Shades of Midnight (5 page)

The bed did look wonderful, after a couple of hours of sleeping on the hard parlor floor. Felt wonderful, too, as he slipped beneath the sheet and heavy quilt and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. Tonight would be another late night, he imagined, and he'd need to be well rested.

He didn't fall immediately to sleep, but drifted unerringly in that direction. Half asleep, comfortable at last, he let his mind wander to Eve. In the past two years he had devoted himself to his work, only rarely allowing himself to think of Eve and what his life would be like if he hadn't mucked things up. There were few people in this world he could truly talk to about his work. Eve was one of those people. There were even fewer who understood. Eve understood. He wanted to believe that there were other solutions to her current spirit problem than calling on him for help. He wanted to believe that she'd contacted him because she wanted to see him again. It was a nice idea, that this particular haunting might be more than a job. That it might be a second chance.

A sharp knock sounded on the door before he could fall asleep with that pleasant thought in his mind. "Come in," he muttered, stifling a yawn.

The door swung cautiously open, and Eve's head appeared. "Your bag," she said coolly, dropping his smaller case onto the floor by the door.

"My equipment!" Lucien said, sitting up as he came instantly awake.

Eve turned her head so she would not be subjected to the sight of his bare chest. She apparently found a spiderweb in one corner fascinating. "Don't worry. I won't allow anyone to study or harm your precious equipment. The ectoplasm harvester and the sample you collected last night are stored in the dining room, under the buffet, and I moved the specter-o-meter to a corner of the parlor and covered it with a crocheted blanket, so no one will see it. I would have put it in the dining room also, but it was too heavy for me to move that far without assistance."

"Thank you," he said, much relieved. "I do trust you with my equipment, Evie. But no one else can touch it. No one." He yawned again.

She slammed the door.

* * *

Eve opened the kitchen door to a knock she had become familiar with, since arriving in Plummerville, Georgia. A fit older man, Gerald Porter looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Late fifties, if Eve was judging correctly. He had no family that she knew of, but seemed to be on good terms with everyone in Plummerville.

He lived in a room over the general store, and did odd jobs all around town. One of his regular jobs was delivering for the general store, as well as a few other businesses in town. Since Eve didn't have a horse, much less a horse and buggy, she had relied on Gerald several times. The walk to the main street and the shops there was lovely and brisk, but she had no desire to attempt to carry her purchases all that way home.

Gerald carried in two small burlap sacks containing the supplies she'd chosen from the general store yesterday morning. As always, he greeted her with a warm smile and a wink. He had thick white hair, twinkling pale blue eyes, and a quick smile. It was that smile, she imagined, that made him seem instantly like a friend she'd known for years.

Since Gerald had lived here in Plummerville thirty years ago, he had been an invaluable resource for information on Viola and Alistair. Apparently he had been doing odd jobs even then, and had actually worked for the Stampers on occasion. Yardwork, primarily, though he did remember doing a few minor repairs to the house itself.

"Seen any shades?" he asked with another wink.

Clear-eyed and without blinking, Eve lied. "No, I'm afraid not." Even though she liked Gerald and hated being dishonest with him, she didn't want or need a bunch of curious townspeople poking their noses into her business. And Gerald, gossip that he was, would surely spread the tale all over town.

Everyone knew that the house was supposedly haunted, and several residents had teasingly asked her if she'd seen Viola and Alistair. It was easy to deny their existence, and those who asked were laughingly relieved to hear that there were no ghosts. No one was around to contradict Eve. None of the people who had actually lived in this house in the past thirty years remained in Plummerville. For most of that thirty years the house had stood empty. Those who had lived here, for short periods of time, had all managed to move on. Rather quickly from what she heard.

If the rumors of ghostly sightings started all over again, there would be at least a few curious neighbors who would not or could not stay away. Children would dare one another to come to the door, brave souls would drop by hoping for a glimpse. She would become, "that lady who lives in the haunted house." Yes, it was best that everyone believe the house to be ghost-free. Hopefully, it soon would be.

Gerald took the coin she pressed into his large, rough hand. "I always knew those ghost stories was hogwash," he said. "You're a good, sensible woman who's not likely to imagine something silly like ghosts. But you know how easy it is to stir people up, and when folks find out there was a murder and a suicide in this house, their imaginations just take over." He shook his head. "People can be so foolish."

"That's probably true."

Gerald leaned against the counter and pocketed his coin while Eve unpacked her supplies. She never had to worry about what to talk about when she was with Gerald. He always carried the conversation. "It's such a sad story, though," he said with a sigh. "Poor Miss Viola, she was a kind, thoughtful woman. And that Alistair, he had a lot of people fooled. Seemed like a nice man, most of the time, but he had a temper." The older man shook his head. "And that temper of his killed Miss Viola. Thirty years past, and I still can't believe he did it."

She'd never asked Gerald any personal questions about the Stampers. Such information was more easily discussed with another woman, and Eve had been able to find several who didn't mind sharing a little bit of old gossip.

But time was running short. If she was embarrassed to discuss such delicate matters with a man, well, perhaps it was best to put that embarrassment aside and think of the more important issue. Ridding her house of unwanted spirits.

"He was very jealous, I imagine." By all accounts, Viola had been a strikingly beautiful woman. Alistair, nine years older than his wife, had guarded her as if he were afraid he could not keep her. And he'd been right. "Hearing that she'd taken up with another man must have destroyed him." So why did they frolic so happily in their bed before he killed her? Alistair had indeed been cruel, if he could pull off that charade. If he could convince Viola that he loved her and forgave her, make love to her for hours, and then stab her in the back, then he had been truly evil.

She was beginning to think all men were evil, each in their own way.

Gerald leaned in close. "You're right. He was a jealous man."

Eve decided to push a little more. "Old rumor is so unreliable, but I did hear that he had good reason to be."

Gerald took the bait. "From what I heard back in those days, Mr. Stamper was livid when he found out what Miss Viola had been up to, and rightly so."

Eve nodded as she handed the empty sacks to Gerald. "I can imagine." She tried to appear only mildly interested in the old story. Curious, but not obsessed. "And you're sure no one knows who this man Viola took up with was?" She had asked the question before, had posed it to several women from town, but she had never gotten a satisfactory answer. From anyone.

Gerald shook his head. "Miss Viola was discreet, I'll give her that. After the Stampers died there was lots of talk, but it was mostly just guessing. Some said it was a stranger passing through town that caught Miss Viola's fancy, others said she'd taken up with the Baptist preacher."

"The
preacher?"
This was news she had not heard before now.

"He was a young, good-looking fella, back then." Gerald lowered his voice. "Some said he was sweet on Miss Viola from the first day he saw her."

Eve tried to appear completely nonchalant. "This wasn't, by chance, the same Reverend Younger who preaches fire and brimstone each and every Sunday?"

Gerald nodded. "One and the same. Of course, he wasn't married then, and if I remember correct-like he was at least a couple of years younger than Miss Viola, not much more than a kid. Probably nothing to that rumor." He leaned in and waggled his bushy eyebrows. "But you never know."

Eve tried to picture the preacher she knew, a staid, priggish man, seducing a married woman. She couldn't. But then, thirty years was a long time, and young men did foolhardy things in the name of love.

She could hardly wait for Mrs. Markham's arrival.

* * *

Lucien smiled. What a lovely dream. He felt himself growing alert—slowly but surely—but he did not want to wake. Not yet. In his dream soft hands caressed him. Evie's hands. She wasn't angry anymore, she had finally forgiven him. She must have, otherwise she wouldn't be dragging the sheet off his body that way, she wouldn't be fluttering her fingers across his chest and down to his belly, and she definitely wouldn't be...

That wasn't Eve. Lucien's eyes flew open and he sat up as the sheet that had been covering him slid off the bed and fluttered away. The quilt he had pulled to his chin as he fell asleep was already there, in a heap on the floor. Had he thrown it off? No, he didn't think so.

The air around the bed bent and shimmered, and once again Lucien felt hands on his body. Bold, caressing,
cold
hands.

"Viola?" he whispered.

The spirit answered, or at least she tried. He could almost hear her. It was as if she spoke beyond his hearing, as she had last night when she'd pleaded for her life, but the sound was less distinct than it had been last night, just as Viola herself was less distinct. She was a shimmer, a glow flitting around the bed and over his body. She was very close for a moment, and then she skittered away.

He couldn't save her, he couldn't stop the murder that had taken her young life. But he could guide her spirit to a place of peace. It was what he did, after all.

"I'm here to help you." He scooted to the edge of the bed and reached down to snag the sheet. Ghost or living being, dead or alive, Viola Stamper was still a woman. He pulled the sheet across his midsection and sat up. "Let me help you."

Lucien inhaled deeply and took himself to that place he and very few others could find. He opened himself to the endless possibilities of this vast universe, he shut out the world as most people saw it. He left a part of himself behind and opened his mind to the other side.

"Viola," he whispered.

She joined him on the bed, hovering above and all around him. He saw her, in a glimmer of light and a shift of the air. For a moment, a split second, it was as if he truly saw her, then she was a vague light once again.

"Alistair." The single word drifted to him, almost out of reach but much clearer than before.

"Is he here, also?" Lucien didn't see Viola's husband, but that didn't mean he wasn't present.

A hand appeared for a moment and reached for him, before dissolving. "Yes, you are here."

"No," Lucien said, realizing the spirit's mistake. She was confusing the living with the dead. She was confusing him with her husband. "I am not..."

He felt her chilly hands on his neck, hands he could no longer see but which he felt quite well. Those hands drifted lower, caressing his chest again. Fingers fluttered. She was alternately bold and afraid.

"Why?" she asked, her voice heartbreakingly sad. "I loved you. Why?" Her hands moved lower. "Do you only love me for my body? Does my heart mean nothing to you? I gave you my heart, Alistair."

Lucien had been talking to spirits all his life, but only once before had he communicated with a ghost who actually formed a voice others could hear, as Viola and Alistair did. They were strong spirits, capable of almost anything. That kind of power could be very dangerous, though at the moment Viola didn't seem at all frightening. She was lonely, and very confused. She continued to caress him, easy one moment and then so boldly he felt the touch to his very bones.

"Viola, you must listen to me," Lucien said sternly. "I am not Alistair. My name is Lucien, and I am here to guide you home."

She would not be so easily dissuaded. And her hands were maddeningly cold and moving ever lower. "I am home," a disembodied voice whispered. Icy fingers brushed against his lower belly, delved beneath the sheet and took hold...

"Viola!" he shouted, shocked by her touch and the unbearable iciness of her fingers on his privates.

She released him and faded away, slowly, surely, and one last time he heard her wail, "Why?"

The door to the room flew open and Eve rushed in. She tripped over the throw rug by the door, stumbled across the room with arms flailing as she attempted to right herself, and fell onto the bed. Her momentum carried her squarely across Lucien's torso and knocked him flat.

Embarrassed and flustered, Eve blushed a pretty pink. Dressed primly in matronly brown, her hair tightly restrained but for a few errant curls, she was the picture of propriety—except that she now found herself lying crosswise over a naked man. She tried to find a safe space to look and could not. Apparently she had forgotten all about the spider-web in the far corner, as her gaze landed on his legs, his chest, his face. She jerked her head to the side in an effort to find a prudent place to look, and found their reflection in the mirror mounted above a walnut dresser on the opposite wall. His eyes met hers in the reflection, and her lovely face turned even pinker than before.