Shades of Midnight

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Lucien had already gone to comfort and cuddle his specter-o-meter with gentle hands. “Off the scale,” he muttered as he sat on the floor and fiddled with his contraption. “Amazing.”

  “Well,” she said with a relieved sigh. “That’s it for this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow. You can leave your equipment here, if you like.”

  The expression on his face was one of revulsion.

  “I won’t touch anything,” Eve assured him.

  Lucien looked up from his position on the floor. “You don’t really expect me to walk to the boarding house tonight, do you? Everyone there will surely be asleep, and besides… it’s a long walk and it’s cold out.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?”

  She rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man was half-witted! “I live here in Plummerville. This is my home, and will be for many years to come. What would the neighbors think if I allowed a man to stay overnight?”

  “What neighbors?” he asked blithely. “The nearest house is a quarter of a mile away.”

  Eve pursed her lips. True enough. “That detail is of no importance. Besides, I have four bedrooms upstairs, but only two are actually furnished with beds. My room and… Viola and Alistair’s room. There’s no place for you to stay.”

  “Let me fix this,” Lucien said, returning his attention to the damaged contraption in his lap. “And when I’m done I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  Eve glanced at the serpentine-backed sofa in the parlor. It was about five feet long. Lucien was six foot two. “Fine,” she said. “Ruin my reputation. Brand me as an immoral woman among my neighbors. Stay here so that no decent man will ever think of courting me.”

  “All right,” Lucien said absently, his mind already elsewhere as he fiddled cautiously with his malfunctioning contraption.

  Eve stomped one foot, another gesture that went unnoticed, and then climbed the stairs, leaving Lucien to repair the damage Viola had done to his specter-o-meter. She glanced down into the foyer as she reached the top of the stairs, and the anger she’d worked so hard to put on her face faded. Inside her, all that anger melted. Dissolved.

  It wasn’t fair. Lucien Thorpe was a genius. He could be kind, on occasion, and though he didn’t smile often, when he did the effect was dazzling. He was handsome, tall, lean, dark, and even now, when she looked at him, her heart leapt in her chest and her stomach did flips. Many people said he was odd, and in truth she couldn’t argue with that accusation. But when she looked at Lucien she saw more than an oddity. She saw all of him.

  He’d kissed her, more than once, and he was a very fine kisser. In those moments when they’d embraced he hadn’t been odd or a genius. He had just been a man. Her man. She could imagine, too well, what it would be like to laugh and moan in the dark, with Lucien touching and kissing her.

  As she stood in the upstairs hallway and looked down, her heart sank. She would never know what it felt like to be with any man in that way, because the only man she would ever love was more fascinated by the dead than he would ever be with her.

  Chapter 3

  Lucien awoke to the unpleasant sensation of a solid object poking at his ribs. Repeatedly. He opened one eye to see that a frowning Eve stood over him, leaning slightly forward as she nudged him almost angrily with a cane. “Wake up,” she insisted.

  No one should be so beautiful in the morning, he thought dreamily. Even with that frown on her face and the unflattering brown dress stark against her fine skin, Evie was most beautiful. He was tempted to tell her so, but since she was armed with a walking cane and likely to whack him across the head if he said anything she might consider improper, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “It was sunrise before I got to sleep,” he said, considering that explanation enough as he closed his eye.

  “Too bad,” she said, poking harder. “I’m expecting a delivery from the general store this morning, and Mrs. Markham is supposed to call before noon. You can’t stay here. I can’t have visitors arriving to find you sleeping on the parlor floor!”

  “The couch was too short,” he explained.

  “Lucien!”

  He sat up slowly. The woman was unmerciful. Beautiful, yes, but also quite unmerciful.

  “If you insist on sleeping the morning away, you can use Viola and Alistair’s room,” she said, her voice tight and her spine rigid.

  “You’re up,” he said as he stood carefully and stretched stiff muscles that protested his sleeping arrangements. “Why can’t I sleep in your bed?”

  “No!” Horror flashed in her eyes, and spots of color rose to her pale cheeks. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “When did you get so all-fired concerned about what was proper?” he asked, collecting his jacket from the sofa and his shoes from the floor.

  “When I came here to make a home.” She sighed. “Viola and Alistair never appear before ten-fifteen at night. They won’t bother you.”

  “My concern is that I will bother them. Now is not the time to disrupt their home, and they’re obviously most… uh… comfortable in that particular room.”

  Eve followed him as he headed for the stairs. “I’ve never seen or heard any sign of them during the day,” she said, stopping at the foot of the stairs as he continued upward.

  “Perhaps they won’t mind, then.” Lucien stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to look down at Eve. Yes, she was always beautiful, but she was even more stunning when she smiled. And she had the most wonderful laugh, real and sweet. He had missed that laugh, in the past two years. Would he ever hear it again? “Who’s Mrs. Markham?”

  She didn’t smile, but her eyes did light up. “Justina Markham. She was a friend of Viola’s. She discovered the bodies.”

  Lucien’s eyebrows popped up. “She did? And you’re just now speaking with her?”

  “She’s been in Alabama visiting with her daughter, and only returned two days ago. She wanted a day or two to rest before speaking to me, but she agreed to stop by this morning.”

  “Wake me if she has anything interesting to say.”

  “Of course,” Eve said brightly and much too sarcastically. “I’ll just ask her to wait a moment while I go wake the man who’s sleeping in my house!”

  “Take notes, then,” he said as he turned and headed for Viola and Alistair’s bedroom.

  “I always do.”

  The bed in the chamber at the end of the hall was neatly made. No sign of the ghostly activities that had taken place here last night lingered. Lucien closed the door and looked around, searching the darkest corners for signs that he was not alone. He often saw what others did not. A flash of light, a shimmer, a disturbance in the air. Spirits who showed themselves were visible to him long before they became visible to others. It had always been that way.

  All seemed quiet here. He saw nothing, and still he felt that perhaps he was not alone.

  He placed his jacket over the back of a chair and his shoes on the floor. “I don’t want to disturb you,” he said softly. “I only wish to rest in your bed for a few hours.”

  Nothing. Not a sound or a speck of light that did not belong. Perhaps Eve was right and the spirits only came at night. Timely hauntings were not an unheard-of phenomenon. He removed his shirt and trousers and underthings, and threw back the coverlet. If he had remembered to pack a nightshirt, he might wish he had carried his bag up the stairs, but as he had not it mattered little. He usually slept naked, anyway.

  The bed did look wonderful, after a couple of hours of sleeping on the hard parlor floor. Felt wonderful, too, as he slipped beneath the sheet and heavy quilt and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. Tonight would be another late night, he imagined, and he’d need to be well rested.

  He didn’t fall immediately to sleep, but drifted unerringly in that direction. Half asleep, comfortable at last, he let his mind wander to Eve. In the past two years he had devoted himself to his work, only rarely allowing himself to think of Eve and what his life woul
d be like if he hadn’t mucked things up. There were few people in this world he could truly talk to about his work. Eve was one of those people. There were even fewer who understood. Eve understood. He wanted to believe that there were other solutions to her current spirit problem than calling on him for help. He wanted to believe that she’d contacted him because she wanted to see him again. It was a nice idea, that this particular haunting might be more than a job. That it might be a second chance.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door before he could fall asleep with that pleasant thought in his mind. “Come in,” he muttered, stifling a yawn.

  The door swung cautiously open, and Eve’s head appeared. “Your bag,” she said coolly, dropping his smaller case onto the floor by the door.

  “My equipment!” Lucien said, sitting up as he came instantly awake.

  Eve turned her head so she would not be subjected to the sight of his bare chest. She apparently found a spiderweb in one corner fascinating. “Don’t worry. I won’t allow anyone to study or harm your precious equipment. The ectoplasm harvester and the sample you collected last night are stored in the dining room, under the buffet, and I moved the specter-o-meter to a corner of the parlor and covered it with a crocheted blanket, so no one will see it. I would have put it in the dining room also, but it was too heavy for me to move that far without assistance.”

  “Thank you,” he said, much relieved. “I do trust you with my equipment, Evie. But no one else can touch it. No one.” He yawned again.

  She slammed the door.

  *

  Eve opened the kitchen door to a knock she had become familiar with, since arriving in Plummerville, Georgia. A fit older man, Gerald Porter looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Late fifties, if Eve was judging correctly. He had no family that she knew of, but seemed to be on good terms with everyone in Plummerville.

  He lived in a room over the general store, and did odd jobs all around town. One of his regular jobs was delivering for the general store, as well as a few other businesses in town. Since Eve didn’t have a horse, much less a horse and buggy, she had relied on Gerald several times. The walk to the main street and the shops there was lovely and brisk, but she had no desire to attempt to carry her purchases all that way home.

  Gerald carried in two small burlap sacks containing the supplies she’d chosen from the general store yesterday morning. As always, he greeted her with a warm smile and a wink. He had thick white hair, twinkling pale blue eyes, and a quick smile. It was that smile, she imagined, that made him seem instantly like a friend she’d known for years.

  Since Gerald had lived here in Plummerville thirty years ago, he had been an invaluable resource for information on Viola and Alistair. Apparently he had been doing odd jobs even then, and had actually worked for the Stampers on occasion. Yardwork, primarily, though he did remember doing a few minor repairs to the house itself.

  “Seen any shades?” he asked with another wink.

  Clear-eyed and without blinking, Eve lied. “No, I’m afraid not.” Even though she liked Gerald and hated being dishonest with him, she didn’t want or need a bunch of curious townspeople poking their noses into her business. And Gerald, gossip that he was, would surely spread the tale all over town.

  Everyone knew that the house was supposedly haunted, and several residents had teasingly asked her if she’d seen Viola and Alistair. It was easy to deny their existence, and those who asked were laughingly relieved to hear that there were no ghosts. No one was around to contradict Eve. None of the people who had actually lived in this house in the past thirty years remained in Plummerville. For most of that thirty years the house had stood empty. Those who had lived here, for short periods of time, had all managed to move on. Rather quickly from what she heard.

  If the rumors of ghostly sightings started all over again, there would be at least a few curious neighbors who would not or could not stay away. Children would dare one another to come to the door, brave souls would drop by hoping for a glimpse. She would become, “that lady who lives in the haunted house.” Yes, it was best that everyone believe the house to be ghost-free. Hopefully, it soon would be.

  Gerald took the coin she pressed into his large, rough hand. “I always knew those ghost stories was hogwash,” he said. “You’re a good, sensible woman who’s not likely to imagine something silly like ghosts. But you know how easy it is to stir people up, and when folks find out there was a murder and a suicide in this house, their imaginations just take over.” He shook his head. “People can be so foolish.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  Gerald leaned against the counter and pocketed his coin while Eve unpacked her supplies. She never had to worry about what to talk about when she was with Gerald. He always carried the conversation. “It’s such a sad story, though,” he said with a sigh. “Poor Miss Viola, she was a kind, thoughtful woman. And that Alistair, he had a lot of people fooled. Seemed like a nice man, most of the time, but he had a temper.” The older man shook his head. “And that temper of his killed Miss Viola. Thirty years past, and I still can’t believe he did it.”

  She’d never asked Gerald any personal questions about the Stampers. Such information was more easily discussed with another woman, and Eve had been able to find several who didn’t mind sharing a little bit of old gossip.

  But time was running short. If she was embarrassed to discuss such delicate matters with a man, well, perhaps it was best to put that embarrassment aside and think of the more important issue. Ridding her house of unwanted spirits.

  “He was very jealous, I imagine.” By all accounts, Viola had been a strikingly beautiful woman. Alistair, nine years older than his wife, had guarded her as if he were afraid he could not keep her. And he’d been right. “Hearing that she’d taken up with another man must have destroyed him.” So why did they frolic so happily in their bed before he killed her? Alistair had indeed been cruel, if he could pull off that charade. If he could convince Viola that he loved her and forgave her, make love to her for hours, and then stab her in the back, then he had been truly evil.

  She was beginning to think all men were evil, each in their own way.

  Gerald leaned in close. “You’re right. He was a jealous man.”

  Eve decided to push a little more. “Old rumor is so unreliable, but I did hear that he had good reason to be.”

  Gerald took the bait. “From what I heard back in those days, Mr. Stamper was livid when he found out what Miss Viola had been up to, and rightly so.”

  Eve nodded as she handed the empty sacks to Gerald. “I can imagine.” She tried to appear only mildly interested in the old story. Curious, but not obsessed. “And you’re sure no one knows who this man Viola took up with was?” She had asked the question before, had posed it to several women from town, but she had never gotten a satisfactory answer. From anyone.

  Gerald shook his head. “Miss Viola was discreet, I’ll give her that. After the Stampers died there was lots of talk, but it was mostly just guessing. Some said it was a stranger passing through town that caught Miss Viola’s fancy, others said she’d taken up with the Baptist preacher.”

  “The preacher?” This was news she had not heard before now.

  “He was a young, good-looking fella, back then.” Gerald lowered his voice. “Some said he was sweet on Miss Viola from the first day he saw her.”

  Eve tried to appear completely nonchalant. “This wasn’t, by chance, the same Reverend Younger who preaches fire and brimstone each and every Sunday?”

  Gerald nodded. “One and the same. Of course, he wasn’t married then, and if I remember correct-like he was at least a couple of years younger than Miss Viola, not much more than a kid. Probably nothing to that rumor.” He leaned in and waggled his bushy eyebrows. “But you never know.”

  Eve tried to picture the preacher she knew, a staid, priggish man, seducing a married woman. She couldn’t. But then, thirty years was a long time, and young men did foolhardy things in the name of love.r />
  She could hardly wait for Mrs. Markham’s arrival.

  *

  Lucien smiled. What a lovely dream. He felt himself growing alert—slowly but surely—but he did not want to wake. Not yet. In his dream soft hands caressed him. Evie’s hands. She wasn’t angry anymore, she had finally forgiven him. She must have, otherwise she wouldn’t be dragging the sheet off his body that way, she wouldn’t be fluttering her fingers across his chest and down to his belly, and she definitely wouldn’t be…

  That wasn’t Eve. Lucien’s eyes flew open and he sat up as the sheet that had been covering him slid off the bed and fluttered away. The quilt he had pulled to his chin as he fell asleep was already there, in a heap on the floor. Had he thrown it off? No, he didn’t think so.

  The air around the bed bent and shimmered, and once again Lucien felt hands on his body. Bold, caressing, cold hands.

  “Viola?” he whispered.

  The spirit answered, or at least she tried. He could almost hear her. It was as if she spoke beyond his hearing, as she had last night when she’d pleaded for her life, but the sound was less distinct than it had been last night, just as Viola herself was less distinct. She was a shimmer, a glow flitting around the bed and over his body. She was very close for a moment, and then she skittered away.

  He couldn’t save her, he couldn’t stop the murder that had taken her young life. But he could guide her spirit to a place of peace. It was what he did, after all.

  “I’m here to help you.” He scooted to the edge of the bed and reached down to snag the sheet. Ghost or living being, dead or alive, Viola Stamper was still a woman. He pulled the sheet across his midsection and sat up. “Let me help you.”

  Lucien inhaled deeply and took himself to that place he and very few others could find. He opened himself to the endless possibilities of this vast universe, he shut out the world as most people saw it. He left a part of himself behind and opened his mind to the other side.