The Dead Room (12 page)

At last she felt Brad's tap on her shoulder. “Have you noticed something?” he whispered teasingly.

“What?” she found herself whispering back.

“It's night. Even Laymon's given up. C'mon. I'll walk you back to Hastings House.”

“Oh!” She looked up. They were alone in the fenced-in area. “Did Laymon say good-night?”

“Yes,” Brad said with amusement. “I won't leave you here alone, Leslie, even if there is a police guard at the gate.”

“Thank you. I'm actually in pain from stooping for too long,” she told him.

He shook his head sadly. “One of these days you'll be a hunchback. Such a waste of youth and beauty.”

“I'm glad you stopped me, thank you,” she said, and laughed, looking down at her clothes as she stood. “I'm filthy. I can't wait to get home, shower and go to bed.”

“What a wild child you are,” Brad said.

“You're going out tonight?”

“I am.”

“Well, I'm impressed. Have fun.”

“You could come with me.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You
should
come with me. What if I wheedled?”

She laughed. “Thanks. Brad, but I'm beat.”

“That's because you don't realize you'll be happy and awake if you go out.”

“Honestly, I'm exhausted. And I promised Robert I'd go out to dinner with him tomorrow.”

“Good man. Nice father figure.”

“He's a friend.”

“Trust me, he wants something from you, too.”

“Maybe, but he's still a good friend.”

Brad opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, but then he just shook his head. “When you want a wild night, you let me know. I can take you to all the coolest bars.”

“I know you can. And if you pick up any of the wrong girls, I'll do my best to rescue you.”

“Aw, shucks, thanks, sis.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and they trudged carefully from the site, stopping to say good-night to the officer on duty, who gave them a cheerful wave.

Brad saw her past the gate and up to the door.

“Want me to check the place out?”

“I'm fine,” Leslie assured him. “State-of-the-art alarm, remember? Anyway, some of the employees may still be around.”

“Tandy and Jeff…well, they're all right. But Melissa…” He rolled his eyes.

“She's sweet.”

“She's neurotic, but hey…you have fun.”

“Thanks. Bed will be fun, after the amazing hysteria of a shower.”

“All right then, baby, you're on your own. Luv ya—good night.”

“Good night. Thanks.”

She was glad to lock Brad out of the house.

There were always lights on—dim lights inside, brighter lights in the yard—and, of course, warnings about the alarm plastered rather unhistorically along the fence. She felt completely safe, and there was certainly no coming home, even at night, to be met by darkness. In fact, she had a clear view of the entryway and the hall.

And she was alone.

There were ghosts here.

There
had
to be ghosts here. Soldiers had died here during the Revolution, when the house had been used as a makeshift hospital. An escaping slave, mangled by dogs, had reached Hastings House, only to die moments after reaching safety. A girl, wounded in the riots of 1863, had lain on a couch in the long hallway and breathed her last.

There were lots of stories, but so far, none of the ghosts had decided to trust her, to make their presence known, to talk to her.

And certainly not Matt.

Except in her vividly passionate dreams.

She whistled softly as she headed for her room. Upstairs, she remembered that she hadn't eaten, but she didn't care. She was too tired to bother.

She warned herself that when she woke up in the middle of the night with her stomach growling, she was going to be sorry, but she ignored the warning. She was totally worn out, and not just from work.

As if she had been up all night, enjoying wickedly carnal sex…

She headed for the shower. Maybe after that she would feel revived enough to manage some food.

Or was she pathetically desperate to go to bed? To dream?

The water was deliciously hot, and she stood under it for a very long time. Emerging in a state that could only be described as squeaky clean, she crawled into her nightgown, turned on the television and realized ruefully that it was all of eight-thirty. She was going to bed very early. Pathetically early.

The better to dream, my dear.

No wonder Brad thought she needed to get a life. And in fact, she agreed with him. Right after this dig.

Right after she came to terms with this house and Matt's death.

She wandered over to the window to look out onto the street.

Her heart seemed to stutter to a halt.

He was there again.

Matt?

No, that was impossible.

But there
was
a man standing beneath the streetlight.

Surely she was imagining him; her eyes must be playing tricks.

No. He was there.

She wasn't going to lose him this time.

She pushed away from the window as if she were a swimmer gaining impetus for a lap and went flying across the room, grabbing her robe in passing and flinging it on as she raced down the stairs. She hurried to the door, looking through the peephole as she fumbled with the alarm and the lock.

Dismay filled her heart. He was gone.

She threw the door open, ready to race out into the street, anyway.

Instead, she slammed against something rock hard. Flesh and blood. A wall of muscle. She looked up.

Matt!

No, this man was real. Breathing. Hot. Vital. Alive.

“Matt?” She couldn't keep from whispering the name.

“Not exactly,” the man said.

Matt's voice. Matt's arms reaching out to steady her as she tried to speak. Opened her mouth.

Passed out cold.

S
hit.

The woman was slim, but even “slim” made for considerable dead weight in Joe's arms. He lifted her, hoping she had disarmed the alarm so that a dozen cops wouldn't come bearing down on him any second.

Thankfully, there was lots of light as he carried her into the foyer. He strode straight to the daybed that flanked one wall and set her down on it. Luckily he'd been in the house before, when he'd come himself to examine the scene of the explosion, so he knew his way around. Once he'd set her down, he headed straight for the kitchen and a damp towel. A quick examination of the cupboards produced no sign of anything remotely alcoholic, so he poured a glass of water and hurried back with that and the towel. He knew he stood no chance of finding an ammonia pellet, so he hoped it was just the shock of seeing him that had made her faint, and that she would spring back quickly.

She did. Her face, beautiful and delicate, scrunched into a frown when the towel touched her forehead.

She opened her dazzling eyes wide as she stared at him, her sense of alarm returning. She braced her hands on the mattress as she strained away from him, her entire posture wary. “Matt?” she asked hesitantly, disbelievingly.

“Sorry, no,” he said as soothingly as he could. “I'm not Matt, I'm Joe. We never met, but maybe you've heard of me? I'm Joe Connolly, Matt's cousin.”

He couldn't identify the surge of emotion that washed through those glorious eyes as she stared at him. Finally a rueful smile curved her lips; rich, thick lashes fell over her eyes, and she managed a shaky laugh.

“My God. I'm so sorry. I'm not…I don't usually run around passing out or…I'm sorry.” She produced a hand, and he took it. She had a firm grip. “I'm Leslie MacIntyre, and of course Matt talked about you all the time. I feel so foolish, but…the family resemblance is…amazing.”

“Not really,” he assured her. “Matt was…cuter,” he offered with a grin. “Seriously, he had lighter hair. My eyes are green, his were blue. But I guess…we were about the same height. Both built like my grandfather…good old Irish brawn, I suppose. I don't think we were descended from the aristocracy. We were probably potato farmers.” He was talking too much, something he didn't usually do, but she seemed in need of reassurance, no matter how quickly she appeared to be bouncing back.

At least she wasn't pretending not to stare at him.

She smiled, looking rueful once again. “I really am sorry.”

“No, I'm sorry. I guess I forgot about the family resemblance. Matt and I never saw it much, anyway.” He stared back at her and grew serious. “A mutual friend, Robert Adair, told me you were staying here.”

“Did he? He might have warned me about you,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, he's known me forever, knew Matt forever…he probably doesn't really see the resemblance anymore.”

She nodded. “Well, it's really great to meet you. At last.”

“I went by the hospital,” he said quietly. “You weren't conscious at the time.”

She nodded, looking away at last. “I got your note. Honestly, I'm so embarrassed. I'm not really dressed, I've passed out on you…I assure you, Matt intended to marry an intelligent human being. I mean, that's what I usually am.”

“No assurance needed,” he said. “I shocked you.
I'm
really sorry.”

They were very close, he suddenly realized, she half prone, he by her side. He must have been making her uncomfortable. He rose. “I just came by to say hello, but I see you're ready to go to bed.” It was just past eight-thirty, he realized. Well, she worked hard. Digging all day must be exhausting. Anyway, lots of people went to bed early.
Eight-thirty?
“I'll get out of your hair. Though I would love to see you again, if you have time.”

She smiled. “I'd make time for Matt's cousin, Joe,” she said softly.

God, her smile was pure enchantment. He knew why Matt had been so in love.

“Great,” he returned.

She was staring up at him again. “Have you been in Hastings House before?” she asked him.

“Yes.” He shrugged. Why pussyfoot around? “I'm a private investigator. I had to come. I had to investigate the explosion for myself.”

“And?”

“It appeared to have been an accident.”

“Appeared?”

“The police investigated, the fire department investigated…a gas line exploded when someone turned up the heat.”

The words hung between them. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was.
Accident? Or had the line been rigged, and had someone known and decided to turn up the heat at just the right time?

“Greta was the hostess that night,” she murmured.

He lifted his shoulders. “I think Greta would lie across the railroad tracks before she'd destroy a place of historic value.”

Leslie lowered her head; Joe could tell that she agreed with him. He had learned over the years that the answers to many things could be surprising, but that was one headline he just didn't see. Wealthy Socialite Runs Amok, Destroys Historic House.

But someone else…? That he could see.

Leslie looked up at him and flushed. She wondered if their thoughts had been running along the same route. She stood suddenly. “Actually, it's ridiculously early. Want to give me a minute? I neglected to have dinner this evening, and I'm suddenly starving. Oh, sorry, you probably have plans.”

“I'd love to take you to dinner.”

“I wasn't suggesting…and I really wouldn't want you to change any plans on my behalf.”

“I'd love to take you to dinner,” he repeated.

She arched a brow, studying him.

“I don't have any plans.”

“Great. Then…make yourself at home. Except,” she added with a laugh, “watch out for the tourist no-no tapes.”

“I wouldn't dream of sitting on an antique chair,” he assured her. “I'll be in the kitchen, how's that? Fairly safe, right?”

“Absolutely. I'll be right down.”

He watched her race up the stairs.

Matt had been a lucky man. Then again, Matt had deserved the best.

He wandered into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of water. There was a plain wooden chair by the hearth. There was no fire burning, but he sat and stared into the darkened recess of the alcove anyway.

He smiled suddenly, glad that he had stopped by. Eileen Brideswell wouldn't be pleased, but he couldn't work every minute of every day, and he had thought of little but her missing niece since he had taken on the case. In fact, she had grown in his mind. He felt almost as if he knew her. He knew the idealism that had driven her, knew the passion with which she had worked.

He prayed that she wasn't dead. That she had, perhaps subconsciously, wanted to inflict some punishment on her aunt, the remaining bastion of a difficult family, so she had run off on impulse to take a breather up in Canada or down in Mexico.

But he didn't believe it. She hadn't used a single credit card. She hadn't written a check. No one had made either legal or illegal use of her social security number. The last person to have seen her—before she stepped into a dark sedan—was Didi Dancer, who had clearly liked her and seemed to have no reason to lie about what she'd seen.

He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head and turning his thoughts to tonight. He was glad to have met Leslie at last. She had taken his mind off his task and given him a much-needed break. But she came with baggage, too. Sorrow that they shared.

He needed a vacation, he decided. Tahiti was starting to sound awfully good.

He rose, walking into the servants' pantry, where the explosion had occurred.

He looked around at the repaired walls, the fresh paint, the furniture. He was no expert. He couldn't tell the difference between real period furniture and good reproductions. It was interesting, though, that the explosion had taken place here and the rest of the house had suffered very little damage.

Targeted.

He couldn't get that thought out of his mind.

He knew that Matt had been working on several things when he died. Because of Leslie, he had written about restoration efforts in the downtown area. His other focus at the time had been the prostitutes who were disappearing.

Had Matt been targeted because he was such a good investigative reporter? Because he had come too close to the truth? And yet, was the disappearance of the down-and-out really such an important issue that someone would kill because of it?

Sure. The abductor and presumed murderer. But how would he have managed access to Hastings House? And most people wouldn't know how to rig a gas explosion to look so convincingly like an accident.

Joe felt a strange draft. Enough to make him rub his arms to ward off the chill. “Matt,” he said aloud, “I just don't like it. I swear, I
will
find out the truth.”

He was talking to the air, he told himself in disgust.

And yet, he felt more determined than ever. There was no logical reason for it, but he didn't give a damn what the experts had said. Something about the accident scenario wasn't right.

“You were too good a man,” he said softly. “Someone had to be after you.”

There was no whisper of approval. Nothing.

“Hey.”

He turned quickly. People didn't come up on him by surprise often. He must have been very deep in thought.

Or too busy talking to himself.

“I had a feeling I might find you here,” she said.

He lifted a hand. “Sorry—talking to myself. I didn't hear you coming.”

“I was watching your face. You don't believe it was an accident.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Maybe I have to find a reason,” he said.

“I know. I've thought the same thing. Anyway, shall we go?” she asked.

She was wearing perfume. An elusive, soft scent. Her hair was long and swinging free, shimmering in the light. She was a bit too thin, but even thin, she had a nice shape. Smiling at him from the doorway, she was a vision. He felt a stirring and quickly tamped it down. Matt's girl. He had to be a friend, nothing more.

“What are you in the mood for?” he asked.

“Italian?”

“Sounds good to me. I know a great place in Little Italy, and my car is just around the corner. I was down here…looking around before I decided to stop by.”

Her smile faded for a moment. “You're going to dig until you find the truth, aren't you?”

“Actually,” he replied, “I've been hired to search for a missing girl right now.”

“Oh?”

“She disappeared down here.”

She frowned. “One of the prostitutes?”

“No. Come on. I'll tell you about it over dinner.”

She smiled. “I don't believe you. You're going to dig.”

“Hey, you're the one who digs for a living,” he reminded her.

“But…”

“I looked into the explosion. I grilled every friend, acquaintance and total stranger who was here or knew someone here. Well, except for you,” he added with a rueful grin. “There's no way to prove anything. The only answer anyone came up with was the combination of the gas line and happenstance.”

She turned and started out, then hesitated and looked back, smiling. “I don't believe you're going to stop looking.”

“Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say I'm not. But I'm Matt's cousin, so I can't help but think…well, I can't stop. Can't accept the obvious explanation. Because of him. That doesn't mean I know anything. Now come on. They do a great
francese
at this place. Veal or chicken—take your pick.”

“Chicken. Can't help it, I avoid veal.”

“Tell me you're not a vegetarian.”

“Not unless chicken has become a vegetable.”

He laughed. He'd sure as hell walked right into that one. Strangely, it wasn't at all awkward being with her. He liked her. He could see why Matt had loved her. But he had to remember that Matt had been engaged to her and tread carefully.

 

Joe. Good old Joe. The world's best cousin, practically a brother. He'd tried so hard to touch him. He had to let Joe know that it was okay.

Except that it wasn't okay. And he knew why, now that Joe had put it into words. It hadn't been a freak accident. He'd been murdered.

Why? Who would have killed so many so callously, just to get to him?

Joe would figure it out. Good old Joe.