“Look who’s talking.”
She shrugged. “Yes, but at least I know how to have a little fun. You, on the other hand, always play it safe. Step out of your cemeteries for a moment and loosen up. Live a little dangerously now and then.”
“You think Devlin is dangerous?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything about him.”
“Not true. We found out all sorts of fascinating things about him tonight. He comes from money. He’s estranged from his family. He married an exotic woman who died tragically and he may or may not have spent time in a mental institution.” Her eyes danced in the light from the street. “I’d say that qualifies John Devlin as a dangerous man. Deliciously dangerous, in fact. Remember, I’ve seen him in action.”
“You mean that incident with his wife?”
“That was something to behold, Amelia. I’ve never considered myself a voyeur, but it was like getting a peek of what he might be like in the bedroom—at least Mariama’s bedroom. Dominant, explosive…completely out of control.”
My pulse quickened in spite of myself. “I’m not sure that sounds altogether appealing.”
“Maybe not after all the milquetoasts you’ve dated.”
I shrugged, refusing to be offended. “I like the quiet type.”
“No, you like the safe type, but it’s time you broaden your horizon.”
I tried to remain indifferent, but I couldn’t deny that Temple had planted some rather titillating images in my mind.
She lolled her head against the wall. “Mariama. Even her name gives me shivers. I can still see Devlin looming over her, so dark and angry, and that lustful defiance of her response.” Temple’s eyes closed on a sigh. “There was a breeze that day. It blew her skirt back and molded the flimsy fabric to her body so that you could see the outline of her thighs and her—”
“I get the picture!” I suddenly wondered where Devlin was at that moment. Was he home alone or had he other plans for the evening?
“Can you imagine all that pent-up intensity after years of celibacy?”
I glanced at Temple. “What makes you think he’s been celibate? I doubt very seriously he’s remained alone since his wife died.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport. Let me enjoy my fan-wanking.”
“Your what?”
“Let me arrange the story to meet my own personal needs.”
“Be my guest then. Just please leave me out of it.”
“Don’t worry. You’re not my type. Too white-bread and staid. Although…” Her voice turned silky and sly. “I’ve always sensed some spice beneath all that vanilla. In the right hands—”
“Please stop.”
“You’re right. Just ignore me. It’s the wine making me a fool for love. Or lust. I’ll drop the whole subject, but you have to promise me something.”
“Doubtful. Unlike you, I’m stone-cold sober.”
But she was serious. A worry line formed between her brows and she placed her hand on my arm. “Be careful with Devlin. Flirt with him, sleep with him, do whatever with him, but…be careful.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something about him…I’m not sure I can explain it. I’ve known men like him before. Controlled and guarded on the surface, but under the right conditions…with the right woman…” She trailed off and glanced at me. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
“Not really.”
“A woman like Mariama would know how to push his buttons. She would do everything in her power to make him lose control, because that’s how she got off. That’s what gave her power. But with you…”
“What about me?”
“You said it yourself. You like the safe guys. And Devlin is anything but safe. He’s not the man for you.”
“A minute ago, you said he was just what I needed.”
“As a brief fling, yes. As a lifetime companion, no way. I see you with someone like Ethan.”
“Ethan? Where did that come from?”
“I’m just using him as an example. You need a man who will—”
“Don’t say take care of me. That’s the last thing I want.”
“Someone who’ll always put your interests above his own,” she insisted. “That man is not John Devlin.”
“How do you know that?”
She smiled. “I may be a switch hitter, but I know men. Trust me on this one. It’ll save you a lot of heartache down the road.”
FOURTEEN
When I got home that night, I went straight back to the office, grabbed my laptop and settled down on the chaise for some online sleuthing. Research was an important aspect of my job, and given enough time, I could usually uncover anything I needed. But tonight, even after the most persistent digging, I found nothing on Afton Delacourt, either before or after her death. Apparently, Devlin had been right about the media blackout. It was as if her whole life had been expunged after the murder.
Rupert Shaw was a different matter. A Google search yielded a wealth of links, most of them in conjunction with his work at the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies. For the most part, the articles I scanned portrayed him in a favorable light—a scholarly, if somewhat eccentric gentleman who had an obvious affinity for the paranormal. Not out of line with my own perception of the man.
I did glean one new morsel from a video interview I found on a local ghost hunter website. The questions to Dr. Shaw ran the gamut from haunted houses to near-death experiences, but the part that caught my attention was a little off-the-cuff chat at the end.
The interviewer had complimented Dr. Shaw on a ring he wore on his right pinkie. I’d noticed the ring myself the first time we met. It was silver and onyx, with an ornate symbol embedded into the stone. Dr. Shaw had mentioned at the time that it was a family heirloom, but he told the interviewer the ring had been a gift from a colleague. It was entirely possible we were talking about two different rings, but I didn’t think so. Nor did I consider it anything more than a curious tidbit.
Moving on…
Like Yale’s infamous Skull and Bones Society, the Order of the Coffin and the Claw had been established in the early nineteenth century and counted among its membership some of South Carolina’s power elite. In 1986, the all-male policy had been amended and every year thereafter, two women from the junior class had been tapped for membership.
I found references to obscure symbols, numerology, secret retreats, and clandestine initiation ceremonies, but no mention of Afton Delacourt’s murder and only a passing reference to the organization’s demise.
Next, I searched the name Hannah Fischer and came up with at least a dozen hits, but only one of them led me to a woman in the Charleston vicinity and she’d recently celebrated her ninety-ninth birthday.
Earlier, when I brought up Tom Gerrity’s name to Devlin, I’d gotten the distinct impression there was bad blood between the two. But I was so anxious to get away from the cemetery I hadn’t pursued the matter. Now I wished I’d gotten more answers from him.
I glanced down at the screen, my fingers posed over the keys. One last search remained. Mariama Devlin.
Even entering her name made me feel guilty and a little frightened, because no matter how I tried to justify my interest, I was prying into Devlin’s personal affairs. I was no better than Ethan and Temple, who had greedily and gleefully dissected bits of Devlin’s life over dinner like vultures picking at a carcass.
But my distaste for the task did nothing to thwart me.
The first link took me to a newspaper article about the accident, and the account matched Ethan’s. The car had crashed through a guardrail on a rural bridge and plunged into a river. The only thing that Ethan had failed to mention was the frantic 911 call that Mariama had placed mere moments before her death, as the car took on water. Even then, she must have realized the rescuers would never arrive in time. Trapped by her seat belt, she couldn’t free herself or her four-year-old daughter.
My head fell back against the sea
t as I closed my eyes. With very little effort, I could conjure the whole chilling scene. The bone-jarring thud of the initial collision. The muddy river washing over the windshield. The sickening tilt of the car as it sank.
Inside, Mariama tearing at the seat belt, frantically tracking the rising water as she tried to calm her terrified child.
Then darkness as the car settled to the bottom.
Don’t leave me here…Mommy, please…
The cries were so real I opened my eyes and glanced around.
I was all alone with a pounding heartbeat.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I drew a shuddering breath. How many times had that scene played out in Devlin’s nightmares? How many times had he awakened to his daughter’s devastating pleas?
No wonder he’d needed time away to deal with his grief. The weight of all that guilt, those endless what-ifs must have been an unbearable agony.
Even if he couldn’t see them, his ghosts had kept that torment fresh. For as long as he was haunted, his wounds would never heal.
I took a moment to collect my thoughts, and then continued to read.
The accident had occurred in a remote area of Beaufort County near a town called Hammond. Mariama and her daughter had been on their way to visit family when the tragedy occurred.
Two photographs accompanied the article, one a close-up of the broken guardrail, the second a wider shot of the onlookers who had gathered on the river bank to wait for the rescue divers to surface.
I didn’t study the faces in that crowd because I didn’t want to find Devlin’s. I didn’t want to see his eyes in that terrible moment.
Backing out of the article, I clicked the next link, which took me to the obituaries. There were no photographs here, but I already knew what they looked like—Mariama and four-year-old Anyika.
Anyika.
Somehow that name didn’t fit the ghost child I’d seen at Devlin’s side and in my backyard.
I started to say the name aloud, then thought better of it.
Rule Number Four—never, ever tempt fate.
Quickly, I shut down the computer and set it aside. I’d had enough research for one night.
Rolling to my side, I lay a cheek on my folded hands and closed my eyes. So many thoughts and images strobed through my head. So many unanswered questions…
I kept seeing Mariama and Anyika trapped in that car, gasping for breath as the water closed over their heads…
I imagined what it must have been like for Devlin when he first heard the news…how he would have rushed to the scene praying for the best but fearing the worst. And then that long ride home, knowing the house would be empty when he got there. Knowing that he would never again hold his daughter in his arms…
I pictured Afton Delacourt’s ravaged body in the mausoleum where Rupert Shaw had supposedly conducted séances, and I pondered his theory that at the time of death, a door opened, allowing someone to cross to the other side and back. What if someone had crossed over at the time of Hannah Fischer’s death? What if that person had brought something back through the veil with them? Something dark and fetid and cold like the thing that hovered at the edge of the woods…
I thought about Temple’s claim that Camille Ashby had come at her with scissors and her assumption that Daniel Meakin had tried to commit suicide because of a scar she’d glimpsed on his wrist. And then later, outside the restaurant, her hesitation to talk about Afton’s murder and the Order of the Coffin and the Claw. Was it possible that she was somehow associated with that society? Was Ethan?
On and on the questions swirled as an endless reel of faces paraded through my head. Camille Ashby. Ethan and Rupert Shaw. Temple. Tom Gerrity. Daniel Meakin. The brutalized bodies of Afton Delacourt and Hannah Fischer. The ethereal visages of Mariama and Anyika.
And Devlin. Always back to Devlin.
Finally, I grew drowsy, but it seemed too much effort to get up and move into the bedroom.
Outside, a soft breeze ruffled the palmetto leaves, a comforting murmur as my muscles began to twitch.
For the longest time, I swam in that soft, misty void of half sleep before I gave myself up to exhaustion. And then all those chaotic thoughts transitioned into my dreams, creating strange, disjointed vignettes as I slept.
I was back in Oak Grove Cemetery, hovering on the bottom step of the Bedford Mausoleum. Temple was there, too. She stood at the very top, peering into a half-open doorway.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
She wore the same white tunic she’d had on at dinner, but now the trim was far more exotic. I could see the flash of garnets worked into some intricate pattern at her neckline.
“I’ve never been a voyeur, but I can’t stop looking at them,” she said. “At who?”
Her smile was sly and suggestive. “Come see for yourself. It’ll do you a world of good.”
Slowly, I climbed the steps and joined her at the doorway. The room inside was gauzy and candlelit. Like looking through a veil.
And then I saw them…
Devlin and Mariama…
There was something so beautiful about the glow of their contrasting skin tones in the candlelight, something so darkly erotic about the sway of Mariama’s long hair against her naked back, the outline of her full breasts cupped in Devlin’s hands, the way their bodies moved as if to some primal rhythm.
As we stood there watching, Mariama glanced over her shoulder, eyes hooded, lips slyly curled, a temptress’s invitation that aroused and unnerved.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I said, backing away.
“Don’t be so vanilla. You know you like watching him.”
Mariama’s taunting laughter followed me down the steps.
I felt a chill at my back and turned to glance over my shoulder. Something dark flashed at the corner of my eye and I whirled to run, but the ghost child blocked my path.
The scent of jasmine filled my nostrils as she lifted a hand and beckoned for me to follow. I tried to summon my father’s rules, but I couldn’t remember them. Nor could I resist her silent command.
She led me away from the mausoleum, into an area of the cemetery where I’d never been before. Off to the side, I noticed a gathering of people around a headstone. They all turned when they heard me and I recognized their faces— Camille, Temple, Ethan, Daniel Meakin. Even Dr. Shaw. With an enigmatic smile, he stepped aside to make room for me in their circle.
Moving up beside them, I stared down at the ground, searching for what had captured their attention.
I saw nothing but an empty grave.
Then I felt pressure on my back and suddenly I was falling, falling into that dark, fathomless pit.
My grave…
Gasping, I bolted upright on the chaise.
It took a moment to orient myself, another to calm my racing pulse.
The office had grown cold while I slept. I’d turned down the air when I got home from dinner because the house had been hot and stuffy. I hadn’t thought to adjust the thermostat before I fell asleep, and now the room was so chilly the windows had fogged over.
I reached for the afghan draped over the foot of the chaise, then went completely still, my hand suspended in midair as I sniffed. The scent of jasmine floated across the room, so faint and delicate it might have been a remnant from my dream.
But I knew it was real. She was here.
Drawing the spread over me, I lay shivering in the dark. I couldn’t see the garden through the frosted windows, but I knew she was out there.
Light from the kitchen filtered into my office, illuminating the beads of condensation that ran down the glass.
I caught my breath, waiting…
A pattern emerged in the frost, as though an invisible finger traced it from the other side. A heart.
Like the one I’d formed in the garden with pebbles and seashells.
The image was there one moment, gone the next, melting into rivulets of condensation as the jasmine scent faded.
&nbs
p; She, too, had vanished back into the mist, but I knew she’d be back. She wouldn’t leave me alone until I figured out what she wanted.
FIFTEEN
Sometime during the night, the drizzle turned into a downpour. The exhumation had to be delayed until the weather cleared and the ground had time to dry out so that the loose dirt could be sifted through a screen.
Since I couldn’t work outside, I spent the rest of the morning at Emerson. A number of unmarked graves near the north wall had yet to be identified, and ironically, I couldn’t locate graves for two names that had turned up in an old family Bible I’d come across.
Creating a site map for a cemetery as old as Oak Grove was always a challenge, not unlike putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Missing markers, lost records, illegible headstones, overgrown graves—time wreaked havoc on the dead as well as the living.
I was so engrossed in the task at hand that the scrabbling sound didn’t register at first.
Then my head came up and I sat very still, wondering if a mouse might have chewed its way into one of the file boxes.
Located in the basement of the Emerson library, the archives room was a crowded space of shadowy alcoves and dim corridors that traced through rows and rows of packed shelving.
Normally, I didn’t mind the gloom of closed-in places, but with the unidentified sound came a slight panicky sensation of isolation. I was all alone down there. The desk where I worked faced the wide staircase that led up to the first floor. I hadn’t seen anyone come down since I’d been sitting there.
It was nothing, I told myself. The place was old and creepy, filled with the sounds and smells of the past. No different from the dozens of other basement archives where I’d spent many a contented hour immersed in the lives of the long dead.
Shrugging it off, I went back to my work.
The sound came again—fierce scratching followed by a loud thud.
One of the boxes must have fallen to the floor. Not the work of a mouse, I was quite certain.
Fear tapped along my spine as I tilted my head, listening.
A shadow appeared at the end of one of the corridors, and I gasped before I realized it was a person instead of that frightening silhouette I’d encountered on the path at Oak Grove.
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