Jacques screamed in mock agony as the sander split him in two.
Somehow, Dean managed to maintain enough control so he only gouged a three-foot, shallow, diagonal trench into the floorboards before he got the machine turned off. Ripping off his ear protectors with one hand and the dust mask with the other, he whirled around and yelled, “That’s not funny!”
Jacques waved a hand made weak by laughter. “You should see your face. If I am here another seventy years, I will never see anything so funny.” As Dean sputtered inarticulately, he started laughing harder.
“Why have you stopped? Have you finished?” Claire halted in the doorway, took in the tableau, and shook her head. “Jacques, pull yourself together!”
“For you, cherie, anything.” Continuing amusement kept his upper half vibrating and Jacques finally had to reach down, grab his jeans, and yank his legs back onto his torso.
“Was there an accident?”
“No, not an accident,” Dean growled. “The jerk suddenly showed up in front of me. Look at what he made me do to the floor! I should’ve run over his head.”
“Be my guest,” Jacques told him, still snickering.
“Jacques!”
The ghost set his head back on his shoulders.
“You know,” Claire told him pointedly, “just for the record, I don’t find that sort of thing attracti…” She jumped as an air raid siren began to sound. “Mrs. Abrams. I set up an alarm on the front steps to give us a little warning. Jacques, you’d better disappear.”
“Why can’t I meet this Mrs. Abrams?”
“Yeah, Boss, why can’t he?” Dean asked with feeling. “Why should we have all the fun.”
The siren shut off as the front door opened. “Yoo hoo!”
Jacques flinched and disappeared.
Suddenly inspired, Dean switched the sander back on.
As clouds of dust billowed up around him, Claire dragged herself reluctantly out to the front hall.
“Oh, there you are, dear.” Her voice rose easily over the background noise roaring out of the dining room. “As I was letting Baby out into his little area I heard horrible sounds coming from the back of this building and I rushed right over in case the whole ancient firetrap had begun coming down around your ears.”
Claire crushed an impulse to ask her what she would have done had it been. “We’re refinishing the floor in the dining room, Mrs. Ab…”
“Of course you are. Didn’t I say this fine old building needed a woman’s touch? So nice you have a strong young man around to do the work for you.” She darted purposefully down the hall, caroling, “I’ll just go and have a little look-see,” as she went.
For a woman of her age and weight, Mrs. Abrams moved remarkably quickly. The defensive line of the Dallas Cowboys might have been able to stop her, but Claire didn’t stand a chance without using power. With no time for finesse, she reached out and slammed to her knees.
Five feet out in front, Mrs. Abrams didn’t even notice.
Blinking away afterimages, Claire dragged herself up the wall. It’s that damn sander, she decided, perfectly willing to condemn it to the flames. How’s anyone supposed to concentrate through all that noise?
Innate good manners forced Dean to turn the sander off when Mrs. Abrams charged into the room.
“Mercy.” She coughed vigorously into a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “It is dusty, isn’t it? And this room looks so small and dreary with no furniture in…” Her voice trailed off as she noticed just where the furniture was. “Oh, my. How did you ever…?”
“Clamps,” Claire told her. The older woman looked so relieved she could almost hear the sound of possibilities being discarded. Meeting Dean’s incredulous gaze, she shrugged—the gesture saying clearly, people believe what they want to believe.
A LIE!
A LIE IN KINDNESS. THEY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT. NEITHER SIDE IS STRENGTHENED. NEITHER SIDE IS WEAKENED.
BUT…
INTENT COUNTS. Had anyone been there to overhear, they might have thought that Hell spoke through clenched teeth. IT’S IN THE RULES.
Suddenly inspired, Claire took hold of one polyester-covered elbow and turned the body attached to it back toward the front door. “You shouldn’t be in here without a dust mask, Mrs. Abrams. What would Baby do if you got sick?”
“Oh, I mustn’t get sick, the poor darling would be devastated. He’s so attached to his mummy.” Craning her head around, she took one last look at the dining room ceiling. “Clamps, you say?”
“How else?”
“Of course, clamps. How else would you be holding furniture on the ceiling. How very clever of you, Karen, dear. Have you heard from that horrible Mr. Smythe?”
“No, and my name isn’t…”
“He’s going to be so surprised at all you’ve done when he comes back. Are you going to open up the elevator?”
“The what?”
“The elevator. There’s one in this hall somewhere. I remember it from when I was a girl.”
Claire opened the front door, but Mrs. Abrams made no move to go out it.
“You ought to open the elevator up, you know. It would lend the place such a historical…” Her eyes widened as the sound of frenzied barking echoed up and down the street. She darted out the door. “What can be wrong with Baby?”
“The mailman?” Claire asked, following from the same compulsion that stopped drivers to look at car accidents on the highway.
“No. No. He’s long been and gone.”
They were side by side as they crossed the driveway. Claire, on the inside track, looked toward the back in time to see a black-and-white blur leap from the fence to the enclosure around the garbage cans to the ground and streak toward the hotel.
When Claire stopped running, Mrs. Abrams never noticed.
The noise coming from Baby’s little area—after a few years of Baby, it could no longer be called a yard in any domestic sense of the word—never lessened.
If the flames reflected on the copper hood were sullen before,
