“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”
Even though Ryan asked his question out of curiosity, Tag glared at him as he walked into the master bedroom.
“I was out with Emma.”
Ryan slid his tape measure along the wall, marking where he needed to cut. “Getting coffee?”
Tag sorted through his supplies, making more noise than necessary. “Yeah, you know, getting coffee, walking in the park holding hands. Stuff like that.”
“I see.”
Tag stopped his sorting and stared at him, his lip curling. “Oh, get that shattered look off your face. Emma’s mine. I gave you a chance with her, and you blew it.”
Shocked by his friend’s words, Ryan didn’t bother hiding his bitterness. “Oh, please. Before I even had the opportunity to argue, you had her number.”
Tag picked up his screwdriver. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t give you much of a chance, but why bother when I knew you’d never go for it anyway?”
Ryan hated arguing with Tag. His heart palpitated at the thought of losing the only friend he had left. He swallowed his animosity and changed the subject. “I’d like to get started on the sconces.”
“You couldn’t have started while I was out?”
Ryan’s mouth twisted in annoyance. Best friend or not, he wasn’t going to be a doormat. “What bug crawled up your ass?”
Tag pointed his screwdriver at him. “You’re the bug up my ass.”
“Me? What the hell did I do?”
“I’m tired of the way you look at my girlfriend.”
Anger erupted inside him. He’d done everything he could to keep his thoughts off Emma, and maybe Tag had no idea how hard that was, but just the fact that he didn’t care was pissing him off. Ryan threw down his tape measure and marched over to him, bringing them nose to nose. “Really? And how do I look at your girlfriend?”
“Like you want to rip her clothes off and throw her down on the floor.”
Ryan turned away. “I have no interest in her.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
He threw his hands in the air. “All right, so what if I do? It’s not like I can turn off my feelings just because you tell me to, and I’m sure as hell not going to chase her. Why are you so pissed about it?”
“I’m not pissed.” Tag yanked the wires in the circuit box free. “I’m just making sure you know where the line is.”
Mortified his friend could so easily read how he felt about Emma, he prayed no one else caught on. Ryan already knew he needed to keep his distance, but to have it thrown in his face was like a punch in the groin.
God, life sucked.
“Don’t worry. The line is crystal-fucking-clear.”
***
“Are you sure you want to do this, Em?”
“We have to.”
The last place Ryan wanted to be was in an empty house during a thunderstorm with Emma, especially after the “discussion” he’d had with Tag.
Watching her glare at the mirror as if she could stare it down until it just popped off on its own, he pushed the thoughts of longing aside. What could never be, could never be.
Time for some levity.
“You know, Em, I don’t think nineteenth century mirrors like the evil eye. Maybe if you stroke it and whisper sweet nothings in its ear it’ll be more cooperative.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, I do that with my computer all the time. It never works.”
Pacing in front of the fireplace with a finger to her chin, she studied every inch of the mantel. Then she grabbed the small A-frame ladder, climbed up, and studied the mirror’s frame where it met the crown molding. “Why wasn’t this molding taken down?”
“It’s in such good shape we didn’t want to risk ruining it. It wasn’t easy since we had to remove most of the ceiling.”
“Have you ever examined this thing?”
Ryan shrugged. “Not really. Since Betsy didn’t want it touched I saw no reason to. That’s your job, isn’t it?”
She scoffed at him as she surveyed the area. “Yes, it’s my job, Mr. Smartass, but the only thing Betsy wanted changed was the tiling around the mouth of the fireplace. My main concern was doing that and trying to figure out how to change the liner and bring it up to code without making a hole in the wall.”
“Well, you managed.”
“Of course I managed. I’m that good—sonova-mutherfucking-bitch!”
Her sudden outburst startled him. “Whoa, watch your language, young lady!”
Emma ran her fingers along the top of the frame where it met up with the crown molding. “This thing is on a hinge.”
“A hinge?”
“Yeah, a piano hinge.” She swept her hand in a horizontal motion. “From left to right.”
“Why would—”
“Ryan, look at the mantel shelf.”
He looked down at the old mahogany wood, not really seeing what had caused her to swear like, well, men on a job site. “What?”
“There are scratches toward the back.”
He studied it where it butted up against the frame. On closer inspection, he could see small grooves all along the length of it. “Those are—”
“Marks one would make while opening and closing a door.”
“Sonova-mutherfucking-bitch!”
Emma laughed and searched the frame, her excitement growing. “There must be a latch or a catch somewhere.”
“I’ve never seen one of these mirrors with hinges on it, have you?”
Emma shook her head as she climbed down from the ladder. Her fingers danced over the intricate carvings. “I’ve been in every type of house in the tri-state area. I’ve never seen anything like this, although I have seen small hidden compartments in mantels that were left over from prohibition.”
She paused. Then, with an impish smile on her face, Emma pressed her fingers into cut-outs carved into the corners of the frame. Ryan had assumed they were part of the design, but they hid two small grooves where fingers would fit.
Sinking her teeth into her lower lip, Emma lifted the mirror like the hood of a car. “This thing is on a tension spring.”
A loud clap of thunder startled her, causing her to loosen her grip.
Instead of falling back into place, the entire mirror floated smoothly toward the ceiling. A long piece of twine hung from the bottom of the mirror, making it easier to pull back down.
Ryan stepped closer and stared in awe.
He turned to Emma. If his face resembled hers, he must look like a wide-eyed idiot.
Behind the mirror were shelves that held a library of boxes. Some containers were small and fit several to one cubbyhole, others barely fit, but they filled every compartment.
She spoke in hushed tones, as if speaking louder would close the mirror again. “I think we found the cubbyholes.”
“More than we bargained for. Betsy sure hit pay-dirt when she bought this house.”
Licking her lips, Emma looked like a cat that had just spied a gallon of spilled milk. “This is better than finding the newspaper in the fireplace.”
“We should go through the boxes. You know, just to make sure there’s nothing in there that would harm Betsy.”
“Oh, yes. It’s the right thing to do. Besides, there’s something in here the Lady in the Shawl needs us to find.”
“Okay, I’m convinced. Let’s start searching.”
Lightning flashed through the sky seconds before the claps of thunder rocked the house. Ryan only half-registered the rain pounding the windows. He reached for a small yellowed cardboard box and carefully lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of cotton, lay an antique gold bar brooch. Centered on the bar was a large sapphire circled by diamonds.
He looked over at Emma and watched her study a pearl and diamond cluster ring. He smiled. She looked so excited. “Nice stuff, huh?”
Emma nodded, replacing the ring before reaching for another box. She held up a garnet and gold Celtic bracelet. “It’s incredible.”
She pulled a bundle of papers from one of the other boxes. As she read them her face broke into a smile.
Ryan came up behind her, reading over her shoulder. “What are those?”
“Love notes between Hilary and Nathaniel—remember? The names showed up in the property records when we were doing research on the house. They were teenagers.”
“How do you know they were teenagers?”
“Because she talks about being sixteen and free to marry him, even without her parents’ consent.”
“Sixteen and old enough to marry. Man, have things changed.” He turned back to the mantel. “I’m pretty sure that’s not what we’re looking for, though.”
Emma nodded but continued to study the notes in her hands. Something was off about them, but she couldn’t figure out what. With a shrug, she placed them in their box and moved on.
Fifteen minutes later, Ryan’s jaw hung as if it had a broken hinge. Jewelry, tons of jewelry, lay tucked into the boxes, along with tiny baby shoes that one might have a child wear at a christening. Baby cups, a box of black and white photos, and a will were among the treasures they’d found.
Once they’d looked through each box they returned it to its place, but it was so hard to keep track. He was sure they must’ve missed a few things.
Emma turned a cameo over in her hand and examined the back. “This is all wonderful stuff, but none of it seems like something we had to find.”
Running his fingers through his hair, Ryan studied all that was before him. She was right, but the ghost hadn’t gone through all that trouble to lead Emma wrong. “I know what you’re saying. The birth certificates and the marriage license are kinda cool, but we knew about them from our research. The baby things are sweet, but hardly ‘clue worthy.’ All this really does is confirm the Smiths and their daughters once lived here.”
“Most of this was all in the public records anyway.” Emma shuffled through the papers again. “Except Hilary’s will. Maybe there’s something in here.”
Ryan stood next to her as she read the document, watching her bite her lower lip as her eyes scanned the pages. He gulped and moved away, thinking it was better to watch her from a distance.
After a few minutes of reading, she shook her head. “I don’t really understand all this legalese, but it says ‘for reasons of which they are fully aware, to my daughters Sara Hale, Rebecca Livingston, and Mary Montgomery, I leave nothing.’”
Ryan scratched his head. “None of their daughters inherited. So what does that mean?”
“I have no idea.” Emma took a few steps back from the fireplace and stared at the opening from a distance.
He grinned. She looked so intense at the moment. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for the snail.” Her eyes stayed fixated on the fireplace.
“I beg your pardon.”
Even before she answered, he knew it had something to do with Nicole. Only her daughter could make her smile so sweetly.
“One of my—I mean, Nicole’s—favorite shows is Blue’s Clues.”
One of Nicole’s favorites? Yeah, right. “Uh huh. I’m familiar.”
A light shade of pink crept up her neck into her face. “We watch it all the time. While Nicole is looking for Blue’s Clues, I look for this little pink snail. It might be peeking out from behind a chair, beneath a flower in the yard, or blending in with the base molding. It’s hardly ever in plain sight, but you know it’s hidden somewhere in every episode.”
“Where you going with this, Em?”
“What I’m saying is sometimes what you’re looking for is hidden in the details.” Her eyes grew intense. She raised a finger and pointed. “Like right there.”
He followed where she pointed and noticed in the lower left-hand corner something out of the ordinary. Everything behind the mirror had been stacked neatly and in boxes, but what he saw wasn’t in a box and looked as if it had been stuffed between two framing beams.
Emma hurried to the fireplace and pulled out a stack of letters bound together by a blue satin ribbon. She caught her breath. “This is it, Ryan, I know it is.”
He surveyed the top letter, which was old and yellowed but in surprisingly good condition. The stamp was the portrait of President Garfield. The cancellation date read March 11, 1887. “Wow, stamps were only two cents back then.”
“Who do you suppose this is?” Emma pointed to the official looking picture on the stamp.
“James Garfield.”
She looked at him dubiously. “How do you know that?”
“I’m a history buff, remember?”
“Uh huh, and you know who the president was in 1887?”
Ryan playfully shook his head in disgust. “Oh, Emma, Garfield wasn’t the president in 1887, Grover Cleveland was. Everyone should know Garfield because he was one of the four U.S. presidents to be assassinated.”
She studied the letter. “Oh. Right. He was shot in a train station by some pissed off attorney.”
“That’s right. Plus, you have to be dead to be on a postage stamp.”
Emma gently pulled at the blue ribbon. “Yeah, yeah, ya big show-off.” She shuffled through the letters, pausing every once in a while to read. “Most of these are addressed to a Rebecca Hale. One is made out to Ruby Van Leer.”
“Must be more love letters.”
Cradling them against her chest, Emma looked like a child about to go searching for Easter eggs. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“Read them.”
“Yup, but not here. It’s really getting nasty out and I have to get home to Nicole. So how do you feel about chicken marsala for dinner?”
Ryan’s stomach flipped at the idea of spending the evening with her. It was just dinner. That wasn’t over the line, was it?
Was it?
“Sounds heavenly,” he heard himself answering.
Emma shoved the precious bundle of letters into the waistband of her jeans, jerked her t-shirt down over them and tucked it in, securing them. “Great! Let’s close up shop and get the hell out of here.”
Ryan grabbed the twine and pulled the mirror down, but this time a loud screech, like nails on a chalkboard, filled the room as he pushed the mirror back into place.
“God, that’s an awful sound.” Ryan headed for the door. “Do you have your car with you?”
“No, I took the train in. Bart has the company van.”
He pulled out his keys. “I’m going to make sure the rest of the house is locked up. Then I’ll get my car. Meet me outside, but be quick.” He jogged from the room.
Loving the idea of telling Betsy about all the wonderful treasures they’d found, Emma made sure everything was tidy and in its place and then headed for the entranceway.
The bedroom door slammed before she could reach it.
Emma jumped, her heart thumping. She glanced around the room. “Oh, come on, guys, I don’t have time for games right now.”
Even though she knew it was futile, she wrapped her hand around the knob and tugged. Of course it didn’t open. With her hands fisted against her hips, she wondered what it would take to coax it.
A sharp pain burst from the back of her head. “Ow! What the f—?” Emma spun around, rubbing where it hurt. What she saw nearly made her heart stop.
Dozens of tools circled in midair, hovering maliciously. A thick, red gel-like substance bled from the walls, coating them from ceiling to floor, and the strong smell of musk filled the suddenly cold room.
Tremors rocked her body. For just a moment, there was an eerie calm as Emma stared at the floating objects. Then all hell broke loose when they took action.
She tried to suck in the chilled air as she ducked and dodged trowels, mortar pans, hoes, and levels. A few of the smaller tools hit her, but those she dodged bounced off the red-coated walls as if they were rubber.
Emma maneuvered into a corner and squatted down, her arms covering her head from the onslaught, her back to the room. “This isn’t funny!”
Silence.
Only her panting filled the room. Emma slowly lowered her trembling arms and turned. Tools littered the floor.
She stood but found she couldn’t bring herself to walk to the door. Something stopped her, but it wasn’t her wobbly knees.
The musk. It was still there, so strong she felt sick. She had to get out.
Panic set in. Emma headed for the door, grabbing the knob and praying for it to open.
An ominous clatter from the adjacent corner of the room stopped her. Slowly she released the knob and turned toward the commotion, afraid of what she might see.
The red mist, so thick it was almost opaque, engulfed her fifty-pound wet saw. It rattled and shook until it floated haphazardly into the air.
Emma gasped. The damn ghost was going to hurl a wet saw at her? No friggin’ way!
She pounded on the door. “Ryan!” she screamed, her voice breaking in a sob. Her fingers gripped the doorknob, twisting and pulling. “Help me!”
She glanced over her shoulder in time to see the wet saw—table and all—heading right for her.
Oh God!
She threw her arms over her head, expecting any second to be broken and cut by her own machinery.
Then nothing.
No sound. No pain. No masonry missiles.
Peeking through her arms, Emma viewed the flying tool through a blue mist. The saw was in front of her, hovering at eye level, bouncing against the blue barrier.
The saw struggled to break through. The smaller tools rose from the floor and attempted to penetrate the shield.
Emma looked above her and at her feet, realizing the barrier surrounded her. She wanted to cry out in relief.
The Lady in the Shawl. It had to be. Protecting her, just as she’d promised she would.
Her moment of reprieve didn’t last as fear gripped her. She needed to get out that door, and she needed one of the heavier tools to do it.
Taking a tentative step, she found the mist engulfed her even as she moved. She reached for a small mallet, but as soon as her hand touched it, it jumped up and swung at her. She snatched her hand away and ran back to the door.
Emma never lost focus on the scene before her. And even as she stared wide-eyed and terrified, the blue mist slowly faded to a pale gray. The Lady in the Shawl was weakening. The smaller tools began breaking through.
She reached for her cell phone, but when she swiped the screen open, it flickered like an old-style TV when it was off channel. Whatever was protecting her must be interfering with the service.
Emma pounded her fists against the mahogany wood so hard they turned red and swollen. “Ryan! Help me!”
Oh, God, where the hell was he?