himself crazy and got a lot of splinters, digging up floorboards. But I think finding out that my great-great-grandfather wasn’t a murderer would be pretty valuable, too. I think it would go a long way in clearing out some of the angry, frustrated spirit energy in this place and make it a lot safer for Deacon to live here.”
“And what if you don’t?” Cindy asked. “What if all you find is evidence that the stories about Gerald Whitney are true?”
Dotty shrugged and popped a soy crisp into her mouth from a container in her bag. “At least I’ll know, and I can stop feeling indignant about the books and the ghost stories and the fact that a theme park offered to buy this place ten years ago to stage murder-mystery dinner reenactments during the summer.”
“That would sting,” Nina said, tsk ing sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if people trotted out my family’s dysfunctional holiday dramas as entertainment. No one’s been killed or anything, but we did have a wishbone-related stabbing once.” Cindy and Dotty stared at her. “I mean, someone was stabbed over a wishbone, not with a wishbone. That would be weird.”
Dotty—ignoring social convention and personal-space bubbles—wrapped her long, elegant fingers around Nina’s wrist, pulling her hand away from her lips. “Sweetie, I bet you’ve got a great laugh. Stop covering it up.”
“Even if you are a snorter,” Cindy told her. “It’s still a good laugh. Besides, in the next couple of months, I bet we’re going to find out all sorts of embarrassing things about one another. Snort-laughs will be the least of our worries.”
Since her ordeal with Rick, Nina had shrunk in on herself, trying not to laugh too loudly, smile too brightly, or do anything that would draw too much attention to herself. One of the things Rick had criticized most about her was her “Pollyanna” tendencies. She was toochirpy, too cheerful, too much to deal with first thing in the morning. She had become more subdued, more “mature,” so she would be more presentable.
Nina let herself giggle a bit. Cindy rolled her eyes and dug her fingers into Nina’s ribs, making her howl. She didn’t hold back the half-joyful, half-anguished noise. She ducked away, holding her hands up in a defensive posture. “OK, OK. I’m ticklish. Cut it out.”
Cindy shook her head and continued her assault on Nina’s sides. “Not until—”
Nina sidestepped and pranced out of range but not before she let loose a loud, distinct snort. Dotty doubled over laughing, propping herself against her knees while Cindy dissolved into guffaws.
“You two . . . suck,” Nina groused, although a genuine smile stretched her mouth so wide it nearly hurt.
“Watch the language there, Red, there are ladies present.” Cindy gasped, her hand clapped to her mouth.
“Well, when I spot them, I’ll be sure to censor myself,” Nina retorted.
Dotty wiped at her eyes, while Cindy chuckled. The room fell silent in that special, awkward way that follows shared humor between near-strangers. Dotty had already decided she was going to like these women, come hell, high water, or snort-laughing. She had a feeling they would be key players in helping her nudge the ghosts from the Crane’s Nest.
THE MAN CROUCHING just a hundred yards from the Crane’s Nest was tall, dark, and handsome. But he was also hunched in the dry, tangled undergrowth between the untamed woods and the lawn proper, watching thestaff quarters through binoculars, which didn’t say much for his character.
Through the windows, he could see the women sitting around the ladies’ kitchen area, drinking iced tea and eating cookies. The hippie girl with the wild hair was sitting cross-legged on the long kitchen table, telling some story that involved puffing out her cheeks and waving her hands like an idiot. The blonde burst out laughing, writhing and jiggling as she damn near fell over. Nina, as always, was slow to
“And what if you don’t?” Cindy asked. “What if all you find is evidence that the stories about Gerald Whitney are true?”
Dotty shrugged and popped a soy crisp into her mouth from a container in her bag. “At least I’ll know, and I can stop feeling indignant about the books and the ghost stories and the fact that a theme park offered to buy this place ten years ago to stage murder-mystery dinner reenactments during the summer.”
“That would sting,” Nina said, tsk ing sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how I would feel if people trotted out my family’s dysfunctional holiday dramas as entertainment. No one’s been killed or anything, but we did have a wishbone-related stabbing once.” Cindy and Dotty stared at her. “I mean, someone was stabbed over a wishbone, not with a wishbone. That would be weird.”
Dotty—ignoring social convention and personal-space bubbles—wrapped her long, elegant fingers around Nina’s wrist, pulling her hand away from her lips. “Sweetie, I bet you’ve got a great laugh. Stop covering it up.”
“Even if you are a snorter,” Cindy told her. “It’s still a good laugh. Besides, in the next couple of months, I bet we’re going to find out all sorts of embarrassing things about one another. Snort-laughs will be the least of our worries.”
Since her ordeal with Rick, Nina had shrunk in on herself, trying not to laugh too loudly, smile too brightly, or do anything that would draw too much attention to herself. One of the things Rick had criticized most about her was her “Pollyanna” tendencies. She was toochirpy, too cheerful, too much to deal with first thing in the morning. She had become more subdued, more “mature,” so she would be more presentable.
Nina let herself giggle a bit. Cindy rolled her eyes and dug her fingers into Nina’s ribs, making her howl. She didn’t hold back the half-joyful, half-anguished noise. She ducked away, holding her hands up in a defensive posture. “OK, OK. I’m ticklish. Cut it out.”
Cindy shook her head and continued her assault on Nina’s sides. “Not until—”
Nina sidestepped and pranced out of range but not before she let loose a loud, distinct snort. Dotty doubled over laughing, propping herself against her knees while Cindy dissolved into guffaws.
“You two . . . suck,” Nina groused, although a genuine smile stretched her mouth so wide it nearly hurt.
“Watch the language there, Red, there are ladies present.” Cindy gasped, her hand clapped to her mouth.
“Well, when I spot them, I’ll be sure to censor myself,” Nina retorted.
Dotty wiped at her eyes, while Cindy chuckled. The room fell silent in that special, awkward way that follows shared humor between near-strangers. Dotty had already decided she was going to like these women, come hell, high water, or snort-laughing. She had a feeling they would be key players in helping her nudge the ghosts from the Crane’s Nest.
THE MAN CROUCHING just a hundred yards from the Crane’s Nest was tall, dark, and handsome. But he was also hunched in the dry, tangled undergrowth between the untamed woods and the lawn proper, watching thestaff quarters through binoculars, which didn’t say much for his character.
Through the windows, he could see the women sitting around the ladies’ kitchen area, drinking iced tea and eating cookies. The hippie girl with the wild hair was sitting cross-legged on the long kitchen table, telling some story that involved puffing out her cheeks and waving her hands like an idiot. The blonde burst out laughing, writhing and jiggling as she damn near fell over. Nina, as always, was slow to
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