Ghostridden, p.2
Ghostridden, page 2
I eyed the windows—beautiful double-hung panes with the wavery reflection that denoted vintage glass which, if not downright irreplaceable, would be very expensive to repair. Besides, it was way too soon to start breaking things—this might legally be my house, but until I released Gil to prowl the place, it wouldn’t seem like I’d taken full possession.
“Back door, huh?”
He nodded, checking his watch. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I have an appointment at two and it’ll take me twenty minutes to get to my office in Richdale.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here. Feel free to give me a call if you have any questions. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee sometime. There aren’t many options for that in Ghost, but Richdale is a college town.” He flashed his own smile, which I had to admit was damned attractive. “The students would riot without a reasonable assortment of coffee shops and cafes.”
“Thanks.” He was pinging my gaydar like crazy, but his brand of good looks screamed high maintenance and was way out of my league. But hey. New house, new town, why not a new me who wasn’t so quick to judge? “I might take you up on that.”
“I hope you do.” He backed up a couple of steps and lifted a hand. “Nice to meet you, Maz. Welcome to Ghost.”
He strode down the sidewalk and tossed his bag inside a shiny silver— Wait. Was that a freaking Porsche?
Yep, way out of my league.
I peered into Gil’s carrier, but he was favoring me with his furry butt, the end of his tail twitching in full-on kitty diva mode.
“Not much longer, Gil. I promise.”
I hefted his carrier, trotted down the porch steps and around the side of the house. No fence, not even of the traditional white picket variety that kept nothing in or out, including nosy neighbors.
Speaking of which…
As I passed a neatly trimmed hydrangea bush, its purple flowers a nice contrast to my house’s—my house!—dove-gray paint, I caught a glimpse of a pale face and the glint of glasses behind the window of the bungalow next door. I raised my hand in greeting, but the curtains twitched and the face disappeared.
I sighed, wondering when the police would show up and assume, like Carson had, that someone who looked like me couldn’t possibly be up to any good.
On the other hand, the homes here along Iris Lane weren’t jammed together like they were in Portland or its suburbs. Maybe I’d imagined the face.
I chuckled. “Heck, Gil, maybe it was a ghost.”
I whistled when I stepped past the corner of the house into the backyard. The place was vast. Okay, so vast by my city-boy terms. Maybe it wasn’t the size of a football field, but it was close, and had nothing to separate it from the lawns on either side, which made it look even bigger. The grass was smooth and green across all three, the trees neatly pruned, and the flower beds tidy and colorful. The house on the other side—the yellow one—had a lush, fenced-in vegetable garden with a jaunty scarecrow on guard in its center.
I peered at the scarecrow more closely. Its outfit bore a striking resemblance to Carson’s, and instead of the traditional floppy straw hat, it sported a headful of golden brown yarn smoothed over its burlap scalp.
I grinned. You had to love someone who wasn’t afraid to add a little social snark to their pest control. Not everyone could have a Gilgamesh to handle that for them. The snark or the pests.
Unlike the front, the back porch wasn’t the full width of the house—the basement bulkhead doors prevented it—but it was still deep and pleasant. It would be a great place to sit in the evening, watching the crows get intimidated by Carson’s effigy.
I checked the steps as I mounted them. No splinters in the rails, no rot in the wood. Yeah, somebody had taken excellent care of the outside of this house, despite it standing empty for so long.
Before I tried the lock, I closed my eyes and offered up a brief plea to the universe. Please don’t be jammed. Please don’t be jammed. I squatted down and squinted at the keyhole in the shadow of the porch roof.
Crap. Apparently the universe was bent on having a laugh at my expense. I leaned my head against the door, shoulders sagging. “I don’t believe it.”
“Hola!”
I glanced up at the cheerful greeting. The call had come from the yellow house. A tiny woman with a crown of silver braids and a smile adding to the creases in her round face waved at me from her own back porch.
I waved back. “Hi. I’m your new neighbor.” I jerked my thumb at the door. “Or will be once I can get inside. Do you happen to know if there’s a locksmith in town?”
She spread her hands, palms up. “Not in this place. Not anymore. Nearest one is in Richdale. Those college students are always locking themselves out of their rooms.”
I sighed and trudged down the steps. “Great. I guess I’d better give them a call.”
She chuckled. “You don’t need them. My godson will help you.”
“Your godson? Is he a locksmith?”
“No. But he will help you, anyway.” She pulled a cell phone out of her apron pocket and made a call, speaking in rapid Spanish. Then she smiled at me. “He’s on his way.”
“I don’t want to be a bother—”
“It is no bother. He’s a good boy.” She gestured to her garden, the sweep of her arm encompassing my yard as well. “He takes good care of everything here.”
“Wow.” If her godson was responsible for the pristine state of my house—my house!—and yard, the guy must be a magician. Or maybe a time traveler, if he could keep all this in order as well as come whenever his godmother called him. “He does an amazing job.”
She beamed. “He does. Of course, my grandson would help too, but he’s away at school. Harvard!” Her smile grew even wider, obvious pride lifting her shoulders. “He graduates next month. And then he’s going to law school!”
“That’s great.” Maybe my tone wasn’t as upbeat as it could have been, but since the closest I’d ever come to an Ivy League school was ghostwriting an admissions essay for a kid who wanted to go to Dartmouth because he’d heard it was a great party school, I couldn’t muster up a lot of enthusiasm.
“The first in my family to go to college. He’s so inteligente.”
“Guess he’d have to be, going to Harvard and law school and all.”
She descended from her porch and walked toward me. She was probably about a foot shorter than my six-two, with the comfortably padded frame that, along with her smile, made you want to give her a hug.
“He works so hard, studying. He’s made the dean’s list every semester.” She sighed contentedly. “I wish I could go to his graduation, but”—she spread her hands—“tuition was expensive.”
I blinked at her. “You paid for him to go to Harvard?”
She cocked her head, her dark eyes as bright as a bird’s. “What else is money for but to help family?”
I wouldn’t know. My own folks hadn’t had much, since my dad had left Syria as a virtual refugee and my mom was from midwestern farmer rootstock. They’d left enough to cover their funerals, but not much else other than memories of a happy childhood.
Which not everyone could claim, so I shouldn’t complain.
“That’s very generous of you.”
She waved my words away. “Bah. I’m his abuela. What else would I do with the money? My house is my own. I have all that I need.” She leaned down to peer into Gil’s carrier. “Who is this handsome gatito?”
Gatito? I knew enough Spanish to know that meant little cat. Gil had never qualified as a gatito. He’d been a bruiser even as a kitten. “This is Gilgamesh. Gil.” When she extended a finger toward the mesh door, I put up a hand. “Careful. He can be skittish”—read homicidal—“with strangers, and he’s pretty grumpy after a long car ride.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me. Not such a lovely boy.” She held her finger close enough to the grill that Gil would be able to swipe it with a ginger paw with no trouble, but instead, he poked his nose out and dabbed at her fingertip. And purred.
Well, I’ll be damned.
“Either you have a magic touch, or he’s trying to ingratiate himself with our new neighbors.”
A warm chuckle sounded from behind me. “Tia Sofia can charm the birds from the trees.”
“Enrique!” she chided. “Don’t tease. This is our new neighbor.” She stood, brushed her hands down her apron, and then patted her braids. “His gatito is named Gilgamesh, but he hasn’t told me his own name yet.”
I slapped my forehead. “D’oh! Sorry.” I took a step backward so I could turn halfway to take in the new arrival as well as Sofia. “I’m…” My mouth dried and I couldn’t seem to force my own name past my lips.
Because the man gazing at me with his godmother’s round face and sunny smile was just about the cutest guy I’d ever seen. Not classically handsome—that would be Carson, in the non-scarecrow flesh—or what the club boys would call gorgeous, but just so… appealing.
Maybe it was his lovely skin, a couple of shades darker than mine turned when I managed to get more than a minute or two of sun. Maybe it was the way his shiny black hair fell over his wide forehead. Maybe it was the way his deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners with that killer smile.
Or maybe it was the friendliness that practically radiated from him, just as it did from his godmother.
You could charm me out of anything, including my pants.
But given my track record lately, I reminded myself sternly that I could look but not touch. Other than to shake hands, of course, because that was totally legit.
He shifted an enormous toolbox from his right hand to his left and took my offered hand, the calluses on his palm a nice abrasion against my more boring one.
Yes, I said boring, and I meant boring. Spending all your time pounding a keyboard doesn’t create fascinating, idiosyncratic landmarks on your skin like other types of work, but I could appreciate friction when it presented itself.
Enrique lifted one eyebrow. “You are…?”
I closed my mouth, teeth clicking. “Right. Sorry. I’m Maz. Amani. Maz Amani.”
“Nice to meet you, Maz Amani. You can call me Ricky.” He turned to his godmother. “Tia, you haven’t been in the garden again, have you?”
She batted at his very nice biceps. “What do I have a garden for if not to go in?”
“You have a garden so your nephew can take care of it for you. A stroll, nothing more. And did you take your pills this morning?”
She frowned at him, but it was obviously not a serious frown. Not like the kind Greg could scare up for nothing more than a misplaced throw pillow or the wrong brand of merlot.
“Yes, but doctors don’t know everything. A little time in my garden will do me more good than all the pills in the world.”
“Tia,” he said, lowering his chin to give her a stern look. “You mustn’t overdo it.”
“I’m not. I’m not, I promise.” Her smile dawned again. “I have to be well when Guillermo comes home this summer.”
I thought I caught a shadow chasing across Enrique’s—Ricky’s—face, but figured I must be mistaken because his grin followed so quickly. “Exactly.”
“I’ll bring you boys some iced tea, and a little treat for the gatito.” She bustled away toward her house.
Ricky shook his head. “She takes care of everybody except herself.”
“She said you’re her godson? But you said nephew…” I lifted my eyebrows. Hey, I was fishing, but I liked to get my facts straight. Nothing’s more embarrassing in ghostwriting than a research error.
“Both, actually, but the godson part came first, and that ranks higher in Tia’s eyes. Now.” He turned the full force of his gaze on me and I might have zoned out for an instant. “Tia said you have a problem with your locks?”
I swallowed thickly, trying to bring my brain back online. “Yeah.” I gestured with the Scooby keychain. “The locks seem like they’re jammed with something. Looks like sawdust maybe?”
“Let’s have a look then.”
He climbed the steps, and yeah, I watched his ass. Because it was very nicely outlined by his untrendy Wranglers, and exactly the kind I liked—not tight and gym-toned, but still rounded and grabbable.
If, you know, I was inclined to do anything like that without the grab-ee’s consent, especially after knowing him for all of two minutes, which I definitely was not.
He hunkered down and peered into the keyhole. “Just as I thought. Mason bees.”
“Mason bees?”
“Yep. They’re the primary pollinators around here, especially in early spring, now that the wild honeybee population is pretty much gone. They seek out protected holes like this to lay their eggs in.”
I gulped. “So are we killing the primary pollinators?”
He glanced up at me, humor glinting in his eyes. “They’ve already hatched. This is the detritus they leave behind. They get the front door too?” I nodded. “Okay. I’ll take care of this one, then clear the other while you go inside.” His smile turned a little crooked. “I guess you’d like to see what your new house is like.”
My brows drew together. “You know this is my new house?”
He shrugged and then turned back to the keyhole, a long tool with an odd scooped end in his hand. “Taryn’s a friend. We both grew up in Ghost. She told me she’d found Oren’s beneficiary, but no details, so don’t worry about a lawyer-client confidentiality breach.”
“I don’t. Didn’t. Won’t.”
“Glad to hear it.” He finished poking in the lock and pulled what turned out to be a tiny vacuum out of his toolbox, judging from the mini-whirring of its little motor. “There.” He stood up. “I could test it, but I imagine you’d rather do the honors yourself.”
I confess, my throat got a little thick, and I had to swallow a couple of times, because Ricky was empathetic enough to understand what this moment meant to me.
I approached, Scooby in my hand. The key went in easily and though it didn’t turn smoothly, it did turn. I opened the door.
And stepped inside my house for the first time.
“It’s okay to breathe, you know,” Ricky murmured.
Because, yeah, I was holding my breath, so I let it out in a rush.
I was standing in what was apparently a slate-tiled mud room, and it had more doors than walls. The one to the right probably led to the garage I’d passed on the way to the backyard. The swinging door midway down the left wall clearly led further into the house, since, you know, that’s where the rest of the house was.
The left-hand door immediately to the left was ajar, revealing a… what did they call them when a bathroom only had a sink and toilet? Powder room? Half-bath? I should know this stuff—I’d ghostwritten enough real estate copy, but for some reason, I couldn’t dredge up any of it from long-term memory.
Straight ahead, almost flush with the right-hand wall, an open door revealed a landing with stairs leading both up and down. To the left of it, the walls sported shelving at my head height and again about even with my shins.
Ricky’s breath hitched, and I glanced at him in concern. His eyes just cleared my shoulder and his gaze was fixed on a red fleece jacket that was hanging from one of the row of brass hooks that lined the wall under the upper shelves.
He caught my gaze. “Sorry. I just hadn’t realized some of Avi’s stuff would still be here. That’s his jacket.” He jerked his chin at the boots on the lower shelf—one pair of wellies and another pair of hiking boots. “His boots.”
“Do you think all his other belongings are here, too?” I asked, whispering for some reason, as if we were sneaking in and didn’t want to be discovered.
“Could be. He and Oren owned the house jointly, and Oren didn’t return after Avi’s death, so it’s probably something of a time capsule.
Oh god. Rats. There are bound to be rats.
I sighed and flicked the switch next to the door. The pendulum light in the center of the mudroom flicked on. Taryn had promised to make sure the utilities were connected, and she was clearly a person who followed through on her commitments.
I took a deep breath. Dread had somehow joined the excited anticipation that had been swirling in my middle since Taryn’s first call, maybe because I’d expected the house to be swept clean of its former inhabitants. Clearly it wasn’t, and I decided I didn’t want to face the rest of the place with only Gil for company.
“Did you spend much time here?” I asked Ricky.
He nodded. “Enough. I used to do odd jobs for Avi and Oren, especially when they were renovating the place.”
I perked up a little at that. “They renovated it?”
“Yes.”
Except, oh no. What if they’d stripped all the Queen Anne charm from the inside? The outside was pristine and period-appropriate, but weirder things had happened when “open plan” became the clichéd watchword for home remodeling.
Ricky must have caught my expression. “Don’t worry. Oren was an architect. They did it right.”
“Could you… That is, would you mind giving me the tour, then?” Despite my original desire to experience the house in a “first look” mode, with every room a surprise, now I wanted to see it with somebody who had an affection for it—or at least an affection for the men who’d lived here.
“I’d be honored.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Should we bring Gilgamesh inside?”
“Probably not until I figure out where to put his litter box.” I peered into his carrier. It was safely in the shade, and Gil was watching a towhee hop across the grass as though he could lure it in with his feline laser gaze alone. “He won’t thank me for taking him away from bird TV right now, anyway.”
“Okay, then.” He pointed to the staircase. “Back stairs to the second floor and down to the basement.” He jerked a thumb at the closed door on the right. “Two-car garage.” Tilted his head at the gaping door on the left. “One of two powder rooms on this floor. Full baths are all upstairs.”
