by Beth Ciotta
Rufus froze.
“How’s that for cutting to the chase?”
Rufus downed his drink.
“The proof is in that picture, Sinclair. In Izzy’s extreme attachment to you. I think your relationship is rooted in the past.”
“Now I know where they got the term ‘nutty professor.’”
“I prefer open-minded.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think you’re nuts. That man is not me. I don’t even like Isadora Van Buren.”
“I don’t mean you now. I mean you then. A past life. Your soul in a previous body. And I didn’t say you fell for her. Or maybe you did. Who knows?”
“Izzy knows.”
“Izzy’s not talking.”
Rufus shook his head. “Izzy isn’t even in the picture. Literally.”
“There are dozens of pictures in that trunk,” Bookman said. “I just happened to pick up one of you and Grace. There might be fifteen others of you and Izzy.”
“You mean him and Izzy. Who was he, anyway?”
“Nobody knows. He came out of nowhere.”
Great. “Does Izzy think I’m the guy in the picture?”
“I don’t know. It’s been eighty years since 1923, when the picture was taken. Surely your personalities and styles, among other things, differ. James didn’t make the connection until he saw the picture this morning. Jonas never met the man. Maybe Izzy sensed something. Maybe not. Either way, you can’t deny she’s crazy about you.”
“She’s a horny dame who forgets she’s dead. She’s crazy about any man she can get her hands on.” His thoughts jumped to the spooked construction team originally working on the mansion, then to the two handymen Bookman had called him about. Marc would freak if another ghost story hit the local paper. “So you couldn’t throw down a slab of plywood yourself? You had to bring in outsiders?”
“We needed professionals. The west tower has been sealed off since 1928. The walls are cracked and mildewed. There’s a hole in the ceiling the size of my fist. The floor gave way beneath me. It’ll take more than a plank of wood to stabilize that room. When Daisy gets back, she’ll be poking around up there. I had to make it safe.”
Rufus signaled the waitress for another drink. “Look, I don’t want any part of this, but Marc is more than my boss. He’s my friend. I know you have a plan. I know I’m going to hate it. Since we can’t slip Izzy a Valium, lay it on me.”
Bookman leaned forward, his enthusiasm clearly rising. “You have to get Isadora to talk to you. Get her to open up about Grace LaRue.”
Rufus groaned.
“Izzy was Marcus’s great-aunt,” Bookman said. “A swinging, twenties flapper. Not Lizzie Borden.”
Rufus gripped his glass. “I hate this hocus-pocus stuff.”
“If Izzy won’t talk about Grace, pick another subject. Distract her.”
“How?”
Bookman smiled. “Talk about the old times.”
Rufus frowned. “Ha-ha. What will you be doing?”
“Going through that trunk. Looking for clues. I’d like to do it without getting clocked by a crystal vase.”
“Been there,” Rufus said. “Bananas and oranges.”
“It’s Izzy’s way of letting off steam. A psychic temper tantrum if you will.”
“Whoopee.”
Bookman stood. “Ready?”
“And willing.” The throaty-voiced waitress set Rufus’s scotch in front of him and blasted him with a full-body smile. Great mouth. Killer legs.
“I have the keys to my friend’s beach bungalow,” purred a slightly higher voice. “She’s out of town.”
Rufus glanced right to find Bridget—in that tight, neon dress—dangling a set of keys from her long, tan fingers. A tanning-bed tan. Though he found a natural tan more exciting—a natural, no-lines tan achieved only by naked outdoor sunbathing—Rufus didn’t mind. She looked hot-to-the-touch for the middle of December.
“Sorry, ladies,” Bookman said, hauling Rufus out of his seat. “Mr. Sinclair’s got a date with a doe-eyed sheba.”
Chapter Two
THE SUN GLINTED off the west tower window. In the light of day, Laguna Vista looked more sad than scary, but Rufus cringed at the sight of it, anyway.
“The ghosts still spend most of their time up there,” Bookman said, as if reading his thoughts.
Rufus shivered as wind blew in off the bay and rocked the Jeep. He tried to imagine being stuck in one place for seventy-five years. It made his skin itch. No wonder Izzy acted crazy. Still, that realization didn’t make him want to go inside and share a heart-to-heart with her.
The twinge of sadness deepened as he watched the blank window. If Newborne didn’t pop up and snatch him away, Jonas could wait another seventy-five years for his siblings to cross over. The man would delay his own happiness for the sake of his brother and sister. Rufus had witnessed that kind of love before. That kind of love scared the hell out of him.
Laguna Vista, once the jeweled crown of the Eastern Seaboard, sat forlorn, like a kicked-over sandcastle on an empty beach, a pile of broken red roof tiles and crumbling yellow stucco, boarded-up windows, and sagging iron terraces. Built in 1923, the sprawling Spanish-style mansion with its castlelike tower had been a popular haunt for vacationing movie stars, politicians, and eccentric European royalty. But that was long before it had been abandoned under J.B. Van Buren’s orders. Long before it had been converted into two different restaurants, a disco, and a bed-and-breakfast. It didn’t surprise Rufus that those business ventures had failed. Didn’t surprise him that Laguna Vista had ultimately sat empty for the last ten years. Didn’t surprise him that, up until a month ago, Marc had been rabid to sell the cursed property. What did surprise him was that, now, not only was Marc intent on restoring Laguna Vista to its former glory but also on living here. Falling in love had clearly obliterated his friend’s good sense.
Rufus eyed the tower window, knowing at least one ghost was watching, and took a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
He strode across the frozen lawn, Bookman hobbling after him, through the front door and the mosaic-tiled foyer, all without incident. Braced for paranormal fireworks, he clenched his jaw as they entered the living room. He nearly took a header, bumping into a wing chair. “Where’d this come from?” Cocoa-brown upholstery dotted with miniature peach rosebuds. Queen Anne legs. Feminine. Vintage. Definitely not Marc.
He glanced around the cavernous room with its grand fireplace and vaulted ceiling. No voodoo shadows dancing on the walls. No tinkling chandeliers. Nothing out of the ordinary unless one counted the hodgepodge of ill-arranged furnishings. Tiffany lamps. Mosaic-tiled nesting tables. A parquet-topped Louis XV style desk. A mahogany French sofa with vanilla velvet cushions. None of which suited Marc. Except for maybe the burgundy leather, brass-studded wing chair parked in a corner. But even that looked old. Marc liked new. Contemporary. Modern.
Three months ago, Rufus had furnished the room to Marc’s taste. Italian black leather sofa, glass-topped tables, steel-based halogen lamps. All gone now.
“Impulsive shopping spree,” Bookman said. “Day before they left for their honeymoon. I think they raided every antique store in Cape May. Daisy has an amazing eye. Every piece is circa 1920.”
“They? You’re telling me Marc went shopping with Daisy?” Marc hated shopping. Rufus had known his friend had lost his mind, marrying someone he’d just met, but shopping? As he looked at the furniture, he knew this was where doom began. Pretending to enjoy something for your wife, when in fact you hated every moment of it and couldn’t get away fast enough. He’d tried to talk Marc into taking things slow, living with Daisy first to get a feel for the relationship, get a view past the glow and luster. But Marc would have none of it. He’d talked with glazed eyes of the every
day things they’d do together, and Rufus had gotten a queasy stomach.
“Marcus had everything delivered here,” Bookman said. “The living room is a holding area for now. They’ll figure out where it all goes when they come home.”
Rufus deepened his frown when he realized something even worse. Marc hadn’t asked for his help on this project. Sure, he’d been swamped handling the business, but he would’ve hunted down a truckload of vintage furniture if Marc had only asked. “I can’t believe he went shopping.”
“This is only the beginning. They have seventeen rooms to fill. Marcus said he’s looking forward to the challenge.”
A domestic challenge. Rufus needed to sit but refused to touch the furniture. It was his fault, really. He’d once quipped that Marc needed to loosen up. Sixteen-hour days running Van Buren’s and no time for fun had made Marc a dull boy. That, Rufus recalled, was part of the reason he’d hired Daisy over more established ghostbusters. She was a cute, perky fireball, just what he’d thought his friend needed . . . for a weekend or so. Well, Marc was loosening up all right. Jesus. What next? He’d no longer need a personal assistant?
Grumbling, he weaved his way through the furniture to check the kitchen.
No sub-zero temperatures. No flying fruit. No ghosts.
He turned and bumped into Bookman.
Bookman pointed up.
“Great.” He did not want to go up to the west tower. But Izzy was up there, and so was that trunk. Marc and Daisy would return soon from their honeymoon. Soon they would move into Laguna Vista for real. Soon they’d have a baby. He envisioned Izzy throwing one of her tantrums, and he cringed. He’d be damned if he’d let a stressed-out ghost lob bananas at a little kid. “Lead the way.”
Bookman limped to the spiral staircase yet took the steps two at a time. The man was actually looking forward to this. Rufus would sooner arrange the downstairs furniture. But he kept up. The faster Bookman looked through that trunk, the faster he solved Izzy’s problem, the faster Rufus could get out of here.
They hit the second floor, walked across the open balcony, then made a hard left. Rufus focused on happy thoughts. His Cessna. Barbie. He glanced at his watch. “Four hours and counting, baby.”
Bookman stopped short. He pointed to a battered door with a white porcelain knob.
“Where’d this come from?” Back in October Rufus had spent five days living under Laguna Vista’s roof. Five days too many. He’d walked this hallway. He’d never seen this door.
“Found it behind six inches of dry wall and three layers of wallpaper. It’s the direct entrance to the west tower.”
Rufus eyed the vibrating knob. “How’d you know about it?”
“James.”
“Naturally.” Maybe it was the two glasses of scotch. Maybe it was Bookman’s insinuation that he was afraid. He ignored the sudden drop in temperature, a sure sign that the ghosts were near, and grabbed the vibrating doorknob. He’d grown up in the roughest part of Brooklyn. It took a hell of a lot to rattle his chains. And Izzy rattled them. But that didn’t mean she had to have the upper hand. “It’s locked. Give me the key.”
“It’s not locked. It’s Izzy. She’s pushing against the other side.”
“Maybe it’s Jonas or James,” he said, struggling with the door.
“No. James is standing right beside me.”
Rufus glanced over his shoulder. He saw Bookman. Period. “I’ll take your word for it. What about Jonas?”
“James says he’s trying to reason with Izzy.”
“The impossible dream.”
Bookman crowded in next to him. “Let me help.” They put their shoulders into the effort.
The door wouldn’t budge.
“Now what?” Rufus asked.
“Talk to her,” Bookman said.
“Right.” Talk to her. He dropped his forehead to the door. Think of her as a woman. Just a woman. A woman having a bad day. “Izzy,” he said. “It’s Rufus.”
He sensed . . . excitement.
“Let me in.”
“No.”
It was all he could do not to jump out of his skin. One word. One whispered word. Yet he’d know that whiskey-laced voice anywhere. “Did you miss me?”
A wave of loneliness hit him.
“I missed you, too.” He practically choked out the words. He was not the man in the picture. “Open the door.”
Regret. Her tangible heartache nearly cut him in two.
He felt Bookman squeeze his shoulder. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dollface,” he went on. “I look damn good in leather.”
“I can see you.”
Suddenly he was eight years old, wishing for superhero powers. Wishing he could see through inanimate objects. For the first time ever, he wished he could see Isadora Van Buren.
“I’m sorry.”
Rufus cringed at the break in her voice. “For what?” he teased. “Grabbing my cajones? Barricading the door?”
Panic charged the porcelain knob.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Her panic heightened.
His pulse raced. “Izzy—”
“No!”
The force of her cry sent him and Bookman flying. They hit the opposite wall and fell hard.
“Dammit.” A surge of impatience ripped through him. He stood, helped Bookman up, then strode past him. “Come on. I refuse to be bested by a dead woman.”
He rounded the corner to the secret panel. Recalling how Daisy had gotten in, he reached down and tripped the lever. The panel swung open, and he climbed the steep, narrow staircase to the roof. As Marc and Daisy had, he could pick his way across the rickety balcony to the arched window of the west tower. Unlike Marc and Daisy, he’d get in.
“Watch your step,” Bookman called.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said, walking a four-inch ledge. “I’m a regular daredevil.” He kicked broken roof tiles aside and watched them fall two stories without flinching. He thought about Marc’s ongoing battle with acrophobia. His respect for his friend tripled. Marc had faced his fear in order to save Daisy from a fall. Well, if Marc could face his demons, so could he.
He inched along, grabbed the windowsill, and pushed up on the sash. The window was jammed.
He looked up. “Jesus!” Thank God, he had a death grip on the sill. The shock of seeing Isadora Van Buren in full, animated color nearly sent him plummeting.
“What is it?” Bookman yelled.
“Izzy.”
“Naturally.”
“Dammit, woman! Open this window!”
She shook her head, her bobbed ebony hair brushing against gaunt, translucent cheeks.
“It’s thirty-five degrees out here. Open the damned window.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you won’t.” He grabbed the mangled wrought-iron railing with one hand and scooped up a loose tile with the other. “Fine. I’ll break in.”
“Don’t agitate her, Sinclair.”
Rufus glared at Bookman. “Why not?”
“What if she does what she did downstairs? What if she pushes you? It’s a long way down.”
“You said ghosts aren’t dangerous.”
“Isadora is proving to be a special case.”
“Now you tell me.” He tossed the tile onto the roof and looked back through the pane. He could see the trunk, its lid shut. He thought about Grace LaRue.
“Izzy—”
“Go away.”
“I want to help.”
“Can you turn back time?”
“No. But—”
“Then you can’t help.”
“Don’t tell me I can’t.” He gritted his teeth and, with a groaning effort, shoved open the window.
The intensity of her emotions—sadness, jealousy, regret—knotted his stomach. He nailed the teary-eyed flapper with a determined glare. “You wanted me, you got me. I’m your damned savior.”
Chunks of concrete fell away. The railing groaned.
“Sinclair!”
Rufus hauled himself halfway over the sash. “We’re going through that trunk, Izzy. Together.”
“No!” she screamed. “Then you’ll know!” Panic. “Then you’ll hate me!” She rushed him, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—grief, shame, hope—blasting Rufus from the ledge.
Chapter Three
RUFUS OPENED HIS eyes and stared up into the clouds.
He’d thought Isadora Van Buren might be the death of him.
He moved his eyes to the right, to the west tower framed against the blue sky.
Another victim of Laguna Vista’s infamous roof.
He wiggled his fingers, then his toes. Good sign.
He must’ve knocked himself out when he hit the ground. He wondered how long he’d been lying here. The day had grown warm. Too warm. He was baking in his leather jacket.
Where the hell was Bookman?
A breeze fluttered his hair, carrying the scents of ripe roses and freshly cut grass.
He bolted upright. Heart thundering against his ribs, he sat staring at the outer walls of Laguna Vista. White. Pristine white stucco. What had happened to the smoker-stain-yellow that left the house so unattractive and easy to despise?
Frowning, he tightened his fists around tufts of soft, lush grass. Last he remembered, he was gripping the west tower windowsill, cement crumbling beneath his fingers, roof tiles slipping beneath his shoes. Izzy’s disturbing rage was lashing him as he tried to climb through the window. Icy wind . . .
A whirlwind. Some sort of bizarre funnel cloud of bright colors, like an old, psychedelic sixties cartoon. He’d felt himself falling . . . then . . .
No splat. Nothing.
He felt no pain as he prodded for head injuries, broken bones, blood. Nothing. He was one lucky sonofabitch.
