“So you came here—and trashed his room?” Bertie asked quietly.
Caleb stood, took Sarah by the shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Bertie, I think Sarah needs a cup of coffee. Why don’t you give me a few minutes to take a shower, and then I’ll go back with her and try to get to the bottom of the situation. Will that be all right, Sarah?” he asked, as if he were talking to a particularly slow-witted child.
She was still angry, but now she also looked uncertain, even mortified. Maybe she was finally accepting the idea that a nightmare had sent her marching over here to accost a half-naked and innocent—at least of dressing up and scaring her, he thought, hiding a grin—man in his bed.
“Be quick,” she said scathingly, gathering her anger around herself like a shield.
“Sarah…” Bertie said, leading Sarah out and closing the door in her wake.
He locked the door, and then with the women gone, took a quick shower and dressed with the speed of lightning. When he emerged, the kitchen help were just arriving and Sarah was nursing a cup of coffee.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see what’s up at your carriage house.”
“Would you two like some breakfast first?” Bertie suggested.
“Thank you, but I think this needs to be resolved. Now,” he said. “And don’t worry about the room. Nothing’s broken, and I’ll deal with the mess when I get back later today.”
He didn’t let either woman protest as he maneuvered Sarah out the front door. She was as stiff as a two-by-four, and waves of heat and hostility seemed to be sweeping off her into the morning air. She hurried to get ahead of him, but his strides were long, and he soon caught up to her.
When they reached her property, she turned on him again. “Just admit that you did it. I promise I won’t call the police.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he told her. “Now, tell me why you’re so convinced this was something more than a dream. Was the door open after your…visitor left?”
She looked away. “No. But you’re a private investigator, and you have…skills, maybe some kind of a key.”
“A key that opens the lock and the dead bolt?” he demanded.
“It’s possible,” she said defensively.
He stepped past her with disgust. “I don’t have a magic key, okay? So would you be so kind as to open the door?”
She did so. “Be careful where you walk. I don’t want you to mess up the evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“The mud and grass you—someone tracked in. See? At the foot of the bed.”
He hunkered down and studied the rug. There were indeed bits of mud and grass on the floor, as if they’d been tracked in by someone who had come through the door, circled the sofa to stand at the foot of the bed, and then…vanished.
He stood, puzzled. “You do need to call the cops, I think.”
She sank down on the arm of the sofa, staring at him. He was sure she was feeling desperate, still wanting it to have been him, wanting the mystery to have a solid answer.
“They’ll think we tracked it in when you walked me home last night. They’ll think I’m crazy. Especially when I tell them that he was dressed in period clothing.”
“Is anything missing?” Caleb asked her.
She shook her head. “No…it was…I’m telling you, it was you. In costume.”
“And I’m telling you, it wasn’t,” he said firmly.
She looked lost—still prickly and defensive, but lost.
“Sarah, it really might have been a dream.”
“Explain the dirt and the grass.”
“Maybe we did track it in last night.”
“We walked on the sidewalks. The driveway is paved and the walk is stone. Neither of us stepped off the walk onto the lawn,” she said.
“All right, what did this person say or do? Did he just stand there looking at you?” Caleb asked.
“No. He kept saying he ‘didn’t do it,’ that he had loved her,” Sarah told him, getting up and pacing agitatedly.
“I see,” he said consideringly.
She socked him on the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make her point.
“Don’t you dare patronize me. I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he protested. “Sarah, it had to be a dream. There’s no other explanation. Unless you think I have a doppelganger with a bad sense of humor hanging around the area? Because I swear to you, I wasn’t here. I wouldn’t play that kind of a joke on anyone. Ever. So…it wasn’t me. We can call the police, if it will set your mind at rest. In fact, I was heading to the station this morning anyway. You can come with me and make a report, and they can search my room again, my car, anything that you want. You can have them dust for prints, too. Of course, you will find mine, along with yours, but…maybe they’ll find someone else’s, too.”
She shook her hear. “It wasn’t anyone else,” she said stubbornly. “It was you.”