She pulled into the driveway with a smile on her face, which got even bigger when she stepped out of her jeep and made her way up the path to the tree house. Nicodemus was sitting on the deck with her grandparents.
“We were worried sick.” Morag leaned against the railing.
“I didn’t think it would be good for me to make an appearance at the theater.” Grandpa Ash rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Detective Rinehart is still sore at me after his number one suspect didn’t turn out to be guilty. But I would have faced his wrath if you hadn’t gotten back shortly.”
Nicodemus disappeared from the deck as Ash spoke, and reappeared through the tree house front door before Tempest could turn the key. He gave her a warm, though lopsided, hug with his good hand.
Tempest stepped back and looked at him. “You smell like coconut and ginger.”
“It’s good to see you too. Though I heard about what you were up to this morning, and I can’t say I’m pleased about it.”
They climbed the stairs back to the dining room deck, arm in arm, with Darius behind them.
Ash smiled at them from the open sliding door leading from the kitchen to the deck. “I picked him up at the hospital and didn’t tell him what you were up to until he’d already eaten. He’s skin and bones. He requested a full South Indian breakfast. I couldn’t make dosa without advance notice, but I fixed him upma and puttu.”
“After eating upma for the first time decades ago,” said Nicodemus, “I’ve never been able to imagine why most people prefer sweet porridge.”
The savory wheat porridge cooked with cashews, onion, ginger, lentils, and various spices was one of Tempest’s favorites as well. Her favorite was dosas though. The flat crepe-like pancakes had a batter that normally had to ferment overnight, but even her grandfather’s quick-batter recipes, made with rice flour instead of whole grain rice, were spectacular.
While Ash served her breakfast, Darius walked the perimeter of Fiddler’s Folly, checking the fences, gate, and security system to make sure they would be safe while he was at work. Tempest knew he would have stayed home if he thought it would help anything, but they were behind on the Whispering House job. Keeping income coming in was the best way he could protect his family.
“Three unwelcome visitors at the gate,” he reported, when he got back to the deck. “They weren’t there when we got home, so they must have followed us from the theater.”
“Reporters?” Morag asked.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to call them.”
“Ghost hunter influencers?” Tempest suggested.
Nicodemus and her grandparents chuckled. She hadn’t been joking.
“Don’t worry about finishing your work at the Whispering House today,” Darius said to Tempest.
“We’ve talked about this. I don’t want special treatment.”
“For being my daughter?” Darius shook his head. “Ivy gets special treatment so she can get her master’s. Gideon gets special treatment so he can prepare for his art show. Victor gets special treatment so he can have as much time off as he wants in between the structural planning part of projects.” He smiled. “Then there’s you and me. That’s all I’ve got. So don’t say you get special treatment. You get the same Darius Mendez treatment as everyone else on the team.”
“You haven’t taken a day off in five years. You barely made it to Christmas.”
“Owner’s prerogative.”
“If you were hoping to stay here to keep me company,” Nicodemus cut in, “I’m going to disappoint you. I gave in and took some painkillers with breakfast. I need to sleep for the next few hours.”
While Ash fixed Darius a tiffin box of breakfast to go, Tempest walked Nicodemus over to the guest room to make sure he had everything he needed.
“Where’s Brodie?” she asked.
Nicodemus yawned. “I spoke to him this morning. He’s off dealing with the logistics of my canceled tour.”
“Nicky.” Tempest spoke his name slowly as she opened a paper pop-up of Nicodemus and Brodie on the stage together, an idea forming in her mind.
“Has anyone ever told you how marvelously devious your voice can sound? You should use it more on stage. That’s not a critique of your physical performances. Only a compliment that—”
“Nicky,” she repeated, this time more forcefully. “Why did you call Ash to come and get you from the hospital instead of calling me?” She hadn’t seen any missed calls.
“I spoke with Brodie first. He mentioned that you were busy this morning. I knew Ash would be happy to fetch me.”
So Brodie had been keeping tabs on her.
Tempest got Nicodemus settled back in the guest room bed, and he was asleep before she reached the door. Daylight streamed into the room, so she retraced her steps to close the curtains. Being one of the highest rooms at Fiddler’s Folly, she caught a glimpse of some movement at the far end of the property.
A figure was standing at the back gate, on the inside.
She steadied her breathing. Four people lived at Fiddler’s Folly, and Brodie and Nicodemus were staying there as their guests. There was nothing worrisome about the fact that someone was at the gate, but it wasn’t someone she immediately recognized. She knew the shapes and mannerisms of her dad and grandparents well enough that she expected she’d recognize even their shadows. She knew Nicodemus almost as well. But there was one person staying at Fiddler’s Folly for whom that wasn’t true. The one person who matched the lanky body type of the faraway figure.
Brodie.
And he wasn’t alone.