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The Uninvited
Heather Graham


A Philadelphia mansion plays host to uninvited death….1777: In the throes of the Revolutionary War, Landon Mansion is commandeered by British Lord "Butcher" Bedford. He stabs Lucy Tarleton—who spurned his king and his love—leaving her to die in her father's arms. Now: After the day's final tour, docent Allison Leigh makes her rounds while locking up…and finds a colleague slumped over Bedford's desk, impaled on his own replica bayonet.Resident ghosts may be the stock-in-trade of stately Philadelphia homes, but Allison—a noted historian—is indignant at the prospect of "ghost hunters" investigating this apparent murder. Agent Tyler Montague knows his hauntings and his history. But while Allison is skeptical of the newcomer, a second mysterious murder occurs.Has "Butcher" Bedford resurfaced? Or is there another malevolent force at work in Landon Mansion? Wary, yet deeply attracted, Allison has to trust in Tyler and work with him to discover just what uninvited guest—dead or alive—has taken over the house. Or their lives could become history!







A Philadelphia mansion plays host to uninvited death

1777: In the throes of the Revolutionary War, Landon Mansion is commandeered by British Lord “Butcher” Bedford. He stabs Lucy Tarleton—who spurned his king and his love—leaving her to die in her father’s arms.

Now: After the day’s final tour, docent Allison Leigh makes her rounds while locking up…and finds a colleague slumped over Bedford’s desk, impaled on his own replica bayonet.

Resident ghosts may be the stock-in-trade of stately Philadelphia homes, but Allison—a noted historian—is indignant at the prospect of “ghost hunters” investigating this apparent murder.

Agent Tyler Montague knows his hauntings and his history. But while Allison is skeptical of the newcomer, a second mysterious murder occurs. Has “Butcher” Bedford resurfaced? Or is there another malevolent force at work in Landon Mansion? Wary, yet deeply attracted, Allison has to trust in Tyler and work with him to discover just what uninvited guest—dead or alive—has taken over the house. Or their lives could become history!


Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“Suspenseful and dark. The culture and history surrounding San Antonio and the Alamo are described in detail. The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest…Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Vision

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Great writing and excellent characters make Wicked a terrific read… The undercurrent of mystery and suspense will keep readers riveted.”

—Romance Reviews Today


The

Uninvited

Heather

Graham






www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To the great city of Philadelphia, and to my favorite Pennsylvanians in the world, Gail Spence Crosbie and Ann Spence—and to Jimmy, Megan, Spencer and Anthony Crosbie


Contents

Prologue (#u71df659d-fbe6-5bcf-8443-02d33cc1ed09)

Chapter 1 (#uc225035b-c0e4-5f80-be36-b57bafdb27a4)

Chapter 2 (#ud003221f-1d12-5d48-82ca-ad011856a7de)

Chapter 3 (#ueb7eed24-37c7-5796-bb28-3bed5f8876f5)

Chapter 4 (#u182e0ce7-ece9-5af6-8f64-e9cb272d7235)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

It was a beautiful time of day, close to dusk, at a beautiful time of year, early fall. Philadelphia’s Tarleton-Dandridge House sat back from the street, majestic and stately, in the light that had just begun to fade, as fine and poignant as an old building could be, a proud remnant of an era long gone, yet ever remembered.

Julian Mitchell almost felt guilty. Almost. He couldn’t quite manage guilt; he was too ecstatic over his day, still pumped with enthusiasm and the beat of the music he’d been playing. He enjoyed being a guide at the Tarleton-Dandridge, but today he’d had to ditch it. The audition had been important and, much as he loved his job, he loved the idea of working full-time as a guitarist more. Sure, it was great dressing up and playing with the band in Old Town, but he had dreams of being a real rock star. Now, however, he had to slip back into the house—and suck up to Allison. She was their unofficial leader, head of the guides or docents at the Tarleton-Dandridge, and if she forgave him, the others would, too.

He saw that one group of guests had already entered the house with their guide and that another, the last group of the day, was assembling just outside the main door. He could see Allison Leigh to the side of the house near the gate, welcoming those who were gathering for the final tour. Allison was dressed in the typical fashion of the Revolutionary era—the typical high fashion of the Revolutionary era, since female guides wore clothing along the lines of that which would’ve been worn by Lucy Tarleton, the martyred heroine of the house. The male guides dressed as Lord Brian Bradley, the British general known as “Beast” Bradley, who had occupied the house.

They all looked pretty cool in their clothing, he thought. But especially Allison. She was beautiful to begin with, even if she was kind of a nerd. A real academic. But she did bear a resemblance to the heroine she played, Lucy Tarleton. They’d all remarked on her resemblance to the painting in the house and those in various museums, but there was no evidence that she was a descendent of the woman. And if anyone would know, Allison would, since she was a historian. Maybe it was the clothing that gave her the look.

Allison wasn’t even glancing his way, so he quickly jumped the old brick wall that surrounded the house.

He was still in his period clothing from the morning shift; he hadn’t sneaked out until after lunch. Luckily, his band’s audition had been to open for the new “it” group—rockers who liked to dress up like Patrick Henry and friends—which meant he hadn’t had to worry about auditioning in his work outfit.

Of course, he hadn’t asked for the time off. He’d decided that in life it was generally better to do and ask forgiveness later than it was to beg for permission and get a big fat no! What guilt he did feel was because one of his colleagues had to take the tour group he should have led.

Still, he had a plan. He’d wait until the last group had gone through, and Jason and Allison had finished for the day. He winced; he realized Annette wasn’t at work. She’d made an appointment for a root canal. But he knew his fellow docents as well as they knew him. Jason would leave before Ally. Julian just had to wait until Jason had left and Allison was alone, checking as she always did that the doors were locked and the alarm system was on. She would come down to Angus’s study—ye olde study, where that poor bastard Angus Tarleton had died, supposedly of a broken heart—to make sure no kids were hiding under the desk to spend the night in the “haunted” house. He’d wait for her there. When Ally showed up, he would beg and plead and he could honestly tell her they’d probably get the gig, and he’d do anything to compensate for the time he’d missed. And he’d promise her backstage passes to the first concert.

He tiptoed to the front door and listened. Once Jason’s tour had moved into the social rooms to the left, he hurried up the stairs. But when he reached the second-floor landing, he heard conversation and footsteps coming down from the attic. He dodged into Lucy Tarleton’s room. He’d forgotten the board was meeting at the house that day. He’d have to wait until they were gone.

At last, they were. He heard the foursome going down the main stairway. As usual, they were bickering among themselves.

“Cherry, you may be a descendent of the family, but this place is owned by Old Philly History now. We’re only the board.” She started to speak, but Ethan Oxford interrupted her. “Yes, it’s privately owned and operated, but there’s a charter. The house was donated for the preservation of history.”

Old Ethan Oxford was the senior member of the board. Cherry’s mother had been the last of the Dandridge family. Cherry would probably have eschewed her own father’s name to take on Dandridge, Julian was certain, except that her husband, George Addison, was becoming a very well-known artist, and she liked the prestige that came with being Mrs. Addison.

“No one knows this house like I do,” Cherry insisted.

“Really? You never lived in it. It was handed over to Old Philly History long before you were born.”

Julian smiled. That voice belonged to Nathan Pierson, who loved to listen sweetly to Cherry and then zing her.

“Hush!” Sarah Vining said. “There are tour groups in here!”

A moment later, even their voices faded away as they left the house.

Julian started toward the attic but paused. For some reason, he had the odd sensation of being held in the room and he turned around, curious. He saw nothing there. Nothing except the painting of Beast Bradley. The nice painting of Bradley. “They say you were a brutal bastard. Glad someone saw the good in you!” Julian said. Giving himself a mental shake, he dashed up to the attic to hide. He sat at the desk there, glancing at the piles of paper around the computer and the countless file folders. Some of the information here was pure business—schedules, events planned at the estate, programs planned, money collected. But most of the piles belonged to Ally. Professor Allison Leigh. “You would have to be a brainiac!” he said aloud. He was a year or two younger than Ally, but he’d had a crush on her since he’d taken his position here. And she wasn’t all work and no play. He knew because she’d dated another musician for a while, an acquaintance of his.

“You may have brains, Ally, but your taste in men isn’t so great.” It was one thing to have a casual friendship with a drug addict; it was another to date one. Ally’s romance had ended when she realized she couldn’t compete with his cocaine habit.

Ah, well, history seemed to be her true love. He picked up the nearest folder and began to read. “Huh!” he murmured. Apparently, she’d found a new lead on an old subject.

To his own surprise, he became interested in her notes. Ally definitely seemed to be on to something. He set down the folder and listened carefully. It was safe to go down to the second floor, he decided, since Jason’s tour group had departed.

Julian hurried back to Lucy’s bedroom. There was a beautiful rendering of a young Lucy on one wall. She was dressed in white and had a look of open excitement in her eyes, as if she loved life, and the whole world. It had been an eighteenth-birthday gift to Lucy from Levy Perry, an artist killed at Brandywine. Naturally, it was painted before either of them had learned about the horrors of war.

He turned from the image of Lucy and stared at the painting of Beast Bradley again.

“Charmer, were you?” He laughed softly. “Well, that’s not what history says.”

As soon as he could, he’d go down to Angus’s study and wait for Ally. If she gave him any grief, he could tell her he’d read her notes about Bradley and Lucy, and they were brilliant, just brilliant.

Interesting that the painting of Beast Bradley in the study was nothing like this one.

He smiled. He’d have the chance to stare at that one for a while. Because he wanted to be in Angus’s chair when Ally found him. He was dressed as Beast Bradley—why not play the part completely as he begged her to forgive him? It was the perfect way to convince her that he was serious about his job here. At least until his music career was well and truly launched…

Leaving Lucy’s bedroom, he reached the door and thought he heard a noise behind him. But that was impossible.

Unless it was good old Beast Bradley himself, roused from the dead to rummage through the research papers?

Tiptoeing down the stairs he laughed. He opened the hall closet on the first floor to pick up the reproduction muzzle-loading musket and bayonet that went with his uniform.

He heard a noise again and frowned. It couldn’t be coming from the attic. No, he told himself, the rustling was probably outside.

“�I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!’” he muttered.

And yet, it was with great unease that he waited.

He felt he was being watched.

And followed.


1

“Are you Dolley Madison? Or, like, Martha Washington or something?” one of the boys edging toward the front of Allison Leigh’s tour asked. He was about nine or ten, still awkward, but obviously determined to create some havoc—no doubt to avoid embarrassing himself in front of the few other teens and preteens on the tour.

A taller, older boy, maybe twelve, who might have been his brother, nudged him. “You idiot, they’re both dead, and she’s alive. And she’s hot, buddy. She’s way too hot even in that getup to be one of those old ladies.” The second boy tried to look mature. He reminded Allison of a very young Adam Sandler. The boys were part of her tour, which included a mix of ages. Summer was just drawing to a close and families were still on vacation.

She heard someone behind her choke back laughter; it was Nathan Pierson, longtime board member for the nonprofit organization that now owned the Tarleton-Dandridge House. They’d had a meeting in the attic, where a small office was located. Cherry Addison, the remaining descendent of the Dandridge clan, had already moved on, spike heels clicking. Ethan Oxford, their eldest member, had politely made his way through the crowd. Nathan and Sarah Vining were the last of the four board members to leave the house.

Nathan grinned and winked at Allison as he approached. Sarah hurried to catch up with him. She was a wisp of a woman who had given herself frown lines worrying about the board’s every move, while Nathan was the opposite, always certain things would work out. He was a slim and stately man in his forties, not exactly a father figure, more like a cool-uncle figure. And he was amused.

Ally shot him a warning glance, but he kept grinning as he stepped past her. When he looked back and winked again, she forced a smile to her lips and turned her attention back to the group.

“Well, thanks, I think,” she told the boy who’d spoken. There was nothing like having a few young kids on the tour, giggling and not the least bit interested in the history of the Tarleton-Dandridge House—or the nation, for that matter. They didn’t want to be here and were going to be thorns in her side if she didn’t do something quickly. Ghost tours were the answer in situations like this.

To most kids an old house just seemed stuffy and boring. She understood how they felt, even though she’d always been the odd kid out herself—a history nerd, as Julian liked to call her. She was from Philadelphia; she’d gone to Boston for her bachelor and master’s, and to New York for her doctorate, but she loved her own city almost as if it were a friend with whom she’d grown up. From the time she was little, she’d gaped at Independence Hall and marveled that she could stand in the same place where some of the greatest men in American history had stood.

She surveyed the crowd and concluded that the two boys were indeed brothers, dragged along on a historical jaunt by their parents, the attractive couple a few feet back.

“Actually, my name is Allison Leigh, and the person I’m dressed to portray is Lucy Tarleton. And,” she added teasingly, “she’s supposed to haunt the place, so I’d be careful if I were you.” She took a step closer to the taller of the two brothers. “She wants you to know your history.”

He grinned and struck a swaggering pose. “I wouldn’t mind meeting up with a hot ghost,” he said. “And I know all about her. Lucy Tarleton, that is. We went on a ghost tour last night! She was a spy. Like a Hairy Mata.”

“Mata Hari!” his dad whispered, shaking his head in amusement but setting a hand on the boy’s shoulders. “Sorry!” he murmured to Allison.

“It’s fine,” Allison assured him. She turned back to the boy. “Great, then you’re in the know,” she said gravely. “You could meet up with Lucy today. Or maybe the ghost of Lord Brian �Beast’ Bradley, who is said to have murdered several patriots in cold blood, among them Lucy Tarleton.”

“Ghosts? Bring ’em on!” the boy shouted.

“Todd,” his father chastised. “Keep it down.”

“It’s all right. Everyone loves historic ghost stories,” Allison said. She did like kids and understood that they were going to be, well, kids. She just wished people would recognize the human toll of war and what history could teach them.

She stepped back to welcome her entire group of fifteen. “Good evening,” she said loudly, “and welcome to the Tarleton-Dandridge House, here in historic Philadelphia!”

Trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the air had taken on a sweet chill that might have been the promise of rain or merely the slow descent from summer into fall. Dusk was coming, and with it, a soft fog. They hadn’t shortened their hours at the mansion yet, but the last tour was usually out while there was still a glimmer of light in the sky.

Watching the sky and feeling the breeze, Allison Leigh thought she didn’t mind the long days at all, even if she was tired tonight. Of course, a lot of what she did was by rote and she could do it in her sleep, but she was fascinated by history, and adored the old historic house where she worked as a guide when her teaching schedule allowed. Summers generally meant full-time guiding. She liked people, too, especially children and young adults, and valued the opportunity to show them where the fate of a nation had been decided and to discuss both the Colonial era and the Revolution itself.

On most busy days the other three guides did their share of the tours. Annette Fanning, a good friend as well as coworker, had left early, scheduled for a root canal. Jason Lawrence was leading the tour group just ahead, dressed in the manner of the British dandy, Lord Bradley, who’d resided in the house when the patriots had fled. Julian Mitchell, the fourth guide employed by the private nonprofit corporation that owned the house, had disappeared around lunchtime. He was an effective guide, but he was also running around auditioning with his band, and had a tendency to show up late or disappear early. With the last of the school-age crowd going through at the tail end of summer, his lack of responsibility was irritating, but this tour was it for the night—and then she’d be ready to close up and go home. They all liked Julian; he was just driving them crazy.

“Watch out! A ghost’s going to follow you home,” a young man in the crowd whispered to the boys. He smiled, looking at the young woman with him, his wife or girlfriend, as if watching the boys because he might want a few of his own one day.

“I don’t think ghosts follow you home,” the younger of the two brothers said bravely. “I mean, they’re supposed to haunt a place, right?”

“Maybe they can follow you home!” his brother teased. “They can go through walls, can’t they?”

“Stop it!” the younger one said.

His brother made chicken sounds.

Allison clapped her hands to draw their attention back to the tour. “The Tarleton-Dandridge House is open to help you understand the Revolutionary War and the occupation of Philadelphia, not to send ghosts home with anyone,” she announced. “So, we’ll start with a brief history, although I’m sure you know most of this. Philadelphia was the first capital of the United States. And the Declaration of Independence was written and signed here. But by that time, shots had been fired in Boston—and the British navy was occupying Staten Island. What you may not realize is that the First Continental Congress worked here before they decided on independence. At first, they were seeking a means to achieve…can someone tell me?”

Oddly enough, it was her swaggering young beau, the older brother, who raised his hand. “No taxation without representation!” he said.

“Very good. So, since it looked like the royal foot was coming down to punish the colonies for their revolt against taxes—and they’d already risked being hanged for protesting lack of representation, the next step was to go all the way. Make the stakes worth the consequences, in other words. But it wasn’t the citizens of Philadelphia who were eager for war, or at least not all of them. Remember, this area was settled by the Quaker William Penn. He granted the city its charter. Those who believe in the Quaker creed are and have always been antiwar and antiviolence, but by the time of the American Revolution, this was a city of about thirty thousand, all mixed in their beliefs and backgrounds.”

“Yeah! They were ready to fight for freedom!” the older boy said.

She nodded. “By then the colonies had formed the Second Continental Congress, so a fight for independence it became. But Philadelphia would pay the price. The British wanted the capital. According to their logic, if you took the capital, the rest of the upstarts would fall apart and surrender. However, General George Washington had learned from his Indian wars, and he waged a different kind of warfare. Still, we lost many battles and, as I said, Philadelphia and her residents paid a heavy toll.”

She seemed to have won over the boys, which pleased her, and they were looking at her intently now rather than gawking.

“Gentlemen, if you will?” she asked the two brothers.

They actually seemed nervous as she walked back to the podium by the gate. She took out two mock Colonial muskets and gave them to the boys. The male guides carried exceptionally accurate reproduction muskets, but to entertain young adults before entering the house, the guides used mock-up plastic muskets.

“Now, how would you feel if I put you twenty feet apart and told you to shoot at each other? Do you think it would make a lot of sense?”

“You shoot enough and…I guess we could hit each other,” the taller boy said. “Eventually.”

“Maybe,” the younger brother added.

She nodded. “Muskets of the day weren’t great on aim. For every shot, a man had to load his powder, tamp it down and hope the enemy wasn’t upon him before he could fire again. What are your names?” she asked the boys.

The younger brother was Jimmy, she discovered, and the older one was Todd. She had them perform and they followed her instructions, demonstrating a manner of fighting in which they walked toward each other, and then another manner, in which one of them hid behind a tree.

“George Washington had learned well, don’t you think? He knew the British could outman, outpower and outdiscipline him. So if they wanted the city, he’d take to the countryside. Back in the 1770s, for about a hundred miles all around Philadelphia, there was nothing but wilderness. Washington could abandon the city, let the British move in for a while, and the Revolutionary government could keep trying to sway the French to join us, which happened in 1778. And the British knew they could become locked in, trapped. So they in turn had to abandon the city.”

Allison checked the little watch she wore on a chain around her neck, and saw that she’d given Jason plenty of time to take his group through.

“Shall we enter the house?” she said, opening the gate that led up to the handsome brick house.

“Let’s go!” Todd blurted out.

She arched a brow at him. He grinned, and she smiled back.

As she led her group into the small but beautifully manicured yard, Allison told them, “The house was built in 1752 of brick and stone, in what was known as the Flemish style, with alternating longer and shorter bricks. It was built for Lucy Tarleton’s father, an Irish immigrant who rose to success and attained great riches as a merchant—and had no love for the British King George.”

“Mad King George!” Jimmy said.

“Yes, so they called him.” Allison paused on the porch, waiting for the stragglers to catch up.

“King George never set foot here, of course,” she went on. “The days of kings leading their men into battle were long gone. But as for King George’s war,” Allison said, “there were two English brothers in control of the war effort here—Admiral Richard Howe on the water and General William Howe on land. One thing they hoped, of course, was that many citizens would be loyal to Britain and start coming out of the woodwork when they arrived.”

“And there were citizens loyal to Great Britain, right?” Jimmy asked.

“Yep. There were citizens loyal to Great Britain, although many moved to Canada—the United Empire Loyalists—when the war began. But this city was a prize to the British, harder to obtain than they’d expected.”

“The rivers weren’t deep enough for the Royal navy!” Todd said. “I know that because we’ve been on so many history tours already!”

“Exactly,” Allison agreed. “And there were numerous unseen obstacles under the water. It was difficult! But eventually they made their way here.” She continued the story she’d told so many times before. “Philadelphia fell to the British, and was held by them from September 26, 1777, through June 18, 1778. General Washington deprived them of greater victory by seeing that the city was abandoned and the Continental Congress moved to New York City. The British set up a puppet government in Philadelphia for that nine-month period. Meanwhile, the British soldiers enjoyed the warmth and comfort of some of these splendid homes, while Washington’s men froze at Valley Forge. And so here, at this beautiful mansion, Lucy Tarleton stayed behind, pretending to be loyal to the Crown, throwing parties, and even feigning a romance with Lord Brian Bradley—soon to be known as �Beast’ Bradley, and soon to execute—without trial or king’s command—the lovely patriot, Lucy Tarleton. Lucy was indeed passing British secrets to General Washington down in Valley Forge. She was passionate about her cause and she was to die for her efforts, in a rare but tragically vindictive incident. Follow me.”

The front door led through a tiny mudroom with cut-glass windows and then into a grand foyer. “In the city, you’ll find that many businesses were on the first floors of what are now historic buildings, while the living quarters were upstairs. But here, a servant would greet guests in the foyer, and determine where they’d go. Mr. Tarleton’s study was to your right, while the salon was the first room to your left,” she said, gesturing in those directions. “The kitchen is still a separate house out back, which prevented a cooking fire from reaching the main house. Beyond the salon is the dining room, and it gave the servants easy access to the kitchen. The left side of the house as you face me was the entertainment area, you might say, and to your right were the family rooms. In back of the study is the ladies’ parlor, and behind that, the music room. You’ll see an exquisite harpsichord there that actually belonged to the Tarleton family. Upstairs, there are five bedrooms and the attic, which contained storage space and rooms for the servants. The Tarletons had five household servants who lived in the main house and a number of gardeners and grooms who lived over the carriage house, which is also preserved.”

“Servants! I could use a few!” the boys’ mother said, ruffling her younger son’s hair.

Allison grinned and went on to describe various objects in the house. Then she explained that because of tight spaces and narrow hallways, they should go by themselves and look into the rooms on their own, respecting the velvet cord barriers. “So, please go ahead and walk through the first floor, and I’ll be here to answer any questions. Don’t forget to note the dumbwaiter at the rear of the dining room! It’s still in perfect working order.”

She stood in the foyer, in a central area so guests could question her. She was surprised when Todd came up to her. She suspected some kind of sexual innuendo, but he seemed oddly quiet and awed. “Miss, can you come here for a minute?”

“Sure, Todd.” She followed him to the doorway of Tarleton’s study. The room held his large carved maple desk, reproduction ledgers, quills, ink pots, study chairs and wooden shelves, some covered with glass doors. There were two paintings that dominated the walls in the room, one of Angus Tarleton himself, painted when he was a young man with shiny dark hair and bright blue eyes, traits he’d passed on to his daughter.

But Todd was staring at the other painting. He pointed at it.

“Who is that?” he asked in a whisper.

“Oh, that’s the man they called �Beast’ Bradley,” she told him. “Brian Bradley. Remember? We talked about him.” She stared at the painting, too. Bradley was a young man in the portrait, with a narrow face, high cheekbones, and dark, brooding eyes. Allison had always thought that although the portrait was certainly flattering, the artist hadn’t liked the man. The cruelty for which he would one day be known seemed painted into the sharpness of his features and the look in his eyes. He was elegantly dressed, in the fashion of his day. And while he was a general in the king’s army, she’d seldom seen him depicted in uniform. She assumed that wearing anything that might be rank and file—even with elevating insignias—would have been, in his eyes, beneath him.

Todd shivered, still pointing at the portrait.

“And a ghost will follow you home!” he said, and his words weren’t light. He was truly unnerved.

“He was a horrible man, but he’s long gone,” Allison said, surprised that the would-be “cool” preteen now seemed more like a scared schoolboy.

“He isn’t gone,” Todd said. “He…he looked at me.”

Despite herself, Allison felt a chill. She tried to tell herself the boy was trying to tease her, play off the situation and get her to slip an arm around him.

But he wasn’t playing any games. He appeared really frightened.

“It’s the way the portrait’s painted,” Allison assured him, but she found herself staring up at Bradley again. She never came into this room when she was alone, locking up and setting the alarms for the night. She always stood in the doorway, glanced in and moved on. While the house was equipped with a modern alarm system, they were supposed to make sure no visitors tried to stay on to defy the ghosts of the mansion.

Legend had it that Beast Bradley had thrust his knife straight into the heart of Lucy Tarleton in the grand salon; he’d killed her there while her father had wept for her life and been forced to watch. To add to the cruelty of the act, he’d left Angus Tarleton alive to hold his dying daughter. According to history—in this case, the accounts that were handed down by the survivors—Brian Bradley hadn’t killed Lucy for her patriot escapades. He’d killed her because he’d discovered she was false to him, that she wasn’t in love with him at all.

Before the arrival of the British, Lucy was about to become betrothed to another patriot, Stewart Douglas, who had fled the city with other American soldiers. It was a sad tale, one Allison would share in a few minutes when she’d gathered her people in the foyer again.

“Todd, this is a creepy picture of a man who was apparently a monster, which had far more to do with him than with the fact that he was British. Horrendous incidents, beyond any code of warfare, have taken place during just about every conflict in history. But the British weren’t monsters, and neither were the colonists. Most of the evidence we have says that Bradley did behave abominably, and—”

“How did he die?” Todd asked her.

“Actually, no one knows, but it’s presumed that he was killed in the fighting soon after the British abandoned the city. Howe was furious with him for his brutal actions in Philadelphia. They argued before the Battle of Saratoga, and he disappeared from history,” Allison said. “A few letters that mention him have been preserved, and some suspect he might have been killed by his own men. Those letters suggest he was a brutal commander, as well. Way, way, way back, he was related to the Royal House of Hanover, and he seemed to think he was entitled to his behavior through the divine right of kings—even though he was certainly not a king and never going to be one.”

“He’s still here,” Todd whispered. “He’s still here.”

She did set an arm around his shoulders. Allison was about five-ten in her two-inch Colonial pumps, giving her a bit of height over him. “Todd, that was then, and this is now, and you need to see the rest of the house, learn about the history, and have fun with your family tonight. The historic tavern restaurants, where they serve in Colonial garb and entertain with flutes and old jokes, are really fun. You’ll enjoy that.”

He shook his head, gazing at the painting as if drawn to it.

She led him firmly from the study. “What happened to the house after the British left?” he asked.

“Angus died a year after his daughter. She had a younger sister, Sophia, who married a fine American soldier, Tobias Dandridge, and they inherited the house. It’s now owned by a private corporation called Old Philly History, and there’s still a descendent on the board of governors. The house stayed in the family until 1930, when the owner formed this corporation. That’s why so many of the original family pieces have been preserved.”

She’d managed to get Todd back into the foyer, and she smiled at him as she related the history of the house she’d just given him.

“Now, the upstairs. We’ll go up together and I’ll wait in the hall while you look in all the rooms,” Allison said cheerfully. “The master bedroom is at the far end of the house, but the one everyone finds most interesting is Lucy’s room, on the right side of the staircase. She and her sister both had grand rooms with large dressing rooms. There’s a 1700s tub in Lucy’s room, which is authentic to the house.”

She sent them off and waited, watching Todd. He ignored all the rooms except for Lucy’s.

He came back to stand by her. “I saw her picture on the wall. Lucy’s picture. You look like her.”

“I think a lot of women do when they’re dressed like her,” Allison said.

Todd nodded solemnly. “Maybe. But you mostly.” He studied her for a moment and then whispered, “Someone else died in the study, right?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, the family had gone on a ghost tour last night. Though the house itself was closed to these ghost tours, they all walked by it and embellished the tales that went along with it. Personally, she thought the truth was far more haunting than anything they could make up.

“A lieutenant who fought in the War of 1812 came here when he was wounded, and he died soon after. Another soldier on the Union side in the Civil War also died in that room. And yes, one of the Dandridge girls died there in 1890—she took poison to commit suicide.”

“And a few years ago, one of you was found dead in the room, right?” Todd asked her, wide-eyed.

“I’m going to give all this information when the tour gathers again,” she told him.

“Right?” he persisted. She felt acutely uncomfortable. Every old house had its history. Naturally some of it was sad and even distressing.

“Angela Wilson did die in that room. She had a heart attack while locking up one night.”

Todd regarded her solemnly. “She died sitting at Angus Tarleton’s desk, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Todd, she did. She sat down—she must have been winded. Like I said, she died there of a heart attack.”

“And somebody else died in the house, too,” Todd said. “A couple of years ago.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “Yes,” she admitted. “It was really a tragedy. A young college student decided to hack into the alarm system. The police believe he was pledging for a fraternity. He tried to break in and did something wrong with the alarm, and he was electrocuted. Everyone involved with the house was appalled, but—”

“And there was another guy. The woman on our ghost tour told us. One of the curators or guides or whatever you’re called.”

“That was in 1977. He fell down the steps and broke his neck,” Allison said.

“Fell? Or was pushed? I bet Beast Bradley pushed him!”

“Oh, Todd. Beast Bradley’s been gone for over two centuries. He’s not hanging around here trying to kill people.” Allison shook her head. “The house has been here for a long time, and over time, bad things happen.”

Todd frowned at her. “I think he is. I think he wanted to stay in Philadelphia, and he wanted to marry Lucy Tarleton, but she hated him. So he killed her, but he still didn’t want to leave the house. It was supposed to be his house. So he came back here when he died. And now he kills people!”

There was something about the boy’s insistence that made Allison uncomfortable. She loved the house, and she loved working here. She didn’t need this job; she’d gotten her degrees in history and was a college lecturer who also wrote articles and was currently doing research for a book. She worked at the house because she loved the people part of history, loved understanding the realities and nuances of everyday life far more than dates and figures. She’d grown up farther down on Chestnut Street and had admired this place all her life, and as a result she could answer questions that few others could. She’d respected the house, and she’d never wanted to sensationalize it by writing ghost stories. Like any historical place, it had an aura about it. She felt that same aura standing next to the Liberty Bell or when she went into Independence Hall, or any of the sites around the world where people had once lived and passionately taken part in the shaping of destiny. She couldn’t believe that Todd was suddenly making her afraid of this house.

“Like I said, bad things happen, Todd, and they happen everywhere. That’s why we go through life trying to drive properly, cross the street only when the light is green and take care of our health—because human beings are fragile.” She smiled. “I work here three days a week, and sometimes more, and nothing has ever happened to me. I usually close up by myself, too, and I’m just fine. And I’ve never seen a ghost.”

Todd looked at her oddly. “He likes you. He might not always like you, but he likes you right now. He likes women.”

The way the boy spoke was unsettling, and she told herself he was heading back toward being a raunchy preteen, acting in a manner that was natural for his age.

His mother walked up to them a moment later. “I’m Todd and Jimmy’s mom, Haley Dixon,” she said. “I’m so sorry if the boys have been bothering you. As you’ve probably heard, we did the ghost tour last night. There are all kinds of stories about this place, and they’re boys, and…” Her voice trailed off.

“Mrs. Dixon, Todd’s been asking me about the house, and he’s a good listener,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon smiled at her son. “Todd, I’m glad you’re curious, but we have to leave Ms. Leigh alone and allow her to give everyone her information at the same time.”

She seemed a pleasant woman, and a good parent, slightly at a loss as to what to do with a couple of boys. Her husband, viewing some of the portraits on the wall, turned. Grinning, he came over to join them, slipping an arm around his wife. “Artie Dixon, Ms. Leigh. You do a wonderful tour. Forgive my sons, please, if they’re too inquisitive.”

“No such thing in this house,” Allison assured him. But she stepped back to include her whole group. “All right, everyone, gather around and I’ll give you all the grisly details on some of the sad and tragic occurrences here, since it seems the ghost story guides are beating us to it.”

She told them about the soldiers, then reminded them, “In the past, many women died in childbirth. It was the norm to have your baby at home, so several of them died here. Many family members died of illness or simply of old age. Remember, all human beings are mortal and leave this world in some fashion!” She tried to speak lightly, looking at Todd. “Now, we’re going down the rear steps to the old food preparation room, and then we’ll head to the back to see the outbuildings.”

Allison managed to get her group out to the yard. The property still consisted of about an acre, with the majority of the grounds in the back. The kitchen stood off to her left, behind the dining room, with a covered path between them. It was a one-room kitchen, large with a massive hearth and spit and a multitude of rafters from which pans and cooking utensils hung. Glass-frosted cupboards showcased the family’s fine china and several sets of silverware, and one of her group murmured that it was probably the most complete example of an upper-class Colonial kitchen she’d ever seen.

They went across another, broader path to the carriage house. There were no horses now, but there were stalls and tack and three eighteenth-century carriages. As Allison let the group look at them more closely, Haley Dixon came up to her.

“There’s a ghost horse here, too, or so they said last night,” she told Allison, sounding a little apologetic.

Allison sighed. “Firewalker. He brought Stewart Douglas racing back to the house, heedless of the British after he heard that Bradley had threatened Lucy. Stewart was the man she really loved. She’d urged him to take the horse after he snuck into the city to see her once, because Firewalker was such an exceptional stallion he could sail through enemy lines. Firewalker was born and bred on the property, and carried Lucy Tarleton on many of her journeys in the middle of the night, when she rode out to bring information to the Revolutionary troops. He survived the war and lived to a ripe old age, then died here in the arms of Lucy’s sister, which means, of course, that we have a ghost horse. We have a ghost hound, too. With the imaginative name of Robert. He was Lucy’s, and when Bradley went to kill her, the hound tried to kill him. Naturally, the dog died, as well. We probably even have haunted squirrels,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon laughed. “I guess. It’s strange. The house is strange because so much happened in it. I’m not sure I could hang around here alone at night.”

Allison shrugged, smiling. “You get used to it, really.”

She announced to her group that she’d show them the graveyard next.

The family burial ground was a popular destination. Lucy Tarleton herself lay in a handsome private Tarleton crypt in a beautifully sculpted tomb. Allison described the workmanship and explained that it was common for wealthy families to have their own graveyards. She noted that Todd didn’t want to be in the cemetery; she was shocked to realize that she was anxious to end the tour herself.

It was finally time to usher her people out, but Allison was still disturbed by the way Todd looked at her as he left with his family. They were the last ones out the back gate, and he lingered. “A ghost can’t follow you home, can it?” he asked in a whisper.

“I don’t think so. I mean, if we do have ghosts, I imagine they’d just hang around here. Have fun tonight! Pinch a tavern wench somewhere, okay?”

He grinned at her. “You don’t mean that.”

“No. She’d slap you. But go forth and have fun and be a kid!”

When they were gone at last, she hurried into the house through the back door. She found Jason Lawrence in their small employee quarters behind the main pantry.

He had removed his Colonial garb and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that promoted his favorite band.

“Hey, you holding up okay?” he asked her.

“Yes, but it’s nice when four people actually work on the busy days,” Allison said. “We could’ve used Julian. I understand why Annette had to go—poor thing. She looked like she was in so much pain.”

Jason was an attractive young man, about three years her junior at the ripe old age of twenty-four. They’d been friends since they’d met, and although they had great chemistry together, it wasn’t sexual. They were friends. He raised his brows and let out a sigh. “We may all love him for being a clown and a prankster, but Julian can also be a total pain in the ass,” he said. “He thinks he’s going to get rich and famous—and that we’re all going to be grateful just to have known him. But you have to speak to him or to Sarah or someone else on the board, because this isn’t fair.”

“I’ll try talking to him first,” Allison said. “And then, if he doesn’t start acting more responsible, I will talk to Sarah.”

Jason nodded. “Mind if I scoot?”

“Hot date?”

“I hope so.”

“Go.”

“I hate to leave you alone…”

“I’ll make a run-through and set the alarm as I head out.”

“I’ll lock the back door. The back gate’s locked, right?”

“Yep. I can just hit the alarm and dash out the front.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she heard his footsteps on the hardwood floor as he went to lock up. She heard him as he moved through the house, and she heard the front door close as he left.

To her annoyance, she was suddenly frightened in the house. She silently chastised herself. Todd was at the age when he wanted to be a sexual lothario one minute, and a kid spooked by a campfire tale the next. She wanted to rip off her dress and stomacher and change into her comfortable jeans; instead, she decided to hurry up and check the house, then get out of there.

She glanced over the room and went out, locking the door. She walked past the dining room and the grand salon and returned to the foyer. Looking up the stairs, she knew she wasn’t going up to make sure she’d left no scared toddler or would-be ghost hunter in the house. She knew that every man, woman and child on her tour had departed through the back gate.

A sense of something dark and evil seemed to have drifted over her, and she wished she could call Jason back. As she crossed the foyer, she stopped.

She’d heard a sound. A ticking or a…scrape or…

It was coming from Angus Tarleton’s study.

She didn’t want to look. She wanted to rush to the front door, hit the alarm and run home, run out of the house screaming....

How ridiculous!

It might have been an air-conditioning vent or…wood settling. There were probably dozens of technical or architectural things it could be.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head, annoyed again that Todd had managed to unnerve her like this. She was a sensible and responsible human being, a historian.

She walked to the room and looked in.

And a scream, shrill and horrified, tore from her throat.

Julian Mitchell had returned to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.


2

Tyler Montague’s first impression of Allison Leigh was not a good one.

But then, the woman had apparently been at the house where a friend had died—either accidentally or through a very bizarre form of murder—for hours before coming down to the police station to deal with more paperwork.

She hadn’t been accused of murder, not yet. Probably because the police and the pathologists couldn’t quite figure out how a woman her size could have managed it. Julian Mitchell had been big, tall, well-muscled. For her to have dealt with the weapon and the man would have been a nearly impossible feat.

She had dark hair, so sleek and deep a brown, it appeared black. He assumed she’d started the evening with her hair neatly tied back but now it was tumbling down around her shoulders beneath an eighteenth-century-style mobcap. Allison was dressed in the daily wear of an upscale Revolutionary-era citizen—a robe à l’Anglaise, he believed they called the gown—and looked exhausted. She was seated at a table in one of the interrogation rooms, a cup of coffee in front of her, and when he arrived, she had her head down on one arm.

“Ms. Leigh knows you’re coming to talk to her,” a quiet voice said at his side.

Tyler turned to look at Adam Harrison. Adam had to be close to eighty, but he walked with the ease of a much younger man and stood straight as a poker. His eyes were a very gentle blue, showing signs of a smoky color that might have come from his age. He had snow-white hair, and his suit was casual and in impeccable taste. He’d arranged for Tyler’s Krewe to be called in because of Ethan Oxford, an old friend of Adam’s with whom he’d served on many philanthropic boards over the years.

Adam Harrison was the reason Tyler had left a career with the Texas Rangers to join this extremely unusual unit of the FBI.

Tyler didn’t know everything about Adam Harrison; he didn’t think anyone did. But Adam seemed to have friends everywhere. A call from him and a rough road could be easily traveled. But then, years before Tyler and his Krewe had ever met the man, Adam Harrison had been putting the right people in the right circumstances. And while other government agencies might consider the Krewe units as something completely separate and even an embarrassment at times, they were respected for their prowess. They had yet to fail when it came to finding the truth in any of their investigations.

“And she knows who I am?” Tyler asked.

Harrison shrugged. “She knows you’re FBI.”

“She must be ready to crawl the walls. It took me a little over three hours to drive in from northern Virginia, and we didn’t receive your call until an hour or so after the body was discovered.” He checked his watch. “It’s after midnight.”

Harrison sighed, shuffling his feet slightly. “The police were left with no recourse, really. There was the dead man. There was the woman who called it in. Tour groups had been at the house all evening, along with a couple of other docents, and when Ms. Leigh dialed 9-1-1, she was the only one on the premises. She was shaken when they got there. With a death of this nature, you have to be suspicious of anyone in her situation. The sad thing is that I believe she’s entirely innocent. And she’s just lost a colleague.”

Tyler saw that Harrison’s empathy for the young woman was strong.

“Did she suggest a ghost killed him?” Tyler asked skeptically.

Harrison didn’t look at him; he continued to look through the one-way glass at the young woman. “No. Ms. Leigh—technically Dr. Leigh—is a professor, historian and scholar. She teaches history at the university, except that she’s off for the summer. She also writes papers. Even when she’s teaching, she gives tours at the house, but the point is—she does not believe in ghosts.” He spoke with a grimace. Her feelings on that might change in the near future.

“I’d like to see her, get her out of here and then read up on everything that’s happened in the house,” Tyler said. “They aren’t charging her, are they?”

“No, but they made the right call in asking her to come down here,” Adam told him. “I’ll bring you over and introduce you.”

“You know her? Or you just met her?”

Harrison smiled. “I’ve made it my business for many years to meet and greet politicians and those in law enforcement and, thankfully, many remain grateful for help they’ve received. I was here when the house hosted a dinner for up-and-coming men and women in the city, sponsored by municipal leaders. Ms. Leigh was very charming and of great assistance in arranging the evening. I think you’ll find that she can tell you more than you’ll read in most history books. So, we’re not best friends, but yes, I know her.”

The door to the observation room opened just then, and a middle-aged man with fine, intelligent eyes and a bloodhound’s weary jowls walked in. Tyler had already met him; he was Detective Jenson, assigned to the “suspicious” death.

“All the paperwork for the evening is complete. Ms. Leigh may leave whenever you’re ready. Agent Montague, you wanted to go to the house tonight?” Jenson asked.

Tyler nodded. “I’d like to get in while the evidence is still fresh.”

Whatever Jenson thought of the “special” FBI unit that had been brought in, he didn’t let his feelings show. “The crime scene people have just finished up,” he said. “They’ve been in there for about six hours collecting everything they can, but, of course, the house is a tourist location so they have hundreds if not thousands of prints. I’ll get you Ms. Leigh’s key to the house and the code to bypass the security system,” he told Tyler. “And, needless to say, we’d appreciate it if you shared any findings with us immediately.”

“I can’t find anything without the help of the police,” Tyler said, “so, yes, of course.”

Judging by his quick smile, Jenson seemed to like that. “You’re free to speak with Ms. Leigh.” He glanced at Adam. “And get her home.”

Adam thanked him. They left the observation area and entered the interrogation room.

Allison Leigh sat up stiffly, regarding Tyler with narrowed eyes that gentled as she looked at Adam Harrison.

The man just had a way about him.

“Allison, I’d like you to meet Agent Tyler Montague. He’s here to investigate the situation—and the Tarleton-Dandridge House,” Adam said.

Allison Leigh gave Tyler a long cool assessment. “The house?” she asked skeptically. “The house caused Julian to slit his throat on his bayonet?”

“There’ve been a number of incidents at the house, Ms. Leigh,” Tyler said.

Allison turned to Adam. “He believes he can arrest the ghost of a Revolutionary soldier?”

Tyler answered. “No, Ms. Leigh. But the number of strange occurrences at the house, especially in recent years, suggest that someone who’s alive and well is playing deadly pranks. Actually, we’re here to see you home if you’d like.”

She frowned, and Tyler thought her hostility toward him had relaxed somewhat. “You’re not going to ask me to go through everything that happened again?”

He shook his head. “I’d rather you went through the house with me. If you’re up to it, that is. Otherwise, we’ll take you home, as I said.”

She stared at him, then blinked. He could see her mind working, and it was fascinating to watch the emotions that flashed through her beautiful if red-rimmed eyes. She’d been up for hours; she’d just lost a colleague, possibly a friend. She’d been in the interrogation room forever. She wanted a drink or simply to collapse for a while and forget the horror she’d witnessed.

But he also knew that she understood why he needed to see the house now, as quickly after the event as possible. She didn’t want to go back and see where her friend had died, but she understood that anything that might be discovered would be most easily found before too much time had elapsed.

She lifted her hands. “Of course,” she said with a nod. “Are you coming?” she asked Adam, her voice hopeful.

“If you wish, my dear.”

“Please.”

Tyler admired the effect Adam had on others. He knew that Harrison had once had a son, Josh, and that Josh had been killed in an accident at a young age. Josh had apparently been born with a sixth sense, and when he’d died, Adam had spent years trying to reach him. Tyler had recently heard that the father could finally talk to the son, although Adam didn’t usually have the ability to communicate with the dead.

What he did have was an uncanny ability to connect with the living.

Tyler definitely wished he had a little more of that ability himself. He wasn’t sure why he seemed to lack it. Maybe it was his height, which people often considered intimidating, since he stood at about six-five. From the time he was a kid, he’d wanted nothing but to be a Texas Ranger and now, although he loved the change in what he was doing, he wondered if he carried some kind of aura from the years he’d spent working in tough areas of Texas. He didn’t know if it was his appearance or his no-nonsense demeanor, but people seemed to find him imposing, and it always took him a while to convince them that he wasn’t a swaggering, gun-toting cowboy.

“Well, then, let’s get going,” Adam said. “I know you must be emotionally drained, my dear, but we’ll get you home soon.”

“That’s it? I can just walk out?”

“That’s it.”

She stood, a bit clumsily. Tyler saw that she was a respectable height for a woman, maybe five-eight or nine, and that she wore the historic dress exceptionally well. She seemed fragile for a second, as if she’d been sitting too long and couldn’t quite find her feet. She didn’t shake him off when he touched her, but she said regally, “Thank you. I’m fine.”

He released her elbow and they exited the station. Detective Jenson was waiting for them at the precinct door. “Thank you, Ms. Leigh. Thank you for your patience with us. And please accept my deepest sympathies.”

She nodded. “If I can do anything, provide any more information…” She paused. They’d already kept her long enough to glean anything she was likely to know.

Tyler’s SUV was just outside the station and he nodded toward it. “We’ll get you home as quickly as we can,” he promised.

Adam politely ushered Allison into the passenger seat and took the rear himself, insisting that even at his age, he’d show courtesy to a lady until he keeled over.

Although he was silent during the drive, Allison began to speak. “It seemed like such an ordinary day,” she murmured.

“There were a lot of tours?” Tyler asked her.

“Yes, it was busy, which is good. We work hard to make the tours interesting and informative, and to keep the house sustaining itself.”

Tyler asked a few questions about historical tours as he drove, trying to put her at ease. They reached the house, parking in the adjacent lot.

Maybe it was fitting that there’d be a full moon that night. The house seemed large and alive in the light, encased by the shadows surrounding it.

By day, he thought, it was probably a handsome Colonial house, built to withstand the ages. But now…

Now it seemed as if it were waiting.

There were warnings posted by the police. No Trespassing! Invasion of the Premises in Any Manner Will Result in Immediate Arrest!

The warnings covered the sign beyond the podium that usually advertised the property’s hours of admission and the prices of tours.

“There’s—there’s tape all over the house.” Allison spoke blankly, obviously too tired to be shocked.

“Yes, your chairman has ordered the house closed for a few weeks, long enough for a real investigation,” Adam said.

Tyler slipped a knife from his jacket pocket to cut through the tape. He keyed in the code on the gate alarm.

“A real investigation?” Allison repeated.

“Yes,” Tyler said. “We’re trying to find out if the security’s been breached and determine whether there’s another access. Also, if there’s someone who knows the code and has dangerous concepts of history, dangerous beliefs about this house. That’s why it merits investigation.”

Allison’s eyes narrowed again as she studied him. “You’re a ghost hunter.”

“I’m not a ghost hunter—I’m an agent,” Tyler said. “Hunting ghosts would be a rather useless effort.” He forced a smile. “They only appear when they choose to. Inviting conversation—now, that’s another thing.”

Leaving her to Adam, he strolled up the walkway. He wanted to spend some time in the house alone.

At the front door he once again slit the tape before typing in the alarm code and using the key he’d received from Detective Jenson to let himself in. When he entered the foyer, it felt as if he’d stepped back in time.

Tyler stood there for a minute. You didn’t need to be a Krewe member to “feel” a house, a battlefield or any other historic place. He’d seen the most skeptical, steel-souled Texas Ranger take on a look of grim reverence when standing at the Alamo. It was a feeling that touched most people on the battlefields at Gettysburg or in the middle of Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame or other such historic places.

This house had it. That feeling. It was a sense of the past, a past that was somehow still present. Perhaps the energy, passion and emotion of life that had once existed here lingered in these rooms.

This was a beautiful house and maintained in a period manner that no doubt added to the feel.

Tyler didn’t stay in the entry long. He could hear Adam and Allison following behind him, Adam explaining that what they investigated was history rather than ghosts.

He knew that Julian Mitchell’s death had occurred in the old study, and he strode down the hallway toward it. He stared at the old maple desk; blood stained the wood and the Persian rug beneath it where the deceased man had been found. A few spatters lay on the reproduction ledgers and account books covering the desk. Initial contact with the blade had caused a spurt, and the blood had drained straight down. A lot of it.

Tyler tried to picture the scene as it had been described to him—the young man seated in the chair, the musket between his legs, the bayonet through his throat and mouth as if he’d used it to prop himself up. He had bled out quickly, according to the pathologist who’d first examined him. He hadn’t appeared distressed and he didn’t appear to have fought with anyone. He had simply sat down, set his chin upon the bayonet as though to rest on it…and skewered himself with it.

Who the hell accidentally put a bayonet blade through his own chin?

But he hadn’t cried out. Tourists leaving the premises would have heard or, at the very least, Allison Leigh would have as she locked up for the night.

Tyler remained near the entrance to the room, noting its location. There was the door that opened off the entry hall, and another that led from the study to the next room. This meant there were two points of access, as well as a way to exit.

But how did you get someone to die on a bayonet in such a position and leave no sign of a struggle? Talk him into it?

He looked at the paintings on the wall, which were authentic period pieces. Two men had been depicted at somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty. Beneath one, he made out the name Angus Tarleton; the other was labeled with the description Brian “Beast” Bradley.

The eyes of the latter seemed to have an unusual power. The artist had managed to depict a handsome man—and also a cruel and cunning one. He’d read that the Mona Lisa’s eyes seemed to follow her viewers. Bradley’s did the same, apparently focusing on him as he moved about the room.

He turned to the hallway. Allison Leigh was pale as she stood next to Adam, who watched and waited for Tyler to take the lead.

“Allison, can you tell me exactly what happened leading up to your discovery of Julian?” he asked her.

She winced. “I should’ve written it down earlier, I’ve had to repeat it so many times,” she muttered. She was hostile again, he thought. Hostile and angry, but that was good. If she’d fallen apart, broken into tears, she wouldn’t have been much help.

“I didn’t run into a bloodthirsty ghost,” she told him.

“I would’ve been surprised if you had,” Tyler said. “I’m sorry, but you do want to catch the killer, right?”

She stared back at him with eyes that were as clear and beautiful as a summer sky.

“I don’t think there was a killer,” she said. “Julian could be a clown. He was full of himself, an entertainer. He had a tendency to piss the rest of us off with his unwillingness to accept responsibility, but he also made us laugh and…he was a friend.” She took a deep breath. “It looked as if he sat down, started fooling around with the musket and set his head right on the blade. Yes, we use real muskets and bayonets, and never, ever, have we had a problem. The costumed interpreters don’t carry bullets or gunpowder and no one’s ever gone crazy and tried to bayonet a tourist. Who’d imagine that anyone could die on one?”

“He wasn’t in any way suicidal?” Tyler asked.

“Julian? He was convinced the world was waiting for him,” she said. “No, I don’t believe he committed suicide.” She hesitated for a moment. “We were all angry with him, figuring he’d had some kind of great offer and decided just to disappear.”

“He was supposed to be working—and he wasn’t?”

“Yes. Well, he showed up for the morning tours. He took off after lunch, probably for an audition.”

“But you found him in his period costume?”

She nodded. “He was with a bar band that had higher aspirations. They did a lot of auditioning and sometimes they had permits to play in the historic areas, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to stay in his work clothing.”

“But none of you saw him after lunch?”

She shook her head.

“Are there places in the house where he could’ve been and you wouldn’t see him?” Tyler asked.

She glanced at him. “A closet?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Or,” she said, her tone serious, “the attic. We don’t go up to the attic with any of the tour groups.”

“May I see it now?”

“If you want.”

“Shall we?” Adam suggested.

Allison seemed to go back into tour-guide mode as she led the way. She pointed out the ladies’ parlor, the music room and, across the entry, the dining room and parlor. As they walked up the first flight of stairs she talked about the owners of the house and the bedrooms used by the family—and by the British invaders.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s bedroom; from the doorway he’d noticed another painting of Beast Bradley.

It was different from the one in the study. The light of cruelty wasn’t apparent in the eyes. He’d been depicted in a more thoughtful mood, his eyes conveying wisdom and strength rather than cruelty.

“One more floor to the attic,” Allison said. “If you’ll—”

“I’m curious about this painting,” he interrupted.

“It’s Beast Bradley. I don’t really know why the painting’s in here. Bradley took over the master bedroom while he was in residence at the house.”

“This is a nice painting of him.”

“I’m sure he had friends.”

“It’s interesting that the foundation chose to keep the painting here, since he moved into the master bedroom,” Tyler commented.

“The house was owned by the family until it was turned into a nonprofit institution,” Allison said. “That’s where the painting was. The board determined to keep everything as it was, getting rid of modern additions and buying a few authentic pieces to bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”

“Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from his voice.

A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.

Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed the door was usually locked, and he was right.

“The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison explained.

He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.

Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special events and other paraphernalia.

“My God!” Allison breathed.

Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here, but you never know.”

Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost buster.

“They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.

“Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period dress drifting in a bell around her.

* * *

It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew headlines across the country.

He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.

Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.

As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her. After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived again.

She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures. She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and giving and…

Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it. She’d claimed that his death had to be an accident. And yet…

Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.

The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when one of the officers had driven her home.

She wished she could’ve slept the entire day, and then thought she should just be grateful she hadn’t had horrible dreams, considering how Julian had looked....

A shower seemed in order, although she’d taken one the night before. A psychiatrist would probably tell her she was trying to wash away what she’d seen but she didn’t care. It might make her feel more human. Or at least more awake.

While the water streamed over her, she thought about Julian and let her tears flow. She thought about the many times they’d been ready to smack him for his lack of responsibility or for leaving one of them in the lurch. It didn’t matter. He’d still been a friend. Worse, it was such a ridiculous way to die.

When she’d first found him, after the initial horror and disbelief, she wondered if he’d sat there to play a prank on her, maybe planning to apologize for disappearing. Maybe he’d tell her he’d gotten the gig of a lifetime because he’d taken off that afternoon.

It had never occurred to her that anyone had killed him. His death had looked like a tragic, stupid accident. And that was terrible enough, but…

Why would anyone kill Julian Mitchell, and why would that person go up to the attic and trash everything there?

And how had it happened with her and Jason in the house, not to mention the thirty or so people in their tour groups?

She’d barely dressed and her hair was still dripping when her doorbell rang. She cringed, not wanting to see anyone, but curiosity got the better of her and she walked to the door to look through the peephole.

It was the Texas ghost buster.

She watched him as she ignored the buzzer. He rang again.

He didn’t go away.

She considered it bizarre that the police had called in the FBI—and that they’d called in this unit. Allison had to admit she didn’t know that much about the FBI or the “Krewe of Hunters,” but she’d checked the internet when she first met Adam Harrison and read that they were a special unit sent in when circumstances were unusual. Unusual meant that something paranormal might be going on, or seemed to be going on, and it appalled Allison that a historic property like the Tarleton-Dandridge House could be turned into a supernatural oddity. Of course, the ghost tours in the city loved the house and the tales that went with it, but those tours were for fun. And that kind of fun was great as long as it didn’t detract from the real wonders of Philadelphia.

All the information she could find about Adam—or his Krewes—seemed to have plenty of read-between-the-lines suggestions that there was something out of the ordinary about them. From what she could gather, the Krewes were well acquainted with the paranormal and made use of strange communications in solving crimes. No way could she buy into that!

Peering out at Tyler Montague seemed to make it all the more ludicrous. He looked as if he should be in a barbarian movie; he was tall as a house and built with pure, lean muscle. How could such a man believe in ghosts?

He had waited a respectable amount of time. He rang the bell again.

With a sigh, Allison threw the door open. “What?” she demanded.

“I need your help.”

She turned and walked back through her house toward the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area. “With what? Do you need a cup of coffee? That I have. Do you want to know about the Tarleton ghosts? Can’t help you there. I’ve never seen them. Oh, and I suppose I should mention this—I don’t believe they exist. We have a shot at life, then we die. Period. I believe in God as an entity seen by different people in different ways, but I don’t think He has an open-door policy in heaven, saying, Hey, come and go as you please. But coffee? I’ve got that.”

“I could use a cup,” he said mildly, following her inside and closing the door. He walked to the counter as she placed another pod in her coffeemaker. She turned to look at him, hoping—to her surprise—that her house was clean and neat. She had the feeling that, ghost hunter or no, he was observant and perhaps judging her character through her living space.

“Things might be a bit messy,” she said, sweeping out an arm that indicated the sections of newspaper strewn on the table and her shoes and cape thrown on a chair. “Sorry. Long night.”

“Looks pretty good to me,” he commented.

“What do you like in your coffee? Oh, and what are you doing here?”

“I told you. I need your help.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about the coffee. What do you want in it?”

“Just black, thanks.”

“Of course. A fed from Texas. Black coffee.” She handed him the cup, asking, “What do you need from me?”

“Information about the people you work with.”

“Everyone fills out an extensive form in order to work at the house, and then has to pass an oral exam. Guides have to know what they’re doing. Believe it or not, the place gets a lot of applications. When the board hires, they want people who not only have a good grasp of history, but really love it. So they ask personal questions, as well.”

“I’m aware of all that. What I want to hear is more about what you’ve seen. What you, personally, have observed.”

She paused, eyes narrowing. “You think one of my coworkers had something to do with this?”

“I don’t think Julian Mitchell went crazy, trashed his workplace, then sat down and killed himself on a bayonet—no.”

Allison shook her head. “I’ve been through it and through it, with you and with the cops. I don’t know what else I could possibly tell you.”

“Start with your day,” he told her. “Tell me about it again.”

She sighed. “It was pretty much like any other day,” she said.

He took a sip of his coffee, smiling. “I was looking for a little more detail than that. Were any of the tours unusual? Did anything stand out to you?”

“Yes, I found the body of a friend in the study,” she said curtly.

Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. He excused himself and answered it, frowning as he listened.

Allison felt a chill; she knew it had something to do with whatever was being said.

A moment later he hung up. “You took a family with two boys, Todd and Jimmy, on your last tour.”

She nodded. “Yes, why?”

“Their father’s in the hospital. He woke up in the middle of the night, screamed and fell into a coma. One of the kids was so hysterical when they reached the hospital that someone on staff called the police.”

“What? Why? That’s terrible, but—”

“The boy, Todd, wants to talk to you. He said that you’d understand. According to Todd, a ghost did follow them home.”


3

The hospital was cold. Outside, the late-summer heat was beginning to wane and the day was still beautiful, but inside the hospital, Allison shivered against the chill that seeped into her bones.

She didn’t want to be there; she wanted to run away. But Todd wanted to see her because for some reason he believed she could help.

And she wanted to help.

The two boys were seated in an otherwise empty waiting area. Todd’s mother was in with his father, and an attractive woman of about forty was sitting with the boys. Seeing Allison, Todd leaped to his feet and came running over to her. She was startled when he threw his arms around her but she comforted the boy, embracing him and stroking his hair.

“He followed us home! He followed us home. That awful man followed us home. The beast—Beast Bradley. He killed your friend and he made my father sick!” Todd said, his words muffled.

Allison looked helplessly at the woman in the room and then at Tyler Montague.

“Todd,” she said gently. “Ghosts can’t do that. Really. They’re just…inventions, something we make up in our own minds. Your father—” She paused, praying this wasn’t a lie. “Your father’s going to be fine. You’re in an exceptionally good hospital and the doctors will find out what’s wrong with him.”

The woman who was with the boys had risen and come toward her, a hand extended. “You must be Allison Leigh. I’m Rose Litton, Todd and Jimmy’s aunt. I’m sorry you’ve been asked down here. I know you’re dealing with your own loss. But Todd was nearly hysterical and insisted that he see you.”

“It’s all right. It’s quite all right,” Allison assured her. But it wasn’t. She didn’t know how to make this better for Todd.

She could only be glad that—as far as she knew—the ransacking of the attic’s office space had not been divulged to the media.

“What do the doctors say?” Tyler was asking.

“So far they can’t identify the physiological cause,” Rose Litton said. “Not yet, at any rate, but they’re doing a lot of tests. Early this morning, while he was still in bed at the hotel, Artie jerked up, screamed—and fell into a coma. It was as if he saw something in his sleep…or in his dreams. They believe he might have ingested some kind of hallucinogenic, which made him see something that terrified him, although they can’t tell what it is or how this might have happened. They just don’t know.”

Allison touched Todd’s chin to get him to look up at her. “The doctors here are the best. They’ll find out what’s wrong with your father,” she promised again.

“Who are you?” Rose Litton asked, frowning at Tyler. “Forgive me—that’s rude. I just knew the nurse had called the police station, asking about a way for Todd to see Ms. Leigh.”

“Not rude at all,” Tyler said, reaching into his jacket and producing his credentials.

“Special Agent?” Rose Litton read, her voice worried.

“I’m here to discover what went on at the house,” he told her. “Please, don’t be alarmed. We don’t suspect any kind of true toxin. Allison would be ill, too, if there had been, and so could a hundred-plus other people who were in the house yesterday. I’m not a doctor, but I do know there are many reasons for a coma, and the doctors here will get to the root of it.” He hunkered down. “Did you see what happened? Perhaps, earlier, your father knocked his head? Was he agitated, stressed out about anything?”

Todd shook his head. Jimmy stood and came over to join them. “No, my dad doesn’t get stressed,” Jimmy said. “He’s a good guy. He yells sometimes, but not much. We had fun after we left the house. We went to a tavern for supper and Dad was okay when we went to bed.”

Todd nodded vigorously. “Yeah, he was fine. He let us watch TV for a while in the hotel. Then we fell asleep and woke up because Dad screamed. He just screamed in the middle of the night. We were scared ’cause Dad never screams and suddenly he did.” He looked proud for a minute. “My dad is really brave. It had to be something awful, a monster like Beast Bradley, to make my dad scream like that.”

“Thank you,” Tyler said gravely. He stood again. “You know, sometimes we have monsters in our minds, in our imaginations. I’ll go speak with one of the docs,” he said. “In the meantime, you shouldn’t worry.” He smiled at Rose and set his hand on Todd’s head. “Excuse me. I’ll be back.”

He left them, and Allison felt more awkward than ever.

She tried to smile at Rose. “It’s great that you could be here.”

“I’m only over in Hershey,” Rose said. “Not far at all. And I’m glad to be with the boys.” Her expression was pained, her eyes on Allison. Her silence seemed to say a lot.

I don’t know what’s the matter with Todd. He’s convinced it’s something from the Tarleton-Dandridge House. I hope you can reassure him….

The realization that this might have been a bad time to bother Allison seemed to come back to her.

“I really am so sorry!” Rose said. “You lost someone last night. Tragically. It’s…it’s all over the news. And they’re making it sound—” she glanced at the boys “—like a…well, paranormal event.”

Allison nodded. “Of course. People love ghost stories.”

“There is a ghost,” Todd insisted.

Jimmy gasped. “We saw that a tour guide died at the house. It was on the TV news when we got back. My parents were worried. They hoped it wasn’t you!” he told Allison. “Dad turned the news off. He says we’ll get to know enough about the real world when we’re older.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad it wasn’t you, but I’m sorry about your friend.”

Todd took her hand and squeezed it. They were sorry, but Julian was an abstraction to them, a news story, while their father was lying here in a no-man’s-land. “Yeah, we’re really sorry,” he said.

“Thank you. I’m the one who found him, and it was heartbreaking for me. I’m going to miss him very much. But, Todd, like I was telling you, bad things just happen sometimes, even to good people. Listen, you have to trust the doctors here, and you can’t get upset about the house or believe you have a ghost with you. Okay?”

He looked at her stubbornly. “The ghost likes you. You can talk to him. You can get him to leave my dad alone.”

As Allison struggled for speech, Rose Litton shrugged apologetically.

“All of us, every one of us, will do whatever we can for your dad, okay, Todd?” Allison finally said.

Todd whispered a solemn “Thank you.”

A moment later, Tyler returned. He offered Todd an encouraging smile. “They’ll keep at it, young man. Meanwhile, you stay calm and help your mom and little brother.”

Todd nodded. He studied Tyler, and then apparently decided to trust him.

“I will. I’m going to help my mom and my family,” Todd said. “Please, help her, though,” he said, glancing over at Allison. “The ghost likes her.”

Rose moved closer to Allison. “I am so sorry,” she said again. “He was just crying and going crazy, and the idea that you might talk to him was the only thing that worked.”

“We’ll do everything we can from our end, Todd,” Tyler said.

Allison noticed that the boy seemed to respond to him. He nodded. “I can reach you if I need to, right?”

“We’ll be here,” Tyler promised firmly. “I’ll even give you my personal cell number. You can call me anytime.”

Todd gestured at Allison. “She doesn’t understand,” he said. “But she can help us, and you can help her. Please?”

“I’ll do whatever I can, buddy.”

He wrote down his cell number and handed it to the boy, then took Allison’s arm to lead her from the hospital. She steeled herself not to wrench her arm out of his grasp.

When they exited, she moved away from him. “That was wrong,” she told him.

“What was?”

“You made that poor boy think we could help him by convincing a ghost to leave his dad alone!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you believe they exist!”

They’d reached his car. He leaned against the roof, looking over at her as she waited by the passenger door.

“I went in and spoke with Mr. Dixon’s doctors. There is absolutely nothing physiological causing his problem—nothing they can discover. Of course, they’re still testing. And he may come out of it himself. One of the theories his primary physician has is that he put himself in the coma to avoid some horrible fact or illusion he’d seen in his own mind. Whether you want to believe I’m a quack or not, you have to admit that the power of the human mind can be incredible. Maybe if we look into this and find something to say to the kid, the family or even Mr. Dixon himself, we can reverse the situation.”

“If we can find something?”

“You know the history and the house better than anyone else.”

Allison lowered her eyes, remembering the way she’d felt when Todd was in the house yesterday, so convinced that something evil was still alive there.

She looked back at Tyler. “I’m an academic. I believe in the power of men and women to do good or evil. I don’t believe in spirits.”

“But you believe in history?”

“Of course. You can’t not believe in history,” she said.

“Ah, but what about the famous saying: History is written by the victors. And sometimes the victors might exaggerate or lie or leave things out. Sometimes history has to be rewritten. It isn’t an unchanging, monolithic entity. Attitudes change, and they change history. So do new facts as they emerge.”

Allison sighed, wondering how the granite Texan could be so ethereal in his statements.

“History didn’t kill Julian Mitchell,” she said. “Or put Mr. Dixon in a coma.”

“Belief is everything,” he countered. “And, Allison, I do believe it’s obvious that something is going on. Even if by some remarkable chance Julian accidentally killed himself or just decided, Hmm, let me think of a really gruesome way to kill myself, it still wouldn’t explain what happened in the attic.”

“Maybe Julian trashed the attic.”

“Why would he have done that?”

“I don’t know! Why would he have sat down with his rifle—and then leaned his head down on the blade?” she asked wearily.

“Those are things we have to know. Other people could die,” Tyler said.

“You mean Mr. Dixon. He wasn’t at the house when he went into a coma.”

“No. But he’d been at the house, and you found a friend dead there a matter of hours earlier. Dixon saw the news about Julian’s death before going to sleep.”

“So, he dreamed a ghost had followed him home and it was so real and frightening to his sleeping mind that he slipped into another realm,” Allison said. “I don’t know the answers to any of it. I just know that it’s real and horrible and I’m so tired I can’t think. Will you take me home, please?” she asked. “I’d just like to be alone.”

He looked over the top of the car at her and Allison saw that his gaze was filled with disappointment. Of course. He wasn’t going to get what he wanted. But it was more than that; it was disappointment in her, and somehow that was disturbing.

“Certainly. I’ll take you right home.”

Allison had no idea why his reaction bothered her. It just did.

“I really need some time!” she said, almost pleading. “Julian is dead. Not in a coma. There’s no coming back from that.”

“I completely understand. Really.”

She slid into the passenger seat. He was silent as they drove and she watched him, feeling a clash of emotions. Life had become so painful and intense overnight. It was still hard to fathom that Julian was dead. She was still tired from last night. She’d discovered the body of her friend. Then she’d dealt—for the first time in her life—with the police, and with crime scene techs trying to find out what she’d touched and what she hadn’t. Later Adam Harrison and this man had shown up… And today she’d spent time with a heartbroken child. She was mentally and physically exhausted, and dismayed because she was disappointing a stranger. And now, she was staring at that stranger, wondering how someone with such a strong jawline and intense eyes, such a tall, powerful build and compelling presence, could be part of a team of ghost busters.

Yesterday she’d been herself—a teacher who loved history and brought that love to costumed interpretation. She loved her life, and she had good friends, a great family. And this morning…

She looked straight ahead. She wasn’t being selfish. She needed to go home. To speak with her coworkers and friends from the board and— Good Lord! She had to call her parents and let them know she was all right.

He drove to her house and stopped the car. Turning to her, he said quietly, “I’m very sorry about your friend, and truly sorry that you were the one to find him.”

She nodded. “I just need some time,” she said again.

“Call me when you feel you want to get back into it.”

“Of course.”

He was watching her so intently she wondered if she had food on her face.

“You’ll need my number,” he reminded her.

“Oh. Yes.” She gave a deep sigh. “I do want to help the kids. I do want to help you, even though it did look like a horrible accident.” Allison took out her cell phone as she spoke.

“The trashing of the attic wasn’t an accident.” He removed his phone from his pocket. “I’ll dial you,” he said.

He already had her number. Of course. He was an FBI agent.

She clicked on the call and added his number to her phone. Then she realized she’d asked to be taken home and they’d arrived, but she was still sitting in his car.

“I’m not sure what I can do for you,” she told him. “You’re here, Mr. Harrison is here, the police have been through it all. I don’t know what I could contribute.”

“I doubt that anyone is as familiar with the house or its history as you are.” She caught herself studying the color of his eyes. They were a mixture of blue and green, a kind of aqua she’d never seen before. He was a very striking man.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she was staring and that she needed to reply.

“There have been some tragic and terrible incidents at the house, but I don’t think something that happened years ago could have any bearing on what happened yesterday.”

He shrugged, smiling wryly. “That’s what we’ll find out.” He exited the car and walked around to open her door.

She remembered that she was supposed to get out.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“Are you sure you’ll be right alone?”

“Yes, thanks. We’ll, um, be in touch.”

“Thank you,” he said with a nod.

Awkwardly, she started up her front walk. She knew he was watching her, and when she fit her key into the door, she turned around to wave. He waved back, then got into his car and eased out onto the street.

Inside the house, she closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She’d wanted to be alone.

Now she didn’t.

But she walked in and dug out her phone before tossing her purse on the sofa and sitting down next to it. She had to start returning calls.

But even as she decided that she had to call her mother first and then the board and her coworkers, the silence in the house seemed to weigh down on her. She got up and turned on the television. A news station was playing, with a reporter standing in front of the hospital. Mr. Dixon’s strange fall into a coma was being added to the tragic news about musician and tour guide Julian Mitchell.

She changed the channel. The speculation on the “evil” within the house on news stations struck her as overkill.

With a comedy repeat keeping her company, she looked at all the calls she’d ignored while she was with Tyler Montague. She called her parents, who’d gone to their home in Arizona for a few weeks, and made a point of being calm and sad and completely in control. As much as she adored her mom and dad, she didn’t want them coming back here because they were worried about her.

They’d met Julian a few times and offered their condolences, but when they questioned her safety, she made it sound as if the media were going wild—which they were—and described what had happened as a tragic accident. She assured her mother that as a Revolution-era woman or even as Lucy Tarleton, she didn’t carry a musket with a bayonet.

Next she spoke to Nathan Pierson. She told him she was fine, and he promised he’d be there for anything she needed with the police or the house. He’d talk to the rest of the board, too. She didn’t have to call anyone else, he said; she should just relax.

Nathan was the easiest member of board to deal with. He was a good-looking man who had never married. She wasn’t close enough to ask him if there was a long-lost love for whom he pined, but if so, it didn’t seem to affect his dating life. At various functions, she’d seen him with different women, all of them beautiful and elegant. He was unfailingly polite and courteous to her. Sometimes he teased her, claiming that he was waiting for her to notice him and ignore the age discrepancy; he teased a lot of people, though, and he had a way of making his words sound like a compliment rather than licentious.

He was the solid rock of the board, in Allison’s opinion. Ethan Oxford was like a distant grandfather, Sarah was like the family old-maid aunt—even though she’d been married. She was high-strung. And Cherry was…Cherry. She always considered herself a cut above the rest of the world.

Allison was grateful that Nathan was going to speak with the other board members, but she did have to call Jason Lawrence and Annette Fanning.

Jason still seemed stunned by the whole thing. She told him about the attic but said they were keeping that information from the media.

He, too, wanted to make sure she was okay.

After that she called Annette.

Annette was smart and fun and usually logical, so Allison was shocked by the tremor in her friend’s voice and the view she seemed to be taking of the situation.

“It’s not surprising, is it? Oh, Allison, I thank God for that root canal, and I never thought I’d say that. I wonder what happened. Did Julian freak out? One toke too many? But he’s never been out of it at work. That’s just the heavy-metal image he likes to portray. It’s the house, Allison. It terrifies me! I can always feel it when I’m there, like…like the house itself is breathing. I mean, when you’re out on the street, the windows seem like eyes, watching you. Maybe so much evil did happen there and it continues, on and on. Like something malevolent that waits and—”

“Annette! No! The house is a pile of brick and wood and stone. It’s a house. Horrible things take place everywhere. We go through life grateful when they don’t happen to us, and either sad or broken when they do.”

“Well, I for one am glad they’re closing it down. No, wait—do we get unemployment or anything? I’m out of a job! I don’t think they’ll be able to pay us—there won’t be any money coming into the house without the tours.”

“We’re not out of work, Annette. They’re closing it temporarily for an investigation. I’m sure they’ll provide us with some kind of compensation.”

“The house needs an exorcism!”

“No, Annette, it doesn’t. The house isn’t possessed. Or evil. And if the house could feel anything, it would be grateful to us for keeping it alive. Annette—”

“Ohhhhh,” Annette broke in. “You have another job. I don’t. In fact, you have a cool job, a real job. You’re a professor.”

“Annette, you do have a real job. The house will open again. It’ll just be closed for a few weeks. They’ll shore up the alarm system, and we’ll be bombarded when we reopen because people are ghoulish and they’ll want to stare at the place where Julian died. Besides, you work at the tavern as a singing waitress sometimes.”

“Yeah, thank God! I was there last night. I went for a drink after my root canal and to hang with some of my friends. I can ask for a few more nights.”

“The house won’t be closed that long.”

“Are you alone? Oh! You’re not still at the police station, are you?”

“No.”

“I saw some government guy on the news—not an interview, just a shot of him talking to the police. The U.S. government is in on this, Allison. It’s scary, scary. But, hey, have you met him? My God, he’s gorgeous! Whoops, excuse me, Barrie heard that. Barrie, he’s not as gorgeous as you, just, um, pretty gorgeous!”

“Annette, pay attention. Those guys are here because of Adam Harrison. You know, the nice elderly gentleman who’s been to a few functions at the house.”

“I remember him. Maybe there is going to be an exorcism! I heard that his people look into strange stuff. Like paranormal events.”

“Annette, if Barrie’s there and has the day off, please go and spend some time with him.”

“What kind of friend do you think I am? I’ll be right there—”

“No, no, please! I’m fine by myself. I’m going to try to get some rest. Okay?”

Annette was silent. “I’m not sure you should be alone.”

“Annette, I’m fine. I promise. I’m going to curl up on the couch and try to doze off.”

“Call if you need me, Ally. I can be there in five minutes.”

“I will,” Allison said. “Thanks.”

She was able to hang up at last. Setting the phone down, she rose and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She really hoped she could doze off for a while, and hot tea and an inane comedy on TV should help her quell some of the thoughts and images racing through her mind.

She loved her new pod machine; a cup of English Breakfast tea brewed as swiftly as a cup of coffee. Mug in hand, she left the kitchen and came around the counter—and froze.

She wasn’t alone in the house. There was someone sitting in the chair by the sofa.

A dark-haired young man in Colonial dress.

It was Julian Mitchell.

She blinked.

He was still there.

The cup fell from her hand. She heard it shatter on the tile floor.

Then she followed it down. She was vaguely aware that a few body parts hurt but not for long.

Mercifully, the world went black as she passed out cold.


4

Tyler stood in the attic of the Tarleton-Dandridge House looking at the disarray.

Someone had been searching—for what?

He wanted to straighten up the room; it was far easier to figure out what was missing when everything else was in the right place. He’d need to involve others with that, which he didn’t want to do quite yet. He’d had offers from the board to come in and help, but he’d turned them down. He’d actually lied to Nathan Pierson, telling him he preferred to wait until he was sure the police were finished with their forensics before bringing anyone else in.

The police were finished. And after speaking with Detective Jenson, he knew they weren’t expecting to find anything useful, unless by some unlikely chance they were to lift foreign prints—those not associated with the four guides or the board members, whose prints they’d already taken. If they were really lucky, they’d come up with prints belonging to someone with a criminal record.

He wanted to work with Allison Leigh for the obvious reasons. She was the one who’d found the body and who knew this house backward and forward, along with the history. He’d gone through the biographies and résumés of the employees and the board, and there was no one better qualified to help him than Allison. She was in denial right now; he assumed that would change.

So far, although he had a sense of being watched in the house, Tyler hadn’t seen a single movement, felt a brush of cold air or even heard an old board creak.

The house was waiting—or those within it were. Waiting and watching.

He left the attic and walked back down to the second floor, taking a few minutes to go into every room. He’d been glad to hear from Nathan Pierson that there was no plan by the board to give up the house. It was on the national historic register, of course, so there was virtually no threat that it would be bulldozed. Meticulously restored, the Tarleton-Dandridge House was one of the finest examples of early Americana he’d ever seen. It would be a shame if it was closed to the public to become the offices of an accounting agency or a bank.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look at the painting of Beast Bradley.

Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in youth.

Interesting.

Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many young women, dressed as Lucy, might look like the long-gone heroine.

Tyler stood very still, allowing himself to feel the house.

Again he experienced the sensation of being watched, but there were no sounds from the old place, nor did he see anything or notice any drafts.

He headed down to the study where he’d left his briefcase with his computer and the records Adam had arranged for him to receive.

They recorded many instances of normal life and death—many births had taken place in the house, although sadly two of the mothers had died in childbirth. A number of people had died in their beds of natural causes, one Dandridge at the grand old age of a hundred and five.

During the War of 1812, Sophia Tarleton-Dandridge and her husband had owned the house; they’d taken in a wounded soldier and he had passed away. He was buried with the family in the graveyard behind the stables. A family friend had come to the house after the Battle of Gettysburg. He was also buried in the family graveyard.

Sad and tragic deaths due to warfare, Tyler thought. Not unexpected and not the kind of thing that would produce anything terrible.

But then, Beast Bradley had been the terror that touched the house....

Looking further into the family history, Tyler saw that another death had been that of a young Dandridge girl in 1863. He wondered if she’d been in love with the Civil War soldier who’d died. She’d taken rat poison and killed herself soon after his death.

He shuddered. Hard way to die, rat poison.

And another hard way to die—a bayonet through the chin. He tried to imagine how it had happened. Julian had sat down, his musket held between his legs. He’d leaned forward and set the soft flesh behind his jawbone on the blade of the bayonet. Then he’d lowered his head with enough force for the blade to go through that soft flesh and his throat? It seemed almost impossible.

Unless he’d been helped.

Fascinating though the historical events were, Tyler was more interested in Julian’s death and the deaths of people who had died closer to the present. There’d been several of those, starting in the late 1970s.

One of the docents, Bill Hall, had been found at the foot of the staircase. While closing up at night, he’d apparently tripped and fallen down the stairs, landing at an angle that had snapped his neck.

Eight years ago, a college student, Sam Daily, had told friends he was going to break into a historic house and rearrange a few items as a joke. It hadn’t gone so well; he’d tried to dismantle the alarm and a wire had shorted out, sending electric volts shooting through him. He’d been discovered on the ground near the back door the following morning.

Tragically the joke had been on him.

Just three years ago, another of the older docents or tour guides, Angela Wilson, had been found dead in Tarleton’s study. She’d been sitting in the same chair, in the same position, as Julian Mitchell. She had died of a massive heart attack.

One death from a fall, one from electrocution and one from what might well be a perfectly natural cause for someone of Angela’s age, a heart attack.

And now a man dead of a bayonet shoved through his throat—as if he’d set his own chin atop it for the blade to run through.

Tyler drummed his fingers on the desk.

He was here because of Adam Harrison. Adam had a love of and connection to various historic properties. Technically, the Krewes were Adam’s teams, so they went where Adam Harrison requested they go. Everything that had happened here could have been natural or accidental.

But Adam had a knack of knowing when things weren’t right.

Add in the trashing of the small office in the attic….

Someone had been looking for something. What? And why?

And how did any of it relate to the fact that Artie Dixon was in a coma?

Tyler pulled out his cell phone and called Logan Raintree, one of his best friends, a fellow Ranger at one time, and now the head of their unit.

“Is it something—or nothing?” Logan asked. “Do you need the rest of the Krewe?”

“Something,” Tyler said. “And yes. I’d like you to come here.”

“Any idea as to what’s going on?”

“Nope. But the house has been closed down for the interim. I think we should set up here.”

“We’ll be in tomorrow night,” Logan promised him.

Tyler hung up and put through another call. When he reached Adam Harrison, he asked about keys to the attic.

“The board members all have a key, and so does Allison. There’s also a key in the small pantry or storage room, where the employees have their lockers and keep their street clothing. It’s always hung on a peg there.”

“Is the pantry locked during the day?” Tyler asked.

“No, not from what I understand. The employees slip in and out when they have a break or need to get to their own belongings. No member of the public goes into the house without a docent or tour guide, and they’ve never had trouble before.”

“I’ll see if that key is still in place, but a lot of people have keys. They could have been used—or copied at a previous date.”

“How are you doing?”

“I lost my guide,” Tyler told him.

“I can call someone else.”

Tyler hesitated. Maybe that was the right thing to do. Bring in someone who hadn’t discovered a dead friend at the house. Someone who wasn’t derisive of the investigation.

But he realized he didn’t want anyone else.

And as far as her attitude was concerned… It didn’t matter if you believed the world was round or not, because it was round regardless of what you believed.

Eventually, Allison would accept the fact that something existed in the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

And as Todd had suggested, it liked her.

“Thanks, Adam. I’ll move along on my own for a bit, see if Ms. Leigh begins to show some interest. I’m sure her heart is in the right place. I’ll give her more time. The rest of the team will be in tomorrow night, and we’ll see where we are then.”

Adam agreed with him and they hung up. Tyler immediately went to the guides’ room; the key hung on a peg there, so access to the attic was ridiculously easy. He returned to the study, picking up the folders that held information on the board members. Pausing, he looked at the painting of Beast Bradley.

He’d been perceived so differently by the two artists.

He stood, fascinated by the painting, and walked over to it. A Plexiglas cover protected it and he saw that, apparently from the time it had been hung, it had resided on that wall to avoid direct sunlight.

He tried to read the signature of the artist and was surprised to realize that the name was T. Dandridge. He squinted to find the date; the painting had been done in 1781. The year the Colonies had finally achieved their independence.

He smiled. Yes, the artist of this particular likeness had truly loathed his subject.

Tyler left the study and went up the stairs, back to Lucy Tarleton’s room, and looked at the painting there. The signature appeared to be Josiah Bell. The work was dated 1777.

Thoughtful, Tyler returned to the study once more. A truism in life was that everyone perceived others in their own way. Where one person saw kindness in someone, another saw weakness. Where one saw cruelty, another saw strength.

Perception. Always nine-tenths of reality.

He smiled. Sadly, he was certain, Allison Leigh saw him as an oversize quack. A pretentious hick.

Amused, he considered his own perceptions of her. A woman with a lot of pride and yet humility. A lover of truth and honor, but stubborn and determined. Stunning with her pitch-dark hair and bright blue eyes, but dismissive of her looks. The woman was a scholar, after all, and took her work seriously.

He hoped she’d come around. There was just something about her—something in the helpless look she’d given Todd, something that was kind and empathetic.

And despite the situation—despite her exhausted, annoyed and bewildered behavior toward him—he still found her…sensual.

The ghost likes her, Todd had said. Yes, sometimes ghosts watched a person, and just as the living did, they knew who they liked—and who they didn’t.

He stared at the painting. It didn’t move, but Todd was right. The eyes had been well-painted, giving the illusion that the painting could watch someone moving about the room.

He leaned back in his chair. “I am here,” he said softly.

He was greeted by silence. There were secrets in this house, but so far, the ghostly inhabitants were guarding those secrets.

Some of his coworkers had known from the time they were children that they had an extra sense, whether they saw it as a gift or a curse. They’d had grandparents or friends who’d appeared at their own funerals or talked to them in the middle of the night, or even showed up in other places.

Tyler, however, had no clue he had any unusual abilities until he’d done a stint in the service and then come home to become a Texas Ranger. He’d loved stories about the Rangers all his life; becoming a Ranger had been a dream. It was when he’d been a Ranger for a year that he’d first experienced the unusual. The situation had been especially poignant. Drug runners had kidnapped their mule’s younger sister. The older sister had become a heroin addict, and when she hadn’t been able to produce the money they’d wanted quickly enough, they’d killed her with an overdose. The younger sister had been left to rot at the bottom of a cistern out on the dusty Texas plain. A desperate, state-wide search had been instigated to find the seventeen-year-old. Tyler was standing in the middle of the sprawling ranch house where the drug runners were based when the older sister, pathetic, shaking and twitching, had appeared to him, begging him to help.

He thought he’d been drinking too much; he tried to tell himself that he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. She followed him. She was next to him even when he was with other officers. She didn’t know where her sister was, but he had to help her, she said.

He was trying. He was trying so damned hard.

He stayed on his shift for several extra hours, searching the house, the barn, the stables, everywhere. He headed back to a bar for the night and discovered the dead woman on the stool next to him. He went home and she invaded his bedroom.

The next morning he got up and joined the search again, quizzing his ghost relentlessly about the property.

In the end, he found the younger sister in the cistern. He found her alive—shaken and dehydrated, but alive. His crying, grateful ghost left him, and for months afterward, he wondered if the pressure of the case hadn’t made him delusional.

Then he’d walked into his office one day to see an old man sitting by his desk. No one else saw this old man, who wanted Tyler to find his murderer. Eventually he did.

The poor guy’s son-in-law had figured he wasn’t leaving the world soon enough and had helped him meet his Maker.

For a long time, he’d thought he was crazy. But as he and Logan Raintree worked together, they each learned that the other saw unusual things. That they both did. When Logan was approached by Jackson Crow, head of the first Krewe, and then Tyler was asked to join, as well, he felt it was the right thing to do. And it had been. They’d solved cases. Saved lives.

And they uncovered the truth.

He’d also learned that not all ghosts walked over to a man and started up a conversation. Some chose to speak only to certain people.

Just like the living did.

He shook off his memories and returned to the information on the four board members who ran the private Old Philly History Corporation.

Nathan Pierson, forty-five, real estate broker by day, financially comfortable with excellent stock investments.

Sarah Vining, fifty-one, philanthropist, wealthy due to an oil inheritance.

Cherry Addison, forty-three, a direct descendent of the Tarleton-Dandridge family on the maternal side, a former model and sometime actress with family money. Married to an artist of increasing renown.

Ethan Oxford, seventy-two, lawyer and politician.

He needed to meet them all. The best way to do that might be to call an impromptu board meeting.

Tyler realized he wasn’t giving the attention he should to the folders. He rose and stretched. As he did, he thought he heard something from the rear of the house.

He left the study, looking at the rooms and the elegant entry as he walked to the front door. Nothing seemed to have changed. He strode through the rooms and then to the back door, unlocking it to step outside.

The moon was waning, but it still seemed to be full. And beneath that light, in the middle of the yard between the kitchen and the stables, he saw a horse. A majestic animal, huge, black and sleek.

He walked over to the horse and the animal gazed at him. He felt a cold sensation as a large black head nuzzled his chest. He stroked the cool air, seeing the animal’s dark eyes and fine brow.

“Hey, fellow, still pounding the beat, eh?” he murmured.

The horse whinnied but couldn’t answer any questions for him. A ghost horse couldn’t speak any more than a living one could. But he was encouraged. If the horse was here, the house itself was opening to him.

He heard another sound—whining. He glanced down. There was a dog by his feet. a hound, large and tawny in color, with huge brown eyes that looked up at him trustingly. He hunkered down to touch the dog, feeling air, but aware that the hound knew it was being stroked. “Thank you, boy. Thank you for coming to me,” he said softly. “If I can help, I will.”

He was so involved with visions of the family creatures that he was startled when his phone rang.

“Montague,” he said quickly, grinning to himself. The ghost hound had pushed him—nothing but a blast of air or imagination, but it had almost knocked him over.

“Agent Montague, it’s Allison Leigh. I’ve, uh, had a nap. If you want to talk, I’m willing.”

“I’ll be right by to get you,” he said.

* * *

Allison had managed to convince herself that she was totally sane; she was just under intense pressure.

And she was going to do the sane and intelligent thing. See a shrink.

Annette Fanning sat on a stool at the counter, looking at her with concern.

She was grateful to Annette. Her friend had arrived just as she’d come to, and when she’d let Annette in and continued to run through her house searching for a sign that someone had been there, Annette had kept quiet and helped. Now, she stared at Allison.

“You’re making more tea? What you need is a good shot,” Annette told her sagely. “And if you won’t have one, I will. You’d barely gotten off the floor when I got here. You could have hurt yourself! I still don’t understand what happened. You saw someone in your house, or you think you saw someone?”

“I don’t think anyone was really here. I’m sure I’m just mourning Julian, which is something I wasn’t able to do before. I mean, I found him, and then the rest of the night I was with the cops and at the station and back at the house, and then we found the office trashed....”

“You need a good shot of whiskey,” Annette said again, getting up and going to the cabinet.

“I don’t want any whiskey. I just called that agent and said I’d go out with him.”

“Now that’s a plan. He’s really hot-looking, Allison.”

Allison frowned at her. “I don’t mean go out in that sense. I’m going to answer questions for him and tell him about people. It’s not a date.”

“That’s a pity,” Annette said. She was tiny and blonde and struggled to reach the bottle shoved at the back of the cabinet. “You should get a real life, you know. You can’t spend your life in the past.”

“I don’t spend my life in the past,” Allison said, getting the bottle for her. “And I don’t want a shot, really.”

“I do—really!” Annette accepted the whiskey bottle and poured herself a measure. “You haven’t gone out since you were dating Peter Aubrey, right? I thought you two were great together.”

“When he was clean, we were great. I cared about Pete and it was fun being with him. But I didn’t have the power to change him. I picked him up from various gigs three times when his friends called to say he’d passed out and needed help. And I went back to him twice when he said he’d kill himself if I left him. I learned. It has nothing to do with me—he has to find a way to face his demons. I went to Narcotics Anonymous and learned that I can’t change him. Only he can do that. If he ever gets cleaned up, goes into rehab and is serious about it, I’ll consider seeing him again,” Allison told her. “I’m not antisocial. I’m not lonely. And now is not the time to worry about my social life. Julian is dead, Annette, and the house is in the middle of some investigation....” She let her voice fade away; Annette’s big brown eyes were moist again.

“I still can’t believe it,” Annette said. “I can’t believe that Julian’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, Annette, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, I know.” She let out a long sigh. “I called Nathan to find out if the board knew anything about funeral arrangements but no one’s heard anything. The family wants the body shipped back to Indiana, but the morgue isn’t going to release him until…until whatever, I don’t know. There are still tests being done, I guess. Do you think he’d been drinking or that he was high or something? This is all so mysterious. Oh! Nathan did say he’d make sure we have a memorial in the next few weeks, no matter what. Julian had a lot of fans in the city.”




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