“Correct. Turn left at Mountain and drive west.”
“Turning left. I haven’t seen Gordon House in years, but I remember where it is. I went on a walking tour of historic homes about five years ago. Anyway, our client’s lost two housekeepers and three caretakers since he’s been here. He can hire them easily enough, but he can’t keep them. They hear things, see figures in the night, and quit.”
“Threatening figures.”
“Not Caspers or mischievous poltergeists. And Reese was living with his girlfriend until recently, but then she took off too. He hasn’t been scared off because, first, it’s his family home and he refuses to leave, and second, he’s writing a horror novel and for him, the house is inspiration.”
“Correct.”
“But things are getting worse, I take it.”
“Much. He no longer finds the situation interesting or useful.”
“What’s his novel about?”
“All he’d tell me is that it involves a middle-aged man who returns to his family home after the death of his last parent and discovers the home is haunted.”
“Inventive.”
“Art imitating life. His father died this past May, his mother two years ago. Her maiden name was Gordon.”
“You said his attorney was the first to contact you.”
“Martin Durham. He called me last night. The letter he wrote last week was lacking in pertinent information, and I emailed him Saturday, telling him so.”
“Lacking how?”
“Like you, I sniffed around. There’s no Phillip Reese, or any Reese at all, with a connection to the Gordon family or Gordon House. Not to mention I found it odd that Reese’s attorney acted as an intermediary. Why wouldn’t Reese contact us himself?
“And?”
“Durham said he wanted to ensure his client’s confidentiality before he told me more. It seems Phillip Reese is a pen name. Our client is Adrian Tate.”
I almost slammed the brakes.
“That Adrian Tate? He lives in Fort Collins?”
“For the past five months he has. But it’s not his only home.”
“Holy cow, I had no idea.”
“We’re sworn to confidentiality,” Berg said.
“Of course.”
So Adrian Tate, world-famous horror writer, was living in Fort Collins. Our new case came with a perk.
I swung left onto Mountain Avenue, then made a right a few blocks later at North Wexford Avenue, our destination. The neighborhood was known for its historic homes, built by the well-heeled in the last decade of the nineteenth century.
Today, the moderately heeled couldn’t afford to live in the area. Even its newer houses—newer being the Craftsman cottages of the 1920s—gave the neighborhood an old-money look and price tag. The houses here, all of them, were worth more than any fresh-built mansion on the south side of town. And the latter came with postage-stamp-sized lawns.
“Don’t Tate’s neighbors know who he is?” I asked.
“Some of them do, maybe most of them, but he’s asked them to keep his identity quiet and so far they have. People in that neighborhood like their peace and quiet, and the last thing they need is a gaggle of celebrity hunters tramping around.”
“Tate must leave the house sometimes.”
“Hardly ever from what I understand. His attorney says he drives into the foothills now and then. But he has groceries and other necessities delivered to the house, all under the name Reese, and his mail is delivered to Reese. He asks his housekeepers and caretakers to sign confidentiality agreements, by the way. His attorney didn’t say so, but we might have to do the same.”
“I don’t like signing legal forms. We never gossip about our clients. Besides, Durham has to know your reputation or he wouldn’t have contacted you.”
“Tate called last night, right after Durham,” Berg said. “In his letter, Durham said Tate seemed as curious as he was fearful of events at his house, but last night Tate was distraught. He said he was working on his novel in the evening, and in the middle of the night, what he wrote happened, exactly as he wrote it.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Mind the road.”
I slowed, searching for number 215. “Do you believe him?”
“He was genuinely frightened. It was in his voice—unmistakable. He said something else happened, but he wouldn’t say what over the phone. Whatever it was shook him deeply. Here we are.”
Like other houses on the street, Gordon House didn’t have a driveway, so I parked at the curb, nudging up to the back bumper of a shiny white Volvo V60. Had to be Tate’s. I shut off my engine.
Except for a new coat of slate gray paint on the top story’s scalloped wood siding, the house was as I remembered it. Mostly wood, a little brick, all Queen Anne style. Welcoming, really, and though not overly large by modern standards, somehow still imposing. In a comfortable way.
Aside from two trees near the sidewalk and a cluster of leafless shrubs at the south side of the house, near the dark blue front door, there were no plants. No curb appeal. As a result, the house’s original sandstone foundation was clearly visible, though perhaps by historic-home standards that was desirable.
I got out before Berg and popped open the rear door. He didn’t want me fussing over him, and watching while he struggled out of my SUV counted as fussing in his book.
One thing about November. It acted on his rheumatoid arthritis, playing havoc with his ankles and right knee. Lately I’d suspected the RA had migrated to his left knee, too, though he hadn’t said anything. But then he wouldn’t.
He worked his way to the back of my Explorer as I dragged my two overnight bags to the front of the cargo area.
“Does he want us to call him Reese or Tate?” I asked.
“Good heavens, we’re only a couple miles from home. What all did you bring?”
“The usual. Donuts, Diet Coke, couple of notebooks, a flashlight, my laptop.”
He pointed at a second canvas bag.
“And two pillows.”
He laughed.
“I hate using other people’s pillows. What did you bring?”
Berg grinned and slapped the pocket of his long wool coat. “My phone and a flashlight.”
Slinging the heaviest bag over my shoulder, I said, “Only because I carry most of the tools of the trade.”
“Give me the pillow bag,” he said, motioning.
It was then I remembered that I’d intended to tell him first thing about the warning I’d received days earlier, when someone broke into my car and left a threatening note wrapped in a pretty ribbon. I’d brought the note with me and put it in my pillow bag, but the whole Reft thing had thrown me off schedule.
“Remind me to tell you something later,” I said.
“That sounds serious.”
I shrugged. “Nah.”
Hearing a voice call out, we turned to the door.
There stood the man himself. Mr. Horror. The multi-millionaire author of more than a dozen terrifying best-sellers. Vampires, werewolves, possessed children, killer pandemics, ghosts.
As we walked the stone path to the door, I wondered: What could shake a man like that?
FROM THE AUTHOR
If you enjoyed Chasing Angels, would you do me a favor and leave a review on Amazon? Nothing fancy, just a couple sentences. Reviews make a huge difference in helping readers find the Teagan Doyle Mystery Series and in allowing me to continue to write the series. Thank you!
ALSO BY KARIN KAUFMAN
JUNIPER GROVE COZY MYSTERY SERIES
Death of a Dead Man (Book 1)
Death of a Scavenger (Book 2)
At Death’s Door (Book 3)
Death of a Santa (Book 4)
Scared to Death (Book 5)
Cheating Death (Book 6)
Death Trap (Book 7)
Death Knell (Book 8)
Garden of Death (Book 9)
Death of a Professor (Book 10)
Still as Death (Bo
ok 11)
Grim Death (Book 12) — Coming
SMITHWELL FAIRIES COZY MYSTERY SERIES
Dying to Remember
Dead and Buried
Secret Santa Murder
Drop Dead Cold
Dastardly Deeds
ANNA DENNING MYSTERY SERIES
The Witch Tree
Sparrow House
The Sacrifice
The Club
Bitter Roots
CHILDREN’S BOOKS (FOR CHILDREN AND ADULTS)
The Adventures of Geraldine Woolkins
More Adventures of Geraldine Woolkins
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 30