Haunted (5 page)

He had meant to warn Matt that he wasn't even sure he could come himself right away, that he'd be sending his topnotch aide.

But he didn't want to call back. Matt Stone wasn't at all pleased with this arrangement, even though he was surely having trouble.

It would all be fine. Darcy could handle any man, living…

Or dead.

F
rom the moment she walked into the bar, Darcy felt at a distinct disadvantage.

It was called the Wayside Inn. It should have been called Bubba's Back-then Barn.

She was nearly overcome by the wave of smoke that almost knocked her over when she opened the door; it sat like a fog over the decades-old plastic booths and bar stools. There were two pool tables to the left, stuffed away from what might have been used, at times, as a dance floor.

There were actually still a few spittoons for tobacco chewers scattered around.

When she stepped in and the door closed behind her, the place came to a standstill. The four pool players and the broken-toothed wonders watching the games all stopped their play and stared at her. Behind the bar, a heavyset woman with teased red hair styled in something like a sixties beehive looked up from washing glasses. In what looked to be a dining area, the four men seated at one of the chipped wood tables also looked up.

She stood in the miasma of smoke and stared around, taking it in as her eyes adjusted from the sunlight. And she knew, instantly, that Adam was the one who should have come here. And he should have worn jeans and an old plaid or denim work shirt. Of course, the concept of Adam dressed that way was an amusing
one, but Adam was a determined man. And for some reason, he was determined that they were getting into Melody House.

She had come in a business suit, the same attire she usually wore when conducting business, she reminded herself, defending her choice of clothing when she was so obviously out of place. But though she hadn't imagined the Wayside Inn to be a five-star restaurant, she hadn't thought that it would be quite this…colloquial.

“Can I help you, honey?” the redhead called from behind the bar. Her voice was warm and friendly, giving Darcy a bit of encouragement. She smiled in return. But before she could reply, one of the men who'd been sitting at the table had risen.

“Miss?”

He was tall, somewhat lanky, and when he smiled, she saw that he had all his teeth, and a single dimple in his left cheek. Light brown eyes, and a pleasant way about him; he seemed to ooze accent and Southern charm with his single word.

“I'm looking for a man named Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here.” She hoped that one of the men knew Stone. She didn't think that he was among them. She'd already pictured him in her mind. He was the descendant of a man who was practically a Founding Father. He would be tall, straight, and aging with incredible dignity. He might be one of the those fellows who sat around Revolutionary or Civil War round tables, rehashing the past. He might have a certain attitude about him, but he'd still be an incredible old gentleman.

“Hey, honey, you can meet me!” one of the pool players called out.

“Watch your manners, Carter!” one of the others said, and another sniggered.

At the table, another of the men stood.

“Come in, have a seat,” he said.

She had to admit, this fellow's jeans fit him well, hugging leans hips, strong legs, and some solid length. He was wearing
shades, even inside, in the cloud of smoke—maybe he thought that they'd protect his eyes from the haze. He was well over six feet, ebony hair a little too long, but apparently clean and brushed. He was clean-shaven, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Strong, solid features. While the first fellow to approach her had been polite and laid-back, his face splitting instantly into an easy grin in the first few seconds, this one looked as if he might have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. Though he had stood courteously enough and asked her to sit, he looked as if he were entirely impatient, more like a man about to suggest that she go jump in a lake.

She walked over to the table. The first man—he with the great dimple—had drawn out a chair for her. She looked at the other two who had been sitting at the table, now risen, as she approached. One was older, white-haired, white-bearded. She kept imagining him in a butternut and gray Confederate Army uniform. The fourth in the party was somewhere around thirty as well, had a decent haircut, and was actually in a tailored shirt and chinos, and looked as if he might have a real job somewhere in a civilized town.

“What's your business here?” the tall, chiseled-face man asked abruptly, sitting as he did so. They all stared at her.

“My name is Darcy Tremayne. I had an appointment with Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here. I believe I'm in the right place. Do any of you know him?”

She spoke evenly and politely—she was here on business. But she felt as if hostility oozed around her. She longed to bolt from the chair and fly out the door. She knew that everyone in the bar was still staring at her.

“Know him?” the tall, lanky fellow with the dimple said.

But he was interrupted. The man Darcy had mentally begun to refer to as Chisel-face cut him off. “Are you one of the psychics?” he asked.

Darcy arched a brow.
Be pleasant with the locals, Adam had told her.

All right, she could be friendly.

“I suppose you could say that. I'm with Harrison Investigations,” she said. This was definitely a small town. Okay, so she had come from a fairly small town herself, but this one seemed even more rural. Maybe that was because she'd spent so many years in New York, and had been living in the D.C. area for so long now. It seemed that any event regarding Melody House was news in the area, and that everyone knew everyone else's business.

“A real live ghost buster?” the fellow with the dimple teased.

“Ghost buster?” She ever so slightly hiked a brow once again, sitting back, determined that she would be cool, cordial, and dignified. “Harrison Investigations is actually a small, private company, and what we do is investigate strange occurrences in old homes and the like.” She smiled. “Most of the time, we find squeaky floorboards and leaky plumbing, but when a place is as historically relevant as Melody House, the history alone could create a very old and spiritual feeling.”

“Melody House is pretty damned cool,” the dimpled man said, flashing another warm smile.

The old white-haired codger spoke up. “Ms. Tremayne, lots of folks have come wanting to set up cameras, tape machines, and all kinds of hocus-pocus stuff at Melody House. The owner has just flat-out told them no.”

“Yes, well, that's why I'm anxious to meet Matt Stone. Mr. Harrison and he are well acquainted. Mr. Stone respects my employer, and knows that we're not sensationalist in any way. We know history and architecture, and people, and naturally, we're very discreet. I can understand any hesitation Mr. Stone has had in the past. I'm sure that many people come ready to cash in on the ghosts.”

“I see,” interrupted Chisel-face. “You're here to investigate some of the eerie stories associated with the house, but you're
not
trying to cash in on ghosts?” His voice was deep, the words were evenly spoken; somehow, they still dripped scorn.

“No. I've just explained. We're investigators.”

“Um,” Chisel-face murmured. He stared at her hard. “You said that most of the time what you discovered was creaky floorboards or leaky plumping. What happens when it's not ‘most of the time'?”

“We do our best to right matters,” she said, wishing that she'd never gotten into the conversation.

“And how do you do that? Without, of course, making a bid to fascinate people—or cash in on the ghosts.”

She hesitated. She didn't really need to be having this conversation with a skeptic; she was looking for Matt Stone. But they were indeed in a small town. And Adam had suggested that she do her best to get along with the locals. In such a place, they were usually full of information, and could be very helpful. She shrugged. Adam wanted it; she could try to be social.

“Some ghosts are actually a part of history, and it's the history that creates the legends that make them so fascinating to people. Some home owners and even corporations—especially those with places as significant as Melody House—want to have a resident ghost rapping on walls now and then to attract their clientele. Watch television, and you'll know that there's a huge population out there interested in being frightened. What we do is find out first if there actually is any inexplicable phenomena—or if someone is merely playing games. If there is something beyond the ordinary, we find out why, and deal with it from that point,” Darcy said, staring at the man, and returning all the attitude she was being given. Adam Harrison had already spoken with Matt Stone, and apparently, done so with enough dignity that he had agreed to the meeting. Actually, Stone had called Adam, after receiving his letter. And whether or not Stone wanted his property turned into a national center for the occult, he apparently could use
the exorbitant fee that Adam had been willing to pay for his team to investigate the stories circulating about the house. She knew historic mansions were incredibly hard to maintain. Especially when they were being held privately. She was suddenly angry with herself for having been intimidated by the good old boys in the bar. Hell. She'd spent enough years in a very similar environment, and that should have prepared her to deal with any form of male that pretended to walk on two feet. She had also dealt with her fair share of total, mocking skeptics. Usually, no manner of behavior bothered her. She had her beliefs, and everyone else in the world was welcome to their own. People who really wanted help usually came and asked for it.

She'd been social enough, she decided.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but my employer has already been in contact with Mr. Stone, and apparently, he is willing to allow us into Melody House. I'll make arrangements to meet him at a later date.”

“I know you,” Dimple-face said suddenly. He offered her his lazy smile once again. “I could swear I've seen your face before.”

Darcy hesitated. All she needed to do was tell this pack that she'd been a model for a cosmetics company for several years during and right after college and they'd never take her seriously. But then again, what the hell did she care? Her business was with Stone.

“I'm sure we've never met,” she murmured politely. “Thank you for your time. And excuse me.”

“'Original Sin'!” Dimple-face said triumphantly. He grinned sheepishly. “I wound up buying the men's aftershave. Your face has been on billboards all over the country.”

Even in Hicksville?
she was tempted to say, and then she was angry with herself, because she'd never felt that way about anything or anyone, her parents being really wonderful people who had taught her continually that people were people, didn't
matter where they came from, and everyone in any corner of the country or even on the earth deserved an open mind and respect.

“So…you're a model.”

Chisel-face's statement might as well have been,
So you're a dumb blonde with boobs
. Except that she was more of a redhead and certainly not overly-stacked.

“I worked for Original Sins cosmetics, yes,” she said, again forcing her tone to be even. “I also have graduate degrees in American history and sociology from NYU.”

“I heard that Adam Harrison would be coming here himself,” Chisel-face said.

Darcy gritted her teeth. “Yes, Mr. Harrison will come down at some time during the investigation. He's been delayed. At the moment, he is tied up with business in London.” She stopped, irritated that she'd felt herself obliged to explain anything to these men.

She was about to rise when the fourth member of the party—the man with the decent haircut and store-bought clothing suddenly leaned forward, extending a hand to her. “Sorry, we should have introduced ourselves, especially me, right away. I'm David Jenner, Jenner Equipment—and someone from your office approached me about renting some recording and video equipment.” He shrugged, flashing a glance across the table. “Should the project go forward.”

“David, nice to meet you,” she said. “Justin, our office manager, told me that he had talked to you.”

“You don't have your own equipment?” Chisel-face asked.

“Of course, we have some very specialized equipment,” Darcy forced herself to say politely. “But we like to rent video cameras and tape recorders from local facilities. That keeps anyone from suggesting that we've rigged anything. Mr. Stone knows how we work and what we do—he was sent information on the company.”

Chisel-face inclined his head, and she wished that the idiot
wasn't wearing sunglasses in the middle of a smoky bar. “It's good to hear that you think local facilities might offer you enough—you know, equipment up to the par of your…investigative techniques.”

“We've worked across the country—and abroad,” she said coolly, “and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in every area.”

“That sounds mighty fine!”

Darcy was startled when the voice came from behind her. She turned to see that the pool player who had been called Carter had come up behind her. He was taller than she had realized; she was fairly tall herself at five nine, and in her heels, she had another two inches. He wore a beard and mustache, and had intense green eyes. And beneath his worn flannel shirt, he seemed to be in exceptional condition. She did, however, feel as if she had completely stepped back in time. Put a uniform on him, and he might have been the cavalry general Jeb Stuart, having stepped off his horse and into the local tavern. He stared at her with a strange sincerity as he spoke. “Too many times, Yankees have come down South and thought themselves like almighty gods. But, hey, you know, this just might be the right one. Ms. Tremayne, I've seen your face all over on billboards, too. You just may be the one.”