by Tarah Scott
She glanced at the balcony doors. What passed for late afternoon sun filtered through the paned glass. She hadn’t returned to the stables to see how the mare and foal fared. If there was a kind God, they were all right, and if she had any luck, her sudden exit from the stables would be construed as the inability to watch the mare’s pain and not the rage that had threatened to push her to violence at watching Cat lavish love on an animal when she hadn’t shown a drop of compassion for her husband.
Margot had faced sawed-off shot guns, but her insides knotted at the prospect of sitting across the dinner table tonight from Cat. How the hell would she pull it off? Margot leaned her head against the chair. She just hadn’t allowed herself to consider how far she would have to go in order to play the role of friend. Hell, why not just sell her soul? It would be easier.
“Quit complaining,” she ordered. “Find proof of Cat’s guilt or get out.”
McNeil said Bree Cullen’s slipper was found at Castle Morrison. Margot rose, got her Blackberry from the nightstand, and returned to the chair. She settled, legs tucked beneath her, and checked for messages. Nothing from Charlie. Was it possible he’d left for an assignment? No, he would at least send her a note. Wouldn’t he? Her heart fluttered. He would.
Margot pulled up the website for the Stornoway Gazette in search of news of Bree Cullen’s disappearance and, half an hour later, her heart twisted at sight of the young blonde woman who smiled back from the photo inserted alongside the story. Donny’s death was the third murder in Wilkinson County during Margot’s twelve years as Deputy Sheriff. Between hunting accidents, drug overdoses, car accidents, and backwater residents who grew old and died alone in their homes there were two or three deaths yearly. Margot had seen her share of death. But this was the worst kind. Like Eric in high school…or Donny; the young who weren’t supposed to die.
Margot released a breath and began reading.
Whereabouts of Bree Cullen, a woman reported missing six days ago, have been traced to Castle Morrison. A pink house slipper reported by her sister as belonging to Ms. Cullen was found in a room of the castle’s east wing.
East wing? Margot looked up from the report. There were six rooms in this wing. Six in one chance…she swept her gaze around the room. Even if Bree had been this room all evidence would have disappeared after two years. Margot resumed reading.
Ms. Cullen’s friends and family say they know of no reason for her to be at the empty castle. The three-inch heel house slipper was the sort worn for entertaining guests at home. "We are looking into the possibility that Ms. Cullen went to the castle for a romantic evening," said Detective Inspector Harrison Graham of the Northern Constabulary.
Cat’s words that first night at the dinner table returned. “The curse compels Colin to lure women into his bed. The last woman known to enter the castle and disappear was Rita Jones in nineteen thirty-six.”
Sweet Christ, there could be no doubt; Cat had killed Bree Cullen as an attempt to free Colin Morrison from the spell. Margot lifted her gaze to the painting of Castle Morrison. Cat believed with all her heart that a man had lived three hundred years inside that picture. The rest of the tale flooded Margot’s mind. Colin had rebuffed a witch who wanted a night of passion with him. But Cat’s private files stated that the enchantment hadn’t been meant for Colin, but for his brother, Logan. Margot straightened. If the spell had been meant for Logan, how had Colin ended up enchanted in the picture? More important, why had Cat lied about such a benign element of the story?
Margot rose, set the Blackberry on the chair, and approached the painting. Heat from the embers intensified, yet she shivered. The day she arrived, she’d been struck by the artistry. She hadn’t asked, but the colors in the painting were so vivid, she assumed it had been restored. Each detail was meticulous: the road leading to the castle, the ocean in the background, the small, stained glass windows, the man she’d seen standing in the open doorway. Margot stilled. No one stood in front of the massive oak door.
Was she mistaken? No. She had seen him there that first afternoon after she’d awoken. Her heart hammered. How else had she known what he’d looked like? No! That had been a dream. The dreaming voodoo doll illuminated by candlelight rose in her mind’s eye. Cat believed the doll would connect Margot to Colin Morrison. Only the man Margot had seen was nothing like the Colin Morrison Cat described, nothing like the man she'd seen on Ghost Hunters Inc. Her dream lover wasn’t capable of murder. He was a man she could love, if he was real.
What of the man she'd envisioned in the dungeon? She'd been aroused, but his lovemaking had been…rough, like it had been in that second dream. Her pulse skittered at memory of his hands on her body. Mouth hot on her neck, sliding downward in a moist trail past the sensitive hallow of her throat, over the swell of her breast to the nipple. A flush swept through her—shame this time. She cursed and started to step back, then stopped at something that caught her eye in the painting’s stone wall. She leaned closer, saw nothing, then squinted. The apparition materialized, a feminine face, nestled amongst the velvet crawl of ivy. She drew in a sharp breath. The woman looked like Bree Cullen.
Margot whirled, grabbed the Blackberry, and scrolled up to the woman’s picture. Short blonde hair, lean face, oval eyes—she jerked her gaze back to the painting, concentrated, and Bree’s face snapped into focus.
“Fuck me,” Margot breathed.
It wasn’t possible. She scrolled down and read the rest of the report.
Castle Morrison, which has remained vacant for twenty years, was put on the market six months ago, and half a dozen prospective buyers have toured the castle and grounds.
Officers have been speaking to local residents and checking available CCTV from in and around the area. Forensic examinations of Ms. Cullen’s flat and the castle room where the slipper was found give no clues to her disappearance.
"We are keen to trace her movements prior to Monday 4 September so that we can recreate the events leading up to her disappearance," Mr. Graham added. "Any information, no matter how insignificant it may seem, can be passed to officers.”
Ms. Cullen, who lived in the Isle of Lewis all her life was well known in the area.
Margot looked back at the picture of Castle Morrison and scrutinized the remainder of the painted stone structure. Only the green ivy against gray stone was visible—her pulse jumped. There, another face, this one younger, heart shaped, with hair that fell past her shoulders.
Sweet Christ.
She opened a second browser and did a search on Rita Jones. A window filled the screen with three links. She hit the first link, then drew a sharp breath at sight of the black and white photo above the article. The heart shaped face framed by dark hair that fell past her shoulders was identical to the one in the picture. Margot scanned the report.
While a guest of American heiress Betty Caldwell at Castle Morrison, Miss Rita Jones of New York disappeared. She was last seen with her husband while strolling Castle Morrison’s gardens after breakfast before he left for the Stornoway golf club. Investigation has cleared Mr. Jones of any culpability in the disappearance of his wife.
The words blurred. Margot wiped her brow with a forearm. She jumped at a loud pop and jerked her gaze onto the fireplace. A coal flamed. This was ridiculous. People couldn’t live inside inanimate objects. Psychic voodoo dreaming dolls didn’t cause dreams. A sweet scent startled her. Something familiar. She had to get back into Cat’s secret room. Find that doll.
Margot set the Blackberry on the chair, crossed to the bed, kneeled, and reached under the bed frame and into a hole in the box springs where she’d hidden the lock pick set. She opened the set, took the snake pick and full diamond pick from their sleeves, and dropped them into her dress pocket. She stuffed the case back into its hiding place, then rose.
During dinner, she would get another look at that secret room. The sweet scent intensified. Margot frowned. Where had she smelled the scent before? It was pleasant, very pleasant. She took three
steps to the chair and reached for the Blackberry, but paused, her gaze on the painting. The detail was amazing. So real.
The room shifted. Margot gave her head a hard shake, then stepped up to the painting and reached toward the castle door. Her finger disappeared knuckle deep into the canvas. She yanked her hand back and stared at her fingers. How tired was she? She looked back at the painting. A glow in the upper left hand window flickered as if the room was lit by firelight. The sweet smell thickened. That scent was the incense she’d smelled in Cat’s secret room.
Margot whirled. The room spun. She grabbed for the Blackberry, knocking it off the chair. She snatched it up from the carpet. The keys blurred. She forced concentration and punched in two, nine, seven, eight, three, the code for McNeil’s cell.
A light scrape of stone against stone pulled her attention to the narrow bookshelf to the right. The bookshelf slowly swung open. A distorted phone ring played in her ear. Margot squinted at the bookshelf. Cat stepped into the room.
Another ring.
Margot blinked. She had to get out. She started to turn toward the door. Another ring.
“Hello,” came McNeil’s cultured voice.
Cat thrust the dreaming doll and gris-gris in her face and began chanting something unintelligible.
“Charlie?” Margot batted at the doll.
Cat dodged her arm and thrust it closer to her face. Margot's head filled with the sound of rushing wind.
“Margot?” McNeil said.
She stumbled toward the fireplace and fell onto her knees. Cat chanted louder. The wind roared.
“Margot,” McNeil shouted.
Margot dropped the Blackberry. Her hair and skirt whipped in a gale force wind. Not a single ash fluttered in the hearth. Where was the wind coming from? The coals burned close to her face. She cringed. This couldn’t be real.
She reached up and groped for the mantle. Her fingers closed around the smooth wood and she dragged herself up, away from the coals. A pull toward the painting lifted her feet off the ground. She cried out and gripped the mantle tighter. Wind rippled across her cheeks in painful waves and pulled her face closer to the castle. She tensed, fingers gripping the mantle so hard the knuckles turned white.
"What’s wrong with me," she shouted at Cat. Then, “I’m putting your ass in jail!”
Cat’s laughter carried over the roar of the wind. “Is that a promise you made Donald?" She stepped closer, doll and gris-gris pointed at Margot like knives.
"Mother fucker," Margot snarled, and grabbed for the doll.
The wind tore her grip from the mantle. She screamed in unison with a ripping sound, and a third face jumped into focus against the ivy-covered wall as she ripped through the canvas.
Chapter Eighteen
Margot stood in the same hallway she’d been in three previous times, chills rolling down her arms. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She pivoted in a circle. “Godammit, Cat, I’m going to kick your ass!” Margot halted. The walls continued to spin. She bent forward, palms on her knees, and took a long, slow breath. “Fucking voodoo superstition,” she growled under her breath.
She relaxed her head farther forward and, with a second deep breath, her equilibrium evened out. Margot lifted her head. Intricacies of the stone wall’s texture snapped into 3D focus. She reached out and touched the cool stone. How much more real could this dream get? She straightened. Was the realism what troubled her? No.
“The fact you’re dreaming and can’t wake up,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
Margot caught sight of the door up ahead on the right. That door, along with all the others in this, and the next hallway, had been locked in earlier dreams. She reached into her dress pocket, pulled out the two lock picks and couldn’t help a harsh laugh.
Bring it on, baby.
Margot strode to the door, stopped, reached for the handle, then stilled. This was her fourth time in this hallway. She was going to put an end to this now…find what had her scared. She tried the door. Locked. She examined the large iron lock. This would be her first time picking the lock of a seventeenth century castle. She inserted the picks. A few seconds later, the lock clicked. She dropped the picks back in her pocket and inched open the door.
No fire burned in the fireplace, leaving a chill in the air. A musty smell burned her nose. A chair and small desk occupied the far right corner. On the wall opposite her, darkness lay beyond a small, stained glass window. Margot peered around the door. A piece of white clothing lay on the floor between her and the bed.
She took a step forward and picked up the fabric, then turned and examined it by the hallway light. What the—a pair of old-fashioned drawers? She shook it out by the waistband and ran her gaze down the length of the fabric. Old-fashioned drawers, all right. Margot tossed the underwear onto the bed, then paused at sight of the tangled bedding. She squinted at a dark mass curled up on the pillow. It looked like a—a cat? That was a new twist.
“Kitty,” she said in a soft voice, but the animal didn’t move. “Ki-tty.” Still nothing.
She started toward the bed, then realized the light from the hallway wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the interior of the room and hurried back into the hallway, heading for the nearest sconce. Margot lifted the wrought iron sconce from its holder and strode back into the room.
She crossed to the bed, but stopped short at recognizing the thing she had mistaken for a cat.
Margot stared at the skull, white bones framed against dark hair spread across a cream-colored linen pillowcase. Black hair reached to hip length, hair like Cat’s. What in God’s name had prompted this morbid twist to the dream? Maybe she wished Cat in hell where she would spend eternity with the demons she hoped to conjure? Margot cursed under her breath. That was some death wish. When had she turned into one of the sick fucks from whom she had sworn to preserve and protect the populace?
She drew back the covers. A red bustier lay limp against the skeleton’s ribs. Margot glanced at the drawers lying on the foot of the bed. Why had the underwear been on the floor? She grimaced. When she got back home, some shrink was going to have a field day with this one. Margot turned to leave, but her gaze caught on a broken wine glass on the night stand. She brought the sconce closer and found a dried wine spill marring the top of the nightstand. A second glass lay on the rug between the bed and nightstand. She straightened. The bustier, underwear on the floor, and wine all pointed to a night of romance. Or seduction. A chill swept through her.
Margot hurried from the room.
The next door came into sight. She stopped in front of the room and stared at the play of light off the black, metal handle before finally trying the door. Locked. She placed the sconce in the holder near the door and pulled the lock pick from her pocket. A moment later, the lock clicked open just as the other had and she pushed open the door. Except for a navy blue quilt, the room and four poster bed were identical to the last.
She lifted the sconce from its holder and entered the room. “Hello?”
No answer. She crossed to the bed and drew back the quilt. Another skeleton lay on pristine sheets, this one, naked. Brunette hair reached breast length. White fabric peeked from beneath the pillow beside the skeleton. Using the edge of the sconce, Margot dragged the fragment forward until it became recognizable as a linen nightgown. She glanced around the room, but found no other signs of romance as there had been in the other room.
Margot strode from the room and down the hallway. Another door came into view up ahead on the right. She stopped, tried the handle, found the door locked, and kept going around the corner into the second hall. She stopped at a door five feet ahead on the right and had the lock opened even quicker than the last.
In this room, the fireplace sat to the left, and the bed to the right. Sconce in hand, Margot started toward the bed, but halted four paces into the room. The morbid cheesy smell emanating from the bed caused her heart to thump with a ferocity that took her breath. She knew that smell; butyric acid. The flesh on
the body was in the early stages of decay.
She forced back a gag. Jesus-fucking-Christ. Why had her mind created this? She continued to the bed, grasped the edge of the quilt, and yanked it back. The stench gusted upward and she fell back a step, burying her nose in the crook of the arm holding the sconce and waving wildly with her free hand.
“Stupid,” she wheezed. Any cop worth their salt would know better than to yank the quilt off a decaying body.
Margot stepped closer to the bed. Bile rose at sight of flesh decaying from the chest cavity outward. Contrasting the bloated flesh was the pale pink of the gown bunched about the woman’s waist. A glint drew Margot’s attention to the mother-of-pearl buttons dotting the strip of lace that ran the length of the bodice. The delicate buttons reminded her of white-columned porticos, mint juleps, and hand fans waving in front of beautiful female faces in an effort to stir the heavy summer air. A lump formed in her throat. The crumpled satin nightgown with pink ribbon belonged to just such a woman, like those genteel southern ladies of her home state.
“Wake up,” she muttered. “Wake the fuck up.”
The room didn’t change. The bloated corpse remained on the bed, far too real.
Reverend Johnson would say this dream was payment for the fornication of the earlier dreams. She had never been one to believe in sin or righteousness, heaven or hell, but then, she’d never come quite so close to Hell.
Margot studied the body. Who knew the time spent at the Body Farm in Tennessee learning about decomposing corpses would come in handy during a dream? Fluid darkened the bed around the body where mold had grown as a result of contact between flesh and bedding. If she remembered correctly, butyric fermentation took place twenty to fifty days after death. This woman hadn’t died long ago.
She thought back to the other two corpses. Only a forensics expert could pinpoint how long ago each had died, but their state of decomposition was far beyond the butyric fermentation stage into the dry state where the corpse had been reduced to bone and hair.