Dad shot Stan a look before digging into his potatoes.

“I know you heard me,” I said.

Dad didn’t want to talk about my apparent ability to see ghosts any more than he had when my mother had exhibited the same tendencies. Stan and Caleb seemed more open to the idea—sort of—though more out of their loyalty to me more than any belief in the supernatural. Suffice it to say that none of my current companions was exactly on board with it.

“Something weird’s been happening at the job site. That’s for sure,” I said. “Things going missing, strange noises . . .”

“Sounds more like a disgruntled worker,” suggested Stan. “You make anybody mad lately? Or how about that guy from across the street you were just talking about?”

Could Emile have been screwing around with things at Cheshire House? Trying to drive the Daleys out by scaring them, perhaps? I wouldn’t put it past him to sneak over at night to dink around with supplies and sabotage power tools.

Still and all, that wouldn’t explain what had happened this afternoon. I had seen something in that dining room. Something real.

“I wish I knew more about this sort of thing. I can’t even put together a proper history of the place, much less whether it was said to be haunted.”

“Hey, last time my sister was in town we went on a ghost tour of Pacific Heights,” Stan said. “The guy sounded like he knew a lot about local history, and if I believed in that sort of thing, I guess I would have believed him.”

“Ghost tour?”

“Olivier something . . . I forget his full name, but he takes a group out just about every evening from that hotel that’s supposedly haunted—what’s it called? The Eastlake? French fellow. He’s got a Web site.”

“You think the guy who cashes in on tourists’ superstitions might know something about my house?”

He shrugged and passed the salt to my still-silent dad. “Worth a shot.”

“And he’s French,” Caleb pointed out. “Aren’t you looking for a French guy?”

“I want to live in France, not get a French boyfriend. Big difference.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. Close enough.”

“You know, that’s not a bad idea, Stan. At least it’s someplace to start. Thanks. I’ll look him up.”

“Which reminds me,” said Stan. “There were two phone calls to the office today, asking if you offered ghost-hunting services.”

I choked on my water.

“What?” I sputtered. “They wanted my ghost-hunting services?”

“That’s what they said,” replied Stan.

“My ghost-hunting services?”

“I told ’em they were barking up the wrong tree, but wrote down their info in case you were opening up a side business.”

“I was thinking of having an open house for Christmas Eve,” Dad said in a blatant bid to change the subject. “Mel, honey, you see Graham, be sure to mention it, will ya?”

“He’s coming tomorrow night, isn’t he?” Stan asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“For my birthday party.”

We all stared at him.

“Birthday fail,” whispered Caleb.

“Was it supposed to be a surprise?” Stan asked.

I cast a dirty look in Dad’s direction. He ignored me.

Stan grinned. “Right sweet of y’all. But if it was meant to be a surprise, you shouldn’t have given out the home phone as the RSVP. Bill, I got one word for you: E-vite. Been tellin’ ya you need to get on the Internet. Password protection, dontcha know.”

“Oh, Dad,” I said with a sigh.

“Ah well,” Dad grumped. “I told you it didn’t make sense to try to finagle a surprise party in the man’s own house.”

“What time you want me back from my weekly chess game?” Stan asked.

“We told everyone to arrive at six, so if you come at six thirty, that would be perfect,” I said. “And do me a favor? Act surprised. Real surprised.”

“You got it, boss lady.” He gave me a little salute and dug into his roast.

Call about the tamales. Pick up cake by five. Decorate between five and six. Desperately try to ignore the fact that Graham Donovan was coming. Shave legs and wear perfume.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. If I was brave enough to chase ghosts, surely I could handle one red-blooded, live male. Even a well-built, dark-eyed manly man with a wry chuckle who had a way of looking at me that made a deep, secret part of me start to melt.

Graham used to be an inspector for California’s office of OSHA, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. In fact, he had helped to shut down a job site of mine not long ago. But long before that, Graham worked for my father, and I had developed a mad crush on him while I was in graduate school. He never seemed to return the interest until shortly before my wedding, when he made an entirely uncharacteristic, rashly romantic play for me and tried to dissuade me from marrying Daniel. Our one passionate, out-of-control kiss had been so unexpected and . . . thrilling . . . that I had to struggle not to compare all subsequent kisses to it.

Despite such a powerful inducement, I went ahead with the wedding. It didn’t take long to realize that Graham had been right about Daniel, a fact that mortified me then as well as now.

Graham had been traveling for the past few months, studying green technology around the world. He was back in town and apparently swamped with all the details involved in setting up his new business. I’d only seen him briefly, by chance. Last time we ran into each other he said he had something to tell me, but we were interrupted by the high-pitched whine of a circular saw and a slew of workers needing guidance. The moment passed.

The thought of what he’d wanted to tell me prompted my mind to cast about in wild speculation. He could have simply called, would have called, had it been something business-related. Wouldn’t he?

I was trying to convince myself to pull up my big-girl pants and call him. This was the twenty-first century, as Caleb so often reminded me. No reason to wait for the man to ask.

But when it came to romance, my self-confidence had taken a body blow. And it had been a decade since I’d been in the dating world. Still, the party tomorrow was the perfect opportunity. It was about time I moved on, shook off my damned divorce hangover once and for all. Daniel certainly had.

Resolute, I stripped off my yellow rubber gloves, downed the rest of my drink, and headed for bed.

It was past ten by the time I headed to Cheshire House.

Since I hadn’t heard from Jim and Katenka, I was determined to carry on as usual. If they decided to sell the house to Emile Blunt, I doubted he would require the further services of Turner Construction. But ghosts or no ghosts, I couldn’t imagine Jim Daley abandoning his Cheshire House dream so easily.

But I wasn’t able to turn onto Union Street; it was blocked by a police cruiser. A young, fresh-faced uniformed officer was turning away traffic, insisting there was “nothing to see.”

Nothing but an ambulance, a paramedic truck, and a half-dozen police cars, red and blue emergency lights flashing.

Right in front of Cheshire House.