After a flurry of hugs and greetings, Uncle Bosco asked what we’d like to drink. We all opted for wine—red for Dylan and Uncle Bosco, white for Aunt Harriet and me. While Uncle Bosco and Dylan uncorked bottles, I helped Aunt Harriet carry platters and serving dishes of food to the dining room table.

  We sat down and passed the serving dishes around, and for a few minutes we were too busy eating to speak. Uncle Bosco was the first to finish his food. He was treating himself to seconds under Aunt Harriet’s watchful eyes when he said, “Carrie, my dear, I hope you’ve recovered from that fright you had yesterday.”

  “I’ve calmed down now,” I said.

  “The TV reporter said the victim had recently been released after serving a sentence for a bank robbery in Hartford. I seem to remember that. From the pictures they showed us, it’s assumed he was digging up the money he’d buried in the ground close to the gazebo.”

  “The latest I heard is the police are questioning his former cellmate since he was released a few days after Carpenter,” Uncle Bosco said.

  “I’m glad Victor was away when Billy Carpenter was murdered,” I said. “I’d hate to think of what might have happened if he’d heard voices arguing or a gunshot. Or if Raspi heard something and dashed out into the night.”

  “Who’s Raspi?” Aunt Harriet asked.

  “Victor’s Borzoi.” I turned to Uncle Bosco. “By the way, I finished my article about Verity Babcock and sent it off to the Gazette.”

  Uncle Bosco frowned. “Again, my apologies for not trying to stop it from being foisted on you so close to your wedding.”

  “No problem,” I said, “Turns out it didn’t take me very long. But why the sudden change of heart about telling the public we’d found the diary?”

  “Somehow the Gazette heard about your discovery. Chuck contacted Sally, and they both liked the idea of your writing the article. As I told you, the other board members were heartily in agreement, so there wasn’t anything I could do to change their minds.”

  “I’m curious, why did the library board want us to keep news of finding the diary under wraps in the first place? Verity died so many years ago.”

  “We wanted to find out if the state had changed its policy regarding those people charged under the crime of witchcraft, before releasing the news about your discovery. Hanging people for witchcraft is a shameful period in our state’s history. Over the years, attempts have been made to have the victims officially pardoned, but so far Verity Babcock and the other poor souls haven’t been exonerated.”

  “So I’ve learned,” I said. “Totally shameful. At first I wished I hadn’t been coerced into writing the article, but now I’m glad that I wrote it.”

  We finished our main course. I helped Aunt Harriet clear the table and bring out a fruit platter and my brownies. Our conversation moved on to our wedding, and Dylan mentioned the small change in our honeymoon arrangements.

  “Have you decided to place a down payment on a house in the new development you visited last weekend?” Uncle Bosco asked.

  “Not yet,” Dylan said.

  “We like it, but there’s another development going up a few miles north of it that we want to look at,” I said, “though so far there’s not much to see.”

  My aunt and uncle exchanged glances. What were they up to?

  “Are you set on buying a brand new house?” Uncle Bosco asked. “You know, an old house has charm that only comes with age.”

  “And lovely trees and shrubbery that will take years to grow in a new development,” Aunt Harriet added.

  Dylan laughed. “Along with all sorts of repair problems. Not that a brand new house comes without any issues.”

  I looked at my aunt and my uncle. “Do you have a particular house in mind?”

  “We do, as a matter of fact,” Uncle Bosco said.

  “It’s about half a mile from where our family farm used to be. On Old Willows Road,” Aunt Harriet said.

  “Really?” I smiled. “That’s such a pretty road, with lovely homes.”

  “This house is a real beauty—on over an acre of land, some of it wooded, with a little brook than runs through the back of the property,” Uncle Bosco said. “It has four bedrooms and a large kitchen that was recently remodeled. All of the appliances are top of the line.”

  “When did it go on the market?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Oh, some time ago.” Aunt Harriet waved her hand as if my question were trivial.

  “What’s ‘some time’?” Dylan asked.

  “A year or two,” Uncle Bosco said. “Certainly no more than three years total. Right, Harriet?”

  “Definitely,” my aunt agreed.

  “Three years!” I exclaimed. “That’s a long time for a house to be on the market.”

  “It was nearly sold a few times, but somehow the sale never went through,” Aunt Harriet said.

  “But you needn’t worry about the condition of the house,” Uncle Bosco assured me. “We know the family that owns it. They’ve been very diligent about keeping it up and making sure it’s in tip-top condition.”

  Dylan and I looked at each other. “So what’s the catch?” he asked.

  “There must be a good reason why this keeps happening,” I insisted. “Aren’t you going to tell us what it is?”

  Uncle Bosco cleared his throat. “The potential buyers claimed they heard talking and laughter and saw moving shadows when they were in the house. It happened a few times, but never when the realtor was in the room with them.”

  I scoffed. “It sounds like the house is haunted.”

  “Of course it’s not haunted,” Aunt Harriet said. “Floorboards creak. Furnaces shut off and on. A strong wind can sound like a howling wolf. Isn’t that right, Bosco?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Aunt Harriet shook her head as she tsk-tsked. “It’s on the loveliest piece of property. The owners are selling it for a very reasonable price.”

  “And if you’re interested, I’m sure they’ll come down even more,” Uncle Bosco added.

  Intriguing, I thought.

  “I suppose we can take a look,” Dylan said.

  I stared at my fiancé. Dylan knew I saw and spoke to Evelyn, even though he, like everyone but little Tacey, couldn’t. But he had communicated with the ghost of his dead uncle, so he’d had that experience. Still, I found it surprising that he was willing to visit this house. “You really want to?”

  “Why not, if it’s all Harriet and Bosco claim it is?” He winked at me. “We can decide for ourselves whether the place is haunted.”

  “I guess we could check it out next weekend.”

  Aunt Harriet was already heading into the kitchen. She returned to the table a minute later and handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s the Wolcotts’ number. They’ll be thrilled to hear from you.”

  “I’m sure they will,” I said, wondering if I was crazy to even contemplate buying a house occupied by ghosts.

  Chapter Five

  “Why are you so interested in looking at that house?” I asked Dylan as soon as we were on our way back to the cottage.

  “Why not? it sounds lovely. Reasonably priced. And I like the idea of living in a house with character.”

  I laughed. “Is a house with character a euphemism for a haunted house?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I suppose.”

  We drove on. When we stopped at a red light, Dylan turned to me. “Since when do a couple of ghosts scare you off?”

  “I’m no maven when it comes to ghosts since I’ve only met two—Evelyn and your Uncle Alec.”

  “They certainly aren’t frightening or malevolent.”

  “They aren’t,” I agreed reluctantly since I didn’t know where this was going.

  “Don’t you find it curious that the supposed ghosts in the house Bosco and Harriet think so highly of only appear when the potential owners are alone with them?”

  “Kind of,” I admitted. “Either the ghosts are deliberately scaring them off for some reason, or they don’t want the realtor who might have known them when they were alive to discover they exist in ghostly form.”

  The light turned green, and Dylan merged onto the parkway. “But we might be able to figure it out.” I reached for my cell phone and clicked on Google. I typed in the address of the house and, after chasing down a few links, finally got what I was searching for. “Yes!”

  “Care to share?”

  “According to this article, the house was built in the 1800s. The Wolcott family has owned it for a few generations.” I stopped to read a few more lines that told me very little. “That’s … it.” I returned to Google and clicked on another link.

  “Hmm … this gives more information. The house was built in 1843 by a young Englishman named Allistair Perry for his American bride. Twelve years later there was a fire, and their two little girls perished. His wife insisted that they sell the house and move.”

  “How sad,” Dylan said.

  I read on, “The house stood empty and abandoned until a shipbuilder bought it and rebuilt the damaged section. His family lived there until he and his wife died. The children sold it to another family, and the Wolcotts acquired it in the 1950s.”

  “Has any tragedy befallen them?” Dylan asked.

  “No. Ted Wolcott grew up in the house and bought it from his parents a few years after he married Marjorie Harcourt. They did extensive construction in the nineties and gifted it to their daughter. She raised her family, got divorced, and died a few years ago. Neither of her two children wanted the house so they put it on the market. Their grandparents, Marjorie and Ted, are overseeing the sale since both grandchildren live out of state. Only they haven’t been able to sell it.”

  “Fascinating story,” Dylan said, “though it still doesn’t explain why ghosts are driving potential buyers away. Shall we go and see the house for ourselves?”

  “Let’s. Now I’m curious to see it. Maybe we’ll meet the supposed ghosts.”

  “I’ll call the Wolcotts tomorrow and set up an appointment for next weekend. Meanwhile, I’ll have Rosalind see what else she can dig up regarding the history of the house and the families that owned it.”

  “Good idea.” Dylan’s office manager was a whiz at ferreting out information regarding just about anything. There had to be a good reason why ghosts were suddenly haunting a house that was almost two hundred years old.

  * * *

  When we got home, I gave Smoky Joe some attention, then went into the living room, where Dylan was watching TV.

  “We said we’d work on the seating arrangements this weekend,” I said.

  “We did,” Dylan agreed, his eyes never leaving the TV.

  “Do you want to do it tomorrow night? Oh, tomorrow’s a late day for me.”

  Dylan reached for the remote and clicked off the TV. “In that case we’d better do it now. You never know what snags we might run into that will require our time and attention.”

  “Besides, I want to bring it to the printer as soon as we’re done, so I can order the poster and the small place cards listing the names and tables.”

  I went into the guest bedroom-slash-office and returned with the guest list. Dylan and I studied it for a minute or two.

  “It shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said. “Last count we were seventy-eight total. We can have tables with eight, nine, or ten seats.”

  “Let’s start with work colleagues,” Dylan said. “Since you’ve invited all your work pals and their mates, that will require two tables.”

  I thought a bit. “Do we put Angela and Steve with the library people or with her parents?”

  “We’ll think about it,” Dylan said, reaching for a pad and pen. “That’s question number one.”

  “And where should Susan and Ron sit?” I wondered. “With the library people or Clover Ridge neighbors?”

  Susan Roberts had been my other part-time assistant until last November when she’d left to manage the Gallery on the Green and focus on her painting. Even before then she’d been in a romantic relationship with Ron Mallory, the gallery owner who was in his mid-sixties, forty years older than Susan. I was surprised they were still together. But then, as Evelyn had reminded me more than once, not all couples were the same.

  “Hmm,” Dylan mused. “That makes question number two.”

  An hour later, we had a list of questions we needed to address, and our table arrangements were far from complete. When Dylan yawned for the third time, I took pity on him.

  “Let’s finish this Tuesday evening,” I said.

  “Great idea.”

  Later, as we were drifting off to sleep, I said, “I never imagined that setting up table arrangements for a wedding could be so exhausting.”

  “Or so complicated.”

  * * *

  Monday morning Chuck Ryland called me on the library phone to tell me how much he liked my article about Verity Babcock. I had met him briefly a month or two ago—a big, balding guy in his fifties with a booming voice—at an open town council meeting. He’d showed up to complain that the Gazette was on its last legs, and we council members weren’t doing enough to encourage small businesses to take out ads in the paper.

  “This is terrific, Carrie. Really terrific! Maybe it will finally get the state’s General Assembly to pardon those poor victims of group hysteria who were hung as witches in the Dark Ages.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I said, feeling proud of myself.

  “Just needs a few tweaks and it’s good to go. Look for the article in Wednesday’s paper.”

  “Thanks, I will,” I said.

  Sally stopped by my office around eleven to tell me she liked the article as well. “I knew you’d do us proud. And Chuck is singing your praises.”

  I shrugged. “Verity’s a worthy cause. What I didn’t like was being ambushed.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “Though we have our own newsletter and Facebook page, posting an occasional article in the Gazette is good PR.” She winked. “Especially just before it’s time to vote on our budget.”

  * * *

  “Has John given you an update on the murder at Victor Zalinka’s place?” Angela asked. It was five minutes past noon, and we were walking the three blocks to the Cozy Corner Café, where we often ate lunch when our schedules allowed.

  “Not since he called to tell us the victim, Billy Carpenter, had gone to prison for robbing a bank. He was probably digging up the cash when either his cellmate or his partners shot him and took off with the money.”

  Angela sent me an amused glance. “You haven’t done any sleuthing yourself?”

  “Are you kidding? Between work and wedding stuff, I don’t have a free moment.”

  Like spending an hour online that morning choosing gifts for her, Julia, and Tacey. I had finally decided on a lovely pearl necklace and bracelet set for each of my matrons of honor, and an adorable necklace with a tiny heart for my flower girl. All were scheduled to arrive the week of the wedding.

  “What still needs to be done?” Angela asked.

  “Dylan and I are trying to finish up the seating arrangements. Would you like to sit with the library crew or with your parents?”

  Angela thought a moment. “Can the four of us sit with Fran and Sally and their husbands? My parents got to spend time with them at our wedding and really enjoyed their company.”

  “Sure. That can be arranged.” I mentally added Marion’s assistant Gayle and her boyfriend, making it ten people. One table done!

  “Is everyone from the library able to come?” Angela asked.

  “Pete’s sorry he and his wife can’t make it. They have long-standing plans—a family celebration. And Harvey simply RSVP’d that he wouldn’t be attending.”

  “No loss there,” Angela said. “I can’t remember the last time Harvey cracked a smile.”

  “He certainly isn’t the friendliest person.”

  We burst out laughing because Harvey Kirk, who oversaw digital services, as the computer section was now called, had to be the grumpiest person we knew. I’d only invited him because I’d extended an invitation to everyone who worked in the library, and I didn’t want him to feel left out.

  The Café was crowded, and we had to wait for a table, but after a few minutes Joe, the manager, led us to a table for two in the rear.

  “We have soft-shell crab sandwiches and beet salad on the menu today. Both are going like wildfire.”

  “Good to know, thanks, Joe,” I said as Angela, and I sat down.

  Our waitress came over almost immediately, someone new who said her name was Betsy. We both ordered soft-shell crab sandwiches and an order of beet salad to share and something to drink. That done, Angela regaled me with her Maltipoo Scampi’s latest antics. I asked her if she knew anything about the house that my aunt and uncle were so eager to have Dylan and me look at. Angela said she knew nothing about it but said she’d ask her mom. Though Angela knew about Evelyn, I decided not to mention that the house might be haunted.

  Our orders arrived shortly after, and we dug in. We’d just finished eating when the wail of an approaching siren cut through the hum of conversation. Several diners got up to peer out the windows. A few even went outside.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Betsy when she refilled my coffee mug.

  “I’m not sure. Something went down in an apartment building a block away. The police are there. An ambulance just drove by.”

  Angela and I exchanged glances. We asked for the bill and went up to the register to pay. Through the window I saw a TV van racing to the scene.

  “Let’s find out what happened,” I said.

  Chapter Six

  A crowd surrounded a young female reporter who stood speaking into her mic as her cameraman filmed her for the TV audience. Behind her, yellow tape marked off the entrance of an apartment building as a crime scene while a police car’s flashing lights spun round and round. I stepped as close as I could to the reporter, eager to hear what she was saying.