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after the noon hour, and about ten minutes after Eve had impatiently decided she wasn't coming at all. Mrs. Markham knocked softly, and when Eve threw open the front door, the woman seemed almost surprised, as if she had expected that no one would be at home to receive her even though she'd been invited.
    For an older woman, Justina Markham was quite handsome. Her smooth, thick hair was more black than white, and the wrinkles on her heart-shaped face were not deep or many. She still had a fine figure, one which was shown off well in her widow's black. She was fifty-three years old, and she had been Viola Stamper's dearest friend.
    "I haven't been to this door in thirty years," she said softly, glancing inside and showing no intention of crossing the threshold.
    Eve was grateful to have a subject to turn her attentions to, after the disastrous events of less than an hour ago. She certainly didn't need to dwell any longer on how exciting it had been to lie against Lucien, even for such a brief and bothersome period of time. She needed to forget how hard and warm he'd been, how she'd wanted so badly to stay there in his arms.
    How silly she'd been to go rushing into the room. For a few horrifying minutes, she'd actually thought he might be in danger. Ha.
    She'd much rather think about Mrs. Markham, and what the woman might tell her about Viola.
    "If you find entering the house too upsetting, we can walk around to the garden while we have our conversation," Eve suggested. "Let me grab my shawl..."
    "No." Mrs. Markham stepped inside tentatively, her eyes immediately going to the foot of the stairs. "Perhaps I need to do this." She walked to the center of the foyer, and clasped her hands as she stared down at the spot where Viola died each and every night. "It was horrible," she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes.
    "I'm sure it must have been," Eve said gently.
    "Viola was a sweet, beautiful woman. She deserved better than to be stabbed in the back by the man she loved. She deserved better than to be left completely unclothed in a pool of her own blood." The woman shook off her sorrow and became angry. "I came here that morning because Viola was going to teach me to make apple butter. Apple butter! How does the woman who makes the best apple butter in the county end up murdered?" Justina Markham drew a handy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
    "I know it's difficult," Eve said. "But I need to know exactly what you remember about that morning."
    "Why?" Justina's eyes quickly went from sad to angry. "Why are you digging all this up now? Viola and Alistair are dead. They've been dead for thirty years." She paled visibly. "Don't tell me you actually believe that their ghosts haunt this house." She sniffled. "What rubbish."
    Mrs. Markham might say the rumors of this house's haunting was rubbish, but the obvious fear on her face spoke differently. She glanced about the room, as if searching for a ghostly visitor.
    Until now, Eve had roundly dismissed any suggestion from Plummerville residents that her house was visited by spirits. She smiled, she laughed, she brushed off the notion and changed the subject, so that she would have the privacy to do what had to be done, here.
    While she was momentarily tempted to tell Justina Markham everything she'd seen and heard since moving into this cottage, she quickly decided she wasn't yet ready to take that step. "I'm sure you're right, but the stories do abound. What I've heard about the Stampers and the supposed ghostly appearances have made me curious, and I thought I might ask around and see what I could discover about the history of this house."
    Mrs. Markham laid her dark eyes on Eve. "I am here, torturing myself with painful memories from long past, because you're curious?" The woman's coolness was well practiced and daunting, but it was not going to stop Eve from proceeding.
    "I want to know what happened in my house," Eve explained. "Do you know, perhaps, who Viola