Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,22

it. Sure enough, Carson swung the frame from the wall to reveal a safe with a keypad lock, and the something went from nagging to unrelenting.

“It’s been there all along, but I’ve been trying to focus on Alexis.” I felt like an idiot. “We’ve wasted so much time. The jackal might be in there right now!”

Carson shook his head and started keying in a number. “I already looked. There’s nothing in here but jewelry. But maybe there’s something for you to read.…”

He glanced down at me, breaking off when he saw my narrow-eyed stare. So he didn’t know where Alexis kept her intimate stuff, but he knew the combination to her safe? “There’s a master code,” he explained, correctly interpreting my suspicion. “The boss gave it to me this morning so I could search.”

So I was right. The mansion was not the place to keep something hidden from Maguire. Alexis would know that. Carson would, too. But whose side was he on? He was obviously loyal—maybe obedient would be a better word—to the boss. On the other hand, he didn’t seem happy about that. So maybe there was nothing obvious here at all.

I pushed that thought aside as Carson opened the safe door and pulled out a velvet-lined tray full of sparkle. I had never seen so many gemstones up close. The fire inside them was downright hypnotic.

But the stones weren’t what called to me. It was a pile of pearls. Their glow was softer, like warm, pale skin. And more, they seemed to hum, raising gooseflesh on my arms as I dipped my fingers into the tray and pulled them free into a long, perfectly matched strand. The necklace sang with impatient intensity.

“It’s about time,” chided a voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “I’ve been waiting an age for you to get to me, young lady.”

8

THE SHADE OF Alexis’s grandmama was head-to-toe haute couture, from pearls to little black dress to classic pumps. Her brown hair was swept up à la Audrey Hepburn, and I was sure she could have breakfasted at Tiffany’s in her day.

She looked down her nose at me and sniffed. “Stop gaping, dear girl, and show some manners. It’s bad enough your generation goes around uncovered half the time.”

I closed my mouth and smoothed the pleats in my skirt before I could stop myself. I’d gone to Catholic school for twelve years. When a woman in black says jump, I don’t wait to ask how high.

The apparition didn’t surprise me, but the strength and suddenness of it did. I figured I’d have to coax the threads of personality from the necklace into something coherent. But this shade was very sharp, as if fed daily by memory.

Carson had startled when I did, but he seemed to be following my gaze rather than sighting on his own. “Can you see her?” I asked him.

He shook his head and reached out, as if testing the wind. “It’s not as cold as I thought it would be.” The ghost gave his hand a scathing look, and he pulled it back as if she’d stung him. “I take that back. Brrr.”

“Let me do the talking,” I said. “And keep your hands to yourself.” Remnants needed careful handling. They couldn’t always be reasoned with like a whole living person because they didn’t have whole-person logic. Sometimes they were a snapshot of a moment in time. Sometimes they were a hodgepodge of steps in their life’s journey.

Like the woman in front of me. She seemed to be in her late twenties—a lot of shades appeared the way they had at a favorite time of life—but she had all the imperiousness of an elderly society matron.

“What do you mean you were waiting on me?” I asked.

She made an impatient noise. “I heard your voices. I haven’t been able to rest since Alexis was last here. I knew something was wrong, and now the two of you are here, poking around like a pair of common thieves.…”

I hurried to reassure her. “We’re not here to steal anything, Mrs.…”

My leading pause hung empty. She assessed me for a long moment before finally filling it. “Mrs. James Hardwicke the Third. You may call me Mrs. Hardwicke.”

“Right.” Mrs. Hardwicke was kind of fascinating. She’d obviously had a very clear self-image in life, which had carried over into death.

“Is it Lex’s grandmother?” Carson asked me. “What is she saying?”

The matron shot him a look. “If you’re going to grope a lady, young man, you might at least address