“Greta said that pretty soon she’ll let me work one day a week as a guide. Thing is, the guides don’t make any more than I do. The other guides are set for money. Tandy’s husband makes a fortune. And Jeff Green is retired military, so he’s got his pension. But I love the history of this place, and I swear, I’d work here for free if I could afford to.”
“I’m sure we can figure things out so you don’t have to do that,” Leslie promised. “Now, do you use cream and sugar?”
Melissa stopped and flushed. “I guess I’m preaching to the choir,” she said.
“It’s fine. I think your enthusiasm’s wonderful,” Leslie assured her truthfully. She liked Melissa, loved her enthusiasm. She just had to get the girl to treat her like any other normal person.
“Can you imagine, though, everything that must have happened in this place? With all the battles, all the fires, can you believe that it never burned to the ground? Even a modern-day explosion…oh, God. Sorry. There I go again.”
“Melissa, just relax. Please.”
The coffee was finally ready. Leslie poured two cups as Melissa stepped anxiously to her side.
“They’re all worried about you, you know.”
“And they don’t need to be.”
“Everyone says you and Matt were like a fairy-tale couple. So in love and—oh, foot in mouth again.”
“I love him very much, and I like being here because I can think about him. I’m fine. I’m coming—I’ve come to terms with losing him. It’s okay if you talk about him—it’s how we keep those we loved alive.”
Melissa was silent for a moment as Leslie added cream to her coffee.
“Do you see him?” Melissa asked then.
“What?”
“They say that you…well, that you have some kind of ESP,” Melissa said gravely.
“They’re wrong,” Leslie said. She wasn’t lying, she told herself. It sure as hell wasn’t ESP that she lived with every day.
“Really?” Melissa sounded disappointed.
“Sorry.”
Melissa sighed and sipped her coffee. “Honestly…I’d dreamed of being here with you and finding out that the place is haunted by a soldier from the Revolution, someone who died for his country.”
“Tell you what. If I do come across a ghost, I’ll be sure to get a good story from him—or her.”
Melissa flushed.
“Seriously, I’ll look into it. There are some great stories associated with this house. Did you know it was an Underground Railroad stop on the way to Canada during the Civil War? And it doesn’t stand all that far from where the slave market was set up in 1711 at the foot of Wall Street.”
“It got its name because the Dutch really did build a wall there,” Melissa said. “I know that because I’m going to be a guide, but I guess you know it, too, huh?”
“Well…yes,” Leslie admitted as diplomatically as she could.
“I’m not scaring you away, am I?” Melissa asked.
“No,” Leslie assured her. She glanced at her watch. “But I do have to get over to the site.”
“Lucky you.”
“Hey, we’ll work on your future, okay? You’ve got the love and commitment, and those are the most important things.”
“You think?”
“I do. But right now I need to get going.”
“Don’t you eat? Wow. That must be why you look like a twig.”
“Doughnuts on the job,” Leslie assured her.
“I wish I could eat doughnuts.”
Leslie arched a brow, wondering if there was a right thing to say at such a moment. “Um, I had a bad year.”
“I gain weight when I get depressed,” Melissa said sadly.
“Maybe we can get together and invent special sugar-free doughnuts,” Leslie suggested.
“Cool.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
“You bet. Unless you get home early tonight. Honestly, I haven’t scared you into avoiding me, have I?” Melissa asked anxiously.
“No, I think you’re very nice.”
“Thanks!”
“Sure.”
Leslie set down her cup and started out. Halfway along the hall toward the entryway, she stopped and stared. A man and woman in Colonial dress were entering, chatting with each other. They stopped and stared back at her.
“Hi.” She strode forward, offering a hand. “I’m Leslie MacIntyre. You must be Tandy and Jeff.”
“You got it. Hi,” Tandy said. She had bright eyes, appeared to be a very attractive forty or so, and made a perfect Martha Washington. Her wig and hat fit well, and she looked completely authentic in the wide skirt and apron. The man was tall and lean, and also wore his wig naturally. They really could have been George and his missus.
“Miss MacIntyre, a pleasure,” Jeff Green said.
“Thanks so much. I’m glad to get to meet you both, but I hope you’ll excuse me. I’m running late.”
“Of course. Hope we get to see more of you later,” Jeff said.
“I hope so, too.”
As she escaped, she could hear Jeff asking for coffee and Tandy excitedly asking Melissa what “Miss MacIntyre” was like and had they talked to any ghosts yet?
As she got closer to the site, she realized that hurrying was going to do her little good. Once again, there was a crowd around the gates. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to press her way through it.
Reporters were in heavy evidence, and she found herself irritated. In a city like New York, there were a thousand things going on, so why were they all hanging around here? Then again, she supposed she should be glad that so many people seemed to have such an appreciation for the history of the city that history was making the news.
It was just that, despite what she’d told Melissa, she was tired of all the questions about Matt and how she herself was coping.
Well, she had chosen to come back here, so she had no right to complain. She straightened her shoulders and headed straight for the gate, where most of the throng was standing.
“Excuse me, I’m working here and I need to get through,” she said, pushing her way past people.
Professor Laymon was standing in the middle of the dig, holding court in front of a group of journalists, with Brad at his side. She didn’t want to steal anyone’s thunder, but maybe it would be better to get the interest in her over and done with. She strode toward the two of them.
“It’s Leslie MacIntyre,” someone whispered as she passed, and the sound seemed to grow as others echoed her name.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully when she reached the two men. There was a nice police presence, she saw. People were being kept from trampling sacred ground.
“Miss MacIntyre, welcome back to New York,” a man called. He had a notebook in his hand.
“Thanks.”
“What’s it like being back?” someone shouted.
“Is there a new man in your life?”
“How are you coping, being so close to Hastings House?”
“Have you been back inside?”
“I’m thrilled to be back in New York,” she said, leaning toward Laymon’s mike. “I think this is going to be a very important discovery, and…well, New York is my home.”
“Hey, you found the body yesterday, right?”
“I happened upon the remains, yes. Along with my partner, Brad Verdun. Brad and I are both here under the guidance of Professor David Laymon. We’re all very grateful to the city for inviting us to be part of this extraordinary project—and, of course, to the development company of Tyson, Smith and Tryon. There’s Hank Smith now,” she said, pointing him out. “It’s thanks to his company that we have this opportunity. And thank you all for your interest, but now, please excuse us. We need to get back to work.”
But the reporters weren’t going away. Too bad. She had managed to speak, to be friendly—even to suck up to the developers, she thought wryly. But now she was done. She hurried away, leaving Professor Laymon and Br
ad to do the talking, but once again it seemed there was nowhere to go to but the trailer, so she strode toward it, hoping it had been left open.
It had. But once inside, she found herself frustrated once again, since she had none of her research materials with her to study. Then she noticed that someone had left the daily papers lying around, so she picked one up and started to flip through the local section. There was a large article on the dig, which she skimmed. Then she turned the page and found a picture of a very pretty young woman with wide eyes that seemed to defy the world. The caption read: Family Desperate to Find Missing Heiress Genevieve O’Brien.
She found herself reading the accompanying article with such keen interest that the time slipped away. Genevieve had been a social worker who had resigned her position shortly before her disappearance. She had worked long, hard and diligently for the underprivileged. She had last been seen on a street downtown, entering a dark sedan. Her family was offering a substantial reward for any information that led to her return.
Without thinking, she shut her eyes and let her fingers roam over the picture.
“Trying to communicate with the missing now?” a teasing voice asked.
Startled, her eyes flew open and focused on the door to the trailer. Hank Smith, as neatly and richly attired as ever, was standing there.
“A little tired, that’s all,” she murmured.
He shrugged, walking over to the little refrigerator and taking out a bottle of water. “Well, you never know. Our good friend Sergeant Adair may soon be asking for your help. In my opinion, the girl just got sick of her persnickety family and her grungy clients and moved on.” She must not have been looking at him with much approval, because he quickly added, “Sorry, I know that sounded cold. But I’ve known a few addicts in my day. You can’t help an addict who doesn’t want to be helped. It’s a waste of time and money, and I hate to waste money.”
“I know the feeling,” she said politely, wondering if he was less sanguine than he’d claimed about the consequences of delaying the project. “Is the press spectacle over?”
“They all went back to digging, and it seems they managed to drive the press off through boredom,” Hank said, grinning. “Sorry, I know it’s your thing. But to those of us without the patience…it’s pretty damn dull.” He smiled disarmingly to take the sting out of the words.
She stood, setting the paper aside. “Believe me, Hank, you’re not the first person to say so.” She grinned. “And thanks for the use of the trailer.”
“No problem. And like I said, anytime you want to escape for lunch, you let me know.”
“I will—thanks.”
She left the trailer, eager to get back to work at last.
Within a few hours she had to admit that Hank wasn’t the only one who would have found that day’s work incredibly boring. After the discovery of the first grave, Laymon was taking no chances. They weren’t digging. They were dusting—from the surface all the way down. Meanwhile, the remains she had discovered the day before were being painstakingly lifted, surrounding dirt and debris included. She supervised until the precious bones were tenderly crated, and then she went to work with the others, remembering that there were more graves, and more pieces of the past, to find. The process, however, was indeed slow and tedious.
She noticed, each time she stretched to give her back a break, that Robert Adair was frequently prowling the scene. His interest, however, didn’t exactly seem to be in the dig. She had the feeling that he was walking around the entire block where the dig was taking place and beyond. She wondered what he was up to and made a mental note to tell him that she would have dinner with him the following night.
At last she felt Brad’s tap on her shoulder. “Have you noticed something?” he whispered teasingly.
“What?” she found herself whispering back.
“It’s night. Even Laymon’s given up. C’mon. I’ll walk you back to Hastings House.”
“Oh!” She looked up. They were alone in the fenced-in area. “Did Laymon say good-night?”
“Yes,” Brad said with amusement. “I won’t leave you here alone, Leslie, even if there is a police guard at the gate.”
“Thank you. I’m actually in pain from stooping for too long,” she told him.
He shook his head sadly. “One of these days you’ll be a hunchback. Such a waste of youth and beauty.”
“I’m glad you stopped me, thank you,” she said, and laughed, looking down at her clothes as she stood. “I’m filthy. I can’t wait to get home, shower and go to bed.”
“What a wild child you are,” Brad said.
“You’re going out tonight?”
“I am.”
“Well, I’m impressed. Have fun.”
“You could come with me.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You should come with me. What if I wheedled?”
She laughed. “Thanks. Brad, but I’m beat.”
“That’s because you don’t realize you’ll be happy and awake if you go out.”
“Honestly, I’m exhausted. And I promised Robert I’d go out to dinner with him tomorrow.”
“Good man. Nice father figure.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Trust me, he wants something from you, too.”
“Maybe, but he’s still a good friend.”
Brad opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but then he just shook his head. “When you want a wild night, you let me know. I can take you to all the coolest bars.”
“I know you can. And if you pick up any of the wrong girls, I’ll do my best to rescue you.”
“Aw, shucks, thanks, sis.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they trudged carefully from the site, stopping to say good-night to the officer on duty, who gave them a cheerful wave.
Brad saw her past the gate and up to the door.
“Want me to check the place out?”
“I’m fine,” Leslie assured him. “State-of-the-art alarm, remember? Anyway, some of the employees may still be around.”
“Tandy and Jeff…well, they’re all right. But Melissa…” He rolled his eyes.
“She’s sweet.”
“She’s neurotic, but hey…you have fun.”
“Thanks. Bed will be fun, after the amazing hysteria of a shower.”
“All right then, baby, you’re on your own. Luv ya—good night.”
“Good night. Thanks.”
She was glad to lock Brad out of the house.
There were always lights on—dim lights inside, brighter lights in the yard—and, of course, warnings about the alarm plastered rather unhistorically along the fence. She felt completely safe, and there was certainly no coming home, even at night, to be met by darkness. In fact, she had a clear view of the entryway and the hall.
And she was alone.
There were ghosts here.
There had to be ghosts here. Soldiers had died here during the Revolution, when the house had been used as a makeshift hospital. An escaping slave, mangled by dogs, had reached Hastings House, only to die moments after reaching safety. A girl, wounded in the riots of 1863, had lain on a couch in the long hallway and breathed her last.
There were lots of stories, but so far, none of the ghosts had decided to trust her, to make their presence known, to talk to her.
And certainly not Matt.
Except in her vividly passionate dreams.
She whistled softly as she headed for her room. Upstairs, she remembered that she hadn’t eaten, but she didn’t care. She was too tired to bother.
She warned herself that when she woke up in the middle of the night with her stomach growling, she was going to be sorry, but she ignored the warning. She was totally worn out, and not just from work.
As if she had been up all night, enjoying wickedly carnal sex…
She headed for the shower. Maybe after that she would feel revived enough to manage some food.
Or was she
pathetically desperate to go to bed? To dream?
The water was deliciously hot, and she stood under it for a very long time. Emerging in a state that could only be described as squeaky clean, she crawled into her nightgown, turned on the television and realized ruefully that it was all of eight-thirty. She was going to bed very early. Pathetically early.
The better to dream, my dear.
No wonder Brad thought she needed to get a life. And in fact, she agreed with him. Right after this dig.
Right after she came to terms with this house and Matt’s death.
She wandered over to the window to look out onto the street.
Her heart seemed to stutter to a halt.
He was there again.
Matt?
No, that was impossible.
But there was a man standing beneath the streetlight.
Surely she was imagining him; her eyes must be playing tricks.
No. He was there.
She wasn’t going to lose him this time.
She pushed away from the window as if she were a swimmer gaining impetus for a lap and went flying across the room, grabbing her robe in passing and flinging it on as she raced down the stairs. She hurried to the door, looking through the peephole as she fumbled with the alarm and the lock.
Dismay filled her heart. He was gone.
She threw the door open, ready to race out into the street, anyway.
Instead, she slammed against something rock hard. Flesh and blood. A wall of muscle. She looked up.
Matt!
No, this man was real. Breathing. Hot. Vital. Alive.
“Matt?” She couldn’t keep from whispering the name.
“Not exactly,” the man said.
Matt’s voice. Matt’s arms reaching out to steady her as she tried to speak. Opened her mouth.
Passed out cold.
6
Shit.
The woman was slim, but even “slim” made for considerable dead weight in Joe’s arms. He lifted her, hoping she had disarmed the alarm so that a dozen cops wouldn’t come bearing down on him any second.
Thankfully, there was lots of light as he carried her into the foyer. He strode straight to the daybed that flanked one wall and set her down on it. Luckily he’d been in the house before, when he’d come himself to examine the scene of the explosion, so he knew his way around. Once he’d set her down, he headed straight for the kitchen and a damp towel. A quick examination of the cupboards produced no sign of anything remotely alcoholic, so he poured a glass of water and hurried back with that and the towel. He knew he stood no chance of finding an ammonia pellet, so he hoped it was just the shock of seeing him that had made her faint, and that she would spring back quickly.
The Dead Room Page 9