All business, he thought again, and prickly with it. "That wasn't my intention—the nudging. Of course
I'll hear you out. If you're not in any great rush for the search and report, I may be able to help you
out in a few weeks."
When she inclined her head, he began to rummage on, through, under the desk. "Just let me ... how the hell did that get there?"
He unearthed a yellow legal pad, then mined out a pen. "That's Rosalind, right? As You Like It?"
A smile whisked over her mouth. "As in Russell. My daddy was a fan."
He wrote her name on the top of the pad. "You said a hundred years back. I'd think a family like yours would have records, journals, documents—and considerable oral family history to cover a century."
"You would, wouldn't you? Actually, I have quite a bit, but certain things have led me to believe some
of the oral history is either incorrect or is missing details. I will, however, be glad to have you go through what I do have. We've already been through a lot of it."
"We?"
"Myself, and other members of my household."
"So, you're looking for information on a specific ancestor."
"I don't know as she was an ancestor, but I am certain she was a member of the household. I'm certain she died there."
"You have her death record?"
"No."
He shoved at his glasses as he scribbled. "Her grave?"
"No. Her ghost."
She smiled serenely when he blinked up at her. "Doesn't a man who digs into family histories believe
in ghosts?"
"I've never come across one."
"If you take on this job, you will. What might your fee be, Dr. Carnegie, to dig up the history and
identity of a family ghost?"
He leaned back in his chair, tapping the pen on his chin. "You're not kidding around."
"I certainly wouldn't kid around to the tune of fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses. I bet you could write
a very interesting book on the Harper family ghost, if I were to sign a release and cooperate."
"I just bet I could," he replied.
"And it seems to me that you might consider finding out what I'm after as a kind of research. Maybe
I should charge you."
His grin flashed again. "I have to finish this book before I actively take on another project. Despite evidence to the contrary, I finish what I start."
"Then you ought to start washing your dishes."
"Told you not to look. First, let me say that in my opinion the odds of you having an actual ghost in residence are about, oh, one in twenty million."
"I'd be happy to put a dollar down at those odds, if you're willing to risk the twenty million."
"Second, if I take this on, I'd require access to all family papers—personal family papers, and your written consent for me to dig into public records regarding your family."
"Of course."
"I'd be willing to waive my fee for, let's say, the first twenty hours. Until we see what we've got."
"Forty hours."
"Thirty."
"Done."
"And I'd want to see your house."
"Perhaps you'd like to come to dinner. Is there any day next week that would suit you?"
"I don't know. Hold on." He swiveled to his computer, danced his ringers over keys. "Tuesday?"
"Seven o'clock, then. We're not formal, but you will need shoes." She picked up the plant, then rose. "Thank you for your time," she said, extended a hand.
"Are you really going to take that thing?"
"I certainly am. And I have no intention of giving it back and letting you take it to death's door again.
Do you need directions to Harper House?"
"I'll find it. Seems to me I drove by it once." He walked her to the door. "You know, sensible women don't usually believe in ghosts. Practical women don't generally agree to pay someone to trace the
history of said ghost. And you strike me as a sensible, practical woman."
"Sensible men don't usually live in pigsties and conduct business meetings barefoot. We'll both have to take our chances. You ought to put some ice on that bruise. It looks painful."
"It is. Vicious little..." He broke off. "Got clipped going up for a rebound. Basketball."