chair he’d indicated and sat across from him, her narrowed eyes challenging him to mention it. “I can ask her.”
His suspicions, lulled by her roundness and her contrary attitude, returned with a slam in his gut. “Why talk to the housekeeper when you could ask the ghost herself?”
“I hope she’ll come to me soon, but if she doesn’t, I’m curious.” She paused, frowned and gave a quick shrug, as if she’d finished an argument with herself. She looked straight into his eyes. “I’m wondering why everyone says Isabel’s cause of death was a heart attack when the reality is, she was killed.”
He held himself still, showing no reactions, letting her words sink in—“ the reality is, she was killed.”
“What the fuck is this?” He heard the anger in his voice, his words punching out of his throat. “Some kind of scam? Are you for real?”
She stared at him long and hard, not saying anything. Then she smiled but her eyes seeped with sadness. She slid the chair back. “If you doubt me, I’ll be happy to refund your down payment.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.” She got to her feet.
“You’re serious about the murder?”
“I don’t joke about death.”
Shit. He was from southern California. This wasn’t the way it was done. She was supposed to be bluffing. He was supposed to back down and talk her into staying. And if he didn’t, she was supposed to refuse to give him back any money.
“Sit down,” he said.
She remained standing.
“Sit down.” His voice deepened. He stared at her, compelling her to sit. “Tell me more about it and I’ll decide.” When she didn’t move, he continued, “Look, I don’t blindly believe what anyone tells me.”
Her eyes flickered first, then her shoulders relaxed and her breath shushed out. Finally, she sat. She held out her hands, palms up. “Every dead person I’ve talked to has been killed before his or her time.”
“What if she was killed accidentally?”
“Was she?” She dropped her hands and sat back. “You told me she died from a heart attack. What else do you know about it?”
“I didn’t ask for details.” His suspicions about Cassie and her profession rose again. His manager’s wife had told him Cassie was one of the two top ghost hunters and the real thing—but he didn’t believe in ghost hunters, busters, whisperers. Whatever they called themselves.
A conundrum, because before he came to Wisconsin he didn’t believe in ghosts either. Once you were gone, you were gone. Dust and bugs or ashes and charred bones. No second chances, no next life.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.
“Tricia would know the details,” Cassie said.
“I’ll get her.” He stood, glad for something to do instead of asking questions.
When he stepped outside the library, he saw Tricia turning into the hall, coming from the direction of the sunroom. She clutched a gray feather duster as though it were a weapon.
He lifted a hand, and she hurried toward him, her expression eager. Not holding anything back, especially her attraction to him.
“Tricia, would you join us in the library,” he said, not a question.
Her step quickened to a lope, her eyes shining, her mouth slightly open. He’d seen that same rapture on a thousand faces when he stepped off a stage, all the girls eager to be with a guitar player, especially guitar players who wrote Grammy-winning songs.
No wonder he preferred the fuck you look Cassie gave him. At least she saw him as a man.
He turned into the room, not waiting for Tricia. Cassie was giving him her “I don’t like you” look again. He snorted a laugh.
Tricia’s step sounded behind him as he sat again. Stopping at the end of the table, Tricia beamed at Cassie before gazing at him with her star-struck eyes.
“How did Mrs. Shay die?” he asked.
The shine in Tricia’s eyes dimmed, two lines indenting between her eyebrows. “Heart attack. I thought you knew that.”
“Could you give us the
His suspicions, lulled by her roundness and her contrary attitude, returned with a slam in his gut. “Why talk to the housekeeper when you could ask the ghost herself?”
“I hope she’ll come to me soon, but if she doesn’t, I’m curious.” She paused, frowned and gave a quick shrug, as if she’d finished an argument with herself. She looked straight into his eyes. “I’m wondering why everyone says Isabel’s cause of death was a heart attack when the reality is, she was killed.”
He held himself still, showing no reactions, letting her words sink in—“ the reality is, she was killed.”
“What the fuck is this?” He heard the anger in his voice, his words punching out of his throat. “Some kind of scam? Are you for real?”
She stared at him long and hard, not saying anything. Then she smiled but her eyes seeped with sadness. She slid the chair back. “If you doubt me, I’ll be happy to refund your down payment.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.” She got to her feet.
“You’re serious about the murder?”
“I don’t joke about death.”
Shit. He was from southern California. This wasn’t the way it was done. She was supposed to be bluffing. He was supposed to back down and talk her into staying. And if he didn’t, she was supposed to refuse to give him back any money.
“Sit down,” he said.
She remained standing.
“Sit down.” His voice deepened. He stared at her, compelling her to sit. “Tell me more about it and I’ll decide.” When she didn’t move, he continued, “Look, I don’t blindly believe what anyone tells me.”
Her eyes flickered first, then her shoulders relaxed and her breath shushed out. Finally, she sat. She held out her hands, palms up. “Every dead person I’ve talked to has been killed before his or her time.”
“What if she was killed accidentally?”
“Was she?” She dropped her hands and sat back. “You told me she died from a heart attack. What else do you know about it?”
“I didn’t ask for details.” His suspicions about Cassie and her profession rose again. His manager’s wife had told him Cassie was one of the two top ghost hunters and the real thing—but he didn’t believe in ghost hunters, busters, whisperers. Whatever they called themselves.
A conundrum, because before he came to Wisconsin he didn’t believe in ghosts either. Once you were gone, you were gone. Dust and bugs or ashes and charred bones. No second chances, no next life.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong.
“Tricia would know the details,” Cassie said.
“I’ll get her.” He stood, glad for something to do instead of asking questions.
When he stepped outside the library, he saw Tricia turning into the hall, coming from the direction of the sunroom. She clutched a gray feather duster as though it were a weapon.
He lifted a hand, and she hurried toward him, her expression eager. Not holding anything back, especially her attraction to him.
“Tricia, would you join us in the library,” he said, not a question.
Her step quickened to a lope, her eyes shining, her mouth slightly open. He’d seen that same rapture on a thousand faces when he stepped off a stage, all the girls eager to be with a guitar player, especially guitar players who wrote Grammy-winning songs.
No wonder he preferred the fuck you look Cassie gave him. At least she saw him as a man.
He turned into the room, not waiting for Tricia. Cassie was giving him her “I don’t like you” look again. He snorted a laugh.
Tricia’s step sounded behind him as he sat again. Stopping at the end of the table, Tricia beamed at Cassie before gazing at him with her star-struck eyes.
“How did Mrs. Shay die?” he asked.
The shine in Tricia’s eyes dimmed, two lines indenting between her eyebrows. “Heart attack. I thought you knew that.”
“Could you give us the
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