by Ann Yost
The brunette nodded to take a seat while she finished a phone call. Jessie let her eyes wander the room looking for clues. She didn’t know exactly what she expected to find. A half-opened bottle of peanut oil? She allowed herself briefly to admire J. Mortimer Epps. Death-induced by an allergic reaction. It was almost the perfect murder.
Naturally there was nothing in the room but comfortable chairs, brochures about the business, a magazine titled “Rest in Peace.” She shuddered and got to her feet. Lois’s voice was hushed, but Jessie heard the tension in it. Was she talking to her lover? It was clear she was paying no attention at all to Jessie who took the opportunity to sidle down a narrow corridor. Either Lois would stop her or J. Mortimer’s skeletal form would jump out of from behind a closed door and scare her to death or she’d get a chance to take a look around.
She could hear her heartbeat as she tiptoed down the silent hallway. The doors were open revealing an office, a small living room, a chapel, and a coffin showroom. The door marked “Crematorium” was closed as was a second, unmarked door. Jessie was pretty sure there was someone in the latter. She pressed her ear against it. Two men. One was clearly agitated, angry, even. The other was familiar. Her stomach clenched. Oh shit.
Luke was trapped with a murderer!
There was no time to formulate a good plan. She threw her fist against the door and shrieked at the top of her lungs.
****
It was all bravado. The mortician was trying to intimidate him, but Luke recognized the fear under the mask. He watched the pistol tremble in the other man’s hand. He knew there was nothing more dangerous than a guy with a nervous trigger finger. It was probably time to get out, but he wanted some answers. He kept his voice quiet, calm.
“What’s really going on here, Epps?”
The mortician took a step toward him just as a banshee shriek tomahawked through the air. It was accompanied by door pounding worthy of the Gestapo.
“Lucas Tanner! I know you’re in there. You come out here this instant!”
Luke’s heart sank while Epps cursed and winced. What the hell was she doing here? Her hysteria was shredding what was left of the undertaker’s nerves. There was no telling who he’d shoot. Damn Jessie anyway. How was he supposed to protect her? “Ignore that,” Luke muttered.
“If only that were possible,” Epps barked. He jerked open the door, and someone catapulted into the room.
It was the Morton Salt Girl.
She ignored Epps as she marched up to Luke and wagged a finger in his face.
“Lucas Tanner,” she shouted, “How dare you stand me up?”
Epps’s face twisted in fury. “Miss Maynard, this is a mortuary. We try to maintain a sense of decorum here.”
She turned toward the mortician as if she’d just noticed him. Would he attack her? More likely she’d attack him. She was a warrior princess. Luke balanced his weight on the balls of his feet, prepared to intervene, but the elf surprised him. She flashed Epps a smile so bright it reflected off the stainless steel surfaces.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Epps,” she said, in a conciliatory voice. “I am so sorry for the interruption. But I’m sure you’ll agree that I have a right to be angry. This guy”—she jerked her thumb at Luke without taking her eyes off the mortician—“was supposed to pick me up forty minutes ago. We’ve got an appointment to get our blood tests.”
Epps frowned, apparently as confused as Luke. “Blood tests?”
“For the license,” Jessie continued. “We agreed to get married the day after Christmas.”
We agreed to get married?
Luke stared at her. He was uncomfortably aware her declaration had taken his mind off the real threat in the room.
“Unless,” Jessie said, her narrowed eyes lasered on Luke, “you weren’t serious. Promises in the dark are easy to make.”
He wanted to tell her he didn’t make promises he didn’t mean which was why he didn’t make promises. He wanted to scoop her up, throw her out into the snow, and roll her home. He knew they were in real danger. The guy was a mortician. He could shoot them, cremate them, and dump the ashes before anyone noticed they were missing. He had to get her out of the mortuary, and there was only one sure way to do it.
He looked at Epps as he moved toward Jessie and placed his big body between her and the gun. “Sorry, man. We’ll have to continue our tour some time that’s more convenient for my ball and chain.” He grabbed Jessie’s arm and dragged her toward the door.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Epps,” Jessie called out over her shoulder, “but when a girl gets a live one, she can’t afford to let any grass grow under her feet.” She directed her next comment to Luke. “Think the jewelry store in Roanoke’ll be open tonight? I can’t wait to buy a ring.”
“Just a minute,” Epps said, blocking the door. “I want to know exactly why you were snooping around my business.”
Jessie let out a peal of silvery laughter that startled Luke. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she said to the mortician. “Luke doesn’t like people to know, but he’s a writer.”
Epps looked as confused as Luke felt.
“Mystery novels, you know. He was over here doing research.”
It was lame. Weak. Luke didn’t think Epps would buy it, but he never got a chance to find out. The door opened again and Lois, preceded by her breasts, stepped into the room.
“There you are,” she said, batting her eyelashes at Luke. “I can finish giving you that tour.”
He stared at Lois. “May I have a rain check?
I’m tied up right now.”
Epps looked from Luke to Jessie to his wife.
“They’re getting married,” he said.
“The day after Christmas,” Jessie bubbled. “It’s kind of last minute, but we hope you can both attend.”
Luke knew the Mystic Hollow grapevine. Snowstorm or not, by tomorrow morning, everyone in town would think he was marrying Jessie Maynard. For real.
Luke didn’t speak as they negotiated the steep, snow-covered steps from the mortuary’s front door, crossed the church parking lot, jaywalked at the corner of Church and Cobblestone, and cut across Blanche Maynard’s lawn. Luke didn’t speak, and Jessie didn’t stop chattering. His heart raced, his gut throbbed, and a vein beat in his forehead. By the time he’d closed the front door behind them, his adrenalin flow had reached critical mass. He grabbed her upper arms, shoved her against the door, and glared into the golden eyes. His breath came hard, causing her to blink.
“I’m sorry about the engagement thing,” she said, “but it was all I could think of.”
“God dammit Jessie!”
“This doesn’t have to be a big deal,” she reasoned. She obviously wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. “We’ll just say it was a mistake.”
He ignored that. “What the hell were you doing at the mortuary?”
Her shoulders straightened, and her chin thrust out. “What was I doing? I was rescuing you, you dope.”
Rescuing him.
He dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Listen to me. This isn’t some kind of a game to distract you from your failed wedding. Two women are dead, and if you’re not goddam careful, there’ll be a third. Epps had a gun.”
The color left her face. “I didn’t see it.”
“He kept it behind his back. You’ve got to keep your pretty little nose out of this business.”
An expression came and went across her features, but she didn’t back down. “I want to solve the murders.”
He let go of her and thrust long fingers through his hair. He felt unutterably weary. “Jesus Christ, Jessie.”
“This doesn’t involve you, Luke. You’re not responsible for me.”
Only he was. That was his problem in a nutshell. He forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths.
“Let’s get back to basics. Why did you go to the funeral home?”
She shrugged, a dismissive gesture that infuriated him. “We got a tip.”
/>
“What do you mean ‘we’?”
“From Letty. She talked to us through the Ouija Board.”
“Oh my god.” He wanted to thread his fingers through her snow-dampened brown curls. He wanted to haul her soft curves against him, tuck her under his chin. He wanted to slip his hands inside the slicker and feel her warm skin. He felt his body stir. Things were going from bad to worse. He forced his mind back to the cockeyed conversation.
“Jessie, Mabel Ruth and the others like the idea of witchcraft, but believe me, they’re mostly in it for the jewelry.”
“Maybe.” Her soft slips spread into a grin. “But you can’t deny Epps is a great suspect.
Maybe Letty decided to use the Ouija Board to finger her murderer.”
****
Jessie poured homemade soup out of a plastic container, warmed it up, and poured it into two flat bowls. She set them on the table while Luke poured them each a glass of wine.
It was probably the quietest meal in the history of the room, especially in contrast to the supper Jessie had shared last night with the Tuesday witches. Luke was clearly upset. Because they’d narrowly escaped danger? Or because of the ‘engagement?’ Probably the latter.
“I really am sorry,” she said. “That business about the blood tests was the first thing I thought of.”
“You’ve got marriage on your mind.”
She thought about Kit’s call. She could erase the past few days as if they’d never happened. She could go home for Christmas, marry Kit in a quiet ceremony, and provide the solution to all her family’s problems.
“Or maybe,” Luke continued, unaware of the direction her thoughts had taken, “it’s because of the chemistry between us. I think it’s time to acknowledge that.”
His frankness surprised her. “Okay.”
“But this can’t go anywhere.”
His voice was surprisingly gentle, but it embarrassed her that he knew she wanted him. At least he didn’t know she’d never felt this way before.
“No. Of course, not.”
He frowned. Apparently he didn’t like her answer. “Only because of the circumstances. If you were anyone but Blanche’s niece, we could enjoy each other for the time we’re here.”
“Ships passing in the night.”
His brows lifted. “Yeah.”
The silence in the room was broken only by the sounds of spoons scraping against china and by the cloud of sexual tension.
“Was it like this with your fiancé?”
The question surprised her. If the funny look on his face was any indication, it surprised him, too.
“I thought we were going to avoid the subject of sex.”
His eyes flared. She knew he was turned on. She felt an insane urge to crawl into his lap and slide her fingers under his sweatshirt.
“I’m just making conversation. So was it?”
She wasn’t going to lie. “Not really.”
“That why you ran?”
Maybe it should have been.
“I found him at the rehearsal dinner with his ex-wife’s mouth attached to his genitals.”
The green eyes reflected shock followed by anger. Anger, she thought, at Kit for hurting her. Something moved inside her chest. Luke Tanner had a strong protective streak. She wondered why he was still alone.
“The guy was an ass,” he said.
Jessie wanted to change the subject. “You never told me why you were at the mortuary?”
He leaned back in his chair. He was an impressive specimen in his gray sweatshirt printed with the word “Army.” His shoulders were as wide as the Shenandoah, and she already knew how safe a woman could feel sheltered against his hard torso.
Of course “safe” was a relative term.
“I was snooping, too. Even without the benefit of words from the other side, I figured out Epps was involved in all this.”
Excitement warred with possessiveness. This was her investigation. Still, she couldn’t afford to pass up any information. “And?”
“That room we were in. It’s a fully-outfitted, state-of-the-art surgery. Like something you’d find in a hospital.”
“Maybe it’s where they do the embalming.”
He shook his head. “Then it’s overkill. There has to be some other reason a small town funeral director would spend tens of thousands of dollars on all that equipment.”
She thought about that. “Maybe that’s where they remove organs for donation.”
“Epps mentioned that.”
Jessie eyed him. “But you’re not buying it.”
“I think there’s something else.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know yet.”
It was kind of a relief that he hadn’t already figured it out. That gave her time.
“We should call some mortuaries out of the area,” she suggested. “Find out if that kind of equipment is really necessary.”
“Not a bad idea.”
She grinned. “Maybe you could be my Watson.”
He picked up her hand and studied it. It looked impossibly small in his big palm. Small but safe. He lifted it to his lips and her heart somersaulted.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said, in a quiet voice. She caught a sudden vision of the two of them up in her bed, their bodies naked and sweaty, their breath short and fast, their cries filling the room.
“What?”
“I want you to go home.”
She swallowed hard, her throat dry with regret. “I can’t do that.”
He didn’t argue. He just got up and cleared the table. After they’d finished the dishes and wiped down the counters, he pulled a stack of clean towels out of a cupboard in the pantry.
“Sponge bath?”
“Funny girl. They’re for Pye.”
Chapter Ten
As soon as he was sure the cat was comfortable in the parlor, Luke beat a path upstairs to his bedroom. Pye wasn’t in any hurry to deliver, and he needed a break from Jessie.
The elf was driving him crazy and not only because she insisted on throwing herself into danger. She heated his blood. He didn’t understand it. He’d had plenty of sex in his day, but he’d never felt a woman’s lure like this. Not since Crystal. It was probably the isolation and the fact that Jessie was off limits. Whatever. He was damn tired of being hard and helpless to do anything about it.
He polished off a couple of beers while he searched the internet on his laptop. He wished his own search engine was ready to go. He needed a lot more specificity than he could get from Google or Yahoo.
He was aware of commotion in the hall outside his door. He ignored it for a while, but curiosity won out. He stepped into the corridor to find her trying to balance a pile of cardboard boxes.
“What’s all this?”
“Aunt Blanche’s Christmas decorations. I figured I’d put them out.”
“Why?”
She shrugged and didn’t answer at once. He thought he glimpsed a suspicious gleam in her golden eyes. Of course. She was homesick. In exile. He refrained from suggesting the obvious solution.
“Give me the boxes.”
After he helped her haul the stuff downstairs, he helped her unload it. Her delight in the old, somewhat shabby decorations was fascinating. Crystal had hated everything about the old Victorian house, including him.
Jessie looked more than ever like an elf as she cavorted around the parlor hanging a garland from the mantelpiece, arranging the crèche, setting out the ornaments that would go on the tree—if there was a tree.
“Oh, look at these,” she exclaimed. She held up two red felt stockings with “Jessie” and “Jillian” spelled out in sequins. “She must have made these for us and saved them all these years.”
He heard a tremor in her voice.
“I wish I’d made a bigger effort to come and see her. I don’t know why the family stopped coming here for Christmas.”
Luke had his own ideas on that. He suspected that Bl
anche, once she’d taken him in, had wanted to keep him away from the nieces. He’d been trouble cubed.
“She knew you cared about her,” he heard himself saying. “She used to talk about you and your sister.”
The bright smile on her face rewarded him. It also made him hot. He headed for the kitchen. “I need another beer.”
He stood at Blanche’s sink and stared out at the garden buried under the snow. Who would stake the tomatoes next summer? Who would pick the raspberries and turn zucchini into fragrant loaves of bread? He remembered the last time he’d seen Blanche. It had been here in this kitchen on Christmas Day two years ago. Crystal had started in on him about his plans to leave in the morning, and Blanche, in an effort to give them privacy, had taken the backstairs up to her room.
The sense of loss was almost unbearable. It seemed like he’d been alone all his life. It seemed like that would continue till he was six feet under.
Jessie’s quick footsteps in the butler’s pantry broke his bleak reverie. She burst into the room.
“Oh my gosh, Luke. You can’t believe what I found. It’s so perfect and beautiful. Here—” She flipped on the kitchen light and held an object up in the air. “Look how it reflects the light.”
It was a tiny glass angel blown by an artisan so talented he or she managed to achieve an almost lifelike face and a slim, graceful body. Her wings were as delicate as those of a hummingbird and she held in her arms a newborn child.
He recognized it instantly, and a guttural cry ripped out of his throat. He heard the snap of shattered glass, heard her yelp of dismay and pain. He closed the distance between them and forced her fingers to open. Worms of blood wiggled across her palm. Needle-sharp shards stood rooted in her flesh.
Goddam it all to hell.
He took her good hand and dragged her over to the sink where he found the first aid kit Blanche had used on him so many times. He gripped her hand in one of his and extracted the shards embedded in her skin. She flinched but she didn’t cry out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He concentrated on the task. When he’d finished, he cleaned the wounds with warm water and dressed them with antiseptic. Then he wrapped a thin strip of gauze around the hand, between the thumb and forefinger and secured it with tape.