Free The Carriage House by Carla Neggers Page B

a quick nod. She seemed appreciative, not as if she’d given in. “That’d be nice.”
    They went into the kitchen, and when the light hit her full in the face, Andrew saw just how pale and shaken she was. A spill in an old, dark cellar would throw anyone off, but he suspected there was more. A ghost, perhaps. Tess Haviland didn’t strike him as someone who’d want to admit she’d turned shadows into a ghost and screamed bloody murder. She’d probably rather there was a real ghost instead of something she’d conjured up.
    She withdrew a cell phone from the pocket of her warm-up pants and placed it on the counter, her hand shaking visibly, even if at this point just from adrenaline. She limped silently into the bathroom. She left the door open, and Andrew heard water running and a string of muttered curses. Whatever else, she had guts. Damned if he’d go into that cellar in the dark after a cat.
    He used her shiny camp pot and put water on for her tea. “Mind if I use your phone? I should call Harl, tell him what’s going on before he calls in the troops.”
    â€œOf course. Please.”
    She emerged from the bathroom. Her face was scrubbed, her hair pushed back and wet. Some color had returned to her cheeks. And her eyes, Andrew saw, seemed even a bit brighter.
    â€œI imagine your fantasies of owning a nineteenth-century carriage house didn’t include washing cobwebs off your face.”
    â€œI’m not sure I had any fantasies about this place. I guess Ike thought he was doing me a favor. Go ahead, call Harl.”
    But Andrew was staring at her. “Ike?”
    She sighed. “I assumed you knew—because you live next door, I suppose. I did some work for the Beacon Historic Project early last year and the year before. Ike hired me. I’m a graphic designer in Boston. He transferred the carriage house to me as payment. Maybe it was a whim, I don’t know. He took off right afterward, and I haven’t heard from him.” She leaned against a counter, as if to steady herself. “But go ahead and call Harl, if he’ll be worried.”
    Andrew dialed his number. Harl didn’t wait for him to speak. “All clear?”
    â€œYeah. She fell in the cellar chasing Tippy Tail.”
    â€œDamn cat,” Harl said, and hung up.
    â€œThat was quick,” Tess said.
    â€œHarl hates phones.”
    The water came to a boil, and Andrew poured it into a mug, dangled in a strong-smelling chamomile tea bag and handed the tea to Tess. “You sure you’re okay?”
    â€œYes.” She smiled over the rim of the steaming mug, the heat adding color to her cheeks. “Thanks.”
    He glanced at the camp she’d set up. Even with her lilacs in a mason jar, it looked rough. “Look, I’ve got a couple of spare bedrooms at the house. If you’re injured, you don’t want to spend the night on the cold floor.”
    â€œThanks, but I’ll manage. To be honest, I haven’t decided if I’m going to keep this place. That’s why I’m up here for the weekend, seeing if being here will help me make up my mind.”
    â€œSorry it’s meant chasing after a cat. Tippy Tail’s a stray we took in—she’s temperamental. If she comes home tonight, I’ll try to lock her inside.”
    Tess rallied, managing a quick smile. “It’s okay. I live in a basement apartment in the city. You should see what walks past my windows.”
    She sipped her tea, looking calmer, but tired. Andrew decided the scrape on her jaw was superficial, and if the hit she took to her side wasn’t, she hadn’t asked him to do anything about it.
    â€œI’ll leave you to your tea.” He went over to her sleeping bag, picked up a book she was reading and a pen next to it. He noticed the portable white-noise machine and smiled; maybe Tess Haviland was more worried about ghosts in the night than she was