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carsickness.
    “Dinner’s on!” Dad called out, even though we were all right there.
    We took seats around the scarred farmhouse table in the kitchen and started passing the steaming platters.
    “Anyway, it wasn’t the neighbors I was referring to,” I said as I slathered butter onto a hot roll.
    “Then what’s the problem?”
    I hesitated, took a deep breath, and dove in.
    “Katenka Daley thinks the renovation work has stirred up . . . ghosts.”

Chapter Four
    T hree sets of eyes fixed on me. Four, if you counted the dog. But at least the canine’s motivations had to do with the possibility of cadging a piece of meat or a dropped roll rather than concern for my mental state.
    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