“Thanks for your concern. I’m pretty dirty and I’ve got a headache, but that’s about it,” Leslie said.

“Well—” Joe began.

She stepped on his foot. He looked down at her, brows lowering. She stared at him, and he smiled in understanding. She was grateful, but growing weary of constantly saying that she was fine.

“Where’s Tandy?” Leslie asked, changing the subject.

“Unless we have school groups or a major tour scheduled, she takes Wednesdays off and I have Thursdays, and we both take Sunday,” he explained.

“We pull in our biggest crowds on Friday and Saturday,” Melissa explained. “We should be open on Sundays, too.”

“The Sabbath?” Jeff protested, sounding convincingly Colonial. Then he grinned. “Hey, I like my Sundays off.”

“I could work them. And we could make big bucks,” Melissa said.

“Well, if you guys don’t mind, I’m going to go in and shower,” Leslie said. She looked at Joe. He was dirty and covered in plaster dust, as well.

It occurred to her that, concealed in his strangely tinted shield of grime, he could pass for the ghost of his cousin.

“I’ll wait,” Joe said.

“You could go home and shower.”

“I could, but I won’t. I’ll take you to my buddy, Dr. Granger, first.”

“Doctor! What’s wrong?” Melissa demanded, her voice full of concern.

“Joe will explain,” Leslie said. He’d opened his mouth, so he could take care of telling them what had happened, she decided.

She entered the house and rushed up the stairs. In her room, she quickly shed her dirty clothing, turned on the water and stepped into the shower. The heat washed over her deliciously, and she turned up the force of the water. She always tried to conserve resources where she could. At that moment, though, she was grateful that the Historical Association had installed modern plumbing and a really good water heater. She let the steam roll around her and the water beat down. Washing her hair, she felt the bump on the top of her head. Not really all that bad, she told herself.

As she stood there, she began to feel the oddest sensation, as if she were being cradled by the steam and the water. Tenderly held.

She stood dead still. Was it her imagination? Or…?

“Matt?” she said softly, her voice almost lost against the rushing of the water.

There was no reply.

Just the sensation.

So she stood, water and heat cascading all around her, barely breathing. Wondering. It was as if she were being held with such a gentle touch because she had just survived a great danger and returned home. As if she were a soldier who had been off to war and come home at last, despite the danger.

A loud knocking on her bedroom door broke the spell.

She realized that the water—no matter how good the heater was—had grown cold.

She turned it off quickly, wrapped herself in a towel and hurried out.

“Leslie?” Joe. And he sounded worried.

“I’m okay—sorry.”

She heard him swear. “I was about to break the door down! I’d thought you’d passed out in the shower.”

“No…I got carried away enjoying the steam and the heat,” she replied. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right out, I swear.”

“Take your time. I was just worried.”

She heard his footsteps recede down the hall.

Shaking, she sat at the foot of the bed.

“Matt?” she said aloud again.

Nothing, no sense that he was there, not even the hint of a breeze from beyond…

She was losing her mind. No. She knew better; she knew that sometimes, something remained after death. She knew that ghosts did exist.

But what about this particular ghost?

Was she inventing him, just because she so desperately wanted to see him?

“Matt?” she repeated softly.

But there was still nothing.

Nothing at all.

She dressed quickly, choosing good walking sandals and a black knit dress, not at all certain what the rest of the day—and the night—would bring.

She dried her hair and applied some makeup.

But when she was ready, she paused again. “Matt. I know you’re here. You have to be here. And…I want you to know that Joe and I are going to find out exactly what happened. And, Matt, I know you know this, but…I love you so much.”

Loved, she reminded herself. Loved. Matt was…

Dead.

“I do love you,” she whispered aloud. “And I will discover the truth.”

She started out the door…and was suddenly certain she felt a gentle touch at the base of her spine. She turned, but once again there was nothing.

She stood in the hallway, entirely alone.

9

T he doctor’s visit turned out to be a total waste of time, at least in Leslie’s opinion. She’d insisted she was fine, and apparently she was right. She had a bump on her head but no concussion. Not unexpectedly, the doctor was concerned that she had blacked out, but she convinced him it had been for no more than a few seconds. He told her that she could check into a hospital for observation if she chose.

She didn’t choose.

When they left the the doctor’s office, Joe, who’d cleaned up as best he could at Hastings House, decided that lunch would be a good option.

“Hungry?” he asked Leslie.

“Sure. I guess.”

“Remember, any sign of an upset stomach could mean something more serious,” he warned her.

“The skull is the hardest bone in the body,” she told him. “Did you know that?”

“I know that yours is hard,” he said.

“I’m willing to bet yours is granite,” she returned. “Lunch sounds good. But should you be wasting all this time on me? You have a girl to rescue.”

“Or a body to find,” he said dully.

“You don’t believe that Genevieve is still alive?”

“I want to. But usually, in a case like this…”

“I know.”

“We’ll pop in here,” he said, opening the door to a pub.

She looked at him. “Are you sure you have time? You really are spending too much time on me.”

“I don’t think anyone could ever spend too much time on you,” he told her. He said the words lightly, but he knew he meant every one of them.

“Very gallant,” she told. “Still…”

“Don’t worry, I’m working.”

“Oh?”

“We’re at O’Malley’s.”

“So I see.”

“Eileen Brideswell’s favorite place. Not ostentatious, real Irish owners…a family hangout for the O’Briens. I’m sure Genevieve hung around here, too, so I can ask some questions while we’re eating.”

“And do you think that will really help you any?”

“I think she disappeared in a dark sedan and she was taken by someone she knew. It sounded as if it was a decent car, so I need to learn who she was hanging around with, and this might be one of the places where they spent time.”

“Aha.”

A pretty woman with a broad Irish accent approached them with a smile of recognition for Joe and led them to a cozy booth.

“Special is Irish bacon and cabbage,” she told them. “And, if I do say so myself, our potato soup is the best in New York.” She grinned and added, “Maybe in all of the New World.” With a wink, she left them.

“A friend?” Leslie asked.

“I’ve been here now and then,” Joe said. “But I think she saw me with Eileen Brideswell, and that makes all the difference.”

Their waitress approached them. She had dark hair, brilliant green eyes and a definite accent. Her name was Bridget.

“What would you like?” Joe asked Leslie.

“What else? Potato soup and the bacon and cabbage,” she said, with a light in her eyes.

“The same,” Joe told Bridget.

“I’ll bring the soup right out,” Bridget promised with a bright smile and flashing eyes.

“Bridget, how long have you worked here?” Joe asked.

“Oh…well, since I came into the country. A bit over six months now, I’ll be thinking.”

Joe reached into his jacket and produced a picture of Genevieve O’Brien. “Did you know this girl?”

“Genevieve O’Brien?” A look of deep sorrow entered Bridget’s eyes. “That I did,” she said sadly. She stared at Joe. “Ah, you’re the fellow looking for her, eh? For Mrs. Brideswell?”

He nodded. “Did she come in frequently?”

“Well, now, I can’t say frequently. But you know, she was working sometimes not far from here, so she had the occasional lunch here, yes. A lovely girl, she was. My heart breaks to think what might’ve happened to her.”

“Did she come in alone?”

A slow grin lifted Bridget’s rosy cheeks. “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes she’d be bringing a woman in with her, and they’d be…well, all cleaned up. But I would kind of know when she would bring in a…well, I guess the term here would be ‘working girl.’ She tried to make life better for people.”

Joe nodded, noticing the way Leslie was listening to Bridget, her own heart seeming to break for the girl she’d never known.

“You’re in her booth, you know,” Bridget said.

“We are?” Leslie asked.

“Oh, aye. She had the same booth—whenever it was free, of course. But Mrs. O’Malley…” She paused and indicated the hostess who had seated them. “She’d often hold it open, thinking Miss O’Brien might come by. The family was very supportive from the time her father-in-law, the elder Mr. O’Malley—he’s retired now, left the place to his son—first opened here. So Mrs. O’Malley—”

“Was she dating anyone, do you know?”