by Amy Isaman
Amy Isaman
In the Cards
A Tricia Seaver Mystery
Copyright © 2021 by Amy Isaman
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Previously published as The Tarot Cipher. This edition has been revised and re-released with a new title, In the Cards.
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Second edition
Cover art by Sara Oliver Design
Proofreading by Crystal Blanton
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This is for you, Megan, for the laughter, the sister trips, and your never-ending support and love.
Contents
Darius’ Family Tree
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Thank you & About the Author
Acknowledgements
Also by Amy Isaman
Read on for an excerpt of Cold Hard Cache
Darius’ Family Tree
Prologue
ANNA TERESA WEBBER HESITATED to even touch the evil cards her mother had brought from Italy, but she had no choice. She’d dreamt of destroying the cards for years, lighting them on fire and burying the ashes, but her beloved Rosina, her only child, had made her promise not to ever destroy them and, in a weak moment, Anna had agreed and kept her vow for all of these years.
She had resorted to begging her husband, Edmund, to give them away, to release them all of the damned curse she was sure they held, but he’d merely laughed at her, as if she was a foolish child.
He’d known the cards’ power and meanings yet doubted the curse, though she had been right. The cards were the playthings of the devil. How could a child play with an image of the devil and not be cursed? She’d warned him, but he hadn’t listened. Just like Anna Teresa’s mother, her beloved daughter had read the cards with the cursed sight. The cards had taken both her mother and her Rosina. They wouldn’t take anyone else.
Rosina had died giving birth to her second daughter, and Anna had to protect the two children her daughter had left behind for her to raise. Her husband would never find them again, and her grandchildren would never know of their existence.
Anna’s hand shook as she reached for the cards, but she knew that she must hide them. She lay the four gold flecked paintings in a line on her husband’s desk with the original letter her mother had brought with her from Italy. She’d kept that tucked away and never shown her husband and for that she said a prayer of thanks, touching the cross she wore around her neck.
The first card she wrapped showed the two figures tumbling from the tower to their deaths, losing all they had. She put it in a small bundle with the letter written in Italian and also a note she’d written beseeching whoever might find the card to stop their search, to not become those falling figures as she and Edmund had.
This, she tucked into the wardrobe behind a false panel she had designed. Finding the card would entail crawling into the wardrobe and her husband could never as his arthritis would prevent it, even if he thought of her hiding place. Even the flights of stairs to his attic studio had become more difficult, though he still managed it occasionally.
She wrapped each of the next cards in small pieces of plain cotton, taking the next few weeks to place them where they belonged. The only card she struggled to hide was the Three of Swords. When she had asked Edmund it’s meaning, he had told her that card was all about discord, strife, and division. Each card it seemed bespoke of evil, death, and destruction. She had wondered how he could not see the curse the cards had laid on their family since she had shared her family’s legacy with him.
The headlong fall and death in the Tower card, the division and strife in the Three of Swords, and the man and woman chained to the devil himself on the Devil card. The only card which didn’t signify death, destruction, or bondage was the young man riding a horse, the Knight of Pentacles. If she placed him on the right of her line of cards, he looked as if he was riding directly toward the carnage, but if she placed him on the left, he was escaping, holding out his coin as if offering it to another in an act of generosity. This card, she gave to the only one who had managed to escape the curse. The others she gave to those who had made it a reality.
Chapter 1
THE SILVER BIRCH INN, a brick row house, looked oddly familiar. Six steps led up to a solid black door. I studied the facade from my seat in the cab, and a slight shiver ran down my spine as I gazed at the third-story window. Nothing happened, but then I didn’t know what I was expecting. The modern-day equivalent of the ‘woman in the attic’ to peer down at me?
Yet, if a woman appeared to part the lacy curtains, I somehow knew that behind her I’d see an iron bed and walls papered in a Victorian rose chintz pattern.
I glanced at my daughter and reached across the taxi’s back seat to squeeze her hand.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Isn’t it cute?”
“It’s perfect. But for some reason, I feel like I’ve been here before.” I climbed from the taxi and studied the street, but nothing about it stirred any specific memories other than the lazy afternoons when we finally managed to leave the hotel room to find something to eat. I smiled inwardly. That had been an amazing honeymoon week. Perhaps we’d meandered down this street twenty-eight years ago on our honeymoon? Bret and I wandered around London for hours, stopping here and there to eat or have another pint, holding hands as we explored, talking, lost in that confidence of new love and youth, all-encompassing at first and then mellowing into something almost tangibly solid and safe. Until it wasn’t.
Maybe Laurel, my daughter, showed me the Inn’s website when she made the reservations. She’d chosen a quaint B & B, one known for its art and quirkily decorated rooms for our maiden voyage abroad with just the two of us. I’d trusted her with all the details for this trip, which was way out of my comfort zone and had taken lots of deep breathing to keep quiet. So far, she’d done quite well for her twenty-two years. She was a woman now. I kept having to remind myself of that.
I turned back to the Inn and shook off the vague sense of unease that settled in my gut when I first gazed at it when my phone buzzed.
“It looks like it’s Collin.” I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Did you make it? Are you on the ground?” he asked, his voice upbeat.
“We did. We’re checking in at the Inn now.”
“Lovely. What are your plans? We’d love to see you and Laurel before the conference.”
All I wanted to do was crawl in my bed for a nap. “Of course. A visit would be lovely, but I’d like to get settled. We just got to the Inn. How about I’ll call you later today or tomorrow to set something up?”
“Ah, of course. You must be exhausted. But, I’m actually in the area. Perhaps I’ll run over, drop off my notes, and say hello.”
“I think—”
“Just a quick visit,” he interrupted. “I haven’t seen you, since, well…” His voice trailed off. He and Bret were great friends during their years in college. He didn’t need to say it, that we hadn’t seen each other since Bret’s death. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone before I could offer any more objections.
“He’s on his way,” I told Laurel.
“Is this the guy you’re going to the conference with?” Her eyebrows shot up in curiosity. “Dad’s friend?” A small grin teased at the corners of her mouth.
“Yes, and let me remind you, he’s quite married.” The cab driver stood at the trunk and yanked on my overstuffed bag. I packed far too much, as usual, but I liked to be prepared. I could count on the museum to be overly air-conditioned, and with the mugginess outside, I needed layers. And layers filled suitcases. As did my professional meeting clothes along with my casual touristy-clothes.
Laurel had laughed when she saw me dragging my behemoth of a suitcase from my room. But it couldn’t be helped. It really couldn’t.
The driver gave my bag another tug, loosening it from where he wedged it, when one of the wheels caught on the trunk’s edge. It snapped right off and hurtled itself back into the taxi’s cozy darkness. My suitcase had officially lost a leg, a most necessary appendage when the thing weighed in at 49.1 pounds. At least the weight precluded me from doing any sort of shopping on this trip unless I paid the ungodly “overweight” fee for my bag on our return trip.
“Sorry ‘bout that ma’am,” he muttered, setting the bag on the walk next to me. As soon as he let go, the bag leaned, wobbled a bit, and tipped over as if it had already visited a pub.
I grabbed the handle to right it as Laurel hitched her backpack on her shoulder and grabbed her suitcase. Judging from its size, she apparently only needed one change of clothes for the entire week, just like her father. He always claimed that he could get whatever else he needed at our destination, always a city, since heading off into the wilderness, away from civilization and showers was not his idea of a vacation. I smiled inwardly. It took years, but I could finally think of Bret, of the little things, without having to use every last ounce of energy to keep myself from collapsing into a puddle of desperation.
“Mom, do you need help?” Laurel interrupted my reverie.
“No, I’ve got it.” I tugged at my suitcase, wondering exactly how I was going to get it up the steps to the door, which started the shivering down my neck again. Not the steps. The door itself. I’d walked through that door before, a feeling both familiar and somehow jarring.
I dragged my suitcase toward the eerily familiar door. The row house was three stories, and I seriously doubted it had an elevator.
Oh my. Maybe I should have packed lighter.
I paused to take a breath and check my phone. It was 10:40 a.m. here, but still the middle of the night at home. My eyes burned with the need for sleep. We left California, had a long layover in New York, and flown the red-eye to London. I had a few hours to rest until my son Trent would be up, and I could check in with him. Then, I’d be fresh and ready to traipse around London with my girl.
Laurel held the black door open at the top of the stairs, patiently waiting for me.
I pocketed my phone and clomped up the remaining three steps, my suitcase banging along behind me. Inside we walked down a narrow hallway before turning left into what I suppose started out as a parlor but now held an empty, but gorgeous, drop front writing desk. Maybe walnut? I itched to give it a closer look and hoped our rooms had the same quality of antique furniture. Deep gold paint with an interesting texture covered the walls. I looked closer and reached out to feel it. No, it was wallpaper. A large contemporary painting hung over a green chesterfield couch which was in remarkable condition for a public space, and next to it an old portrait of a stately looking gentleman. A small antique carousel horse stood in the corner. Every corner held a piece that I longed to study. Instead, I stood in the center of the room and slowly rotated, trying to take it all in.
“It’s just lovely, Laurel. Thank you.”
Laurel grinned at me. “Isn’t it though?” She glanced around and dropped her voice. “Do you think anyone’s here? Can we check-in?”
The place was dead silent.
“Hello?” she called out.
Nothing.
“It’s not quite 11:00 yet. Did you call ahead to confirm that we could check-in early?” I asked.
“Oh. I didn’t even think of that.” Laurel’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I suppose we can nap right here until they come.” I collapsed into a Victorian-style balloon backed chair, not exactly cozy, but if I’d chosen the couch, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from curling up in the corner and nodding off right there in the lobby. I pulled out my phone again. “I’ll call the Inn. Maybe the innkeeper is in her own quarters in the back.”
Footsteps came from the back, and I pocketed my phone. A man strode into the room. “Good morning,” he said in his lovely British accent. “Can I help you?”
“Uh,” I stumbled, searching for words as I stood. Any words. The innkeeper wore a collared shirt, which accentuated what seemed to be a rather fit body underneath. He had dark wavy hair with a bit of gray at the temples and a slightly olive complexion. He looked about my age, maybe slightly older.
Laurel raised her eyebrow up a notch.
It wasn’t like me to lose my capacity for speech. In fact, it rarely happened. Instead of a reply, I stifled a yawn.
Thankfully, Laurel took charge. “We’re here to check-in.”
“Check-in isn’t until 3:00, this afternoon.” He had his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants as he rocked back on his feet.
“Any chance we can check in early?” She asked. “We left San Francisco yesterday, and it feels like we’ve been traveling for a week.” She tilted her head at me. “And my mom is exhausted. She can’t sleep on planes at all.”
He glanced over at me and his mouth curved into a grin. “I’m the same way. Can’t sleep a wink unless while I’m traveling somewhere. Let me give it a look.” He surprised me by sitting down at the antique desk. Interesting, it wasn’t just a decorative piece, but a functioning one. He flipped open a book he pulled from the drawer. No computer. No iPad check-in. Antiques. Laurel had done well with her choice. I appreciated technology for its ability to keep me in touch with my kids and the speed with which I could complete some of my research for work, but beyond that, I found it somewhat tedious. Apparently, Mr. Innkeeper did, too.
His hands were surprisingly strong and calloused. As an architect, Bret never had hands that looked quite like that. The innkeeper turned back toward us.
“You’re Tricia Seaver?” he asked, looking at Laurel.
“No, I’m Laurel. My mom is Tricia.” She reached her hand toward his to shake it.
“I’m Darius.” His voice was a deep baritone, and he spoke slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “I’ll have a run upstairs and check if housekeeping is done. We were full last night, so she’s got quite a bit to do.” He left us, and I sank back onto the chair.
“Well, that’s nice,” Laurel said softly, with a small grin
.
“Very.”
Laurel laughed, setting her hand on my shoulder. “Mom, stand up. You’re going to fall asleep in that chair.”
“Just a quick cat nap while he’s gone?” I reached over and patted her hand, which still rested on my shoulder. At some point, over the past few years, she grew up. She took care of me as much as I took care of her. And the best part was that I liked her. Really liked her. When she was fourteen, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to say that about her.
Darius returned. “You’re in luck.”
Oh, thank God.
He handed us each a key and eyed my ginormous suitcase. “But it’s on the top floor, up three flights. Maybe I better get that.”
“How strong is your back?” Laurel asked, grinning.
“It’s not that heavy,” I said as I shrugged my purse and carry-on bag over my shoulder. “But still, I’ll take you up on your offer, thank you.”
Darius grabbed my bag and lifted it as if it weighed nothing. “You’ll each have your own room, with a shared loo.” We left the lobby and headed toward the stairs.
Sepia-toned photos lined the stairwell. “Are these your family?” I glanced at them as we climbed. In one, a dark-haired woman stood behind a younger woman with the serious expressions common to older photos.
“Yes, this home has been in the family since the mid-19th century.” Darius paused on the landing to catch his breath.
“Sorry.” I nodded toward the suitcase. “It’s a beast. Shall I take it from here?”
He shook his head and commenced climbing up the next flight. More photos covered the wall and several framed pieces that looked like old tarot cards. They had labels on them like Strength and Temperance. I wanted to come back and study them later. The sketches and photos were lovely.
Darius opened the door to the first room and set my bag on the floor. Apparently, this room would be mine. I peered past him and thankfully noted the plain white walls. No chintz wallpaper. A small double bed with a lovely wardrobe and a small writing desk filled the tiny space. Antique infant baptismal dresses hung on the walls, interspersed with sketches of roses and flowers. I couldn’t decide if the effect was creepy or sweet.