"A voice," she said, fighting to keep her tone calm. "A man's voice."
"You must have heard the wind. It plays tricks, up here on the cliffs."
The wind. Of course, that was what it had been, the wind, sighing as it swept through the palm fronds. Or the sea, perhaps, whispering as it brushed the white sand below.
Kathryn sat back again. She was edgy, but who wouldn't be? Once they reached Charon's Crossing and she saw exactly what kind of albatross she'd inherited, she'd feel better. And there was always the hope that she'd judged it wrong. Now that she'd seen its size, the way it stood on the cliff, looking out over the sea...
The Rover came to a shuddering halt. Kathryn looked up. Tall, rusty iron gates loomed ahead.
"Number one on your repair list," the attorney said wryly as he opened his door. "The entry gates need to be sanded, primed and painted. They've almost rusted shut." Carter dropped stiffly to the ground. "I'll only be a moment."
Kathryn stared at the house through the gates. A structure like this would have seemed more at home on an English moor or lost in the mists of a Scottish highland.
"Might as well leave the gates open," Carter said as he climbed back inside the Land Rover. "Is that all right with you?"
"Yes, that's fine." Kathryn cleared her throat. "Charon's Crossing doesn't suit the landscape very well, does it?"
For the first time, Amos wondered if there might not be hope for his new client.
"That's true. But the people who built it weren't interested in adapting to these islands. They were English, and they wanted to remain that way."
Kathryn smiled. "Some things never change, I guess."
Amos permitted himself a faint smile. "We'll be at the house in a moment. I'm sure you'll be glad to get out of the heat."
"Yes. And I'm really curious to see the place. It's looks very impressive."
The old man's smile faded. From the outside, perhaps. But he suspected she would not be quite so pleased with her inheritance, once she'd gotten a closer look at it.
* * *
The house was impressive, all right. Kathryn blew out her breath as the front door shut behind them.
Martha Stewart probably would have loved it.
But she wasn't Martha Stewart. She didn't have unlimited resources and endless time to turn a sow's ear back into the silk purse it must have been a long, long time ago.
Drafty, antiquated, falling-down-around-your-ears New York apartments were bad enough. Drafty, antiquated, tumbledown houses built on sand spits in the middle of nowhere were impossible.
She put her hands on her hips and turned in a slow circle, taking in what must once have been an elegant octagonal foyer. Now, if you wanted to be charitable, you could best call it a disaster.
Doorways sagged, window frames tilted. The floor was encrusted with filth. The walls sprouted irregular splotches of damp rot. The woodwork, ornate where it still existed, had been mostly reduced to splinters.
"Termites," Carter said, when Kathryn bent down to take a closer look.
"Termites?" She snatched back her hand. "In a stone house?"
"The house is stone but the trim is wood." Carter strolled the perimeter of the room, running his hand lightly over what was left of the wainscoting. "Termites dine where they can, Miss Russell. Fortunately, they seem to have spared most of the furniture."
Kathryn looked at the lumpy, sheet-draped shapes that had been shoved against the stained walls.
"What an oversight," she said dryly.
Carter's narrow shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug.
"Charon's Crossing needs repair. I told you that when first we spoke."
Repair? What it needed was a miracle or a bottomless bank account, and Kathryn didn't have either.