The Ghost and The Graveyard Read online

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  I paced the floral living room, trying to keep my voice from climbing to the octave of hysteria. I was pretty close. Any higher and dogs would come running. “Dad, you could have told me.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s nothing. Keep the drapes closed and no one will ever know.”

  “Don’t you think an important piece of information to share with a potential homeowner is the number of dead people buried in the backyard?”

  “Now, don’t overreact. First of all, may I remind you, you are not the homeowner but a custodian, so to speak. And think of it this way—your neighbors are a quiet, keep-to-themselves type of people.” I heard a muffled chuckle.

  “I can hear you laughing,” I said. “I’ve told you before, putting your hand over the receiver does not work. Can’t you understand why this might freak me out a little? I’m here all alone.”

  “I’m telling you, a few nights there, and you’ll forget why you were ever worried,” Dad said. “Plus, if you get scared, the caretaker of the cemetery lives just over the bridge from you. Come to think of it, he would probably give you a tour if you wanted. Maybe that would put you at ease.”

  “Oh sure, a tour of the cemetery with some old, creepy caretaker is just what I need to feel at home!” My voice was rising again. I was painfully close to looking the gift horse in the mouth.

  “Grateful, I love you.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “I stocked the refrigerator for you…”

  Like that mattered. We were talking about dead people here.

  “…and the wine cellar.”

  “This place has a wine cellar?”

  “In the basement.”

  “Awww, you’re the best.” I guess Daddy’s charm was harder to resist than I thought.

  “So you’ll give it a few nights?”

  “Sure.”

  There are few things in this world I won’t do for a really fine bottle of Shiraz, and fewer still I won’t do for my dad. I wouldn’t let a bunch of dead people ruin my chances at a new life. Dad was right. I could do this.

  I ended the call and raced to the little door behind the kitchen I assumed led to the basement. To my pleasant surprise it was a finished walkout; too bad if you walked out it would be straight toward the dead people. I tried to ignore the view and veered toward the wine cellar. As big as a bedroom, the section for reds had a separate door from the whites to keep each wine at the optimal temperature. Looking over the rows of bottles, their labels turned upward, my mood significantly improved. Dad hadn’t let me down—my favorite label was at eye level. I grabbed the familiar bottle of Shiraz from the reds and headed upstairs.

  Dad had come through on the food as well. I found a Styrofoam clamshell from Valentine’s, my favorite restaurant. Salmon fillet, some red potatoes, and fresh asparagus. I scraped the contents onto a plate and popped the vittles into the microwave. Cooking with wine is my specialty, so I grabbed a glass and reached for my old friend, Mr. Shiraz. Unfortunately, the bottle in my hand was Pinot Gris.

  “Weird,” I said to myself. I could have sworn I’d grabbed the red. Odder still, the white was cold. I didn’t remember going into the refrigerated section at all.

  I revisited the cellar. The bottle of red I’d wanted was back in its spot. I replaced the white in the cooler and then ran back upstairs with my Shiraz, double-checking the label. Man, I was losing my mind. I blamed the stress of moving.

  In the dining room, I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a glass, admiring the clarity and subtle scent of berries. I drained the vino with an unladylike swig. Who cared anyway? Like my dad said, the neighbors wouldn’t be talking.

  The doorbell rang. I jolted, almost dropping my glass. Who the hell could that be? I set the glass down and approached the door cautiously. The bell rang again.

  “Can I help you?” I yelled through the etched glass oval of the door. A man’s silhouette sliced the twilight. There was no way I was opening up without some credentials.

  The man’s muffled voice filtered through the door. “Hello? I’m Rick Ordenes, from up the street. Your dad asked me to stop by and welcome you to Red Grove.”

  “Up the street?” I hadn’t noticed any neighbors.

  “Yes, I live across the bridge. I’m the caretaker.”

  “Oh. Hold on.” It was nice of my dad to send the old guy over to check on me. I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

  And came face to face with the chiseled Adonis from the side of the road.