Treasure Trail

by Morgan Brice

  More to the point, he’d been smart as well as flirty. And from the way that blue shirt fit his shoulders and the jeans outlined his ass, Ben guessed the body underneath would be prime real estate of a different kind.

  Shit. Just thinking about the man was making Ben hard, and he really didn’t need that right now. He tried to adjust himself surreptitiously as he and Sean locked up to go to the next property, but he should have known Sean wouldn’t miss a chance to razz him.

  “Thinking about Bar-Guy again? Seriously, you need to get laid.”

  “Can we not call him Bar-Guy?”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “No. But the loser’s name was David.”

  “Not helpful. He told you he had just moved here? So, ask around. Keep your eyes open. Cape May isn’t that big of a place, especially off-season. You’ll see him again. And when you do, just slide right in like the smooth devil you are,” Sean teased.

  Yeah, no. “Smooth” was Sean’s gig, not Ben’s. “Anyhow, what can you tell me about the next house?” Ben hoped Sean would take a hint and change the subject.

  The properties Nolan Resort Real Estate handled ranged from tidy bungalows to seaside mansions, with some stately Victorian “painted ladies” and a few modern condos thrown into the mix. Aunt Meg and Uncle Stewart had quietly put together a real estate empire, with their own properties and the ones they managed for absentee owners. Ben was suitably impressed.

  “This one’s a real charmer,” Sean said as they walked a few blocks to the next property on the list. “Modern appliances, gourmet kitchen, with Victorian charm. The place was built in 1900, it’s been fully refurbished, with original pine flooring and some nice stained-glass accent windows.”

  Ben followed him onto the porch, taking in the white filigree trim that set off the blue paint. His eyes were blue. Very blue. Was that his real eye color, or contacts? Ben shoved the thought aside, determined to stick to business.

  “So is it already booked?” he asked as they walked in. The furnishings maintained the Victorian feel, but Ben knew most were reproductions sturdy enough to survive real use. The decorations adorning the mantle and bookshelves were antique, but nothing terribly expensive or irreplaceable. Given how much it cost to rent the houses—and the required renter’s insurance—their properties didn’t generally draw a crowd likely to cause problems.

  “It’s not a problem of getting it booked,” Sean said as he closed the door behind them. “It’s keeping it booked. This one has a ghost problem—and Casper isn’t friendly.”

  “I don’t remember this house,” Ben said, taking a look around. The place was beautiful, and it probably looked like a showplace in the online photos. But now that they were inside, Ben felt unsettled, like they were being watched.

  “You wouldn’t. Mom bought it a couple of years ago, right before Dad got sick. It had stayed in the same family until then, but the owners weren’t here that often. Now we have a clue about why.”

  The room seemed cold, despite a pleasant temperature outdoors. Ben didn’t see a ghost, but he sensed that something just wasn’t right.

  “Did you ever see a ghost in here?” he asked.

  Sean shook his head. “See one? No. But weird stuff happens. We can rarely get the same cleaning people in here twice between rentals. They don’t want to come back. And some renters up and leave halfway through their week.”

  “What kind of weird stuff?”

  “Cold spots. Their car keys go missing and end up somewhere they never would have left them. Milk sours overnight. They hear footsteps on the stairs, and people who sleep in the third bedroom sometimes wake up to find a man in a forties-style suit and hat sitting on the edge of the bed.”

  “Okay, that’s creepy,” Ben said. “Any idea who he might be?”

  Sean shrugged. “We even had this guy in who’s a local historian and ghost-whisperer, to see if he could figure it out. The best anyone can guess, the ghost is someone who might have rented a room here when this was a boarding house.”

  “There used to be some Mob stuff going on, back when that big old hotel was in its heyday, wasn’t there?” Ben tried to remember details that his teenage self had noted only in passing. “Maybe he got whacked and didn’t want to leave.”

  “The Commodore Wilson? Yeah, everyone says it was all mobbed up from Prohibition through the War. But the ghost guy wouldn’t have to be Mafia. He might have just had a heart attack or something.”

  “Not nearly as dramatic,” Ben said. “And if the ghost is causing problems, I think that supports the violent death theory.”

  Right on cue, heavy footsteps sounded overhead, and Ben caught a whiff of cigar smoke where none had been present minutes before.

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “Then again, maybe you’re on to something. You up for seeing the rest of the house?”

  “Yeah. Now I’m curious.” The same instincts that made him a good cop and a decent private investigator told him there was more to the story.

  Sean gave him the full tour, pointing out architectural details and modern upgrades. It’s a shame the haunting drove off renters, Ben thought, because the house really was a gem. Maybe they could get to the bottom of the problem and put its cranky ghost to rest.

  “And this is the room where the ghost puts on the biggest show,” Sean said as they walked into the back bedroom. It had a lovely view of the ocean and a deep-set window seat.

  Ben felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up an instant before something shoved him hard enough to send him flying. He crashed down onto the window seat and felt the wood splinter beneath his back.

  “Great. First day on the job and I’m breaking things.” His heart pounded, and it didn’t escape his notice that if he hadn’t hit the way he did, he could have gone right out the window—and onto the concrete sidewalk below.

  Sean had gone pale. “Fuck. Are you okay? My God, you could have—”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t,” Ben said, trying to extricate himself from the broken boards without having the splinters turn him into a pincushion. All those years as a cop and PI had taught him to avoid thinking about the “what ifs.”

  He stood up, knowing he’d be bruised and sore tomorrow, and frowned. “Hey, wait. Did you know this window seat opened? Look,” he added, pointing. “There are hinges.”

  Sean shook his head, still looking spooked. “Never noticed. It’s probably been painted shut for years.”

  “Not anymore,” Ben replied ruefully. He reached down to pull away a few of the broken boards and grabbed the remains of the ruined seat and yanked upward, exposing a dark compartment.

  “Find anything? Pirate booty? A stash of old Mob money?” Sean edged closer to get a look.

  Ben reached in and pulled out the “treasure” hidden inside. The rectangular clock looked old, with four gilt-covered columns—two on each side of the face—against a black lacquered background. He looked up at Sean, totally confounded.

  “It looks old, but if it was valuable, why nail the lid shut and leave it behind? And why haunt the place over it?”

  Sean shrugged. “Dunno. But Mom always worked with an antique shop in town when she needed pieces to decorate a new property or fix something that got damaged. I’ll look for the information when we get back to the office. And I’ll let Mom know. She’ll probably want to put in a good word for you with the owner.”

  Ben nodded absently, still trying to wrap his mind around what just happened. “Yeah. Okay. And we’ll need to get someone in to fix the seat, but let’s take the property off the website for now. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “Speaking of which, you’re bleeding.”

  Son of a bitch. Now that the adrenaline rush had faded, Ben could feel where the shattered wood had raked skin through the fabric of his shirt.

  “I hope you didn’t have more places to show me today,” Ben said. “I think I’m done for now.”

  Sean watched the window seat as if it would bite, which was a l
ittle too close to the truth for Ben’s comfort. “There are more, but we can do them another day. I wasn’t going to be able to show you a few of them until the weekend anyhow because they’ve got renters in them.”

  As soon as Ben lifted the clock from its hiding place, he stopped noticing the weird vibes and the odd chill, and the sense of being watched. Had the ghost used up all his energy hurling Ben across the room? Or had Ben found what the ghost had been trying to reveal? And if so, why wait until now? Ben had no answers, but plenty of questions, and they all made him wonder if he was really cut out for the rental business.

  Fortunately, they didn’t have a long walk back to the office. Ben planned on taking some ibuprofen, because he knew sore muscles would tighten up as soon as he sat for too long. He tried not to limp but knew he didn’t fool Sean.

  “Be glad you’re not a racehorse,” Sean teased. “I’d have to put you out of your misery.”

  “Bite me,” Ben muttered. “And I didn’t break my leg.”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know,” Sean replied. “Just tell that hot blond that those scratches are your souvenirs from a night of rough, sweaty sex.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “No imagination,” Sean chided.

  When they reached the office, Sean went in search of the first aid kit while Ben gingerly removed his ruined shirt. The wood had gashed through the fabric, and it was stiff with blood. He took stock of the rest of his body. His thighs, lower back, and ass had taken the worst of the impact. No doubt he’d have some spectacular bruises to show for it, and sore muscles, but he couldn’t find any other open wounds. It didn’t bear thinking about what would have happened if he’d gone out that window.

  “So I found it, but I don’t know whether we’ve got enough bandages—holy fuck!” Sean stopped in his tracks. “Damn. Your back looks like it’s been mauled by a bear.” Then he waggled his eyebrows. “You can take that any way you want.”

  Ben turned to glare at him. “Seriously?”

  “I remember you being a lot more fun.”

  “I am fun—when I’m not being thrown at windows.”

  Sean ripped open an antiseptic wipe and daubed at the deep scratches on Ben’s back. Ben swore through gritted teeth. “Good news—no need for stitches. Probably won’t scar, either.” He smoothed ointment over the wounds and taped large gauze patches over top. “The bandages aren’t pretty, but it should all be healed by the time it’s swimming weather.”

  “I’ve had worse.” He stood and turned before thinking.

  “Ben—those scars, is that from when you got shot?” Sean’s eyes had gone wide, and his mood sobered.

  Ben sighed. “Um. Yeah. A bust went wrong. It happens.”

  “I remember when Mom went up to Newark. She said you’d gotten shot. But she obviously didn’t give me the whole story.”

  Ben’s memories of the first part of his recovery were hazy from the painkillers. “I woke up after surgery, and Aunt Meg was there. I had her down as next of kin. She stayed until I was out of danger, and my captain told her the department would take care of me.”

  “You could have come down here to recuperate.”

  “I didn’t know how long I’d be in the hospital, and the department needed me in reach so Internal Affairs could sort through all the shit. And honestly, there’s a lot I don’t remember.”

  “Wow. I…don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, now I know what it takes to make my mouthy cousin speechless,” Ben joked to lighten the moment. He crumpled up his ruined shirt and tossed it in the trash.

  Sean rooted through a drawer and pulled out a “Nolan Resort Real Estate” polo shirt. He tossed it to Ben, managing to hit him in the face. “Have a free shirt.”

  Ben winced as he lifted his arms and flexed the muscles on his back. “Thanks. I think I’m going to go upstairs while I can still walk.”

  “I’ll get Mom to call you with the name of that antique shop,” Sean promised. “And seriously—I think you should find that hottie from The Spike and play the sympathy card. He’d probably be willing to kiss all your boo-boos and make them feel much better.”

  “Hold that thought until I’m not walking like an eighty-year-old man,” Ben replied.

  Sean left, and Ben hobbled up the steps to his apartment. He figured he’d have a frozen dinner for supper, since he didn’t want to cook, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to go up and down the stairs again soon, even for pizza delivery.

  Ben eased out of his jeans and took a look at the damage in the full-length bathroom mirror. It was a good thing he didn’t plan on getting naked with anyone soon. Several large bruises were already forming, and he knew they’d be Technicolor by morning. He found a pair of sweats and a soft T-shirt to replace the scratchy polo and changed, before shuffling into the kitchen.

  Tomorrow he’d take the clock over to the antique shop to see what was so special about it. He and Sean could probably finish up the walk-throughs for the available houses and spend the rest of the day going over the computer system. Maybe he’d have things pretty well in hand by the time Sean went back to Wildwood. Or well enough to manage, at least.

  Ben thought back to the conversation with Sean about finding a way to share the business. He’d been surprised that Sean was willing to consider it, almost as much as he’d surprised himself by suggesting it. Was he seriously considering staying?

  Too soon to make any promises.

  He was certain he didn’t want to go back to Newark, but he was less sure he wanted to stay here. Still, he wouldn’t mind running into the cute blond again. Maybe Sean was right about that, at least. Perhaps Ben needed to take things less seriously, have a fling, and get “Bar-Guy” out of his system. He wouldn’t have to get permanently involved—with the blond, or with Cape May.

  With a little bit of luck, he could have a good summer and still keep his options open.

  Five

  Erik

  “The PBS station wants to know if you’re open to calling the show something less…suggestive,” Corinne said.

  Erik rolled his eyes. “Treasure Trail is the name of the blog. The name of the store is Trinkets. But remember—if I’m going to do the show, I want visibility that promotes the blog and the store, and if we can’t use the real names, then I’m out.”

  Corinne hesitated. “I’ll try. But you know how they are.”

  “They want all the salacious details about old scandals, but we can’t say ‘Treasure Trail’? Make up a story. Say it’s about pirates. Or a mysterious gold mine. Bluebeard. Lost Dutchman. You spin stories for a living. I believe in you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Corinne replied, unconvinced. “I’ll see what they say.” She ended the call, leaving Erik to go back to the task of matching up the items in the store against his inventory list.

  Robert Pettis, the prior owner, had run the store for fifty years and said in the sale listing that he wanted to go live out his golden years somewhere warm. Erik had seen the listing pop up almost as soon as it came into the system, and when he’d read down through the description, he couldn’t help feeling that it seemed like it was written just for him.

  Ideal buyer shares a love of antiques and an appreciation for art history. Strongly prefer a background in appraisal and authentication, preference given for hands-on experience. Must be good at researching provenance. A healthy respect for the unexplained is required. Serious inquiries only.

  Erik had called right away and hit it off with the old man from the start. He’d asked Simon for help doing due diligence, and Simon had pulled in his cousin, Cassidy, who ran a family-owned antique shop in Charleston, for advice. Simon’s research and Cassidy’s enthusiasm had won over Erik, and he’d closed the deal quickly. He doubted there’d been time for anyone else to even make a bid.

  Now, Erik wondered if he’d been rash. The previous owner had a good eye, and so far Erik hadn’t found any counterfeits or questionable items. But some of the pieces were defini
tely haunted. Erik could see spirits hovering near them as if waiting to be noticed. A few gave Erik the willies, and he had absolutely no desire to pick them up and have his touch magic trigger. The vibe they gave off told Erik that whatever he saw from the objects’ perspective would be the stuff of nightmares.

  Interestingly, all those questionable objects had been grouped together in what had probably once been a pantry. Had the former owner had a touch of the Sight, too? Or maybe he’d just sensed that something was “wrong” about the pieces and they needed special handling.

  Erik had no idea what he was going to do about the problem antiques. Maybe a blessing? I wonder if I can get a priest to come in, say a prayer, sprinkle some holy water? Might be worth a try.

  Before he worried more about the spooky pieces, Erik had plenty of other work to do. He hadn’t met the prior owner in person; the man had already been on his way to Florida when Erik picked up the keys. All the paperwork was in a file on the front counter, and everything about the apartment was on the kitchen table. As usual, the devil was in the details. Erik really couldn’t open for business until he could confirm the inventory he’d purchased, on top of what he’d brought with him. Susan helped when she could, but Erik didn’t want to take advantage of her goodwill.

  Which made for long days and longer nights, checking off one item at a time, out of hundreds.

  It didn’t help that his thoughts kept straying to the sexy guy from The Spike. He’d seen those green eyes in his dreams, imagined the brush of those pink lips, and come harder than he had in a long time imagining those inked arms around him, with that fine ass bucking between his legs. Erik had woken just as he climaxed, unsure whether he was more chagrined at having jizzed his sheets like a teenager, or at just how much that dark-haired stranger had turned him on.