Defending the Dead (Relatively Dead Mysteries Book 3) by Sheila Connolly

flexible in her salary requirements now, since Ned could support her.
    So, she decided, she should set a time limit on her research—she already knew how consuming it could become if she let it, so she needed a goal. The end of summer would work, because that would allow her to spend some time with Ellie, before she had to go back to school. And she already knew she wanted to steer clear of Salem in the fall, when all the Halloween crazies came out. There, a decision: she had about three months to find whatever she was looking for. Just as soon as she figured out what that was.

10
     
    Abby had managed to fill the kitchen with good smells, even with the windows open, by the time Ned came home. Good thing there was nothing cooking that demanded her immediate attention, since Ned gave all of his to greeting her, as though he hadn’t seen her in weeks instead of hours. When Abby finally pulled away, she said, “What was that all about? Not that I’m complaining.”
    “I can’t just be glad to see you?” he said, in a mock-humorous tone. “It’s such a nice, welcoming scene—the house is coming together, there haven’t been any crises today—have there?—and here you are, looking right at home in front of the stove. And I’m hungry.”
    “Good save, Mr. Newhall. No, no new crises. Not even any major discoveries. And I like to cook. But don’t get used to seeing me slaving over a hot stove just to keep you fed, particularly in the middle of summer when it’s going to be hot in here. Can we think about a ceiling fan, at least? By the way, I’ll do your laundry only if you ask very nicely, and you know how to run a vacuum cleaner as well as I do.”
    Ned smiled. “Message received. How long until food?”
    “Ready when you are.”
    “Can I change clothes?”
    “Sure.”
    Ned disappeared up the back stairs, and Abby smiled to herself. Getting to know someone new was interesting. Her ex, Brad—her first and only real long-term relationship—had been quite different. For a start, he was a slob, dropping clothes wherever he felt like it, leaving glasses and plates all over their apartment. It was clear that he thought that because he had a Big Important Job in the City, she was supposed to run around picking up after him. Even when she had gotten the job at the museum—which he disapproved of—nothing had changed. It probably never would have, but she’d walked out before she could find out—after she had learned that he was sleeping with a colleague at work.
    Ned was completely different: neat and self-sufficient. He cleaned up after himself. How had she ever gotten so lucky?
    But what was more important was that they had this extraordinary link, and she meant the basic meaning of the term: something outside the ordinary. They shared a connection that defied explanation, at least so far. Sure, no doubt a lot of lovers claimed that, but in their case it was real. And they still had a lot to learn about it.
    Ned came clomping down the stairs again, now clad in a ratty sweatshirt, holey jeans, and a pair of very scuffed running shoes. At least he wasn’t too perfect. “I’m ready—dish up!”
    “You can pour the wine,” Abby said, fetching plates.
    Once they were seated and had allowed five minutes to satisfy empty stomachs, Abby asked, “Have you ever explored how alcohol affects your, uh, sensitivity?”
    “Do you mean, do I see more or fewer ghosts when I’m drunk? Not that I’ve noticed. For one thing, I don’t drink that much, certainly not to the point of drunkenness. For another, I spent most of my drinking days trying to ignore or shut down whatever it is. Pretend it wasn’t happening. Are you suggesting we get drunk together and see what happens? A controlled experiment?”
    “I don’t know if I’m suggesting anything,” Abby told him. “I think I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been truly drunk in my life. And of course I didn’t know what was lurking under the