Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  SIMON PRENTICE SAT in the back of his private jet, sipping from a glass of scotch and peering out the window at the snow-covered landscape. He’d been delayed an hour getting out of Philadelphia by the blizzard and was now circling the Richmond airport waiting to land so he could pick up his bestselling author, Dr. Gerylyn Stoller.

  In a few hours, Simon would have another author in his stable—Noah Ashley—and a new book series that would make him even more money.

  And then there were the cable rights.

  New authors were easy to take advantage of, and Simon knew it. That’s why he’d brought the publishing contract with him. All Simon had to do was get a few drinks in Noah Ashley and hand him a pen.

  7:45 P.M. EST

  CHARLESTON EXECUTIVE AIRPORT

  NOAH ASHLEY FELT stupid. He’d been sitting in the waiting area of the Charleston Executive Airport for the past hour, dressed in a tuxedo and holding a masquerade mask like he was on his way to meet Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman at an erotic orgy.

  Now, due to bad weather up north, the man he was waiting to meet—a publisher named Simon Prentice—was delayed another forty minutes.

  Noah’s cell phone buzzed.

  Another text from Ellen.

  WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU?

  It was the fifteenth text message he’d received from her that day, each one a bit more hostile than the last.

  Noah had no idea what Ellen’s problem was. They weren’t dating. Had he said something to make Ellen think he was interested in her? They’d met for coffee a few times, but that was about it.

  Did she think they were a thing—like in a relationship of some kind? Was she one of those psycho women people talked about?

  God, that’s all he needed, Noah thought as he slid his cell phone back in his pocket without typing a reply.

  7:47 P.M. EST (4:47 PST)

  ROCHESTER, MINNESOTA

  ALEC YOST TOOK a long drag off his cigarette and continued pacing. What in the hell could be taking so long? He needed to get to Charleston for a midnight gig at the home of Declan Mulvaney.

  Without being paid.

  The other members of the band were not happy about working for free, but Alec was indebted to Declan Mulvaney in more ways than he could count.

  Screw them.

  It was the Alec Yost Band, and he was Alec Yost.

  Alec put his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and lit another, just as the door opened and the doctor entered.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke, right?” Alec said.

  The doctor said nothing and walked across the office, taking a seat behind his desk. “Have a seat, Alec.”

  “I’m fine,” Alec said. “I’d rather stand.”

  “Okay,” the doctor said. “Well, it’s not good.”

  Alec staggered forward and dropped hard into the chair. “The tests could be wrong,” Alec said.

  “They’re not,” the doctor said.

  “Hospitals make mistakes,” Alec said.

  “Not ours,” the doctor said. “And never with something as serious as hepatocellular carcinoma.”

  Alec bit his lip. The doctor slid a box of tissues across the desk. Alec shook his head and pushed the tissues away. There was nothing rock n’ roll about Kleenex.

  Son of a bitch, Alec thought. After years of struggling in obscurity, he finally had it all.

  Wealth.

  Fame.

  And now cancer.

  “Do you have any questions?” the doctor asked.

  “Only one,” Alec said. “How—?”

  “It’s hard to say,” the doctor started. “In a best-case scenario, you’re looking at six months, maybe a year.”

  “No,” Alec said. “I was going to ask if there was a back way out of here.”

  7:56 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  STORMY PULLED OUT his cell phone to see if the gate company had returned his calls. They hadn’t.

  It was well after normal office hours now, and Stormy knew everyone at the company was probably gone for the evening. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe they had lots of customers having problems because of the frigid temperatures.

  Not that Stormy could feel the cold.

  Stormy slid the cell phone back in his pocket and walked down the driveway toward the front-gate security guard shack to see if the gate was still operating correctly.

  “How’s the gate doing?” Stormy asked the elderly security guard, who was busy checking invitations and allowing cars onto the mansion property.

  “Fine,” the old man said. “Hey, why aren’t you wearing gloves? It’s freezing out here.”

  “I’m fine,” Stormy said.

  “Nonsense,” the old guard said, pulling off his gloves and holding them out to Stormy. “Here, you take these. I’ve got an extra pair in my car. I’ll fetch them on my break.”

  Despite not needing them, stormy took the gloves from the elderly guard. It was better not to make a fuss. In fact, it was a good lesson. He needed to be more careful about blending in when he was dealing with the living.

  Stormy finished putting the gloves on and then spotted the silver Audi coming down the road. It was a car he knew all too well.

  Mika clutched the steering wheel in the darkness, wondering why she hadn’t left earlier, until—finally—she saw the mansion coming up on the left side of the road and slowed the Audi. Then she saw the line of cars waiting at the mansion gate, having their invitations checked by security guards.

  Worse than that, an enormous wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. When in the hell did they do that? Then Mika saw the answer in the form of a man wearing a bowler hat.

  Stormy Boyd.

  Mika did not have an invitation. Talking her way past Stormy Boyd was unlikely. And the fence was too high to climb—especially in a butterfly ball gown from the Stella McCartney fall 2009 collection.

  She was screwed.

  Unless…

  “See that car there?” Stormy said to the elderly security guard.

  “The silver coupe?” the old guard asked.

  “Yes. Keep your eye on the woman behind the wheel,” Stormy said. “She’s trouble.”

  “Yes, sir. Who is she?”

  “Mika Flagler,” Stormy said.

  “Mika Flagler? Isn’t she the lady who hit the reporter in the face with a pie a few months back?”

  “One and the same,” Stormy said. “Make sure she does not get in, understood?”

  The elderly security guard nodded and watched the Audi drive past without stopping. What in the hell was she up to? the guard wondered.

  8:01 P.M. EST

  THE KITCHEN AT THE MULVANEY MANSION

  BEATRICE SHAW COULD not have been happier. Everyone she hired showed up on time and in uniform. The ovens were heating. The food had arrived. The tables were set. The refrigerated truck—which had broken down twice the previous week—was operating perfectly. The ice, alcohol, beer, and wine was in place, and the bartenders seemed to know what they were doing—especially the girl, Robyn from Orlando. Finding people who took directions but also knew how to take charge was rare. With any luck, she might be able to convince Robyn to come work for her full-time.

  But that was something for later.

  Beatrice had to stay focused on feeding 150 of the most powerful people in Charleston and Savannah, who would soon be eating her culinary creations and asking who was responsible for the magnificent evening.

  But right now, Beatrice was focused on something different: Where in the hell was the missing container of soup? She searched every inch of the kitchen twice. How was it possible to lose a five-gallon container of bright-orange pumpkin soup?

  Could it still be in the truck?

  Beatrice glanced at her watch. She could send someone to go check again, but she’d done that once and they came back empty-handed.

  She’d have to go outside, behind the house where the catering truck was parked, and look herself.

  The
catering truck was a 2004 GMC W5500 diesel engine cab, with a sixteen-foot Morgan reefer body with diamond-plated flooring and a partial swing rear door. Best of all, it had removable shelving inside that provided great storage flexibility when catering various-sized events.

  Though the truck was six years old and had accumulated 136,000 miles, it was still a source of pride as it was the first of three Beatrice purchased while building her catering fleet.

  Beatrice climbed on the rear step bumper and pulled herself inside. Though the refrigeration had been turned off hours earlier when the truck had been unloaded, it was still chilly inside.

  Beatrice walked down the center aisle, shoving aside what should have been empty cardboard boxes to test their weight. Any box that still contained food would be noticeably heavier than the others.

  They were all empty.

  Then Beatrice noticed a lone box on the floor near the rear of the unit and dropped to her knees. She grabbed the box and gave it a pull. It was heavy.

  Beatrice opened the box lid and—lo and behold—it contained the missing container of pumpkin soup. If you want a job done, you’ve got to do it yourself, Beatrice thought.

  CHLOE ARCHER was standing at the island in the center of the kitchen with a glass of red wine in her hand waiting for Beatrice Shaw to return.

  “Can I help you?” Beatrice asked as she entered the kitchen and set the box with the soup on the counter.

  “Yes, I’m Chloe Archer, owner of Krissy Vineyards. I’m here with the wine for the evening.”

  “I’m glad to see you got here early,” Beatrice said with an edge of sarcasm. “I’ve been fretting all afternoon about—”

  “Yes, I’m sure you have,” Chloe said, cutting Beatrice off. “But, as you can see, here I am.”

  “You know, normally—as the caterer—it is my responsibility to pair the wine offering with the food to ensure maximum compatibility.”

  Chloe expected to receive a bit of pushback from the woman and was ready for it. “Of course, and I appreciate your willingness to allow my wine to accompany your amazing food. Is that a sriracha glaze on the turkey?”

  “Why, yes. You have a good eye. Do you cook?”

  “Me? Cook?” Chloe said, taking a sip of wine. “Dear God, I only wish I had your talent—but I do know bold, inventive cooking when I see it.”

  Beatrice smiled broadly.

  Beatrice had no idea that Chloe had asked a member of the kitchen staff about the reddish glaze on the turkey five minutes earlier, knowing full well it would help her bond with the persnickety caterer.

  “Well, we’re both in the same boat, aren’t we?” Beatrice said.

  “Oh? What boat is that?”

  “Gals whose future depends on having the Mulvaneys like us,” Beatrice said. “If we do a good job of pleasing the Mulvaneys, the future is unlimited.”

  Chloe took a big gulp of wine, gritted her teeth, and said nothing.

  8:04 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION

  OUTSIDE THE MAIN GATE

  MIKA DROVE PAST the gate at the Mulvaney mansion and up the road about forty yards and then parked the Audi alongside the wrought-iron fence.

  Mika locked her purse in the trunk, taking nothing with her but a single tube of lipstick and her MAC compact. Then she placed the car keys on top of the left front tire of the car and started walking back toward the mansion’s front gate.

  Mika bypassed the line of cars that were waiting and walked directly to the guard shack to a uniformed security guard who looked to be at least eighty.

  Stormy Boyd was nowhere to be seen.

  This was going to be a piece of cake.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m one of the invited guests, and I’ve had the most horrible thing happen,” Mika said breathlessly. “My Maserati had a flat tire about a mile up the road and—”

  “Do you have an invitation?” the guard asked.

  “Well, no,” Mika said. “You see, I was in such a rush I left my purse in the car.”

  “Sorry, miss, without an invitation—”

  “Listen, you Homeland Security wannabe,” Mika snapped. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, Ms. Flagler,” the elderly guard said. “I have been given very specific instructions that you are not to be let in.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just stand here and wait for you to die of old age,” Mika said. “By the look of you, that shouldn’t be much more than twenty minutes tops.”

  “Insult me all you wish, Ms. Flagler—hit me with a pie even, if you think that will help—but you’re not getting into this party.”

  Mika stepped away from the guard shack and felt herself shaking with anger. Seconds later, she was having a difficult time catching her breath.

  By the time Mika got back to her car she was completely unable to breathe. Somehow, she managed to get in the car and retrieve the paper bag she kept in the glove box for just such an occasion.

  This wasn’t the first time Mika had hyperventilated.

  The events of recent months had taken her to the point that her doctor had recommended she spend a few weeks at a spa for relaxation—like she had the money for such extravagance. Mika was having trouble feeding Tiny, and her doctor recommended she traipse off to a $6,000-per-week health spa, resulting in heart palpitations and a severe attack of vertigo.

  Mika hadn’t gone back to the doctor since.

  It took a full five minutes for Mika’s breathing to return to normal and to regain her composure. So, what now? Mika wondered. The thought of driving back to Savannah on twisty roads in the dark was enough to make her heart start racing again. She had no cash and her credit cards were so maxed out she couldn’t even get a hotel room.

  What was she supposed to do?

  Sleep in the car?

  My God, this must be the bottom people talk about, Mika thought. She sure hoped so.

  Falling any further was unimaginable.

  Then Mika saw a limousine coming down the road toward the mansion. Not any limousine—the Mulvaney limo.

  Mika bolted from the car and ran into the middle of the road, waving her arms frantically in the air. “Stop! Stop!” Mika screamed.

  The limousine skidded to a halt on the icy pavement, and Mika hurried to the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  The driver powered the window down. “Crikey!” Graeme said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Let me in!” Mika yelled.

  “Let you in?” Graeme said. “In the limo? I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I do,” Stan Lee said from the rear seat of the limo. “This is Mika Flagler. Whatever are you doing in the middle of the road, Ms. Flagler?”

  Mika leaned in through the window and saw the Southern Gentleman sitting in the back seat. “Oh, my God, it’s you! What are you doing here? I thought I fired you.”

  “Indeed, you did, Ms. Flagler,” Stan Lee said. “But, as you can see, I have been re-retained as the evening’s master of ceremonies. The bigger question is what are you doing here in the middle of the road?”

  “I’m trying to get into the party,” Mika said.

  “Are you saying you do not possess an invitation to this evening’s festivities?” Stan Lee drawled, enjoying the moment.

  “It’s a long story,” Mika said.

  “If you’re not invited, there’s nothing we can do,” Graeme said. “Stand back, please. I’m rolling up the window now.”

  “No, wait,” Stan Lee said. “Let’s say I was to allow you to join me as my guest for the evening. What’s in it for me?”

  “I don’t know,” Mika said. “Whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want?” Stan Lee repeated. “Well, coming from a fine Southern belle such as yourself, Ms. Flagler, that sounds like an offer a Southern gentleman would be a fool to refuse. You are free to join me.”

  “Thank you,” Mika said, turning to walk to the passenger side of the limo.

  “No, Miss Flagler,” Stan Lee said. “Join
me here in the back. I will do my best to warm you up.”

  The elderly security guard waved the limousine forward and Graeme rolled the window down. “I’m Graeme Kingsley, the Mulvaney’s house guest.”

  “Yes, I remember you, Mr. Kingsley,” the security guard said. “I’ll need to see the invitations for your guests in the back.”

  Stan Lee hit the power button to lower the limousine’s rear window and handed the guard his invitation.

  “Very well,” the guard said. Then the guard saw Mika by Stan Lee’s side. “I’m sorry, but she can’t come in. She doesn’t have an invitation.”

  “Of course, she does,” Stan Lee drawled. “Ms. Flagler is with me. As you can see, my invitation clearly states The Southern Gentleman, plus one guest.”

  “Yeah, I’m his plus one,” Mika said and held up her middle finger towards the guard.

  IN LOLL

  JUNIPER COLE KNEW it was no longer safe for her to stay in Loll. The problem was the light she radiated from spending so much time in the living plane—touching people, hugging Quinn and Koda and Robyn.

  Now a dark force was chasing her.

  Juniper encountered it just after Quinn finished telling her the truth—that to remain in the living plane she would have to take the lives of others to stay alive.

  The news was devastating. But she wasn’t surprised.

  She should have known.

  “Say something, Juniper,” Quinn had said.

  “What is there to say?” Juniper asked.

  Juniper then leaned forward and gave Quinn a light kiss on the cheek and did something she still regretted, telling Quinn she wanted to be alone to think.

  It was a lie.

  She had no intention of thinking about anything. What was there to think about? Taking someone else’s life to extend your own existence—a dead existence, no less—was unthinkable.

  Juniper hunted around until she found a sheet of paper and a pen and then sat in one of the large leather chairs and wrote a note to Quinn, knowing that if she said goodbye in person, Quinn might ask her to stay.