He answered carefully. “Of course I was. I was there with you. But that was the only time I have ever been there, I swear.”

She was still a ball of tension beneath him, but he could feel her trying to control herself. She was seething, but she’d stopped trying to escape his hold.

“Let me up,” she demanded.

Carefully, he did so. To his astonishment, she began ransacking his room, looking through the closet, the drawers and his open luggage. He was glad that his computer was sitting open on the small antique desk; she might have sent it flying, otherwise, as she hurled his clothing over her shoulder.

He didn’t even think to try to stop her. It would only have made her madder.

At last, exhausted, she stood still for a moment. From her expression, he could tell that she hadn’t found what she was looking for.

“What did you do with it?” she demanded.

“With what?” he asked.

“The clothes!”

“You’ve just seen every piece of clothing I have with me,” he said, sitting on the foot of the bed and staring at her. “Maybe I should be calling the police.”

“Be my guest.”

“Sarah, can you tell me what’s going on and what you think I’ve done?” he asked, hoping he sounded patient, since he certainly didn’t feel that way.

“You came to my house and stood at the foot of my bed, pretending to be a nineteenth-century ghost. And I don’t care what you say, I know it was you. The facial hair was great, and the wig was even better, but it was you.”

He frowned. “Someone broke into your carriage house?”

“Not someone—you!” she accused.

“In nineteenth-century clothes?” he said skeptically. “Did it ever occur to you that you were dreaming?”

“Oh, no. It was no dream. It was real, and I have your footprints to prove it,” she announced.

He stood. She backed away from him.

“Sarah, I walked you home, then came back here, and I never left this room after that. I did not bring a period costume with me to St. Augustine. I don’t know what to say to convince you, but I would never break in to someone’s house and play a joke like that. Aside from the fact that it’s cruel, it’s also illegal. You must have had some kind of a nightmare.”

“It wasn’t a nightmare, it was a…a play. And you were the flesh-and-blood star,” she said. She stared hard at him, then said, “Shoes!”

She went back to the closet and pulled out his shoes, turning them over and looking at the soles.

At last she stood, hair a wild tangle about her face—but now with just a trace of doubt on her features.

“I told you, after I said good-night to you I came back here and went to sleep,” he said evenly.

At that moment there was a tap on his door, and Bertie called, “Excuse me, but is everything all right in here?”

Sarah winced, closing her eyes tightly for a moment.

“Everything’s fine, Bertie,” he called. “Just give me a minute.” As he spoke, he was pulling on a pair of pants.

As soon as he was decent, he went to the door and opened it for Bertie, who walked in hesitantly, a wary look on her face.

He couldn’t blame her. This was her home as well as her business. She could hardly be expected to ignore the sounds of a heated argument and flying objects coming from a guestroom.

“Caleb? What’s going on here?” she asked, taking in the state of the room. Then she saw Sarah and just stared.

Caleb crossed his arms over his chest. “Sarah will explain,” he said.

Sarah shook her head. “Someone…someone dressed up and played a trick on me, tried to scare me. He looked just like Caleb,” she said.

“When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago,” Sarah said.

Sarah might have known Bertie longer, but at this moment, Bertie seemed to be taking his side, Caleb thought.

“So you came here—and trashed his room?” Bertie asked quietly.

Caleb stood, took Sarah by the shoulders and steered her toward the door. “Bertie, I think Sarah needs a cup of coffee. Why don’t you give me a few minutes to take a shower, and then I’ll go back with her and try to get to the bottom of the situation. Will that be all right, Sarah?” he asked, as if he were talking to a particularly slow-witted child.

She was still angry, but now she also looked uncertain, even mortified. Maybe she was finally accepting the idea that a nightmare had sent her marching over here to accost a half-naked and innocent—at least of dressing up and scaring her, he thought, hiding a grin—man in his bed.

“Be quick,” she said scathingly, gathering her anger around herself like a shield.

“Sarah…” Bertie said, leading Sarah out and closing the door in her wake.

He locked the door, and then with the women gone, took a quick shower and dressed with the speed of lightning. When he emerged, the kitchen help were just arriving and Sarah was nursing a cup of coffee.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see what’s up at your carriage house.”

“Would you two like some breakfast first?” Bertie suggested.

“Thank you, but I think this needs to be resolved. Now,” he said. “And don’t worry about the room. Nothing’s broken, and I’ll deal with the mess when I get back later today.”

He didn’t let either woman protest as he maneuvered Sarah out the front door. She was as stiff as a two-by-four, and waves of heat and hostility seemed to be sweeping off her into the morning air. She hurried to get ahead of him, but his strides were long, and he soon caught up to her.

When they reached her property, she turned on him again. “Just admit that you did it. I promise I won’t call the police.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he told her. “Now, tell me why you’re so convinced this was something more than a dream. Was the door open after your…visitor left?”

She looked away. “No. But you’re a private investigator, and you have…skills, maybe some kind of a key.”

“A key that opens the lock and the dead bolt?” he demanded.

“It’s possible,” she said defensively.

He stepped past her with disgust. “I don’t have a magic key, okay? So would you be so kind as to open the door?”

She did so. “Be careful where you walk. I don’t want you to mess up the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“The mud and grass you—someone tracked in. See? At the foot of the bed.”

He hunkered down and studied the rug. There were indeed bits of mud and grass on the floor, as if they’d been tracked in by someone who had come through the door, circled the sofa to stand at the foot of the bed, and then…vanished.

He stood, puzzled. “You do need to call the cops, I think.”

She sank down on the arm of the sofa, staring at him. He was sure she was feeling desperate, still wanting it to have been him, wanting the mystery to have a solid answer.

“They’ll think we tracked it in when you walked me home last night. They’ll think I’m crazy. Especially when I tell them that he was dressed in period clothing.”

“Is anything missing?” Caleb asked her.

She shook her head. “No…it was…I’m telling you, it was you. In costume.”

“And I’m telling you, it wasn’t,” he said firmly.

She looked lost—still prickly and defensive, but lost.

“Sarah, it really might have been a dream.”

“Explain the dirt and the grass.”

“Maybe we did track it in last night.”

“We walked on the sidewalks. The driveway is paved and the walk is stone. Neither of us stepped off the walk onto the lawn,” she said.

“All right, what did this person say or do? Did he just stand there looking at you?” Caleb asked.

“No. He kept saying he ‘didn’t do it,’ that he had loved her,” Sarah told him, getting up and pacing agitatedly.

“I see,” he said consideringly.

She socked him on the shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make her point.

“Don’t you dare patronize me. I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he protested. “Sarah, it had to be a dream. There’s no other explanation. Unless you think I have a doppelganger with a bad sense of humor hanging around the area? Because I swear to you, I wasn’t here. I wouldn’t play that kind of a joke on anyone. Ever. So…it wasn’t me. We can call the police, if it will set your mind at rest. In fact, I was heading to the station this morning anyway. You can come with me and make a report, and they can search my room again, my car, anything that you want. You can have them dust for prints, too. Of course, you will find mine, along with yours, but…maybe they’ll find someone else’s, too.”