by Brenda Novak
Her parents wore somber expressions as they nodded. “We understand. And we want whatever will make you happy,” her father said.
Eve couldn’t imagine she’d be happy leaving Whiskey Creek. Besides her parents, she had so many good friends here—and she’d be the godmother to Chey’s baby, which would bring a great deal of joy into her life. But would that be enough? Suddenly, it felt as if she was living off the crumbs of other people’s lives and trying to tell herself that she would be content with that indefinitely. “We can talk more about it after the holidays.”
Her mother managed a smile. “So there’s no hurry?”
“None whatsoever.” Eve held up the watch. “Thanks for this. I’ve never seen anything quite so lovely.”
“You’re ten times as lovely,” her mother said.
She made a face. “Oh, yeah? Be prepared for the rumors that are swirling around town.”
“No one can change our opinion of you,” her father insisted.
Cheyenne walked into the parlor almost as soon as Eve’s parents left. The Christmas music playing in the dining room grew louder when the door opened, causing Eve to look up. She was sitting on the antique Eastlake chair she’d purchased from an estate sale in Sacramento last year. She’d been gazing down at her new watch, thinking about how lucky she was to have such wonderful parents and wondering if she’d be doing the right thing by leaving them. She had a responsibility to herself but, since her brothers seemed to feel no obligation to their aging parents, she had to make sure they were happy and well cared for, too.
They had their RV, however. They could come and see her....
“How’d it go?” Cheyenne asked.
“I told them I slept with a stranger,” Eve said.
Her friend stopped in her tracks. “Are you kidding?”
“No. I figured it would be better for them to hear it from me.”
“But they might never have heard it at all!”
“I didn’t want to take that chance.”
“I see,” Cheyenne said slowly. “That was probably wise. How did they take the news?”
“Much better than I expected. I guess I underestimated them.”
“Or you set even higher standards for yourself than they do.”
Cheyenne took the seat opposite her. “Is that your present?”
Eve handed over the watch so Chey could take a closer look. “Stunning, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous!”
“They’re such great parents.”
“You just made a mistake, Eve. We all know what you’re really like,” Cheyenne said, giving back the watch.
Eve smiled at the compliment. Her friends and family all thought they knew her, but she wasn’t sure she knew herself anymore. Who was the woman who’d let go of all inhibition and thrown everything she had into making love with a complete stranger?
* * *
Rex was in his room, packing up his stuff, when he received a call from Marilyn. He thought maybe he’d accidentally skipped a check he was supposed to sign, and hoped it wasn’t because she’d run into trouble with her car. Her engine had started fine when she gave him a ride to Sexy Sadie’s to pick up his Land Rover....
Pausing to sit on the edge of the bed, he hit the answer button. “’Lo?”
“You’re never going to believe this,” she said.
After what he’d been through in his life, he could believe just about anything. But he tensed, wondering if she’d run across proof that The Crew was indeed coming after him. “What is it?”
“I got a call from Scarlet Jones, the photographer from San Francisco.”
He let his breath slowly seep out. “I provided security for her some time ago.”
“You remember.”
“Of course.” After splitting off from Virgil back east, where they’d run the same kind of business, he’d hung out his own shingle here in the west and she’d been one of his first clients. “She was getting some strange mail, felt she was being followed. What’s going on with her now?” He knew everything had been okay after his contract ended because he’d checked in with her periodically, although not in the past year.
“Apparently she’s being harassed again. The first incident happened a few months ago, in September, when she received an email containing a picture of a man’s penis.”
“So this guy’s another Anthony Weiner? That’s not particularly creative.”
“She forwarded it to me. What he sent wasn’t particularly impressive, either.”
Rex had to chuckle. “Sounds like he should have stolen more than Anthony’s idea, maybe something from a porn site. But if this happened in September, why’d Scarlet wait so long to contact us?”
“The threats she got before never amounted to anything. She thought if she ignored it, this would go away, too.”
“Let me guess—it hasn’t.”
“No. It’s getting worse. But what I don’t understand is why whoever it was stopped in the first place.”
“Maybe the guy went to prison.”
“That would explain it. Because he’s taking up where he left off, except the letters she’s receiving are even more personal,” Marilyn said. “One mentioned a mole on her, um...”
“Breast? Ass? What? You’re seldom at a loss for words.”
“It’s somewhere even more intimate.”
“So whoever is doing this has been quite close to her.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Or talked to someone who has.”
“That’s just...creepy.”
“At least it narrows the list of potentials. She still has no idea who it might be?”
“No. She says that none of her past lovers would do anything like this.” She cleared her throat. “You, uh, weren’t aware of the mole?”
“I don’t get sexually involved with our clients. You know that.”
“I do. But I thought this client might be an exception. She’s extremely attractive. And she’s not married.”
He had a soft spot for Scarlet, but she was more like a younger sister to him. When he’d watched over her before, he’d still been in love with Laurel, Virgil’s sister, but he wasn’t remotely tempted to change his relationship with Scarlet, even now. “You said it was getting worse. What else has happened?”
“Yesterday someone broke into her house and urinated on her bed. That’s why she finally called.”
“Was anything taken?”
“Several pairs of underwear.”
What he’d just learned made Rex itch to get back to work. It had always bothered him that the police hadn’t been able to find the guy who’d tormented Scarlet. “What’d you tell her?”
“I said I’d be happy to arrange for a bodyguard until the police can find out who’s behind it, but when she realized the bodyguard wouldn’t be you, she started to cry.”
This type of security was very up close and personal. He could see why she’d want somebody she already knew and trusted.
He wished he could help her, but he couldn’t ask her to sit tight and wait until he felt safe to return to the Bay Area. He couldn’t drag her around the Sierra Nevada foothills with him while he tried to keep a low profile, either. He was about to say he was sorry but there was nothing he could do when a flyer he’d found pinned to the public message board at the local coffee shop popped into his mind. It had advertised rooms for rent in a private residence....
Why not answer that ad? He could hunker down in this quaint town and have Scarlet join him. That would remove them both from their usual circles—take them out of the flow of motel life, too, which added a degree of security. He might not come up with such a perfect solution, at least not such a perfect and immediate solution, anywhere else, especially during the holidays.
“Text me her number. Given these latest problems, I’m guessing she’s changed it since I spoke to her last.”
“What are you going to do?” Marilyn asked, sounding surprised.
“I’m going to take the job.”
“How?”
“By inviting her to come and spend some time with me here in Whiskey Creek.”
“You think she’ll do that?”
“If she’s truly scared, I don’t see that she has a better choice.”
“But how can you ask her to leave her home with Christmas coming?”
“If the police do their job, she should be able to return by the big day.”
She harrumphed. Then she said, “Whiskey Creek, huh?”
“Why not? Getting her away from her usual routine should give us an advantage. Maybe her stalker will get frustrated when he can’t torment her and then he’ll do something that’ll give him away.”
“But I thought you were moving on, that moving on is what keeps you safe.”
He turned to frown at his packed bags. This latest move wasn’t about that. This move was more about what he’d done last night. He didn’t want to fall back into bed with Eve Whoever She Was—well, actually, he did want to fall back into bed with her. That was the problem. What he didn’t want was to get her hopes up, make her think they might have a future together. Considering his limitations, he knew that wasn’t fair.
But if he moved out of the B and B and into a house or some other situation with his client—a client he enjoyed as a friend—surely he’d be able to avoid Eve, maybe forget about her, too. His work had always been enough for him before.
5
Meeting with Ted was awkward. After their failed attempt at romance, Eve had grown accustomed to coping with the strain in their relationship when she saw him and the rest of their friends on Fridays at Black Gold Coffee. She just directed her comments to the group in general, when she could, and avoided sitting too close to him and Sophia. But there was no getting around a direct confrontation now. He’d asked if he could come over. He wanted to write a book about the mysterious murder of the child who had died in the basement in 1871.
But he was already a successful suspense writer. Eve couldn’t understand why he didn’t stick with fiction and leave her alone.
“I’m not sure a book about Mary will be worth your time,” she said as she sat across from him in the parlor where she’d spoken to her parents earlier.
He’d been fiddling with his phone, trying to find the record app. “Why not?” he asked, glancing up. “I’ve been intrigued by it since I was a kid.”
“Because you’re doing so well with your fiction,” she explained. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to put out another serial-killer book or something in the time it would take you to write this?”
“I’m not doing it for pay. The proceeds will go to the historical society so they can preserve more buildings like this one.”
He was donating the money?
Damn, she couldn’t even feel justified in remaining mad at him. That was always the problem. He was too nice.
He gave her a look that told her he was suspicious of her resistance. “Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge.”
“You say that as if I’d have no right to.”
“You’re not the kind of person who hangs on to resentment.”
That was true. And he’d already apologized several times. He’d also tried very hard to maintain their friendship. But she couldn’t help feeling like an old shoe that had been cast aside. Maybe if she’d been able to move on like he had, or if the guy she’d been with last night hadn’t treated her the same way, it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Of course. I’m happy for you and Sophia.” Part of her really was. She’d known Ted since childhood. And she had to take partial responsibility for getting romantically involved with him. On some level, she’d realized he still had a thing for Sophia. She’d just chosen to ignore her instincts hoping that she would indeed find a good husband.
“When I walked in and hugged you, you were stiff as a board,” he pointed out.
“So I’m having a bad day.”
Some of the suspicion disappeared, replaced by concern. “Is there something serious going on?”
“Not really.” She tried to wave his question away. “I’m always under a lot of pressure around the holidays.”
“You love the holidays.”
She said nothing. She wasn’t enjoying them this year.
“Do you want me to come back in January?” he asked.
Why? Why not get this out of the way? He’d already explained that he’d turned in his latest book and didn’t need to start the next one until January. It was the fact that he had time during the Christmas period that made him want to get moving with this—and it was all for charity. His gift to the town they both loved. “No. I’m sorry. I’ll give you what you need.”
“Suffer through it, huh?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that even Unsolved Mysteries, and all the crime analysts they brought to town, couldn’t figure out who murdered Little Mary, so I’m not sure what more you’ll be able to do.”
“This isn’t so much about solving the crime as chronicling the mystery and suggesting possible scenarios.” He tilted his head as he studied her. “It should be good publicity for the B and B,” he said by way of enticement.
But he’d been talking about doing a book on Little Mary for several years. Did he really have to come and talk to her right now? The day after she’d slept with a total stranger? Make her worry that he might have heard the news? Make her wonder if he found what she’d done as pathetic as she did?
Mr. Taylor had returned earlier. Eve had watched him come in. But he didn’t look at her or acknowledge her. He’d walked right past her and marched up the stairs. Then he’d gone out again shortly after—without his bags. Since checkout was at noon and it was after two, she could only assume that he planned on staying another night.
She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, whether she should do anything to enforce her request that he leave or just pretend, like he seemed to be doing, that last night had never happened. Their encounter was probably so meaningless to him that he didn’t care whether he ran into her every time he passed through the lobby.
“The B and B is doing better these days,” she told Ted. “The tea I’m offering is generating some interest. We’re getting groups of Red Hat Society ladies, and we’ve had an increase in couples ever since we started advertising in bridal magazines.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but advertising is expensive, and this will be free. If this book takes off, you could get a steady stream of visitors, curious to see whether this place really is haunted. That’s how it worked after Unsolved Mysteries aired, didn’t it?”
“For a while.” She supposed she should be grateful to him for taking an interest—on behalf of her and the town. She would have been if she didn’t already have so much on her mind.
“So...shall we get started?” he asked.
She sat back. “Of course. Ask away.”
“Why don’t we go over the basics, just to make sure I’ve got them straight?”
“You should know the basics. The whole town does.”
“I’m aware that Mary Hatfield was six when she was found strangled in the basement in December of 1871. Her birth and death are engraved on her headstone in the cemetery next door. But you lived here when you were little, too. I’m actually hoping you’ll tell me what that was like.”
“We were only here for a few years, until the first round of renovations were completed. Then my parents bought the property where we live today, and we moved out there.”
“I remember when that happened. We were still in grade school. But you didn’t move because of Mary’s ghost....”
“No, my parents wanted a regular family life, where they could be off work sometimes—and we could have some privacy as a family.”
“Are you glad they did that?”
She nodded. “I am. I love this place, and I did even then. But...it would’ve been difficult facing guests constantly with no break. And making sure three little kids were behaving perfectly at all times was too tall
an order for any mother.”
“Can you tell me about some of your earliest memories of this place?”
“I remember the musty smell of it more than anything else. And I remember playing with the old stuff in the attic. Dressing up in the clothes I found in various trunks, taking my Barbie dolls up there, that sort of thing. Being in that space made me a bit uneasy, even back then, but it was the perfect size for a child and the only place I wouldn’t be bothered by my brothers. I could play for hours.”
“What about the basement?”
She shivered. “I never played here. But I remember my brothers locking me in once, just to frighten me.”
“That was where Mary’s body was found.”
“Yes. So you can imagine how terrified I was. They called through the door, telling me that her ghost was going to get me, and I was absolutely convinced they were right.”
“How’d you get out?”
“My mother heard me screaming and came to the rescue.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “I bet she was angry.”
“She was.”
“What happened to your brothers?”
“They were put on restriction.” She shook her head at the memory. They’d found her terror so funny.
Ted made a few quick notes. “Okay, so Mary’s parents built this place—and it wasn’t ever renovated until your parents took over. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“How old was Mary when John and Harriett moved in?”
“She wasn’t born yet. But even after she was, she didn’t have any older brothers to torment her. She was an only child.”
“After her death, rumors circulated—and persisted—that her father might have killed her. Since he also discovered the body, and it was nearly Christmas, I always think of it as the nineteenth-century JonBenét Ramsey case.”
“Was there any evidence to suggest he did the deed?”
“Not really. He was known to have a violent temper and knocked her mother around a bit. He also didn’t seem to grieve much. But not all men show their pain.”
She’d left the doors to the parlor open. She almost always did that, so her staff would feel free to approach her, if necessary. But today it meant that when Brent Taylor came through the front door, returning for the second time, she happened to see him. He saw her, too, and paused as if he had something to say, so she stood up and hurried over.