in a chair and began to shuffle the papers this way and that. After several weeks of investigation, she had almost too much information to sift through.
Justina Markham's insistence that Viola would never have cheated on her husband rang true, even though it contradicted everything else Eve had heard. But then again, Mrs. Markham might have been simply defending her friend, protecting her already damaged reputation. She had confirmed what others had told Eve, that Alistair was no one's idea of the perfect husband.
And where was the wrapper? Eve had seen with her own eyes that Viola had been wearing it when she'd come down the stairs to her death, but Mrs. Markham had said twice that her friend's body had been unclothed.
The papers, the research, it was comforting work, and she needed work to take her mind off that kiss in the hallway. Lucien had always been good at kissing, but he'd never kissed her like that before! His experiment had shaken her all the way to her toes, had made her knees weak, had made her wonder... things she should not wonder.
She would have thought herself terribly weak if Lucien hadn't displayed his own response to the kiss. At least she was able to hide her reaction. Oh, she hoped her reaction had been well disguised! If Lucien knew she still loved him, she'd be in for a lifetime of always being second best, of always being forgotten. She couldn't bear that, to give her life and her heart to a man who could dismiss her so easily.
Since she'd lied and told Lucien she'd been totally unaffected by his kiss, they'd turned their minds to business. He'd procured a room in the boarding house, and she'd taken the time while he'd been gone to gather her wits. He'd returned, displaying his key as if he had to prove that he now had his own room, and for the rest of the afternoon they'd discussed what they knew of the night the Stampers had died.
Lucien sat on the floor by the buffet, studying the ectoplasm he'd collected last night. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and as he bent over the dish of gunk his dark hair fell across his cheek, hiding a portion of his face from her. He seemed to think he could decipher details about the spirits by examining the sticky goo he collected. On occasion he was successful.
"Viola wants to know why Alistair killed her," he muttered without looking up. "I think that's what keeps her bound to this house."
Like Justina Markham, Eve wanted to dismiss the notion that Viola Stamper might have betrayed her husband. But so many people swore it was true she couldn't completely ignore the possibility. "If she was unfaithful, she knows the why of it."
"What if Mrs. Markham was right and Viola wasn't unfaithful?"
"I want that to be true." She had come to like Viola. Too much, perhaps. "But everyone says..."
"Rumor, Evie," Lucien said absently. "Dismiss the rumors you've heard and concentrate on the facts."
"It's been thirty years." A familiar frustration bubbled up inside her. "All I have is rumor!"
Lucien pushed his dish of gunk aside and turned to face her, his body lying lengthwise across the floor, his head propped in his hand.
Evie frowned. A scientist wasn't supposed to have great muscles and strong legs. Maybe carrying around his damned specter-o-meter had built those muscles. She'd seen them close up now, after flying across the room and landing in his bed, where he'd been stretched out wearing nothing but a strategically placed sheet.
"Don't fret," he said, mistaking her consternation for worry about the case. "Start with what we know as fact."
"And that is?"
He smiled. "What we know from Viola and Alistair."
She refused to be intimidated. She would not be shy or coy or embarrassed with Lucien. "They were sexually compatible."
"Extraordinarily so," he added.
"And according to you, Viola wants to know why her husband killed her."
"Yes." His easy smile faded. "What other absolute facts do we have?"
"It was Halloween night," Eve said. "It rained.
Justina Markham's insistence that Viola would never have cheated on her husband rang true, even though it contradicted everything else Eve had heard. But then again, Mrs. Markham might have been simply defending her friend, protecting her already damaged reputation. She had confirmed what others had told Eve, that Alistair was no one's idea of the perfect husband.
And where was the wrapper? Eve had seen with her own eyes that Viola had been wearing it when she'd come down the stairs to her death, but Mrs. Markham had said twice that her friend's body had been unclothed.
The papers, the research, it was comforting work, and she needed work to take her mind off that kiss in the hallway. Lucien had always been good at kissing, but he'd never kissed her like that before! His experiment had shaken her all the way to her toes, had made her knees weak, had made her wonder... things she should not wonder.
She would have thought herself terribly weak if Lucien hadn't displayed his own response to the kiss. At least she was able to hide her reaction. Oh, she hoped her reaction had been well disguised! If Lucien knew she still loved him, she'd be in for a lifetime of always being second best, of always being forgotten. She couldn't bear that, to give her life and her heart to a man who could dismiss her so easily.
Since she'd lied and told Lucien she'd been totally unaffected by his kiss, they'd turned their minds to business. He'd procured a room in the boarding house, and she'd taken the time while he'd been gone to gather her wits. He'd returned, displaying his key as if he had to prove that he now had his own room, and for the rest of the afternoon they'd discussed what they knew of the night the Stampers had died.
Lucien sat on the floor by the buffet, studying the ectoplasm he'd collected last night. He'd removed his jacket and loosened his tie, and as he bent over the dish of gunk his dark hair fell across his cheek, hiding a portion of his face from her. He seemed to think he could decipher details about the spirits by examining the sticky goo he collected. On occasion he was successful.
"Viola wants to know why Alistair killed her," he muttered without looking up. "I think that's what keeps her bound to this house."
Like Justina Markham, Eve wanted to dismiss the notion that Viola Stamper might have betrayed her husband. But so many people swore it was true she couldn't completely ignore the possibility. "If she was unfaithful, she knows the why of it."
"What if Mrs. Markham was right and Viola wasn't unfaithful?"
"I want that to be true." She had come to like Viola. Too much, perhaps. "But everyone says..."
"Rumor, Evie," Lucien said absently. "Dismiss the rumors you've heard and concentrate on the facts."
"It's been thirty years." A familiar frustration bubbled up inside her. "All I have is rumor!"
Lucien pushed his dish of gunk aside and turned to face her, his body lying lengthwise across the floor, his head propped in his hand.
Evie frowned. A scientist wasn't supposed to have great muscles and strong legs. Maybe carrying around his damned specter-o-meter had built those muscles. She'd seen them close up now, after flying across the room and landing in his bed, where he'd been stretched out wearing nothing but a strategically placed sheet.
"Don't fret," he said, mistaking her consternation for worry about the case. "Start with what we know as fact."
"And that is?"
He smiled. "What we know from Viola and Alistair."
She refused to be intimidated. She would not be shy or coy or embarrassed with Lucien. "They were sexually compatible."
"Extraordinarily so," he added.
"And according to you, Viola wants to know why her husband killed her."
"Yes." His easy smile faded. "What other absolute facts do we have?"
"It was Halloween night," Eve said. "It rained.
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