The Uninvited (Krewe of Hunters #8) 3

“I’ll make a run-through and set the alarm as I head out.”

“I’ll lock the back door. The back gate’s locked, right?”

“Yep. I can just hit the alarm and dash out the front.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she heard his footsteps on the hardwood floor as he went to lock up. She heard him as he moved through the house, and she heard the front door close as he left.

To her annoyance, she was suddenly frightened in the house. She silently chastised herself. Todd was at the age when he wanted to be a sexual lothario one minute, and a kid spooked by a campfire tale the next. She wanted to rip off her dress and stomacher and change into her comfortable jeans; instead, she decided to hurry up and check the house, then get out of there.

She glanced over the room and went out, locking the door. She walked past the dining room and the grand salon and returned to the foyer. Looking up the stairs, she knew she wasn’t going up to make sure she’d left no scared toddler or would-be ghost hunter in the house. She knew that every man, woman and child on her tour had departed through the back gate.

A sense of something dark and evil seemed to have drifted over her, and she wished she could call Jason back. As she crossed the foyer, she stopped.

She’d heard a sound. A ticking or a…scrape or…

It was coming from Angus Tarleton’s study.

She didn’t want to look. She wanted to rush to the front door, hit the alarm and run home, run out of the house screaming....

How ridiculous!

It might have been an air-conditioning vent or…wood settling. There were probably dozens of technical or architectural things it could be.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head, annoyed again that Todd had managed to unnerve her like this. She was a sensible and responsible human being, a historian.

She walked to the room and looked in.

And a scream, shrill and horrified, tore from her throat.

Julian Mitchell had returned to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

2

Tyler Montague’s first impression of Allison Leigh was not a good one.

But then, the woman had apparently been at the house where a friend had died—either accidentally or through a very bizarre form of murder—for hours before coming down to the police station to deal with more paperwork.

She hadn’t been accused of murder, not yet. Probably because the police and the pathologists couldn’t quite figure out how a woman her size could have managed it. Julian Mitchell had been big, tall, well-muscled. For her to have dealt with the weapon and the man would have been a nearly impossible feat.

She had dark hair, so sleek and deep a brown, it appeared black. He assumed she’d started the evening with her hair neatly tied back but now it was tumbling down around her shoulders beneath an eighteenth-century-style mobcap. Allison was dressed in the daily wear of an upscale Revolutionary-era citizen—a robe à l’Anglaise, he believed they called the gown—and looked exhausted. She was seated at a table in one of the interrogation rooms, a cup of coffee in front of her, and when he arrived, she had her head down on one arm.

“Ms. Leigh knows you’re coming to talk to her,” a quiet voice said at his side.

Tyler turned to look at Adam Harrison. Adam had to be close to eighty, but he walked with the ease of a much younger man and stood straight as a poker. His eyes were a very gentle blue, showing signs of a smoky color that might have come from his age. He had snow-white hair, and his suit was casual and in impeccable taste. He’d arranged for Tyler’s Krewe to be called in because of Ethan Oxford, an old friend of Adam’s with whom he’d served on many philanthropic boards over the years.

Adam Harrison was the reason Tyler had left a career with the Texas Rangers to join this extremely unusual unit of the FBI.

Tyler didn’t know everything about Adam Harrison; he didn’t think anyone did. But Adam seemed to have friends everywhere. A call from him and a rough road could be easily traveled. But then, years before Tyler and his Krewe had ever met the man, Adam Harrison had been putting the right people in the right circumstances. And while other government agencies might consider the Krewe units as something completely separate and even an embarrassment at times, they were respected for their prowess. They had yet to fail when it came to finding the truth in any of their investigations.

“And she knows who I am?” Tyler asked.

Harrison shrugged. “She knows you’re FBI.”

“She must be ready to crawl the walls. It took me a little over three hours to drive in from northern Virginia, and we didn’t receive your call until an hour or so after the body was discovered.” He checked his watch. “It’s after midnight.”

Harrison sighed, shuffling his feet slightly. “The police were left with no recourse, really. There was the dead man. There was the woman who called it in. Tour groups had been at the house all evening, along with a couple of other docents, and when Ms. Leigh dialed 9-1-1, she was the only one on the premises. She was shaken when they got there. With a death of this nature, you have to be suspicious of anyone in her situation. The sad thing is that I believe she’s entirely innocent. And she’s just lost a colleague.”

Tyler saw that Harrison’s empathy for the young woman was strong.

“Did she suggest a ghost killed him?” Tyler asked skeptically.

Harrison didn’t look at him; he continued to look through the one-way glass at the young woman. “No. Ms. Leigh—technically Dr. Leigh—is a professor, historian and scholar. She teaches history at the university, except that she’s off for the summer. She also writes papers. Even when she’s teaching, she gives tours at the house, but the point is—she does not believe in ghosts.” He spoke with a grimace. Her feelings on that might change in the near future.

“I’d like to see her, get her out of here and then read up on everything that’s happened in the house,” Tyler said. “They aren’t charging her, are they?”

“No, but they made the right call in asking her to come down here,” Adam told him. “I’ll bring you over and introduce you.”

“You know her? Or you just met her?”

Harrison smiled. “I’ve made it my business for many years to meet and greet politicians and those in law enforcement and, thankfully, many remain grateful for help they’ve received. I was here when the house hosted a dinner for up-and-coming men and women in the city, sponsored by municipal leaders. Ms. Leigh was very charming and of great assistance in arranging the evening. I think you’ll find that she can tell you more than you’ll read in most history books. So, we’re not best friends, but yes, I know her.”

The door to the observation room opened just then, and a middle-aged man with fine, intelligent eyes and a bloodhound’s weary jowls walked in. Tyler had already met him; he was Detective Jenson, assigned to the “suspicious” death.

“All the paperwork for the evening is complete. Ms. Leigh may leave whenever you’re ready. Agent Montague, you wanted to go to the house tonight?” Jenson asked.

Tyler nodded. “I’d like to get in while the evidence is still fresh.”

Whatever Jenson thought of the “special” FBI unit that had been brought in, he didn’t let his feelings show. “The crime scene people have just finished up,” he said. “They’ve been in there for about six hours collecting everything they can, but, of course, the house is a tourist location so they have hundreds if not thousands of prints. I’ll get you Ms. Leigh’s key to the house and the code to bypass the security system,” he told Tyler. “And, needless to say, we’d appreciate it if you shared any findings with us immediately.”

“I can’t find anything without the help of the police,” Tyler said, “so, yes, of course.”

Judging by his quick smile, Jenson seemed to like that. “You’re free to speak with Ms. Leigh.” He glanced at Adam. “And get her home.”

Adam thanked him. They left the observation area and entered the interrogation room.

Allison Leigh sat up stiffly, regarding Tyler with narrowed eyes that gentled as she looked at Adam Harrison.

The man just had a way about him.

“Allison, I’d like you to meet Agent Tyler Montague. He’s here to investigate the situation—and the Tarleton-Dandridge House,” Adam said.

Allison Leigh gave Tyler a long cool assessment. “The house?” she asked skeptically. “The house caused Julian to slit his throat on his bayonet?”

“There’ve been a number of incidents at the house, Ms. Leigh,” Tyler said.

Allison turned to Adam. “He believes he can arrest the ghost of a Revolutionary soldier?”

Tyler answered. “No, Ms. Leigh. But the number of strange occurrences at the house, especially in recent years, suggest that someone who’s alive and well is playing deadly pranks. Actually, we’re here to see you home if you’d like.”

She frowned, and Tyler thought her hostility toward him had relaxed somewhat. “You’re not going to ask me to go through everything that happened again?”

He shook his head. “I’d rather you went through the house with me. If you’re up to it, that is. Otherwise, we’ll take you home, as I said.”

She stared at him, then blinked. He could see her mind working, and it was fascinating to watch the emotions that flashed through her beautiful if red-rimmed eyes. She’d been up for hours; she’d just lost a colleague, possibly a friend. She’d been in the interrogation room forever. She wanted a drink or simply to collapse for a while and forget the horror she’d witnessed.

But he also knew that she understood why he needed to see the house now, as quickly after the event as possible. She didn’t want to go back and see where her friend had died, but she understood that anything that might be discovered would be most easily found before too much time had elapsed.

She lifted her hands. “Of course,” she said with a nod. “Are you coming?” she asked Adam, her voice hopeful.