Bewitching Hour

by Stuart, Anne

  Hell, he must be getting soft in his old age. It had been more than a year since Adelle had moved out, and while he hadn’t been lonely or celibate since then, maybe he was fool enough to want to fall in love again. Sybil Richardson would be a lousy choice, worse than Adelle, and it hadn’t worked with Adelle.

  Of course, it had worked for a while. For three very nice, comfortable, fun years. But Adelle wanted to get married, Adelle wanted babies, and Adelle had wanted them immediately. While he thought for a while that he could provide those things for her, when push came to shove they both realized he couldn’t. Somehow, sometime, when they weren’t looking, they’d fallen out of love and into friendship, and that friendship couldn’t withstand the strain of marriage and an incipient family.

  They’d canceled the wedding, sent back the presents, and Adelle had moved out. Now she was married to an advertising executive in Dedham and her first baby was due in two months. She was supremely happy, he was happy for her, and not for a moment did he have doubts. Regrets, perhaps, but not doubts.

  So for the past year he’d been enjoying his freedom. He was only thirty-four, he had enough money and an enjoyable amount of limited fame, and he was considered attractive by attractive members of the opposite sex. Surely he could hold out until he found some nice, leggy lady untainted by crackpot ideas.

  Sybil returned from her office wrapped in a lavender down coat that was leaking feathers, a handwoven shawl around her narrow shoulders, her heavy braids sagging ominously around her small, narrow face and a wary expression in her brown eyes. Nicholas, knowing he was crazy, decided that maybe leggy ladies weren’t all they were cracked up to be. And maybe he’d learn tact after all.

  She waited patiently enough as he brushed the snow off his car. This time her Subaru started without complaint, and she took off with a little more reckless abandon than he could have wished as he pulled out onto the snow-packed road to follow her. For a moment he wondered if she was driving too fast in hopes that he might go off the road trying to keep up with her, and then she could once more sneer at his beloved car. The moment the thought entered his brain he dismissed it. For one thing, she’d driven just as recklessly the night before, for another, he didn’t think she was that petty.

  No, he thought as they sped in tandem over the narrow back roads, she was simply a lousy driver, and with his newfound determination to be tactful, he would say absolutely nothing about it.

  “You know, you’re a hell of a lousy driver,” he said when he climbed out of his car. They had slid down a long, winding driveway, ending up in front of a good-sized red clapboard house. The barn beside it was in as good shape as the house, far better kept up than many of the farms he’d passed. Apparently the Black family hadn’t been hit by the economic crunch most farmers were going through.

  Sybil was staring up at the old house, an abstracted expression on her face, and he waited for her spirited defense. “I know,” she said absently. “That’s why I have four-wheel drive, so I can get out of all the drifts I slide into.” She reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a clanking set of keys, and a billow of feathers wafted into the air around her.

  “Since I’m not a lousy driver, I expect my Jaguar will do just fine, then,” he said, slightly distracted by the way the feathers were settling back onto her coat.

  “Maybe.”

  “What have you got against my car? Most people consider it to be very nice.”

  “My ex-husband had one just like it,” she said in a disgruntled tone of voice.

  “Aha.”

  “Don’t aha me,” she snapped. “Colin’s Jaguar was an essential part of his nature. Jaguars tend to be that important, and I’m assuming it’s an essential part of you. And while they’re very nice cars indeed, I don’t like the kind of people who own them.”

  Ex-husband, he thought. That’s part of it. “What if I told you that I’m not really a Jaguar person?” he said suddenly. “What if I told you that I bought it on an impulse, just to cheer myself up?”

  “Then it would depend on what your favorite car is,” she said, giving him her full attention for the first time.

  “A gull wing Mercedes if I had the choice, but that’s unreasonable. Probably a Toyota pick-up truck.”

  Her mouth dropped open. It was a very nice mouth, with small, white teeth, and he wondered if he should take advantage of its vulnerability. Before he could move she snapped it shut again.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Everyone wants a gullwing.”

  She grinned then, a wide, warm smile that brought the frozen Vermont temperature up at least ten degrees, and Nick felt the strands wrap tighter and tighter around him. “Okay, maybe you’re not the usual Jaguar driver,” she said. “What color truck?”

  “Red,” he said without thinking.

  “Mine truck was dark blue,” she said with a reminiscent sigh. “It didn’t quite make it to three hundred thousand miles before it died and I had to settle for a sedan”. The word “sedan” sounded like a dire insult

  “I’m surprised it made it to one hundred, given your driving.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him, her brown eyes bright with mischief. “Come in and see where you’ll be staying for the next six weeks.”

  He moved up behind her as she was fiddling with the keys. “I didn’t think people locked anything around here.”

  “Oh, we lock houses when no one lives in them. There are plenty of lowlifes who rip off summer houses and sell the good stuff down in the big city.”

  “Big city?”

  “Boston or New York. Though why they bother to lock this place . . .” She let it trail off as the door swung open into an old-fashioned hallway.

  “Why shouldn’t they lock this place?” he demanded, suspicious.

  It was easy enough to tell when Sybil Richardson was lying. Her pale cheeks flushed pink, her brown eyes looked edgy and her voice grew light and breathless. “No reason,” she lied. “Close the door and I’ll show you around.”

  He did as he was told, biding his time. There was no way he was going to let her go back to Leona until he knew exactly why no one would break into the Black Farm. Looking around, he realized that it wasn’t for lack of things worth stealing. The house was in perfect condition, renovated within the past twenty years with a lot more taste than Deke and Margaret Appleton had used. There was a large living room with shiny hardwood floors, Indian rugs in perfect condition, comfortable new sofas and beautiful old tables. A large wood stove stood in front of the fireplace, with piles of dry wood beside it.

  “It’ll be up to you if you want to heat with wood. This place has got electric heat—that’s what’s on now, but on a really icy day when the wind blows it isn’t enough. Besides, it costs a fortune.”

  “I think I can afford it,” he said dryly.

  “I expect anyone with a Jaguar can,” she said. “There’s a full bath off to the left and a bedroom, and the kitchen’s on the other side. There are four more bedrooms upstairs, but they’re closed off right now. You can open them up if you want, but it’ll make the place even harder to heat.”

  “Okay,” he said mildly enough.

  “You can put your car in the barn if you want—there’s no garage. Or you may just want to leave it out.”

  “Why would I want to leave it out in this climate?”

  She shrugged, her cheeks flushed. She was hiding something-her eyes looked edgy and her voice came out light and breathless. “No reason. I’ll show you the kitchen.”

  He followed her with mock docility, waiting his chance. He saw the bedroom with its old-fashioned double bed and pile of pillows, the modern bathroom, the remodeled kitchen and woodshed. The whole place was warm, welcoming, completely charming. He couldn’t figure out why it was empty, waiting to be rented, and why Sybil Richard
son was lying her head off.

  He stared at the bed, with its carved mahogany headboard and the snowy windows beside it. He could imagine long mornings curled up in that bed, with Sybil’s small, compact body beside him.

  “Where do you live?” he asked suddenly.

  She blushed, and he wondered if she was coming up with another lie. “The last house on this road,” she said with an odd trace of defiance.

  “How far from me?”

  “A mile and a half.”

  “And who’s my closest neighbor?”

  “Right now I am. We’re not far from the lake, and in the summertime there are people in the cottages. They’re all closed down now, and it’s just you and me.”

  “Cozy.”

  “Don’t count on it.” She whirled away, heading back through the living room. “If you don’t have any more questions I’m going back to work.”

  He caught up with her in the front hallway. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat, and she’d left a trail of feathers behind during her sudden rush. Her braids were slipping down, and he wondered how she’d look with her hair full and loose around her defiant little face.

  He felt her stiffen as he put his hand on her, felt the sudden surge of awareness shoot through her, the same awareness he was feeling. He considered letting her go, then dropped the idea. He kept his hands where they were, on her arms, holding her loosely enough, but holding her nonetheless.

  “Just one more question, Sybil,” he said. “What makes you so uncomfortable about Black Farm? Is there a maniac chained in the basement? Ghosts in the attic?”

  “Maybe it’s you,” she said, squirming just enough to show her displeasure, but not enough to break the bond.

  “That’s not it. You manage to put up with me pretty well, all things considered. Do you want to tell me the truth this time, or are you going to lie again?”

  “Why should I lie?”

  “You tell me.”

  She wet her lips nervously, but her blush didn’t deepen and her eyes were steady. She shrugged, but he didn’t release her. “Someone was murdered here.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised,” he said with a sigh. “In the barn?”

  “You’re quick,” she said. “In the barn. Old John Black was kicked to death by one of his horses. Except that the barn was locked from the outside, and he’d withdrawn ten thousand dollars from the bank earlier that day and no one ever found it.”

  “Ten thousand dollars isn’t very much to kill someone for, Sybil.”

  “It was in 1936.”

  “1936?” he echoed. “You mean I’m supposed to worry about a murder that took place seventy-five years ago? Or are you going to tell me his ghost haunts the place?”

  “No one’s ever seen a ghost,” she said grumpily. “But there’s a bad feeling about this place, a very bad feeling. No one stays here for long.”

  “Neither will I. Just six weeks, and then I’m gone. It’s a lucky thing I’m not sensitive, Sybil. You might have me racing into your bedroom in the middle of the night, terrified of John Black’s shade.”

  “Try it,” she snapped, yanking herself out of his grip.

  “Is that an offer?” He considered reaching for her again, considered and then dropped the idea. She’d probably bite him if he tried to kiss her.

  “That’s a veiled threat. I have six dogs, and they’re trained to attack.” She headed for the door. “I’m going back to work. If you need anything, the telephone’s in the kitchen. Call somebody else.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly. “See you, neighbor.”

  Sybil snarled, slamming open the front door and exiting in a waft of feathers.

  He stood there in the open doorway, watching her go. She did need the four-wheel drive—in her rage she drove off the narrow driveway twice, and the second time she nearly didn’t make it back out of the drift. Then she was gone, tearing off down the road at speeds better suited to Indianapolis. He stared after her, a speculative expression in his eyes, and turned back to his haunted house, shutting the door behind him.

  Chapter Five

  IT HAD BEEN TOO long a day, Sybil decided as she drove down the progressively narrow lake road to her house. First a sleepless night, followed by too much of Nick Fitzsimmons, followed by a lecture from Leona that was made even worse because it was so kindly meant. Add to that too much coffee followed by too much chamomile tea and her stomach was in an uproar, her nerves were screaming, and all she wanted to do was load the wood furnace, pour herself a large glass of Courvoisier and crawl into bed. She had a pile of books near at hand that threatened to topple over every time she climbed into bed, and she had her choice of a range of subjects, from map dowsing to auras to pyramid power to crystal power to runes. Somehow she thought she might dive under the bed for a historical romance instead—there was something irresistible about a man in a decadent lord. Nicholas Wyndham Fitzsimmons, for instance, would look . . .

  She wasn’t going to let her thoughts wander in that direction again, not if she wanted to sleep tonight. She’d had a hard enough time concentrating at work. Every time she picked up a book she could imagine Nick’s scathing opinion, and she’d spent the afternoon being pissed-off and edgy.

  She tried to keep her face averted when she passed the Black Farm, but curiosity overcame her. She could see the elegant tail of the Jaguar at the end of the road and detect a thick white plume of smoke curling upward in the dark sky. He must have settled in well enough without the further help she knew she should have supplied. He’d find the small general store with no trouble, and Hardwick had a grocery store if he demanded more variety. The state liquor store was only ten miles away, and clearly the man knew how to start a fire in a wood stove. She had absolutely no reason to feel guilty.

  Her own driveway was only half a mile down the road, not the mile and a half she’d told him, but it never seemed further away. She stomped on the gas pedal, slid sideways and careened into her well-plowed dooryard, just missing the Honda Accord parked there.

  Her house was well lighted, and her own wood fires had already been tended. The front door with its massive wreath opened and Dulcy’s tall, willowy figure was silhouetted by the warm light behind her. The pack of killer dogs zoomed past her, barking wildly in the gathering dusk.

  Sybil jumped out of the Subaru before twenty-four paws could do any more damage to the scratched-up paint job, then squatted down to welcome her vicious attack dogs.

  The English springer spaniels swarmed over her, licking her, howling their pleasure at her return, panting and rolling in the snow and generally making a good-natured nuisance of themselves. The four puppies decided Sybil’s shawl was a suitable toy, and it was pulled off and in the middle of a tug-of-war before she could retrieve it. She lunged for it, fell in the soft new snow and lay there for a peaceful moment.

  “It’s a good thing I’m still here,” Dulcy drawled from directly above her, “or they’d find you frozen to death like something out of a nineteenth-century ballad.”

  Sybil rolled over and surveyed Dulcy’s feet. “Not with my killer dogs. They’d keep me warm.”

  “Killer dogs? Your spaniels are such cowards they’d probably lick a burglar to death. You don’t need to pretend they’re evil—aren’t the allergies enough to keep your family at bay?”

  “Yup,” Sybil said, climbing to her feet and rescuing her shredded shawl. “But I don’t think Nicholas Fitzsimmons has asthma.”

  “If you’re trying to keep Nick away, I’m afraid I blew it.” Dulcy started into the house, her silver-white hair flowing behind her. “I told him I was on my way to feed your sweet little dogs and that he ought to come see them.”

  Sybil followed, shutting the cold and the romping dogs out, shutting her sudden surge of irritation in. “Thanks a lot. When did you see him?
I thought he decided you weren’t his type.”

  Dulcy smiled that secret, cat-got-the-canary smile and curled up on the sofa, picking up her cognac in one hand. “He has.”

  “But you thought you’d change his mind?” Sybil kept her voice even as she pulled off her coat, dumped the ruined shawl into the overflowing wastebasket and kicked off her boots.

  “No, Sybil. I was simply being a good neighbor. I dropped off some of my herb jam as a welcome present for him. Even Leona sent over some of that nasty rosemary wine she makes. I’m sure you’re planning to do the same.”

  “Guess again.” She poured herself a glass of the cognac Dulcy had left out. Her friend had taken the one Waterford brandy snifter, so the Courvoisier had to settle for one of the Indiana Jones glasses Sybil had bought from Burger King. Neither the cognac nor Indy seemed to mind. “I’ve already done my part in welcoming him. From now on he can muddle through on his own.”

  “Then what’s that casserole in the fridge?”

  “Maybe I’m hungry.” She took a defensive gulp of the cognac and then had to force back a choking gasp. Her eyes watered, but she remained calm.

  “So why do you have two casseroles?”

  “That was before I met the man. I thought he was going to be a crotchety old reactionary with a heart of gold. I figured I could charm him into being pleasant.”

  “And instead he’s a crotchety young reactionary with a handsome face. Maybe your charm could be put to even better use.”

  “Forget it,” Sybil said, throwing herself into one of the overstuffed chairs. “Leona says I’ll diffuse my energy if I get involved.”

  “Leona is . . .” Dulcy began sharply, then took a deep, calming breath. “Leona is full of opinions,” she finished evenly. “There’s no need for you to agree with all of them.”

  “I don’t. But she makes sense.”