"My God!" Laura exclaimed.
Carter thought she was commenting on his remark, but then he saw her attention was on the newspapers. He craned his neck to see what she'd come up with. "Priscilla Burbage, wife of prominent citizen Randall Burbage, fatally wounded," he read aloud.
"Good grief, Carter!" Laura exclaimed. "No wonder Priscilla didn't want to talk about her death. She was murdered."
Carter read on, a wave of horror sweeping through him. This story was not a part of Molly's archly worded Meanderings. This was a page-one lead story, headlined in large capitals. And Priscilla's name was spelled correctly.
"Death the work of a burglar's revolver," stated the subheading.
The story followed. Hardly breathing, Carter and Laura read it together.
The serenity of well-to-do Humboldt Street was shattered last night by the news that Mrs. Randall Burbage had been shot to death in her home some two days previous. Her body, cold in death, was discovered by her husband when he returned from an extended stay in Tacoma. He often stayed in that city due to the demands of work, the distraught Mr. Burbage stated. It was subsequently ascertained by the police that a quantity of valuable jewelry and a large number of bank notes were missing from the Burbage residence. A broken window in the parlor gave mute testimony to the burglar's method of entering. While none of the neighbors heard the sound of breaking glass or the two shots the fiendish thief fired into Mrs. Burbage's head, a Miss Kate Lewis, who resided in an adjacent dwelling, reported to police that she had seen a tall, elegantly dressed gentleman leave the Burbage premises in a hasty manner on what must have been the day of the shooting. An alarm has been sent out from police headquarters asking that anyone with information make it available to the proper authorities.
Carter sat numbly staring at the narrow columns, unable for a moment to read on. "That must be why Priscilla's a ghost!" Laura exclaimed. "I've read that the spirits of people who die violently are often confused and don't quite make the… transition."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure I believe that."
"I didn't believe in ghosts until I lived with one," Laura said dryly. Then she made a small sound of disgust and pointed at the next paragraph: " 'My brain is burning, my every nerve throbbing,' Randall Burbage, highly respected husband of the deceased, sobbed to this journalist. 'My senses are in a whirl of grief and fear'."
"After the way he treated her, how could he be such a hypocrite?" she demanded.
"Don't judge too harshly," Carter urged her. "People talked that way in those days. If they didn't, the reporters put the words in their mouths."
"Mrs. Burbage was an accomplished and beautiful lady, just twenty-four years old," Laura read aloud. " 'She will be mourned by her many friends in the community. Our hearts go out to the bereaved husband'."
Her wonderful gray eyes were shining with tears, Carter noticed. His own eyelids felt suspiciously prickly. When Priscilla had come back into his life and he'd discovered his old childhood companion was a ghost, he'd thought possibly she might have met her death via an accident—a runaway horse and carriage, perhaps. She'd been dressed for outdoors, after all. But according to the Port Dudley Gazette, she must have come home from somewhere and surprised a burglar… who had shot her in the head.
Carter cleared his throat. "Did the police ever catch the burglar, I wonder?"
Laura pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. He put an arm around her shoulders as she turned the following pages and she didn't object.
"Assailant questioned," the next headline on the Burbage case reported.
"No namby-pamby use of the word alleged," Carter noted.
"The assailant" turned out to be Peter Cranston himself. But after being held for a couple of days, he was re-leased by the police, who had established that Priscilla had been seen cutting roses in her flower garden after the departure of the elegantly dressed man. It was also ascertained that Mr. Cranston had hailed a hansom cab on the corner of Humboldt Street half an hour before Priscilla had gathered her roses, and had spent the rest of the day with two of his business associates at an office in Port Townsend. That night he had taken ship for San Francisco.
"Seems a bit too tidy to me," Laura commented. "I'm not sure I trust such a neat alibi." She turned more pages, but apart from a slightly lurid description of Priscilla's funeral, at which a still "distraught with grief" Randall Burbage had been supported by friends, there was no follow-up story.
"Didn't the gun ever show up?" Laura demanded. "It's not even mentioned again. Didn't anybody think to look for red beard? Just how reliable were these friends of Peter Cranston, anyway?"
"Reliable enough to be believed, apparently." Noticing the room was getting dim as the sky clouded outside, Carter reached past Laura to turn on the gooseneck lamp that was clamped to the table. His hand brushed her neck and she shivered slightly.
Carter stood, then went to photocopy the story of the murder and the paragraphs dealing with the questioning of Peter Cranston and Priscilla's funeral. As she scanned the pages after he brought them back, Laura's face clouded up again.
"Are you okay?" he asked. Gently taking the stiff pages from her, he folded them and stuck them in his inside jacket pocket.
Laura pushed back her chair, took in a deep breath, let it out and stood. "I guess so. I just have this overwhelming feeling of grief for Priscilla. Consciously I knew she was dead, but my subconscious mind hadn't acknowledged it. Twenty-four years old."
Tears were welling in her eyes again. Getting to his feet, Carter put his arms around her in as businesslike a manner as he could, managing at the same time to inhale her wonderfully clean fragrance. When she recovered her composure and seemed restless, he released her immediately, then looked at her apologetically. "I've got to get back to the museum, I'm afraid."
Laura sniffed and wiped her eyes again. "Another party?" she asked, but there was none of the earlier tartness in her voice.
Was that a good sign?
Carter smiled. "No party this time." He inclined his head to one side. "Which reminds me. If I'm ever to convince you that I'm not the playboy Sly's made me out to be, I'm going to have to take you to one of my parties. There's one coming up on Saturday afternoon around three p.m. What do you say?"
She began to shake her head and he protested. "Don't you think you owe it to me to at least take a look at my wild life-style before condemning it?"
He'd used the word "wild" in an ironic sense, but she took it literally and stiffened slightly. He held out his hands, palms upward, to show his innocence. "Please, Laura."
"I'd have to get a baby-sitter." She shook her head before he could celebrate. "I must be out of my mind. I am out of my mind." She sighed. "I still don't feel comfortable about leaving Jess with Sly, at least not as long as he's acting so strangely. And I know you think Tiffany would be a good baby-sitter, but…"
"Tiffany will be at the party. It's at her uncle's house."
"Oh."
What a world of suspicion in one syllable. Given her marital history, he supposed he couldn't blame her for wondering.
"All right," she said, after gazing at him sternly for a moment or two. "I'll ask Mrs. Wilmer if Jess can stay with her."
"I really do have to go to work now," he said. After putting the newspapers tidily away, he took her arm and eased her out of the door. "Maybe I could stop by this evening and we could talk to Priscilla?" he suggested.
The delightful little furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "Or not, whatever you decide," he added hastily. "I should mention, though, that while I couldn't find anything about the Burbages in the museum library, I did find a book that shows all the old Port Dudley Victorians. It includes several pictures of The Willows., Interior as well as exterior."
"That's great."
Her gray eyes blazed with excitement, lighting up her whole face. He wanted very badly to kiss her, but they'd started walking toward the main part of the library and there were people around. Not to men
tion his promise to give her time to stand back and assess their relationship. He wanted her to see that he could keep a promise. Though considering the way his pulse had been galloping around the entire time he'd sat close to her, he wasn't sure how much self-sacrifice he was capable of.
All of a sudden, she was frowning again. Stopping dead in the hall, she asked, "Couldn't you have brought the book with you?"
He was prepared for that question. "Can't let you check it out, I'm afraid—the museum isn't a lending library. Where the books go, I go. Also…" He paused until she looked up at him questioningly. Now was as good a time as any to broach his idea, lie decided. He couldn't keep it to himself any longer, anyway. And she was bound to be thrilled to know that Priscilla's immediate future was settled. "I intend being a consultant on your remodeling job from now on," he said lightly. "I've decided to buy The Willows from you when you're all through with it."
Her mouth dropped open; her hands clenched into fists. He couldn't really blame her for being surprised. He'd astonished himself when he'd conceived this plan.
For a moment Laura was speechless. Then her face flooded with color. "Why on earth would you want to do that?" she demanded.
He frowned. Somehow she didn't sound as grateful as he'd expected. "Why wouldn't I?"
"It would be far too big for you. You said yourself it's too big for two people."
"I could turn it into apartments."
How could he even suggest such a thing? "You'd chop up that magnificent house—after all my work—" Words failed her.
"My main reason for wanting the house is to make sure Priscilla has a place to be comfortable, at least while I'm alive," he said soothingly. "I wouldn't do anything to spoil your work."
She wasn't soothed. She was outraged. Why? she wondered. What difference did it make who bought the house? Or what the new owner did with it once she'd finished with it? It had never mattered to her before.
"So how about it?" Carter asked, taking her arm and starting them off walking again.
She looked at him blankly, still in shock.
"I'll bring the book over this evening? What would be best, early evening or later on?"
She was still trying to compose herself. "You'd better come to dinner," she muttered, thinking that would give her a chance to argue him out of this crazy idea.
"On the other hand," she said abruptly, suddenly snapping out of her daze, "maybe it's not such a good idea for you to come to the house. Perhaps I should come by the museum and—" She broke off as they reached the children's book section.
Sly was still sitting in his crunched-up position in the kindergarten-size chair. Jessica was alongside, her shining eyes fixed on him. Six other children of various ages were also sitting at the table, gazing at Sly. Ranged alongside the racks of books were their mothers and the pretty young librarian, all of them obviously entranced by Sly's performance.
Sly was building a house of cards—a splendid edifice—a Japanese castle, towering and ornate. And while he carefully, but skillfully, placed card upon card upon card, he was telling a story about the princess who had once lived in the castle—a story Carter recognized.
Sly had told him several versions of the story when he was a boy. It was based loosely—very loosely—on an old Japanese legend. It concerned a princess of great beauty, who fell in love with an uncommonly handsome cowherd. In spite of the king's objections, the two ran off together and had numerous wondrous adventures, performed many good deeds and lived very happily until they were very old, when they retired to the Milky Way—a river of stars that shines nightly in the sky.
"Look up there tonight," Sly concluded as Carter and Laura stood watching him. "Look for the two brightest stars you can see, side by side. If you stare at them hard, you will see the princess and the cowherd dancing."
Everybody applauded. The children demanded more. "Next time," Sly promised, gathering his cards together.
Jessica's face was glowing with pride in her friend Sly as they all headed for the exit closest to the parking lot. "Is that a true story, Uncle Sly?" she asked.
"Very true," he said. "Which is not the same as saying it really happened."
"Okay," Jessica said, nodding.
Carter smiled at her, but his smile turned to a frown when Sly held back at the exit, peering around the doorjamb in all directions before scuttling quickly toward Carter's Jeep.
No doubt about it, Laura thought as she drove home, enjoying Jessica's excited retelling of Sly's story. A charmer he might be, but Simon Kincaid was definitely afraid of something.
Or someone.
And as if that mystery wasn't enough, Carter had presented her with another one. For a few minutes, watching Sly, enjoying the entranced expressions on the faces of the children, she'd almost forgotten Carter's preposterous suggestion.
The mystery had nothing to do with Carter's motives in wanting to buy her house. She'd witnessed his response to The Willows—he obviously loved it, either for itself or for the happy childhood he'd spent in it.
No, the mystery was far more complex than that. For the life of her, she couldn't think why she loathed the thought of Carter Kincaid buying The Willows and living in it when she was gone. But she truly, utterly hated the very idea. For a minute there, when he'd made his announcement, she had wanted to punch him right on his perfectly shaped nose.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Okay, Sly, let's talk," Carter said firmly as he drove toward his apartment. He had barely enough time to drop Sly off and head back to the museum, but he was determined to find out why Sly had deliberately tried to make Laura distrust him.
"Always enjoy a good dialogue with you, my boy."
Sly had slumped way down in his seat. And this was a man who prided himself on the ramrod straight military posture he'd learned in his "army career."
"You told Laura a pile of nonsense about the Kincaid men. You not only defamed me, you tarnished the good names of my father and grandfather."
Sly looked at him sideways.
"Okay," Carter allowed. "Grandfather William did a fair job of tarnishing his own name. But that doesn't excuse you."
"I was just idly talking about the family, telling Laura what wonderfully robust fellas the Kincaid men are," Sly protested.
As Carter stopped for a red light, Sly lifted the brim of his cowboy hat—Carter's cowboy hat—peered through his sunglasses into the Jeep's side rearview mirror, then lowered the hat again.
Carter checked his mirror. A dark-blue Buick, a pickup truck with a canopy, an enormous fifth wheeler. No black '51 Mercury. One problem at a time, he decided, and didn't comment.
"You gave Laura the impression you were trying to turn her off me," Carter said grimly as he drove on.
"Why would I want to sabotage your game plan?"
"My question exactly."
Sly moved his head slowly from side to side. "Any woman worth her salt wouldn't be put off a man because of his randy relatives."
"That does not answer my question."
"What was the question again?"
"Why the hell did you go on about me going to parties? You know damn well why I go to them."
"I suppose I took it for granted you'd explained them to her just as you explained them to me," Sly said, his voice dripping innocence. He sighed, shaking his head. "Women do have a way of misunderstanding, my boy. I was merely pointing out what a popular fella you are. Thought it would make her admire you more. I got the impression she was about to jump ship where you're concerned."
"I have that impression, too," Carter grumbled.
"So there you are, then. Can't blame me for trying to help."
It was obviously useless to go on. Sly was a champion bamboozler—it never did any good to try to pin him down. In any case, they had arrived at the condo. Carter sighed as he drew up in front of the complex. "We'll talk more later," he said.
Sly nodded absently. He was peering out of the window on his side, glancing sharply up and down the stre
et.
"What the hell are you looking for?" Carter demanded.
"Just checking the weather, old boy," Sly said, then exited smartly, scooted over to the condo's entranceway, waved and disappeared.
Closing his eyes, Carter leaned on the steering wheel for a moment. His life had become very complicated lately. As far as he could see it wasn't going to get any simpler.
Laura had put her hair up in a knot. The old-fashioned style emphasized her lovely cheekbones. Carter was reminded of how silky her skin had felt when he'd touched those cheekbones. He wanted to touch them again. She was wearing a blue silk blouse tied at the waist over the formfitting flowered pants that seemed to be fashionable lately. Every once in a while fashion gurus came up with designs he could live with.
"Oh, hi," she said faintly. "I wasn't sure you'd come. I thought I'd said I'd come by the museum to look at the book."
"Did you?" He affected surprise, though of course he had heard her say that very thing. But she hadn't flat out told him not to come over. He took a step backward. "I'm sorry, I guess I misunderstood. Sorry to disturb you." He put all he had into a regretful smile and made sure she could see the hefty book he held under his arm. "You're sure you don't need a hand with some wallboard? Putting up a ceiling? Hanging a picture or two?"
His jocular remarks were intended to remind her of how helpful he could be to have around the house. The smile was free.
One or the other jump-started a curving of her lips. And she was looking at the book with acquisitive eyes. "Well, now that you're here, I guess you might as well come in," she said.
Hardly an enthusiastic, or even gracious, welcome, but he was fairly sure she'd expected him. Why else would she have changed out of her usual overalls or blue jeans? He was in the door; that was the main thing.
Entering the magnificent foyer, he experienced a wonderful sense of homecoming. He hadn't felt that way since… since he'd lived in this house as a child. It was exciting to think that The Willows would once again be his home. He'd thought of buying it when Ed and Jane Mallory had put it up for sale, but as Laura had pointed out, it did seem rather a large house for one person. He had some ideas about that, however. And he had several months to work out some kind of arrangement.
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