SNEAK PEEK

KINDRED SPIRITS
by CB Scott

Prologue

Isadora Van Buren, heiress cum flapper, resident poltergeist, grinned in league with the devil as she swooped down on the bent-over construction worker and pinched his derriere. Her doe eyes widened. "So firm!"

The muscle-armed handyman wheeled around. "Was that you, Bob?"

Bob looked over at José from his sawhorse. "Was that me what?"

Bulging biceps looked around the decaying room, noting the tarp-covered furniture, dust motes floating in the rays of sun. And Bob—who stood a good two feet away. "Never mind."

José bent down again.

James, the youngest of the scandalous Van Buren ghosts, flew over to his sister, a blur of kinetic energy. "Cut it out, Izzy! You’ll make trouble for Professor Bookman."

She fluffed her sleek bobbed hair and sniffed. "He could use some trouble. It’s been duller than death around here. I’m glad he sprained his ankle. If his big foot hadn’t busted through the rotting floor, he wouldn’t have called these guys."

She eyed the workman’s tight behind. Before James could stop her, she pinched José again.

He bolted up and grabbed his hammer. "That’s it. I’m gonna break your fingers."

Bob held up his screeching circular saw in self-defense. "Move closer, José, and I’ll give you a nip and tuck. Free of charge."

Izzy clasped her hands to her flat bosom and wiggled. "Ooh, I love it when men fight over me!"

Jonas, the eldest and, lately, the most sedate of the ghostly trio, turned away from his usual post, the arched window of Laguna Vista’s west tower. He slid his hands into the pockets of his pleated trousers and furrowed his brow. "This is hardly the same thing, doll."

She shrugged. "When you’ve been dead for over seventy years, you take what you can get."

The two workers faced off, José with hammer cocked, Bob’s saw whining in the air. Things were about to get ugly. James acted. He pinched Bob’s behind.

Bob jumped. The saw went flying into the water-stained wall, knocking out a good-sized chunk of plaster before hitting the floor. The men eyed each other for a heartbeat, then bolted from the west tower, their boots devouring the creaky steps that led down to the first floor. Seconds later the front door slammed.

Izzy giggled. "You pinched a man’s butt."

James frowned. "Only to save it. You had those two ready to kill each other."

Bee-stung lips twitching with delight, Izzy whipped off a hideous plastic tarp and stretched out on the threadbare indigo settee. "You’ve never fought over a woman?"

Jonas smiled. "I hate to break it to you, doll, but those fellows weren’t fighting over you."

She threw one arm over her eyes. "Can’t a girl dream?" She sighed. Twirled her pearls. Sighed again.

"Izzy," James said through clenched teeth. "Professor Bookman hired those men to reinforce the floor and to patch the leaky ceiling. In our day the west tower was the elephant’s eyebrows. Now look at it." He gestured around the combination bedroom/sitting room. Tattered velvet drapes hung limply from bent rods. Wind whistled through cracked windowpanes. Floorboards bowed against chipped marble tiles. "It’s crumbling around our ears. We haven’t aged, but the tower has. It’s depressing. I, for one, could use some cheering up. Why the heck did you have to scare off those handymen?"

"I couldn’t help it!" She bolted to her feet, fists balled at her sides. "I’m bored."

Jonas raised hopeful eyebrows. "Might I suggest a change of scenery?"

"Go chase yourself." She knew full well he was talking about the "other side."

James thumbed up the brim of his brown felt Fedora. "Go pester Professor Bookman. He can take it."

"Hired by our grand-nephew to solve whatever mystery has you and me and Jonas chained to Laguna Vista. To help us cross over to the next plane, blah, blah, blah," she mimicked. "A waste of money." Besides, she didn’t want to cross over. She preferred Limbo to Hades, thank you very much.

"You’re just scared," James said.

"And stubborn," Jonas added. "Let it go, Izzy. Whatever regret you’re clinging to, come to terms with it and let it go. I can almost guarantee you won’t end up dancing with the devil."

"‘Almost,’" she grumbled. "How reassuring."

"Jonas cheated on his wife, and he’s not going to Hell," James said. "I’d say you’re in fair shape, sis. So you drank. So you slept around. Big deal. It’s not as if you hurt anyone. Not intentionally."

She turned her back on her brothers and lit a Chesterfield, hoping they wouldn’t notice her trembling hands. "I’m thinking you’re right, Jimmy," she said in a chipper voice. "I should have shown some restraint. I should have toyed with those handymen instead of giving them the heebie-jeebies. Then again, as Jonas has pointed out time and again, restraint is not one of my most glowing attributes." She blew out a stream of smoke and sighed. "I suppose I could swap the professor’s toothpaste with his muscle ointment. That could be fun."

Jonas sighed.

James groaned.

She distracted herself by remembering better days. To think that Laguna Vista, the former summer home of their parents, department store tycoon J. B. Van Buren and his socialite wife, Ella, had once been the high-society playground for some of America’s most popular celebrities. Not to mention occasional politicians and assorted European dignitaries.

Now the deteriorating mansion belonged to Jonas’s grandson, Marcus Van Buren, the reining CEO of the family empire. Marcus, unlike his father and grandfather, was a bit of a stuffed shirt. Although he’d inherited Laguna Vista over thirty years ago, he hadn’t spent the night until recently. That he’d stayed away so long had struck her as the ultimate snub. She was, however, willing to forgive her grand-nephew. He was family. Family stuck together. Besides, he’d married that ghost-busting tomato, Daisy Malone. Izzy didn’t appreciate the woman’s attempts to help them cross over, but she did welcome the frequent visits of Daisy’s numerous brothers and sisters.

Then there was Rufus Sinclair, Marcus’s personal assistant. Handsome, muscular, he was the cat’s meow. But Marcus and Daisy were on their honeymoon, Daisy’s family had stopped coming around, and Rufus, to her dismay, hadn’t been back since the wedding. That left Professor Bookman, a man hell-bent on helping the infamous Van Buren siblings move on.

Izzy didn’t want to move on. She wanted to go back. Wanted to do it all again. She’d enjoyed five glorious, hell-raising summers under this terra-cotta roof. Sure, there’d been some bad times, but they’d been few and far between, and Izzy refused to dwell on anything sad. Though, she had to admit, every now and again, she did reflect on one particular evening in 1928. The night Jimmy accidentally drove the family’s luxury automobile off a bridge, ending his fast-lane life along with hers and Jonas’s. Kind of hard to blot that out.

It seemed like yesterday instead of seventy-odd years past. She’d talked Jonas and Jimmy into accompanying her to Purgatory, one of her favorite speakeasies, two nights before her thirtieth birthday. Some might say she’d been selfish, dragging Jonas away from his wife and one of her silly dinner parties, stealing Jimmy away from his weekly poker game, but she was turning thirty. And she had no lover. No husband. No prospects. De-press-ing! And who better to cheer her up than her brothers?

Several hours later they’d staggered out of the juice joint hopped up on hooch and laughing like hyenas. Okay, maybe they should’ve called a cab instead of letting Jimmy drive. But Jimmy was only half-screwed. He could find his way home blindfolded. In hindsight, she supposed she shouldn’t have picked a fight with Jonas while Jimmy was trying to concentrate on the road. It was foggy, and Jimmy had a lead foot. But she had been desperate to keep her mind off her approaching birthday. Next thing she knew—crash! splash!—the Pierce was sinking to the bottom of the bay, and they were swimming with the fishes.

One moment they’d been arguing over who was going to take the World Series. The next they were free-floating twenty feet over the murky water, looking on as a fleet of gumshoes fished the dented Pierce-Arrow out of the bay. Seeing their lifeless bodies being pulled from the car had been a shocker. How could they be dead when they felt so alive? And if they were dead, shouldn’t they be in Heaven or Hell or . . . something?

Then it occurred to them. What if they were ghosts? They’d spent three minutes laughing over the swell pranks they’d get over on their cousins, then a sober second realizing the impact of their deaths on their loved ones. In the wiggle of an eel’s hips, a colorful whirlwind sucked them up and dumped them within the grieving walls of Laguna Vista.

They’d been stuck here ever since—a problem Jonas had been trying to rectify for more than seventy years. Last month he’d finally made major progress. Prompted by his grandson’s visit, he’d owned up to his scandalous past. Earned his ticket North. An angel named Mr. Newborne had even come to show him the way, arriving via that same multicolored whirlwind. But Jonas, the devoted sap, had refused to go anywhere without his brother and sister. All for one and one for all. Their childhood motto. He was waiting for Izzy and Jimmy to own up to their biggest regrets. Of course, that meant having to stew on past mistakes. As if she was going to do that.

James cleared his throat. "Speak of the devil," he said as Professor Thaddeus Bookman limped into the room.

Bookman frowned, then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his nose. He couldn’t see the trio (only because they didn’t want to be seen), but it didn’t matter. He often talked to them anyway. He was calm as always, despite their latest shenanigans, as he picked up the saw.

Then, facing the room in general, he said, "I leave for five minutes, and look what happens. I thought I could trust you, at least where Marcus is concerned. You know he wants to move in here with Daisy. You know he hates media attention. Now I’ll have to call Sinclair to come down to make sure this stays out of the papers."

"Rufus!" Izzy squealed. Oh, how she missed that handsome sheik. He made her feel so alive! "See?" she said to James. "No good deed goes unrewarded."

Looking at the hole the flying saw had bashed in the wall, Bookman shook his head. Then he bent forward for a closer look, peering through the hole.

James waved his hands in warning. "No, Izzy!"

But she was already on the move. "Hot dog!" With a devilish gleam in her eye, she pinched Bookman’s rear, causing him to bang his head on a beam. But he didn’t turn. Instead, he applied the saw to the wall and made the hole bigger.

She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes. What in the world . . . ?

A minute or two later, he knocked away the plasterboard and dragged a dusty steamer trunk from behind the false wall. Two more trunks waited to be rescued from the darkness.

James whistled. "I forgot about those."

Jonas floated closer for a better look. "Me, too."

Izzy shrank back, her good humor cut short.

Bookman fiddled with the latches. James and Jonas flanked the trunk.

"Get a wiggle on, Izzy," James said. "Here are our lives. Postcards. Love letters. Keepsakes. Let’s see whose trunk it is."

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Please don’t let it be mine.

The latch popped open. Bookman lifted the lid. White boa feathers fluttered into the air. "It’s yours." James waved her over. "Come take a look. Remember what that angel fellow said. We’re stuck here until we figure out what moral bungle landed us in spiritual Limbo. Maybe this trunk holds a clue that’ll jog your memory."

"Maybe you should lay off," she grumbled. She snuffed out her fag, then plucked at the fringe of her knee-grazing dress. "Maybe you should respect my privacy."

Bookman held up an old photograph. James eyed it. "Hey, it’s Grace."

Izzy sucked in a choked breath. A surge of anxious energy zapped the air.

James and Jonas looked at one another. "Grace LaRue," they said in unison.

James punctuated the air with a finger. "That’s it! Izzy’s unresolved issue, or whatever the heck Mr. Newborne called it, has something to do with Grace."

The mention of the heavenly escort’s name in conjunction with her friend’s sent a shiver down Izzy’s spine. She flew over and snatched the photograph from Bookman’s fingers. "Mind your own beeswax."

Unperturbed, Bookman reached into the trunk and pulled out another photograph. He squinted. Adjusted his glasses. Widened his eyes. "Oh, my."

Jonas mirrored the parapsychologist’s expression. "You can say that again, old boy. Impossible, yet . . . who in the devil is it?"

James gawked at the sepia-toned image, then at Izzy, who looked about as faded as the vintage photo. "I forgot about this fellow. The drifter. What was his name? Yowza. I never realized how much he looks like—"

"You’re screwy." Izzy grabbed the photo.

"Oh, no, you don’t." Bookman held on tightly. He spun away and tucked the photograph inside his shirt.

He pulled a state-of-the-art cell phone from the pocket of his dated tweed pants while batting away the frenzied energy circling around him, making his hair stand on end. "Thaddeus Bookman for Rufus Sinclair." He limped toward the door just as Isadora winged an empty perfume bottle at his head. It whooshed past his ear and shattered against the mildewed wall. "Sinclair? Bookman. Get down here pronto." A stuffed pink poodle clipped his shoulder as he cleared the threshold. "We’ve got a situation."

Rufus Sinclair snapped shut his cell phone and grinned.

He’d called Barbie the Chopper Chick, his latest squeeze, for three reasons.

One: Barbie was an exhibitionist with a thing for carnival rides.

Two: He had a thing for exhibitionists with a thing for carnival rides. (He had a thing for any gorgeous woman who’d get naked in public with him.)

Three: He’d just completed his first solo flight in his new single-engine plane and had no one else to call. His boss and best friend, Marcus Van Buren, was on his honeymoon. His mother, who’d made him promise to call the second he landed or else, only sighed with huge relief, then said, "I can’t talk to you. You give me agita."

As soon as he finished this heebie-jeebie business with Bookman, he’d be off to hootchie-kootchie with Barbie.

Crossing the deserted ramp, he glanced back to where he’d tied down his Cessna Skylane. The sleek white body gleamed in the sun. Burgundy and taupe stripes slashed the sides, curving and racing to the tail. Daring. Whimsical. Fast. His body tingled. He felt so alive. Ready to take on the world. Even ghostly Isadora Van Buren.

The thought of the horny, doe-eyed flapper had Rufus fighting a sudden urge to hightail it back to the plane. The Cessna, unlike Izzy, handled like a dream. It wasn’t that he hated Izzy. She couldn’t help having the hots for him. Women always had the hots for him. He hated that Izzy was a ghost who had the hots for him. He’d never forget the time she’d shoved him into a closet and clutched his package with ice-cold fingers. He’d sworn that moment never again to step foot inside Laguna Vista.

And he hadn’t. Until Marc insisted he and Daisy be married in the house so his dead grandfather, Jonas Van Buren, could attend. Rufus had felt his world tilt, but no ghost could keep him from sharing in the happiest day of his best friend’s life. Even if he thought that best friend was marrying in haste. Besides, someone had to make sure that the priest showed on time and the caterers kept the food and booze coming.

Speaking of booze, he wondered if he could talk Bookman into stopping at a local pub before hitting the haunted house from hell. He needed a stiff drink before playing intervention with Izzy. It was one thing to fly down to Atlantic City to grease some palms to keep her supernatural shenanigans out of the media. Marc, who’d made a second career out of avoiding scandal, hated publicity. Especially negative publicity about his family, alive or dead. It was another thing to go to Laguna Vista itself to try to talk a ghost into good behavior. And, worse, into the beyond.

He shivered. He hated this stuff. But Bookman was convinced he had the key to helping Izzy cross over. That was the only reason Rufus had agreed to set foot in that house again. To help make Izzy go away.

He zipped up his leather bomber jacket, warding off a bone-chilling wind. Though cold, it was a clear, sunny December day. Too bad he’d be spending it inside a creepy old mansion with a stuffy parapsychologist and three dead people who were either too stupid or too stubborn to cross over to wherever. Still, the trip wouldn’t be a total loss. He had a date with Barbie, the helicopter pilot, in five hours. His flight-school honey had promised to take him around the world in eight minutes.

His grin slipped when he spotted Thaddeus Bookman leaning against a mud-splattered Jeep, waiting to pick him up. The six-foot-four, stubble-faced parapsychologist looked more disheveled than usual. His thick brown hair stood on end. The top three buttons of his wrinkled, white oxford shirt gaped open, revealing the neckband of his undershirt. One suspender drooped off his broad shoulder. Rufus knew without asking that Izzy was to blame for the man’s eyebrow-raising appearance.

Bookman caught sight of Rufus, and his lips twitched. His eyes twinkled. He looked like an excited kid with a secret. Rufus felt dread. The kinds of things that excited Bookman scared the hell out of him. "It’s thirty-seven degrees, Professor. Where’s your coat?"

"Isadora tossed it into the fireplace. Amazing how quickly wool burns."

"Amazing how Izzy ever landed so many husbands."

Bookman grinned, tossed Rufus’s bag into the back of the Jeep, then motioned him to follow.

Rufus frowned at the man’s awkward gait. "Sure you don’t need crutches?"

"Positive." Bookman opened the driver’s door. "You’ll have to climb over."

Rufus looked past him to the stick shift separating the worn bucket seats. "You’re kidding."

"It’s either that or climb in through the passenger window. The door’s busted."

"How about you climb over, and I drive?"

"Is this one of those testing-your-manhood challenges that Marcus warned me about?"

"What?"

"He said for me not to be intimidated by you." He looked over Rufus in his black jeans and leather jacket. "He said you have a need to take charge."

"That’s a bad thing?"

Bookman leaned against the Jeep and scratched his unshaven jaw. "Look, I put my teaching career on hold to devote more time to my paranormal studies. This case is fascinating. I’m itching to discuss the specifics with the institute."

Rufus narrowed his eyes.

"But I won’t. I promised Marcus I’d keep the investigation—"

"—low profile." It was one of Marc’s favorite directives.

"I haven’t made much progress, but operating without anyone breathing down my neck helps."

"Don’t worry, Professor. I don’t plan on sticking around."

"Still, Izzy might not—"

Rufus held up a hand. "I need a drink before hearing this."

Bookman finagled his big body over the gearshift and into the passenger seat. "You might as well drive. That clutch kills my ankle, and I’m secure in my manhood."

"Keep talking like that and you won’t be." Rufus keyed the ignition and shifted into first. "You don’t like me much, do you, Professor?"

Bookman looked hard at him through his glasses. "I think there’s more to people than meets the eye. I think I don’t really know you."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"There’s a tavern down the street."

"Perfect." Rufus stepped on the gas. Minutes later they sat at a lacquered table in an unremarkable sports bar. He unzipped his jacket, finger-combed his wind-blown hair, and got right down to the reason he was here. "This had better be good."

Bookman signaled a waitress, then braced his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"Old souls, new bodies?"

"Close enough."

"No. Though I’m sure you do. You’ve made a career out of hobnobbing with ghosts. You probably believe in the Tooth Fairy." Where in hell was that waitress?

"You’ve seen a ghost. Isadora."

"I’m still in denial about it."

"Have you ever done something and felt as if you’d done it before?"

"We all have, Professor. It’s called déjà vu. No big deal."

"What about flying?"

"What about it?"

"Did it come easily to you? As if you’d done it before?"

Rufus rolled his eyes. "Most people have at least one thing they’re naturally good at. You know, an innate talent."

Bookman shrugged. "Maybe. So how long have you been interested in airplanes?"

"Since as long as I can remember."

"Interesting."

"No, it’s not. Not in the way you’re insinuating. Everyone has hobbies. I like airplanes. Marc likes horses. You like things that go bump in the night." Rufus leaned forward and frowned. "Speaking of which, what does this have to do with Isadora?"

"I’m getting to that." Bookman pulled a scallop-edged photograph from his pants pocket. He slid it across the table. "I found this in a trunk at Laguna Vista."

"Excuse me. Are you Ben Affleck?" a woman asked in a husky voice.

Rufus looked up to find a redhead in a skintight, neon-green dress, boobs pushed up to her chin, standing at their table, a martini in her hand. He winked. "I’m better."

She giggled and wiggled.

"Sinclair . . ." Bookman warned.

"Yeah?" He kept his eyes on . . . "What’s your name?" he asked the redhead.

She gave a toothy smile. "Bridget."

"Sinclair . . ."

"Do you like carnival rides?" Rufus asked her.

"It’s a little cold for carnival rides," she said, despite her barely-there dress.

"Hmm. Guess we’ll just have to stay inside."

"Sinclair!" Bookman boomed.

"Sorry, baby, I’m busy right now."

The redhead pulled a slip of paper from between her breasts. "For when you want to get busy with me."

He looked at the number, the tiny heart with which Bridget had dotted her i, then slipped the paper into his pocket. He watched her undulate back to her friends at the bar.

Bookman rapped his knuckles on the table. "Can you please pay attention?"

Rufus grinned. "It’s not my fault women find me irresistible."

Bookman narrowed his eyes, scrunching his face as though he were conducting a lab experiment. He tapped the picture. "What about this woman?"

Rufus picked up the vintage photo and focused on the young woman leaning against the bottom wing of a biplane. Her curly black hair and white scarf were blowing wild in the wind, and giant goggles were pushed up on her forehead. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look unhappy. She looked . . . defiant. Her narrowed eyes pierced the camera with the same cocky challenge he’d felt as he landed his plane for the first time today. As if nothing in the world could stop him. Her attitude defied her stature. She appeared short in her men’s pants, cuffed over chunky black boots that had seen better days. The white collar of her button-down shirt poked up from an unzipped leather flight jacket, and suspenders peeked out from inside it. She was unusual looking. Not quite beautiful but oozing something special just the same. He couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

His fingers tingled. His pulse tripped. Apparently some leftover adrenaline still sparked from his flight. He set down the photo and slid it back toward Bookman. "What about her?" He looked over his shoulder to see a waitress finally hurrying toward them. Thank God.

"Look familiar?" Bookman asked.

"Now that you mention it," Rufus said, checking out the waitress’s long legs, "I think I dated her in Vegas. Rita . . . Chita . . ."

Bookman sighed. "Not her. The girl in the picture."

Rufus swiveled back around. "That’s a Curtiss Jenny biplane. Used to train pilots in World War One. Popular with the barnstormers of the twenties. I’d say that photo was taken between 1919 and 1925."

"1923. What about the girl?"

Rufus grinned despite himself. "She’s a little before my time."

"Yes, but—"

"No, she doesn’t look familiar."

Bookman slid the photo back across the table. "What about the man?"

"Hiya, handsome," purred the waitress.

"Hiya, gorgeous." Rufus lazed his gaze up the waitress’s legs to her face. "Have we met before?"

She winked at Rufus. "In my dreams. What’s your pleasure?"

"Scotch on the rocks and your phone num—"

"Vodka and tonic," Bookman said, cutting in.

Rufus flashed the waitress a dimpled smile.

She bent forward so he could see down her body-hugging, low-cut tee. "Anything you want." Then she backed away until she reached the bar, sticking out her tongue at the red-haired customer in the neon dress.

Bookman drummed his long fingers on the table. "Your effect on the female species is mind-boggling, Sinclair. Forget what I said about your manhood."

"Don’t beat yourself up over it. I was born this way. It’s a gift."

"An innate talent. Hmm. One of these days you’re going to meet your match. Now that’s a phenomenon I’d pay big bucks to witness."

Rufus sniffed. "Good luck. Marc said the same thing when we first arrived at Laguna Vista."

"Déjà vu," Bookman said, passing back the picture.

"Coincidence," Rufus said, taking a closer look at the photo. At the man standing next to the woman. "He looks a little like me."

"He looks a lot like you."

"So what? And don’t start with that reincarnation bull. Everybody has a twin. So who’s the girl?"

"James said she was a friend of Izzy’s. Grace LaRue."

"Amazing Grace. Well, well."

Bookman perked up. "You do know her."

"I know of her." Rufus abandoned the picture and shrugged out of his jacket. "I know she and Izzy went way back. Grace grew up on a farm outside Atlantic City. The Van Burens spent most of their summers down at the shore. The girls met on the beach. They became fast friends despite the gap in social status. Izzy’s father never approved. Apparently Grace hung out with a criminal element."

"A gang?"

Rufus shook his head. "One guy. In the journals he left, J.B. referred to him as ‘the thug.’ Izzy latched on to Grace and the thug—sort of a third-wheel. The troublesome trio, J.B. called them. Though I don’t know how they could be any more troublesome than his own three children were. Anyway, Izzy, Grace, and the thug spent their summers getting into typical kid trouble. You know, pranks, experimenting with butts and booze, busting curfew."

"How do you know all this?"

"A few months back Marc had me skim his great-grandfather’s journals. He hoped I’d find a clue as to what Jonas and his siblings had done to land themselves in spiritual limbo."

Bookman’s eyes lit up.

"Forget it, Professor," Rufus said. "Those journals are packed with damning information. I doubt he’d entrust them to you. Let’s just say Jonas, Isadora, and James Van Buren didn’t know the meaning of moderation."

"I’m surprised they managed to raise eyebrows, considering they lived in the most frivolous decade in American history."

"They managed fine," Rufus said. "Anyway, J.B. considered Grace a bad influence on Izzy."

Bookman’s eyes rounded.

Rufus laughed. "I know. Hard to imagine a woman wilder than Izzy." He picked up the photo again and studied it more closely. "Though she does have an edge, an almost ornery look about her. A woman barnstormer . . ."

"Sinclair?"

"Is that what made you so amazing, Grace?" His fingers tingled. . . .

"Sinclair!"

Rufus started. He set down the photo. "You said you found this picture in a trunk?"

"One of three trunks hidden behind a false wall in the west tower. According to James, J.B. ordered his children’s intimate belongings packed up and sealed away the day of their wake. The next day he threw sheets over the furniture, closed the drapes, and declared Laguna Vista and any mention of Jonas, Isadora, and James off limits to the family." Bookman frowned. "Pretty harsh if you ask me."

Rufus shook his head. "He was hurting. J.B. was tough, but he loved his kids—another thing I picked up in his journals." He paused. "Back up a minute. James discussed the trunks with you?"

"The trunks and the photo."

"James Van Buren. The dead guy. Marcus’s great-uncle."

"The same."

"Izzy’s brother talks to you? You’re having conversations now?"

"We have been. I can’t help it if you’ve chosen to keep yourself in the dark about what’s been happening at Laguna Vista."

"That’s the way we’ve both liked it. Besides, I’ve had other things on my mind, like minding Marc’s business while he’s away. Be thankful I’m so efficient. If the company wasn’t running smoothly, I wouldn’t have been able to leave it." Rufus picked through a bowl of mixed nuts. "Since I’m here, you might as well bring me up to date. Minus the gory details."

"There are no gory details. Ghosts aren’t dangerous."

"Tell that to your wool coat and your ankle."

"Spraining my ankle was unrelated."

"If you weren’t chasing ghosts, you wouldn’t have been poking around that decrepit tower." He popped a cashew into his mouth. "Definitely related."

Bookman adjusted his glasses. "It occurs to me that I could assuage your misgivings with a briefing on apparitions. We only fear what we do not understand."

"Save it for the classroom, Professor."

"When a person dies," he continued, "the physical body ceases to exist."

Rufus eyed an almond, then opted for a peanut. "Really."

"The outer layer fades away, leaving an electromagnetic field—the inner self. Or, as some refer to it, the soul or psyche. In most cases the inner self crosses over to another plane. In the case of a ghost, a person who either died tragically or suddenly—"

"—the electromagnetic field is unable to make the transition. The soul, psyche, whatever, gets stuck in no-man’s land, chained to its earthly emotional baggage." Rufus tossed up a hand. "Or something like that."

Bookman smiled. "You read my book."

"Don’t look so flattered. I make it a point to know about the people in Marc’s life. Your having been Marc’s college chum doesn’t mean jack to me."

"I’m beginning to see why Marcus puts up with you."

Rufus eyed the approaching waitress, suddenly wishing he’d ordered a double. "If that was supposed to be an insult—"

"It wasn’t." Bookman stood and intercepted the leggy barmaid. "I’ll take those."

She stuck out her lower lip.

Great lips. Full and pink. Rufus conjured a brief fantasy, then winked at her.

She smiled, winked back, then slinked back to the bar.

Bookman shook his head. "Mind-boggling." He reclaimed his seat and passed Rufus his scotch. "So, you read my book."

"Don’t get a swelled head."

"And you’re still afraid of ghosts?"

Rufus lifted his glass. "I was never afraid. Creeped out? Yes. Scared? No." He tossed back a healthy portion of his scotch, enjoying the slow burn. "Let’s cut to the chase. According to Daisy, Jonas earned his chance to cross over but refused to go without Isadora and James. All for one and one for all."

"Their childhood motto," Bookman said. "James told me that the angel, if you believe in that sort of thing, wasn’t happy about returning a soul short to heaven, if you believe in that sort of place. James worries that the angel, Mr. Newborne—"

"The angel’s name is Newborne? Cute."

"—won’t take no for an answer when he comes back to claim Jonas. That he’ll be whisked away without James and Isadora. So James is determined to find out why he and Izzy are still chained to Laguna Vista. After seeing this picture and Izzy’s reaction, he suspects Izzy’s regret involves Grace." Bookman wrapped a hand around his glass and grinned. "I suspect you’re somehow connected."

Rufus froze.

"How’s that for cutting to the chase?"

Rufus downed his drink.

"The proof is in that picture, Sinclair. In Izzy’s extreme attachment to you. I think your relationship is rooted in the past."

"Now I know where they got the term ‘nutty professor.’"

"I prefer open-minded." He cocked an eyebrow. "Well? What do you think?"

"I think you’re nuts. That man is not me. I don’t even like Isadora Van Buren."

"I don’t mean you now. I mean you then. A past life. Your soul in a previous body. And I didn’t say you fell for her. Or maybe you did. Who knows?"

"Izzy knows."

"Izzy’s not talking."

Rufus shook his head. "Izzy isn’t even in the picture. Literally."

"There are dozens of pictures in that trunk," Bookman said. "I just happened to pick up one of you and Grace. There might be fifteen others of you and Izzy."

"You mean him and Izzy. Who was he, anyway?"

"Nobody knows. He came out of nowhere."

Great. "Does Izzy think I’m the guy in the picture?"

"I don’t know. It’s been eighty years since 1923, when the picture was taken. Surely your personalities and styles, among other things, differ. James didn’t make the connection until he saw the picture this morning. Jonas never met the man. Maybe Izzy sensed something. Maybe not. Either way, you can’t deny she’s crazy about you."

"She’s a horny dame who forgets she’s dead. She’s crazy about any man she can get her hands on." His thoughts jumped to the spooked construction team originally working on the mansion, then to the two handymen Bookman had called him about. Marc would freak if another ghost story hit the local paper. "So you couldn’t throw down a slab of plywood yourself? You had to bring in outsiders?"

"We needed professionals. The west tower has been sealed off since 1928. The walls are cracked and mildewed. There’s a hole in the ceiling the size of my fist. The floor gave way beneath me. It’ll take more than a plank of wood to stabilize that room. When Daisy gets back, she’ll be poking around up there. I had to make it safe."

Rufus signaled the waitress for another drink. "Look, I don’t want any part of this, but Marc is more than my boss. He’s my friend. I know you have a plan. I know I’m going to hate it. Since we can’t slip Izzy a Valium, lay it on me."

Bookman leaned forward, his enthusiasm clearly rising. "You have to get Isadora to talk to you. Get her to open up about Grace LaRue."

Rufus groaned.

"Izzy was Marcus’s great-aunt," Bookman said. "A swinging, twenties flapper. Not Lizzie Borden."

Rufus gripped his glass. "I hate this hocus-pocus stuff."

"If Izzy won’t talk about Grace, pick another subject. Distract her."

"How?"

Bookman smiled. "Talk about the old times."

Rufus frowned. "Ha-ha. What will you be doing?"

"Going through that trunk. Looking for clues. I’d like to do it without getting clocked by a crystal vase."

"Been there," Rufus said. "Bananas and oranges."

"It’s Izzy’s way of letting off steam. A psychic temper tantrum if you will."

"Whoopee."

Bookman stood. "Ready?"

"And willing." The throaty-voiced waitress set Rufus’s scotch in front of him and blasted him with a full-body smile. Great mouth. Killer legs.

"I have the keys to my friend’s beach bungalow," purred a slightly higher voice. "She’s out of town."

Rufus glanced right to find Bridget—in that tight, neon dress—dangling a set of keys from her long, tan fingers. A tanning-bed tan. Though he found a natural tan more exciting—a natural, no-lines tan achieved only by naked outdoor sunbathing—Rufus didn’t mind. She looked hot-to-the-touch for the middle of December.

"Sorry, ladies," Bookman said, hauling Rufus out of his seat. "Mr. Sinclair’s got a date with a doe-eyed sheba."