Max shrugged. “I try to be. I certainly hope I never led her to believe there was anything more than friendship between us. Maybe she just embellished things in her mind.” He let out a long breath. “First things first. Just talk to her. Then we can try to deal with it if it’s true.”

  Before I could reply, the doorbell rang. And then it rang two more times, as if whoever was on the other side had something urgent in mind. Or they were just plain rude.

  “Guess I’d better get that.” Max headed toward the front door.

  Out of curiosity, I followed him.

  When Max opened the door, a middle-aged man stood before us—a man dressed in heavy, wrinkled, gray clothes. Elephant skin came to mind. Hmm. He looked familiar to me. Oh, yeah. He was the reporter who lived somewhere up the street, the guy who’d wanted to interview me about Volstead Manor, and a guy who could be crowned as a royal pest. He must have heard about my fire.

  “May I help you?” Max asked.

  “I’m here for Ms. Walker.”

  I moved closer to the door. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  The reporter was an odd-looking man, the shape of a refrigerator to be exact. And the scent coming off him wasn’t very cordial—stale cologne combined with a sickly sweet body odor. Not a happy mix.

  The semi-stranger looked me in the eye. “I’m a reporter. I know all things.”

  He said the words, in fact, as if I should know that one profound truth. “Well, if you know all things, then you must already know that I don’t want to talk about my house or the fire.” How would Greely know I was here anyway? He must have been watching me from a parked car, the pompous little mole rat.

  “Excuse me,” Max said to the man, “do I know you?”

  “I’m Jason Greely. I work for Houston Image Magazine.” Greely didn’t attempt to shake Max’s outstretched hand, but instead turned on me. “I found out that you granted one of the local TV stations the right to make a documentary about the history of Volstead Manor.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “But I was here first.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t like your attitude.” I raised my chin. “And in my opinion attitude is everything.”

  A little huffing sound escaped Greely’s lips. He obviously didn’t approve of my response. “And anyway, I’ve had to put the whole project on hold for a few months because of the fire. So, no one has access to Volstead Manor right now.”

  Greely rubbed his scruffy little goatee. “I can’t help but wonder if the fire wasn’t related to the history of your house.”

  I crossed my arms. Boy, this guy was connecting the dots a little too quickly for my comfort. “And what would make you think that?”

  Greely sniffed the air. “I read about your Penumbra Ruby being sold for 1.3 million dollars. Now, that’s some serious cash. And then later I found out that the ruby had been hidden in an underground room that was built for a secret society of women who were bootleggers.” He let out a little snort. “I mean, you just can’t make up that kind of stuff. It’s the kind of thing that can—”

  “That can help promote a reporter’s career.” I wasn’t sure why I was so hard on the guy, but there was something infinitely annoying about that arrogant curl of his lip and that sniffing of the air and the way he kept twitching his palms against his sides like he was wiping something guilty off his hands. I just didn’t feel like I could trust the guy. Not now. Not ever. “I’m really sorry, but as I’ve said before, I’m not interested in you interviewing me.”

  Greely narrowed his heavy-lidded eyes. “That could be a mistake on your part.”

  “What are you saying?” Max crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be a threat? I think enough has been said. It would be a good time for an exit.”

  The reporter didn’t reply, but instead turned to go. Then the man who resembled a refrigerator removed himself from our porch.

  Max shut the door. “You should give his editor a call. That guy seems pretty strange.”

  “He doesn’t really scare me.”

  Max leaned against the living room couch. “Okay, this is how I know you love me.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  “Well, you’re sure not marrying me ’cause you need a man around the house. You’re a rock.”

  “Oh, yeah, Max, I’m a rock all right. The kind that’s so hard you can dissolve it with vinegar.”

  He chuckled. “Bailey, Bailey, my love.”

  I leaned against him, awed at the way we fit together so perfectly—like a phone in its cradle. I decided to lay some cards on the table. “I’ll share something with you that will prove my dependence on you.”

  “Go for it.”

  “I think there’s a chance, just a chance, that the fire was arson.”

  “Really?” Max led me to the couch, and we sat down together. “I want to hear about it,” he said. “What do you mean? And this time, I’m taking you very seriously.”

  “Well, I looked in the fuse box. That is, what was left of it. And there were those old glass fuses, which is okay. But there was something else. There was a burn pattern around the fuses.”

  “A burn pattern? What’s that?”

  “Well, it’s like when you put tarnish cleaner on old silver, you can easily see where the cleaner has been. That’s what oil would look like on metal after a fire.”

  Max leaned forward. “So you think that oil started the fire?”

  “Maybe. Somebody could have taken a small oilcan and squirted a little behind the fuses. That would have caused things to heat up enough to cause a fire.”

  “How in the world do you know this stuff?”

  I shrugged. “Just a mystery I read one time about arson.”

  Max shook his head at me. “You are. . .amazing.”

  “You think so?” I grinned. Then I scrubbed my hands along my jeans, hoping to get warm, since a sudden chill ran through me. “Even though my backyard is a little more secure than it used to be, someone could still get back there if they really wanted to.”

  “There’s pretty easy access to all our backyards, unfortunately.”

  “But then, this is all just a guess. I’m certainly not an arson investigator.”

  Max rested back on the couch but kept his gaze on me. “Well, I know they claimed it was faulty wiring, but considering what you’ve been through with this house, and your track record at being right, I wouldn’t want to rule anything out.” He rubbed his hands together. “So, do you want some help with this?”

  I thought for a moment. “I would like to look through the house once more before Woody G.’s men come. They might wipe away some bit of evidence.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “In fact, I might do that right now while Dedra is taking a long and much needed nap.”

  Max gave me an open-handed gesture. “I could come with you.”

  “Sounds good.” I looked at my watch. “But what about your appointment with the Langtrees?”

  “That’s right. I forgot. We’re going to talk about remodeling their bathrooms. But I can change the meeting time.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m only going to nose around a bit more. I doubt I’ll find anything.”

  Max cocked his head at me. “That doesn’t sound like my Bailey. She always snoops like she means it.”

  I chuckled. “I’m just a little curious. That’s it.” I held up my hand. “I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.” Max gave me a dubious look as he grabbed his keys off the coffee table. “Well, if you find a dead body, you have my cell phone number.”

  7 – Grisly Propensities

  I shook my head at Max. “By the way, Woody G. does a good job, but I wish you were repairing Volstead Manor. It would make my life sooo much easier.”

  “Well, the insurance company is right…conflict of interest.”

  “Right. By the way, I’m looking forward to helping you with your business after we’re married.”

  “And I’m really looking forward to it.” Max picked up his sports jacket off the back of the couch and tossed it over his shoulder. “Okay, I’m out of here. Hey, you could stay and have another cup of coffee if you want to.”

  I turned around and grinned. “I would, but I don’t really want the coffee. . .without the coffee maker.”

  Max leaned over the couch, and we did the thing that engaged couples do when they’re profoundly in love—we laughed and kissed. And then kissed a bit more for good measure.

  Nothing was all that funny, but we were in a pretty good mood, in spite of the fact that my house was burnt and my best friend had just canceled her wedding. After an appreciable number of kisses, Max walked me to the door. I stepped outside into the dry cool air of January. “See you later.”

  Max gave me his now famous two-finger salute. I would have surely gone weak at the knees had I been the type to succumb to such delicate behaviors. I passed Dedra’s house and waved at Magnolia across the street, who was still busy romancing her pansies into violent colors with scandalous doses of blood meal.

  Before I made it up the steps of Volstead Manor, something caught my attention. Vultures again. Funny how they always seemed to love our dead end. I chuckled. This time the buzzards weren’t flying above me; they were congregating right in front of my house. On my lawn. What nerve. Each bird appeared to be equipped with beady eyes, a hooked beak, and claws like tools of torture. Lovely.

  The monsters hopped around in their inky-black feathers and their crimson heads. They were looking totally goth and loving it. The assemblage of birds was greedily—no, cheerfully, in fact—dismembering a rat. At least it looked like it used to be a rat.

  I stopped and watched, disgusted and yet equally spellbound with their nightmarish looks and grisly propensities. I despised turkey vultures.

  Thinking I was becoming like those people who slow down on the freeway when there’s an accident, I shooed the vultures away with a clap of my hands. One of them hovered and then brazenly landed closer to me. My heart lurched for a second, thinking it might like to peck me to death. I backed up. He hopped. In a sudden fit of exasperation, I lunged at him. He flew away. And he took his dark little clan with him. Good riddance. And yet I knew they’d be back later. Vultures were like that.

  Remembering my intentions, I unlocked my front door and made my way into what seemed like the confines of a prison. The electricity was still off, and so the house was consumed by a murky half-light. All was foreign again, as if I were being transported back to that first night of my arrival. The great hall was once again shrouded in a haze of missteps and dark deeds, with mysteries enough to last a lifetime. But why did it have to be my lifetime? The tug-of-war I felt within Volstead Manor made me weary to the bone, as if sometimes my fight were with the house itself.

  Okay, now that was crazy thinking. My house had no heart, no soul. It was neither phantom nor full of breath. A thousand secrets may have passed through its corridors, but it personally could not keep them from me. Or reveal them to me. And yet since the moment of my arrival, I’d been plagued with the sensation of something unsettling. Before Granny died, was she hoping and praying I’d eventually discover all that I’d found? Those questions and many more would always haunt me, since I could no longer talk to her. Granny Minna was in heaven, and all the queries and wishes had gone with her.

  I took in some extra air and instead of heading back to the area of the fuse box, I began to mill around, hoping to discover some other bits of evidence. If no one had access to the inside of my house at the time of the fire, then all the clues would be on the outside. Wouldn’t they? But logic and Volstead Manor had never been on friendly terms, so I did what I felt was right, and merely began to stroll around with a sharp eye.

  Electricity would have been such a help. Oh, well. After whipping out a heavy-duty flashlight I started my quest by looking in the living room. I made my usual snide remarks to the gargoyles. They had no comment, as usual. Nothing was out of place, but then it would help to actually own furniture, so I really could have something out of place.

  I laughed, which echoed a bit. Hopefully, drapes and heavy rugs would eliminate that problem in the future. Then a tiny sweeping noise caught my attention. I flicked off my flashlight and stopped to listen. I stood silent and a little breathless, waiting to hear the sound again.

  8 – Someone’s in the House

  After a few anxious seconds, I relaxed. My imagination had obviously been working overtime. Nothing new there. Volstead Manor was notorious for making groans that sounded human enough to send any sane person screaming out into the street. I’d gotten used to it over the months. Okay, I’m fine now.

  Moving on. Slowly. Nothing in the dining room. All was quiet and empty, although the smell of smoke still hung in the damp air as though it were an entity. I made my way through the French doors into the library. I glanced around, snooping for any shred of anything that might prove that someone out there still wanted to do me harm. Since I’d arrived, it seemed people of that ilk had been busy forming a long line. Perhaps even creating a club.

  Okay, Bailey, focus. To the left was the old fireplace, and to the right were two alcoves with an extension in the middle, which housed the hidden passageway to the cellar. No doors were opened, and the few books left on the shelves appeared untouched. No one had left anything behind.

  I shined my light upward, then down. The faded mural on the ceiling, which depicted dramatic battles as well as pastoral scenes, was as washed-out as ever, and the scuffed wooden floors were still marred. Some work remained to be done, but it was much more important to repair the damage made by the fire and make the house secure again. That way if anyone out there had it in his or her mind to find an easy way into the house with the intent of setting another fire, their efforts would be utterly thwarted.

  I released a groan—the kind that comes from deep within and the kind that acknowledges flawed conclusions. I was fooling myself. God, will I ever be safe again? Would my life ever settle into the uncomplicated routine of family living? Sounded like bliss. Or was a regular life only possible if I were to flee and never return to Volstead Manor? That would certainly be the easy way out.

  In the midst of my reflections, I heard another sound. This time the noise was more like a footfall. Someone’s in the house. Could it be Dedra again? No. She’d promised there would be no more sneaking about, and she was most likely still asleep. But I’d forgotten to lock the front door. Again! Who would it be? Not Max or Magnolia. They would call out. Perhaps it was one of the many folks standing in line to do me harm.

  Instead of bolting from the scene like any normal person, I froze solid. I held my breath, waiting for the next noise. Nothing. And then something. Another footfall, only now more quietly. I would be found eventually. Perhaps the key was to keep moving until I could make my way outside.

  With stealthy movements that surprised even me, I crept in the direction of the French doors. I stayed near the edge of the library wall, since the boards were less likely to be loose and squeaky. I realized the second my face leaned toward the glass that another face might meet mine, but I felt the chance would have to be taken. I stole a look. No one stared back at me, and no one could be seen moving about the house in the front rooms.

  Perhaps someone had tiptoed into the kitchen. Should I take a chance in facing my adversary? In the end curiosity won the argument, and so I slipped through the French doors and dining room and peered ever so carefully through the doorway into the kitchen. No one. Was I losing my mind? Or had the house won another round of the spooks?

  And then I sensed it. Someone was behind me. I turned around. A thin man with bulbous eyes stood feet from me, staring at me.

  I let out such a scream that it must have frightened even the vultures. Without waiting to find out who he was, I ran toward the front door.

  Once I’d made it safely to the front door and opened it, I spun back around to face him.

  “Bailey, I mean no alarm. I mean harm. What I mean is. . .I mean no harm,” the man said.

  He didn’t move, but continued to gaze at me with eyes so big and golden-green they looked unnatural—almost amphibian-like. He wore a polyester leisure suit that had gone out of style before I was born, and his hair was slicked back with enough grease to deep fat fry several chickens. In spite of his peculiar appearance, he didn’t look like a burglar or a murderer or even a treasure hunter. He just looked like an idiot. “How do you know my name? And what are you doing in my house?” I wanted to sound nasty and unpredictable, but I may have come off merely comical. Hard to tell for sure, but he didn’t smile.

  The man had such globular eyes he looked creepy, especially in the muddy-colored light. “I’m a detective. My name is Horace Z. Loon.”

  He’s got to be kidding. Then again, maybe not.

  Horace the Loon reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.

  “Don’t make another move. I don’t want to see your card. You came into my house illegally. How do you explain that?”

  Horace waved his fingers in mock surrender as his business card flew from his hands to the floor. “I’m full of apology. Brimming full. In fact, I’m a whole cornucopia of apology. I don’t usually walk into people’s homes. Well, I walk into people’s homes, but I’m usually invited.” He raised his brows, which made his eyes go a little buggy again. “I’m a gentleman.”

  No, I think you’re really a frog, but I’ll let it pass. “And why is it I don’t believe you?”

  “I don’t know.” Horace pulled out his cell phone and held it up to me. “I’d understand if you want to call the police. I’ll even wait until they come. I’ll even push in the numbers. I’ll even—”

 

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