The Other Side - J. D. Robb [65]
He took this all in from behind a porch pillar as she looked both ways, a gratuitous precaution on sleepy Lexington Street, and stepped out into the road. Astra, who had been sniffing at bees on a bush in the flower border, heard the light clip of her feet on the pavement and did something completely out of character: he went out to greet her. Henry, who would have liked a few more seconds of hidden appraisal, a little more time to size up his new patron, had no choice but to do the same.
The thought crossed his mind that she could be anybody, not Angiolina Darlington at all. Too late now, though; he’d already lifted his hat and stuck out his hand. He admired her wide-set eyes, dubious and alert, and her soft, politely pursed mouth. She said, “Mr. Cleland,” and gave him the tips of her fingers, and he forgot his misgivings. Of course she was Angiolina Darlington. She could be no one else.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I was just coming across to make your—Down, Astra. Down. This isn’t like him, he’s taken quite a—”
“Astra?” Miss Darlington sank to her knees and laid purse and parasol on the grass. “His name is Astra?” Her laugh was a quick, bubbly outburst, unexpected and charming. Henry crouched down opposite, and they both petted the dog. He had to pull him away when Astra jumped on Miss Darlington’s knees and tried to lick her chin.
“He’s not usually like this,” he said.
“He smells Margaret.”
“No, he likes you. He’s usually much more dignified. Margaret?”
“My cat.” They stood up. “How was your trip, Mr. Cleland?”
“Uneventful, thanks.”
“And your room?”
“Fine, fine.”
“Not too . . . spartan?” Was that a twinkle in her eye? “I live there,” she said, pointing behind her. White clapboard, two stories, wide porch, seedy yard. Same as his. They didn’t bode well for his prospects, Miss Darlington’s narrow circumstances. And yet in spite of that, he warmed to her. They had poverty in common.
“Shall we walk?” she invited, and they set off down Lexington Street, Astra forging ahead.
“I was hoping I might see the house today,” Henry said, matching his pace to hers. After the train trip, it felt good to stretch his legs.
“It’s not far, although in a completely different sort of neighborhood.” Not as run-down as this one, he took that to mean. “But let’s walk through town first. Paulton’s growing—more of a city than a town now, as you’ll see. Named, of course, after Paul Revere.”
“Have you always lived here?” he asked.
“No, only since I was seventeen. Before that, I . . . visited from time to time.”
“But now your grandparents have passed away?”
She nodded. “A little over a year ago now.”
“I’m sorry. How did it happen? I only ask because it may be relevant.”
“Influenza. One caught it, then the other. They died within days of each other.”
“How terrible.”
“Actually, I doubt they’d have wanted it any other way.”
“And . . . ” Always a delicate question. “You believe they’re haunting the house now?”
The merry, surprised laugh bubbled up again. She cut it off quickly, putting on a sober face. “Oh, I think that’s highly unlikely. Although they did love the house. I can imagine them not wanting to leave it.”
“Who, then?”
She stopped. They were at an intersection, Lexington and Concord Avenue; downtown Paulton lay before them. “Shall I tell you now, or would you rather see the house first?”
Was it a trick question? Did she think he would know who haunted the house by looking at it? “It’s up to you,” he said judiciously.
“Let’s wait, then. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Cleland. How did you get into your . . . line of work?”
“I think of it as a calling, a vocation. An ideal match between my interests and my talents.”
“Ah. And how did you—”
“The Paulton Republic,” he read in the curtained window of a four-story brick building they were passing.