Rounding the bend that took Berkeley House from view, I realized that someone stood in the road ahead of me.
I stopped dead thinking—hoping—the shadowy figure was just a trick of my tired eyes. The hair rose on the nape of my neck. It—he—was so still. I blinked a couple of times and willed him to disappear. No luck. There he stood: tall, dark and alarming.
Could it be a manifestation? I preferred to think it was a manifestation and not a transient. I waited for him to move or speak.
"Hi,” I offered.
Bushes rustled to my left. I turned instinctively. When I looked back, the figure was gone.
Granted, I might not be the best judge, but I didn't think that was normal behavior.
Was he lying in wait for me? I stared at the empty road.
Abruptly, I decided to take the shortest distance back to Oliver's house even though it meant cutting through the woods. I slipped into the bushes to my right, hoping like hell this wasn't the right time of year for poison oak or lively rattlesnakes.
I was caught between feeling foolish and genuine unease; all the same I stayed low, sticking to the shadows. I moved as quietly as I could, pushing through the branches. Every few feet, I stopped and listened. There was no sound to indicate anyone was following me. I could imagine what C.K. would say if he could only see me now. I was probably going to end up with a tick down my collar and broken glasses.
Except ... when I remembered that still silent figure blocking my way, I wasn't so sure I was overreacting. There had been something weird about the way he stood there. Something ... menacing.
It took about fifteen minutes before I stepped out of the woods, brushing myself down, feeling my clothes sticky with pine sap and God knows what. By then I was too tired to care if Barnabas Collins himself was after me. I wanted a bath and bed. Actually, I just mostly wanted bed.
Oliver's house looked peaceful in the moonlight. I started across the lawn, belatedly remembered the whole reason I'd come outside, reversed, and headed for my car and the bags still sitting where I'd left them on the gravel drive.
Some sixth sense caused me to glance over my shoulder.
I froze.
The blunt outline of a man stood unmoving near the woodline. What the hell? Was this guy following me?
He sure as hell was watching me.
Okay. Enough was enough. I diverted my flight pattern from the car and redirected to the front porch. The peacock blue door, which I'd left propped open with an umbrella stand from inside the hallway, was now closed. The umbrella stand rolled gently in the night breeze.
I crossed the porch and tried the door.
Locked.
Again.
I could have howled my rage and disbelief to the now-non-existent moon.
Once more I tried the handle. Still locked. I shoved my shoulder against the unyielding wood. The only thing likely to give was my shoulder.
I pulled my keys out. This was where I'd come in.
I looked behind me. Did a double take. The figure was now halfway across the lawn. A slash of black silence. For some reason the fact that he didn't move or speak was more alarming than if he'd made some obvious threat that I could respond to.
I turned back to the door. Leaned into the bell.
No response from inside the house.
I glanced over my shoulder.
He was closer still—only three or four yards from me. Even so I couldn't make out his features, nothing but a smudge of darkness where his face should be. But that was the light. The lack of light. But the way he stood there ... motionless, staring....
I turned back and pounded the door. “Christ,” I muttered. “Open up!"
The porch light blazed on above me. The door suddenly swung open and I half-fell into Sam Devlin's arms. For a split second a brawny pair of arms closed around me and my face pressed into a warm hairy chest.
We disengaged hastily. I threw a nervous look behind me. The lawn was an empty stretch of ... nothing. I blinked. There was no sign of the man who had followed me.
Nothing. Not a trace.
"What is this, some kind of sleep deprivation experiment?” Devlin inquired in less than patient tones. I straightened my glasses and looked back at him. His hair was a lot more ruffled and the addition of gruesome pillow creases down his face didn't add to his looks.
"Someone was following me."
"From your car?"
"From Berkeley House. I walked over to see it. There was a light in one of the upstairs windows—” I broke off at his expression. “Someone was out there. He was standing there not two minutes ago."
"Are you on some kind of medication?” he asked. “Never mind. Dumb question. Have you maybe skipped your medication?"
I didn't totally blame him. If I didn't know me as well as I knew me, I might wonder about me too. And we hadn't started off on the best footing. All the same, Sam Devlin was getting under my skin like no one I'd ever met. But then I've never been impressed by big macho alpha males.
"You don't believe me? Fine,” I said. “Can you just wait here while I bring my bags from the car?"
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Make. It. Fast."
"Two minutes.” I told him. I sprinted to the car, grabbed my laptop and suitcase, and ran back.
Several times I glanced towards the woods and the road, but there was no sign of anyone.
Sam Devlin's long form threw a sinister shadow on the grass as I lugged my bags across the lawn, hiked up the stairs, and squeezed past him. He only stepped aside at the last moment.
"Thanks,” I huffed.
"Are you sure you're in the right line of work?” he inquired. “Fear of the dark seems like it might be a handicap in your profession."
"Funny."
"Not really. Are you done for the night?"
"Mission accomplished,” I said, heading straight for the main staircase. “Sorry to have disturbed your beauty rest."
Amazingly enough no sarcastic comment followed. I heard him slam the front door and lock it after me. The downstairs lights went off as I reached the upper level.
Keeping in mind that Devlin was in the first room off the left, I staggered down the hallway past the master bedroom and two additional rooms—putting a safe distance between me and Joe Friday.
Finally I opened a door into a room with an empty bed. I guess there was other furniture beneath a sloping roof, but all I cared about was the bed. I dropped my bags, climbed onto the mattress and pulled the quilt over me. Sleep settled over me.
* * * *
The smell of coffee woke me.
For a few moments I lay there, trying to remember where I was. Not at home. Not at C.K.'s ... I waited for the inevitable stab of pain. It would never be C.K.'s again. And then I remembered.
I opened my eyes. The shadow of the wisteria growing outside my window moved against the white ceiling.
I blinked, checked my wristwatch. Nine-thirty. Late for me; I never needed much sleep, and lately my sleep patterns were worse than ever. My nose twitched at the promise of caffeine.
Throwing off the quilt, I padded into the adjoining bath. A quick shower and a shave later, I dug a clean pair of Levis out of my suitcase and pulled on a T-shirt.
The bedroom window looked down on a sparkling pool and a brick courtyard. Flowering vines twisted through the top of a redwood pergola. Tidy green lawn stretched in all directions and vanished into the woods. I could just glimpse the blue of the ocean behind trees. It was a beautiful place. A little isolated, but that untouched quality was all part of the scenic charm. I thought I understood what had inspired the elegant, passionless landscapes of Oliver's early career.
I went downstairs and was making my way across the carpeted hall when Devlin's voice reached me from the kitchen.
"Flakier than pie crust. And a little old for Oliver. Normally he prefers them straight out of the shell."
Silence. He was either talking to himself or he was on the phone.
"Early thi
rties, at a guess.” He added sardonically, “A natural blond. In every sense."
Me. He meant me.
It's not like I hadn't heard all the stupid, close-minded comments before, but my gut tightened anyway. The fact that Devlin thought I might turn tricks for a living sort of appealed to my warped sense of humor, but that he thought I was dumb? I didn't find that so funny.
Maybe the polite thing would have been to pretend I didn't hear him. I guess I'm not that polite.
I strolled right into the kitchen. He stood by the gleaming stainless steel counter, coffee machine bubbling over beside him, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him jump. He recovered instantly, turning away and speaking quietly into the mouthpiece. “I'll give you a call if I hear anything, Thad."
Hanging up, he nodded to me without warmth. “Morning."
"Morning.” I nodded at the volcanic spill. “Is it okay if I pour myself a cup of coffee?"
"What's Oliver's is yours. At least for the next ten minutes."
"What happens in ten minutes?"
He handed me a clean mug from the cupboard, his eyes greener than the untidy stretch of woodland behind the house. “Oliver doesn't have a long attention span."
"Can we get this settled here and now,” I said, pouring coffee. “I think Oliver's a charming old guy, but I'm here to investigate Berkeley House. Period."
"If you say so."
I gritted my jaw against a lot of stuff that would make future encounters with this asshole awkward, and looked up to meet his gaze. “Look, your uncle invited me to stay for a couple of days, and if there were any strings attached, I'm not aware of them. Since he's not even here, they'd have to be pretty long strings, wouldn't they?"
"Puppet-length."
I took a sip of coffee and nearly choked. “This is terrible."
He nodded gloomily. “Yeah."
"It's probably the worst cup of coffee I ever had."
"I know."
I couldn't quite read him. “Do you ... prefer it this way?"
He took a mouthful from his own cup and shuddered. “No. It just always turns out like this."
He was permitted to carry a gun but couldn't figure out how to use a coffee machine?
"Would it be okay if I made another pot?"
For a moment I thought he was actually going to smile. “Knock yourself out."
I poured the seething black contents of the current pot down the drain and set about measuring coffee into the machine. Devlin watched me thoughtfully. He wore a black T-shirt and faded Levis that emphasized his narrow hips and long legs. He had a perfect body, no doubt about it. It made an interesting contrast to his homely face.
"Where'd you say you met Oliver?"
"An art exhibit in San Francisco. C.K. Killian introduced us."
"The art dealer?"
I was surprised he knew that. He looked like his idea of art would be calendars with sport cars.
"Yep."
"And what were you doing at an art exhibit?"
I wondered if it were possible for him to ask a question so that it didn't sound like he was interrogating a hostile witness.
"C.K. is—was—is a friend."
He raised those black eyebrows again. “Is he a friend for not?"
"He's a friend,” I said shortly. I wasn't about to go into my relationship with C.K. My former relationship.
"And somehow you and Oliver got talking about this book you're writing, and he invited you to scope out Berkeley House?"
"Pretty much. Yes.” When I raised my eyes he was watching me narrowly.
Sure, there was a little more to the story—like the fact that I was drunk off my ass and had actually—humiliatingly—cried on Oliver's surprisingly comfortable shoulder about getting dumped by C.K.—but no way was I ever going to share that information with him. Or anyone. I sort of hoped Oliver had forgotten it.
Devlin said reluctantly, “For the record, you were right about seeing someone in the woods last night."
"Are you keeping a record?” I gazed at the coffee machine, willing it to hurry along that precious life-saving elixir.
When he didn't answer, I glanced his way. “So who was roaming in the woods last night besides me?"
"Thaddeus Sterne. Our nearest neighbor—our only neighbor—unless you count your ectoplasmic buddies at Berkeley House."
I ignored that crack. “Thaddeus Sterne? The painter?"
"That's right."
"Wow.” I meant it. Thaddeus Sterne was a legend in the art world. Even more of a legend than Oliver de la Motte. Probably because Sterne sightings were rarer than albino whales. He was like the Garbo of the oil paint set. According to C.K., the last time Sterne had made a public appearance was the 1980s.
Then I remembered the stillness, the silence of the man who had followed me through the woods, and some of my pleasure died. Sterne might be a genius, but last night I'd felt threatened.
He said curtly, “Yeah, well, see that you don't disturb him while you're poking around out there. The property lines are clearly marked."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but he was on your property last night."
"He can go where he wants. If you see him, get out of his way.” He studied me, his eyes flinty in his blunt-featured face.
I swallowed my irritation—which tasted only slightly better than the bitter coffee had.
"Understood. Anything else I need to know before I head over to Berkeley House?"
Talk about a foolish question. Sam Devlin contemplated me for a long unsmiling moment. “I think we better discuss that, as well,” he said. “Are you aware that the property is condemned?"
"The house? Yes."
"Great. Well, if you want to wander around the grounds at your own risk, that's one thing, but it's not safe to go inside the house."
"I already signed a waiver—"
He interrupted, “I don't care what you signed. You saw the place last night. One good push and the building will be in the sea. You don't go inside."
"I've already arranged this with Oliver—the guy who owns the property."
"I don't care what you arranged. You don't put one foot inside that house. Understand?"
What, was the entire universe supposed to be his jurisdiction? I stared at him. It was a stare I had perfected through years of dealing with insolent adolescents and asshole adults. He stared right back. I finally managed a terse, “Yeah, I understand."
He nodded curtly. “Good. I've got a call into Oliver, but just so you know, I believe this story of yours about writing a book.” He managed to make it sound like he figured I was capable of any lunacy.
"Gee, thanks,” I practically stuttered. He was actually going to double-check my story? Who the hell would make up a story like this?
He shrugged. “No offense, but Oliver is a sucker for a pretty face and a sob story."
Unfortunate choice of words under the circumstances.
I smiled. It probably looked more like a baring of teeth, because he blinked. What an arrogant asshole he was. Poor Oliver. I could just imagine the lectures he had to listen to from Mr. Law and Order.
"I'll keep it in mind,” I said.
"Do that."
Apparently he also needed to have the last word. I struggled to control myself. I couldn't remember the last time somebody had this kind of effect on me.
"Is there more or am I dismissed?"
To my surprise he gave a twist of a smile. “Not easily,” he said.
* * * *
"Hey, be careful there!"
I turned away from my survey of Berkeley House's pallid and dissolute face—hollow-eyed windows and gaping broken door mouth. A man in jeans and a plaid shirt hurried across the threadbare lawn towards me
As he reached me, he said earnestly, “You weren't thinking of going inside? It's a death trap."
He was about my age. Attractive. Medium height and comfortably built; hazel eyes, soft brown hair and a carefully groomed beard.
"Hi,” I said. I
gestured with my camera. “I was just taking a few photos."
He studied me and something changed in his face. In mine too, probably. The old gaydar picking up those high frequency waves. “It's private property, you know.” He said it almost apologetically, his smile rueful.
"I know,” I said. “I'm staying at Oliver de la Motte's.” Remembering Oliver's reputation, I added hastily, “I'm writing a book about haunted houses along the California coast."
"Seriously?” The genuine interest was refreshing after Sam Devlin. He offered a hand. “Mason Corwin. I'm president of the local historical preservation society.” His handshake was firm. “So you know the history of the house?"
"Just the bare bones."
"Interesting choice of words. There are plenty of skeletons in the Berkeley House closet."
"I'll bet. David Berkeley was a magician, right?"
"A 20th Century illusionist. By profession and philosophy. He really did subscribe to the notion that the material world was just an illusion."
"Yeah? How does that tie in with his committing suicide?"
Mason smiled wryly. “Beats me. I personally subscribe to the here and now theory."
I smiled back, then glanced at the house, feeling its tug once more.
"Come by the museum,” Mason invited. “You can look through our collection. We've got all kinds of photos, newspaper clippings, and memorabilia on Berkeley."
"I'll do that."
He smiled at me again. “How long are you staying for?"
"Just through the weekend."
"Too bad."
"Why?” I caught the meaning of his smile. "Oh. Thanks."
His gaze wavered, edged past me. I glanced around. He said, “Old Thad Sterne. He's another reason to be careful around here. He's kind of on the weird side. Take a piece of advice?"
"Sure."
"Ghost hunter or not, don't hang around here after dark. It's not safe."
"Thanks for the warning."
He nodded. Glanced at his watch. “I've got to get back. The museum opens at noon on Fridays.” He hesitated. “But I'll be seeing you, right?"
I smiled. “Right."
I waited until Mason vanished into the woods, then I ducked around the back of the house. I could do with less of an audience.
Scared Stiff Page 8
