probably unwise.
She grabbed a cup of coffee at the coffee shop where she’d gone with Ray, not because she was checking up on him or anything but because they made really good coffee. As she sipped, she reflected on the fact that she was full of it.
She and Ray Ramos didn’t exactly have anything going on, but she had the feeling that they could have, a strong enough feeling that she wished she’d found him sitting on his front steps as she had the last couple of days, instead of off doing who knew what with who knew whom. What she might have said if she had found him she hadn’t a clue. Maybe on reflection it was just as well that she hadn’t seen him.
The very idea of starting anything with Ray Ramos filled her with a combination of terror and delight. But at the same time, the very idea was also faintly ridiculous. Men who looked like him did not end up with women who looked like her. That was a given.
The King William Historical Society didn’t open until ten. Emma spent the time before that as she had the past couple of days, searching the Internet on her laptop for information about the previous owners of the Hampton house.
Allard Hampton was easy enough to find. He had indeed owned a box factory on the west side. He was a pillar of the Episcopalian church, a widower without children. He was survived by a couple of nephews and a niece, probably the ones who’d spent two years fighting over how the property would be divided. Most likely by the time they’d reached an agreement, the economy had tanked and the demand for houses in King William—particularly houses that needed some serious renovations—had dropped off. Enter Ray Ramos and company.
Emma dismissed the possibility of Allard Hampton being their sex-starved ghost without even thinking much about it. The idea that anybody that bland could come back as a sex machine struck her as a non-starter. But that left several other names on her list. Hampton and his wife had lived in the house for thirty years. That only took them back to the late twentieth century, and the house had been built almost a hundred years before that.
She sighed, staring down at the list of names again. She’d already done several Internet searches, turning up not much of anything. The owners were all men, which she could believe in terms of her groping ghost, but not the one who’d gone after Ray. Unless the ghost was seriously omnisexual. On the other hand, Ray’s guarded references to his dreams made her think the ghost who haunted him was female.
She narrowed her eyes, considering. If the ghost wasn’t a man and wasn’t on her list, maybe she was someone associated with one of the men who was there. A wife, a daughter, a mistress. She could even have been someone who worked in the house—a housekeeper or a maid. Maybe a woman with a grievance. Maybe a woman who was using her sexuality now as a means of revenge.
She’d check for any mention of women who’d died in the house, accidentally or otherwise. Surely even if it was just a housemaid falling off a ladder, someone would have noticed and commented.
At ten, she tucked her laptop into her briefcase and headed for Gracie DeZavala’s desk. Ray had said she knew everything about the district. Maybe she’d remember something about a woman who’d had some bad luck at the Hampton house.
Unfortunately, the woman sitting at Gracie’s desk was most definitely not Gracie. Her hair was a decorous shade of brown. She wore a button-down shirt with pale blue pinstripes along with a khaki A-line skirt. She also looked to be about the same age as Emma herself.
Emma screeched to a halt on the other side of the desk, her heart dropping. “Is Ms. DeZavala here?”
The woman shook her head. She seemed faintly annoyed, maybe because Emma was asking about Gracie rather than seeking her help. “This is Ms. DeZavala’s day off. I’m filling in. Can I help you?”
Emma managed not to make a face. She had a feeling the woman
She grabbed a cup of coffee at the coffee shop where she’d gone with Ray, not because she was checking up on him or anything but because they made really good coffee. As she sipped, she reflected on the fact that she was full of it.
She and Ray Ramos didn’t exactly have anything going on, but she had the feeling that they could have, a strong enough feeling that she wished she’d found him sitting on his front steps as she had the last couple of days, instead of off doing who knew what with who knew whom. What she might have said if she had found him she hadn’t a clue. Maybe on reflection it was just as well that she hadn’t seen him.
The very idea of starting anything with Ray Ramos filled her with a combination of terror and delight. But at the same time, the very idea was also faintly ridiculous. Men who looked like him did not end up with women who looked like her. That was a given.
The King William Historical Society didn’t open until ten. Emma spent the time before that as she had the past couple of days, searching the Internet on her laptop for information about the previous owners of the Hampton house.
Allard Hampton was easy enough to find. He had indeed owned a box factory on the west side. He was a pillar of the Episcopalian church, a widower without children. He was survived by a couple of nephews and a niece, probably the ones who’d spent two years fighting over how the property would be divided. Most likely by the time they’d reached an agreement, the economy had tanked and the demand for houses in King William—particularly houses that needed some serious renovations—had dropped off. Enter Ray Ramos and company.
Emma dismissed the possibility of Allard Hampton being their sex-starved ghost without even thinking much about it. The idea that anybody that bland could come back as a sex machine struck her as a non-starter. But that left several other names on her list. Hampton and his wife had lived in the house for thirty years. That only took them back to the late twentieth century, and the house had been built almost a hundred years before that.
She sighed, staring down at the list of names again. She’d already done several Internet searches, turning up not much of anything. The owners were all men, which she could believe in terms of her groping ghost, but not the one who’d gone after Ray. Unless the ghost was seriously omnisexual. On the other hand, Ray’s guarded references to his dreams made her think the ghost who haunted him was female.
She narrowed her eyes, considering. If the ghost wasn’t a man and wasn’t on her list, maybe she was someone associated with one of the men who was there. A wife, a daughter, a mistress. She could even have been someone who worked in the house—a housekeeper or a maid. Maybe a woman with a grievance. Maybe a woman who was using her sexuality now as a means of revenge.
She’d check for any mention of women who’d died in the house, accidentally or otherwise. Surely even if it was just a housemaid falling off a ladder, someone would have noticed and commented.
At ten, she tucked her laptop into her briefcase and headed for Gracie DeZavala’s desk. Ray had said she knew everything about the district. Maybe she’d remember something about a woman who’d had some bad luck at the Hampton house.
Unfortunately, the woman sitting at Gracie’s desk was most definitely not Gracie. Her hair was a decorous shade of brown. She wore a button-down shirt with pale blue pinstripes along with a khaki A-line skirt. She also looked to be about the same age as Emma herself.
Emma screeched to a halt on the other side of the desk, her heart dropping. “Is Ms. DeZavala here?”
The woman shook her head. She seemed faintly annoyed, maybe because Emma was asking about Gracie rather than seeking her help. “This is Ms. DeZavala’s day off. I’m filling in. Can I help you?”
Emma managed not to make a face. She had a feeling the woman
Similar Books
