A Haunting Affair

by Ursula Bauer

  His expectations, if he had any, had been low. Now, he almost believed. Almost. A part of him still sat back, watching, waiting for disappointment and failure. That part warned him that a con’s first weapon is the ability to make a mark believe. But the rest of him was close to buying in. It was bad, and good at the same time, and he made up his mind that for now and the immediate future, he’d decide to let it be good and see where it took him.

  “Thanks for making dinner,” she said, breaking the silence when her plate was nearly empty. “It was a long drive from the city and I was starving. If you get tired of being a private cop, you should hang your shingle as a personal chef.”

  “You didn’t have anything at the diner?”

  “The place was packed. Everyone was waiting out the rain and the kitchen was backed up. I decided to stay in the car.”

  “I’ll take you one night. They make great meatloaf, and the best omelets north of Saratoga.”

  They cleaned up together, their movements matched like they’d done this a thousand times. He set the dishwasher while she poured herself another cup of decaf and went to get more cream from the fridge. The rain had started up again mixed with dull flashes of far off lightning and hushed echoes of thunder.

  “More storms?” Emma poured in the cream and returned the carton to the shelf.

  “It’s a bad year.”

  “So, Sam, where do we start?”

  He had a lot of answers to that question, none of them he could say aloud. He grabbed another beer and closed the door. Standing beside her, he was wrapped in her floral scent. He leaned against the fridge, affecting a casual attitude at odds with the blood pounding in his veins. “How about I catch you up on the case. We can review the main points.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I have an ocean of material you can review. Keith was meticulous with his data collection. I started at ground zero. Examined everything again, even build a few programs to sift the information. See if there were things missed, or new angles to examine.” And came up with zilch. Sam steeled himself against the thought of another failure. “I put together a basic package of case facts as they stand. I figure the weird stuff can follow.”

  “It usually does,” she said, rewarding him with one of her genuine smiles.

  He found himself smiling in return. It was a rusty motion, something he was out of practice doing, but once the mold cracked, it came free and easy. This time the warmth that ran through him had nothing to do with desire. A hot moment stretched between them. What would she do if he reached for her? Touched her bare skin. Kissed her even. Would she slap him and run for the door, or would she part for him and let him taste his fill?

  His big head reminded the rest of him that she was here to do a job, not him. The moment turned awkward and he backed off.

  “The stuff’s in the library.” Sam grabbed the shreds of self control he once prided himself on and strode out of the kitchen, leaving her to follow. He had to put some needed distance between them. Had to re-establish boundaries. Reason told him he couldn’t afford a complication like her, not with the plans he had in mind for his life as soon as all of this was cleared up.

  It had been his experience, though, that reason and desire rarely had anything in common. A woman like Emma, complex and mysterious, wouldn’t be easy to resist, no matter what game plan he’d concocted for himself prior to meeting her. Since she’d flashed him that hot look on the porch, all bets were off.

  ~ * * * ~

  She’d wanted him to do it. To kiss her. He was close enough. The intent was there. In the slant of his gaze, in the low purr of his voice. And when he didn’t, she fairly ached with the loss. Her lips tingled, disappointed with the lack of follow through. Her mind kept telling her he wasn’t her type, and warning her off a guy she’d known less than a few hours, but everything else in her had other plans.

  Emma breathed a heartfelt sigh when he turned on his heels and stalked out of the kitchen. It was one part relief, one part longing. They could have some fun, and if the heat kept climbing at this rate between them, they certainly would. Would it stay just fun, though? His presence was still palpable. What would casual with a man like Sam Tyler really be? Could she keep it contained, the way she preferred all her relationships?

  Once in the library she tried to get her bearings. It was hard to play it cool when you burned white hot for the guy not three feet in front of you. Playing games with fire always had a bad end. She knew that, told herself that she shouldn’t play with this particular flame. But as she grabbed a pen and legal pad from a rough hewn log console and curled into a corner of the tartan sofa, she knew she couldn’t lie. Given half the chance, one or both of them would strike that match. Knowing that, it then became a question of distraction. Would burning a while with Sam Tyler interfere with her plans, or would the heat be worth the risk?

  “I read up on Jennifer’s murder on the internet this afternoon. People familiar with it say this case is hopeless.” She was the psychic part of the pair. The real detective work came from his end, and she was eager to find out what he’d made of the convoluted history and evidence. She put her pen to paper. Taking notes was a crutch, a way to focus on the case to avoid focusing on...other things.

  He stood, legs braced wide, hands on his hips. Beside him, a large dry erase board balanced on a battered desk shoved up against one richly paneled wall. Pictures central to the cold case, a few crime scene shots of the guest lodge before and after the fire, and assorted other ephemera were taped to the white surface. Table surfaces and parts of the floor were covered with drifts of spiral notebooks piles, leather journals and what appeared to be reams of computer print outs. It reminded her of something from a TV detective show, and with the exception of the print outs and journals, was like most of the police departments she’d worked with over the years.

  Sam, on the other hand, came straight from a fantasy. He wasn’t like any other cop she’d met, and certainly not like your average computer geek. How she was supposed to pay attention, stay on her game enough to pick up any stray energy, and keep her hands off him was beyond her at the moment.

  “There’s very little evidence. The main suspect died before a real investigation started.” He’d pushed up his sleeves as he worked, revealing well shaped, entirely masculine forearms. Such a simple part of the anatomy, seemingly innocuous, but Emma found herself mesmerized by them. By him. “On the night Jennifer Vaughn died, four guests were in residence in the main lodge. The groundskeeper was also around. Keith had left for Lake Placid to meet one of his software developers about a programming problem. Unknown to all, a stalker Jen had met while doing charity work was hiding in one of the abandoned staff buildings. By the time Keith returned to the lodge, his wife was dead. Burned to a crisp along with the guest annex.”

  Emma made a few preliminary notes while he talked, but nothing struck her. She worked herself down off the ledge of tight desire, coming somewhat close to a normal operating level in hopes it would open up the psychic channels more. Reviewing the information in her head, she knew it matched with what she’d learned on her own.

  Sam continued the briefing, emotionless and mechanical in his presentation. “Prevailing theory goes: While the other two couples are sleeping or otherwise occupied, and Keith is in Lake Placid, Jen goes to the guest annex where she’s killed. Fuel taken from the boat house is used to light the place up. Between the fire, and the heavy rains, no evidence remained. She was identified from dental records.”

  The lifeless statement of the facts unsettled her. The heinous crime certainly accounted for some of the sinister energy she picked up from the lodge, but not all of it. Pieces were missing. Giant pieces. Pieces that might not even belong to this particular puzzle. The thought that there was more going on stuck with her as he talked, so she jotted it down. She never knew where her odd bits would lead, and more often than not, these were the things that broke cases wide open. “The Vaughn diamonds went missing that night
.”

  “They did.” Sam tapped a picture of a cluster of priceless diamonds arranged in an antique choker setting. “The fire inspector thought they were scattered after the fire was put out, since the setting would have melted. Keith wasn’t convinced. Twice he brought in teams of seasoned archeologists. They sifted the site and surrounding area and found nothing. The insurance inspector believed they were stolen. The police were neutral on the topic.”

  She absently chewed on the end of her pen. She tried to relax, to open her senses, but Sam’s proximity made it hard to concentrate. The word necklace repeated in her mind. Dim yet insistent. As if memory chanted, trying to wake a sleeping thought. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “The missing necklace has always been a major question in this case.”

  “I sense it’s going to be important to our outcome.” She braced herself for his anticipated bad reaction.

  To his credit, Sam’s expression didn’t change. “It wouldn’t surprise me. The necklace was worth a fortune. For it to go missing and never appear again, not even for sale as pieces on the black market, is very unusual. Keith paid off jewelry fences on both sides of the Atlantic to keep tabs on it, but nothing ever surfaced.”

  “So, back to that night.” He faced the board, tapped a picture next to the one of Keith and Jennifer. “Keith and Jen were at a Saratoga fund raiser. They left early in the evening with two friends to come to the lodge. Keith’s brother Wesley, and his wife Audrey, were already at the lodge.”

  “Was coming here part of the evening’s plans?”

  “According to Keith, no. They wanted to party a little harder than was socially acceptable at the charity ball. Jen had an image to maintain, and when she wanted to cut loose, she did it in private. Up here.”

  His voice was tight, his stance one of battle. An impression lanced into her consciousness. “Jen was a druggie.”

  Now Sam’s expression changed. Not negatively, though. He looked curious, and maybe a little impressed. “Coke. She wasn’t overboard, but she was close. Keith didn’t like it, but couldn’t seem to stop her.”

  “So Keith and his wife, along with two friends, left Saratoga earlier that night to come to the lodge and party a little more in depth.” A picture formed in her mind. She heard manic laughter. Emma closed her eyes and tried to pick up the essence with more clarity. “I see a lot of alcohol,” she said, as the vision slipped from her grasp. “Brandy, I think. Expensive.”

  “The other couple was Keith’s lawyer and his wife. They were drinking brandy with Wesley and Audrey.” He shook his head. “Eric said you were good, but I’ve never worked with a psychic before. I didn’t realize how good.”

  “Mileage varies. It’s an unpredictable talent.” She didn’t want to raise his hopes. He struck her as a man who’d suffered much disappointment in the last year.

  “I’m dying to ask where you from the skill came from, or how you learned it. I’m sure you get those questions all the time and are tired of answering. Maybe if we get some downtime you’ll tell me? I bet there’s a good story in it.”

  The switch, from stone-faced Sam reciting facts to excited Sam had a strange effect. His face transformed, the burdens and clouds lifted, and for a moment he was boyishly handsome. The impact startled her. So did the line of questioning. “Not many people ask me that directly. The sight, in many forms, comes down through my mother’s line. Seems one in every generation gets it. My grandmother had it, so did my aunt.”

  “There’s more, I bet.”

  “There always is.” Emma didn’t like the questions focused on her. “Maybe over coffee I’ll tell you the rest, when we’re not up to our eyeballs in ghosts and cold case crimes.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll hold you to your promise.”

  As sudden as it came, the change in demeanor vanished. Sam the cop was back in action. He pointed to a picture of a dark haired man with a weak chin. “That’s Mike Foyle. Keith and I grew up with him. He was like our third wheel. The woman in the background leaning against the car is his wife Lora.”

  “Wesley and Audrey had arrived earlier. Were they at the fund raiser too?”

  “No. It was Wesley’s weekend to have the lodge. Keith and the gang showed up later.”

  Uninvited, she scrawled, linking the word to Keith and then to Mike Foyle. The earlier connection went dead, and she couldn’t get anything else. “Okay, so, we have Wesley and Audrey, Mike and Lora, Keith and Jen. Everyone’s having a party of some kind. Then Keith drives to Lake Placid.”

  “He had a call earlier that night about a problem with a key piece of code. The developer flew up to Lake Placid, and they met to go over the problem. Keith was a genius with that stuff, and the game had an impending release date. He didn’t trust it to go over electronic media, even with encryption. Paranoia is rampant in the video game design business.”

  Frantic energy tingled in her as he talked about Keith but it lead nowhere concrete. She noticed the three couples were all grouped together on the board. Then two other pictures, both of men, were grouped together.

  “Who’s the guy with the bright red hair and the thousand yard stare?”

  “Jen’s stalker.” Sam gave a curt nod at the picture in question. “George Mason. Mildly schizophrenic, totally paranoid and delusional. And a crystal meth addict. Jen had a restraining order against him. George followed her up here after she left the fundraiser. He hid in one of the abandoned buildings off towards the ravine. He’d been sending her mail that showed an escalation in his delusions and indicated a potential for violence.”

  “Most people, police included, think he killed her.” Emma scrawled crazy stalker George on her note pad. A faint stir of energy teased at her. Not as strong as what she felt when Sam talked about Keith, yet enough to earn a place in her notes. “He was never convicted.”

  “Five days after her death, he turned up in town, raving about demons chasing Jennifer in the woods and stealing her star. He had her evening bag on him but it was empty. When the locals arrested him they missed a concealed stash of meth. George got so lit up after the preliminary questioning, he went into cardiac arrest. Died before the deputies could open the cell door. The cops think he took the necklace as a trophy and hid it somewhere.”

  Emma’s internal scam radar went off. She added more detailed notes in her own, cryptic shorthand. “That’s convenient, isn’t it? Crazy guy kills socialite, hides zillion dollar necklace, then offs himself. I wonder: did the arresting officers find the necklace on him and forget to let anyone know?”

  “Keith had me dig into their financials. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  She wasn’t convinced. She’d sensed something important tied to the necklace. Maybe Jen was killed for that alone and the fire was a cover up. As to the cops and clean financials, there were ways to hide money so that even the best of investigators couldn’t find it. Her father had turned that skill into an art form. “Why were they so sure George Mason killed her?”

  “They found a torn piece of the blouse Jennifer was wearing that night, as well as other stolen items he’d accumulated over time, stored at the shack George was using.”

  “So why are we here? If George did it, what else is there for us?”

  Sam smiled wanly. “He died before any investigation could get up and running. Keith was convinced someone else was responsible. I agree. Judging by the increase in weird things happening here, I’d hazard a guess, so do the spirits of Holloway Lodge.”

  Emma considered the photos arrayed before her and the dotted red time line Sam had labeled ‘alleged’. A man who took nothing for granted, and focused on the details. No wonder he’d been such a good cop. A strange thought leapt out at her. He knew her sordid details. Would they be easy for him to dismiss, or would he eventually come to hold them against her?

  She pushed it out of her mind. As if she’d even get anywhere beyond casual. First, all she did was casual. Second, even if she did more than that, it would never be with a guy l
ike him. Men like Sam, when they got serious (and they always did), went for their own kind—upstanding citizens with squeaky clean history and boringly normal occupations. Woman like her, on the edge of propriety and the fringe of strange, weren’t keepers in that circle. “I’m glad you’re being open-minded.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice heavy with grim determination. “George Mason, meth addict stalker, is too perfect. There were five other people on the grounds that night with opportunity and means. Any of them could have done it.”

  And Keith, she thought. Don’t forget Keith. By all accounts he was mad for his wife, and her death had sent him over his own personal edge. He’d spent the rest of his days trying to reach beyond the veil of death to talk to the woman who took his heart to her grave. Love could easily inspire such devotion. Equally, mania, or guilt, could spur it on. Emma kept this theory to herself. “Other than George, the lawyer and wife, the brother and wife, who else was close by?”

  He tapped the grainy photo of a hard faced man with a thick shock of white-blond hair. “Brad Heath, the caretaker. He was first to notice the blaze and call it in. He also got the lake pump set up and had it going when the fire trucks arrived. He cooperated with the investigation initially, but disappeared two nights after Mason died. Turns out he did a stint for burglary ten years earlier in Texas.”

  Another set of alarms went off. And they had nothing to do with her psychic sense. “Why’d the Vaughns hire an ex-con?”

  “Wesley hired him as part of a prison rehabilitation project he was working on. There was never a problem.”

  “I’m not getting anything on the caretaker,” she said, scratching out a few more notes, “but I did get a mild charge from the stalker, Mason.”

  Sam nodded, grabbed a dry erase marker, and made an asterisk next to Mason’s picture. For some silly reason this pleased her immensely. “So the family present at the time was cleared along with the lawyer and his wife?”