Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(40)

“Absolutely.”

“Some folks are only interested in the land, but the bones of the house are in excellent shape. Survived the Quake, so she’s sturdy. Just needs some repair and paint. Electrical wiring and heating might need updating, and there’s no telephone. But she’s got a lot of character, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Hadley said, getting caught up in the charade. “A lovely old thing.”

“Please, Mrs. Davidson, come inside and let me show you around. Then we can talk price.”

The moment Hadley crossed the arched threshold, she felt it—just barely. The same unsettling twang she’d felt around the djed’s base. One of the crossbars was here!

She glanced over her shoulder at Lowe, who was craning his neck to survey the foyer. Oblivious. But he’d felt the energy in the amulet base—he’d admitted so on the train. Was she wrong? Because several other factors gave the old house a decidedly gloomy ambiance, as Lowe had put it. The thick layer of dust. The furniture draped in canvas cloth. The pungent, musty scent. The crude drawings scrawled on the old wood walls and floor—occult symbols, cartoon depictions of sheet-covered ghosts having sex in multiple positions, and the words “Stay Away” painted in red on the stairwell wall.

“My apologies regarding the vulgar graffiti, Mrs. Davidson,” the real estate agent said.

“I had no idea ghosts were so creative.” Lowe turned his head sideways to examine the drawings. “It’s hard to tell if this fellow here is more attracted to his ghost buddy or the girl ghost.”

Farnsworth laughed nervously. “Seems the house was broken into several times before the bank took possession a few years ago. Probably just a roving group of youths.”

“Oh, those roving youths,” Lowe said with a slow shake of his head.

“I can assure you that once the house is occupied, that won’t be an issue,” Mr. Farnsworth said. “Now, if you’ll notice all the natural light coming in from the living area at the back of the foyer . . .”

Hadley trailed the two men through several rooms, nearly tripping over an empty gin bottle in the kitchen doorway. “Not our stock,” Lowe whispered as he steadied her with a firm hand on her arm. They both stared at the place where his hand rested. He cleared his throat and released her, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a roll of peppermints. “Would you like one?” he said, peeling back a strip of the tinfoil wrapper.

She accepted and savored the minty white confection while he popped one in his mouth, too. As he repocketed the roll with one hand, he rested the other on her upper back. She eyed him suspiciously—had she not just opened her heart to him about her phobia?—then shuddered when his hand strayed down her spine. Down, slowly, then back up. A rub. Definitely a rub. Was he mocking her? Mild anger sifted with panic, but before she even had a chance to pull away, he withdrew his hand, loudly questioning Farnsworth on the total number of broken windows inside the home.

Seven was the man’s answer. Seven was also the number of seconds it took her to grind the mint between her molars—something that did not escape Lowe’s notice. She put some space between them and continued to keep a lookout for the urn while Lowe conducted a flawless performance of a wealthy husband looking for a quiet old home to renovate for his “mother-in-law.”

The stairs were barely passable, and on the second story, a spacious landing ringed by four bedrooms greeted them. “Two full bathrooms on this floor,” the real estate agent pointed out. “Not the prettiest things, but the plumbing seems to work. And there’s a third one in the servant’s hall behind the kitchen.”

Hadley’s sixth sense told her that they were getting closer to the piece of the amulet.

“What’s that door, there?” Lowe asked.

“You know, I thought it was a closet, but there’s a keyhole, isn’t there?” the man answered, and proceeded to sort through a ring of keys, mumbling to himself as he shuffled toward the locked door. “Just a moment.”

“I feel it,” she whispered to Lowe as they hung back.

“Me, too.” He rooted around in his pocket.

“Stronger up here. Maybe there’s storage space in the attic? Because the”—she took another mint he offered—“only other logical place would be on a mantel or inside a glass case, I suppose. Maybe I’m just thinking of the urns on display at the Columbarium.” She glanced down at Lowe’s fingers, which were headed toward her chest. Bare fingers. When had he removed his gloves?

“You’re buttoned up all wrong,” he murmured, much closer to her face than she expected. So close, she could smell his minty breath, which distracted her from what his fingers were doing: unbuttoning her coat.

She wanted to protest, but he was right. How long had she been walking around with misaligned buttons? And why hadn’t he said something sooner?

“One second, let me just . . .” Cool air drafted against the skin over her breastbone before warm fingertips brushed the same spot. Oh, God. The dress with the low neck. Terrible mistake. He made a low noise. Chills danced across her arms. She didn’t dare glance up at his face as his fingers threaded the right button into the right hole. “There we go.”

“Ah-ha! Success!” Farnsworth said at the same time from across the landing.