“What do you mean?” I picked up the thread of his anxiety and clutched my locket. My defenses were already being tested.
“With my mother. She’s on edge.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“Edgier than usual,” he clarified. “Also, look at the other Harpies. They’re all . . . nervous.”
I glanced around, picking out the Harpies in the crowd. I couldn’t locate Haywood or Patricia, but Mayor Ramelle, Hyacinth Foster, and Idella Kirby definitely appeared tense, with stiff shoulders and phony smiles. Odd. “You’re right, they are. Hey,” I teased, “you’re pretty good at this deduction stuff.”
Rolling his eyes, he said, “I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”
Starting? I’d been harboring the bad feeling since hearing the details of Delia’s dream.
“I should go find my mother,” he said, “keep an eye on—”
His words were cut off by a high-pitched scream.
This time it clearly wasn’t an owl, as the screaming came from the entryway, and reached a bloodcurdling level before suddenly going deathly quiet.
Dylan broke into a sprint.
I set my drink on the windowsill, grabbed up my dress, and followed him.
On the landing, we fought through a gathering crowd to find Patricia bent over Haywood Dodd’s body, a bloody silver candlestick in her hand. I didn’t see any wounds on Haywood, but his skin was eerily pale, and I didn’t think he was breathing. Dylan dropped down to search for a pulse.
I threw a look at the grandfather clock and gasped. It displayed nine thirty, just like it had in Delia’s dream. Why hadn’t I noticed earlier that it was running fast? I might have been able to prevent this.
“Someone call for help,” Dylan barked as he started CPR on Haywood.
Patricia’s voice cracked as she asked Dylan, “Is he . . . going to be okay?”
Dylan paused to look for signs of life, then resumed chest compressions. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
“That’s not what I asked,” his mother said. “Is he going to survive?”
Dylan didn’t answer.
“Dylan Harris Jackson,” Patricia snapped.
I looked toward her and gasped when I saw the man floating behind her. His startled gaze landed on mine, and he blinked rapidly when he realized I was staring back.
My stomach dropped clear to my toes, and I instantly felt a headache so bad that I nearly doubled over in pain.
“I don’t know,” Dylan said simply as he continued to try to bring Haywood back from the dead.
I could have let him know that his actions were futile, but I was in a bit of shock.
Ghosts did that to me.
When Haywood’s ghostly silhouette came toward me, I panicked. Without thinking twice, I picked up my hem, skirted the crowd, dashed down the steps and out the door into the dark cold night, unable to escape the feeling that a ghost was chasing me as I ran all the way home.
Chapter Five
I made for a lousy Cinderella.
I’d lost both shoes on the way home, kicking them off somewhere near the Ring, the picturesque center of town lined with restaurants, offices, and shops, including my own. My beautiful dress hadn’t quite turned to rags, but the hem was ruined, and I was going to have to dig deep in my bank account to pay for the damage.
Never mind the whole midnight thing. My world had been tipped upside down at nine thirty. Not even. It was probably more like nine eighteen-ish.
There was nothing fairy tale–like about nine eighteen.
As soon as I dashed inside my kitchen door, I grabbed my pitchfork, and checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked and the shades pulled.
Roly and Poly, who had been sleeping on the back of the sofa when I bolted inside, took one look at me and raced up the stairs hissing, their fur on end.
It was the first clue that I hadn’t come home alone.
The second was the searing headache.
Taking a deep breath, I turned around and found Haywood Dodd floating behind me, sadness etching his mournful blue gaze.
“Out, out you go!” I said, jabbing my pitchfork at the specter.
As if it would do me any good. The man was already dead.
Have mercy on his soul.
Putting his hands together in a begging gesture, he moaned as he tried to speak.
Clearly, he hadn’t learned the ins and outs of the ghostly world yet. Ghosts couldn’t speak. They could, however, be quite vocal. Moaning was the most popular manner of communication. I presumed it was because they often forgot they couldn’t talk and the moan escaped when they attempted to try.
“I can’t help you, Haywood.” Closing my eyes, I willed him away.
This begging, moaning, mess of a dead man.
“I shouldn’t even be seeing you until midnight. You aren’t playing by the rules,” I chastised, keeping my eyelids squeezed shut. “I still had a couple of ghost-free hours. Go away. Get out!”
So long. Adios. Buh-bye, ghostie.
I cracked open an eyelid.
Haywood remained floating in my living room, like some sort of ill-conceived practical joke balloon.
Still begging.