Except that he wasn’t smiling now.
“You just now found him?” Sloan asked the maid.
The woman didn’t respond.
“Ms. Martin,” Sloan pressed.
Jane had noticed the maid’s nametag too, identifying her as Phoebe Martin. At last, the woman blinked, focused, and turned to Sloan, nodding sadly, like a child admitting an obvious but unhappy fact.
“Is anyone else here?” Sloan asked her. “I mean, besides you, me, Logan, Kelsey, and Jane?” He pointed around to all of them, using their first names. That was a way to make her feel comfortable, as if she were one with them. In situations like this, people spoke way more easily to authorities when they felt as if they were conversing with friends.
The maid, an attractive young blonde woman of about twenty-seven or so, shook her head. “Right here, no. I didn’t see anybody. I was coming from the kitchen and saw him lying here. But, yes, yes, of course, others are around. They’re always around. The castle is never left empty. The caretaker, Mr. Green, is somewhere about.”
“Anyone else?” Jane prodded gently.
Ms. Martin nodded solemnly. “Mrs. Avery is in her office along with Scully Adair, her assistant. And the chef came in about an hour or so ago. So did two of the cooks. Lila and Sonia are here. They’re with housekeeping.”
Jane knew that Mrs. Denise Avery managed the castle. She’d dealt with the woman to rent the rooms they’d taken for the weekend, including the chapel and ballroom. The castle was actually owned by a descendant of Emil Roth, the eccentric millionaire who, in the late 1850s, had the building disassembled in Wales and brought to the coastline of New England. The owner, another Emil Roth, had been born with more money than he’d been able to waste. The Roth family had made their fortune in steel, then banking. The current Roth was gone, Jane had been told, to Africa on a big game photography hunt. Mrs. Avery was a distant relative herself. And while the current Emil Roth spent money, Mrs. Avery tried to make it.
“Miss Martin, perhaps you could gather them all here, in the foyer,” Sloan suggested.
“Gather them,” she repeated.
“Yes, please, would you?” Jane prodded.
“The police and the coroner will arrive any minute and everyone should be here when they do,” Sloan said.
Phoebe Martin looked at them at last. “Police?”
“A man is dead,” he said. “Yes, the police.”
“But… he… fell,” she said.
“Possibly,” Logan said.
“Probably,” Jane said firmly.
Phoebe’s eyes widened still further. “Pushed!”
“No. All we know is that he’s dead,” Jane said. “The local police need to come and the death investigated. The medical examiner or the coroner must come, too.”
“Pushed!” Phoebe said again.
“There is that possibility,” Kelsey said. She glanced at Jane and grimaced sorrowfully. “But, he probably just fell. No one was there, right? We were all in our rooms, you just came to the landing and found him, and the others are in their offices or on the grounds working. Poor man! He fell, and no one was here. But we still have to have the police.”
“The ghost did it!” Phoebe declared.
“Ghosts are seldom vicious,” Kelsey said.
Phoebe’s gaze latched onto Kelsey. “How would you know? Ghosts can be horribly malicious. Ripping off sheets. Throwing coffee pods all around. Oh, you don’t know! It was her, I’m telling you. She did it!”
Phoebe was pointing. It seemed she was pointing straight at Jane.
“What?” Jane demanded, her voice a squeak rather than the dignified question she’d intended.
But then she saw that they were all looking behind her at the painting on the wall.
She’d noted it before, of course. Just about a month earlier while driving through the area after a situation in the Northeast, she’d seen the castle. It was open three days a week for tours, and she’d been there for the Saturday afternoon event. Mrs. Avery had led the tour and introduced them to Elizabeth Roth via the painting, a young woman who’d lost her fiancé on the eve of their wedding. Elizabeth, the daughter of the house, had been found dead of an overdose of laudanum on the day her wedding should have taken place. It was said that she was often seen in the halls of the castle, wringing her hands as she paced, praying for the return of her lover.
She was beautiful. Rich waves of auburn hair billowed around her face, with soft tendrils curling about her forehead. Her features were fine and delicate and even ethereal. The painting appeared to be that of a ghost, and yet, Mrs. Avery had assured, it had been done from life by the artist Robichaux who’d been a friend of the family. Perhaps he’d sensed the doom that was to be her future. John McCawley, her groom, had been killed the night before the intended nuptials, hunting in the nearby woods.
“Miss Martin, you’re suggesting that Elizabeth Roth did this?” Sloan asked quietly.
Phoebe nodded solemnly. “There have been other deaths over the years. On this staircase. Why do you think we’re not booked solidly for weddings?”
Sloan looked over at Jane. She stared back at him with her eyes widening. No, she had to admit, she hadn’t done much research on the castle. It had just been beautiful and available, perfect for the two of them. Or so she had thought.
A wry half-smile played lightly on Sloan’s lips. An assuring smile, she thought. One that conveyed what she already knew. Ghosts don’t stay behind to kill. And something else. They both knew they would be together always, whether this turned out to be the wonderful event of a wedding or not.
“Someone else died here? On these steps?” Sloan asked.
Phoebe looked at Jane. “Last time, it was the bride.”
Sloan stared at Jane again. She widened her eyes and gave her head a little shake. Another point she had not thought about either.
“What happened?” Logan asked.
“The bride fell. She tumbled down the stairs. The police said that she tripped on her dress and fell. She died in a pool of white. It was terrible!” Phoebe said.
“It doesn’t seem to be a particularly dangerous staircase,” Kelsey murmured.
Jane looked down again at Marty MacDonald, dead at the foot of the stairs, his eyes still open in horror. As if he’d seen something awful. His murderer? Or something else? Why the hell would anyone have murdered the man? She realized that Sloan was watching her, frowning, aware of how upset she was. Or maybe relieved? Last time, it had been the bride to die. Sloan gave her a warning look filled with empathy. One that said this was sad, but there was no reason to believe it was anything other than a tragic accident.
“It has to be the ghost. It has to be,” Phoebe whispered.
He gave his attention back to Phoebe Martin.
“Must be a powerful ghost,” he suggested, not arguing with Phoebe but trying to get her to converse, without really stating anything they knew about the ghost world. “The reverend was not a small man. Assuming that they exist, I’m sure that ghosts do have certain powers. But, personally, I do find it unlikely that the ghost of Elizabeth Roth pushed a man down the stairs.”
“You don’t know our ghosts,” Phoebe said, sounding a little desperate. “Maybe it wasn’t Elizabeth. Maybe it was John McCawley, her fiancé. Oh! Maybe his hunting accident wasn’t so accidental. Maybe he’s seeking revenge!”
There was no painting anywhere of John McCawley, but then, he hadn’t lived to become a member of the family and only family members, Mrs. Avery had assured Jane, were pictured on the walls.
“Most likely the poor Reverend MacDonald tripped,” Sloan said. “But that’s still a sad, accidental death. I believe we should gather everyone on the property here. The police will be arriving soon,” Sloan said.
“Of course. I’ll gather the others,” Phoebe said.
But before she could scamper off, a man in his late-twenties with sandy blond hair, a trifle long, dressed in a tailored shirt and jacket reminiscent of Lor
d Byron, appeared at the landing.
“What in the devil? What’s going on down there?”
Miss Martin didn’t scream in terror again. She gaped in astonishment, staring upward.
“Mr. Roth!” she strangled out.
Jane arched her neck to get a better look at the man. Mrs. Avery had informed her that the owner would be gone for the duration of time they were at the castle. He’d supposedly left several weeks ago.
“Hello, Miss Martin,” he said gravely.
“Hello,” he said to the others, coming down the stairs and carefully avoiding the fallen dead man. He seemed justly appalled by the corpse, sadness, confusion, and horror appearing in his expression as he looked at the dead man.
“Mr. Roth?” Jane asked.
He nodded. “How do you do? Yes, I know. I’m not supposed to be here. And I’m so sorry. Poor man. Do you have any idea… the banister is safe, the carpeting is… secure. I’ve had engineers in here to make sure that it’s safe. But, poor, poor fellow! He must have fallen. Are the police coming?”
“On their way,” Kelsey said.
“It’s just a normal stairway,” Emil Roth murmured, looking up the stairs again. “How does it happen?” The question seemed to be retrospective.
“Mr. Roth, we just heard that a woman died here in the same way. Is that true?” Sloan asked.
Roth nodded, disturbed as he looked down again, then away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at the dead man. “Can we do something? Put a sheet on him, something?”
“What about others?” Logan asked. “Dying here.”
Roth looked at Logan. “Sir, many died over the years, I believe. It was the Cadawil family home in Wales and the family died out. And here, my parents both died in the room I now keep. Of natural causes. A child in the 1880s died of consumption or tuberculosis. Only Elizabeth Roth died by her own hand. Yes, we had a tragic accident the last time we agreed to have a wedding here. The bride died. A terrible, incredibly sad accident. Oh, Lord. I just wish that we could cover him up!”
“Not until the police arrive,” Sloan said. “Best to leave him for the authorities.”
Phoebe was still just standing.
“Miss Martin, if you’ll gather the others, please?” Logan said gently.
Phoebe moved at last, walking slowly away at first, staring at them all, then turning to run as if banshees were at her heels.
Jane heard the first siren.
She was surprised when Emil Roth looked straight into her eyes. He seemed to study her as if he saw something remarkable.
“How?” he repeated, and then he said, “Why?”
The sound of his voice seemed to echo a sickness within him.
The police arrived. Two officers in uniform preceded a pair of detectives, one grizzled and graying in a tweed coat, the other younger in a stylish jacket. Sloan, closest to the door where they were entering, stepped forward and introduced himself and the others with a minimum of words and explained the situation. A Detective Forester, the older man, asked them all to step away. A younger detective, Flick, began the process of having the uniform officers tape off the scene. Everyone was led through the foyer to the Great Hall. They sat and Jane explained that the minister had been there to officiate at her wedding to Sloan. Emil Roth began to explain that he’d been in Europe planning for an extended stay in Africa but that a stomach bug had soured that prospect, so he’d returned late last night, entering through his private entry at the rear of the castle, where once upon a time guests of the family had arrived via their carriages or on horseback.
The others at the castle were herded into the Grand Hall and introduced themselves. Mrs. Avery, the iron matron in perfect appearance and coiffure. Scully Adair, her young redheaded assistant. Chef Bo Gerard, fortyish and plump, like a man who enjoyed his own creations. Two young cooks, Harry Taubolt and Devon Richard—both lean young men in their twenties who’d not yet enjoyed too much of their own cooking. Sonia Anderson and Lila Adkins, the other maids, young and attractive, like Phoebe.
None of them had been near the foyer, they said.
They were all astounded and saddened by the death of the minister. A few mentioned Cally Thorpe, the young woman who’d died in her bridal gown, tripping down the stairs too. Everyone seemed convinced that it was an accident caused by the ghost of Elizabeth Roth. The medical examiner arrived and while he said he’d have to perform an autopsy, it did appear that the minister had simply missed a step near the second floor landing and tragically broken his neck.
“Sad,” Detective Forester said. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will be an autopsy, of course, and I may need to speak to all of you again, but—”
His voice trailed as his younger partner entered from the foyer and whispered something to him. He suddenly studied the four agents.
“You’re Feds?” he demanded.
Logan nodded.
“And you’re here for a wedding?” Forester asked.
He seemed irritated. But, obviously, they hadn’t come to solve any mysteries since they’d been here already when the death had occurred.
“We’re here for our wedding,” Jane said. “I love the castle. It’s beautiful.”
“So you’re responsible for the minister being here?” Forester asked.
“Yes,” she told him.
He stared at her as if it were entirely her fault.
Then Scully Adair, Mrs. Avery’s pretty redheaded assistant, stood up, seemingly anguished. “It’s not Miss Everett’s fault that this happened. It’s the castle’s fault. It’s true! People can’t be married here. It was crazy to think that we could plan a wedding. Something bad was destined to happen.”
“Oh, rubbish!” Mrs. Avery protested. “Sit down, Scully. That’s rot and foolishness. The poor man had an accident. Miss Everett,” she said, looking at Jane. “Not to worry. We can find you another minister.”
Jane was appalled by the suggestion. Mrs. Avery made it sound as if a caterer had backed out of making a wedding cake. A man was dead!
“The ghosts did it,” Phoebe said.
“Ghosts!” Forester let out a snort of derision and stood. “I believe the medical examiner has taken the body. I have a crime scene unit checking out the stairway, but then there will be hundreds of prints on the banister.” He paused and looked around again at all of them. “None of you saw or heard a thing, right?”
“Not until I found him,” Phoebe said.
“And then she screamed, and we came running,” Sloan said.
Forester nodded. “All right, then, I’ll be in touch. We’ll be awaiting the M.E.’s report, but I believe we’re looking at a tragic accident.”
Jane knew what his next words would be.
“None of you leaves town, though. Yeah, I know it’s cliché, but that’s the way it is. I want to be able to contact each and every one of you easily over the next few days.”
He stared at Sloan, Logan, Kelsey, and Jane.
“Especially you Feds.”
Chapter 2
For a long moment, Sloan Trent had simply sat beside Jane when the meeting had ended and others, except for Kelsey and Logan, had moved on. Then Sloan had held Jane close in silence. The bond between them remained. Nothing, he thought, could ever break that. And then they sat together with Kelsey and Logan. Maybe they were all still a little numb. They’d come for such a joyous occasion.
“We can find a… a…” Kelsey began, but then she paused and Sloan wondered what she had been about to say. Another minister? Or, perhaps a living minister?
The body of Reverend MacDonald was gone—taken to the morgue. Mrs. Avery had retired to her office. Chef and the cooks had presumably headed to the kitchen. Mr. Green had gone back to the groundskeeper’s lodge and the maids were cleaning the rooms above.
“I’m not sure that this is what we want for the memory anymore,” Sloan said, slipping his arm around Jane’s shoulder. She was handling it well, he thought.
Or maybe not.
She seemed stricken. But Jane was strong. She’d proven that so many times. Of course, this was different. She’d planned the perfect small wedding for them in a beautiful place with just a few close friends. The ceremony had never meant that much to him. If she’d wanted a big wedding, fine. If she’d wanted to walk into city hall and say a few words, that would have been fine, too.
He knew that he loved her. No, that was truly a mild concept for the way he felt about her. He’d known what people might refer to as “the good, the bad, and the ugly” in life. He’d experienced a few one-night stands, never knowing if they were good women or not. He’d had relationships with really fine people. But he’d never been with anyone like Jane. Smart, funny, beautiful. And she’d be just as beautiful to him in fifty years. She had the most unusual eyes, not brown or hazel, more a true amber. When she looked at him with those eyes, he saw the world and everything he wanted in life within them. The idea that someone else completed him as a whole seemed cliché, and yet he woke each day happy she was in his life. He worked well with her. They trusted one another with no question. Their commitment was complete. And it didn’t matter to him a bit if it was legal. But since they did both believe in God, along with the basic tenets of goodness associated with most religions, it was nice to think that they’d have their union blessed.
Where or how meant nothing to him.
But women? They planned weddings. Big and small.
“We’re not getting another minister,” Jane said. “And we’re not getting married here.”
“But we’re not leaving here, you know. Especially not us ‘Feds,’” Logan reminded them.
Sloan was glad to see that Logan was amused rather than offended. Most of the time when they worked with locals, all went well. Sloan knew that because once upon a time he’d been the local the Krewe of Hunters—with Logan at the helm—had worked with. That had been the beginning for him. Now, he’d been with the Krewe for some time and he loved where he was, though he didn’t particularly like murder and mayhem. But he’d known as a young man he’d been meant to fight for the rights of victims, whether living or dead. And working with the Krewe was the best way he knew how to accomplish that role.
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