Good Buy Girls 05 - All Sales Final (7 page)

“I’d rather deal with Marcy’s meltdown than live with a ghost freaking me out every day,” she said. “This is probably why she hasn’t been able to sell it: because people can sense these things.”

“Maggie, let me ask you this, do you like the house?” Sam asked. He leaned against his desk and looked at her with what Maggie considered his cop face. He was looking for the truth, and she was fine with giving it to him.

“I love the house,” she said. Truth. “I love the idea of the two of us spending our lives together in that beautiful old place, but I do not want to share it with anyone else, most especially anyone that we haven’t invited who might, you know, be dead.”

“Darling, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said.

“I know what I heard,” Maggie said. “It was not the wind.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll prove it to you.”

“Great,” she said. “How?”

“Tonight you and I are going to have a sleepover,” he said. “In the new house.”

Maggie gasped but Sam held up his hand, halting her protests.

“It’s the only way,” he said. “Go home and pack. Marshall Dillon and I will pick you up as soon as I’m done here.”

Maggie thought maybe she shouldn’t have been so hasty to dismiss Claire’s idea of researching an exorcism. A whole night in the house? Yikes! Then she glanced at Sam and saw the challenge in his eyes. Maggie was never one to back down from a dare.

“All right, you’re on, but if you can’t find a rational explanation for every single noise, we call off buying the house,” she said. She held out her hand. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Sam said. Instead of shaking her hand, he grabbed it and used it to pull her close. “This is how you seal a bargain with your future husband.”

He kissed her with a longing that made her brain turn to goo. Maggie realized she could become a betting sort of woman if this was how a wager was placed.

*   *   *

Marshall Dillon looked about as thrilled as Maggie to be back in the house. She stood in the living room holding him while Sam arranged their sleeping bags in front of the fire. Maggie was pleased to see that he had brought thick foam mattresses to go under the sleeping bags. She wasn’t a huge fan of the whole hard-floor-as-her-pillow thing.

“Marshall Dillon does not seem happy,” she said.

“He’ll be fine. Go ahead and put him down,” Sam said.

Maggie gently lowered the cat to the floor. She could have sworn the M on his forehead lowered in alarm but she couldn’t be sure since he bolted for Sam’s sleeping bag and climbed right inside of it. He peered out from under the edge, looking spooked. It was all the proof Maggie needed and she was ready to call it a night, but Sam shook his head at her and she knew he had read her mind.

“The house is not haunted,” Sam said. They had put several pillar candles in the fireplace to give the room
some ambiance, but the shadows the candles threw up on the walls made Maggie skittish.

“Come here,” Sam said.

He held out his arm and Maggie scooted under it. He kissed her temple and together they leaned back against their pillows and stared at the candles flickering in the brick fireplace. Cuddled up like this Maggie could almost believe that the house was fine, that it had just been the wind, but then she remembered the flickering lights.

No, there was something more going on here, and Sam just needed to see it for himself.

“Let’s talk about something happy,” Sam said. “That’ll take your mind off of your worries.”

“All right,” Maggie said. She settled her back against Sam’s front and despite her misgivings, she felt safe and secure as if nothing could harm her while she had Sam nearby.

“Where are we going to have the wedding reception?” Sam asked.

Maggie groaned. “I thought you said we were going to talk about something happy.”

“Our wedding reception isn’t happy?” he asked.

“Your mother wants it in the church hall,” Maggie said.

“She said that?” Sam asked.

“She sent me a text letting me know it was available,” Maggie said. “At the same time my mother sent me a text recommending the gazebo in the town green.”

“What if it rains?” Sam asked.

“That was your mother’s point,” Maggie said.

“But it might not,” Sam said.

“Which was my mother’s point,” Maggie said.

“Maybe we could hire the two of them,” Sam said.

Maggie frowned. “My mother wants our cake to be strawberries and cream while your mother is lobbying for white chocolate raspberry.”

“How about we have chocolate?” Sam asked.

“Now you’re talking my language,” Maggie said. “But then we have to choose what goes on top of the cake.”

“You mean other than frosting?” Sam asked. He sounded confused, and it made Maggie smile.

“Yes, we have to decide if we’re going to have the little bride and groom statue or just flowers or live doves or whatever,” Maggie said.

“Live doves might poop on the cake,” Sam said. “I vote for flowers.”

“What kind?”

“I hear calla lilies are pretty,” he said.

“You almost brought me a bouquet of those once,” Maggie said. “But they never arrived.”

“No, I chickened out, because I was afraid to get my heart trampled again,” he said. “Let’s go with the calla lilies. I chose them that day because the florist told me they stand for rebirth.”

“As in a second chance?” Maggie asked.

“I’d like to think we’re making the most of our second time around,” he said.

“Agreed,” she said. “Calla lilies it is.”

“What else do the moms have an opinion on?” he asked.

“My hair, whether I should wear it up or down,” she said.

“Down,” Sam said. “Next.”

Maggie turned to look at him. “You’re kind of being bossy. Why does my hair need to be down?”

“Because when we were in school and I sat behind you in Mr. Meehan’s seventh grade biology class, I used to stare at your hair for hours,” he said. “It isn’t just one color, you know.”

“Red isn’t one color?” she asked.

“Not on you,” he said. “I always thought your hair was magical because I could see blond strands, copper strands and streaks of color that defied description but were as amazing to look at as honey shot with amber.”

Maggie frowned at the hair that hung over her shoulder. It was auburn, a nice plain red with some brown and blond mixed in, but mostly it was red. She couldn’t help but be flattered by Sam’s description, however. Given that he used to call her “Carrots” when they were kids, she certainly appreciated how much his view of her had changed.

“Well, since you feel so strongly about it, the hair is down,” she said.

“See how much we’re getting done with the wedding?” he asked. “What else?”

“My dress,” Maggie said. “I don’t have a dress.”

“You’ll find one,” Sam said.

“I don’t want to wear white,” Maggie said. “It seems silly since I have a grown daughter and all.”

“Darling, you could show up in a plastic garbage sack and still be the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said. “It’s your day, wear whatever you want.”

“Careful, I may just take you up on that,” she said. “What about you? Suit or tux?”

“My mother has been lobbying for a tux,” he said. “My brothers have been pushing for Hawaiian shirts and a backyard barbeque.”

“I like the way they think,” Maggie said. “But I’m glad to see you’re getting squeezed by your loved ones as well.”

“It does seem like everyone has an opinion about our wedding. Except for the bride that is,” he said. He shifted Maggie so that he could see her face. His gaze was scrutinizing—his detective’s expression—when he looked at her. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asked.

“What? No!” she insisted. “What makes you think that?”

“Let’s see, we’re a few weeks from our wedding and you seem undecided about everything and we’ve just bought a house that you are certain is haunted. It all makes me think maybe you’re just not ready for marriage and a house, or more accurately, a life together.”

His face was calm. There was no accusation or hurt showing on his handsome features, but Maggie knew Sam Collins and she knew his tough guy exterior would never let him show it if he was feeling hurt by her waffling.

“Oh, Sam,” she said. She placed her hand on the side of his face and stared into his eyes so he would know the truth of her words. “I am absolutely positive that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“But,” he prodded.

“But there are just so many decisions to be made,” she said. “I’m not a big fan of change. I mean leaving Doc Franklin’s to open my shop was the biggest change I’d made in forever and I sort of thought it would be the last. Then you came along . . .”

“And blew that all to heck,” he said with a grin.

“In the best possible way, yes,” she agreed. “I will find the right dress and I will nail down the details, I promise.”

“I can help,” he said. “Anything you need, even if it’s taking on the moms, I can make it work. You know the only thing that matters is that we’re making a lifetime commitment to each other. The rest is just details.”

Maggie smiled as she relaxed against him. Sam was right. What mattered most was right here in this room.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“I do,” she said. Then she laughed. “See?
I do
flies right out of my mouth when I’m with you.”

Sam gave her a solid squeeze. “Good. Now, about the house, nothing strange has happened and we’ve been here for two hours. Even Marshall Dillon has calmed down. How are you feeling about this place?”

Maggie glanced around the room. It felt cozy instead of creepy, and at that moment, she had a hard time believing that there could be a presence haunting them.

Maybe Ginger and Claire had been right from the very beginning, maybe she was just having wedding jitters. Now that she and Sam had ironed out some of the wedding wrinkles, she was feeling very peaceful about the whole matrimony thing and that included the house as
well. She and Sam could have a very happy life here together. She was sure of it.

“You’re right,” she said. “Nothing weird has happened. It must have been my imagina—”

The sound of floorboards creaking overhead as if someone were running down the hallway interrupted what Maggie had been about to say.

She glanced at Sam, who was frowning.

“Wind?” Maggie asked. Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Maybe,” Sam said. His voice sounded grim.

A door slammed. The creaking floorboards sounded again. A soft moan broke through the quiet, making Maggie’s skin prickle. The lights went out.

“Or maybe not,” Sam said.

Chapter 7

Maggie shivered. The only light in the room came from the candles they had lit in the fireplace. As if sensing her upset, Marshall Dillon left his cocoon in the sleeping bag and jumped into her lap.

Sam went over to the light switch on the wall. He flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

He crossed over to his bag on the floor and rifled through it until he pulled out a flashlight. He switched it on and the beam illuminated the dark corner of the room.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Do you even know me?” she asked.

In the candlelight, she saw him grin.

“Yeah, what was I thinking?” he asked. “Come on.”

Maggie tucked Marshall Dillon under the crook of
her arm and followed Sam. Instead of going upstairs, however, he headed for the door that led to the basement.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She balked. “The noise came from upstairs.”

“Yes, but the fuse box, where we control the electricity, is downstairs,” he said. “I’m sure the wind just tripped a circuit breaker or maybe we blew a fuse. Either way, wouldn’t you rather investigate upstairs with the lights on?”

“Good point,” she said. “Lead the way.”

The basement was unfinished. They had toured it in daylight, and Maggie remembered the dank smell and rough floor. It had been empty except for the oil furnace, a shelf of old empty canning jars and a collection of rusty tools that were now relics more than anything else.

Sam led the way. The wooden steps groaned beneath his feet and it made Maggie wonder how a ghost, who would conceivably weigh nothing, could make a floor creak. Did that mean there was a person in the house with them? Maybe someone didn’t want them to buy the house and was trying to spook them out. This didn’t make her feel much better than the idea of a ghost being in the house, but at least if it was a person, Sam could arrest them.

The thought of someone terrorizing them made Maggie mad. If someone else wanted the house, they should have bought it and not tried to scare the snot out of people, namely her.

Marshall Dillon wriggled in her arms as she followed Sam down the steps. With a yowl, he sprang from her grasp and bolted back up the steps into the house.

“Marshall Dillon!” she cried.

Sam turned on the steps and shone the flashlight after the cat.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Marshall refused to go into the basement,” Maggie said. “I think he’s headed back to his sleeping bag.”

“He’ll be all right,” Sam said.