Medium Well (9781101599648) (16 page)

Danny's jaw muscles looked so tight they probably hurt. “Terrific, Ma. Now you're a mind reader.”

She shrugged. “Not at all. But I know how disturbing those dreams can be, and I assume Biddy was here when you had it. And since she's still here, it must mean she didn't head for the hills. Which means she's either an extraordinarily sympathetic person or she knows what's happening with you. Possibly both.”

Biddy pushed herself away from the counter. “Maybe I'll go brush my teeth or something. You two must want to talk.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair so that it stood up in spikes. “Don't bother, Biddy. Ma knows all about the carriage house, and she might be able to help us figure out what to do next.”

His mother sent another dazzling smile in Biddy's direction. “Please call me Deirdre.”

“Okay, Ma, here's what we've got now.” He put down his coffee cup and gave her a very abbreviated summary of the last couple of days.

Deirdre listened without comment while he described Biddy's discoveries at the Historical Society. He poured her a cup of coffee when he'd finished.

His mother gave him a long look. “All right, what's the nasty part that you don't really want to tell me?”

Danny grimaced, turning to rinse his cup and put it in the dishwasher. Then he faced her once again. “Okay, we went into the main house like you told me to do.”

Biddy blinked. Deirdre had told him to do that? Exactly how long had Deirdre been involved, anyway?

“And?” Deirdre raised her cup to her lips.

“And it's haunted, too.”

Deirdre set her cup down with a clink. “Haunted? By the same ghost?”

He shook his head. “Hang on, Ma. This gets sort of weird.”

Like it hadn't been weird up to then. Biddy picked up her bowl and carried it to the sink while Danny went on talking. When she turned back, Deirdre was staring at him openmouthed.

“A cat? A ghost cat?”

He nodded. “Ever heard of one before?”

“No.” Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, cats do serve as familiar spirits. But if you both saw this one, that pretty much rules that out. Familiars usually appear only to their contacts.”

Biddy tried not to look at Danny or Deirdre. She had a feeling she'd either giggle or start backing out of the room. She might do both, actually.

“Mom's sort of a ghost buff.” Danny's voice sounded somewhat strained.

“A ghost buff?” Biddy stared at the woman sitting at the counter. She looked like a poster girl for good genes and proper diet. Biddy only hoped she looked half that good when she had a son Danny's age. On the other hand, weird people could look just as good as non-weird people.

Deirdre shrugged. “Call it a hobby.”

Biddy nodded slowly. “A hobby. Okay.”

“Now, about your dream.” Deirdre turned back to Danny again. “Tell me what happened.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Biddy had the feeling this was the part he really didn't want to talk about, even more than the ghost cat. “Okay, same guy, same place, but this time there was a woman, too.”

“A woman?” Deirdre leaned forward, resting her arms on the counter. “What did she look like?”

“Well, there's the problem. It was hard to tell what she looked like since her face was missing.”

She sat up straight again. “Just the face?” she asked. “Not the head?”

Biddy dropped her empty coffee cup on the counter, but managed to keep it from rolling off. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don't worry, sweetheart, I know it sounds awful, but it does make a difference.” Deirdre gave her a brief smile, then turned back to Danny again. “Well?”

“Just the face.” His teeth seemed to be clenched again.

Deirdre nodded, her forehead furrowed in thought. “Faceless ghosts. There's some history behind that, most of it bad.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Bad how? Scary-bad or physical threat–bad?”

“Both, actually.” She still frowned. “You usually see them from behind, and then when they turn around, the shock is so great that some have died from it.”

“Well she certainly scared the crap out of me,” he growled.

“Yes, but the way she came to you is sort of unusual, this stepping-out-of-the-shadows business. And the raised hand. I don't know what to make of that.”

“She didn't step out of the shadows for me,” Biddy blurted. “She stayed where she was.”

Deirdre turned to her, eyes wide. “You've seen her? And the man?”

“Mr. Black? Yes, ma'am. Just in a dream, though.”

“Mr. Black?” Deirdre frowned.

“Nickname. Biddy gets cold in the carriage house, but she hasn't seen anything in there.”

“Yet.” Deirdre was watching her closely now.

Biddy's stomach clenched. “Yet.”

“And the woman appeared in your dream, but not clearly, not enough so that you could tell she was a faceless ghost?”

Biddy shuddered, hugging herself. “No. She stayed back in the shadows.”

Danny pushed himself upright again, stepping beside her so that he could put his arm around her shoulders. “Okay, Ma, now you've heard the whole thing. Any ideas?”

Deirdre chewed her lower lip, staring down at the countertop, then shrugged. “Well, the different ways the woman appears are interesting, maybe gender related—she shows herself to you, but not to Biddy. That might tell us something if we can figure out who she is. I'd say go on doing what you're doing. See if you can identify the man. Maybe we can deduce the woman's identity from that. It would at least give us a starting point.”

“A starting point for what?” Biddy felt a little dizzy. “Once we know who he is, what do we do next?”

Deirdre gathered her purse from the kitchen table. “We find out what he's looking for and set him free. That is what you both want, isn't it? A carriage house that isn't haunted.”

Danny stared at her, then glanced down at Biddy, tightening his arm around her shoulders. His eyes were suddenly warm. “That's what we want, yes.”

Biddy's breath caught in her throat.
We.
Yes, definitely what we want. Her mouth edged into a tiny smile—it certainly wasn't the only thing she wanted, though.

“Good.” Deirdre stood up and turned toward the front door, then turned back again. “So nice to meet you, Biddy. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other.”

She gave Danny a smile that seemed very pointed, or maybe just motherish, and then she was gone.

Chapter 16

Today, Gracie wore a bright orange muumuu with hot pink flowers. The banana clip that held her hair on the top of her head was bright orange, too, with a double curve of rhinestones around the clasp. Given Gracie's bright orange hair, she looked a little like a psychedelic pumpkin.

“Ah, Ms. Biddy.” One orange eyebrow arched sardonically. “Honoring us once again with your presence, I see.”

Biddy gave her a sunny smile. Might as well start off friendly. “I'm likely to be here for a while, Gracie. I just got started yesterday.”

“Better you than me. Databases suck wind. Hope Ramos is paying you extra.”

Biddy managed to keep her smile in place. “I'll try to stay out of your way.”

Gracie shrugged. “No problem for me, sweet cakes. Just leave everything the way you found it.”

“Sure, Gracie. Talk to you later.”

Biddy found the computer terminal she'd used the day before and unfolded the list of names. If she only looked at 1890–1910, she had three—Isaac Palmer, Levander Sessums and Bronson Henning. Sighing, she flipped on the computer and navigated her way to the database search page.

Henning and Sessums were both listed with birth and death dates. They'd both lived into the thirties. She wasn't sure if that eliminated them, but she leaned toward yes.

She entered Isaac Palmer into the database fields and hit the Search button.

The name popped up in the results. In the date field, she read: “1852-?”

She leaned back in her chair, frowning, then checked the list of names again. Palmer had owned the house for three years, much less time than either Henning or Sessums. Maybe he'd run out of money, sold the house, and then headed to another town to try to recoup, never to be heard from again. Not everybody who lived in King William was part of the power elite.

Or maybe he'd died and come back to haunt the carriage house. Biddy grimaced. Asking the ghost if his name was Isaac would be a last resort.

She printed out copies of all three database entries, then headed back toward Gracie's desk. “Do y'all have back issues of the newspapers on disk here, or do I need to go to the downtown library?”

Gracie shrugged. “If you want the major papers, you'll have to head downtown. We've got the
King William Zeitung,
though.”

“
King William Zeitung
?” Biddy shook her head. “I've never heard of it.”

“Published 1857 to 1910. Finished off by World War I. Nobody wanted to be caught reading a newspaper with a German name then.”

“Is it in German?” Biddy bit her lip—her German wasn't good for much more than asking directions to the nearest dance club.

Gracie shrugged. “For the first ten years or so, but after that they switched to English. Shows you who was moving into the district by then.”

“So the 1890s would be in English.”

“Right.” Gracie narrowed her eyes. “What's up, sweet cakes? Find something interesting?”

“Just . . . curiosity,” Biddy hedged. “I need to find some information about a man who owned the Steadman house.”

Gracie jammed her pencil into her topknot. “Who?”

“A man named Isaac Palmer. He owned the house for three years in the late nineties.”

“Isaac Palmer?” Gracie's brow furrowed as she stared into space. After a moment, her mouth spread in a grin. “Isaac Prescott Palmer?”

Biddy glanced at the printout from the database. “Yeah, looks like it. Is that important?”

“Oh, yeah, sweet cakes, definitely important.” Gracie's grin developed a sharp edge. “Prescott Palmer was one of the city's most celebrated con men. Skinned the powers that be out of a couple hundred thousand, and then took off for parts unknown. I didn't realize Palmer owned the Steadman house. Bet the later owners did their best to cover that up.”

“What did he do exactly?” Biddy settled into the slightly sagging leather chair beside Gracie's desk.

“He had some kind of get-rich-quick scheme—I don't remember what exactly, you'll have to look it up. Shares in a mythical gold mine or something. Whatever it was must have seemed like a sure thing. He got money from some of the richest men in town—or from their wives, anyway. As I recall, ol' Prescott had a thing for the ladies. But then one night he disappeared with all the money. Cleaned out his bank accounts and took off, never to be heard from again.”

A shiver moved down Biddy's spine. “He disappeared?”

Gracie nodded. “Slicker than a greased trout. Left his wife holding the bag. She probably sold the house to pay off as many creditors as she could. Whatever she got for it wouldn't have brought in enough to take care of them all, though.”

“What happened to his wife after that?” Biddy forced herself to unclench her hands. Her palms hurt from the pressure of her nails.

Gracie shrugged. “No idea. You can check it out in the
Zeitung
. They'd have all the details. All about him, too. It was big news in the district at the time.”

“I'll do that.” Biddy pushed herself out of her chair. “I suppose the people he cheated sent detectives after him when he took off, so that they could find him.”

Gracie shrugged again. “Seems likely. All I know is, he never came back and the investors took a bath on the whole deal.”

“Where do I find the
Zeitung
?”

“You're in luck, kid. A couple of years ago, you'd have had to dig through paper, but now it's all on CD-ROM.” Gracie pulled her pencil out of her topknot, ready to go back to work.

“Okay.” Biddy headed toward the computers, then turned back in the doorway. “Do you think they'd have kept a carriage?”

“A carriage?” Gracie frowned. “You mean the Palmers?”

Biddy nodded.

“I suppose so. They were rich enough. Or, anyway, they pretended to be. With con men, you never know. Anyway, I doubt old Prescott took his buggy with him when he disappeared.”

“Right.” Biddy headed out the door again. Given the events at the carriage house, Prescott Palmer might not have disappeared quite as much as Gracie thought. His wife might not have, either.

***

Danny hadn't really had a chance to talk to Biddy since he'd dropped her off at her apartment that morning. He figured he'd call her at the office. With any luck, he'd be able to dodge Araceli.

The Tobin Hill open house would take most of the day, between setting it up and talking to the customers he'd invited to drop by. He was hoping it might prod his favorite lawyer couple into making an offer. He also had a showing on a new property in the Jefferson High neighborhood in late afternoon. Maybe he could head home from there and meet Biddy at his house.

He thought about telling her to bring her toothbrush, but he didn't want to scare her off. On the other hand, he had no intention of letting her go home once he had her back at his place. After last night, he was more than ready for a replay, and he wanted to take his time about it.

He tried not to think about what all of this meant. It was true that he usually didn't ask women to stay over, that he really preferred to have sex at his date's house so that he could go home by himself afterward.
Sorry, babe, big day tomorrow. Call you later.
The few times his girlfriends had stayed over hadn't exactly been high points. He mainly remembered bad coffee and strained conversations in the morning.

He wasn't sure when his feelings about sleepovers had changed. Maybe the third time he'd made love to Biddy last night.

Made love.
He felt a quick tightening in his gut.

Had sex.
Wasn't that what they'd done? Calling it
making love
had always struck him as sentimental bullshit. He'd had sex with Biddy Gunter. Right?

Right. Then again . . . No, he hadn't. They'd made love.

His gut clenched tighter. His bachelor survival instinct started to kick in.
Get out, boy, run while you can.
Only, when he really thought about it, he found he didn't want to. In spite of the fact that his clenched stomach had begun to feel like an ulcer.

The last two customers were standing in the foyer of the Jefferson High house, having a conversation that he made a great show of not listening to but that seemed to be about the size of the preliminary offer they wanted to make.

He pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialed Biddy's number.

She picked up after two rings. “What's up?” she murmured.

“Are you at the office?”

“Historical Society.” Her voice was so subdued he could hardly hear her. “I was supposed to turn off my phone, but I forgot. What do you need?”

He found himself grinning. His very own undercover op. “Where should I pick you up tonight? Your place?”

There was a long moment's pause. “I can drive myself,” she whispered. “What time?”

His grin faded. He had a sneaking suspicion she was trying to provide herself with the same kind of escape clause he usually used. “I'll be glad to pick you up.”

Her voice picked up an edge. “Danny, hurry. I can hear Gracie.”

“I'll pick you up at your place,” he said quickly. “Seven o'clock.” He hung up fast. Hopefully, she'd be too busy ducking Gracie to call him back.

The couple from the foyer walked toward him with the familiar, slightly panicked smiles that meant they were willing to commit a lot more money to the Jefferson High house than they'd originally planned. Danny managed to push his thoughts of Biddy into a remote corner of his brain.

“Okay, folks,” he said smoothly, “let's talk.”

***

Biddy was ready by six thirty, which really wasn't a good idea since it gave her way too much time to think. She stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, studying the sky blue silk dress she'd decided to wear. It looked great onstage—midthigh-length, wide flirty skirt, sweetheart neckline with thin spaghetti straps. Onstage, it made her want to swing her hips and maybe kick her shoes off.

In her bedroom mirror, it looked like she was screaming, “Do me now!”

Which wasn't exactly inaccurate—she sincerely hoped Danny had the same thing in mind she did. On the other hand, did she really want to look like she was ready to go the minute he opened the door?

At the back of her mind, she knew she was torturing herself for nothing. She looked okay. Besides, she didn't have time to change her complete outfit since she'd picked underwear to match her dress.

She groaned. Another lousy idea! Really subtle.
Great way to let him know you're a pushover.
Of course, he already knew that, given last night.

Her eye makeup looked a little heavy, probably too much mascara. She considered removing it and starting again, but that might mess up everything else and then she'd have to redo her whole face, and that would take at least twenty minutes, and she didn't
have
twenty minutes.

Biddy closed her eyes.
Stop it!
Whatever happened, happened. If he wanted her to stay over again, fine. She certainly wanted to be with him. If he didn't . . . well, also fine. She'd give him the stuff from the Historical Society, come home, and eat that half gallon of Hill Country peach ice cream that was currently occupying way too much of her freezer space. Probably in a single sitting.

The sound of her doorbell sent her trotting down the hall until she made herself stop and catch her breath. No point in letting him know just how rattled she really was.

Femme fatale, Biddy, femme fatale.
It didn't help that she'd never felt less
fatale
in her life.

She opened the door, and her heart thudded painfully. Danny Ramos was undoubtedly the most dazzling male she'd ever encountered. His navy knit shirt stretched across the broad expanse of his shoulders and molded the lines of his chest. The late afternoon sun picked out gold sparks in his hair and along his arms. He looked a little like a sun god.

“Hi.” His smile made his eyes turn up slightly, crinkling his golden skin.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Playing hard to get suddenly seemed impossible.

Oh yeah, do me now!

“Hi,” she breathed. “Would you like to come in?”

“No,” he said. Then he grinned again. “I want you to come out. I've got dinner set up and waiting back at my house.”

She grabbed her purse and the stack of papers underneath it, closing the door behind her.

His forehead furrowed. “What's all that?”

“Historical Society.” She locked her front door. “I've got some stuff to show you.”

He sighed. “Right. After dinner. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She raised an eyebrow.

He looked down at her as he opened her car door. His eyes were burning emeralds again. “Maybe.”

She climbed into the front seat of his Lexus, swallowing hard.

The inside of his house was cool and shadowed, even though the temperature outside was hovering near a hundred. He took her purse and the papers, tossing them on the hall table. “We might as well eat. It's mostly ready.”

“You cook?” She managed not to sound too shocked. It was sort of like having Brad Pitt crochet.

“Not exactly.” He took her hand, towing her along behind him as he headed to the kitchen. “I assemble.”

“And what did you assemble this time?” She tried to peek around his shoulder.

“Linguine with pesto. I got the pesto at the grocery store, and I know how to boil linguine.” He pushed her gently toward the dining room. “Pour yourself some wine. There's some crostini on the table.”

Biddy munched on a crostini and marveled at Danny's beautiful, rust-colored stoneware. The last meal she'd had in a man's apartment had been with Skip and Gordy. Skip's plates were the kind you tossed in the trash when you finished eating.

She looked up from her glass of wine to see him leaning in the dining room doorway, watching her. She took a steadying breath. “Good crostini.”