“Carmela,” he said, “I really need to talk to you.” He sounded anxious and depressed. Then again, why wouldn’t he? The police had elevated him to suspect numero uno in his wife’s murder.

“Garth,” said Carmela, sincerely wishing he hadn’t called. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything!” wailed Garth. “Now the police are asking me to submit to a lie detector test!”

Carmela wasn’t sure what to say. “Did you agree?” Deep in her heart, Carmela thought this request might be for the best. Strap a lie detector on Garth, ask the hard questions. Of course, some people had the innate ability to fool lie detectors. Sociopaths and psychopaths. The type of people who also profiled as cold-blooded killers.

“My lawyer says no way,” said Garth, “but I’m thinking I should do it. To clear my name.” He hesitated. “What do you think?”

Carmela was floored. “I . . . I really can’t tell you what to do, Garth. That a decision only you can make.”

“I know,” said Garth. “It’s just that . . . well . . . there aren’t a lot of people whose opinion I completely trust.”

Oh dear, thought Carmela.

“But I trust you,” continued Garth. “You’ve stood by me from the very beginning. You were Melody’s friend, for goodness’ sake. You took on her Medusa Manor project. That counts for a lot!”

“I don’t know what to say, Garth.” Now Carmela was in turmoil herself.

“I’m in agony!” wailed Garth. “I go from being practically catatonic to this highly charged state where huge waves of grief wash over me.”

“You may need some professional counseling,” Carmela said, gently. Clearly, this was way out of her realm of expertise.

“I just need a friend,” whispered Garth.

Carmela thought about Olivia Wainwright, thought about how friendly and solicitous she’d been at the funeral. Wasn’t she Garth’s friend? Wouldn’t she make a better counsel? Carmela pondered this for a moment, then was jolted by another thought. Have I been earmarked as confessor? Is Garth in such a state of high anxiety that he’s ready to confess that he murdered Melody?

“Carmela,” said Garth. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here, Garth.”

“I . . . I just need someone to talk to.” Now his voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Where are you, Garth? At Fire and Ice?”

“Yes, we’re getting the shop ready for Galleries and Gourmets.”

“You’re going to be open tonight?” asked Carmela.

“Afraid so.”

“Tell you what,” said Carmela. “I’m planning to catch the festivities this evening, so I promise to drop by. Okay?”

“Will you really?” asked Garth. “You promise?”

“Absolutely,” said Carmela. “I’ll be there.” She decided that if Garth had a guilty conscience and might be aching to spill his guts, she’d be safe going to his store tonight. After all, there was safety in numbers, right?

Sticking her key in the lock—the new, improved lock—Carmela pushed open the door. And was quite literally thrilled at what her eyes beheld. Because Ava and her assistant, Miguel, had clearly done some unique decorating. Rows of gleaming white skulls grinned eerily from their perches on the wall. Black netting and a myriad of huge, furry spiders hung over a reception desk that Ava had magically unearthed from somewhere—the basement, perhaps?

The large bronze coffin had been arranged against the far window and was now flanked with brass candlesticks and stuffed with a life-sized tuxedo-clad dummy that Carmela supposed would, at the push of a button, sit up and shriek a welcome to guests.

Carmela grinned as a shiver ran through her body. Medusa Manor was magical and maniacal at the same time.

Upstairs, Carmela was delighted with the Exorcist-style bedroom. The headboard and footboard of the old bed had been padded with rags, just like in the movie. The walls were painted Williamsburg blue. A Bible sat on the night-stand. All the set needed now were actors to portray the possessed person as well as the exorcist himself.

The next bedroom contained the ghost brides. Well, they weren’t really ghost brides, she told herself. Just dinged-up prom dresses that weren’t usable—except for this. Ava had gone so far as to rip and slash some of the skirts so the shredded remains caught the air currents and fluttered eerily. White, feathery masks had been hung to approximate heads, and the upper torsos had been stuffed with bubble wrap to appear more lifelike.

Ava had been hard at work in the Witches’ Lair, too. Now the rubber witch heads were mounted on poles, and a larger scrim had been installed to accommodate the special-effects projection. Still, a lot of props were still missing. The cauldrons, dry ice, maybe even a few black cats. This clearly needed work.

Carmela walked around the room, acutely aware of her footfalls on the creaking wooden floors. There’d been other stuff in this room, too, hadn’t there? She crossed her arms, frowned, then stepped over to the closet and pulled it open. Two paintings and a framed needlepoint leaned against the back of the closet wall.

Grabbing the needlepoint and the smaller of the two paintings, Carmela decided they’d probably work well in the downstairs Haunted Library. That place would look its spooky best crammed full of paintings, leather books, candles, stuffed crows, and stuffed animal heads. Maybe even install a harpsichord and a candelabra with twisted candles.

Carmela climbed the stairs to the third-floor ballroom. Up here the air felt warm and close and a little suffocating. Dust motes twirled in shafts of light that managed to penetrate grime-smeared windows. Rustling sounds in dark corners of the vast room told her there might be bats.

Carmela felt frustrated that she still hadn’t come up with a workable theme for this place. Maybe because the attic was so enormous, maybe because it also felt . . . empty. Of course, if Olivia decided to sell Medusa Manor, then all their rush-rush decorating would be for naught. Their work would just be trashed.

A sad thought, Carmela decided. But the future of Medusa Manor wasn’t in her control, so there was no point fretting over it.

So . . . now what? she wondered. Just keep working on this place while keeping things in perspective? Go out with Ava tonight and have a good time?

But not that good. Because Melody’s killer was still walking free.

Tucking the artwork securely under one arm, Carmela turned, walked a few steps, and stopped dead in her tracks.

Because she’d heard a noise. Downstairs, on the second floor. And it was a real noise made by a real person, not an intruding bat.

Carmela slipped out of her shoes and cautiously, silently, descended the stairs to the second floor. And heard the same noise again. Feet shuffling across floorboards, the creak of a wire.

Someone walking among the ghost brides? Had to be.

Creeping forward, Carmela put a hand on the doorjamb, peered in . . . and saw real-life feet and legs moving among the ghost brides!

“Who are you?” she yelled. “What do you want? I’ve got pepper spray, so you watch out!”

“I was looking for you,” said a familiar voice.

Carmela put a hand to her heart and caught her breath. Babcock?

At that same moment, Edgar Babcock silently exited the swaying forest of ghost brides.

“What are you doing here?” she screamed, still caught in a paroxysm of fear. She took a couple of deep breaths, hiccupped, and tried to calm down. “How did you even know I was here?”

Edgar Babcock smiled at her, as though they’d simply met during a casual stroll through a garden. “I called Memory Mine. Gabby said you were over here.”

“Oh.”

His brown eyes flashed, and he gave a low chortle. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” He grinned and stretched his arms wide. “How did it go this morning? Is it over? Are you free?”

“Free as the wind,” she told him, dropping the paintings and shoes, stepping into his embrace.

“Hallelujah!” exclaimed Babcock, planting a big smacker on her cheek. “Of course, now I’m going to have to move my checking account.”

She pulled back. “Shamus wouldn’t . . .”

“I’m kidding,” said Babcock. “Kidding.” He leaned down, kissed her again, full on the lips, then circled his arms around her waist. “You know, I really wish you weren’t working on this.”

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “By this, you’re referring to Medusa Manor?”

He nodded as his hands moved in small circles on her back.

“After today I may not be,” Carmela told him. “I talked to Olivia Wainwright earlier, and she told me . . . confessed, really . . . that she may be selling this place to Sawyer Barnes.”

He released Carmela and held her at arm’s length. “She told you that?” He seemed puzzled.

“Yes,” said Carmela. “And now I just told you.”

“People like to tell you things, don’t they?” said Babcock.

Carmela nodded.

“You can get in trouble that way. I’d hate to see you get into any more trouble.”

Carmela shifted from one foot to the other. “You think I’m in trouble?” she asked, finally.

“Someone clearly tried to frighten you in the cemetery the other night. And last night . . .”

“What about last night?” asked Carmela.

“You were up to something,” said Babcock.

“Why would you say that?” Was this man psychic? Carmela kept a tight smile on her face.

“You had that look,” said Babcock. “And your body language projected a certain . . . what would you call it? . . . contained energy. Like something was coiled inside, just waiting to break free.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere now,” she told him.

He lifted an eyebrow. “No?”

“Maybe a quick trip through Galleries and Gourmets tonight.” She smiled prettily. “Will I see you there?”

He nodded. “Sure. Probably.” He paused, then asked, “Did Garth Mayfeldt happen to call?”

Carmela decided Babcock had to be psychic. Or else he was just a very skilled detective. “Why do you ask?”

“Probably because you seemed so tight with him.”

“Maybe not so much anymore,” said Carmela, dodging the question.

But her answer was enough for Babcock. “Good girl,” he told her, pulling her close again. “Better to leave the detecting to the professionals.”

Carmela continued to smile at him, feeling the warmth of his hands on her back, the strength of his body pressed against hers.

Should she tell Babcock that she planned to see Garth tonight? No. Somehow that might be better left unsaid.

Just let events play out. See where they led.