Rose Bellington's cherubic face wreathed in smile lines and the glow in her pale blue eyes caused Cassie to step back to avoid a hug. Rose looked like a sweet old lady and marriage had mellowed Cassie—but it hadn't melted the prickly barrier that protected her heart. Giving free access to anyone with a smile was one way to get it shattered into tiny pieces that people could grind under their heels.

Rose's head tilted, her face getting a you–poor–thing pucker.

As if being careful with your heart was something bad.

"I hope you like tea." Rose ushered her in. She wore black slacks and a loose short–sleeved top the same pale coral color as her hair. Faded red mixing with the gray formed a nimbus about her face, making her look like an elderly angel. Not a skinny one. She had a dumpling face and figure. Like Mrs. Santa, she didn't appear to be afraid of a few cookies.

Cassie agreed she did like tea and in a couple moments was sitting on the edge of a gold chair with a hard cushion that made her glad she came with her own padding.

"Tell me about your ghost," she said, taking a steaming cup of tea from Rose.

Rose sighed and perched on the matching sofa across from her. "I guess I'll have to."

"You don't have to." Cassie lifted her cup halfway to her mouth. "But don't expect me to return the advance."

"If only it was that easy." Rose leaned forward, her hands on her lap. "I suppose you wouldn't lie for me."

"I could but I don't know you." Cassie sipped the fragrant jasmine tea while Rose looked hopefully at her. "I don't know your story."

Rose's lower lip trembled. "They're saying I'm demented but I'm not. I don't want to leave my home and go into a nursing home. No one should have the right to force me."

Cassie set her tea cup on the table to her left. "It sounds as if you don't need a ghost therapist. You need a lawyer." Forget the advance after all. She could afford to return it. She hadn't married Luke for his money, but it was a nice perk. One benefit to marrying a former rock star turned successful songwriter.

"I gave Donny power of attorney over my money." Rose's shoulders slumped and her wrinkles drooped. "My medical power of attorney, too. After Lavinia on the first floor broke her hip, her son had a horrible time getting the doctors to listen to him. He ended up hiring a lawyer and taking them to court." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I thought I was being smart. I didn't think Donny would do this to me."

Cassie shifted on the hard cushion and gazed at the impressionism paintings on the wall. She'd seen similar in art museums. Then she took in the rich furnishings, the Aubusson carpet that covered most of the mellow wood floor, and the view of Lake Michigan across the street from the North Lake Drive condo building.

Nothing flashy. The woodwork that she guessed once glowed was now dull. The carpet and the furniture looked worn in spots. Despite this—or perhaps because of it—everything discreetly murmured "Money."

When money was in the mix, anything could happen. Wives could turn against husbands. Brothers against sisters. Grandkids against grandmothers.

The doorbell rang, a strong bong that demanded, "Listen to me!"

"Oh dear." Rose got up. "That must be him. I'll be right back."

Cassie noticed the hitch in her step. Arthritis, she guessed. As soon as Rose headed down the hall, Cassie glanced around the room.

"Are you there?" she asked softly. "Or is Rose imagining you?"

The air reverberated in the far corner. As started to stand, footsteps came from the hall. Three pairs, along with the deep tones of a man's voice and the lighter tones of a woman's. Not Rose's. Younger and faster, with a tinkling laugh. The kind that the pretty, flirty girls used.

The reverberations stopped, the air stilled. As if an invisible person held its breath.

Silently groaning, Cassie plopped back onto the chair. Apparently she was going to have to talk to live people with an agenda. She'd much rather talk to the dead—though they usually had an agenda, too.