“Of course,” she said.
Joe set the article down, thinking he would pick it up again later. Whatever it said that he hadn’t seen before, he wasn’t getting it now, either. He’d have to try again, with fresh eyes.
He ran through his e-mail, but as he’d expected, it didn’t contain anything useful. He went into the bathroom that connected the office to his bedroom and quickly showered, shaved and threw on a change of clothes, then walked out to the living room.
Leslie didn’t notice him at first. She had moved to the chair and was looking animatedly at the sofa. If he hadn’t known it was empty, he would have sworn she was deep in conversation with someone sitting there.
“Leslie?”
“Oh!” Startled, she turned toward him.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure.”
Puzzled, he pressed on. “Was…someone here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never let anyone into your house.”
He took a seat on the sofa, directly opposite her. She wasn’t sitting back in the chair but was perched on the edge, the way she would have been if she’d been talking to someone sitting exactly where he was now. He reached for her hands. “Leslie…”
“I’m fine,” she said very softly, then pulled one hand away and touched his cheek. He felt his heart flutter. She was close. Her scent was alluring. The light in her eyes was enchanting. The dip of her scoop-neck knit dress was arousing.
And she was Matt’s woman.
But Matt was dead.
And she was touching him.
He caught her hand. It was a delicate hand, with long, elegant fingers, clean and soft despite the fact that she spent her days digging in old earth. He held her palm against his face, feeling the thunder of both his heart and his libido.
It would be easy, so easy, to draw her to him, hold her close. Kiss her lips, feel the silk of her tongue. Touch her. Know her naked flesh. He’d known his share of women over the years. If Nancy had lived, he would have stayed in love all his life, he thought. But she hadn’t. There had been times after that when he would meet a woman, and he wouldn’t really want to know her name, but he would learn it, anyway, just for the sake of decency. Then there had been the years when he hadn’t been quite as much of an asshole, but there had never—until now—been a time when he had wanted someone the way he was discovering he wanted Leslie, wanted her with every carnal impulse he possessed, with a longing to know not just her face but her soul, the way she thought and everything she felt….
He inhaled. She was close, and coming closer. Her fingers moved over his cheek.
He threaded his own fingers through her hair as they leaned closer, both of them perched on the edge of their seats. His lips touched hers. They were soft, pliant and molding. Her mouth was sweet fire. She knew how to kiss, how to move her lips, teeth…tongue. Hot, wet, closer…it was the kind of kiss that set the blood to raging, filling the mind with visions of each step that should follow.
And then…
They broke apart. Moved back. He didn’t know which of them had realized first that they were going too fast.
She began to apologize. “I…wow, I’m sorry. I’m not ready—”
“No. I’m sorry. I look too much like Matt. But I’m not Matt. I’m Joe. And I want…but not…not until you’re ready.”
She rose abruptly, walking to the media cabinet. “What if…what if I’m never ready?” she whispered, and the words sounded so pained that he rose and, fighting every sexual instinct within himself, set his hands on her shoulders and drew her against him.
“You will be,” he told her. “You will be. Although maybe it won’t be with me.” Hell, it had better be with him. He wasn’t half as decent as he was trying to pretend, he thought, mocking himself. “Time…well, time has to pass.”
“I’ve seen widows start dating again in less than a year,” she murmured.
He pulled her more tightly against him. “Time and pain don’t seem to pay much attention to the calendar,” he told her. “You’ll be okay.”
She turned into him, leaning her head against his chest. He smelled the clean fragrance of her hair, felt it tease him. He prayed that she would move away.
She did.
She took a step back and looked at him. The tension in the air was palpable. She looked alarmed.
“Hey…” He lifted his hands.
“You…you’re amazing, Joe,” she murmured.
No, I’m a rat. And I know the only way I’ll ever get to be close to you is to keep my distance. Wait. Bide my time. Pray.
“Leslie, it’s all right.”
“Okay.”
They stared at each other for a moment longer. Then she cleared her throat and did her best to speak normally as she changed the subject. “Did you know that your house was once owned by a very talented composer?”
“Um…no.”
She nodded. “His name was Zachary Duff. He had a few pieces published and performed before he was called up to fight in the Civil War.”
“And just how do you happen to know this?” he asked. “I mean,” he joked, “the Civil War. That was a long time ago. He’s not still hanging around, is he?”
She shrugged. “Well, you know, music lives forever.”
“Seriously, where did you get your information? I’ve seen some of the records on this place…in fact, I think I remember seeing the name Duff. But in the late 1800s, the property was owned by a family named Norman. Duff must not have had children. Was he killed in the war?”
“He survived long enough to come home, then died from complications due to his injuries,” she said.
“Is he haunting the house?” Matt teased.
She didn’t smile.
His laughter faded, and he frowned.
“Leslie?”
“Check out the bricks by the fireplace in your basement,” she said. “The left outside wall. Pull a few of them out, and you’ll find a cache of his work. It would be great if you could get it to a music publisher.”
He laughed then. “You are joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious. And I’m asking you to do this for me, as a special favor. Take the bricks out on the left side of the fireplace. You’ll find you’ve been in possession of a treasure trove of old American music.”
“How did you get this information? Seriously.”
She pretended not to hear him, slipping past him, heading toward the door.
“Leslie.”
He caught up with her, set his hands on her shoulders and spun her around to face him. Her expression was guileless.
“Leslie,” he said very seriously, “you don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
“I spend a lot of time in libraries,” she said. “You know…we do tons of research on an area before we work it. A lot of Lower Manhattan—and some areas of Brooklyn, too—is a treasure trove, once you dig deep enough.”
“And you just happened to research my house, and you know there’s music stashed in a niche inside the bricks of my basement fireplace.”
“Right,” she said.
“Leslie—”
“I feel an urge for something stiff and fortifying before tonight. Let’s head out, shall we?” she asked.
He had “fortifying” right there, in the apartment.
But they needed to get out. Being alone was…
Painful.
“Sure.”
As he followed her out, locking up, he said, “Research, huh?”
“Check out your basement fireplace,” she said.
Hastings House. His prison.
But she was all right; Leslie was all right. He had seen her…almost touched her. She had called out to him, and he had tried so hard to reply. Then she’d gone, and he’d known that she was all right, but he was still so…
Afraid.
It was laughable.
He was just the ghost of a man. Pathetic. Why was he here if he couldn’t even help, couldn’t stand against evi
l and injustice?
In dreams. There was a place for him in her dreams. Dreams filled with whispers and reminiscences. Poignant and sweet and surreal.
If he couldn’t manage to summon enough of himself to be seen, to linger for more than a few seconds, to leave the confines of the house, how was it that he could pace—or seem to—endlessly and desperately?
Peace, rest in peace…
He couldn’t. There was a reason for this pain of simultaneously being and not being, of needing to remain. It was fear. Fear for her. Strange warnings plagued his spectral soul. Somehow he knew she was in danger. He raged against it. What good did it do to feel this certainty that he should warn her, that the evil behind his death was still out there, when he was powerless to do anything about it? What had he ever done to deserve this wretched hell where he learned with more certainty each day that the greatest agony on earth didn’t lie in the pain of living or the pain of death, but in the pain of separation that haunted the heart and soul?
It seemed, as he paced, that everything always came back to this room. The servants’ pantry where he had died.
The dead room.
So often he stood here, reliving those last moments. Hearing the hum of a voice, trying to pretend he was paying attention, looking over others’ heads and seeing her eyes. It had been a great party, swimming with all the right people, with money, power and politics. The perfect evening…
And then the very air had exploded….
But she had been all right. Leslie had been all right….
He found himself in the main kitchen.
Hastings House was closing down for the day. The tourists were gone. Jeff Green was there, doffing his wig, looking around, making sure Melissa was nowhere to be seen. He lit up a cigarette, inhaled deeply, still keeping an eye out. From his pocket, he drew a flask and took a long swig.
The cigarette suddenly flew from his hand. Jeff stared at the flask, then at the cigarette. He stared around the room, then, in a panic, swooped down to pick up the cigarette. He put it out at the sink, still looking around, and then he fled. Matt could hear the front door slam behind him.
And there she was. The Colonial woman who was always cooking over the fire. She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
“I was betrayed,” she said.
“I know, but…”
“They never knew. They said I walked away. That I left everything…but I didn’t. He killed me. Shot me in the back. And they never knew. They never knew.” Her face contorted. “How could they believe I would have left my child?” She looked hopelessly at him. “He bricked up my body.”
“What?”
“I was working here in the kitchen, cooking. He was weary of me, you see, in love with another. My dowry made him rich, but he never really loved me. He killed me as I stood here, with a single shot. And then he told everyone I had left him, run away with another man. His mistress came to live here then, but she was not happy, either. He had betrayed me, and soon enough he betrayed her. But she caught the consumption. She died, but at least before she did she passed it to him, and he died, as well, choking on his own blood. But it was too late. It didn’t change what he did to me, what he told everyone I did. I saw it all, and yet…”
“Yet you remain here.”
“Yes…because I don’t know how to clear my name.”
“Where did he hide your body?”
“The basement. Beneath the pantry. The butler helped him. So I must stay.”
She turned away from him.
Once again she began to work over the hearth. And then she began to fade, until she finally disappeared.
Just like the missing prostitutes, this woman had vanished two hundred years ago. Women continued to vanish. Life didn’t change. Men didn’t change. Cruelty could not be halted by time.
And now the danger was threatening Leslie. He knew it. Had it been his own determination to write about the disappearances, to make the public aware, that had led to his death? And now Joe was searching for a missing woman, and he and Leslie were determined to find the truth behind the explosion. Was that what was putting her into danger, too?
So many sins could be hidden and buried.
He found himself drawn to the dead room and simply stood there, wondering why. Why he had died there.
He found himself thinking about the secret door beneath the braided rug that led to the basement and the bones that lay bricked up down there.
He felt the impotent rage of his helplessness, and wondered if this was hell. The powerlessness, the watching…the fear.
He decided suddenly that if he couldn’t help himself, at least maybe he could help the woman in the kitchen. For that, at least, there was a way.
As to Leslie…
How he loved her. But he had to let go, had to let her live. Perhaps he needed the answers in order to let go, in order to let her live. Maybe he was trapped here so he could protect her, and yet…
How?
10
There was glass and chrome everywhere. Leslie, though she loved old buildings, was thrilled to be in an atmosphere of the completely new.
She wasn’t surprised to see Brad there, nor to see that he was in the company of Ken Dryer—out of uniform—and that they were engaged in conversation at the bar with a number of extremely attractive women. They didn’t see her enter with Joe, and she was glad though not surprised, since the place was crowded, having recently been listed as one of Downtown’s newest hot spots.
Joe looked amused as he caught her arm and whispered, “You’re sure you want to be here?”
She grinned. “It’s good to shake things up once in a while. It’s like…well, you know. You get too involved in what you’re doing and you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“Good point. I guess.”
They made their way to the back of the bar. There was one bar stool; Joe let her sit and stood by her side. “What will it be? Sparkling soda?”
“No good beers on tap here?” she asked.
“You were conked on the head today, remember?”
“And the doctor said I’m fine.”
“Not exactly. The doctor said you were conked on the head,” he corrected.
She liked his smile so much. Of course she did. It reminded her of Matt’s.
They both had the same way about them. A bit rueful, as if they had learned early on not to take themselves too seriously. Not that they couldn’t be serious, because they could. They both cared about the world around them, both had a quiet strength that demanded respect. But there was one crucial difference.
Matt was dead.
And it was wrong for her to spend her time comparing Joe to him.
“What?” he asked.
“What about what?”
“You’re smiling.”
She took a breath, decided to be honest. “I’m sorry—there are just a lot of things about you that remind me so much of Matt.”
He didn’t seem offended. “Granny Rose,” he said seriously.
“Who?”
He laughed. “Our grandmother. She was four foot eleven, in a stretch. A good eighty pounds. She was the toughest—and sweetest—old bird I ever knew. She landed here, married Granddad, had her kids. Her respect for America was enormous, but her tales of the old country were full of her love for the place. She was as Catholic as the day was long, but in her own way. She loathed people who went to church every Sunday, then turned around and behaved badly. The true measure of a man, she’d always say, was the way he dealt with his fellow man. Of course, she was also fond of saying, ‘Don’t pee on me head and tell me it’s raining.’ She was quite an influence on us when we were boys. Our parents all worked, so we were with her a lot during our formative years.”
“Matt mentioned her a few times. I wish I’d gotten to meet her.”
The bartender came at last, staring at them with a superior look. Joe glanced at her, arched a brow, then asked the man, “Any beer?”
&nb
sp; The bartender looked at them as if they were utterly lacking in taste, but he shrugged and said that they carried one bottled beer. It was a new European brand, but Joe shrugged in return and ordered two. They arrived promptly.
Joe took a swallow, studying her. She looked back at him. “Could you meet her—if you wanted to?”
“Meet who?”
“My grandmother.”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
She didn’t get a chance to answer, didn’t even know if he’d been mocking her or if his question had been serious, because just then Brad spotted them.
“Leslie!” he called, walking over. “Uh…Joe,” he added, with noticeably less enthusiasm.
“Hey, Brad,” she said. Joe acknowledged him with a nod that matched Brad’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Cool. You decided to check the place out,” Brad said, then frowned at her. “Leslie, did you see a doctor? Are you all right? Should you be drinking?”
“I’m fine—I’m only having the one beer—but thanks for asking. And I can see why you like this place,” she told him, smiling and indicating the bevy of very attractive women around the spot at the bar where Ken Dryer was still chatting. “It’s a good pickup spot. You and Ken should do well. You’re both gorgeous,” she assured him.
Brad winked at Joe. “You can almost believe she thinks so.” He grinned. “Dryer has been at the site a lot, and I thought he deserved a break. You know Laymon. He thinks the world lives to steal whatever it is he’s looking for. He’s bugging the cops constantly. He wants them to put out regular announcements that the police presence at the site is heavy.”
“I don’t think we’re going to find buried treasure. It was a very poor area,” Leslie said. She couldn’t help glancing over toward Dryer. The guy was perfect at his job. Suddenly, though, noticing one of the girls, a tall redhead in a very short skirt, sporting a white fur mini-stole, she had an uncomfortable feeling. High-priced call girl? If so, did she know she was flirting with a police officer? Silly, she told herself, thinking anyone dressed that way had to be hooking. Half the women in town dressed like hookers and weren’t. Since this one had it, she was certainly entitled to flaunt it.
The Dead Room Page 16
