Free Wherever Lynn Goes by Jennifer Wilde Page B

and I felt suddenly cold. The house seemed to engulf us, walls pressing closer. The grandfather clock ticked with a steady, monotonous rhythm. We both started as the floorboards on the veranda groaned loudly. Mandy seized my hand. We stared at the open door in horrified fascination.
    Someone was walking along the veranda. There could be no mistake about it: The footsteps were loud and clear. Whoever it was was making no effort to be stealthy. He was whistling a merry little tune, and the sound was jarring here in the dim hall. He paused a moment, then stepped into the doorway. The light was behind him, making him no more than a dark silhouette. Mandy’s hand was crushing mine, and I felt as though my heart had stopped beating.
    â€œHello, Lynn,” he said in a rich, jovial voice. “It’s been a long time, what?”
    â€œWho—who are you?” My own voice was trembling.
    â€œSurely you’re not frightened? I know you had an aversion to me when you were a child, but you’re a big girl now. I’m actually a rather genial chap. I don’t chase girls through the woods any more, I promise.” He gave a soft chuckle. “That hasn’t been necessary for years and years.”
    He leaned over and flipped a switch. The chandelier streamed down rays of light that banished the shadows. The man was tall, with a lean, powerful build and unusually wide shoulders. He wore scuffed tennis shoes, black denim trousers, and a loose navy blue jersey with the sleeves shoved up over his elbows. His dark hair was disheveled, tumbling over a tanned forehead, and the full mouth curled amiably at one corner. His eyes were a deep, deep blue, his dark brows oddly slanted, giving him a wry, quizzical look. I remembered that face all too well, but I didn’t remember its being quite so devastatingly handsome.
    â€œRemember me?” he inquired.
    â€œI certainly do,” I said coldly.
    â€œIs he the one who—” Mandy began.
    â€œHe’s the one,” I told her.
    â€œBartholomew Cooper, ladies, at your service.”
    â€œBartholomew,” Mandy said. “Surely not?”
    â€œMy friends call me Bart,” he added.
    â€œI’m Amanda Hunt. You seem to know Lynn.”
    â€œThat I do.”
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I demanded.
    â€œI happen to live here. Over the carriage house, actually. Your aunt was kind enough to rent me the rooms. I’m paid up until the middle of May, and I saw no real reason to leave. You plan to throw me out?”
    â€œI certainly do.”
    â€œMy, you do hold a grudge, don’t you? Yours is a most uncharitable attitude, I must say. After all I’ve done.”
    â€œWhat have you done, Mr. Cooper?”
    â€œBart. We’re going to be friends. What have I done? For one thing, I’ve been a marvelous watchdog, running off hordes of teen-agers and curiosity seekers determined to see the scene of the crime and carry off a souvenir or two. For another, when I found out you intended to stay here, I had a crew of women come in and give the place a good cleaning—it still looks like hell, but at least the cobwebs are gone. I also drove to the village and bought a fresh supply of groceries.”
    â€œHow very generous of you,” I said dryly.
    â€œOh, I made a complete list of my expenditures. I expect to be reimbursed to the penny.”
    â€œYou will be,” I retorted. “How did you know I was coming?”
    â€œEveryone did. Word gets around in a place like Cooper’s Green. Duncan and Hampton hadn’t been back fifteen minutes before the whole village knew. Hampton told his secretary, who told her best friend, who told her sister, who happens to run the local telephone exchange. You know how it goes. Hard to keep anything a secret in these parts.”
    â€œSomething puzzles me, Mr. Cooper.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œ Why are you living in the carriage house?