“No. It’s definitely gone. I just don’t understand why anyone would take that and leave a bunch of other vintage articles in the speakeasy. I found a ladies’ dinner jacket from the 1920s that Gilda Herring said could be worth a thousand dollars.”
“A jacket worth a grand?”
“That’s what she said. So why would someone take the pink stole? And leave that?”
“Maybe they didn’t have time to look through everything in the speakeasy? We might have interrupted them when we drove up.”
“But if they were in the speakeasy, there’s no way they would have heard or seen us arrive.” Leslie shook her head. “No, I’ve done a lot of thinking about it, and I think whoever it was left on their own—either because they were finished with what they were doing, or because the ghost made an appearance.” She grinned. “I’m kind of hoping for the latter, because then I doubt the intruders will ever come back. And so far—to my knowledge, anyway—they haven’t.”
She brought dishes of shredded chicken, guacamole, chopped tomatoes, queso fresco, and plain yogurt to the table. “Et voila—Soft Tacos a la Leslie,” she said, returning to grab the cilantro and the warm corn tortillas.
“Wow. Will you marry me?” he said, looking at the array of food. “Neither Stephanie nor I are all that great in the kitchen.”
“I’ll consider it,” she said, sliding into her chair as he began to heap filling into a folded tortilla.
“I sure hope so,” he replied, glancing at her with an expression pointed enough to make her blush.
“So…anyway,” she said, filling her own taco, “I’ve been searching in the speakeasy when I have some free time to see if there is any sort of hidden cache down there. If Red Eye Sal did have those jewels, it seems a likely place to hide them, right?”
“One would think. And you’re sure they exist?”
“Yes. I’ve dug deep enough in old Chicago Tribune archives—online—to find a few articles about them, and even one photo of the rubies. They did exist. And no one seems to have seen them for almost a century. So the timing is right for them to have been hidden when Sal lived here.”
“Maybe the ghost—if it’s Dorothy Duchene—can help you find them.”
Leslie laughed. “She’s not been much help otherwise, but I guess I could ask her.”
“So you really do talk to her?” He was already loading up a second taco. Good thing she’d made plenty of tortillas.
“Well…it’s more like shouting at her.” Leslie grinned. Then her smile faded. “You know…I was thinking. This is going to sound really weird, but…that sort of corrosion that’s on the iron bars that’s not rust? I think… I wonder if it might be some sort of physical manifestation of the haunting.”
That caught his interest enough for him to pause, taco halfway to his mouth. “As if whatever happened to Dorothy Duchene—or whoever she is—is a sort of evil growth spreading inside the house? Inside the stairway?”
“Yes. I guess that’s what I mean. Put that way it sounds strange—but what other explanation is there? It’s not anywhere else in the house. And that makes me think that whatever happened to her has something to do with the stairs. Especially that section of the stairway.” She scooped up the last bit of guacamole. “I sent away a sample of a piece of wood with the corrosion on it to friend of mine at a lab at Michigan State University. Just to see what it was. It’s… Well, they’re not sure what it is. They can’t identify it.”
“That is more than a little creepy.”
“I know, right? So I really hope that whatever it is, it goes away once I figure out how to help the ghost settle back into her afterlife.” She looked at Declan, then laughed, shaking her head. “If someone had told me I’d be a cat owner and also be having this very serious conversation about a ghost six months ago, I would have thought they were on drugs.”
“Same here. And I’ve seen a lot of creepy things in my line of work.” He stood and began to clear the empty dishes, sliding them into place in the dishwasher with the ease of a single parent. “So maybe we should take a closer look at that staircase, stair railing, and so on.”
“I was so hoping you’d say that.”
It wasn’t long before they had the kitchen put back to rights and were standing in the foyer, looking at the majestic stairway. The temporary wooden poles Declan had put in while he was working on the railing looked horribly out of place.
“I really need to pull up that carpet. It’s probably a hundred years old,” Leslie said, looking at the swath of dark red Oriental rug that covered the stairs in a long, threadbare strip. It was held in place on most steps by a slender brass rod that fit flush to the back of each one. “I keep putting it off because of all those rods—they’d each have to be unscrewed, and there are twenty-six steps.”
“Except for that one—the broken step,” Declan reminded her. “Was that broken before or after your break-in?”
“If it was broken, I didn’t notice it before. There are a few bars missing in the middle of the stairway, and the carpet is loose. I used a staple gun to punch the rug into place so no one tripped on it while going up and down—just a temporary fix.” She paused suddenly, stilling as a thought struck her.
“What is it?”
“The second time I saw the ghost, and every time since then, she’s no longer standing at the top, along the balcony, but on the stairs. About a third of the way down.” Leslie’s shoulders began to prickle violently. “She’s pointing…and she could very well be pointing at this step. The broken one.”
Just as she said those words, the house moved…groaned and creaked. And the air shifted. It wasn’t a breeze so much as a…maybe an intake of breath. A subtle change. A shudder?
The prickling was strong, and her skin felt as if it were drawing tighter everywhere.
Leslie looked at Declan, her eyes feeling as if they were going to pop out of her head. He looked at her, shocked and aware. So he’d heard and felt it too.
“It sounds,” he said just above a whisper as he reached for her hand, “as if you’ve hit on something very important, Leslie.”
She squeezed his fingers, glad—so glad—someone was here with her. “That broken stair. Maybe…maybe the ghost somehow made it break or shift, so we’d find it.”
Declan frowned. “Or more likely, the person or persons who broke in trod on it and it broke. Maybe the ghost chose that moment to make an appearance and caused it to happen?”
“I don’t know. But let’s take a look at that stair. Maybe that’s how Dorothy Duchene died—she stepped on it and fell to her death.”
“But then why haunt the place if it were just an accident?”
“True. It would have to have been something violent to make her haunt the place. Right?”
At those words, something brushed across Leslie’s cheek…a whisper of wind, a cobweb…a ghostly hand. She stifled a gasp and said into the ether, “Is that it? You fell down the stairs? Or were you pushed?”
A loud roaring filled her ears, reverberating through the foyer: violent, angry, determined. The walls shook, the crystal lights tinkled, windows rattled. The entire house shuddered as if it were being buffeted by a gale…but the gale was inside the walls.
Declan grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her as if to shelter her from whatever it was…but after a moment, it calmed.
She calmed. The ghost.
“It’s all right,” Leslie said, slowly disengaging herself from his embrace. “But obviously we are on the right track.”
Without another word, they climbed up to the broken step. It was one of the ones where Leslie had stapled the faded rug runner, and it was the only stair missing its brass bar.
Declan moved the loose step, but it was too difficult to pull out from behind the rug runner without cutting the carpet. The runner was tight and stretched almost the entire width of the step, leaving no room to maneuver it free. However, it tilted and slid down behind the carpet, pulling the runner taut from the top of
the next stair down, revealing a hollow beneath the top of the step.
“Wait a minute.” Leslie bumped against Declan as she moved shoulder to shoulder with him on the stairs. “You don’t think there’s anything down in that hollow, do you? After all…I did find that pink velvet stole tucked inside the base of the stair rail.”
“You could be right. If Dorothy Duchene was pushed down the stairs, maybe the murderer needed to hide her—or her belongings.” His voice was tense with excitement as they both peered beneath the raised carpet, trying to get a good view down inside the hollow.
“I can’t see anything.”
“We need a better light—and probably to remove the carpet.” He eased back and so did she. “I’m assuming you have one in your toolkit? Something to cut the carpet with. Or I could grab my toolbox from the truck.”
Leslie was already climbing back down the stairs. “Yes, of course.” She headed toward the kitchen, and was somewhat relieved that he followed. Despite her excitement, she was still trembling from the massive supernatural response that had filled the foyer.
She retrieved a mega-flashlight, then set about looking for her box cutter. That would be perfect for slicing through the old rug. When she had them both in hand, she paused and looked at Declan.
“You don’t think there’s a body down there, do you?” she asked. “Like…in pieces?”
His face was sober. “I don’t know. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s possible. Something’s not right.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, biting her lip a little nervously as she leaned against the counter. “I haven’t really told anyone much about all this, and…well, I’m just glad you not only believed me first, but also that you just experienced what I did. Just now. You did, didn’t you?”
“I sure as hell did.”
“Thank you.” She started to walk past him, but he reached out and snagged her arm with a light but firm touch.
She stopped and looked up at him. His brilliant green eyes were steady and serious…and hot. Her heart started to pound a little harder as she allowed him to draw her closer. Their feet, both still bare, bumped against the other—his warm, hers cold.
Leslie was suddenly very, very glad she’d brushed her teeth.
“Something wrong?” she asked, her voice low and teasing. She had to resist the urge to reach up and touch a hank of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Don’t you want to go back out and investigate our ghost?”
“Our ghost?” He smiled, his lips curving into something halfway between a smirk and a pout. “I don’t think so. I think she just belongs to you. And maybe Rufus too.” His arm slid around her waist, easing her up against him without moving to kiss her. “You’re a hell of a woman, Leslie van Dorn. Talking to ghosts. Demanding information from them. And just standing there when they nearly blow the damn house down around you. I just want you to know—damn.”
They both looked down, for the phone in his pocket had begun to tinkle with “Brown Eyed Girl.”
He groaned and released her. “Hey, Steph,” he said as soon as he’d worked the device out of his jeans pocket. “What’s up?” He listened, and his cheeks turned a little darker. “I’m working… On a project—what else? I…” He listened for a sec. “What time? Can’t you get a ri—” His face fell. “All right. I’ll be there in about…ten minutes.” He looked down at Leslie, who’d taken the opportunity to settle her hands right on his chest and ease in once more.
Because when it came to a choice between maybe finding a dead body or getting cozy with her blacksmith, Leslie was going to choose the latter. Every time.
She smoothed her hands up and over his shoulders, her hips settling against his. He was strong. And tall. And hard. And warm. She shivered deep inside. Oh, yes.
“Uh…closer to twenty minutes,” Declan said, and to her ears, he sounded delightfully breathless. “I’ll be there in twenty—definitely by thirty…minutes…”
His voice trailed off as Leslie pressed a light little kiss on his jaw. He tasted warm, a little salty; he smelled like popcorn and delicious man; and she immediately wanted a whole lot more.
A whole lot more than twenty minutes’ worth.
~ SIXTEEN ~
* * *
Declan dropped his phone onto the counter with a clunk, causing Leslie to laugh and surge into him with great enthusiasm.
He started to say something, but she covered his mouth with hers, tasting his warm, full lips. She sighed and shivered from heart to belly to lower and dove deeper, pulling him closer.
He was an amazing kisser. She hadn’t remembered that wrong. His mouth was so soft and sensual, nibbling and teasing and kissing her so delicately…and yet with passion and need. He wanted her. She gripped his shoulders, feeling the taut slide of muscle beneath her fingers, and the heat from his body leaching into hers.
Their feet touched and mingled, her toes sliding on top of his as she pushed him back against the counter, when all at once—
“Dad? Dad?”
Declan thrust Leslie away with shocking speed as they both looked down at his phone…which was somehow still squawking at him.
“Steph?” he said, fumbling as he picked it up. “Sorry. It didn’t hang up—”
“What are you doing?”
Leslie could hear the girl’s voice blaring through the speaker, and she could hardly contain her horrified laughter.
“I’m sorry about that. Butt dial,” he said—which made no sense—but his face was flushed with irritation and frustration, even as his lips twitched with barely controlled laughter. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”
This time he made certain the phone call actually disconnected before looking at Leslie, who’d been laughing silently during the whole conversation. Her lips were still warm and throbbing—as were other parts of her.
“Thirty minutes, huh?” she teased, sliding back toward him. “You sound pretty certain about that.”
“Believe me, the last thing I want to do is leave here in thirty minutes. Or even sixty.” He glared down at the phone and shook his head. “I’m here for three hours, and I don’t hear a word. Even through ghostly encounters. Even through tornadolike winds. But the minute things start to get…interesting…” His voice lowered to a delicious rumble, and his eyes scored her with bottle-green heat. “Damn,” he muttered.
Then, just when she thought he was going to slide right in again, he surprised her and dropped a quick, loud kiss on her forehead. “It’s just as well. I’d better go now before…well, before thirty minutes becomes a hell of a lot longer.”
Leslie stepped back and watched with a smile. He was a good father. Her heart swelled at the thought. “I guess I’ll be digging around in the hollow of the step by myself tonight.”
“Be careful.” He paused from locating his keys. “You don’t know what might be down there. Old nails—are you up to date on your tetanus?”
Leslie rolled her eyes. “Right. I’m refurbishing an old house and I haven’t had a tetanus shot. Me? The super organizer?”
“Right. I should have known, you little general. You probably bought the cat carrier the first day after you saw Rufus.”
She laughed in surprise. “How did you know?”
His gaze turned soft. “Wear gloves. And shoes.”
“I will.”
“Hey, Les,” he said, stopping sharply. “I just want you to know, I’m glad Stephanie called.”
“You are?” She stilled and lifted a brow.
“Yes. Because I really didn’t want this”—he spread a hand to indicate the evening—“to turn into…something else. Not that I don’t want to carry you off into that bedroom you were teasing me with right behind the wall there,” he said with a laugh, then sobered again. “What I mean is…you needed someone to listen. You know, someone to give you a hug—and it really should only have been that. Just me being here. A comfort. So…it’s better this way. Do you know what I’m saying?” He frowned. “I wasn�
�t going to take advantage of your sensitive emotional state. You know?”
“Yes. Thanks. I… Thanks,” she said, a little breathless now. Her throat had started to burn with emotion. He was right. And she’d been the one to kiss him, to move into him. He’d been…restrained. She liked that a lot. A lot.
“See you soon. Very soon.” He tugged her close, sliding his palm up around the back of her head, cupping her with his hand as he kissed her very slowly and thoroughly and sensually…and then stepped back.
Both of them were breathing hard. Both sighed with regret. Both looked at the clock on the microwave and sighed again.
“Text me. Or call me if you find anything out,” he said. “I’ll…I’ll come by tomorrow? All right?”
“To take another measurement?”
“Oh, I’d like to be taking a measurement—that’s for sure.” He expelled a breath that sent the lock of hair on his forehead billowing. “Get going, Zyler. Get your ass out the door. Duty calls.”
And with that, he swept from the house without another look back.
Leslie stood there in the kitchen for quite a while after he left, very nearly mooning over the guy. What a guy. What a great guy. A wonderful father. An anticipatory lover. A dude who liked chick-flick TV. And a man who didn’t want to take advantage of her grief and emotional state to get her into bed.
No wonder Emily Danube was falling all over him.
________
The next day while she was running a few errands, Leslie walked by the tea shop and saw Cherry and Orbra sitting at one of the tables near the front window. It was midmorning, and a slow time for the shop with the tourists gone, so she felt no guilt about slipping inside to join them.
“Guess what,” she said, pulling up a chair without being invited.
“You got laid.”
“You finally got that sexy-ass Declan into bed.”
Leslie gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oy! Enough with the sex already!” But her lips were twitching with a grin.
“She’s been watching Gilmore Girls again,” Cherry said to Orbra, who looked unusually grumpy this morning. “And she sure looks satisfied!”
The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3) Page 19
