The Carriage House by Carla Neggers

willing to admit. “If you need anything, give me a call.”
    He jotted down his phone number and placed the book and pen back on the floor.
    Tess hadn’t moved from her position against the counter. “Okay. Great.” She sipped her tea, watching him as he headed for the kitchen door. He noticed she was no longer shaking. “I suppose if I do end up keeping this place, I’ll have my hands full. Dirt cellars, spiders, mice. Who knows what else.”
    Andrew smiled. “I’d say spiders and mice are the least of your problems. The offer of a guest room stands.”
    Â 
    â€œShe’s lying.”
    Harl had opened them each a beer. They were in the kitchen, at the table. Andrew had checked on Dolly, just to make sure she wasn’t cowering under the covers the way she did in a thunderstorm, but she was fine, fast asleep. Harl had listened without interrupting as Andrew had related Tess’s story about finding the cat in the cellar. He’d known what his cousin would say. Harl didn’t believe anyone.
    â€œHow do you know she’s lying?”
    â€œThat wasn’t a falling-on-my-ass scream. That was a scared-shitless scream. I know the difference.”
    â€œShe says she was worried about snakes.”
    Harl shook his head knowingly. “Nah. Doesn’t wash.”
    Andrew agreed. “What would wash?”
    His cousin took a long drink of his beer, an expensive local brew he’d never touch if it weren’t in Andrew’s refrigerator. He set the dark bottle on the kitchen table. “Ghosts.”
    â€œI suppose she could have imagined—”
    â€œNope. Not imagined. Saw.”
    â€œOh, come on.” Andrew wanted to laugh, but he could see Harl was serious. “I don’t believe in ghosts. Neither do you.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean she didn’t see one.”
    â€œThen it was her imagination.”
    â€œNo.”
    Andrew frowned at his cousin’s logic. “You think she saw a real ghost in the cellar?”
    Harl shrugged. “Why not?”
    Andrew thought of her pale face, the way she shook, the faraway expression in her eyes. He’d have looked pretty much like that if he’d encountered a ghost. Then again, she could simply have had her first adventure in an old New England dirt cellar and let her imagination get away from her. But he knew there was no arguing with Harl.
    â€œThere’s something else,” Andrew said, and repeated what Tess had told him about her relationship with Ike Grantham.
    â€œShit,” Harl said. “Doesn’t that beat all?”
    â€œIke’s eccentric and impulsive, but practically giving away the carriage house—” Andrew shook his head, not able to make sense of it. “I know Tess worked for him, but it must have been a good deal for him or he wouldn’t have done it.”
    â€œShe one of his women?”
    â€œI didn’t ask.”
    â€œIke wouldn’t have gone down in the cellar after Tippy Tail, that’s for damn sure. I’d feel better about this if we knew where the hell that slippery bastard’s got himself off to.”
    Harl was more inclined to blame Ike for Joanna’s death than Andrew was, believing the man had slipped through a troubled woman’s defenses, into her psyche, and used her for his own ego.
    â€œIt’s getting late,” Andrew said.
    Harl didn’t move. He took a sip of beer. “Don’t you wonder why Haviland didn’t just tell you the truth?”
    â€œHarl, if I saw a ghost—whether I thought I saw one or actually knew I saw one—I don’t know if I’d go out of my way to tell anyone.”
    â€œAh.” Harl settled back in his chair, in no apparent hurry to return to his quarters across the yard. “A sin of omission isn’t the same as a sin of commission.”
    Andrew sighed. One beer, and Harl was in the mood to give him a headache.