It was just that dreaming up a gorgeous guy in a costume who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to make love to you or kill you was a bit unsettling.
Kathryn pushed the hair from her eyes and rose to her feet. Sunlight streamed past the tattered velvet drapes, bathing her in warmth.
"Just another day in paradise," she said, and smiled.
Blue sky. Golden sun. Puffy white clouds that might have been painted by Gauguin.
Oh yeah. It was going to be a great day. A busy one, too. The contractor was coming by. Somebody would bring over the rental car she'd requested. The realtor would be along, too. And she was going to make a start at cleaning up this house, just as soon as she got the door of the dilapidated old armoire unstuck so she could get dressed.
Kathryn rolled her eyes, banged on one door with the heel of her hand while she yanked hard with her other until both sprang open. Her old denim cut-offs and a ratty pink tank top would do. The shorts bore permanent smears of the yellow paint she'd used on the walls of her Greenwich Village kitchen and countless washings had rendered the top almost white, but they were perfect for how she intended to spend her morning.
When you were knee-deep in buckets of hot water laced with Mr. Clean, you didn't worry too much about your appearance. And if there was one thing she was sure of, it was that scrubbing away some of the accumulated grime that marred the house would go a long way towards reducing the spookiness quotient that had probably helped bring on that awful dr—
"Miss Russell?"
Kathryn gave a wild shriek. The shorts and tank top fell from her hands as she whirled around.
A woman was standing in the open bedroom doorway. She was small, slender, and her skin was the color of coffee that has been stirred with a light dollop of cream.
"Oh, I am so sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to—"
"Who in hell are you?"
"My name is Olive Potter. Amos Carter sent me."
"To do what?" Kathryn said furiously. Her hands were shaking as if she had a fever. She reached behind her, felt for the cotton robe she'd hung in the armoire, and pulled it on. "Scare me half to death?"
Olive Potter bit her lip. "Truly, I apologize. But I assumed you were expecting me and I rang and rang the doorbell, but—"
"You thought I was expecting you?"
"Yes." The woman made a face. "I'm making a mess of this, I'm afraid. I own Potter Realty, you see. In Hawkins Bay."
"Oh." Kathryn swallowed, then cleared her throat. "Oh. Of course."
The realtor made a helpless gesture. "I rang the bell at least half a dozen times but there was no answer. So I walked around back and checked to see if you might be in the garden, enjoyin' the sun."
Kathryn tied the belt of her robe. Her hands had stopped shaking but her heart still galloped at a hundred miles a minute.
"I should be, I suppose." She gave a little laugh and hoped it didn't sound like a squeak. "I mean, I've no idea what time it is but I'm sure it's terribly late."
"No, no, it's not late at all. It's just goin' on eight o'clock. I did try callin', to say I'd be comin' over, but your telephone doesn't seem to work."
"Among other things," Kathryn said dryly. She lifted her hands to her hair and smoothed it back from her face. "Well, Miss Potter, I do appreciate your stopping by so promptly."
"Amos said you wanted to get Charon's Crossin' on the market as soon as possible."
"Yes. I certainly do." Kathryn's brows lifted. "How did you get in, Miss Potter?"
"Well, the gates were open."
"Right. I forgot that."
"As for gettin' into the house... well, when you didn't answer, I, ah, I thought I'd best see if you were all right. As I say, I checked out back and then tried the rear door, the one that leads into the kitchen. It was unlocked, so in I came."
"Was it?" Kathryn frowned. "I could have sworn I'd made a point of locking all the doors before I went to bed last night."
"I don't think you need worry. Our little island may be short on—"