“Absolutely. We’ll be completely bougie. You’ve got a big house, pal, let’s use it.”

  “Boy, did I need you.”

  “And we’ll talk about some terms.”

  “Terms?” Sonya shut down. “You’re not paying rent, Cleo. I don’t pay rent so you don’t.”

  “I get that. I do, and it’s appreciated. But I will contribute. I’ll do the grocery shopping—we’ll make weekly lists—and buy the food. I’m a better cook than you, which isn’t saying much about either of us, so I’ll handle dinner—let’s say five nights a week. Roughly.”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “Yeah, we will.” Cleo grinned as they started downstairs. “It’s what we do.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At Cleo’s insistence, Sonya “duded up” after brunch. It seemed wasteful, since she’d probably help move furniture, but at that point in time, if Cleo had asked her to do handsprings in the foyer, she’d have tried it.

  So in rust-colored suede pants and a stone-gray turtleneck she guided Cleo through storage areas again.

  “This desk.” Sonya had to maneuver her way back to it while Cleo cooed over a floor lamp shaped like a mermaid holding a crystal ball.

  “I want this lamp in the studio.”

  Sonya swiped at her hair, nodded. “I should’ve known that.”

  “She’s perfect. I’m doing a book on mermaids.”

  “Did I know that?”

  “I haven’t started yet. It’s the Monday meeting. An adult book.” She circled the lamp. “Coffee-table, illustrations depicting various lores, various cultures.”

  “That’s your wheelhouse.”

  “It is. The desk. Oh, oh, oh!” She danced to it.

  “It’s going to weigh a ton,” Sonya predicted. “And it’ll take some work to get it down there, considering the L-shape extension.”

  “Where there’s a will. It’s gorgeous.” Reverently, Cleo ran a hand over the surface and its leather insert. “I wonder what kind of wood it is.”

  “No clue. But drawers for supplies, room for your monitor, and you could use the extension for hand sketching.”

  “Well, I want it, and the mermaid. I can bring my own desk chair, it works for me. Same with my desk lamp. I could probably use a small couch, settee, divan. Something curved would be nice, considering the shape of the studio. At least one chair for when my best friend hangs out up there.”

  Laughing, she looked around. “God, Sonya, it’s like shopping for free in a fabulous antiques shop.”

  A board creaked overhead.

  “Attic space,” Sonya murmured.

  “I remember—the trunks of clothes and more. Let’s go see.”

  Hedging, Sonya slid her hands into her pockets. “It’s pretty chilly up there.”

  “I remember from yesterday. I didn’t really get a good look.”

  They went up now, and Cleo pointed.

  “I wanted a small, curved sofa, and there it is.”

  “You know that was covered with a sheet yesterday—and when I went through before that.”

  “Well, it’s not covered now, and it’s just right.” Beyond delighted, Cleo circled it. “I love this deep royal blue color. It’s velvet, and look at the hearts carved in the frame. So sweet! It’ll really work in there. A chair, a couple tables, and kaboom, a sitting area, a work area, that view, and room to paint when that mood strikes.”

  “Use Collin’s supplies. They’ll go to waste if you don’t. Later on—when it’s not as cold up here—we should go through everything. Take the sheets and tarps off, and go through it all.”

  “Then we will.” After one more circle, Cleo nodded. “You know, I think we could get that little sofa down there.”

  Sonya studied it. “Won’t know unless we try.”

  It proved heavier than it looked, but small enough to maneuver down steps and hallways.

  When, a little out of breath, they set it in the curve of windows in the studio, they fist-bumped.

  The doorbell bonged.

  “Now I know why it’s so freaking loud. Well, let’s go let the manly men in, and hope they’re up for it.”

  They went down, opened the door to the two men. And two dogs.

  “It’s Mookie!” Since the big blond swished his feathery tail, Sonya crouched down. And was rewarded with more wags and a nuzzle. “And who’s this?”

  “That’s Jones,” Owen told her.

  Sonya cooed over the scrappy-looking black dog with an eye patch over his left eye.

  “What happened to his eye?”

  “He lost it in a bar fight with a Doberman.”

  Hands busy petting two at once, Sonya looked up. Owen shrugged.

  “That’s the story I got.”

  “I bet the Doberman got the worst of it.” Cleo stepped back, gestured. “Bring them on in out of the cold.”

  “Yes, sorry. Cleo Fabares, Trey Doyle, Owen Poole.”

  “Nice to—” Trey broke off. “Mook!”

  The dog, already heading into the front parlor, glanced back.

  “He tends to make himself at home.”

  “Fine with me. Let me get your coats. First, we really appreciate the help, and second, full disclosure. We’ve found more stuff to move.”

  Owen handed Sonya his coat. “Got beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  “You’re a tough little guy, aren’t you?” Cleo bent to scratch Jones between the ears, along his square jaw. He huffed.

  “He doesn’t think of himself as little.”

  Giving her hair a toss, Cleo shot Owen a quick, side-eyed smile. “Well, it’s the size of the fight in the dog, isn’t it?”

  “Jones has plenty of it. Where’s the accent from?”

  “Louisiana. Lafayette.” She gave them both the regional pronunciation.

  Sonya glanced in the parlor as Mookie sniffed his way around.

  “Hunting for treasure,” Trey explained. “Collin used to hide a dog biscuit or rawhide bone, so Mookie could … I guess we missed that one,” he said as Mookie nosed under a chair cushion and came out with a dog treat.

  “Well, hell.” Owen dug into a pocket of the coat Sonya still held. He took out a small biscuit, tossed it to Jones, who fielded it with a quick snap. “Fair’s fair.”

  “That’s it. I’m getting one.”

  “We’re getting a dog?” The idea had Cleo slapping her hands together. “We need a cat, too, Son. This place is made for a faithful hound and a good, slinky cat.”

  “More disclosure.” Sonya carried the coats into the closet. “Cleo’s going to move in. That’s okay, isn’t it, Trey? I mean, it doesn’t break any terms, does it?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay, and no, it doesn’t. It’s good. Welcome aboard.”

  “Thanks.” Cleo spread her arms. “I don’t know who could resist a place like this, but I’m not one of them.”

  From the library, Cyndi Lauper rang out with “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  “And that,” she said with a laugh, “is only one more reason why. Did everybody but Sonya know the place is haunted?”

  “She had full disclosure there.” Trey hooked his thumbs in his jean pockets. “She wasn’t buying it.”

  “So that’s not unusual?” Sonya asked. “Cuing up songs on my tablet?”

  “They like music,” Trey said simply.

  “And you.” She pointed at Owen. “No reaction?”

  “I’m more into rock than pop, but Lauper’s always cool.”

  “My friend’s a realist.” Cleo gave Sonya a one-armed hug. “So this is a little tough for her. I’ll balance that out.”

  “Let’s not keep these men and their dogs standing in the foyer. We’ve got things moving from there to here, and here to there. If any of it’s too much, that’s fine. But I have beer.”

  She led them up to start with the Victrola.

  “That’s a nice piece.” Owen ran a hand over the wood cabinet. “In damn good shape, too.”

  “I meant it, Owen. If you want something, it’s yours.”

  “He can’t have the mermaid.”

  Interest flickered as Owen turned to Cleo. “What mermaid?”

  “She’s in another section—a floor lamp—but you can’t have her. She’s already mine. I’ll negotiate on the desk in case it has any sentimental meaning. I’ll go as far as rock, paper, scissors on the settee we already moved, but I stand firm on the mermaid.”

  “Anything but the mermaid,” Sonya qualified. “I want to move the Victrola down to the music room. Unless you want it, Owen.”

  “I’m good.”

  They hauled it down, then the cabinet for sheet music while Sonya and Cleo carried boxes of old records.

  The dogs trailed up, trailed down. Then sensibly wandered into the library to nap by the fire.

  “That’s where I want to put Collin’s painting. Johanna’s portrait. I can find another place for the still life. If you need a break—”

  “Sonya.” Trey set a hand on her shoulder. “We carried two pieces. I think we’ve got more in us.”

  “We’ve got the mermaid, and a big desk. Cleo’s taking over Collin’s studio.”

  “You paint?” Owen asked as they started back up.

  “Now and then. I make a living illustrating.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Dumb it down.”

  “Okay, condensed version.” She gestured to a painting as they walked. “Stands on its own, eye of the beholder. An illustration is connected to text, to serve a purpose, and—hopefully—they enhance each other.”

  “Okay.”

  They wound their way up, and to the mermaid.

  “Okay,” Owen said again, with reverence. “Okay, she’s a beauty.”

  “Mine.”

  Ignoring Cleo, he ran his hand over the carving, the long fall of windswept hair, the knowing smile, the smooth breasts.

  “She’s solid mahogany, Trey.” He glanced at Cleo. “What’s her name?”

  Cleo had already given him points for helping Sonya, had added more for Jones. With the question, she doubled them. “Circe.”

  “That works. Circe’s no lightweight.”

  “The desk won’t be either,” Sonya warned.

  “All right.” Rubbing his hands together, Trey nodded. “A challenge.”

  “Somebody got it up there, so somebody can get it down.” Owen worked his way to it, crouched down to test the drawers. “Cherrywood, pristine. The wood’s a little thirsty. This and the mermaid need a good buff with paste wax. Don’t be using any supermarket spray shit on these pieces. Any of them. You can do the lemon oil, orange oil between, but once, maybe twice a year, you buff with a good paste wax.”

  “We’ll get some.”

  “None of my business.” Owen straightened, turned to Sonya. “But do you figure the two of you can maintain all this furniture the way it needs to be? Keep it dusted, protected? Not to mention the acres of wood floors?”

  “No.” Sonya huffed out a breath. “No, I have to swallow getting a cleaning service. It’s on my list for next week, or the week after. I wish you’d take something, Owen. More than one something.”

  As she spoke, a sheet slid slowly to the floor. Sonya gripped her elbows.

  “That’s creepy. Come on, that’s just creepy.”

  “Little bit.” But Owen walked over to the chest of drawers with the sheet now pooled at its feet. “Needs a little work. Got a handle missing. The bottom of this drawer’s cracked. Looks like some dog chewed on the front leg here. I’ll take it.”

  “Really?”

  “I can fix it. And maybe you’ll stop feeling so damn guilty.”

  And with that, he earned more points on Cleo’s scoreboard.

  “Look at the back, Owen.” Trey crooked a finger and grinned. “Somebody—probably a kid—carved his initials down at the bottom. ODP. Owen David Poole. Your initials, too.”

  “Yeah, well. Like I said, I’ll take it. Let’s tackle the desk first. It’s going to be a bitch.”

  It took some muscle, some geometry, and some inventive cursing. Sonya hugged one of the drawers to her chest as the men turned it, braced it, eased it into the studio.

  “You deserve a lot more than beer.”

  “Oh, oh, look at the way the light hits it! Can you put it over there?” Cleo ran ahead of them, spread her arms, swooped them down. “Right here, angled this way. Look how it’s already coming together in here. I’m going to name my firstborn Collin Oliver Owen.”

  “You should put a painting on the easel, Cleo, when you’re not working there. It just adds. But,” Sonya added, “Johanna goes downstairs.”

  Trey walked over to the portrait. “You said you found this in that closet?”

  “Yes. Maybe it made him sad to look at it, so he put it away, but—”

  “Sonya, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been in this studio. And I went through this space myself after Collin died. I’ve never seen this portrait before. And there wasn’t a painting in the closet. He stored blank canvases in there.”

  “It was in there.”

  “I believe you.”

  “That’s Johanna.” Owen stepped over to stand by Trey. “I’ve seen pictures. Collin didn’t paint people much. Landscapes and that sort of thing.”

  “That’s a shame,” Cleo said. “Because he had the talent for it. She’s beautiful. His use of light and lines and movement? Beautiful.” Sighing over it, Cleo tapped a hand on her heart. “He loved her. It shows.”

  “It was in the closet,” Sonya said again.

  “Then I’d say he wanted you to have it.” Trey turned to her. “Let’s get the rest of what you want moved, then we can talk about it over that beer.”

  Sonya pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Are you always this calm?”

  “Mostly he is,” Owen told her. “But if you push the wrong button, step back.”

  It took well over another hour, then an outdoor break for the dogs, before they gathered in the kitchen.

  “That took a while.” Cleo got a bottle of wine while Sonya poured beer into pilsners. “And we owe you more than the beer. I don’t suppose anyone cooks.”

  “He cooks better than I do,” Trey replied.

  Considering, Cleo looked at Owen. “You cook?”

  “Somewhat above average.”

  “That’s about where I hit, which is a full step up from Sonya. I can make a pasta thing.”

  “I could eat a pasta thing.”

  “All right then. I’m going to see what we’ve got around here.”

  “I am going to cook—for the Doyles.” Decision made, Sonya thought. “How about next Friday night? Or Saturday?”

  Trey took out his phone, studied his calendar. “Friday looks clear. Anna and Seth have a thing Saturday.”

  “You have everyone’s schedule on there?”

  “He’s an organizer.” Owen took a counter stool. “Whether you want him to be or not.”

  “Just avoids scheduling conflicts. I’ll pass the word.”

  “Let me know if that works for everyone. I think seven’s good. Owen, you’re more than welcome.”

  “I’ll let you have this Doyle thing, but thanks.”

  “There’s a chair at the table, and possibly an edible meal if you change your mind. Now.” She picked up her wine, turned to Trey. “Can we talk about the invisible elephant in the room?”

  “Why don’t you tell us what’s been going on? Besides the song list.”

  “Okay.” Sonya paced along the island as Cleo hunted up what she wanted. “Doors open, doors close, boards creak. I can—could—dismiss that. Old house.”

  “And solid as the rock it’s built on,” Owen pointed out. “The floors—ruler level. Sure it’s settled, but you’re not going to have doors open and close on their own.”

  “I get that. I’m not pulling a Scully. Not anymore. The day you moved my printer for me, Trey? I’d watched a movie the night before upstairs in the library. I woke up, and I had a throw over me, the TV was shut off, the remote back in its drawer. And when we went up with the printer? The throw was folded again.”

  She paused, sipped. “I need to start documenting. I use the fireplace in the library every day, and every day it’s cleaned out and set. I’ll come down and make coffee in the morning, and when I get back, my bed’s made. And at night, turned down like a hotel maid service.”

  “I could use one of those,” Owen commented. “Who wouldn’t go for one of those?”

  Taking a moment from her search, Cleo glanced back at him. “I know, right?”

  “I thought I was just losing it, forgetting things. Oh, the things on my dresser, they’re in different places than where I put them.”

  “Piano music,” Cleo reminded her as she began to mince garlic.

  “Middle of the night. I thought I dreamed it, or imagined it. But we both heard it last night, and went down. There was light—like candles make—in the music room. Until we got there, and no light, no music.”

  “I can’t place the song.” Closing her eyes to bring it back, Cleo waved a finger. “Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da.”

  “‘There was a young maid dwelling’,” Trey sang in a clear, easy tenor. “‘And every youth cried well-a-day. Her name was Barbara Allen.’”

  “That’s it! Plus, he sings.”

  “An old folk song. The lyrics change depending, but the tune’s the same.”

  “I’ve heard it,” Sonya murmured. “It’s sad.”

  “He’s dying, but she turns away. He dies brokenhearted, she dies out of guilt and sorrow. So yeah,” Trey agreed. “Pretty damn sad.”

  “I think it’s Astrid.” Cleo added the garlic to the pan where she’d melted butter. “Murdered on her wedding day. Doesn’t get much sadder.”

  “I’ve come in here, and all the cabinet doors are open, and one day—maybe it was stuck—but I went out for a walk, unlocked the door, but I couldn’t get back in. Not at first.”

  “You didn’t tell me about that one.”

  “I forgot. And the night before Cleo came, I heard someone pounding on the front door. It woke me up. When I got up, there was a blizzard. I could hear the wind just howling, and see the snow flying. I thought, someone’s had an accident or needs help. But when I went down, opened the door, no one, and it was a clear night. No howling wind, no flying snow.