by Lena Gregory
Bee let out a low whistle. “So, with Joan out of the picture, whoever inherits is mega rich.”
Priscilla Wellington. Biting her tongue to keep from saying the words out loud and betraying Luke’s trust, Cass opened the last piece of paper. Unlike the others, this was yellowed with age, and she was careful not to damage it as she unfolded it. It was held together with tape in several places, where it appeared to have been torn at some point. She gasped. It was a copy of Buford Wellington’s letter leaving the estate to Celeste. Quite possibly the original.
“Okay.” Bee sat back as Cass started folding the pages back up and returning them to the box. “So obviously Joan was trying to get the fortune. And probably blackmailed him into marrying her. Do you think the Dobbs’ killed them because Joan had the mansion and they wanted it? Maybe they were upset she wasn’t the rightful heir, but she found a way to get their mansion anyway?”
Cass thought about that. Did it feel right in her gut? Not really, but not completely far-fetched either.
Beast jumped up and barked.
“Hurry. Get that stuff back in here.”
Stephanie grabbed the box and slapped the top on the instant Cass returned everything to its original place. She stuffed it back into the hole, and Cass pushed the picture back into place just as the door to the room slammed open.
“Why did I have a feeling we’d find you three in here?”
After being reprimanded by Luke and Tank, and reluctantly handing over the box of evidence, Cass headed toward the ballroom. Bee had agreed to stay, since he knew the séance wouldn’t be real this time. He took Beast to the kitchen, where Isabella would keep an eye on him until Cass was done. Stephanie went to see to the last-minute preparations—and probably beg Tank’s forgiveness for tampering with his crime scene.
Cass hesitated before reaching for the knob, her hands slick with sweat. She wiped her hands on her pants. Was Bee right? Had Carly and Mitch killed Conrad and Joan? They certainly had the strength to have pulled it off. And probably the opportunity. Greed was definitely a powerful motive. And yet . . . She was still hesitant to point the finger at them. Or anyone, really.
She shook off the apprehension threatening to suffocate her. It really didn’t matter who the killer was. Her goal tonight was to make it clear she had no clue who’d murdered Conrad and Joan. She’d let the police figure out the rest. With her mind set and her purpose clear, Cass pushed open the ballroom doors. And froze. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Sylvia stepped back, Jim’s hands still on her hips, and wiped the smeared lipstick from around her mouth.
Cass’s mouth fell open, but for once she couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so she snapped it shut without saying anything.
Sylvia rolled her eyes. With one last sensual look at Jim, she sauntered past Cass then stopped and turned back. She aimed a glare at Cass and kept her voice low. “You can tell him, you know. But I’ll just deny it.”
Cass resisted the urge to wipe the self-satisfied smile off her face. Barely.
“And who do you think he’s going to believe?” The echo of her laughter lingered as the door fell shut behind her.
Bitch. But really, what did it matter? Could Donald really expect loyalty from a woman who stole her best friend’s husband? Aside from the initial shock of finding her in Jim’s arms, in the grand scheme of things, Sylvia didn’t matter.
She turned to Jim. “Uh, sorry. I just wanted to work out some last-minute preparations.”
He turned on the charm as he approached her. “No problem. You weren’t interrupting anything important.”
She laughed, not because she found humor in the situation, but because he seemed to expect it.
“So . . .” Standing toe to toe with her, he held her gaze. “What did you decide about dinner later?”
He couldn’t possibly be serious. “Thanks, anyway, but I’m seeing someone.”
“So is Sylvia,” he offered with a grin.
“True. But I’m not like Sylvia. When I make a commitment, I’m loyal.” Not that she’d made any commitment to Luke, but Jim didn’t have to know that. And if she had made a commitment, she certainly wouldn’t be cheating on him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do.” You rat.
“Sure thing.”
She noticed his swagger for the first time as he left her alone. How had she ever found him attractive? Wait until she told Bee she’d found Sylvia in Jim Wellington’s arms. His voice filled her head. Now that’s a waste of a good-looking man. This time her laughter was genuine.
Dismissing the incident, she closed the door and crossed the room to stand in front of the fireplace. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to ward off the chill. “So, Buford. Did I find the secret you were trying to share?” Did she really expect an answer? Who knew? She had no clue what to expect anymore. She jumped, startled by the squeak of the door opening.
A small gasp escaped as Priscilla Wellington entered the room. Dark circles ringed her eyes, deep lines etched into the sides of her mouth and furrows creased her forehead. Even her usually lustrous hair had lost some of its perk. “Are you almost ready to start?”
“Almost.”
Priscilla closed the door behind her, the soft click like a shotgun blast in the empty ballroom.
“Is everything all right? You seem stressed.” Heat rushed into Cass’s face the moment the question left her lips. Of course Priscilla was stressed. She’d just lost her brother and sister-in-law.
The small flicker of a sad smile played at the corners of Priscilla’s mouth. One tear tipped over her lashes and tracked down her cheek. “I know it seemed like we bickered a lot, but I loved my brother dearly, and his wife and I were true sisters.” She sniffed and pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket. A folded piece of yellow paper fell to the floor. The same one she’d been studying when she entered the ballroom for the reading at the Bay Side Hotel?
Cass bent and retrieved it, then handed it to Priscilla. A shiver tore through her at Priscilla’s ice-cold touch. “You’re freezing.”
Ignoring Cass, Priscilla unfolded the letter and held it out to Cass. Not really a letter. Only a few words written in large, neat cursive writing. The curse will take you next.
Cass’s breath rushed out. She gripped Priscilla’s hand to stop it from trembling. “Oh, no. I’m sorry.” What else could she say?
“It’s okay.” She offered Cass a shaky smile, and Cass released her hand. “Unnerving, but I’m being careful. I don’t believe in a hundred-year-old curse . . . though Conrad certainly did.” She inhaled deeply. “I do, however, believe some wacko could possibly try to kill me, so I’ve taken precautions.” She shook her head and stared at the paper. “I just can’t help thinking the writing is somewhat familiar . . .” A frown creased her brow as she folded the note and stuffed it back into her pocket. “I’m sure I’ve seen it before, but I just can’t place it.” Her expression hardened. “But I will remember, and when I do . . .” She waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, Jim’s been hovering like crazy. He begged me not to attend, to return home and cower until the police figure out what’s going on.” She aimed a steady stare at Cass. “Like that’s happening.”
Cass grinned. “I bet Jim was none too happy.”
Priscilla’s laughter seemed genuine. “You could say that, but Jim has to learn he can’t always get his way.”
An image of him and Sylvia popped into Cass’s head. Hard to tell. Cass kept the words to herself.
“Come on. The guests are getting restless.” Priscilla opened the door and stepped to the side, gesturing for the guests to enter. As they began to file into the room, Cass stood beside Priscilla and greeted everyone, a sense of déjà vu assailing her. Only this time, Cass paid closer attention as everyone entered. She wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
Cass leaned close to Priscilla’s ear
and pitched her voice low. “Why don’t you go sit and relax a few minutes? I can finish up here.”
“Thanks, hon.” She patted Cass’s arm and took her seat at the head of the table. With one quick glance to the side, where Conrad had been seated during the first séance, Priscilla sighed.
Donald entered the ballroom, with Sylvia draped on his arm. She offered Cass a smug smile then whispered something in Donald’s ear and giggled. Donald pulled her closer.
Whatever.
Cass ripped her attention away from the pair, unwilling to give Sylvia the satisfaction of thinking she cared, and her gaze fell on the stranger from the reading. He walked along the back wall, his focus skipping from guest to guest as he continuously scanned the room, every so often returning his gaze to Priscilla. Priscilla who was now worth billions, if the information they’d found was correct. Priscilla, who’d already received at least one death threat. Who could have written that note? The neatly curved lines, a little swirly and overdone, seemed distinctly feminine to Cass.
“Come on, dear.” Bee took her elbow and led her toward the table. “It’s time to start.” He smiled at everyone as they passed.
Cass looked around the room. Had she missed the Dobbs’ coming in? “Have you seen Mitch and Carly?”
“They were here earlier. I saw them when I brought Beast down to the kitchen.” Bee looked around, as if noticing they were missing for the first time. His eyebrows drew together. “Hmmm . . . Odd. They have to be around here somewhere. I’ll keep an eye out for them.” When they reached the table, he pulled out her chair and whispered in her ear, “You know what to do, right?”
She nodded as she took her place at the head of the table.
Emmett sat on one side of her, Sara Ryan on the other.
“Good luck.” Bee patted her shoulder then moved to stand against the wall beside Stephanie.
They’d all agreed Bee and Stephanie would stand in the back and survey the guests. Tank and Luke had wanted to stand there, but they looked too much like . . . well . . . cops. Bee and Stephanie would appear innocent, since they often stood during Cass’s readings. Tank and Luke had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to wait outside of the ballroom during the séance.
Cass breathed in deeply, working to calm her nerves. She had one goal tonight: prove she had no knowledge of who the killer was. That was it. Surely she could pull that off. She just had to come up with a believable secret to share since she’d said one of the ghosts had a secret the last time. One more deep breath and she was ready to start. She’d offered a moment of silence out of respect for Conrad and Joan at the reading, so she’d skip it tonight. Better to keep the focus off the killings anyway.
“Thank you all for coming again.” She smiled, hoping to ease some of the tension in the room. “Please, be seated.”
Shuffling, they followed her instructions.
Bee turned off the lights, leaving only the wall sconces and the candles on the table lit. Flames flickered in the fireplace, sending shadows dancing across the walls.
The Dobbs’ absence threw Cass off balance. Where could they have disappeared to? Had something happened to them? The candles sputtered, pulling her attention back to the matter at hand. During a reading, she relied on her “psychic” abilities to give her answers. At a séance, she relied on the spirits speaking to her. “There are definitely spirits here who’d like to communicate.”
Someone gasped. “Is it Buford?”
Cass couldn’t tell who’d spoken, but it was a woman’s voice. “I’m not sure. I have a sense of a masculine presence.”
“Conrad?” Someone else whispered.
How far to push this? “Possibly.”
Stephanie leaned over her and pinched the back of her arm.
Oh, fine. “I don’t think so, though. I get the feeling this spirit is comfortable in his surroundings, that he passed over some time ago.”
Stephanie let out a pent-up breath and backed up.
What had they discussed? She had to make everyone know she hadn’t contacted Conrad. But Mitch and Carly weren’t there. What if they were the killers? Then this was a waste. She studied the guests gathered around the table.
“Definitely a man. He’s warning of a secret.”
A few hushed whispers filled the air.
A secret. That was true enough. The feeling someone was hiding something was stronger than ever, a physical weight on her chest. “An old secret.”
No. That didn’t feel right. She’d go with it anyway. She scanned the guests, deciphering their features as best she could in the dim lighting. Did anyone seem disturbed by what she was saying? The story Carly Dobbs had told popped into her mind. How many of the guests knew the tale?
“A former resident of Wellington Manor, as the house was originally called.” Way off base. Her gaze met Donald’s. He swallowed hard. Guilt? Maybe. But at what? The way he’d treated Cass, or something more sinister?
“He killed himself, hung . . .” Her gaze jumped from guest to guest. The stranger no longer stood against the wall. She didn’t see him seated at the table either. Where had he gone?
What had she been saying? Oh. Right. “No. That’s not right. Everyone thinks he killed himself.” Did it really matter if she implicated a woman who’d lived a hundred years ago in a murder? Probably not, but it still didn’t feel right accusing Buford’s wife of his murder when she had no real evidence to support her claims. “He didn’t, though.” She paused. Partly to increase the drama, but more because she was uncertain which way she wanted to go. “He was murdered.”
The urgency of the whispers increased. Would this secret satisfy the killer that she wasn’t going to point the finger at him? Was the killer—or killers—present? One more glance at each of the guests. The tension was suitably high. People held their breaths, hanging on her next words.
“He . . .”
Her gaze landed on Jim Wellington. “Had a . . .” He stared at her, his dark eyes made even darker by the dim lighting. “Mistress.” His longish shaggy hair cast shadows over his features. An image flashed into her mind. His face staring in as he pulled her from the car. His hair soaking wet, as if he’d just come from . . . the . . . A surge of adrenaline rushed through her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Shower. He’d just come from the shower. Joan’s shower. After he’d left her in the cupola. It was his dark hair on the soap.
Ah jeez.
His eyes narrowed, knowledge darkening his expression. He knew she’d figured it out.
“I’m sorry.” How was she going to let someone know? “I’m getting flashes. Images. I have to interpret them.” She glanced at Bee but couldn’t get his attention. Stephanie had wandered to the other side of the room. She couldn’t get a message to either of them with Jim staring at her.
Jim leaned over and whispered in Priscilla’s ear. Her eyes went wide. Taking her hand, he led her quickly toward the exit.
Oh crap. All rational thought fled. She had to follow them. If she was right, Priscilla just left with the man who’d threatened to kill her. “It was his wife. Buford’s wife had someone kill him because he was having an affair.” She jumped up from the table. “Excuse me.” She ran from the room after the Wellingtons, leaving a confused babble behind her. She couldn’t lose them.
The pounding of footsteps on the stairs told her which direction to run. She glanced around the hallway, but Luke and Tank were nowhere to be found. Where was everyone? No matter, Bee and Stephanie would be right behind her. She bolted up the stairs, reaching the top just in time to see the door to Conrad’s room falling shut. She dove for the door, getting her hand between the door and the jamb in time to keep it from closing. She glanced over her shoulder. No one. Indecision beat at her. Go for help or follow them?
She was saved from having to make a decision when a strong hand gripped her wrist and yanked her into the room.
21
Cass sucked in a breath to scream, but Jim Wellington clamped a hand over her mouth before she could get it out and wrestled her into the room. Priscilla lay in a crumpled heap in the corner, perfectly still, a small but steady stream of blood seeping into the hair at the back of her head.
“If I uncover your mouth, are you going to scream?”
She shook her head and tried to say no, but the word was too muffled by his hand to understand.
He released her, and she worked her jaw from side to side. “What are you doing?”
“Look, Cass. I don’t know what’s going on here, or what you have in your head, but I’m no killer.”
He’s lying. The certainty slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. “Okay.”
“Okay?” He scrubbed his hands over his face. It was the first time she’d seen the super laid-back, smooth James Wellington out of control. His hand trembled as he raked it through his hair in a nervous gesture that seemed out of character for him.
She shrugged. “I never accused you of killing anyone.” Her heart jackhammered against her ribs. Could he hear the pounding?
He laughed, a mocking laugh that held no humor. “Please. It was written all over your face. I thought your eyes were going to pop out of your head.”
Dang. She never was good at schooling her expressions. No wonder she was such a terrible liar.
He propped his hands on his hips, sparing Priscilla a quick glance before turning his attention back to Cass. “You know, we were going to open anyway—Conrad’s obsession with this house was too good an opportunity to pass up—but Conrad wanted to open in the spring, when there would probably have been a full house. It was such a brilliant idea to open in the middle of winter, when there shouldn’t have been many people in attendance to witness his murder.” He paced back and forth, his agitation increasing with each step. “Two years we spent planning his murder, finding and setting up a scapegoat, and then you came along with this psychic nonsense and ruined everything.”