“Well, thank you very much, Captain Longbow. I’m sorry if I interrupted your dinner, but I do appreciate your checking things out down here. I’ll take a look around to see if I can tell whether anything’s missing.”
“No prob, miss.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his cap. “Gotta get home anyway. Wife’s probably chewed a hole through her lip, wondering where I am.”
It was nearly midnight by the time he left and Diana closed—and locked—the door behind him. By all rights, she should be a bundle of nerves, alone in this house where she had surprised an intruder only hours before.
But she wasn’t. It was odd…it was as though she knew. As she looked around the foyer, she somehow knew things were safe here in the house.
She’d felt nervous during the drive back tonight—for no apparent reason. As she’d drawn closer to home, she’d sensed something was wrong…even though she didn’t know what it was, nor had she had anything specific or logical to point to.
As she thought about all of this, pain began to throb at her temples, and Diana heard Ethan’s voice in her mind, remembering what he’d said to her the other day.
The High Priestess is telling you to look beyond the obvious—to allow your intuition and inner voice to guide you. Let your imagination and dreams abound, open your mind to the unknown, seek that which is concealed.
Intuition and inner voice.
Well, that was exactly what she was doing right now, wasn’t it—listening to her intuition and inner voice. Diana felt a little nauseated and weak-kneed at the thought. Her head hurt.
This stuff isn’t real. I’m just grasping at straws.
He was just giving me a line—the same lines he gave Aunt Jean. He’s obviously very good at it.
“This is crazy,” she said aloud, fervently, angrily. She fisted her hands at her sides and glared around the room. “This is nonsense. I’m making things up, and hearing things, and believing dreams are real, and There’s No. Such. Thing. As. Ghos—”
Crash! Thud-thunk!
She jumped and spun around, looking down the hall toward the den. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she forced it back down. Silence reigned except for the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears.
“Stupid cats,” she muttered out loud, hoping to convince herself that’s all it had been. Yet, her voice was shaky. And she didn’t march down to the den to confront them…or to confirm the accusation.
And when she caught sight of something from the corner of her eye, she whirled once more…to find both Motto and Arty standing halfway up the stairs that led to the second floor. They stared down at her with wide green eyes, upright tails flicking like animated question marks as if to call her out on the false accusation.
“Fine. So it wasn’t you. This time.” Diana was proud that her voice came out strong and smooth this time.
Then she looked down the hall toward the library. Something had fallen over. Something had caused that noise.
The house was empty—she knew it because she and Joe Cap had looked everywhere inside and locked all the doors and windows. He’d even boarded up the one the intruder had broken into. They’d checked the cellar, too, and the garage.
No one could possibly be there.
No one could have made that sound.
Jean’s not haunting you, is she?
Iva Bergstrom’s silly comment wafted into Diana’s mind and she thrust it away with an emphatic “No.”
With that, she gave the pair of cats a glare then marched down the hallway to the den. She’d see what made that noise, and then she’d know exactly what had happened. Maybe the intruder had tipped something off-balance during his (it had definitely been a he) snooping, and gravity had finally won out.
That was the most likely explanation, and the one she held on to as she flipped on the light in the den.
Her eyes went immediately, automatically, to the piecrust table where the mahogany box sat, pretty as you please, next to the undisturbed African violet.
Diana released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and moved further into the room, looking for whatever had fallen and made the noise.
She saw it then: a trail of books in a tumble on the floor. They looked as if someone had come along and swept them from the shelves—and indeed, that was consistent with the sound: an initial crash, then the thudding of several books dumping to the ground.
A little chill prickled over the back of her neck. The books definitely hadn’t been on the ground when she and Joe Cap came through a while ago.
And there didn’t seem to be any way they could have spontaneously fallen—
She shook her head, stopping her thoughts in their tracks. Whatever the cause, the books were on the floor. They’d made a sound that had startled her, but she knew she was alone in the house except for Motto and Arty, and there was no harm done except to jumpstart her pulse.
Diana bent to pick up the books, and as she did so, she noticed the titles.
Murder on the Orient Express.
Murders in the Rue Morgue.
Murder at Hazelmoor.
Murder on Lexington Avenue.
Murder of the Century.
She paused, feeling slightly nauseated again and the renewed tom-tom at her temples. Surely it had to be a coincidence that all the titles of the books that had fallen…randomly…from the shelf began with the word “murder.”
But even Diana, logical and pragmatic as she was, couldn’t quite convince herself of that. Particularly as, when she began to replace the books, she realized they all couldn’t have come from the same shelf as might have happened if something (like a cat) had caused them to tumble.
Going by author, size, and subject matter and looking at the way the rest of the books were organized, it was obvious the placement of these volumes was not from the same shelf. And some of them fit in so tightly between the titles next to them that all should have fallen—or none at all. And the ones left there were still in place, tucked back on the shelf.
Their titles became a chant in her mind: Murder. Murder, murder, murder. Murder.
She’d dreamed of murder. Of being smothered until she breathed no more.
Diana sank onto Aunt Jean’s desk chair and stared silently at the shelves. She didn’t know what to do. What to think. She didn’t want to believe any of this, yet what else could she do?
A movement from the corner of her eye had her jumping again, then calming when she saw it was only Motto who’d padded into the room. Weren’t felines supposed to be sensitive to the supernatural? If so, why wasn’t the cat reacting?
“I don’t understand any of this! What is going—”
Brrrring!
The jarring ring of the old, monstrous telephone from the kitchen startled her.
Diana scrambled to her feet, heart pounding wildly, vision disoriented—as if she’d just awakened from a deep sleep. Strangely frantic to stop the shrill, discordant sound that made her nerves jangle, she bumped the desk’s sharp corner painfully and jolted the piecrust table as she left the room.
No one called after midnight unless it was something bad. She was practically running for the phone, rubbing her thigh where she’d hit the desk.
Brrrring!
“Hello.”
Silence.
“Hello?” she said again, more firmly. “Hello?”
“Diana?”
“Jonathan! What—what are you doing, calling so late?”
“I’m home from the airport. I couldn’t stop thinking about you…especially when I got back here. My condo is just so empty. And lonely. And it feels emptier, knowing you won’t be here for a while.”
She’d brought her breathing under control and sank onto a stool by the kitchen counter, still rubbing her leg. She’d have a bruise for sure. “I’m glad you’re back safely,” she said, careful to keep her voice steady.
“What’s wrong? You sound tense.”
“The way this landline rings is so shrill and loud, it startle
d me. You know—in the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry. I tried your cell, but the call didn’t go through again. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, it’s late and I was getting ready to go to sleep. I’ll call you in a day or two, all right?”
“Diana,” he said quickly, as if to keep her from disconnecting. “Will you wear the ring?”
She looked down automatically at her bare hand. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Probably.”
“Thank you.”
She stared at her ringless finger, wondering why she’d lied—but then immediately knew the answer. Less drama. Less stress. Less arguing.
Whatever happened to being a strong woman?
I’ll be strong tomorrow, she told herself. Tonight, I’m going to be…less strong.
“Good night, Jonathan,” she said, putting power into her words at least. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
She stared through the kitchen window into the darkness for a while after she hung up the phone. The moonlight filtered over the lake like a swath of sparkling diamonds. It seemed so calm and peaceful. She heard the hoot of an owl in the distance, and for some reason it made her feel more calm. The eau de skunk had dissipated some time ago and barely lingered in the air. Now the scent of summer, and lake, and pine filtered to her nose.
She was tired. She wanted to sleep.
But she was a little nervous about doing so. Not because she feared someone would break into the house again—Captain Longbow had been right; if the intruder had wanted to hurt her, he’d have done more than push her into the doorframe.
No, she was nervous about trying to sleep here. The last time she’d done so—Friday night—had been the worst of the dreams. She didn’t want to live through that again, even knowing it was a dream, because…
Maybe it wasn’t just a dream.
Murder.
The five books tumbled onto the floor couldn’t have been an accident.
But who or how or why?
Her head was throbbing again.
“I’m going to bed,” she said aloud. “And I’m not going to dream tonight. I understand the dream, all right? I just don’t know…I don’t know what to do with it.”
Diana turned off all the lights in the kitchen except for the one over the sink, checked the cats’ water dish (though they’d tried to convince her otherwise, they only got fed in the morning), and started down the hall to Aunt Jean’s bedroom.
The light was still on in the library, so she went in there to turn it off.
And there was the mahogany box of cards: upended from the piecrust table she’d bumped as she went by. They’d tumbled onto the chair next to the table.
“At least I know how it happened this time,” she said aloud. “My own clumsiness.”
She began to pick them up swiftly, wrapping the worn pieces of card-stock in their blanket of black silk, then slipping the bundle into the box. She put the lid back on, set the box in its place on the table, then went over to the desk to turn off the green-shaded lamp.
And gasped.
There, sitting on the desk, pretty as you please, were two Tarot cards, side by side.
“No way,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle as she looked around the room. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. “No way. There is absolutely no way—”
Suddenly Diana felt the air stir and swirl and chill…and at the same time, she smelled something spicy and musky. The distinct scent of sandalwood. Aunt Jean used to burn sandalwood incense all the time, and used a perfume made from the oil. She claimed it was a holdover from her Woodstock days.
Even as the tip of Diana’s nose went cold from the chill, a strong sense of comfort swept over her—as if someone put an arm around her shoulders
“Aunt Jean…?” she whispered, feeling like a fool for talking to a dead woman. Yet there was no other explanation for it.
Unless she was going crazy.
Or was overtired and stressed…
Diana was facing the doorway of the den when she saw Arty—the fat black and white cat with the skinny tail—standing in the hall. He was looking into the room, his eyes wide and still—as if focused on something behind Diana. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled when the cat tensed and reared back a little, as if gathering itself up to attack.
The waft of musky sandalwood buffeted more strongly, and the air shifted enough to brush a wisp of hair against her cheek. She saw small, short puffs of cold breath coming from her nose and mouth. Her fingers were icicles.
Diana didn’t move. She tried not to breathe, tried not to make a sound.
Then, all at once, it was gone.
The cat relaxed.
The air stopped.
The perfume disintegrated.
The cold air warmed.
Panting with shock and disbelief, a little lightheaded, Diana turned around to face the desk again. The cards were still there. Still sitting as if someone had laid them side by side for her.
If that had been Aunt Jean—oh, God, how could she even form such a thought?—she meant Diana no harm. That knowledge, that confidence, was all that kept her from bolting out of the house and driving away.
This is crazy.
Whatever was going on, it seemed someone—Aunt Jean—wanted her to know something.
Murder.
Her knees trembled, but Diana made herself walk over to look at the cards that had been placed on the desk.
She had a moment of relief that neither of them were Death—nor were either The High Priestess.
They were cards she must have seen at some point in her life, but didn’t remember anything about what they were supposed to mean.
Wheel of Fortune, one was labeled. The other had no title, but bore the Roman numeral two at the top.
Wheel of Fortune was labeled with the Roman numeral ten, indicating that it was the tenth card of the Major Arcana. The Wheel itself hung suspended in what appeared to be the heavens, for it was surrounded by clouds and all types of creatures. Each creature seemed to be reading a book.
Diana looked more closely at the picture of the Wheel. There were two concentric circles drawn on it, and lines cut the two innermost circles into six pie-shaped pieces. Symbols that she thought might be those of astrological signs ringed the outermost portion of the Wheel.
She turned her attention to the second card. A blindfolded figure sat on a beach, holding two swords crossed over his or her chest. The swords were long, creating a v-shape and bisecting the drawing at the horizon line between water and sky.
Two of Swords, she thought. A very simple image. Yes, it was a picture with little detail, but the impression it gave her was a powerful one. The person on the beach, blind to anyone approaching, held the swords in such a way so as to ward off any encroachment upon the ocean with those two sturdy weapons.
Wheel of Fortune.
Two of Swords.
She left the cards on the desk when she went to bed.
And for the first time since arriving in Wicks Hollow, she didn’t dream.
Diana woke the next morning to the sound of a motor rumbling very near the bedroom window. It came closer, then backed away; closer, then away. It sounded like someone was mowing the lawn.
But, despite the unexpected awakening, she’d slept. Without dreaming.
She sat up in bed, and her gaze went automatically to the digital clock. Eight o’clock. A little early for lawn service, wasn’t it? She spewed out a long breath and closed her eyes.
A week ago, she’d have been up and at work already for an hour at this time.
But she wasn’t at work. She was on vacation. One that it was becoming clearer and clearer she needed.
Ghosts. Crazy.
She shook her head. She wasn’t going to think about that just yet.
So she turned her exasperation toward whoever was mowing the lawn. Diana’s heels made little annoyed thumps as she strode down the hall to the front door. As sh
e passed by the den, she glanced at the desk. The two Tarot cards were still sitting there, just as she had left them, looking innocent and unimportant.
Ugh.
By now, she’d reached the front door. She whipped the chain lock open and snapped the deadbolt back, then turned the knob and pulled the door open.
Though she wore nothing but a modest nightshirt and no shoes, Diana walked out onto the porch and followed it around the back, where the sound of the mower was louder.
As she came around the corner, she stopped. Her breath caught, and she just stared for a moment.
All right, it was almost worth it being woken up to see this. Nice choice for lawn service, Auntie Jean.
From behind, all Diana could see was a tanned, broad-shouldered back, well-toned with muscle and glazed with a light sheen of sweat. It narrowed to a slim-hipped waist, covered with a loose pair of shorts that looked like hacked off sweatpants. Regardless of the fact that they were loose, they covered a very pleasing, well-defined rear end. His legs were long, lean, and muscled from thigh to calf.
Wow. Maybe I won’t lodge a complaint after all.
He turned a corner then, facing her, and Diana wasn’t really surprised that it was Ethan Murphy. After all, she’d been up close and personal with that very fine chest last night.
It was just a lot different seeing it in the full light of day. Her mouth had gone embarrassingly dry.
Ethan looked up and gave an obvious start at seeing her. His face settled into a remote expression as he released the mower, and it puttered into silence. “Good morning.” He slung his hands at his hips, walking toward her with a hint of defiance.
“Good morning. What are you doing?” As she came closer, she felt him take in her lightly clad figure. She tried to be inconspicuous as she tugged the hem of her nightshirt down, stretching it to mid-thigh, and wondering why she cared.
Shorts and a tank top are more revealing than my nightshirt. But my hair must look like a disaster. Nevertheless, she managed to keep herself from fussing with it.
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