by Dana Dratch
It would have ruined the guy’s life. And a week later, no one would have cared.
Besides, my beat was crime. And it’s not like he was a crooked congressman or coke-snorting mayor.
I smiled and turned back to Bill and Emily just as Paul and Georgie walked over. She had on an electric-green sundress and sandals. He’d opted for summer linen—coral shirt and oatmeal slacks. And a sprig of something that looked like baby’s breath in his lapel. Beach casual.
“Plenty of room over here,” Emily said, sliding over.
“I’m Paul. Paul Gerrard. This is my bride, Georgie.”
“We just got married this week,” she said, breathlessly.
“Ah, yes, the honeymooners. Bill and Emily Prestwick,” Bill said, gesturing toward himself and his wife with his lowball glass. Despite his loquaciousness, I noticed his glass still held a good two fingers of scotch. Maybe it wasn’t his first?
“I’m Alex. I live across the street,” I said, smiling.
“We were filling Alex in on who’s who tonight,” Bill said. “Oh, Ems, there’s that musician,” he added, snapping his fingers. “The one all the kids like.”
“Johnny Jericho! I forgot about him. Sweet boy. Beautiful manners. Pulled out the chair for me at tea. I imagine he’s playing a concert somewhere around here this evening. I hope it’s indoors.”
Johnny Jericho, also known as the prince of punk, was headlining at the Arena. His biggest danger tonight wasn’t hail or lightning. It was throngs of screaming, head-banging fans. Which probably explained why he was staying out in the burbs.
“He’ll be fine,” I said. “The venue is definitely indoors. I wonder how he heard about this place?”
“Word of mouth. From a supermodel, no less,” Bill said with a chuckle.
“Anastasia?” I asked, fearing I already knew the answer. My sister—who I called Annie and the world knew as the glamorous Anastasia—had booked in for exactly two nights a few weeks ago. Just long enough to broker a delicate detente between me and our mother and, apparently, recommend the place to a few of her more famous friends.
“Yup, that’s the one. Word is she stayed here and loved it. You and I got in just in time, Ems. Pretty soon it’s going to be all jet-setters and glitterati. They won’t have room for the likes of us.”
I noticed a quick look between Paul and Georgie.
“Are you Johnny Jericho fans?” I asked.
“No,” Paul said flatly. “And if I’d known that he was staying here, I’d have booked us somewhere else. I want a nice relaxing honeymoon. Not a bunch of noisy rockers trashing the hotel.”
“The wedding was a little stressful,” Georgie explained. “We just wanted to get away for a few days.”
Paul the pill. She could have done so much better.
“So who else is here?” I asked.
“There was a businessman checking in this afternoon,” Georgie said. “I didn’t actually meet him. But I think he’s in insurance.”
“If you haven’t met him, how do you know he’s in insurance?” Paul quizzed.
“Well, he was trying to sell a policy to the butler,” said Georgie. “I heard him.”
“That’s awfully nervy of him,” said Emily.
“Is he here tonight?” Bill surveyed the room, squinting.
“I haven’t seen him since,” Georgie said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Oh, and don’t forget to tell her about the ghost, Ems,” Bill prodded.
“The ghost?” I asked.
“Oh, Bill, that was a cat, and you know it. Really.”
“I heard it. In the small hours of the morning. Just ask your friend in the big black dress . . . ,” he said, pointing.
“Lydia?” I said.
“Her family built this house,” he continued. “Originally, it was some kind of a ritzy boarding school. When the school closed, another wealthy family bought it. Later lost the mother in childbirth. Right here in this house. The baby, too. Anyway, according to the legend, every so often, when it’s very dark and very quiet, you can still hear the infant’s ghost crying for its mother. Damn sad.”
“Superstitious claptrap,” Emily said.
“I know what I heard, and it wasn’t a cat,” Bill insisted.
“Well, it wasn’t a ghost, either,” his wife huffed.
“From what I’ve learned, ghost stories are just excuses for old wiring and substandard plumbing,” said Paul. “With what we’re shelling out, that better not be the case here.”
“Technically, my parents are shelling out, Paulie,” said Georgie. “It’s their credit card.”
“Because your father insisted on claiming the reward points,” Paul said, standing suddenly. “I’m getting a drink.”
As he strode off, Harkins appeared silently to our left. I was beginning to suspect Harkins did everything silently.
“Caviar? Canapés?” he inquired politely.
“Have you heard about the Legend of the Ghost Baby?” Bill asked, helping himself to a canapé.
“Bill, honestly,” his wife said, nabbing a cracker with caviar and cream.
I followed suit. Curiosity was definitely not killing my appetite. And this was getting good.
Harkins looked around quickly. “Without speaking out of turn, sir, there were a few tales of some rather . . . odd . . . noises over the past months, as the house was being readied,” he relayed in a hushed voice. “While I don’t believe I’ve heard it myself, some of the craftsmen described it as sounding rather like an infant. But I am quite certain there is a rational explanation. It is a very old house.”
With that, he straightened and took his tray to another cluster of guests nearby.
Bill fixed Emily with a triumphant grin. “I told you. I was right! There is a ghost baby.”
“There’s a baby all right, and he’s sitting right in front of me. How about topping off my champagne glass? Georgie, would you like a drink? The bubbly is marvelous.”
“What the heck,” Georgie said. “It’s a party. Sure, I’ll have a glass.”
A peel of thunder shook the house. It felt like a cannon had gone off in the next room. The lights went out. And a string of lightning strikes strobed, giving our movements an eerie stop-action effect.
Everyone stopped talking at once. And the cheery music suddenly felt slightly malevolent.
“All right, everyone,” Ian announced calmly as he and Harkins set about lighting the tapers. “Nothing to worry about. Just a little power interruption. We can chat and sip by candlelight. And the electric should be back on momentarily. In the meantime, I’m opening another bottle of champagne. And we certainly don’t need electricity for that!”
The guests laughed in good-natured appreciation.
A few minutes later, as Emily, Georgie, and I chatted in the cheery glow, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned. Ian smiled down at me. He’d removed the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“Could I possibly beg your assistance?” he asked, sotto voce.
“Of course,” I said, without thinking.
“Come with me.”
When we’d passed into the candlelit lobby, he pulled open a drawer and retrieved a large flashlight.
“The truth is, I’m afraid, that we may have blown a fuse. My father can keep the party rolling with food and drink, but I need to check the fuse box in the cellar. And if you’re up for it, I could use some-one to hold the flashlight.”
“Of course,” I said. “Lead the way.”
Was it weird that I was giddy he’d chosen me over Lydia? Of course, a trip to the basement would have turned her designer dress into a giant dust rag.
He opened a narrow side door. “Normally, I would hold this and let you proceed. But the stairs are rather steep, so it’s probably better if I go first. Be sure to grab the handrail—it’s good and solid.”
Damn. Was he chivalrous or what? Except for the very real threat of falling down the stairs in heels and breaking my neck, this was seriously
romantic. Or maybe Trip was right and I just needed to get out more.
We descended downward slowly, carefully navigating the steep steps. They’d be tough going, even with lights. In the dark, they were downright treacherous.
“Does this happen often?” I asked, assaulting the banister with a death grip.
“I’m afraid I’ve had to do this a few times in the past few months. Though not since we opened. I really thought we’d gotten the electrical issues sorted.”
“Maybe it was just the lightning. That last strike sounded pretty close.” Poor Lucy was probably hiding under the couch.
“And it is a pretty old house,” I said, remembering Bill Prestwick’s ghost story. Phantoms couldn’t flip switches, right?
“Here we go,” Ian said, as we reached the landing. He turned, offering his hand with a flourish. “Mind your step.”
Of course, my heart was doing that weird fluttery thing.
“Should be right arouuuund here,” he said, shining the flashlight. “What on earth?”
In the dim glow, I didn’t see it at first. Then Ian stepped back, focusing the light on the wall. The door to the fuse panel was hanging wide open.
“It shouldn’t be like that. We keep it shut.”
“Has anyone else been down here? Maintenance guys? Deliveries for the party?”
“We haven’t had any workmen here since we opened. And all the deliveries for the party went into the kitchen. The only things I keep down here are some antiques that need reworking, a few bits and bobs for the inn, and our wine collection.”
Ian leaned in and took a closer look. “Good Lord, someone’s flipped all the breakers.”
“Could a lightning strike have done that?”
“Doubtful. It would take out a circuit or two, but not everything. I had a new electrical system installed, along with a lot of new wiring and a state-of-the-art fuse box.”
“Sabotage?”
“I don’t want to use that word. But this didn’t happen by accident. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Can you call an electrician?”
“No need,” he said, handing me the flashlight. “I’ll flip a few switches, and we should be good as new. What I don’t understand is why the generator didn’t engage. It doesn’t provide full power, but at least we wouldn’t be standing here in the dark.”
Behind me, against the wall, I spied a chest freezer. Like the one my parents had in the garage for all of two weeks when I was a kid. Dad brought it home one day. He’d found it at a yard sale and swore we could save a bundle by stocking up on roasts and chops.
Mom hated it. I don’t know which offended her more: the fact that it had been someone else’s castoff or the idea of keeping food in the garage. She ditched it the first time Dad left on a business trip. He pretended not to notice.
“Hopefully the stuff in the freezer will keep,” I said, shifting the light from one hand to the other.
“Oh, that’s not set up yet. Hasn’t even been plugged in,” Ian said, absentmindedly, as he studied the diagram on the panel.
I reached out and put my palm on the freezer lid. Cold.
“So who would want to throw a monkey wrench into your party?” I asked. I could think of one person who might want everyone else to leave early. But I couldn’t picture her clawing her way through a basement to make it happen.
“That’s a puzzle. No one can get in from outside. And everyone here was at the party.”
Not everyone, I thought, remembering Georgie’s story about the odd insurance salesman. The reclusive actress could have done it too, but why? Unless she wasn’t an actress at all. A vengeful ex who was handy with tools? Come to think of it, how much did I really know about Ian? I studied him in the glow of the flashlight.
Head tilted to one side, he squinted at the panel, his mouth set in a grim line. A lone lock of dark hair had slipped onto his forehead. In the close air of the basement, I could smell his cologne. Woodsy and masculine.
Why tell me the freezer wasn’t working when it obviously was? Could Harkins have plugged it in without telling him? Maybe the mystery marauder had done it. But why plug in a freezer, then cut the power?
“Cross your fingers and say a prayer,” Ian said, looking over at me. With that, he flipped several switches. The lights flashed on, and we heard a loud cheer from upstairs.
“Let there be light,” I said.
“Fiat lux,” he agreed, grinning. Then Ian leaned in slowly and kissed me.
That fluttery thing turned into a spark. For a split second, I thought we’d backed into the fuse box.
As we parted, Ian smiled broadly and took my hand, leading me back up the stairs. “I think you and I have earned ourselves a glass of champagne. Shall we?”
Chapter 2
For my money, the real trouble started the next morning when I walked into the kitchen and found a baby.
Just after sunrise and still bleary-eyed, I made straight for the stainless-steel coffeepot that lives on the counter near the sink. After Ian’s cocktail party last night—and a little bubbly a deux—I’d returned home and gone from Cinderella-at-the-ball to sweatpants in record time. Then I’d stayed up ’til two finishing a freelance story that was due this morning. In a few hours, I was off to meet another editor about a temporary gig that would (hopefully) pay the bills for the next six weeks. I was drained but happy.
That’s when I saw it. Resting on the kitchen table. Ensconced in one of those plastic car-seat things, like a mollusk in its shell. I flipped on the kitchen light, blinked hard, and looked again.
Still there.
“Holy crap!”
The butcher-block counter was solid. I touched the coffeepot, which was cold. I smelled chocolate and butter—the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. And I was surrounded by stainless-steel cooling racks holding dozens of the cookies my younger brother, Nick, had spent most of the night baking for a client. So this wasn’t another weird stress dream.
I grabbed a cookie, then cautiously took a step closer. The downy blue blanket tucked around it—him?—moved rhythmically, rapidly, up and down. Between the blanket and his white knit cap, only the circle of a little pink face was exposed, along with two small, balled-up fists resting near his chin. Like a miniature pugilist. His eyes were closed tight.
I scanned the table. No note. No clues. Nada.
I looked under the table: nothing but Lucy’s water dish.
Nearby, the kitchen door was locked and double-bolted.
I walked into the living room eating the cookie as I went. The front door was also locked and double-bolted.
I padded to Nick’s door and knocked.
Silence.
I knocked harder.
“Go away!”
“You left something on the kitchen table.”
“Yeah, cookies. Go away!”
I could hear the click of Lucy’s nails on the hardwood floors. Then rustling near the door. “Rowr? Rowwwrrr! Rowr!”
“I meant the other thing,” I called through the door. “The baby.”
“Gotta sleep! Go away!”
“Rowr! Rowr!” Lucy chimed in, scratching at the door.
“Nick, this is an emergency!” I yelled, pounding on the door. “Get up! Now!”
“Is the house on fire?”
“Yes!”
Two minutes later, the three of us—Nick, Lucy, and I—stood in the kitchen eyeing our little intruder.
“So you really didn’t put him there?” I asked quietly.
“Un-uh,” he said, smoothing down a bad case of blond bedhead with his left hand. “I mean, the cookies are mine, but that’s it.”
Reflexively, I brushed the telltale crumbs off my pink bathrobe. “The doors are all locked and bolted from the inside. I checked.”
“Anybody else have a key?” he asked.
Nick was living with me temporarily. After a sudden career change and relocation from Arizona by way of Vegas. Followed by an even more sudden engagement t
hat had recently crashed and burned.
That was about the same time I’d launched my new freelance career. Which sounded a lot better on LinkedIn than saying I’d been accused of murder and fired.
We Vlodnacheks had kinda had a rough couple of months.
But, hey, we land on our feet. I was already getting steady assignments and making enough to keep the bills paid. Provided I didn’t develop any expensive habits, like cable TV or eating out.
And Nick’s new venture, a bakery he ran from our kitchen, was growing like kudzu. His hours were as bad as mine, but his clients were a lot quicker with the paychecks.
“Two keys: yours and mine,” I answered. “You didn’t happen to hand any out, did you? Mom? Annie? Brandon the Burnout? That cute girl at the Yogurt Hut?”
“No way. This is my sanctum sanctorum. My fortress of solitude. My . . .”
“Got it, no extra keys,” I said. With any luck, his ex-business partner, Brandon, was at least two thousand miles away. And after what had happened with Gabby, Nick was still nursing a broken heart. Despite the best efforts of a large chunk of suburban DC’s female population.
“What about Trip?” he asked, meaning my best friend and former news editor, Chase Wentworth Cabot III. “Trip” to his friends.
“Uh, no. And besides, Trip doesn’t go around playing stork and dropping off babies in the middle of the night.”
“Are you sure? ’Cause what I’m seeing would indicate otherwise.”
“Trust me, you couldn’t get him to deliver a newspaper at this hour, much less a baby.”
“So where’d it come from?” Nick asked.
“Didn’t Mom and Dad have that talk with you?”
“OK, we know where it came from. But how did it end up here?”
“He,” I corrected. “He’s wearing blue. That means he’s a boy.”
“You want to test that hypothesis?” Nick challenged.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’d rather figure out why he’s here. And how he got in.”
We’d had a break-in four weeks ago. My ex-boss. Head of the P.R. firm that wooed me away from a twelve-year stint at the newspaper, then fired me after three months. And tried to frame me for murder. Long story. But after the dust settled, I’d beefed up security and had the old doors, door-frames, and dead bolts professionally replaced with top-of-the-line gear. It was hideously expensive. And the insurance company only paid a fraction of the bill. But I slept great.