OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2

by Sheedy, EC

  “Ah, a question for a question. I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He was silent for a second or two, then nodded. “Yeah, you do. Make me uncomfortable. I’m not used to dealing with righteous women.”

  Although his description of her didn’t sit well with her, she ignored it to ask, “What kind of women are you used to dealing with?”

  The look he gave her was unreadable. “The kind who don’t ask questions, the kind who—”

  “—who aren’t around for coffee and donuts the morning after?”

  His gaze didn’t shift, but something in it did, darkening to anger. “That about sums it up, Sister.” His gaze was steady, his emphasis on the word sister. “Now unless you want to start right in saving my soul, I suggest you get your holy butt up those stairs. We’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow. It would be best if we were both awake for it.”

  “I’ll go, but for the last time, I am not a nun, a sister, or any other religious manifestation your mind wants to dream up.” She paused. “If you must know, I’m a widow.” She had no idea why she told him that, why it was suddenly important that he see her as a woman instead of a … untouchable. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she wished them back. She never spoke about her marriage, mainly because there was so little to say. Tragically short, it was easier to forget her time with Marc, accept it as God’s inscrutable hand at work, and let it go. With sadness, yes, but no more tears.

  Surprise lifted his eyebrows, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he ran a hand through his thick hair, accidentally touched the light bulb, and set it swinging, causing shadows to writhe along the wall of boxes and the pipes and dials of the ancient furnace. “What happened?”

  “His name was Marc. Marc LaSalle. He was a doctor, a pediatrician. He headed up the aid group I was attached to at the time.” She stopped, took a breath. “He stepped on a land mine a month after we were married.” She didn’t add she’d been barely ten feet behind him when it happened.

  “Jesus! When?”

  “Five years ago. In Beida, a small village in the Sudan. We were setting up a clinic.”

  “Hell of a honeymoon.” He studied her for what seemed forever. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She had the overwhelming urge to back away, hide behind a leather face, a stone heart. “What for?” she asked, again wishing she’d never brought up the subject of her marriage. “You didn’t know him.”

  “No. But I know you. A little,” he said. “And I know about losing someone you care about.” Again leveling his gaze to meet hers, he added, “So I repeat. I’m sorry.”

  She opened her mouth to say—God knew what—something about how she’d accepted Marc’s death, had canonized him in her mind and moved on because moving on, in the Sudan where the need was so immense, was the only choice. She settled for a simple, “Thanks.”

  “Now can we go to bed?” he said, immediately scrunching his face into a grimace at the inadvertent double-entendre.

  His discomfort made her smile and tripped her heart. “Yes, Gus. We can go to bed now.” She started up the stairs, her silent, once-again-awkward houseguest trailing behind her.

  Dinah tossed down the book she was reading and walked to the window. The view wasn’t much, primarily other tall buildings, most of them offices with their drones toiling away behind vast sheets of glass, with glimpses of water and the Seattle Space Needle somewhat to the north. So gray, so cold, compared to Miami, and home to so many dismal memories. She pushed them aside and turned back to Cassie, who was on the phone—again. No doubt with her tiresome teenage daughter.

  Dinah chewed back her annoyance and decided to leave her to it. She turned to look again at the lifeless wall of office towers outside her luxurious suite. She hated Seattle, and if it weren’t for Gus being here, and the confusion surrounding Mayday House, she’d never have set foot on its sidewalks again. Two days here, living like a recluse, and she was going mad.

  Damn it, Mary, why didn’t you keep your promise, leave Mayday to me like we agreed? I kept my part of the bargain, why in hell didn’t you keep yours? Why put my life at risk after all these years?

  Dinah hoped she’d kept her other promise and destroyed all the records—if there were any—because if she’d left one link to Dinah …

  Her heart was beating too fast; she took a breath. Odd how coming back to Seattle had initiated a panic she hadn’t felt in the Miami sun. And stupid. Getting upset would accomplish nothing. No need for it. So far everything was under control. Although it would help if Gus called, told her he had the Farrell woman’s agreement to sell. She had no doubt her plan to remove the woman from Mayday House would work eventually. Money always worked—especially when it came with a side order of fear.

  Finally she heard Cassie say “Good-bye” and hang up the phone.

  “Try Gus’s number again, Cassie,” Dinah said. “Then order us some lunch, would you?” Dinah worked to sound cool, to ignore the soft flutter in her stomach that came with even the possibility she’d hear Gus’s deep voice.

  Cassie nodded, but before her hand touched the phone, it rang. She picked it up. “Hello.”

  Dinah could see her grip on the phone tighten from ten feet away.

  “I’ll see if she’s in.” She looked directly at Dinah and put her hand over the phone. “It’s Hagan.”

  “How in hell did he know I was here?”

  Talk about bad Seattle memories.

  “I have no idea,” Cassie said, adding in a whisper, “What do you want me to do?”

  Dinah made a quick gesture with her hand toward the phone. “Give it to me.” She took the phone, held it to her chest. “And make yourself scarce, will you?”

  “Not a problem,” Cassie said. Looking relieved, she left the room.

  Dinah took a deep breath and settled the phone on her ear. “Hagan, darling, how wonderful to hear from you—after all this time.” She oozed the insincerity down the phone line, keeping her voice low and flat. She hated this man. Hated him.

  “Yeah, I can tell you’re overjoyed.”

  “I was on my way out. What do you want?”

  “Other than you giving me all my money back? Absolutely nothing—except maybe getting your expensive ass out of my town.”

  She heard him take a drink.

  “You’ll be happy to know,” she said, “that I’ll be leaving ‘your town’ at the first opportunity. And as to the money issue, I believe we settled that.” About fifty million times. “And so did the courts, as I recall—in my favor.” Suddenly anxious to get him off the phone, close the line that seeped his terrible voice into her ear, she said sharply, “I repeat. What do you want?”

  “Being friendly, darlin’, that’s all.”

  “Good thing you’re not in the room, then, because if I remember correctly, the friendliest thing about you was the fist you used on my face.”

  “Ah … those were the days.”

  “You’re a son of a bitch, Hagan, and the worst thing that ever happened to me,” she said, keeping her voice cool and level.

  He laughed. “Says she who is happily situated in the best hotel suite in Seattle, courtesy of my money.”

  “Your money was the best thing about you, Hagan. It sure as hell wasn’t that poor excuse for a cock you’ve got between your legs.”

  No laughter now. Dinah could feel the venom slithering through the line. “On the subject of cock, bitch, you want to tell me which one of the many you’re familiar with you sent running to Mayday House?”

  “Mayday House?” Her bones locked and froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hagan spoke softly now. Too softly. Threateningly soft. “Oh, you know well enough. It’s me who’s in the dark. But not for long.” He stopped. “I hired a mutual friend of ours.”

  “We don’t have any mutual friends.” Dinah put a hand to her throat, rubbed the knot holding back her breathing.

  “We do now. And this time he’s all mine. Bought and paid fo
r.”

  “What are you talking about?” She forced herself to show anger, impatience—anything but the sick dread bunching low in her belly.

  “Not what, who. I hired myself your boy toy, bitch. Gus Hammond works for me now. I guess he got tired of crawling over those skinny old bones of yours and set his eye on the main chance.” The guttural laugh coming down the line was a sneer. “And that’s me. I hold all the cards, including your fuck jock. You’ll be hearing from me.” He hung up.

  Dinah couldn’t move, couldn’t think or even blink.

  Her first reaction was denial. Gus wouldn’t …

  Don’t be a fool, Diana. People can be bought—like you bought Gus in a damn gas station. So be smart. Never underestimate the power of cash.

  She closed her eyes, and her mind filled with the vision of Gus and Hagan, together, against her. Then it shifted to Mary Weaver wearing a blood-soaked nightgown running down the long dark hall of Mayday House, a hall Dinah had sworn never to walk again.

  She replaced the phone receiver in its cradle, slowly, carefully, as if it were the most fragile of crystal, her mind hovering, then locking on the grisly secret that could destroy her life.

  If she let it…

  CHAPTER 9

  When Gus stepped into the kitchen, it was nearly ten. He’d been up since seven. Determined to get a good feel for the place, he’d already checked die outbuildings, walked the property, and the surrounding neighborhood, mostly houses like Mayday, large timeworn Victorian-style farmhouses, set on acreages about eight miles from the town of Erinville.

  Keeley sat at the table with a piece of toast, largely ignored by the look of it, in one hand and a pen in the other. She was scribbling into a blue notebook. An empty coffee mug sat to her right.

  When he walked in, she barely glanced at him. “There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, turning her attention back to her note-making.

  He poured himself one, filled her mug, and returned the pot to its home unit. She muttered a thanks, glanced up at him, and frowned in what appeared to be annoyance. “So do you always look so good? Smell so good?”

  As morning conversation, it wasn’t what he expected, nor did it look as if she expected an answer. He leaned against the counter and drank some coffee. “What are you doing?”

  “Making a to-do list.” She studied him again. “And I came up with another chore.”

  “Which is?”

  “Get you some painting clothes. You can’t work in those … Calvin’s or whatever.”

  Gus had never held a paint brush in his life; he didn’t intend to start now. “I don’t paint.”

  “You do if you intend to stay here. Be a sin to let those muscles of yours go to waste, when there’s so much that needs doing around here.”

  He set his coffee mug down. “I don’t paint,” he said again.

  “Then how do you expect to earn your keep?”

  “My keep?” He echoed, sensing he was hunkered down with a crazy woman.

  “I’m not giving you bed and board for nothing.” He didn’t bother reminding her providing security had value. Instead he pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, dropped five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

  ”This cover it?” Putting his wallet back in his pocket, he added, “When that runs out, let me know.” She stared at the cash a moment, then picked it up and stuffed it in her pocket. “At the moment, Mayday House needs your energy more than your money.” She gave him the look of a disapproving schoolteacher. “But as the House can use a little help with financing right now, I gratefully accept your donation,” she said. “And if you want to sit around all day doing nothing, that’s fine by me. If you don’t, you’ll find some old coveralls by the back door.”

  Before he could answer, Erica walked into the kitchen. “Morning.” She covered a yawn with her hand and headed directly for the coffeepot.

  Gus’s glance in her direction had him thinking it was Erica Stark, wearing the legal minimum in nightclothes, who needed the damned coveralls. He didn’t miss that Keeley shot her the same disapproving look she’d just flayed him with.

  “You should take it easy on the coffee, Erica,” Keeley said. “Too much caffeine isn’t good for the babies.”

  Erica shot her an annoyed look. “I’ll remember that.” When she turned, coffee in hand, and spotted him leaning casually against the counter, her eyebrows damn near hit her hairline. Her gaze bounced between him and Keeley; she gave him a slight knowing smile. He knew what she was thinking—that he and Keeley …

  Shit! It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.

  Keeley obviously caught her whiff of suspicion, too, but all she did was smile, a little too sweetly for his taste. “No, Erica. Gus and I did not spend the night together.”

  “Hey,” Erica said, rubbing her tummy with one hand and drinking coffee with the other. “I’m not the one to talk about who sleeps with who. Sex makes the world go round, after all.”

  “It’s love that does that, Erica. Not sex.” Keeley frowned at her.

  “Whatever.”

  “I repeat, we did not spend the night together.” She glanced at Gus. “But he will be staying with us for a time. He’s trying to buy a property in Erinville, so he’ll be in town for a while. I’ve offered him a room, in exchange for his kind offer to help with the Mayday renovations.” Her look turned devilish. “He tells me he’s quite a skilled handyman. Isn’t that right, Gus?”

  Gus took his time studying her. She was trying to snooker him. He pulled up a smile and sent it her way, not taking his eyes off her. “Very skilled,” he said. “Depending on the job … This is a great old house, but she’s been alone a long time. Needs plenty of TLC. But with the proper handling and a few strokes in the right places, she’ll come … back to her old glory.” He paused, slanted another long gaze her way. “It will be fun to work on her.”

  Keeley looked away first.

  Erica, who’d followed the exchange avidly, refilled her coffee mug and looked at each of them in turn before settling her attention on Gus.”You’re my kind of handyman, Hammond.” She looked at Keeley then, adding, “That TLC he’s talking about? I’d go for it, if I were you.” She set down her mug. “I’m going into town this morning. If you need anything, let me know, and I’ll pick it up. Have fun, you two.” She walked out of the room.

  Gus dumped the last of his coffee in the sink. “We need to talk.”

  Keeley, her face nearly as red as her hair, closed her spiral-bound notebook. “Yes, we do.” She stood. “And it’s best we do it in the office, where we won’t be interrupted.”

  “Lead on.”

  When they were in the office, she took the seat behind the desk, he the one in front.

  “First”—she took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, and rested them on the desk—“I apologize for being so pushy.” She rushed the words into the room as if she couldn’t rid herself of them fast enough. “Sometimes, I forget that I don’t rule the world. I’m sorry. Of course you don’t have to paint, or do anything else that you don’t want to do.” She stopped as abruptly as she’d started, her discomfort painfully apparent.

  “And I apologize for the innuendo,” Gus said. “Sometimes I do a little forgetting of my own.”

  She nodded, her expression sober, then took another breath. “That being said, we need to talk about Mayday House.”

  Gus rose from the chair. “Yes, we do.” He went to the window, turned and looked back at her. “Tell me what’s happened so far.”

  “There’s been a delivery.”

  “Explain.”

  Before she could answer, there was a knock on the office door. “Keeley? You in there?”

  “It’s Bridget,” Keeley said to Gus. “Come in,” she said to the door.

  She opened the door a few inches and poked her head in. “Sorry, but this”—her hand came through holding a package—“says ‘urgent’.”

  Keeley got up, went around the desk, and walked t
o the door. “Thanks, Bridget.” She took the parcel.

  “I’m going into town with Erica,” she said. “See you later.”

  “Yes, see you,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the package.

  When the door was closed, she looked closely at the address label and muttered, “No stamp.” She tore open the package. It was a paperback novel; a string dangled from the pages. Keeley opened it to the twine-marked page, read quickly, and handed the book to him, her face strained and tight. Angry.

  “That delivery I mentioned? You’re holding its twin. The first came a couple of days ago.” She nodded at the book now in his hands. “Read the highlighted part.”

  Gus read:

  “You’re not listening to me,” he said, pulling the twine tighter around her wrists, tighter again until it rutted deep in her delicate skin.

  She ignored the burn of the rope, the pain shooting up her arm. “You hurt Trisha. You shouldn’t have done that. She had nothing to do with any of this. You’re a sick, evil bastard!”

  He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and put his face so dose to hers his hot breath seared her nostrils. “And you’re the same stupid bitch you were when we started this game.” He gave her fiery red hair another quick, hard yank. Her eyes watered. “And the game is over, baby. You’ve got one last chance. Like they say, three strikes and you’re out.”

  “Let me see the packaging,” Gus said. She handed it to him. He expected nothing and that’s what he got: brown wrapping paper from Anywhere, USA, Keeley Farrell written in bold black print, no return address, no postage. The package was hand delivered, which meant whoever was behind it was close by or knew someone who was.

  He handed the book and wrapping back to her. “Anything else?”

  “No. Just another like this and a phone call. A few nights back, not long after I got here.”

  “Same get-out-of-town message?”

  She hesitated. “No, that’s the strange thing. It was nothing like that. It was more like he wanted to confirm who I was.”