Digger winced.

  "Cherry is joining us at the kitchen table," Uncle Benjamin said.

  "Hi, pretty girl. You remember how we've explained that I can't see or hear you?"

  Uncle Benjamin listened for a few seconds, then looked at Digger. “Cherry asks if you can't see her, how do you know she’s pretty?" He stared toward where Cherry seemed to be. "I told her about your pretty wavy hair." To Digger he added, "It's in a ponytail today."

  "Sounds lovely. I don't think your grandfather could see you either. It might be hard for you to see him and not be able to talk to him."

  After a pause, Uncle Benjamin said, "She wants to know what about Big Eyes? She misses him even more."

  “Of course,” Digger said. “He’s your friend.”

  Uncle Benjamin said, "I think if you and I went there together, with Digger, that we might be able to find him. I can't promise he'd still be there." He regarded the spot where Cherry seemed to be sitting, and then looked at Digger. "Cherry feels certain Big Eyes would wait for her."

  Digger thought it interesting that Cherry missed the raccoon even more than her grandfather, but decided not to ask why. She might form her own opinion after she met the man. “Can we talk more about this tomorrow, Cherry?”

  After a lengthy pause, Uncle Benjamin said, “We’re heading upstairs. Cherry wants to play with her doll.”

  Digger didn’t ask how an apparition played with a solid doll. She hated to disappoint even a ghost child, but she wasn’t sure they should take her to the cottage right away. Before she could decide whether to talk to Uncle Benjamin about false promises, her cell phone rang. Marty.

  She answered. "Long article, Hofstedder."

  Silence.

  "You there?"

  He cleared his throat. "I've already had a call."

  Digger looked toward the back stairs. "That's great."

  "It would be, except it was from a very annoyed Hamil Halloway."

  "Annoyed? He should be glad you made people think about it again."

  "Puzzled me, too." Silence.

  Whenever they came to the end of a phone call, Digger had the sense that Marty was waiting for her to tell him something. “I…”

  But he had hung up.

  Digger rested her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. If she told Marty the truth about Uncle Benjamin and now Cherry, would he think she was nuts? If he revealed something like that to her, she might think he was delusional.

  And if she didn’t tell him, she’d lose the friendship and the man she thought she might be falling in love with. But the only way to know that would be to spend time together. Without a ghost.

  If she didn’t have Cherry to worry about, she could ask Uncle Benjamin to stay in Franklin’s apartment. No, that wasn’t fair. Maybe she could put all of the family history files and books about local and state history in one place. And what? Lock him in there?

  She stood and walked to the back door. From there she could see the small cemetery plot. Why hadn’t Uncle Benjamin stayed there like everyone else? She flushed. She didn’t really want him fully dead – not most days, anyway.

  She took a sweater from a kitchen chair, unlocked the door, and almost ran down the back steps. She wouldn’t find any answers with her ancestors, but maybe the questions would get clearer.

  WHEN SHE RETURNED TO THE kitchen, Digger had made up her mind. She couldn’t really start talking to Marty about Uncle Benjamin if Cherry were still in the picture. One apparition she was related to could be at least conceivable, but it would sound crazy to say she also lived with a ghost child Uncle Benjamin found in a log.

  If she could figure out what happened to Cherry and her mother, maybe she could find where Samantha’s body was buried. She had to be dead. Otherwise, she would have come back for Cherry.

  Unless she had deliberately left Cherry in that log. But why? Was she tired of being a single parent? Depressed about her mother’s death? Tired of arguing with Hindberg about why she should get a job and get out on her own? Or maybe she wanted to be a free spirit again.

  Maybe she got frustrated and Cherry’s death was an accident. But Cherry seemed to imply her mother put her in the log to hide her, not hide her body.

  If she could find Samantha’s body, maybe she could find her ghost. If she found her ghost, maybe Cherry would want to be with her mother. Let them haunt Hamil Halloway’s house.

  Hamil Halloway. News articles mentioned few police conversations with him. He had always asked for privacy. She wasn’t going to give it to him.

  Digger opened a kitchen drawer and took out the very small Maple Grove phone book. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used it. She flipped to the H listings. Less than half a page, but there he was, “Halloway, H.”

  She pictured the house through the trees near the cottage. When it was built, access to what little there was in Maple Grove would have been hampered by snow, ice, and muddy roads. The Halloways had to bring some of their building materials in by railroad. If the rails could haul Union troops and supplies about fifteen years later, they had to have brought old-time stoves and other essentials that couldn’t be easily made so far from a city with factories and stores.

  Digger had no idea whether earlier generations of Halloways had been involved in various professions in town. Whatever they had done in the past, the seeming last member of the clan preferred to stay hidden away.

  She lifted the receiver from the kitchen wall phone before she lost her nerve. After six rings, she pulled the phone away from her ear and was about to replace it when the ringing stopped.

  It seemed someone had picked up the phone, but no one said anything.

  “Mr. Halloway? Is this the Halloway residence?”

  No hello, just, “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Digger…Beth Browning. We haven’t met, but…”

  “I know who you are.”

  She took a breath. “I do a lot with the Maple Grove Historical Society, and I think you probably have a lot of memories tucked away in your brain. I would love to get to know you.”

  Tucked away in your brain? She felt like an idiot.

  “I’m not interested in going to any meetings, Miss Browning.”

  “I don’t like them either. I just…there are so many conversations I wish I’d had with my uncle, Benjamin Browning, before he died. I always thought he would be there. You probably know a lot about Maple Grove from its early days.”

  He actually chuckled. “I’m not that old.”

  She almost stuttered. “I know, but a lot of families talk about how their parents and grandparents lived, what they did. I think your house is the last of the larger ones on your side of the mountain.” Digger waited for a response.

  “I suppose you could stop by. Alone. And if you plan to talk to me because of the article in the paper, be assured I don’t discuss my daughter and granddaughter.”

  “Of course not. The article did prompt my interest in you and your family, but the only publication I write for is the historical society newsletter. I do have an idea…well a thought about how to see if they’re still alive.”

  He said nothing for so long that Digger was about to ask if he was still on the phone.

  “Okay, Miss Browning. I’ll be here all day. Why don’t you come up about three PM?

  MARTY STARED OUT OF HIS office window to the paper’s worn parking lot. He chided himself for calling Digger. He may have first seen the cottage when hiking with her, but he certainly didn’t need to know her reaction to the article. “Stupid.”

  From the doorway, a man’s voice said, “If you’re talking about Roger Montgomery being ticked off about the piece about the Halloways, I’d agree with you.”

  Marty turned to face his editor, Wendell Hines. “Wonder why he didn’t call me if he’s ticked?”

  Hines shrugged. “Guess he’s had some calls. No, not tips, just questions. I think I’m supposed to rein you in.”

  “That was hardly investigative reporting.”

  Hines grunted. “For Maple Grove it reads like it. Montgomery never struck me as somebody who’d cover up anything.”

  Marty glanced at his computer screen, which he had open to his email. Several new items had popped up. “He’s always struck me as a more or less straight shooter. Probably doesn’t like getting calls when he can’t tell them anything.”

  Hines turned. “Nothin’ll come of it, but keep it up.”

  Marty read his emails. Becky James from the grocery store – he’d never known her last name – thanked him for the update. She wished she could do “something to bring some closure for Mr. Halloway.”

  Like everyone else he’d talked to, she assumed Samantha and her daughter were dead but went for the euphemisms.

  Tyler’s note said he hadn’t realized Marty was covering a serious subject when they’d met near The Knob. He’d only moved to the area five years ago, and had no idea about the “very sad story.”

  The third email stopped him. “Leave. It. Alone.” The sender had the kind of garbage email account that spammers used – lots of letters and numbers, sent from a Gmail address.

  He stared at it for several more seconds. “Somebody wants to stir the pot.” He saved the email to his hard drive, then hit reply. “Give me a call.” He included his mobile number.

  By the time he’d reached for his coffee cup, his email had bounced back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IF SHE HADN’T KNOWN the house was down the narrow, tree-lined lane, Digger would have thought the unpaved track was an access road for park employees. Instead, in about an eighth of a mile, the two-story, white frame house stood sentry. That perception was reinforced by a cupola that sat atop the second story, in the middle of the house.

  Digger could tell it had been added after the initial construction, not because it looked new but because its appearance was incongruous with the rest of the structure. The lumber on the first two stories was narrow, while that on the cupola was almost twice as wide. Its windows were very different from the wood-hung windows elsewhere.

  Like a lot of houses built in the nineteenth century, its foundation contained large piles of flat stone and brick. They were a good two feet above the ground, and she assumed the house had a cellar of either brick or limestone.

  The Halloway house, however, had packed dirt next to much of the foundation, creating a berm of sorts. Perhaps that was a way to keep water out of the cellar.

  As Maryann Montgomery had remembered, one side of the house sported aging brick, with two fireplaces on the first floor and one on the second. An odd configuration, but it had been built long before central heating systems.

  The house had not been painted in years, but the modern green shutters appeared to be aluminum and the lawn looked well cared for. As she walked up the front porch steps, Digger noted how clean everything appeared to be. Not even a few dried leaves on the steps.

  She used the large brass knocker and noted a curtain to the right of the door move. Soon the handle turned, and she faced Hamil Halloway. In a collared white shirt and black slacks, he seemed thinner than in the photo of the cottage, when he'd sported a red sweater.

  "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Beth Browning."

  He eyed her without moving. "I met your great uncle. I believe you’re referred to as Digger."

  She smiled. "A name I earned while visiting a cemetery with him when I was little."

  He smiled briefly. "Please come in." He stood to one side so she could pass him.

  The dark interior spoke of a lonely place. From behind her, he said, "The drawing room is to your right. I took the liberty of making coffee."

  Digger was struck by his apparent cordiality, not what Uncle Benjamin had experienced. "Thanks so much."

  She entered the room, which was at least sixty feet in length. Chairs and sofas were arrayed in three groupings. Hardwood floors gleamed. She looked at Halloway before sitting on a loveseat near a coffee table that held a thermos and mugs. "This is beautiful."

  "Thank you. It looks the same as it did when my wife died thirteen years ago." He sat in a matching loveseat across from her. "For that matter, much of the furniture is from my grandparents' time, at the end of the nineteenth century. Anything made of wood. My wife selected these small sofas."

  Digger nodded. "Thank you for seeing me." He gestured to the coffee thermos and Digger began to pour herself a cup.

  "I don't usually have visitors, but as you can imagine, your comment about Samantha and Cherry intrigued me more than the history discussion."

  Digger added cream and cradled the mug as she eased into the cushions. "I can't claim the idea. A young man I know wanted to learn more about a grandfather who vanished long ago, and asked me to teach him how to use family history websites to see if he had appeared elsewhere after leaving Maple Grove. In this case, I'd obviously be using more modern electronic tools than were available when people searched twelve years ago."

  "In case my daughter reappeared, as you say, somewhere else?"

  Digger nodded. "And perhaps your granddaughter, though she would be harder to find."

  He spoke sharply. "And why would that be?"

  "For one thing, she will look very different as an adult than as a child, and for another, she wouldn't have been issued any formal ID at age eight. There wouldn't be much to use for comparison."

  He poured his own coffee and added cream and two lumps of sugar.

  Digger couldn't remember the last time she'd seen anyone use lumps.

  "And exactly what would you propose doing, Ms. Browning?"

  She took a breath. "It would take time. I won't finish in a week. Many states have marriage records online..."

  "She wouldn't have used her own name."

  "Probably not, but she might have used a variation. She might want, for example, a similar first or last name. That way, if she starts to sign her name and uses the original one, it's easy to change course."

  He shrugged. "What if she never changed her name?"

  "My guess is your offer of a reward would have encouraged people to spot her. I'll look for similar names in online city directories, especially in towns in or near the mid-Atlantic beaches. I heard she liked to go to Ocean City, Maryland. She might have gone to a place she was familiar with."

  Halloway stared above Digger's head. "And your interest arose simply from that news article?”

  “Actually, I hiked up here last Saturday with a friend. We came back Sunday so he could photograph the cottage. I can't fathom losing someone so suddenly, with no information on what happened to them."

  "You were with him that day."

  She thought the statement was really a question. "Marty and I have been friends for a year or so. He didn't grow up in this area." Why she added that she had no idea.

  His smile appeared more genuine. "You sidestepped that well."

  Digger could feel her face reddening. "Friends, really."

  He sighed and put his mug on the coffee table. "This will probably sound terrible to you, but my daughter and I butted heads a lot. I'm sorry she ran away, if that's indeed what she did. But it's my granddaughter I really want to find."

  Digger nodded slowly. "She also didn't have a lot of choice in the matter, since she was eight."

  He nodded. "I don't mind if you look. What is your fee?"

  "Fee? No, I meant, I'll look. Like after work and weekends."

  His eyebrows went up. "You have many unused hours in your weeks?"

  Digger laughed. "I should be drumming up more work for our graphic design business and painting the inside of my old house." She sobered. "This could be more rewarding. If I find information."

  "Certainly for me. You want nothing in return?"

  "No, I..." She glanced around the room. "Uncle Benjamin shared his love of history and anything old. If you ever want to give me a tour of your house, or at least part of it, I'd love to see it."

  He placed his mug on the table. "It's interesting what people value. This place is old hat to me." He stood. "Come on, I'll show you the first floor."

  Digger was no stranger to large, older homes, but she'd never been in one quite as elegant as the Halloway house – at least not one that was built so long ago. Its paint-worn exterior had led her to expect an interior reflecting the house's age. To an extent it did. Older wallpaper had classic patterns in beige and brown with dark blue flowers thrown in. It looked very expensive and showed no wear.

  He led the way. “Let’s start in the kitchen. My mother always said it was the hub of any house.”

  They walked across immaculate hardwood floors, and Digger wondered who kept them in that condition. Surely Halloway didn’t use floor polish himself. The dining room held one large table, likely maple, with six high-backed chairs. The room was so huge another dining set would have fit comfortably.

  When they got to the kitchen, Digger gaped. She had not expected a refrigerator with an icemaker, stainless-steel dishwasher, or granite-topped counters.

  He took in her amazement and smiled. “Thought you’d see butcher-block counters and an icebox, did you?”

  She took in the deep green walls and oak chair rail. “Kind of. But how...when did you do all this?”

  “Over the last five years. I purchase from a home design place in Pittsburgh and use their installers. That way there isn’t a lot of local talk about how I spend my money.”

  “If I ever get a lot of it, I’ll have to remember that.” Though she wouldn’t. She’d go to Uncle Benjamin’s former hardware store.

  At the back of the kitchen were three doors. She assumed one went to the basement and another led outside. The third intrigued her. ”You have a butler’s pantry?”

  “In a house like this, yes, of course.” He gestured that Digger could head that way.

  The door sat across from the one that led onto a large back porch. As with similar spaces, the butler’s pantry walls were lined with cupboards and each side had a counter.

  The counter on the left was wider with equally wide cupboards beneath it. The one on the right had shelves of staples and paper goods, and a narrower counter space. Between the top cupboards and the counter was blue wallpaper.