“I’m still alive,’’ he said aloud, to test his voice. He pinched his thigh to make sure he wasn’t still dreaming the nightmare of jumping off a cliff into the river.

“Failed again. I have got to be the most incompetent suicide ever.’’ He grinned. Just the way he planned it.

“And I’m free of the old biddies. They might have declared me incompetent when I graduated from college, just to keep my money, but they can’t control me any more.’’

He’d mailed his lawyer a will bequeathing any remaining assets to himself, under a different identity he’d spent five years building.

He angled his body differently and stretched again. This time his knees straightened and his feet dangled off the side of the thin mattress. Bright sunlight filtered into the room through the cracked shutters on the dormer window. He watched dust motes drifting in the sunbeams. They spotlighted the faded and peeling red wallpaper.

He’d awakened this way in this room for most of his first ten years of life. Then Grumpy had died, leaving him the house and a generous trust fund, and only the bank as his guardian.

A door banged somewhere below him. He risked peeking out through the broken slat on the shutter. The side yard below him, now a paved parking lot, had a small red sedan parked in the back corner. Blackberry vines crept over it.

“Damn, they’re opening the museum today.’’ He thought every small museum in the state closed on Mondays. “Why’d the aunts sell this place, anyway?’’

Aunt Betty and Aunt Freda didn’t believe the stories about Grumpy’s hidden treasure. David did. He’d seen it once, on his eighth birthday, and sort of remembered its hiding place.

He’d been fifteen when they sold. His aunts had partied away most of his trust fund by that time and needed the cash from the only remaining asset in order to maintain their lifestyle.

They’d justified their expenditures on David’s education, sending him to one boarding school after another, always inflating the tuition and expenses by a factor of ten. Their drinking, wild parties, and sycophant husbands—four for Betty and three for Freda—were why he’d gone to his grandfather and not them when his missionary parents died of some exotic fever before he turned three.

The town of Stanley Mills had made the only bid on the house, well below the inflated asking price. Five years of neglect on a one-hundred-fifty-year-old house with six bedrooms, four stories—counting the attic—and two acres of land had taken its toll. Repairs to roof and plumbing, updating the furnace and electricity, restoring overgrown landscaping and roses gone wild cost more than the difference between the asking price and the town’s offer.

Two years later Grumpy’s house became an official museum. The town had even hired a hotshot workaholic curator with a Ph.D. in U.S. history. More important, she knew how to write grants for operating funds.

Too bad her abusive husband killed her the following year. Multiple stab wounds. David had read everything concerning Grumpy’s house.

“I thought I had twenty-four hours to search for the stash,’’ he muttered. “Guess I’ll just have to hide out and sleep for another twelve hours until she leaves.’’

Ten years of renovations and tourist traffic had probably repaired creaking stair treads, opened walls, changed doorways and who knew what else.

Tonight he’d reacquaint himself with his childhood home. If lights showed through the windows, the locals would believe his trespass just another ghost. The place was supposed to be filled with them.

He loosed a long yawn that started in his toes and stretched upward. Another nap. He opened a low cupboard door that let into a triangular storage space beneath the eaves and curled up in the sleeping bag he’d stashed there a month ago.

 
Keely Kora Ramsey unrolled the morning newspaper and spread it out on her antique rolltop desk as she had every morning for the past ten years. She stopped skimming the headlines, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth, and read the sidebar on the left with community news.

“Heir to the Stanley fortune succeeds at suicide after two failed attempts.’’

Then, in smaller type she read on:

 
“Poor fool.’’ Keely shook her head and continued reading, coffee forgotten. But her eyes kept coming back to the sidebar.

“Wonder if he’ll come back to haunt this place?’’ she muttered. “Along with his damned cat.’’

Then she went about her day, dusting, fluffing feather tick mattresses, setting out change in the till, and cataloguing new acquisitions.

Strange, she didn’t remember the beaver felt top hat or the silk opera cape coming through the normal donations. “1870s. Good condition, only a little shattered around the hem of the cape. Beaver felt worn on crown. Grosgrain ribbon at brim modern replacement.’’

She automatically recorded her notes on a standardized form. For now she had to leave the donor and the estimated value blank. One of the high school work-study students could transcribe it later with that information. Keely didn’t trust computer records. Too many hard drives crashed and floppy disks degraded. She liked the tactile sensation of writing on paper with a favored pen.

A fleeting shadow darted from the butler’s pantry through the kitchen to behind the dining room drapes, setting the heavy brocade to swooshing. Dust bunnies the size of her fist skittered in the wake of the lilac point Siamese cat that refused to die. Or stay dead.

Keely frowned. She didn’t like cats. Sneaky beasts, too smart for their own good and always behaving as if they owned their humans instead of the other way around.

No sense in chasing after an animal that wasn’t really there.

The shadows grew longer as the sun dropped behind the line of hills to the west of town. Keely waved her dust cloth a little more frantically. Her heart beat faster in agitation. Night was coming.

She was supposed to lock up the museum at five and go home.

“If I’m quiet and don’t turn on any lights, who will know if I don’t leave? I’ll just heat up a frozen dinner in the employee microwave,’’ she reassured herself as she had every night for many, many nights. “I’m safe during the day when people are around. Will pretends to be very loving and solicitous then. But at night, he’ll . . .’’

She wouldn’t think about the bruises on her body, or the broken ribs, or the threats with a wickedly sharp knife.

Even with her education and sophistication she hadn’t chosen love wisely. Never again would she trust love at first sight. And so she hid every night where Will Ramsey couldn’t find her, wouldn’t think to look for her.

“I’ll just move my car down to the theater parking lot and walk back.’’

 
David woke up cold, achy, and still damp on the short iron bedstead. Darkness reigned in the small attic room. He stretched until his foot banged into the foot rail. Then he angled his legs sideways to dangle off the thin mattress.

After several minutes, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he picked out the shapes and shadows of the child-sized furniture, the toys piled around a painted chest and the beloved, threadbare teddy bear that had comforted him through many nights. Grumpy had owned the bear first, then David’s father, and finally David himself. The aunts had insisted he leave it behind when he moved in with them. They bought him a new one that didn’t shed fur and had hypoallergenic stuffing. But it had no personality, no history, no sense of family, and tradition.

He walked across the room and reached for the bear. The sound of footsteps on the stairs stopped him dead in his tracks. Who was in the house? Everyone should have gone home hours ago. He edged quietly over to stand against the wall, behind the door.

The door creaked open a few inches. It stuck halfway open; the settling house had thrown the frame out of alignment.

A small, round, fur-covered face with long white whiskers peeked in.

“Lilac!’’ he cried, forgetting to be quiet. “Oh, kitty, I thought you’d died long ago.’’

“Mew?’’ The delicate lilac point Siamese cat looked up at him. “Meower,’’ she continued, letting him know that he’d been gone far too long and she resented him, and longed to be held because she was lonely.

“Oh, Lilac, I missed you, too.’’ He stooped and picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “You must be the oldest cat on record, Lilac.’’ She’d been old and slow, no longer interested in hunting, only in warm laps and a puddle of sunshine to sleep in, when he moved in with Grumpy. The aunts had tried to put her to sleep but she ran away, as old cats are wont to do.

The cat began purring as she rubbed her face against his arm.

He held her tighter, letting her animal warmth fill him with the love he’d been missing for a long, long time.

“Who’s there?’’ a woman asked from right outside the door.

David and Lilac stilled, going cold with fear.

“Just my imagination. These old houses creak and settle. The wind in the trees always sounds like whispering,’’ the woman continued. She rattled the door latch and pushed against the door.

David closed his eyes and willed himself to invisibility. When he opened them he found the woman—shapely and slender, in her late twenties with curly brown hair that made her look like a poodle—staring at him with big hazel eyes. Her mouth fell agape, showing a few straight white teeth.

All he could think was that she’d had expensive orthodontia. So had he.

Lilac pushed at his chest and leaped away. Her hind claws scratched his arm painfully. He rubbed the raw wound, surprised that his fingers came away clear of blood.

“Don’t come near me, I’m going to call the police,’’ the woman said. She deepened her voice and tried to sound stern, but it came out shaky and frightened.

“Don’t do that. Please.’’ David reached an imploring hand, stopping just short of touching her.

She flinched.

“I won’t hurt you. I just need a place to hide out for a few days.’’

“Why?’’ She backed toward the window. A bit of moonlight filtering through the broken shutter slats outlined her trim body, but masked her face in shadow.

“I’m David Stanley. I used to live here. Please let me stay here.’’

“David Walker Stanley? The paper said you jumped off Cemetery Ridge last night.’’

She sounded more curious than frightened now.

“I faked it. I’m trying to escape my family. They poisoned me and made it look like failed suicide six years ago and they’ve tried twice more since. Now they’re trying to put me in an asylum so they can control my money without question.’’

“You can’t take it with you,’’ she quipped, almost laughing.

“In this case I can. And will.’’

“Smart trick if you can pull it off.’’

A bit of light glinted off the whites of her eyes as she opened them wide.

“Tell me how? That might be just the trick to get away from Will.’’

“Will?’’ David didn’t like the idea of this lovely woman belonging to another man. He couldn’t explain the sudden flare of jealousy over someone he’d just met, didn’t even know her name. It was just there, filling him with rage, as if he had a right to the emotion.

“My . . . my husband.’’ She turned her head away, as if embarrassed.

“You need to get away from him,’’ David said flatly. “Does he hurt you?’’

She gulped and nodded, still looking at the cobwebs in the corner.

“I’ll kill the bastard!’’

“No, please. He’s dangerous.’’

“I can take care of myself.’’ David took two determined steps toward the closed door.

“He’s got a very large hunting knife. He knows how to use it.’’

Something clicked in David’s brain. He went cold all over. Colder than he’d been when he woke up damp and cramped. “How’d you get through the door without opening it?’’

Keely had to pause a moment to follow David’s leap of topics. “Why did you ask that? I don’t follow.’’

He shrugged and looked pointedly at the small gap between the door and frame.

“Just answer my question. You not opening the door means a lot. To me. It should have stuck half way open.’’

“I planed off the bottom during the restoration. It doesn’t stick any more. I also oiled the hinges. It opens and closes easily.’’

“Oh.’’ He looked so disappointed, as if he’d hoped she’d walked through the closed door.

“I’m not a ghost, if that’s what you’re wondering.’’

“If you aren’t a ghost, then who are you?’’ He bent over and petted the cat that stropped his legs.

It purred loudly. A real cat. Not the ghost reported by her interns and docents. She’d have to get someone to take it to the shelter. She couldn’t have a real cat scratching fine wood and shedding all over priceless antique furniture.

“I’m Dr. Keely Ramsey, the curator.’’

“Aren’t you kind of young?’’

“That, sir, is none of your business. Now will you leave my bedroom or should I call the police and have you removed?’’

“Your bedroom!’’ He sounded outraged at the thought.

“It’s the only place I have to hide from Will.’’ She hated the frightened whine in her voice. “This floor is closed to the public. No one comes up here any more, not even to dust.’’ She swiped at a cobweb in the corner. “I leave it dusty in case someone does look. And I keep some clothing in that cupboard.’’ She pointed to the triangular space below the dormer.

“I thought it strange to find some women’s clothes hanging in there,’’ David said. He stroked his chin in thought. “Toiletries?’’

“In the bathroom up here. Where else? It’s fitted out to look antique, but all the plumbing works.’’

She watched him pluck at his knit shirt. It clung to his body as if wet. And a nice body it was, too. He must work out.

Will had a nice body, too. That didn’t make him trustworthy, or kind, or even a gentleman.

But this young man, so close to her own age, had kind eyes. He’s not trustworthy. He faked suicide, she reminded herself.

“Mind if I get a bath and a shave?’’ David asked. “The river left its mark on me.’’

“Do you have fresh clothing?’’ Keely didn’t want to risk running down to the Laundromat, though she supposed she should wash some of her own things as well.

“Stashed a few things along with my sleeping bag some time ago.’’ David waved toward the cupboard. “I visit the museum incognito often.’’

“Very well. But don’t come back to this room. I’m going to bed and don’t wish to be disturbed. I’ve had a long and trying day.’’ She felt exhausted, no longer had the strength to remain standing, though she couldn’t remember why she should be so tired.

What had happened today that was so unusual?

 
David wandered through the big house, shadowed by Lilac. He forgot that he was still cold and damp as he revisited memories he thought he’d lost. Grumpy’s room with the big four-poster bed where David had curled up with him when thunder or nightmares frightened him. Grumpy would read to him or tell him stories until he fell asleep. Always, David woke up the next morning in his own bed, carefully tucked in by Grumpy.

He barely poked his nose into the rooms where the aunts had slept when they visited on holidays, or when they needed a loan. One of the guest rooms had been converted to storage, two others housed natural history exhibits and Indian stuff, and yet another had pioneer cabin things. One small room toward the back of the third floor had become a maid’s room, complete with mannequin in Victorian black uniform with a wraparound white apron.

Next to Grumpy’s room he found a ladies’ private parlor. He couldn’t remember how Grumpy used it when he lived here. Closed off, he guessed. Grumpy didn’t want to visit his wife’s rooms after she died. He’d have to ask Keely what they found there when the town took over.

On the main floor the dining room looked as it should, with the long mahogany table and twelve chairs, all set with white linen, polished silver, and the good china. Everyday china and serving dishes filled the sideboard. Cobwebs connected the crystal stem-ware. They needed a good washing. Someone neglected their curatorial duties and he suspected it wasn’t Keely.

The housekeeper’s rooms off the kitchen had been converted to an office, complete with file cabinets, desk, three-line telephone, computer, copier, and employee lounge with modern microwave and coffee pot. A long work table stretched across another pantry where new donations and artifacts were sorted, measured, and recorded. Plastic boxes below held needles and thread and some other restoration equipment.

Satisfied that the staff knew how to run a museum, even if they were a bit lazy in the cleaning department, he aimed his steps toward the library and study. New research books on local history, costuming, cooking, and restoration filled one wall. Otherwise, Grumpy’s massive collection stood undisturbed but lovingly dusted. Good. He hated to think about the books falling to ruin from neglect.

Finally he approached the study. He held his breath until it hurt, then gathered Lilac into his arms and stepped over the velvet rope installed to discourage tourists from entering. The cat purred a moment, then jettisoned herself out of his arms. She immediately began sniffing around the corners of the room.

Grumpy had kept everything he valued most in this room. It still smelled of his pipe tobacco and musty old books.

David tiptoed toward the west wall, where two sets of French doors opened onto a flagged patio and the lawn beyond with islands of roses dotted about. They smelled rich and wonderful and welcoming on the night wind. Soft moonlight turned the garden into a fairyland.

Between the two doors, an alcove with a window bench jutted out onto the patio.

He’d curled up here often with Lilac, puzzling his way through homework and favored books while Grumpy sat at his desk with his accounts and stock reports. He sat in the window embrasure a long time, drifting in his memories of this room, of being loved and cherished.

Eventually he remembered his purpose and looked about for signs of something out of alignment, some hint as to which wall of books hid the entrance to a secret room.

He couldn’t remember. With closed eyes, he tried to recreate the memory of the late night, so many years ago.

On the occasion of David’s ninth birthday, Grumpy had drunk quite a bit of wine at dinner, even letting David have a few sips, watered down. Quite an end to a day filled with cake and ice cream, friends, animal balloons, games, and a magician. David thought he smelled again the alcohol on Grumpy’s breath, along with his pipe tobacco and spicy hair tonic.

He traced the steps they had taken from the door to the desk to . . . his mind twisted and refused to lead him further. “Once more into the breach,’’ he quoted, closing his eyes and walking the path again. This time he ended up standing to the right of the sofa, facing the fireplace. Ceramic logs lay there now, in imitation of the real fire that had crackled merrily most evenings during David’s time in the home.

“Okay, now if I were going to hide a door . . .’’

“What are you looking for?’’ Keely asked from the doorway.

“I thought you were asleep,’’ David hedged.

“I did for a time. Now I’m awake. What are you looking for?’’

Did he trust her? “Something my grandfather left behind. Something he wanted me to have but was afraid to let my aunts know existed.’’

“If it was in the secret room below this one, we found it when we re-did the plumbing. It was empty.’’

“Oh.’’ David sagged. All his plans for naught. No money to start a new life. Nothing. No place to go. He crumpled onto the sofa, staring at the endless rows of books, the fake fire, the new carpet and drapes.

“Why didn’t you get a restraining order on your husband and divorce him?’’ He had to make conversation, just to keep going. He thought he knew the answer, but he had to ask.

She looked agitated, pacing from desk to windows to far wall and back to the desk. “He threatened to kill me.’’ She gulped. Tears came to her eyes. “He’d have done it, too. He’s a lawyer. Smart. He’s defended enough murderers to know how to get away with it. He knows how to make people mad enough to make mistakes and get evidence thrown out.’’

“You must be scared out of your wits. Couldn’t you go to one of the shelters?’’

“He’d find me.’’

“But here? Isn’t this the obvious place to look for you at night as well as during the day?’’

“I . . . I . . .’’ She moved faster, twisting her hands together, searching every shadow and starting every time the cat moved.

“Let me ask you this, Keely: How long have you been curator here?’’

“A long time. Since the town bought the house.’’ She relaxed a bit but continued her anxious prowl of the room.

“Twelve years,’’ David mused. “I met you at the dedication.’’

“That long. My, how time flies.’’ But she looked confused. “Could your grandfather have moved his ’treasure’ before he died?’’ She changed the subject and looked much calmer.

“He might. If he thought my aunts would find the room. They mentioned more than once that the old mausoleum should be torn down.’’

“There you have it. As soon as he got sick—cancer, wasn’t it—he took measures to secure it for you. Where else could he have hidden it?’’ She tapped her lips with her finger.

He noted that she had a near-perfect manicure, except for one small chip in the nail polish at the tip of her index finger. Beneath that nail was an old dark stain that looked like dried blood.

“There’s a place in the dressing room off Grumpy’s room.’’

“I’ve been all through the built-in drawers. I had to inventory everything left in the house, including your grandfather’s underwear.’’

“But did you pull out all of the drawers and look in the cupboard behind them?’’ New hope brightened David’s mood. The whole room looked lighter, as if dawn approached while the moon was still up. “Let’s go look.’’ He stood, eager and happy again.

“What got you interested in history?’’ David asked, just to make conversation. He knew she wouldn’t talk about her life with Will.

“Oh.’’ Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I’m not sure when it started exactly. I’ve always listened to the stories of old-timers, prowled ruins and museums and cemeteries.’’

“What were you looking for?’’ They ambled together toward the kitchen and the back stairs, as if the grand staircase was reserved for someone else. Someone, older and more dignified, who used to live there.

“Connections, I think.’’ Keely paused and looked about at the antique fixtures and wallpaper, portraits painted and photographed, the polished wood floors and high ceilings. “I like to look at the way people used to live, what they believed, their attitudes, and follow them forward to see how the past has shaped our lives today.’’

“Give me an example.’’ He smiled down at her, liking the companionable air between them, the almost instant “fit’’ of their personalities. The sense of trust that came out of nowhere when neither one of them had a reason to trust anyone.

Correction: neither one of them could trust their families, but strangers could become instant friends because they didn’t have the power to hurt you. Not like family could.

“Okay, did you know that the phrase ’bustle along’—meaning to move hurriedly and with ostentation—has many sources, but our modern meaning refers to a woman wearing a bustle, and usually a tight skirt. She couldn’t move very fast because when she hurried, the bustle swayed in a most unbecoming and obvious manner?’’

David laughed. “I’ve got one for you, but not as funny. Street names. A lot of them come from the pioneer family that originally lived on that street.’’

“Yes,’’ she chortled. “And if you study wedding announcements of prominent families in the past the guest list reads like a local road map.’’

They continued to trade anecdotes as they approached the master bedroom and its attached dressing room. Most of the long narrow room—just wide enough to fit a single bed across the end under the tall window—was made narrower by built-in shelves and drawers.

“We don’t open this room to the public. The door to the hallway is always locked; in fact, I don’t remember there being a key when I started work. Easier to control traffic and access if the only entrance is through the bedroom.’’

“What happened to all of Grumpy’s clothes?’’

“Is that what you called him? Grumpy? From what I’ve read, he was not the easiest man to get along with.’’

“We got along just fine. I loved him,’’ David said wistfully.

“Most of his clothes were too worn and threadbare to display. Valuable to the researcher, though. They are in climate-controlled storage off-site. That’s why the shelves are filled with ledgers and document folders that we need to keep but aren’t current,’’ Keely explained.

David slid down to sit on the floor, his back to the cupboard. Anxious as he was to find the stash of Confederate gold his multi-great-grandfather had hidden against the day the South rose again, he wanted to prolong this moment, this sharing with Keely. He hadn’t allowed himself to share his life with anyone since Grumpy had died. What sense in making friends when he’d spent five years planning his escape to a new life, leaving them all behind?

Suddenly he didn’t want to leave Keely behind.

But he had to.

She couldn’t go with him. She could never leave the museum she loved so much it had become her sanctuary.

So he patted the floor beside him, inviting her to sit. She did. They talked and laughed until long after the moon set. Better to spend one night talking to a ghost than alone for the rest of his life.

 
Keely awoke on the narrow child’s bed in the attic, as she had every morning since she’d made the decision not to go back to Will and the house of luxurious horrors he’d built for them. As she stretched, just fitting with the crown of her head against the top rail and her feet pushing against the bottom, she wondered if any new donations had come in to the museum.

Her hand brushed soft fur. She jerked it back and squeaked in fear, expecting to find a mouse had crawled into the ticking and chewed its way out.

The cat lay tucked into the back of David’s knees.

David. Such a lovely young man. The spitting image of his grandfather’s youthful portraits. Polite and caring, smart and eager to learn new things. Why hadn’t she met him years ago, before she met Will?

Because years ago he’d have been a teenager and she was finishing up her dissertation.

Carefully, she wiggled off the bed so that she didn’t disturb David and his cat.

Maybe this should be her last night hiding out here. She should leave the place to David. After all, he could never leave it, since this was the beloved place his spirit had chosen to return to after death. He’d run away from his emotionally abusive family only to find death. He just didn’t realize it yet. He might never realize that he’d died in the cold dark waters of the river.

Knowing him made her realize she could run no longer. She had to stand up to Will and expose him for the cruel brute he truly was. Would the world believe her? They would if she showed a judge and the press the latest round of bruises, broken bones, and knife nicks.

A strange sensation of déjà vu washed over her. She felt like she had stood here before, made this decision before. . . .

Nonsense. She needed to get to work.

She longed for the taste of steaming waffles with melted butter and sweet maple syrup. And apple sausage on the side. Oh, and the taste of fine coffee with real cream and sugar, and orange juice thick with pulp. But she dared not show her face anywhere in town where Will might find her. She’d done that before and he dragged her home to another round of abuse. Oh well, she’d make do with instant oatmeal in the microwave and generic coffee.

“I’d best get ready and hide the evidence that I’ve been here all night,’’ she muttered on her way down the stairs.

 
David woke up cold and damp on the iron bed of his childhood, feeling as if something were missing. Lilac pressed up against his knees, as she had always slept. He stroked one finger along her silky head, wondering . . .

Keely.

He sighed with regret that he must leave her as soon as he found the treasure. Somehow they’d never gotten around to looking last night. She was just so much fun to talk to.

Another time, another place, another life, he’d look forward to spending a lifetime talking to her, laughing with her, holding her. Making love to her.

But no. That could never be. She was dead and didn’t know it.

Should he tell her? He didn’t know which would be crueler: to make her continue hiding in fear of a man sitting on death row in the state prison or to force her to accept her death.

The smell of coffee made his mouth water. He wandered down the back stairs in search of the water of life.

Voices drifted up from the kitchen. The staff had arrived already. He and Keely must have slept later than he thought. He considered creeping back upstairs and hiding out again. The sight of Keely standing to the side of the doorway, obviously eavesdropping, drove him on.

She half turned to him and beckoned him to stand beside her, hidden from view.

“I see our resident ghost has been busy, Marla,’’ a mature female said cheerily. “Half my work in measuring, assessing, and recording the new donations is done already.’’

“Resident ghost?’’ Keely whispered. Her naturally pale face went whiter. “I did that work myself.’’

David touched her arm, in compassion. She had to find out someday.

“You don’t suppose, Veronica, that Keely comes back. . . .’’ a younger girl said. Presumably Marla.

“She was found dead here after her husband stabbed her seven times,’’ Veronica added. “Interesting that she crawled back here to her place of employment rather than go to friends, or the hospital, or even the police.’’

“She loved this old place and her work. Loved it more than she did her husband. And that’s why he killed her,’’ Marla insisted.

“Anyway you look at it, even as a ghost she’s a more capable curator than Marshall Gibbs,’’ Veronica snorted.

“Don’t let him hear you say that!’’

“Oh, he won’t grace us with his presence until he’s damn well good and ready. Plenty of time for us to get the real work done before he starts complaining about the dust. Always complaining that we never dust. As if we didn’t have anything more important to do, like give tours to the public.’’

“I dust every day,’’ Keely sighed. “And it never gets better.’’ She looked sadly at the dingy dining room through the swinging door, now propped open, and the cobwebs that stretched from glass to glass, to plates, to chandelier. “Is it true?’’ She raised sad eyes to David. “Am I dead?’’

“I’m afraid so,’’ David said gently. “I read about your death in the papers. I sent flowers to your funeral because you were kind to me when we met at the dedication. I’m sorry you had to hear it like this,’’ David whispered.

She shrugged. “I think I knew that. I’ve had a while to get used to the notion. I just didn’t want to admit that Will had won.’’

“He didn’t win. He was tried for murder and convicted. His last appeal was rejected last month,’’ David consoled her.

He had a funny feeling that he shouldn’t be able to hold her hand. Nor should it feel warm in his.

“Did you read in the paper yesterday that David Stanley killed himself?’’ Marla asked.

“Such a waste,’’ the woman said, accompanied by the sound of a newspaper fluttering to the table. “The Stanley family must be cursed. First his parents, then his grandfather. Now David. All dead before they should have been.’’

“Too much money and no reason to work for a living,’’ a man snorted. He sounded officious. The back door banged behind him. “At least now I won’t have to deal with his weekly emails ’advising’ me on how to run my own museum. He thought he knew more about the displayed artifacts than I do.’’

“At least they found the body yesterday afternoon. I hate to think of the family not having the closure of a proper funeral and a grave to place flowers on,’’ Veronica continued.

David’s already-cold body grew colder yet. And stiller. He couldn’t hear his own heart beat.

“I suppose we should issue a statement of condolence and send flowers,’’ the man sighed, as if the duty were onerous. “Work out the proper wording for me, Veronica.’’

“You know, Marshall, a little compassion would be nice,’’ she retorted.

“I did not know the man, nor his family. How can I feel anything for them but contempt for ruining each other’s lives and wasting their grandfather’s hard-earned fortune.’’ A door slammed.

David stared at Keely bleakly. “You must be devastated,’’ she said, squeezing his hand.

“I don’t know what I feel. If I feel anything. Except that I’m glad to be here in this house. I love this house. I loved the time I lived here. And I think I could love you.’’ He cocked her half a grin.

She giggled. “You know, if we weren’t both haunting this place, we’d never have met, never have been able to be together. I’m . . . I was fifteen years older than you.’’

“But now we’re almost the same age. I’m glad you waited around for me.’’

“You won’t need your grandfather’s treasure any more.’’

“It’ll still be fun to look. Rearrange things a bit now and them, give the ladies a bit of a scare.’’ He bent and kissed her cheek.

She stared back at him in wonder. “We can touch!’’ She placed her hand on his chest as if checking for a heartbeat. Then she smiled shyly and kissed his cheek. “I’m looking forward to having a long, long time to learn to love again.’’

They broke apart and ran back up the stairs hand in hand. The cat scampered after them.

“Did you hear someone on the stairs?’’ Veronica asked Marla.

“Yeah, and I thought I heard laughter, too.’’ “That’s new. One more story to add to the ’Haunted Halloween Tour.’ ”

“Now if she’d just dust half as well as she catalogues donations . . .’’