Harrison Investigations 1 Haunted (5 page)

"How?" Clara asked incredulously.

"Who knows," he murmured.

Clara again planted her hands on her hips, her eyes
narrowing. "Who the hell would break in here? Who would have
the balls-since it's
your
place-the town sheriff?"

"I don't know. But since you think there was someone in here, I
intend to find out."

Clara shook her head. "We're the ones who have been lying to
ourselves, Matt. The whole darned house may be haunted, but this
room...this room is menacing!"

"Ghosts don't menace people, Clara."

She sniffed. "You don't believe in ghosts, so how do you know
what they do?''

"Clara, I don't believe in ghosts, but from everything I've seen
and read, I've never heard of a ghost actually hurting anyone."

Clara shook her head again, appearing to be the one wise beyond
all earthly knowledge. "Well, Mr. Matt, I'll have you know, that
isn't true at all! Haven't you ever heard of the Bell Witch in
Tennessee? They say that even old Andrew Jackson was afraid of her,
that she pulled people's hair and threw the children around
and even caused the death of the master of the house. You refuse to
accept anything that isn't cut-and-dried, and you're blind to
things going on in your own house!"

Matt leaned against the door frame, smiling. "Clara, once again,
I believe that people can make things real with their
imaginations."

"You think old Andy Jackson was an imaginative guy?"

"You'd have to show me written proof that Andrew Jackson was
afraid of a ghost. And I don't mean any hearsay on a
Discovery program or even in a book of ghost stories."

Clara pointed a finger at him. "You'd better do something,
before the stories about this house become so real that no one will
pay for the tours. You can't keep this place up on a sheriff's
salary alone."

"Thank you, Clara. I'll take that under advisement. But then
again, you know, Penny is certain that a documented haunting would
make us as rich as Midas."

Clara was startled when Matt frowned suddenly and walked over to
her. "What happened to your face?"

"To my face?" Clara frowned as well, and walked over to the
mirror. Her cheek was red and mottled, as if she'd been slapped,
and slapped hard.

She turned and stared at him. "Ghosts don't menace people,
huh?"

"Clara," Matt said. "Think about it! You must have run into
something in your hurry to get out of the room!"

Clara eyed him sharply and shook her head. "Matt, the stories
have circulated for years. People have sworn that they've seen
soldiers in the downstairs rooms. They've seen a lady in white,
floating down the stairway. Ghosts that fit in with history. It's
only been in recent years, since your grandfather died, that things
have gotten really serious. Remember how Randy Gustav quit after
staying a night in the Lee Room? He wouldn't even explain what
happened to you. It's only in the last few years that...that the
ghosts kind of threaten to get violent." "There are no such things
as ghosts." "Oh, yeah? One just gave me a bruise!" With that, Clara
indignantly walked out on him, calling back over her shoulder,
"Matt, you're a hell of a man. That's why I'm staying. Believe it
or don't, but you'd better do something about that particular
ghost-that doesn't exist in your mind."

That evening, having returned home very late from work, Matt sat
at the desk in his suite in the main house, going through
correspondence.

There was a tap at his door.

"Come in."

Penny stuck her head in. "Am I bothering you, Matt?"

"Not at all."

She walked in and sat on the corner of his desk. "Matt, you have
to do something over this latest episode with Clara."

"Oh?" He leaned back in his chair.

"Clara was hurt!"

"Penny, please. I'm sorry, I think the world of Clara, we're
friends from way back, and I gave her the rest of the day off with
pay. She had to have run into something."

Penny shook her head.

He leaned forward suddenly, abruptly. "Penny, you wouldn't be
playing some kind of game up there, determined to convince
the rest of the world, if not me, that the place is haunted?"

She gaped at him in such affront that he was immediately
sorry.

"Matt, I would
never-
"

"But maybe someone would."

"Maybe," Penny agreed grudgingly. She wagged a finger at him.
"You know, you are far too trusting at times. Too many people could
have access to this place."

"Penny, I'm not too trusting. We're a fairly small town."

Penny shook her head decisively. "You're right, of course. But
you've got to remember that even in our small town we have had a
few pretty grisly murders. Why can't you just accept the fact that
something strange is going on?"

"Penny, you've wanted nothing more than a real ghost for
years."

Penny shook her head, suddenly troubled. "Ghosts... that cause a
cold spot, or breeze by, or...I don't think this is a good ghost,"
she murmured.

She patted his desk, rummaging through the unopened letters.
"What about that letter you got from Harrison Investigations?
Call Adam. You respect him. He was friends with your grandfather
long ago."

He groaned.

"Please, Matt. You've suggested that maybe someone is breaking
in, or doing something to make it appear that there are ghosts.
Adam can tell you what's real, and what's not."

"What he
perceives
as real," Matt muttered.

"Hey, I've followed some of what he's done. Last year, he and
some of his colleagues proved that the haunting of an old mining
camp was nothing more than two modern prospectors digging for
gold."

"Great. I call in Ghostbusters and become the
laughingstock of the town. I might as well find a new place
to live."

Penny shook her head. "Matt, maybe they can just do the same
thing here.'' She hopped off the edge of the table. "Please,
promise me you'll think about it, at least."

She left him, closing the door softly in her wake.

Matt walked to his own set of French doors out to the wraparound
balcony. The moon was full. In the distance, he could see the vague
shape of the mountains, and the sweep of the valley. God, he loved
this area. Loved the house, the stables, but mostly, just the
natural beauty of the area.

He returned to his desk, reflective. Clara's face
had
been marked, as if she had been hit. He still didn't believe in
ghosts, but...

He reflected on the number of people who lived on the property.
Penny, Sam, Clint, Carter, even Clara now and then, and through the
years gone by, various friends and relatives. Could someone have
set the place up so that it appeared haunted?

He strode to the Lee Room, searched under the bed, in the
closet, all around. Nothing.

Still...

He returned to his own suite, toyed with Adam Harrison's
letter for a moment, and picked up the phone. He dialed Harrison's
number. They spoke briefly. "Matt, good to hear from you."

"You weren't certain that you would?" Matt queried dryly.

"Nope. Not this time."

"You know I don't believe in the supernatural in any way, shape,
or form."

"I'm aware of that."

"If you come down here, I'm only having you because I think
you'll be able to prove that I don't have ghosts."

"Maybe," Adam agreed.

"When can you come?"

"My schedule is a bit of a mess, but...I'll arrange to see you
soon."

"And according to your letter, Adam,
you're
going to
pay
me?"

"Yes. And like I said, I
am
anxious. I'll arrange
something as soon as possible."

"You can usually find me around lunchtime at the Way-side
Inn."

"All right, my office manager will call, set a date."

"Good," Matt said. "Look forward to seeing you, Adam."

Adam Harrison was still talking when Matt hung up the phone. He
stared at it, already thinking that he had made one hell of a
mistake.

On the other end, Adam Harrison, too, stared at his phone. He
did so with fond amusement. He'd always liked Matt. "My boy. You're
about to learn a lesson. All the courage, brain power, and brawn in
the world can't cut it against a real ghost," he said softly. "Ah,
well."

He had meant to warn Matt that he wasn't even sure he could come
himself right away, that he'd be sending his top-notch aide.

But he didn't want to call back. Matt Stone wasn't at all
pleased with this arrangement, even though he was surely having
trouble.

It would all be fine. Darcy could handle any man,
living...

Or dead.

______ 2____

From the moment she walked into the bar, Darcy felt at a
distinct disadvantage.

It was called the Wayside Inn. It should have been called
Bubba's Back-then Barn.

She was nearly overcome by the wave of smoke that almost knocked
her over when she opened the door; it sat like a fog over the
decades-old plastic booths and bar stools. There were two pool
tables to the left, stuffed away from what might have been used, at
times, as a dance floor.

There were actually still a few spittoons for tobacco chewers
scattered around.

When she stepped in and the door closed behind her, the place
came to a standstill. The four pool players and the broken-toothed
wonders watching the games all stopped their play and stared at
her. Behind the bar, a heavyset woman with teased red hair styled
in something like a sixties beehive looked up from washing glasses.
In what looked to be a dining area, the four men seated at one of
the chipped wood tables also looked up.

She stood in the miasma of smoke and stared around, taking it in
as her eyes adjusted from the sunlight. And she knew, instantly,
that Adam was the one who should have come here. And he should have
worn jeans and an old plaid or denim work shirt. Of course, the
concept of Adam dressed that way was an amusing one, but Adam was a
determined man. And for some reason, he was determined that
they were getting into Melody House.

She had come in a business suit, the same attire she usually
wore when conducting business, she reminded herself,
defending her choice of clothing when she was so obviously out of
place. But though she hadn't imagined the Wayside Inn to be a
five-star restaurant, she hadn't thought that it would be quite
this...colloquial.

"Can I help you, honey?" the redhead called from behind
the bar. Her voice was warm and friendly, giving Darcy a bit of
encouragement. She smiled in return. But before she could reply,
one of the men who'd been sitting at the table had risen.

"Miss?"

He was tall, somewhat lanky, and when he smiled, she saw that he
had all his teeth, and a single dimple in his left cheek. Light
brown eyes, and a pleasant way about him; he seemed to ooze accent
and Southern charm with his single word.

"I'm looking for a man named Matt Stone. I was supposed to
meet him here." She hoped that one of the men knew Stone. She
didn't think that he was among them. She'd already pictured him in
her mind. He was the descendant of a man who was practically
a Founding Father. He would be tall, straight, and aging with
incredible dignity. He might be one of the those fellows who
sat around Revolutionary or Civil War round tables, rehashing the
past. He might have a certain attitude about him, but he'd still be
an incredible old gentleman.

"Hey, honey, you can meet me!" one of the pool players
called out.

"Watch your manners, Carter!" one of the others said, and
another sniggered.

At the table, another of the men stood.

"Come in, have a seat," he said.

She had to admit, this fellow's jeans fit him well,
hugging leans hips, strong legs, and some solid length. He
was wearing shades, even inside, in the cloud of smoke- maybe he
thought that they'd protect his eyes from the haze. He was well
over six feet, ebony hair a little too long, but apparently clean
and brushed. He was clean-shaven, maybe thirty, thirty-five.
Strong, solid features. While the first fellow to approach her had
been polite and laid-back, bis face splitting instantly into an
easy grin in the first few seconds, this one looked as if he might
have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. Though he had stood
courteously enough and asked her to sit, he looked as if he were
entirely impatient, more like a man about to suggest that she
go jump in a lake.

She walked over to the table. The first man-he with the great
dimple-had drawn out a chair for her. She looked at the other two
who had been sitting at the table, now risen, as she approached.
One was older, white-haired, white-bearded. She kept imagining him
in a butternut and gray Confederate Army uniform. The fourth in the
party was somewhere around thirty as well, had a decent haircut,
and was actually in a tailored shirt and chinos, and looked as if
he might have a real job somewhere in a civilized town.

"What's your business here?" the tall, chiseled-face man asked
abruptly, sitting as he did so. They all stared at her.

"My name is Darcy Tremayne. I had an appointment with Matt
Stone. I was supposed to meet him here. I believe I'm in the
right place. Do any of you know him?"

She spoke evenly and politely-she was here on business.
But she felt as if hostility oozed around her. She longed to bolt
from the chair and fly out the door. She knew that everyone in the
bar was still staring at her.

"Know him?" the tall, lanky fellow with the dimple said.

But he was interrupted. The man Darcy had mentally begun to
refer to as Chisel-face cut him off. "Are you one of the psychics?"
he asked.

Darcy arched a brow.
Be pleasant with the locals, Adam
had told her.

All right, she could be friendly.

"I suppose you could say that. I'm with Harrison
Investigations," she said. This was definitely a small town.
Okay, so she had come from a fairly small town herself, but this
one seemed even more rural. Maybe that was because she'd
spent so many years in New York, and had been living in the D.C.
area for so long now. It seemed that any event regarding Melody
House was news in the area, and that everyone knew everyone else's
business.

"A real live ghost buster?" the fellow with the dimple
teased.

"Ghost buster?" She ever so slightly hiked a brow once again,
sitting back, determined that she would be cool, cordial, and
dignified. "Harrison Investigations is actually a small, private
company, and what we do is investigate strange occurrences in old
homes and the like." She smiled. "Most of the time, we find squeaky
floorboards and leaky plumbing, but when a place is as historically
relevant as Melody House, the history alone could create a very old
and spiritual feeling."

"Melody House is pretty damned cool," the dimpled man said,
flashing another warm smile.

The old white-haired codger spoke up. "Ms. Tremayne, lots of
folks have come wanting to set up cameras, tape machines, and all
kinds of hocus-pocus stuff at Melody House. The owner has just
flat-out told them no."

"Yes, well, that's why I'm anxious to meet Matt Stone. Mr.
Harrison and he are well acquainted. Mr. Stone respects my
employer, and knows that we're not sensationalist in any way.
We know history and architecture, and people, and naturally, we're
very discreet. I can understand any hesitation Mr. Stone has had in
the past. I'm sure that many people come ready to cash in on the
ghosts."

"I see," interrupted Chisel-face. "You're here to
investigate some of the eerie stories associated with the
house, but you're
not
trying to cash in on ghosts?" His
voice was deep, the words were evenly spoken; somehow, they still
dripped scorn.

"No. I've just explained. We're investigators."

"Um," Chisel-face murmured. He stared at her hard. "You said
that most of the time what you discovered was creaky floorboards or
leaky plumping. What happens when it's not 'most of the time'?"

"We do our best to right matters," she said, wishing that she'd
never gotten into the conversation.

"And how do you do that? Without, of course, making a bid to
fascinate people-or cash in on the ghosts."

She hesitated. She didn't really need to be having this
conversation with a skeptic; she was looking for Matt Stone. But
they were indeed in a small town. And Adam had suggested that she
do her best to get along with the locals. In such a place, they
were usually full of information, and could be very helpful.
She shrugged. Adam wanted it; she could try to be social.

"Some ghosts are actually a part of history, and it's the
history that creates the legends that make them so
fascinating to people. Some home owners and even
corporations-especially those with places as significant as
Melody House-want to have a resident ghost rapping on walls
now and then to attract their clientele. Watch television,
and you'll know that there's a huge population out there interested
in being frightened. What we do is find out first if there actually
is any inexplicable phenomena- or if someone is merely playing
games. If there is something beyond the ordinary, we find out
why, and deal with it from that point," Darcy said, staring at the
man, and returning all the attitude she was being given. Adam
Harrison had already spoken with Matt Stone, and apparently,
done so with enough dignity that he had agreed to the meeting.
Actually, Stone had called Adam, after receiving his letter. And
whether or not Stone wanted his property turned into a national
center for the occult, he apparently could use the exorbitant fee
that Adam had been willing to pay for his team to investigate the
stories circulating about the house. She knew historic mansions
were incredibly hard to maintain. Especially when they were
being held privately. She was suddenly angry with herself for
having been intimidated by the good old boys in the bar. Hell.
She'd spent enough years in a very similar environment, and that
should have prepared her to deal with any form of male that
pretended to walk on two feet. She had also dealt with her fair
share of total, mocking skeptics. Usually, no manner of behavior
bothered her. She had her beliefs, and everyone else in the world
was welcome to their own. People who really wanted help usually
came and asked for it.

She'd been social enough, she decided.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but my employer has already been in
contact with Mr. Stone, and apparently, he is willing to
allow us into Melody House. I'll make arrangements to meet him at a
later date."

"I know you," Dimple-face said suddenly. He offered her his lazy
smile once again. "I could swear I've seen your face before."

Darcy hesitated. All she needed to do was tell this pack that
she'd been a model for a cosmetics company for several years
during and right after college and they'd never take her seriously.
But then again, what the hell did she care? Her business was with
Stone.

"I'm sure we've never met," she murmured politely. "Thank you
for your time. And excuse me."

'"Original Sin'!" Dimple-face said triumphantly. He grinned
sheepishly. "I wound up buying the men's aftershave. Your
face has been on billboards all over the country."

Even in Hicksville?
she was tempted to say, and then
she was angry with herself, because she'd never felt that way about
anything or anyone, her parents being really wonderful people who
had taught her continually that people were people, didn't
matter where they came from, and everyone in any corner of the
country or even on the earth deserved an open mind and respect.

"So...you're a model."

Chisel-face's statement might as well have been,
So you're a
dumb blonde with boobs.
Except that she was more of a redhead
and certainly not overly-stacked.

"I worked for Original Sins cosmetics, yes," she said, again
forcing her tone to be even. "I also have graduate degrees in
American history and sociology from NYU."

"I heard that Adam Harrison would be coming here himself,"
Chisel-face said.

Darcy gritted her teeth. "Yes, Mr. Harrison will come down at
some time during the investigation. He's been delayed. At the
moment, he is tied up with business in London." She stopped,
irritated that she'd felt herself obliged to explain anything to
these men.

She was about to rise when the fourth member' of the party-the
man with the decent haircut and store-bought clothing suddenly
leaned forward, extending a hand to her. "Sorry, we should have
introduced ourselves, especially me, right away. I'm David Jenner,
Jenner Equipment-and someone from your office approached me about
renting some recording and video equipment." He shrugged, flashing
a glance across the table. "Should the project go forward."

"David, nice to meet you," she said. "Justin, our office
manager, told me that he had talked to you."

"You don't have your own equipment?" Chisel-face asked.

"Of course, we have some very specialized equipment,"
Darcy forced herself to say politely. "But we like to rent video
cameras and tape recorders from local facilities. That keeps
anyone from suggesting that we've rigged anything. Mr. Stone knows
how we work and what we do-he was sent information on the
company."

Chisel-face inclined his head, and she wished that the idiot
wasn't wearing sunglasses in the middle of a smoky bar. "It's good
to hear that you think local facilities might offer you enough-you
know, equipment up to the par of your... investigative
techniques.''

"We've worked across the country-and abroad," she said coolly,
"and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in
every area."

"That sounds mighty fine!"

Darcy was startled when the voice came from behind her. She
turned to see that the pool player who had been called Carter had
come up behind her. He was taller than she had realized; she was
fairly tall herself at five nine, and in her heels, she had another
two inches. He wore a beard and mustache, and had intense green
eyes. And beneath his worn flannel shirt, he seemed to be in
exceptional condition. She did, however, feel as if she had
completely stepped back in time. Put a uniform on him, and he might
have been the cavalry general Jeb Stuart, having stepped off his
horse and into the local tavern. He stared at her with a strange
sincerity as he spoke. "Too many times, Yankees have come down
South and thought themselves like almighty gods. But, hey, you
know, this just might be the right one. Ms. Tremayne, I've seen
your face all over on billboards, too. You just may be the
one."