“So why would he haunt this place?” Because he killed somebody here, Paul answered his own question silently.

“He wanted to be a painter and live in Paris, but of course that wasn’t possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because the family needed him,” Ann said as though it was the most obvious reason in the world. “When his daddy had a heart attack, he called Uncle David home. He never went back to Paris. I think that’s why he was sad. And probably why he drank like a fish and rode like a madman.”

“Rode what?”

“Horses, of course. The Delaneys have always been masters of the local hunt. I can remember my first few hunts when I was still riding my pony. I was certain the sweet old uncle David I knew couldn’t possibly be the crazy man in the pink coat flying over the fields screaming like a banshee. Not that I knew what a banshee was at the time, of course.”

This was more like it. “So he liked blood sports, did he?”

Ann laughed at him. “Foxhunting the way we do it down here is not a blood sport. We never ever kill anything—well, not foxes or coyotes, at any rate. We don’t have such a great track record with people.”

Paul struggled to remain calm. “What…what do you mean?”

Ann laughed again. “I’m joking.”

Paul nodded. “But this Uncle David chased innocent foxes?”

“Sure. But the foxes seem to enjoy it. They actually sit out in the fields and wait for hounds. I swear they can tell when it’s Wednesday or Saturday. I’ve hunted since I was five years old and I have never seen a drop of blood drawn from any animal we chased. When the foxes get tired, they go to ground and leave hounds baying and frustrated. And of course the coyotes can outrun hounds any time they feel like it. It’s a big game and an excuse to go yee-hawing over the fields on a horse. Do you ride? You can come along in second field if you’d like.”

“What’s second field?”

“The old fogeys’ field. A nice quiet trail ride with no fences to jump and no pressure. We also have carriages that follow along sometimes. You can ride in one of them if you like. We hunt until the farmers put the crops in.”

“I’ve never been on a horse in my life and don’t plan to start now, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“We’ve gotten rather far afield from your uncle David.”

“I thought we’d finished with him.”

“And why he’s a ghost.”

“He’s not, of course. But if there were ghosts, he’d be a good candidate. So sad in life. As though he searched for something he never found.” She shook her head. “Then if you want a tough ghost, there’s Aunt Maribelle, his mother. If she turned ghost, you’d know about it for sure. In life, there was never anything shy about Aunt Maribelle. So as a ghost I’m sure if she wanted you out of here, she’d find a way to boot your behind down the front steps.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t want me out.”

“Probably happy to have you.” She checked her watch. “Oops. Buddy’ll kill me if I don’t get back to work.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve covered the mural in the dining room so it won’t collect any more dust, and I’ve started stripping the overmantel in the music room. The goo should be just about ready to remove. Want to see what’s under the layers?”

“Certainly.”

“Okay. Come on.”

As he followed her down the stairs, he asked, “Do you know what sort of chandelier hung up there?” He pointed to the elaborate boss surrounding the hanging lightbulb.

“Sure. A big old brass thing that originally used gas—the first house in Rossiter to have it, by the way.”

“You wouldn’t know who bought it, would you?”

“No clue, but if I know Trey Delaney, he’s got meticulous records on every purchase from the estate sale, even piddly little stuff like the things I bought.”

Excellent. The perfect entrée to introduce himself to Trey Delaney.

He watched Ann’s heavily gloved hands meticulously remove layers of black varnish from the relief on the over-mantel. She used what looked like dental instruments to get into the cracks and crevices.

He was definitely in the way.

Even Buddy in his trips from basement to Dumpster hardly did more than nod at him. He finally sat on the fourth step of the staircase and merely watched.

He’d about decided to leave when a tall, slim woman in jeans, cowboy boots and a turtleneck sweater strode in the front door. Her hair was short and snow-white, her face nut-brown with crinkles at the edge of her eyes. One glance at her hands told him she must be in her sixties, but she moved like a teenager.

“Hey,” she said as she came forward and extended her hand. “You must be Mr. Bouvet. I’m Sarah Pulliam. I’m a terrible busybody. Couldn’t stay away any longer. Had to see what was happening to the old place.”

Her handshake was brief but firm.

She glanced around at the organized chaos and then at him. “Welcome to Rossiter, although why in God’s green earth you’d want to move to a little town like this is more than I can see.” Without waiting for his answer, she strode off through the living room. “You tore down those godawful drapes, thank God. I told Maribelle when she hung them that they were heavy enough to suffocate any small child that got caught up in them. Ugly, to boot. For a woman with strong tastes, Maribelle never did take much to color in her decorating.”

He trailed this dynamo without speaking. He had no idea who she was, but she obviously knew the Delaneys well. He had no intention of interrupting the flow of her talk.

“There you are, Ann,” she said. “Goodness, I had no idea that was golden oak.”

“Neither did anybody else until I started stripping it.” Ann smiled at the woman who offered a cheek to be kissed. “I guess you introduced yourself, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Did you tell him who you were?”

“Huh?”

“Paul, this is my grandmother, Sarah Pulliam. She and Maribelle and Addy were sisters.”

“I was the youngest and the only one who wasn’t half-crazy,” Sara said with a touch of smugness.

“Crazy how?” Paul asked. Maybe his father’s gene pool had been tainted by schizophrenia or manic depression.

“Maribelle had a terrible temper, but she managed to get what she wanted when she wanted it. I suppose that’s not really crazy, except that she had tunnel vision about her own needs. And poor Addy probably didn’t start out crazy, but she sure wound up that way. Toward the end Esther—the woman who looked after her—said she used to wander around in her nightgown wringing her hands like Lady MacBeth and mumbling stuff that made no sense whatsoever.” Sarah shook her head sadly. “She had every reason in this world to hate Maribelle, but they still managed to live in the same house together, God knows how.”

“And did you like them?” In New Jersey, Paul would never have considered asking a bald question like that. But these people seemed to delight in a new audience to tell a good story to.

Ann gave him a sharp glance, but if Sarah noticed the rudeness of the question, it certainly didn’t bother her.

“Actually, I was devoted to Addy. Only men loved Maribelle. Women saw through her. Men never catch on to that sort of selfishness and greed.”

“Sarah, where’d you come from?” Wiping the perspiration from his face with a white towel that said Golf and Country Club on it, Buddy Jenkins walked into the library and came over to kiss Sarah’s cheek.

“Had to pick up some laying mash for the chickens, so I thought I’d stop by, maybe take you all to lunch. How about it, Mr. Bouvet? You eaten at the Wolf River Café yet?”

“Indeed I have. Thank you, Mrs. Pulliam, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Intrude? Buying this house sort of makes you a member of the Delaney clan—which we sort of are. You look like you could use a good country fried steak.”

He allowed himself to be persuaded. This woman was a fount of information. He prayed he could keep her talking.