, after all. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that the bread she brought for their meal tonight was homemade. And if he did…well, it wouldn’t matter. She felt far too wary of him to relax in his presence, so her prickly attitude would doubtless counteract whatever domestic points he might have tallied up in her favor.

She caught herself giggling as she kneaded dough. What on earth was wrong with her? Even if matrimony had been a goal of hers—which it definitely wasn’t—Marc hadn’t given so much as a dim sign that he was looking for a wife, domesticated or otherwise. In fact, common sense suggested that would be the last thing on his mind. All he wanted was something—anything—to relieve his boredom while he finished healing. A little harmless flirting was probably as far as he would go.

And that was fine with her. They could enjoy occasional wary companionship over a meal, fence verbally to amuse each other—and in a few weeks he’d return to Richmond.

Josie found that unaccountably depressing, and the realization bothered her. After all, she was accustomed to being alone, and she’d always been content with her own company. She had learned, by necessity, to be independent and self-sufficient at a very young age. Her father had been too busy and preoccupied to be much of a companion at any time, and she’d been completely on her own for the ten years since his death. Before that, she had always taken care of him, especially during the last five years of his life after her mother had gone.

So the prospect of being alone again, even way out here, shouldn’t have made her feel so low. Especially considering the fact that she had met Marc Westbrook only yesterday. He was too new to her life to be having
any
kind of effect on it.

“Yaaah?”

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, Josie turned from the counter and her bread making to find Pendragon sitting pointedly by the cellar door. “I gather you want to go down there?”

“Yah.”

“It looked awfully clean for a cellar; I bet you won’t find any bugs or mice.”

“Pprupp.”

“You don’t say.” She caught herself smiling as she went to pull the door open for the cat. He stood there looking down at the stairs, then looked up at her and spoke sternly.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, and leaned over to flip the switch on the wall. The light at the foot of the stairs came on, obedient to her touch.

The black cat murmured something in his throat and descended regally.

Chuckling, Josie left the cellar door open just a few inches and went back to her bread making. She liked cats very much, but she’d never shared her home with one. Even though many felines were apparently perfectly content with apartment life, Josie had elected not to have a pet because she spent so many hours away from home.

But she thought now that might have been a mistake. A pet might have helped her feel more…connected these last few years. Certainly less alone. She’d read somewhere that people with pets tended to be healthier as well as happier, and God knew there was something especially cheerless about coming home to an empty, silent apartment.

Deciding that she was depressing herself for no good reason, Josie turned on her portable radio and found some music she liked, and listened to that while she ate her lunch. She cleaned up afterward, checked on the progress of the bread, then took her radio into the den to finish cleaning in there.

It was about an hour later that she looked up from polishing a small table near a window and saw that Pendragon had emerged from the cellar. And he’d brought her a gift.