Without A Clue. Trish Jensen

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      She strolled back to the desk and sat down, and he could practically see her wheels chugging along.

      “Meg’s thinking?” Tina asked. “I’m out of here.” She practically sprinted from the room.

      Suddenly Meg glanced up at him and said, “Okay, I have two possibilities. Tell me what you think of these.”

      Oh, he couldn’t wait.

      “One, we already have a chief inspector, so that’s out. But we could add you as his assistant. Of course, you’d have to be heavily disguised.”

      Matt didn’t like that option for two reasons. He’d been in charge of his own company for so long that the thought of playing second fiddle and actually having to take orders really rankled. And second, although he wouldn’t object to wearing certain clothing to play a part, disguises conjured images of fake mustaches and Coke-bottle glasses. “What’s the other option?”

      “You can come back as yourself.”

      His brows drew together. “Wouldn’t that kind of ruin the mystery of who killed me?”

      “Not if you come back as your spirit.”

      “Spirit? You mean…a ghost?”

      She beamed at him as if he were five and had just conquered the concept of the alphabet. “Exactly.”

      “You’re kidding, right?”

      “Not at all.”

      “I don’t believe in all that ghost or spirit nonsense.”

      Her brows lifted and he once again noticed what a beautiful shade of gray her eyes were. And how huge, especially when she was looking at him as though he was an idiot. “You do realize the history of this mansion, don’t you?”

      Matt bristled. “I bought the property, didn’t I?”

      “Then you know it’s purported to be haunted.”

      No, somehow he hadn’t heard that. “Bull.”

      She nodded. “It’s the lore, and there have been documented cases from previous owners.”

      “It’s an old house, they were just hearing the creaks and groans.”

      She shrugged. “I’m sure that’s part of it. But a lot stranger stuff has happened around here.”

      “Probably made up,” he interjected.

      She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “The story is that in the late 1800s, the house was bought by an ex-Confederate soldier named Jamie Foster, and it had been badly damaged in the war. He refurbished it, then brought his wife from Savannah to live here. Apparently Jamie was suffering from what today we’d call post-traumatic stress disorder, and became more and more irrational and abusive toward his wife. When he subjected her to a fairly bad beating while she was pregnant, she decided she wasn’t going to allow him to have any part in the raising of her child.”

      She paused until Matt finally said, “And?”

      “She poisoned his black-eyed peas.”

      “Ouch.”

      “So legend has it that he refused to leave the home he’d built, and still haunts it to this day.”

      “Not that I believe any of this bull, but even if there’s a hint of truth, why would anyone pay to come here?”

      “Are you kidding? We played up the haunted mansion part when advertising the weekend. It’s why we filled up so fast.”

      Matt made an involuntary grunting sound. “Some people are so gullible.”

      “I prefer to call them adventurous. With open minds.”

      He had the feeling there was an implied insult in there, even though not a hint of it showed in her serene expression. “I don’t know. Playing a ghost? Would I have to wear a white sheet or anything?”

      Meg laughed, a tinkling sound that was as soothing as soft music. If one liked soft music.

      “Then what?”

      She held up her hands as if framing him out behind a camera. “I see you in the same smoking jacket and silk pajama bottoms you’re found dead in. But the clothes would be much more tattered and still blood-spattered.”

      “What about makeup?” he asked suspiciously.

      “If anything, we’ll just make your face and hands a lot more pale. And the way we’d set it up is you’ll always show up in a dimly lit room, so you’ll look not from this world.”

      “I don’t know,” he said, forcing skepticism into his voice he wasn’t exactly feeling. Oddly enough, it sounded like a challenge, and Matt thrived on challenge.

      “Do you have anything better?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

      “Yes. You all relocate.”

      “Not an option. Try again.”

      Matt felt the same exhilaration he usually received haggling over a real estate deal, and it was befuddling—and different. After all, this was puff-ball stuff. And instead of wanting to break down his adversary, he sort of wanted to see her rise to the occasion. Not to win, of course. Losing wasn’t an option for him. But to give him some fun in the process.

      Then again, he’d already lost one battle to her. But that wasn’t technically his mistake. His mistake was trusting the man he’d hired to oversee this property. That would be rectified shortly.

      “How about if you cast me in another part that puts me in the middle of things the entire weekend, instead of the dead guy?”

      He could swear her shoulders drooped just a little, and his heart kind of pinched.

      “I could do that,” she said. “But all of the other roles have been cast.”

      “So, recast.”

      “I can’t ask them to learn a new role on this short notice. It’s just not fair. And I’m not sure of the rules, but they might charge me extra for it. Besides, that means you relinquish your bedroom.”

      This woman might be a little crafty, but he still figured she didn’t have a clue what she was doing. “You don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”

      The shoulders straightened and stiffened, which kind of made him want to cheer.

      “Listen, things were going just fine until you came along.”

      “Right, your dead guy was basically DOA.”

      “I could have found a way around that without you. You just seemed…convenient, in a really inconvenient kind of way. I’m trying to accommodate your desires while still pulling off this gig. And you’re really beginning to tick me off.” She paused СКАЧАТЬ