Heather Graham - Unhallowed Ground

“He’s actually here looking for a girl who disappeared a year ago,” Will said. “Her case was in the papers again today. The cops are wondering if there’s a connection between the two cases.”

“I saw the papers. I even showed the article to Sarah,” Caroline told him.

A horse-drawn carriage full of tourists clip-clopped by on the street. “A young woman committed suicide in that hotel, on the top floor,” the guide was telling his passengers. “They say her ghost still visits the room every new moon.”

They all went still as the carriage passed, their gazes turning involuntarily toward the top floor of the hotel.

“I need a drink now,” Renee announced, and hurried on ahead of them to Hunky Harry’s, just a couple of doors away.

Caroline found herself standing alone on the sidewalk for a moment as the others passed her and went inside. She suddenly felt a chill, and she realized that a frisson of fear was sweeping through her.

She’d lived here her entire life. She knew practically every restaurant owner, bartender and shopkeeper in the city. She knew the people who worked in the hotels and museums, and owned the local B&Bs.

And she was suddenly afraid.

Something new had come to the city.

Or maybe something old, very old—and very evil—had been awakened.

Caleb caught up to Sarah McKinley, who was staring at him with suspicion. Even so, she was a beautiful woman.

At that moment, she reminded him of a small but ferocious terrier.

He stopped walking and stood dead still on the sidewalk, staring at her in return.

“Were you speaking to me? If so, no, I’m not following you. I’m headed to my B and B,” he told her.

She blinked. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she winced. “Sorry. But…” She continued to stare at him suspiciously. “Where are you staying?”

“Roberta’s Tropic Breeze, over on Avila,” he said.

She closed her eyes, bit her lip lightly and let out a sigh.

“You’re kidding? Are you saying that’s where you’re staying, too?” he asked.

“Bertie is an old friend,” she told him. “There are dozens of B and Bs in this city,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re staying at the same one I am.”

“Hey, I made my reservation before I left home,” he told her. “I was definitely there first. And why are you staying there, anyway? You must have tons of friends in town.”

“Precisely,” she said.

He laughed. “Sorry, but I’m not checking out. I’d be delighted to help you with that bag, though.”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with my own suitcase.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“Okay, I won’t help you with your bag. Nice seeing you.”

She seemed to realize that she was being rude for no real reason and let out another sigh. “Sorry. Yes, thanks, I’d love the help.”

He lowered his head, whispering, though there was no need. “It’s okay—all the people who want to talk to you are still over on your street, staring at your house.”

“Yeah?” she said, her voice skeptical. “I took one step outside and everyone thought that I had all the answers since it’s my house. I have no clue as to how those bodies ended up in my walls.”

“It was a mortuary. The answer should be easy enough to find,” he told her, then looked at her quizzically, taking the bag as they walked. “You’re a historian, right?”

“Yes. I have my master’s degree in American history.”

“You must find this fascinating.”

“I would—if it wasn’t my house we’re talking about. I dreamed about buying that place when I was a kid. I love everything about it. Now I own it, but they have to hack into all the walls, and God knows when I’ll get back in,” she said.

“Oh, it won’t be that long,” he offered.

She glared at him. “Have you seen how the cops, not to mention all the experts, work?”

He laughed. “Okay, then think of it this way. Most people have a ghoulish streak. The value of your property is going to soar. People will be clamoring to take it off your hands.”

“But I don’t want to sell!” she protested. And then they were approaching Bertie’s place.

Caleb saw Roberta Larsen standing anxiously on the porch, and she hurried down the steps as soon as she saw them, too.

“Sarah, you poor dear. Come on inside. I’ve got a nice cup of tea ready for you. And of course you’re welcome to a cup, too, Mr. Anderson.” She kept talking as she ushered them up the steps and through the door. “Sarah, you’re right in here, first room behind the parlor. Mr. Anderson, if you’ll just drop that bag in the room for Sarah…? Sarah, come right into the parlor and catch your breath.”

Roberta Larsen was closing in on seventy, but she was still slim and beautiful, wrinkles and all. And she apparently knew Sarah well.

“Yes, ma’am,” Caleb said.

“He’s a Southern boy,” Roberta told Sarah.

“Northern Virginia,” he said.

“You can always tell the true Southern boys. They say ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am,’ Roberta assured Sarah. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Yankees. I just love it when those wonderful northerners come down to visit. But you can always tell a Southern boy.”

Caleb saw that Sarah was trying to hide a grin, and he was glad. She needed to smile. Then he smiled, too. It had been quite a while since anyone had called him a boy.

Roberta’s place was impeccably kept. The furniture was antique and polished to a high shine, and the parlor—where she served cookies, soda, wine and beer in the afternoon—was comfortable as well as beautiful, with coffee tables, plush sofas and wingback chairs, a fireplace, and rows and rows of books. Roberta had a full silver tea service set out on the central coffee table, though they seemed to be the only guests around at the moment, Caleb thought as he went to deposit Sarah’s bag in the first bedroom, as instructed. It was next to his, but her room didn’t have its own access to the outside the way his did, he noticed.

After setting the bag at the foot of the bed, he noted the large window on one wall. He had a feeling she might come and go via that window, if she got the urge to avoid conversation.

He returned to the parlor, where the two women were already seated. Roberta was pouring tea. “I just don’t believe this,” she said to him as he entered. “Or maybe I do. What a crazy day. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Anderson, it’s not that St. Augustine is crime free. But we’re a tourist town—have been for years. There used to be executions down in the square. The Spanish garroted their condemned in public. These days, though, we pride ourselves on being nice, on doing our best to share our remarkable past without any bloodshed.”

“Bertie,” Sarah said, sipping her tea, “it’s all right. Whatever happened in my house happened a very long time ago, and no one thinks people were murdered and then stuffed in the walls. The general consensus seems to be that the mortuary owner was hiding bodies so he could resell coffins.”

“Yes, but for Gary to have found them today, the same day…Mr. Anderson found that poor drowned man, and with one of our local girls missing…” Roberta’s words trailed off, and she shook her head sadly. “I don’t know whether to be glad or not that they didn’t find the poor woman. And did you know that Mr. Anderson is here because another woman disappeared a year ago? Silly me. You must know that, because obviously you two know one another.”

Sarah stared at him as if curious to see his reaction to that. He shrugged.

The phone rang just then, and Bertie hurried off to answer it.

“Just exactly who do you work for?” Sarah asked him suspiciously.