When the Spirit Is Willing

by Margaret Chittenden

  Carter looked grim when he returned to the car. "Sly says he's too tired," he said.

  "We saw Max, but he didn't see us," Jessica told him.

  He smiled at her. "Other things on his mind." He glanced at Laura and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Sly hadn't let him out for a while. Said he forgot."

  Sly hadn't wanted to open the door, Laura interpreted. Which could mean the black car might have been here earlier.

  "On to pizza," Carter said, obviously striving for a cheerful tone for Jessica's sake.

  "Yay!" Jessica said from the back seat.

  Laura smiled at her, delighting in her delight. She was suffering from a complicated mix of feelings. On the one hand, a part of her—the physical part—was disappointed she and Carter had been…thwarted. Yet she had also been relieved when Jessica had interfered. She was grateful to Carter for suggesting they go out—she hadn't felt at all like spending the evening in her empty house. She had the horrible feeling it was her fault Priscilla had decided to make herself scarce. She and Carter should have left well enough alone, she decided. It seemed to her there was a strong possibility that Priscilla would never show herself again.

  "How do I go about tracing the former owners of a house?" Carter asked Mildred Whittock on Monday morning.

  Mildred gave him a forbidding look. Just because she'd known Carter since he was a child, she seemed to find it impossible to treat him with the proper respect due a boss. Sometimes she made Carter feel about ten years old.

  "You were going to give me a hand uncrating those pictures Dale Ferris bought at the Armstrong auction," she reminded him. "Thomas has been too busy cleaning out the rubble next door. I'm anxious to see whose pictures are in that crate."

  "That'll have to wait," he said firmly. "I need to do this other thing first." He wasn't sure what had possessed him to promise Laura and Jessica that he'd see what he could do to bring Priscilla back. They'd both looked at him so hopefully, he'd known he was committed. He had no idea if looking into the history of The Willows would give him a clue to Priscilla's whereabouts, but the idea had come to him in the night. It was at least a place to start.

  Mildred studied his face for a minute, pursing her mouth. A twinkle appeared behind the round brown glasses. "Let me guess," she said. "The Burbage house."

  Carter groaned. "Who's the fink?"

  She grinned. "I never reveal my sources. Someone who shall not be named told me you took Laura Daniel to the Parker party on Saturday. How's the romance coming?"

  Tiffany, he was willing to bet. Mildred had finally accepted her as a fellow worker. Judging by the number of times he'd noticed the two of them talking together over their morning coffee, they were well on the way to becoming friends.

  "What makes you think there's a romance?" he asked, more out of curiosity than annoyance.

  "Saw your face when you were talking to her," Mildred said with a smug smile. "Heard you were making eyes at her at Gibson's restaurant one day. Stuff like that." She raised her eyebrows. "So, am I right? Is it the Burbage house you're interested in?"

  Carter sighed. "Yes, it's the Burbage house."

  "So when's the wedding?" she asked.

  "Don't be ridiculous. You know I'm phobic about marriage."

  "Does Laura know?"

  "I told her right at the start," he said, feeling as virtuous as all get-out. He'd always believed in being up-front. "She has no desire to get married, either."

  "She told you that?"

  "In no uncertain terms."

  "Uh-huh. So what do you have in mind?"

  "That's none of your business, Mildred," he said sternly. "Now, about that house."

  "A young woman with a child is not going to want to play house, Carter." Mildred's voice was severe now. "Not a young woman like Laura Daniel, anyway."

  "You don't even know her," he said.

  Mildred raised a knowing eyebrow. "I trust my instincts. A woman like Laura Daniel won't go for any hanky-panky. From all I've heard about her…"

  "What could you possibly have heard?"

  "That's she's a lady, a loving mother, a nice person, a good worker, honest, kind, clean in her habits."

  "Clean in her—who the hell have you been talking to?"

  She went a little pink. "She's hired several local people to work on that house, Carter. Word gets around."

  He sighed. "She's a terrific woman, all right. I can't argue—" He broke off. "Who said anything about playing house?" he asked belatedly.

  Her eyes twinkled again. "I may not know her, but I know you, Carter." She hesitated. "She'd make you a lovely wife."

  "My God, you sound exactly like—" He'd almost said Priscilla. He swallowed and substituted "Every other gossip in this town. Can we please get to work?"

  "Certainly." She wasn't in the least cowed or offended at being called a gossip. "I heard you went down to Gino's Pizza," she added. "The little girl, too. Jessica? Heard you looked like a nice little family."

  He glared at her and she chuckled. "Yes, sir, the Burbage house. You could try Evelyn St. John at the historical society. Of course, she's probably heard about you and Laura, too. And she certainly knows where Laura is living. Then there are the public records, deed transactions, plat books, wills, old city directories. And newspapers."

  "I've already checked the Port Dudley Gazette."

  "What did you find out?"

  "Not the information I need."

  "Oh." She waited, but he wasn't about to say anything more. "Was there any particular owner you were interested in?" she asked.

  He nodded. "The first one. Randall Burbage. I'd also like to know who he sold the house to. And maybe when he died."

  "This is all museum business, is it?" Mildred asked.

  He sighed. "No, Mildred, this is personal business." An idea occurred to him. He could tell the truth, cut off Mildred's speculations and give a good reason for his pursuit of the information all at the same time. "I'm going to buy the house from Laura when she gets through remodeling it."

  Mildred didn't look at all surprised. She looked smug again. "I thought you might do that one day. I've heard how many times you drive past it. Your mom would approve. She always did love that house. At least, until your father was killed."

  Carter nodded. Priscilla had said much the same thing. He reminded himself he should stay alert enough not to mention anything that would show an interest in Priscilla Burbage. Just in case there had ever been a whisper that she hadn't… quite left. Laura would not be happy if word got out The Willows was haunted.

  Mildred went on listing sources he might try, but now he was barely listening. What she'd said about Evelyn St. John had made him realize his interest in the Burbage house would be more fuel for gossip wherever he made inquiries. "Could you possibly look into it for me, Mildred?" he asked, dredging up a smile he hoped had some charm in it.

  She gave him a black look.

  "I have so much to do next door," he reminded her. "And Tiffany and I are still trying to get the records transcribed."

  "I suppose I can spare a few hours," she said grudgingly. "But you have to help me with those pictures when I'm done."

  "I promise," he swore, holding up his right hand. Then he headed into the office before Mildred could change her mind.

  He'd come in early specifically to talk to Mildred in private before Tiffany arrived. He wasn't sure he wanted to chance turning the computer on, in case he pushed the wrong button and wiped out everything they'd accomplished.

  He sat back, contemplating the ceiling, thinking about Laura and the problem of seeing her alone. Into his mind crept the memory of what Mildred had said. "A woman with a child doesn't want to play house. Not a woman like Laura."

  He had a sudden alarming suspicion that she could be right.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Carter had timed his visit to coincide with Jessica's bedtime, so that he and Laura could discuss the information Mildred had unearthed without worrying about Jessica overhearing.
Apparently they didn't have to be concerned that Priscilla might eavesdrop—she still hadn't emerged from the self-imposed exile she'd gone into on Thursday evening.

  He had already presented Laura with the promised photocopy of the book that showed the interior of The Willows. Now, with total premeditation, he spread the papers Mildred had provided on the coffee table in the den so that he and Laura would have to sit together on the sofa to examine them.

  "Okay," Laura said briskly, coming into the room, "what have you found out?"

  She was wearing pale blue jeans and a shimmery silver-gray silk blouse that matched her eyes. Her long glossy brown hair was pinned up at the sides with combs, the way he liked it best. As usual, she wore little makeup, just the merest brush of mascara and a faint smudge of gray liner to accent her eyes. She was the first woman he'd known who could make jeans look elegant. She also made it difficult for a man to concentrate on the business at hand.

  "This one first," he said, dragging his gaze away from her and picking up a single page. "A lot of the stuff Mildred dug out doesn't apply to the Burbages, though you might find it interesting, but this one is a record of the sale of The Willows in January 1896 by Randall Burbage's widow."

  "His widow! That doesn't make sense. Priscilla died before he did." Laura's eyes widened. "He married again?"

  "Three months after Priscilla's death."

  Laura studied the copperplate handwriting on the page. "Her name was Thomasina!"

  He nodded. "The whore."

  She gave him an exasperated glance. "Carter! We only know that's what Priscilla called her. That doesn't mean she was one."

  "Well, she didn't waste time hopping into Priscilla's bed."

  "True."

  With one hand she flipped her hair away from the back of her neck, a characteristic gesture that always made Carter want to kiss the shadowed area under her jaw. He restrained himself. He had kissed her when he arrived and she had responded warmly enough to get his red and white corpuscles interested, but then she'd started worrying about Jessica coming downstairs. Since Priscilla had pulled her disappearing act, Jessica had taken to wandering at odd hours.

  Carter didn't want Laura equating his lovemaking with anxiety, so he was prepared to wait for optimum conditions, regardless of the strain it put on his libido. He'd give Jessica half an hour to get settled, he decided. Meanwhile he'd just have to put up with the heavy ache in his bones.

  "I thought she was married," Laura murmured.

  For a minute he couldn't think what she was talking about, he'd been so busy admiring the feathery shadows her eyelashes made on her cheekbones when she lowered her head to read. "Oh, Thomasina," he responded a couple of beats late. "She was. To the local sawmill owner. I checked back through the Gazette and found his obituary. He died a while before Priscilla did—of liver disease. There was a fairly strong hint in the newspaper report that he overindulged in alcohol."

  "I suppose then there was no reason Thomasina and Randall shouldn't have gotten married."

  "Apparently not."

  "So what did Randall die of?"

  He handed her the copy of Randall's obituary, dated November 4, 1895. "My goodness," she said, scanning it. "Life had its dangers, didn't it?"

  An oil lamp had exploded in Randall's office in Tacoma, igniting papers on his desk and filling the room with flames so quickly it had been impossible for anyone to rescue the man.

  Laura frowned as she set the paper down. "Didn't Priscilla say that she hadn't left this house since she'd died?"

  Carter nodded.

  "Then she was here, in this house, during Randall's second marriage. Which means she had to witness Randall being married to Thomasina for three years."

  "Maybe she 'rested' during that period."

  "I certainly wouldn't blame her if she did. How awful not to be able to leave the house—having to watch—" She broke off and shivered. "Maybe that's why she doesn't want to go into the master bedroom. If Thomasina and Randall took it over after they were married and Priscilla had to—" She broke off again. "When we talk out loud about all this, I can't believe any of it."

  "Me, neither." Carter put the record of the house sale in front of her again. "Apparently Thomasina sold the place a couple of months after Randall's death."

  Her wide gray eyes were luminous as she looked at him. "Do you suppose Thomasina knew Priscilla was here?"

  He let his gaze linger on her troubled face. He was sitting close enough to feel her warmth radiating around him. He wanted to put an arm around her, kiss her until he could feel that warmth exploding inside him. He took a breath to ease his tension, then let it out again. "Can you imagine Priscilla letting Thomasina live here in ignorance?" he asked.

  Her eyes glinted. "You think she haunted her?"

  "I think it's entirely likely she haunted them."

  She thought about that for a minute, then sighed. "Oh, how I wish we could ask her." Her eyes clouded. "You do think she'll come back, don't you?"

  He nodded. "Sure she will. I hope."

  A strand of hair had come loose from the comb she'd used to pin her hair up at the side. Giving in to an impulse that had been nagging him for several minutes, he stroked it lightly behind her ear.

  As always when he touched her, tension crackled between them. "What are these other papers?" she asked nervously, reaching for them.

  He sighed. "Nothing much of interest there. An auction of the furnishings. Records of subsequent owners of The Willows."

  "The furnishings were auctioned off?"

  "Thomasina got rid of the lot."

  "Doesn't that seem a little drastic?" she asked.

  "Perhaps Thomasina didn't want the bother of moving. I didn't check to see what happened to Thomasina after that, but I can if you want me to."

  "No, I don't particularly care about Thomasina." The small wrinkle he liked so well had appeared in her forehead and he considered smoothing it as he'd wanted to so often. But Laura had found something that interested her—a copy of a large pen-and-ink drawing entitled, A View of the Straits of Fuca in 1888. He'd forgotten about that one.

  While she excitedly discovered the post-office building and the court house and the sawmill Thomasina's husband had owned, he contentedly watched the changing expressions on her face and fantasized undoing her blouse, one button at a time, freeing her firm breasts from the lacy brassiere he could see faintly through the silk of her blouse. She wasn't wearing a belt with her jeans. It would take but a moment to unsnap the fastener, draw down the zipper, lift her hips… He could be out of his jeans and knitted shirt faster than it took to say—

  "Look at the old sailing ships in the Strait!" she exclaimed.

  He was startled back to abstemious reality.

  "There's a paddle wheeler, too, and a horse and buggy on Emerson," she went on. "And there's your museum—still a house then, of course. And here's The Willows. Look, it's labeled. It must have been brand-new—that's the year Priscilla and Randall were married."

  She gazed silently at the drawing for the longest time. Carter couldn't quite read her expression but it seemed… melancholy. "Laura?" he said softly after a while.

  She turned her head, her beautiful eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "I'm sorry. Somehow, looking at this, seeing my house standing a hundred and some years ago—it makes me feel awed."

  She set the drawing down on the table but kept her gaze on it. "My house," she said again, talking to herself rather than to him. "I get the strangest feeling saying that. My house. I mean, when you consider it isn't really my house. Or soon won't be."

  It didn't seem a good time to remind her he wanted The Willows to become his house. And of course it would be despicable to take advantage of her vulnerability, but Carter didn't have quite enough moral fiber to resist.

  Smiling sympathetically at her, he reached across to stroke her hair again. Then his thumb found her ear and traced it gently. "Carter," she said questioningly.

  He put on an innocent
face.

  She laughed and sniffed at the same time. "You're very persistent."

  "One of my more endearing traits," he allowed, and kissed her. She sighed against his mouth, but he didn't think it was a complaining sort of sigh. It was more an absent-minded sigh, as if her mind was elsewhere. Which wasn't much of a compliment, but might prove to be advantageous.

  He kissed her again. He didn't think he'd ever experienced anything as provocative as the feel of her soft mouth moving against his. The taste of her was wonderful, clean, sweet and slightly salty. Heat flamed through every part of his body. His heart was thrashing around in his chest like a wild thing.

  He kissed her eyelids, her cheekbones, the soft shadowed hollow in her throat. Still she didn't object. She didn't really respond, either. Her gaze was misty, as though her mind had drifted off to some distant planet in some far-flung galaxy. He slipped an arm around her waist and urged her closer, hoping she'd rejoin this universe and find herself in such a compromising position she wouldn't be able to think of a graceful way out.

  And then he heard the stairs creak. The sound jolted him as brutally as though he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water.

  Laura eased herself away from him, still looking distracted, as though she hadn't consciously noticed his attempts to make love to her. Hardly flattering. By the time Jessica had entered the den, they were both examining the papers Mildred had procured.

  "What are you doing?" Jessica asked. She was wearing a blue flowered nightgown that trailed around her bare toes. Her braid was undone, and her hair hung around her shoulders in loose waves. Carter was surprised by the enormity of the pleasure he felt at the sight of the doll he'd given her cradled in her arms.

  "We're just reading some stuff about house sales," Laura said.

  Jessica's hazel eyes clouded. "We're not going to move while Priscilla's away, are we?"

  "Good grief, of course not," Laura said, then frowned. For several seconds she stared at Jessica in a bewildered way, her eyes darkening as though she'd drifted away again. "We won't be moving for months," she added, speaking slowly, almost hesitantly, still frowning. Then her gaze seemed to focus on her daughter's face and she shook her head as though to clear it. She beckoned Jessica close. Easing the child onto her lap, she leaned back against the soft cushions, cradling Jessica's head against her shoulder. "Couldn't you sleep, honey?"