The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3)

by Colleen Gleason

  Leslie laughed reluctantly, then told her briefly what happened. “And that’s how I ended up watching Glee—which, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about over that show anyway—at one in the morning. And I sort of woke up hearing that song, and that’s when I realized what it was.”

  “So the ghost must be someone who died in the eighties—or after, I guess. I’m not sure when the song came out. Early eighties, I think.”

  “I was thinking…I wonder if it could be Kristen van Gerste,” Leslie said. “She was wearing a flapper dress that night, remember?”

  “What about Kristen van Gerste?” Trib said as he set two plates on the table. One was a salad, heaped high with roasted fall veggies, sun-dried Traverse City cherries, and kale for Cherry. The other was Leslie’s sandwich, made from a crusty whole-grain loaf with house-made chicken salad, artichoke hearts, and roasted red pepper tapenade.

  Leslie’s mouth watered, for she hadn’t felt much like eating since her aborted dinner with Declan last evening. But she responded before taking a bite of her sandwich. “Whether it’s possible the ghost at Shenstone House is Kristen, not Dorothy Duchene, as I’d thought.”

  “But don’t ghosts only haunt where they die?” Trib asked with a frown. “She was found in the woods, you know.” Then he stilled, his eyes widening hugely behind his glasses. “Unless she was killed at Shenstone House. Oh my God.” He clapped a hand over his mouth and goggled at them. “What if she was killed there and moved to the woods…” He looked white as a ghost himself.

  “Poor sweet, darling Kristen. She didn’t deserve any of that.” He blinked rapidly, then removed a pale blue handkerchief from his trouser pocket. “Damned Marcus Levin. If he hadn’t been such a prick, she’d probably still be alive today. Oh,” he wailed softly, removing his glasses to dab at his eyes. “It just brings it all back, doesn’t it? This, and the reunion, and just…all of it. It brings it all back like it was yesterday.”

  Since neither Cherry nor Leslie had actually been around at the time, neither could respond appropriately. Still, Leslie didn’t disagree with any of his sentiments—including the suggestion that Kristen could easily have been killed inside Shenstone House, and then, for some unknown reason, had her body moved and left in the woods. And the topazes stolen.

  “I was going to see if I could find a picture of Kristen that night at the prom—to see if she looks like the ghost,” Leslie said as Trib was called back to the kitchen.

  “That’ll be easy—she’d have been in the paper, not only as Homecoming queen but also, unfortunately, because of the disappearance, of course,” Cherry said. “Let’s see…the Enterprise would have been the main paper in town at the time. You can look online, but the library probably has archives.” She glanced at her watch and grimaced. “If only I had time, I’d come and help you look.”

  “No problem, auntie,” Leslie said. “The guys are coming to sand the upstairs hallway and bedroom floors, so I was planning on clearing out of the house for most of the day anyway. I have to pick up a special order in Grand Rapids—the antique pulls for the guest bathrooms came in—and I’ll probably stop at the mall there, so I won’t get to the library till later this afternoon.”

  Plus, I don’t feel like doing much else of anything. Might as well go to the library. Bury my nose in a book—or some archives—there.

  ________

  There was something about a library that comforted Leslie, even though she hadn’t been in one for ages—nor had she had much time to read for pleasure over the last ten years, due to her all-consuming career.

  The smell of old books—especially in an older building like the one she visited in the larger city of Holland, the nearest library to Sematauk—the tall ceilings, the shelves upon shelves of goodies… She wondered what would happen if the apocalypse came and people had to rebuild civilization. Wouldn’t everyone want to live in an old library?

  She decided that if something like I Am Legend ever happened, she’d definitely take up residence in a library.

  In hopes of ensuring the sanding guys would be gone by the time she got home, Leslie wandered through the children’s books section and found many of her childhood favorites. And then, because she was really feeling down and more than a little sadistic, she searched out the old historical romance novel about the blacksmith she’d read to pieces over the years.

  Whether it was fate or just good luck, she didn’t know—but not only did the library have that book, it was for sale in the used book section. The paperback was just waiting for her, with its aged taupe pages, bent cover in lurid pinks, golds, and oranges, and creased binding. She snatched it up and paid a dollar for it with enthusiasm.

  That would be one way to mourn the loss of her true-life blacksmith tonight.

  Then, finally, she went to the newspaper archives to do some real work.

  Everything was on microfilm, so it was easy to ask for May through June of 1985—the year Kristen van Gerste had been killed. Then it just took a little time skimming through the daily papers until she found the right one. Prom would have been on a Friday or Saturday, she reasoned, so the photos would have been on Saturday or Sunday.

  She was just getting into the hang of loading the microfilm into the viewing machine and skimming through it with a smooth, satisfactory whir when she found it.

  The headline leaped out at her: Prom Queen Found Dead. She shuddered; that sounded like something out of a Stephen King novel.

  A large photo of Kristen van Gerste was there on the front page, and the moment she saw it, Leslie gasped audibly. There was no doubt. It had to be Kristen who was haunting Shenstone House—for in the photo, which was in color, the lovely young woman was wearing the legendary topazes, long white gloves…and a thick pink wrap that looked like velvet.

  She’d found her ghost.

  And, quite possibly, had uncovered a lot more questions about the murder from thirty years ago.

  And now—

  “Well, hello, Leslie.”

  She jolted, looking up to find John Fischer standing there. He was holding a box of microfilm rolls as well.

  “Doing some research?” he asked, glancing toward the screen.

  “Yes. You too?”

  “As a matter of fact I am.” He smiled and gestured with the small cardboard box. The rolls shuffled inside. “Just finishing up, actually. And I’m so happy to have run into you. Because I happened to be doing some research about old houses—for my project, you know—and I came across some interesting information about houses built in the same era as Shenstone. They built expertly hidden cabinets to hide liquor from the fuzz—as they called them,” he added with a grin, “and this article had some mention of the ways they’d mask them from the authorities, who were pretty good about finding hidden caches. I noticed something at Shenstone when you were showing me and Iva Nath around the other day that could possibly be one of those well-hidden cabinets…I was wondering if you’d let me come by and show you sometime.”

  Leslie had turned off the microfilm reader and removed the roll. She’d found what she needed; now she just had to figure out what to do next to put Kristen’s ghost to rest—a necessity before the inn could be opened for business.

  But John’s idea sounded just as intriguing. She’d pretty much exhausted all of her own ideas for where the gems might be hidden; she was open to hearing others. “Sure. I was just getting ready to head back home now, and I don’t have any other plans tonight.”

  Unfortunately.

  “As a matter of fact, neither do I—other than taking all my research back to the inn and typing it up. Which is just as boring as it sounds.” He smiled behind his beard.

  Just then, a well-modulated female voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, library patrons: the library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring your selections to the circulation desk as soon as possible. Please return any checked-out reference materials to the appropriate desk.”

  “Oh, wow,” Leslie said, shovi
ng the roll of microfilm into its box. “I had no idea it was almost six o’clock.” She stood. “I guess I’d better return these to the desk… So, anyway, John—I should be home and have all my stuff put away by seven thirty or so. I was in Grand Rapids most of the day while they were sanding my floors, and the workers should be gone by now. Is sometime around eight tonight a good time for you to come by?”

  John smiled with delight. “Absolutely. I’ll be there at eight. How about I bring a bottle of wine?”

  ________

  “Thanks for coming over, Dec,” Brad said as he opened the door to what he called his “tasting room.” Really, it was just an excuse for a tricked-out man cave that he could write off as a business expense, for the walkout basement part of his house was licensed as a commercial kitchen. This brewing and bottling area was set off from the “tasting area” by a half-wall and chrome counter.

  “No problem, bud. You sounded pretty upset.”

  And besides, what else would Declan be doing on a Friday night? Stephanie was at an away football game and was spending the night at a friend’s house after. Which should have been a boon for Declan—except that things had gone to shit last night at Leslie’s house, and now he didn’t have anything else to do but sit around and brood. Hanging out with Brad was far better than that, and marginally better than working at his forge on a project for the woman with whom he should have been hanging out.

  Somehow he’d lost his mojo when it came to wanting to work on those sexy spiral iron bars. The thought of making them just right, of coaxing those babies into the perfect curve, wasn’t as much of a pleasure anymore.

  Declan was glad Steph’s game was away, for otherwise he might have found himself face to face with—or, even more awkward, sitting next to—Emily Danube.

  He sank down in one of the dark brown club chairs in front of a wall-sized TV that weighed about two hundred pounds. He knew this for a fact because he’d helped to move the mother down the hill and into the walkout basement a few months ago. He told Brad the only way the damned thing was going back out was in pieces.

  Strangely enough, Brad looked about as tense and unhappy as Declan himself felt. He handed him a dark brown bottle. “You got here in good time. I just got home from the police station.”

  “The police station?” Declan froze from reaching for a bottle opener. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “You know I was supposed to meet Marcus Levin the other night—last night, it was. He’d agreed to give me an endorsement for the Sematauk Straw Lager, and I was going to get it on video, and buy him dinner, and all that.”

  “Right. And congrats, by the way. That’s really going to help the stuff sell even better than before.”

  “Yeah, well…it’s not quite going to work out that way.” Brad looked at the beer he’d opened but hadn’t touched, as if he’d never seen it before, then put it aside. Declan thought he was looking a little green around the gills.

  “So what happened? He stand you up? Change his mind?”

  “No. I found him. With his head bashed in.”

  Declan gaped, setting his bottle on the table next to him without even looking. “Are you telling me you found Marcus Levin’s dead body and he was murdered?”

  “Yep. With a five iron. His five iron, I suppose.”

  “Where? Where did you find him?” And Declan thought he was having a bad day. “When?”

  “At the high school, up by the football stadium. We were going to meet there so I could do the video in the press box, you know, with the football field down below—for atmosphere. Like he was casting a game, but instead he was talking about Sematauk Straw. Man, you gotta wonder if it coulda been me too if I’d been with him.” Brad shuddered.

  “You mean he was killed at the high school?” Declan went cold and still. Stephanie had been there just a few hours earlier. “Where? When? Weren’t there people around?”

  Stephanie had been on the same grounds as a murderer. That realization was sinking in like a heavy lead ball melting into his consciousness. He stood, his fingers shaking a little, and pulled the phone out of his pocket. He’d text her to make sure she was all right.

  “It was in the back behind the bleachers—in the coaches’ parking lot up near the locker room. Not a well-traveled area on a night when there’s no football game. I doubt anyone was around, and one of the floodlights was out too.”

  Declan had calmed down slightly by now. After all, Stephanie had been with the entire pom team, plus the football team, the cheerleaders and the marching band, boarding buses for the away game by four thirty…and surely if something had happened to anyone, he’d know by now. It was after ten o’clock, so the game they were at was probably in the fourth quarter, if not already over.

  “When did you find him?” he asked again, still watching the phone for a text from his daughter. Or anyone else who might care to contact him. Not that he was expecting or wanting anyone to.

  Declan went a little colder. Leslie’s house wasn’t that far from the high school. Just through the woods and up the hill… He swallowed hard. Good God, I hope she remembered to lock the door like I told her.

  He looked at his phone. Maybe he should text and see if she was all right. Let her know. He hesitated, and realized Brad was still speaking.

  “Eight thirty. A little before eight thirty I found him. Looked like he hadn’t been there all that long, either. I mean…I went over to him and touched his hand—you know, just to make sure—and it was warm. And…and the blood was still—” Brad’s expression changed and he gave a weird swallow—like he’d thrown up a little in his mouth.

  “Christ,” Declan said, shaking his head. “Who’d have wanted to do something like that? I mean, was it random or was it because he was Marcus Levin? Did the police say anything? Did it look like he’d been robbed or carjacked?”

  “No. His car was there, and so were the golf clubs in the back seat. And you know Ken Morton—always pretty solid and keeping it close to the vest. He wasn’t going to tell me much, though he asked a lot of questions. As for whether it was random or not…I dunno. Levin’s kind of—or was kind of—a celebrity, being a news anchor and all, but he’s—was—pretty much a real prick. Real full of himself because he played for the NFL till he torqued up his knee. Now he’s on TV. Could be anyone who got tired of his bullshit, you know?”

  “Right. Wow. I can’t believe we were just sitting in the press box with him at the game the other night, and now he’s murdered.” Declan sobered even more. He’d never known anyone, even distantly, who’d been killed. It kind of put life into perspective with a large, sharp jolt.

  “I know.” Brad looked at his untouched beer and let it be. He clearly wasn’t in the mood to taste it. “I called the editor of the paper and told him I’d get him the story by midnight. Talk about an eyewitness. It sure as hell won’t take me long to write it—I don’t have to interview anyone about the crime scene.” He laughed hollowly. “Lucky me. I think that image’s gonna be haunting my nightmares for a while.”

  Declan grimaced, then sipped his beer. It didn’t taste very good to him either, so he set it down. Just then, his phone lit up and began to ring.

  Not who he was expecting, or even hoping for. “Sorry, bud, but I’m going to take this—it’s my cousin Teddy finally calling me back.” He answered, “Geez, nice of you to find the time for the little people, Teddy.”

  Teddy Mack, a.k.a. New York Times and international mega-bestselling author T. J. Mack, laughed over the line. “Sorry, Dec—I was in Frankfurt and London, and it’s ridiculous to call back home on my cell. I tried to text you but I don’t think it went through. But I’m back Stateside now.”

  “London, huh? What were you doing there? Book tour?”

  “Meeting with my UK publisher, and before that I was in Frankfurt for the big book fair.”

  “What a life,” Declan said, sinking back into his club chair and not feeling one iota of envy. Not even a twinge, except… “How’s it g
oing with that guy you were seeing? What was his name? Oscar something? He sounded like a Brit—did you take him with you?” Last he’d heard, things had been very hot and heavy—and very happy—for his cousin.

  “Oscar London, and…well, things aren’t going much at all with him anymore.” She sighed. “He’s a nice guy—a really nice guy—but…well, it’s a long story. Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it. The next time you come visit me in New York…?” she said suggestively. “You could write it off—I’ve got some iron scrollwork that needs to be done for my new brownstone. You’ve been putting me off for months now, Dec.”

  “That would be great.” Maybe he’d even do that sooner rather than later—get out of town for a while and clear his head. Of course, now that he had Stephanie…he couldn’t just up and go.

  Damn.

  “Any time between now and February—that’s when I start my next book. So, what were you calling about? What’s up?” Teddy asked.

  “Besides wanting to catch up with my favorite cousin,” he said, smiling and imagining Teddy rolling her eyes, “I wanted to ask you about Jeremy Fischer. Do you know him? Have you met him?”

  “Yes, I’ve met Jeremy Fischer a number of times. We happen to have the same agent, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, great, because…he’s here in Sematauk. And I just wanted to get any dirt—uh, I mean—any information on him you might have. He’s—uh—getting kind of friendly with one of the local women here, and, well…I wouldn’t want her to get hurt or anything.”

  Lie, lie, lie…and maybe it didn’t matter anymore, now that he and Leslie were…whatever they were. But there was something about the Fischer guy that’d bothered him when they met at Orbra’s yesterday morning. Something about him didn’t sit right. Something was off.

  “You said Jeremy Fischer. You’re saying the author Jeremy Fischer is in Sematauk?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He’s staying at an inn, supposedly working on his new project, but he’s not really telling anyone it’s him—”