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All Signs Point to Murder: A Zodiac Mystery © 2017 by Connie di Marco.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2017
E-book ISBN: 9780738751788
Book format by Cassie Kanzenbach
Cover design by Ellen Lawson
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher-Dodge
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Di Marco, Connie, author.
Title: All signs point to murder / Connie di Marco.
Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2017] |
Series: A zodiac mystery ; #2
Identifiers: LCCN 2017011364 (print) | LCCN 2017017658 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738751788 | ISBN 9780738751078 (softcover : acid-free paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Astrologers—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.I116 (ebook) | LCC PS3604.I116 A79 2017 (print) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017011364
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Paige Wheeler of Creative Media Agency, Inc. for her hard work, good advice, and expertise, and to Terri Bischoff, Sandy Sullivan, Katie Mickschl, and the entire team at Midnight Ink for welcoming the Zodiac Mysteries to their home.
Special thanks as well to my writers’ group and first readers—Kim Fay, Laurie Stevens, Cheryl Brughelli, Don Fedosiuk, Paula Freedman, and R.B. Lodge—for their critiques and encouragement.
I would be remiss if I didn’t say thank you to Llewellyn Publications for all the wonderful astrology books they’ve published over the years. Without that esoteric knowledge, this series could never have come into being.
Last, but certainly not least, thanks to my family and my wonderful husband for their tolerance in living with a woman who is constantly thinking about murder.
If by chance any reader shares a birth date with an unsavory character in All Signs Point to Murder, please know that a certain amount of astrological license has been necessary. I am confident that anyone born on such a date would never contemplate murder and mayhem—at least I certainly hope not.
—Connie di Marco
There are no other people.
That’s one theory at least. The souls we meet on our path are those whom we can perceive, who reflect us, who vibrate at our level. Heraclitus, an ancient Greek, said that character is destiny. If so, we must look to ourselves alone when things go wrong. We must look inward to discover our fatal flaw, the one that led to ruin, the evil we perceive only when it is too late. We ask ourselves, why was I so blind? What is my Achilles heel, that I was unconscious to such danger?
My name is Julia Bonatti—Julia Elizabeth Bonatti—and I’m an astrologer. In my practice, I struggle to keep an open mind, to not judge, or at least not too harshly. To remind myself of my own failings and forgive those in others. So it was that I did not see.
I once believed that no one is born evil—that evil is a learned talent. That there is no such thing as a dark sun. But I was wrong. There are those whose actions defy logic and the heart. In those cases, judgment is warranted. Judgment and retribution.
one
The door to the dressing room flew open with such force the mirror rattled against the wall. “Where the hell did she get to? We’re almost ready to start.” Brooke’s voice hovered on the edge of hysteria.
I paused with a mascara wand halfway to my lashes. “Have you checked the ladies’ room?” Brooke’s nervousness was contagious.
“Yes. I checked,” she groaned. “Julia,” she whispered, “I think Moira’s been drinking …” She turned back to the corridor, her mauve train catching on the threshold. “Damn.” She twisted, tugged on her skirt, and stormed off.
Geneva Leary, my best friend from college, my friend who had seen me through the darkest time of my life, was getting married in just a few moments in the courtyard of the Inn of the Seven Horses in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco. Her sisters, Brooke and Moira, and I were serving as bridesmaids.
The door flew open a second time. Sally Stark, our wedding coordinator, charged in with the same question. “Where is Moira Leary?” she hissed.
I glanced up at Sally’s reflection in the mirror. “Brooke is looking for her now.” I sighed and replaced the cover on my mascara. Why does everyone get so tense at weddings? It’s hardly a Broadway opening.
“I can’t have this. I just can’t have this. I’ve never had a bridesmaid who behaved in such an irresponsible manner.” Sally, wearing a severe black suit, was painfully thin, her jaw permanently clenched. The tendons in her neck bulged like ropes as she spoke.
Brooke halted at the door to the dressing room. Sally turned to face her. “Mrs. Ramer, this is absolutely unacceptable. I have never seen such cavalier behavior. I assure you, the Inn will never allow you to plan an event here again. That’s if I have anything to say about it.”
Brooke’s face was flushed. I was waiting for her to explode, but instead she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to regain her poise. “I understand how you must feel.”
“No,” Sally bit back, “I don’t think you do. This reflects badly on me. In all the years I’ve been coordinating weddings, I have never had anyone—bride, groom, or bridesmaid—simply disappear moments before the ceremony is to begin!”
Brooke and I had spent the afternoon supervising the preparations. We’d run up and down the stairway to the courtyard wiring yards of white tulle to each banister, with bunches of baby roses, to outline the bridal path. The flowers had arrived, the DJ was early, and one hundred white helium balloons with trailing ribbons had been released under the canopy covering the dance floor. Everything had, up until now, gone smoothly. Unfortunately, Geneva’s sister Moira had shown little interest in the festivities. Now, with the ceremony about to start, and more than a hundred guests waiting in
the heat, she was nowhere to be found.
“We can’t delay any longer.” Brooke surrendered to Sally’s anger.
Sally sniffed dismissively. “Fine. I’ll signal the harpist.” She left the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.
Brooke stared at me and silently mouthed the word bitch. “Let’s go, Julia.”
I stood and followed Brooke out of the dressing room. Clutching my small bouquet of lavender roses and purple iris, chosen to coordinate with my mauve gown, I took my place at the top of the stairway behind her. Geneva, sheltered in her private dressing room, had been able to ignore the hubbub and remain calm. I reached behind me to squeeze Geneva’s hand. She smiled in response and we started our slow descent to the courtyard, accompanied by the liquid strains of a harp.
We were a wedding party of eight—seven, now, with Moira’s disappearance. Their brother Dan, his friend Andy, who was dating Moira, and the best man, Matt, waited at the altar next to Geneva’s husband-to-be, David. As Brooke led us slowly to the courtyard, Andy looked at us questioningly, confused that Moira was not in the procession. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my shoulders imperceptibly to indicate I had no idea where she was. After a few moments of shuffling, he chose to remain standing with the wedding party.
The courtyard was bathed in a shifting dappled light, the last sunlight of the day. Rising levels of brick planters surrounded us, forming an amphitheater of cultivated and wild blooms. The scent of jasmine, poppies, roses, and larkspur filled the air with an intoxicating scent. Brooke’s seven-year old daughter, Ashley, was taking her job as flower girl very seriously, scattering rose petals around the patio. Mary Leary, the bride’s mother, sat in the front row, tears glistening in her eyes.
Weddings always bring out the best and the worst in me. On one hand, I become embarrassingly teary-eyed and sentimental, sometimes given to outright bawling. On the other hand, a cynical part of me separates and steps back, like an astral body, watching and wondering about all those “till death do us part” vows. Do the participants realize what they’re promising? If all marriages end in death or divorce, why the rush to the altar?
I often reflect on the karmic connections between two unique individuals, those connections that propel us to “own” each other in a marital sense. As an astrologer, this stuff interests me. I know long-term relationships must have a Saturn connection—otherwise they tend to be fun and short, or short and not so fun, as the case may be—but Saturn connections can be difficult, restraining, and sometimes even, let’s admit it, oppressive.
Geneva wore a simple, ivory floor-length sheath. She carried a bouquet of white roses and delicate stephanotis. She appeared doll-like standing next to her groom. David is tall and fair, and today he’d put aside the wire-rim glasses that normally give him a scholarly look. A hush descended as the ceremony began, broken only by the sound of water splashing against the rocks in the creek below the courtyard.
This was the tough part for me. The intimate moments. Two and a half years earlier, my fiancé Michael had been killed in a hit-and-run accident outside his apartment on a quiet residential street in the Sunset District. Since his death, I’d done my best to avoid weddings, baby showers, and holiday events. But where Geneva was concerned, it was different. She’d been a true friend during that time. I couldn’t say no to being supportive on her wedding day. Most of all, I couldn’t let her know how difficult this was for me.
Brooke pulled a small tissue from an unseen hiding place to mop her brow. A trickle of perspiration rolled down my back and I prayed the June heat wave would abate after sunset. It was no surprise the weather was brutal; no one had bothered to ask my astrological advice when the date was chosen. Then again, no one ever calls an astrologer when things are going well. I wasn’t at all happy about the Moon-Mars-Pluto connection in the heavens on the chosen day, either. But I never for a second thought that death was hovering with beating wings.
two
I heard the words “You may kiss the bride.” David, beaming, leaned down to kiss Geneva. The entire crowd broke out in cheers and applause, more I suspected from relief that the formalities were over and the evening would bring cool weather, food, wine, and celebration. The bride and groom, laughing, turned and waved to their guests. Geneva’s mother, a plump, dainty woman dressed in a blue silk suit, rushed up and hugged both the bride and groom.
Brooke leaned closer and muttered, “It’s so damn hot.” The oldest of the three Leary sisters, Brooke is tall, blonde, and striking. I’m fond of her, but I’ve always found her somewhat intimidating. The superachiever in the Leary family, she’s now the editor of a well-
known fashion magazine in the city. She has unerring fashion sense and had even hired a designer to create our gowns.
I spotted Sally Stark pushing through the crowd surrounding the newlyweds. She looked upset as she approached Dan Leary and whispered something in his ear. The expression on his face shifted. He shot a glance at Brooke and headed in our direction. He spoke very quietly to Brooke and then turned to walk into the now-closed dining area of the restaurant. Brooke’s complexion paled. She followed Dan.
Something was wrong. I glanced around to make sure I wasn’t needed at the moment and followed both of them.
Inside the empty restaurant, Moira, still in her bridesmaid’s gown, sat holding a cold cloth to her forehead. One of the waiters stood at the ready with a bowl of ice water. Dan stood there glaring at his youngest sister, arms crossed against his chest.
As I entered the room, Brooke turned to me. “They found her at the bottom of the stairs down by the creek. She’d passed out.”
“Damn it, Moira, what were you thinking?” Dan demanded.
Moira’s face was red and blotchy. “Why don’t you get off my case? I had a couple of glasses of wine. That’s all.” She dipped the cloth in the ice water and squeezed, then replaced it on her forehead.
Dan shook his head. “You expect us to believe that?”
Brooke’s lips were pinched. “Couldn’t you keep it together just this once, for Geneva’s sake?”
“Something was wrong with my drink.”
“Like what?” Brooke asked.
“I don’t know,” Moira whined. “Maybe ’cause I didn’t have anything to eat all day. I don’t know. I swear I only had two glasses.”
We all turned as the door opened. Rob Ramer, Brooke’s husband, entered. Almost as tall as David, Rob is darkly handsome and muscular. But his chiseled features had taken on a hard cast and his jaw was clenched.
“So much for the program,” Dan muttered. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Rob grasped Moira’s shoulder. “Brooke, you and Julia should head back.” Moira tried to pull away, but Rob’s grip was too strong. “I’ll handle this. I’ll stay with her until she feels better.” Moira dropped her head and stared at the floor. She made no response.
Brooke let out a sigh. “Rob’s right. We should get back.” I followed her toward the exit. She leaned toward me and whispered, “Rob’s in prosecuting attorney mode now. He can deal with her much better than I when she’s like this.”
I glanced back once at Moira. She was silent, staring at Rob with an expression I couldn’t quite read, perhaps a mixture of fear and anger.
The sun had set and the sky was now a deep, periwinkle blue. The courtyard and surrounding gardens sparkled with thousands of tiny white lights. Large candles flickered at each table as the waiters began serving. On one side of the bride and groom, Brooke was next to Dan. Andy, still awaiting Moira, anchored the far end of the table. Andy is thin, with a saturnine face shadowed by hollow cheeks and heavy dark eyebrows. He wasn’t looking happy.
Matt, a large man with wide shoulders and ruddy cheeks, was seated next to me. Geneva had mentioned he had played football in college, and, judging from his conversation, his favorite topic was sports. I smiled and nodded a lot, pretending
I had some interest in the topic.
With a promise of good behavior, Moira had managed to escape Rob’s supervision and joined us. A fresh cocktail stood next to her plate. An argument started brewing between her and Andy, and Moira became louder and more belligerent. Andy leaned over and whispered in her ear, then grasped her arm. He looked very angry. Moira’s jaw was set. She lapsed into a sullen silence.
Brooke struck up a fresh conversation with the bride and groom in an attempt to lighten the tension at the table. The three of them chatted amiably, ignoring the simmering altercation between Moira and Andy. Then Moira stood suddenly, swaying slightly, and with a final glare at her date, stormed away. Andy, his face flushed, turned back to his plate and stabbed at the remaining food. Dan glanced at Andy but said nothing.
I’d seen a few episodes of sullen and volatile behavior on Moira’s part over the past few days. There was no doubt in my mind that Brooke and Geneva were devoted to their younger sister, but they’d been forced to cut her a lot of slack in order to keep the peace.
Next to me, Matt continued to wolf down his dinner. “So, Julia, what sort of work do you do? Are you a teacher too, like Geneva?”
My appetite was nonexistent after the heat of the day. I picked at my food, choosing small bites. “Uh, no.” I was hesitant to answer. Somehow Matt didn’t strike me as the type of guy to be receptive to the occult. “How about you?”
“Well, I’m with Lyle & Smart. I’m a stockbroker. Are you interested in the market at all?”
He caught me with my mouth full. “I don’t really … know much about investing.”
“You know, most people don’t, Julia, but I’d be happy to talk to you about it some more if you’re interested.”
“To tell you the truth, Matt”—I managed to swallow my food—“I don’t really have any money to invest right now. I’m self-
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