by Neely Powell
“There’s plenty in the public record,” she replied.
“Lately?”
“Some odd reports of activity in the forest.”
He shifted in his chair, thinking of his grandfather’s warning. He studied Cyn a bit closer, but her expression was bland. It was rare to hear someone admit so freely to a belief in the supernatural, but he certainly wouldn’t argue the point.
“Animals have been stirred up as of late. Surely you’ve heard reports of bears and coyotes attacking people in the open. It’s like something is up that humans don’t know about.”
“Do you think that’s a sign that the Devil is visiting the area?”
She returned his gaze steadily. “Possibly.”
“And you write about this kind of thing for a living?”
“Before coming up here I spent two years studying the Bell Witch legend in Nashville.”
“Sounds familiar,” Hunter said.
“The Bells lived near Nashville in the 1700’s. They were haunted, terrorized really, by an unknown entity. Their property has been the site of well-documented paranormal activity ever since. I wrote my dissertation on the subject and turned it into a book published this past summer.”
“That’s cool. A bestseller?”
Again a smile curved her lips. “Not really, but I have high hopes for the Devil. In the meantime, I’m guest lecturing in folklore at Wayne Paterson University.” She hesitated, then added, “I also write for a couple of publications. Ever heard of Out There?”
“I read it all the time,” Hunter said with enthusiasm. “You’re awfully pretty to be running around looking for monsters.”
“And you’re awfully smart to use such a stupid line on a woman who has two PhDs,” she retorted.
Hunter had the grace to blush. It had been a while since he’d been in a battle of wits and lost. “Can I make up for that by taking you out for dinner in the city?”
“Maybe another time,” she said, then checked her watch and slipped the computer into her backpack.
“Have to get home to someone?” Hunter was surprised to feel a spark of jealousy. No matter that he already had a hot date with Mandy, he was used to women being very interested in what he offered.
“No one at home.” Cyn’s smile was easy. “But I’m busy tonight. And I’d prefer we stay around here when we go out. I put in long days and usually like to grab a meal late.”
“When” they went out, not “if.” Slightly mollified, Hunter rose and followed her to the door. “That works for me. I’ll give you a call…if you’ll give me your number.”
She handed him a business card. “You can reach me at this number. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
She left him with a dazzling smile and her strong and alluring scent. Hunter noticed that she looked around, surveying the parking lot before she got in a dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee. She drove away without looking back, which irked a little. But mainly he felt a tug of sexual curiosity he hadn’t felt in a long time.
With a woman who hunted legends for a living.
“Shit, this is crazy,” he said, but grinned as he headed to his car.
He went home instead of the wildlife preserve, thinking of what Cyn had said about the local animals being stirred up. His frequent runs of late might be the cause, not the New Jersey Devil. He could work out his physical frustrations with the punching bag in his home gym. He had learned that part of being a shifter was exercising control.
Then there was Mandy to consider.
Funny, an evening of whipped cream and Mandy just didn’t seem as appealing now. He was almost relieved when she cancelled. Seems her husband stayed up late and didn’t want her to go out “to tend to a sick friend.”
On Sunday, Zoe had a break in the hospital CEO case. The wife really was cheating. Zoe was bummed, and Hunter ended up spending much of the day with her.
He thought about calling Cyn. However, all thoughts of the redhead fled when Mandy showed up at his office on Monday morning.
He, Zoe, and Darla were in the front office when Mandy walked in wearing a black, belted trench coat and black leather boots with stiletto heels. Her dark, glossy hair hung loose around her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparkled when she took off her sunglasses.
“Mr. MacRae, I was hoping for a moment of your time.” Mandy looked at him and only him.
Zoe sucked in her breath. Darla giggled. Hunter gestured toward his office. As Mandy disappeared down the hall, clearly familiar with the layout, he turned to the two other women, grinned and opened his arms wide. “What’s a guy to do?”
He turned his back on his colleagues, went into his office and locked the door.
Mandy had already dropped her coat on the floor and leaned on the edge of his desk. She wore only a black silk teddy and panties with a black garter belt and fishnet hose that dipped into her black boots. A silk rose rested just above her soft mound like a cherry on a sundae.
Hunter growled and was already shedding his pants as he pulled her toward the plush sofa against the wall.
Somewhere, faintly, he heard Zoe cursing.
Chapter 5
“Well, hell,” I muttered as I walked back to my office cubicle. Darla and I were aware of the entertainment Hunter sometimes provided for his female acquaintances and clients while we worked nearby. But this was pretty brazen. Mandy Morris’s husband was well known in the business community.
No doubt she and Hunter would have a slick answer if caught.
“I sure hope so,” I muttered as I sat at my desk. If Charlie Morris was as connected as he was purported to be, even Hunter’s ability to run and claw his way out of trouble might not keep him from getting whacked.
My belief in happily-ever-afters was taking it on the chin these days. First, another sad chapter unfolds with Eric and Kinley. Then, on Sunday, Walter Corbin’s wife ends up at a beach house where she spent the afternoon with the 20-year-old son of a family friend. She wasn’t tutoring the young man in French. Turns out the cheating bastard was right about his cheating wife.
Now Hunter was down the hall screwing another man’s wife.
What I needed to do was change my focus. I had an appointment to see Lizzie Howerton this afternoon, so I went to the Internet to learn everything I could about the Howertons.
Lizzie and her mother, Camilla Baines Howerton, ran the charitable foundation of the Howerton family. There were countless pictures of them hosting thousand-dollar-a-table luncheons and speaking at various civic clubs on behalf of their favorite charity, St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.
A feature article explained that a child of a sorority sister of Camilla had large-cell lymphoma, a rare cancer, at age eleven. The girl was treated at St. Jude’s and survived. She was now 22, cancer free, finishing her nursing degree and planning to work in pediatrics. Camilla had devoted her time and money to the cause.
I read the gossip in the New York Post and found Camilla mentioned frequently, but never a hint of marital problems or scandal. Camilla and Douglas Ray Howerton were photographed together during fashion week and other big events around town. He was at her side in public along with their daughter, but in the end, Camilla had cut him out of her will, leaving everything to Lizzie.
Maybe the Howerton marriage was for the society columns only. Hunter’s parents had maintained such a marriage for nearly thirty-five years. My own parents had been terribly unhappy but still together when my mother was murdered. Maybe the mystery of the morning should be why I even still believed in marriage.
Forging ahead in my research, I found Douglas’s name in some financial articles. He had been one of Bernie Madoff’s victims, and had taken a few more hits in the Great Recession. But according to how their financials looked on the surface, it shouldn’t have made a difference. Camilla’s family really held the purse strings. She died a billionaire.
But why had Camilla cut Douglas out of the will? Why hadn’t sweet Lizzie mentioned it to
me when we were talking? She acted as if the only problem she had in the world was finding the sister everyone else said she didn’t have. It was time to go find some answers.
Darla was printing a stack of paperwork when I emerged from my cubicle with my briefcase in hand. She looked up and smiled. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
I explained about our new client who had walked in on Friday afternoon.
Darla seemed unperturbed as she put various copies into folders. “Who in the world would come in here to do business that late?”
“People who think we’re open until six o’clock like the sign on the door says,” I said, waiting for her to acknowledge her absence.
She shrugged. “Usually it’s dead here on Friday afternoons.” She picked up the stacks of paper and began putting them in folders.
I started to admonish her but decided it would fall on deaf ears. Hunter wouldn’t back me, and it wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause.
“I’m working on the Howerton case this afternoon and won’t be back until late.”
Darla gave me a wave, but still I hesitated. I asked, “I know Hunter has court this afternoon. You’re not nervous to be here alone, are you? After the body in the woods?”
Hunter and I had updated Darla on the events of Friday night as soon as she came in this morning.
The pretty blonde paused. “Do you think I have reason to worry? I’m just not sure someone interested in him would be interested in me,” Darla said with her usual supreme confidence.
I nodded, not sure why it hadn’t crossed my mind that Darla could pretty much handle anything. “All right.” I turned toward the door.
“Don’t worry about me,” Darla called. “You know I’ll be leaving well before dark.”
I resisted the urge to respond to that tiny dig and went to my car. I hit Highway 23 and went to the New Jersey Transit stop to grab a bus into the city. Occasionally I enjoy driving into Manhattan, but most days I just hop on a bus.
It’s a pleasant ride to cruise through the Meadowlands past Giants Stadium and the IZOD Center and whiz by Secaucus to enter New York City through the Lincoln Tunnel.
Though I love the view of the Manhattan skyline, I also get a little squeamish as we head through the tunnel. I have a real fear of being stranded and having to stay there for hours without seeing the sky. If that ever happens, I’ll be the idiot screaming and climbing the walls. Just peel me off and take me outside; I’ll be fine.
At the Port Authority Terminal, I get caught up in the beat of the city. People are everywhere, and they all have places they need to be with great urgency. I have just enough time to grab a hot pretzel for lunch before taking a cab to the Howerton residence on Park Avenue.
This was one of the family’s many homes, where Lizzie and her mother stayed most often when in the city. Douglas usually set up camp in the family’s suite at the Helmsley Carlton House. The separate living spaces were yet another indication that Baines/Howerton was more corporate than matrimonial.
At the Howerton mansion, a sour-looking woman in a black skirt and heavily starched white blouse answered the door when I rang the bell. “Yes?” she asked, frowning. “May I help you?”
“I’m Zoe Buchanan. I have an appointment with Ms. Howerton.”
From behind the imposing woman Lizzie squealed my name. Yes, she actually squealed. It was hard to believe this woman was several years older than me. “It’s so good to see you. Mary, would you please bring some coffee and snacks to the study?”
“Yes, Miss Lizzie,” the woman said brusquely and left us.
I’m accustomed to wealth, but even I was impressed. The antique desk against the wall in the foyer held a beautiful Baccarat vase filled with fresh flowers. The smell was heavenly. I’m not much on antiques but I was pretty sure I’d seen that desk in a Sotheby’s catalog a few months ago. One of my aspirations is to go to one of those auctions and buy something grand.
Lizzie led me down a hallway to a dark paneled room. I almost lost consciousness as I gazed at floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather volumes. How wonderful it would be to have a library like this. As I spied Jane Austen, Edgar Allen Poe, and F. Scott Fitzgerald, I wondered if they’d let me move my office here. Of course, I probably wouldn’t get much work done. My idea of a perfect day was one filled with reading and eating. Good times.
“Do you have news?” Lizzie asked, taking a seat on the leather sofa in front of a fireplace.
“I’ve been doing research, and I want to double-check some facts,” I said.
Sour Lady Mary entered the room with a teacart complete with silver coffeepot and china cups and saucers. I’m always amazed people actually use these lavish sets. I am accustomed to coffee in sturdy mugs at my kitchen table.
Over coffee and cookies, I asked Lizzie for other details she could give me about her birth at The Hayden Clinic in Secaucus, New Jersey. According to my research, the center had closed after Dr. Hayden’s death.
She shrugged. “No, I guess it was a special place that catered to women like my mother.”
“What was your mother like?”
“Oh, you know, wealthy and wanting to birth children without the pain. I think she was given drugs from the time labor started until after I was born. She didn’t even see me until the day after she gave birth because she was so out of it. She spoke of Dr. Hayden and his wife, Elaine, like they were saints. Mommy always said Dr. Hayden cared about his mothers. Each nurse had only two mothers and their babies to care for. Mommy talked about it when she was so sick. I stayed with her almost constantly and we talked more than we ever had.”
“And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to ask about your sister?” I asked.
“I wish I had,” Lizzie replied. “But I couldn’t bear to upset her.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, which she wiped away with her dainty napkin.
“Yet you know your sister exists.” I stated this as fact.
Gratitude replaced Lizzie’s tears. “Yes, my sister does exist.”
“Then let’s get down to work. Tell me about your life.”
Most of Lizzie’s younger years were spent in the care of a parade of nannies. Most left or were fired because they couldn’t get along with Daddy.
It all sounded familiar. Even before my mother was murdered, I was left to the care of housekeepers and nannies. I had one nanny who stayed five years. I adored her, but she left to marry and raise her own children.
“Do you think anyone on your family’s staff knew your sister?” I asked Lizzie.
“If they do, they’re not telling me. Most are too respectful to tell me I’m crazy, but they don’t believe me.” She pursed her lips. “Something happened in that house in London.”
“No one ever said anything about it?”
She shook her head. “I think we left because something happened. My mother always missed living in England.”
“Can you get me a list of all the staff from that house? Who was your nanny then?”
“I don’t remember. Daddy won’t talk about it. Those household account records have been difficult to find. I’ve put in a call to my mother’s old assistant, who is now retired, but she’s off somewhere in South America.” She gave me the woman’s contact information, as well.
“Maybe someone in your mother’s family might know.”
Lizzie’s sigh was rueful. “Mother was an only child and the dutiful daughter. She married my father because my grandfathers wanted their business merger to have a little more stability.”
She looked at her hands for a moment and then said, “Daddy had his young men and Mommy went to the ‘spa’ several times a year.”
Her tone was matter of fact. The business of marriage.
“I knew what was going on, but couldn’t actually do anything about it,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “Like many of my friends, I’ve just accepted it.”
I asked some more questions about her mother’s closest friends. There weren’t many. Camill
a had spent most of her time on her charities and her daughter.
Lizzie laid her napkin on the tray and stood, clasping her hands. “I hope some of this information will help you find my sister.”
“There’s one more thing I need to ask you about.” I also got to my feet.
“I want you to have all the information you need.”
“Why is your father contesting your mother’s will?”
“Oh.” Lizzie’s face reddened with embarrassment. “You heard about that. But then, I guess you would. Mommy left all her money to charities and me with the condition I continue her work. She was furious with Daddy for losing so much money and getting in the news about it. Daddy was hoping to use some of Mommy’s money to bounce back.”
“Hoping?” I said, incredulous. “He was hoping your mother would die so he could recoup his losses?”
“She had always rescued him before. This time she wouldn’t. They argued. I begged him not to upset her. Mommy was very sick, and there seemed no point. The doctors had said she had only weeks. So Daddy backed off. Then, a week before she died, without any of us knowing, Mommy changed her entire will.”
“Your father wasn’t happy about that, right?”
“Daddy still isn’t happy.”
She took a deep breath. “But you don’t have to worry. My allowance comes from a trust fund, so I’ll be able to pay you what we agreed to.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” I said, though it had crossed my mind. “But things could get messy.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Mommy’s lawyers—”
She stopped. “My lawyers will meet with his lawyers and they’ll hash it out. I don’t intend to go to court with Daddy. It’ll get settled one way or another.”
I thought she believed what she was saying, and I hoped she was right. But I felt there was one more thing I should say. “I hope your pursuit of your sister doesn’t come into play with your father’s suit.”
“What do you mean?”
I tried to speak kindly but with frankness. “Everyone who knows your family is saying your sister never existed. Your father may try to use this search to show you shouldn’t have control of the family money.”