“You mean before it was restored?’’ Bronwyn stopped on the landing, allowing her aunt to catch up with her. She was dressed in a mauve silk blouse over beige wool slacks, her light-brown hair pulled back from her face into a ponytail. For thirty-eight, she was in fine condition, burnished with health and fitness. As a part-time librarian for the local historical society, she had achieved a place in the community she enjoyed.

“Yes. That’s what I mean,’’ said Agatha. “From what you said, it was transformed by the renovators.’’ She had taken off the long, pin-striped jacket of her traveling suit, revealing the lace-fronted blouse with a high, frothy neck. Her slacks were a bit wrinkled from the long drive, but she felt neat enough not to need to change clothes yet. A trim woman of middle height, Agatha Pomeroy was striving to keep from admitting her fatigue, but the five-hour drive had left her feeling a bit frayed, and it showed.

“It had been very rundown,’’ said Bronwyn, finding it impossible to imagine her glossy, elegant house anything less than what it was. “It was built in 1894, you know. The man who owned it before the restoration company bought it didn’t bother with it, or so I’m told. He was retired and spent most of his time in Santa Barbara, I understand, with his son’s family. He only came back here two or three times a year, and never stayed more than a month. He said he didn’t like the place, or at least, that’s what my across-the-street neighbor told me. She’s been in her house for thirty-nine years, so she knows everyone.’’

“Why didn’t he like it?’’ Agatha wanted to know.

“According to Mirabelle, he claimed the house was haunted.’’ Bronwyn laughed to show her opinion of such nonsense.

“This Mirabelle—your neighbor?—does she have an opinion? Does she agree it’s haunted?’’

“She hasn’t said. Not that I’ve asked.’’

“You’d think she would have,’’ said Agatha musingly. “If she told you so much in the first place.’’

“If you want to know, ask her when you meet her,’’ said Bronwyn, clearly not interested in Agatha’s line of questioning.

“If she’s lived here for so long, she must be about my age, unless she was born here,’’ said Agatha, who was fifty-seven, the youngest of Bronwyn’s three maternal aunts.

“Oh, no: she’s eighty-eight, a long-time widow. I’ll invite her over, if you like,’’ Bronwyn offered as she resumed the climb. “As you see, four bedrooms, each facing a different direction. I’ve put you in the south bedroom. Martin and I have the north bedroom—it’s the master suite, I’ll show it to you after you see your room. Then there’s the east room, which we’ve made Martin’s study, and the west, which is our second guestroom, for when Martin’s kids are here.’’ She smiled and stepped onto the gallery that surrounded the stairwell. “It’s as if this is the heart of the house, isn’t it?’’ The gallery was lovely, the elegant quartet of fanlights in the square cupola above banishing all darkness. “Come.’’ She turned right, with Agatha behind her.

“Was this part of the original house?’’ Agatha asked, looking upward.

“Yes, but there were only two very small windows in the cupola and a really hideous chandelier hanging down from it. The whole place was very dark.’’ The renovators had shown her a photo of it, and she had been shocked. “The stairwell was almost always in shadow and . . . claustrophobic.’’

“Then this is really an improvement,’’ Agatha remarked, and went into the bedroom where she would be staying for two weeks; it was large, with a bay window overlooking the adjacent house, a fanlight above the bed, and two skylights that revealed the luminous blue May sky, all making the room bright and airy. But as Agatha entered the room, she had one of her notions—an impression that began at the base of her spine and ran electrically up it, combined with a sense of being watched—and she decided in that instant she knew why the former occupant had stayed away from the house. She hadn’t felt anything like it since the dig in Turkey, four years before when she had been working on excavations near Kutahya, and had stumbled into an ancient villa.

“The bathroom is next door, just turn left as you go out the door,’’ Bronwyn went blithely on. “The blue towels are for you. There’s an extra blanket in the closet, and you can plug in your computer behind the desk. The small armoire has a television, and we have satellite.’’

Agatha could only nod.

“These switches control the lights. This knob controls the shades on the skylights, if you want to have a more muted morning,’’ Bronwyn said, demonstrating how to work the sliding switch. “You can have partial sun, or no sun at all, if you want to sleep in.’’

“No,’’ said Agatha, not wanting to be in the dark in this house. “I like rising with the larks.’’

“As you wish.’’ She went back out to the gallery. “Our room is directly across from yours. The master bath is en suite, and there’s a walk-in closet with a dressing room.’’

Agatha did her best to look enthusiastic.

 
At four-thirty that afternoon there was a knock on the door and Bronwyn, who had been setting out salad-makings and salmon to marinate in lime and tequila for dinner, looked over at Agatha. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.’’

“Fine,’’ said Agatha, who was polishing the good silver for their dinner.

There was a flurry of conversation at the door, and then Bronwyn returned to the kitchen accompanied by a small, bird-thin woman in khaki slacks and an olive-green cotton sweater; she carried a tray of canapés along with a bottle of Golden Owl chardonnay. Her bright eyes peered out of a nest of wrinkles, and she grinned at Agatha. “Welcome to Auburn, Missus Pomeroy.’’ She handed the tray to Bronwyn, and surged toward Agatha.

Agatha turned away from the sink, and reached for a towel to dry her hands. “I’m guessing you’re Bronwyn’s neighbor,’’ she said, trying to match the wattage of welcome the newcomer displayed.

“Mirabelle Trask,’’ she supplied, taking both of Agatha’s proffered hands in hers. “So nice to meet you. Is this your first visit to Auburn?’’ Not waiting for an answer, she glanced at Bronwyn. “Why don’t I find us some wineglasses and a corkscrew, and you can just leave things in the kitchen while we all have some chardonnay.’’

Bronwyn shrugged. “All right. Give me five minutes. You two go into the living room while I finish slicing the tomatoes. The wineglasses are in the glass-fronted cabinet in the dining room.’’

“Very good.’’ Mirabelle plucked Agatha’s sleeve and, taking the bottle by the neck, prodded her toward the door to the dining room. “We’ll be in the living room. Don’t dawdle.’’

“Certainly not, Mirabelle,’’ said Bronwyn, laughing her best social laugh. “I’ll be right in.’’

Mirabelle hurried to the glass-fronted cabinet and removed three white-wine glasses, then winked at Agatha as she took a corkscrew from a drawer. Artfully holding the glasses, the bottle, and the corkscrew, she rounded on Agatha. “I hope you like chardonnay. I have a real fondness for it, particularly Golden Owl.’’ She bustled into the living room, and plunked herself down on the sofa. “Come. Sit down. Let’s toast your visit.’’

Agatha, feeling a trifle overwhelmed, did as she was told, choosing a handsome Maguire chair for herself. “I haven’t had Golden Owl before,’’ she said, to prove she was paying attention.

“I love it—the flavor is so intense.’’ Mirabelle had already set down the glasses and bottle, and opened the bottle. “I hope you will, too.’’

Agatha took a sip, finding it a little oakier than she liked, but she said, “It’s quite good,’’ which was true enough.

“The vintner teaches at Cal Davis, and his vineyard is in Yolo County, back in the hills,’’ said Mirabelle, and leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Here’s a welcome to you, and the hope for a pleasant stay.’’

“Thank you,’’ said Agatha. “To new friends.’’

“So, have you been to Auburn before?’’ Mirabelle asked.

“I have, but not for many years,’’ said Agatha.

“Bronwyn tells me you’re a professor?’’ Mirabelle pursued.

“At Cal Poly, in San Luis Obispo: archaeological anthropology.’’ She smiled. “The semester’s just ended.’’

Bronwyn appeared in the kitchen door, the tray of canapés in her hands. “Here I am,’’ she announced and brought the tray to the coffee table and set it down. “Has Agatha asked you anything about this house yet, Mirabelle?’’

“Not yet,’’ said Mirabelle, eyes bright with anticipation.

“Well, she probably will,’’ said Bronwyn, taking the glass Mirabelle had just poured for her. “I can’t remember half of what you told me about the place, so I rely on you to fill her in. Chin-chin.’’

They sat and talked, making the usual gambits of first acquaintance, and comparing experiences. Mirabelle had a raft of questions to ask Agatha, who answered them with just enough reserve not to feel she was divulging too much to her talkative neighbor. Finally, about an hour and a half later, Mirabelle considered the empty tray of canap s, and said, “Well, time to stop grazing.’’ She looked directly at Agatha. “What did you want to ask about this house? You must have questions. Not that the place is anything like it used to be. Still, there is the matter of the genius loci, isn’t there? The spirit of the place.’’

Startled by such direct questions, Agatha answered without shaping her inquiry. “Is the house haunted?’’

Mirabelle gave the question some consideration. “Well, Jim Riggins certainly thought so, but he felt it was something more than haunted. And he didn’t like it.’’

“You mean he thought it was possessed?’’ She was surprised to her herself say this; just the idea made her queasy.

“He didn’t use that word,’’ said Mirabelle, enjoying herself hugely. “He said the house was the embodiment of something, or someone, and that it wasn’t well-inclined toward him.’’

“Do you agree?’’ Agatha pursued, thinking in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Not entirely, no,’’ said Mirabelle. She gazed into the middle-distance, then said, “Jim served in the South Pacific in World War II, and spent some time on one of those islands near Australia—I forget which one—and he brought back a thing called a Spirit House; it’s something the natives make to house the souls of their dead. It’s not like a grave, it’s like a new corporeal form, so that the spirit can continue to live—sounds like something right up your alley: these houses are the people they’re made for. Most of them are model houses, very complete. Well, Jim thought the spirit in the house he brought back got out of its miniature house and took over his. The whole house was imbued with the spirit, he used to say. He had been told that the Spirit House was for the first chief to come out of the interior and deal with Europeans, but he thought that it probably wasn’t true. He said one of the natives had sold it to him, along with some tiki-gods.’’ She pondered a bit. “I don’t know if he was convinced that the spirit was a good one or something malicious; he only said it had occupied his house, made this house its body, so to speak.’’

“You’d think the renovation would put an end to it,’’ said Agatha.

“Yes, you would. But it could be having the house restored served to restore the spirit within it—you know, like a closet full of new clothes.’’ She laughed. “So long as the building is standing, I imagine, if Jim was right about it, the spirit will continue to . . . live.’’ She managed a bright smile. “Not that I put much stock in what he said.’’

“That’s a bit . . . unnerving, thinking that such a ridiculous thing might be believed,’’ said Bronwyn, getting up. “I have to do more on dinner, or we won’t eat until after nine. If you want to sit and chat a while longer, it’s fine with me.’’ With that, she took her wineglass and the canapé tray and made for the kitchen. “I’ll put this in the dishwasher for you, and return it tomorrow.’’

“Bronwyn isn’t comfortable with these kinds of conversations, is she,’’ said Mirabelle.

“I’m not entirely sanguine myself,’’ said Agatha.

“It could be a lot worse,’’ said Mirabelle with an artful shudder. “You could have one of those demonic things—you know, like the Amityville house: the one they did the movies about? They weren’t just scary films, you know. There truly was a house and very nasty things happened there.’’

“Did anything nasty happen here?’’ Agatha asked, trying to sound simply curious.

“Not that Jim ever mentioned.’’ She put the empty bottle aside. “But he didn’t tell me everything. It had him spooked, that’s for sure.’’

“So there could have been some kind of event?’’ Agatha prompted.

“It’s possible, I suppose, but in Auburn, spooky doings wouldn’t remain unnoticed for long. In a town like this, they’d probably want to make it into a tourist attraction,’’ said Mirabelle, getting to her feet and smoothing the front of her clothes. “It’s been great fun, Agatha. I hope we do this again soon.’’ She raised her voice. “Bronwyn, thanks so much!’’ Without waiting for a more formal farewell, she made for the door and let herself out.

 
“Sorry I wasn’t able to get yesterday off,’’ Martin Sallister said as he sat down to brunch the next morning. He was a pleasant man in his mid-forties, his dark-blond hair thinning, his glasses now bifocals. His demeanor was content to the point of smugness. Beside his plate were two Sunday papers—the Sacramento Bee and The New York Times, ready for reading; he had gone out to pick them up an hour ago, to get ahead of the Saturday crowds. “Sometimes they give us half-days on Friday, but not yesterday. We’re up for our annual office performance review, and it’s been hectic, I can tell you.’’ He smiled at Agatha. “We’re glad you’re here, Aunt Agatha.’’ Reaching over to pat her hand, he added, “I hope you slept well.’’

“Well enough for a strange bed,’’ she said obliquely. There had been the ongoing sensation of being watched, but not with any ill intent, so eventually she had been able to sleep, although lightly. This morning, she had had an uneasy few minutes in the shower for the same reason—she felt observed, and it flustered her, as a goat might feel when there were lions about.

“Well, that’s good.’’ He grinned at Bronwyn in the kitchen, and changed the subject. “The word around our office is we’re twelve percent ahead of last year. That means the Roseville office is ahead of the Sacramento office, for a change. We’ll get bonuses for it.’’

“That’s good news,’’ said Bronwyn, bringing in a platter of Hangtown Fry, the fried oysters artfully folded into the scrambled eggs and bacon. “Something fairly local,’’ she said, and set it down in the center of the breakfast table. She beamed at Martin, who continued to grin.

Agatha took her napkin and dropped it in her lap, then reached for a slice of multi-grained toast. “This looks wonderful, Bronwyn,’’ she said, loving the rich aroma of the steaming dish.

“Mimosa? Coffee? Tea?’’ Bronwyn sat down at the foot of the table and looked at Martin. “I’ll have a mimosa. One-third champagne for me, if you please.’’

Martin reached for the carafe of orange juice and poured out a generous amount into an oversized flute. Then he took the bottle of champagne and topped off the glass. “Aunt Agatha? Which would you like? A little mimosa, or something less alcoholic? Name your poison.’’ He indicated the options that flanked the platter.

“I’ll have a mimosa and then coffee,’’ she said, mildly annoyed that he should call her Aunt Agatha when they were only in-laws.

“Half and half?’’ Martin asked, meaning orange juice and champagne.

“Thank you,’’ she said, and watched the ritual of pouring, finding Martin’s style of hospitality a bit officious.

“We’re really glad you’re here, Aunt Agatha,’’ Martin went on. “We hope you’ll make it a habit, coming up to visit us now that we’re in this wonderful house. You have a lot of time off in the summer. You could make a longer stay, couldn’t you?’’

“Thank you,’’ she said as Bronwyn served up the Hangtown Fry. She lifted her glass and dutifully said, “To you both.’’

Martin touched the rim of his glass to hers. “That’s very gracious. To you, Aunt Agatha.’’

Bronwyn beamed as she finished serving the breakfast. “I’m so pleased that we have this time together.’’

“So am I,’’ said Martin, and looked encouragingly at Agatha. “We haven’t got to know each other very well, and it’s time that changed.’’

“Yes; yes indeed,’’ said Agatha, and set her glass down so she could eat, devoting herself to the merest small-talk until the eggs, bacon, and oysters were all gone. Then she said, making an effort to sound academic, “I was thinking about what Mirabelle said yesterday, about the Spirit House the former owner brought back from the South Pacific.’’

“Oh, please,’’ said Bronwyn. “Let’s not indulge in that kind of fantasy.’’

“I wasn’t thinking about the haunting; I was thinking about the Spirit House. Does anyone know what happened to it? Did the owner take it with him, or the renovator? Or is it here somewhere?’’

“What can it matter?’’ Bronwyn asked impatiently.

Agatha persisted, keeping very calm. “It’s just that an artifact like that could be valuable to a university or to a museum. It shouldn’t be lost.’’

“There are some boxes in the basement that the renovator didn’t remove,’’ said Martin. “You can have a look, if you like.’’

“Oh, Martin, I just hate the thought of something like that still being here. I’m not superstitious, but something like that is just so . . . so unpleasant.’’ Bronwyn gave a ladylike shudder.

“That’s just the point, my dear,’’ he said to Bronwyn. “I think Aunt Agatha’s right. After all, she should know about these things, shouldn’t she? If we can find the Spirit House, I’m sure there’s a museum that would be grateful for the donation, and we’d get a nice tax deduction for it.’’ He smiled and nodded to Agatha. “I think you’ve hit on a very good notion. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll help you go through the boxes later today, or first thing tomorrow, whichever you prefer.’’

A little taken aback, Agatha said, “I suppose this afternoon would be as good a time as any.’’

Martin nodded crisply. “You’re on. Let me pour you some coffee—do you like cream or sugar, or both?’’

“Black, please,’’ she said, suddenly dismayed at what she had got herself into.

 
Far more than the rest of the house, the basement showed the building’s age; dark beams hung low, with any number of hooks and improvised shelves on them for tools and storage. Martin had turned on the lights, but he also offered Agatha a flashlight, saying as he did, “There isn’t much light in the corners, as you see.’’

“Yes, I see,’’ said Agatha, switching on the flashlight and taking comfort in its beam, although it revealed little more than ancient cardboard boxes and cobwebs. She was glad now that she had insisted that she and Martin wear latex gloves—who knew what kind of creepy-crawlies lurked in those very old boxes?

“Yes. There they are,’’ Martin said, shoving past Agatha and reaching for the top box. “There’s writing on the lid,’’ he told her, using his flashlight to illuminate the faded letters. “J. Riggins. Jackpot!’’ He reached to pull down the box—the uppermost of four in that stack, pulling at the lid, and revealing two large scrapbooks and a photo album. He made a sound of disgust and set it aside, reaching for the next box in the stack, doing a swift count of the remaining boxes. “I count nineteen of them left.’’

“Don’t be so hasty,’’ said Agatha, removing the photo album and flipping through its pages. She was about half-way through the heavy black pages when she came upon a series of snapshots taken during World War II, the first one captioned, Honolulu, March 19th, 1942. Encouraged, she slowed down and perused them carefully. On the fourth page of war pictures she found what she had been looking for: an angular young man in a Navy uniform standing on the steps of a South Pacific house. He was next to an older native man in a printed regional skirt topped off by a G.I. blouse and a number of wooden necklaces; the islander was offering the young naval officer what looked to be a model of a house very similar to the one in front of which they stood. The line of the front of the house made it appear that they were in front of a grinning mouth. Both men were looking pleased. Agatha held up the album. “Martin. This is very useful. This is the Spirit House. It not only shows us what we’re looking for, it provides a kind of provenance—you’ll need that to make a donation. You can prove the item wasn’t stolen, and that could be important.’’

Martin stared down at the photograph. “Looks kind of flimsy—the real house, I mean, like it couldn’t do more than keep off the rain,’’ he said, for the first time allowing a little doubt to slip into his tone.

“Most of the inhabitants of the South Pacific islands don’t need to stay warm; they need to stay cool,’’ said Agatha, finding a loose clipping and using that to bookmark the page in the album.

“I suppose you’re right,’’ said Martin, pulling up the lid of the second box. “Shi—oot!’’

“What is it?’’ She set the album aside, and went to where he was bending over the open box.

“Uniforms. A pair of shoes. Useless!’’ He clicked his tongue in disgusted disappointment.

“Not necessarily,’’ said Agatha, as much to keep Martin working as to encourage him in his hope for a windfall. “There’s bound to be an historical society that would be glad to have these for display.’’

Trying not to seem too dissatisfied, Martin put the lid back on the box. “Do you really think so?’’

“Of course I do.’’ She reached for the third box in the stack, a bit put off by his obvious greed.

“Or maybe I could sell them on eBay? What do you think?’’

“You probably could,’’ Agatha agreed flatly.

“I could probably sell a lot of this stuff, couldn’t I?’’ He smiled again, and began a pile of the first two boxes near the foot of the stairs. “Come on—there’s seventeen boxes to go.’’

They were on to the fourteenth box when Martin gave a long whistle of discovery. “Looks like this is the one. It’s not in very good shape; stored on its side.’’ He pointed his flashlight straight down and revealed a finely woven mat of some kind of vegetable fiber. Newspapers from 1951 surrounded the item; he tossed them aside and pulled the thing from its resting place.

It was about the size of a microwave oven, beautifully detailed even in its neglected condition. The front was readily identified: there was a wide verandah spread out on either side of four central stairs leading up into the house itself. A railing along the verandah stood up on little posts like teeth, the railing collapsed where the thread holding the rails on had rotted. The main rafter supported a kind of bamboo thatch, and the woven-mat walls, even though they were brittle and cracked in a few places, had not fallen apart. A number of squat gods no bigger than the last joint of Martin’s little finger were ranged about the little house, posted at every door and window.

“Now, this is more like it,’’ said Martin. He looked over at Agatha. “What do you think?’’

“I think it’s remarkable,’’ she answered, staring at the Spirit House; it was in fine condition, considering its haphazard storage. “It’s the one in the photo, that’s for sure.’’

Martin laughed out loud. “Six boxes of collectable stuff, and this.’’ He put the Spirit House down carefully on the workbench under the largest of the basement windows. “I should have thought about this when we first moved in. Thanks, Aunt Agatha. I owe you one.’’

Agatha took the Spirit House from him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a look at it. If it’s as unusual as I think, there are a couple colleagues I’d like to call—to get an idea where you might donate it. You’d like it to go someplace with a fine reputation and a superior collection, wouldn’t you?’’

“Why can’t you handle it yourself?’’ He gave her a sudden, hard look.

“Because the South Pacific islands are not my field of specialization. If this were from Turkey and at least two thousand years old, I could find you just the right place with a couple of e-mails. But twentieth century and South Pacific? I only know it’s a good piece. I’ll call a couple of museums, and I’ll e-mail a colleague in Australia. I should be able to get you solid information by Monday.’’

Martin considered this, finally nodding. “That’s okay with me, then. But it has to go to a place where I’d get a tax deduction. Keep that in mind, Aunt Agatha.’’

She bit back the sharp retort and said only, “I’ll bear that in mind.’’

 
It was Tuesday morning before Constantine Hildred called from the National Anthropological Museum; his call, coming at that hour, told Agatha that he was about to leave his office for lunch.

“I got your e-mail about the Spirit House and the photos you attached,’’ he said after a quick exchange of pleasantries. “Tell me more about this find.’’

“Well, as far as I can tell, it was acquired by the former owner of this house some time during World War II. We found it on Saturday, packed away in the basement,’’ she said as she went to the desk where she had set up the Spirit House next to her laptop, grinning contentedly out at the room. She said nothing about the disturbing dreams that had filled her sleep for the last three nights—not that they mattered. She logged into her e-mail, just in case.

“Yeah, I got that from the old photo you attached with the rest. Go on.’’

“It’s rumored to be haunted, but given what it appears to be, that’s hardly surprising,’’ said Agatha.

“Tell me about the little gods in the Spirit House; it’ll help me identify where it came from.’’

Agatha picked up a small magnifying glass and peered into the little house. “They’re the usual small, squat gods. The carving looks as if it might come from the Philippines or Indonesia.’’

“Can you tell me anything about them that’s more specific? Don’t worry. I’m interested in the piece, but I want to know what kind of thing I’ll be getting. I don’t want any trouble with it.’’

“Why should this be trouble? Are you worried about provenance?’’

“More about the nature of the thing,’’ said Constantine.

“More national treasure issues, you mean?’’ she asked.

“Ethnic ones, anyway,’’ he said.

“Okay, Conny.’’ She lifted her magnifying glass again. “There’s two that are female—long breasts, and one with a bone in her hand. There’re carvings along the main rafter, very intricate. Would you like me to photograph them and attach the photos to an e-mail?’’

“How soon can you do it?’’

“I’ve got my camera right here,’’ said Agatha, ready to put it to use.

“Okay. Take a couple and send them along right now. And while you’re at it, take another of the front of the house, if you would.’’

“Glad to,’’ said Agatha, lifting her camera and taking a half-dozen photos. She attached them to her e-mail to him and sent them on their way. “I gather the previous owner didn’t like the Spirit House,’’ she repeated while she listened to the keyboard click from Conny’s office.

There was a long silence, and then Hildred said. “Small wonder.’’

“Why?’’ Agatha asked with an uneasy glance at the Spirit House.

Hildred took a deep breath. “Because the people who made it are cannibals.’’