Ali oozed continental charm as he clasped Bunny’s hand. “You’re a breeder?”

      Bunny extracted her hand from his grip. “With me, it’s a hobby. With my first husband, it was a business. He had a couple of Derby entries that did well.     

       He also met a lady jockey who demanded more of his time and money than I cared to forfeit. My second husband was no better.   He romanced me for two months, rushed me to the altar, and showed his true colors a week later by admitting that he married me for rumors of a fortune that probably doesn’t exist. All of which explains why I live by myself. My next move is to get rid of this albatross.” She gestured broadly, the sweep of her hand indicating the house and its environs.

      “I don’t call this beautiful place an albatross,” I said. 

      “Oh, don’t take me wrong. I’m fond of it, but at this point in my life, I’m exploring other options. I’ve applied to the University of Virginia Law School. If they accept me, I want to be ready to go, no strings attached. A law degree should come in handy if I meet any more cads and fortune hunters.”

      Bunny’s willingness to discuss her private life was making me uncomfortable. To change the topic, I asked, “Do you mind if we look around?”

      “Be my guest. You’ll have to come back in daylight to see the out-buildings.”

      “Splendid.” Ali bowed graciously and moved ahead into the parlor.

      I started to follow, but Bunny pulled me aside, her bony fingers digging into my forearm. “What are his credentials?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Can he afford this place?” 

      “Judging from the office records, I’d say that Mr. Ahmed has no financial limits.”

      Bunny relaxed. “Good. The sooner I can get rid of the taxes, the upkeep and the spookiness, the better.”

      I drew a long breath. “Spookiness?”

      “Talk about creepy! This house shivers and shakes all night. You’d think the ghosts from the family plot were having a convention. Must be the curse I inherited from my Davis ancestors.”

      That caught my attention. “The house I sold near Purcellville was built before the Revolution by a Davis family. 

      Probably no relation.”

      Her eyes lit up. “Mine is the only Davis family in early Loudoun County. I inherited that house and sold it to a Mr. Grigsby five years ago. Who bought it?”

      “A man from Chicago whose wife likes historical places.”

      “It’s historical, all right. Tradition says the Davis family arrived with barrels and chests filled with gold, silver and pewter.”

      “Were they criminals?”

      Bunny laughed. “Not by today’s standards. Their crime was founding a church that defied the Church of England, so they came here to worship as they pleased.”

      I brightened. “My client mentioned a church…”

      “That would be the meetinghouse they built.”

      “It’s still in use?”

      Bunny shook her head. “It was abandoned long ago.”

      “I wonder why my client was drawn to it.”

      She shrugged. “Probably heard the stories about the fortune hidden there.”

      “In the church?”

      “Who knows? Nobody’s solved the code they left.”

      “Code? What kind of code?”

      She rolled her eyes. “Some cryptic lines passed down from one generation to the next. My latest husband tried to sweet-talk me into giving them to him. When that didn’t work, he became abusive, so I got a restraining order. Maybe there never was a fortune, even though the rumors persist   like the stories of a secret room.”

      Had I not believed that Bunny was an ally, I never would have confided what popped out of my mouth next. “The secret room does exist.   I know that much. The former owner showed me the staircase leading to it. He made me promise not to tell the buyer.”

      Bunny’s mouth flew open. “You’re serious? How did he find it?”

      “By comparing the inside and outside dimensions. He felt obligated to honor the builder‘s wish that it remain a secret.”

      Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Did you think he found anything of value?”

      “No. Burke Cameron vouches for his honesty.”

      “Burke Cameron? The name isn’t familiar.”

      I reddened. “No reason it should be. He’s the son of the agency’s owner.”

      “And he’s reliable?”

      “Yes. I believe he is.”

      Turning aside, she spoke softly, as if addressing an invisible presence. “So the secret room really exists. That means it’s not just a fanciful story.”

      I dismissed the faint ghostly moan wafting through the open windows as nothing more than an evening breeze titillating the chimney tops.

      Momentarily, Bunny emerged from her trance and launched into her salesman mode. “Look, there’s no need to dwell on something intangible. You came to see this house. Let me explain its history. Before the British burned down the White House in 1813, Dolley Madison sent some of the treasures here. During the Civil War, Confederate officers fleeing Union soldiers were brought her by a young minister from the church down the road. He hid them under hay in his wagon.”

      “You must mean the Broad Run Church. I was just there.”

      “Were you? Then you might have noticed the graveyard. The minister is buried there. He died of a broken heart. He was engaged to Lisette, daughter of Crestmont’s owner, but she fell in love with one of the officers and eloped with him. Lisette and the officer came back here after the war to settle down. They were my great-grandparents.” A sad smile crossed Bunny’s face. “I inherited a tintype of the minister, a   handsome man I wouldn’t mind meeting, even if he were the ghost I blame for all the noise around here.”

      At that precise moment, Ali reappeared. “I could have sworn someone was tapping on an upstairs window,” he said. “Is this house haunted?”

      Bunny and I exchanged glances, convinced that the sounds Ali heard had nothing to do with his imagination.

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at