Copper Beach dl-1

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Willow blinked. “She hired Sam?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Hmm.” Willow pushed back her chair and got to her feet. She went to stand at the window. “Well, I suppose that might work. Sam will persuade her that locating the book and getting it off the underground market is the best way to neutralize the blackmailer.”

  Elias joined her at the window. “That must be the plan. He said he was on his way to Seattle right now.”

  “He’ll get the lab book, Elias.” Willow reached out and took his hand. “It will be all right.”

  “For the past couple of decades, I’ve been telling myself that the lab book must have been buried in the explosion along with Willis. But deep down I always knew that it was out there somewhere. And now it’s surfaced at last. If it falls into the wrong hands—”

  “Stop blaming yourself for what happened at that old mine all those years ago. It was not your fault. You and Quinn Knox were nearly killed that day.”

  “I’m the one who found that vein of crystals. I’m the one who insisted we run those first tests to see what we had.”

  Willow tightened her grip on his hand. “What’s done is done. You had no way of knowing how dangerous those rocks were.”

  Elias exhaled slowly. “I still don’t. That’s one of the things that makes that lab book so damn dangerous.”

  “Sam knows that. He’ll find the book. He’s smart, and his talent will be an asset in this thing. You’ll see.”

  Elias pulled her closer and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Together they watched the fading sunlight splash across the red rocks. He knew they were both thinking about the past and the deadly explosion at the mine.

  The repercussions of the paranormal energy that had been released that day had echoed down into the future, creating the greatest of all the Coppersmith family secrets, the one secret that he and Willow had never told Sam, Judson or Emma.

  After a while, Willow turned her head to look at him with a speculative expression.

  “He called her Abby?” she said.

  “Yeah. After meeting her for all of maybe one hour. And now he’s on his way to Seattle.” Elias paused, trying to find a way to explain what he had heard in Sam’s voice. “He sounded energized, Willow. As if he was looking forward to something.”

  Willow smiled. “In that case, regardless of how this turns out, I’m already grateful to Abby Radwell.”

  7

  “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND, ABBY?” GWEN FRAZIER LEANED forward across the restaurant table and lowered her voice. “According to what I found online, Sam Coppersmith was implicated in the murder of his fiancée six months ago. You have no business hiring a man like that. He might be very, very dangerous.”

  “Relax, I’m employing him, I’m not sleeping with him. Big difference.”

  “That’s supposed to reassure me?”

  “Well, it certainly makes me feel better about the whole thing,” Abby said.

  They were in a booth in the bar section of the restaurant. It was seven-thirty. The after-work crowd that had drifted in earlier had come and gone. The place was now filling up with the locals from the nearby condos and apartment buildings. Several stylists from the hair salon on the corner, which closed at seven, were celebrating a birthday. The low rumble of conversation and the music playing over the sound system provided a layer of privacy.

  Gwen Frazier was the same age as Abby. Tall, dark-haired and hazel-eyed, she was an aura-reading talent who made her living as a psychic counselor. Her abilities allowed her to work with talents and non-talents alike. As she had explained to Abby, there was no real difference between the two groups of clients. Those with real psychical abilities of their own believed her when she explained that she worked by reading their auras. Those without talent wanted to believe that she could see their energy fields. It was a win-win situation for a woman in her line.

  “This isn’t a joke,” Gwen said.

  “I know. Sorry. It’s been a very long day. The drive back from Anacortes took longer than usual. Accident on the interstate.” Abby swallowed some of her wine and lowered the glass. “If it helps, I have been informed that there is no way Sam Coppersmith could have murdered his fiancée.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The water-taxi guy.”

  “He’s an authority?”

  “He certainly seemed to think so. Evidently, no one on that island thinks Sam did it.”

  “And what proof do they offer?” Gwen demanded.

  “They seem to feel that if Sam had murdered someone, he would have done a better job of it.”

  “I beg your pardon. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He would have made the victim disappear.” Abby waved one hand in a now-you-see–it–­now-you-don’t motion. “And he would have taken care to make sure that there was nothing left behind that pointed back to him.”

  “And you believed this water-taxi guy’s theory?”

  Abby looked at Gwen over the top of her glass. “Having met Sam Coppersmith, yes, I believe that theory.”

  “You do realize that there’s a lot of money in the Coppersmith family,” Gwen said ominously. “With money comes the kind of power it takes to make sure someone in the family does not go down for murder.”

  “Your cynical side is showing, Gwen.”

  “It’s my best side. Is this Sam Coppersmith a real private investigator?”

  “He described himself as a technical consultant.”

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Gwen said.

  “But I do think he’s the best man for the job.”

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Because this situation involves a very hot book, and I need an investigator who at least takes the paranormal seriously. Not a lot of those floating around, in case you haven’t noticed. Besides, you know as well as I do that Thaddeus Webber would never have sent me to Coppersmith if he had believed there was a better option.”

  “Point taken.” Gwen sat back. “Have you received any more email from the blackmailer?”

  “No, thank goodness. But there’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve had a really weird dream two nights in a row. They both featured Grady Hastings.”

  Gwen frowned. “The crazy guy who staged that home invasion in your client’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it’s not surprising that you would have some bad dreams for a while. That was a very frightening situation.”

  “True, but what is freaking me out about the dreams is that I’ve started sleepwalking. I’ve never done that in my life.”

  “There is nothing unstable about your talent,” Gwen said, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “You’re the one who told me that a disturbance in the dreamstate can be an early indication of serious problems with the para-senses.”

  “It’s true, but that kind of disturbance is visible in the aura. You’re fine.”

  Abby framed the base of her glass in a triangle formed by her thumbs and forefingers. “Take a look. Please.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Gwen heightened her talent. Abby felt energy shiver gently in the atmosphere. A few feet away, a middle-aged businessman who was slouched on a bar stool suddenly turned his head and looked around, as though searching for someone or something. Abby knew that he had felt the tingle of psi in the vicinity but probably did not know what it was that had lifted the hairs on the nape of his neck. Over in the corner, a redheaded stylist drinking a cosmopolitan glanced uneasily around the room before turning back to her colleagues.

  Abby waited while Gwen did her thing. After a couple of minutes, the energy level in the atmosphere receded.

  “I’m not picking up any bad vibes,” Gwen said. “Just the indications of stress that I’ve mentioned before. There is some deepening in the intensity of ultralight coming from the hot end of the spectrum, but nothing alarm
ing. I didn’t see anything that I associate with instability of the para-senses. Also, for the record, I didn’t see the kind of dreamlight that is associated with regular sleepwalking.”

  “Then what in the world is going on?”

  “I’ve tried to explain to you that what happened to you in the Vaughn library was the equivalent of a category-five hurricane, as far as your para-senses are concerned. You channeled an enormous amount of volatile energy. For heaven’s sake, you managed to render a man unconscious. There was bound to be some blowback, to say nothing of the fact that you could have been killed that day. You need to give yourself time to recover from the shock.”

  “I can’t continue sleepwalking,” Abby said. “What if I open the sliding glass doors and decide to take a walk off the balcony?”

  “Calm down. You’re not going to do that. Your para-senses would kick in fast if you tried to do anything that might put your life in danger.”

  “You have more faith in my senses than I do.”

  Gwen grew thoughtful. “In this dream, do you have any sense of where you’re going or what you want to accomplish?”

  “I see Grady Hastings. He’s reaching out to me, begging me to help him. He tells me I’m the only one who can.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Okay, I’m sticking to my theory that the fugue states you’re experiencing are being triggered by stress you experienced the other day. But there is another possibility that you should not overlook.”

  “What?”

  “Your intuition may be trying to tell you something important.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen said. “But you’re too smart to ignore the implications. Try turning the dream into a lucid dream, and then take control of it.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Well, it’s certainly easier for a strong talent than it would be for someone who doesn’t have much psychic sensitivity,” Gwen said. “Before you go to sleep tonight, set your psychic alarm clock to alert you when you start dreaming. Then take control of the dream.”

  “That will work?”

  “Yes, if you do a good job of setting the alarm. The trick works on the same principle that makes it possible for you to tell yourself that you have to wake up at a certain time in order to catch an early plane. Lots of people, even people with very little talent, do that all the time.”

  Abby took a slow breath and reminded herself that this was Gwen’s area of expertise. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”

  Gwen aimed a finger at her. “You know what you really need?”

  “Please don’t say a new boyfriend.”

  “You need a vacation. You should come with me to Hawaii tomorrow. It’s not too late. I’ll bet we can find you a seat on my flight. There are always last-minute cancellations.”

  “Sure, at full fare. You know I can’t afford that. Besides, leaving town now is out of the question. How can I enjoy a vacation if I know there’s a blackmailer waiting for me when I get back?”

  “I guess that would put a damper on things,” Gwen conceded. “But you’ve hired Coppersmith to take care of the extortionist for you. Let him do his job while you relax on a beach.”

  “I don’t think you can just hire an investigator and then go merrily off on vacation while he cleans things up for you.”

  “Why not? You’re finished with the Vaughn job, and speaking as your friend and psychic counselor, I’m telling you that you need some time off to let your senses recover. Put the ticket to Hawaii on your charge card and tell your investigator to file reports of his progress by email.”

  “I don’t like the idea of turning Sam Coppersmith loose, unsupervised, on what is essentially my very personal and private business.”

  Gwen smiled knowingly. “You like to be in control.”

  “Who doesn’t? But trust me, if you ever meet Sam Coppersmith, you’ll know why staying in charge is a very sensible idea.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Think mad scientist with a basement lab.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the typical profile of a private investigator.”

  Abby picked up her glass again. “There’s nothing typical about Sam Coppersmith.”

  When they emerged from the restaurant, a light misty rain veiled the Belltown neighborhood. The wet pavement glowed with the reflected light of the streetlamps. Neon signs illuminated the windows of the innumerable restaurants, pubs and clubs that lined both sides of First Avenue.

  Gwen shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat. “I’m thinking that maybe I should cancel Hawaii tomorrow. I don’t like leaving you here alone to deal with Coppersmith and a blackmailer.”

  “You are not going to cancel. Your new client is paying you a huge fee and all expenses just to have you go there to do a reading. You can’t turn your back on that kind of money.”

  “Screw the money. I’m worried about you, Abby.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Promise me that if you start to feel like you’re in more trouble than you can handle you’ll call Nick, first, because he’ll be the closest. And right after you call him, you’ll call me. I’ll be on the next plane back to Seattle.”

  “I promise,” Abby said.

  Neither of them mentioned the possibility of her going to her family for help. It was not an option, and they both knew it. Gwen and Nick Sawyer constituted her real family, Abby thought. The bond among the three of them had been forged in the fires of their years together in the Summerlight Academy. Nothing could sever it.

  She was about to add more reassurance, but a flash of intense awareness stopped her cold in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “Abby?” Gwen stopped, too, concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “He’s here,” Abby said quietly.

  “Who?” Gwen asked.

  Abby watched a shadowy figure detach itself from a darkened doorway and walk forward into the light. The man wore a black leather jacket open over a dark crewneck pullover and dark trousers. The collar of the jacket was pulled up against the chill and the rain, shadowing his features.

  He carried a black leather gym bag in one hand. With her senses on alert, she had no difficulty at all perceiving the faint heat in his eyes. A thrill of excitement fizzed through her veins.

  Sam looked at her, eyes heating a little. “I’ve been waiting for you. You know the old saying.”

  “What old saying?” Abby asked.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide.”

  Abby looked at Gwen. “Meet Sam Coppersmith.”

  8

  SAM HEARD THE CLICKS OF DOG CLAWS ON A WOODEN FLOOR before Abby got her door unlocked.

  “That’s Newton,” Abby explained. “He isn’t keen on strangers, especially strange men.”

  “I’ll try to make a good impression,” Sam said.

  She turned the key and pushed the door open. A scruffy gray dog of uncertain ancestry lunged forward to greet Abby as if she had been gone for a year.

  “Sorry I’m late, Newton.” Abby leaned down to scratch the dog affectionately behind the ears. “We’ve got company.”

  Newton regarded Sam with an expression of grave misgivings.

  “I’m with her,” Sam said.

  “Generally speaking, he doesn’t bite,” Abby said.

  “You don’t have to make that sound like a character flaw,” Sam said.

  Newton was on the small side, but that was about all he had in common with the typical condo dog, which, in Sam’s experience, tended to come in two versions: tiny, white and fluffy or chunky pug. Newton was a condo-sized version of a junkyard dog.

  “Where did you get him?” Sam asked.

  “The animal shelter.” Abby gave Newton an affectionate smile. “It was love at first sight, wasn’t it, Newton?”

  Newton spared her a brief glance, acknowledging his name. Then he turned his attention back to Sam.

  Sam set the leather d
uffel bag on the floor, crouched and extended his hand toward Newton. The dog tilted his head slightly to the side and pricked up his ears. He sniffed Sam’s hand and then condescended to allow himself to be patted a few times.

  “Congratulations,” Abby said. She slipped out of her coat and turned to hang it on the red enamel coat tree. “Newton approves of you. He doesn’t take to everyone.”

  Sam got to his feet. “I think it’s more a case of tolerating me.”

  “Well, yes, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s going to go for your throat.”

  “He’s a condo dog,” Sam said. “The most he could go for is my ankle.”

  Abby glared. “Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate Newton. He picks up on vibes in the atmosphere. He knows when he’s being insulted.”

  Sam looked at Newton. “Is that so?”

  Newton gave a disdainful little snort and trotted off down the hall.

  Sam looked at Abby. “Since your guard dog has decided to allow me over the threshold, is it okay if I take off my coat?”

  Abby flushed. “Yes, of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

  “I got that impression.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. When she took it from him, her fingers brushed against his, sending an intimate little thrill of awareness across his senses. He knew she felt the small flash because her brilliant eyes widened slightly in surprise. She gave him a startled look and then just as swiftly looked away.

  She hung his jacket on the coat tree and led the way down the short hall to the living and dining area.

  A few minutes ago, Gwen Frazier had discreetly vanished in a cab to her own apartment a couple of blocks away. Sam had felt the energy shiver in the atmosphere when Abby had introduced him to her friend. He was fairly certain that Gwen had used some talent to make a judgment call. She had evidently decided that Abby was safe with him, at least for now, because she had not tried to hang around.

  Things were looking up, he decided. He had managed to get through two lines of defense tonight, the protective friend and the protective dog. He was on a roll.