Shades of Midnight (25 page)

"So, you'll be there?" he pressed.

"Probably not," Eve admitted. "I must admit, Halloween is not my favorite of holidays."

That explanation should be enough, but Gerald did not move on. Good manners dictated that she invite him in, but since they'd have to walk right past the parlor, where Lucien slept, she didn't think that was a good idea.

Gerald stood on the front porch and shuffled his feet, which made Eve wonder if he didn't have another purpose for his visit. "I understand you have a couple of ghosts of your own," he said, glancing past her shoulder as if he might see something interesting in the foyer behind her. Not at this time of day... "I thought you said you hadn't seen any shades, but I heard talk in town suggesting otherwise."

Word was out, thanks to Mrs. Markham and Douglas Hunt. And Lucien. And perhaps Reverend Younger.

"There have been a few ghostly knockings, I must admit."

He gave her an obvious mock expression of terror, and she laughed lightly.

"I coulda sworn you told me you hadn't seen no ghosts."

"I just didn't want to stir up a lot of talk over something so... trivial," she explained, glad that honest Lucien wasn't here to contradict her.

"Trivial?"

"A few unexplained rattlings," Eve said with a wave of her hand. "Perhaps a distant moan in the early morning hours. Not much to tell, to be honest."

"Maybe you'll have your own ghost story to tell tomorrow night," Gerald teased.

"I doubt it." No matter how pleasant the Halloween festivities might be, Eve knew she'd be right here trying to find a way to save Viola. She didn't care as much about the house she had come to love, anymore, or the town, or the neighbors, or what anyone thought of her. She cared, most of all, about Viola. Another year could not pass before Viola was led to the other side.

Behind her, a rough voice murmured, "Morning."

Eve turned to see Lucien stumble through the foyer, his feet bare, his hair mussed, his shirt and trousers wrinkled. He was obviously just awakened and making his way to the kitchen. While Gerald watched. Well, so much for her reputation and her chance for a normal man and a ordinary life here in Plummerville. Funny, but she wasn't at all disappointed.

Gerald didn't look shocked or dismayed to discover a man in her home. "Is that your fortuneteller?" he asked, his voice lowered in case Lucien should be listening from the kitchen, she supposed.

"Yes," she said with a smile. "Yes, it is."

* * *

If Eve was correct and after tomorrow the ghosts of Alistair and Viola became harder to see and hear, then today and tomorrow—which would be the thirtieth anniversary of their deaths—was the time to solve this mystery and send them on.

Lucien tinkered with his newly repaired specter-o-meter for a while, there on the parlor floor. He'd been at it all morning, with little success. He needed new parts, and in his rush to pack he had... forgotten to pack spare parts. He finally gave up and pushed the device aside, standing and stretching his limbs—limbs that had not yet forgiven him for sleeping on the floor once again, and then finishing the evening in a chair.

His mind going this way and that, he sat on the sofa where the ghostly lovers apparently began their amorous evening. He had no qualms about sitting here, knowing what had gone on. After just a few days with Alistair and his wife, Lucien felt certain there was not a piece of furniture in the house that could be considered safe.

Besides, he had kissed Evie here, he had touched her, and that memory was more tangible, more important, than the past history of this house and the people who had once lived in it. She was real and alive, and he wanted the chance for the two of them to make their own memories.

He had to talk to Alistair again, without Eve's interference this time. When she walked into a room both of them—Alistair and Lucien himself—were distracted by her presence. It was more than the worry that Alistair was much too intrigued by Evie that made Lucien determined to get her out of the room. If he were to talk to the spirit man to man, so to speak, she could not be present. It had to be just the two of them.

Lucien glanced to the desk where Eve sat, furiously scribbling notes that would one day appear in a book or a newspaper article. She had no uncommon gifts or skills in communicating with the dead, but she believed in what she could see
and
what she could not see, and she had a clear, unbiased eye and a way with words that made the telling of her tales fascinating. Writing about gardens would be a waste of her talent. Thank goodness she had realized that, and was now compiling notes for an article, and perhaps a chapter of a new book, on Alistair and Viola.

She'd begun documenting what she saw early in her life, as her father dragged her from one medium to another, from one mystic to another, from one haunted house to the next, always looking for answers. Even after her father's death she'd maintained her interest in the paranormal. Eve did not search for answers, as her father had, but shared what she saw in a sparkling and yet down-to-earth way. That was her gift.

Viola had entered Eve, for a short period of time, and had twice visited her dreams. Had being around him and the others for all those years, seeing more of the psychical world than most would ever see, opened a portal that allowed Viola to speak to Eve freely? Or was it Eve's growing love and concern for the murdered woman that made her vulnerable? That connection might be the key to solving this mystery. In the end it could be Eve, as much as him, to send the spirits on.

Eve had worn green today to vex him, he was almost certain. She surely knew that the color brought out the green in her eyes, just as she surely knew he was fascinated with her eyes. Instead of a dress that was ugly and dull and cumbersome, she'd chosen something bright and lacy, a blouse and skirt that showed off her figure to its best advantage.

Was it a coincidence that at a time when he needed least to be distracted, she had dressed in something frillier than usual, something much more feminine and alluring than her usual daytime attire? No, she was purposely trying to agitate him.

She had been vexing in the brown monstrosity. More than vexing in her wedding dress and red petticoat. Right now, he did not need to be vexed.

"Evie," he said softly.

"Yes." Her voice was welcoming, friendly, but she did not lift her head from her work.

"I'm starving."

She lifted her head; her eyes went wide. "You are?"

"Famished. Those biscuits you made for breakfast were wonderful. Could you make more for lunch?"

She smiled. "Of course. It will take a while," she said, setting her pen aside.

Lucien didn't know why Eve loved to feed him, but she did. He hated to use that peculiar weakness against her, but he knew she would never allow him to channel Alistair alone, and he also knew he could not discover what had happened that night thirty years ago if Eve was present and he and Alistair both wanted to savor her wonderful warmth.

"If you don't mind," he said, giving her a warm smile. "They really were remarkable biscuits."

"I'd be happy to make more." She moved her papers aside and stood, and the expression on her face was... what was that? Pleased. Expectant, perhaps.

He listened to the fading sound of Eve's retreating footsteps as she made her way to the kitchen at the back of the house. When he heard her moving things about, he laid his eyes on the spirits who lurked, almost invisible, in the corner.

"Alistair," he said. "We aren't finished."

Alistair needed no further invitation. He did not take form and shape today. Instead the light danced this way, flitted around for a moment, and then shot directly at Lucien. Lucien held his breath at the initial jab, but as always the pain faded quickly.

He took a deep breath. The weakness was no longer a surprise, and it wasn't nearly as debilitating as it had once been. He'd learned to maintain better control as the years had passed.

Tell me what happened.

"Where's the woman?" Lucien's eyes, guided by Alistair, searched the room.

Forget about the woman.

"The ladies are my weakness. Every man has a weakness, you know. I don't drink overly much, and I never gamble. Well, almost never. But a beautiful woman... they're so soft. So warm. And that one, she's..."

Tell me about the night you died,
Lucien interrupted, pushing past the spirit's obsession.

Alistair said nothing, but Lucien felt his sudden fear, his sheer panic.

Tell me.

"I'm sorry."

Why?
Lucien's hands clenched his knees, his eyes went to the foyer beyond the parlor door.
I know you didn't kill her.

"No, I didn't."

Lucien was not surprised.
Then who did?

"It was dark. I couldn't see."

Why are you sorry?

Tears that were not Lucien's dripped down his cheeks. A lifetime of regrets and memories washed through Lucien as if they were his own. Alistair Stamper's life, the good and the bad, rushed through him so fast and furious that it took his breath away. Emotions—fear and love and regret—grew inside him. Images, memories, flickered in Lucien's mind.

"I saw him kill her." Alistair's voice, through Lucien, was soft and uncertain. "I tried to get to her to stop him, but I was too slow. I could barely move. I... saw him kill her, and I couldn't make him stop."

Alistair's pain went deep; Lucien felt it. "She won't listen to me," he said softly. "I've tried to tell Viola, again and again, that I would never hurt her, that I didn't kill her, but she won't listen. She'll relive the days we spent before that night, she'll lie with me in that cold bed... but she won't move on. She won't go past that last night."

Why don't you move on?

"I won't go without her."

Of course. He should have thought of it before.
Why does Viola think you killed her?

"The man with the knife stabbed her in the back, and when he did he... whispered something in her ear. I don't know what he said, but after he spoke Viola cried out my name. She wasn't calling for help, she was pleading with me to stop, and I couldn't manage to make so much as a sound to assure her that it wasn't me standing behind her."

Once Viola knew her husband had not been the man to stab her in the back, perhaps she'd be able to move on.
Alistair, I have an idea.

* * *

Flour dusted the front of Eve's apron, her hands, even her cheek, but she didn't mind. Lucien liked her biscuits. She hadn't had much of an opportunity to cook for anyone, so she was thrilled to know that a man who occasionally forgot to eat found her biscuits memorable.

She heard him coming up behind her, his step slow and steady.

"Patience, Lucien," she said with a smile. "I haven't even cut the biscuits out. It'll be a little while, yet."

He didn't leave but instead moved close, breathed against her neck, and almost lazily wrapped his arms around her. She knew she should scold him, tell him to back away, but she liked the closeness. It was so right. So unexpectedly nice.

Lucien wasn't satisfied to simply wrap his arms around her and stand there. He laid the flat of his hands against her flour-dusted apron. With a subtle shift, he pressed his body against hers, his chest against her back, his legs brushing against hers. She glanced down at the arms that encircled her. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms. He had such fine, strong forearms. She longed to touch them, to run her fingers from wrist to elbow again and again and again.

"Lucien!" she scolded without heat as his hands began to rock back and forth. Inside, her blood thrummed and her stomach danced. He had fine, strong hands, too. "I'll never finish these biscuits this way."

"Who cares about biscuits?" he asked in a deep Georgia drawl.

Eve spun around, still caught in his arms. "Alistair!"

"One and the same," he said with a wicked grin.

"Where's Lucien?" she asked primly. "I want you to go away so I can speak to Lucien."

His hands crawled up her back, touching all the way, tickling and arousing. Lucien's hands, guided by Alistair. "This Lucien likes you," Alistair said. "He likes you very much."

Eve pursed her lips as Alistair moved Lucien's mouth to her neck and laid it there. Soft. Warm. The tip of his tongue flickered out to tease and tickle. She really should push him away. His embrace was not so tight that she was trapped here.

And yet... she didn't lift her hands and give a gentle shove that would send Lucien... Alistair... the two of them back.

"I like him, too," Eve said, her voice just a little shaky as that mouth at her neck continued to caress. "But that doesn't concern you. Now... go away."

Firm hands raked down her back, the lazy move as arousing as the upward motion had been. Those hands stopped and cupped her bottom. Pulled her closer. Thumbs rocked. She felt that touch everywhere, in a tingle that traveled through her veins, in a gentle throb that worked its way through her body. His touch was so warm, so sure.

"He wants you," a wicked voice whispered against her neck. "He wants you so much. More than that, he truly..."