“Good morning.”

  Yelping in surprise, Jessica dropped her bunch of wildflowers, gawking at the man who blocked her path. Fiftyish, with a deeply tanned face, he was tall—though most adult males were taller than her—and in good shape. He wore an outdoorsy fisherman-knit sweater and Levi’s. His wavy grey hair was streaked so artfully with silver that once she had regained her poise, she wondered whether he’d had it professionally done.

  The man bent and deftly scooped up the flowers. “You’re one of the sisters,” he said, handing Jessica her bedraggled bouquet. “You looked deep in thought, there, young lady.”

  Young lady?

  A moniker that never failed to ignite her ire. “Uh, who are you?” she demanded.

  “Name’s Darryl Andrews.” She must have looked blank, as he added, “The estate manager. Dianne Maggio was supposed to let you know.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, she did. Excuse me, I should have been looking where I was going. Honestly, I didn’t expect to run into anyone; certainly not literally.” Jessica took the hand he extended and had to keep from wincing at the bruising grip. Intentional? A powerplay? Showing her that she was in his territory? As soon as she could without letting him see that he’d left it throbbing, she freed her hand from his grasp.

  “I’m Jessica Mack. My sister had an emergency and had to leave right after we got here.”

  “I guess that explains why there was no vehicle on the driveway.”

  Darryl Andrews pointed to the garage, where a late model shiny red Camry sat in front of the closed roll up doors. “That one’s mine. I thought I’d drop by and introduce myself; see whether you ladies needed anything.”

  “Thank you. I guess I have you to thank for the fresh food and ‘adult beverages.’ Nice choices.”

  “No problem. Was everything to your liking?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “Everything was perfect.”

  Jessica had the distinct feeling that for some reason, like his too-hard handshake, underneath the bland question Darryl Andrews viewed her with scorn. He reminded her of the actor, Sam Elliott, without the big white moustache. If he’d had a hat, it would have been a Stetson, and she was pretty sure he would have tipped it and called her “ma’am.”

  “If you want anything that’s not here, you can give me a list. I’ll call the general store and get it delivered. We don’t have many of your big grocery chain stores around here.”

  “I appreciate the offer but you’ve supplied everything we could possibly need. I don’t expect to be here all that long. My partner is coming to pick me up on the weekend.”

  Andrews gave a slow nod. “Alrighty, then.” He had half-turned away, but spun on his heel. “Hey, look, I realize it’s a little soon to bring this up, but—”

  “We don’t plan to make any changes,” Jessica interrupted, intuiting what was on his mind. “I hope you’ll go on as you have been.” Not knowing an estate manager existed until yesterday, it wasn’t something she and Jenna had considered. And he wasn’t working for free. “That is,” she hastened to add, “I haven’t been told about what arrangements Mr. Evanov made for your salary.”

  “That’s taken care of for the rest of this year. If you want me to continue as we are, I’m good with that.”

  His announcement lifted a burden that would have had to be addressed soon. “Yes, we do want you to continue. Jenna and I know sweet nothing about running a place like this. We’d be grateful if you would stay on.”

  He gave another short nod. “I suppose you’ll be putting it on the market?”

  One more presumptuous person. For some reason, Jessica found the question rude, akin to asking someone how much money they made. “At the moment there are no plans to sell,” she said coolly. “So far, neither of us has seen the whole house. I’m planning to finish that this morning. And naturally, any decisions about the future will include my sister. As you can imagine, there will be a lot to discuss.”

  “There’s a lot to see.”

  “I’m sure. How long have you worked here?”

  He cocked his head, considering the question. “I guess it’s been close to ten years by now.” Gesturing at their surroundings, he couldn’t hide the pride he felt. “An impressive spread, wouldn’t you say?”

  “To put it mildly. You’ve done a spectacular job of keeping it up.”

  “That’s what I get paid for.”

  “Right.” Jessica hesitated, unsure of this man; unsure whether to ask the question that was uppermost on her mind. She was quiet for a second, then thought, what the hell. “Do you mind if I ask you something, Darryl?”

  “I don’t know until I hear it, do I?”

  “I assume that after being here so long, you and Mr. Evanov probably got to know each other pretty well.”

  “You know what they say about assumptions.”

  “Okay, let me just ask, do you have any idea why he chose my sister and me to be his heirs?”

  He appraised her through half-closed hazelnut brown eyes. Judging by the long, unsmiling look he gave her, he did mind. “Now, why would you think I would know anything about that?” he drawled. “We weren’t buddies. Mr. Evanov was my employer. Our discussions were limited to household business and any special tasks he had for me to handle. He sure as hell didn’t consult me on who he was going to put in his will.”

  The bitter undertone made Jessica wonder whether he had expected to be a major beneficiary himself. If so, he had to have been disappointed to learn about her and Jenna. Switching topics, she started to ask whether he had met the whispering spirit in the foyer—the ghost of Herron Pond—but changed her mind. She refused to let his gruff retort sting her, but his brusque manner discouraged that kind of question.

  Jessica had run out of conversation. Darryl had, too. Unless the taciturn silence was his way of waiting for her to invite him to show her around. She was not about to do any such thing. When the lull began to stretch too long and was starting to feel awkward, the estate manager stuck his hand in his pocket and thrust a business card at her. “I’ll be upstairs in the apartment for a while. Got some paperwork to catch up on. Call me if there’s anything you need.”

  With a nod of thanks, Jessica took the card and walked away.

  ***

  While she foraged in the refrigerator for breakfast, Jessica considered the second thoughts she had been harboring about returning to the Victorian side. She reached the conclusion that, despite dealing with spirits most days of her life—not all of them friendly—the cause of her unease and her hesitancy was because the whispered command, “Go away,” was personal, aimed directly at her.

  Just under the surface, too, was the fact that Darryl Andrews had not been exactly welcoming either. A disagreeable man, she thought, spooning herself a bowl of yogurt and granola, and adding fresh blueberries. On the upside, the selection of foods he had left was in happy sync with her tastes. Plus, there was another upside—she was his boss.

  She could not deny it, though. Her misgivings notwithstanding, something was pushing her to return to the Victorian side of the house. She dallied for as long as she could, cleaning up and tidying her things. When there was no excuse to put it off any longer, she made her way to the sliding door and passed through the dining room.

  In the foyer, Jessica checked the atmosphere. Slowing her mind and her emotions, she detected no spirit activity. No whispered warnings. Nothing creating a disturbance.

  Letting her intuition guide her, she walked along the entrance hall and arrived at a wide, arched doorway that opened onto a large room. She stood in the doorway, absorbing the quiet elegance of mushroom-colored walls and decorative crown molding. The subdued tones allowed a visitor to concentrate their attention on the mahogany grand piano that stood in a curved window alcove. The room had been set up with rows of concert chairs and sofas, ready for an audience to enter and enjoy a recital or concert.

  She stepped inside. When Für Elise began to play, the surprise came from hearing it, not in her head for once, but right in the room. The music was so loud and so real that she could not help looking for the unseen pianist. A profound sense that she had been led to this room—that the spirit musician wanted her here—drew her as though by an invisible string to the piano.

  In the same way she had done in her vision at Tanya Stewart’s office, Jessica sat on the bench and slid open the fallboard. Without conscious volition she placed her hands on the keys.

  Like nerves awakening after being asleep, a prickling sensation ran over her scalp. Pins and needles progressed downward into her neck, her shoulders, her arms, and hands. The next thing that happened was something she had never experienced: a strange feeling of fullness that infused her entire body.

  Her first impulse was to resist becoming a channel for the piano-playing spirit, but curiosity won out and she stepped aside in her mind, allowing her body to be occupied by a talented musician. Acting of their own accord, her fingers pressed the piano keys tentatively at first, then moved faster, with increasing confidence.

  As a child, Jessica had learned just about enough music theory to pick out the simplest composition on the keyboard. The spirit directing her was a virtuoso. For the next hour they played as one: Debussy’s Clair de Lune, Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude, Beethoven’s tempestuous Appassionata Sonata. Jessica, for whom classical music was often a backdrop when she was creating art, recognized them all as her favorites. They played until her human forearms ached with the unaccustomed effort.

  As the last strains of the Appassionata died away, the tingling faded. As if the puppet master had released the control bar and let the strings fall, her hands dropped into her lap. The spirit that had merged with her vanished the way it had arrived—without fanfare. She was left breathing as hard as if she had completed a long-distance run.

  “Encore.”

  Jessica leapt off the piano bench, whirling to see Darryl Andrews in the doorway, mocking her with a slow clap. “Nice work,” he said, pretending to contradict the mockery, but it was there in his derisive tone.

  “That’s twice,” she snapped. “Would you stop sneaking up on me?”

  Inching away from the piano, she thought hard to find a plausible explanation for what was impossible to explain. She could never let Andrews in on the secret that it was not she who had produced the music.

  “So sorry to scare you, Ms. Mack.” He looked not at all contrite. “I came in to let you know I was leaving. I overheard the music. That wasn’t bad. Better than some who came here for the recitals. I have a feeling Mr. Evanov would have liked to hear you play.”

  “Must be the piano,” she said, annoyed by his backhanded compliment. The spirit’s brilliant performance was a thousand times better than ‘not bad.’ He had no ear for music, she decided. Or else he was messing with her.

  “Hey, keep going, don’t let me stop you.”

  His vulpine almost-sneer raised her hackles. Why did he look at her as though she was beneath him? If his snotty attitude continued, she would have to remind him that for the time being, she and Jenna were his employers.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m done here. I haven’t played in ages. I’m worn out.” And the funny thing was, that was the bald truth.

  There was a glint of speculation in his eye and she wondered what it meant. “Well, well, Ms. Jessica, who knew? I figured you were rehearsing to play at Carnegie Hall.”

  If you only knew. She regarded him with suspicion, her intuition knocking at her like an irritating noogie to the head: don’t trust him. “That’s not going to happen, I can promise you,” she said.

  “If you say so. Anyhow, I’m heading over to my place in Carmel. Anything you need from me while I’m here? I don’t plan to be back until next week.”

  “No thanks, everything is in great shape.”

  “Okay.” He started to walk away, reversed direction, and came back, one of the tufted brows quirked upward. “You gonna be okay here on your own?” The way he said it sounded grudging, giving her the impression that he was asking only because he thought he should.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Jessica asked, taking his measure. He was good looking in a tough, older guy sort of way, but the prickly energy around him was like barbed wire, warning her to keep her distance. What made him carry such an edge? Sometimes it was hard to separate her psychic sense from her opinions. In any case, he seemed keyed-up, seething irritability just below the surface, ready to pop out at the slightest provocation.

  “A big old house like this—”

  He said it as if it were a warning. If he had been anyone else, Jessica would have smiled, but Darryl Andrews didn’t bring out her friendly side. “I know; Dianne warned me about the strange noises I might hear in the night.”

  “Is that so?”

  Suddenly, she didn’t care what he knew or what his opinion was of her. It was more important to smoke out what was going on. “She also warned me off one of the bedrooms in the old wing. She said to stay away from the last door on the second-floor landing. Any idea why she wouldn’t want me to go in there, Darryl?”

  She looked into his face and saw something sharpen, denied by the casual shrug that followed. “I’ll have to ask her about it. But if that’s what she told you, I’d advise you to listen. She wouldn’t say such a thing without good reason.”

  “Huh. I would have thought that you, being the estate manager, would be better informed about what’s going on in the house than Dianne. She said it’s because the room is being used for storage.” Jessica gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “You weren’t aware?”

  They looked at each other for a beat while he wiped away the bafflement. Andrews’s lips stretched into something that was more sneer than smile. As he stalked away, Jessica heard him mutter, “Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  Busted.

  What was that all about anyway? She sat at the piano again, but the keys remained lifeless. The spirit she had channeled was no longer in the room.

  One thing she knew. The energy that had controlled her was a polar opposite to the energy she had encountered in the foyer. Unless it was one spirit with a split personality, there were at least two very different entities in this house—one that welcomed her and one that did not.

  eight

  Dear Diary

  September 25, 1985

  Today was my very first piano lesson with the famous maestro, Vadim Evanov. I can’t believe it. I was totally terrified to the point I could barely play. My hands were shaking so badly. He gave me this hard look with his scary grey eyes and it felt like he was staring right inside my head. He didn’t say anything mean but I bet he thinks I have no talent. He probably wonders why Mrs. Lawrence would even ask him to teach me.

  She keeps on telling me that not everyone gets to study with ‘the great Evanov.’ Like I don’t know that! I’ve listened to his records since I was a little kid. I try to copy the way he plays. I’ve seen him on TV, too. I can’t believe he would even let me audition for him. He is so amazing. I wonder why he quit giving concerts.

  nine

  The Darryl Andrews-shaped hole in the room quickly filled up, leaving Jessica with the memory of the exhilaration that had poured out of her while the spirit had played the piano using her hands, her body. The feeling was like a drug. She had channeled Spirit on other occasions, but never one that had blended with her so completely. Half-apprehensive, half-hoping it would happen again, she looked down at her hands—hands that had produced concert-worthy music. Hands that were vibrating with delayed adrenaline rush.

  And as the adrenaline subsided, she had to admit it. She had been used as a puppet but was no closer to the answers she was seeking. Had it been Vadim’s wife, Nika, who had taken possession of her body? A virtuoso’s wife might well be a musician, too. But the energy she had channeled had not felt negative. If Nika Evanov was the whispering spirit—

  Without warning, something changed in the air. Suddenly, it was drenched it in antagonism. The whisper came the way it had in the foyer.

  Get out!

  Instinctively, Jessica froze, but this time there was no fear in her. She was ready. “Vadim Evanov wants me here,” she said, loud and strong.

  And was met with silence.

  She tried again. “Who are you?”

  The whisper came again, louder, harsher.

  I don’t want you here.

  “Tell me why.”

  Get out of my house!

  Not a very nice response. Nonetheless, she chose to view any response as progress, even a sharp retort like that. Was it possible to have a dialogue with this entity? “Why don’t you want me here?” Jessica asked, trying to sound reasonable. “I’m not hurting anything.”

  Perhaps recognizing that this human was not intimidated by the demand to vacate, like the rumble of distant thunder warns of a brewing storm, the atmosphere in the recital room crackled with the electricity of spiteful emotions. A sudden putrid smell assaulted Jessica’s nostrils and the room began to spin. This was not like the buzzing in her ears that often came as she was slipping into a trance. Pressure was building inside her head, a vise squeezing her from every direction. She fought the stench and tried to make a connection anyway. “Let me help you.”

  Go away, Go Away, GO AWAY!

  No longer a mere whisper near her ear, the demand intensified to the volume of a hysterical screech. There was a time to stop trying to help someone—or something—who did not want help, and this was the time. There was something intensely personal in this attack on her and Jessica wanted to know why. But this entity was too strong for her to fight on her own. Calling on her angels and guides, she asked them to draw a shield of white light around her and safeguard her from all harmful influences.

  All at once, the pressure in her head released like the air from an overinflated balloon. The room stopped spinning.

 

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