“I could not put it down! Good suspense, writing and characterizations.”--Roberta Rogow, The Book Breeze

“...A story of haunting suspense in the tradition of Phyllis Whitney and Mary Roberts Rinehart. E. F. Watkins puts a modern spin on classic gothic mystery. Ghosts, music, romance and a hundred-year-old unsolved murder add up to a great read!”--Elena Santangelo, author of the Agatha-nominated Pat Montella Mystery Series

...While I worked, I studied the layout of the yard with a fresh eye. What would it have looked like in Spencer’s day? The garage appeared newer than the house, and there wouldn’t have been any cars in 1897. Could the Spencers have had a shed for a private carriage? No, not enough land to keep a horse, at least not anymore. How would they have gotten around town? By walking? Probably…or by hiring the kind of livery cab I’d seen in my vision. For longer distances, they might have taken a horse-drawn trolley. I’d seen some of those in old photos in the library books.

I paused to wipe my brow and scan the back yard again. I wondered if in the eighteen-nineties the garden had been landscaped as it was now. Or was it a work area where servants scrubbed clothes and linens in metal tubs and hung them up on lines to dry? How would they have gotten water? From the stream? Or was there a well somewhere on the property back then?

The more I pondered these questions, the more intrigued I became with the differences between my property today and what it must have been like in the past. Beneath this familiar setting lurked an undercurrent of mystery, of questions to which I might never know the answers.

My late-afternoon industriousness seemed to inspire Dr. Zimmer. He emerged to fire up his own mower—the more conventional, gas-powered type—just as I made my last pass down the property line on his side. Grinning, he complimented me on my skill at avoiding the electrical cord and noted that my uncle ran over it once or twice before perfecting his own technique.

Though the mowing had tired me more than I’d expected, I thought I should take advantage of the remaining daylight to assess the state of the various flowerbeds.

The few daffodils and tulips in front of the garage had faded by now, but some deep indigo Siberian irises had sprouted to take their place. Along the shady garage wall that led back toward the rose arbor, rhododendrons had begun to bloom in a classic mauve shade. Violets already gobbled the ground beneath them and invaded the lawn.

I pulled some weeds, tossing them into one of two big plastic garbage cans I’d found in the garage.

Although Aunt Marge’s beloved flowerbeds needed some TLC, they had survived the winter pretty well. The only casualty I spotted was a small shrub near the edge of Dr. Zimmer’s property. No telling what it had been, but I suspected the full-sun exposure hadn’t agreed with it. At any rate, the cluster of gray, brittle stalks was beyond saving.

The thing had sunk its roots surprisingly deep in a valiant struggle to survive, so I went for my uncle’s shovel. I dug out the earth on all sides of the bush, then rocked it with my gloved hands until I pried it loose.

Just before dropping it into the trash can, I shook off the excess dirt. Something bright fell with a ping against the shovel blade.

I picked up and brushed the dirt off a round, tarnished object that trailed a short piece of chain.

A man’s pocket watch.

BANG!

Pain blazed through me, right under my breastbone, like I’d been run through with a hot poker. I dropped to my knees and gasped for breath.

I tried to call for help, but couldn’t get enough air. I wrapped one arm around my midsection, used the other to brace against the ground. The yard whirled around me, and I started to pass out.

But I couldn’t fall. I wouldn’t! Something told me if I did, I might never get up again.

Strong hands grabbed me. Over the roaring in my ears, I heard Zimmer ask, “Quinn, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

I tried to find the wind to answer him. He held out his sinewy hand. To grab it, I dropped the pocket watch.

Instantly, my vision started to clear. The searing pain eased. After a second, I dared to draw a deep breath again. Much better!

I relaxed the arm I had clamped around my body, almost expecting to find a wound.