family had purchased it in the twenties because it had been cheap, a seventy-year-old fixer-upper. Now it was one of the grand dames of the street, mid-Victorian, boasting wraparound porches on both the first and second floors, and around the attic garret, a widow’s walk. Kate didn’t think anyone had ever really been able to see the water and incoming ships from the walk, but it had been a fashionable addition to the house at the time it had been built.
Once, it had offered six bedrooms on the second floor and two in the attic. Downstairs had been the parlor, library, dining room, office and pantry. The kitchen had been out back about twenty feet away. There was also a carriage house. Now, when you entered through the front door, the gate and turnstiles were positioned there. The tour began on the second floor and wound around through the rooms, brought visitors down the servants’ stairway to the first floor and then around once again, back to the front.
“What are you doing?” Bartholomew demanded, following her.
“I want to know why there’s a light on,” Katie said.
“Because someone is in there. And you don’t own it yet. It could be someone dangerous.”
“It could be frat boys on a lark, and I’m getting them out of there before they do damage to the place. Craig Beckett might have closed it down a few years ago, but it still has all of the exhibits in place,” Katie said.
“What if it’s not a frat boy?” Bartholomew protested.
“Katie, don’t go in there.”
“You’re with me. I’ll be fine.”
“Katie! Awake and see the sunrise, lass! Me—ghost. I love to remember the days when I was strong and tough and could defend a girl with certainty and vigor. If you get into real trouble because the place is being pilfered or plundered by a criminal—”
“Bartholomew, what thief turns on the lights?” Katie demanded.
Bartholomew groaned. “A drunk one? Katie—!”
Bartholomew groaned. Katie had jumped the low white-picket gate that surrounded the place.
“Katie!”
“What?”
“Murder, murder most foul!” Bartholomew cried.
He’d always been fond of quoting and paraphrasing Shakespeare.
“Murderers do not turn the lights on!” she tossed over her shoulder in return.
“How do you know?” he demanded
She ignored him and walked up the limestone path that led to broad steps to the porch and the door.
She felt him close behind her.
Was she crazy? No! This was about to be her place, and she could speed-dial the police in two seconds. She wasn’t going in with lights blazing; she would see what was going on by lurking in the darkness. She knew the place.
At the door she paused. She reached for the knob and as she did so, the door opened, creaking a bit, as if it had been pushed by a sudden wind.
“I did not do that!” Bartholomew whispered.
She shook her head impatiently and stepped in.
The once beautiful hardwood floors did need work, she noticed. Workmen had been in and out through the years, and their boots had done some damage. The gate area still boasted an old-fashioned cash register, but the mahogany desk, where an attendant sold tickets, was beautiful. It had been bought from an auctioneer and had once been the captain’s desk in an old sailing ship. The swivel chair behind it was equally old, handsome and still comfortable. Katie was familiar with everything; she had walked through with Liam Beckett just a few days earlier.
The light that she had seen from the street had come from the entry. It was the muted light of the foyer’s chandelier, and it cast a gentle glow over the place.
Katie opened her mouth, about to call out, but she didn’t. She chose not to twist the turnstile—the noise here would be like an explosion. She sat atop the old mahogany desk and swung her legs around, then stepped to the other side.
Looking up was eerie. Figures of Papa Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline, were posed coming down the stairway. They had always been a big hit at the museum, with eighty percent of those going through the place having their pictures taken with the pair.
“Don’t you dare go up those stairs,” Bartholomew commanded sternly.
Katie almost smiled, grinning at him. “Bartholomew, you’re scared. A ghost can’t be scared. My God, Bartholomew. You were a pirate.”
“Privateer. My boat was authorized by the government,” Bartholomew corrected irritably. “And don’t be ridiculous, I’m not frightened. Yes, wait, I am frightened for you, foolish girl. What is the matter with you? I know your family taught you better.