Ghost Walk (10 page)

Her
perfect lips pressed together in frustration.  It was a crying shame what she
did to that lush mouth.  Never letting it smile and forever compressing it into
disagreeable lines.  “You can’t just move into my apartment.  I won’t allow
it.”

“How
do you plan to stop me?”

Brown
eyes narrowed, desperately trying to think of a way to physically boot a ghost
out the door.  There wasn’t one, of course.  There was nothing harder to get
rid of than a specter intent on staying put.

Jamie
waited for her to see it was hopeless.

“I’ll
give it three days.”  She finally said in a tight voice.  “For three days, I
will try my very best to identify your eighteenth-century madman.  But, on the
4
^th
of July, you leave.  Got it?  When I show you that it’s
impossible to locate a suspect who’s been dead for two hundred years, you
accept
it and vanish out of my life.  Agreed?”

Jamie
nearly scoffed at that.  He was a ghost with a mission and he’d see fulfilled
no matter how long it took.  Three days or three decades, it meant nothing to
him.  And, either way, he
certainly
didn’t plan to leave Grace’s side. 
So long as he was trapped on Earth, he would be within five feet of this girl.

No
way in hell would he go back to the solitude without her.

“Agreed.” 
Another lie, but she really should know better than to trust his word on the
matter.  After all, only gentleman had to honor their deals and, dead or alive,
Captain James MacCleef Riordan was certainly no gentleman.

June
22, 1789-  I saw Agatha Northhandler punch a man for stealing twine from her
shop today.  I think it was quite common.  Women need not resort to violence. 
We can get our own way by using subtler means.  The only time a true lady
should be around blood is when she’s thanking the Good Lord not to be pregnant.

From
the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth

“This
is a total waste of time.”  Grace had been repeating that all morning, but a
certain jackass ghost wasn’t listening.  “I’m telling you it won’t work.”

In
an effort to not look like a crazy person when she talked to him in public,
Grace wore a Bluetooth earpiece.  Hopefully, it would seem like she was really
pissed off at someone on the other end of the phone line… rather than being
really pissed off at someone invisible to everyone else in the room.  So far it
seemed to be working, which made her feel kinda smug.  Like she was
accomplishing something.

Wait…
was she actually
proud
of succeeding at craziness?  This was seriously getting
out of hand.

Jamie
shrugged, looking gorgeous and inflexible.  Did ghosts sleep?  He certainly
seemed well-rested, which just irritated her more.  “I have nothing
but
time, so it matters not how much of it we waste.  It’s one of the perks of
being dead.”

“One
of the perks of being
alive
is sleeping in on Saturdays.  Or at least it
should
be.”  She slanted him a glare.  “Yet here I am.”

“It’s
Friday, lass.”

“Oh
shut up.”

The
two of them stood with a group of twenty tourists in the grand parlor of the
Wentworth mansion.  It had been meticulously restored to its Colonial era
glory, complete with shiny antique furniture, plenty of status-symbol silver on
display, and vivid floral-patterned wallpaper.  It really was one of the nicest
homes in Harrisonburg.

Jamie
was quick to point out every inch of fabric and piece flatware that the restoration
got wrong, of course.  The man was impossible to please.  …And really,
really
handsome.  It was amazing how handsome he was.  Even more amazing to her than
his ghost-ness.

That
didn’t mean he was her Partner, though

“Just
in case you need to know for our investigation, the room looked
nothing
like this when the Wentworths were alive.”  Jamie informed her, not shutting
up.  He
never
shut up.  “The mantle was different, the furniture was
different, and the walls weren’t this god-awful powder blue.”  He snorted. 
“And Lucinda would be shrieking her head off if she knew they’d chosen
that
portrait to hang here for all eternity.  She never did like it.  Said Eugenia’s
glower ruined the whole canvas.”

Grace
glanced at the painting of the Wentworth daughters.  Lucinda had a point.  Her
sister
was
glowering.  Probably because poor, plain, pinch-lipped
Eugenia was being completely upstaged completely by the beautiful debutant
sitting next to her.

Lucinda
had blonde hair and an aristocratic nose, her curvy figure cinched into a
décolletage revealing period gown.  In the modern world, she no doubt would
have been president of her sorority, dedicated to keeping the Eugenias and
Graces on campus away from all the football players.  There was a knowing gleam
in Lucinda’s blue eyes that told you she was secretly a bitch to all the other
girls in town.  A smug glint of malice, like she had a dirty little secret she
wasn’t telling.

That
secret was probably what Jamie looked like naked.

Just
the idea of that pissed Grace off.

…Not
that she would ever seriously consider dating a pirate, of course.  Grace was
only interested in serious relationships and James Riordan was
not
a
serious relationship kinda ghost.  Hell, he could star in a PSA about why smart
girls should stay far away from
anti
-husband material men.  Plus, he was
dead.  A woman would have to be nuts to get mixed up with him, no matter how gorgeous
he was.

And
he was really,
really
gorgeous.

Grace
glanced up at him, trying not to notice all the star-spangled angles of his American
Hero profile.  She wasn’t sure about Lucinda’s picture, but that portrait of
Jamie in the history book did him not justice, at all.  It missed the golden
sheen to his hair and the perfect tan of his skin.  Weren’t ghosts supposed to
be more see-through?

It
would be a lot easier to deal with him if he wasn’t so darn visible.

Her
phone buzzed in the pocket of her sundress, indicating that Robert had sent her
yet another text.  Grace rolled her eyes.  How was he not getting the hint?  It
was
over
.  She was actually relieved to be free of him, so the last
thing she needed was the jackass stalking her, now.  She had so many more
important things to focus on than his whining.

“What
was that?”  Jamie asked.

“Nothing.” 
No way was she telling him about the twenty-eight unanswered messages on her
phone.  Jamie would seriously not appreciate Robert begging for another chance. 
His hatred of her ex was as clear as the Liberty Bell.

He
didn’t look convinced by her quick denial.  “I think your portable telephone is
chiming?”  It came out sounding like a question.  Technology seemed to confuse
Jamie.  No doubt because the closest his time period had come to a global
communications network was “one if by land, two if by sea.”

Grace
ignored his confusion and went back to his earlier complaint.  “And
of course
the house has changed.”  She told him, wanting to keep the conversation away
from Robert.  The morning was stressful enough without Jamie’s complaints about
her lack of spirit and long rants full of Gaelic cursing.  “It’s been two hundred
years
.  That’s what I’ve been trying to get through to you.  It’s crazy
to think we’re going to find any evidence of Lucinda’s disappearance.”

“Nonsense. 
I have great faith in you.”  He insisted with the stubborn mindset of someone
who had no clue what forensic work really entailed.  “TV shows always begin
their investigation at the scene of the crime.  We must do the same. Now, you
promised me three days of investigation, so search for clues, woman.”  He waved
a hand around, like all she needed to do was whip out a Sherlock Holmes-sized magnifying
glass and shout, “Elementary, my dear Watson!”

Grace
shook her head in frustration.  A couple of reruns of
Criminal Minds
and
suddenly everyone thought they could do her job.  No.  Her
ex
-job.  “Fine. 
Whatever.  But, I’m only doing this to humor you, because we’re not going to
find anything.”

“You’ve
a very negative attitude, Grace.  I prefer to live in hope.”

“You’re
not living,
at all
.”  Grace muttered, but she grudgingly refocused on their
goal.

Lucinda
Wentworth’s former home was owned by the Harrisonburg Historical Society, which
gave tours every day at nine, twelve, and two.  Since it was the only one of
the murder victims’ houses opened to the public, it seemed like the best place
to start.  It was simple enough for Grace to join the group of morning tourists
eager to see a Colonial era mansion.  A lot of people worked for the town, so
no one recognized her as an employee or asked why she was buying a ticket to a
historic home on her (forced) day off.

Actually
two tickets.

Grace
had accidently bought one for Jamie, too, before it occurred to her that he
wouldn’t need it.  It seemed to simultaneously amuse and charm him, which was
embarrassing.  It was just hard to remember that he was a ghost.  Not just
because it was frigging
impossible
that he was a ghost, but because
Jamie seemed incredibly alive.

He
was clever, and charming, and curious about everything.  As a
conversationalist, he was way better than Grace had ever been and he’d been
dead for two-hundred plus years.  When she wasn’t fascinated by some anecdote
he was telling, it kinda pissed her off.  She was a social disaster these days,
but Jamie could no doubt host his own talk show:
Undead and Awesome.

“Bloody
listen to this nonsense.”  Jamie shook his head in dismay as the tour guide
droned on about the furnishings.  “This town must strive to hire the worst
storytellers in Virginia.”

Grace
slanted him a glare.

Jamie
didn’t seem to notice.  “We need to begin our investigation now, because I
donea know how much longer I can endure this madness.  The man has been talking
for ten minutes about floor cloths.  And those
aren’t
the Wentworths’
floor clothes.  They look nothing like them!  It’s like I’m in hell, only it’s
boring.”

Grace
felt the need to defend the poor guide from Harrisonburg’s biggest tour critic. 
“We’re visiting a historical house.  What do you want him to talk about?  The
Super Bowl?”

Jamie
wasn’t appeased by that logic.  “And --Jesus, Mary and Joseph-- why are
floor
cloths
even on this tour?  Why would anyone waste a glorious summer morning
looking at some old piece of canvas we used as a rug?  Have you all so much
time to spare that you can just squander it?”  He sighed, like he was the only
one in the room with any common sense.  “Life is wasted on the mortals of this
era.”

Grace
wasn’t in the mood for a “my century is better than your century” debate.  Not
without even her customary four hours of sleep to bolster her.  Grace never
slept well.  The dreams were too overwhelming.  Last night, though, she’d just
stayed awake, staring at her ceiling, panicked and full of doubt.

Not
over the fact that she’d made a deal with a frigging ghost.

No,
she was handling that part with surprising ease, all things considered.  Jamie
might befuddle her, but she wasn’t frightened or freaked out by his presence.  Rivera
DNA meant she accepted the supernatural far too easily.  In fact, it was kind
of almost a little bit …nice having someone around.  Even if he was a jackass.

What
terrified her was going back to work as a forensic tech, even if it was just
for a few days.  The job had nearly broken her last time.  She didn’t want to
give it another chance.  But, unless she wanted to listen to Jamie whine for
the rest of her life, she didn’t really have much of a choice.  Grace had
promised him three days and she kept her promises.

Also,
she hated to admit it but a
tiny
part of her believed him when he said
he was innocent.  Maybe she always had.  That picture of him had been drawing
her in since she was fifteen, after all.  Something in his face convincing her
that he hadn’t really killed those girls.  Clearing his name was the right
thing to do, for Jamie and the victims.

But
that didn’t mean it was going to be easy.

“We
need to ditch the rest of the tour and get upstairs.”  She lowered her voice,
hoping none of the tourists overheard her.  Luckily, they now seemed enthralled
with the original floorboards.  “We have to look in Lucinda’s bedroom.  That’s
where she disappeared, so we need to start there.”  She paused meaningfully. 
“I’m guessing you know where that is.”

“You’ve
a prurient mind, Mistress Rivera.  I like that in a lass.”  Jamie glanced
towards the stairs, which were through an archway behind them.  “They’ve a
velvet rope erected in front of the steps.  You’ll need to get around it.  Then
I can lead you to her room.”

“
Sneak
around it, you mean.”  Grace could already feel her blood pressure rising at
the idea.  “I’m probably going to be arrested and thrown in jail for this.  I
hope you know that.”

“Oh,
it’s not merely prison for an offense so grave as leaving a tour.  T’would be
the stocks for sure.”  He smiled widely at the glower she flashed his way.  “Oh,
donea be so cantankerous.  Just walk up the stairs as if you’ve every right to do
it and all will be fine.”

“That’s
a
terrible
idea.”

“No
one will stop you if you seem confident.  They’ll be too afraid of looking a
fool if they question you.  Always act as if you know
exactly
what
you’re doing and you can get away with anything.  T’is the secret of life.”

“Yeah,
that probably works great for attractive, pirate-y scoundrels, but --I
guarantee-- it won’t work for a normal person like me.”

His
face brightened.  “You think me attractive?”

“Oh
shut
up
.”  Grace eased towards the door, hoping to slip out of the room
unnoticed.  Instantly, it felt as if everybody was staring her, even though she
could see they were all focused on the guide.  Grace’s grip tightened on her
bag, her body barely moving.

“Good
Christ, woman.  You’re stiff as a board and your eyes are darting about like
you’re expecting the devil himself to be after ya. 
Relax
.  You could
not be looking more suspicious if you were trying.”

“You’re
really
not helping.”  She couldn’t do this.  The longer she stood there,
the more she realized it was impossible.  She would be caught.  She’d go to
jail.  She’d lose her job.  She’d be thrown out of her apartment and have to
live on the streets.  She’d…