By the time Emily returned to the candlelit parlor with a tray of wineglasses and Mike’s wine, Stuart and Caroline had arrived. She’d been hesitant about inviting them, also, but Mrs. DeVere had insisted they needed at least five people, besides herself, and Emily hadn’t known who else to coerce into coming.
Actually, she was a little surprised that Stuart and Caroline had agreed. She suspected curiosity had gotten the better of them. It wasn’t every day a séance was held in Paradise.
Stuart, looking even more sober than usual, and extremely put out, said, “For God’s sake, can’t we have some lights on in here?”
“That would spoil the ambience,” Emily assured him, offering both him and Caroline a glass of wine.
“Got anything stronger?” he muttered, yanking at his tie.
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“I’d rather just have tea,” Caroline said, gazing around the room in obvious disapproval. She seemed at a loss for anything else to say.
Emily said, “I’ll go make you some. Be right back.”
“No, don’t bother,” Stuart said. “I’ll go.”
“I’ve got candles lit in the kitchen,” Emily informed him. “Please don’t turn on the lights. Mrs. DeVere said—”
He cut Emily off with a look, muttering a word under his breath that Emily was sure he rarely used in front of his wife. And, indeed, Caroline did look quite shocked. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth thinned in distress.
She turned on Emily. “What is he doing here?”
Emily glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting—and hoping—to see Matthew, but it was Mike Durbin who had garnered Caroline’s attention. Across the room, he raised his wineglass in a salute.
Caroline said scathingly, “Do you know what that man is trying to do to Stuart? He’s trying to ruin him, that’s what. I can’t believe you’d have him in your home.”
“He’s just a reporter,” Emily said, trying to curb her exasperation. “You and Stuart are making too much of Mike’s influence on the voters.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say,” Caroline replied primly. “You’ve never cared one whit what anyone thinks about you. Who else in Paradise would hold a séance in her own home?”
“Would you rather I have it in yours?” Emily couldn’t resist asking. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to talk to Mrs. DeVere for a moment.”
Emily headed across the room, away from Caroline. As far away from Caroline as she could get. Mike Durbin drifted up to her.
“Interesting little gathering, Emily. So that’s your psychic.” He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other hand nursing his wineglass, as he gazed across the room at Mrs. DeVere, who looked quite regal in a flowing purple caftan and turban. Mike turned backed to Emily. “A little on the flamboyant side, wouldn’t you say?”
“She’s very charming,” Emily said curtly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, “How are you going to handle this story in the paper tomorrow?”
“What makes you think this little event is worthy of an article?” There was a smirk of amusement in Mike’s eyes, probably because he already had the story written, Emily decided.
“I hope you’ll at least keep an open mind.”
“I always keep an open mind,” Mike assured her. “And I fully expect this to be a night of surprises. We might even learn who the real killer is this evening.” He tipped his glass to his lips and drained the contents.
Emily scowled. “You don’t really believe Mrs. DeVere can tell us that, do you?”
“We don’t need a psychic to tell us anything,” Mike said. He crooked a finger and chucked her under the chin. “I’m one hell of an investigative reporter, Emily. Pretty soon, the whole damn state is going to remember just how good I am.”
“What do you mean?” A strange feeling of foreboding crept over Emily. Mike was up to something, and she was fairly certain she wouldn’t like whatever it was.
He hesitated for a moment, drawing out the anticipation. Then he grinned. “I know who the killer is.”
“What?” She stared at him, in shock, not knowing whether to believe him or not. “Who is it? How do you know? What are you—?”
Mike’s grin disappeared as he put up a hand to calm her storm of questions, casting an uneasy gaze around to see who might have overheard them. “Not so loud,” he warned. Then, lowering his own voice mysteriously, he said, “You’ll find out everything, all in good time. Why do you think I agreed to come to this sideshow tonight? I fully expect to have all my facts corroborated before the evening is over. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to write my own ticket to any newspaper in the state. Hell, the country.”
“Who’s going to corroborate your story?”
“A good reporter always protects his sources, Emily.”
“Are you telling me that you’re meeting your…source here at the séance?”
“According to the note I received today.”
“What note?”
Mike patted his jacket pocket. “As I told you earlier, I have a feeling tonight will be full of surprises. Let’s just wait and see what happens.”
“But—”
He held up his empty wineglass. “I need a refill before the fun starts.”
Emily stared after Mike as he drifted out of the room, wondering how much of what he’d told her was the truth and how much was just empty boasting. He seemed to have an ego that rivaled his ambition.
But had someone really sent him a note about the murder? Did someone here tonight really know who the killer was?
Emily started to follow Mike out, to ask him point-blank just how much he knew about Jenny Wilcox’s murder, but another man had come into the room, and Emily frowned in displeasure.
Trey Huntington was the last person she’d expected to see here. Since the confrontation with Matthew in the parking lot outside Stuart’s office, Trey had kept a surprisingly low profile. But Emily wasn’t fooled. She knew he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven. He was simply biding his time.
The thought filled Emily with unease as she watched him stroll across the room to join Caroline. He bent and kissed her cheek, and in the candlelight Caroline’s eyes glowed with pleasure.
They chatted for several minutes, until Stuart came back in. He handed Caroline her tea, then promptly turned his back on her as he and Trey became embroiled in a heated discussion. Some political intrigue, no doubt, Emily thought acerbically.
She walked up behind them. “What are you doing here, Trey? You weren’t invited,” she told him rudely.
Stuart said, “Emily,” in a warning tone, but she ignored him.
Trey turned and stared down at Emily. He wore a charcoal double-breasted suit, a white shirt and a silver-and-red silk tie. His appearance, as always, was polished perfection, and his smile was carefully calculated to charm. Emily despised the sight of him. “I was sure my invitation had gotten lost in the mail,” he said. “And I certainly didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Always considerate,” Emily said dryly.
Stuart said, with obvious irritation, “I invited him, Emily. I didn’t think you’d mind. He and I have business to discuss later, and I thought it would be convenient to meet here. Is there a problem?” His tone implied that, if there was a problem, it was Emily’s.
For two cents, I’d tell them all to get lost. But she had no desire to create a scene in front of Mike Durbin—and have it all end up in the paper tomorrow—so she gritted her teeth and shrugged. “I guess you can stay.”
“How can I turn down such a gracious invitation?”
Trey said, his eyes mocking her. Before Emily could move away, his hand reached out and snared her arm. His fingers tightened, but to anyone looking on, the two of them would appear to be immersed in an intimate little chat. Trey knew all about appearances.
He bent low and whispered in her ear, “Where’s your boyfriend? He hasn’t walked out on you, has he? First your husband, and now your new boyfriend. What is it about you,
Emily?”
She wanted to slap him so badly her palm itched, but she deliberately turned away, and Trey was forced to release her. She couldn’t wait to get away from him.
As Emily walked away, she saw Nella wandering around the room alone. She seemed nervous, anxious, running her fingertips over a table surface here, the back of a chair there. Emily wondered whether Nella’s inexperience with social gatherings was what made her so uneasy, or whether it was returning to this house. Being here was bound to stir up memories.
Emily stepped up beside her. “So what do you think of the place?”
Nella turned and stared blankly at Emily for a moment, then seemed to catch herself. “I’d almost forgotten what a wonderful old house this is. You’ve done a beautiful job, Emily. It looks so romantic by candlelight. I just wish—” She cast her eyes downward. “I wish Aunt Rosabel could have seen it one last time before she died.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at her funeral,” Emily said. “But the service was lovely.”
“Thank you. It still seems hard to believe she’s gone.” Nella paused for a moment, as if gathering her courage to broach an unpleasant subject. Then she said hesitantly, “Did you ever have a chance to look for the Bible I mentioned? I don’t mean to pester you about it, but it does mean a lot to me.”
“I’m sorry, Nella, I haven’t looked through all the books yet. It may still be in the box. I’ll give you a call if I run across it.”
Nella looked relieved. “Thank you. I do appreciate it.” She smiled and drifted away again.
By nine o’clock, Emily had to conclude that Matthew was a no-show.
She tried to curb her disappointment as she doused all the candles in the parlor except the one Mrs. DeVere placed in the center of a drop-leaf table.
Earlier, Emily had pulled the drapes at all the windows, also per Mrs. DeVere’s instructions, and now, with the lights out and only one candle, the room—so charming in sunlight—took on a forbidding air.
The purple candle dancing in its holder in the center of the table sent long shadows creeping up the walls. A thin, pungent trail of smoke curled upward from the brass incense burner Mrs. DeVere had also placed on the table, along with a notebook, a silver pen and a crystal hand mirror.
“Shall we begin?” Mrs. DeVere said. “Please sit anywhere you feel comfortable.” She sat down at the table, and the flickering candlelight made her face look ghostly pale, even a little demonic.
Mike Durbin came up beside Emily and hummed the “Twilight Zone” theme beneath his breath.
“May we please have silence?” Mrs. DeVere commanded. Her expression was stern as she glared at Mike and Emily. Emily felt as if she’d just been caught passing a note in class. A flush crept up her cheeks, but Mike just chuckled. Emily cringed to think what she would find in the paper tomorrow about this entire proceeding.
But if Mike was right and the identity of the killer was revealed tonight, the séance would surely not be a priority item in his article.
There was a bit of shuffling about as everyone found seats. Caroline and Stuart sat on the couch, Nella pulled out the piano bench, Mike Durbin took the wing chair Mrs. DeVere had vacated and Trey stood at the fireplace, his arm draped over the mantel as he viewed the whole gathering with an air of amused disdain. Mrs. DeVere motioned Emily to sit at the table with her.
Satisfied that she had everyone situated and their undivided attention, Mrs. DeVere said, “I would like for each of you to close your eyes and concentrate on clearing your mind of any negative thoughts. If you need help, try thinking about a person or an event or a specific time in your life that brought you great happiness. Open your mind to the positive energy that abounds all around us.”
Emily, feeling a little foolish but nonetheless game, closed her eyes and thought of Matthew, and how happy she’d been last night, when he told her about Jenny and Wade, and later about his own tragic experience. She’d been happy because she knew his openness meant that he trusted her. He’d wanted her to know everything about him before they grew any closer. Before they made love.
Emily felt a warm little glow just thinking about later that night, after their talk had concluded. Matthew had been an incredible lover, both generous and demanding, tender and possessive. He’d been everything she’d ever dreamed a lover should be, and afterward, when he held her in his arms while she drifted into sleep, Emily had thought drowsily that at last, at long last, she knew what real love was all about.
She wished he was here right now. She wished—
Somewhere deep in the house, a floorboard creaked. Emily’s eyes flew open. The stealthy sound would have gone unnoticed at any other time, but now, in the silent darkness, it seemed ominous.
The candle in the center of the table danced wildly, as if caught in a draft. Emily started to get up to go investigate, but Mrs. DeVere, her eyes still closed, whispered sternly, “Do not let your concentration be broken. No matter what.”
Emily wilted in her chair. She gazed around the room. Mike Durbin’s face was cast in shadows, his expression unreadable. Nella’s eyes were tightly shut, but whether in concentration or in fear, Emily didn’t know.
Surprisingly, both Stuart and Caroline had closed their eyes, as well, but Trey’s eyes were wide-open. The candlelight reflected in those dark depths seemed sinister. He held Emily’s gaze for a long moment, then turned his head toward the door, as if he, too, had heard the noise.
As if he’d somehow been expecting it.
Emily felt the draft on her face now. A door had definitely been opened somewhere in the house. Her first thought, that Matthew had come back, was followed by a little niggling suspicion that perhaps Mrs. DeVere was setting them up.
Then, suddenly, the psychic stiffened, her head rolled back, and she moaned. The low, plaintive sound sent a chill racing down Emily’s back.
Mrs. DeVere said nothing, but for several seconds the moaning continued until Mike Durbin whispered loudly, “I can’t tell whether the old broad’s in agony or ecstasy.”
Emily opened her mouth to scold him for his irreverence, but then, all of a sudden, the candle on the table went out. With the lights extinguished and the drapes drawn at the window, the room lay in pitch blackness.
Someone—it sounded like Caroline—screamed. Stuart said, “What the hell?” and Emily jumped up as Mrs. DeVere commanded, in a booming voice, “Don’t break the concentration!”
“I think we should turn on the lights,” Emily said. “I don’t like this. Someone’s in the house.”
There was a flurry of activity around the room as everyone stood or shifted in their seats. Someone coughed. It was strange to hear every nuance of sound but not be able to see anything.
Then Caroline screamed again. It was a hair-raising sound that brought gooseflesh to Emily’s neck. “What’s wrong?” she called out in alarm.
“Someone touched me,” Caroline said. “Brushed right by me. Stuart? Stuart, where are you?”
Stuart said, “I’m over here.” His voice sounded muffled, strained. He didn’t say anything else.
Emily didn’t like any of this. “I’m going to turn on the lights.” She didn’t care what Mrs. DeVere had to say about it. She turned to ask Mike Durbin to open the drapes.
“Mike?”
When he didn’t answer, Emily felt a ripple of panic inside her. She turned and felt her way in the darkness until she reached the wall switch. She flipped it, but nothing happened. She flipped it several more times.
“The lights are out,” she said, trying to control a deepening sense of danger.
Mrs. DeVere said in the darkness, “She’s here. That’s her sign. Please. Don’t anyone move.”
“I’m going to check the breaker,” Emily said, ignoring the psychic’s plea. Enough was enough. Emily was no longer amused. In fact, she was becoming increasingly alarmed. Except for Mrs. DeVere, everyone else had grown strangely silent. “Don’t worry,” she told them. “I’ll have the l
ights on in a minute.”
Some of the candles in other parts of the house had gone out, as well. As Emily passed through the living area, there was a noise on the stairs that set her heart to pounding. She told herself it was just the house settling, showing its age.
But the hair at the back of her neck prickled as she felt her way through the dining room and kitchen and out the back door, to the screened porch where the breaker box was located. After several minutes of fumbling about in the dark, Emily discovered that the main switch had been thrown.
She was gone no more than seven or eight minutes, but it seemed longer by the time she returned to the parlor. Everyone was still sitting in the dark. No one had thought to flip the switch.
Emily turned on the light as she came back into the room, and she couldn’t help noticing the different reactions. Nella blinked her eyes several times, Caroline gave a little squeal, Stuart cursed under his breath, and Trey—still standing at the fireplace—smoothed back his immaculately styled hair, then straightened his tie.
Only Mrs. DeVere seemed unfazed by the sudden harsh glare of light. She sat behind the table staring straight ahead, as if still deeply ensconced in her trance.
Emily walked over to the table. “Mrs. DeVere, are you all right?”
Emily’s voice seemed to bring the psychic around. She raised her eyes and stared at Emily. “You shouldn’t have turned on the lights,” she said accusingly. “Now we’ll never know what Jenny had to tell us.”
Suddenly weary of the whole thing, Emily said, “I’m sorry. I guess I panicked. I thought I heard someone moving about in the house.”
“It was probably just Matthew,” Mrs. DeVere said. “I don’t know why the dear boy didn’t come down and join us.”
“Perhaps he was afraid,” Trey said dryly. “You are a psychic of formidable talent, I understand. Maybe he didn’t want you exposing his secrets.”
Emily said coolly, “I don’t think Matthew has anything to hide. He simply isn’t here.”
“Don’t be naive, Emily.” Trey smiled. “We all have something to hide.”
Emily started to retort, but then decided against it. Trey had no way of knowing that Matthew had confided in her, and Emily hugged her knowledge to herself. She and Matthew had shared something so wonderful, so special, so profound, that a man like Trey Huntington—with all his secrets and lies—could never possibly understand it.
Amanda Stevens Bestseller Collection: Stranger In Paradise/A Baby's Cry Page 17