When the Spirit Is Willing Page 3

  Surprisingly excited by this prospect, he pulled into the museum's parking lot. He'd start looking right away.

  Before Carter was quite awake the next morning, the events of the night before replayed themselves in his head: through a dreamy mist, the woman in green appeared in front of his car, smiling and waving. In slow motion, she retreated up the footpath toward the house…and disappeared. And then, as though the dream had gone into fast forward, he watched his own headlong rush into The Willows, saw himself striding down the hall, flinging open the kitchen door, yelling…

  He groaned. What must Laura Daniel think of him? He could still see her backed up against the kitchen wall, her eyes wide and frightened, staring at him as if he were a potential rapist. Viewed from her standpoint, the scene took on a mad quality.

  The little girl had recognized his description of Priscilla, however. Could she be the same woman he'd known so long ago? But why on earth had she deliberately run in front of his car?

  The sound of galloping feet and a devastating blow to his chest announced the arrival of his golden retriever, Max, which put an end to speculation as well as breath. Max had elected himself waker-upper when he was six weeks old. Unfortunately, he hadn't noticed he was no longer a tiny pup. Now stretched on top of Carter's unavoidably prone body, the big dog licked his master's face with an enthusiastic and disgustingly wet tongue. Suddenly he cocked his head, leaped to the floor, making the apartment shudder, and started barking loudly, which was the only way Max knew how to bark. This did not help the pounding in Carter's head.

  Why the hell did he have a hangover? He'd hardly had anything to drink at the party the previous night—he'd been too busy hauling Tiffany around on his unsuccessful quest for the woman in green.

  Wait a minute.

  The pounding wasn't inside his head. Max was now barking directly at the condo door. Carter darted a glance at his digital alarm. Seven a.m. Who the hell would visit him this early? he wondered as he pulled on his flannel robe. He winced as he caught sight of his gray beard and straggly hair in the wardrobe mirror. Luckily, he'd had the forethought to make an appointment with his barber for ten o'clock. He couldn't wait to get rid of all this excess hair. How had he ever let himself be talked into growing it?

  The minute Carter opened the outer door, Max swarmed all over the slight, silver-haired man standing there. Paws on the man's shoulders, he backed him against the veranda rail and washed his face as thoroughly as he had Carter's. "Down Max," Carter yelled.

  Apparently satisfied that the visitor had been made to feel welcome, the big dog bounded down the three flights of steps to the parking lot, then loped into the forest of Douglas firs that bordered the rear of the property.

  Stroking his beautifully cut hair into place with one elegant hand, the visitor watched the dog go. He looked dapper in dark blazer, gray slacks, white shirt and riverboat-gambler tie. When Max disappeared, he turned back to Carter and did an exaggerated double take, fingering his unnaturally dark pencil mustache. "My dear boy, what happened? You've aged beyond belief."

  Carter mumbled about Abe Lincoln and the Fourth of July costume party being a big deal in Port Dudley. The man chuckled, then gestured toward the parking lot. "When did you acquire the horse?"

  Having been so rudely awakened, Carter hadn't yet adjusted to the shock of seeing who his visitor was. "He's part golden retriever, part unknown," he muttered. "He's just under a year old." He pulled himself together. "What the hell are you doing here, Uncle Sly?"

  Simon Fox Kincaid, known since his youth as "Sly"—for sundry and well-deserved reasons—raised a jaunty, dark eyebrow. "Is that the best welcome you can manage, my boy?"

  Carter eyed the two large suitcases, garment bag and duffel bag stacked alongside his apartment door, his stomach clenching as he drew the obvious conclusion.

  "How did you get here?" he asked, delaying confirmation of his fears.

  "Took a Greyhound bus from Spokane, spent the night in Tacoma, then hitched a ride with a very charming Canadian lady I met in the hotel bar last evening. She was on her way to Victoria and kindly dropped me off. I do apologize for descending on you so early, but she wanted to catch the eight a.m. ferry from Port Angeles."

  "You've been living in Spokane?"

  "Since May 1. With Cousin Louise and her husband, Harry Potter. Delightful man. Truck driver. Said he didn't believe he'd ever met you. Louise said to say hello and promised to come by sometime."

  "I don't know any Cousin Louise."

  Sly nodded. "So she told me." He tugged at the tip of his slightly sharp nose. "Let me see, she'd be your grandfather Kincaid's Uncle Bertie's great-granddaughter."

  "You stayed with a relative that distant for two months?"

  "I did indeed. I intended staying for one, but she insisted I remain longer. Nice little gal. She was always calling me 'a sweet old dear."

  "Sweet" and "dear" were not words Carter would have used to describe his uncle. "Manipulative," maybe. A "scrounger," definitely.

  "Louise didn't want me to leave," Sly continued. "But I felt it was time I blessed someone else with my presence. I could have gone to Phoenix to my niece Claire's, or Texas, I suppose—Paul's boy, Dexter, lives in Dallas with his bride. But I just don't enjoy extreme heat as much as I used to. And it occurred to me I hadn't seen you for some time. What has it been—two years?"

  "Has it been that long?" It seemed like yesterday. And the visit did not rank among Carter's fondest recollections. Sly, a rake and an inveterate gambler, was actually Carter's grandfather's cousin, one or two times removed, and something of a Kincaid family institution. Originally from Chicago, he had never had a home of his own, or even a job that Carter remembered. Since his parents' death thirty-five years ago, he had roamed around the country, mooching for a month or two off various relatives—brothers, sisters, near and distant cousins, married nephews and nieces. He would then move on and stay with others, always unannounced. He'd never married—though Carter recalled family Christmas letters had mentioned an aborted engagement, somewhere around twenty years ago.

  "Aren't you going to invite me in, my boy?" Sly asked.

  He'd have to, he supposed.

  Carter stepped to the veranda rail and whistled, waiting until Max came bounding back up the steps before bending to lift as much as he could manage of Sly's baggage. Sly hoisted the duffel bag and followed him to the kitchen, where Max was already slurping down his usual gallon or so of water.

  His thirst slaked, the dog dropped his big golden body down on the tiled floor, his head on his front paws, pointed ears alert, eyebrows twitching, small brown eyes fixed intently on the stranger in his midst.

  "Nice dog," Sly said with obvious insincerity.

  Carter put on the automatic coffeemaker. Time to face up to the inevitable, he decided as he waited for the water to heat. "Are you planning on staying with me, Sly?"

  Sly beamed. "Splendid of you to suggest it, dear boy. A day or two, perhaps?"

  Carter's spirits lifted, then he remembered Sly had said the same thing last time… and the time before that. And had stayed six weeks and eight weeks respectively. During that last visit Carter had had to bail him out of jail when a poker game had gotten out of hand. Nor could he help remembering a few run-ins with an irate husband or two.

  "You still cheating at poker?" he asked flatly.

  Sly's blue eyes reproached him. "I suppose you're referring to the ruckus that ensued after that friendly game I had with those army types from Fort Lewis. Is it my fault soldiers are notoriously poor losers?" He flapped a languid hand. "Don't worry, my boy. I'm a reformed character, too chronologically challenged to chase the ladies, too financially strapped to gamble."

  This speech also sounded familiar, Carter thought as the water started streaming through the coffee he'd ground. But how could he deny a bed to his grandfather's cousin?

  Grandmother had.

  But Grandmother had never gotten along with anyone in Grandfather's family. "Will
iam has six brothers and two sisters, his father had four brothers and three sisters and his mother was one of five," she'd told Carter often as he was growing up. "Do you realize how many babies that many relatives can make? And how many babies the babies can make after they grow up? As far as I'm concerned, they can all stay away from my door."

  "It's my door, too," Grandfather had always protested. Which wasn't strictly true. The money was Grandmother's, as she frequently reminded her husband. "I like Sly," he'd go on, unabashed. "He brightens the place up."

  "He can brighten a hotel, instead."

  The argument had usually raged for an hour or so, with Grandfather inevitably claiming victory. In William Kincaid's opinion, nobody ever won a fight with William Kincaid.

  But Grandmother was the real victor. Every time Sly visited, Grandfather had to put him up at a hotel for a couple of weeks and take him out to meals, using his own allowance.

  How could Carter turn away someone his grandfather had fought for? "I suppose you could stick around for a few days," he conceded as he poured two mugs of coffee.

  Sly had seated himself at the kitchen table, one eye on the still watchful dog. He'd already moved his luggage into the spare room, Carter noted.

  "I want you to promise you'll stay away from married ladies," he said, looking sternly at Sly. "That last guy came after you with an ax, if you'll remember. I'm not going to protect you from any more crazed loggers." He stood back and folded his arms. "I want your promise, okay? No women. No poker."

  Sly showed all of his teeth in a somewhat feral smile. "My dear boy…"

  The phone rang. Carter gave his uncle an exasperated look and went over to pick up the kitchen wall extension. It was Mildred Whittock, Carter's chief assistant at the museum.

  "A Miss Tiffany Starling called a few minutes ago," she said, sounding aggrieved. "She says she's coming to work here and wants to know what time she should start."

  Carter groaned. He'd forgotten about Tiffany. Against all expectations, the teenager had turned out to be an extremely intelligent young woman. A computer whiz kid, of all things.

  "She's not going to work on museum stuff exactly," he assured Mildred. "I told her about the computer system we're setting up and how baffled we all are. So she offered to come in and teach me how to use it. We'll be paying her, of course, but she won't be getting in your way at all."

  "So what time shall I tell her?"

  Mildred sounded positively benign now. Wait until she got an eyeful of Tiffany Starling.

  Carter groaned again. What on earth had possessed him to hire Tiffany? It had been obvious she was developing a crush on him. Did he really want to have to deal with that? "Tell her eleven o'clock," he said finally. "I'm going to be late this morning. I haven't had my run yet. I'm not even dressed. And I have to go to the barber, remember."

  Mildred chuckled. "I rather liked the beard myself. Sure you don't want to keep it?"

  Carter made a rude noise and she laughed. "I guess not. No need to hurry," she added. "Just don't forget the Prestons' garden party at two."

  Feeling mildly offended, Carter hung up. He never forgot a party. Mildred knew that.

  As for Tiffany Starling, there was no getting away from the fact that he needed her assistance. He was absolutely computer illiterate, and if he was ever to unravel the mysteries of the software he'd bought, he was going to need all the help he could get. He'd just have to keep her at a distance.

  "Problems?" Sly asked as he turned away from the telephone.

  "Everything's fine," Carter said firmly. "I'm going out for a run now. I'll be forty-five minutes or so. Then I'll have to shower and eat and get to my barber's by ten. After that, I'll be working at the museum all day. Think you can amuse yourself?"

  "I'll have some breakfast ready when you get in," Sly said at once, standing up. "Then I'll give this place a good cleaning. It looks as though it needs it."

  That wasn't true. Carter was a fairly immaculate housekeeper. But Sly wanted everything in his environment as sterile as an operating room. Which made him a little difficult to live with.

  After Carter had pulled on his sweats and running shoes he found Max waiting at the door, tail wagging in anticipation. Evidently his sharp ears had picked up the word "run."

  He could probably put up with Sly's compulsive cleanliness for a few days, Carter assured himself as he loped along the lane that led to the neighborhood park's jogging trail. It would certainly be nice to come home to a hot breakfast. Maybe there were some advantages to having a temporary boarder, after all.

  Max was as happy as a colt in spring, streaking ahead at top speed, gamboling back to find out why Carter wasn't keeping up. "Warm up first, Max," Carter told him.

  "You're supposed to start slowly, let your muscles loosen up gradually."

  Max was already disappearing into the distance.

  The crisp breeze coming off the water rattled through the screen of poplars. It was going to be much cooler today. Summer was like that here—it came in three- or four-day bursts. Then, as the temperature rose in eastern Washington, it sucked cold marine air up the Strait like a vacuum cleaner. The temperature in Port Dudley could drop as much as twenty degrees in a couple of hours.

  The clear air was doing wonders for Carter's head, making him feel he might have a functioning brain in there, after all. But as soon as his mind cleared, he had an alarming thought. What was he going to do about Laura Daniel? He owed her an apology, no doubt about that. Should he call her, or turn up at her door?

  If he went to see her, he might be able to find out more about Priscilla. And he could determine just what Laura Daniel had been doing with a crowbar to that wonderful oak wainscoting.

  On the other hand, it was probably wiser to phone or write an apology. Curiosity wasn't sufficient motivation for taking the risk of looking foolish again. He had the feeling that to Laura Daniel, he had looked very foolish indeed. For some reason, he didn't like that idea.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It had been a tough day, but since the plumbers had left Laura had enjoyed a long hot shower, blown her hair dry and lifted it at the sides with combs. After putting on a little makeup and dressing in a clean T-shirt and blue jeans, she felt renewed. She'd even consider working for another hour or two, she thought as she entered the dusty kitchen, if she could just figure out how to get a sheet of drywall from the garage to the sawhorses in the kitchen. Too bad she hadn't thought of the problem before the plumbers had left.

  So. Tomorrow was another day and she had a high-school boy coming in to help. In the meantime, she'd better come up with something for dinner. Normally she loved cooking, but under the circumstances, anything even vaguely gourmet was out of the question. She'd just have to plug the microwave in somewhere and heat something up—serve it on trays in the den, maybe.

  She opened the freezer section of the refrigerator, which the plumbers had rolled to the other side of the large room, and was searching for something easy to fix, when the doorbell rang.

  She was tempted to ignore the sound, until it occurred to her that the caller might have muscles. She headed hopefully for the foyer and peered through one of the etched-glass panels that bracketed her front door.

  Pierce Brosnan was standing on the front porch. She recognized him instantly—she'd taken time out to watch a Remington Steele rerun the previous afternoon. And here was the star himself, his black hair sexily tousled. He was tall and lean, wearing a well-cut dark suit, blue shirt and conservatively patterned tie. He held a gift-wrapped package in one hand and a small bouquet in the other.

  A second glance convinced her the resemblance was superficial—a matter of build and coloring only. Besides which, there wasn't much likelihood of a television-series star dropping in on her for a visit. But the possibility had at least added some zing to her day, she thought as she pulled open the heavy door.

  The man seemed very startled to see her. Had he been expecting someone else? Something about him startled her, too.
Something vaguely familiar. For what seemed a very long time, they stared at each other in total silence. Laura imagined she could hear the Earth turning on its axis.

  "Mrs. Daniel?" the man finally asked, frowning uncertainly.

  "I'm Laura Daniel, yes."

  The man's dark eyes gradually lit with what looked like surprise… and approval. "I'd never have believed it!" he exclaimed, then shook his head and looked embarrassed. "Let me start over. This is for you." He handed her a lovely little Victorian nosegay of dried ivory roses set inside a gold doily.

  "You're a delivery man?" She looked down at the bouquet, searching in vain for a card. "Who can they be from?" she muttered. "It's been a long time since anyone sent me flowers."

  "I'm not delivering them—I'm giving them to you," he said, sounding frustrated. "I should have called first, I know," he went on as she looked at him blankly. "But I felt I should apologize in person for bursting in on you last night."

  She frowned. The voice and the reference to last night identified him as the previous evening's eccentric visitor, but the rest of him didn't match up. The Carter Kincaid who had burst into her kitchen might be as tall and athletically lean as this man, and his eyes might be just as dark, but he had not had beautifully cut black hair that looked freshly blown dry. Nor had he been clean shaven. Or thirty something. Or drop-dead, heart-stopping gorgeous.

  "You look different," she managed at last.

  "So do you," he said warmly.

  She felt herself flush. "I guess I was a wreck, at that."

  "Not at all. You reminded me of Cinderella. A few ashes here and there, but otherwise delightful." He hesitated. "I guess you couldn't be expected to recognize me in contemporary clothing. Would it help if I told you I grew my hair and the beard for my role as Abraham Lincoln and combed white powder into both to make them look gray?" His smooth dark brows slanted puckishly. "The bushy eyebrows were phony," he added.