American Ghost by Janis Owens

Author:Janis Owens
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

Chapter Fifteen

Hollis was so astounded that for a long moment he sat there and silently regarded the enormous old house that looked amazingly well kept for its age. The exterior was painted a soothing bone ivory, with pale pink scrollwork inside the single dormer that accented the windows like a touch of rouge on a woman’s face. He was thumbing a gloved finger on the steering wheel, wondering how a Hoyt had come to be living in such a house, when a Honda sedan pulled up beside him and a dark-haired woman lowered her window to call, “Excuse me? Sir? Are you here to see the carriage house?”

Hollis hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about, then realized she was the owner of the establishment and had mistaken him for a guest. Hollis was famously fast on his feet, and without missing a beat, he lowered his window and answered with equally good manners, “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Well, park right there. They don’t enforce the sign. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

Hollis had paid no attention to the rusted NO PARKING sign, so he had no problem further ignoring it. He parked at the curb and left the heater running for Snowflake and Charley, who was sleeping with his head against the high headrest, snoring quietly. Hollis took care to shut the door without waking him, then put on his coat—a big, toffee-colored overcoat with a plush fox collar he’d bought at Goldsmith’s a few years before, which Kate called his “pimp-daddy coat.”

His hostess, a tall, pleasant-faced, young white woman with a helmet of dark hair and a country accent thick enough to cut with a knife, opened a wide beveled-glass door. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she apologized as she let him in. “I must have got my wires crossed—didn’t know anyone was coming. Been here long?”

“Not too long,” Hollis answered easily, playing along with the charade as she picked a key off a hook on the wall and led him down the central hallway.

The decor seemed almost original to the house, with the predictable fainting couches, gilt-framed oils, and velvet portieres, all very rich and shabby chic. The most impressive thing about the place was the floors, miles of polished amber planks. “What kinda wood is this,” he asked, “yellow pine?”

“Actually, red cedar,” she answered over her shoulder. “The Altmans deforested half the Apalachicola in their day,” she confided with a wink, “but it smells like heaven when it rains. The carriage house is out back.” She led him through a side door to an old-fashioned porte cochere with a gravel drive so overhung with trees that even in January it made for a green, sun-dappled tunnel.

As she warned him of the step down, she seemed to remember her manners and extended a small hand. “Well, I’m sorry, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Jolie Hoyt. Did you find us in the paper, or online? The B-and-B site keeps going down—I never know.”

Hollis smoothly lied, “Online.

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