It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. A sidelight window had been smashed, presumably so the miscreant could reach in to unlock the door. The tarp had been tossed aside, and the demolition debris on it scattered on the floor. The drywall cover to the speakeasy was tossed aside, and had cracked and crumbled at the edges. The table she’d put near the front door was upended, the neat stacks of paint cans toppled, the contents of her toolbox strewn all over the floor.
But nothing significant was destroyed, except—she moaned when she saw it—the brand-new light fixture that had just arrived had been smashed by a randomly flung tool.
“No,” she cried, suddenly angry instead of dumbfounded. She’d waited four weeks for that damned piece to ship. “My new sconce!”
Declan had taken her hand, cupping his long, strong fingers around it as he scanned the foyer. She felt the tension in his grip and what was probably anger emanating from him as well.
“I’m going to check upstairs,” he said in a low voice.
“I’m coming too,” she informed him.
They began to climb the steps and learned that even one of the stairs had been destroyed, shifted out of place, and Leslie nearly fell on her face when she stepped on its loose edge and her foot slipped off. Fortunately, Declan’s steady hand kept her from more than a sharp bump when she landed on her shin.
“What the hell,” she muttered, getting angrier and angrier. “Vandals? Thieves?”
“Or someone looking for something,” he said, still quiet. She felt rather than saw his eyes tracking sharply from side to side, up then down and around, and noticed that he seemed to be straining to listen.
Good idea. Stop complaining, she told herself. Listen. Look around. Pay attention.
It wasn’t the ghost, was it?
The thought struck her like an icy dart. Surely not…surely…not.
Unsettled, she nevertheless pulled her hand from Declan’s when they got to the top of the stairs. With a meaningful nod, she indicated for him to go down one hall while she checked the other.
It was to his credit that he didn’t suggest they stick together. Apparently, the sight of her holding her cell phone firmly in her hand, its flashlight on but the device itself acting as a makeshift weapon, was enough to clue him in that she wasn’t a weak, cowering female. Even though her insides were churning and her knees were a little unsteady.
If it had been the ghost…what did that mean?
If it had been a real flesh and blood mortal…what did that mean?
Leslie saw no sign of life as she poked quietly into each room, just as she’d done yesterday when she and Declan had searched for signs of the ghost being a human prank.
“This is getting to be a habit,” she muttered when they met up on the balcony.
His lips moved in a wry smile. “It’s sure as hell not a habit I’d like to continue. Although…” His eyes narrowed as they settled speculatively on her, and Leslie felt a sudden warm shiver at the expression therein.
She could almost imagine the rest of his unspoken sentence: Although I can think of another habit I’d like to continue.
Turning to go back down the stairs, she was both appreciative and a little put off that he hadn’t said what they were both thinking. It wasn’t the right time to be pursuing such a topic—after all, her house had just been broken into. But she wouldn’t have minded hearing it put into words from him, even at such an inappropriate time.
Oh boy. Am I starting to fall for the guy?
“I’m going to check the speakeasy,” she announced briskly. “I doubt anyone’s still here.”
“I tend to agree, but be careful just in case.” He was right behind her—and that was where he stayed as she avoided the broken step, curved around at the bottom of the stairs, then ducked and maneuvered her way down the spiral into the speakeasy.
It seemed much darker than before—maybe because it was night and there was little extra light to filter down from the opening above, as during the day. Regardless, Leslie’s little cell phone flashlight didn’t do a great job of illuminating every corner of the room, but once joined by his, their lights commingled readily and delved into most of the dark corners.
“They—he or she or whoever—were down here,” Leslie said unnecessarily. For even though the room had previously showed signs of disarray, it was obvious things had been disturbed here. “The big painting is crooked—oh, and the other one is gone!”
Her voice cracked with shock and anger, but almost immediately eased. “Oh, it’s on the floor. They took it down?”
“Looking for a hidden cache or a safe, I bet,” Declan said.
“The jewels,” she said. “It has to be.” She looked at him, allowing the irritation and apprehension to show in her eyes. “That’s what comes from articles being splashed all over the paper, I guess. All the treasure hunters come out of the woodwork like—like spiders.”
Suddenly weary—for what did this mean going forward? more break-ins?—she climbed back up the spiral stairs. Was this only the beginning of treasure hunters? Would every bit of marketing or publicity she did for the bed and breakfast bring out more of the gem seekers?
“Leslie.” Declan took her arm as soon as he emerged from the hidden doorway. “You need to report this. And…I don’t know if you should stay here alone tonight.”
She forced a grin, suddenly fighting the desire to surge into his arms. She really could use a hug—and that was not a usual condition for Leslie Nakano, badass CEO. “Is that your idea of a good pickup line?”
His smile was a little tight, as if he too were just as worried. But he winked and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Even his touch sent a comforting shiver over her shoulders, and his finger strayed along the sensitive skin of her throat. “I wish. Don’t forget, I have an impressionable teenage girl at home. I have to set an example.”
Leslie felt a tiny twinge of something. Not disappointment, but more like admiration for a man who was willing to put his daughter ahead of his own hormones. “Right. It might be a little hard to explain if you didn’t come home tonight. ‘Yes, Stephanie, I’m sleeping at your boss’s house tonight.’”
He smiled, but it was different this time. Warmer. “If I had it my way, it would be more like ‘I’m sleeping with your boss tonight,’” he said. He held her eyes with his, the black-flecked green of his irises bold and filled with truth.
To her surprise, Leslie felt her cheeks heat and a flush rise over her chest. “Well, you certainly don’t beat around the bush, do you?” she murmured, then gave him a quick, saucy look before turning away.
Reality. Back to reality.
“I’ll call the police,” she said, looking down at her phone. But before she dialed, she stopped, exhaled, and looked up at him.
He was watching her with a look that made the bottom of her belly drop down low and sharp and deliciously…then it was gone. But the heat still banked behind his eyes when he met hers once more.
“What is it?” he asked, the avid interest fading from his expression.
“You don’t think… Well, I suppose there’s a chance it was…” She glanced up the stairs as if to see some supernatural manifestation taking shape at the very thought of it.
“The ghost?”
“Yes.”
It was his turn to draw in a breath then exhale. “I think it was someone very mortal. I’m not discounting that there’s a—a haunting, for lack of a better term. But if you’re thinking poltergeist or something like that—”
She was already shaking her head. “No, I don’t think it’s a poltergeist. Just a plain old unsettled, unhappy ghost. The closest thing to a pubescent girl around here is Stephanie, and she’s only been here that once for our interview. That’s the way the poltergeists manifest, right? Through hormonal, pubescent—and troubled—young girls.”
“That’s what they say,” he replied. Now it was his turn to glance up the stairs. Then he looked at her. “Whether or not there’s really a ghost, I
think this mess was made by a person who thinks there’s something hidden here. That old legend about Red Eye Sal—I’m assuming you’ve heard about it.”
“Yes, I have. I’m pretty sure those jewels in the paintings in the speakeasy are the ones of legend. There was a topaz necklace that definitely existed—it was stolen about thirty years ago from a high school girl after her prom.”
Declan frowned. “I think I remember hearing about that. A friend of mine’s brother use to tease us about going into the woods at night, telling us that was where a girl got strangled or something.”
Leslie shivered, suddenly very cold. Her fingers felt like ice. All at once, everything felt so repressive here in this unsettled foyer, with the open speakeasy doorway leading down into darkness, and the place in shambles—a sign of ugliness and violation. It struck her so sharply that she felt a nauseating chill and eerie, hair-raising sensation.
She glanced toward the top of the stairs and stilled. Her breath caught, and she grabbed blindly for Declan. Was that a faint light? Something shimmering?
“Leslie?”
She exhaled. Nothing was there. Or…whatever had been there, ever so faint, was gone. “Let’s sit down,” she said, and abruptly turned. The kitchen, she hoped, would be more inviting. At least it was her place, her space: rebuilt, reconditioned, and stamped with her own intention and caring.
“You’re going to call the police now, right? Joe Longbow is the chief, and he’s a really good guy.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.” She made good on her words, sitting at the sturdy kitchen table—thank God whoever broke in hadn’t dared to inflict damage on her beautiful table.
Declan had gone to the fridge—the stainless steel side-by-side big enough to hold a horse—and opened it. “Beer? Or do you have wine—or even better, whiskey? Might be just what you need. A little toddy in your tea.” He glanced around to give her a reassuring grin, but before she could respond, the police station answered her call and she had to give it her full attention.
To her shock and utter embarrassment, as Leslie began to form the words “My house was broken into,” her voice stretched and broke, and she felt tears burn the back of her throat. It was as if by saying the words, it had become permanent. Real. Inescapable. Someone had come into her home.
But by the time she finished the call, her tones were firmly back to confident business mode. She felt a little foolish for showing such weakness at the beginning, but then again…she’d been violated. Her home, her space, her world had been violated.
“Try this.” Declan set a cup in front of her. It was steaming, and it smelled really good—of cinnamon and cardamom, honey, and some very strong liquor. “I—uh—used one of those chai tea things for your coffee maker, and added a good dollop of whiskey and honey and lemon.”
Leslie took a sip, and her eyes widened. It was good. Really good. And the whiskey…it burned delicately through her body, having the immediate effect of relaxing her. It was almost as warm and luscious as Declan’s kisses. The thought of that added desperately needed warmth and pleasure to the moment.
“I took the liberty of calling your aunt,” he said, leaning against the island. He had a longneck in his large, freckled hand, and Leslie felt a spark of affection that he’d made her a fancy drink and settled for his own twist-off beer. “She’s coming over.”
“I’ll bet she is,” Leslie said wryly, and took another fortifying sip.
“Listen, Leslie…I hate to bring this up, but…Baxter’s article about you and the bed and breakfast. That was published before we found the speakeasy.”
She nodded slowly. “I know. Obviously whoever broke in here knew about it—where it was. How to find it. Which could be good or bad, I guess,” she said, heaving a sigh. “Good in that it would limit the intruder to being someone in a defined group—someone who heard about the hidden room within the last day or two. Bad because…well…”
“Yeah.” He drummed one set of fingers on the granite island. “So who knew about it? Besides me, of course.” His grin was a little crooked, but his eyes were serious. “And I didn’t mention it to anyone except Baxter, just casually—and that was tonight, while we were up in the press box during the second half of the game. And our other friend, Ethan Murphy, who was in from Chicago for the weekend.” Declan frowned.
So he’d been talking about her to Baxter James, had he? Leslie’s whiskey-softened thoughts swam into a contented little cove and nestled there as she drank again from the spiked tea. Then she was dashed with cold water and brought abruptly back to the ugliness at hand.
“Who knew about it? Well, Aunt Cherry and Orbra, of course. And Iva and probably her main squeeze Hollis,” she added. “And if they know, Maxine and Juanita probably do as well. The Underwhites and Trib. They were all there when I was telling Cherry and Orbra about it—the day you and I found it. Later that night we were all at Trib’s.” She frowned. “I can’t think of anyone—oh, wait. John Fischer.”
“Right. The famous writer. Maybe. Do you really think it’s him? Here in Wicks Hollow?”
“That’s what the rumor is, but I can’t find a picture of him online anywhere. Yes, I looked,” she added with an unabashed grin. “Anyway, he and Iva came over today, to look at the speakeasy—so they actually saw how I opened up the door and went down.” Leslie bit her lip. “A famous writer wouldn’t jeopardize his career by breaking into a house, would he? Plus, why would he need the gems anyway—he’s got to be doing pretty well with all those movie deals and a new release every year.”
“Right,” he said very casually. “Was there anyone else here at the time who might have seen the opening to the speakeasy? Any contractors? The UPS guy—did he deliver your light fixture? Anyone?”
She shook her head. “No. Even Iva’s boyfriend Hollis didn’t come—not that I would suspect them for even a minute. Iva’s all about the ghosts and Hollis only cares about his law firm—and her.”
Declan looked as if he were about to say something else, but just then they heard the sound of crunching gravel. Light scanned the parking area outside the kitchen window as the police car came around the driveway bend and turned to park next to Declan’s car.
Leslie stood and went to meet the police. As she opened the door, something moved—streaking from the door to around the house. It took her a moment to realize it had been the butterscotch cat—but only after she swallowed her heart back into place.
Captain Joe Longbow was just shy of fifty, and though his black hair was cut short and threaded with gray from his Marine days, his Native American heritage was evident by the color of his skin and high, sharp cheekbones. With his sharp, intelligent eyes and his comfortable, easy drawl, Leslie immediately felt at ease.
He introduced himself with a pleasant smile and handshake for Leslie, then another more familiar greeting for Declan. “Thought I saw you at the game tonight—up in the press box with Bax,” said the captain in his unhurried way. “And was that Ethan Murphy up there too? Man, that was some prime fishing we had last summer.”
“Yes, Murphy’s in town for the weekend. Said Diana wanted him out of her hair.” Both men chuckled. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t miss any football games here with Steph being on the pom squad. But you know how it goes—yours are on the field too. Congratulate Greg on the field goal for me, will you?”
“Thanks, and sure will.” As Longbow preceded Leslie into the kitchen, he commented that he’d known Cherry for years because his wife took yoga classes from her.
“Big game tonight,” he said, looking around at the destruction. “Pretty much everyone in town was there. I had Helga on call at the office, but Rick and I were at the game keeping an eye on things. Great opportunity for someone to break in and cause mischief,” he added grimly.
After she showed him everything, including the speakeasy, she settled Captain Longbow at the kitchen table and offered him a cup of coffee.
“Decaf, please,” he said. “So, is there anything missing?”
/> “Not that I’ve noticed. I’ll have to take a closer look… Wait.” Leslie’s eyes widened. She shot to her feet. “Wait a second…”
She hurried out of the kitchen to the front entrance, frowning. When was the last time she’d seen the pink velvet wrap and glove she’d found inside the base of the stair rail? She’d folded them up, hadn’t she? And put them on the table in the front hall…
But the table had been knocked over.
“There is something missing,” she said, returning to the kitchen, still pondering. “Why would anyone take an old velvet stole?”
She explained about what she’d found inside the stair rail base to Declan and the chief. “And if that’s what they were after—well, it was easy to find. The stole and the glove were sitting right there in plain sight. But I have no idea why anyone would want an old, worn stole.”
“Aren’t vintage clothes worth a lot of money?” Declan asked. “Especially that crystal button on it—maybe it was a real diamond or gemstone of some type. Maybe the intruder—I guess we can call him a thief now—broke in for some other reason, but saw the wrap and decided to take it too.”
“I don’t think that wrap was worth anything. Besides, it was in bad shape—old and frayed. The button was probably just fake bling. And the fabric was stained with that same rust-like corrosion that’s been discoloring the stair railing. At least it looked like it.”
“When was the last time you remember seeing it? Are you sure it was still on the table?” Longbow asked, taking careful notes. “Now you think back to the last time you know you saw it.”
“I’ll have to mull over it…I’ll be honest. My brain is a little fried right now. I put it on the table so I’d remember to take it into town—I wanted to show it to Gilda at the vintage clothes store to see if she could date it.”
The sound of another car approaching—no, two of them—drew their attention to the kitchen door and the window next to it.
“That’ll be Aunt Cherry, and if I’m not mistaken, Orbra too,” Leslie said wearily.
Quite frankly, if she couldn’t be alone, the only person she really wanted to be with right now was Declan. At least she wouldn’t have to answer a thousand questions. A thousand questions that were now going to include not only ones about the break-in, the speakeasy, and her mental health, but also about Declan.
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