The Carriage House (7 page)

Bones.

Her mind registered what the rest of her already knew she had seen.

Bones.

And not rat bones. Human bones.

No. This was not possible. She was imagining things because she was totally grossed out from falling onto the dirt floor.

She steadied her lantern for another look.
“Jesus.”

It was a human skeleton. A skull, right there in the dirt under the bed frame. She must have dislodged the shallow grave when she'd taken her spill.

Well, it wasn't a real skeleton. It couldn't be. Some weird doctor or mad scientist must have lived here, had himself a little fun. It
could not
be real.

The skull looked real.

“'Alas, poor Yorick.'” Her voice was a rasping, dust-choked whisper, and she couldn't breathe. She coughed, sick to her stomach. “Holy shit.”

She was blinking rapidly, unable to get a decent breath. Her heartbeat was wild. She took a step backward, then another, then turned and ran.

When she reached the laundry room, she screamed. It was a cathartic scream, no holds barred, loud and deep and unrepressed. When she finished, she shuddered. “Damn.”

She was shaking now, and she flipped off the light and stumbled up the bulkhead steps, just managing to hold on to her lantern. “Holy shit.”

A cat having kittens. Cobwebs. A spooky, dark, old cellar.

And a skeleton.

“My God.”

She didn't even sound like herself. She charged out into the cool, clear, clean night air and slammed the bulkhead door shut as fast as she could, as if the skeleton might swoop up out of there.

She breathed deeply. Lilacs tinged with ocean salt. The wind was calmer. She breathed again.

“Ike—Jesus, what the hell was
that?
”

She was drenched in sweat, shaking, coughing dust and God only knew what, and she breathed again, trying to calm herself.

She had no idea what to do. Call the police? Her father? Davey? What did she know about the Beacon-by-the-Sea police? She was alone up here in a strange town, at night. Susanna would come in a flash. Her ex-husband was a Texas Ranger, her parents both in law enforcement.

No. Tess shook her head, breathing more slowly now, more deeply. She must have imagined the skeleton—or, with her vivid imagination, turned something innocent into a skull. This place had been in the Beacon Historic Project's hands for five years before Ike had turned it over to her. Surely they'd have noticed if a damn skeleton was buried in the cellar.

Maybe it was just a dog skeleton, or a raccoon. Not human.

Ike.

That was more than her mind could comprehend. She wouldn't even let the thought form completely. This was an old house. Whatever was down in her dirt cellar could have been there for more than a century.

Maybe it was Ike's idea of a joke.

She brushed herself off, wondering what had happened to the cat. And if her neighbors had heard her scream.

H
arl showed up at Andrew's back door with a baseball bat. It was after ten, dark outside. “You hear that?”

Andrew nodded. “It wasn't the wind.”

“Nope.” Harl rolled the bat in his big, callused palm. “I know a scream when I hear one. You want to call 911?”

That had been Andrew's first impulse, but he shook his head. “We don't know enough. I'll check next door. You stay here with Dolly. She's asleep.”

“Watch yourself.”

“Our new neighbor probably just tripped in the dark. Let me see what's up.”

The bloody-murder scream had drawn him to the back porch, where he'd already flipped a light. He had his flashlight from the kitchen, debated taking some sort of weapon. He dismissed the idea. That was Harl-thinking.

“I'll stay out here,” Harl said. He wasn't giving up his baseball bat. “You need help, yell.”

“Under no circumstances are you to leave Dolly here alone.”

Harl nodded. “Understood.”

Andrew set out across the lawn, the grass soft under his feet. He didn't need his flashlight until he was at the lilac hedge at the far side of the yard. Dolly was small enough to find an opening she could fit through, but he followed his side of the hedge out to the street, then hooked around to the carriage house driveway.

He heard someone breathing, gulping in air in the dark.

“Tess?” He pointed his bright arc of light at her kitchen steps, moved it back toward the lilacs. “Tess, are you out here?”

His light caught her in the face as she stood in the overgrown grass at the other end of the driveway. She blinked rapidly, blinded, and he lowered the flashlight.

“Oh, it's you.” She choked a little as she spoke, then rallied. “Thank God. I didn't know who might be sneaking around out here. You heard me yell?”

He nodded, watching her closely. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, fine.”

She walked over to the steps, moving unsteadily, almost drunkenly, and sat, putting a hand on her upper chest, as if trying to still a wild heartbeat. She pushed her other hand through her short curls. She wasn't looking at him, didn't seem to be looking at anything.

Andrew switched off the flashlight, the light from the open kitchen door sufficient. “What's going on?”

“I was startled, and I yelled. Screamed my head off, actually.” She cleared her throat and attempted a smile. “I found your cat.”

“Tippy Tail?” He took another step toward her, still watching. She had strong, attractive features, nothing delicate or tentative about her. But she'd had a scare. He could see that. “Dolly will be pleased.”

Tess nodded. “I hope my scream didn't wake her up.”

He saw she was more pale than he'd thought, and her clothes were streaked with dirt and cobwebs. He noticed a scrape on her left wrist, another on her jaw-line. And more cobwebs in her hair.

He stood at the bottom of the steps and touched her jaw next to the scrape. She had soft, smooth skin. “The cat do this?”

She shook her head. “No, no,” she said, her voice hoarse. Whatever had happened, she was stemming a shock reaction. Chattering teeth, trembling, rapid heartbeat. She looked as if she had every muscle in her body tensed to keep herself from jumping out of her skin. “I just fell. It was stupid. I heard the cat down in the cellar and went to investigate.”

“At night? You're braver than I am. Old Tippy Tail would have been on her own if I'd heard her.”

“I was afraid she was having her kittens, and I could hear her through the floorboards. She sounded awful.” Tess pushed her hand through her short curls again, and for no reason he could think of, Andrew noticed her long, slender fingers. An artist's hands. “It's an old house. I can hear everything.”

“I understand.”

Her eyes lifted, focusing on him for the first time. Her smile, although still tentative, seemed genuine, her nerves less rattled. “I know about the house's history. I refuse to be scared, let myself get creeped out. When I heard the cat, I went around to the bulkhead.” She pointed to the back of the house, as if to remind herself what she'd done, how it had made sense at the time. “There's a trapdoor inside, but I'm not sure it's safe.”

“I've seen that trapdoor. I wouldn't want to go that way either.” Andrew sat on the step next to her; she smelled as if she'd been rolling around in a hundred-year-old dirt cellar. “I don't imagine the bulkhead's much better.”

She almost managed a laugh. “So I discovered. Tippy Tail had lodged herself way back in the old dirt cellar. I tripped over some junk and fell.”

“That's when you yelled?”

She averted her eyes, and they took on a faraway look, as if she were back down in the cellar, falling in the dark. She blinked a couple of times, focused again on him and forced a smile. “Yes. I kept thinking about snakes. It was ridiculous.”

Not so ridiculous in an old dirt cellar, but Andrew decided Tess didn't need him to confirm her worst suspicions. “Hurt yourself?”

“Not really. I'm afraid I scared off your cat, though. I have no idea where she is.”

“She hadn't had her kittens?”

Tess shook her head. “No. Just as well. Next time I'll leave her alone.”

“Tippy Tail's a survivor. She'll be fine.”

“I hope so.”

She started to her feet, calmer now, but there was little improvement in her color. She was still pale, shaken from her encounter with Tippy Tail. Andrew followed her up. As she started to turn to go inside, she winced suddenly and grabbed his arm, steadying herself.

“Sorry.” She still held on tight. Andrew didn't move, let her gain her balance. “I forgot—I took a pretty good hit on my side.” Her grip relaxed slightly, but she didn't let go. “I'm okay.”

“Maybe you should come back to my house.” Andrew's voice was quiet, and he tried to sound sensible, not dictatorial. Tess Haviland didn't seem the type to want anyone to swoop in to the rescue. “I can make you a cup of tea, and you can see if you discover any more aches and pains.”

“I really did take a tumble.” She smiled, but he could see the pain in her eyes. But she shook her head. “Thanks, but I've got chamomile tea inside. I'll make myself a cup.”

“Okay, but I wouldn't be much of a neighbor if I left you before you're steady on your feet. Come on, I'll fix you that chamomile tea.”

She released her grip on his arm, managed a quick nod. She seemed appreciative, not as if she'd given in. “That'd be nice.”

They went into the kitchen, and when the light hit her full in the face, Andrew saw just how pale and shaken she was. A spill in an old, dark cellar would throw anyone off, but he suspected there was more. A ghost, perhaps. Tess Haviland didn't strike him as someone who'd want to admit she'd turned shadows into a ghost and screamed bloody murder. She'd probably rather there was a real ghost instead of something she'd conjured up.

She withdrew a cell phone from the pocket of her warm-up pants and placed it on the counter, her hand shaking visibly, even if at this point just from adrenaline. She limped silently into the bathroom. She left the door open, and Andrew heard water running and a string of muttered curses. Whatever else, she had guts. Damned if he'd go into that cellar in the dark after a cat.

He used her shiny camp pot and put water on for her tea. “Mind if I use your phone? I should call Harl, tell him what's going on before he calls in the troops.”

“Of course. Please.”

She emerged from the bathroom. Her face was scrubbed, her hair pushed back and wet. Some color had returned to her cheeks. And her eyes, Andrew saw, seemed even a bit brighter.

“I imagine your fantasies of owning a nineteenth-century carriage house didn't include washing cobwebs off your face.”

“I'm not sure I had any fantasies about this place. I guess Ike thought he was doing me a favor. Go ahead, call Harl.”

But Andrew was staring at her. “Ike?”

She sighed. “I assumed you knew—because you live next door, I suppose. I did some work for the Beacon Historic Project early last year and the year before. Ike hired me. I'm a graphic designer in Boston. He transferred the carriage house to me as payment. Maybe it was a whim, I don't know. He took off right afterward, and I haven't heard from him.” She leaned against a counter, as if to steady herself. “But go ahead and call Harl, if he'll be worried.”

Andrew dialed his number. Harl didn't wait for him to speak. “All clear?”

“Yeah. She fell in the cellar chasing Tippy Tail.”

“Damn cat,” Harl said, and hung up.

“That was quick,” Tess said.

“Harl hates phones.”

The water came to a boil, and Andrew poured it into a mug, dangled in a strong-smelling chamomile tea bag and handed the tea to Tess. “You sure you're okay?”

“Yes.” She smiled over the rim of the steaming mug, the heat adding color to her cheeks. “Thanks.”

He glanced at the camp she'd set up. Even with her lilacs in a mason jar, it looked rough. “Look, I've got a couple of spare bedrooms at the house. If you're injured, you don't want to spend the night on the cold floor.”

“Thanks, but I'll manage. To be honest, I haven't decided if I'm going to keep this place. That's why I'm up here for the weekend, seeing if being here will help me make up my mind.”

“Sorry it's meant chasing after a cat. Tippy Tail's a stray we took in—she's temperamental. If she comes home tonight, I'll try to lock her inside.”

Tess rallied, managing a quick smile. “It's okay. I live in a basement apartment in the city. You should see what walks past my windows.”

She sipped her tea, looking calmer, but tired. Andrew decided the scrape on her jaw was superficial, and if the hit she took to her side wasn't, she hadn't asked him to do anything about it.

“I'll leave you to your tea.” He went over to her sleeping bag, picked up a book she was reading and a pen next to it. He noticed the portable white-noise machine and smiled; maybe Tess Haviland was more worried about ghosts in the night than she was willing to admit. “If you need anything, give me a call.”

He jotted down his phone number and placed the book and pen back on the floor.

Tess hadn't moved from her position against the counter. “Okay. Great.” She sipped her tea, watching him as he headed for the kitchen door. He noticed she was no longer shaking. “I suppose if I do end up keeping this place, I'll have my hands full. Dirt cellars, spiders, mice. Who knows what else.”

Andrew smiled. “I'd say spiders and mice are the least of your problems. The offer of a guest room stands.”

 

“She's lying.”

Harl had opened them each a beer. They were in the kitchen, at the table. Andrew had checked on Dolly, just to make sure she wasn't cowering under the covers the way she did in a thunderstorm, but she was fine, fast asleep. Harl had listened without interrupting as Andrew had related Tess's story about finding the cat in the cellar. He'd known what his cousin would say. Harl didn't believe anyone.

“How do you know she's lying?”

“That wasn't a falling-on-my-ass scream. That was a scared-shitless scream. I know the difference.”

“She says she was worried about snakes.”

Harl shook his head knowingly. “Nah. Doesn't wash.”

Andrew agreed. “What would wash?”

His cousin took a long drink of his beer, an expensive local brew he'd never touch if it weren't in Andrew's refrigerator. He set the dark bottle on the kitchen table. “Ghosts.”

“I suppose she could have imagined—”

“Nope. Not imagined. Saw.”

“Oh, come on.” Andrew wanted to laugh, but he could see Harl was serious. “I don't believe in ghosts. Neither do you.”

“Doesn't mean she didn't see one.”

“Then it
was
her imagination.”

“No.”

Andrew frowned at his cousin's logic. “You think she saw a real ghost in the cellar?”

Harl shrugged. “Why not?”

Andrew thought of her pale face, the way she shook, the faraway expression in her eyes. He'd have looked pretty much like that if he'd encountered a ghost. Then again, she could simply have had her first adventure in an old New England dirt cellar and let her imagination get away from her. But he knew there was no arguing with Harl.

“There's something else,” Andrew said, and repeated what Tess had told him about her relationship with Ike Grantham.

“Shit,” Harl said. “Doesn't that beat all?”

“Ike's eccentric and impulsive, but practically giving away the carriage house—” Andrew shook his head, not able to make sense of it. “I know Tess worked for him, but it must have been a good deal for him or he wouldn't have done it.”