by Mae Clair
The hint of a smile touched his lips, but quickly vanished. He hadn’t understood the world’s preoccupation with Sherlock Holmes until after Trask died. Until the analytical side of his mind made him hunt down detective fiction followed by casebook studies of actual crimes. Reference books, police procedurals, criminal investigations, even psychological examinations of convicted criminals became every day reading. His mother had worried when she saw his interest morphing into homicides, assault, and autopsies. He’d kept notebooks, writing down everything he’d learned, secreting them away for fear of upsetting his parents.
They’d never understood. At thirteen it had all looked so simple. He’d wanted to make the world a safer place.
He snorted quietly, stepping into the room. What a stupid ass.
“Got a minute?”
His father looked wary, but motioned him to a chair.
Caith chose to hover near the window, tracing his finger over the edge of the padded seat. The leather was soft and buttery, deep green like feral forests and dense woods. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Merlin told me there was a verbal offer to buy Stone Willow before all the problems at the lodge started.”
“A coincidence.” His father waved a hand in dismissal. “I asked Duke Cameron about it after the first incident, and he said it wasn’t related.”
“How does he know? Did he check into it?”
“He didn’t seem to think it worth the effort.” Easing into his chair, his dad inched closer to the desk. “It’s a waste of time, Caith. I’d rather pay you for answers.” He flipped open a ledger. “Assuming you can find any.”
Caith tensed. Something dark and angry surged through him. With effort he tamped it down, spitting out words. “So, if I told you BI was showing a loss but not to worry, numbers would bounce back next quarter, you wouldn’t look into it?”
His father eyed him mistrustfully. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Caith exploded, “that I wouldn’t tell you how to run your company. Don’t tell me how to do my freaking job.”
“Enough!” Surging to his feet, his father stalked around the desk. “I knew hiring you was a mistake the moment I found out. I should have fired you when I had the chance.”
Caith’s gaze was stony. “Don’t go soft on me now.”
“Don’t tempt me, Caithelden.”
“Why not? You’d rather listen to Duke than anything I have to say. Shit, Dad. You’ve known him all his life. You know what he’s like. He’s shortsighted and lazy. He probably paid somebody to get where he is.”
“Caith.”
“All right.” Caith held up both hands. He took a step backward, attempting to rein in his anger. “All I’m saying is you shouldn’t rule out a connection between the offer and what’s been happening. There’s no reason we can’t discuss this rationally.”
“Agreed.” His father paced to the globe and cracked it open, revealing a decanter with dark-colored liquid and a number of cut crystal glasses. “Fruit juice,” he explained, indicating the arrangement. “I had the bar revamped with a built-in coolant system.” Pouring a small glass, he turned to Caith who declined the offer with a shake of his head.
His father chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame you. It’s your mother’s idea. She made me give up most of my vices when I had problems with my heart. Bourbon was the first to go.”
Caith stared. “I…I didn’t know you had problems.” He felt abruptly uneasy.
His father rolled his shoulders, dismissing the reference. “Nothing serious. The doctor tells me I’m fit as a fiddle now. Probably all that clean living your mother makes me do.” Walking to his desk, he tipped the chair back, reclining comfortably. “Don’t hover, Caith. It bothers me.”
Instinctively, Caith slid into the window seat, his perch from childhood. It felt natural, too familiar. Inwardly, he grimaced. To move now would only draw attention to his discomfort. “What do you know about the offer from Galicorp?”
His dad thought a moment. “It was substantial, more than generous given Stone Willow has never been extremely profitable.”
“And that didn’t strike you as odd?”
“It’s not the first offer we’ve had, even if it was on the high side.” His father sipped his fruit juice, considering. “Over the years we’ve had everything from historians and scientific groups, to private industry. Even a few Mom and Pop teams who wanted to turn the place into a quirky bed and breakfast and play off the Barrister legend. You know…ghost-related stuff. We get offers as a matter of routine. It’s why Duke wrote Galicorp’s inquiry off as inconsequential.”
“But you said it was substantial.”
His father nodded.
“Veronica told me Galicorp countered with a higher offer when you declined the original.”
“That’s right, but we declined that, too.”
“Weren’t you interested in the corporation? Curious who might be offering that much money for a mediocre retreat?”
His dad shook his head. “I left matters with Galen.”
“Was he in favor of selling?”
“More than the rest of us. Galen’s never been particularly fond of Stone Willow. He gave his son a name from mythology to make your mother happy, but he’s as grounded as they come. The lake, Warren Barrister… He’d rather sell the place than deal with the curiosity it causes.”
Caith considered that for a moment. “About Galicorp? You said Galen was in favor of selling. Was it because he wanted to unload the lodge, or did he have a personal interest?”
“Personal?” His father scowled. Sitting forward, he spread his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Caith. I didn’t say he was in favor of selling. I said he favored it more than the rest of us. Galicorp is local, out of Pittsburgh. Galen liked that idea. Our profit margin would have been sizeable. As CEO, why wouldn’t he advise us to sell?”
Standing, Caith stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to pace. Pittsburgh. Why did that bother him? “I understand Galen goes out of town a lot. Does he visit Pittsburgh?”
His father exhaled, growing frustrated. “I don’t track his schedule. He’s a grown man. He’s my right arm. What the hell does it matter?”
Caith paused. The more he pieced it together, the more it felt wrong. What did Galen stand to gain if his family sold the lodge? He frowned. “Mind if I use the computer downstairs?”
“Help yourself.” His father took a swallow of fruit juice and chuckled. “We’ve got state-of-the-art everything thanks to Balin. That kid’s a real whiz when it comes to electronic gadgetry. Too bad he doesn’t want to work for BI.”
Caith was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned. “Huh?”
“You know how it is with kids today.” His dad spread his hands, explaining. “Straight business is boring. He’s already got his heart set on some school out west that teaches all of that blue-screen and CGI stuff. I don’t understand any of it. The kid wants to make movies in Hollywood.”
Caith hedged, digesting the information. Should he be concerned his nephew had more than a passing acquaintance with effects technology? Balin was part of the drama club, and the drama club had access to Aren’s phosphorescent body paint. Would Galen have the same access through Balin?
When he remained silent too long, his father frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Straightening, Caith drew a breath. “Do you mind if Derry and Veronica spend the night? I’ll probably be hours on the computer.”
“They’re both welcome.” His father hesitated, then cleared his throat awkwardly. He shuffled some papers on his desk. “So are you.”
The muttered words made Caith wonder if he’d heard them.
“Thanks,” he mumbled in return, unsure if his gratitude was for the use of the computer or a welcome twelve years overdue.
* * * *
Caith spent most of the night closeted in the downstairs den, trying to gather what information he c
ould on Galicorp. He scoured several online databases including the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, prominent business journals, newspapers, and community associations. He looked into business suits, civil suits, and clerk records. Checked deed registrations, fictitious name applications, and tax records. Later, he ransacked his father’s personal office for everything he could find on Stone Willow, taking files, account ledgers, budget printouts, and copies of general correspondence to the computer room.
Around two in the morning, he checked on Derry to make sure he was sleeping soundly, then headed for the kitchen where he brewed a pot of strong black coffee. At three, he placed a phone call to an information broker he frequently used, dragging his disgruntled contact from bed. By three-thirty, he had expanded his search to include details on Lew Walden. At five-eighteen, he fell asleep hunched over the desk, a cold cup of coffee forgotten at his elbow, notes and papers scattered haphazardly on the desk and floor.
“Dad.” Someone shook him, tugging on his arm. “Dad, wake up. I’m gonna be late for school.”
Caith cracked an eye, forced the other open. The first thing he became aware of was a piece of paper stuck to his cheek where it rested on the desk. The second was Derrick’s bright-eyed stare.
His son’s face split with a sloppy smile. “See, Grandpa, I told you he’d wake up.”
Caith groaned and forced himself upright. His body felt stiff, protesting with aches and pains below his ribs and around the shoulder where Lance McClure had battered him. He dragged a hand over his face, focusing on the eager expression of his son. “What time is it?”
“Seven forty-five.” His dad hovered behind Derrick, his gaze sharp and critical. “Have you been here all night?”
Caith nodded. Even if he left now, he’d never have Derrick to school by eight o’clock. “Why didn’t somebody wake me earlier?”
Derrick grinned. “Ron left early ’cause she’s meeting Uncle Aren at BI, and Grandma decided to go with her.”
“We thought you were up already,” his father said. “In the shower.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to be at BI at eight-thirty. I can drop Derry at school. He’ll be a little late, but—”
“He’s my responsibility.” Still functioning in low gear, Caith shoved from the chair. He looked around at the papers scattered over the desk and on the floor. Bits and pieces of information he’d printed the previous night mingled with his own hastily scribbled notes of conjecture. Bending, he scooped a handful off the floor, stacking them in a messy, lopsided pile on the desk. Derrick’s innocent statement nipped at his sleep-deprived mind. What the hell was Ron meeting Aren about? And with his mother?
“Too bad Balin didn’t wake you when he was in here.”
“Balin?” Caith sent his father a blank look.
“He keeps some books here. All that CGI stuff. He stopped to pick one up on the way to school. He’s the one who told us you were asleep.” He frowned as he noticed the files and records taken from his office. “I’d rather you asked for that information.” A curt nod indicated a stack of ledgers and folders on the corner of the desk. “My private office is private.”
Caith dragged a hand through his hair. He needed a shower, a change of clothes, and two pots of coffee to feel whole again. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Didn’t want, or didn’t feel like it?”
Irritated, Caith glanced to the side. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’ve always done what you wanted, the world be damned. Why should now be any different?”
Caith sighed. His body hurt, his mind was sluggish, and his mouth felt like sandpaper. Now wasn’t the time to argue. Especially with Derrick standing three feet away, his eyes owlishly round as he looked between them.
“I’m not gonna do this in front of my kid,” he said bluntly. “You want to argue, save it for when we’re alone. I’ll give you first shot.” Pushing past his father, he caught Derrick’s hand. “Come on. You’re going to be late for school.”
* * * *
Caith strolled into the lobby of the Coldcreek Inn, intent on finding Dean Porter. He’d managed to get Derrick to school by 8:10, which made him only fifteen minutes late for his meeting with Porter. He hadn’t taken the time to shower or change, but a cup of coffee and a donut from the local bakery had made him feel marginally human. He’d eaten the donut in the Explorer with the coffee wedged into a cup-caddy between the seats. Unfortunately, he’d spilled half of it taking a sharp turn, sloshing it over his jeans. Even now he could smell stale coffee and wet denim as he entered the lobby.
A display of bright orange pumpkins, cornstalks, and hay bales greeted him inside the door. Fanciful spider webs dangled from the ceiling, and the desk clerk was dressed in full vampire regalia, complete with fangs.
Today was Halloween, the seventeenth anniversary of Trask’s death. Seventeen years of thinking he should have done something differently, should have intervened. Seventeen years of wondering what it might have been like to grow up together, to attend the same college. Would Trask be married? Would he have kids? Bitterly, he shoved the thoughts aside and strolled toward the motel’s tiny onsite restaurant.
Porter was seated at a table near the front, eating a fruit cup. Judging by an empty plate nearby, he’d already finished breakfast. “Nice of you to show up,” he said sarcastically as Caith grabbed a chair and spun it around, straddling it backward. “I’ve got better things to do than wait on you.”
Caith was in no mood and cut bluntly to the point. “I got tied up. What did you find out?”
Porter set his fork aside, leaving most of the fruit untouched. He motioned the waitress for more coffee. “You were right about Kelly Rice having an ongoing love affair with power and prestige. As soon as she learned who I worked for, she couldn’t wait to rub my nose in the fact she was moving up the journalistic ladder and I was stuck at a tabloid.”
Caith frowned. “Moving up where?”
The waitress arrived, refilling Dean’s cup. Caith shook his head to indicate he didn’t care for any and she moved away.
“She wouldn’t say, but hinted she had an ‘in’ with Roth-Deckman, and was waiting for her connection to pay off. She bought the ploy I was looking for dirt on Stone Willow. Once she thought I was in her corner, the rest was easy.”
Caith’s brows drew together. He’d focused on the first half of Porter’s explanation. “The media giant,” he muttered, referring to Roth-Deckman.
“That’s the one. At last tally, its holdings included a major TV network, a movie-production company, two book publishers, and a portfolio of high-circulation newspapers. Pretty much a journalistic dream. I know writers who’d sell their souls to get their foot in the door, let alone secure a cushy position like the one she hinted she has waiting.”
Caith rubbed his temple. “GB. It makes sense now.”
Porter sipped his coffee. “What does?”
“Never mind.” Caith stood. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get your paranormal story when this is done, but I’ve got something better for you. Hang around, and I’ll get more than your foot in the door with Roth-Deckman.”
* * * *
Veronica struggled to suppress a giggle as she eyed the Halloween costume. She’d been a fool to let Merlin, Aren, and Morgana talk her into this. “Aren, you’ve lost your mind. You are never going to get Caith to wear that.”
Morgana fingered the trailing end of the black cape. “I don’t know. I think it’s dashing. A highwayman.” Her eyes danced as she looked at Veronica. “It could be very romantic, my dear.”
Veronica bit her lip. Caith in black pants, boots, a sleeveless black tunic belted over a white poet’s shirt, and a swirling black cape. It was the stuff of fantasy. Aren had even tracked down authentic-looking extras—an eighteenth century straight sword, black gauntlets, a plumed hat, and a black scarf to double as a face mask. Just the thought of Caith in knee-high boots with the cape swirling behind him
made her unsure if she wanted to swoon or laugh. She settled for dropping into the nearest chair with a heavy thud. “Caith hates Halloween.”
Morgana waved a hand, shooing aside the statement. “This is for Derry. And when trick-or-treating is over, there’s our yearly costume party. We’ve been tiptoeing around Caith since he got here, but he’s coming, and he’s coming in costume. If I have to box his ears and drag him, he’s going to make this a family Halloween. For once in his life, he’s not going to shut himself off in a room and sulk about Trask.”
“With a bottle of Grand Marnier for company,” Aren muttered.
Morgana continued as though she hadn’t heard. “Don’t you see how perfect it is, Veronica? He loved adventure when he was a child, and this costume even has a sword.”
Caith with a sword. Caith in boots and a cape. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Veronica clapped both hands to her mouth, giggling. “You’re going to tell me I have to go as a troll, aren’t you?”
Aren laughed out loud. “Wouldn’t think of it. But just so you know, Merlin helped me pick these costumes. When Caith starts swearing a blue streak, I’m bowing out the back door and turning him loose on Merlin. As for you, milady…”Aren wiggled his eyebrows. He disappeared into an adjoining room, leaving the door yawning behind him. Within seconds he was back, a garment bag slung over his arm.
“For her ladyship.” Aren performed a showy bow. He hooked the bag onto the same portable rack that held Caith’s costume.
Veronica exchanged a glance with Morgana.
“Well,” the older woman coaxed. “Don’t sit there looking befuddled. Open it!”
Veronica drew the zipper down, feeling her breath catch as the gown slipped free. With Aren’s assistance, she pulled the dress from the bag, hooking it onto the rack and stepping back to admire its lines. Soft and feminine, it flowed to the floor in shimmering folds of rose-colored satin. The waist was tightly cinched to offset a plunging Queen-Anne neckline. Puffed shoulders ended in short, snug fitting sleeves. Above-the-elbow white gloves added a touch of bewitching elegance. For adornment, a jeweled pendant was suspended on a silk choker, and twin hair combs were fitted with small faux pearls. An accompanying floor-length black cape was lined with the same rose-petal satin as the gown. To Veronica, the entire outfit resembled something out of a fairytale.