promise you. I know you'll understand my dilemma. You're always so accepting of the duties and limitations of my job. That's one of the things I love about you.
E.
My face fell with disappointment, but it was kinda hard for me to rage and whine when he'd made me sound like Mother Teresa. However, a warning bell clanged in my brain, alerting me to the possibility of trouble ahead. Would it be like this after we were married? Would his job always come first? Was he such a workaholic that we'd be forced to lead separate lives even when we were together? I'd already chalked up one failed marriage. I didn't want to risk another. That clinched it. We needed to have a long talk about our relationship, only I couldn't let on about it. Men enjoyed relationship talks about as much as they enjoyed a visit to the proctologist.
I let out my version of the long-suffering sigh. "So when are they going to let you enjoy your holiday? You are on holiday. Remember?"
"I shouldn't have rung them up to have them look into the O'Quigleys. It was too vivid a reminder that I was already over here and available to do their footwork for them. But you'll be happy to know, they have complaints about this castle on file, so, amazingly enough, the wheels of progress are turning. They're checking out your O'Quigley angle and might even be asking assistance from Interpol."
Terrific. The wheels of progress take off like gangbusters for once and I have to bring them to a grinding halt. "About the O'Quigleys." I winced. "There's a good chance...I've sent you on a wild-goose chase."
"I'm sorry?" His eyes probed my face, as if he'd misheard.
"Ethel Minch came clean at breakfast. She wasn't born with webbed toes. She had them sewn together. Deliberately. Her feet are deformed, but not in the way I thought they were. So unless all her relatives have had their toes sewn together, which is highly improbable, the O'Quigleys are a dead end. Our ghost is a web-footed being with another last name."
"Are you sure Mrs. Minch was telling the truth about her condition?"
"She sounded pretty convincing. She was using words like metatarsus and orthotics."
"I suppose metatarsus isn't a word one throws around casually." Sparks leaped behind his eyes as he considered his next step. "I could phone the department and tell them not to waste their time on the O'Quigley link, but I don't think I'll do that. Who knows? Maybe they'll turn something up. Unfortunately, if they don't, we'll probably find ourselves back at square one."
"No! Not at square one. I made a discovery last night. Did you hear the cries in the hall around three in the morning?"
Etienne shook his head. "I followed your example and bought earplugs when I was in town yesterday. I have to confess, I didn't hear a thing."
"Well, I heard it, and I'm convinced you're right. Whatever is happening is originating from the dungeon. All the chambers down there are closed off by doors that are rusted shut and cocooned with cobwebs. All except one particular chamber that was sporting a new door with shiny hinges and a set of wet footprints that I'm positive belong to--Are you ready for this?--Michael Malooley."
"The bus driver? You think he could actually find his way into the dungeon?"
"Trust me. He's smarter than he looks. I thought he was in cahoots with Ethel, but maybe he's running the operation by himself. You've seen him. I don't mean to stereotype, but have you ever seen a more shady, unfriendly character? He's the culprit. I know he is. If we could coax his shoes off him, I bet we'd find he has webbed toes. Could you flash your badge and commandeer his shoes and socks so we could check?"
Etienne laughed softly and lifted my hand to his lips. "You've become a footprint expert, have you, darling? Might I inquire how you decided these particular footprints belong to Malooley?"
"It wasn't the footprints exactly. It was the smell. It's pretty hard to disguise a stench like that." He feathered kisses across my fingertips with a gentleness that lifted the down on my arm from my wrist to my shoulder. Unh. Okay, maybe a long talk wasn't as necessary as I thought. So he was a workaholic. I could live with that.
"As an aside, darling, would you care to tell me how you got into the dungeon to smell him?"
This could be a little sticky. I