by Ursula Bauer
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Accepting promises from former con artists was never a sound idea. He’d left sound ideas at the door step the minute he set eyes on her.
“Good enough,” he said, rising from the couch. He offered her his hand and she accepted, but once she stood, she put distance between them.
She lingered by the board, staring at Jen’s photo. “She was surprised by her death, Sam. Genuinely shocked. As if dying wasn’t supposed to happen to her.”
“Jen lived a fairy tale life.”
“And look where it got her,” Emma said. “I think it’s important, this surprised energy.”
That aroused his curiosity, which was way better than the other kinds of things she’d aroused. “If she was surprised, and had time to be shocked, maybe she had time to think.”
“And time to think might mean time to do something else.” Emma’s eyes sharpened, and she touched the picture again. Rubbed her index finger in a circular motion, ringing the head shot again and again. “She had time to think, time to process emotion, and time to do something, but what? What else did you do, Jen? What else do you want us to know?”
Sam held his breath, waiting for another catastrophic event. He was beginning to think that’s how the paranormal circus worked: three rings, all crazy, no waiting. But the theater for the night was done and gone. The walls didn’t leak blood, the windows didn’t rattle, and nothing went bump in the night.
“She did something, Sam, between the time she knew she was going to die, and the time she died. There was a substantial gap of time.” Emma stopped touching the picture. “We need to figure out what happened in that gap. We do that, we’ll know who killed Jen. And, we’ll know why.”
~ * * * ~
Holloway Lodge glowed weakly in the night. The kitchen. The library. The front porch. From the vantage point in the tree line, he observed in silence. Thinking. Wondering. The torrential rain beat down around him, falling from a merciless sky. Had he been a more superstitious man, he would draw the parallels between this season and the season he’d killed Jennifer Vaughn and think perhaps it was an omen of reckoning. There were similarities, yes, but his concern was not so much for what he’d done, as it was for the people inside the lodge. What they would do. What they might undo, or uncover.
He’d viewed the last five years as a paced marathon. Endurance, patience, they’d all been key. Why this time was different, he couldn’t say. But it was different. The woman’s arrival left him concerned. And Sam Tyler, living here, made it worse. This was not crazy Keith and his parade of freaks. Now there was a force at the lodge, with a defined mission, and the ability to see it through to the end.
A battle line had been drawn, one that would need crossing. Not now, but soon. To make a wrong move at this critical juncture was far more dangerous than making no move at all. Haste had once been his undoing, put so very much at risk, and destroyed something of great importance to him. He knew better this time. Still, he would take any steps necessary to stay safe. Hidden. Anonymous.
A brutal strike of lightning forked out across the surrounding mountain tops. For a moment he thought he saw someone standing at the bottom of the lodge stairs. A man. Looking directly at him.
He ducked back into the trees, but on a following flash of lightning, found the spot to be bare. A trick of the night, or imagination. The only living occupants of Holloway Lodge were tucked away in the library. He decided after a few more minutes of observation, he’d gain little more than catching a chill standing in the rain. It was time to leave. He had to plan, to make ready. And, perhaps, to kill.
Chapter Four
Emma woke to more rain and a headache pounding in her skull. She’d dreamed all night, sometimes of Sam, other times of racing the labyrinth of halls in the lodge with an unknown assailant in pursuit. A shower, a divine breakfast of perfect pancakes and fluffy scrambled eggs with dishy Sam, and a few aspirin chased by strong coffee managed to calm things down to a dull roar. Not enough to shake the sensation she’d had in the dream, though.
As they toured the main lodge Emma fought the urge to keep glancing over her shoulder. Rationally she knew they were alone in the place. Sam had confirmed that when she’d discreetly asked during the morning meal. Her gut, however, told her someone watched. Someone waited. Someone wished them ill. Someone... or, something.
The rustic themed carpet runners covering most of the hardwood floors swallowed their footfalls. Dark oak panels lined the hallway walls to shoulder height, increasing the feeling of somber isolation. Unconsciously, she strayed closer to Sam. A wave of his body heat brought her back to their encounter in the library. Remembering his rugged body pressed against her own made her want more. If she didn’t stop herself from thinking this way about Sam, they’d never finish the tour. She’d be hauling him back up the ornate craftsman staircase to her suite and pushing every button she could find to unleash the wild predator that lurked just below his sturdy façade.
Emma wasn’t sure why it was they’d clicked so fast. Maybe she’d have kept it under more control, but he’d gone and touched her. Comforted her. And made her an offer. When a door like that opened, she had a hard time coming up with good reasons not to walk through. Each moment with him was another step closer to that threshold. She wanted to tell herself it was casual. It was chemistry. And at the same time, little girl Emma, lurking deep inside, wanted the fantasy that was the noble, fierce Sam Tyler to carry her off to the castle and make her his queen.
Childhood dreams of Mr. Right shouldn’t plague her now, not when she knew Mr. Right didn’t exist. Adult Emma knew better than to believe in a keeper guy. Everyone had an agenda, and time revealed them, one by one. Every hero fell from grace, every lover fell out of favor. She was too modern and too smart to fall for someone’s lame promises of forever after. Telling herself chased the child back into the shadows, but it didn’t make her feel any better. Maybe more in control, but not better.
They turned a corner and cold energy slapped away the sinfully engaging thoughts of Sam. Emma shivered.
“Keith’s lair,” said Sam, stopping at the first door. “The den.”
“The last place anyone saw his wife alive.” That explained the chill. She reached for the door knob at the same time he did, hoping to get a read on the energy, and their hands brushed.
Skin to skin, desire raced through her rocket fuel fast. Emma’s internal temperature spiked off the chart. This was worse than butterflies, this was a dragon in the blood, uncoiled and in full flight, soaring on pure flame.
The comfort he openly offered and the sensual adventures she knew he could provide were a potent lure. He wasn’t just sexy, he was safety. Strong arms to hold you and keep danger at bay, a hell to pay attitude no matter what enemy he faced, Sam was the guy you wanted on your side. He was the guy she wanted, period.
She pulled back as if stung.
Sam surprised her with a low chuckle. “It’s okay, Emma. I don’t have cooties.”
“There’s a strange energy here in the hall, and I thought I might get a read off the door knob,” she said, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “You startled me. I should have waited for you to open it.”
His clear gray eyes were inscrutable. Did he believe her?
Tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, he nodded towards the door. “Give it a shot.”
Emma took a deep breath and clasped the ornate iron knob. Instead of the expected cold, there was heat. The scent of ashes followed. She closed her eyes, willing a vision to come. None of the rooms she’d seen so far, even Keith and Jen’s bedroom, had given up any secrets. She was hopeful this one was different, but no luck. Only the smell of ashes, and that was yesterday’s news. After a minute or so she stopped. Pushing too hard often acted as a block.
“There’s heat here but I can’t get any clarity”
Sam gave it a turn and frowned. “That’s weird. It’s locked.”
“Not by you?”
> His face sharpened and turned fierce. “No. Not by me.”
“The ghosts?”
“Maybe.” He rattled the knob a second time. “Maybe not. The security system blew last night. An oak out front got struck by lightning. Took out the security relay and overloaded the system. It’ll be a few days and a hell of a lot of man power hours before it’s up to par again. That means someone could access the house and grounds and we’d never know. Except for a locked door that shouldn’t be locked.”
“That’s not good.”
“I have a couple guys headed up here to do a temporary system to keep the house safe, but all the stuff out on the grounds won’t be operational for a while.”
The notion that someone was in the house snooping around was more disturbing than ghosts locking doors. It made her stay at Holloway Lodge that much more dangerous and risky. And strangely, it made her decision to stay easier. If someone was snooping around, they had a reason. Worry. Worry they’d get caught. Worry she and Sam would find critical clues. Which meant Jen’s killer was very close. “Do you have a key?”
“I keep a ring up in my room. That way I’m certain no one can get to it without going through me first.”
“So if it wasn’t a ghost locking this door, it was a human .”
“All the windows are closed. I was on the porch this morning checking for storm damage. But, yes, it’s very possible”
Sam’s look darkened by the moment. She wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to break the door down. On a whim she touched the knob again. The same heat hit her but something new followed. Desperation. Emma turned the knob and it gave way.
“So it wasn’t human,” Sam murmured. “That’s a little freaky.”
“Agreed.”
The door swung open and Emma peered into the opulent room. Modern meets the Gilded Age, she thought. More rich paneling, custom built-ins, period light fixtures, rustic antiques and elegant contemporary furnishings floating on expensive carpets. And the fireplace dominating, holding court over it all. Even the dead animal heads mounted on either side seemed to fit. Only the great room rivaled it in scale and splendor. “Wow.”
“Jen had it renovated right after they married. It was her first project in the lodge. She had restoration experts in and an army of designers.” Sam stepped into the hushed silence and looked around. “She had an eye for beauty.”
Not just an eye, Emma thought, as she followed behind Sam. Beauty ran in her blood. Over the mantle a portrait stretched almost to the ceiling. Jennifer Vaughn, the subject of the piece, stared serenely over her kingdom. She was a fairy queen, delicate as gossamer and spun sugar, with a timeless beauty born of an ancient enchantment. “I see why Keith was obsessed with his wife.”
“Everyone she pulled into her orbit became obsessed to one degree or another.”
Emma detected a sour note in his voice. “You didn’t like her.”
He shrugged and stared back at her picture, silent for a long moment. “Jen was a burning fire in life. She consumed Keith. She was nice enough. But she took a lot of energy to keep occupied. She had trouble sitting still, just being. Like quiet was the enemy. The cocaine habit made it worse.”
“How was their marriage?”
“Solid. Keith worshipped her. She loved him like crazy.”
She left him standing pensive, while she moved around the masculine room. It was hard to get a vibe under the scrutiny of the portrait. With her back turned, Jen’s sharp green eyes bored a hole through her. There was something in here, but she’d need more time and study. Before she could relay that to Sam, his cell rang.
“Tyler here.”
Perching against the expansive desk, Emma watched Sam. The dark look returned.
“Mike, now is not a good time. What’s the issue with sticking to the original plan?”
Mike Foyle, Keith’s lawyer, Emma surmised.
Sam paused. “Fine. I get it. You want this solved like the rest of us.”
Another pause, then Sam said, “No, not here. We’ll do the first one where we planned. Later.”
He ended the call and put away the Blackberry. “Change of plans.”
Despite the unsettled atmosphere, she tingled when he said her name. “What’s up?”
“Mike can’t wait. He called to move the interview time up.”
Interesting. “When are we meeting him?”
“Half an hour, at Grimm’s Cafe in town. We won’t have as much time as I wanted. We’re meeting Stan Meyer today too. He’s the mayor now, but was the sheriff when Jen died.”
“Why the rush?”
“Says he wants this thing over and done. After the murder, he hit the bottle pretty hard. His law practice fell apart, along with his marriage. He got into recovery, and made do for a while selling real estate and doing the odd will or estate planning, but it’s been lean times. When I first pitched this to him he went wild. Thought it was his ticket back to a normal life. Now he’s itching to get things back in place, I guess.”
“He believes you’ll have luck figuring it out with a psychic, where everyone else failed? He sounds gullible.”
“I think he’s desperate. What I’d like to know is why. Its way more than this recovery thing he has going. Mike’s always been an operator.”
There it was again. That word. Desperate. “I’d like to know why myself.”
Before they left, Emma threw a glance back at Jen. Her serene smile looked like a scowl from this angle. She faced Sam, and before she could stop herself, words tumbled out of her mouth. “I know you’ve brought me in because I have a mixed bag of psychic skills. But is that the real reason I’m here?”
“You’re here because Keith thought you’d be the one to figure this out. And I agree.”
He turned and vanished into the hall. She had no choice but to follow. As far as answers went, it wasn’t much.
Would it be that big a deal if he wanted her more for her talent at smoking out con artists than for her more esoteric talents? She shouldn’t care, she should be beyond those old fears and insecurities. But for some reason it was important. Too important.
She needed it not to matter. She needed Sam not to matter. Emma had to prove to herself that the attraction was casual, that it held no power over her. Taking him up on his invite for some fun seemed nuts in the midst of all the horror of the lodge, yet it was exactly what she needed to shake the eerie vibe and prove that Sam Tyler was nothing more than a passing fancy.
~ * * * ~
Mike Foyle was a man who liked an audience. He played to her and Sam like a stage actor, jumping wide gaps with vigorous emotional energy. Emma knew far too many people like him, attention seekers who had to be the center of everything, twenty-four-seven. The behavior hid an internal neediness. She tuned into him the way she did the clients she assessed for her boss Eric. What was beneath the mask and the careful script, that’s what counted and that’s what she wanted to reach.
She’d sensed an undercurrent of desperation early on and she worked with that to see where it led while they talked. He hadn’t lied yet, not baldly enough for it to stand out, but he might just be a damn fine liar too. With all senses, psychic and otherwise, on alert, she locked onto her target as he answered questions and recounted his role in that fateful night.
“We were drinking brandy, me and the wife, Wes and Audrey. Not Jen. She watched her weight, so she had the usual fancy mineral water. Pellegrino. I remember because I spilled that stupid green bottle by accident and she was pissed. Keith was tied up on a business call a few minutes after he arrived. He didn’t get a chance to have anything.”
He closed his eyes in dramatic pause. When he opened them again, he stared at a point on the wall behind Emma. Like a man looking into a mirror, and not liking what he saw. “I ask myself every night. Why did I have to drink so much? Why did Lora? We should have stopped with the first bottle. When Keith left, we should have called it a night.”
“There was more than one bottle consumed?” Sam ap
peared surprised by the info. “The police report didn’t mention anything about more than one bottle.”
Mike spread his fingers wide, held his fleshy palms out in a gesture of helplessness. Five years ago based on pictures he’d been well built, but booze and depression had him running to fat. “No one asked me. It was pretty obvious how drunk we were. One bottle of brandy wouldn’t get four adults that wasted. Sheriff Meyer shoved my head in the toilet bowl to wake me up. Bet that wasn’t in the police report either.”
No, it wasn’t. Emma turned to Sam and gave him a questioning look.
“Jake was an unconventional sheriff,” he said in explanation. “Sort of a two fisted kind of guy. Mayor’s a better fit.”
“I thought he would kill me that night.” Mike expelled a great breath, sucked down more coffee, then laughed. It was an odd sound coming from a man his size. Squeaky, like a mouse. “I’d have been better if he had done me in. I lost everything that mattered. Coming back from that is an everyday struggle.”
“You were drinking brandy,” Sam refocused the topic. Smooth, Emma thought. The sentiment behind Mike’s statement was true, but his body language communicated a case of nerves. “Then what?”
“Keith had to leave for Lake Placid. Jen didn’t want him to go. They argued, but Keith left anyway. We finished the first bottle. Jen kept going to the den for more coke. Then it gets fuzzy.”
The truth in his words had not changed, but the level of desperation had. Emma decided to tighten things up. She wasn’t getting anything useful, not the way she’d tuned in at the lodge. “May I hold something of yours while we talk, Mike? Maybe your keys, or a watch?”
He slipped a little, his eyes widening and revealing fear.“Why?”
Sam jumped in. “Emma picks up vibes from all kinds of things. Maybe she’ll get some clarity.”