Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online

bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But
in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom
and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”
    “Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family
must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from
his voice.
    A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common
one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.
    Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to
the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he
saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed
the door was usually locked, and he was right.
    “The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison
explained.
    He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more
stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the
house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some
relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.
    Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging
through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a
desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and
correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special
events and other paraphernalia.
    “My God!” Allison breathed.
    Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs
back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here,
but you never know.”
    Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.
    Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost
punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with
her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost
buster.
    “They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.
    “Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period
dress drifting in a bell around her.
    * * *
    It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew
headlines across the country.
    He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to
just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was
undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.
    Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next
morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping
leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.
    As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes
again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a
friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of
the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death
as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her.
After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent
at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived
again.
    She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she
still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had
been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad
she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures.
She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and
giving and…
    Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t
understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it.
She’d claimed that his death had to be an accident.
And yet…
    Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on
Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place
and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.
    The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a
gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when
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