by Gina Wilkins
Anna flinched.
Dean resisted an impulse to reach out to her. “Are you saying that if you had the evidence to clear the Cameron twins’ names, you wouldn’t release it because it might offend the Peavy family?” he asked Mark, instead.
Mark hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess I’ve gotten soft. I know what it’s like to destroy a family’s reputation, Dean. Especially when there’s a politician in the family. I destroyed a few during my stint as an investigative reporter for a statewide newspaper. There was one man in particular—the state’s attorney general. I found out about the mistress he was keeping, despite his image as a devoted husband and family man. He was supporting her, of course, with taxpayers’ money. I broke the story. His family disintegrated, and his Bible-belt political career crashed and burned.”
Mark rubbed a hand over his face in a weary gesture. “The hell of it was, he was basically a decent man. Dedicated public servant. Performed his job competently, efficiently, honestly, except for that one failing. I’d always admired him. Still do. And I still wonder if it was really anyone’s business that he fell in love with the wrong woman at the wrong time.”
“For seventy-five years,” Dean said gently, “Ian and Mary Anna Cameron have been branded as criminals. Murderers. They’ve become the local ghost story to be bandied about around campfires. If there’s even a chance that they were innocent, that someone murdered them and got away with it, don’t you think someone should try to clear their names?”
“That someone being you?”
Dean cleared his throat, aware of Anna’s gaze on his face. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“So you’re—what? Trying to lay troubled souls to nest?”
Dean tried to return Mark’s wry smile. “Something like that, I suppose.”
“You’re sure you haven’t seen the ghosts, yourself?”
Dean hoped his smile didn’t look as sickly as it felt. “Haven’t heard nary a rattling chain,” he drawled in an affected Southern accent that made Mark grimace.
Mark’s smile faded then and he sighed. “Tell you what, Dean. You find evidence of any sort that the Cameron twins were falsely accused, and I’ll run the story. It’s certainly a story of local interest, whether the Peavy family was involved or not. But I’m going to need more than your hunches—or the ghostly whisperings of a tormented spirit.”
Anna glared at Mark. “That wasn’t funny.”
“I’ll try to find you something more concrete,” Dean agreed. “And, Mark, I’m not taking this lightly. I have no interest in stirring up trouble just for the fun of it, or hurting innocent people. I just want to know the truth about the history of my new home.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.”
Mae joined them then, and the men let the subject drop. The next time Dean looked toward Anna’s corner, she was gone.
He wondered whether she approved of what he’d done thus far to help her.
7
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
—Edgar Allan Poe
ANNA DIDN’T REAPPEAR during the next week. Dean wondered if she’d stayed too long Monday evening. Maybe she was off in that gray waiting area with her brother, gaining strength to return.
Or maybe he would never see her again. That possibility was a constant, nagging worry at the back of his mind.
It wasn’t so bad during the daytime, when he could stay busy with the renovations and his attempts at researching the inn’s history. He had put together a chronology of the inn’s ownership since the twins’ deaths. Their stepfather, Gaylon, had managed it until his death in 1939, at which time his son, Charles, had taken over. Eleven years later, Charles sold the inn to a man named Jonas Harvey, who’d kept it four years before running into financial difficulties.
In 1954, the inn was purchased by a bohemian art group, who used it for a creative retreat funded by wealthy patrons. The group disbanded five years later and the inn was closed. It reopened in 1961, purchased by a nostalgic former member of the art group, and had limped along until 1974 when it had closed again.
Taking advantage of the bicentennial historical fervor, the inn reopened in 1976, owned and managed by a devoted member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It thrived for a few years, particularly during the early-winter horse-racing season at nearby Hot Springs, but then had been forced to close due to tax problems.
Two more owners had briefly tried and failed to recapture the inn’s former financial success. It had been closed for almost six years when some odd twist of fate had brought it to Dean’s attention.
He read every archival article he could get his hands on, but they were few and unsatisfactory. Even the state newspapers had had little to say about the incident of February 14, 1921 ; so much had been going on in the world at that time that little attention was given to the deaths of a suspected small-town bootlegger, his sister and his alleged partner.
He talked to the locals. In the diner, the market, the barbershop, the gas station—anyone who was willing to discuss the old scandal became a potential source of information. Dean found more than a few townspeople willing to speculate about Gaylon Peavy’s role in the tragedy, but that was all he got from them. Speculation. What ifs. Maybes. Nothing that even began to prove Ian Cameron’s innocence.
If there ever had been a serious investigation into any scenario other than the one Tagert had given after the shootings, Dean found no evidence of it. Some of the old-timers recalled that Tagert hadn’t been particularly popular, but none of them had ever heard talk that he’d been crooked.
Despite his frustration with his lack of progress into the investigation, Dean was fascinated by the developing picture of the inn’s history, and the people whose lives it had touched. As full as they were, the days passed quickly.
The nights, however, were long and restless. He slept in snatches, waking often to look blearily around his room, making sure he was alone. Always vaguely disappointed to find that he was.
“You really are an idiot, Gates,” he muttered late Wednesday afternoon, when he realized he was all but drooping with exhaustion from the amount he’d done on so little sleep.
“Talking to yourself again, Dean?” his aunt inquired as she approached in the garden where he was ripping down a rotten latticework trellis. He was taking advantage of a relatively balmy late-January afternoon to get some outside work done.
Dean chuckled. “Yeah. This time, I was.”
“You’d better watch that. People could start to worry about you. In fact, maybe they already have.” Her eyes searched his face as she spoke, and Dean knew she saw the lines and shadows of weariness.
“Just tired, Aunt Mae. We knew it would be a big job, getting the inn ready to open.”
“I can’t help feeling that there’s something more.”
He avoided her eyes. “I’m fine. Really. How are things going inside?”
Pulling her brightly embroidered jacket more tightly around her against the light, chilly breeze, Mae watched as Dean, clad in a sweatshirt, jeans and work gloves, reached for another section of trellis. “Well enough. It’s certainly noisy in there now, with the carpenters at work upstairs. Poor Casey. Every loud noise makes her jump. She’s a timid little dear, isn’t she?”
Dean knew that his aunt had all but adopted Casey, the same way she had adopted him and his sister. In return, Casey adored the woman she already called Aunt Mae.
Only with Mae had Dean seen the child relax and giggle the way a little girl her age should. With him, she was polite, but extremely shy. With her mother, she seemed anxious to please, as though she were the caretaker and her mother the one needing nurturing.
“Cara still working her fingers off in there?” Dean asked, already knowing the answer.
Mae sighed. “I’m afraid so. I simply can’t get her to slow down. She’s even tackled some of the heavy jobs we plan to hire people to do. She’s determined to earn her way.”
Dea
n shook his head. “She’s certainly doing that. I don’t suppose she’s told you any more about herself?”
“No, she hasn’t. I haven’t pried, of course, but I’ve made it clear that she’s among friends now, and if she ever needs to talk, either of us would provide a sympathetic ear.”
“Mark’s called me twice asking how she’s doing,” Dean commented.
“He did seem to be rather taken with her, didn’t he? But I’m afraid I got the distinct impression she isn’t interested in dating anyone. For all we know, she isn’t even free to do so.”
“I just hope we don’t have any other strays showing up on our doorstep,” Dean said ruefully. “Between us and the McAlisters, the inn’s already getting full, and we haven’t even opened yet.”
“Not to mention the Cameron twins,” Mae agreed cheerfully.
Dean dropped a board solidly on his foot.
He jumped, cursed, then looked questioningly at his aunt. “The, er, Cameron twins?” he asked, wondering if Anna had been visiting with someone else in the inn since he’d last seen her.
Mae laughed. “Of course. Our very own ghosts. They seem to come up in conversation with everyone I talk to in town. They’re very popular around here, you know. I suppose every little town likes having its own ghost stories with which to spook the schoolchildren.”
Dean could just imagine Anna’s reaction to that! He found himself surreptitiously looking around, half expecting her to appear and protest.
There was no sign of her.
He sighed and went back to work.
THE CLOCK on the nightstand read 2:51 when he woke. His dreams had been ... disturbing, leaving him itchy and aching and covered with a light film of sweat. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the details. He knew exactly what he’d been doing in the dream, and with whom.
The inn was utterly silent, sleeping. Dean looked automatically toward the corner where Anna had appeared once before. This time, the chair was only a chair. No haunting eyes met his, there was no beaming smile to tighten his chest and make him think longingly of stolen kisses and intimate murmurings.
He was alone. And aware of his loneliness as he hadn’t been in a very long time.
He rolled over in the bed, one arm bent under his head, and stared at the wall.
He was used to sleeping alone. His marriage had been over some time before it formally ended, and he and Gloria had moved into separate bedrooms. Since his divorce, he simply hadn’t had the energy to pursue another relationship, finding it easier to devote his efforts to starting a new life.
Whatever he’d felt for Gloria in the beginning had been strong, hot, exciting, but it hadn’t lasted. He no longer believed in the lifelong romantic love celebrated in songs and fiction.
Of course, until a few weeks ago, he hadn’t believed in ghosts, either.
Exhaling gustily, he snapped on the bedside lamp. He wouldn’t fall back to sleep anytime soon; he might as well read until he was feeling sleepy again. He reached for the mystery novel on the nightstand, but found himself picking up the small, framed photograph that had been lying beside it.
Mary Anna Cameron’s face smiled back at him from behind the slightly yellowed glass of the old frame. His chest grew tight.
He’d “borrowed” the photograph from his aunt with the excuse that he wanted to use it as a reference in his remodeling of the inn. He’d known then that he was lying. He hadn’t looked at the building in the picture since he’d brought the photo into his room. His only interest had been in the woman.
Anna.
“Damn it,” he muttered, glaring at her as though she could answer from the snapshot. “Where are you?”
The only reply was the silence of the night.
Two MORE DAYS passed without a visit from Anna, though not without other visitors. Mark Winter dropped by, supposedly to give Dean a few more sketchy notes on the inn’s background, but it was obvious his only reason for being there was to see Cara McAlister again. Cara treated him exactly as she had on the previous occasion. Polite, but distant. Very distant.
Mark didn’t linger long, nor did Dean encourage him to. He only hoped his friendship with the publisher wouldn’t be affected by Mark’s inconvenient infatuation with the housekeeper.
The next day, the mayor and his wife stopped in using as their excuse the desire to look over the renovations and keep abreast of the developments of the town’s newest business. Aunt Mae and the mayor’s bubbly wife huddled over cups of tea for a cozy gossip while Dean and the mayor braved the blustery weather for a walk around the grounds and more stilted conversation.
“It’s looking really good,” Mayor Vandover conceded. “The work is proceeding faster than I would have thought possible.”
“We’ve been lucky,” Dean agreed. “The weather and suppliers all seem to be cooperating.”
“It’s been a mild winter so far. They say that means we’re in for one hell of a hot summer. Brace yourself, Gates. Summers around here can be rough for someone from up north.”
“I spent most of the summers of my childhood at my grandparents’ home just outside of Atlanta,” Dean explained with a stiff smile. “I know how humid it gets down here.”
Vandover nodded. “Back when I was a toddler, and my grandfather still ran this inn, everyone thought this garden was the most beautiful place in the world in the summertime.”
He motioned around toward the half cleared tangle of weeds and dead greenery. “The roses were spectacular. My great-grandfather’s second wife, Amelia, planted them. Over the years, as the inn changed hands several times, the gardens were allowed to fall into decay. No one seemed to care about them.”
“I plan to hire a landscaper this spring to rework the gardens. I don’t know if I can compete with Amelia’s roses, but I can certainly make it look better than this.”
Vandover looked toward the old shack at the edge of the woods. “Better clear that rubble away before guests arrive,” he advised a bit pompously. “If someone strays in there and gets hurt, you’ll have a hell of a lawsuit on your hands.”
“I intend to,” Dean said with forced patience. “All of the outbuildings are going to come down. Especially that one.”
Vandover lifted an eyebrow. “Guess you’ve heard that’s the site of the infamous shoot-out.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Some folks think it ought to be preserved. A historical landmark, you know. I don’t agree. Sooner our town forgets about that ugly incident, the better, as far as I’m concerned. It’s been an embarrassment to my family for seventy-five years.”
“oh?” Dean asked blandly. “And why is that?”
“Well, the twins were my great-grandfather’s stepkids. No kin to the rest of us, of course, but still, nobody likes admitting there were bootleggers and murderers even casually connected to their family.”
“A lot of today’s great fortunes were founded on bootlegging,” Dean said, keeping his expression neutral. “And probably murder, as well, if the truth were known.”
Vandover shot a suspicious look at him and muttered something incomprehensible.
“Whatever happened to all the money Ian Cameron supposedly made with his illicit activities?” Dean asked as though the thought had just occurred to him. “Did anyone ever find a stash buried in the basement or under a rock somewhere?”
Vandover frowned. “Not as far as I know. I never really gave it a thought. Why? You think you might come upon it when you dig up the rose garden?”
Dean forced a smile. “One never knows.”
The mayor shook his head. “I’d forget about it, if I were you. Best for you to rename the place and start afresh. Forget you ever heard about the Cameron . twins.”
That, of course, was a lot easier said than done, Dean reflected as he led the mayor back inside the inn. He didn’t think anyone who’d encountered the enchanting Mary Anna Cameron could ever forget her.
SOMETIME IN THE MIDDLE of that long, restless night, he half convinced him
self he’d dreamed her all along. If she really had existed, why hadn’t he seen her again? If she’d learned to contact him at will, why hadn’t she checked back with him to inquire about his progress in the investigation of her death?
Or was she still hanging about, watching him in silence, staying out of his view for reasons of her own?
It was enough to make a man question his sanity.
Whether he’d dreamed her before or not, she seemed destined to invade his dreams now. Several times he woke again in a light sweat, his pulse racing, his mind filled with erotic images of himself and a woman with cool skin and dark eyes. A woman he found himself wanting with an intensity he’d never known.
The one woman he shouldn’t want.
Where was she?
SHARYN BURTON popped in the next afternoon, this time bearing a loaf of fresh-baked banana nut bread. It was obvious that she had already heard about the new housekeeper.
“So,” she asked Dean a bit too casually over coffee in the sitting room, “is she someone you’ve known a while?”
Impatient to get back to the work he’d been doing outside, Dean shook his head. “No,” he said without elaborating.
His aunt had been with them until a few moments before, when she’d been called to the telephone. Dean was acutely aware of being alone with Sharyn; mostly because she seemed so very much aware of it. Dean wondered how soon he could politely get away.
“Dean,” Sharyn said after taking a deep breath, “I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me one night this week.”
He swallowed. He certainly wasn’t surprised by the move; he’d just hoped he would be able to avoid it.
“Er, thanks, Sharyn, but I’m afraid I can’t right now. It isn’t a good time for me.”