8

“I GOT THE BUSHES all trimmed.” Otto’s announcement came on the heels of Norah’s phone ringing. She waved at him with a smile of thanks. He plodded over to the coffeepot, making himself at home like the boys had done all her life. She drew comfort from the familiarity of Otto’s presence and the way he puttered about the place as though it were his own home.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

Norah turned her back to Otto and shrank onto a kitchen chair. The voice of her attorney, Rebecca Kline, in her ear did nothing to bring her inner peace.

“I don’t want you to become overconcerned,” Rebecca stated. “I know what happened there two days ago with the death of one of your guests. I half expected you to reach out to me, so now I’m calling you.”

Norah pressed the phone to her ear harder than needed. “I didn’t think there was anything to be worried about legally.” Which wasn’t completely true, considering Dover had advised her to seek counsel.

Rebecca cleared her throat. “Well, theoretically, you’re right. Nothing at your business was the cause of Mr. Miller’s sudden death, but we can’t ignore the fact that he did die at your house. This means, if Mrs. Miller is motivated, she and her attorneys may seek retribution.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Norah argued.

“Still, if she claims something in the house was responsible for Mr. Miller’s heart attack, and if she can get any medical documentation to back that up, you could have a lawsuit on your hands. It’s unlikely, but possible.”

“Because of a ghost?” Norah looked up as Sebastian entered the kitchen. Did the man never leave the B and B? Never go anywhere else? He hovered around the place like someone with no purpose in life.

Otto pulled out a chair, his wrinkled face drawn in question as he listened to Norah’s one-sided conversation.

Rebecca laughed nervously. “Well, I’ve done a bit of research on this type of thing. Thankfully, the legal world hasn’t gone so off the wall as to litigate successful lawsuits against ghosts. However, if Mrs. Miller and her attorneys can make the claim that you run a haunted house essentially—meaning you capitalize on its notorious history, either directly or indirectly, as a draw for your clientele—then an argument could be made that your place of business contributed to literally scaring someone to death. It’s why the owners of some promoted haunted houses hand out waivers for people to sign before they’re allowed inside.”

“I don’t run a haunted house. I run a bed-and-breakfast.” Norah hated the way her voice sounded defensive.

Otto reached out and patted her knee in a grandfatherly gesture of comfort.

Sebastian was pouring himself a cup of coffee, but Norah could tell he was listening intently too. The privacy in this house was nonexistent.

Rebecca continued, carefully measuring her words. “You’re right, Norah. You don’t advertise the place as a haunted-house attraction like at Halloween. You do, however, have a page on your website devoted entirely to the story of Isabelle Addington, as well as guest testimonies that they’ve seen and/or interacted with her spirit. It’s set up as a draw to bring in future clients.”

“I do?” Norah frowned.

“Haven’t you looked at your site?” Rebecca sounded surprised.

Norah looked to Otto, trying to draw strength from his sympathetic eyes. “Yes . . . I mean, sort of, but when I inherited this place from Aunt Eleanor last year, along with the website, I just assumed you’d looked over everything connected with the business.” Wasn’t that what attorneys were for? She didn’t want to add that she’d made it a habit to avoid the internet—including her own website. It was all too overwhelming. Apparently, she was a pathetic excuse for a business owner.

Rebecca was silent for a moment, and then Norah heard her carefully controlled intake of breath. “Norah, I’m just cautioning you that we should be ready. There are loopholes should this become a lawsuit, though I can’t imagine any lawyer in their right mind would take on a case like this. But your website does claim the house is haunted, and you do have an ancient graveyard at the back of your lot that adds to the allure. Add that together, and without a waiver releasing you from any responsibility, they could make it their contention that the ghost itself is a fabrication made to entertain and scare your guests. In this scenario, that fabrication took things too far and the apparition or actor—take your pick—again, literally scared Mr. Miller to death by way of a heart attack.”

Norah’s mind was spinning now. This was all based on possibilities and wild theories. “Can’t we just talk to Mrs. Miller and work something out, avoid a lawsuit?”

“Her husband just died—she’s upset, grieving.” Rebecca’s voice was grave. “Which means what you propose isn’t likely to happen. Not to mention, if she hasn’t thought of pursuing any of this, then we don’t want to inadvertently provide her with the idea.”

Norah didn’t care for Rebecca’s cut-and-dried way of dealing with the issue. “Well, maybe we can . . .” Her words trailed as Sebastian sat down across from her at the table. With Otto and Sebastian there, Norah should have felt reassured, like everything was going to be all right. Instead, a feeling of claustrophobia was spiraling toward severe anxiety. She didn’t have the money to lay out to protect herself against the implausible what-ifs of a grieving widow’s claim, one that threatened to put Norah out of business.

Rebecca, unaware of how Norah was churning inside, wasn’t finished yet. “So here’s what we do. Let’s prepare a response so that, in the event this does go south, we’re not caught with our proverbial pants down.”

“What should our response be?” Norah put the phone on speaker and set it on the table. There was no use hiding anything now. Sebastian had been there the moment Mr. Miller died, and Otto was just—well, Norah needed him.

“There are some basic things we can say and do. I can run through those with you, but first we need to get our story straight about Isabelle Addington and any influence she has had or still has on your property.”

“She’s dead.” Norah’s blanket statement made Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot upward.

“Yes, but if she haunts—”

“She’s dead, Rebecca. She’s not roaming the halls in the night or—” Norah stopped. Could she honestly say that? Hadn’t she just last night searched the darkness for Isabelle’s ghost, wishing to see her spirit but hoping it was Naomi’s instead?

“Okay. Here’s what we need. Compile what you know about Isabelle Addington’s murder back in, what, 1901? And look into the property records of the place. See if there’s any other history anyone could dig up and say influences the haunting atmosphere. Have you used the old cemetery to attract guests? Tours of it?”

“There are only seventeen graves there. Hardly worth charging people for tours.” Norah was irritated by the thought. She had no intention of bringing curiosity seekers to Naomi’s peaceful place of rest.

“Good. So, you’re not collecting money for haunted tours?”

“Of course not.” She glared at the phone.

Rebecca was unfazed on the other end. “I’m not saying we need to panic, but just be prepared. I realize Mr. Miller died of natural causes, but your property has already been linked to Isabelle Addington and . . .” Rebecca broke off, hesitating.

Norah could feel the blood drain from her face.

Otto moaned quietly.

Sebastian Blaine had the decency to wince.

Rebecca cleared her throat. Her voice gentled. “Norah, you run a business out of the only house in Shepherd ever to be associated with murder. And the fact that you and your sister were living in the house with your aunt when Naomi went missing . . . well, it ups the sensational factor. Someone looking to take advantage of your property’s history associated with the only two killings in Sheperd—to make some connection to Mr. Miller’s heart attack—well, it could get ugly, not to mention expensive, even if it’s not something I see as a legitimate threat. You’re also the only family in town who’s had a family member murdered. That isn’t something we can just ignore. Coincidental? Maybe. Something a bunch of overambitious lawyers think they can build a lawsuit on for a poor elderly widow whose husband was frightened to death? I doubt it, but there’s always the media, and now you have a popular true-crime podcaster as your guest!”

Norah shot a glance at Sebastian, who kept his eyes focused on the phone in the middle of the table. He didn’t seem all that perturbed, and Rebecca had no idea that he was listening in on the conversation.

Norah exchanged looks with Otto, whose eyes expressed concern. “I don’t think Sebastian intends to cover Naomi’s story—just the historical one.”

Rebecca gave a small laugh over the phone. “Okay. But let’s be prepared anyway. For now, and for anything in the future that could come up.”

Norah didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She stared at the phone until Rebecca issued a hesitant farewell with a promise to touch base in a day or two.

“I can’t do this,” Norah whimpered into her palms.

Otto mumbled a crotchety oath under his breath. “I always said humanity is devolving instead of getting smarter.”

“There isn’t any action or claims yet, and there’s no press to speak of.” Sebastian’s words made Norah feel a tiny bit better. But then considering who’d said them . . .

Sebastian shifted his eyes to Norah. She lifted her gaze to meet his and was surprised by how she was drawn to the understanding she saw there. After his rude rebuttal to his daughter last night, she hadn’t felt particularly warm toward him this morning.

“I think I can help you,” Sebastian added. “This is what I do anyway. It’s why I’m here. I came to this place to research the cold case of Isabelle Addington, so why don’t we work together? It will help me, and it will help you. We’ll collect the facts, explore the history, and—”

“And sensationalize Naomi’s murder while you’re at it?” Otto’s gruff voice interrupted.

Sebastian appeared to be offended by Otto’s harsh words, who was only trying to protect Norah. “No. I’ve already told Norah that has never been my intent. Norah’s family’s story is not—”

“But you can’t just ignore it either.” Norah stated the brutal reality of it. Even Rebecca had been less than subtle when she’d brought it up. “My sister and Isabelle Addington are the only two known murders in Shepherd, Iowa. They were both attached to this place, and both murders remain unsolved.”

“Then let’s solve them.” Sebastian turned his coffee mug between his hands, the mug making a scraping sound on the table.

Norah noticed him glance at Otto. Sebastian’s smile was cautiously kind. “I’ll be careful with Norah, Otto. Don’t worry.”

Otto’s bushy brows drew into a protective V. “You’d better,” he groused. “She’s our girl—the only one we got left.”

Norah’s heart ached at the thought. Aunt Eleanor had died, Naomi killed. Otto was right. Norah was the last to take care of 322 Predicament Avenue. She was living out her murdered sister’s dream. Part of her wished she could have switched places with Naomi. Naomi would have risen to this occasion with energy. Norah merely prayed and wished it all to go away. It was a never-ending nightmare.

Norah tugged on her cardigan, the spring air nippy. She slipped her feet into clogs and stepped out onto the back porch of the farmhouse Aunt Eleanor had purchased over fifty years ago. Her aunt then turned her attention to bringing the historic building back from what would have been an inevitable death. Eleanor had poured her whole self into restoring the dilapidated house. And now? Now Norah owned perhaps one of the most beautiful old farmhouses in Shepherd, if not the most shrouded in lore. And, for better or for worse, having a cemetery in the backyard only added to the mystery and aura of the place.

She tugged the door shut. The knocker against the antique lion head pounded its iron-on-iron announcement. A brooding maple tree extending its branches overhead was budding with the promise of green leaves. A squirrel hopped from branch to branch, chattering at being disturbed. Beyond the maple, the patchy spring lawn was dotted with gravestones, some tilting east, some broken at their ornate granite tops, others sunken into the earth. It wasn’t a large cemetery. It boasted seventeen graves of seventeen forgotten people, with three of the markers marking nine of the souls who’d died. Father, mother, child. Father, mother, child. A pattern that was repetitive not only here but in small family graveyards throughout the Midwest.

Movement among the forgotten graves snagged Norah’s attention, and she stiffened . . . only to relax when she noticed it was Harper. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her arms wrapped around herself as she stood, back to Norah, staring down at a flat-topped marker.

Something about Harper’s dejected young form tugged Norah toward her. So different from herself at nineteen, her interaction with Harper yesterday had reminded her of Naomi. Maybe that was what had compelled her, a memory.

Harper looked up as Norah approached. She sniffed and, with her sleeve, wiped her eyes. They were red-rimmed. That she’d been crying was something the young woman couldn’t hide. The feeling of offense toward Sebastian resurfaced in Norah.

“Are you all right?” Norah asked.

Harper hugged herself tighter. Her brilliant pink hoodie hung over her petite frame like a blanket of emotional protection. She nodded. “I’m fine.”

“I-I heard you and your father last night,” Norah ventured.

Harper gave a little sigh. “Sorry.”

“No, no. I was awake. I just didn’t want you to think I’d been spying.” Norah stuffed her hands into the deep pockets of her chunky cardigan.

Harper sniffed again. “Dad means well, I guess. My parents are free spirits, and I was never part of their plan. They never married or anything, and a kid sort of messes up the plans of dreamers.”

Norah didn’t press Harper for anything more. She knew what it was like to have people poke and prod at your private emotions.

Harper shifted her feet, nodding at the marker in the ground. Its granite top was so worn, the words that had been etched into it were illegible. “I wonder who this was. If they feel forgotten today or if they don’t even care where they’re buried.”

Norah looked down at the stone. She’d seen it many times since she was a girl. “There aren’t any records that I know of for this graveyard.”

“It’s so sad,” Harper concluded, still staring at it. “Being forgotten. A whole life was lived, and now . . . it doesn’t even matter. The world just goes on without you after you die.”

Norah gave Harper a sideways study. She wasn’t a therapist, but she’d done enough therapy herself to hear the undertones of loneliness and the burden of something deeper.

Harper dug the toe of her shoe into the grass. “Dad and I, we’re a bit too similar, to be honest. We both like to get into things and figure them out. I just wish—” she hesitated—“I wish sometimes he’d figure me out.”

“If you need to talk to someone—” Norah started.

“I’m pregnant,” Harper blurted out.

Well, she had been going to recommend the name of her therapist. Norah fidgeted with a button on her sweater. She was not someone who was emotionally capable of helping Harper with something like this.

Harper turned to face Norah. “Dad doesn’t know.”

Norah prayed for some sort of supernatural grace to know what to say. She had no words. She wasn’t upset, she wasn’t judgmental, she was just . . . what did a person say to a young woman who was carrying a child and whose parents didn’t know? The world today was more understanding of such things, so she assumed parents would be too. This stuff happened. It was a matter of figuring it out. But the experience had to be traumatic all the same. Having a baby was life-changing—no, life-altering.

Harper swiped at another tear. “I was dating this guy, and then we broke up two months ago. I just figured it out—I don’t think I’m more than ten weeks along. I came here ’cause Mom, frankly, won’t give . . . well, and I can’t tell Grandma and Grandpa. They’re old-fashioned, churchgoing and all that.” Harper sucked in a wobbly breath. “I am too. Not old-fashioned, but I have faith and grew up going to church ’cause of Grandma and Grandpa, and I vowed I’d not do anything until I was married . . .”

Norah really had nothing to say now. Not that faith and church were foreign to her. She’d grown up much the same way. But when Naomi had died, the idea of faith seemed so distant, so much like a fairy tale.

“I figure Dad will be the most understanding—which sounds weird, I know. But I have to get up the guts to tell him.” Harper jammed her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie. “But he flies solo. He always has. Mom said he didn’t stick around much after I was born, and . . . I don’t know. A girl needs her dad, right? Is that too much to ask?”

Harper leveled large expectant eyes on Norah, as if she had some sort of monumental wisdom to offer from her thirty-two years of life. But her life hadn’t been like most. Her dad had always been there, sure, but after Naomi’s death, Norah became an additional burden because of her own emotional terrors. And now that she was over thirty and finally standing on her own? Mom and Dad had hightailed it out of Shepherd for a much-needed time of restoration in a place that didn’t scream of Naomi’s memory.

Norah realized Harper was still waiting, watching for a response. She cleared her throat. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

Harper smiled. “Thanks.”

Norah gave her a confused look.

“For listening.” Harper nodded. “You’re the first person I’ve told, and I didn’t really want advice so much as someone to listen and not look like they were going to pass out at the news.” She laughed nervously, then nudged the flat-top grave marker with her shoe. “Why is it easier to tell strangers things?”

Norah squeezed her eyes closed for a long moment and then opened them to reflect back the question Harper had just asked. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask if you want to feel better about things. I can barely leave my own house.”

Harper reached out to squeeze Norah’s elbow in a gentle show of camaraderie. “Sometimes life is scary, isn’t it?”

Norah grimaced but nodded. “Sometimes I envy the people buried here. The stillness. The peace.”

“But death is scary too,” Harper said.

Norah nodded in agreement.

“So, how do we not be afraid?”

It was a question Norah had been trying to answer for thirteen years.