Haunted

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Authors: Heather Graham
shades. “All right—Darcy. I’m glad you’re capable of moving. I have to get back into the office so let’s get going, you know, quickly. Where’s your bag?”
    â€œI can take it myself, thank you.”
    â€œWould you just show me the damned bag?”
    She set her hands on her hips. “Someone ought to call the local cops on you. You may be some kind of a big landholder in these here parts, bucko, but you’re the rudest individual I’ve ever met.”
    â€œSorry, but my time is limited. Please, Ms. Tremayne—sorry, Darcy, may I take your bag?” he said sarcastically.
    â€œFine. Right there. It rolls—unless you’ll feel that your macho image will be marred and lessened by taking an easy route.”
    He offered her a dry grimace, grabbed the bag, and started out.
    She followed him, exiting the spiderweb filled hallways of the place, out to the parking lot.
    She didn’t see any regular cars—there were a few trucks, a code-enforcement vehicle, and a county cop car in the lot.
    He had a really long stride, but had paused just outside the building and removed his sunglasses, waiting for her to catch up. He saw that she was staring expectantly out at the parking lot.
    â€œOh, sorry,” he told her flatly. “It’s that one. I guess everyone forgot to tell you. I’m the local sheriff. Guess Adam didn’t tell you,either. But then, since you’re supposed to be a psychic, you should have known.” He stared at her, a light of mockery in his eyes.
    She smiled sweetly in return. “Mr. Stone, I’m not exactly a psychic. There are certain areas in which I can deduce things. There are certain things about people I don’t know. But then again, there are things that people really don’t want known that I can deduce very easily. I’m known for finding skeletons in closets, and I’m sure that there are dozens of them at Melody House.”
    Staring back at her, he was dead still then. His eyes were dark, not brown, but a deep gray. Disturbing. They seemed to pierce right through her, and yet wear a protective veil that kept her from reading anything within them. Still, it seemed that she had given him pause.
    â€œShall we go?” she said.
    â€œOh, yes. I’m just dying to see what bones you can dig up, Ms. Tremayne. Just dying.”
    â€œGreat. Just…”
    â€œJust what?”
    â€œBe prepared. Sometimes, people don’t like the skeletons we find.”

3
    â€œT o me, it’s simply one of the most incredible houses—and historical sites—on the face of the earth!” Penny said enthusiastically.
    Darcy smiled, thinking that she agreed—despite the difficulty involved with the place, and that difficulty being Matt Stone.
    He had maintained something of a pleasant conversation on the drive over, pointing out Civil War skirmish sites, and telling her that at one point, on his way to battle, the great Southern general Robert E. Lee had stayed at Melody House. Then they had reached the house, and though she couldn’t say he had practically thrown her out of the car, he had delivered her to the front door and Penny Sawyer as quickly as possible, explaining simply that he was on duty.
    Hm. She wondered if he’d been on duty while sprawling around at the Wayside Tavern as well.
    But Penny Sawyer was wonderful. Darcy couldn’t quite determine her age. The woman was certainly somewhere between forty and sixty, which was quite a span. She was slender, about five-five, with an attractive shag type of short haircut in a natural salt and pepper, and had beautiful, bright blue eyes. She was also nicely dressed in a stylish pantsuit, and as friendly as her employer was rude.
    â€œThe house is quite incredible,” Darcy said. “A number of historical homes—usually those owned by preservation societies—have been restored with painstaking authenticity,

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