“I’ve slept in the house, and it’s just fine. And I applaud Mrs. Douglas. She couldn’t begin to afford to fix it up, but she kept it from the wrecking ball. I say good for her.” Sarah shrugged. “Although I do wish she’d fixed at least a few things.”
Caroline smiled. “Hey, you wanted history. Not me—not to live with, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I like history fine or I wouldn’t be working here,” she was quick to say. Not that she really had much choice. The Heritage House was a private museum, owned and operated by her parents. They had come to St. Augustine the year before she was born, embracing everything about the city and quickly making it their home. They were delighted to boast that St. Augustine was the oldest continually inhabited European-based community in the country, founded by the Spaniards in 1565, long before the English stepped foot in Jamestown and even longer before the Mayflower sailed across the sea. They were history buffs, and they hadn’t started up their business to get rich; they simply loved what they did. Caroline’s father, Harry, wrote history textbooks, and that endeavor, not the museum, was what supported them.
“Give me plumbing and electric that work any day. And a roof that doesn’t leak,” Caroline told her.
“I hear you,” Sarah admitted. “But the house is magnificent. And in a year’s time, I’ll have it all set up as a bed-and-breakfast, and I’ll run a collectibles and antiques business out of it, as well. You’ll see,” Sarah assured her.
Caroline laughed. “We should both live so long.”
“Hey!”
“Sorry. You’ll get it done. I just don’t envy you the process. I grew up in the middle of constant renovations, remember? Every bad storm that came through, we were in the dark for weeks. No closets—they all had wardrobes back then. No whirlpool tubs.” Caroline frowned. “And I’m not sure you should be staying there alone. It’s too big. With everything that’s going on, I don’t think it’s safe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I meant to show you the paper right away. I get sidetracked too easily.”
“What happened?”
“Another missing woman. This one a local.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah said, reaching for the paper.
“A student from the community college,” Caroline said. “She lived at home, but she went out a couple of night ago with a group of kids for a bonfire on the beach out on Anastasia Island…and didn’t come back. There’s her picture,” Caroline said, tapping the paper.
“That’s horrible,” Sarah said softly. The picture was of a young woman, pretty and blond. It was her high school graduation photo. She had bright eyes full of hope, and long shining hair beneath her cap.
“Scary, huh?” Caroline said. “She looks a lot like the girl who disappeared last year, the one who was on vacation from D.C.”
“That girl disappeared from Jacksonville,” Sarah said. But she stared at the picture. The girls really had been similar in appearance. The big bright eyes, the long blond hair. Serial killers often picked a certain physical type, and if there was a serial killer working somewhere in the area, he had obviously chosen his. Pretty blondes with large eyes. She looked at Caroline, who was still studying the paper. “They don’t know that the other girl ever even came this far. Jacksonville is a big city, and with traffic these days, an hour away.”
“What? Serial killers don’t have cars?” Caroline asked her.
“I know, I know. But look on the bright side. Maybe this girl will turn up,” Sarah said. “Thing is, you can’t obsess, or you’d never leave your house. You just have to be smart and careful.”
Caroline shook her head. “I’m not worried about me. I’m the world’s biggest coward. I wouldn’t live in your spooky old house alone for all the tea in China. I’m worried about you. Nothing scares you, and I think some things should.”
“Not true, trust me. I have a healthy respect for being careful. I lock my doors, and I got friendly with my neighbors right off the bat,” Sarah protested.
Caroline sniffed. “Oh, right. To the left, the pregnant teenager whose husband is in the service. And to the right, the octogenarian. They’ll be a big help in a pinch.”
“Brenda Cole isn’t a teenager, she’s twenty-one. And Mr. Healey is not an octogenarian, he’s only in his seventies—and he has a dog.”
“A teacup Yorkie!” Caroline said.
“One vicious teacup Yorkie, I’ll have you know. He barks like a son of a bitch,” Sarah assured her, then laughed. “Which he is, of course. But seriously, I’m okay, honestly. I have a baseball bat, I will have an alarm system, and I can dial 911 faster than a speeding bullet.”
“Just be careful,” Caroline warned her.
“Yes, ma’am, I promise.”
“Okay. Hey, want to have dinner?”
“I can’t. I have to get home. Gary is at the house.”
“And he’s going to work all night?” Caroline asked.