 
"I Ain't Superstitious"

by Laura Garner

Copyright 2003, 2013 by Wits End (Really Lively) Arts

Smashwords Edition
Chapter One

The former prom queen on my undersized TV twittered, "Malden police are still trying to identify the body of a man discovered by firefighters early yesterday morning."

Ooh, my kind of story. I reached over to my tape player to slap off Howlin' Wolf, who was wailing about smokestack lightning and itty-bitty boys.

"According to reports, a neighbor called 9-1-1 around nine o'clock, when he saw smoke billowing from the fifth floor apartment occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Paulo Lopes. The body was discovered in the bathtub, but police say he had definitely not been taking a bath."

My fat ginger cat, Hairball, tried to jump onto the table, missed, and fell with a perplexed grunt onto the homework scattered on the fifth-hand braided blue rug. "Hey, watch it!" I snapped, which made him turn his back on me and stomp three feet away, his tail raised as if it were a middle finger. "Yeah, screw you too." I turned my attention back to the news.

The anchor's peachy complexion paled, but she forced a cheerful smile as she announced, "The man appears to have been killed and his body mutilated before the fire, as there is no evidence of smoke inhalation. One hand is missing and the body is badly burnt, but there is a strong indication that the body is that of Mr. Lopes." Wrinkling her turned-up nose, she ad-libbed, "Eeww."

A policewoman's substantial face abruptly filled the screen, red and blotchy in the autumn chill. In a voice strongly colored by South Boston, she yelled into the mike, "It's kinda tough to make an ID under these circumstances, but we're in the process of trying to track down Mrs. Lopes and see if she can help us out."

"Another marriage gone bad," I sighed, and Hairball's tail twitched agreement.

"Well, I see our Max still has her sunny outlook." The familiar voice made me jump about a mile; I hadn't heard anyone come in, but they were right behind me. Yep, I was going to make one helluva P.I.

"Jesus, Libby!" I gasped as my oldest friend beamed triumphantly at me. "Ever hear of knocking?"

"Knocking? Hm, yes, but I thought you probably wouldn't answer the door, so I just came in." Curious \-- or rather, nosy -- blue eyes scanned my one-room cabin then rested on me accusingly. "Seeing as you haven't been too great at returning my phone calls."

I sighed. She had a point. "Sorry, I've just been really busy."

"With what, exactly?" Libby knew bullshit when she smelled it. "The tourist season's over, the hotel's obviously deserted, although some goon is still at the front desk..."

"That's my buddy Bruno. And yes, he is a goon."

"So what exactly do you have to maintain at this time of year?"

Gazing at the brisk autumn surf of Abneyville Shores mere yards away from the window, I groped for excuses. "I've been getting the resort winterized -- no small task in a place this size. I've gotta close up about three-quarters of the rooms and all the other cabins, make sure the plumbing's drained, things are insulated and locked up good, stuff like that." With a glance at the papers on the floor, I added self-righteously, "And I have homework now, you know."

Libby turned disdainful cornflower eyes on me, a disgusted smirk dimpling one plump cheek. "You are so full of it, Max. It's not even cold yet; nothing's going to freeze. Your P.I. course is through a correspondence school so I'm sure you can work at your own pace. And I bet you already got all that done and you're just moping around here all by yourself."

Bingo. "I'm not moping," I snarled.

"Yeah, right. Isn't it about time you came out of hiding?" After another sharp-eyed tour of my cabin, she added, "Are you coming back to civilization or staying here for the winter?" I shrugged. I wanted to stay, but hadn't heard if I would be needed in the off-season. "My God, how the hell do you live in a place this size?"

"Easy. It's got everything I need." From where I was standing, I pointed to areas a few feet away. "You're in the foyer, that wall is the kitchen, the futon and bureau is both the living room and bedroom, and I'm standing in the dining room, which also serves as my office." I indicated the breakfast nook-a narrow table flanked by two undersized deacon's benches -- as Hairball mashed his face against my leg. "Oh yeah, and that broom closet next to the stove is my bathroom. Ta-da, all the luxuries."

"God, how can you stand it? You poor thing!" She came at me looking huggy; I backed away and she stopped, sighing. That's when the books on the table caught her eye. She snagged one and read the title. "Before You Conceive. So you're thinking about trying to get pregnant again?" Libby's eyes brightened as she zeroed in on her prey -- namely, me. "How are you going to manage that if you never leave home, or work, or whatever this is?" She had a point. "And damn, girl, you're looking good. You've lost most of the beer gut, I see. "

Hmm, she was resorting to flattery. "All right, Lib, what's your motivation?" The former actress's eyes widened and she started to protest, then pouted when I crossed my arms and stared her down. "Don't even try; I've known you too long. Come on, out with it."

With a sigh, she shoved her hand into her designer bag and pulled out a fancy-looking envelope. "This came in the mail yesterday. I'm sure I have no idea why I was invited-probably as a local conversation piece-but I was and I want to go and I want you to go with me."

"What the hell is it?" I didn't like the sound of this one bit.

She shoved the envelope at me. "Invitation to a party for Myla Devine, formerly Amy Lynn Peterson. You probably wouldn't remember her; one of the thousands of Skiff Neck stepkids. One summer when I was in college, I babysat for her and her stepsister a few times, right up the road at that creepy old mansion. She was a huge brat and a bully to little Hannah, but their parents were loaded." So far I was unimpressed. Libby continued, "Guess Amy Lynn-Myla was in Chicago for a while singing at some big club, but it burned down so she's out of a job and decided to come here and figure out what's next. Your boss is some relation to her, and he's throwing a shindig in her honor."

"My boss? You mean Bruno?"

Libby blinked. "Who the heck is Bruno?"

"The goon at the front desk, remember?"

"No, no, no. I mean Adam Norcross, you dipshit. Doesn't he own this place?"

"Yeah, but Bruno's the one that hired me. I've never met Norcross or even talked to him." My frown deepened; socializing with the Skiff Neck elite was not my idea of a good time.

Libby's wheedling took on a desperate tone. "Come on, Max, I want some fun. I've mourned Morris's passing longer than he deserved, the bastard. I've been a widow long enough; I'm ready to be a black widow. And God knows you need to get out of this shanty."

There it was at last, true to form. It's not that Libby wasn't concerned about me, but she was generally a whole lot more concerned about her sex life. She'd probably gotten laid more recently than I had, which wasn't saying a whole lot. My last horizontal cha-cha had been sometime last winter ... it hadn't been very memorable, and the guy was dead now. So was the little surprise package he'd fathered. So was Libby's husband, courtesy of yours truly. Oh yeah, and my alcoholic older brother. Talk about a downer year.

It had been about five months since my daughter Rosalind's birth and death, but my heart still felt like it was six feet under. I'd spent the summer and early fall holed up in my little caretaker's cabin on the beach, stomping on my heartache, doing my job, and supposedly working toward my P.I. license -- but I really spent a lot more time researching fertility and getting myself in shape for once. Now it was after Columbus Day weekend, I was healthy as a Kentucky Derby contender ... and I still didn't want to leave my little sanctuary.

Since when did I become a freaking nun?

Libby watched me with feline attentiveness, and pounced the second my determination wavered. "Come on, it'll be fun! We'll get all dolled up, shmooze the rich guys, and piss off their women." Libby had been part of local high society for almost a decade, until her attorney husband went on his killing spree. Now she was back down to my level and seemed to enjoy it.

"I don't even know this Myla Whatsis broad. Why should I go?"

"For one thing, it's happening right next door in the main building."

I'd noticed vans and trucks arriving earlier, but had assumed it was the usual wedding reception or anniversary party. "So, they throw lots of parties there and I don't go. I just clean up the crap they leave behind."

Libby cut me off. "For another thing, your boss is throwing it, and he's one very wealthy fella. If you've never met him, now's your chance to get in good."

I scowled. "So it's like a fancy dress deal?"

"No, just semi-formal." Pushing the invitation at me again, she nodded so her salon-blonde tendrils bounced. "And I've got a great dress for you. One of those things I bought on sale but could never even squeeze one thigh into."

"Oh yeah?" I wandered over to the teensy kitchen area and rinsed some mugs out, annoyed that my interest had been piqued at the idea of wearing girl clothes. Well, I'd been in coveralls all summer. "What's it look like?"

"It's kind of an amethyst color, silky material, nice and clingy, spaghetti straps, low-cut ... it'll really show off those biceps, babe."

I scowled at her flattery. "How long is it?"

"It's do-me length. All you've got to do is cock a leg and he's home sweet home." She chewed her lip and squirmed on the chair. "Oooh, it's been way too long for me. I can't even think about sex without climbing the walls."

I set the mugs upside down on the miniature drain board and turned back to face my oldest gal pal. Talking to her again felt good, I had to admit. "And what will Ms. Libido be wearing?"

The neatly-shaped eyebrows arched knowingly. "I've got the perfect dress, don't worry. Tasteful yet inviting. Subtle but lethal."

"Elegant yet obscene?"

Lib licked her lips happily and squirmed some more, the little slut. "Precisely, and I'm dying to wear it. Please, please, PLEASE?" She batted her Clinique lashes at me and pouted outrageously.

I caved. "Aw, what the hell. All right, I'll go."

Right away Libby was all bounces and giggles and hugs; the cabin shook and threatened to collapse at the sudden earthquake, and Hairball fled with Booger, my other cat, to the farthest corner of the room, which wasn't very far. "Oh my God, Max, this'll be so much fun!" she squeaked. "It'll be like old times, huh?"

I just smiled sadly. Guess she didn't realize the old Max was long gone.

Well, maybe old Max wasn't so gone after all. That evening I was playing the blues loud and feeling kinda eager to strut my well-toned stuff.

Big Mama Thornton bellowed at her man for being nuthin' but a hound dog (she had way bigger balls than Elvis, and she did it first anyhow) as I eyed myself in the dress Libby had given me. I'll admit I got more than a little charged up. For a fireplug-shaped pygmy, I looked hot. Okay, so I'd just hit forty; I didn't remember ever looking this good, even in my teens. I'd always had big brown eyes, strong cheekbones, and an extra-large, full mouth; now I had a killer bod to go with it. My semi-wavy brown hair, which I usually stuck in a ponytail or under a cap to keep it out of the way, tickled my shoulders and looked neat for once. I even had boobs now; those puppies had blossomed during my pregnancy, and the fullness remained. And thanks to workouts and the physical nature of the job, my legs and arms were strong and well defined. I could kick some twenty-year-old's butt, no problem.

This was definitely a spirit-lifter, shallow as it sounds. I felt my mouth stretch into a genuine smile for the first time in months, which prompted me to go hunting for lipstick. I switched the tape player off and the TV on as I walked by.

The six o'clock anchor was a stark contrast to the chirpy midday girl; his line-straight mouth and funereal tone implied this was serious news as he announced the latest about the housewife-on-the-lam and her husband's mutilated body. I hunted down my lace-topped thigh high stockings and my only pair of high-heeled shoes. Oh yeah, and panties. God, I'd almost forgotten. I actually found myself chuckling as I wriggled into a long-neglected black velvet thong ... and wondering if there was any chance I'd run into Jackson O'Brien tonight.

That thought prompted me to apply deodorant.

I hadn't seen Jackson, my paroled admirer, since last spring, a few weeks after Roz died. At that point, I didn't have the drive to pursue anything other than solitude. But now, with me all dolled up and feeling my oats for the first time in ages ... well, if anyone else was going to feel my oats, I'd prefer it to be Jackson.

Hmm ... I wondered how close I was to ovulation. Casually I checked the BBT chart on the fridge. I'd been tracking my temperature obsessively for the past two months, trying to get a handle on my fertility cycle. This morning's temp was still low, but I should be laying an egg pretty soon ... within the next few days, most likely.

My heart jumped at the thought of being pregnant again, although a sad little voice inside told me I couldn't replace Roz. To drown out that thought, I turned the TV up a little.

"Malden police have now positively identified the remains as being those of Paulo Lopes. Meanwhile, the search continues for Janina Lopes..."

Enough already. Wasn't anything else going on in the world? I snapped off the TV and finished applying lipstick. It was the only form of make-up I could deal with; the idea of putting on blush and foundation and eye crap was about as appealing as rubbing dirt into my face.

Besides, Libby hated to be upstaged.
Chapter Two

"Isn't it fantastic?"

Libby stood spellbound in the doorway to the ballroom. It really was pretty impressive for a last-minute affair; Abneyville Shores' elegant ballroom had been seriously tarted up in honor of the returning deb. Multi-colored balloons bobbed against the high ceiling, bright garlands draped the arched windows, and innumerable strings of tiny Christmas lights spattered the walls like white stars on a moonless night. Idly I wondered how much of it I'd be expected to clean up tomorrow.

Libby took the opportunity to pose dramatically under the chandelier and give the old-money snots a chance to feast their eyes. Heads turned, eyebrows raised and elbows nudged: _My God, is that Morris Langley's widow? ... Too bad he became a homicidal maniac, he was a terrific lawyer ... Well, she certainly didn't grieve for long, did she?_

Libby looked great, as usual, in a sparkly aquamarine dress that somehow shifted extra pounds from her waistline to her bustline. Her hair was artistically tousled, her make-up warm and natural, giving her that I-just-got-laid-and-I'm-ready-for-more look, and she'd applied some kind of goo that made her glitter all over. I was pretty sure she'd see all the action she wanted that night, and maybe wreck some homes and hearts along the way. Her idea of a good time.

Eyes were on me as well, and I imagined the thoughts behind them: _That's the town drunk's spawn-what's she doing here? ... Always thought she was a Lesbian ... Didn't she have a baby right after she killed Langley? God, those people breed like rats._ Or maybe they didn't recognize me at all, but this was my first major outing in months and I was feeling strangely self-conscious.

The first thing I wanted was a drink, no doubt about that. I spied the subtly lit bar at the back of the hall. But before I could make a break, our buddy Cal Winters bore down on us, a shaggy blimp in an expensive suit. He ignored me, pausing instead to drink in Libby, who was still exposing herself to the crowd. "My God, Miss Langley, you look positively ethereal! Like a fairy queen!"

Libby dimpled and fluffed. "Isn't that your role?"

"Screw you, my dear." His bushy eyebrows bristled with admiration. "I mean it, you could positively play Titania in that get-up. And I've always thought I'd make a marvelous Puck." With a charming titter, he turned to me and nodded with overdone carelessness. "Oh. Good evening, Mad Max, o thou Queen of the Underachievers. And how are you tonight?" As if it hadn't been months since we'd seen each other.

"Hey, Cal, how's it hanging?"

A wistful sigh. "Lower and lower as gravity prevails, I'm afraid." He looked me up and down. "Tsk, tsk. I had no idea you were a cross-dresser." Few people had ever seen me in girl clothes. "Last I knew, you'd been transformed into Groundskeeper Willy. How's that career treating you?"

I shrugged. "Good enough. I'm studying to be a private eye, you know."

Libby and Cal shook their heads at each other and sighed like disappointed parents. "Still denying that you have a brain, I see."

"Yeah, whatever." I really didn't want to get into career choices with those two, so I switched the subject quickly. "So how come you're also among the chosen few? Did you know the guest of honor?"

"Know her?" Cal looked around furtively, then leaned in. "Her poor beleaguered mother forced her on me way back when she was a troubled teen at Alcott Academy." Cal had been a psychotherapist before he turned bartender. He was also one of the worst gossips around. Not a great quality in a counselor.

"Oh, who wasn't a troubled teen?" Libby scoffed.

"Don't be jealous, Miss Libido, it's not becoming. Alison really knows her better than I do; little Amy Lynn – forgive me, I mean Myla Devine. Lord, what a cheesy stage name! Makes her sound like a drag queen, if you ask me. Anyway, whatever her name is, she was great chums with one of Alison's juvie nieces." Alison Shipwood, one of the original Skiff Neckers, co-owned a local pub, the WunderBar (which I'd nicknamed the Wonder Bra one drunken night) with Cal.

"Like I care. How expensive are the drinks here?"

Cal chortled through the salt-and-pepper beard that hid his mouth. "Um-hm, I bet you're just dying to get your hands on a stiff Cape Codder, preferably with a twist." With a wink, he stage-whispered, "Speaking of which, Libby tells me you want to get preggers again. Is that true?"

My eyeballs rolled upwards, then stabbed my bigmouthed friends. "God, is nothing private? That's it, I'm getting a drink. Now." And off I stomped, forgetting my spindly high heels and just about wrenching an ankle.

As I waited for the bartender to notice shrimpy me among all the statuesque rich people, a familiar rasping laugh erupted behind me. When I whipped my head around, there was Jackson O'Brien.

Reports of my libido's death had been greatly exaggerated. It rose from the dead right then and there, with loud hallelujahs.

Jackson looked even more edible than I remembered. That sexy crooked grin creased his face; those black-lashed gun metal eyes squinted suggestively through straggling hair as he took a sip of club soda. He was even dressed up, in dark pants and a plum-colored velvet jacket; clearly vintage Salvation Army but he made it look cool. He'd shed the gaunt just-out-of-prison look and had muscled up enough to make my mouth water. I started to smile back when I realized he wasn't grinning at me.

In fact, he hadn't even noticed me.

Nope, that killer smile was for a woman with luxurious chestnut hair, unbelievable curves, and a knee-length, expensive-looking burgundy dress cut down to her buttcrack. She stood with her back to me, showing off shapely shoulders, a rounded behind, and lots of smooth young skin. As she talked to Jackson, his grin broadened and he put a hand on her arm and leaned down as if to hear her better. I could imagine she was getting a heady whiff of his spicy after-shave, and he was probably ogling her cleavage.

My libido took a sudden turn for the worse again. "Crap on a cracker," I muttered as the respectably bland bartender headed in my direction.

"I beg your pardon?"

I hadn't noticed the tuxedoed gent next to me at the crowded bar. "No, that's not a drink, I was just making an observation," I explained. "Vodka and cranberry with a twist, please," I barked at the bartender before he could escape.

"Use Stoli's in that drink, young man," the tux reprimanded when the bartender went for the Smirnoff's, "and pour me a shot on the rocks, while you're at it." He turned back to me with a gracious smile that made his crow's feet crinkle nicely. Well, well, hello there. "Glad you could make it on such short notice. You are Madeleine Maxwell, am I right?"

"Max." I offered him my hand to shake; he took it and just kind of held onto it, which was damned uncomfortable. "Uh-do I know you or something?"

"We haven't met, but I certainly feel as if I know you. You tracked down and shot a serial killer last spring and made the local police look like the imbeciles they are. Now you're the groundskeeper here at the resort while you're studying for your private investigator license. And you've been working out." He actually squeezed my bicep and checked me over like a piece of prize stock. Weirdly, there was nothing at all sexual about it; I wouldn't have been surprised if he lifted my upper lip to check my teeth. Still, it was creepy. I didn't like a total stranger knowing so damn much about me.

"What are you, a stalker or something?" God knows I'd had enough of those for one lifetime.

"No," he said with an amused smile as he paid for our drinks. "I make it a point to know something about my employees. I'm so glad you received your invitation; Bruno didn't think you checked your mail very often." I didn't remember getting an invitation; knowing me I'd tossed it out as junk mail. I was feeling dumber by the minute and probably looked it. He handed me my Cape Codder and touched my glass with his. "Adam Norcross. Cheers."

My mouth dropped open, no doubt furthering the great impression I was making. Norcross owned the Abneyville Shores Resort, including the ballroom we were standing in right now ... and about half the damn region, come to think of it. He wasn't a fixture in these parts; he simply made sure the family estate and holdings were well looked-after as he did whatever he did in New York City. I remembered what Libby had said about him being my real employer, even though we'd never met.

"Oh, fuck me," I groaned, then hastily added, "Shit. I mean, crap. I mean ... sorry. So, am I fired?"

Norcross threw back his head and laughed heartily. It was a nice sound. Heads turned and women of all ages smiled as his leonine silver curls shook with amusement. I found myself thinking what a great set of genes he must have and wondering if I could get my hands on some. With a charming smile, he reassured me, "No, no, no, certainly not. If anything, I'm more determined than ever to keep you in my employment. "

Well, that was good news. I was pretty attached to my little seaside bungalow. "So you want me to stick around for the winter and keep an eye on the place?" I asked hopefully.

Sounded like a dream come true to me, doing routine maintenance as I finally dug into my P.I. course.

"Well, yes, but..." Norcross looked around, then took my elbow and guided me away from the crowded bar. "It's a little more complicated than that." As he escorted me to a less populated area, I noticed Jackson eyeing my ass appreciatively, but with no attempt to greet me or get my attention.

Well, screw him, then. I deliberately walked as sensuously as I could, smoothing the clingy material over my butt with an idle hand and smiling up at Norcross as we stopped a few yards away from Jackson and his piece of upper-class coochie. I made damn sure he had a good view of me, because I looked hot and he could eat his heart out, the bastard. Norcross glanced around the ballroom, casually sipping his expensive hooch and pausing to nod at someone in the distance.

A jazz trio tucked away in a dimly lit corner immediately snapped into a hyper version of _Stardust_ , and several enthusiastic couples scuttled out to the dance floor. My employer flashed a dashing smile before returning his attention to me. "Bear with me while I give you some background. This is a bit strange, to say the least."

"I can do strange." I gave him a saucy grin, then sucked down half my drink. God, it tasted great. No more cheap vodka for Max.

Norcross looked slightly horrified, but continued. "Well, it's somewhat sensitive. First, as I'm sure you know, the old Ardmore estate down the road is being renovated into a nightclub. "

No, I didn't know that, but I didn't bother to confess my ignorance. I'd seen guys working on the place but, if I'd heard it was going to be a club, the information had never made it to my brain. Another bad quality in an aspiring P.I. "You want me to do some work around the place?" I asked.

Norcross furrowed handsomely and shrugged. "Something like that. I'm hoping I can entice you to do some, um, private investigating, actually. But it would be undercover, so you'd have to be pretty low key about it."

Sounded like something out of _Charlie's Angels_. This was getting interesting; I took a couple more swallows from my drink, which was way too small. "What kind of undercover work? You got a crooked contractor or something?" God knows they were a dime a dozen around here.

"Shh," he cautioned, guiding me a few steps further away from the crowd.

I glanced over toward Jackson and noticed he was now staring at me open-mouthed and apparently not hearing a word the rich bitch was saying. With a thrill of smug satisfaction, I made myself focus on Norcross, who was looking better and better. Yep, I bet he had great genes, plus scads of money ... seemed like pretty damn good daddy material to me. I finished off my drink and licked my lips. "Undercover work?" I murmured suggestively.

Norcross coughed. "Ahem! Yes, and it would require you to be very alert but very, urn, subtle," he said sternly, probably wondering if he should supply a definition.

"No problemo." I took a sip from my empty glass. "What's this about, anyway? Who are we investigating?"

He took a prissy sip of his Stoli, leaned into me and murmured, "A ghost."
Chapter Three

I would have done a spit take, except I'd already swallowed what was in my mouth. "A what?"

"Shh!" Norcross looked like he was pretty sure he'd made a big mistake, but it was too late to turn back. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but ... well, bear with me."

"Did you say a ghost?" I whispered, trying for subtlety at last. Norcross nodded, his mouth quirking. "As in 'boo'?"

He frowned. "Not quite that harmless, unfortunately. I'll give you the history and you can decide."

History? Yawn. But I played nice, since this looked like a possible ticket to some nice cold cash. "What do you mean?" I asked, trying hard to sound like I cared.

"You grew up around here, so I'm sure you've heard rumors of the Ardmore family ghost."

"Sorry, I come from the other side of the tracks. We had more tangible problems over there." Ooh, could that be a trace of lower-class snobbery in my voice?

Norcross nodded and shrugged. "Okay, well, supposedly in the mid-1800s, one Faith Augusta Ardmore hanged herself in the stable at the estate, and her spirit still haunts the grounds. She's allegedly been seen roaming the house which is in pretty bad shape right now -- as well as the stable and grounds."

I smirked. "So what drove her to it? Her pony didn't qualify for the Derby, something like that?" Phew, it was a cynical day in the neighborhood.

"The legend runs that she fell passionately in love with the family groom -- an older man with a reputation as a roué -- and had several trysts with him in the stable late at night. When her pregnancy became obvious and her parents bullied the truth from her, the groom suddenly vanished. Several weeks later, Faith hanged herself." He paused. "She was fifteen."

Well, that sure made me feel like shit. I got over my bitchiness and grimaced sympathetically. "Poor kid. So, did the family have the groom bumped off, or did he just bag?" I was willing to put money on the latter, having personal experience with men and their bizarre sense of responsibility when it came to offspring.

Norcross shrugged. "Who knows? Who knows how much of it is even true? We know there was a Faith Ardmore and that she died at fifteen, but this information comes from the family pages of an antique Bible filled with dead Ardmores of all ages. It could have been smallpox or scarlet fever rather than suicide. Some inventive family member could easily have made up the whole thing out of sheer boredom."

The alcohol had started to fog my brain. "So what's this got to do with ... whatever it is you want me to do? And what is it you want me to do, anyway?" I tried to sound intelligent instead of toasted. Guess I succeeded, because Norcross answered.

"Well, let me fill you in on more recent events, and then we'll talk about what I have in mind for you."

"I think I'd like another drink first," I said. That Stoli had gone down fast and smooth and I was feeling fabulous. Plus here I was getting my first case and I hadn't even finished chapter one of my P.I. course yet -- actually, I'd barely even started it. Seemed like ample cause for celebration. I aimed for the bar, but Norcross grabbed one arm and someone else grabbed the other. "Hey!" I objected, then looked up to find Jackson O'Brien staring me down.

We stood there for a few heartbeats, frozen in some kind of musical comedy love triangle choreography: Jackson holding my right arm, Norcross my left, and me in the middle, torn between two beefcakes. All I could think was, Hello, fantasy anyone? Good thing I'd remembered to put on those panties.

"Well, well, well," Jackson drawled at last in that warm Southern accent. "Maddie Maxwell. I didn't recognize you at first, it's been so damn long." I just nodded. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. He gave my arm a gentle squeeze and whistled. "What the hell, you been pumping iron or somethin'?"

"Uh, kinda, yeah," I stammered. Behind me Norcross cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, Jackson, this is..." It took me a few moments to dredge up my employer's name. "Oh yeah, this is Adam Norcross, who..."

"Yeah, yeah, we're acquainted. Hey, Norc, how's things?" Jackson nodded to Norcross, who released me to shake hands. My arm tingled where Jackson hung on to me.

"Fine, Jackson, how are you?" Norcross responded pleasantly. "I saw you speaking with Myla. So, what do you think?"

I assumed Myla was the curvy babe who'd had Jackson mesmerized, so I listened closely to his answer. "I dunno yet. I'll give it a try, but I ain't sure my equipment can do what she's got in mind." Oh, wow.

Norcross chuckled. "She's a bit of a perfectionist, but she can be talked down. I'm willing to bet if you can give her even half of what she wants, she'll be satisfied."

Enough already. I pulled away from Jackson's hold and almost fell off my high heels as they stuck into the carpet's lush pile. "I'm getting a drink." My God, I sounded drunk. As a matter of fact, I felt drunk. Since I hadn't had any hard liquor since sometime last February, or anything to eat since lunch, I guess that wasn't too surprising.

Jackson steadied me. "You ain't goin' nowhere till I've talked to you, and you sure as hell ain't havin' any more to drink."

"Hear, hear," Norcross added dryly.

"What're you doin' here anyway?"

I couldn't remember, so Norcross jumped in. "Max works for me here at the resort, and I've just asked her to help with the performing area at the club, work on the lighting and so forth. And she agreed. I think." He looked at me hard. "Didn't you?"

"She damn well better." Jackson sounded thrilled for a guy who'd just been chatting up another woman. "She could build you the whole thing if you wanted ... and tune up your car and fix your plumbing and rewire your goddamn nuclear power plant." He was smiling hugely at me. "Right, babe?"

"Sure, whatever." Things were spinning a bit and I didn't know what was making me dizzier: Jackson's smile or the alcohol. "Um ... I gotta go outside for a sec, okay?"

Jackson took a closer look at me and abruptly escorted me to the nearest exit, where I immediately lost my high-class Cape Codder over the railing of the wheelchair ramp. At least it wasn't much, and the chill, salty breeze cleared my head right up. "Sorry," I said. "I forgot to eat dinner, and I guess I'm not used to booze anymore."

"That's not a bad thing." Jackson offered me his club soda and a mint, which I grabbed. Nothing like puke-breath when you've just been reunited with your _objet lust_. "So, you wanna tell me where you been?" He sounded resentful.

Petulant males are not a big turn-on for me, especially when they know how to use a phone every bit as well as me. "I've been working my ass off, how about you?"

He relaxed. "Working. Moving. Got me a new place in Skiff Neck."

"So you're not living in that storage room over the Wonder Bra anymore?" This meant he was away from the jealous eye of Cal's partner Alison Shipwood, who'd actually threatened to shoot me in order to have Jackson to herself. "Damn, how'd you manage that?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, I been working. Got lotsa gigs over the summer, good money, rich folks ... like your pal Adam there. Say, was he puttin' the moves on you or what?"

I guffawed at that. "No, he was checking me for hoof and mouth disease."

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing. Like he said, he's my boss. He just wanted to make sure I came from hardy stock." The ocean breeze cooled my forehead and I was able to reflect on what a complete ass I'd just made of myself. "I think I blew it."

Jackson shook his head. "Naw, Norc's pretty cool for a filthy rich dude. And I could tell he liked you."

"I hope so. I really want to keep this job a while longer." I sucked hard on the mint and my stomach calmed down. "So you're just doing music now? No more kitchen work?"

"Yeah. I'm real focused on the music now, trying to make connections, shit like that." The air had gotten thicker somehow. Jackson stared at me until I looked at him, then he turned away and kicked the rail. "Speaking of connections, I was talking to that Myla about getting some tunes together for her to sing, and I just kinda walked away when I recognized you. Guess maybe I should go back in, huh?"

"Is Myla the one you weren't sure your equipment would satisfy?" Jeez, speaking of petulant.

Those cool gray eyes fastened on me at that, and Jackson gave me a slow, crooked, knowing grin that made the back of my neck -- and a few other places -- prickle pleasantly. I forced a sarcastic smile and raised my eyebrows, hoping he would attribute the goose bumps and other suspicious protuberances to the chill in the air.

I'd always had a hard time fooling him.

"Aw, Maddie," he whispered, cornering me against the handicap railing. His long-fingered hands warmed my back; soft whiskers brushed my neck and I hazily remembered what Libby had said about this dress's convenient length. In the back of my mind I wondered if I might ovulate a little early with this kind of inspiration, although Jackson wasn't exactly USDA choice genetic material. My left ankle traveled up the back of his right leg as I inhaled that heady scent: a combination of after-shave, good tobacco, and testosterone.

A twig snapped nearby and there was a soft rustling in the bushes just below the deck, but I didn't care if we had an audience. My libido was back again, and it was making up for lost time. All those months last spring of wanting to jump Jackson's bones while my high-risk pregnancy prevented it ... all that pent-up lust came rushing back and I was going to abolish it forever, here and now.

I eased my butt up onto the rail so I could wrap both legs around him as we frantically kissed and ran our hands up and down each other's body. My dress was more than sufficiently hiked, exposing lace-topped stockings and velvety panties to Jackson's wolfish gaze. He groaned and caressed the soft skin just above my stocking tops with a gentle finger; I whimpered with anticipation and reached for his fly. We were both so abruptly, wildly, uncontrollably overheated, waiting even one more second was just plain impossible ...

So of course the door behind Jackson opened at that precise moment, causing him to turn suddenly, causing me to lose my balance. After a moment's wild flailing of limbs and flashing of crotch, I toppled backward off the railing and landed in a thorn-covered shrub a few feet below.

Good one, God, I thought as I lay there with thousands of little darts pricking my back, my legs sticking up in the air, dress really not covering much at all. I peered between my skyward-pointing feet to see Jackson haloed by the exit light, looking utterly bewildered as Adam Norcross and Myla Devine appeared behind him. "Jesus, where the hell did Max go?"

When I tried to free myself, the thorns dug deeper. "Ooowwww," I whined from the darkness, and Jackson fumbled in his pocket and dragged out a flashlight key chain that he trained directly onto my crotch.

I could have sworn I heard a muffled shuffling and suppressed snicker in the darkness just a few feet from my inverted head, but I was already so humiliated I didn't want to know who the invisible voyeur was. Having Jackson, my high-class employer, and his salon-groomed protégé all staring down at me in various states of confusion and bemusement was bad enough. Mustering what dignity I could, which was never a whole lot, I sputtered, "Little help, please?"

Jackson heaved himself over the railing while the other two took the more conventional route down the ramp. "You okay?" he whispered worriedly as I tried to free myself.

"Ouch! Fuck!" Talk about a comedown: I'd gotten a million nasty little pricks instead of the one big one I'd had in mind. "No, I'm not okay! This friggin' bush is full of thorns, okay? I'm being tenderized here!"

Norcross materialized behind Jackson, completely out of his element. "Should we call an ambulance?" he suggested, averting his gaze from the ObGyn's eye view of my snatch.

Between my thrashing and Jackson's tugging, I was extracted at last. Bleeding in a zillion places, hair askew, dress torn and stockings run, I stood there ready to burst into tears, which really pissed me off. "I'm fine," I snapped. "Thanks a lot." I tried to walk away but instead managed to twist my ankle as my high heel caught on a hole in the path. After a few deep breaths, I crossed my arms. "Would you all just go away? This sucks enough without an audience."

"Why don't you come back inside?" Norcross suggested kindly.

"Are you kidding? Look at her dress! She'd be arrested for indecent exposure." That must have been Myla, who had the nerve to sound amused. "Adam darling, you know where my coat is. Why don't you run and get it for Max?" And off slipped Lord Adam like an obsequious lackey.

Jackson had his arm around me and was guiding me toward a bench in a better-lit area. "Sit down, babe, and let's have a look."

My eyes stung and I felt my chin quiver, so I scowled and hobbled along and let him lower me onto the seat. "Ow," I whined as I hit the wood, driving a few hundred thorns further into my lower regions.

Jackson sat next to me and examined my back, grimacing. Myla sat on my other side. "Hi, Max," she purred in an ultra-silky voice. "I'm Myla Devine. I was actually coming outside to meet you and talk to you about the stage at The Stables, but I have to say I've never seen a performance quite like yours." I glared directly at her for the first time. And immediately I knew I was looking at trouble. Big trouble.

It's not that she was beautiful -- striking was the word that came to my mind, like a snake on the offensive. She oozed sexuality and heat, but it didn't seem real ... more like a mediocre actress putting on a character. Her eyebrows had been plucked into artistically shaped lines that arced up a little too high on her forehead, counteracting the sensuous droop of her eyelids. Her smile was over-friendly, with a strong dose of sarcasm. I heard alarm bells going off all over the place as she bared her teeth at me in what I guessed was meant to be a warm smile.

"Now that I know you have such good taste in lingerie, I feel sure we can work together," she continued smoothly. Jackson snickered behind me and I smacked him as he tugged a thorn from my shoulder. "Both Adam and Jackson highly recommend you."

"For what?"

"Like I said, work on the stage area at The Stables, especially the lighting. I'll be singing there, hopefully with Jackson." She cocked her head and winked at him, over my shoulder. "What do you say?"

"Uh ..." Sirens were still going off in my gut. Behind Myla, Norcross had reappeared carrying a lush fur coat; he gave me a commanding stare, so there was no way I could turn her down. Damn. "I'll have to take a look at it, I guess."

"Wonderful. With any luck we'll be opening Halloween weekend. I have plans for a costume contest. Maybe you could do some special spooky lighting for that." She smiled past me again. "Jackson's going to do the music."

"Maybe," he interjected.

I frowned. "Halloween is only a couple of weeks away. Will the place be ready in time?"

"It better be." Her voice was velvet-covered steel. "I have the perfect costume and I can't wait to wear it. Everyone loves costume parties; it should be a big draw."

"I hate them. People dressed as bikers and nuns?" I could be a bitch too.

Myla's eyes widened to Chihuahua proportions. Whites showed all around the golf course-green eyes; there had to be color contacts involved. "Hopefully not so tacky. This will be a higher-class crowd." Her gums showed as she forced another smile. "Although I'd love to see Jackson let loose among nuns."

Jackson shuddered. "Already been tried, and I didn't come out of it so good."

This was a new piece of information, reminding me how little I knew about this man. "Catholic school?" I guessed.

"Orphanage," he muttered. "Babe, your back looks like hell. I think we oughta nip over to your bungalow and fix you up right."

Norcross held the coat out to me, but Myla rose and grabbed it. "Thank you, Adam, but I don't think we're going to need that if she's not coming back in." She turned to Jackson. "Should we schedule a meeting?"

"The three of us -- you, me, and Max," Norcross added. "Why don't we meet at the club, Monday morning, eleven sharp?" It wasn't a suggestion, but he made it sound like one.

"The four of us," Myla countered, radiating at Jackson. "I want to nail this one down." Her voice dripped honey and a few other fluids. I didn't like the sound of it one bit.

Jackson frowned. "Want me to bring my equipment, see if it'll work?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, stop worrying so damned much about your equipment," Myla chuckled. "It's how you use it, right?" She gave him a sophisticated but unmistakable leer as she took Norcross's arm and headed back inside. "Have fun pulling out those briars. See you Monday."
Chapter Four

Jackson slipped back inside to get my jacket and explain to Libby what had happened, and I hung out on the bench fantasizing about him gently removing the briars from my backside ... giving me a soothing scented bath ... slowly rubbing in some ointment to ease the sting. My lower parts started to rev up again and I wondered what was taking him so damn long.

To distract myself, I gazed out at the lights across the inlet, in Skiff Neck Harbor. Nope, that was no good; too romantic. I shifted my eyes across the street to the fluorescent glare of the bus and ferry terminal, where the Bonanza Bus had just discharged its passengers and was now roaring back toward Boston's South Station or Logan Airport. I could make out a few solitary shadows moving briskly towards the commuter parking lot, eager to shake off the city in the peace of off-season Massachusetts' south shore.

Until last spring, I'd lived in nearby Hawk Marsh, which was pretty much the area's armpit. The residents of Skiff Neck and Abneyville were not above hiring Hawk Martians for lowly labor like plumbing and lawn mowing, but wouldn't consider socializing with the Fox-watching, beer-swilling population that couldn't afford a house above half the current median price for the area. All of Skiff Neck and Abneyville were as developed as the residents would allow; Hawk Marsh was now ripe for an upgrade, and local realtors were buying up what land they could and placing new, expensive homes among the cheesy 1970s ranches and Capes.

I didn't miss living in Hawk Marsh \-- which I'd dubbed Wal-Marsh back in my days as the high school shop teacher -- but I found myself worrying about my old friends and colleagues in the face of encroaching snobbery. Even though I was now living among the rich, it was as a lackey. My little beachfront cottage was part of my caretaker salary, and that was only because it wasn't in good enough shape for Abneyville Shores' high-class summer visitors. I'd kept the minor improvements I'd made a secret so I wouldn't lose my home.

Okay, I was starting to freeze my butt off. Where the hell was Jackson? The little pricks in my butt and back itched like crazy, I had to pee, and I wanted to get home, damn it. I hobbled over to the building and peered through the nearest window, only to spot Jackson deep in conversation with Myla again. Looked like he'd forgotten all about me, and that silly-ass grin was back on his face. Huh.

Screw this. I was gone, jacket or no jacket. Home wasn't that far away, and I couldn't get much colder or more uncomfortable. I limped out toward the parking lot on my twisted ankle, then irritably removed my pumps and threw them at a bush. I must've hit a possum or muskrat or the friendly neighborhood peeper; something jumped and made a little _oof_ sound.

As I looked around for the least painful route to my cottage, the Ardmore mansion caught my eye, looming against the sky on its seaside cliff just around the bend. Okay, so it was in the wrong direction, but Norcross's talk of ghosts came back to haunt me, ha ha. He'd asked me to investigate; no time like the present, and nothing like work to take my mind off my physical and emotional injuries. Plus, maybe getting a jumpstart on the assignment would gain me back some of the points I'd lost tonight.

Rather than taking the sidewalk like a sane person, I decided to walk along the dark beach toward the old estate. The sand was softer on my stocking feet, and there were no pesky street lamps to spotlight my Carrie impersonation. Plus I had to squat behind a dune for a power whiz before I went ghost hunting. Didn't need to share that with greater Abneyville.

The next time the swollen yellow moon flashed through a ragged cloud, I took stock of my clothes. Libby's dress was ruined; one seam was shredded all the way up to my waistline, and one shoulder strap straggled down my front, revealing the lacy top of my bra. Nothing remained of my stockings but picks and runs and holes, and little dried-up streams of blood transformed my skin into a road map. I could only imagine what my backside looked like. Yuck. I chewed my lip and scowled back a wave of self-pity.

As I neared the bottom of the cliff beneath the mansion, the moon slipped back into hiding. Even the surf seemed to hush as I gazed up at the gloomy facade, and for a frozen heartbeat I could have sworn I heard footsteps behind me. Jeez, where was Dracula when you needed him?

In the dark, the Ardmore family manse looked especially spooky. Painted a dull gray with white trim at least fifty years ago, it towered three stories plus gables far above the pounding surf, one stately turret gazing eternally at the ocean. Must have been a hell of a cheery residence for a depressed teenager. No wonder the poor kid had offed herself.

I veered toward the road, wading through beach grass that further scratched up my legs until I reached the two-story carriage house. In front of it stood a large sign proclaiming "Coming Soon: The Stables." Oh, so it was that building they'd renovated, not the mansion; that made sense. I wondered what they planned to do with the house. Shame to let a cool old dinosaur like that fall to ruin. I was pretty sure there were some surviving Ardmores, and I wondered why they'd abandoned such a gorgeous piece of prime real estate.

I tiptoed up to the carriage house to check out the workmanship. The smell of paint and varnish mixed pleasantly with the salt air, and from what I could see by the dim security lights, the former stable looked like a new structure compared to the ancient house next to it. The paddock, where generations of Ardmore girls had ridden their show ponies in tight-gaited, precise circles, was being transformed into a patio with an ocean view. Pretty freakin' ritzy.

As I crept along, hoping I didn't set off an alarm or anything, I heard a faint sound around the side of the building toward the mansion. Again I froze and tuned my hearing in that direction. There it was again, a soft dragging sound. A brisk wind hooted through the courtyard; as I shivered my nipples jumped up and pointed at the mansion like a pair of setters.

Slipping into the shadows closer to the building, I eased toward a corner, breathing lightly and feeling my way with my stocking feet. The noise came again, softer this time, almost indistinguishable from the hiss of the surf: a sort of gasping, wheezing sound, like someone being strangled. Nervously I wondered if bodies ever got buried at construction sites around here. I didn't think there was much mob action in this region, but you never know. If I saw Paulie Walnuts or Big Pussy around that corner, I was high-tailing my ass outta there.

Hardly breathing now, I pressed my cheek against the fresh cedar siding and turned my eyes up toward the mansion. After several high-strung minutes of no sights or sounds other than the expected ones, I stepped out in slow motion and crept catlike along the overgrown path that wound uphill toward the main house. Once I reached the lawn, I followed a hedge until I had worked my way around to the front of the house.

A subdued orange light glowed from a picture window over the enormous porch. I dropped into the rough beach grass and stared, fascinated. Candlelight? A fire? I couldn't tell. I would have to get up on that sagging porch to look in the window.

My heart banged on my sternum, begging to be left behind if I was determined to do this stupid deed ... but all I had to think about was the super-wealthy Adam Norcross and what he could do for me, and I found the courage to approach the house. As I dragged myself to my feet, I felt a stray briar catch in my hair and rip across my forehead. The scratch instantly started to bleed like mad, but I was too intent on my mission to worry about it.

I stood at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at the great bay window and the amber glow pulsing dimly against the drapes. Carefully I climbed the four stairs, feeling each board before putting my weight on it. Finally I stood on the porch itself, my skin tingling with clear-headed excitement. Maybe I'd unmask this alleged ghost tonight. Maybe I'd solve my first assignment before it had even officially started!

A slick of blood tickled my cheek and I swiped at it as I closed in on the window. The rough-surfaced board under my foot seemed solid when I first stepped on it; fortunately I felt it give and was able to leap to safety as it snapped with a gunshot-like BANG!

Instantly a blinding floodlight snapped on and I became a statue, my arms frozen in midair. Terror jolted my guts when an unseen hand stirred the drapes then drew them cautiously aside.

A thin, pale face peered through the ancient pane, its sunken eyes wide as they scanned the porch ... then fastened onto me. I stood there, arms still raised, and without even thinking I screamed. The ghostly face screamed back at me, then shrunk into the shadows beyond the window. A moment later, the dull interior light extinguished and there was silence except for the rushing of the surf.

I remained frozen on the porch for several minutes, too shaken to even run away. My legs didn't want to work when I finally tried to move them, but I managed to descend the steps and get a few yards down the path before dizziness overcame me. Whether it was fear, alcohol, blood loss, sexual frustration, or all of the above, I don't know; my knees and my brain both vanished and I flopped onto the sand.

I didn't go completely out; after a moment the surreal glowing shapes faded from before my eyes and I peered at the silvery green beach grass whispering in the moonlight. My eyes closed and I sighed, feeling strangely peaceful for once. When I looked again, a sizable pair of black sneakers filled my vision. Their owner was up above in the darkness; I managed to roll onto my back to try to get a look, but I was sharply reminded of the thorns in my hindquarters. Normally I would have yelled and sworn, but lethargy turned my outcry into a sort of throaty moan and I passed out for real this time.

My brain drifted back enough to first think I was levitating, then to realize someone was carrying me along the shore. "Hmm," I protested.

"Shh." My rescuer's breathing was labored, like a smoker. I summoned every scrap of energy to inhale deeply enough to murmur, "Jackson?"

From a great distance, a voice answered me. "Maddie!" it yelled. Had to be Jackson; everyone else knows better than to call me that. But it didn't come from the Creature of the Black Lagoon confiscating me; the sigh he heaved was louder than Jackson's yell, then he set me gently down on the sand and disappeared without a word.

What the hell?

When I tried to get up, I rolled closer to the surf. A wave slapped me in the face and revived me. Forcing myself to my feet, I staggered back along the beach toward the land of the living, disoriented as hell, following the sound of Jackson's voice. Catching my breath, I croaked out "Yo!" and the moon broke cover so we could find each other.

Jackson took one look at me, stopped in his tracks, and yelped, "Jesus Christ! What the hell happened to you? Did someone attack you? You're bleeding like a ... Jesus, what the hell happened?"

I shivered violently and took another step toward him. Damned I didn't trip over some seaweed and once again fall flat on my face. Defeated, exhausted, I lay inert for a few moments and wished the ocean would just scoop me up and deposit me far, far away.

While I sulked, Jackson wrapped my jacket around me and dragged me to my feet, flinging a long arm around me for support. "Hey, I'm okay," I objected, feeling like a total idiot. "You don't need to hold me up."

"Like hell," Jackson retorted. "We're calling an ambulance."

"No, I'm fine. Let me go, okay?"

He didn't respond, just kept walking, so I struggled hard enough to escape his grasp that I fell again. "Shit, Maddie, why are you such a pain in the ass?" he grumbled as I sat up.

"Sorry, okay? I just look like this because I fell into some bushes earlier, remember?" I was still sore as hell he'd abandoned me for Myla, especially right after we'd almost finally consummated.

"I go get your coat, I come back, you've vanished, I hear screaming, I find you on the beach bleeding from the head, you pass out on me, and I'm supposed to believe you're fine."

He sounded seriously pissed off. With an irritable sigh, I explained, "The cut on my forehead is from a thorn. I didn't pass out, I tripped and fell ... and I'm not saying another word until I'm at home in my cottage and out of this dress. "

Not sure why I didn't mention my other rescuer to him; guess I thought the testosterone level was quite high enough already.

Briar removal was nowhere near as sensuous as I'd fantasized earlier; in fact, it pretty much added insult to injury. "Sit still, fer Chrissake," Jackson snapped when I jumped at the touch of the tweezers on my tenderized back. He was pissed because I wouldn't explain why I'd been screaming, but I'd remembered Norcross had told me this was top secret and I had to honor that. Of course, Jackson didn't know that, he just thought I was being difficult so now he was punishing me.

I clutched the towel more tightly over my breasts and sniffled. "Look, I got a roll of duct tape, why don't you just cover me with that and tear 'em all off at once?" My voice sounded whiney instead of light.

"Don't tempt me." Jackson plucked out a thorn in the small of my back, then pulled out the waist of my pajama bottoms and tsk-tsk'd. "Your butt looks like a pin cushion. "

This was not how I'd dreamed of Jackson O'Brien describing his first -- well, okay, maybe second -- view of my naked hindquarters. "It kinda feels like one, too," I sighed, defeated and depressed beyond words. "So ... what do you think of that Myla?"

"Who?" He yanked out a big one and his memory kicked in. "Oh, Myla! Oh yeah, she's pretty cool, huh?"

"I'd say she thinks she's pretty hot." No answer. "Wouldn't you?"

Working his way down my right cheek with the goddamned tweezers, he considered this. "She's nice lookin', for sure. She's also rich as hell, and she has that entitlement attitude that drives me nuts."

"Entitlement?"

"Yeah, y'know, I'm rich and pretty so I can have anything, everyone wants me, everything goes my way, you'll do what I want ... that kinda shit. Hate it."

"She pulled that on you already?"

"Oh, I'd say so, yeah." He chuckled. "She's in for a big surprise."

"What, you don't want her?"

He spun me around so I was facing him, and rested his nose against mine. "What makes you think I do?" he asked insinuatingly.

I took a deep breath. "Oh, jeez, I dunno ... she's rich, she's sexy..."

"Is she Maddie Maxwell?"

"Not unless she insults her boss, pukes after one drink, and falls into bramble bushes at inconvenient moments." I caught my breath as Jackson tugged at the towel covering my boobs; my grip on the towel tightened as his lips found mine, then I dropped the damn thing altogether so I could take him in my arms.

In no time flat I was falling backward onto the sofa, dragging Jackson with me. I unfolded myself to accommodate him, felt him slide his long legs comfortably inside mine with a happy sigh, and the second his body pressed against mine and pushed my back into the futon, I screamed: "YEEEEEOUCH!"

Quickly Jackson propped himself up on his hands. "Shit. Sorry." He looked at me worriedly as I fought down tears of pain and frustration, then gently eased himself from between my legs and helped me sit up. "Naw, babe, it's okay. I was thinking when I was looking for you earlier, it was good we were interrupted when we were."

I sniffled again. "Why? So I could get my ass pierced?"

Jackson looked up sharply at me, then toward the window. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" I hadn't heard anything except the sound of my ego getting slapped.

He got up and peered through the window over the table, then shook his head. "I dunno... I thought I heard something out there, but..." Another abrupt silence.

"What? Did you hear it again?"

After a few long seconds he answered. "What's this?"

"What?" Annoyed, I pulled the towel back around me and went to Jackson, who was staring at the books on the table. "Oh. That."

"You thinking about having another baby?"

"Um, well, yeah, I'm thinking about trying." My voice sounded defensive. I hadn't even mentioned my plans to anyone before, and all of a sudden three people knew in one day. I really wasn't ready to talk about it; it was too touchy a subject for discussion.

"How?" His tone was even rougher than usual as he absently flipped open _Having Your Baby by Donor Insemination_ and scanned the contents.

I sighed. "I don't know yet. Like I said, I'm just thinking about it."

"Huh." Jackson slammed the book shut and moved away from me. "Look, I gotta get back to that party. I'm supposed to play later on. So, um, well, see ya, huh?"

And he left.

Chapter Five

"So you're looking a bit grim for the cat who ate the canary," Libby observed the next morning. "Or did you?"

I glared into my coffee at Abneyville's trendy Espresso Harbor \-- a claustrophobic combination of the laid-back and the tight-assed, complete with rustic cafe tables, big comfy sofas, and hideous contemporary art. Classical violin music whined in the background. Not my kind of scene at all.

Across from us, Cal pressed his huge gut into the wobbly table as he leaned toward me, beard bristling with suspicion. "Or more to the point, did the canary eat you?"

Since I was still mulling last night over I wasn't sure I wanted to go into this, so I stalled. "Um... whaddya mean?"

Libby and Cal exchanged knowing looks as I leaned back in my rickety chair and concentrated on the colorful chalkboard menu listing all kinds of fancy-pants caffeinated crap. Cinnamon Stick Supremo? Vanilla Cashew Delight? Pumpkin Spice? What the hell had happened to coffee?

"We mean," Libby whispered, "we saw you and Jackson making tracks toward the exit pretty early in the evening. He came in to tell me you'd somehow fallen off the railing and he had to escort you home. And when he came back quite a bit later, he looked pretty, um, rumpled."

"And given your scanty outfit," Cal added, "we're fairly certain your virtue didn't escape unscathed." Libby choked on the foam of her Cocoa Loco Mochaccino.

Okay, I had to admit I was feeling more than a little bugged by Jackson's seeming rejection, and these were my two best friends. A girl's gotta unburden on someone, and they already knew my big secret anyway, thanks to Lib. "Actually, it did. He kinda seemed to lose interest once he saw the books on how to get pregnant."

"You mean you left those out?" Libby gasped, looking as scandalized as if I'd left dirty panties lying around.

"Well, yeah."

Cal stirred his espresso, which disappeared under his huge hand. "A rather large bomb to drop right off the bat."

"No kidding," Libby agreed. "No man is going to do the deed with you if he thinks that's what you want out of it."

I huffed and mopped some coffee off the scarred table. "Look, my plan isn't to trick someone into making me pregnant. I mean, that's what I was accused of last time; I really don't want a rerun of Bart Fulton's bullshit. I want to be up front with the guy, and with any luck it'll be something he wants too. But \-- " I stabbed the table with the end of my spoon before Libby could interrupt. "I have to think genetics, and ... well, Jackson is sexy and cute and all, but he's got a prison record and God knows where he came from and ..." Holy crap, I sounded judgmental as hell. And this was pretty much the pot calling the kettle black. I shoved my coffee mug into my mouth to shut myself up.

Cal mulled this over as he sipped daintily from the miniscule cup, then patted his moustache with a napkin. "Well, true enough. There may be some bad stuff pumping through those veins, and God knows the poor child will have enough to contend with from your side."

Libby smacked Cal and leaned toward me. "I can't believe you're thinking ahead like this," she said in a head-patting tone she probably used on her kids. "I mean, usually you're so short-sighted it's scary. And knowing how much and how long you've been lusting after Jackson..."

I sighed and crossed my legs at the memory of several close-but-no-(um)-cigar encounters with Jackson. "Can we change the subject? Like, did you guys get to talk to Myla at all?"

"Oh-ho, she avoided me like the plague," Cal chuckled. "Nothing like having your former therapist lurking around your party, harboring all your dirty little prepubescent secrets."

"Not to mention your former babysitter," Libby added. "We've both seen her at her worst."

"So I'm not the only one who thinks she's a copper-bottomed bitch, huh?" I asked, and they shook their heads in unison. "Okay, so fill me in a little."

"Wouldn't that be unethical?" Cal protested, as if he'd never gossiped about a client in his life.

Libby jumped right in. "I can tell you she hated her stepfather \-- William Ardmore, who's related to your boss \-- and she liked to play with matches. She was thrown out of her private school for setting fires when she was twelve."

Cal nodded. "Yes, she was a firebug, and she was the most horrifyingly flirtatious child I'd ever seen. It was quite disgusting, made you wonder what was going on at home."

"She tried to flirt with you?" I asked. "God, how old was she?"

"She was only here from about age twelve to fourteen. Her mother's marriage to Ardmore didn't last long." Cal settled back in his chair. "Yes, she had a real Southern belle thing going early on. It was very disturbing, but apparently it worked for her with certain men. Not with me, however." He smiled. "She never figured out why I was impervious to her charms even after she became a very well-developed teen."

"God, I forgot about that," Libby chimed in. "She had better boobs than me when she was in junior high \-- and I was almost twenty. But mainly I remember how sneaky she was, and how innocent she could act even when I caught her red-handed."

So the psycho-Chihuahua was a big fat liar. This didn't surprise me one bit. "What kind of stuff did she do?"

Libby smirked. "She'd do things \-- break something, leave a mess \-- then try to pin it on her poor little stepsister Hannah. One time when she didn't know I was watching, she pulled Hannah's bedclothes down, dumped a glass of water on the sheets, then told me Hannah had wet the bed. When I told her I'd seen what she did, she threw the biggest, loudest, nastiest tantrum I've ever seen in my life, and absolutely denied she'd done it, called me a liar, asked me why I hated her."

"Wow," I said. "So she was pretty psycho, huh?"

"She was a very angry child," Cal said, "and never seemed to understand that she had done anything wrong, even when her actions hurt someone physically."

Libby glanced up toward the door. "Oh God," she stage whispered. "Here comes Anal Roberts."

"What?" That was Lib's nickname for my sister Gabrielle, who was a born-again Christian of the most wide-eyed, persistent, turn-the-other-cheeky kind. I'd been avoiding her for months, too. "Shit!"

Yep, Gabe arrived at our table just in time to hear me swear. Typical. "Max!" she gasped, shocked as ever to hear such filth.

Rubbing my head, I looked up at my neatly starched and pressed, angelic sibling. It was Sunday so she was probably fresh out of church. Those disappointed brown eyes still belonged to the freckled baby sister I'd tortured when my parents weren't looking. "Hey, Gaby-boo, how's tricks?" I asked in my most provocative pagan party-girl tone.

Cal launched his bulk from the elegant chair with impressive speed and grace. "You can have my seat, Gabe. I've got to run back to the bar and then put in some quality time with Arthur. He does get awfully jealous." Cal twinkled at me as he managed to wedge alcohol and homosexuality into the same sentence. Gabe's jaw clenched and she forced a nervous smile.

"And I'm driving him, so I guess I'm outta here too." Libby had jumped to her feet and was gathering coat and purse. I scowled; both my friends were abandoning me because of Gabe, damn her. "Ta now, talk later!" The sea of youngish Yuppies and aging hippies parted to accommodate Cal's spherical form; Libby trotted daintily in his wake, acknowledging admiring smiles like a queen.

"Have a seat, sis," I sighed.

"N-no, that's okay, I just ... well, I stopped by the front desk at the resort, and the man there said he thought you were here." Gabe's eyes fluttered. "But I'd rather ... well, can't we go to your place?"

Something was up. "Sure thing," I said, gulping my coffee and grabbing my jacket.

Gabe hardly spoke as she drove back toward the hotel in her sparkling dark blue Rav. It was a surprisingly fun car for Gabe to have, although the graphically detailed cross dangling from the rearview mirror was kind of a wet blanket. "Where are the kids?" I asked, tugging a Beanie Baby from under my ass.

"They're with Jim. There was a father-son luncheon after church today."

And that was it until we were inside my cabin. Like Libby, Gabe examined the place with pursed lips and a furrowed brow, then dusted off one of the breakfast nook benches and prepared to sit. As she did, her eye fell on those damned books that had gotten me into so much trouble already. "Max?" she started in a voice filled with horror.

I cut her off at the pass. "Let's not go there right now, Gabe. I haven't seen you for months and suddenly you show up and..."

"It's not my fault!" Immediately she pressed fingers to her lips to stifle the un-Christian sentiment. Perching on the bench, she amended, "I'm sorry. I mean, I've called and left messages ... and I've prayed for you every day."

I ignored the last part. "You're right, it's not your fault, and you shouldn't be afraid to say so." I braced my butt against the table and folded my arms. "So why'd you choose today to come visit?"

"Something the minister said this morning ..." She lowered her eyes and clutched her neat little purse. "Well, I haven't tried hard enough to ... to keep in touch with you. I mean, after all, I'm your only living relative."

I didn't bother to explain to Gabe how grateful I was the others were gone. She'd never really understood and accepted our dad's and brother's alcoholism, even though it was legendary around town. And our highly educated but reality-proof Mom had pretty much ignored her kids, and had died too young for baby Gaby to remember clearly. "Well, I haven't exactly been a social butterfly the past few months, so don't feel bad," I said. "But I think I'm coming out of hibernation now ... I went to a party just last night, actually."

"The one for Amy Lynn Peterson?"

I was surprised. "You know her?"

Gabe shook her head. "I met her a few times when I was about ten. She's a little older than me. I was friends with her stepsister, Hannah, until their parents split up."

That would have been a little over twenty years ago, the same time Cal was Myla's shrink and Libby was her babysitter. "Was this when they lived in that mansion on the cliff?"

"Yeah. I even slept over there a few times." She chuckled and shivered a little. "Well, I didn't really sleep; Hannah used to scare me to death talking about the family ghost. You know, Faith Ardmore, the one who hanged herself?"

Lord, Faith Ardmore again? I was intrigued. "Not until last night, actually." I didn't add that I might have seen her last night as well.

"Well, Hannah used to say Faith possessed her sometimes. We'd be playing together and suddenly she'd start talking in this strange, sad voice, saying things that didn't make sense to me."

Oh goody, another local Looney Tune. "No kidding. What kind of things?"

Gabe nibbled her lower lip and squinted. "Well, I don't remember a whole lot about it, but one night when I slept over she woke me up wailing about how her sweetheart had disappeared and her baby wouldn't have a father. It was creepy, especially since she was just a kid." She smoothed her skirt over her knees with a curious little frown. "Amy Lynn was even scarier, though. Sometimes she was like Hannah's best friend, other times she was really mean and nasty and would go out of her way to make Hannah cry."

Well, that pretty much tallied with what Libby had told me earlier. "Typical sisters, huh?" I asked ruefully. Gabe shook her head again, harder this time. "No, Amy Lynn was scary-mean. Like something out of _The Bad Seed_ almost ... super-nice one minute, really horrible the next." With a little smile, she asked, "So she's calling herself Myla now?"

"Myla Devine. Cal thinks it makes her sound like a drag queen, and frankly, I agree." I wondered if my sister even knew what a drag queen was.

Gabe looked thoughtful. "See, I remember sometimes when Hannah and Amy Lynn were on good terms, they'd pretend they were real sisters who had been reunited somehow \-- and they made up these names they'd swear were their real names. That was Amy Lynn's name when they played that game. Myla. I can't remember what Hannah's name was." She thought hard for a moment, then shook herself and looked up at me again. "Anyway ... I've been thinking . . . I really should have been there for you more when Junie died."

Oh God, guilt. "Hey, he was your brother, too. It cuts both ways."

"But you were close to him. I mean, I remember you two going bike riding together when I was little ... and you played baseball together and built that fort in the woods by our house."

That gave me a pang. "You mean the one we wouldn't let you into?"

Gabe dimpled sadly and shrugged. "You guys were so much older than me. I was your pesky little sister, always wanting to tag along and spoil your fun. She made it sound like it was her fault.

I had a sudden flash of tiny dumpling Gabe in a frilly pink dress, screaming her lungs out in the driveway as Junie and I biked away from her, laughing... and I had an overwhelming urge to take my thirty two-year-old sister into my lap and cuddle her. "Yeah, we were pretty shitty to you," I admitted.

"Max ..."

"Yeah, I know, sorry for swearing." And for once I actually meant it.

"No ... it's just ..." She swallowed and looked me in the eye bravely. It struck me that she was afraid of me. Who could blame her, after the nasty things I'd done when she was too tiny to defend herself? Her nervousness swamped me with guilt, especially when she grabbed my hands. "I feel like maybe I'm the only one left because I'm supposed to help you."

"Help me what?"

Uh-oh. Those big brown eyes were full of zealous sincerity. "Help you find your way out of the darkness," she choked. "Help you stop blaming your earthly father and find your heavenly one, the only one who can truly help you."

I sagged. "Aw, Gabe, believe it or not I'm done being angry. Really I am. Dad was Dad and I'm me and ..." She had that I-know-better look on her face now. "Honeybun, look, I'm glad your faith helps you," I forced myself to say, "but you have to understand I don't work that way." Gabe opened her mouth but I drowned her out. "You've always been kind of ... I dunno, sweet and innocent and untouched by all the crap that went on around you. I mean, I wish I could have done that, but ... look, I'm working hard on getting over what happened last spring. And I don't mean Junie, I mean my baby ..." And that was all I could say because a huge lump in my throat shut me up.

Gabe seized the opportunity, squeezing my hands and pulling me down to her level. "But Max, don't you see that as a sign, as a message from God? He wanted you to change your ways, and sent you a child ... and when you didn't repent, he took her back. "

The lump in my throat turned to lava as anger bubbled up to replace the grief. Shaking, I stood up and shook myself. "Hmm, okay, so you're saying God is pretty much the same kind of asshole father we already had? Holding out some kind of cosmic carrot and then whisking it away and beating the crap out of me when I don't do exactly what he has in mind?" Gabe's eyes widened. My chest burned with rage, and a voice inside my head nagged me that I sounded just like the man I was deriding ... but I couldn't stop myself. "Who needs that kind of shit? Does that really comfort you? Is it supposed to make me feel better that I couldn't read the mind of some all-powerful cosmic judgmental dickhead and figure out how to keep him from killing my baby? What's that make God, another fucking alcoholic?"

Gabe threw her arms around my waist and burst into tears. "No, no, no," she sobbed violently into my stomach. "I did it wrong. I'm sorry, Max, please don't be mad. Please, please forgive me." And she wailed like a preschooler and soaked my shirt with her tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

My anger melted back into heartache as I hugged her back. "Shh, honey, it's okay," I growled, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head. "Here\--" I yanked a paper towel from the roll on the table. "Calm down and blow your nose. It's okay, I'm not mad."

As I knelt down before her and tried to mop off her face, I remembered again the chubby arms of the baby sister who'd clamored for my love and attention ... the affectionate little thing who'd lost her mommy and had no idea where else to turn for love, so she turned to her stupid tomboy big sister. And I felt like a giant piece of crap.

"Gabe, was I horrible to you when you were little?"

She wiped her eyes with a loud sniffle. "You were a kid too, Max. You didn't know better."

"So I take that as a yes?" Gabe didn't respond, just blew her nose and looked sad and frightened. "You're right, I was a kid, but that doesn't make it not hurt, right? Does it help if I say I'm sorry now? Cuz I am."

Her mouth flapped open but no words came out. Instead, she threw her arms around me and burst out bawling again.

Chapter Six

I'd kinda hoped he would, but Jackson didn't call, and despite my belief in equality and my desire to explain more I couldn't get myself to call him. It seemed too much like giving in. So I gritted my teeth and a few other body parts and waited for the meeting at The Stables Monday morning, wondering how Jackson was going to act toward me.

Monday started out rainy, but it was still warm enough to make the short walk along the road pleasant. As I neared the construction site, I spotted a late-model silver Jag parked in the courtyard. Norcross or Myla's; I was willing to bet on the latter.

Behind me a rusty bell _cha-chinged._ Fat tires scratching on the sand-covered road, an antique bicycle rolled to halt next to me with a long-legged hunk on board. "Hey babe, wanna ride on my handlebars?" Jackson offered in a generic flirtatious tone.

I went with the banter; didn't want to seem too eager. "You better widen those suckers if you want my ass on there."

Jackson jumped off his bike and walked it and me to the stable, where he leaned the bike against an antique hitching post. "So, how was the rest of your weekend?"

Before I had a chance to answer, Myla Devine bounced out of a side door with Norcross at her heels. "Right on time! I like that in a team!" she purred. Her curve-hugging designer jeans and sequined T-shirt had probably cost more than I made in a week. Maybe even a month. To me she seemed like some kind of over-bred animal, the kind that would wag its tail as it ripped your hand off. Jackson leered at her appreciatively, and she radiated heat and encouragement.

Norcross was business-suited and blandly handsome as he shook our hands. Myla seized his arm possessively, then Jackson's, and gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

I dragged behind the trio inhaling Jackson's pheromone trail, and I swear to God I wanted to fling him into the bushes and have my way with him before Myla's talons had a chance to sink in further. According to that morning's temperature check, I still hadn't laid an egg ... it had to be due any minute and I was itching to get fertilized. Sternly I reminded myself that sexy does not equal good -- especially in father material -- and that I had priorities and principles now. I hoped.

Ahead of us, Myla gestured grandly. "So what do you think?"

I stared at the space, expecting Studio 54 at least, but what I saw was pretty much a stable in the process of being turned into a club. It was cool, but it still looked a lot like a stable, complete with tack hanging on the walls: bridles, saddles, ropes, whips... hmm. I shrugged. "Cute. Not sure the locals will embrace the S&M theme, but give them time."

Jackson wheezed out a laugh. Myla's eyes bugged out and her lips disappeared. Norcross cleared his throat and announced, "The part I want you to look at, the stage area, is over there." He gesticulated toward a roped-off section centered against the back wall. "The platforming was just finished so it hasn't been stained yet. Myla, why don't you show Jackson the set-up? I'll show Max where we're thinking of putting the lighting controls."

"Glad to." Triumphant Myla showed her teeth to me before she grabbed Jackson's arm and hauled him away. Norcross guided me to the back of the room and pointed at something, then said in an undertone, "Don't worry, she can be tamed."

"Yeah, let me get one of those whips off the wall," I growled.

"I'm afraid that would only encourage her," Norcross chuckled, but his crow's feet deepened. "Anyway, you and I need to talk about our little arrangement, if you're still interested."

Suddenly I realized he had no idea what I'd seen the other night. My mouth flapped open to tell him, but snapped shut again when my brain kicked in. Norcross had seen me obnoxious, drunk, and butt-up in the bushes in the space of about twenty minutes. If I reported seeing a ghost shortly after that, he'd probably write it off as an alcohol-induced hallucination \-- which for all I knew it was \-- and fire my ass on the spot. "Uh, of course I'm still interested. Let's talk."

Casting a glance toward Myla and Jackson, Norcross crossed his arms and leaned against the wall with a sigh. Damn, he was hunky in a _GQ,_ older guy kind of way. Again I started thinking about his genes, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't go for my type. I forced myself to focus on what he was saying.

Next to the stage, Myla released an affected peal of laughter and Jackson gave his rasping guffaw followed by a sharp smoker's cough.

"Has anyone actually seen this ghost?"

"We have over a hundred years' worth of Ardmores and their guests claiming to have seen a beautiful young girl wandering the house and stable wringing her hands, doors and windows mysteriously opening and closing, things going missing and reappearing in unlikely places. I've never put much stock in these stories, but I'll admit I'm troubled by some very recent events. I don't know quite what to think ... most likely some local tricksters are using that legend to try to spook us."

Myla laughed again from the stage area then tugged Jackson down a dark hallway, out of sight. Norcross's frown deepened. He jerked his silver head in their direction and lowered his voice. "I don't want Myla getting wind of this at all. She's given to dramatics, as you'll learn, and might start to think the vandalism is aimed at her \-- especially since she has a vested interest in seeing this club open. Thank God she believes in the family ghost and has laid the blame there so far. At any rate, I'd appreciate it if you told no one what I'm asking you to do. There's too much potential for interference. "

I nodded. "I know what you mean. Don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut." Frankly, some of my friends were the types to pull stupid pranks.

"Spend some time looking around, especially at night, if you can. If anyone sees you, just tell them you work at the resort and thought you saw something." Norcross pressed a small paper rectangle into my hand and rapid-fired instructions at me. "I've written my cell phone number on the back of this card; also my private number at the house down here, in case of a true emergency and you can't reach me by cell phone. The minute you learn something, day or night, I want you to call me at this number. Not at my office or home, just at the cell phone or the private line. If I don't answer, leave voice mail." His urgency was sobering. "Under no circumstances give these numbers out or leave a message with anyone other than myself, understand?"

"Yeah, okay, I understand. Top secret stuff. Can you give me a little background so I know what I'm looking for?"

"Okay, well." Norcross harrumphed. "Last week I started getting strange reports from the contractors. First of all, you should know this place is locked up tight as a drum at the end of every workday, and we never had a problem until last week. Suddenly Tuesday morning the guys came in and couldn't find a few valuable tools and materials. Turned out they'd been moved to unlikely locations, like the restrooms down the hall, up on ceiling beams, hanging from the wall with the tack. It happened again Wednesday, and on Thursday a couple of walls were hacked up \-- inexpertly \-- with a chainsaw. Finally, on Friday..." \-- another stealthy glance toward the hallway, from which mysterious murmurs emanated \-- "... one of the laborers claimed to have seen a woman in a long dress when he went to the mansion on an unscheduled break. When he called to her, he swore she vanished before his eyes." He smiled at me faintly. "Despite these men being from your side of the tracks, they're fairly superstitious about the intangible."

"They all Hawk Martians?" Norcross nodded. "I probably know some of them, since we're in the same business. When do they work again?"

"Since the rain is clearing up, I'd say this afternoon."

My watch said almost 11:30. "Okay, so I'll drop by later on, ask a few innocent questions, see what I can figure out. What's your guess?"

"My guess?" Norcross looked up sharply as Myla and Jackson came laughing toward us. He moved closer to me and whispered, "Someone doesn't want this place to open \-- and it may very well have to do with Myla's involvement."

"So!" Myla whooped, eyes wide at the sight of me head-to-head with Norcross. "Hope we're not interrupting anything. Oh Max," she burbled on in the warmest, friendliest tone imaginable, "I've been dying to talk to you." She seized my arm and dragged me away from Norcross, adding, "In private. You two can do some male bonding. We promise we won't peek." She gave a suggestive laugh. Her hand gripped my arm surprisingly hard, almost as if she were trying to hurt me. And she was succeeding, boring holes into my flesh with her fashionably long blood-red nails. When I tried to tug away, her grip intensified and she flashed me a dazzlingly demented smile.

Once she had me literally cornered, she gushed in the same warm tone, "I'm so sorry if that was rude, but I didn't want to embarrass you in front of ... Well, anyway, there's something I'd really like to tell you, if you don't mind."

I didn't trust the voice, the expression, the permanently raised eyebrows. "Yeah, what would that be?"

Myla leaned in closer, clutching my arm so hard I was sure she was drawing blood, and gushed, "I just want you to know how glad I am to finally meet you. Adam's been telling me all about you since I got here, about what a local hero you are and all."

Well, this was embarrassing. Even more embarrassing was the feeling that she didn't mean it \-- and that she was neurotically jealous of her dear Adam's admiration of me. She was either a crappy liar, or for some reason she wanted me to pick up on her dislike. "Uh... thanks," I managed to say.

"No, really," she insisted. "He goes on and on about you... including how when you were only fourteen you accused a teacher of rape and you got him put in jail. I mean, wow!" Her laugh cut my ear like a razor. "What a little fireball you must have been! When I was fourteen I just kind of assumed grown-ups were always right and there was no point in fighting them." Her clutching hand bruised my arm and the whites around her eyes showed as she bared her teeth in her most aggressive smile. "I really hope we're going to be friends. Let's do dinner sometime, shall we?"

As soon as Myla and Norcross released us, I assumed a casual pose and turned to Jackson. "I could really use some caffeine and sugar after that. Wanna hit Espresso Harbor?"

Jackson shuffled uncomfortably, looked around, and finally sighed, "Yeah, well... okay, just for a bit." His enthusiasm was overwhelming.

Since it was the middle of a weekday, we managed to get a table with big, comfy chairs and a window. Generic-sounding classical music twittered and doodled in the background. To me that stuff all sounds alike; my poor mother had tried to educate me, but by the time I was ten Dad's taste had prevailed and no music existed for me except the blues.

"So what's the deal?" I asked, stirring my coffee like it was the most important thing in the world. "Are you leaving the Wonder Bra for The Stables?" Jackson shrugged and sipped rich black Kona \-- or, in Espresso Harbor's cutesy parlance, Kona for Barbarians. "How are Alison and Cal taking the news?"

"It's not really news yet, they just know Norc's invited me to play there for their grand opening deal and he's offering good money. I dunno that I'll do much beyond that; we'll see how it goes." His gray eyes narrowed and he scuffled his feet under the rickety table. "Myla had some kind of name as a singer in Chicago, wants me to accompany her. She has this idea of being the headliner here."

I bit back an acid remark and managed to say, "Oh, really? Is she any good?"

"Dunno, haven't heard her yet. When you look like her, I'm thinking maybe it doesn't matter what you sound like." I couldn't stop my eyes from rolling at that; Jackson pretended not to notice. "But I guess she must not be too bad. I mean, she talked all about how popular she was in Chicago, and how she got all these offers when the club she sang at there burned down ... but she just wanted to come on home for a while and spend some time with Adam." Jackson took another sip of coffee and almost managed to meet my eyes. "You think there's something funny going on there?"

"Where, at The Stables?" "No, no, I mean with Myla and her Uncle Adam." I looked blank. "You know Norc is her uncle, right?"

"He's her uncle? Ewww!" I'd assumed Myla was Norc's distant cousin or something, and possibly his mistress. "More of the infamous Stiff Neck inbreeding going on, I'd say."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. At least it explains why rich folks are so crazy. And they like to say shit about us Southerners." Jackson poured sugar into his coffee and tasted it again. "God, this crap is too strong for me. Didn't think that was possible."

I forced down some of my own burnt-tasting brew \-- which had been artsily-fartsily billed as "Ocean Zephyr, a mild roast" \-- and grimaced. "Yeah, it's taking the enamel off my teeth." I sprinkled a pinch of salt into the cup \-- an old diner trick I'd learned from my dad \-- and tasted it again. "Hm. Better. So you're definitely going to play for Myla?"

"Yeah, why not? She says she's got all these connections, and as long as her Uncle Sugar Daddy is footing the bill, what the hell. I'm a whore these days, but I'm not crazy about accompanying. I'd rather stay solo, thank you very much." Okay, I got that message loud and clear. Don't have to hit me over the head with a two-by-four. Well, not more than a couple of times, anyway. Jackson sipped more Kona and shuddered at the taste. "By the way, you know your pal Libby's been singing with me?"

"What?" God, I sounded jealous again. But if Libby had slept with Jackson, she would have said something to me ... maybe. "When did that happen?"

"Over the summer. Kinda weird, since her husband died right there, but... well, it was Cal's idea. I think she needs the money. I played this party and she got up and sang with me, it went over big so Cal's got us doing one set a night on weekends. At least she has talent, so it's not too bad." Another sip and he pushed the mug aside. "You know what she's been doing for money since you killed her husband?"

I hated when people put it that way, even though the bastard had deserved what he got. "No idea. Avon?"

"Naw, but close. She sells kinky underwear and sex toys at these sort of Tupperware parties. Weird, huh? She goes to some woman's house and shows them her stuff, explains how they work. She's pretty cool, really." Well, well, what a surprise. Jackson and Libby had been far from pals the last I knew, especially since he'd turned her down when she hit on him. "Wait a minute ..." He shuffled through his backpack and unearthed a tattered catalog. "She gave me this a while back, asked me if I wanted to host a party. Pretty sure she was kidding, but I have half a mind to take her up on it."

"I see." And I did. It was pretty damned obvious that Jackson wanted me to know he was considering other women \-- including my best friend \-- and that my hold on him had slipped a lot in the last few days. Flipping through the catalog, I glimpsed toys and ointments, French maid costumes, dominatrix outfits complete with whips, leashes and collars for one's slave, and boots that were never made for walking. "Garden variety kinky," I yawned. "I've seen weirder." I didn't bother to mention I'd worn weirder; after all, it had been long ago, back in my adventurous college days.

"I bet you have." Jackson chuckled at the thought, then remembered he was mad at me and frowned. "Anyway, I think Cal's a little worried about her, wanted to give her a chance to perform."

I set down my half-finished coffee and shoved it aside. If I wanted to drink industrial waste, I had plenty in the garage at the hotel. "Why's he worried?"

Jackson shrugged. "I guess Bart Fulton's family \-- you know, his first wife? \-- anyway, she's trying to sue Libby because her husband killed Bart and he can't pay alimony and child support anymore."

Great, so the ex-wife of my baby's father was suing my best friend. Speaking of incestuous. "Libby didn't mention it to me."

"Hm. Well, from what Cal says, that bitch is really haunting Libby." Jackson brightened again. "Speaking of haunting, do you know that Stables place has a ghost?"

I feigned surprise. "You're kidding me."

"Naw, Myla told me all about it. She's related to the Ardmores and lived in that mansion on the cliff for a while; guess her mom was married to an Ardmore guy for a few years, when she was a kid. Guess that's how she's related to Norc."

"Wow." I forced myself to play dumb; I wanted to hear Myla's version. "So, what about this ghost?"

"I dunno, some pregnant girl hanged herself in the stable. Myla says she saw her a few times when she lived there. The thing is," Jackson continued, leaning toward me eagerly, "I have this thing for ghosts. I mean, they like me. They appear to me. I seen a few in my time, mostly back when I lived down South."

"You believe in that crap?" I asked, incredulous. Jackson didn't seem at all like the superstitious type, but he nodded as if surprised by my question.

"You bet I do. My people are big believers in the supernatural; guess I just inherited that."

"And your people are?"

"Don't know about my daddy, but my mama's people were Creole. Voodoo, haints, the whole nine yards." His forehead furrowed. "Guess you don't believe in that stuff, huh?"

I managed to stop a derisive snort in the nick of time. "Um, naw, I don't think so. I've never seen anything to convince me otherwise."

He looked down into his mug. "The first thing I remember in this world is sitting next to my mama on some church steps. She'd been shot to death, never found out who did it or why. I guess she knew she was in trouble, but she made sure I was somewhere they'd find me and take care of me." His gunmetal eyes raised to my face and he insisted, "I seen her a few times in my life since then, like when I was in the hospital last year. Call it a hallucination or whatever, but I believe she's been watching over me all my life."

My heart twisted at these unexpectedly sentimental words from the ragged ex-con, and the familiar ache of grief for my baby tore at my chest. "Y'know, Jackson," I blurted to drown out the pain, "I wanted to explain about those books."

"Books?" He set down his mug, puzzled, then huffed. "Oh yeah."

"I know it probably seems kinda weird to you, but... well, I didn't even know I wanted to be a mother until I was pregnant... and then to lose her like that... and now I'm forty and..."

"Yeah, yeah, biological clocks and all." Jackson's words sounded nonchalant, but his face was tight and bitter. "So you're gonna do what, exactly?"

I sighed. "Not sure yet, just looking at options and thinking about it."

"And what are your options?"

With a shrug, I mumbled, "Artificial insemination by a doctor, self-insemination using a turkey baster or something, or, urn, find a man who's willing and able." I took a deep breath and added, "The ideal would be to find a guy who'd actually be interested in being a father, rather than just a donor. I don't know why, but that feels right to me."

A long silence from Jackson, then his chair scraped the floor and he tossed a couple of bills on the table. "Well," he rasped, "good luck with that. See you around."

Guess I could count him out.

Chapter Seven

An hour later, in my shiniest, tightest workout gear, I power-walked by The Stables, where I "happened" to see my old drinking buddy Del Withers getting his crew organized for the afternoon. "Hey!" I shouted, waving like a moron as I jogged toward the patio. Del didn't recognize me sans beer belly, so I hustled over to him. "It's Max, you moron."

Like most of my old friends, he gawked as he looked me over. "Jeez, Max, you little hardbody, what the hell happened to you?"

I shrugged modestly. "Got into shape, got off the booze, whatever."

He gave me a rueful smile and squeezed the spare tire that oozed over his belt. "God, don't say that. Middle age sucks, don't it?"

"Yeah, sure does." I looked around the courtyard as if trying to figure out what was going on. "You're doing the work on this nightclub thing?"

"So far, yeah. That Norcross is a pain in the ass, but it's worth putting up with him since his hot little niece came back to town." He leered.

Friggin' Myla. I was already sick of hearing about her, and this was only Day Three of what promised to be one long-ass assignment. "So, how's it going? I'm supposed to do some lighting work on the stage area. Will it be ready in time?"

Del scowled. "They're aiming for a Halloween opening, and we were on schedule till last week."

I acted all girl-detective intrigued. "Oh yeah? What happened?"

Del shook his head and glared at a laborer who was checking me out. "Jeez, what didn't happen? We found some of our tools in the toilets. We put up a partition one day, came back the next to find it ripped apart by a chainsaw... shit like that. Someone's got a problem with Norcross, that's what I think. Someone who's real good at B&E, 'cuz this place is locked and alarmed up the yin-yang." He squinted at me in know-it-all fashion. "How's Jackson O'Brien these days?"

"Oh for God's sake," I snapped, "he's not a thief."

"Naw, he's just a sweet old cop killer."

"He didn't kill the guy, just beat him up. And besides, he doesn't have a problem with Norcross. Why would he?" I had to change the subject quick, before I completely derailed thinking about Jackson. "This is the Ardmore place. Isn't it supposed to be haunted or something?"

Del razzed me loudly, causing a nearby laborer to yell, "Whoa, Del, lay off the burritos, will ya?" The other guys all har-har-har'd at that one.

Del automatically flipped him off and kept talking to me. "Ever hear of a long-skirted girl ghost who knew how to use a chainsaw? Jesus, you and Carlos."

"Carlos?"

"Yeah, says he saw a ghost last week when he sneaked up the big house on an unauthorized break. Long hair, long skirt... uh-huh. Long drink is more like it." Del spat on the ground near my feet. "Friggin' alkies."

I looked around at the crew, most of whom were dark and small. "Which one is Carlos?"

Del gave a sharp whistle through his front teeth. "Hey, Carlos!" he bellowed. "Max here wants to talk to you." The smallest of the men shuffled over and looked at me, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. "She wants to hear about your ghost. Have fun." And Del walked away, disgusted with both of us.

Carlos's leathery face twisted as he looked at me. He was slightly taller than me, probably five-four or so, but his lousy posture put us eye-to-eye. "She was a lady," he said matter-of-factly, "long hair, big skirt, nice boobs."

"Big skirt meaning old-fashioned?"

He nodded. "Yeah, like _Gone with the Wind."_

"Hoops?"

"No, no, boobs. Big boobs, you could see."

I didn't bother explaining a hoop skirt to Carlos. "Low-cut dress?"

He smiled and licked his lips. "Yeah, nice boobies, popping out. Like bread rising." He looked at my chest and looked away, unimpressed. Well, my sports bra pretty much squashed what I had.

"Could you tell how old she was?"

"Young girl, maybe sixteen. Long curly hair. Beautiful." He exhaled a cloud of cheap whiskey fumes. Oh yeah, a real reliable source here. "I was up there at the big house, on the porch, and I see her through the window. I worry she get hurt, 'cuz the house is old and bad, so I knock on the window and call to her, hey missy, you shouldn't be in here, is dangerous. And then," he dropped his voice to a dramatic, boozy whisper and snapped his fingers, "she vanish \-- poof! \-- like that." His dark eyes widened, then softened. "But I never forget her. I bring her flowers today."

I noticed he was twisting a gold band on his left hand. "You married, Carlos?"

He looked terrified and exhaled more fumes at me. "Yeah, but you don't tell my wife. She kill me."

Well, maybe that way he could be with his sweetheart. "I won't tell, and thanks for talking to me." I backed away so I could breathe.

After I got back to the hotel, I dropped in on my buddy Bruno the Goono at the front desk to see if he had any specific instructions for me this week. As usual, I caught him napping at the check-in counter with the TV blaring soap operas in the background. I snapped it off and he woke up immediately.

"Hey, honey! Where you been?" He grabbed me across the counter and tried to plant a big wet kiss on my lips, but I was too quick for him. That wasn't hard, given his fullback build and matching IQ. "I missed my little wifey."

"Hey pal, the season's over and so's the marriage," I said. Whenever some rowdy college boys had started sniffing around me during the summer, Bruno would tell them, in the friendliest voice possible, to leave his wife alone. Those boys would take one look at beefy Bruno \-- whose dark brown hair and bulging muscles made him appear about twenty years younger than he was \-- and back away fast. "What's on my list for this week?"

I put in a good three hours that afternoon. After pulling twelve-to eighteen-hour days all summer, I didn't feel the least bit guilty. At dusk I headed back to my cabin, showered, stuffed a diet frozen dinner into my face \-- a nice fatty cheesy manicotti; Lean Cuisine my ass \-- and settled down to think over the case, while Willie Dixon pitched a _Wang Dang Doodle_ in the background.

So far all I had was some drunk cheating on his wife with a ghost. Oh yeah, and my own sighting during my inebriated prowl... which, when I factored in my mysterious abductor, may all have been a complete hallucination. Not much to go on. I slouched on the futon, pad and pencil handy, and tried to concentrate, although fending off persistent cats in search of a lap was pretty damned distracting.

With Booger settled next to me and Hairball collapsed at my feet, I asked myself the main question: who would want to sabotage Norcross, Myla, Del, and/or plans to make the Ardmore stables into a nightclub?

Myla I could understand someone wanting to sabotage. I wanted to sabotage the hell out of her myself. Gingerly I touched the puncture wounds on my arm from her fingernails and wondered if I should get a rabies shot.

Why had Norcross acted so spooked (ha-ha) about the family ghost? Did he really think the vandalism was done by something other than a real live local moron? He seemed like an intelligent man... but then again, so did Jackson, and _he_ claimed to believe in ghosts...

Try as I might, I couldn't stop thinking about the ghost so finally I just gave myself permission to go with it, get the heebie-jeebies out of my system. Looked like Jackson was having undue influence again.

Okay, if I was a rich dead fifteen-year-old who'd lived in the same place for a century and a half, I'd probably be pissed if people started tearing part of my home to pieces. And I might be a little mischievous, but like Del said, I probably wouldn't have the smarts to rev up a chainsaw and hack apart some construction work. Unless there were shop classes in the afterlife, of course.

But a pregnant fifteen-year-old... hmm. No telling what the combination of ectoplasm, pregnancy, and adolescent hormones would be capable of. Hell, I'd shot a guy's head off when I was pregnant. And now Faith had been pregnant for over a hundred and fifty years, if Carlos' insistent testimony about her big boobs was true...

God, what the hell was I thinking? Was I really taking this seriously? Or was I feeling some kind of bizarre kinship with the pregnant, misunderstood ghost that people wouldn't leave in peace?

From this, I inevitably sidled into depression. I couldn't imagine killing yourself while pregnant. Wasn't a baby something to look forward to, something to make life worth living? And right away my eyes started stinging and that familiar, dense sorrow filled my chest.

Willie Dixon was singing about this pain in his heart now. Sternly I reached over and punched the tape off, told myself to stop obsessing about Roz and Faith Ardmore, to get up and wash the dinner dishes and cut out the self-pity because it was getting old. Struggling to rise from my slump, I went to push the cat from my stomach ... but there wasn't one there.

And that's the first time I felt it.

Something was on my stomach, something warm and not too heavy. Something that clung to me, that leaned against my aching chest and nestled there.

And I immediately knew, without a doubt, what it was.

But it couldn't be ... could it?

For a moment I stayed frozen, stunned by the mysterious joy and comfort I felt. Then shock and fear and disbelief took over. I catapulted from the sofa and flew out the door, my work boots pounding the sand all the way to Skiff Neck.

It's only a couple of miles from Abneyville to Skiff Neck along the shore; if you take the road it's more like six. The wealthy owners of the seaside properties had insulated themselves from traffic noise by buying up as much land as possible and putting stilted houses as close to the shoreline as feasible. It's a beautiful walk, and in the fall it's safe. Most of the territorial summer residents fly back to New York or Boston or Florida for the winter, leaving their private beaches for us year-rounders to walk on and our dogs to crap on, happily disregarding all the "No Trespassing" and "Private Property" signs.

I arrived at the WunderBar/Wonder Bra in under fifteen minutes, only slightly out of breath. Damn, Norcross was right; those workouts were paying off. As I pushed my way through the heavy, portholed door, a burst of bluesy piano crescendoed at me \-- Jackson, his chronically messed-up hair flapping over the keyboard, was singing soulfully, "I wanna little sugar in my bowl." Damn, I knew what he meant.

A few small clusters of after-work drinkers and late-season tourists dotted the mahogany tables and the restored antique bar, where Cal mixed and poured and iced skillfully under the smoldering gaze of Marlene Dietrich in a top hat and tails. I slid onto an upholstered barstool and gave him a nervous nod.

"Why, Miss Maxwell, how good to see you," Cal gushed in his most proper Boston dowager voice. "The usual?"

"Naw, I'm okay. I just wanna..."

In the background, the ballad ended on a wistful chord and segued into a more rambunctious selection. I recognized the clunky rhythm of _I Ain't Superstitious_ before Jackson started moaning about the black cat that just crossed his trail. Good lord, what timing.

"You just want to ogle the talent, I know." Cal sighed and slid two drinks to a hovering waiter. "Time was you used to come here just to see little old me."

"Actually, that's why I'm here, so get off it."

His bushy brows darted up toward his fuzzy hairline. "My, my, I'm so honored. To what do I owe the privilege?"

"Well, it's ..." I struggled for a matter-of-fact way to bring up a totally weird topic. "It's ... kinda personal. I need you in your professional capacity, I guess."

"As a bartender?" Cal sounded amused.

"No, no, the old one... as a... whatsis, a you-know, a..."

"Therapist?" Thick forearms on the bar, he slid closer to me and looked into my eyes, astonished. "My God, Max, are you asking for help?"

My eyes dropped and, reluctantly, I nodded.

Cal exhaled in a soft whistle. "I'll be damned." He tossed his counter rag over his shoulder, picked up the phone and dialed two numbers. "Alison, darling, I'm taking a break. Come on out and woman the bar for me, there's a dear."

We chose a small comer booth, as far from the TV's and chatter and Jackson as possible. I eased my butt onto the bench and scrunched up into a comfortable position, feeling completely confused at how to start the conversation.

After an awkward silence, gallant Cal helped me out. "So why don't you tell me what's troubling you?"

Where to begin? I scowled, chewed my lip, squirmed, and destroyed a cocktail napkin before blurting, "Do you believe in ghosts?"

To my relief, Cal didn't burst out with his roof-raising cackle. Instead he cocked his huge, woolly head to one side and frowned. "Well, I really don't know. Like most humans, I love to _pretend_ I believe in them, to hear stories, give myself shivers and all that, but... do I actually believe in them? I'd say I'd have to see one to believe it." He leaned forward and took the ragged napkin from my hand. "Why? Have you seen one, Mad Max?"

I shrugged. "I maybe... felt one. Maybe saw one too. I don't know."

"Ah yes, you and Jackson were out to the Ardmore estate earlier today, right? Yes, he mentioned it to me. That place has a reputation that has more to do with the power of suggestion than the supernatural, I think. Someone probably told you the place was haunted, someone had died in the stable... and when you were there you saw-or felt-a ghost. Is that accurate?"

Sometimes Cal could be unbelievably obnoxious. "Am I going to be allowed to tell you what happened, or are you going to tell me?" He spread his thick hands graciously, so I went on. "This has nothing to do with the Ardmore estate, okay? Today... just a little while ago..." I sucked in my breath to fight down the ache in my throat, and once again I felt it: that warm, soft, insinuating pressure on my lap, against my heart.

I gasped, shivered, and looked down at my lap, my arms prepared to hold the little form closer... but my stained sweatshirt and too-big jeans were unobscured by any baby, real or surreal. Heartbroken, I touched the empty space with empty hands then looked back up at Cal.

"It's her," I whispered, barely daring to breathe.

He took a moment before responding. "Roz?"

I nodded, keeping utterly still for a moment longer, but the warmth was gone and suddenly I realized how weird that must have looked. I swallowed hard, folded my arms across my chest and tried to laugh. "So am I crazy?"

"Crazy? Hardly. Grieving? You bet." Cal grabbed my hands and tugged them across the table, squeezing tightly. "Max, darling, you pretty much had your heart ripped out and stomped on a few months ago. It sounds to me like you're experiencing a sort of haunted womb thing. Did you still feel her kick for a while after she was born?"

"Yeah, sometimes." Bizarre. I realized I was devastated by the idea that maybe my little ghost wasn't real ... but I didn't even believe in that crap, did I? My eyes misted over and I couldn't look at Cal anymore as I heard myself confess, "Sometimes I find myself pacing around the cabin holding a pillow or a book or something, and I realize I'm kinda burping it. Y'know, patting it and rubbing it like it's a baby. It's like this weird built-in mother thing, only there's nothing for me to mother."

Cal wrenched himself out from his side of the booth and squeezed onto my side, muffling me in his comforting arms. We sat like that for a while, me resting my head on his shoulder, not really crying, just feeling lost as hell. "Why'd she come, Cal?" I finally whispered. "Why'd that happen?"

"That's your mystery, my poor lost lamb. It'll take some time, but you'll find a way to resolve it and move on." He kissed the top of my head. "I know you're thinking about trying again; what's going with that?"

I sighed and straightened up, extricating myself from Cal's smothering embrace. "Another month of healing from the surgery, then the doc'll look me over and see if I'm ready." I didn't tell him I felt plenty ready right now.

"Did you talk to Jackson about this today?"

"Why?"

"He's been in kind of a mood, but only told me you two had been out to see the new club and then had coffee."

"Well ... let's just say he's not keen on the idea." Running my fingers through my hair, I slid down further on the bench and sighed. "He's right, it probably is a stupid idea."

"That smacks of self-pity," Cal chided me.

"Meanwhile, I've got myself sucked into helping Norcross and that bug-eyed niece of his to put their little club together."

Alison Shipwood walked up to the booth in time to hear me say that. "God, you too?" she moaned. Weird, because we weren't pals or anything; we were more like rivals with a grudging sort of truce.

Cal's mouth was a grim line. "Let's hope their clientele will not be ours. It's bad enough they've nabbed Jackson from us for their grand opening."

Alison was shaking her head. "That was pretty underhanded of Adam, I have to say. But I think it was Myla who got the idea in her head when she got a look at Jackson and heard him playing."

Considering Alison had almost shot me over Jackson just a few months back, she seemed pretty calm about Myla's pilfering. "You don't think he'll take the bait?"

With a rueful smile, she answered, "No, I don't think it will work out. He's a soloist, not an accompanist, and I'm willing to bet she's not as good as she wants us to believe. She always was a nasty little liar." Changing her tone, she added, "Next week's schedule, when you have a minute." She handed Cal some papers and headed back to the bar.

"You think that place will hurt your business?" I hadn't thought of that before, but the Wonder Bra was the only non-dive pub in the area.

With a shrug, Cal finished ripping apart the napkin I'd started on. "It's entirely possible. Alison is especially upset, since she's known Norcross for ages, but she thinks we should wait and see what happens. God knows things have been a bit shaky, at least with the locals, since you shot Morris Langley here. I don't know what they believe; it's almost as if they think we're contagious." Cal studied his fingernails as he added, "Frankly, my dear Max, it could kill us."
Chapter Eight

All this talking and thinking about ghosts made me arrive at the brilliant conclusion that I should check out the estate again the next night-prepared and sober this time around.

At first I considered calling Norcross and getting a key, like a sane person, but instead I decided I would attempt to break in, just to see if it was as hard as Del Withers had implied. It was entirely possible that the vandalism was the work of your basic group of townie teens looking for a place to drink, drug, and boink. Despite my own little haunting, I still wasn't convinced that ghosts existed, but I knew for a fact that stupid locals did. Hell, I'd been one of them, in the not-so-distant past.

Once I'd made up my mind, night couldn't fall fast enough for me. I dragged myself through the workday, which seemed to last forever. When dusk finally arrived I had to wait at least a couple more hours, since I knew teen parties and working class vandals would probably not strike out right at sunset but wait for the cover of night. Damned if I wasn't thinking like a P.I. . . . and I hadn't even finished the first chapter of the correspondence course yet. In fact ... well, I'd been a whole lot more diligent about researching fertility than I had about studying for my next career.

I putzed around my house, listened to Bessie Smith's _Empty Bed Blues_ as I cleaned and paced, and finally flicked the TV on and tuned into the local 24-hour cable news channel Oh goody, a story about the latest stupid thing the President had done, which the anchor tried to make sound brilliant and noble. Fat freakin' chance. No further clues in the murder in Malden; the knife-happy wife had vanished without a trace and her husband's remains were as dead as ever. Lucky for her. This week's weather was looking good, according to the National Weather Service. That explained why it felt like rain. The time was now 6:58 p.m. Late enough at last for me to get started.

All excited, I dressed in dark clothes-jeans, sweatshirt, and my work boots, since my sneakers had reflectors on them-and equipped myself with a few potentially useful tools: flashlight, screwdriver, tiny can of oil, credit card (what the hell was Northeast Bank thinking?), all of which I distributed into different pockets. I made sure my useless cats were fed and one dim light was turned on before I ventured forth on my mission. Maddie Maxwell, unlicensed Chick Dick, keeping Greater Abneyville safe from vandals.

God, would I ever grow up?

I felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house for a forbidden tryst. God knows I'd had a few of those in my day. Forcing myself to calm down and at least pretend I was an adult, I pushed open the door and slipped out.

The night was still. The ocean lay to my left like a huge puddle, whispering instead of rushing and roaring as usual. I moved cautiously under the overcast sky, feeling my way and listening for any out-of-place sound in the beach grass to my right. At one point a soft rustling startled me and I froze, breathless, aiming my flashlight beam at the sound. A possum lumbered toward me, its freakish black and white face glowing in the dim yellow glow: It hissed at me and waddled away. I hissed back and kept going.

It was getting chilly and felt more like rain than ever. Maybe even snow, which usually didn't hit these parts till December. The wind picked up off the water as the darkness grew, and I shrunk inside my sweats. On one side, gentle waves whispered secrets to the beach; on the other, silky dune grass swished. My sneakers scrunched on the hard-packed, moist sand.

Wait a minute-was all the scrunching coming from my feet, or ...

I stopped without warning, straining my ears. A split second after I stopped, I heard a scrunch a few feet behind me, closer to the road ... then it stopped too.

I squatted down, pretending I had spotted a treasure in the sand, my radar attuned to the rear. Nothing. Casually I stood and strolled a little further, still trying to distinguish the sound I thought I'd heard from the noise of the surf and vegetation. Now and then I thought I heard it again, but the sound was elusive ... could have been my imagination...

Again I looked up at the mansion, which looked creepier than ever in the muted light of the three-quarter moon. No light shone from the windows, which looked like sunken eyes. Hm, P.I.s were supposed to be cold and logical, not given to nervous fantasies. I scowled and continued to the foot of the cliff, pausing to look around before taking my flashlight out again and training its beam along the ground.

After a few minutes I located the steep path up to the estate and laboriously scaled my way up. The soft sand shifted under my feet and I was glad I'd worn my work boots, with their deep tread. I was puffing and my ass muscles ached, but I was almost at the top when I heard a sound below me ... a sound like heavy breathing. Like someone out of shape, having trouble climbing up the hill after me.

I turned so suddenly on the steep path that of course I lost my footing. Mad scrambling didn't save me this time either; I tumbled downhill a whole lot faster than I'd ascended, and on the way I banged into an obstacle that hadn't been there on the way up.

It was a pair of legs. Their owner gave a surprised "Oof!" as my impact unbalanced him. The two of us finished the descent together, landing in an intimate heap in the sand. At least I was on top, and I intended to stay that way.

"SHIT!" I screamed at him as soon as I'd caught my breath. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" So much for working undercover.

He didn't answer, probably because he too busy trying to breathe. I groped for my flashlight but I must have lost it in the fall, so I squinted at the large, dark figure gasping beneath me on the beach. He made a move as if to stand, but I shifted quickly and sat on his legs. "You're not getting away, buddy, so don't even think about it," I snarled.

A heavy sigh, and the shadow flopped onto his back, wheezing. "Oh for God's sake," a breathless, weary voice observed, "I suck at this."

"At what?" I demanded. My God, he was tall; his voice sounded about a mile away from his knees ... but he certainly gave in easily enough, even to a midget like me. "Were you following me?"

"I think I'm injured," he gasped. "Could you get up, please?"

"Oh yeah? What hurts?" I responded unsympathetically.

"My entire body, for starters." The wheezing intensified. "Then there's my dignity ... but actually, I really ... need my inhaler."

"Your what?"

"In ... haler ..." he huffed. "Asthma ..."

I didn't want to let him up; I didn't trust him. "Where is it?" He gestured and moved under me. Something hard was poking me in the crotch, and I had the insane urge to ask if he had an inhaler in his pocket or was he happy to see me. Instead, I shifted slightly and poked the protuberance. "That it?"

"Yes ... huh ... hurry ..."

Assuming an incredibly awkward position, I crammed my hand deep into his pocket, felt around, pulled out the inhaler and handed it to him. "Hope you didn't enjoy that too much," I sneered.

He puffed and inhaled, then relaxed a bit. His breath still made a funny sort of squeaky hooting. "Was it good for you?" he asked in a flat voice.

"I've had better." Why the hell was I bantering with this bozo?

"Well, I'm done, you can let me up now."

"I'll let you up if you tell me why you're following me." I scooched my butt up further until I was straddling his groin. "And if you don't, you're going to hurt a lot worse."

Between my legs his body shook. At first I thought he was having another attack, then I realized he was laughing softly. "Woof," he said, "I love a tough cookie."

It pisses me off to not be taken seriously, even if I am kind of a spazz. "Hey, screw you, dickweed," I snapped. "You wanna see how tough I can be?"

"Ooh baby," he taunted, "why don't you show me?"

Something glinted up around where his head would be ... glasses? I reached forward to grab them and suddenly two enormous hands seized my wrists. Seconds later I was on my back and he was straddling me -- and damn, he was even bigger than I'd thought. He pinned my arms into the sand, pushed his face against mine ... yep, glasses, but that was all I could make out, except he'd had dinner recently and pastrami had been involved.

"Now I think you're going to tell me a few things," he whispered. "Like what you're doing sneaking up there at night." He pressed one huge hand against my chest and felt my pockets with the other, quickly finding the screwdriver and holding it in front of my face. "What's this for?"

"Screwing, you moron," I answered childishly. "And you could really use a breath mint."

"What exactly were you planning on screwing -- or unscrewing?" He pocketed the tool and held me down with both hands again as I struggled in vain against his weight. "You were on your way up to the Ardmore estate with a screwdriver. Sounds to me like someone up to no good. Know anything about the vandalism that's been going on up there?"

"Yeah, jerkwater, I know about it. I'm trying to find out who's doing it." Oops, probably shouldn't have let that slip, but it did sound damned fishy the way he put it ... and I really didn't want to get hauled to the police station on suspicion.

At least the answer threw him. "What? Why?" He sounded baffled.

I wriggled around just to make him uncomfortable, like a very small bucking bronco under a very large cowboy. "Because I work for the owner, okay? He asked me to check it out. Would you please get off me now?"

"What owner?"

I felt smug as I pronounced the powerful name. "Adam Norcross, you loser."

He released my arms and sat back, but remained on top of me. "Adam Norcross? He asked you to check the place out?"

"Yeah, you think I'd be doing this otherwise?" With a tremendous effort I yanked my legs out from under him and sat up myself. "I could ask you the same questions, you know. What the hell are you doing out here? Why were you following me?" A bell went off in my head. "Did you follow me Saturday night, too, during that party?" Was this my Creature from the Black Lagoon?

"Wait a minute." He was still caught up in his original question. "Norcross hired you to check out the vandalism at the Ardmore place?"

"Yeah, he did. Go ahead and ask him if you don't believe me." I brushed damp sand from my pants as I stood. "I'm the groundskeeper at the resort over there, so it kinda goes with the job. My name's Maddie Maxwell."

"I know who you are." My follower rose awkwardly and loomed above me in the dark. "Norcross hired me to check you out."

Chapter Nine

"You're kidding me. Why the hell would he do that?" I finished brushing the sand off my ass and turned my attention back to the big guy.

Before he could answer, our attention was diverted by an odd choking sound above our heads. "Shh," he hissed, pulling closer to the cliff and gazing up toward the mansion.

Not wanting to be left out, I huddled next to him and cocked my ears upwards. There it was again ... a dry sob, hollow and emotionless, like someone who'd been crying so long they'd forgotten why. Faith Ardmore? Goosebumps rippled down my arms and I shivered in the salty breeze. The sound came from the ledge of the cliff closest to the water; my nameless companion and I edged carefully toward the surf. Again came the sob, followed by the sound of something hitting the water that was lapping the sand right next to my feet.

Instinctively I reached down and grabbed it. As I did, something that felt like a bundle of twigs hit me in the back of the head and stuck. "Hey," I snapped, turning on the Invisible Man.

"Shh," he repeated, plucking whatever it was off my back. We both held our breath and waited, but the sobbing was gone. "Come on, let's get away from here." We sidled back up the beach toward the grass near the road and its streetlights, away from the mansion. He snapped a flashlight on. "This is what hit you."

A bouquet of faded, crunchy roses was thrust toward me. "FTD delivers at night?" I asked, puzzled as hell

My new buddy, or whatever he was, shone his flashlight on my face, then my hands, which still clutched the surprise package. "What did you get?" He sounded like a kid at Christmas. I examined the ragged object. It was oddly shaped, wrapped in a dirty cloth, and had a pretty nasty smell. "Unwrap it," he urged me, and I fumbled for an end.

Quickly I unwound the cloth-which appeared to be an old shirt-and blinked, dismayed, at the incredibly stinky, disgusting thing I'd revealed. "Is that what I think it is?"

My partner exhaled tensely and the flashlight beam trembled a little. "Holy shit."

It was a human hand.

Or rather, it used to be a hand. It was more than a little decayed, and it smelled God-awful.

"What the fuck," I huffed. "What the hell is this about?" Then the realization hit fully and I dropped the thing on the ground, grossed out beyond belief.

"Shit. Oh, shit." My new pal's voice sounded faint and his wheezing started up again.

"Are you gonna launch?" I asked him. "Cuz if you are, please move away." I feverishly hoped I didn't throw up myself after being so bitchy about it. Obligingly he moved and took a few deep breaths away from the moldy hand, then fumbled in his pocket. We were near the streetlights now, near enough that I could get a look at this guy. It beat the hell out of looking at the hand.

He was slumped over slightly, sucking on a little metal object and struggling for self-control. Approaching middle age, he had graying hair that managed to look rumpled despite its shortness, a matching moustache in bad need of a trim, somewhat bent wire-rimmed glasses, and a tall, substantial body not quite out of shape but heading that way. He seemed familiar, but I couldn't imagine where I might have seen him before. From what I could make out, he was the type that would blend into the background despite his size ... someone I might have seen a million times but who had never registered with my brain.

"You okay?" I asked in a nicer tone, and he nodded, swallowing hard. "I live right over there ... oh yeah, I guess you knew that." He managed a weak smile. "Look, we should do something about this ... I guess." I looked back down at the hand and winced. "Should I leave it there or pick it up?"

He sat down abruptly on a dune and put his head between his knees.

"Oh, you're a lot of help," I muttered, crabby again. After a moment's deliberation I yanked off my sweatshirt and threw it over the hand. Holding my breath, I bundled it up, then set it on the ground and stepped back. My tank top was grossly inadequate protection against the October chill and my nipples responded to the cold in their usual way. "Okay, I'm freezing my ass off, but the evidence is secured," I said in my most annoying voice. "It's safe to look."

He looked up at me, abashed and uncomfortable. "Sorry," he finally said. "It's just ... I'm not good with stuff like that."

"Oh, yeah, and I'm an expert." I couldn't help but rub it in a bit.

"You've seen more of it than I have. At least since your escapades last spring." He heaved himself to his feet and shuddered when he looked at the rolled-up sweatshirt on the ground in front of me. "My name's Walt, by the way. Walt Drucker?" The way he offered his name seemed to imply I should recognize it, but I didn't.

"Hey Walt, I'm Max."

"Um, yeah, I know." A mild, humorous smile appeared under his unevenly trimmed moustache and he looked younger than I'd thought; that, or the amber streetlight was flattering. He was actually pretty nice-looking, in a nerdy, frumpy, harassed sort of way. Despite the bizarre circumstances, I felt a nice warm tingle of attraction zing between us. Hmm ...

Whoa, back to reality. I realized I was holding my hands away from my body, and remembered why. "I'd shake hands, but I think I better boil 'em first."

Walt grimaced. "Good idea. Guess we should get to your cabin and call the cops, huh?"

I had to think about that one. The local police chief, Rolly Yergins, had never liked my family much; my father, the town's most notorious drunk and prankster, had kept him way too busy, and when Dad died, my brother Junie took over where he'd left off. Since they were both dead and I'd pissed off Yergins by solving his case for him earlier that year, I was the Maxwell-non-grata now.

My shivering accelerated. "Look, uh ... well, let's just go to my place and talk. I wanna know more about what's going on here, and I'm freezing."

We hustled along the shore road to my cabin, me holding the nauseating bundle of sweatshirt and human remains as far from my body as possible, Walt huffing behind me as he tried to keep up. "Man, I'm out of shape," he moaned, which made me feel even smugger.

After a bit of argument, we left the package on my front stoop; I didn't want that thing in my house, didn't want my cats near it. In fact, I didn't want to put my own hands on anything until I'd washed. Walt opened the doors and even turned on the shower for me, although his head almost scraped my ceiling and he had to stoop like Groucho Marx to get into my closet of a bathroom.

The scalding water pounded down and I scrubbed myself like a true obsessive-compulsive -- even parts that hadn't been near the hand, which was most of me. When the water ran cool I realized it was time to stop. I threw my discarded clothes and the bath scrunchie into a plastic bag and tied it up, grabbed my threadbare, grayish white terrycloth robe off the back of the door and returned to my miniscule living area.

Walt had squeezed himself into the breakfast nook and was staring moodily out the window. My fertility books were still piled where I'd left them; I wondered if he'd looked them over or seen the BBT chart on the fridge. If so, he had even more to report to Norcross, the bastard.

He turned to look at me. "This cabin is kind of nice, actually."

"Yeah, I know." A few feet away from him I made coffee preparations. "Want some?"

He shook his head. "I think my nerves are rattled enough, thanks." With a rueful sigh, he took off his glasses and polished them on an untucked tail of his brown plaid shirt -- and there, out of nowhere, was the most gorgeous pair of deep blue eyes I'd ever seen. I'm a sucker for eyes, and these were not only a stunning shade, but had a world-weary, woebegone quality that whacked me in the solar plexus. The soles of my feet tingled when he flashed me a sad little smile ... then he put his glasses back on, muting those vivid pupils with the scratched lenses in his battered wire frames. Damn, a hot nerd -- was that possible? He was talking again. "Unless it's decaf."

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, I don't do decaf. I mean, what's the point?" Suppressing my overactive sperm radar, I shut the lid of the coffee maker and snapped the switch to on, then moved around the counter and sat on the bench opposite Walt. His legs took up all the space under the table, so I swung mine up sideways and leaned my back against the wall. "Okay, now tell me about Norcross hiring you to spy on me."

Walt glanced at my chest and his ears turned red. My robe was gaping open a little bit, but it's not like I was flashing a nipple or anything. I gave him a dirty look. He raised his eyes to my face and asked, "So? Shouldn't we be calling the cops?"

"Well, I don't have such a great relationship with those guys."

A little smirk bristled his moustache. "Yeah, I know."

My fist banged the table and Walt jumped. "Tell me what the hell Norcross wanted. Did he tell you why he hired you, or did he just say 'Follow that broad'?"

Arms across his chest, Walt sat up straight and glared at me. "I don't feel I owe you an explanation, I was just doing my job."

"So the moron hired me to investigate the vandalism, and hired you to investigate me? That's just plain stupid. Do you work for him too?"

"Occasionally, on a case-by-case basis. I'm a P.I." With another, bigger smirk, he added, "A _licensed_ P.I."

"Oh yeah? Can I see your license?" He almost knocked over the table as he reached into his rear pocket and pulled out a weathered wallet from which he extracted a battered laminated card. I examined it with interest and more than a little envy, and gave up my attitude on the spot. "Wow. Okay, cool." I slid it back to him across the filthy table. "But why would he hire a licensed P.I. to trail a rookie, and hire the rookie to do a serious investigation?"

His brow furrowed as he stuffed the card back into his wallet. "We're sort of forgetting the real issue here, which is that there's a disembodied hand on your front stoop."

The coffeemaker snorted to a stop. I slid from the bench and poured myself a mug, wandered to the door, eased it open, and checked the bundled-up sweatshirt on the step. Then I looked again. "Uh ... Walt?"

"Yeah."

"Did you mess with the hand while I was in the shower?"

"Hardly." I was willing to believe that, given his previous reaction. He suddenly realized what I'd asked. "Why?"

Frowning, I crouched down on the step next to the sweatshirt and peered closely, reluctant to touch it. "Did you hear anything?" Walt loomed behind me in the doorway. I yanked a twig from the bedraggled forsythia next to the step and poked the sweatshirt, then wedged the twig under it and lifted it up. Nothing fell out. "Oh crap." I looked up at Walt, whose mouth was hanging open. "You didn't take it, did you?"

"Good God, no." Walt flicked on the outside light, crouched down next to me and looked around the step carefully. "Dog?"

"A dog would've taken the whole thing, don't you think?" I wondered how hard it was for him not to say _I told you so_ \-- he was the one who'd wanted to put it in my fridge, but I'd refused. Anyway, it was sweet of him to hold back.

I settled onto my haunches -- after checking under me. Come to think of it, I was barefoot and naked except for my tatty robe. "God damn it. This is unbelievable. What a frickin' team we are."

Walt's lenses flashed at me. "You were in that shower an awfully long time. You didn't just nip out here and grab it, did you?"

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"So we wouldn't have to call the cops. You really didn't seem to want them involved."

I snorted. "Go look at the bathroom and tell me how I managed to get out of there, first."

Walt groaned to his feet and strode \-- about two strides for him -- to the miniscule bathroom and ducked his head in. The only window was a tiny afterthought my cats couldn't get even through. "I see your point," he deadpanned.

"Gee, thanks." Behind him, I pulled my unruly robe closer around me and cinched it. "So ... now what?"

He shrugged, defeated. "Now nothing, I guess. No evidence."

"Wouldn't there be, like, you know ... stuff on the sweatshirt? Like DNA or something?"

Walt went back to staring out the window in the breakfast nook, watching the moonlight on the waves. "Now I'm starting to wonder about this whole spy versus spy thing. You're right; it's bizarre."

Clutching my coffee mug, I plopped onto the futon couch that also served as my bed. "So fill me in. Might as well, now."

He pondered this, cleared his throat and lowered himself onto the bench again. "Well, a few months back I got a call from Norcross's New York office, asking me to do a background check on you. Routine stuff for an employer, as you probably know, although you were already working here so it was a bit after the fact. Anyway, nothing unusual for someone in Norcross's position."

For such a big guy, Walt had an incredibly soft, gentle voice ... kinda went with the whole world-weary thing. It was a little too appealing, given my crappy romantic history and my current heartache over Jackson. Rebound had gotten me into trouble more than once in my life. I forced my mind back to practical matters. "Yeah, okay, I can buy that. But a routine background check doesn't take months." Walt studied my cheesy braided rug and nodded agreement. My coffee tasted like crap. I set it on the battered end table and peered suspiciously into his glasses. "So why are you still at it?"

"Well." Walt sighed and pushed a big hand through his rumpled hair. "I sent my report to his New York office after about a week. That was back in June. To be quite honest, I thought he'd let you go. I mean, no offense, but you don't exactly have a glowing reputation around here."

This was not news to me. "So you told him about the teenage shoplifting, the drinking, the court case when I was a kid ..."

Walt glanced up at me over the wire frames; those penetrating blue eyes were guarded as he said, "Yeah, he knows about all that stuff, and about your teaching record, your affairs with married men, your current association with an ex-con ..."

"What? I haven't seen Jackson since ..." Oh yeah, yesterday. Then realization smacked me upside the head. "You mean you've been spying on me _here?"_ Walt blushed deeply this time. "Jesus CHRIST," I barked, jumping to my feet so indignantly my robe practically fell off. Furious, I tugged it shut. "What the hell does he want to know, exactly? What is he, some kind of vicarious peeping Tom?"

Walt's hands flew up protectively. "Hey, I was just doing my job," he huffed in an injured tone. "I didn't hear back for a while after I gave him my initial report, then about a week ago his office called and asked me to tail you, see where you went at night, stuff like that. I was told to find out everything I could about your current activities. So that's what I've been doing." He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and exhaled so hard I could feel it on my bare legs. "I think we should try to find out what happened to that hand, don't you?"

"What, now?" I didn't want to go out there again, that was for sure.

Walt sighed again. "We can't really report it unless we have it in hand." He grimaced at the unintentional pun and continued. "Okay, well, it came from the mansion, so I'm guessing whoever tossed it may have followed us here and taken it back ... or thrown it in the ocean to stay." Walt rose and stretched awkwardly, narrowly missing my overhead light. "So why don't you, um, put some clothes on and we'll go check it out?" I could swear he blushed as he said this, but his mouth remained a sarcastic line and his eyes were unreadable behind the lenses.

I shook my head. "I don't think there's much point in looking now. I mean, for one thing, whoever took it is going to be on their guard, and for another thing ... well, it's dark and it's starting to rain, I think."

"Yeah, I guess." Walt stood there for a moment, hands in his pockets. "So do you want to meet up tomorrow and put our heads together?"

"What are you saying? We're a team now?"

"I guess." He looked at me quizzically. "It kind of makes sense, don't you think?"

It did, in a way, but I didn't want to admit it. "Well, I'm really going to have to give it some thought. This is getting pretty damn bizarre."

"Agreed." Walt quirked his mouth and shrugged. "I'll be in touch, then." I nodded and shrugged back, and he turned to open the door.

"Yeah, well, don't peek through the window, huh?" I snapped.

"Okay, and don't you go back to that mansion without me." He shot me a parting smirk, and bashed his head against the doorframe on the way out.
Chapter Ten

Needless to say, I didn't sleep too well that night. My futon wasn't the most comfortable surface in the world to begin with; combine that with two spastic cats, tiny ghosts that sat on my lap, a hot admirer with cold feet, a wandering disembodied hand, and a giant nerd spying on me for a couple of months. It all added up to me on hyper-alert, listening to every little sound.

Around 3:30 a.m. I almost launched myself out of bed before I took my basal body temperature. You're supposed to do it first thing, before you move too much, to get an accurate reading. It was still low. I wondered if I was ever going to lay an egg this month, and if I did, if I'd find someone to fertilize it.

After that I got up and made coffee \-- probably the last thing I needed -- then seated myself at the table and scoured my how-to-get-pregnant-on-purpose-this-time manuals. The mere act of reading about pregnancy, looking at pictures and thinking about timetables, flooded me with memories of my own brief pregnancy. It was funny, how something that I lived with for only a few months had made such an impact on me, had changed me forever. I felt my heart break as I remembered tiny Rosalind, three months premature, lying quietly in my arms as I said good-bye to her. The familiar grief seared my veins, weighted my arms...

... and once again I felt her nestling against my chest, the way she should have been, the way it was meant to be.

This time I didn't run away. I sat perfectly still, feeling her warmth against me, straining to hear her breathe. When I closed my eyes so I could concentrate better, tears gushed down my face and dripped onto my lap. After a few moments, the sensation faded and I knew I was alone again.

Okay, enough with the self-indulgence. With a deep, ragged breath I pushed the books away from me and forced myself to concentrate on my first case, which had gotten pretty damned interesting.

Forget the ghosts, think about flesh-and-blood motives. Who would vandalize a new nightclub? Who would find this threatening? The immediate answer was my friend Cal, who felt his own club was in danger. But Cal was a big teddy bear with a genial philosophy, and frankly, he was even less likely than a 15-year-old ghost to go around wielding a chainsaw and moving power tools at night. A pregnant teenager could probably kick Cal's butt.

What about his partner, the ever-snooty Alison Shipwood? I'd always considered her a pretty cool customer until she'd proven otherwise last spring, when she'd been obsessed to the point of insanity with Jackson. For all I knew, she still was, which would provide definite grounds for her wanting to sabotage Myla's enterprise. And here was her old neighbor Adam Norcross coolly enticing Jackson away from her with promises of bigger money and a richer clientele. I should find out if Alison had upped her ante at all ... if I could get Jackson to speak to me. Lord.

And what the hell did the severed hand have to do with any of this? Was it just some kind of bizarre coincidence that someone was flinging body parts off that cliff in the middle of the night, or was it somehow connected to the vandalism? Whose hand was it, anyway? Punchy from nerves and lack of sleep, I imagined putting out an APB: "Large hand, somewhat decomposed, hair on knuckles. Anyone having seen a hand fitting this description ..."

I knew I couldn't leave my blue-collar friends out of the lineup either. Glancing at the clock, I realized that they'd be congregating for their ritual high cholesterol pre-work breakfast at Daisy's Herb's Diner in about an hour. Perfect. I'd do a little more work, then set off to do some detecting.

Six o'clock found me scribbling out the twenty-second draft of a personal ad ... not for the hand, but for a potential father. I was sick to death of writing it; it kept coming out like some pathetic whiney woman instead of me. Wah-wah, poor me, I want to get pregnant and I'm getting old. No matter how I approached it, I sounded nuts -- maybe because the whole idea was nuts. In the books, the women used as examples all were either married or had some friend who was willing to donate the sperm and be all supportive and stuff. Me, I had Cal, married to Arthur, both of whom hated children ... and a gazillion ex-lovers of varied marital status, most of whom hated my guts. Oh yeah, and Jackson, who was just plain not interested.

And, as of last night, maybe Walt...

Around 6:20 a.m. I dragged myself from my efforts, wriggled the kinks out of my rapidly aging body and fed the cats. I might as well give up on this thing for now; after all, I had an investigation to pursue. Oh yeah, and I'd better make sure Walt wasn't tailing me. With an irritable sigh I yanked the least smelly clothes out of my overflowing laundry basket, grabbed the motel van and headed straight for Daisy's Herb's Diner and my oldest buddies.

Not even the clean autumn sunshine and the full-blast boogie of Muddy Waters singing about his fully functional mojo could lighten my mood. Maybe I should just get my busted mojo lopped off and have done with it.

With that bitter thought, I screeched into a metered parking space on Hawk Marsh's main drag and ripped the van's parking brake upright. Muddy lapsed into silence as I turned off the motor. After a few moments of desolately staring at a crack in the dash, I summoned enough energy to open the van door and get out.

Damn, Main Street had changed even since I'd been there a few weeks ago. The old "Antique Mart -- a sort of indoor year-round flea market -- had a fancy new facade, and proclaimed itself "The Marshview Emporium" in a candy-ass font. The bowling alley next door looked seedier than ever by comparison; on the other side, the movie theater's battered marquee read "Now showing: CLOSED." Thank God the "Daisy's" over the "Herb's Diner" sign remained where I'd anchored it a couple of years back.

The guys were all there having their caffeine-and-cholesterol injection. They shouted _en masse_ as I came through the glass door, "Hey, hey, willya look what the cat dragged in!"

"Nah, the cat flat out rejected me," I responded, squeezing through the narrow, muddy aisle and collapsing onto one of the precarious stools at the greasy counter. "Hey, Daisy, get me some coffee before I croak." The eternally wilted Daisy gave me a sweet, faded smile and a cup of her fabulous Joe.

"How's life at the Shores now that the season's over?" Rusty Burnside asked. "Are you ready to do a Jack Nicholson yet?" He mugged wildly. "Gimme the bat, Wendy, gimme the bat ..."

"Hey, Max," Sal Avelino chimed in, "if you're looking for some pick-up work, let me know. We could always use another good man."

I took a sip of Daisy's fabulous brew and gave her a grateful wink. "Thanks, but I'm trying out a new career." When I told them I was working on my P.I. license, raspberries and groans broke out all over the tiny room.

"Shit, so my wife could hire you to tail me, find out where I go Thursday nights?" Sal wailed.

I winced and changed the subject. "So what's the scoop here? What the hell happened to the antique mart?"

"What happened? You mean you don't know?" Rusty bristled in a tone of vast astonishment.

"Sorry, guys, I've had my head up my ass since last spring." It took them a second to remember, then they all looked into their coffee mugs in a rare moment of silence.

"God, Max, sorry about your baby," Sal blurted, and the rest mumbled sorrowfully.

My eyes felt stingy. "Hey, shit like that happens." I gulped more coffee to soothe the ache in my throat. "Thanks for cleaning out my house and all. I really couldn't face it." I'd sold my little fixer-upper after losing Roz, and the guys had all pitched in gratis to prepare it for the new owners. Another swallow of coffee and I was able to say, "So fill me in on the flea market."

Tangible relief filled the stuffy diner; the guys delved into the more comfortable topic with gusto. "You wanna know what's happening? Your frickin' boss, that's what's happening," Rusty growled.

"Yeah," my old mentor and surrogate dad, Archy Kopp, snarled. "If I was you I'd get away from that greedy bastard before he owns your soul." Rusty, who usually battled Archy for curmudgeon supremacy, grunted bitter agreement and polished his plate with a piece of toast.

I pondered my empty mug, which Daisy promptly refilled. "You mean Adam Norcross? Is he involved in all this development?"

"Involved?" Rusty snapped. "He's the goddamn force behind everything going on around here." The guys nodded moody agreement. "Bastard. Doesn't want regular stores messing up his hoity-toity neighborhood, so he's buying out everyone around here and putting in shit only he can afford."

"Yeah, what's with this emperororium crap? What the hell's that, some place only an emperor can shop?" Archy sloshed his coffee as he banged the mug down; Daisy winced and wiped the worn counter for the gazillionth time.

Wow, okay, guess there was plenty of animosity against Norcross just in this little diner. I frowned at the idea that one of my old friends might be involved in vandalism, but it wouldn't surprise me. "How about this nightclub they're building out there? You guys hear anything about that?"

"Goddamn rich people don't have anything better to do with their time," Rusty spat, "so they waste their money on bullshit like that."

"Hell, Del got some good work out of it," Sal said defensively. "And my wife was thinking about trying for a waitress job there, so at least she'll be outta my hair a few nights."

"Jesus, Sal, how long've you been married?" I asked.

"Too damn long," he sighed. "Couple years now." More proof that my lone-wolf existence was a good choice. Sal nudged me, almost spilling my coffee. "When you gonna get hitched, huh?"

"Never," I snorted. "All I ever hear from married people is misery about being stuck. I don't get why everyone's so damned eager to get there when it's got such a bad rep." Daisy waited meekly behind the donut display, pad and pen in hand, probably trying not to think of her own thirty-plus years of marriage to the crabbiest man on the planet. Wondering if she was secretly grateful he'd died, I ordered a number two over light and swiveled back toward the booths. "So did Del tell you guys about the vandalism?"

Rusty licked his spoon and gave a knowing chuckle. "You mean the ghost?"

"Whatever. Any idea what that's about?"

"Always heard that place was haunted, but ... I don't know what's going on up there. I don't think a ghost would've done what Del talked about. Maybe someone who hates those rich bastards as much as I do."

I studied the red-faced, elderly Rusty, wondering if he'd been up to The Stables at night wielding a chainsaw. Then Archy chimed in, "Norcross owns Skiff Neck and Abneyville, and now he's trying to take over Hawk Marsh. Son of a bitch. Wants to drive us hardworking folks out. He's got grand plans, that one. You watch out for him, Max. Don't let him brainwash you." Hmm, could a posse of vigilante geezers be at the bottom of the vandalism?

Rusty sucked down more coffee, like he needed it. "Just ask Daisy here; he's trying to buy her out, isn't that right?"

Meek little Daisy nodded, wringing a grimy dishtowel with her arthritic hands. "It's a lot of money, Max," she whispered. "Enough so's I could pay things off here, move down to Florida and be near my grandkids."

I looked at Daisy's papery skin and sad, watery eyes. She hadn't been the same since her late husband Herb died of a really bad mood a couple of years back. Being with her family would be the best thing for her, but money was always tight. "Then you ought to take it," I said softly.

"WHAT!" Rusty bellowed, slamming a fist on the counter. Silverware and coffee cups jumped and trembled. "What the hell are you saying, Max?"

Daisy looked fearfully at Rusty's purple face, then back at me, shaking her head. "It wouldn't be right. Rusty says it would give him a foothold and tear the whole town apart." Her thin lips trembled and she turned away hurriedly to rinse out her rag.

"Yeah, good one, Rusty," I razzed. "One tiny little hole-in-the-wall diner changes hands and the whole damn town will go to Norcross. Why don't you let Daisy make her own decisions?"

Sal was nonplussed. "But where would we go for breakfast?"

I couldn't believe the pigheaded male selfishness. "Maybe if you guys apologized real nice, IHOP would let you back in. Meantime, Daisy should be with her family, don't you think?"

My suggestion fell into a stone-cold silence, and my oldest friends turned their backs on me.

Chapter Eleven

By the time I got back to the resort, I was so depressed I just wanted to hole up in my tiny bungalow, dissect Oreos and watch trash TV. Instead I made myself walk up to the Ardmore estate and see what was going on at The Stables.

To my disgust, the first thing I saw was Myla's silver Jaguar parked as close to the building as she could get it. God forbid she should have to walk, especially in the fuck-me shoes she was wearing as she held court on the patio, leaning over a blueprint that she'd spread out on a sawhorse. Del Withers and a couple of his foremen flanked her, trying like hell to concentrate on Myla's blueprint but clearly far more interested in her skintight black leather pants and mostly unbuttoned blouse. Her chestnut hair swung sexily over her shoulder as she stabbed at the paper with blood-colored talons.

As I neared the drooling cluster, Myla straightened up and thrust her tits toward Del. "So what do you think? Is that workable?" she asked in a forced-husky tone that reminded me of Kathleen Turner in _Body Heat._ Turner hadn't convinced me either, but she'd convinced a whole shitload of other people . . . and obviously so had Miss Myla.

"Sure thing," Del breathed, and his buddies nodded agreement and licked their lips. "Anything you want. I mean, as long as your uncle approves ..."

"Of course he does," she scoffed. "He'd better."

The men laughed and murmured approval. I guess it's fine to be a ball-busting bitch as long as you have great tits. "Hi guys," I called out.

It took them a moment to shake off Myla's spell and notice me. Myla started to snarl but managed to sing out in a sugarcoated tone, "Max! Oh good, I have to talk to you." She waggled to the door and waited for me to follow her. The men all stared after her.

"In a minute; I have to talk to Del for a sec."

Everyone including Myla seemed shocked that I could resist her. "Oh, indeed? About what?" she inquired acidly. As if I had no right to talk to anyone after she did...

"A mutual friend," I lied in a mock-friendly voice. "I'll be right in, okay?"

After a pause, Myla gave me her widest Chihuahua grin and went inside. Del and his foremen exhaled in a unison whistle. "Damn those pants," one of them muttered.

I silently damned their wearer and turned to Del as he ordered the men back to work. "So how's it going? Any more vandalism?" I asked.

Del hauled his brains out of his jockeys, for what that was worth. "Oh. Uh, yeah ... a couple tools had been moved around when we came in this morning ... and actually ... well, something kinda nasty about Myla on one of the walls. "

"What? You mean graffiti or something?"

"Yeah. We painted it over right away, didn't want her to see it. Good thing, 'cuz she showed up early."

"How gallant of you," I said dryly. "Can you tell me what it said?"

Del looked uncomfortable. "Sounded like a jealous woman, calling her the C-word and saying stay away from some guy."

God, of all the times for Del to go demure on me. "So it said 'Myla, you cunt, stay away from my man'? Something like that?"

"Close; just _stay away from him."_ Then he frowned and asked, "Why?"

Whoops, almost tipped my hand there. "Uh ... just curious. I have to make time in my schedule to deal with the sound system and lighting crap, wanted to know if it was going to be delayed or if I better get my ass in gear."

"Oh. Yeah. I'd say you could get started early next week, but check back with me Friday." He glanced back toward the door Myla had gone through, clearly longing to follow her. "So what's this about a mutual friend?"

"Oh yeah. I went to Daisy's to have breakfast with the guys this morning and got an earful from Rusty and Arch about Norcross, wondered if they'd been giving you any crap about this job."

Del shrugged a bit guiltily. "Yeah, Rusty's been screaming about Norcross ever since he fixed up the old flea market. Told me I shouldn't take his money, but hell, this is a big job and we all gotta eat." Looking at his watch so quickly there was no way he caught the time, he said, "I gotta get back inside."

"Yeah, sorry to keep you from Myla's cleavage for so long." Del gave me a dirty look and led the way into The Stables.

Myla, hovering like a vulture, attacked me as soon as I got through the door. "Come over here," she commanded, once again digging her fingers into my arm and dragging me to a corner. "Have you seen Jackson lately?" she demanded with bug-eyed concern.

"Uh-no, not since our meeting." I didn't bother to mention last night at the Wonder Bra; it didn't count anyway, since we hadn't talked.

"He was supposed to meet me here last night -- you know, to go over a few things -- but he never showed." The eerie green eyes bored into me as if demanding an apology.

I shrugged. "I don't know what that has to do with me."

"Oh. Well. I thought you two -- well, whatever, I just wondered. He was so definite about being here ... I mean, he seemed very excited about it." Her eyes were still drilling into mine, looking for some kind of explanation ... or some kind of reaction.

_Myla, you cunt, stay away from him ._ .. ? I forced myself to stay neutral. "Hmm. What time was he supposed to meet you?"

"Elevenish, after he was done at the WunderBar."

"Maybe he got busy, or forgot."

She answered with a sharp, conceited laugh. "Oh, I doubt that he'd forget. I thought perhaps he'd gotten distracted or something." Her implication was clear: his jealous wanna-be girlfriend had stopped him.

I'm sure my resentment blared through as I said, "I really have no idea. I guess you'd have to ask him."

"Oh, I will," she promised. "And you and I should have lunch sometime soon."

God, I'd sooner stick needles in my eyes, I thought, but said, "Yeah, sure" as I eased my arm from her grasping claws.

Even more depressed and disgusted than I had been earlier, I wandered from the sawdusty interior of The Stables out to the clean, moody fall morning. The ground was still damp from last night's mild rainfall; the air was fresh and smelled of earth. I started up the twisted dirt path toward the mansion. I hadn't been there yet during the day and this seemed like a good chance to scope it out. If anyone spotted me, I could say I'd wanted to see the view from the cliff. But before I'd gone more than a few yards, a low moan from the tangled shrubbery froze me in my path.

Heart hammering, I waited for the sound to come again. When it did, I was horrified to hear it pronounce my first name ... in a raspy, sepulchral tone. The hell? What was this, the Ghost of Halloween Yet to Come?

"Maddie," it repeated, and I recognized the voice this time. Relieved, I looked around for Jackson, but saw no one. "Nope, down here." Bushes rattled about a foot from my boots, and I spotted Jackson leaning against a twisted tree trunk, looking even seedier than usual.

I pushed through the briars and knelt next to him. "God, what the hell happened to you?"

Jackson shook his head. "Wish I knew." He winced and rubbed the back of his head as if puzzled. "I think maybe I have a concussion. I don't even know how long I been here."

"Were you drinking or something?" I hoped so; this sounded serious if he was sober.

He chuckled weakly. "Nope. I wish. Stop being so damn sympathetic, huh?" He put a hand to his head and grimaced. "Something hit me on the head, I think."

"No kidding." I knelt down beside him. "Do you remember anything?"

"My head feels weird." I touched his forehead, which was slick with cold sweat. "No, I mean it hurts. In back. Puked a while ago, too."

"You might have a fever." I brushed aside some wayward hair sticking to his brow, and suddenly he grabbed my hand and, for just a few seconds, looked into my eyes the way he had last winter.

"Maddie," he muttered, then dropped my hand. His head drooped to one side and his body slowly followed, slumping into the brush.

"Jackson?" Jesus, was he _dead?_ My insides felt icy as I put my fingers on his throat. Nope, he was alive. His pulse seemed strong enough, his skin warm and sticky from the sweat. No, not just sweat ... my fingers came back stained with blood. Horrified, I slapped him gently on one whiskery cheek. "Jackson, wake up!" His slightly crossed eyes opened groggily. "You okay?"

"Fuckin' ghost," he moaned before going out again. I felt for his pulse again; it seemed faster, thinner.

"Shit!" I jumped to my feet, then hesitated. I didn't want to leave Jackson alone, but how else could I get help? My resistance to cell phones was biting me in the ass. "Help!" I bellowed like a moron. "Help! Help!"

Jackson lurched to a sitting position and snarled, "Jesus, shut up!" He felt the back of his neck and squinted at his hand. "Crap. What the hell?"

"You're bleeding. You need a doctor."

"Fuck doctors."

"Do you remember anything? Did you fall and hit your head, something like that?"

"Don't remember." Jackson gave his head a dazed shake, then groaned. "Ah, fuck, this fucking _hurts."_

"Can you walk?" He worked his way to his feet, using the tree for support, and leaned against it, sickly pale and breathing unsteadily. This didn't look good. "I really think we should get you to the emergency room." He stared sullenly at the ground. I tried again. "Can you remember what happened?"

"I don't feel too good," he slurred, reaching for me. He would've been on the ground again if I hadn't gotten there in time to grab him. Pulling his arm around my shoulder, I half-dragged, half-walked him down the hill to The Stables, pushed open the workman's door and shouted, "Hey! Someone call an ambulance!"

Myla came flapping over right away, took in Jackson's state and looked suitably distressed. "My God, what happened?" Her eyes whipped to my face. "Did you two get into a fight? What did you do to him?"

I experienced deep personal satisfaction when Jackson projectile vomited all over her low cut blouse and shiny leather pants.

I rode in the ambulance to the hospital with Jackson, watching him drift in and out of consciousness and wondering what the hell had happened to him. He must have gone up there to meet Myla, felt sick, passed out, hit his head ... but the position of the injury was a bit strange for that. Nervously I mulled over his brief, semi-conscious remark about the ghost, wondering what he meant. Well, there was no way to question him right now; it would have to wait. Something else I was not good at.

The emergency room folks at the Abneyville Health Center were surprisingly helpful for a change; it must've been a slow day or something. They wheeled Jackson away and I sat anxiously in the cushy, carpeted waiting area after putting a call in to the Wonder Bra. Thank God Cal answered and promised to be right along and wait with me.

After a while Cal appeared bearing coffee. He patted my arm consolingly as I filled him in on Jackson's condition. "Don't worry, Sweetums. There's always a lot of blood with head wounds. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Do I look worried?" I snapped.

Cal's eyes crinkled. "As a matter of fact, yes."

I sipped the acidic coffee and felt hair sprout from my nipples. "Well, I'm just tired. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night."

"Do you have any idea what happened out there?" I ran down the bare facts for Cal, omitting Jackson's strange remark about the ghost for professional reasons. Cal frowned and considered the story. "Sounds like a touch of flu or maybe food poisoning. Maybe he hit his head while he was vomiting. "

"Or passing out, yeah." The look on Jackson's face when he'd grabbed my hand came back to me uninvited, and I felt my throat clog up. I bit my lip and frowned at the surge of feeling, and damned if a big tear didn't leak out and splash into my coffee. Well, it could only improve the flavor. "You really think he'll be okay?" My voice sounded thin and wavery.

Cal's big arms were around me in a flash. "Poor Max," he crooned. "You're scared to death, aren't you?"

"Of what?"

"Of loving someone, of course. Loving someone and losing them again." I tried to snap out a denial, but the lump in my throat prevented me, and more wetness leaked from my eyes. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and sniffled loudly. Cal kissed my ear. "See? I'm not always wrong, am I?"

"Shut up," I whispered, hiding my face in his huge shoulder. "Anyhow, I don't love him ... I just ... I dunno, we have some kind of bond or something, I guess, but it's mainly physical. It's like ... we go without seeing each other for months, and then five minutes after we hook up we're ripping each other's clothes off. But beyond that ... I don't know what we have, if anything."

"I see."

"I mean, I still think he's sexy and fun and stuff, but I've changed a lot."

"But you'd still jump into bed with him given half the chance, wouldn't you?"

I had to think that over. Cal laughed and patted my leg, then considerately turned his attention to whatever afternoon talk show crapola was playing on the nearby TV.

After at least another hour, a nurse came into the waiting area and looked around. "Are you waiting for Jackson O'Brien?" she asked us, and I jumped to my feet. "Your husband is ready to go home now."

Considering what Jackson had been like a couple of hours ago, I found this hard to believe. "You're kidding!"

She smiled. "No, he'll be fine. He needed a few stitches and some cleaning up, but there's no serious damage apparent. Just keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours, okay?"

I swatted Cal when he smirked and said, "Righty-oh." The nurse gave us a bright nod and went back to fetch Jackson. Cal hugged me. "Well, Mrs. O'Brien, your place or mine? Or should we let him decide?"

My futon was the only horizontal surface in my tiny cabin, and it was hardly big enough for two ... and I was in dire need of a nap after my sleepless night and all the stress of the day. Good thing Jackson and I were both pretty small width-wise, or it would have been even more uncomfortable than it was.

With lots of businesslike bravura we stripped down as far as t-shirts and underwear -- me pretending not to check out Jackson's muscle shirt and boxers, he averting his eyes from my thin panties and camisole. Then we both chickened out and slipped hastily under the cotton blanket, curling up on opposite sides of the futon -- as far apart as we could be on such a narrow bed -- and facing each other.

Jackson's heavy-lidded eyes were even sleepier than usual from the trauma and the pain drugs. With the curtain drawn over my single window and the cabin as dim as it got during the day, all his harsh lines softened and he looked almost innocent. Almost. I lay there rigidly, trying to keep my heart from melting all over the place and making another big mess. Was I lying to myself? Did I really love this guy? Or was it another instance of my lifelong tendency to go straight for things that were bad for me, to make the worst possible choice for the stupidest possible reasons?

The longer we lay there next to each other, the more confused I got. So of course, I started babbling. "What did you mean by 'fucking ghost'?"

Jackson's crooked brows furrowed. "Huh?"

"Back at the estate, when you came to for a second, you said 'fucking ghost.' Any idea why?"

"No idea," he whispered. "Maybe I was hallucinating. I got a question for you, though." His words were slurred by the medication, his voice softer than usual. "Why do you go for such loser guys?"

Lord, had he been reading my mind? "Uh ... what do you mean?"

"Okay, listen, I guess I only know about Bart and that psycho teacher who was stalking you last year ... and sometimes I think maybe ... me?" My forearm prickled where he touched it. I didn't trust myself to speak. "Look, Maddie, you're worth a whole lot more than that."

My chest felt tight. "What's wrong with you?"

His laugh was bitter as his hand moved up my arm. "You have to ask me that? Jesus." I knew the heat was off, but the place sure felt warm all of a sudden. "Babe, I'm an ex-con, I'm a fucking emotional minefield, I'm physically screwed up thanks to the prison guards beating the crap outta me. Now I have a head injury. Oh, and my DNA is from hell."

DNA? Oh, so _that's_ what he was on about. "What do you mean?" I asked again. Somehow my hand was on his arm now too; we were kind of stroking each other.

He pulled me a little closer and murmured, "My mama was a whore. My daddy I don't even know about. Maybe a pimp, maybe a gangster, maybe some fuckin' backwoods yokel who paid my mama for a back alley quickie. I have no freakin' idea what kinda bad seed shit is floatin' around in my veins. I mean, Christ, look how I turned out."

Lord, that bad boy act was effective as hell. My heart was turning to syrup. Instead of making me want to pull away, his words were making me want to comfort him every way I knew how. "Well, I think you turned out pretty good. It just took some time, is all."

"Yeah, thirty-four fuckin' years, huh?" Our knees touched, sending shivers up my thighs. "Look, Maddie, first of all ... well, as far as I know, I'm shooting blanks. Back in my younger days, all my friends were knocking up their girlfriends left and right, but not me."

"Well, that doesn't mean \--"

"I just ... I don't wanna pass this shit on. And can you see me as a daddy? God, what a fuckin' nightmare." His hands caressed my back and drew me up against him; he buried his face in my neck and sighed deeply. "Shit."

"But Jackson --" I braced myself to hear some really sappy crap, because I knew I had to say it, and anyway, it was true. "I mean, in a way you're kind of an inspiration to me. Seriously. I mean, I know you have a crappy background and a bad temper and all, but damn it, so do I. And you've worked hard to be better, and you've succeeded."

He was wrapping all kinds of limbs around me as he nuzzled me with his ragged face. "Thanks for that, but ..." He interrupted his own gratitude with a scratchy kiss on my neck.

My hands traveled down to his buns and gave them an encouraging squeeze, then moved around to the front of his boxers and did a little private investigation in there. I liked what they found. "You should give yourself credit for what you've overcome," I urged as he rolled on top of me and put a warm hand on my breast.

"Jesus, Maddie, I'm crazy about you," he sighed. "But I really don't think I can give you what you want."

We studied each other for a moment, breathing heavily, a little freaked by the intensity of the moment. Then I swallowed hard as he reached down and pushed my panties aside. "It's okay," I panted, "this'll do fine."

Chapter Twelve

Unfortunately, the drugs he'd gotten at the hospital kicked in and Jackson conked out on top of me at that crucial moment, but it was understandable. God knows he'd already had a pretty exhausting night and day. It was enough for now that he was being nice to me again.

Feeling better than I had in days, I eased myself out from under him and pulled my clothes back on. I turned the ringer on the phone off and cranked down the volume on my answering machine. There were already some messages blinking at me for attention, but they'd have to wait until Jackson woke up. Hmm, I had him for twenty-four hours; no telling what might happen in a day. I wondered if he was really shooting blanks, as he thought ... or if by some chance I'd lay an egg and he'd fertilize it and .. .

Damn, I was off to the races again. Time to get my head out of my butt and focus on something that needed to be done.

After spending a couple of hours on an inventory list I'd been putting off, I felt the need for coffee. I extracted my aching body from the breakfast nook, where I'd set up my laptop, and went about my routine, still feeling happy despite extreme exhaustion. On the futon, my cats were curled up on either side of Jackson like furry quotation marks.

The coffeemaker started its asthmatic gushing. Jackson rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, blinked a few times, then sat up hurriedly and looked around, dumping the bewildered cats onto the floor. "What the ..." He spotted me and grunted like a befuddled bear.

"Hey, how ya feeling?" I practically danced over to him, a big giddy smile on my face. His expression remained utterly lost, studying me like he'd never seen me before, and I realized something wasn't right. "So ... how's your head?" I asked cautiously.

"My head?"

"Yeah ... y'know, the stitches and all" I sat down next to him, seriously concerned. "Remember?"

He touched the back of his head gingerly and winced. "Uh ... sort of. Maybe. Not ... not really." Bewildered gray eyes turned back to me. "A little, maybe."

Damn. "What do you remember?"

"Uh ..." He squinted and rolled his shoulders. "I went to meet Myla at The Stables after my final set ... She wasn't there yet. I ... I saw a light coming from a window in that big old mansion and went to check it out."

"A light in the mansion?" I grabbed his arm. "What kind of light?"

He observed my clutching fingers with a puzzled frown. "I dunno ... orange, flickering, like a candle or a fireplace, I guess. I thought maybe there was a fire or something, so I thought I better take a look." He gently pulled his arm away from me and swung his legs over the side of the futon.

I felt like I'd been doused with cold water, but I forced myself to interrogate him. After all, this was my job. "So what did you find?" I pursued in my most businesslike voice.

He frowned. "I got as far as the front porch and ... and someone or something fuckin' whacked me in the back of the head." Again he felt the stitches. "Shit, guess it was pretty bad, huh? I can't remember a damn thing after that."

My heart turned back to concrete. Jesus, we finally managed to reconnect and now he'd gone amnesiac on me. Bitterly I wondered if that was a common ploy. "You don't remember throwing up or passing out, huh?"

"I threw up?" He made a face. "Man, okay with me if I never remember that. I hate puking."

"Actually, you puked on Myla. And you, uh, passed out on me." I didn't bother to explain I meant that literally.

His brows furrowed as he tried to remember more. "So ... if I have stitches, I guess that means I was at the hospital?"

"Yep, emergency room, six stitches, and they told me to keep an eye on you for twenty-four hours. It's only been about two."

"Well." He coughed and looked around, then pushed himself to his feet and lumbered into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. I dragged myself back to the coffee, kicking cats out of the way as I poured it into mugs and emptied the filter. My sunny mood was overcast in a big way.

Soon Jackson emerged from the bathroom, still looking confused, and yanked on pants, shirt and shoes. I brought him a mug of black coffee and he studied it as if it might be poisoned. "Well, thanks for babysitting me. You're off the hook now, okay? I gotta get on home." He set the untouched mug on my coffee table and finished tying his sneakers. "I got a bastard of a headache."

"I'll give you a ride."

"My bike's at The Stables. I'll just go get it."

"I'll walk with you." I felt pushy, clingy, and really busted up inside; I had to keep reminding myself it wasn't his fault.

Jackson sighed grudgingly. "Okay, whatever."

But when we got outside he swayed and grabbed the side of the cabin to keep from falling. "I'm driving you home," I said again, and this time he didn't object. "I'll grab the van and we'll pick up your bike, okay?"

At The Stables, I located his bike in some bushes near the back door, and hefted it into the van while Jackson watched from the front seat. "That isn't where I left it," he told me when I climbed back into the driver seat. "Someone moved it."

"Probably the work crew, huh?" Five silent, tension-packed minutes ticked by as I maneuvered the van along the twisty shore road. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer. "Look, don't you remember anything about last night or this morning?"

"Like what?"

I squashed down my desire to tell all, and focused instead on my investigation. "Like what floor of the house was that light on?"

"Second, I think." I nodded, trying not to look so damn melancholy. This was just too weird.

He watched my face struggle to stay together, then grunted, "Um, you okay?"

"Sure, yeah." I concentrated on parking in a space across from the WunderBar, reluctant to let Jackson go. "Um... how about who whacked you in the head? Do you remember seeing anyone?"

He surprised me with a nervous, shifty glance. "Uh ... no, not really."

Jesus, what was that about? "Not really? What do you mean?"

"Damn, let up, would you?" He rubbed his head. "I have a fuckin' killer headache and I've had enough questions. Can I go now?" In a nasty tone, he added, "You don't know when to quit, do you?"

"I guess I know when to quit," I snarled back, then jumped out of the van and hauled his bike out of the back with manic energy. I was furious enough to throw it at him, but I settled for a pretty aggressive thrust instead.

"Yeah, well..." He looked at the WunderBar. "I don't live here anymore. I live over the liquor store now."

"Well, have a nice walk." I glared at him as he grabbed the bike's handlebars, then I snapped, "And you're welcome, you fucking bipolar shithead."

His response was to shoot me the dirtiest look imaginable and walk away unsteadily, using the bike for support.

And that was it. The man who had told me he was crazy about me and had almost made warm, impassioned love to me a couple of hours ago stomped away from me, having obviously forgotten the whole damn thing.

Well, the WunderBar and my pal Cal were right there. I decided to take advantage before I ran Jackson down with the company van.

I stomped through the front door and flung myself onto a barstool without greeting Cal. With his usual genial acceptance of my moods, he slid me a nice cold Sam Adams and patted my hand, giving me some time to cool down.

"Okay, so what's up, Mad Max?" he asked after I'd sat there like a lump for several minutes. "You're back into deep mourning, by the look of things. Seen any more little ghosts?"

"I didn't see her, I felt her," I snapped.

"Pardon. Have you felt her recently?"

I shrugged. "She comes and goes. It's started to feel normal, which is scary."

"No, actually, I think that's good." Cal patted my hand and I scowled. "And ... how did things go with Jackson? Dare I ask? The mere fact that you're here rather than home watching him ..."

I could barely summon enough energy to shrug my shoulders, and felt myself sag further from the effort. "He was all sweet at first, then he fell asleep. When he woke up he was nasty and wanted to go home. I just called him a bipolar shithead. Which is what he is."

"Ah," Cal mused, "I think I see what's bugging you. Would you like a little insight into that?" I didn't respond, so he jumped right in. "Max, my poor abused darling, did you ever consider how much Jackson has in common with your dear departed papa?"

My sneer was automatic. "Come off it, Cal. He's not a drunk and he's never beaten me up."

"Yes, but he's a moody bastard with a violent streak, isn't he?" Cal leaned closer despite the smoke billowing from my nostrils. "Look, Max, I love old Jack dearly too, but we all know he's got his faults. My God, he was in jail for his nasty temper, wasn't he? Seven years hard time."

"You don't know him like I do," I started, then realized I didn't really know him at all these days. If I ever had.

"I may never have been felt up by him," Cal went on, "but I think I know him fairly well. We've had some deep discussions after hours at the bar, and I've even seen him snap which I don't think you've seen, have you?" I wasn't sure, so I didn't answer. "It's a pretty scary sight. I'm sure he's still capable of beating the crap out of someone if provoked, despite all the work he's done on his self-control."

I sighed. "Yeah, well, I can't imagine Jackson pinning me down and banging my head against the floor till I passed out, like my dad used to do,"

"Oh, certainly not. I'm not implying he'd ever do anything like that to _you;_ he's far too crazy about you for that."

"Yeah, he's nuts about me; that's why we're not speaking. Again."

Cal rolled his eyes. "You're both just too damned stubborn." He acknowledged my middle finger with a resigned shake of the head. "Anyway, I think with Jackson you're trying to heal the relationship with your father. See, here's a good-looking, troubled, moody man-like your father -- but this one loves you, and would never hurt you purposely -- so when there's any sort of rupture in that relationship it strikes you hard right where you live. It's old pain ... the kind of heartache only a child can feel, especially a child who was rejected and abused by the people she was supposed to be able to depend on."

"Stop, you're breaking my heart," I muttered.

Cal swatted me with his bar towel. "Oh for God's sake, think, Max. Have you ever felt this hurt and upset by any other man you've been involved with? I don't think so; you've made sure of that by picking men that don't challenge you in any way." His eyebrows jumped excitedly as he came up with more psychobabble bullshit. "Maybe meeting Jackson during your pregnancy left you somehow unguarded for a while ... raging hormones, you know. And maybe now that you've had some time, you're seeing he might be what you want -- at least on some primal level -- but, unfortunately, he's not what you need."

Yikes, maybe I was drinking too fast. This was starting to make sense, which pissed me off. "Look, don't worry about it. It's not happening. Anyway, other things have my attention right now. It's more important to me to get pregnant while that's still a possibility, and Jackson doesn't want any part of that, so screw him."

"I think that's very wise, to be honest." Cal leaned in even further as I chewed on my lower lip. "You've decided being a mother is more important, so ..." The phone behind the bar rang, and Cal added, "Think about it," before grabbing the receiver.

That was enough psychoanalysis for one day. I sucked down the rest of my Sam Adams, tossed a five onto the bar, sketched a wave at Cal, and bolted.

Chapter Thirteen

When I got back to my cabin I pushed my angst aside and checked the phone messages that had been piling up since that morning. The first was from Libby: "So, what's going on with you and Jackson? Cal said he has some kind of head injury and you're watching him for a day or two? Fill me in!"

The next message was a terse whisper: "It's Adam Norcross. Call me ASAP." Then a subdued male voice saying, "Max, it's Walt Drucker. I'll drop by around 4:00 today so we can talk." One from my baby sister Gabe: "Hi Max, I just wanted to say ... well, call me when you have time, okay?" And finally another from Ms. Libido: "So, princess, I want a full report when you come up for air, if you ever do. And don't you dare start ignoring my calls again."

Business before torture. I made a quick call to Norcross's cell phone. His voicemail picked up so I left a message to call me again as soon as he had the chance, I'd be at the cabin most of the evening. I hadn't quite decided whether to confront him with the fact that I'd literally run into the other detective he'd hired and that we'd found a disembodied hand and immediately lost it. I just wanted to sound alert and responsible.

It had been so long since I called my sister I actually had to look up her number in the phonebook. Her husband, a thick bodied, thick-headed blond named Jim, answered in his usual hearty tone, which turned distinctly unenthusiastic when I told him it was me. "Oh. Hi, Max. Um, Gabrielle is out right now." After a tense pause, he added, "What did you do to her? She's been a mess ever since she saw you, hasn't been able to stop crying but she won't tell me a thing."

Oh great, something else to feel bad about. I sighed. "Well, Jim, if she won't tell you about it, I'm not going to. We just talked. She'll be okay. Tell her I called." I hung up fast.

I knew Lib would just keep bugging me until I got back to her, so I steeled myself and dialed her number. She pounced on the phone the second it rang. "Okay, dish!"

God, I hate Caller ID. "What happened to Hello?" I snarled.

"Is he still there? Did you guys talk things out?"

"No. Hardly."

"Max?" Her knowing tone accused me. "Why not?"

I bit off a defensive lie and plonked resignedly onto my futon. "Well, hm, let's say ... Let's say I get the impression he's really not interested in procreating, and I am, and that's that. And now he has some kind of brain damage."

"Yeah, Cal said he hit his head. What happened?"

"No idea, but it's blown his memory for now. I think they should've kept him at the hospital, but he's uninsured."

"So ... you didn't manage to patch things up with him, then?"

"Far from it." With a huge sigh-and a flash of self-loathing to hear myself agreeing with Cal-I admitted, "Maybe it's for the best."

"How can you say that?" Despite the fact that I was the area's most notorious serial dater, diehard romantic Libby still believed it was just because I hadn't found the right one. Considering how many I'd been through, the chances were pretty damn slim at this point in my life. Last spring Libby \-- and me, to a scary degree -- had come to the conclusion that Jackson and I were made for each other. But that was last spring ... and we'd all passed a lot of water since then, as Sam Goldwyn so aptly put it.

"Well, I've thought it over a lot." I rose from my slump and paced to the window over the breakfast nook. The sky was growing stormier by the minute and the water had turned choppy; dark blue waves tumbled onto the shore and deposited seaweed in an erratic, broken line. "For one thing, I've got to stop this bouncing from one guy to another thing, especially if I'm going to be a mom. And yeah, I'm sorry, I mean, I know Jackson's a decent person and all, but what makes him any sort of improvement over the last few losers I took up with?"

Libby's voice got all stem and school-marmish. "He's not married."

Picky, picky. "Yeah, and why not? I mean ... we know he's spent the past few years in prison. And we know he has a pretty awful temper ... so what kind of shit _don't_ we know? You see my point?" Lib gave a priggish little _mm-hm,_ indicating she was listening but didn't want to agree. "Meanwhile, I want to get pregnant, and frankly I think I'm better off with an anonymous donor, given Jackson's track record and mine. Wouldn't you say?" My feline Booger oozed through my legs and looked up at me with adoring green eyes. I rubbed her head idly and sighed. "And anyhow, I can see myself raising a kid, but when I think about it I honestly see me doing it alone. I don't know why, but that's the way it is."

"Well, Max, I'm sure Cal would tell you it's because your own dad left a lot to be desired."

I sank down onto one of the hardwood benches in the breakfast nook and stretched my legs out. Booger immediately took possession of my lap, vibrating with ecstasy.

"Yeah, I know. But still ... well, I just don't see this happening with Jackson. Don't ask me why, but I don't." To prevent further grilling, I jumped on her. "So is it true that Bart Fulton's first wife is trying to sue you?" There was a sudden silence at the other end of the line. "Lib? Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here. Yes, it's true. Mercenary little bitch. She got Bart's pension and his life insurance. She's only coming after me because Morris made a lot of money and we own valuable property." A tight sigh. "I could lose the house, Max, and everything in it."

"You think she'll win?"

Libby sniffled. "Let's just say her case looks good and she has one hell of a lawyer. Even Morris thought this guy was good. Plus she has the two kids and they live in a pathetic little ranch in Hawk Marsh, while I, the murderer's wife, live in a lovely home with all the amenities in Skiff Neck." In an acidic tone, she added, "I don't see why she doesn't go after Alison Shipwood ... after all, she's the one he did it for, and she's a hell of a lot better off than I am."

Alison Shipwood had been having an affair with Libby's husband, and his killing spree had allegedly been fueled by jealousy over Jackson. "Well, I think the lawyer would have a hard time justifying that one. Anyhow, Lib, you have three kids, all younger than Mrs. Fulton Number One's."

"Well, I do have lots of assets, stocks and bonds and so on. We won't starve, but ... well, we may be moving in with you for a while. And I may have to get a _job."_ That was probably the thing that upset her the most; Libby had never been fond of work. She'd gone after Morris in the first place so she wouldn't have to work anymore.

"Well ..." There was a soft tap at the door. Good God, I just couldn't get any peace today. "Look, Lib, I got company so we'll talk later, okay? I promise." I hung up and dragged my sorry ass to the door, realizing my social life had gone from zero to ninety in less than a week and I wasn't feeling particularly thrilled about it.

It was Walt the Spy, looking larger and nerdier than I remembered. "Got a minute?" he asked as he squeezed into the room. The whole place shrank to dollhouse size with him in there; it was like G.I. Joe had infiltrated Barbie's Beach Cabana.

"Yeah, sure, come on in, make yourself at home," I gushed in a nasty tone.

Walt, who had wandered over to the table, turned to me with a half-smile. "My my my, someone got up on the wrong side of the futon."

"Well, maybe you could tell me which side that was, since you've been spying on me so much."

With an exasperated sigh, Walt sank onto a bench. "It's not like I spent nights peering through your window, so why don't you get over yourself right now? All I did was a little research, track some of your movements, talk to a few people you know ... and God knows your exploits last spring were pretty well publicized. So calm the fuck down and let's talk about this case."

His cultured delivery even made obscenities sound prissy. Stifling a laugh, I banged around the kitchen counter making more damn coffee -- like I needed that -- while Walt waited at the table. I'd forgotten I'd left the stupid pregnancy books and ad drafts spread out there, then I glanced over and realized what he was reading. "Uh-that's kinda personal," I snapped, charging over and ripping the paper from his hands.

"I'll say." Walt shoved his steel-rimmed glasses back on his nose and started to reach for one of the books, but I got there first. "So who's the lucky guy this time?"

"There isn't one. I mean, I'm just thinking about trying again. And it's none of your business anyway." Angrily I seized the books and papers, dumped them on the floor by the futon and gave them a kick. "So I guess you'll report that to Norcross, too." Walt said nothing. I huffed back over to the table. "What exactly do we have to talk about here? I have stuff to do."

In a dry tone Walt murmured, "Apparently." God, he had the snootiest voice I'd ever heard. He made Cal Winters sound like he came from Dogpatch.

"Someone needs a pole-ectomy," I observed.

"I beg your pardon?" Walt's eyes widened behind the scratched lenses.

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking it must be hard to sit with that long pointy thing wedged up your ass."

"Ah. I see." His lower lip disappeared as he absorbed my childish sarcasm. "And your point is?"

I leaned against the counter and waited for the coffeemaker to spit out my favorite drug. "I'm just trying to place you. You can't possibly be a Skiff Necker. No one from there would ever become a P.I; too lowbrow. And I don't know you from Hawk Marsh either -- and I know everyone there -- so where are you from?"

He gave me an unreadable look, his mouth quirked under his ragged moustache. "Well, let's just say you obviously don't know everyone in Hawk Marsh. And if you did a little leg work, you could probably figure it out ... but I guess you haven't gotten to that chapter yet." After a moment, he dragged his eyes away from my face and examined his fingernails. "And that's enough character analysis for now."

"Okay, whatever." After sloshing some coffee into my _Car Talk_ mug -- something Cal had proudly presented me, with the logo _Dedicated to the relentless pursuit of mediocrity_ inscribed on one side -- I slid onto the bench opposite Walt, sideways so I wouldn't bump his legs.

His face brightened when he read my mug. "You listen to _Car Talk?"_

"Yeah, when I can get the station. The reception isn't too great here."

Walt grinned. "Well, I'm surprised. I wouldn't think you listened to public radio."

"I don't. Well, not too often." I pursed my lips. "They have a really good blues program on Friday nights, but otherwise they sound like a bunch of prissy blowhards to me."

"I agree with you there, too." He gave me another half-smile, then switched over to business. "So. Have you thought any more about that hand?"

"A little. I can't figure it out. Do you think it's connected to the vandalism?"

Walt's head moved from side to side in a puzzled negative. "I don't see how, but ... well, it is pretty strange coincidence. Have you been following the news?"

I thought that over and a bell rang. "You mean that Malden woman who cut off her husband's hand, or whatever?" Walt nodded. "Why the hell would she bring his spare parts down here?"

He shrugged. "It's a good seventy-eighty miles from the crime scene, it's a kind of remote area, it's walking distance from the bus station ... lots of reasons. Maybe she even came from here originally or had vacationed in the area. Vague, I admit, but not out of the question."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Walt sighed regretfully. "If we'd been able to hang onto that thing, it might have been a major clue in a completely different case."

"Hm." I picked up a pencil and pulled my notepad toward me. "In a way, though, that wouldn't have been so good. A bunch of city cops coming in and roping off the place we're trying to investigate? I don't think Norcross would like that."

"Yes, but ..." His mouth became a perplexed line. "Well, we should report it to someone, don't you think? I mean, you should."

"Why me?"

"You're the one who found it."

"Yeah, and I'm the one who lost it. It's not going to make either of us look good to say we found this thing and then it disappeared. They might not even believe us. We'll look like morons, and who's going to hire morons?"

Walt heaved a sigh that ruffled the pages of my notebook. "Well, seeing as you don't have your license yet..."

"I should be the fall guy? Forget it!" He was starting to piss me off now. I slammed the pencil down and crossed my arms, glaring at him.

"Okay, so then what do you propose we do?" His snooty tone took on an injured quality, like I'd completely insulted his dignity. What a weirdo.

"Well, I'm the one that's supposed to be investigating the vandalism, not you. And you've already run your little background check on me, which is what you were hired to do, so as far as I'm concerned your work is done, so ta-ta." I stood and pointed toward the door.

Walt stared at me, a little smirk hovering around his mouth. "What a she-devil you think you are," he murmured. "You think you can get rid of me that easily? Have a seat." I didn't, just stood there with my arms crossed, tapping my foot. He looked amused, which pissed me off even more. "Okay, stand there. All I'm saying is there's something bizarre about this whole thing. For starters, how do I even know for sure Norcross hired you? Where's your contract?"

"He hired me the other night, at that shindig for that Myla bitch. It was verbal."

Walt's smirk intensified. "So you have nothing in writing? Did he even give you a retainer?"

"Uh ..." Okay, now I felt like a moron again.

"No? I didn't think so." He half stood and fished around in his jeans pocket; I absently noticed he had a nice butt. "His New York office called me and explained what he wanted, then sent me this contract and a check for a retainer. Here's my proof. Where's yours?"

"I told you, Norcross hired me in person. We talked at the party and again at The Stables on Monday morning. Both times he told me he didn't want anyone else to know about it, but that's pretty well screwed thanks to you. He gave me some background on the estate, and said he wanted me to find out who was responsible for the vandalism."

"Hearsay." The way he said it made it sound like "bullshit," which is essentially what it means. "Why should I believe you, if you don't even have anything in writing?"

Suddenly my brain kicked in. "Wait a minute, he gave me his business card."

Walt snorted. "Like that would be so hard to get."

Feeling smug myself for a change, I shot back, "Oh yeah? With his cell phone and private numbers written on it?"

"Oh, really? May I see it?" I went to the phone, pulled the card out from under it and started to hand it over, but stopped myself. "No way. He said not to let anyone else see those numbers under any circumstances."

Walt sighed, yanked off his glasses and rubbed his hands into his eyes. Maybe he'd finally given in and decided to believe me. "Have you called him?"

"So far we've been playing phone tag."

He looked at me sharply. "What are you going to tell him?"

"Well..." I caught my breath. Damn, those eyes were heart-stopping: deep blue surrounded by Bambi eyelashes. I found myself wondering about his genes. He was obviously smart, he was definitely good-looking in a saggy, beaten down kind of way ... a pretty reliable sign he was married, but that had never been an issue before...

"Hello? Where'd you go?"

I shook myself back into reality. "Uh ... well, I've been debating what to say to him. I don't really have anything solid on the vandalism, except that he has a lot of Hawk Martians upset with his attempted Yuppification of Main Street. Not sure if one of them might be taking a little revenge or what. But a Hawk Marsh crew is providing the construction labor, so ... I really don't know what to think yet." I remembered the graffiti Del had told me about that morning. "Norcross said Myla might start thinking the vandalism is aimed at her, since it coincided with her coming here. Since she's so hot on the whole club idea, that might actually be the case ... maybe someone who knew her way back when?"

"Well." Walt stood, apparently relieved about something, God knows what. "I definitely think we should work on this as a team, since you made me and we found the hand and everything. But let's keep that stuff to ourselves for now, okay?" He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "I've got to run home for a bit or my wife'll throw a fit." Yep, married. Damn. "Haven't seen the kids in days." So he was already a father; experience was good. Oblivious to my calculating thoughts, he continued, "I'll catch up with you later to make some plans. Will you be around tonight?"

"Sure thing," I lied.
Chapter Fourteen

It was after 5:00 by the time Walt left. I grabbed a blueberry yogurt from the fridge, hauled out my little-used laptop, and plugged it into the phone line. Time to detect some shit.

After a whole lot of squawking and farting from the modem, I was online. Hotbot coughed up precious few entries for "Walter Drucker," including a West Coast art gallery and a German website ... but mine was there too, as a business listing under the local area's Chamber of Commerce.

I clicked on the link and brought up "Drucker Investigations" -- a very dry page, not that that surprised me. The agency name, address, and phone number were listed, with a laconic description: "Providing professional investigative services to individuals and businesses since 1993. Reliable, thorough, and discreet." An even less wordy bio of Walt appeared under an obviously old, grainy black and white: "Married, father of two, lifelong resident, 1980 graduate of Hawk Marsh High."

Wait a minute -- 1980? That was the year I'd graduated from Hawk Marsh High. Walt had been a classmate of mine?

I sat back and stirred my yogurt, trying to imagine a young Walt; the best I could do was a sort of stretched-out Harry Potter. Our paths couldn't have crossed. But apparently he was a local, as he claimed to be.

Or he was lying.

Then I typed "Myla Devine" into the search engine and came up empty. Bizarre, if she was such a big name in Chicago ... What had Libby said her real name was? Amy Lee Something? Somehow my constipated brain dredged it up: Amy ... Lynn ... Peterson. I put it in quotes and punched the search button. It was another short list, mostly genealogy sites, but a couple of links to newspaper articles popped up as well.

Damn. Both articles were about some girls' basketball team. Hm. Okay, try again. This time I removed the quotation marks, typed "Ardmore" into the window and got a lot of hits in Oklahoma. I narrowed the search to include "Abneyville," then added "Peterson."

Eureka.

I cruised straight to a Chicago newspaper's engagement announcement: Myla Peterson Ardmore of Boston and Abneyville, Massachusetts, to wed Harold Constantine, owner of the well-known Chicago club Harry's Hothouse, where the bride-to-be had worked "in an administrative capacity." No photo, damn it to hell. Hmm, I thought, typing "Harry's Hothouse" into the search window.

For a moment I thought I'd struck gold. The first few links were to www.harryshothouse.com. The Hothouse apparently had its own web page ... the brief description under the link read, "Exotic Dancers, bachelor parties, more." But all of the links were dead; the page was no longer available.

Damn.

Other links led to articles about court cases involving Harold Constantine, who seemed to spend more time answering charges in court than running his club. Must be why he'd needed an administrator. Hmm, so Myla knew all about running a club ... or a strip joint, at any rate.

A strip joint. Hadn't she told Jackson that she'd worked as a singer in a Chicago nightclub? I had a feeling there wasn't a lot of singing going on at Harry's Hothouse. And with a name like Myla Devine ... and with that body...

"Worked in an administrative capacity," my ass. I was willing to bet she'd been a stripper. Too bad the Hothouse web page was down ... bet there'd been a few incriminating pictures there. Frowning, I cruised to other articles involving the Hothouse and Harry Constantine, but none of them mentioned Amy Lynn or Myla or his wife or whatever.

Frustrated, I typed the name "Harry Constantine" into the search window. God, about eighty pages popped up; looked like more genealogical and historic crap.

Glancing at the clock, I decided to save the search and get back to it later. After all, I had to get ready for some more investigating.

Yep, I was going back to the mansion, despite my new "partnership" with the enigmatic Walt. Screw him; if he couldn't be honest with me, he wasn't going to tell me what to do, or horn in on my assignment ... even if I didn't have a contract or a retainer or whatever.

With the resolution born of a bad attitude, I again pulled on comfortable workout pants, a hooded gray sweatshirt and my work boots, and stocked my pockets with potentially useful tools. Hairball arched his back against my leg as I tucked my hair beneath the hood and tied the drawstring snugly under my chin, which made me look like a major dweeb. "Sorry, Fatso, I gotta work," I muttered to the cat, giving him a perfunctory stroke. He promptly flopped onto his back to display his furry white potbelly, purring madly and waving his legs in the air. I knelt down and stroked him and he writhed ecstatically with a look of moronic adoration in his yellow eyes. "God, cats are retarded. I thought you were supposed to be so damn dignified." Booger joined us, pacing around me in her long-legged strut and purring so hard she started choking and sneezing. "I rest my case," I told her as she rattled her head and pawed her whiskers.

Outside the sun had reappeared just in time to set, a bloated orange sinking into the darkening water. Elongated cumulus clouds decorated the lavender sky, moody gray on top, cotton candy on the bottom. It was a living postcard, the reason wealthy tourists flocked to the resort. Tonight I had it all to myself. I paused and inhaled the sharp air, feeling my heart droop a little as I imagined standing there with Roz in my arms. What a privilege it would be to introduce a child to a sunset ... and how desperately I wanted that privilege. To the little ghost in my arms I whispered, "Do you see that, Sweetie? Isn't that beautiful?" The feeling of her presence evaporated. Longing and despair flooded my veins and I heard myself choke out, "Where are you, Rozzie? Please come back."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I shook myself to discourage this kind of thinking. I wasn't a mom at the moment; I was a P.I. with a case to solve. I took a few deep breaths to wash away the pain, then turned resolutely toward the gloomy mansion on the cliff, its single tower pointing skyward to the waxing moon.

Was the sunset reflecting on the windows, or was there a light inside the house again? I shaded my eyes and peered at the mansion, but couldn't tell from that distance.

This time I chose the road for my approach. It was a hell of a lot easier and faster than scaling the damn cliffing the middle of the night. This way I could approach behind The Stables, see if anyone was vandalizing, and creep up on the mansion from the back.

It was eerily still; no sign of teenagers on drugs or geezers on missions. The Stables was locked up tight, as far as I could see ... but a dim, flickering light shown from one of the windows in the mansion's second story. Sticking to the shadows like a good detective -- I guessed -- I worked my way up the dirt path to the rear of the top-heavy structure, trying not to think of all the scary movies I'd seen.

If there were motion detector lights they were only on the main porch, where I'd allegedly seen the face in the window; maybe Norcross figured most people would be too scared to do what I was attempting. Or he was cheap. No lights flashed, no alarms sounded, even though I came close to what looked like a major back entrance. Very strange.

It took me a while to locate a smaller back door, but I found one sandwiched between a bulkhead and a bay window. The step creaked under my weight but didn't break, so I moved forward steadily and slipped the screwdriver into the lock. I jiggled and wiggled and probed, probably dislodging a few multi-legged occupants. Still no alarm, but the lock didn't budge even after I'd squirted it with oil. I pulled the screwdriver out and pondered going around to the front ... when suddenly, out of nowhere, I heard music.

I was so wired up and jumpy, my hand jerked; the screwdriver flew out of it and flung itself into the brambles between the porch and the bulkhead.

"Shit!" I spat, peering into the darkness. There was no way I could find the screwdriver by the dim moonlight or the hotly focused beam of my tiny flashlight, so I was pretty well screwed. I imagined Walt shaking his head, amused by my ineptitude.

Meanwhile, the music continued. I'd thought at first it came from a passing car with its radio blaring, but after a breathless pause I realized it seemed to be coming -- you guessed it -- from inside the house.

Pressing my ear against the stupid door, I tried to make out what the hell it was. Sounded like an organ ... an old, creaky, wheezy organ ... like something out of the old cult flick _Carnival of Souls._ Okay, I know that was a pretty cheesy movie, but it gave me the creeps to think about it under these circumstances. I wondered if a bunch of pale-skinned zombies with bad eye make-up were partying in there, and if I really wanted to crash that scene.

But I had a job to do, even if I had already screwed up. Damn it, I was going in there and I was going to find out who was playing Phantom of the Opera with me; I'd show that snot Walt. Firmly I pushed my shoulder against the door and gave it a couple of angry shoves, but of course it wouldn't give. Guess they'd made damn sure of that once the vandalism started. Jerks.

Frustrated, I turned my attention to the half-rotten bulkhead doors, which were overgrown with briars yet sported a shiny new padlock. Not a problem for Maddie "Destructo" Maxwell: my work boot punched easily through the pulpy wood, and the hole I made was big enough for little old me to slip right through.

It wasn't a full basement, unfortunately, but a crawlspace... full of dust, mold, and some goddamn lively vermin. I crawled as fast as I could, following the beam of the tiny flashlight I'd clenched in my teeth. The organ music grew louder and creepier as I fought my way toward some dim distant light -- probably a heat grating in the main floor. Something soft but crunchy squished under my knee and I barely stifled a reflexive "Eeeeew!" -- although I had to take the flashlight out of my mouth until I was sure I wouldn't ralph.

Okay, things were looking up. The grating was loose enough for me to cautiously push upwards and remove, and I unkinked my body and eased it up into the first floor of the mansion. Phew, much better air and no dead critters -- but it was probably equipped with motion detectors so I needed to keep to the shadows. I was in what appeared to be an antique kitchen; heavy old appliances ringed the room and a large table stood solidly on the middle of the floor. Very cool. Oh, and there was that door I hadn't been able to open. I worked my way toward the sound of the organ.

The music was much louder now... coming from upstairs. Sticking to the shadows, using my flashlight only when absolutely necessary, I crept down the hall into the grand foyer, which featured a huge, wide staircase with moldy carpeting and dusty, elegantly carved banisters. Not the brightest way to get up there; I searched for a set of back stairs, the kind servants would have used at the time this house had been built. Back in the kitchen, I tried one door, which led to a walk-in pantry that was bigger than my cabin. The second door I tried creaked open to reveal a dark, twisting, narrow set of cobwebby steps. Pressing my back against the cold lathe-and-plaster wall, I edged tensely up the stairs, wincing at every creak.

As I neared the top, I had to kill the flashlight and feel my way up the last few steps. The organist had to be on this floor, from the sound of it; the wheezing notes seemed to come from right around the comer. To my surprise, I recognized the tune, but couldn't quite place it. Not that I tried too hard; my concentration was on finding the player, and on not falling on my ass in the process.

I wedged myself at the comer by the main hallway and peered around it. A dim light washed from a nearby room ... yeah, that seemed to be the location of the organ. Now that I was paying more attention, the playing wasn't too hot. I could probably do about as well. Sounded like a kid picking out ... God, what was that? It reminded me of something by Whitney Houston or maybe Celine Dion. Those schlocky, shrill Top 40 women all sounded alike to me.

The one-fingered musician stopped suddenly and, to my chagrin, muffled footsteps padded down the hall, accompanied by an odd swishing sound. The sound moved away from me, thank God. I heard a door creak open, more swishing and rustling sounds, someone muttering under their breath, then water splashing loudly.

If this was a ghost, it sure as hell sounded to me like it was taking a whiz.

Inspired by the gods of incompetence, I did something incredibly stupid: I tiptoed as fast as I could toward the lighted room. Without even looking around, I darted into an open closet that was heavily hung with vintage clothing and hid myself among furs and brocades. The mothball smell almost suffocated me, but I heard the mysterious musician come back into the room so there was no escape. I resigned myself to discomfort and nausea, trying not to inhale as I waited for the playing to start again. Then maybe I could spy on them and breathe.

Who the hell would break into a house to play an organ, I wondered fretfully as a few idle notes emanated from the keyboard. That wouldn't do; I needed a full-blown toccata and fugue if I was going to peek out. Then even those notes stopped and the musician made a soft, nervous sound. I listened hard.

More footsteps ... from down the hallway ... coming toward us.

To my dismay, I felt something pressing against the opposite side of the clothing, which just about smothered me as a result. The musician must have been right on the other side of my hiding place. I only hoped they didn't decide to join me and blow my cover. Some freakin' detective I was.

The footsteps were suddenly softer, as if they'd hit carpeting. They must be in the room, I thought fearfully. My heart slammed against my sternum when I heard someone speak. "It's okay, it's just me." The voice was barely more than a whisper, and low-pitched; I couldn't figure out if it was male or female.

Another voice, quick and high, decidedly feminine, whispered, "Thank God."

The pressure against the clothing released and I took a deep breath, then hastily stifled a choke as the acrid smell invaded my throat.

"What was that?" the first voice asked.

"What?"

"Shh!" There was a long silence, during which I held my breath and swallowed hard to suppress the intense tickle in my throat. My head felt like it was going to explode before the first voice spoke again. "I don't know, maybe I'm hearing things."

"Did it sound like a sob?" The girl voice sounded excited, eager.

"A little, yeah."

"It was her. Remember?"

"Yes, of course I remember. Have you seen her?"

A gentle sigh. "Not yet, but I've heard her walking around and crying ... and I've felt her trying to be with me."

Were they talking about Faith Ardmore? What were they, a couple of ghost hunters? It seemed like the only explanation, so far.

The second voice continued. "Can you please stay a while this time? I'm so lonely."

The first voice was still a gender-free undertone, although it was a bit louder now. "No, I've got to get back before he gets suspicious. I just wanted to bring the stuff you asked for." There was a sharp rustling, like a plastic grocery bag being opened or handed over. "And these are for Faith, I think. They were on the front porch. That guy's getting to be a pain in the ass."

"I threw the last ones away. These are nicer."

"Um ... look, if you're going to play that organ, crank it down a bit. You can actually hear it outside."

"I thought maybe it would scare people away."

"Or maybe it will attract attention. People walk their dogs on that beach down there. Don't push your luck. _Our_ luck." The whisper thickened. "It'll be my ass ... and your life." An ominous pause, during which I wondered whose ass and whose life they were discussing. Some kind of netted undergarment was scratching my cheek; I wrinkled my nose and waited. "Well, I better get back; I'm sure he's wondering where I went."

"How is he?" The girl sounded a bit tremulous.

"Fine. Don't worry so much; I'll bring him over here soon so you can talk to him. Keep quiet a few more days and we'll be all set."

"Please don't leave me. I'm scared. I love you," the girl voice whimpered.

More rustling; the grocery bag being set down? "Sweetie, I love you too. Just be patient and try not to freak out again, okay?" Another pause; presumably they were hugging or making out or something. I wanted desperately to sneak a peek, but they were so close to the closet I didn't dare attempt it. "Okay, now I've got to run. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay," the sad little voice choked. Footsteps padded away from the room, down the stairs. As they faded, sobs erupted from the other side of the clothing. Shit, was this person going to fall apart and trap me there for the rest of the night? Somehow that didn't appeal to me.

But for once I was lucky. After a few moments, the weeping died down and I heard that soft swishing again. The tiny bit of light filtering through the clothing faded. I waited until the sound receded, then slipped out of the closet. I had to spend a minute breathing deeply, trying to push the stinky mothball air out of my lungs. My head was pounding and I was dizzy as hell. At least the tickle in my throat had subsided.

Then I inched to the door and peered cautiously into the hallway, straining my itchy, watery eyes at the darkness.

I pulled my head back quickly as I heard the rustling sound again, closer than I'd expected. Was it the grocery bag? Why didn't she take it downstairs to the refrigerator? I edged an eye to the crack between the hinged side of the door and the wall and waited tensely as the rustling grew ... and just about jumped out of my skin when a flickering glow passed inches from my face. There were no footsteps this time, just the silky swishing.

I eased my way back to the doorway and watched in horrified fascination as an eerily glowing figure moved away from me ... the figure of a long-haired woman in a very full skirt and tightly laced bodice.

Chapter Fifteen

After I caught my breath, common sense abandoned me completely and I launched myself from the room, not even worried about setting off motion detectors or alarms. Fortunately, I didn't -- even though I high-tailed my butt down the front staircase, practically fell in the middle of the main hallway, and didn't even try to find the back exit again. Nope, I barreled right out the front door after a brief argument with a deadbolt. No lights glared, no alarms shrieked, no pit bulls ripped my throat out.

But behind me I heard a woman's voice calling, "Faith? Faith, is that you?"

I jumped from the porch, scrabbled down the steep path, and hauled ass along the shore, my work boots punching the moist sand all the way to my safe, secure, well-lit, one-room bungalow.

Phew!

Of course, as soon as I'd caught my breath, I realized how incredibly reckless I'd been. Not to mention wimpy. Why hadn't I confronted the people -- they had to be real people, right? -- then and there? Okay, yeah, I wasn't armed and they might have been dangerous, although they didn't sound that way. Why hadn't I tailed the ghost, if that's what that was? I'd let myself get spooked, plain and simple. What a moron.

With a sigh of humiliation, I forced myself up off the futon where I'd collapsed to recover from my panicky flight. Time to try Norcross again. It wasn't even 9:30; he'd said to call anytime, day or night. I punched the number into my cheap touchtone and waited for Norcross to pick up. The phone purred four and a half times, then a mechanically cheerful voice informed me again that the owner was not available and to please leave a message after the tone. So I did.

"Hey, Norcross, it's Maddie Maxwell. I've done some investigating and I think you've got squatters ... not really sure who they are or why they're there, but there's at least one person -- a woman-who seems to be kinda living in the mansion, and someone brings her stuff, food or whatever. Sounds to me like they're interested in the ghost. I don't know what they're up to, but I don't know if they're responsible for the vandalism. You might want to call the police." What else? "Uh ... oh yeah, just to check things out, I broke in. It was pretty easy; no alarms went off or anything. Not sure what kind of system you got there, but either it sucks or someone disabled it." I decided not to mention running into Walt or finding the hand; too complicated, plus I was supposedly shutting Walt out of the investigation. "That's it for now, I guess. Call me back whenever you can and I'll fill you in." I left my number, just in case, and disconnected.

What the hell had I overheard? I tried to sort it out, but was still too flustered to make sense of it. Booger mashed her head against my arm, begging for attention, and Hairball strutted from the breakfast nook and fell onto his back at my feet in his usual idiotic pose. "Okay," I said to them sternly, "tell me why someone would hide in a deserted mansion and dress up as a ghost?" That was my only theory; I didn't want to believe I'd witnessed an actual sighting, even after my own little haunting.

When my phone rang around 10:00 I practically had a coronary. "Calm down," I instructed myself before picking up the receiver. Praying for it to be Norcross, I said in my smoothest tone, "Hello?"

"Max?" Crap, it was just Walt. "God, you sound almost professional. What gives?"

"I thought you might be someone important."

"Well, I like to think I am. So, whatcha been doing?" His voice was somewhat teasing, knowing ... a bit too familiar, like we were old pals.

"Nothing. How was dinner with the wife and kids?"

"Thrilling as always. So did you turn up anything new at the estate?"

My temper blazed up. "Did you follow me?"

The bastard was snickering at me again. "No, I just had a hunch you'd sneak off there. Thanks for confirming. So. Did you see the ghost?"

A nasty suspicion entered my mind. If Walt had a hunch I'd be at the estate, could he have set something up just to make me look like a fool? Could he have been the second voice in the conversation I overheard? Or was I just suffering from the usual paranoid fantasies? "I'm hanging up now," I said, and did.

Thursday morning my temperature was still pre-ovulation low. Didn't look like I'd be laying an egg this month. I was seriously bummed, wondered how many I had left before my supply completely dried up. Not that there was a potential sperm donor in sight, but still ...

After I made coffee I tried Norcross's cell phone again, left another urgent message, then hung around waiting for an answer. To distract myself, I tried to focus on the investigation ... but I wasn't really sure what I should do next. The P.I. correspondence course didn't cover elusive clients, ghosts, vandals, or squatters. Well, not in the first half of Chapter One, anyway.

I got a few more hotel chores done, but at this point there wasn't a lot to do. So I went back to the web search I'd started the night before on Harry Constantine. His club had apparently been broken into a lot, had been robbed several times in the past year alone, and had been the scene of more than one violent fight. Okay, so Chicago had a Combat Zone too. Big freakin' surprise ... I wanted more on Constantine's wife.

Smacking myself in the forehead for not thinking of it sooner, I tried "Harold Constantine" and got more damn genealogy and ... hot damn, an obit. I clicked on that.

Yep, it was his ... Chicago, Harold Constantine, owner of The Hothouse, died of severe burns and smoke inhalation three days after he'd been trapped in the basement of his burning club. He left behind a widow, Myla Ardmore Constantine, and three grown children from a previous marriage.

Hmm. Apparently the club had changed its name from "Harry's Hothouse" to "The Hothouse" shortly after Constantine married Myla. I read on. Harry had recently reported receiving threats from an unidentified source. His grieving widow admitted receiving phone calls of the same nature, which she'd kept from her husband -- he had enough worries.

My, my, how very sweet and thoughtful of her.

I read a few more minor articles that reinforced my sneaking little suspicions. The cause of the fire had been under investigation, but no evidence of arson had turned up and, finally, the insurance claim had been settled ... to the benefit of Harry's bride of six months, Myla Ardmore Constantine, co-owner of The Hothouse.

That plus Harry's life insurance must have added up to a pretty decent sum, I figured. Enough so Myla didn't have to worry for a while, anyway. Lucky her.

I couldn't help wondering about the timing of the marriage, the change in ownership, and the fire. Given Myla's reputation as a pathological liar, it all seemed pretty damned convenient to me . . . and pretty damned suspicious. And hadn't Cal said something about her being a firebug when she was a teen?

So what the hell was she up to now? Twisting her well-heeled Uncle Adam around her pinky was the obvious answer ... but, aside from managing the new club and starring as its headliner, what was she after?

And how far would she go to get it?

Walt materialized before lunch. "You still mad at me?" he asked, settling his big frame on my futon, which was so low to the ground Walt's knees were on a level with his chest. When I just glared in response, he added, "You don't trust me, do you?"

"Bingo. Why should I?"

Behind his glasses, Walt's gorgeous eyes grew sad. "Well, I guess there's no reason you should, really, but ... it really does make sense for us to work on this together." He sighed and clasped his hands in front of him. "Look, I have an offer to make you. If you really want to be a P.I., you're going to have to apprentice yourself to someone who knows the ropes, who can give you some direction and guidelines, someone who's been doing it a while. That crap" -- indicating my neglected correspondence coursework which still lay on the floor, providing a nice bed for Hairball -- "will only take you so far." I was standing with my back against the kitchen sink, marveling at how such a large man could look so much like an embarrassed little kid. "So, Max, what do you think?"

"You want to be my mentor? How touching. Why?"

He looked up at me. "Well, let's just say I think you have ability, and I think this case -- or these cases, whatever -- are a lot bigger than one person can handle, a lot bigger than Norcross realizes. There's definitely something more than vandalism going on. You could use the help, and someone to watch your back." He cleared his throat and added, "It was really stupid of you to go to the estate alone last night. I have a feeling it was just to show me up, but you might have gotten hurt or trapped or even arrested if the police had looked in. You need to learn some restraint. This isn't a game, and the people involved could be dangerous. Didn't that severed hand make any sort of impression on you?"

My lower lip hurt where I'd been gnawing on it. "How do I know you're not somehow involved in this whole thing?"

Walt looked startled, then laughed sharply. "Good point. I guess you don't; maybe you'll just have to trust me. I could say the same thing, but ... well, I do trust you. You're one of the most forthright people I've ever met." He studied the toe of his shoe and cleared his throat again. "But if we make this agreement, if you let me be your mentor or whatever, we have to share everything we find out with each other. Everything. Is that understood?"

For a moment I had no idea what to do. Was he making this deal just so I'd give him the information I had, or did he seriously want to help me? On the one hand, he'd never bothered to mention we were in the same class in high school. On the other hand ... well ... he was a real live P.I. ... I'd done some stupid things ... the clues I had I really didn't know how to put together ... if anything I was more confused than ever after last night. Was it time for an attitude adjustment?

I weighed the pros and cons, and finally huffed out, "All right, I guess." When I stuck out my hand to shake his, I was rewarded with a very nice smile.

So, reluctantly, I gave my new partner the information I'd gotten from Cal and Libby and Gabe as well as what I'd overheard and seen last night. He very kindly didn't snicker at my stupidity, although an occasional smirk twitched under his moustache. When I told him about what I'd turned up in my search on the web, he almost looked impressed, although when I mentioned using Hotbot he shook his head. "Google's more comprehensive."

I finished up, "And Norcross hasn't called me back since that really short message he left yesterday. I've left him a few voicemails since then."

Walt frowned. "Do you still have the message he left yesterday?"

"Yeah, but it's like three words long." I hit the buttons on my answering machine until Norcross's voice whispered, "It's Adam Norcross. Call me ASAP."

Walt's frown deepened. "He's whispering like he doesn't want to be overheard, don't you think?" I nodded. "And you've called him a few times since then? And he hasn't called back?"

"Yep, that's right." I pulled Norcross's business card from under the phone and studied it. "Y'know, I haven't tried the private home line; maybe I should. He did say to try there if he didn't answer his cell."

With Walt hovering next to me, I dialed the local number. An extremely prissy female answered after several rings. "Good morning, the Dunes."

The Dunes? Guess Norcross owned that sprawling estate on Skiff Neck's private beach. Walt nudged me and I stammered, "Uh, yeah, I'm looking for Adam Norcross."

There was a pointed pause before the woman asked, "May I ask who is calling?"

Lah-dee-friggin-dah. "Yeah, this is Madeleine Maxwell. I work for him at the Abneyville Shores Resort." I cocked the phone away from my ear a bit so Walt could hear her response. He leaned in close enough that I could smell his soap or aftershave or something, subtle but surprisingly yummy.

"And may I ask how you got this number?"

"He gave it to me," I enunciated as prissily as possible. Amused dimples dented Walt's cheeks. "He asked me to call him on his cell phone but I haven't been able to reach him, and this is a matter of some urgency." Walt grinned at me and nodded encouragingly. Hey, I can sound like I have a pole up my ass when I want to.

Didn't seem to help with this bitch, however. "Well, Ms. Maxwell, I'm terribly sorry," she said in a tone that clearly implied she wasn't, "but Mr. Norcross was called away on a very important business matter. I'm not sure when he'll be back." Beside me, Walt listened intently, his arm pressed against mine. I could feel his breath on my neck and I could swear he was sniffing me . . . pretty much the way I was sniffing him. "Hello?" The snooty bitch called me back to reality.

"Yes. Sorry. Uh, any idea why he isn't answering his cell phone?"

She puffed an exasperated little breath into the phone, to let me know just how trivial my concerns were to her. "Perhaps he neglected to bring it with him. He left in a bit of a hurry. It was a very important business matter, as I said."

Walt's and my heads were almost touching over the receiver now, reminding me a bit too strongly of the Sam Wainwright phone call scene in _It's a Wonderful Life_... so many weird vibes were bouncing around I could hardly think straight. I managed to ask huskily, "When did he leave?"

"Last night."

"Well, look, he made it clear to me that he wanted the information I have as soon as possible. Will he be calling you for messages?"

"Perhaps. Would you care to leave details with me?"

Something in her tone made me remember Norcross's caution to keep this strictly between him and me. I'd already blown that with Walt, who was breathing heavily next to me, so I said, "Uh ... no, that's okay, I left some information on his voicemail. Just tell him -- tell him I'm waiting for further instructions. Got that?" I couldn't resist needling her a little.

She hung up on me.

After a moment, I straightened up and put the receiver back in its cradle, breaking contact with Walt, who didn't move. "Damn, I hate people like that," I said. "I would have told her to blow it out her ass, but I got the impression that's one tight sphincter."

Walt straightened up, cleared his throat, and stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "Yeah, I know. She sounded a lot like his New York secretary."

"So maybe she travels with him? Like a personal assistant?"

"Makes sense, but ..." He sat gingerly on the futon, his brow creased in thought. "If that were the case, wouldn't she accompany him on an urgent business matter? Why would he bring her with him to his vacation home and leave her behind on business?"

"Maybe she's something more than a secretary. And anyhow, everyone sounds weird over the phone."

"Well ... they both had that kind of stilted inflection, like she was putting on the voice to sound professional. Pitched a bit high, very affected. You know what I mean? Overdone, too precise ... that has to be the same woman who called me last week and asked me to tail you."

I followed him as he paced to the window and gazed out at the shoreline. "So you mean you never talked directly to Adam Norcross?"

Outside a seagull plummeted from the sky, grabbed something off the sand and flapped away mewing. "Well, no ... I mean, wouldn't a man like Norcross have his assistant handle something like that?"

"But he spoke to me directly. You think maybe because it was a different kind of thing?"

Walt didn't answer, just kept on staring at the surf breaking smoothly on the shore. Another gull floated by wailing like a cranky baby, a sound that had wrenched my heart a million times in the past few months. I hugged myself as the longing for a child -- for my child -- twisted inside me, and I wished this investigation was over so I could focus on trying to be a mother again.

As we stood there gazing at the million-dollar view from my shanty, I sensed Walt next to me ... okay, yeah, sometimes he acted like a big snooty dork, but he emanated this strong, solid, warm thing that was strangely reassuring... comfortable ... and yeah, very sexy, in some weird way. Not the dangerous, intoxicating sexy of Jackson O'Brien, but something more solid, more substantial ... more _real._

I shook off the reverie and asked him, "So what do we do now?"

Walt cleared his throat and crossed his arms, still gazing at the water. "Now," he said softly, "I think we do a little stakeout at The Dunes tonight."
Chapter Sixteen

Shortly after Walt took off to attend to "other investigations" (smug bastard), Libby appeared at my door, out of breath, demanding quality time. "My youngest is with his grandparents for the afternoon and you and I are having a drink." When I opened my mouth to protest, she simply grabbed my arm and dragged me struggling out to her silver Miata. That's when I gave in, wondering how much longer she'd be able to enjoy her Barbie car ... thanks, indirectly, to me.

Although she claimed she just wanted to get me used to socializing again, she drove like a woman on a mission. "Jesus, Libby, watch the curves," I snapped, hunkering down fearfully in the leather seat.

"Oh for God's sake, Max, there's no one out here this time of year," she scoffed as we narrowly missed a UPS truck pulled over on the sandy shoulder. We reached Skiff Neck's main drag in record time, and Libby screeched into a parking space right opposite the Wonder Bra. "Last one at the bar is a rotten egg," she giggled, bounding across the road gleefully, her colorful scarf trailing behind her like a balloon string. Crabby me shuffled after her, not feeling like seeing anyone who might be in there ... especially Jackson.

The pub's semi-darkness was welcome to my grainy eyes, at any rate, and the lack of piano music was even more soothing. With any luck, Jackson wouldn't be in until much later, and I'd be long gone. Cal was behind the bar polishing bottles, but straightened up and beamed like an evil Santa when he saw us come in. "Well, well, well," he chuckled, "if it isn't my girls."

A bump and a gravelly "Ow" emanated from down below, and Jackson rose up behind the bar like a wraith, rubbing his head and scowling. "Damn, that hurt." He took in Libby and me and scowled even more darkly, but summoned up a grudging, "Oh. Hi."

"Hey, Jackson," Libby purred, leaning across the counter. "How's it going? Feeling any better?"

He was looking at me like a sulky little boy, one hand on his injured head. "Well, let's just say it ain't Happy Hour yet." With that, he ducked back down.

"Jackson's giving me a hand with restocking today," Cal explained. "You two have your pick of tables. I'll be right with you."

"Can't we sit here?" Libby slid half a butt cheek onto one of the upholstered barstools. "I wanted to talk to Jackson about some new material." She patted the stool next to hers and flashed me a vixen's smile. I grimaced at her and indicated a faraway booth with my head. Annoyed, she wriggled the rest of her butt on the stool. "Come on, Max, it'll just take a second. God, everyone's such a sourpuss today."

Cal twinkled sympathetically as he shoved a Sam Adams toward me, then stopped short and put his fingers to his mouth. "Ooh, I should ask if you're drinking again, shouldn't I?"

Disgusted, I snatched the bottle from him and growled, "Course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well ... never mind." He handed Libby a glass of white wine and went back to checking bottles.

"So, Jackson, did you look at ..." Libby started, when the sound of female humming from the back hallway interrupted her.

Myla Devine sashayed from the ladies' room to the bar, dum-de-dumming in a lazy, throaty undertone.

Eyebrows raised innocently, Cal asked, "Did I forget to mention we have company?"

When Myla saw us, she stopped short and bared her teeth, then turned the corners of her mouth upward in a strained welcoming smile. "Well, hello there, Miss Libido and Mad Max." She crooned out Cal's nicknames for us as if she'd known us all our lives. "What brings you here?" Her alien green eyes silently added, _And how fast can you leave?_ as she oozed onto the stool on Libby's other side and glanced around. "Where'd Jackson go?" Cal pointed toward the floor and Myla slithered onto the bar for a better look, pretty much sticking her ass in our faces. "Oh, Jackson, I'm baack," she cooed, and they started a murmured confab behind the bar.

Libby considered Myla's butt. "Got a cattle prod on you?" After slugging down a hearty gulp of wine, she added, "Although from what I understand, she'd enjoy it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm-hm. Haven't you noticed she talks like she's some kind of S&M freak? And Jackson says there's whips and chains and stuff all over the walls at that club. Her idea, she says."

I thought it over. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever turns you on, I suppose." Watching Myla's firm posterior wriggle on the bar made me feel flabby and middle-aged. Considering their respective positions I could imagine Jackson was getting a very good look down her low-cut cashmere sweater ... which was probably her intention in the first place. "So what about it?" I asked.

"So how can you hurt someone like that?"

"I guess it depends on whether they're S or M."

Libby took a longer, pensive sip of wine. "I'm betting she's S. She seems kind of the dominatrix type, don't you think? She certainly has you-know-who on a leash." From behind the bar came Jackson's sexy chuckle, sounding warm and encouraging. My Sam Adams vanished and Libby pouted. "I guess this wasn't such a great idea. Want to get a table?"

Cal doled out another round and we wandered to a booth as far from the action as we could get. "Crap," Libby sighed as she slid onto the bench. "Sorry, Max."

I shrugged. "Sorry for what?"

"Well ..." She toyed with her wineglass and frowned. "I thought maybe if you and Jackson had a chance to talk ..."

I snapped, "Look, Lib, don't even bother. I told you whatever we had fizzled." A memory of the other night's near miss wafted uninvited through my brain, and I sighed. "I mean, since he found out I want to get pregnant."

"And since he met Myla," Libby sneered. "He hasn't been so keen to work on music with me since that bitch arrived in town." After another sip she added, "You know I've been singing with him, right?"

"Yeah, I heard. I don't know why you didn't mention it."

One rouged cheek dimpled. "I thought you might be jealous."

She was probably right, so I ignored that remark. "So you think if he and I link up that'll make him want to work with you again?"

Libby's huge cornflower eyes misted over with hurt. "Now you think I'm trying to use you?"

Put that way, it made me feel like shit even though I was pretty sure it was true. "Well, no, but look at it from a professional point of view for sec. Jackson's trying to make a living doing his music. This place hasn't done so well since ... well, you know."

"Since you blew my husband's head off," Libby droned, "right over there." She pointed to the kitchen doors and I winced.

"Anyway, Norcross is loaded and very generous, if my deal is any indication."

"Yeah, and Myla is young and has a great body, so who needs us?" She drained her wineglass and pouted. "I need another drink."

My hand shot over her glass. "No you don't, and neither do I. What we both need to do is stop being whiney middle-aged pussies."

Libby looked affronted. "Excuse me? I'm not the one who holed up in a shack all summer and fall."

"No, that was me. You're the one who's moping because that little conniving bitch is ruining her act. You want something, go get it. Right?"

"You bet your sweet ass, girlfriend," Cal chimed in, wedging himself into the booth next to Libby and pouring more wine into her glass. "And if you want my humble opinion, from what I've seen, Miss Big Hooters Devine can't hold a candle to you. Even Jackson said as much. Guess lust isn't blind, huh?"

"He said that?" Libby's eyes sparkled.

"He did indeed. He said she has style but lacks soul, whereas you, my dear, have soul pouring out of every conceivable orifice."

I grimaced. "Don't make me hork, Cal."

"Just as Max has charm pouring out others." Cal turned his furry visage to me. "You're not going to give up without a fight, are you? If not, you'd better work fast ... she's unquestionably got him hooked."

"Sucker," Libby scoffed.

Myla was now perched on the bar as if she were posing for Playboy, and Jackson's tongue was pretty much hanging out. My ego deflated like a Whoopee Cushion. Was I going to give up without a fight?

I gripped my beer bottle and summoned my three top priorities to mind: find a father, get pregnant, get my P.I. license. With Walt helping me, I was on track with the last item, at least ... and for reasons I was reluctant to explore, I was wondering if he might fit into the first two items as well. Most likely, I was grasping at straws. On the other hand, Jackson wasn't even on the list since he'd very clearly told me he was not interested in being a father, so ... "Screw it, Jackson's a free agent, and I have other things on my mind these days."

"Ah yes." Cal nodded. "Have you decided how you're going to go about that?"

Libby looked surprised. "You mean other than having sex?"

"Well, seeing as that only worked for me the one time in all those years, I'll probably need a boost of something." I sighed. "I've been keeping track of my BBT and all that crap, everything looks normal, the doctor says I'm normal, but ... well, if I'm so normal why didn't I ever get pregnant before? It wasn't like I lacked opportunity. If anything, I've had more than the average woman." The pub door opened behind me and I wondered if Myla was leaving. "Not to mention I'm forty now." Libby opened her mouth but nothing came out. I took that as agreement. "That's right, no arguing the facts. So I've been thinking ..."

"Holy shit," Libby breathed.

Cal turned toward where she was staring, just behind me at the front entrance, then turned back to me and shrugged. "Anyone you know?"

"Max, no." Libby grabbed my hand, but I'd already turned to take a gander at the new customer: a nice-looking, hale, slightly balding middle-aged man.

For a moment it didn't register ... but when it did, every nerve in my body froze and then caught fire, acid raised through my veins, my head flew off my shoulders and crashed against the ceiling. "Cal, grab her," I heard Libby say, and I sensed Cal had slid next to me on my bench but I couldn't see him.

It was the man whose name I could never bring myself to say out loud ... Coach D'Angelo, who had raped me when I was fourteen.
Chapter Seventeen

Somehow Cal and Libby got me home. I have no recollection of the drive; suddenly I was in my cabin and Cal was trying to force a hot drink on me while Libby petted my hand. My body still quaked and my head still felt like it was on Mars, but at least I was home and in the present.

"Well, welcome back, princess," Cal whispered. "Come on, have a sip, you're still in shock."

I sniffed the mug's contents and made a face. "I hate tea."

Both of them laughed as if I'd said something hilarious. "She's back all right. Drink it anyway; you'll feel better."

"I'll puke," I protested, but sipped the hot, sweet liquid. It was strangely comforting, but I wasn't going to admit it. I felt like I'd been flushed down an emotional toilet; I needed all the comfort I could get. After a few moments of my two best friends watching breathlessly as I sipped the tea, I shook myself. "All right, was it really him?"

"Oh yes," Libby assured me. "It was."

Cal added, "Apparently everyone's favorite dominatrix knows him; she ran right up to meet him. They were drinking together at the bar when we carried you out."

"That fucking figures," I snarled. "Shitheads stick together." Hot tea sloshed over the side of the mug, scalding my wrist. "Ow. Shit." Gently Cal took the mug from my quaking hands. A rush of panic overwhelmed me. "Did he see me? Did he recognize me?"

"It's okay, you're safe," Libby whispered.

"Especially since you've grown up," Cal added wryly.

What the hell was wrong with me? I'd managed to put that asshole behind bars over twenty-five years ago, when I was just a freaked-out kid. Here I was, a tough -- if short -- middle-aged broad ... but the mere sight of him scared the crap out of me. My stomach lurched sideways as I thought of his face. "I feel sick," I moaned, dragged myself to the bathroom and lost it big time.

Libby came in to hold my head and stroke me, then helped me wash up as if I was one of her kids. My skin felt like someone had attacked me with a glue stick and I couldn't stop shivering as she guided me back to the futon. "Shit, I think I have the flu."

Cal wrapped a blanket around me. "No, my love, it's shock. Trust me on this." He squeezed next to me on the futon; Libby perched on the arm. For a moment I worried that the cheesy frame would collapse, but who gave a shit? All I wanted to do was sleep.

Which is apparently what I did. The ringing phone smacked me awake, but when I reached for it, eyes still closed, it wasn't there. I heard Libby's voice saying, "Madeleine Maxwell's line, who's calling please?" My eyes opened and Libby looked down at me solicitously. "It's for you." Big surprise. "You want to take it?"

"Who is it?" I yawned.

"Walter Drucker?"

Groaning, I reached my hand out. "Yeah, Walt, what's up?"

"Since when did you get a receptionist?" the dry voice questioned. "And where the hell does she sit, on your lap?"

"Hey, this is a high class operation." My head throbbed as I tried to sit up. "So whaddya want?"

"Are we on for tonight?"

What the hell was tonight? "Uh ..."

"Remember? Snooty voice on the phone? Blah blah blah?"

I blinked hard. "Is that some kind of code?"

There was a pause. "Have you been drinking or something? This stuff just happened a few hours ago ... and we were going to do something about it tonight. Does that help?"

The events of the morning crawled back into my soggy brain. "Oh. Oh yeah. So ... what are we doing again?"

Loud, pissy sigh. "Look, I'll just drop by your place around seven. We'll take it from there." He hung up, obviously disillusioned with his new partner.

"What was that about?" Libby pounced on me the second I set the phone down.

"Nothing, just work stuff."

"Walt Drucker, huh? So he's still around." She frowned, dredging up a memory. "My late beloved Morris handled some legal stuff for Adam Norcross a few years back. Something to do with a local business Norcross had to close." She looked at me squinty-eyed. "Drucker was one of the employees who lost his job as a result."

"Yeah, well, this whole area is so incestuous it's disgusting, so that's no big surprise. Anyway, he has a job now so that's not an issue." For some reason I sounded defensive. I must've been taking this partner thing seriously after all.

"And what are you doing with him, may I ask?"

"It's nothing, okay? Just some work stuff." I pulled myself upward and rubbed my eyes as various events of the day came to the surface. "Shit. Why did I have to wake up?" Libby sat next to me and massaged my shoulders. I shrugged her off. "Why are you still here?"

"My kids won't be home till later and I was worried about you. Stop being such an ungrateful bitch."

Okay, she was right. "Sorry," I yawned. "I need coffee."

"I'll make it." Libby snapped into action. "You talk to me." I wandered over to the breakfast nook and stared at the ocean, where I'd scattered my only child's ashes last spring. There were days that joining her seemed like a really good idea. Today was one of them. "That was a big sigh," Libby commented from the counter.

"Yeah, well ..."

"You know, Max, you never told me what happened. I mean, when we were kids ... I guess you probably didn't want to talk about it anymore than you already had to, with the case and all."

My knees melted so I collapsed onto a bench. "I still don't want to." Libby said nothing. The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed as it forced out brew. I sniffed the comforting aroma and dragged out painful words. "It was just ... it was such a betrayal, I guess Cal would call it. Everyone loved him. I had a huge crush on him."

"I know, I remember," Libby said. "So did I."

"So did all the girls and half the guys. So lucky me when he offered me a ride home, huh? Dad forgot to pick me up after a game ... he was off pub crawling, as usual. I was stranded and feeling sorry for myself and here comes ... here _he_ comes and offers me a ride."

A big happy chocolate Lab galloped by my window, splashing in the shallow water under the bright afternoon sky. The dog's owner appeared, a baseball-capped elderly woman, laughing and clapping as her pet frisked. I wondered what her life had been like, that she could smile like that at her age. Maybe she was lucky and had forgotten it all.

"I bet you were thrilled, huh?" Libby prompted.

"Oh, yeah, you bet." I watched the Lab and its owner wander off together, two happy souls simply enjoying themselves and each other. I wondered what that felt like. "Yeah, I was thrilled, excited, starry-eyed ... fantasizing that he'd kiss me, and I'm sure it was obvious." I shuddered as the memory of D'Angelo's face loomed in my head... the heavy breathing, the heavy eyelids, the sick lump of fear that filled my stomach when I saw that look. I swallowed bile and went on tightly. "But when he did it was scary and weird ... and that's when it all went to shit. He was a big guy, and I was about ninety pounds back then. I cried and fought and said no, but... well, you know."

"What?"

Try as I might, I just couldn't talk about the details. Through a clenched jaw I muttered, "It's not like he was rough; he didn't have to be. He was big and I was a stupid kid with a crush on him."

"But they listened to you." Libby's voice held all the admiration Myla professed to have for me. "You fought and you won."

"I was pissed and hurt beyond belief. It was the last straw, really. Sometimes I think I went after him because of everything else ... the culmination of all the shit in my life at the time: Dad's drinking and violence, Mom being crazy and dying. And now... God damn it, when does old shit stop haunting you? When does the past finally become the past?" My throat felt like it had been sandpapered. I whispered tightly, "When do all the ghosts go away?"

Libby didn't say anything, just came up behind me and hugged me hard.

When Libby left to pick up her kids, I felt intensely lost and abandoned. I knew Walt would be by around 7:00, but that was a few hours away and I desperately did not want to be alone. My mind was too cluttered to focus on the investigation, on my sperm donor ad, or even on mindless TV. All I wanted to do was drive somewhere, anywhere, and stop thinking about what had happened all those years ago.

Both Bruno and the van keys were gone from the front desk, so I pulled open the drawer and found the keys to our back-up vehicle, a solid old Crown Victoria in a subtle coppery-beige. I'd stocked it with cushions so I could see over the steering wheel; it made me feel like one of the thousands of tiny geezers and geezerettes that made our roads impassable in the off-season. I pulled Bruno's chauffeur cap over my hair and took off for Hawk Marsh.

I didn't realize until I was almost there that I was heading for the address listed on Walt's web page: 115 Marshview Lane. I knew it was a residential address, so he must run his agency from a home office. I wasn't even sure why I wanted to check it out, other than to distract myself from a whole compost heap of upsetting thoughts. Curiosity, I told myself. And anyhow, he'd been spying on me for weeks. I owed it to myself to know more about him.

Okay, so I was at Marshview Lane -- now what? I drove toward number 115 at blue-hair speed, hunching down a bit so only the hat was visible to an onlooker. As I went by I peered sideways at the driveway in time to see the door of a frumpy station wagon slam, the brake lights flash and a small puff of exhaust shoot out. Whoa, good timing. I sped up a bit when the wagon started lumbering backwards toward me. My heart raced as I made up my mind to follow whoever was driving, and I wondered nervously if it was Walt himself or his wife, or if his kids were old enough to drive. At any rate, it would give me some practice tailing.

I backed the Vic into someone's driveway and, when the station wagon went by, I eased forward and tailed it at a respectful distance.

We didn't go far, just to desolate downtown Hawk Marsh. The wagon pulled into a tiny strip mall and parked in front of the Golden Fountain; I pulled to the side of the road across the street. In my head Homer Simpson's voice said, _Mm, Chinese food_... well, it was dinnertime, just about 5:00. I felt lightheaded with hunger as I watched the Walts get out of the car: Mama Walt and two baby Walts that were far from babies, but no big guy.

For some reason my heart wouldn't slow down; maybe the adrenaline from the day's stress was too much for me after so many quiet, uneventful months. As I looked at Walt's kids I felt choky and weird. One was a boy, tall and lanky and nerdy like his dad, probably about seventeen; the other was a short, bubbly-cute middle school girl with an impish face and curly auburn hair. His wife, a pale redhead, looked pleasant but tired, like Walt did... like someone who'd settled and wasn't too happy about it.

Once they were in the restaurant, I pulled the Vic into the strip mall's parking lot on the far end by the barbershop. From there I walked to the cool, dark restaurant and let the chirpy cashier guide me to a booth with high-backed benches ... right behind the one occupied by Walt's family. I sipped some water and pretended to read the menu as I eavesdropped on one eager young voice, one stale adult voice feigning interest but probably bored to death ... and one sad, hypercritical teenage voice that sounded disturbingly like a young Walt.

"Hey Mom, can I get crab Rangoon and egg rolls?" That was the youngster.

"You need to get something with vegetables." Mom.

"Egg rolls have vegetables. They have lettucy stuff in them." Youngster.

"No, I mean real vegetables, like carrots or green beans or something. Steven, what do you want?"

"Whatever." That was mini-Walt.

"Very helpful. Bo, you can have crab Rangoon or an egg roll, plus something with vegetables, okay?" Mom again.

"Where's Dad? Why isn't he here yet?" Youngster, in a whiney tone. She was sitting directly behind me, with only three-quarter plywood between us. When she kicked the bench, I could feel it.

"He had some work to finish up." Mom.

"Bullshit." Teenager.

"Steven." Mom.

"Sorry. But you know he's going to stand us up again. What's with him lately, anyway? Midlife crisis or something? I don't even know why you bothered inviting him, Bo."

"Dad's just tired. He's been working a lot lately." Mom, who sounded sick to death of making excuses.

"I wanted to see him." Youngster.

"You just wanted to bum his egg rolls." Teenager.

A pause, then, "Well, yeah, that too." And all three laughed.

"What's so funny?" I slunk down further in my seat at the sound of Walt's voice. The family laughed even more loudly. I felt like I'd been deposited on the soundstage of a 1960s sitcom.

"We didn't think you'd make it," Walt Jr. explained with a critical edge to his voice.

"Well, you were wrong, weren't you?" his sire responded in a similar tone. The bench underwent a sort of earthquake as Walt sat down on the other side of the plywood, next to his youngest, and I could hear him give her a hug and kiss. "How's my Bobo?"

"Dad! Don't call me that!" Bo squealed.

"What? Call you what?" Walt's voice had a perplexed-loving-teasing tone that made me get teary-eyed for about the gazillionth time that week, and his daughter collapsed into cute, happy giggles at the attention.

This was feeling like a really bad idea all of a sudden. I slipped out of my seat and headed toward the rest rooms ... and kept right on going, past the kitchen, and straight out the back door.

When I took notice of my surroundings again, I discovered I was driving down a scarily familiar road in rural Hawk Marsh: a dead end street crowded with tacky ranches and Capes from the mid-sixties. God, what the hell was I doing there? I really didn't need another flashback to my horrific childhood. Not right then; that was for damn sure. My heart had relocated to beneath my solar plexus and was beating so hard it punched me in the stomach as I took in the drab scenery. Had it changed at all in thirty or so years? Same weather-beaten lawn ornaments; same shoddily maintained yards and exteriors. The swing sets were brightly colored plastic instead of rusty metal, but otherwise...

In spite of myself, I drove to the very end of the street and stared at the tacky ranch I'd grown up in. It was slate blue now instead of brick red; the shutters were white instead of black. The little porch I used to hide under had been replaced by a big redwood deck. The scrub pine woods that bordered the lawn had grown thicker, full of places a small girl could wedge into and hold her breath to keep her father from finding her...

I swallowed more bile and shook myself. Okay, time to stop the self-indulgent trip down Crappy Memory Lane. It was after 5:00 but I didn't want to go home yet. I didn't want to go to the pub to see Cal, because Jackson might be there ... and God knew who else. Libby had already given me enough time. So who the hell was left?

Gabe's brown eyes widened when she saw me standing awkwardly on her tidy little porch, but I couldn't tell if it was pleasure or fear. She stammered out, "Max! Well ... hi! I'm just so surprised to see you."

"Yeah, sorry. I was just kinda, you know, in the neighborhood ..."

"You haven't been here in ages. I'm surprised you remembered where it was." She wiped sudsy hands on her pants and opened the door. "Well, come on in."

Why the hell had I come here? Now I just wanted to run away. "Look, if you're busy, I can \--"

"No, of course not. Please, I just have to put dinner in the oven. The boys are off playing, Jimmy's at work, no one'll be home till six, so..." She held the screen door open and I slipped in, feeling very much out of place in her flowery, prissy Cape.

Gabe bustled and fussed around the stove while I sat at the white wooden table in her overly countrified kitchen, clutching a cow-patterned coffee mug. The radio droned bland James Taylor in the background; I can't tell his songs apart. My sister finally plunked down in a chair across from me. "So, are you okay?" she blurted.

"Why? Don't I seem okay?" My defensive response was automatic, but for once I cut myself short. "Wait. No, you're right, I'm not okay at all."

Gabe nodded agreement. "Is that why you came to me?" The zealous light was creeping into her eyes again. Yikes; gotta nip that in the bud.

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I need you to be my sister, not some missionary or whatever." Gabe's mouth opened but I cut her short. "Look, I know how you feel about all that Jesus stuff and about me and my lifestyle, but right now I just can't hear it. I'm on overload. Can't we just ... can't we just talk like people, like sisters, for once?"

To my amazement, genuine concern replaced Gabe's zeal. Maybe it was from hearing me admit I was human. She put a hand on my arm and squeezed. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"I don't really want to talk about that, I just ..." After some more hemming and hawing, I managed to tell her I'd just visited the old neighborhood. "I don't know what it is lately. Maybe because of Junie dying like that and I went through some form of motherhood this year, but all this family stuff has come back at me. Then after you and I talked the other day ... well, sometimes it's hard for me to believe we had the same parents, because we have such different memories of them. All I remember is how horrible it was. All you remember is now horrible _I_ was."

Gabe looked dismayed. "No, that's not all I remember, Max. Please don't think that, because you weren't horrible. Sometimes you left me behind, but other times ... a lot of the time you were nice to me, and fun. We watched scary movies together on Saturday afternoons, remember? And you tried to teach me about things, like baseball and carpentry."

"Oh yeah." Some vague memories twitched into my mind, of poor girly Gabe trying hard to please her bossy big sister. "You really hated that, didn't you?"

Gabe half-smiled. "I didn't like the projects, but I loved the attention. Max, really, you weren't anywhere near as bad as you think. Maybe I just cried too easily. But you know, when I got to be friends with Hannah and I saw the way Amy Lynn -- I mean, Myla -- treated her, I realized how lucky I was to have you."

"Oh, thanks a lot." I couldn't help smiling at the backhanded compliment.

Giggling, Gabe shook her head. "Hey, at least you never left me tied up for six hours. Amy Lynn did that to Hannah ... she told her they were going to play a game called hostage, lured her up into the tower, gagged her and tied her up and took off. Hannah was really traumatized from that."

"Holy crap, that woman is evil." I pondered this. "How much were you around her back then?"

Gabe winced. "Enough to know to avoid her. One of the first times I went over there to play with Hannah I wanted a drink of water, but Amy Lynn stopped me. She told me I was white trash and she didn't want me to contaminate their house."

"This was when you were about ten?"

Gabe nodded. "So she was about thirteen, I think. She did a lot of sadistic stuff to Hannah, but Hannah just worshiped her for some reason." My little sister frowned more and toyed with her cow mug. "I don't think Amy Lynn liked Hannah's dad, who'd married her mother. She used to say really disgusting things about him."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I didn't really understand it at the time, but it scared me. She told me to look out at night because he'd come into Hannah's room and ... well, take off his clothes." Gabe looked up at me, worried. "He never did when I was there, but I wonder if he did things to Amy Lynn? She looked older than she was ..."

We shared a grossed-out moment to the accompaniment of Celine Dion yodeling about love. I mused, "That might explain why she's such a slut now, but ... well, mean is mean, I don't care what her excuse is. She's still a nasty piece of work."

The D.J. broke in and bubbled about a local school board scandal and the murdering Malden housewife. Good lord, I'd almost forgotten about the amazing disappearing hand ... there was just too damned much to keep track of lately. "These stories and more coming up in two minutes," the D.J. promised.

"Is it six already?" Gabe jumped up. "I'd better get moving. Hey; you want to stay for dinner?"

She sounded so hopeful I was sorry to let her down, but I had to meet Walt; then she seemed genuinely sorry I couldn't stay. And she hugged me good-bye. And I hugged her back. And it felt really, really good.
Chapter Eighteen

About quarter of eight that night we parked Walt's nondescript station wagon near an entrance path to The Dunes, at the very point of Skiff Neck. "Private Property" and "No Trespassing" signs proliferated along the boundaries, which included about forty acres of prime waterfront real estate, including the dense pine forest in front of us. I couldn't even imagine how valuable that land was, especially with all the development going on in the area. Local realtors would spontaneously orgasm if that place ever went on the market; nothing like a bunch of new million-dollar homes with multimillion-dollar views.

We sat quietly for a few minutes, kind of getting the feel of things, I guess. My head was still foggy from the emotional wallop of seeing D'Angelo, and my heart wasn't a whole lot better after checking out and eavesdropping on Walt's family. Aside from feeling confusingly touched by what I'd heard, I felt like I'd gone through his underwear drawer and he knew it and was going to call me on it any second.

"Shall we take a walk?" Walt asked, and I nodded, trying to pull my head out of my ass and think like a pro. For some reason I was more nervous doing this type of thing with him than alone, maybe because I wasn't performing in a vacuum now. Any stupid thing I did he would notice and comment on. I'd rather screw up in private, thank you very much.

But I steeled myself for his criticism, shrugged nonchalantly and got out of the passenger side. Dry leaves clattered around our feet under the ocean breeze and I shivered inside my double layer of sweats. When I tried to tiptoe Walt stopped dead. "First rule: don't sneak. Walk like you have every right to be here," he admonished me, then continued toward the footpath. Sulkily I tromped behind him. Working independently was a whole lot less annoying, too.

He crashed through the pine trees like a bear, not even trying to be quiet. Since he had the flashlight, I kept my eyes on the beam and tried to match my tentative steps to his long-legged, confident strides. Brambles tripped me, bristly branches smacked me in the face, but I kept going, determined to show Walt I was up to the task.

In a few minutes he stopped abruptly and I walked into him. "Shh," he hissed before I could bitch at him. "That's the main house." A large, bulky structure loomed near us, punctuated by rectangles of light divided into smaller rectangles. After watching a moment, Walt murmured, "Someone's in the living room or library, I think. Let's go around to the side and try to get a look in."

"Have you been here before?" I asked.

Walt didn't answer, just lumbered out of the crisp woods onto the lawn and veered toward a dark patch. I could barely follow the flashlight, but I managed to keep up. We stopped in a shadow behind the huge structure, gazing up at the mullioned windows and numerous porches and verandahs. My eyes adjusted and I looked at Walt, who was staring upwards with a bitter expression. "Do you believe this house?"

"Old money," I sighed.

"Too much money, and way too damn much power," Walt muttered. "But he's also got too much faith in No Trespassing signs. Come on." And off he went, closer to the mansion with me trailing after him like a stupid dog. Weirdly, it didn't feel like we were doing anything very dangerous; the chances of us being caught seemed pretty slim. Walt was right; even inexperienced little me could sense that the security on this property was low. Norcross probably just assumed his snooty neighbors would keep an eye out for him.

We moved from the darkened back of the house toward the nearest lit window, about halfway down the side and fifteen feet over our heads. There was apparently a walk-in basement in back; the lawn sloped upwards so the next window was only about eight feet over Walt's head. By the warm light spilling from the window I could see his face, creased with concentration ... and out of nowhere I remembered the sound of his laughter and affectionate tone when he teased his daughter.

A ripple of muted piano music cascaded from the room, then a woman's fluty laugh. "Let's find out who's in there. Get on my shoulders," Walt whispered.

"What?" I snapped. "I will not."

"Don't be so damn stubborn, just do it," he urged, going down on one knee and bracing himself against the house. "Come on, get on."

As a forty-year-old, it felt pretty damn weird to put my legs around a guy's neck ... well, from that angle and under these circumstances, anyway. Even though I'm barely five-two, I'd managed to avoid piggyback rides since my pre-teen years. Grumbling, I straddled Walt's neck and held on tight as he slowly stood up and straightened out by sort of climbing up the house with his hands. God, he was tall. My grip tightened as we inched toward the window. "I've got you, so you can stop strangling me," he wheezed. I grabbed the windowsill with one hand, took a deep breath, and raised my head cautiously to peer in.

I have no idea what I was expecting to see, but what I saw completely floored me. It took a moment to sink in, then my hands gripped the sill and my thighs gripped Walt so hard he gasped and choked. "What? What is it?"

In the middle of the rose-colored room, lined with heavy mahogany furniture and shelves of expensive looking books, stood a gleaming concert grand piano. On the piano bench, with their backs to me, Jackson O'Brien and Myla Devine were snuggled together, laughing.

So his attention to her at the WunderBar that afternoon hadn't just been a show he'd put on for my benefit. My heart felt like an elevator whose cable had snapped.

"Come on, Max, you know what that guy's like." Seated next to me in the dark on The Dunes' manicured lawn, Walt was trying to coax me out of my latest foul mood.

It hadn't worked yet. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you know him?" I wondered why I was defending Jackson at this point.

Walt sighed. "Not personally, but ..."

"You only know him on paper, right? So how can you judge him from that?"

"Well, actions do speak louder than words, don't they?" Walt sounded almost as pissy as I felt. "He obviously exudes all kinds of sleazy charm, given his success with women, but... well, he's probably not telling you everything."

"Like what?"

"Well ... given that you know him personally and trust him, why don't you ask him how honest he's been with you?" Walt glanced at me and looked away quickly.

My antennae went up. "Why? What are you talking about?" A realization hit me. "Did you do a background check on him too?"

"Ever hear of confidentiality?" Walt asked evasively.

"You did, didn't you?" Infuriatingly, Walt didn't respond. I huffed, "Well, I know he was in jail for beating up a police officer, but the cop was off duty and was hitting on his girlfriend. And he made a racial slur." For some reason Jackson's own explanation of his actions sounded incredibly thin coming from my mouth.

Walt seemed to think so too. "So that justifies putting someone in a wheelchair?"

I sighed, frustrated. "He admits he has a problem with his temper and that he's working on it."

"Yeah, yeah, 'I can change,' "Walt mimicked nastily.

"Fuck you," I said automatically, but there was no heart in it. Something Libby had mentioned occurred to me and I hurled it at him. "Speaking of not telling someone everything, is it true you lost a job a while back because of Adam Norcross?"

Silence in the darkness next to me, then a very simple, "Yes."

"Hm. So you don't see any conflict of interest in working on this case?"

"It was years ago and we settled out of court. I think he might have hired me for this as a sort of peacemaking gesture."

Sounded reasonable enough, but ... "And another thing: why didn't you tell me we were classmates?" He looked startled. I went on, "If you graduated from Hawk Marsh High the same year I did, why don't I remember you?"

A tight sigh and a soft laugh followed the long silence. "Wow. Well ... I guess that settles it."

"Settles what?"

"I guess you really didn't notice me. After twenty-some-odd years I should probably just get over it, huh?" The seemingly light statement had the weight of wet sand.

"Notice you?" I peered at him through the misty darkness. "We really were classmates?"

Another sigh, heavier than the last. "Well, yes, but we never actually spoke or anything."

"Huh." I wracked my brain, came up empty as usual "Wanna jog my memory some?"

"Shh." Walt put a big hand on my arm and glanced toward the house, just a few yards away. The front door had opened and we could hear voices, horny male and cooing female. I winced and took a deep breath to squash the heartache as Jackson and Myla, apparently Super-glued together, locked up the house and wandered off the porch toward the driveway. "Let's go." Grabbing my hand, Walt sprang up and took off for the path.

Back in the station wagon, Walt started up the motor and, headlights off, eased the car along the unpaved road until we neared the main entrance to The Dunes. Myla's silver Jag appeared a minute or two later, stereo blaring, speeding through the gate without even looking for other cars. She was either confident there would be none or she was a very stupid driver. Or both.

We followed them at a distance until we were on Skiff Neck's main street, then Walt snapped on the headlights and relaxed a bit. The Jag suddenly swerved slightly to one side of the road and screeched to a stop; Walt had to slam on the brakes. He grimaced at me and smiled slightly, as if to say, "That was stupid." So maybe he realized he wasn't infallible after all.

We waited as Jackson's bony frame emerged from the low-slung car. He poked his head and upper body through the window as a car came toward them in the other lane. A sharp silhouette of a very in-depth kiss showed up against the oncoming headlights. I slumped down further in the passenger seat and Walt tentatively patted my knee. Jackson extracted himself from Countess Bitchula's embrace and lumbered toward the WunderBar. Probably had a gig tonight. Well, I sure as hell wouldn't be in the audience.

Myla tore off again, this time heading down the shore road toward Abneyville. "Hmm, now, where could she be going?" Walt mused as we followed her at a safer distance. A few miles later, she swerved wildly up the driveway toward the Ardmore estate. Walt passed the entrance and waited a few minutes, then reversed and inched up the drive, headlights off again. I kept my eyes peeled as we painstakingly made our way up the winding drive that led to the estate.

Just short of The Stables, we saw the Jag's taillights flash as it parked, pretty much concealed behind a hedge. Quickly Walt pulled to the side of the drive and killed the motor on the station wagon. The Jag's trunk popped open and Myla's voluptuous figure emerged from the driver side. She stood still for a moment before leaning into the trunk and taking something out.

Walt glanced at me questioningly and I shrugged, mouthing the word, "Shovel?" We both looked back at her as she gently pushed the trunk closed. Walt put his fingers to his lips and waited as Myla walked stealthily to the front door of The Stables, looked around anxiously, and punched a code into the alarm keypad. A moment later she vanished inside and the door closed behind her.

"Well, she's up to no good," Walt whispered. "See how sneaky you look when you tiptoe like that? It's a dead giveaway you're doing something underhand."

I snorted a la Peter Lorre, "Yes, Master. What do we do now?"

Walt smiled and shrugged his eyebrows. "Wait some more."

We sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the door. Finally I said, "So you were saying we were classmates and I never noticed you."

"Oh. Yeah." Walt shifted uneasily in the driver's seat and clutched the steering wheel; even by the filtered moonlight I could see anxious lines mapping his face, although his tone remained cynical. "I guess ... well, it'll pass the time, huh?"

"Sure." I settled back in my seat and waited. For some reason I was nervous about what he was going to say. "So ..."

Walt grimaced. "God. High school. Yep, we were in the same class all the way through. Back when I was a tall, skinny nerd." With a self-deprecating smile, he added, "As opposed to a tall, out of shape nerd."

I still couldn't picture Walt as a teen; he seemed chronically middle-aged to me. "Did we have classes together, or were you with the smart crowd?"

Something on the steering wheel had his undivided attention. "Uh ... just one class, early on." A momentous pause before he said, "I took ninth grade shop when you did."

My stomach dropped at the reference to my freshman year at Hawk Marsh High. Jesus, why was this coming up again today? "Oh. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention, I guess."

"Yeah. I'm . . ." Staring straight ahead at the looming mansion, he said matter-of-factly, "I'm still amazed at the way you handled that. I mean, the other kids were pretty insensitive, but you ... I have a daughter that age, and I can't imagine ... well, you were incredible. That was a hell of a thing to deal with." It took me a moment to realize Walt had paid me a compliment.

"Uh ... yeah, thanks." My teeth hurt from the sudden tightness in my jaw; I forced my face and fists to relax. Did he know D'Angelo was back in town?

Suddenly Walt's huge hand rested on my forearm and his blasé tone vanished. "God, I'm such a moron -- sorry to have reminded you; I just thought ..." Whipping his hand away as if afraid I'd snap at him like a rabid dog, he dug into his pocket and took a couple of hits from his inhaler. After a tension-laced moment, he launched into a breathless confession. "I actually tried to talk to you after it happened. I guess even though I was just a kid -- a teenage boy, for God's sake, the most useless of all God's creatures -- I knew there had to be a lot of pretty awful crap going on under all that sarcasm."

My throat closed completely; all I could do was nod and shrug.

Walt took another shot of his asthma stuff and plunged ahead; his voice grew thicker and harsher and his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "I wanted to talk to you, but I'd practically have a heart attack just trying to say hi. I was so damned self-conscious; I thought you'd laugh at me. So I just sort of worried from afar. Stupid. I guess I hoped you'd just sort of sense it or something, and maybe it would help ... and maybe ... well."

He finally looked at me, but all I could see were twin moons on his glasses. I had to take a deep breath to be able to mumble out, "Uh ... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry I didn't notice you." Why the hell did I feel like crying again? Must be emotional overload. Quickly I turned my head away.

"Oh, God, please," he protested, "you would have hated me. I was ... well, I guess I still am so damned awkward and stupid about these things. I mean, I had no idea how to approach you . . . obviously I still don't. I mean, God, I'm making a mess of this. I feel like an ass." He paused. "Are you \-- are you okay?"

I swallowed hard a couple of times and stared straight ahead up the hill at the mansion hunched on the moonlit cliff. "Yeah, I'm fine." But apparently I wasn't. Seeing that asshole again just hours ago, and now having Walt talk to me so feelingly about it, sent me right back down the drain. All the loneliness, rage, and horror of being a 14-year-old rape victim who had accused a favorite teacher ... it was all boiling up again, trying to force its way out my eyes and mouth. I held on tightly to keep it inside and felt like my head was going to explode. Without my consent, my hands flew to my face and I emitted a strange, strangled moan. "Crap." I tried to force a laugh as tears gushed down my cheeks. "I can't believe this. Sorry. That was how many years ago?"

Walt made abortive little soothing motions at me. "God, I'm sorry, I never meant to ..."

When I made a really disgusting snorting sound, he fumbled in the glove box and handed me a wad of coffee-stained Dunkin Donuts napkins, which I hastily applied to my nose. After a few loud honks, I managed to mutter, "Look, don't worry, you kinda blindsided me, especially after ... I mean, did you know he's in town? I saw him earlier today."

"What? Who?"

I forced the name out through lips clenched like fists: "Coach D'Angelo."

Walt took a slow, deep breath. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. It practically knocked me on my ass." I blew my nose again and wiped at my eyes impatiently. "Sorry for losing it like that. It was just weird to hear you say you wanted to talk to me. I had no idea anyone was thinking of me in a nice way, is all. Everyone seemed to think it was somehow my fault, I guess because they liked ... they liked that dickhead so much and they didn't like me."

As more self-pitying tears choked me again, Walt sneaked a hand onto my shoulder. "Shh," he breathed tentatively. "It's okay. I liked you, God, an awful lot. I was just stupid about it." His voice became ragged and heavy. "When I took this assignment ... when she told me who they wanted me to investigate ... well, some of that came rushing back. It's hard to forget that kind of feeling." In a softer tone, he added, "Especially when you haven't felt anything like it since."

Whoa, what was he saying now? I scrubbed my face with the soggy napkins and sniffled juicily. "So ... you mean what, exactly? You had a thing for me back then?"

"Well ... yeah. God, yes." Walt took his hand from my shoulder and stared out the driver's side window. "All through high school, to be honest. It was ... really horrible." His voice had gone gentle, shyly self-deprecating ... and suddenly I felt like I was seeing the teenage Walt. "I really never got over it. Even when you started ... you know, being with ... all those guys."

My self-pity evaporated. Holy crap, the poor kid ... I pictured the archetypal lone wolf high school nerd, worshipping nasty little me from afar, dealing with my rape and subsequent sluthood. "You're kidding," I said wonderingly. "You watched me act like that and you still liked me?" I turned to him and was shocked by the raw emotion on his usually tightly guarded face.

After a pause that felt potentially nuclear, Walt inhaled sharply. "I loved you. I loved you the way only an adolescent can love ... you know, the whole obsessive, manic-depressive, I'll-die-if-she-doesn't-talk-to-me shtick. The kind of thing you don't forget." He chewed his upper lip so the gray hairs in his mustache bristled. I half expected him to laugh and tell me he was kidding, but he didn't. He just kept staring into my eyes like he desperately wanted something from me.

It was too painful, too intense, too out-of-nowhere, and I couldn't figure out what emotion to pick out of the millions that were racing around inside me. I had to look away. Good thing I did, too, because I'd completely forgotten we were on a stakeout -- and that's when Myla came back out of The Stables in a huge hurry.

I nudged Walt and pointed. We hunkered down a bit and peered over the dashboard as she yanked the door shut and hustled back to the Jag, popped the truck and tossed whatever that thing was back in.

"She didn't reset the alarm," Walt murmured.

Next Myla pulled something else out of the trunk then eased it shut, looked around anxiously, and sneaked hastily toward the path leading to the mansion.

Walt and I exchanged glances. "Shall we?" he asked, and I nodded.

Cautiously we eased out of the car and closed the door as softly as possible. Walt came close to me and barely whispered, "She's on the alert, so we have to be very cautious."

"So we can sneak this time?" I asked.

He smiled and nodded, his eyes resting on me sadly in the deep blue gloom before he took my arm and moved toward the mansion. We felt our way past The Stables onto the winding dirt path. The ocean breeze ripped through my sweats and I gritted my teeth to keep them from chattering.

"Cold?" Walt asked, and I shrugged and hugged myself, trying to focus on the investigation rather than the feelings zinging between us.

Suddenly Walt stopped again, put out an arm to halt me, and backed us both swiftly into a very prickly wild rose bush. He peered back down the path toward The Stables and I squinted through the mist toward the safety-lighted patio area. "Thought I heard something," Walt breathed. "Hold on."

What the hell was this, some kind of convention? I listened hard and caught the sound of footsteps on gravel. Walt and I backed further into the bush, uncomfortably squashed together, as a faint male voice called, "Faith?"

Walt inhaled through his mouth and put a hand on my arm as the footsteps drew closer. Heavy breathing ... a pause ... another cry of, "Faith? Faith, where'd you go? I know I saw you. Come back, honey." Emphysemic wheezing. The steps resumed and a shadow slipped by inches from us, climbing toward the mansion with uncertain steps and labored breathing.

Once the footsteps had faded, Walt and I both exhaled and moved slowly from the bush. "What the hell gives?" I muttered, and Walt shook his head and shrugged. "Are we going up there?"

"What do you want to do?" Clearly he was a henpecked husband.

"I want to check it out, don't you?" Walt hesitated.

"What, are you scared?" I couldn't resist teasing him a little, because I was petrified.

"Hardly," he responded in a huffy undertone.

"Well, then, let's go." I moved up the path ahead of him, heard him heave a martyred sigh before he caught up with me.

"Any ideas on our ghost hunter?" he asked wearily.

"Maybe another ghost." I smiled grimly to myself at the idea of Faith's long-dead seducer chasing Myla -- or us -- up the hill. "Otherwise, can't think of anyone offhand."

"You think Myla heard him? If she did, she might have taken off, or doubled back some other way."

I thought about it. "Well, she was pretty far ahead of us, and we almost didn't hear him." Walt nodded, resigned. We were nearing the mansion and automatically muffled our footsteps, although the roar of the ocean below was pretty good cover already. Walt tugged me toward a shrub at the edge of the lawn and we ducked behind it. I peered up at the second floor and pointed. "Looks like candlelight again. Pretty sure that's the room where I heard those two talking ... Myla was one of them, I'm guessing." I frowned, remembering Myla taking the bag from the trunk before heading up the hill. "So Myla must have been the second voice ... so who the hell was the first?" Walt didn't respond. "Any ideas?" I turned to Walt, or where he'd just been ... and he wasn't there anymore.

Shit.

I looked around as much as I could, squinting through the dark. Maybe he'd just slipped off for a whiz, but he could've said something first. "Walt!" I stage-whispered. Nothing. "Jesus. WALT!" Still nothing. I crept out from behind the bush and listened hard. No rustling, no footsteps, no other telltale signs of another human being. Nope, he was gone and I was alone.

Son of a bitch.

I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out whether to be pissed or worried. I went with pissed because that got my ass out from behind the bush and closer to the mansion. I hugged the tangled brush surrounding the lawn, edging the long way around toward the rear of the house, toward the bulkhead I'd punched through the other night. Yep, I was going in. And Walt wasn't there to stop me, so he could bite me.

Once I reached the corner of the house, I had to feel my way toward the opening. The architectural monstrosity blotted out the moon, my only light, and it felt like forever before my foot bumped the side of the rotted bulkhead. My hand reached out and stroked the wood in search of the hole -- which they'd apparently not spotted yet, it was still wide open-and a huge splinter stabbed me. "Shit," I spat, pulling it out with my teeth before I eased myself down into the rough opening ... and total darkness.

In vain I patted my sweatshirt pocket. Oh, this was going to be a lot of fun without a flashlight. What the hell was I thinking? Oh yeah ... Walt had it. Jerk.

Again I crouched down on the gritty stone floor of the crawlspace, bracing myself against vermin and claustrophobia. After a few seconds my eyes adjusted enough to see a dim patch of light yards away, hopefully from the grating I had gone up through last time. How I was going to get back out, I had no idea, but I scuttled toward the light. In no time at all I was easing myself up into the first floor, spitting cobwebs and dying for a shower. I left the grating off in case I needed to get the hell out of there fast.

Good thing I did.

I'd sneaked as far as the back stairway, thinking maybe I'd get closer to the action and at least be able to overhear more, when a thump directly overhead froze me. I automatically took a deep breath and held it as another thump followed, then another, then they became footsteps -- or rather, stomping -- the sound of someone running in heavy shoes. Sounded like they were heading for the main staircase, which fed into the hallway a few feet from where I was crouching. I shrunk further into the shadows, still not breathing even though I was dizzy. My heart was banging like a frat boy on a Friday night.

Then the stomping stopped and a raw, unearthly scream tore the air, accompanied by the sound of cracking wood and followed by a floor-shuddering thud. I just about peed then and there, and started edging back toward the kitchen to make good my escape. Yeah, I should've been edging the other way and trying to see what the hell was going on, but...

I'd backed into something warm. Something with one arm that grasped me and one hand that covered my mouth before I could even think about screaming.
Chapter Nineteen

I was too damn scared to struggle so I just stood there, frozen with panic, with this strange hand over my mouth. The only thing I could do was wait for it to be over and hope it was quick and painless.

God, what a shitty day.

Out in the hallway, someone was coming down the stairs. Whoever was holding me pulled me further back into a corner, my back still crushed against their front. A rough face pressed close to my ear and sandpapered it as its owner breathed, "Shh, keep still, it's okay."

Oh really? I thought. My last oxygen had been a couple of minutes ago, and now there was this hand over my breathing parts. My lungs and head started to ache so I struggled feebly, which made the hand tighten more. Vainly I tried to suck in some air but only managed to vacuum-seal the hand over my mouth. I thought my head would explode or I would faint, neither of which appealed to me; so finally, in panicky desperation, I bit the hand.

My captor stiffened and sniffed in a tight breath, but at least he relaxed his hand enough so I could breathe. I tried to do it quietly and get away from him at the same time, but I gasped and he grabbed me back, harder. I was about to bite him again when he whispered furiously, "Jesus Christ, Max, what's your problem?"

I was still heaving air, but I recognized the irritable tone right away. Had to be Walt, who was back on my shit list and rising to the top with every passing second. "What the fuhhh" was all I managed to exhale before I had to inhale again.

"Shh!" he hissed as the steps in the hallway slowed. Without another word he picked me up clean off my feet and whisked me away, out the small door in the kitchen and onto the lawn. Even then he didn't set me down, but galloped toward the path, down the hill past The Stables to where his car was parked. He ripped open the driver door and shoved me in, then practically flung himself on top of me in his rush to get the hell out of there.

I crawled out from under him to the passenger seat as he started the engine, wrenched the car into gear, and tore off with such violence that I fell off the seat. "Hey!" I bellowed, relieved to be able to make noise at last.

"Can't you be quiet?" he grumbled.

"Fuck you!" I responded. "Where the hell did you go? You just walked away the minute we got there. What the hell was I supposed to --"

"Look, spare me," Walt snapped. "Just give me a break and shut up for five minutes, okay? I have to think."

"I'll say," I sneered. It wasn't really an insult, but I made it sound like one.

He pulled into the parking lot behind the brightly lit Hot Tamales Mexican restaurant and sat there drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, moustache bristling as he sucked his upper lip. "Did you see anything?"

"No, thanks to you."

"Drop it, okay?" Now he sounded more tired than mad. "What was your impression? Tell me what you saw, heard, whatever."

I gave my lungs a couple of good deep breaths before I answered. "Stomping, running, screaming, and a big crash. Oh, and a thud."

Walt nodded, still puzzling. "Someone running on the second floor, falling down the stairs?"

I shook my head. "Sounded kinda like wood breaking, like maybe they fell through the banister and landed on the floor."

"And the scream? Them or someone else?"

"Couldn't say."

"Me neither. So do we call the cops?"

My guts tightened up again. "No."

Walt gave me a weary look. "Personal bias aside, please. Do you think someone is seriously hurt up there? If they hit the floor that hard ..."

He had a point. I winced. "Yeah, I guess. Maybe call the ambulance instead?"

"Tell the cops to bring an ambulance." Walt fished a couple of coins out of the ashtray and handed them to me. "Pay phone's right inside the door."

"Why me?" I hated talking to cops.

He sighed. "Because you live nearby; because people know I'm a P.I.; because I'm a married man with kids. Okay?"

I glared at him before I got out of the car. As I headed toward the front entrance of the garish pseudo-Mexican building, I wondered what the last reason had to do with anything.

The small foyer was separated from the restaurant by a heavy swinging door. The boothless pay phone was planted right there on the wall, so anyone passing could hear your conversation. Hurriedly I dialed 9-1-1 and rapid-fired before the operator could do more than take a breath, "Ardmore Estate off the shore road in Abneyville. Possible accident, someone may be seriously injured inside the mansion. Send an ambulance and hurry." He tried to get me to elaborate, but I interrupted with, "That's it, gotta go." And I went.

Back in the car Walt was still drumming on the steering wheel. "Back already?"

I handed him his coins. "Yeah, well, I don't screw around."

He gave me a dry look but refrained from making the obvious comment. "Ready to go home? I know I am." Without waiting for my answer he drove out of the parking lot and down the road a few yards to the resort's huge, deserted parking lot. Frowning, he wrenched the wagon into park.

I wasn't ready to leave yet. "So where'd you go? Why'd you disappear on me like that?"

"You didn't look too hard. I didn't disappear, I just moved back a little because I was having an asthma attack. I couldn't catch my breath and I couldn't talk."

"You had another attack?"

He drummed on the steering wheel again, not looking at me. "I get them a lot when I'm stressed. Then you took off for the mansion, went down that hole or whatever. I went in through that little door."

"How'd you get it open?"

He smiled. "I'll show you sometime, okay?" Clouds had covered the moon again. "Look, I think I'd better walk you home."

"Not necessary," I said crabbily, but he ignored me, got out of the car and headed toward the shore. I followed, pissed and stressed and exhausted beyond anything I'd felt for months. If there was any alcohol to be found in my cabin, it was going to be history in pretty short order.

Man, it was cold. I shriveled up inside my double layer of sweats and thought of long, hot showers and big, stiff drinks, just a few yards away now. Walt was ahead of me on the sand, leaning forward into the ocean breeze. Poor guy was probably frozen too, and I'd been a huge brat to him. Well, at least he had a family to go home to, so screw him.

I practically walked straight into him for the second time that night. He'd stopped dead just feet from my door. "What's up?" I asked ... then I saw it too.

The door to my cabin was banging against the front of the house in the wind. In other words, it was wide open. Gravity grabbed my guts and landed them somewhere around my feet. "Shit. What the ..."

Walt put a restraining hand on my arm. "Hold on. Stay right there." He sidled up to the cabin and peered in, then stepped into the doorway and looked around inside, then back at me, dazed. "Um ..."

Did I really want to know? I closed my eyes and wished I was in Oz, but it didn't work so I went over to face the latest bad news.

It was bad.

My little home was completely trashed. I didn't know where to look first. My eyes and mouth wouldn't work; I couldn't see, I couldn't swear, I couldn't even breathe; I could just gawk. For the second time that day I felt like I was drowning in a nightmare. When Walt's arm slipped around my shoulders I didn't even react.

Somehow I found myself inside the cabin, staring at the wreckage: on the floor the fragments of phone, smashed computer and TV, scattered papers and food and clothing ... on the walls and cabinets, various liquids flung in violent, spattered patterns . . . and angry red letters spelling out WHORE ... SLUT ... BITCH ... LIAR.

"Max?" Both of Walt's hands were on my shoulders now, and he was squeezing them hard. "Max, talk to me."

It was one of the few times in my life my big mouth wouldn't open ... it felt tiny, almost non-existent, while my eyes felt huge as a pathetic orphan's. I felt shrunken, exposed ... raped. A violent spasm shuddered through my body and Walt wrapped his arms around me from behind. "Come away," he said softly. "Come on, I'll take you to your friend Libby's. We can call the police from there."

A jab of grief pierced my heart and suddenly I cried out, "Booger?"

"What?" Walt sounded understandably baffled, but I couldn't help him.

"Booger? Hairball?" My calls were thin, childish wails, full of terror and loss. Where were my cats? Had someone hurt them? If they were gone, I didn't feel I could bear it. When a pathetic little "mew" answered me and Booger slunk out of the rubble to rub against my legs, I leaned over, picked her up, and burst into bawling that bordered on screaming hysteria ... then it crossed the border. Hairball trotted from the bathroom and collapsed at my feet, and I sunk to the floor to embrace my pets and lose my mind.

Walt bravely knelt down and tried to calm me, a helpless ball of fur, tears and snot. "Max, come on. We have to get out of here so the police can check it out."

"No!" Some sane, detached part of me was completely disgusted with my childishness, but I couldn't seem to stop it. "No, I'm staying here."

"Max, come on, you know you can't."

"I'm not leaving my kitties!" Yep, I was about five years old.

Strangely, Walt's voice ached with sympathy. "Honey, it's okay, we'll take your kitties with us. But you need to leave here because it's not safe, okay?"

I sniffled loudly and sat up. "Really?"

The sad blue eyes penetrated mine. "Of course."

For a moment I was almost under control, then the sobbing started again. "I bet you're a wonderful father," I wailed, and he hugged me and held me until I got that out of my system. So this was what they meant by a meltdown.

"Ready?" he asked gently. "You take one and I'll take the other." He looked from Hairball to Booger as if trying to decide which one was the least likely to claw his eyes out or give him fleas.

"Where are we going?" I whined like a kindergartner.

"Libby's, don't you think?"

I could feel myself glowering in my most unattractive way. "No."

"Why not?" The poor dad sounded exasperated.

"Cuz it's late. She has kids. They don't need to see me like this."

"Well, what about Cal?" I sulked some more, then had a brilliant idea. "I live at a fucking hotel, why can't I just go over there?"

Walt was already shaking his head. "You shouldn't be alone tonight." But he could see my heels were firmly dug in. With a sigh, he added, "Oh, all right. But I'll stay with you."

"No!"

"Yes!" Oops, good dad was gone, and stern dad had taken over. His mouth was set in a straight, no-nonsense line. "Listen to me, Max. Either you stay at Libby's tonight, or I stay with you here at the hotel. Those are your two choices. There are no other options." I waited for him to add, "I've had it with you, young lady," but he didn't.

I thought about how annoying it would have to be to explain everything to Libby, who probably wouldn't let me sleep because she'd be dying to know every little detail and would nag me and hug me ruthlessly and her spoiled children would whine and my cats would be shut in the bathroom so they wouldn't get fur on her furniture and I was SO not in the mood for that.

Then I thought about spending the night with Walt in the hotel. Then I thought a little more about that ... big warm arms, sad blue eyes, nice bristly moustache ... hmm, and earlier tonight hadn't he said something about having a crush on me in high school?

Comfort in my favorite form.

I looked up at him. "Okay, you can stay with me."

Bruno, my buddy at the front desk, was long gone, so I helped myself to a key and wrote him a note saying my heat was out so I'd be in room 103. Thank God they kept a half dozen of their best rooms at the ready in the off-season. "This way," I said to Walt, who was holding the very tense Booger and looking around the plush lobby as if he thought someone might be lying in wait.

I'd picked my favorite room; it had a huge canopied bed and a fireplace. Hell, I'd had an ultra-shitty day and was ready for a bit of luxury. When I opened the door, Walt immediately dumped Booger inside, then looked up and took a step backward. "Uh ... wow. You sure this is okay?"

I cleared my aching throat and tried to sound as close to normal as possible, given what a basket case I'd been a few moments before. "Hey, I'm second in command here, and I'm out of a home right now. Don't worry, Bruno adores me, and last I knew, so did Norcross." Walt wandered in for a better look, whistling softly at the inviting bed, the antique dresser, the lush Oriental rug, the marble fixtures in the bathroom. Ah, the bathroom. "Look, I'm gonna hit the shower for a bit, so if you need the can, now's the time."

Walt gave me his do-you-have-any-class-at-all look, which softened into a sad little smile as he flicked on the bathroom light and closed the door.

The second the door clicked shut, panic swelled inside me. I clutched Hairball so tightly he wriggled in protest, heaving himself from my arms to explore and commiserate with Booger. My hands turned shaky, my skin was the texture of an undercooked piecrust. To distract myself, I went to the little brick fireplace and propped open the flue, grabbed an extra-large DuraFlame from the brass rack, and opened a book of matches with the Abneyville Shores Resort logo. By now my hands were not just shaking, they were spazzing; I couldn't even remove a match from the book. My throat felt as if I'd swallowed a whole pork chop, sideways. My vision blurred and tears showered my cheeks.

"Here, let me do that." Walt was there, steadying me, taking the matches from my useless hands. He lit one with his long arms still wrapped around me, touched it to the log's Halloween-colored wrapper, and cuddled me until the tremors stopped. "Okay, now you go take your shower. I'll watch your vermin and tend the fire." He watched me stand unsteadily, and added, "Would you feel better if you leave the door open? I'll be right here if you feel, um, sick or anything."

"I'll be all right." Now I was pissed again and wished he'd get the hell out. I couldn't keep up with myself.

But I did leave the bathroom door open about an inch as I took the longest, hottest, steamiest shower, using the hotel's luscious hand-milled soap and creamy shampoo. The oversized, plush towels felt like velvet. Of the two pairs of sweats on the floor, one was dirty on the outside, the other on the inside. I brushed off the outside ones as best I could, preferring cleanliness next to my clean skin. I hated pulling dirty clothes on after a shower, but with Walt there I really had no choice. Couldn't help wondering how he'd react if I emerged in the buff...

...which somehow got me back to thinking about how sweet he could be. Those long arms wrapped around me so nicely, it was like being double-hugged; that big substantial body exuded warmth and comfort. Hmm, I wondered what that moustache would feel like...

"Max? You okay?"

I came out of my daydream to find myself standing in the steam filled bathroom with my pants halfway up. "Yeah, just drying off." I yanked my pants the rest of the way up, tousled my hair -- damn, no comb or brush in sight -- and checked myself in the clouded mirror. Holy crap, was that me? I wiped the glass with the edge of my towel and stared at the pale, hollow-eyed face staring back at me. I looked like the ghost I'd seen up at the mansion the night formula's party, or like something out of a Munch painting, shell-shocked and badly in need of Prozac. Discouraged, I wadded up my underwear with the discarded sweats and went back into the room.

The fire was crackling pleasantly and Walt had turned on one of the frosted glass hurricane lamps. My resilient cats were curled up on the bed vibrating with pleasure and cleaning each other's ears. Walt lounged in a brocade armchair by the fire, staring into the flame moodily. The whole scene glowed with warmth and comfort. My throat started to get lumpy again, but I swallowed hard. "Hey."

He looked up. "Feel better?"

I wandered closer, hugging myself. His steel-rimmed glasses lay on the phone table; those gorgeous eyes studied me with sweet concern. I sat on the hearth, which was elevated about a foot off the floor. "Yeah, that helped. So, do you have to call home or anything?"

"Not necessary."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes I have to work late, sometimes all night. They're used to it. Probably won't even notice whether or not I came home. Half the time I end up sleeping in my office, which is over the garage. I usually get there after everyone's gone to bed, leave before they get up or after they've all taken off." The eyes were on me again. I hoped I didn't look too scary in the firelight. "To answer something you said earlier, I don't think I'm really that great a father. I mean, I love my kids and I'm a pretty good dad when I can actually be with them. But I work so damn much... well, at least I pay the bills." Not surprisingly, he sounded bitter.

"What about your wife?" Lord, why was I asking that question?

A little, surprised laugh. "What about her? She's a terrific person, a great mother. The kids are what's important. We work together to keep them happy."

I tousled my hair some more to dry it out. "But don't they sense you guys aren't happy? Kids are pretty sharp."

"Oh, they know and they don't know. My boy knows, I think, but ... Mainly they don't want to know, or they don't care. We have an unspoken agreement, an understanding, whatever you want to call it. And as long as everyone holds their up their end of the deal, as long as there's food and clothes and someone's driving the kids where they need to go and all the other crap ... well, it's not so bad. It's fine. We have a nice enough house and lots of nice things, like we used to before ... well, when we first started out. It's no worse than most people have, probably a whole lot better." He crinkled his mouth in a smile, but the eyes stayed hound dog mournful.

"Sounds to me like it sucks." I leaned back a little; yawning as the fire warmed me. "How long have you been married, anyway?"

"God, I try not to think about that. Almost twenty years now."

"So do you guys still sleep together or anything?" Ever the blunt instrument...

"Uh ... not that it's any of your business ... but, actually, no, not for quite a while. We both kind a lost interest a while ago. "

"So ... what do you do about ... I mean, do you get to fool around or what?"

Walt blushed, but laughed. "Well, that was part of the agreement."

"That you get to fool around?"

A sharper laugh, a deeper blush. "Uh . . . no. That I don't." The fire crackled and hissed. Walt picked up his glasses and shoved them back onto his nose, then leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped, and his voice went all prissy again. "Now let's talk about _your_ situation, shall we?"
Chapter Twenty

Walt wanted me to call the police about my cabin. Of course, I didn't agree.

"Do you even have any idea who might have done that?" he asked. "I mean, that's some pretty virulent crap. Could it be some teenager who happened to see the cabin was empty?"

I sighed. "Um, no. I don't think so. That graffiti seemed pretty specific, don't you think?" My midsection was throbbing; seemed my heart had slid down there. "Naw, I think I know who it was. Too much of a coincidence, don't you think?"

"You definitely saw him today?"

My eyes pressed shut against the memory. "Yeah, at the WunderBar this afternoon. I saw him and Libby saw him and ..." Another recollection bobbed to the surface and I offered it up. "Lib said Myla seemed to know him. They had a drink together or something."

Silence while Walt digested this. His lips disappeared under his moustache. "So why the hell don't you want to report the vandalism?"

My head was shaking itself back and forth on automatic pilot by now. "I need some time to think. Today has been pretty awful and at this point if I have to look at Rolly Yergins' stupid face I'm going to puke." I imagined our local police chief chuckling over the epithets sprayed on my walls, which made me draw my knees up to my chest protectively.

Walt's impatient sigh reached gale force. "Jesus. That's just brilliant. Don't report a crime because you don't like the police."

"They don't like me," I corrected numbly.

"Well, can you blame them?"

Whoa, where the hell was this coming from? I raised my head from my knees and looked into his face, which had assumed a camel-like expression of superiority. "Excuse me?"

"What?"

"What the fuck did you say?" My hackles were up around my ears.

"Don't get all belligerent on me. I was just saying you're not the most cooperative person, that's all."

"Well, don't you get all dickheaded on me." I saw stars as my temper skyrocketed through the top of my head. "You know what? Fuck you. Get out of here." Damn, I was shaking again. "Get the fuck out right now. Go home to your wife and kids. They'll be happier to see you than I am."

"You're hysterical," Walt observed blandly.

"You're an asshole!" Now I was standing two feet from him screaming, completely out of control. Again. The sane part of me watched coolly again, thinking what a lunatic I was and wishing I would stop. I didn't. "I hate your fucking guts, you stupid snotty condescending pile of shit! Get the fuck out of here before I kill you!" Bug-eyed, I flailed at him, attempting to rip his face off with my bare hands.

With a put-upon sigh Walt rose from his chair and towered over me. Calm, almost bored, he grabbed my flapping wrists. "Hush now." Still sputtering and fuming I struggled, trying madly to knee him in the groin. At least that got his attention. "Hey!" he barked, then held both my wrists in one hand and slapped me across the face with the other. It didn't work; it just pissed me off more and made me fight harder, but my flailing didn't even budge him. Shaking his head, he grabbed me around the waist and carried me into the bathroom, where he shoved me into the shower and turned the cold water on full force.

That shut me up.

He pulled me out -- dripping, shivering, and stunned -- and wrapped me in a towel. "Okay now," he said gently. "I'm sorry. That was a mean and stupid thing to say. You've had a horrible day and don't need any crap from me. I'm a jerk and an asshole and you're absolutely right. Will you please forgive me?"

I was stunned. A man who apologized? "Shit, she's got you trained, huh?" My chattering teeth slurred the words.

He toweled my hair and smirked. "Nope, I did that myself. Let's get you dried off and in bed, huh?" But he left. Guess he didn't want to help.

The easiest thing was to shed my dripping clothes and wrap myself in a dry towel, so that's what I did. Walt was putting another DuraFlame in the fireplace when I came out in my terry toga. After a brief pause, he finished what he was doing and stretched out in the chair as I crawled under the covers. "Coming to bed?" I mumbled; my mouth didn't want to move anymore.

"No, I think I've had enough excitement for one day," he responded dryly. So had I; I conked right out.

I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Hairball scratching at the door. Took me a moment to dredge up yesterday's events; my brain was fogbound and my body ached as if I'd run a marathon. The only sound I could manage was a moan.

"Can I let the cats out?" Walt's voice asked. "We don't want them using this rug as a litter box." When I moaned again, he took that as a yes and opened the door to the patio. Arctic air blasted in and I whined and cocooned myself with the covers. The breeze stopped and I felt the bed sink on one side. "How are you feeling?" This time I managed a grunt. "Want coffee? I've got some right here for you." His voice was enticing, coaxing. I reached a hand out from under the covers. "Sorry, princess, you have to sit up."

No part of me wanted to move, but the smell motivated me to drag myself upwards awkwardly. My eyelids refused to stay open, so Walt wrapped my hands around the cup and pushed it towards my mouth. Wisely he waited until I had gotten a few sips down before he started in on me. "Okay now, you need to think about what you're going to do."

My eyes opened for a quick mood check. He looked exhausted, but had his most controlling and constipated expression stamped on his face. Not good. "Walt?"

"Yes?"

I took a longer sip of the coffee to steel myself. "Look, I can make my own decisions about this, okay? I'm forty, for Chrissakes, and you're not responsible for me."

"Thank God for small favors," he commented wearily.

My head was clearing slowly, but my outlook wasn't. "Look, it's not like I don't appreciate the concern and help and shit, and God knows you put up with some major psychosis last night ... but I'm okay now and I'll deal with this." Yeah, right, I thought. My mouth felt like it had been Novocained; the rest of my body wished it had been. My head throbbed and my shoulders and neck screamed with tension. Was I actually wishing Walt would stick around and help me? Or did I want him to get the hell out so I could take a nice hot bath and stay in denial a little longer?

A sharp knock made us both jump, and a beefy male voice yelled, "Hey, Max? You in there?"

God, it was Bruno. Not thinking, I called, "Yeah, I'm here."

Of course he charged right on in. Not that that was a huge deal, but my little sister Gabe was right on his heels, looking all kinds of frantic and solicitous ... until she took in the tableau. I'm sure the sight of me on the canopied bed wrapped in blankets with my bare shoulders exposed, clutching a cup of coffee -- with Walt seated next to me, even though he was fully clothed, also drinking coffee -- had their minds filling in all kinds of dirty little blanks. Hell, I know mine would have been.

Bruno, who had pretty much seen it all and didn't give a crap about any of it, took it right in stride. He nodded to Walt. "Oh. Hi, guy." Formalities dispensed with, he turned to me. "Uh, so, Max, what the hell happened to your cabin? I got the note about your heat, but your sister here says \--"

"Max!" Gabe spluttered in pure Christian female horror. "Walt! What -- what are you doing? What about Joanne? Think of your children!"

We all sat there in silence for a moment, then Walt, expressionless, rose to his feet. "Oh yeah," he said with nearly undetectable sarcasm. "Thanks for the reminder."

And he took off. I gave Gabe a sour look. "If you don't mind, he was trying to help me."

"Help you do what?" Gabe asked, seething with self-righteousness.

"Well, you must've seen my cabin if you're here. He was helping me figure out what to do next." Even if I had been thinking about telling Walt to get lost, I would take him over Gabe any day. At least he was easier to get rid of.

Gabe's chin jutted out and she crossed her arms. "So why aren't you dressed?"

Good point, but ... "Look, Gabe, I have some rather large piles of crap to deal with here, I don't need you passing judgment on me."

"Joanne Drucker is a friend of mine, and ..."

"Good, then go hang out with her," I snapped. "I don't have time for lectures right now. I have to put my life back together. Again."

"So what the hell happened anyway?" Bruno demanded, bored by all this female snarling.

"Look, I don't want to go into it right now. I need a little time and space to deal ... oh, and I'd kinda like to pee and get dressed first."

"It's hotel property," Bruno persisted stubbornly. "I gotta know what's going on."

Beside him, Gabe started to open her mouth at me again, but I beat her to it. "When I find out, I'll let you know. Now everybody out. Now." No one moved. "I said NOW, or I'm getting out of bed the way I am."

That cleared the room.

Once I'd managed to wash, dress -- Walt had thoughtfully laid out my sweats on the heating register so they'd dry -- and get my cats back inside, all I really wanted to do was crawl back into the bed and pull the covers over my head. But I forced myself to face the lousy music. After all, as Bruno had pointed out, the cabin was hotel property. In fact, it belonged to Adam Norcross, who I still hadn't heard from in days. Or maybe I had; maybe he'd called last night while I was out, and now his message lay in the wreckage on my cabin floor.

Guess I was going to have to go back there. I had more than a sneaking suspicion that Gabe and Bruno were lying in wait in the lobby, so I pocketed the key and slipped out the patio door. Indian summer had fled and winter was considering an early appearance, by the feel of things. I hugged myself and ran through the sand toward my home, gritting my teeth against cold and grief. I'd let enough of that crap through last night. I would be calm, I would be cool, I would be logical...

I would kill that rat bastard if I had the chance.

No, no, no. I would call the police. I would be as cooperative as I could be with them for a change, tell them everything I could without betraying my client -- or Walt. Oh, crap. I was sure the second Yergins got wind that I had been found naked in a hotel room with yet another married man, he'd be assuming some irate ex-boyfriend had done the damage and would walk away without listening to my theories about D'Angelo. Or they'd be looking at Jackson like they always did when something like this happened.

Jackson and Myla. Holy crap.

My stomach wrenched as I reached my cabin. Somehow that little event had gotten buried under all the other rubble. Now the memory of them fondling and kissing on the piano bench at The Dunes made my guts churn and my ego ache.

I stood there for a moment to collect myself and study the doorstep for damage, which called to mind the severed hand Walt and I had found the night we met. My God, what a weird-ass week -- was it really only a week? -- it had been. How the hell was all this crap connected? Or was it? Was it just a whole bunch of different piles of shit hitting the fan at once for no apparent reason, or was it more complicated than that?

I needed Walt to help me think this out. He was right; it was way too bizarre for one person. Or I was just too confused between my screwed up personal life and all the stuff that was going on in my so-called professional life. For someone who hadn't even read Chapter One of her how-to-be-a-P.I. manual, this was a hell of a case.

Ah well, first things first. Namely, my home.

Opening the door was every bit as traumatic as I'd expected, and then some. The place actually looked worse in the daylight. The graffiti leapt off the walls at me, a dead animal smell gagged me, and the randomly flung papers, clothes and things dizzied me. I pulled my sweatshirt up over my nose and retrieved the biggest chunk of phone, then kicked crap around until another large piece appeared. When I went to unbury the jack, I found the source of the stink: a mound of hamburger had been slow-cooking on the baseboard heater all night. I shoveled it up with a newspaper and buried it in the sand outside before I went back to assembling my phone. A little coaxing, jiggling, and slapping, and I achieved a nice healthy dial tone.

Forcing my fingers to dial the police took an awful lot of energy. What I really wanted to do was call Libby and ask her to come over and help me clean. So when I finished dialing the police, I hung up before their phone even rang and called Libby instead.

"Oh my God!" were Libby's first words when she walked in.

"Yeah, pretty much," I agreed.

"Pew, what's that smell? Max, did you kill again?" Her pert little nose wrinkled up in the adorable way I'd always loathed.

"No, some moron tried to fry a burger on the radiator. You get used to it after a while."

I let Libby take charge because she had a whole lot more of a clue about housework than me. She clucked over my lack of standard household cleaning supplies, but made do with the industrial strength stuff I'd nicked from the hotel. I was truly impressed with how quickly she organized things and scrubbed the food off the walls. "Hey, get used to it if you want to be a mom. Kids make your house look like this every day," she explained. "Well, except maybe for the obscenities."

"Not yet, anyway. Your eldest is only seven, right?"

"Eight. Jesus, you're a crappy godmother." She scrubbed at WHORE and frowned. "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking about who did this?"

"Pretty sure."

"And you're just going to clean up after him and not report it?"

"Pretty much."

"May I ask why?"

I parked my butt on the futon that I'd just reassembled. "First, I think he wants a fight. I think he has some stupid idea he can prove I was a liar or something. I have no idea, but I really don't want to get into anything with him. I'm hoping he'll just crawl right back into the woodwork again."

"Or rape some other teenager. Good thinking, Max."

Damn, she was probably right. "But it's not like he just got out of jail. I mean, I don't think so. Not from my charges twenty-five years ago, that's for damn sure. He probably stayed in about five months max. And anyway, if I report it to the cops you know what they'll say: that I deserved it, how did I know it was him, I'd pissed off so many guys around here, yada yada. Or they'd blame Jackson or something."

"Mm-hm." Libby didn't sound impressed with my reasoning, or she was concentrating really hard on cleaning. WHORE was already reduced to WHO.

I collapsed. "Yeah. I know. I'm wimping out. I'm just fucking tired and want to forget all that crap. I want to forget everything. I'd like to bring my head to a brainwasher and say here, give it everything you've got."

"Mm-hm," she said again. "So, I ran into little Gabe out in the parking lot. Don't worry, she was leaving. She was in a major snit, what with finding you in bed with a married man."

"Oh, God."

"Precisely. You certainly got over Jackson quickly, even for you. And who was the married man and why didn't you tell me about it?"

I picked up the overturned wastebasket and started filling it. "Gabe's just pissed cuz she had big plans to save my soul. And I wasn't in bed with a married man. I was in bed and he was sitting near me, fully clothed. Nothing happened so everyone needs to keep their hair on."

"So who is he?"

Disgusted, I shook my head. "Can't say and it doesn't matter, so drop it."

"Why can't you say?"

"Cuz I said so!"

"Jesus, what's your problem?" Libby snapped. She didn't handle "no" well.

I realized I wasn't even looking at what I was shoving into the trash. For all I knew I'd just thrown away bills, books, pictures, a paycheck. I slumped back onto the futon and glanced around the room. "What's my problem? Hmm, well, let's see... I ran into the guy who raped me when I was fourteen yesterday. Jackson appears to be involved with Myla Devine, who's about as deep as a tide pool. And I came home to my house being completely trashed last night. Other than that, I can't imagine why I'm being such a spoilsport."

Lib sat next to me and I let her hug me for once. "Sorry. I guess I'm so used to you being Woman of Steel."

"Well, so'm I, so this is really annoying."

"Maybe this is a sign. Maybe it's time for you to come back and live among people."

My mouth pruned up at the thought. "Naw, people suck."

"Well, so do you, so stop pretending you don't and get your ass back to civilization."

I mulled that over. After the week I'd had, I was more than ready to go back into hibernation ... but I also realized how much I'd missed my friends and the noise and comfort and stupidity of day-to-day human activity. "Maybe," I said, "but I'll have to wrap a few things up first."
Chapter Twenty-One

By early afternoon we had the cabin more or less livable again. "A little spackle, a little paint, a lot of air freshener, you'll never know it happened," Libby chirped.

I growled, "I sure as shit will," as I closed the box containing the remains of my TV and laptop. Crap, I'd have to re-do the search I'd done on Myla and Harry's Hothouse, not to mention the inventory list for the resort. Thinking of all the other things that were screaming for my attention made me sink onto the floor and bury my face in my hands. "Is there any booze left in the cabinets, or did he smash the bottles?"

Libby sighed. "I'm afraid ..." Her voice suddenly sharpened. "Um, hello, can I help you?"

I raised my head to see Walt hulking in the open doorway. "Hey Walt," I moaned. "Did you bring any booze?"

"Wow, it looks a whole lot better," he said.

Libby came toward him curiously, looking him up and down in her usual appraisal of beefcake. "You're Walt Drucker, right?"

With a funny smile, Walt said, "Hi, Libby."

"Hi." She kept staring at him. "Um, Max, I should get going. Walk me to my car, okay?"

"Walk you to your -- it's broad daylight, Libby."

"Sorry to run but I've got to get home before the kids."

She grabbed my arm and hauled me out the door, calling back to Walt, "She'll be right back, don't worry."

Once we were a few steps from the cabin, Libby pulled me closer and whispered, "God, I knew his name sounded familiar back when Morris handled that lawsuit for Norcross, but now that I see him, I know why. Don't you remember him?"

"I know he went to school with us. Big deal."

"Max, honey, he was obsessed with you in high school. He had this kind of John Hinckley-Jodie Foster thing going that got worse as we got older. Don't you remember?"

I shook my head. "I don't remember, no, but he told me all about that. What's the big deal?"

Libby shuddered as we neared her car. "I'm really not sure I should leave you alone with him. He was a creepy kid. Everyone thought so."

My defensive hackles rose immediately. "Yeah, well, everyone thought Coach D'Angelo walked on water, and look what a crock of shit that proved to be."

Libby wisely backed down, waving her hands. "All right, all right, but don't come crying to me if you end up chopped into little pieces."

"I won't. Oh, and uh, thanks for the help," I said ungraciously as she got into her car. She gave me a pouty wave and screeched out of the parking lot in her Barbie car.

"So, did she warn you about me?" Walt asked when I got back to the cabin.

"Yeah, she's onto you. If I go missing you'll be the first person they suspect."

For some reason this made him laugh. "Oh, God, don't tempt me." His laughter died down into a dreamy smile. "I'd love to go missing, myself." He kept on looking at me for a moment before he added, "So where do you want to go?"

Damn, getting away sure sounded good. "Anywhere, as long as it's far, far away from here."

"Well, we'll see what we can do." Walt snapped out of his trance, pushed aside a pile on one of the deacon's benches, and sat down. "Meanwhile, I thought I'd give you an update."

I slumped back onto the futon. "Sure, whatever."

"First, apparently the police found nothing out of place at the mansion last night. It was locked up tight and the alarms were all set and working, no sign of forced entry. They didn't go in because it seemed pointless. So if someone is injured in there, they're still there."

"How'd you find all this out?"

Walt gave me his know-it-all smile. "Oh, I have my ways."

I frowned. "Every time I've been there, the alarms have been off, or not working."

"Well, after last night we have a pretty good idea of who has the codes, don't we?"

Shaking my head, I asked, "But she has an interest in seeing the nightclub open. Why the hell would she sabotage that?"

Walt rested his elbows on his knees and leaned toward me. "Good question. I'd say to throw everyone off the scent, but ..."

He had a point, I had to admit. "Yeah, Bitchula is a deceptive little thing, isn't she?"

Walt snickered appreciatively. "Bitchula. Perfect."

"Damn, I wish my computer hadn't gotten smashed. That stuff about Harold Constantine and the Hothouse would be pretty interesting to look at right now." I tried to remember details but my brain was still sluggish from exhaustion. "She must've done some pretty fancy tap dancing -- or lap dancing, more likely -- to con Harry into marrying her and have him put the club in her name so quick."

Walt was nodding and scribbling notes. "I'll get on that when I get back to my office." I gave him a few search parameters and he contemplated what he'd written. "You still haven't heard from Norcross, right?"

"Yeah. Nothing on the machine, anyway."

"From what we saw last night, Myla is staying at The Dunes. I went back there today and there's no evidence of anyone else being there." With a sigh, he finished, "Which makes me conclude that she's the one who hired me to tail you, claiming to be Norcross's assistant."

"Why would she order a background check on me?"

Walt removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. "All I can infer is that his office actually did order the initial background check from me -- that's when I got the contract and the retainer. Myla somehow saw it and heard her uncle raving about you. Not really sure, but maybe he mentioned you were studying to be a P.I. and she was afraid you'd be onto her? Kind of stupid reasoning, but that's the best I can come up with."

"Well, we're not dealing with a sane person," I observed. "To me she always looks like she's about two inches from screaming bonkers."

"She's certainly got a nasty streak, and from what you tell me she has a big problem with you." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and she does have a connection to D'Angelo, you might be interested to know. Apparently he was a teacher at her prep school, starting a few years after he got out of prison."

I blinked. "What? They hired someone with his record at Alcott Academy? That's insane!"

"Well, back then it was a fairly new school and they might not have checked his background carefully. It's easy enough to just check 'no' after the felony question on an employment application." This thought chilled me. I wondered if he'd gone after any other girls there. Walt continued, "At any rate, there's good reason to believe your friend Bitchula knows him." He paused, rose to his feet and paced to the kitchen counter. "Um, were you planning on reporting the vandalism here to the police, or not?"

"Not." He nodded. "Yeah, I kinda figured that. But -- it's okay, I took care of it. "

That made me sit up straight. "What the -- what do you mean you took care of it? You reported it? I thought I said--"

Walt was making his little soothing motions at me again. "Shh, calm down. I don't mean I reported it, I mean ... well, I tracked down D'Angelo and had a little talk with him. He's gone and I can promise you he won't be back."

My insides started boiling. "What? What did you do?" Panicked, thinking of what Libby had said about Walt being like John Hinckley, I jumped to my feet. "Holy shit -- you didn't -- you didn't kill him, did you?"

Walt looked stunned, then burst out laughing. "No, Max. God, no! Although I would've liked to." The laughter stopped as quickly as it started. He moved toward the window and stared out the window at the restless tide, arms crossed. After a couple of throat-clearings, he said, "Finally, did you ever get any responses to your ad?"

"Ad?" I repeated blankly.

"You know, your ad for a guy. For a father."

I wondered what made him ask that question now. "Actually, no." With a sigh, I flopped onto the futon. "Actually, I haven't even sent it in. It feels too weird. And anyway ... well, I'm not so sure I should be a mother after all." I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat at that admission.

Walt turned toward me, his face quizzical. "Why ever not?"

Tough question. "I dunno. Well, yeah I do. I mean..." I forced myself to face what had been lurking just under the surface for the past few days. "For one thing, I didn't even know I wanted a kid until I accidentally got pregnant. And as you know, I don't have the most marvelous genes in the world, what with alcoholism and other forms of insanity and stupidity on both sides. And then there's my upbringing ... well, I guess part of me is afraid I'd be like one or both of my own parents, and I really don't want to inflict that on a kid."

"But you wouldn't." Walt's voice was gently insistent now. I looked up. He'd taken a couple of steps toward me and was looking all earnest and concerned. God, the man was an emotional Superball. "You wouldn't do that. You're too smart and sensitive to let anything like that happen."

My laugh sounded like a bark. "Sensitive? Me?"

"Hell, yes." He sat next to me on the futon; I curled my knees up to my chin to make room for him. "That's what all that tough stuff is about, isn't it? To cover up what a marshmallow you really are?"

I hugged my knees to me. "Yeah, right, my creamy nougat center. You been talking to Cal or something?"

Walt whisked off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "No, of course not. I just know ... well, because I'm kind of the same way." Shoving his glasses back on, he continued, "And I think you should be a mother. I think you'd be great at it."

My eyes stung but I forced another laugh. "Okay, fine, you've talked me into it. Now all I have to do is find a guy who's willing to do the sperm thing and work out this co-parenting crap and all the attendant bullshit. No problem."

"Well." Walt took a deep breath and my guts flipped over as I had a premonition of what he was going to say. Then he said it. "What about me?"

My throat adhered to itself; I swallowed hard. "You're kidding, right?" But I knew he wasn't. As the realization sunk in further, my heart convulsed and shuddered hopefully.

"Um, no, actually." Walt picked at his sneaker, blushing, unable to look at me. "No, I mean it. See... well, obviously I know a little about what happened last spring. I really can't imagine ... I mean, I have my kids, and even though I don't see them enough and half the time they're pains in the ass, if I think about ... losing one of them, well ..." He stopped to pull off his glasses and grind his hands into his eyeballs again, then looked at me. His eyes had gone patriotic: starry blue, whites striped with red. "Well, as you can see, I can't even stand to think about it."

My arms ached from hugging my legs so hard, and my jaw hurt from holding back something; tears or cheers or both. I managed to croak out, "But, well, you're married and all. Wouldn't your wife have a problem with this?"

Walt studied my crappy rug and fiddled with a loose string. "Well, obviously she can't know."

For some reason I winced at that. "Huh."

Big sigh. "Yeah, I know. That's the bad part. But ... I mean, I'm not even sure why we got married in the first place; probably because we'd both just gotten out of college and we'd been dating a while and it seemed like the thing to do. Even at the beginning I knew it was a mistake. Not that it's been awful, it's just never been what either of us wanted. But since there's been no compelling reason to split up, we've kind of agreed to keep things status quo for the kids." He ripped the string from the rug and wrapped it tightly around his index finger. "Absurd, because I'm hardly ever there anyway. It's not like it would be really different if I left, lived somewhere else. And God knows they're aware we're not the happiest couple. Like you said, they aren't stupid." With a shyly proud grin, he glanced at me sideways. "They're my track record, if you want proof I have pretty good genes."

I didn't want him to know I'd been thinking about his genes for about a week now, and that I'd already sneaked a peek at his kids and liked what I saw. "Wow. Well. I really never thought... I mean, I'm speechless."

"First time for everything," Walt said without the smallest bit of cynicism. If anything, he sounded affectionate.

"Look, Walt ..." I thought hard for a minute, pushing myself past the shock and happiness at his offer, back to the weirdness of his behavior. "I can't keep up with you. You're all over the place with how you act toward me. One day you're critical and nasty, the next you tell me you had a big crush on me in high school, two hours later you act like a complete shit, and now this ... I mean, what the hell gives? Are you the friggin' king of mood swings or what?"

Walt buried his face in his huge hands, which then slowly slid up through his receding hairline. Raggedly he muttered, "Guess I had that coming."

"Guess you did. So explain." I wasn't going to back down, no matter how much I wanted his sperm.

"Well, you being an aspiring detective and all, I would have thought you'd have me figured out by now." The edge was still gone from his voice; it was flat and worn as an old washcloth. "Okay, Ms. Clueless, I'll explain if you really want to hear it."

"I'm all ears." Wedging myself into the corner of the futon, still cradling my legs, I held my breath as Walt went through his routine of rubs and twitches, revving up for his confession.

"Okay, well... I told you about my crush on you all those years ago. To be embarrassingly honest with you ... well, I've never really gotten over it. I mean, obviously, I got out of high school and went to college and finally started dating and all, got married to Joanne, had the kids, but... well, I never stopped thinking about you for very long. Too many reminders around here, I guess." He finally managed to drag his eyes from my fascinating rug and look at me. "I knew when I took this assignment it would be an eye-opener in some way. I thought maybe it would cure me once and for all. Well, that's what I told myself, anyway. But I think I really knew what the result would be." He stopped expectantly.

What the hell was I supposed to say? "Oh," was the best I could come up with.

"So ... well, I guess you can understand why I was all over the place emotionally. I mean, the mere act of connecting with you again... or should I say, at last ... seeing and hearing everything you've been through, and finally talking with you, spending time with you ... God! It's been a constant struggle to keep from taking you in my arms and spilling my guts. So I've tried to keep my distance by acting like a dick. It kind of came naturally, since I've been so freaked out by how I feel."

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Something about this confession -- maybe the whole idea that this nice hunk of man had been pining away for me for a quarter of a century was making me very warm. "Really," I whispered.

"Really." With a rueful, weary smile, he added, "I feel just like I did when I was fourteen. I never thought I'd go through that again, but I'm back there in spades, over the same girl from twenty-five years ago. I don't believe in any of that cosmic or karmic or whatever bullshit ... but I can't help wondering if there was some sort of fate involved here." The mournful eyes begged me for an answer.

I felt quivery all over, confused and mushy and scared. "Um ... well, I've been thinking about you a lot too," was my lame response. When it came to emotional stuff, I was truly clueless. Poor long-suffering Walt really deserved more of an effort on my part, so I struggled to be honest and gentle and compassionate and all that crap. Honest seemed like the best place to start. "Look, I suck at this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?" A big warm hand covered mine.

"This kind. You know, warm touchy-feely Hallmark moments."

Walt nodded, pulling me closer. "I know. And I know you still like Jackson ... I just kinda hoped ... well, for something I can't have."

"But the thing is, I like you. I like you in spite of myself, even though I think you're weird and uptight and yeah, you can be kind of a dick at times. I don't know; it's like I sense something in there that's really pretty special."

"My creamy nougat center?" he asked with a soft smile. Sad, wondering eyes looked into mine and he started to touch my hair. The phone chose that moment to ring. "Ah, shit."

"You said it." But I felt kind of relieved; too much was flying around in my brain and other body parts for me to think clearly. I uncoiled myself and grabbed the phone like it was a lifeline. "Max here."

"It's Jackson." Whoa, talk about crappy timing. I turned away from Walt and mashed the phone into my ear as he continued. "You gotta come down to the Ardmore mansion right away."

Well, this was out of nowhere. I didn't like his pushy tone one bit. "Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf? I said get your ass to the mansion NOW." Jackson sounded pinched, not at all his usual laidback self. I wondered what the hell he was doing at the mansion, and if he'd been hurt again.

"What? Why? Are you all right?" Walt hovered anxiously, trying to eavesdrop.

"Shut up and do as I say, okay?" And he disconnected.

"Hello? Son of a bitch!" I slammed the phone down and looked at Walt, who was practically glued to my side.

"Who was that?"

"Jackson."

"Oh?" Walt's voice frosted over. "What did he want?"

I frowned at the phone. "He told me to come to the Ardmore mansion right away."

Coldly, Walt asked, "And are you going?" When nodded, still puzzling over Jackson's demand, he added, "Well, don't let me hold you up." And he stomped out the door like a diva.

I wanted to call him back, to explain, but my brain was on overload. Then I remembered there was no phone at the mansion -- there shouldn't have been, anyway -- so I pushed the button on my caller ID. A familiar New York City number appeared.

Wait a minute ... what the hell?

Jackson had called from Norcross's cell phone.

Too freakin' much going on at once. I couldn't absorb it all. The best antidote was action. I yanked a sweatshirt over my head and took off for the mansion as fast as I could run.
Chapter Twenty-Two

The quickest way to the mansion was also the hardest: along the beach and up the steep side of the cliff, via the path where I'd knocked Walt off his feet a few nights back. I stomped on the memory as I hauled my ass to the ledge and dragged myself upright on the lawn of the Ardmore estate.

For a moment I stood there huffing and puffing and trying to figure out the quickest way into the house. Like a moron, I'd come away without any tools. The closest entrance was the front door, so I went for that, carefully picking my way over the porch's brittle floorboards. Apparently the alarms were turned off again; as usual, nothing shrilled or even lit up as I reached cautiously for the ornate knob. I'd barely touched it when the massive oak door slowly creaked inwards on its own.

And of course this happened just as the sun went down.

God damn it, I wished Walt had come with me instead of turning into a dick again. Gritting my teeth, stiffening my upper lip and clenching my ass, I edged through the door into the main hallway and listened hard for signs of life. Somehow calling out didn't seem like the brightest idea at the moment.

Neither did going up the enormous staircase in front of me, but twilight still filtered through the windows in the foyer, which made it a whole lot more appealing than heading for those dark backstairs. I edged nervously up the carpeted steps, keeping my back to the wall and away from the unsteady railing. As I neared the top, I saw splintered wood on the opposite banister ... something or someone must have fallen through to the floor below, just as Walt and I thought. Fallen or been pushed. I really didn't want to be next. That was one hell of a drop.

A nerve-wrenching THUD echoed from the bottom of the stairs and the shadowy darkness around me abruptly deepened. With my adrenaline pumping full speed ahead, I whipped my head around and realized the sound had to have been the huge front door slamming shut.

Oh God, now what? Was I locked in? Where was Jackson? Was he even here? Was this some stupid trick to scare the crap out of me? If it was, it sure was working.

But Jackson had sounded authentically scared on the phone, and no matter how angry he might be with me, I couldn't see him pulling this kind of prank. I had to at least look for him.

Hardly breathing, I moved along the dark second floor corridor with my back against the wall for some reason, trying to muffle my work-booted footsteps, pausing every few steps to listen. If Jackson was in the house, he was being awfully quiet.

I was back in the hallway where I'd heard the organ music and the whispered conversation a few nights back, only on the opposite side. The first door I reached was slightly ajar. Fearfully I eased it open and peered in. Through the mullioned windows, the dim glow of the fading sunset gave me just enough light to make out a shadowy shape on the white covered bed.

"Jackson?" I whispered, my mouth so dry my tongue clicked. When the figure didn't answer, I edged closer to the bed and gazed at the form as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Yes, it was a man, but it was definitely not Jackson. It was a small, dark man, his head at an awkward, impossible angle, his eyes open ... and his mouth and nose crusted with dried blood.

My hand clapped automatically to my mouth when I recognized Carlos, Del Withers' laborer who had fallen in love with the ghost of Faith Ardmore.

No question, he was with her now.

With quaking legs I wobbled backward to the door and slid back out into the hallway. Nothing I could do for Carlos; I had to try to find Jackson, to save him from whoever would do a thing like that to sad little Carlos.

A muffled sound caught my hyper-alert ear. I caught my breath and held it until it came again, a little further down the hall. Walking more quietly than I would ever have thought possible in my clunky work boots, I reached the next room and gave the door a gentle, steady push. There was a figure on this bed as well. A lanky figure spread out like a starfish on the light-covered bedspread.

"Jackson?" My whisper squeaked with tension.

The figure on the bed "umphed" back at me. As I drew closer, I could make out Jackson's raggedy hair, then the ropes that bound him to the sides of the railed iron head- and footboards, then the piece of duct tape over his mouth. I reached over and ripped that off.

"OOWWW!" he roared.

"Shh!" I snapped. "Jesus! I'm sorry, did you want me to leave that on?" I groped around for a light switch or lamp, but only found a dusty, melted down lump of candle with hardly any wick. "Shit. Got a match?" I asked him, suppressing a crazy urge to laugh.

"Right back pocket," he growled. I squeezed my hand underneath his butt and managed to hook a book of matches out with two fingers. It took three strikes before the candle lit, and I was pretty sure it was the thick layer of dust burning rather than the wick. It helped, at any rate.

"So, you gonna tell me how this happened?" I asked as I got to work on the first knot.

"Myla," Jackson spat.

"That figures. What the hell did she do, shoot venom into you and wrap you with her spinnerets?" Damn, that rich bitch could tie knots ... probably got that from years of yachting, I thought bitterly.

"Uh ... no, she invited me here and I came."

"Sucker," I taunted. "So how'd she get you tied up like this?" Silence. I figured it out. "Hm, didn't know you were into that, or I might've tried it myself."

"Shut up." But he was half-smiling now, probably with relief. He flexed the wrist I'd freed, then scratched his side with a happy, "Ahhhh." I moved to his right foot and got to work there.

My brain was slowly kicking back in after the jolts I'd gotten in the past half-hour. "So how did you manage to call me?"

His face was bitter in the flickering yellow glow. "She got me all tied up, then started laughing, the bitch. Said someone else was gonna hafta free me and she'd decided it was you. Whipped out the cell phone and dialed, told me what to say, and took off."

I frowned and squinted at the knot. My fingers were already aching from the effort and I had two more to go after this one. "She didn't happen to mention why she had Norcross's cell phone, did she? Or if she has any idea where her uncle is?"

"Naw, we didn't talk family," he said wryly. "Shit, Maddie, thanks for coming. I really didn't think you would."

"How could I resist such a pleasant invitation?" I frowned, remembering Walt's surprising offer. Then his angry departure. Crap.

"I'm dying for a smoke," Jackson groaned. "Would you mind--"

"No, I will not light one for you. Smoking in bed is a bad idea." The knot finally let go and I stretched my hands. "Damn, these knots are a bitch. Two more, huh?"

He laughed sharply. "One more, actually." He nodded toward his left hand, which was still bound to the iron bed frame. "That up there's a set of handcuffs."

I'd started on his left foot, glanced up and saw the glint of metal in the candlelight. "Handcuffs? Did she leave the key?" I had a feeling I already knew the answer to that one.

Another laugh. "Hardly."

"Great. I'll have to run back for my hacksaw." My eyes burned from straining through the dim light, which got dimmer then went out entirely with a tiny puff of smoke. "Crap. Hold on." I felt my way to a large, curtained window and pushed the heavy draperies aside. Not a great improvement, but the room brightened slightly. I started back to the bed, then stopped short when I realized some of the light was coming from the little turret that overlooked the ocean. I took another look and froze.

Silhouetted in one of the long tower windows, softened and somewhat obscured by gauzy curtains, was the figure of a woman, waving her arms wildly.

By then I was too drained to be scared, but I was curious as hell. "You don't know how to get up to that tower, do you?" I asked Jackson.

With an exasperated grunt, he said, "Myla didn't exactly give me a tour of the place, Maddie. Could you get me outta here, please? I gotta play tonight and I'd like to have a chance to eat first."

"Jeez, you're welcome," I grumbled, trying not to think of _Jane Eyre_ and the crazy wife in the attic. Hurriedly I finished up the third knot and he eased himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I gave him a quick pat and said, "Okay, keep your pants on for a few. I gotta check this out." And I went back into the hallway, leaving him cursing behind me.

Again I was edging my way along the cold plaster wall, bumping into doors in the dark. I remembered there had to be a bathroom near the end of the hall, where I'd heard the alleged ghost taking a leak. The tower was in that direction, so I guessed the stairway had to be that way.

Damn, that was a long hallway. As I made my way down it, I could hear a woman's voice, shrill and hysterical, that grew louder with every step. I guessed it had to be coming from the flailing figure I'd seen in the tower window. Myla? Or her little secret friend she kept holed up there? What the hell was that crazy bitch up to, anyway? Where'd she gone after she had Jackson call me?

Suddenly I felt incredibly stupid for not looking behind the front door went I'd come in. The way it had opened for me then slammed after I got up the stairs, someone had to have been there, waiting and watching. Ah well, friggin' hindsight.

I'd groped my way to the end of the hall, found a plain, short door on the left and pulled it open. To my relief, orange-yellow light warmed the dark walls and dusty steps. As I tiptoed clumsily up the skinny stairs, I could finally make out what the woman was yelling in a wavering, uneven squawk: "You USED me ... you USED me ... and you LEFT me ... my parents BEAT me ... because of what YOU did ... you BASTARD ... I LOVED you ... I DIED for you ..."

Holy crap. Whoever this was, she'd lost it big time.

I was close enough to the top of the stairs I could see into the tower. A huge shadow loomed on the wall straight ahead, made eerier by the flickering light of the candle. It was the shadow of a woman in a very full skirt with a very tight bodice.

I sneaked up the final steps and stood to one side of the doorway for a better look into the octagonal room. What I saw surprised the crap out of me ... yeah, there was the woman in her big-ass Civil War gown, screaming and flapping at someone on the floor. That someone was Adam Norcross, who was propped up against the wall, bound and gagged.

Holy shit, Myla'd had a busy week.

I wondered how many of the rooms contained bound and gagged-or dead-men. But it wasn't Myla in the big old dress; this woman was a slight blonde with skinny arms that were flapping and flailing out of control. I could take her, no problem.

So I stepped right into the room and went directly to Norcross, who looked and smelled pretty awful. "Hey, Norcross," I said calmly as I ripped the tape off his mouth and got to work on his knots. God, I wished I'd brought at least a jackknife.

Behind me the costumed gal fell silent and stopped flapping. "Who -- who are you?" she quavered.

Still struggling with the knot around Norcross's ankles, I turned and looked at her. "I'm Madeleine Maxwell. Who are you?"

"Faith Ardmore."

I studied her pale skin, faded blue eyes, dark circles, and whoa, really impressive cleavage for a skinny chick. "Hey, Faith. Is that a Wonder Bra?" I asked.

She looked confused and scared as hell, so I was pretty sure she wasn't a ghost. As I went back to loosening Norcross's bonds, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm rescuing my boss."

"Max." Norcross finally managed to speak in a husk-dry whisper. "She thinks she's Faith and I'm the groom I told you about, the one who got her pregnant."

His legs were free. "Yeah, I figured that out. Lean over so I can do your arms."

"Let me try to stand." With a little help, Norcross wobbled to his feet, but still needed the support of the wall to stay there. "My God," he moaned.

"Yeah, Jesus, how long have you been here?"

"What day is it?"

I had to think about that; it had been one hell of a week. "I think it's Thursday night, but it might be Friday."

"My God," he repeated, "that makes four days."

Damn. I was surprised he didn't smell worse, but I didn't say so. The knot around his wrists was another doozy and I needed all my concentration to get it undone. Just as I was about to tug some rope through a loop, he suddenly jerked violently and lurched away from me. "Hey, hold still," I snapped.

"Oh my God! My God, we've got to get out of here."

"It'll go a lot faster if you don't jerk around like that."

"No. Look." Norcross nodded his shaggy, greasy head at the window he was facing, which overlooked the main part of the house. "The mansion -- I think it's on fire."
Chapter Twenty-Three

Sure as shit, there were flames coming from the front of the house, right around by the main porch. Seeing how dry and old and drafty the place was, it would probably go up pretty damn fast.

"Crap!" I screamed. "Oh, crap ... Jackson's down on the second floor. Come on, let's get going." And I grabbed Norcross and hauled his ass toward the steps. "Wait! Where'd Faith go?" I looked around, but true to form, Faith had vanished.

Norcross chose this moment to pass out. I couldn't really blame him, but I wished to God he'd waited a little longer. I pretty much dragged him down the stairs; hadn't gotten too far with that knot, so his arms were still tied behind his back. Needless to say, that didn't make things easier.

When we hit the bottom of the steps, I could hear Jackson yelling. Smoke was already drifting into the second floor hallway. "Coming!" I screamed, dragging Norcross as fast as I could. He made quite a handicap for a 130-pound woman, even one who'd been working out. I left him in the hall as I ran into the room containing Jackson.

"Where the hell have you been?" he croaked. "This fucking place is on fire!"

"Yeah, thanks, I figured that out." I really didn't need to be yelled at under the circumstances. Crap, I'd forgotten he was handcuffed to the goddamn bed frame. Frantically I groped around the end tables and dressers for the key, then pushed Jackson aside and attacked the bed, yanking and kicking madly at the rusty, coiled spring frame holding up the ancient mattress until it released the headboard. "Go, go, GO!" I screamed at him as he stared.

"What the fuck -- how'm I supposed to get out with that?"

"It's go like that or stay here and fry. Make up your mind; I've done all I can do." But when he hesitated, I grabbed his arm and dragged him -- and the stupid headboard -- out the door and into the hall, where I collected the still unconscious Norcross and looked around wildly for an escape route.

I'd been thinking we could use the backstairs that went down to the kitchen, then exit the building through the door Walt had carried me through the other night. I realized pretty quickly that the headboard was too large to make it past the undersized doorway and down the narrow, curving steps. That left the front stairway, which I was pretty damn sure would lead straight to the flaming porch.

There wasn't any time to think; the smoke was thickening by the second and the temperature was rising even faster. With my sweatshirt pulled up over my face and a hand on each man, I pushed Jackson toward the stairway and dragged Norcross by the collar.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Jackson bellowed.

"Yes!" I screamed back, giving him another violent shove. "Now you're on your own. Grab that headboard and run like hell! Take a left at the bottom. I'll meet you down there and show you ..." And then my voice dried up and I started coughing so I just shoved him again. The headboard banged after him. I followed as closely as possible, given that I had to go down backwards with one hand under each of Norcross's armpits. He was no help at all.

"My bill just went way up," I muttered to him between coughs. But I was scared now, about as scared as I'd ever been in my life. I was sweating like a pig and my eyes burned and stung; the smoke was so thick I could barely see where we were going, or if Jackson had made it.

I got my answer when I tripped over the headboard, which appeared to be stuck in the banister rails at the very bottom of the staircase. Jackson was tugging at it crazily and swearing. Over his shoulder I could see flames tearing from the front door down the hallway rug, straight at us.

I dropped Norcross on the stairs and wrenched the frame so hard the rails splintered. Fiercely I shoved Jackson to the left. Norcross tumbled down a few steps and landed face down on the smoldering carpeting. I was too exhausted to lift him from his flat-out prone position so again I grabbed him by a leg and dragged him on his belly onto the hardwood that led to the kitchen. At least he slid a lot more easily off the carpeting, and I charged through the smoky hallway trying not to breathe as I hauled my human anchor behind me.

Once again I tripped over Jackson, who had apparently collapsed in the kitchen door with the headboard on top of him, creating a major roadblock. I kicked him and tried to scream, but all I could do was cough. I dragged Norcross into the corner by the doorway and propped him up, heaved the damn headboard off Jackson, dragged him into the kitchen, then staggered back out to get Norcross. My lungs felt like they'd been dry roasted, my throat wouldn't open enough for me to swallow what little spit I had, and my head roared and pounded. But there was no time for a breather, literal or figurative.

I got the two guys propped up next to the back door and gave it a shove, eagerly anticipating the rush of cool, clean air that would burst through it.

It didn't move.

My intestines fell somewhere around my ankles as I jiggled, twisted, pummeled, and otherwise beat the crap out of the door, but it didn't seem to care. Smoke was obliterating the kitchen and my two guys were completely useless. I wondered if Norcross was even alive at this point. I figured Jackson had smoked enough unfiltered Camels in his life he should be able to survive this a little longer. God, I hoped so.

I heard a roaring sound and turned in time to see the hallway outside start glowing an intense reddish orange. "FUCK!" I screamed hoarsely ... then in a rare moment of brilliance, I tried pulling the door open instead of pushing. It opened right away.

"You moron," I chided myself, relieved. Thank God the guys were unconscious.

I shoved Norcross out first because he was the easiest to manage. When I went back in for Jackson I couldn't see a damn thing except smoke and flames looking for things to latch onto. I felt my way to him and managed to get him and his wrought iron appendage through the door with a combination of yanking, shoving, kicking, and whispered curses. The goddamn headboard stuck again. As I fought it through the door I was absolutely sure my ass was on fire.

If this was what hell was like, maybe I should rethink a few things.

Finally I got the headboard free and flung it out the door, hoping too late that I hadn't broken Jackson's arm in the process. But I really didn't give a flying crap. I was ready to pass out myself as I practically fell out the door and hauled myself to my feet in time to yank it shut again -- just as flames bashed against it.

For a moment I stood there, staring numbly at what I'd just escaped ... and for some bizarre reason I found myself thinking, "I've got to go find Walt and tell him yes, if he still wants to do it."

The glass exploded from the door and flames shot toward us. Guess my job wasn't done yet. Heaving with exhaustion, I dragged the guys and the goddamned stupid friggin' headboard a few more feet away from danger before I collapsed on the grass.

Out of nowhere, like asbestos-suited angels, two sooty men grabbed me and pulled me further from the flames to an ambulance near the driveway that Walt and I had scaled the night before. I could only assume they got the boys as well. I'd done all I could and that was that.

My angels and a policeman tried to ask me questions, but dry, painful coughing racked my body and I couldn't answer. I just kept shaking my head and honking like a goose, then gagging and retching. That shut them up. They handed me off to an EMT who threw me into an ambulance, slapped an oxygen mask on my face and examined me for burns. Guess he found some, 'cause he started swabbing at me. I was too numb to notice or care. Maybe I should have faked some kind of attack so he'd give me some good drugs, but I didn't have the energy.

From where I was I could see Norcross on one stretcher and Jackson -- headboard-free -- on another. Both were hustled into ambulances, which whooped their way off to the hospital. I wondered how they'd gotten the handcuffs unlocked, but I didn't really care. The scene around me was wild, loud, colorful, but I felt like I was watching it from a huge distance, almost like it was a not particularly involving made-for-TV movie. Even when a giant ball of fire shot through the roof of the mansion, I found myself thinking, "What a cheesy special effect."

Someone was standing in the periphery of my vision. Lazily I turned my head to see who it was ... and there was Walt, tall and awkward and eerily lit by the fire, clothing askew, flames dancing in his glasses, staring at me like he didn't know what the hell to say. And that's when my heart starting beating again. Pounding is more like it. My eyes got watery over the oxygen mask and for some reason I automatically reached up to straighten my hair... but all my hand could find was something that felt dry and sort of crunchy. I froze and stared at Walt helplessly.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away into the smoky darkness.

At the Abneyville Medical Center, they gave me more oxygen, taped up my burns, and abandoned me, filthy and exhausted, on a gurney in the emergency area with the curtains closed around me. Massachusetts health care at its finest.

No matter how many times I checked for it, I couldn't find my hair. I tried not to freak out, but it was pretty disturbing to feel a crispy crew-cut in place of my shoulder-length locks. Strangely enough, it bothered me a lot more than the burns on my arms and neck.

I sniffed back tears as an eager young woman burst into my cubicle, steno pad and camera in hand. "Are you Madeleine Maxwell?" Then she took a good look at me and tried to conceal her horror. I must have looked stunning.

"Yeah, I'm Max. Please, no pictures." She nodded hasty agreement and sat next to my bed, trying not to stare at my head.

"I'm Haley Hastings from the _Abneyville Gazette,"_ she announced in a cheery, practiced voice, probably imagining her future as Connie Chung's successor. "I wanted to ask a few questions about the fire at the Ardmore Estate. I understand you were, uh, on the scene?"

"I was _in_ the fucking scene, kid, and you may quote me on that. How the hell do you think I got this goddamn buzz cut?" Was I in a foul mood? You bet.

Pert little Haley blinked nervously and dropped her pencil. Her voice emanated from under my gurney as she groped around down there. "Um, so you were actually in the mansion while it was burning?"

"You bet your sweet ass." Okay, even someone young and perky and blonde didn't deserve this kind of treatment. "Sorry to be such a bitch, but I'm fucking wiped."

"Oh, that's okay," Haley chirped. "What were you doing in the mansion?"

"Uh ... no comment."

"Do you have any idea how the fire was started?"

"No idea; getting the hell out of there had all my attention."

Haley frowned. "Do you know if the fire was started deliberately?"

My singed eyebrows furrowed and I shook my head at her. "How the hell would I know that?"

A cardiganed nurse peered around the curtain. "Mrs. Maxwell? Your husband is here," she said.

"Oh God. Which one?" I groaned.

Her tone went sour. "Well, he _says_ he's your husband. Sir?" And Walt crouched into my cubicle and glowered at Haley, who scuttled away with a hasty wave.

"Hi, honey," I said to Walt in a saccharine voice. The nurse started to take off, but I yelped, "Hey, wait! How are the two guys that were in the fire?"

She frowned at her clipboard. "Are you related to them?"

I rolled my scorched eyeballs. "I work for one of them, and the other is a ... an old friend." Walt crossed his arms.

"Well ... We're keeping both of them overnight. Jackson O'Brien is in stable condition, but Adam Norcross is still unconscious. He appears to have some broken ribs and to be severely dehydrated."

I nodded. "Yeah, he was tied up and starved for a few days, I think."

The nurse looked appalled. "My God. Well, that would explain a few things." And she bustled off to impart this information, or whatever, leaving me alone with Walt, who looked to be in yet another snit. I was SO not in the mood.

"Did you want to go home?" Walt's voice was rough, like bark on an old tree. "I mean, can you?"

I was supposed to stay and get interrogated by the cops, but screw that. "Yeah, I'm ready."

I tossed the oxygen mask aside and slid off the gurney, then realized I was wearing a stupid hospital johnny and had no idea where my burnt clothes were. They probably weren't any good anyway. Walt silently slipped his jacket over me. It hit me about mid-thigh, which was good enough. I padded along beside him in my foam rubber hospital slippers with the smiley faces on them, and no one tried to stop us.

Still not looking at me, Walt helped me into the station wagon, closed the door, walked around the front and dropped into the driver seat like a sack of sand. We went along in silence, me feeling more and more spaced out and exhausted by the minute.

"So, want to tell me what happened in there?" he finally asked, his voice oatmeal-bland.

"Beats me," I yawned. With a huge effort I made myself recall the essentials. "I got there and found Jackson gagged and tied and handcuffed to a bed, and Norcross bound and gagged in the tower. It was one freakin' bizarre scene." I felt like I must have hallucinated the whole thing, but the pain in my lungs and bandages on my skin and lack of hair on my head forced me to accept it had been all too real.

"What was Jackson up to?"

"I don't know and I don't care." At the moment, I really didn't.

Walt's tone was dull, unemotional "Yeah, me neither." He pulled into the parking lot in front of the resort and killed the engine, but one hand still gripped the wheel and he stared straight ahead.

I guessed this meant all bets were off, he was finally over me, and so much for having found a father for my child. I sighed and slumped down in the seat, willing myself to open the door and get the hell away before I made a moron of myself. I fumbled for an appropriately biting exit line but nothing would come. Finally I looked over at Walt and saw, to my amazement, that his eyes were full of tears.

"Hey," I rasped, wondering if it was just the glaring light of the full moon playing visual tricks. But when he took a deep breath and blinked, wetness spilled over and ran down his cheek. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Gently I put a hand on his arm, and those gorgeous blue eyes turned to me.

"I thought you were dead," he whispered, and his cheeks got a whole lot wetter. "I thought you'd been burned up in there and I'd never see you again. And I thought of what an ass I'd been, how I should have asked you about the phone call instead of being pissed that it was Jackson ... I should have gone with you to the mansion instead of stalking out like a jerk ... I should have ended my marriage years ago, when we knew it wouldn't work." His fist thudded against the steering wheel. "I should have told you twenty-five years ago that I loved you. If I'd just had the balls to do that, maybe none of this other crap would have happened."

He couldn't say another word. So I pulled my flame broiled ass over to him and took him in my arms and we held each other for a long, long while, not saying a word, just sniffling and breathing. When he ran his fingers through what was left of my hair, the mood broke a bit.

"So, do you like your women rare or well done?" I asked shakily.

"I like them just like you," he breathed, squeezing me in a bear hug that made my roasted lungs wheeze.

A few more little details surfaced in my overcooked brain. "Holy shit ... Walt, there was a body in the house too. A laborer named Carlos, worked for Del Withers. Pretty sure he's who we heard running and falling over the rail."

"You saw the body?" Walt sounded aghast.

"Yeah, when I was looking for Jackson. It was pretty gross. Also ... there was a little blonde woman dressed in this big hoopy dress screaming at Norcross, saying she was Faith Ardmore. She kind of disappeared when we spotted the fire."

He looked startled. "Jesus. I wonder who ..." Shoving his door open, he hustled around the car and opened mine, eased me out and gave me a quick but very satisfying hug. "I'll go check it out, be back in ten-fifteen minutes, okay?" Another hug and a longer look and he started away, leaving me standing in the parking lot in my little foam slippers \-- then suddenly he whirled around and ran back to me and scooped me up in his arms. "I'll see you home first, huh?"

The big galoot carried me back to my cottage and deposited me on the doorstep, where he gave me a much more satisfying, big, warm, knee-melting hug. With a long, loving look into my eyes, Walt Drucker, world-class cynic and smug bastard, said to me, in the gooiest voice imaginable, "I love you, Max." And he gave my face a little touch before he ambled off into the night.

I have to admit I almost ran after him. Not only did I want to try that hug again and see what came next, I didn't want to be alone, for once in my life. But I swallowed my neediness and went to put my key in the lock ... when I realized the door was already open.

After being through what I'd been through in the past twenty-four hours, an intelligent person would have hightailed her ass down the beach after Walt, gone straight to the fire scene and rounded up a cop or two. But Ms. Headstrong here had to go check it out for herself. Yep, I pushed right on through the door, right into the path of danger, right into what was apparently...

...a completely empty, uninvaded little cabin. God knows there was nowhere to hide. Nothing was out of place, and no one grabbed me and held a knife to my throat. I must've just forgotten to pull the door closed; the latch was a bit tricky, and I'd been in a hurry earlier. Was I done spooking myself for now? God, I hoped so.

Breathing deeply, I shrugged Walt's jacket onto the futon, threw the johnny in the trash along with the smiley slippers, and turned on the shower. Fearfully I checked myself in the mirror, and groaned out loud at what I saw. It was even worse than I'd imagined: spikes of fried hair stuck out of my head, and my entire face was smudged with black ... except for white streaks under my eyes where my tears had run.

If Walt could look at this and say he loved me in that tone of voice, he was one hell of a loyal, supportive, and wonderful man.

In the shower, I tried not to scream as clumps of hair broke off and littered the tub. My bandages got soaked, so I ripped them off. Might as well give 'em the full Frankenstein's Bride treatment. At least most of the charcoal on my skin washed off and I looked less like a minstrel show refugee by the time I got out.

Bravely I toweled off the remainders of my hair and congratulated myself that at least my scalp wasn't showing anywhere. If I got a really butch cut and lots of conditioner, I might not look too awful.

As I pondered myself in the steamed up mirror, something out of a bad horror movie happened. Another face slowly came into focus behind me. I gasped and whirled around, dropping my towel, revealing my naked bod to a total stranger.

A woman. A thin, sad-looking, washed-out blonde with faded blue eyes, wearing a charred and filthy antique undergarment.

It was the ghost of Faith Ardmore. "I'm sorry to barge in like this," she said politely, "but I really need your help."
Chapter Twenty-Four

"Holy crap," I muttered, grabbing my towel up off the floor, "can't you people leave me alone for five minutes?"

Faith, who looked pale and wan enough to really be a ghost, burst out into big weepy bawling at that. "Why won't anyone help me?" she wailed.

Put out as hell, I sighed like a martyr. "Oh, all right, but let me get some clothes on, okay?"

I shooed the ghost out into my main room and rummaged through my packed hamper. Everything was pretty disgusting; I settled for pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. I was out of underwear of all types. Guess what I'd be doing tomorrow? It was that or go shopping. Two of my least favorite activities.

Faith was flitting about in the kitchen area, and I realized she was cleaning. I wasn't about to stop her; she and Libby had done more cleaning in my house in one day than I'd done since I moved in.

"Okay, talk to me. First, who the hell are you? And if you say Faith Ardmore, I swear I'll smack you."

"Oh, no, I'm not really Faith. It's just... she possesses me sometimes."

"Uh-huh." I slumped onto the futon, wondering when Walt would return so he could get a load of this. "Any idea why?"

Faux Faith loved this question; she plonked her very definitely three-dimensional butt next to me on the futon and leaned forward eagerly. "See, I lived in that house when I was a little girl, and that's when we met. She used to come talk to me, tell me about tricks she played and stuff."

"Wait. You lived in the mansion when you were a little girl ... so what's your real name?"

She frowned. "That's hard to say. I have so many, and I'm going to change it again only I haven't decided on what yet."

I was so not in the mood for this. "Well, give me the most recent one and I'll take it from there, okay?"

"Most recently, my name was Janina. Janina Peterson Lopes."

"Janina Lopes?" Why did that sound so damn familiar?

Oh. Oh crap. Janina Lopes. The Malden housewife who axed her hubby and disappeared. Walt was right again, the bastard. And where the hell was he, anyway? I really didn't want to be alone with a murderer. Certainly not after the day or two or three I'd had.

I needed to stall so I asked more questions. "So ...Janina, um, what were you doing up at the mansion?"

"Hiding from the police." She smiled as if she were playing a game of hide-and-seek rather than being a fugitive from justice. "Myla and I killed my husband and burned down the apartment building and came here to hide."

Wow. "Oh really? How do you know Myla?"

"She's my stepsister, silly. Back when my name was Hannah and she was Amy Lynn and we lived in the mansion."

"I see." So this was Gabe's childhood friend. I could see why they got along. This woman had to be at least thirty, but she prattled like a ditzy five-year-old.

Suddenly she pouted and her eyes filled with tears. "Do you know where Myla is now?"

"No idea, don't you?" Yikes, where was Walt?

"No. She was s'posed to wait for me before she set the fire, and we were going to run away together. But she didn't wait and she wasn't where she said she'd be. I'm scared and I want to go away." And the blubbering recommenced.

Holy shit, so Myla had been playing one hell of a complicated little game, and I was willing to bet she was probably still at large. I had to try to get more information from this childish moron of a woman. Shaking her, I snapped, "Faith -- Janina -- Hannah -- whatever, listen to me for a minute, okay?"

She sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, which was caked with soot and grime. Yuck. "Whuh-what?" she quavered pathetically.

It took everything I had not to slap her, to instead force patience and understanding and warmth into my hickory smoked voice. "Janina honey, listen, I think Myla lied to you and I think she used you."

"Myla wouldn't do that." Tears gushed from her wide eyes and dripped off her chin. "Would she?"

"Oh, you can bet your ass she would," I assured her. "I think Myla is very, very good at lying and manipulating and getting whatever she wants."

Janina thought this over, her chin tight and trembling. "So maybe ... maybe I didn't kill Paulo?"

"Paulo?" Oh yeah, the dead guy in the bathtub up in Malden. "I don't know. What do you remember?"

Her eyes glazed over and she wrapped a frayed strand of over-processed blonde hair around her finger. "Myla just ... showed up at my apartment and told me to pack, we were going to visit Uncle Adam. I hadn't seen her in years so it was kind of a shock, but she got me all excited about coming down here again, saying it would be fun and like old times when we were kids."

I remembered Gabe had told me Myla had been something of a bully to her half-sister. Didn't sound too inviting to me, but I got the impression Janina was desperately lonely -- not to mention crazy -- probably dying to trust someone, and would to cling to anyone who was the least bit nice to her. "Yeah, so ... what happened?"

The fragile face caved in. "Then Paulo came home, all drunk and mean. He never liked Myla; she thought he wasn't good enough for me. He told her I wasn't going anywhere except the kitchen to make him dinner."

Well, that made me feel a little less bad that Paulo was dead. "Bet that pissed Myla off, huh?"

Janina's eyes lit up admiringly. "Oh, yes. She told him he had no right to boss me around, that I could do what I wanted and he could get his own damn dinner. We were standing at the top of the stairs and he started coming up at us. She said something to me like 'Go on, tell him you're going with me' and she shoved me at him, right into him. He was so drunk he went over backwards down the stairs."

Damn, was it that easy to kill a drunk? Just toss a scrawny blonde at him? Wish I'd known. "So he died right then and there?"

"Well ..." Janina's lips got thinner and she yanked hard on the strand of hair. "Myla ran down there and said he was bleeding and she was shaking him like she was trying to wake him up, but I think she hurt him worse 'cause his head hit the floor a couple of times." Yep, sounded like the Myla I knew, all right. "At first he grabbed her like he was going to strangle her, then he let go and kind of flopped back. I was so scared I started to scream, but Myla told me to shut up unless I wanted to go to jail for murder. Then she said help her get him up the stairs and we'd put him in the bathtub."

Myla's antics seemed completely bizarre to me. Either both these women were insane or I was too wiped out to make sense of anything. Or both. "Why the bathtub?" I yawned at the tightly wrapped little wraith next to me.

"She said we could make it look like he'd slipped in the shower and hit his head. So that's what we did." Janina pouted at the memory. "It was hard. He'd gotten so fat since we got married. So it took us a long time . . . and then he started getting all stiff, like, you know ..." She looked at me for help.

"Rigor mortis." I nodded sagely as if I knew all about it. God bless prime time crime.

"Yeah. Then Myla realized one of her earrings was missing and I guess it was worth a lot. She decided Paulo had it in his fist, which was all stiff, so she ..." Janina paled and chewed her lips.

"Cut it off," I said helpfully, remembering the news stories and the disembodied hand that had entered my life the same night as Walt. Ah, fond memories we'd cherish forever, maybe tell our kids...

But Janina's babbling wouldn't let me daydream. "Then Myla noticed there was blood all over the stairs and the hallway and she kinda went crazy ... said she just wanted to get out of there and she knew a quick way to clean up. So I packed a few things and she was downstairs doing something in the kitchen ... and just before we went out the back door, she opened the oven and threw in a match. Then we ran." Janina looked at me brightly, as if hoping for a pat on the head.

"Well, that's ... quite a story, Janina." Feeling more than a little stunned, desperate for some help, I stretched to my feet and wandered to the door. "And if you want my opinion, you didn't kill your husband. Seems to me your wonderful half-sister has been having herself a little killing spree." With that, I opened the door to see if Walt was in sight.

He sure was. In fact, he was standing a couple of feet from my door with his hands up. And Myla stood slightly behind him, looking very wired indeed. "You were supposed to die," she growled at me.

"Oh, bite me," I groaned with deep disgust. "Walt, Jesus, couldn't you handle that bitch?"

His eyes bulged with alarm. "Uh ... Max, she kind of has a gun aimed at my kidneys, so would you mind ..."

"Shutting up?" Myla finished for him. "You too, big guy. Go on into the cabin and don't try to pull anything or you're dead."

"Sorry, Max," Walt whispered as he stepped in.

"I said shut up." Myla must've poked Walt with the gun, because he lurched forward, practically knocking me into the kitchen counter. Myla stopped short and slammed the door behind her. "How the hell do you live in a place this size?"

"Alone," I snarled back at her.

"Myla!" Janina bounded joyfully from the futon and threw her arms around the unsuspecting hell beast. "Where were you? Why didn't you wait for me?"

Apparently Janina was supposed to be dead too. The look on Myla's face was richly satisfying. Even more satisfying was that her shock gave me the opportunity to kick her legs out from under her and grab the gun, which looked like an antique. Probably something she found in the attic of the mansion.

"It's okay, Walt, you're safe now," I said, aiming the gun at Myla. "Jesus, is this thing even loaded?"

"There's an easy way to find out," Walt murmured.

"Don't tempt me." I kept the heavy old piece aimed at Myla, who remained on the floor with a dumfounded look on her face. When the crotch of her designer jeans suddenly darkened, I was pretty sure the gun was loaded. Or maybe she wasn't sure either, and didn't want to find out now.

"No!" Janina screamed. "Don't shoot her!" She started to fly at me, but Walt simply put out one big hand and held her back.

"Now what?" he asked me.

"Hey, you're the one with the license," I said wearily. "Can't we just haul her to the police station and leave her on their doorstep with a note?"

"You bitch," Myla spat at me, teary-eyed with fury and humiliation as the puddle grew under her. So much for my tattered rug. "You fucking bitch. You think you're so damn tough. You practically had a heart attack when you saw D'Angelo, didn't you? They had to just about carry you out of there."

"So that was your idea?" Icicles hung from Walt's voice.

"Yeah, that was my idea, thanks to your very helpful reports," Myla sneered. "I recognized his name from my prep school. We kinda knew each other... if you know what I mean. But he didn't have to rape me to get what he wanted." She preened as if this were something to brag about. What a sicko. "I tracked him down a couple of weeks back, asked him if he wanted revenge. He sure did." The vicious eyes were back on me. "Guess that took the wind out of your sails, huh?"

I wanted to pistol whip her, but I restrained myself and settled for taunting her instead. "Hey, I'm not the one peeing on the floor. God, I knew you reminded me of a Chihuahua, but this is ridiculous. You're not even housebroken." I got a very nasty charge out of humiliating her.

"Leave her alone!" Janina sobbed.

"Shut up," Myla snapped like the ill-tempered bitch she was. "I didn't have any trouble getting Jackson away from you, did I? Like taking candy from a baby. He even let me tie him up. You can bet your sagging ass he wanted me badly. I got further with him in one week than you've gotten in a whole year. Too bad he burned up, huh? Now you'll never get to know how good he is."

Walt had tensed up during this diatribe.

"Ow," Janina whined. "You're hurting me!'

"You'll be happy to know he wasn't burned up," I chided Myla. "Neither was Uncle Adam. And you, my dear, are in some very deep shit." God, I sounded like Cal, or Walt.

"Not a very impressive killing spree," Walt said in a blasé tone that made me want to kiss him.

"Naw, I've seen better. Stick to what you know," I advised her. "Like exotic dancing."

If she'd been a snake, I would have been dead. As it was, all she could do was glare at me with the most venomous eyes I'd ever seen. She opened her mouth to hiss something at me, or maybe flick her forked tongue, but a loud knocking on the door cut her off.

"Police! Open up, Maxwell!"

I never thought I'd be happy to hear the voice of Rolly Yergins, the local police chief, but right then it was music to my ears. "Come right on in!" I sang out.

The door flew open. The rotund Yergins, who looked like a bulldog crossed with Chief Wiggum, lunged in, flanked by two uniformed men.

"Hey, watch it!"

He stopped just short of stepping on Myla, and the two men in blue crashed into him. It was like something out of a Marx Brothers' movie. I had to chew my lip to keep from laughing, especially when Walt muttered, "Make that three hardboiled eggs."

Myla's eyes glowed and her tune changed so abruptly it almost gave me whiplash. "Oh, Officer, I'm so glad to see you!" she whimpered. "This horrible woman wants to shoot me because I stole her boyfriend!"

Dead silence greeted this outburst. Yergins' mouth hung open as he looked from me to the gun to Myla and Walt and Janina and back again. This was clearly not what he'd been expecting. "Uh ... you were supposed to wait at the hospital for questioning," he finally managed to burble. "And what the hell is going on here?"

I smiled and handed the gun to Yergins. "Rolly, this is Amy Lynn Myla Peterson Ardmore Constantine Devine, or something like that ... former stripper, wanted for burning down Harry's Hothouse in Chicago while Harry was in it. She's also responsible for the murder of Paulo Lopes in Malden, and for setting fire to the Ardmore family mansion while a few assorted people were in it, including me. Oh, and let's see, what else?"

Putting his arm around me, Walt chimed in helpfully, "Kidnapping Adam Norcross, setting fire to that apartment building in Malden, trying to kill Jackson O'Brien, and, uh, who was the dead guy again? The one that fell over the railing?"

"Oh yeah ... Carlos Somebody, worked for Del Withers."

"And me," Janina added, switching loyalties without missing a beat. "She wanted to kill me."

"Oh yeah? And who the hell are you?" Yergins asked rudely. Who could blame him?

Walt looked at me, and I realized he was missing a chapter. "That's Janina Lopes, formerly Hannah Peterson, Myla's half-sister. The Malden police have been looking for her for a week or so. She's insane, or at least pretty damned unstable, but she didn't kill her husband." Janina looked offended, but I didn't care. "She thinks she's Faith Ardmore sometimes."

"No!" Janina stamped. "I told you, sometimes Faith talks through me."

"You're kidding. The ghost?" Yergins' wheels were still spinning. It took him a couple more leaden moments to bark, "Okay, everyone to the station. We'll get everything sorted out down there."

I felt like passing out at the mere thought of doing anything else ever again, let alone right then. "Do we have to? I'm fucking exhausted," I groaned.

Yergins shot me a wobbly-jowled glare, and Walt tightened his arm around my shoulders. "Come on," he whispered. "Let's get it over with and then we'll go back to that room you like at the resort and light a fire."

It was that thought, the feel of Walt's hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his breath in my ear, and the adoring look in his gorgeous blue eyes that got me through the next few grueling hours.
Chapter Twenty-Five

After resisting arrest and attempting to cold-cock one of the uniformed cops, Myla had been, ironically, handcuffed. Maybe there was a God. Sweet little Faith-Hannah-Janina-Bananas sweetly complied with the nice policemen and seemed very excited about riding in their car. Walt and I were left on our own to get to the station.

"God, can't we just head north and keep driving?" I moaned.

Walt gave my hand a squeeze and drove in silence. I might even have fallen asleep in the passenger seat; it seemed like seconds before we were suddenly in the all-too-familiar parking lot.

I'd never liked the Hawk Marsh police station; too many unpleasant memories, the worst from just a few months ago. It was as ugly and stained as ever; gray walls and lots of corkboard with grimy notices stuck to them, gray metal desks with creaky gray chairs, gray-looking men and women at -- you guessed it -- gray computers. Overhead, glaring fluorescent lights washed all the grayness with a sickly yellow, and the bargain outlet wall-to-wall carpeting was so gritty it was like walking on sandpaper.

Walt stayed with me as much as possible in the peeling plastic chairs that served as a waiting area. What I remember most clearly about the endless wait is him telling me what had happened after he stormed out of my house when Jackson called. And I'd thought I was past feeling anything.

"I just drove around for a while; I don't even know where I went. I felt like I did in high school, every time I saw you with another guy. It was quite ridiculous." He gave me a shy, embarrassed smile. "Eventually I came to the realization that I had to stop being around you. I decided to tell you goodbye." A shuddery sigh interrupted him.

My exhausted heart thumped wearily. "Oh."

"So I went back to your cabin to see if you were there. Needless to say, you weren't." His voice sounded tight and he shifted to pull his inhaler out of his front jeans pocket. After a couple of hits, he went on. "I figured you were still at the mansion. I started toward it on the beach and I saw this glow... it sure as hell looked like a fire, and I didn't want to wait to find out. I ran back to your house, called 9-1-1, and took off for the cliff. I beat the fire engines. And I could see the place was going up fast."

I figured this had to be about the time I was dragging Norcross, Jackson, and the headboard down the stairs. "Yeah, it got intense pretty quick."

Walt clutched my hands. "I lost it. I tried to get in but the front porch was in flames and I started having a damned asthma attack right away. I felt like such a useless piece of crap." Tears filled his eyes again and he pulled off his glasses and rubbed them away.

I wrapped my arms around him and felt him shaking. "Walt, come on, it's okay." I didn't know what else to say.

"I was sure you were in there. I thought, stupidly, I would have known if you were out and safe. I paced around there for I don't know how long as the engines and police and everyone swarmed around. I knew you were dead and it was my fault for not going with you ... I could have done something about it. And then ..." He caught his breath and looked at me with eyes that had beheld some kind of miracle, and finished in a breathless voice, "... there you were."

It was like he'd reached right into my chest and squeezed my heart. I tightened my hold on him and he pressed his forehead against mine. From that angle, he looked incredibly young, somehow. Young and vulnerable as hell.

"I couldn't even speak," he said. "You looked so scared and dazed and ... God, once again, I couldn't say anything. I just knew what I had to do -- so I went and did it."

"Did what?" I was almost afraid to ask.

Another deep breath from Walt, then he pulled me to him and looked me straight in the eye, forehead to forehead. He was so close one eye looked higher than the other, like a Picasso. I had to kind of cross my eyes to make him look right.

"First let me say I'm not making any assumptions about what you want, or that someday you might love me or anything like that. This is something I should have done long ago, but ... well, kids and responsibilities and stuff."

Oh God, he'd left his family for me. "Uh...Walt ..."

"I drove home and told my wife I had to go away for a while, that I was miserable and she was miserable and what the hell kind of example was that for the kids. And I left." He sounded stunned, like he was just realizing what he'd done.

"Walt, are you sure ..."

He backed off enough so his eyes drifted back to their normal positions. "Yes, Max, I'm sure, and please believe me when I say I'm trying really hard not to have expectations. I've loved you almost my entire life, and more than anything I want that dream to come true ... at least long enough for you to have your dream come true."

Both our eyes were leaking freely now. "So you still wanna, you know, try to do the baby thing?" I asked stupidly.

Walt chuckled and sniffled. "Well, that's your dream, isn't it?"

"Madeleine Maxwell?" The sharp, nasal voice drilled through our rosy little cloud like a high quality Makita. I woke up and saw the Hawk Marsh police station and the ever-crabby Chief Yergins standing over us. Had I been asleep and dreamed the whole thing?

No, Walt's arms were still around me, his eyes still shiny with tears.

"Yeah?" I responded numbly.

"Come on in, we have some questions for you." Yergins took a more comprehensive look at me and added, "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?"

Still choky-voiced, Walt stepped in gallantly. "She's been in a fire, saved the lives of two men, and nabbed a murderer and arsonist for you, so maybe you should can the criticism."

With an annoyed grunt, Yergins hauled me into the depressing, green-walled interrogation room and started grilling me, like I hadn't already been literally grilled earlier. For once in my life -- probably due to emotional overload \-- my answers were in a dry, straightforward monotone, unadorned by swearing. Probably shocked the hell out of that bozo, but I didn't have the energy to do more than was absolutely necessary. I propped myself up with one hand, my elbow on the coffee-stained metal table, and traced some illiterate graffiti with my other hand.

"So Adam Norcross actually hired you to investigate the vandalism?" Yergins sounded extremely dubious. "Why would he do that?"

I yawned hugely. At least I covered my mouth. "Maybe because I know a lot of people, because I live right there, because I'm already employed by him ... I don't know. He didn't give me a contract or a retainer or anything, so I guess it wasn't really official, but he asked me to look into it, snoop around, see what I could figure out. So I did."

"And?"

"Well ... I think Myla faked all that interest in the club to throw suspicion of her ... and did the vandalism over there so no one would be looking at the mansion ..."

"For God's sake, Maxwell, wake up!" Yergins' voice and his fist banging the table snapped me back into consciousness. "You were saying?"

In a lifeless voice, I told him everything: about Walt, the hand, Myla, Del, Carlos, Harry's Hothouse. "When I saw she'd married this Harry Constantine guy in Chicago, then the club burned down, Harry died, and the poor little widow made out. Well, it makes sense she'd try something like that again with this very rich relative, don't you think?"

My eyes fell shut and I had to jerk my head before it hit the table. Yergins had asked me a question I hadn't heard, so I just went on.

"So Norcross had disappeared and wasn't answering his cell phone. Then tonight – last night? -- whenever -- Jackson O'Brien calls from Norcross's cell phone and tells me to get to the mansion right away. I get there, Carlos is dead in one room, O'Brien's handcuffed to a bed in another room, Norcross is bound and gagged in the tower with some crazy woman screaming at him who turned out to be Myla's half-sister. So she had everyone who knew anything about her little plan-everyone she knew of, anyway-all in this big flammable house at once. You'd have to ask Norcross what she stood to gain."

"Oh yeah? And what the hell did O'Brien have to do with it?" Yergins growled.

I yawned again, this time not covering my mouth. Too much effort. "Oh, he was there as bait for me." Folding my arms on the table, I lay my head down on them. "But she didn't know about Walt, so ..."

When I fell asleep in the middle of that sentence, Yergins gave up at last. With a not very gentle shake he woke me up. "You can go now, but we'll want to talk with you a lot more tomorrow. Get some rest. And do something about your hair, for God's sake."

I staggered back out to the main area and looked for Walt. He wasn't there, but Jackson was, looking a whole lot worse for the wear. "Hey, Maddie," he wheezed. "Nice do."

"Hey, Jackson. Seen Walt anywhere?" When he looked perplexed -- and a bit pissed -- I added, "Big tall guy, glasses, middle-aged..."

"Oh, that guy. The cops are talking to him now." His smoky eyes burned at me. "Friend of yours?"

I smiled. Big. "Yeah, a very old friend of mine." And I sat down next to Jackson to wait. "How are you doing? I thought they were going to keep you overnight."

"I hate hospitals," he explained. "So about this Walt."

Exhausted as I was, things seemed strangely clear to me. Almost like I was having a vision. Or maybe I wasn't getting in my own way, for once. I looked at Jackson and yeah, I felt something ... something way down on gut level, an animal attraction. I thought about Walt, about what he'd said to me, how he'd felt about me all these years, and I felt something all over, heart and soul, mind and body. It was all there, and it was all good, and it was scary as hell, but I wanted it. I wanted a real relationship with a whole person rather than a set of reproductive organs with issues.

Holy shit.

"What about Walt?" I asked in a gentle, dreamy voice.

Momentary silence from Jackson, then he muttered, "Never mind. You just told me everything I need to know."

When I woke up, I had no idea where the hell I was. Definitely not my cabin, although I could feel the weight of a cat against my side. Nope, the bed was too comfortable to be my futon. I opened my heavy eyes to the white, canopied four-poster in my favorite room at the resort. Slowly the events of the previous night crawled back into my brain. When I reached up to feel for my hair, I groaned. My whole body screamed with pain.

Something on the other side of the bed stirred, something much too large to be a cat, plus it spoke to me. "Max? You awake?"

I rolled my eyes to one side and gave Walt a weak smile. "Kinda. I don't even remember coming here. Did you... ?"

He nodded. "You were out cold. I dumped you here and got your damn cats and their food and litter box so you wouldn't be worrying about them. Hope that was okay."

Rain drummed against the windows, but for some reason it felt like sunshine had flooded my heart, lighting up corners I didn't even know existed. "It's great. Thanks."

We stared at each other like morons for a few minutes, really not sure of what to do next. "So? Shower?" he finally asked.

I tried to stretch. It was a miserable failure. "What time is it?"

"Who cares? We're on vacation."

I lay still, willing the pain in my joints to ebb away. With a huge effort, I worked my way closer to Walt and put my arms around him. He drew in a soft, excited breath and held me close, then closer. Somehow the way he wrapped his arms around me, the wondering sounds he made as he caressed me, made me feel utterly, completely, wonderfully loved and adored. God knows I'd never felt that before.

I have no idea how many hours, minutes, whatever, passed while we held onto each other. This weird, warm feeling seemed to flow between us, or maybe even through us, a sort of radiance. I don't know how to describe it. Maybe kind of like the connection I'd had with my baby, when she was a part of me and I loved her more than anything in the world. It was a feeling I wanted to hold onto forever, even though it made my eyes misty and my throat tight with emotion.

When we eventually made love -- shyly, slowly, tenderly, passionately -- I didn't think for a second about whether or not we were making a baby. All I wanted was this... this deep, sweet bond, this feeling of closeness, of sharing, of connecting with another person ... with another grown-up, if either of us could be described as grown-ups.

Maybe now we were learning. Maybe we needed to find each other in order to grow.

Maybe now some of the ghosts would be able to rest.
About the Author

Editor for the National Marine Fisheries Service by day, mystery writer, actor and director by night, Laura Garner lives in a state of perpetual exhaustion. She developed her first novel, _Ain't Nobody's_ _Bizness,_ in the professional writing program at UMass/Dartmouth, and her studies were temporarily interrupted when the book was accepted by Five Star. Laura is currently working on a romantic mystery and is developing a third Maddie Maxwell book as well. Someday she hopes to catch up on her sleep.
