Read Online Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
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there—”
“No, no, please! I’m fine by myself. I’m going to try to get
some rest. Okay?”
Annette was silent. “I’m not sure you should be alone.”
“Annette, I’m fine. I promise. I’m going to curl up on the
couch and try to doze off.”
“Call if you need me, Ally. I can be there in five
minutes.”
“I will,” Allison said. “Thanks.”
She was able to hang up at last. Setting the phone down, she
rose and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She really hoped she
could doze off for a while, and hot tea and an inane comedy on TV should help
her quell some of the thoughts and images racing through her mind.
She loved her new pod machine; a cup of English Breakfast tea
brewed as swiftly as a cup of coffee. Mug in hand, she left the kitchen and came
around the counter—and froze.
She wasn’t alone in the house. There was someone sitting in the
chair by the sofa.
A dark-haired young man in Colonial dress.
It was Julian Mitchell.
She blinked.
He was still there.
The cup fell from her hand. She heard it shatter on the tile
floor.
Then she followed it down. She was vaguely aware that a few
body parts hurt but not for long.
Mercifully, the world went black as she passed out cold.
4
T yler stood in the attic of the
Tarleton-Dandridge House looking at the disarray.
Someone had been searching—for what?
He wanted to straighten up the room; it was far easier to
figure out what was missing when everything else was in the right place. He’d
need to involve others with that, which he didn’t want to do quite yet. He’d had
offers from the board to come in and help, but he’d turned them down. He’d
actually lied to Nathan Pierson, telling him he preferred to wait until he was
sure the police were finished with their forensics before bringing anyone else
in.
The police were finished. And after
speaking with Detective Jenson, he knew they weren’t expecting to find anything
useful, unless by some unlikely chance they were to lift foreign prints—those
not associated with the four guides or the board members, whose prints they’d
already taken. If they were really lucky, they’d
come up with prints belonging to someone with a criminal record.
He wanted to work with Allison Leigh for the obvious reasons.
She was the one who’d found the body and who knew this house backward and
forward, along with the history. He’d gone through the biographies and résumés
of the employees and the board, and there was no one better qualified to help
him than Allison. She was in denial right now; he assumed that would change.
So far, although he had a sense of being watched in the house,
Tyler hadn’t seen a single movement, felt a brush of cold air or even heard an
old board creak.
The house was waiting—or those within it were. Waiting and
watching.
He left the attic and walked back down to the second floor,
taking a few minutes to go into every room. He’d been glad to hear from Nathan
Pierson that there was no plan by the board to give up the house. It was on the
national historic register, of course, so there was virtually no threat that it
would be bulldozed. Meticulously restored, the Tarleton-Dandridge House was one
of the finest examples of early Americana he’d ever seen. It would be a shame if
it was closed to the public to become the offices of an accounting agency or a
bank.
Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look
at the painting of Beast Bradley.
Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a
thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of
responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in
youth.
Interesting.
Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy
Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there
was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was
definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many
there—”
“No, no, please! I’m fine by myself. I’m going to try to get
some rest. Okay?”
Annette was silent. “I’m not sure you should be alone.”
“Annette, I’m fine. I promise. I’m going to curl up on the
couch and try to doze off.”
“Call if you need me, Ally. I can be there in five
minutes.”
“I will,” Allison said. “Thanks.”
She was able to hang up at last. Setting the phone down, she
rose and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She really hoped she
could doze off for a while, and hot tea and an inane comedy on TV should help
her quell some of the thoughts and images racing through her mind.
She loved her new pod machine; a cup of English Breakfast tea
brewed as swiftly as a cup of coffee. Mug in hand, she left the kitchen and came
around the counter—and froze.
She wasn’t alone in the house. There was someone sitting in the
chair by the sofa.
A dark-haired young man in Colonial dress.
It was Julian Mitchell.
She blinked.
He was still there.
The cup fell from her hand. She heard it shatter on the tile
floor.
Then she followed it down. She was vaguely aware that a few
body parts hurt but not for long.
Mercifully, the world went black as she passed out cold.
4
T yler stood in the attic of the
Tarleton-Dandridge House looking at the disarray.
Someone had been searching—for what?
He wanted to straighten up the room; it was far easier to
figure out what was missing when everything else was in the right place. He’d
need to involve others with that, which he didn’t want to do quite yet. He’d had
offers from the board to come in and help, but he’d turned them down. He’d
actually lied to Nathan Pierson, telling him he preferred to wait until he was
sure the police were finished with their forensics before bringing anyone else
in.
The police were finished. And after
speaking with Detective Jenson, he knew they weren’t expecting to find anything
useful, unless by some unlikely chance they were to lift foreign prints—those
not associated with the four guides or the board members, whose prints they’d
already taken. If they were really lucky, they’d
come up with prints belonging to someone with a criminal record.
He wanted to work with Allison Leigh for the obvious reasons.
She was the one who’d found the body and who knew this house backward and
forward, along with the history. He’d gone through the biographies and résumés
of the employees and the board, and there was no one better qualified to help
him than Allison. She was in denial right now; he assumed that would change.
So far, although he had a sense of being watched in the house,
Tyler hadn’t seen a single movement, felt a brush of cold air or even heard an
old board creak.
The house was waiting—or those within it were. Waiting and
watching.
He left the attic and walked back down to the second floor,
taking a few minutes to go into every room. He’d been glad to hear from Nathan
Pierson that there was no plan by the board to give up the house. It was on the
national historic register, of course, so there was virtually no threat that it
would be bulldozed. Meticulously restored, the Tarleton-Dandridge House was one
of the finest examples of early Americana he’d ever seen. It would be a shame if
it was closed to the public to become the offices of an accounting agency or a
bank.
Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look
at the painting of Beast Bradley.
Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a
thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of
responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in
youth.
Interesting.
Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy
Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there
was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was
definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many
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