Occult and Battery

by Lena Gregory

  He sighed.

  Yes!

  “Fine.” Bee tossed Stephanie her coat. “But you’re getting ten minutes, that’s it. Then I want you out of there, or I’ll come get you.”

  “Thanks, Bee. You’re the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved her off. “Give us a few minutes to get Joan out of there before you go out into the hall. And make sure no one’s around before you go in.”

  “Sure.”

  “And one more thing, missy.” He pointed his finger at her, his expression serious. “I’d better not find my name on that suspect list.”

  A pang of guilt surfaced. She feigned innocence. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mmm hmm . . . Just sayin’.” He spun around, opened the door, and sashayed down the hallway.

  Stephanie shot her a sympathetic look before following him.

  5

  Cass resisted the urge to tiptoe down the hallway. All she needed was for someone to come out of their room and find her sneaking around. She gripped the flashlight Bee had given her tighter but didn’t turn it on. There was no need with the sconces on the walls flickering a dim light. He was right, though she hated to admit it—the flashlight was better than the lantern since she could turn it on and off.

  It seemed all of the other guests had either gone to the kitchen for snacks, or were perhaps holed up in their rooms, as she strolled purposefully toward Conrad’s room. When she reached it, she held her breath and pressed her ear to the door. Silence. Hopefully, Bee and Stephanie had succeeded. She probably should have worked out some sort of signal for them to let her know, but she hadn’t thought of it at the time. Maybe this whole amateur sleuth thing wasn’t for her. She sighed.

  With one last look around the empty hallway, she sucked in a breath and turned the knob. Easing the door open—wincing at the small squeak from the hinges—she slipped into the room, flicking the flashlight on as she shut the door gently behind her. She only took one step in before the beam of light landed on the image of a man. She choked back a scream—barely—squinting to bring the figure more clearly into focus.

  Her breath shot out on a loud exhale when the shock of recognition punched her in the gut. Donald stood, frozen, beside the large dresser beneath the TV. The deer-in-headlights expression he wore would probably have been comical under other circumstances.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Cass?”

  Crap! With the light shining ahead of her, he wouldn’t have been able to see who she was. If she could have just kept her big mouth shut.

  “Cass. Is that you?” His harsh whisper grew more urgent. “What are you doing here?”

  Uh . . . oh . . . that’s gonna be tough to explain. “I asked you first.” Ugh . . . brilliant. I am so going to jail.

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. A washcloth dangled from one closed fist. “Look, Cass. It’s not what you think.”

  A tidal wave of memories—none of them good—slammed through her, crushing her chest. The pain of losing her patient after he committed suicide, the weight of the guilt, the longing for Donald’s comforting embrace. But, when she’d pushed the front door open, there were Donald and Sylvia, naked, contorted on her living room couch.

  Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. Oh, no. Not now. She couldn’t fall apart again. The betrayal, the hurt . . . not only her husband, but her best friend. At least, that’s what she’d thought.

  “Cass. Please. You have to listen to me. I’m telling you, it’s not what you think.”

  Past and present melded together. Shock, pain, emotions she had no hope of controlling. She took a step back and slammed into the door, the thud tearing her from the brink of panic. “Seems to me I’ve heard those words before, Donald.” Those exact same words.

  When he’d looked up and seen her standing in the foyer, mouth hanging open, he’d held up his hands in the exact same gesture and told her it wasn’t what she thought. But it was exactly what she’d thought. There was nothing else it could have been.

  His whispers grew frantic. “Are you ever going to get over that? It was one time, Cass.”

  “Oh, please.” She struggled for calm. Worked to slow her racing heart. Fought to stay in the present. She wasn’t that same weak woman anymore. She’d made a life for herself here. And Donald Larson was not going to take that away from her. “I asked what you’re doing here. You have two seconds to answer before I go for help.”

  “You’ve got to believe me. It’s different this time. It really isn’t how it looks.”

  She studied his hands. What was he doing in a dead man’s dark room with a washcloth in the middle of the night? Realization struck like ice water. “Well, it looks like you’re wiping down the room.”

  He glanced at the offending rag, as if noticing it for the first time, and winced. “All right, I guess it is what it looks like—sort of—but I can explain.” Sweat had sprung out on his forehead and was now dripping down the side of his face. He used the rag to wipe it away. “I only used the washcloth so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints. This was originally my room, but Ms. Wellington asked us to move so Conrad could have it. When we left, Sylvia must have forgotten her engagement ring, because she couldn’t find it when we got to our new room. She begged me to come back and look for it, afraid the police would think she had something to do with Conrad’s death.”

  The rapid tumble of words brought a dull ache to the base of her brain. It didn’t make any sense. How would Sylvia know Conrad had been murdered? Unless . . . “You know what? I don’t want to hear it.” She fumbled behind her for the knob, not ready to turn her back on him, alone, in a dead man’s room.

  “No, wait. Please.” He lunged toward her, and she clamped her teeth closed over the scream begging to escape. She had to stay calm.

  “Stay away from me,” she hissed. “Or I’ll scream.” She shoved the flashlight toward him. At least she had something to use as a weapon.

  Maybe it was the tremor in her voice, or maybe it was the memory of how he’d charmed his way out of trouble with her time and time again during their marriage, but Donald’s confidence seemed to increase the longer they stood there. Growing bolder, he took another step toward her, until they stood toe to toe. “Don’t be silly. This is all just a misunderstanding.” He spread his arms to the sides. “I’m sure we can work things out.” Another bead of sweat dripped along the side of his face, belying the smug grin he now wore. “Come on, Cassie.” He reached toward her, stroking a finger down the side of her jaw.

  That was going too far. Rage tore through her. Bracing herself on her right foot, she swung her left knee with all of her strength, landing a crushing blow squarely between his legs. Donald crumpled to the floor with an “oomph.”

  She leaned over him, not even bothering to lower her voice. “Don’t you ever touch me again. And do not call me Cassie.” He was the only one besides her parents to ever use that nickname, and she wouldn’t have it tarnished by passing over his lips now. “As far as what you’re doing in here, you can just explain that to the police, because I don’t care.”

  “Fine,” he wheezed. “You . . .” He huffed out a breath and rolled over with a moan. “Can explain . . . too.”

  Great. She hadn’t thought of that. How could she explain what she was doing in Conrad’s room? “I’ll just tell them I heard a noise and found you in here wiping the dresser.” Would that work? Probably not. She’d worry about it later. Right now, she just had to get out of there.

  Shoving his leg aside with her foot, she turned and cracked the door open. She certainly couldn’t search the room now. She peered down the hallway, first one way then the other, flicked off her flashlight, and fled.

  Cass strode through the doorway and into the dining room as if her heart weren’t beating five hundred miles an hour and threatening to launch itself out of her chest. She hu
nted for Bee and Stephanie immediately, on a mission to get one or both of them alone and tell them she’d found Donald wiping down Conrad’s room.

  Could he have been telling the truth? Had Sylvia really sent him to search for the ring she’d left behind when they changed rooms? Was the washcloth really a lame attempt not to leave fingerprints? Her head spun with questions. Uppermost on her list was: had Conrad Wellington really been murdered? Followed closely by: if so, who killed him?

  An engagement ring. Huh. She wouldn’t bother to examine how she felt about Donald and Sylvia getting engaged. The hurt and betrayal ran too deep.

  She didn’t have to search too long to find Bee, as all six-foot-something of him was frantically waving both arms over his head and gesturing her toward him. He glanced pointedly at Priscilla, Jim, and Joan Wellington seated together at a small round table in the farthest corner of the room. Apparently, he’d kept watch from his current vantage point.

  Her body sizzled with adrenaline as she tried to avoid talking to anyone on her way across the room.

  “Cass?”

  Crap. Maybe if she just kept walking . . .

  “Cass.” Sylvia’s tone was sharper that time. If Cass wanted to avoid a scene, she’d probably best stop and answer her.

  Ignoring her, Cass kept on walking.

  Bee had returned to his seat, leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped together in eager anticipation, as he continued conversing with a couple Cass didn’t recognize. She headed toward them.

  A firm grip on her elbow brought her up short. “Did you not hear me calling you?”

  Cass huffed out a breath, shaking Sylvia’s hand off as she turned to face her. Better to just have this out once and for all. She caught the other woman’s gaze and held it firmly. “I heard you.” She had no doubt the challenge was evident in her stance and her attitude, but she didn’t care.

  Sylvia held her gaze but didn’t take the bait. She swallowed hard before continuing. “Where is Donald?”

  A small flicker of suspicion ignited in Cass’s gut and began to burn its way up the back of her throat. “What are you talking about?” If Sylvia sent Donald in search of the ring, wouldn’t she know where he was? Cass looked over at Bee, hoping to get his attention and have him rescue her, but he was too engrossed in whatever discussion he was having.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Cass. You’re missing. Donald’s missing. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.” She folded her arms, pushing up her cleavage considerably, and scowled.

  A surge of satisfaction shot through Cass at her former friend’s jealousy, but it was short-lived. If she admitted to seeing Donald, she’d have to admit she’d been in Conrad’s room. If she didn’t admit to seeing him, Sylvia would think she was lying anyway. A no-win situation really. Except for the small rush of pleasure at Sylvia’s obvious insecurity. Cass tilted her head to the side and lifted a brow. “Gee, Sylvia. I have no idea where Donald is. Do you have any friends here?”

  A frown creased her brow, wrinkling the twelve pounds of foundation she had to be wearing. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well . . .” She couldn’t resist the small smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. Leaning closer, she whispered in Sylvia’s ear. “Maybe you should check their rooms.”

  Sylvia fumed, her face turning a bizarre shade of reddish purple, before she spun and stalked off.

  Cass expected to feel some sort of satisfaction at Sylvia’s discomfort, but all she really felt was tired. Maybe she was finally leaving Donald in the past where he belonged. Interesting. She’d have to look at that more closely. Later. Now, she had to find Bee and Stephanie.

  With renewed determination, Cass crossed the rest of the dining room, weaving her way through clusters of tables and chairs where small groups of guests sat with mugs of something steaming between their hands. Hopefully, it was Bella’s hot chocolate. Her mouth watered.

  Bee jumped up as she approached the table. “Here, honey, have a seat.” He pulled the chair beside his out, and Cass dropped into it. “Is everything okay?”

  She nodded, hyper-aware of the audience they now had.

  “Have you met Mitch and Carly Dobbs?” Excitement flowed from him as he rambled on, not giving Cass an opening to get him alone. “Carly actually has a personal interest in this old place. She even met Horatio Madison’s wife, and she’s been giving me a wonderful history lesson.”

  Unable to work up the same level of excitement Bee obviously felt, Cass settled for being grateful she’d decided to contact Buford instead of Horatio. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Reaching across the table, she shook hands with each of the Dobbs’ in turn.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” Carly smiled, but her eyes remained cold and calculating, reminding Cass of a snake.

  “Cass, you just have to hear all about the sordid past this place has.” Bee’s gaze held a newfound appreciation for the old house, and something else as well, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what. Suspicion? Distrust? His stomach growled.

  Hmm . . . maybe he’s just hungry.

  “Isabella should have the cookies ready by now. I’ll get us a plate and bring you some hot chocolate while Carly catches you up.” He patted her folded hands then gestured toward Carly. “Don’t keep going without me, though. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”

  Before Cass could protest, he was gone, leaving her alone with the two strangers staring openly at her. She shifted, dropping her gaze under the pretense of getting more comfortable. When she looked up, they were still both staring at her. Oookaaay. “So, tell me, what has Bee so fascinated?”

  With a quick glance at each other, they launched into the story. “Well . . .” Carly sat back and settled more comfortably.

  Apparently this wasn’t going to be a short tale. Cass held back the sigh and contented herself with studying the middle-aged couple. Carly was a big woman, both in stature and personality. She was loud, forward, and built like an Amazon. She was also quite attractive, despite the dark, reptilian eyes. Her husband matched her in size, but he was much less animated than Carly. His receding hairline and beer belly made him appear quite a bit older than his more muscular wife. Who knew? Maybe he was.

  Struggling against the urgent need to run after Bee and tell him about Donald, Cass tried to focus on Carly’s words.

  “. . . direct descendent of the woman Buford was having the affair with.”

  Affair? Huh? “You’ll have to forgive me, my mind wandered. Would you mind repeating that?”

  With a frown and an unhappy huff, Carly backed up. “I said, Buford Wellington was having an affair with a young servant at the time of his death. A nineteen-year-old girl named Celeste Garnier.”

  Ahh . . . now it made perfect sense. Bee wasn’t enamored with the history of the mansion, he’d simply dug up some old dirt. Bee thrived on gossip. He lived for it. Even hundred-year-old gossip would completely enthrall him.

  Carly leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, and stared at Cass. Apparently content to find her paying attention, she rushed on. “When good ole Buford was found swinging from the rafters, there was a letter in his pocket. Turned out he left a note bequeathing everything he owned, including this estate, which was called Wellington Manor at the time, to his teenage mistress.”

  Cass squirmed, wishing Carly would lower her booming voice. How would the Wellingtons feel if they caught wind of the insensitive way she referred to Buford’s death? A death that too closely mirrored that of Conrad. The siblings and Conrad’s widow remained engrossed in whatever conversation the three of them were having. None of them looked happy. Then again, under the circumstances . . .

  “Hey, maybe someone oughta check Conrad’s pockets.” Carly’s hearty laughter echoed through the somber atmosphere as she slapped the table then waved a hand in dismissal. “Anyway, after Buford’s death, his wife, Annalise,
ran Celeste off and sold the estate to the Madisons.”

  Despite Carly’s inappropriate good humor, Cass couldn’t help her piqued interest. “If there was a note, how did she get away with that?”

  Carly shrugged. “Celeste was just a kid, and she was the one to find her lover’s body. Annalise was a prominent woman in society. When she threatened to tell everyone Celeste had murdered him . . . well . . . there was no doubt who’d be believed.”

  “Was he murdered?” Nothing could have pulled her attention from Carly’s story at that moment.

  “No one knows. They called it a suicide, especially with the letter in his pocket, but rumor has it his wife had him killed after she found out about his mistress.”

  “So, whatever happened to Celeste?”

  “Oh, good. I made it back in time.” Bee placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of Cass and a platter of cookies in the center of the table.

  “Thanks, Bee.” She blew on her drink and returned her attention to Carly, then shook her head and laughed at herself. She was no better than Bee, hooked on ancient gossip like it was happening in real time.

  Grabbing a cookie, Carly continued, “Celeste wound up being pregnant with Buford’s child, a son. She fled, disgraced and afraid, and moved in with a well-to-do older couple. She cared for them in exchange for a small servant’s cottage on their property. When her son was grown, she passed the letter on to him and told him of his birthright. He, in turn, passed it on to his children. As far as I know, none of them ever tried to get the estate.”

  “What about Buford’s wife?”

  “After Celeste left, Annalise sold the estate to the Madisons and moved away. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  Carly bit off half her cookie then gestured with the other half while she went on around her mouthful. “But I do know what happened to the letter.”