middle-aged son were in the middle of an argument.
Kristin got out and slammed her door to alert them to her presence. But the short, plump woman with the Einstein frizz of hair and pink polyester pantsuit either didn’t hear it or didn’t care. Neither, it seemed, did her tall, heavyset son.
Will Arnett looked nothing like his mother. Where Mildred’s complexion was powder-pale, Will’s olive skin, thinning black hair and brushy mustache hinted at Greek or Italian ancestry. His khakis and yellow polo shirt looked expensive.
Dredging up a smile, Kristin called out a hello as she closed the distance between them. “Mrs. Arnett?”
Anna Mae’s elderly cousin came forward and stretched out a hand. But as Kristin attempted to shake it, the woman slapped a set of keys into her palm. “Call me Mildred,” she said, her sharp bird eyes taking in Kristin’s white sweatshirt and jeans. “Just go on inside and do whatever it is that you do.”
Kristin hesitated. “You aren’t going with me?”
Will Arnett answered irritably, “Mother refuses to go inside Anna Mae’s home after dark, and of course, it will be dark soon.” He sent Kristin a deadpan expression and wiggled his fingers in the air. “Ghosts, you know.”
Mildred scowled at her son, then spoke to Kristin. “I don’t like thinking of Anna Mae dying in that house all alone, without someone to guide her spirit to the next level. I—I hear things in there.” She cast a brief, nervous eye at the stately maples close to the house. “I’ve been trying to contact Ellysa all day, but I haven’t been able to reach her. She’d know what the sounds mean.”
Mildred seemed to expect a reply, so Kristin ventured, “Ellysa?”
Will rolled his eyes. “Ellysa Spectral, Mother’s voodoo medium from the psychic hotli—”
“Ellysa is my spiritual advisor,” Mildred cut in sharply.
“And she’s draining your bank account. Every time you consult with her it’s $5.95 a minute. What a colossal waste of money!”
“You’d know all about wasting money, wouldn’t you? Maybe you should worry about getting a job instead of watching my bank balance!” Mildred swung a look at Kristin. “If there’s anything you want to buy, let me know. I’ve already tagged the things I want. As I said on the phone, the rest will be auctioned off and the house put in the hands of a Realtor.”
The mention of auctions brought back the compelling image of Zach in a tux, but Kristin quickly and determinedly chased it away. “Thank you for your trust. Shall I bring the keys to the motel when I’ve finished?”
“Yes, I’m in 103 and William’s in 104—but bring the keys to me.”
Kristin murmured her agreement, not daring to look at Will. “I’ll see you in an hour or two. I’d like to take a good look.”
“Whatever.” Mildred jutted her chin skyward. “Come, William. I’d like to take a nap before that police show I like comes on the TV.”
His face livid, Will Arnett nodded curtly at Kristin, then seated his mother in the blue sedan. She could hear them starting up again as they backed out of the driveway and roared off.
Kristin blew out a ragged breath. Chad hadn’t exaggerated. They really were a strange twosome.
Not surprisingly, the inside of Anna Mae’s house was clean, but cluttered—primarily because the rooms were small, but partly because the woman had been a pack rat. Downstairs, Kristin found several pots and vases that interested her, along with a bookcase full of classic literature, two of them, first editions. As Harlan had mentioned, frogs in all sizes were scattered from the kitchen to the upstairs bedrooms.
It was upstairs that she made her best finds, though the condition of the bedrooms disturbed her. The Arnetts hadn’t taken much care as they’d gone through Anna Mae’s things. Dresser drawers hung open, and most of the photos on the walls were askew. She tagged a pair of hurricane lamps and an old chest whose contents had also been tossed, then moved into the hallway to label a lovely old chair and occasional table before opening the door to the attic.
Several pairs of shoes sat just inside, and metal curtain rods that had never made it to the upper repository stood upright in the corner. Kristin snapped on the dim light and ascended the narrow staircase. She glanced around as she neared the top, smiling when she spied a dressmaker’s dummy and several iron pipes hanging heavy with dated coats and dresses.
Suddenly glass smashed and the attic went dark. Kristin screamed as someone pushed past her and she tumbled midway down the stairs. She grasped for purchase, found the handrail, her mind on fire as footsteps banged down the remaining steps. The attic door slammed shut.
Afraid to move, afraid to breathe, Kristin crouched, nerves rioting, in the stairwell.
Something banged and bumped in the hall. Terrified, she backpedaled her way up several steps. She drew a trembling breath. He was moving furniture.
The thin strip of light beneath the attic door went out.
Kristin’s pulse hammered so loudly in her ears it was nearly impossible to pick out other sounds. But after several long minutes, she sensed that the intruder had gone. Could she leave now? Did she dare tiptoe from the stairwell and call the police? What if he came back? What if he thought she’d seen him—could recognize him—and came back for her?
Dear God, he had to have been inside the entire time she was tagging merchandise!
Kristin felt her way down the last few steps, then located the light switch and prayed that the intruder had merely turned the light off upstairs and the sound she’d heard hadn’t been the bulb smashing. But it had been.
She tried the door. Her heart sank when she realized he must have wedged the antique chair under the knob.
Frantic now, she pushed against it, shoved and pushed again—reared back and put her shoulder into it, banging until her arm ached. She dropped to the bottom step and thrust both feet against the door, again and again, harder, faster, harder.
Kristin screamed as the vibration sent a shower of curtain rods clattering down on her head.
They were a godsend.
Quickly, she maneuvered one of the flat metal rods under the door and rammed it hard against a chair leg. The chair flew out from under the knob and fell to the floor. Kristin burst into the hallway, fumbled shakily for the light switch, then raced downstairs and out of the house to use her car phone.
Patrolman Larry McIntyre was on the scene in less than five minutes, sirens wailing and lights flashing. After taking Kristin’s statement and asking if she needed medical attention, he disappeared inside Anna Mae’s little colonial home. Kristin was still sitting in her van when more headlights pierced the darkness and Chad brought his truck to a skidding stop behind the prowl car. He was in “civvies”—a gray sweatshirt bearing a police academy emblem, jeans and sneakers.
“What happened?” he asked tensely as he hurried to her open window. Lights strobed over his face. “Are you all right? I heard the call as I was getting out of the shower.”
“I’m okay,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll probably have a few bruises from
