When the Spirit Is Willing Read online

  "And if he doesn't seem okay?" Laura asked.

  "Then the date's off."

  "It's not really a date," Laura demurred, still frowning, then her face brightened. "How about lunch?" she suggested.

  "Lunch!" The seduction scenario disintegrated rapidly. What could Friday lunch possibly offer in the way of romantic possibilities?

  At least he'd see her again. They would be alone together. No child. No nosy ghost. For the first time that he could remember, Carter was suddenly quite excited at the idea of having lunch.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Soon after Carter introduced Sly to Laura and Jessica, Laura served coffee in the living room. While she grilled Sly as thoroughly as any police detective, Carter looked nervously over his shoulder to see if Priscilla was among those present. She wasn't. At least not in the flesh, though judging by the prickling between his shoulder blades, he supposed she could be hanging around, watching.

  Laura looked delightful in a formfitting suit that made Carter think of lemon meringue. Her glossy brown hair was drawn back and pinned with a crisp white bow, while the rest of it hung shining down her back. She looked very earnest as she worked at drawing Sly out.

  Not that it was difficult to get Sly to talk. Ever. The problem was—and of course this was something Laura was not aware of—Sly could lie through his teeth, while his sharp-featured face shone with pious innocence.

  The one saving grace in this situation was that Carter knew Sly could be trusted absolutely with children. Otherwise he would never have suggested him as a possible sitter.

  It was obvious that Sly was easily dispelling Laura's motherly concern. Listening, Carter was almost taken in himself. Sly's visits to any and all available family members, no matter how distant, had nothing to do with mooching, after all, he learned. "You might call me the guardian of the far-flung Kincaid family," Sly declaimed. "Now I'm retired from my life's work—"

  "What was your life's work?" Laura asked just as Carter wondered the same thing.

  "I was an entrepreneur," Sly said promptly. "Mostly dedicated to fund-raising."

  He didn't bother to mention that the fund-raising was directed toward only one beneficiary and usually took place in the back rooms of taverns. "Since my retirement," he continued smoothly, "I've more or less gone where I'm needed when I'm needed, doing what I can to help, before moving on."

  After a little more of this revisionist history, Laura caught Carter's eye and nodded her approval. Evidently noticing the gesture, Sly smiled his usual, somewhat feral smile, smoothed his already neat mustache and reached into his inside jacket pocket, from which he pulled out a pack of playing cards.

  Carter swore under his breath. He should have frisked the old fraud before bringing him to Laura's house. He might have known he'd be packing cards; he never left home without them.

  Sly handed the pack to Laura to shuffle, which to Carter's surprise she did good-naturedly and fairly skillfully. "Jessica and I play a lot of go fish," she explained, noticing Carter's surprise.

  After giving Jessica his usual earnest patter about the way cards talked to him, telling him when someone was keeping a secret, Sly made a couple of dramatic passes over the pack with his right hand, then held the pack toward Jessica.

  Jessica was sitting very straight next to Sly, her hazel eyes shining, her wiry little body almost quivering with eagerness as she watched his every move with fascination.

  "Pick a card," Sly said. "Any card."

  Grinning self-consciously, Jessica eased a card from the pack. Closing his eyes, Sly told her to show the card to the others.

  The eight of hearts.

  "Now push it back in the pack," Carter told her.

  Eyes wide, her lip caught between her teeth, Jessica replaced the card very carefully.

  Sly flipped rapidly through the pack and with great drama drew out the eight of hearts. "Ta-da!"

  Jessica clapped her hands and laughed, her astonishment delightful to see. Laura laughed, too, more knowingly. Evidently she, like Carter, had seen the older man reverse the bottom card and turn the pack over while Jessica was looking at the eight of hearts. Which meant, of course, that Jessica's card went in upside down and was easy to locate. Sly had mystified Carter with that simple trick many times before he'd caught on.

  "More," Jessica demanded, still laughing.

  There was an odd expression on Laura's face. "It's so great to hear her laugh," she murmured a little awkwardly when she caught Carter looking at her. "I hadn't realized that she doesn't laugh as much as she used to when…" Her voice trailed away and the sadness returned to her eyes.

  Carter had a feeling she hadn't laughed in a while herself. He must do something about that, he decided. It would be a worthwhile, humanitarian project.

  About to comply with Jessica's request, Sly paused as Laura began to give him instructions about the care and feeding of her daughter. He listened very intently and seriously. This was going to work out fine, Carter felt sure.

  When Laura was done, Sly assured her she had nothing to worry about, then winked at Jessica and began laying out cards on the coffee table in what Carter recognized as the "aces high" trick.

  "Jester?" Laura said, in what was evidently a prearranged signal.

  "I'll be okay, Mom," Jessica said, without taking her gaze from the table.

  "I've made Jessica promise not to mention Priscilla," Laura murmured as she preceded Carter into the hall. "Priscilla swears she'll stay out of sight."

  "Good," Carter murmured back. "I was afraid she'd pop up and give the old boy a heart attack."

  Laura looked back at her daughter and Sly, sitting so close on the sofa, silver head bent to towheaded braid, Jessica appearing not to breathe as Sly tapped each pile of cards. "He does look sort of fragile," she said doubtfully.

  "Fragile as a steamroller," Carter muttered, forcing a laugh when Laura frowned at him. "Family joke," he said.

  Truth to tell, though he had to admit that Sly's cooking was far better than his own, he was rapidly becoming soured on his visiting relative. He didn't appreciate having to remove his shoes before entering his own apartment, or being nagged to wipe down the bathroom walls after every shower. And Max wasn't too thrilled about being banned from the living room. He would lie in the hall obediently enough, but he kept moaning, which was more than Carter's soft heart could stand.

  "How's it going with Priscilla?" he asked as Laura opened the front door.

  Laura frowned. "I guess I'm adjusting," she murmured, then glanced around furtively. "Later," she whispered.

  "Is she here?" The short hairs lifted on the back of his neck. He'd had a very busy week, and his limited free time had been filled with thoughts of Laura rather than Priscilla. It had been a long time since he'd been so attracted to a woman.

  Where Priscilla was concerned, he wasn't sure he'd adjusted at all. It had been disconcerting to discover he'd kept company with a ghost during his childhood. Friends often accused him of living in the past—what else could you do if you were a museum curator?—but even to him, believing in a ghost seemed a bit outdated.

  "It's really weird," Laura said when they were settled at a table in Gibson's.

  She bit her lower lip, which brought Carter's attention to it and inspired a desire to kiss her.

  To distract himself, he looked around for a minute or two. There was enough breeze coming through the open windows to keep the restaurant comfortably cool. There were attractive abstract paintings on the walls. The tables were set with linen, silver and crystal, the napkins were damask and the plates were white. Male employees wore dark suits, females wore dark dresses. Nobody looked like a pirate or a sailor.

  Carter approved. In his opinion, far too many of the local eateries were cluttered up with fishing nets, crab pot floats, glass balls from Japan, dead starfish, plastic sea gulls squatting on wooden pilings and things made out of shells. He had never understood why, when people located next to saltwater, they seemed to develop a compuls
ion to glue sea-shells onto everything from napkin holders to lamp shades.

  "Has Priscilla…materialized again?" he asked Laura.

  Laura nodded. "She pops up whenever Jessica and I are alone."

  He'd thought they were always alone. In response to his raised eyebrows, she said, "I've had a high-school boy helping me with the heavy stuff for a few days."

  Thinking of some young jock hanging around Laura, Carter felt a pang of jealousy. Startled, he realized he was beginning to feel proprietary about her.

  "Priscilla's really nosy," Laura continued after they'd placed their orders for Cobb salads with the middle-aged waiter. "She's always making suggestions about the remodeling job. She wants the house to look exactly as it did when she was alive."

  She shook her head. "I still have trouble believing she's really there. I've tried to find out why she didn't go on…beyond, as most people seem to do, but she's close-mouthed about it." She looked directly at him. "You said you'd heard of the Burbages. What can you tell me about them?"

  He shrugged. "Not much. I don't recall hearing anything while I lived in the house, but, then, I left it when I was six."

  "Why did you move?" she asked, just as the waiter delivered their salads.

  He hesitated. This was not a story he enjoyed remembering, but she could ask anyone in town and get a highly colored version of the truth. "My father was killed in Vietnam," he explained. "My mother sold the house, lock, stock and furniture, and we moved in with my grandparents. Then Mom just sort of faded away. Aided and comforted by a bottle. She died when I was ten."

  Her eyes had darkened with sympathy. "You must have resented that. Her fading away, when you needed her."

  Her insight brought a jolt of remembered pain. "I did okay. My grandparents had taken over with me right after my father died." To his astonishment, he found himself admitting, "It did hurt, though, terribly. Now I understand that she loved him so much she couldn't face life without him, but at the time I felt… deserted."

  He had never ever admitted that to anyone. It made him sad to remember that lonely little boy, yet there was relief in admitting to the loneliness. He frowned and began tucking into his salad.

  "Did you get along well with your grandparents?"

  He nodded. "My grandmother was an amazing woman."

  "And your grandfather?"

  "I don't want you to get the idea Kincaid men are unstable."

  Her eyebrows were up. He sighed. "Grandfather and grandmother quarreled a lot. He was a bit of a ladies' man."

  She smiled wryly, as though that was to be expected.

  "I have more Carter genes than Kincaid myself," he added hastily. "Grandmother was a Carter—a very gracious lady, dedicated to good works. She founded the museum and left it in my hands."

  "Your parents gave you her name?"

  He laughed shortly. "I think my mother hoped I'd inherit the Carter nature along with the name. She loved my father, but he wasn't too ambitious, I guess. According to Grandmother, he was amiable, but not terribly interested in working for a living. All the Kincaid men were feckless, she used to say."

  She looked a little troubled as she daintily speared a piece of avocado with her fork. "Where are your parents?" he asked.

  "In San Francisco. That's where I lived before coming here."

  "They must miss you and Jessica."

  Her face closed up. "They do."

  Why would she take her fatherless child away from the place where her parents lived? he wondered. There were surely still some Victorian houses left in the Bay Area.

  She looked vulnerable again. "I've heard the name Burbage associated with the town's history," he said to get them into neutral territory. "Randall Burbage was a stockbroker, with offices in Tacoma."

  She nodded absently. "Would there be anything about the Burbages in the local paper? If I went to the library…"

  "Terrific idea. How about we check there after lunch?"

  The enchanting little furrow appeared on her brow. "I guess I could call your uncle and tell him. Don't you have to work?"

  "I'm supposed to go to a party," he admitted. "But it's not going to start until four or so."

  The news that he was free did not seem to thrill her. For a minute, she kept her gaze fixed on her plate, as if she were trying to think up a decent excuse to get him out of the picture. "I'm interested in Priscilla's story myself," he reminded her.

  "Mmm."

  He wasn't used to getting such a cool reception from women he was interested in. As they continued eating their salads he set himself out to charm, but it really did seem that the more charming he was, the less responsive Laura became. Had he lost his touch?

  The Port Dudley Gazette was available, each double page sheathed in plastic. A pretty young librarian with a model's sway-backed posture greeted Carter enthusiastically and showed them into a small room at the back of the building. After having them read the rules governing perusal of old newspapers, she asked them to sign in. "I'm sorry, Carter," she apologized with a wistful glance. "I'm afraid I can't make any exemptions, even for you." A sigh accompanied the last word.

  "My goodness, you are special, aren't you?" Laura said dryly after the young woman swayed out.

  Carter heaved a stack of newspapers onto the large table and gestured at the two straight chairs set side by side. "I tried to tell you that the first time I met you," he said, quite unfazed.

  Laura laughed. It felt good to laugh, she decided. She had almost forgotten how. If she could just forget that minute or two she had spent in Carter Kincaid's arms, when Priscilla had suddenly arrived on the scene, she might even be able to relax and enjoy his company. But she couldn't forget. In spite of the shock and fear Priscilla's appearance had inspired, she'd felt a definite response to Carter's nearness.

  Which meant he was, as she'd suspected from the beginning, a very dangerous man.

  Distracted by her awareness of him, she began turning over pages. "So many ads," she murmured.

  It took a while to find Priscilla's engagement announcement. It was frustratingly discreet. Priscilla was described as a lady of character. "Bit of a backhanded compliment, don't you think?" Laura said. Randall Burbage was evidently considered a good catch. His description included the words "popular."

  "wealthy."

  "honorable."

  "Too bad there aren't any pictures," Laura said.

  "The first newspaper photographs reproduced by halftone appeared in the 1880s," Carter said, "but it took a while for them to become general."

  The comment reminded her of his occupation. "You really don't look like a museum curator," she said absently, as she continued to turn pages over.

  "What do I look like?" he asked.

  She laughed nervously. "When I saw you standing on my porch the other day, I thought you were Pierce Brosnan," she admitted.

  She liked the way he laughed, explosively and with great enjoyment. She glanced at him sideways and for a moment their eyes held, then she tightened up and looked back at the newspaper in front of her.

  The wedding announcement was dated June 3, 1888. It described Priscilla as dressed in satin draped with Brussels lace, trimmed with orange blossom, and looking stunning. Randall Burbage was twelve years older than his twenty-year-old bride. The wedding was said to be the social event of the year.

  Carter was getting a little jumpy. Weddings made him nervous, as though the contact might infect him with the insane desire to follow suit. Also, he had just discovered that Laura's hair smelled of lavender and her fingernails were cut short. Laura was a woman who did manual work, so it made sense for her to keep her fingernails short, but he had an idea she'd do so anyway out of preference. And strangely, though usually he rather fancied the long polished talons so many women favored, there was something about those practical, eminently sensible nails that tugged at his heart. Everything about her seemed to confirm his original opinion that Laura was a no-nonsense woman, attractive, but not overly concerned with h
er appearance. Even the wide white bow that held her hair back was practical. Yet so far, he hadn't found anything about her that didn't please him, apart from her attitude toward him.

  "Look at this," Laura murmured.

  Reluctantly he returned his attention to the newspaper now in front of them. It showed a date that was six months after the wedding. As Carter read, his interest perked up. The first hint of trouble had appeared.

  "Molly's Meanderings" was the rather precious title of the gossip column, whose author had a slightly arch way with words. "Port Dudley is atwitter with the latest word on the doings of Prissilla Burbage," she wrote, misspelling Priscilla's name. "Her solitary Paris vacation has lasted an unconscionable time. Staunch friends insist Prissilla is innocently enjoying the French capital's gaieties and frivolities. But other acquaintances whisper that le tres handsome artist Gerard Vincent is spending beaucoup de time with little Prissy. Capturing her on canvas? Or capturing her heart?"

  "Well, well," Carter murmured. "Could Gerard be one of the 'friends' Randall objected to?"

  Laura slanted an annoyed glance at him. "Gossip columns aren't always based on truth," she pointed out. "The woman doesn't even spell properly."

  He wasn't going to argue. Women did have a way of defending their own. Carefully he returned the pages to their proper place and brought the next year's stack. Nothing had been written about the Burbages for a few months. Then, under the heading, "The Brawling Burbages," Molly pointed a finger at Randall this time. Miss Lily Parmentier, one of the actresses performing at the Port Dudley Theater, had worn a ruby bracelet onstage that was known to have been part of Randall Burbage's inheritance from his mother. At a party to celebrate the last night of the play, Prissilla Burbage—Laura clicked her tongue over the incorrect spelling—had attempted to restore the bracelet to its rightful place, namely her own wrist.