Read Online Spackled and Spooked by Jennie Bentley - Free Book Online

grinned. “Scottish bondage, you think? You’re not going to read it, are you?” He held on to the handful of pages as I tugged.
    “Why not? It’s ours. Came with the house, right? And if it has the potential to be a bestseller, why not get it published?”
    “I doubt it’s that easy,” Derek said, but he relinquished the first few pages of the manuscript anyway. It was handwritten, the cursive childishly rounded.
Iain MacNiachail, his long reddish gold hair flowing in the breeze that blew in from the North Sea, carrying with it the smell of heather and gorse, clung to the ramparts of Dunaghdrumnich Castle. . . .
    I giggled.
    “I’m going back to work,” Derek announced. “C’mon, Avery. You can read the rest tonight. Let’s not waste the daylight.” He reached down for me, and I took his hand and got to my feet.
    “So there was no evidence of foul play up there? No sound system, no suspicious wires, nobody hiding in a corner with a foghorn ready to make ghostly noises?”
    “Nothing,” Derek said, heading for the smaller bedroom with me behind.
    “So if someone’s playing with us, they didn’t hide their equipment in the attic.”
    “That’s right.”
    “So maybe nobody’s playing tricks on us.”
    “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Derek said. I rolled my eyes at his back as we both trotted into the small bedroom and returned to work.

    An hour or so later, there was a knock on the door. A peremptory rat-tat-tat , conveying brisk impatience. Derek arched his brows, took a better hold of the crowbar, and headed out of the bedroom. I jumped off my step stool and trailed after, spackling knife in hand.
    We were halfway across the living room when the knock came again, followed by a yowl. I sped up and was next to Derek when he yanked open the door, a scowl on his face and crowbar at the ready.
    Outside stood an older lady with gray hair cut in a mannish crop. Looking at the wrinkles crisscrossing her face, I put her close to the three-quarters-of-a-century mark, but the rest of her showed no sign of succumbing to old age anytime soon. She was dressed in a green shirt and tan pants with dirt on the knees, and under one beefy arm she held Jemmy, while in the other hand, by the scruff of her neck, she hoisted Inky. I was impressed. Hauling both cats at the same time is a chore, especially when they’re unwilling to be hauled, which is most of the time. But she wasn’t even breathing hard, in spite of Inky’s irate yowls and efforts to free herself.
    “These critters yours?” She looked from Derek to me with sharp, dark eyes.
    “Mine,” I said, making no move to take them from her. I’ve been scratched enough to know better. “You can put them down.”
    “And let ’em go right back to digging in my garden? Nosah!” She snapped her lips closed. Nosah—no, sir—is the Mainer’s way of stating an emphatic negative.
    “You’d better come in then,” I said, moving back, “and then you can let them go.”
    She stepped across the threshold, still holding both cats, and Derek swung the door shut behind her. As soon as she put them down, Jemmy and Inky took off, tearing across the hardwood floors, skidding around the corner. Inky hissed once across her shoulder before she disappeared.
    “My name is Avery Baker,” I added, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the knife, “and this is Derek Ellis.”
    The older woman shook my hand, her grip tight enough to grind my bones together. I hid my paw behind my back, surreptitiously flexing, after she let go. Derek gave as good as he got, I was glad to see, after switching the crowbar to his other hand. “And you are . . . ?” he prompted as he squeezed.
    “Venetia Rudolph. Next door.” She took her hand back and tucked both into the pockets of her baggy khakis. I did my best not to giggle.
    “Well, we’re sorry about the cats. We brought them from home to take care of any mice, and they must have gotten out.” I had in fact let them out