OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2

by Sheedy, EC

  “A man.”

  “Yes. It was late, and I was still cleaning, but whoever he was, he was nearby.” She touched her hair idly. “He knew I was wearing a yellow scarf.”

  Gus’s gut knotted and he tugged on his earlobe. “Inconsistent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He went to the window, watched Erica and Bridget get into a platinum Altima. “These creeps generally follow a pattern, stick to one means of communication. Big difference between a phone call and highlighted passages in a book.”

  "What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying they aren’t the same person.”

  It was damned awkward, Erica thought, the girl latching on to her, because what she had to do, she had to do alone. So when Bridget said she wanted to buy Keeley some tulip bulbs, Erica seized the moment and lost her in the local weed-and-feed store. Telling her she needed some shampoo, she promised to meet her at the drugstore in half an hour. As if Erica Stark would use drugstore shampoo. Not in this lifetime.

  God, this place was a burg!

  When she reached the Jasper Inn, she spotted his rental car immediately, directly outside room eleven. She rapped sharply on the door, then turned her key in the lock.

  She stepped in.

  The day outside wasn’t bright, but still the dimness of the motel room took the shape of a dark tunnel. When her eyes adjusted, she saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, the room neat as a pin, his bag stowed on the stand near the blank television, a book open on the bed beside him.

  “You doing okay?” He walked to her and they embraced.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Sit down, you look tired.”

  She nodded and sat heavily in the chair near the door, grateful to be off her feet. “I’m too damn old for all this spy crap and much too pregnant.” She sighed as she settled back into the chair.

  “What’s your sense of things so far?” he asked. “Do you think she knows anything?”

  Erica had asked herself the same question, over and over. “Too early to tell but I’m guessing no. Not yet.”

  “Christ, Erica, all this time and you’re still guessing?” His annoyance hit the room like a slap, and he started to pace. When he came back to stand over her, she knew he was holding back his temper. He always did.

  For Paul, taking over their father’s business was one thing—and bad enough by his standards—but taking on his rages and violent outbursts was another, and completely unacceptable. Her brother, although smart as a sitting judge, worried nonstop and had enough tension bottled up inside that if you shook him, he’d shatter.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, then added, “Are you going to tough it out?” He stepped behind her and kneaded her shoulders, his touch surprisingly gentle, considering the stress he was under—they were both under.

  Erica thought that question would be better directed at him, but she didn’t go there. “You even have to ask?”

  She heard him let out a long, resigned breath. “No, I suppose not.”

  Straightening away from his comforting hands, she said, “But we’ve got trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “The worst kind.” She patted her tummy, smiled thinly. “Man trouble. A guy named Gus Hammond has moved into Mayday House. And unless pregnancy is making me dumb as well as fat, I’m betting he’s after the same thing we are.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “Why? Who the hell would care, after all these years—other than us?”

  She wanted to laugh out loud. Paul was so naive— which was amazing considering the business they were in. “Same reason as us, I suspect. There’s always money to be made from sex and murder, darling brother. You, of all people, should know that.”

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  “There’s nothing I can do—for now—except keep an eye on him.” Which isn’t the worst job in the world, she thought, when those sinfully deep eyes and his made-for-between-the-sheets body jumped to mind. “If I have to, I’ll take care of him.”

  “Which is exactly where it gets dangerous.” He gripped the back of his neck with one hand, pulled his head forward, and resumed pacing. “The more I think about it—particularly now this Hammond guy has shown up—the more I think you should get out of there. This could get rough. We agreed, didn’t we?”—he stared at her, his expression determined—“we do not want anyone hurt.”

  Erica ignored the last of his spiel, stood, and walked over to him. “No one will get hurt, but I’m staying until we find out what the hell happened in that house. Until we get what we need.” She shuddered theatrically. “Even if that ramshackle old place does creep me out.”

  As to the not-wanting-anyone-hurt plan, that would depend on how things went. What they got out of the deal. She touched her tummy. Thanks to their asshole father being a useless, no-good lying bastard, and Paul being so adamant about her not giving up the babies—the hope for a new family line, he called them—she’d have a couple of brats to raise. She sure as hell didn’t intend to do it without nannies—twenty-four/seven. And that meant saving the family business, using any means available. There was a golden egg tucked away in Mayday House, she was sure of it, and one way or another, she’d find it. “Just a few more days. That’s all I need.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But the babies—”

  She restrained from puffing out her annoyance. The man never stopped fussing about them. “The babies will be fine. I’ll be fine. And I’ll make sure we stay fine.” She went back to the chair and eased herself into it “If what that old woman told you was true, there’s money to made here—and it belongs to us.”

  “We’re not sure, Erica. The woman sounded half crazy, going on about forgiveness, yammering on about a bunch of religious stuff.” Paul didn’t look convinced, but then Paul never looked convinced. She adored her brother, but he was one cautious cowboy.

  “We’re sure enough to keep digging.” When her frustration rose, she tamped it back. “But damn it, there’s enough paper and files in that Victorian nightmare to sink an aircraft carrier. Stacks of them from the attic to the cellar. I’ve already sneezed my way through a barge load and come up empty. If we do have a sister, courtesy of Mayday House, it’s not going to be easy finding her.” Or her goddamn mother. And the way she saw it, the mother was the golden goose.

  “I thought you said you didn’t care about our sister,” Paul said, eyeing her with renewed interest.

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re not even curious?”

  “No.” She shook her head, hoping Paul wouldn’t launch into one of his family-is-everything lectures. Considering their own upbringing—or lack of it—his family fixation was ludicrous. And how the hell he managed to separate what they did for a living from what they were, was amazing. She wished she could compartmentalize her life as easily.

  “Just the mother, then?” He looked disapproving, but Erica didn’t care. Paul would go along. Paul always went along—except about her getting rid of the babies. The idea of that made him crazy.

  “The mother lode,” Erica corrected. “And the end to all our problems.”

  “So you keep insisting,” he said, letting out a breath. “But if there’s no sister to be found, no proof, no record of adoption …”

  The smile dropped from Erica’s lips, and she tightened them. “It’s there. I know it. The Weaver woman kept receipts for light bulbs bought in the sixties, for God’s sake.” She paused, refusing to let doubt cloud her vision of salvation—money enough to save both their asses. “It would be easier if I didn’t have to sneak around, but the girl Bridget follows me around like a puppy and Farrell never leaves the house—and now I’ve got Hammond to deal with.” She breathed out to ease her tension, tired of her brother’s endless second-guessing and a Mayday situation she couldn’t control. Erica liked control. “You’re absolutely certain about the year of birth?” she asked, desperate to limit her time
shuffling through the endless files.

  “Nineteen eighties. That’s what she said.”

  “At least that narrows it down somewhat. Now, tell me again exactly what the recently departed, and oh-so-saintly Mary Weaver wanted her precious ‘forgiveness’ for. Word for word.”

  Christiana pulled her tidy, compact station wagon off the road, about a quarter mile from Mayday House. She turned the car off, leaned her head back, and pressed her hand to her thumping heart. The depth of her fear, growing with the miles traveled, surprised her, but she had to do this. Had to find the truth before she took another step into the future she’d so carefully planned.

  For the millionth time she wished she’d never picked up the phone that night, never listened to Mary’s ramblings, her begging for forgiveness while Christiana’s head reeled under the weight of the old woman’s confession.

  A confession slamming into her prudently constructed life with the impact of a wrecking ball.

  Christiana clung to the hope Mary had been disordered by dementia, that she’d confused her with someone else, but that thread of hope was too fragile to build a life on—and far too risky.

  If Christiana were one of her own patients, she’d urge her to seek the truth, not attempt to build a life on lies or deceits. It was time to take her own advice.

  She put the car in gear and drove slowly forward until Mayday House came into view. She remembered it from her one visit years ago, when she’d come looking for her birth parents. Mary had lied then, but then she wasn’t dying, wasn’t begging Christiana for her forgiveness, wasn’t, as she’d said the night of her phone call, going to meet her Maker and wanting to leave her “black deeds behind.”

  Black indeed …

  The house rose in the gathering darkness, tall and gray. Yellow light filtered from the main floor windows and from one on the second floor. The third floor was dark. A large construction refuse container sat at the end of the driveway with some broken furniture propped against it. A pickup was nosed up to it. Behind the pickup, a rising moon cast its light on a highly polished silver Jaguar. A path led from the road to the house: on one side of it the lawn was mowed; on the other the grass looked a foot tall with weeds reaching even higher. The porch lurched to the left and had missing posts under the railings.

  She pulled in behind the Jaguar, got out of the car, and checked her slim gold watch. Almost seven. She told herself nervously, they’d be at dinner, and she’d be interrupting. She should wait. Do this tomorrow.

  While she dithered, the front door opened and a woman stood framed in the light of the doorway. Christiana took a deep breath for courage. She had no choice but to move forward now, because there was no way the woman hadn’t seen her.

  She made her way toward the porch, gathered what resolve she could with each step. Dear God, she’d spent the day in front of cameras, talked to a room filled with boisterous high school students. She could do this.

  The woman on the porch stood at the broken railing and watched her approach. When she reached her, Christiana put out her hand. “I’m Christiana Fordham,” she said, sounding surprisingly normal, considering the swirling and jumping in her stomach. “I called and made an appointment to see Keeley Farrell.”

  “I’m Keeley.” The woman, whose face she couldn’t see clearly in the porch shadows, took her hand and said, “Bridget told me you called, but she didn’t tell me exactly when you were coming. It’s always nice to meet a Mayday House patron. One I wrote several letters to if I remember right.” She gave a short laugh. “Requesting donations—as usual.”

  Christiana sensed her smile through the darkness. “Yes, you did, and I’m sorry I didn’t reply, but I’ve been terribly busy.” She lifted a hand and waved it awkwardly. “But I’m in the neighborhood, so—”

  “Good, come on in. We’re about to have coffee and apple pie. Not very good pie” —she shrugged— “I made it. But at least the fruit won’t let us down.”

  “Thank you.” Christiana followed her into the house. The house where she was born. The house that held the secret to a past that, if brought to light, would destroy her future.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Keeley said when they were in the roomy kitchen.

  “Yes. Once. I came to see Mary, and—” She stopped when she noticed the man sitting at the table, drinking coffee and turning the pages of a newspaper. When he looked up and saw her, he stood.

  Except for the scar running along his strong jaw, he was as physically perfect a man as she’d ever seen, maybe six-two, dark hair, lean muscled body, smooth tan skin, and deep golden brown eyes shadowed by eyelashes that no doubt made women weep with jealousy. And desire.

  He was exactly the kind of male she’d lusted after in high school, when she’d been trapped behind braces, glasses, and severe acne. Although those years were long behind her, men like Gus reloaded all her insecurities, both the pain of youthful yearning and the awful tide of confusion and distress that came with being invisible. A teenage ghost.

  “Gus Hammond,” he said, offering his hand, then enclosing hers. Not quite a handshake, not quite a caress, but sustaining the hand/eye connection just long enough to be intriguing. To be flattering.

  Keeley handed her a coffee and said, “Be nice to Christiana, Gus. She’s been a generous patron to Mayday through the years.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, and when he tilted his head and half smiled at her, Christiana sensed Gus could be extremely nice—if he set his mind to it.

  Keeley gestured toward the table Gus had risen from. “Take a seat. I’ll get the pie.” She went to the counter. “You’re a long way from Portland. What brings you our way?”

  She was about to answer when Gus said, “If I’ve got it right, it was a TV spot.” He studied her until she blushed. “When you walked in I thought I’d seen you before. The early news, right? Speaking at a high school? You’re a psychologist.” He rested his liquid brown eyes on her and her stomach fluttered.

  “Yes, my own show will be airing in the new year—if all goes well. The high school in Seattle was a PR stop … of sorts.” She sounded vague, apologetic. That had to stop.

  “Ah,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Yes, but rewarding work. I like it.”

  “Teenagers are a tough crowd.”

  “The toughest.” She smiled at him.

  He didn’t smile back, but somehow managed to intensify his gaze, as if he’d switched on a light behind his eyes.

  “So, what brings you to Erinville?” Keeley, carrying two plates of pie, took a chair beside her.

  Christiana glanced at Gus, then back to Keeley. “I, uh, have some questions. But I, uh …” She glanced at Gus again. The conversation with Keeley Farrell would be hard enough; talking in front of a man she’d met only moments before and knew nothing about would be impossible.

  He stood immediately. “I’m going for some fresh air.” He looked at his watch, then said to Keeley. “I won’t be long—or far.”

  She rolled her eyes, and he gave her an annoyed look.

  Christiana couldn’t figure out whether they liked each other or there was some kind of subtext between them she couldn’t read. Interesting.

  When he’d left the room, Keeley said, “Don’t mind Gus, he’s just doing his job.”

  “His job?”

  She hesitated. “He’s security. We’ve had some problems around here lately.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Nothing to worry about—especially if you’re here to do what I hope you are and kick-start your donations to Mayday House.”

  She’d smiled along with the obvious charitable plea, but to Christiana’s eye, the smile was forced, tense. Like someone required to conduct business as usual as chaos reigned behind the scenes. She knew the feeling well, especially lately.”That’s not why I’m here,” she said. “It’s something else entirely. Something unsettling.”

  “Not the answe
r I was hoping for, but—” She sat back and lifted her coffee to her lips, looking calm, politely interested. “I’m listening.”

  Christiana swallowed hard, tried to peel away the fear lining her mouth. “I’m here to find out who my father was and why Mary Weaver killed him.”

  CHAPTER 10

  With the barest of tremors, Keeley set her coffee mug on the table. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  Christiana knew she was shocked, but no more than she herself had been during Mary’s midnight phone call. “You’ll want—need—to hear it from the beginning.”

  “Yes.” Keeley sat forward in her chair and nodded. “The very beginning.”

  “Okay.” Christiana picked up her unused pie fork and held it between her hands. “I was born here. September, nineteen eighty. Adopted that same month.”

  “Go on.”

  “I wasn’t told I was adopted until ten years ago. My mother told me just before she died. She said it had been a private adoption—” She fiddled with the paper napkin she’d been given with the pie. “Which I took to mean the legalities weren’t observed. It turned out I was right. My mother said that my adoptive father’s poor health—he died when I was nine—coupled with the fact that they were older than the norm, made adopting through regular channels difficult if not impossible. Then they found Mayday House and Mary Weaver. It was Mary, to quote my mother, ‘who made it happen.’” She smoothed some stray hair behind her ears. “So here I am.”

  “Do you have proof? Of any of this?”

  “I have a letter from my mother. When I showed it to Mary, she got terribly upset, but she didn’t deny it.”

  “When was that?” she asked.

  “A few months after my mother died,” Christiana said. “I came here”—she waved a hand—“to find out what I could about my birth parents.”

  “And did you? Find out anything, I mean?”

  “No. Mary told me they were both dead. She said my birth father, a businessman of some kind, had died during my mother’s pregnancy, and my mother was killed in a car accident a year after I was born. Apparently she’d been an aspiring actress. When I pressed her for more information—anything at all—she appeared nervous, then said she didn’t remember, and she didn’t have any records because they’d been lost in the fire.”