“Something interesting?”

“Sort of interesting, yeah.”

“Something you didn’t want to tell me until the papers were signed?”

“Nothing that would change your mind, Tom. Just a little bit odd.”

“So? It’s haunted?”

Archer smiled and leaned over his cup. “Not quite. Though that wouldn’t surprise me. The property has a peculiar history. The lot was purchased in 1963 and the house was finished the next year. From 1964 through 1981 it was occupied by a guy named Ben Collier—lived alone, came into town once in a while, no visible means of support but he paid his bills on time. Friendly when you talked to him, but not real friendly. Solitary.”

“He sold the house?”

“Nope. That’s the interesting part. He disappeared around 1980 and the property came up for nonpayment of taxes. Nobody could locate the gentleman. He had no line of credit, no social security number anybody could dig up, no registered birth—his car wasn’t even licensed. If he died, he didn’t leave a corpse.” Archer sipped his coffee. “Real good coffee here, in my opinion. You know they grind the beans in back? Their own blend. Colombian, Costa Rican—”

Tom said, “You’re enjoying this story.”

“Hell, yes! Aren’t you?”

Tom discovered that he was, as a matter of fact. His interest had been piqued. He looked at Archer across the table— frowned and looked more closely. “Oh, shit, I know who you are! You’re the kid who used to pitch stones at cars down along the coast highway!”

“You were a grade behind me. Tony Winter’s little brother.”

“You cracked a windshield on a guy’s Buick. There were editorials in the paper. Juvenile delinquency on the march.”

Archer grinned. “It was an experiment in ballistics.”

“Now you sell haunted houses to unsuspecting city slickers.