Wicked is the night

by Catherine Mulvany

There was a workout room downstairs and an indoor pool, as well. Either would have provided a release for his growing tension. Unfortunately, both were off limits. He had to stay out of the public eye in case Sarge came poking around again.

  Which in the abstract made perfectly good sense. He had not enjoyed that first round of torture and definitely was willing to do whatever it took to avoid a second. On the other hand, if he did not find some way to siphon off all this extra energy, he was liable to do something both he and Britt would live to regret.

  Downstairs, lodge guests, along with half the population of Midas Lake, had gathered for a talent show Britt called Lakeshore Lodge Idol. Every once in a while, a contestant’s high note would penetrate to the second floor. A few of them were even on pitch.

  He paced restlessly from one end of Britt’s suite to the other, glancing every so often at the clock on the mantle. Almost eight thirty. Trick should be calling back any time now. He had promised to check in once he and Nevada had settled in for the night, though he had been careful not to tell Marcello where exactly that would be.

  Marcello paused at the big bay window in the sitting room and peered down at the moonlit beach. Che diamine! No one was down there at this time of night. No boats on the water, either.

  Deserted.

  The perfect place for him to vent his frustrations in a vigorous run.

  Only he really should linger here until Trick called.

  He glared resentfully at the phone.

  If he called.

  Of course, now that Marcello thought about it, was that not why answering machines had been invented?

  Five minutes later, having changed into sweats and cross-trainers, he slipped unnoticed down the back stairs, through the deserted kitchen, and out the service entrance.

  The mountain air was chilly but not unpleasantly so. On the whole, though he would never have admitted as much to Trick, he approved of the Sierras. In many ways, they reminded him of his beloved Alps.

  The air smelled of pine resin and, as he drew closer to the beach, the not unpleasant, faintly fishy odor he associated with rivers and freshwater lakes. The trees thinned, gradually giving way to the beach, a strip of sand that stretched along the water’s edge. Beyond, like an enormous mirror, the lake lay still and glassy with scarcely a ripple to disturb its surface. A half-moon, milky white against the glitt›ainge.ering backdrop of a star-studded sky, was reflected in the placid lake, as if the missing half had broken free and fallen to earth, where it lay trapped beneath the surface of the water.

  Back and forth he ran from the rocky outcropping that marked the beginning of Trick’s property to the reedy area beyond the boat dock that marked the end of Britt’s. Back and forth, back and forth, reveling in the repetitious movement, in the almost joyous expenditure of energy. And while his body labored, his mind drifted free.

  Antonia.

  They’d been just fifteen the first time they’d met at the wedding of Antonia’s older brother, Matteo, to Marcello’s second cousin, Paola. Antonia’s effervescent personality alone would have made her stand out in that veritable crowd of bridesmaids even if she hadn’t been the only diminutive brunette in a line of statuesque blondes.

  He had danced with her at the reception, danced with her, talked with her, laughed with her, but he had not realized until almost six years later, that he had also fallen in love with her that night. Once the truth had finally dawned on him, he had proposed. Three months later, they had been married.

  They’d had exactly two days of wedded bliss. And then his sweet, funny, vivacious Antonia had been run down by a drunk driver and left for dead.

  Severe trauma to the brain, the doctors had said. She would most likely never emerge from the coma. But Marcello had refused to accept their pessimistic diagnosis. Fifty times a day, he offered up the same prayer: Please, God, let Antonia wake up.

  Miraculously, twenty-six days after the hit-and-run, his prayers had been answered. Antonia regained consciousness.

  But in a cruel twist, she had not recognized him, had not recognized anyone, had not spoken a word or responded to one. Antonia, his Antonia, was gone. All that remained was a soulless body.

  Faster and faster Marcello ran, ignoring the tears streaming down his face.

  THIRTEEN

  Trick parked the rental car, an anonymous silver Toyota Camry, in the short steep driveway of his great-aunt Leticia’s three-story Pacific Heights Edwardian. The house, which had been in the family since it was built shortly after the 1906 quake, perched on a hill above San Francisco Bay. Day or night, the view was breathtaking, and the drive up to Pierce Street, dramatic. Though Nevada, sound asleep in the passenger seat, had missed it. He leaned across to nudge her shoulder. “We’re here.” Several hours later than he’d originally planned after their late start and all the backtracking he’d done to be sure they weren’t being followed, but here.

  She moaned a protest. “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten.”

  “So early? Feels like midnight.” Nevada stretched and yawned.

  “Ten’s not early for an octogenarian. I hope Great-aunt Leticia hasn&rsž stquo;t gone to bed already.”

  As if on cue, the exterior lights lit up. “Someone’s awake,” Nevada said.

  Before he had a chance to ring the doorbell, the front door swung open, revealing his diminutive great-aunt, exotic tonight in a flamboyant red wig and black satin lounging pajamas. Though pushing ninety, she didn’t look a day under a hundred.

  Behind her and to the left—and right—stood Rivers. At six feet seven and nearly four hundred pounds, Arthur Kiyoshi Rivers, looked more like a sumo wrestler than a butler.

  “Patrick darling, come in. And you, too, my dear. I’d like to say my nephew has told me all about you, but the truth is, he’s been quite deliberately reticent, which means, frankly, I can’t wait to start grilling you.”

  Nevada glanced sideways at Trick, a panicky expression on her face.

  He gave her hand a squeeze, but judging by the way she clung to him, her anxiety level remained high.

  “Goodness, where are my manners? Come in, come in,” Great-aunt Leticia trilled.

  Trick led Nevada forward into the marble-floored foyer so Rivers could wedge his bulk in behind them and shut the door. “Great-aunt Leticia, this is Nevada White, the young woman I told you about. Nevada, my great-aunt, Leticia Granger.”

  Great-aunt Leticia wagged a reproving finger at him. “I think what you mean, Patrick, is that Nevada’s the young woman you didn’t tell me about.” She grinned and her wrinkled face rearranged itself into a whole new configuration of lines and creases.

  “Not much I can tell,” Trick said. “She’s in danger. Some very bad men are trying to kill her. We had an unexpected encounter with some of them this afternoon in Sacramento. That’s why we’re late.”

  Great-aunt Leticia’s grin faded, giving way to a look of compunction. She leaned forward and patted Nevada’s hand. “Forgive me, my dear. I’m a garrulous old woman with more curiosity than good sense.”

  “Don’t believe her,” Trick told Nevada. “She’s sharp as a tack, knows everyone in the city.”

  “I do have a few useful connections,” Great-aunt Leticia admitted, a hint of smugness coloring her words.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” Nevada murmured, though truthfully, she looked more stunned than pleased.

  “And this is Rivers,” Great-aunt Leticia continued. “He comes across a bit intimidating, I know, but he has a heart of gold, don’t you, Rivers?”

  “Quite, madam,” Rivers said, his British accent presenting a sharp contrast to his distinctly Asian appearance.

  “Rivers will bring in your bags,” Great-aunt Leticia said, “while we get cozy in my sitting room.” Moving very spryly in her beaded satin ballerina slippers, she led the way upstairs to a large east-facing room Trick remembered from childhood visits.

  “This is the dra£Thiwaygon room,” he said.

&nbs
p; “What a memory!” Great-aunt Leticia exclaimed. “You can’t have been more than four or five at the most the last time you were here. I collect dragons,” she told Nevada. “I keep them in that cupboard in the corner, everything from priceless Chinese porcelains to cheap plastic carnival trinkets. Playing with them used to keep Patrick occupied for hours on end.” She waved one beringed hand toward the sofa. “You two sit there.” She settled herself in a wingback chair, one foot tucked beneath her. “Now then, what brings you children to the Bay Area? Besides a sudden urge for my company.”

  Nevada shot him a quick sideways look, as if to say, “She’s your aunt. You do the talking.”

  “I’m trying to track down the origins of a ring we found hidden under the floorboards in the former Silas Granger brothel. You knew I was staying there, right?”

  “I heard you were planning to sell.”

  “Planning to sell but not having much luck.”

  “It’s a buyer’s market,” she said. “Wait a few years and things’ll turn around.”

  Trick made a noncommittal sound, then drew Blanche’s ring from his shirt pocket and passed it to his aunt.

  “A lovely piece,” she said. “Simple and elegant. You say you found it hidden under the floorboards? Why, I wonder.”

  “We think it belonged to a woman named Blanche Smith.”

  “Isn’t that the prostitute who died under suspicious circumstances? The one whose ghost is rumored to haunt the brothel?”

  “It’s no rumor,” Trick said grimly.

  Great-aunt Leticia had penciled in thin arching eyebrows half an inch above her natural brow line. They rose now, nearly disappearing beneath the red wig. “Really?” she said. “Maybe I should visit you sometime. I’ve always wanted to run face-to-face with a real ghost.”

  “Not this one, you wouldn’t. She keeps me awake all night with her sobbing.”

  Great-aunt Leticia turned to Nevada. “And you, my dear? Did the ghost disturb your rest?”

  Trick eyed his great-aunt closely, suspecting that her question had been designed to find out whether he and Nevada were sleeping together, not whether Nevada had had an encounter with Blanche’s ghost.

  “Since I stayed in the apartment over the stables,” Nevada said smoothly, “the noise wasn’t an issue for me. What I’m curious about is why I resemble Blanche so closely.”

  “You suspect you’re related to the Granger ghost?” Again, Great-aunt Leticia’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her bangs.

  “We have no proof,” Trick said, “though the circumstantial evidence is overwhelming. We found an old photograph of Blanche Smith. Here. I brought along an enlargement. Thought it might prove useful.” He passed the photograph to his great-aunt.£his an “Do you see the resemblance?”

  “Indeed,” Great-aunt Leticia said. “The two could be sisters.” She glanced from Nevada to the photograph and back again. “How very strange!” She stared fixedly at Nevada for a moment, then shifted her attention to Trick. “I was sorry to hear about your accident, Patrick.”

  “Not my finest hour,” Trick said.

  “At least you didn’t die.” She frowned. “I’m not a superstitious woman, but it’s hard not to believe in that curse.” She leaned toward Nevada. “My father dropped dead of a heart attack at thirty-two. My grandfather drowned in a boating accident at twenty-nine. And Patrick’s father died at what? Forty?”

  “Thirty-seven,” Trick said.

  “Airplane crash.” Great-aunt Leticia sighed. Then in another abrupt shift of topic, she suddenly sat up straight and looked at Nevada. “Would you care for a drink? I usually indulge myself with a glass of sherry about now.”

  “No, thank you,” Nevada said.

  “How about you, Patrick?” Great-aunt Leticia shot him a laser-sharp glance from beneath half-lowered lids.

  “No, thanks.”

  She smiled her approval. “So the rumors are wrong.”

  “What rumors are those?” Trick asked, though he had a feeling he knew already. “Someone been telling you I’m a lush?”

  “Penelope Saxon. We’re both active members of the Society for the Preservation of Bay Area Wildflowers. At a fund-raiser last week in support of San Francisco owl’s clover, Triphysaria floribunda, she told me her daughter had confided that her best friend’s son’s girlfriend was vacationing in Tahoe a month or so ago and ran into you at Harrah’s.”

  “Possible,” he said. “What’s Penelope Saxon’s daughter’s best friend’s son’s girlfriend’s name?”

  “I don’t believe she mentioned a name, just that the girl had seen you drinking whiskey at nine in the morning.”

  “Again possible,” Trick said. “I was going through a bad patch.”

  “Alcohol in excess is not a solution, Patrick,” she said sternly. “It’s a problem.”

  “I’ve heard that,” he said.

  Great-aunt Leticia snorted. “Don’t get smart with me, boy.”

  Rivers suddenly appeared in the doorway behind her. He cleared his throat discreetly.

  “Yes?” she said without turning around.

  “I’ve put Mr. Patrick’s and the young lady’s luggage in their rooms. Will there be anything else, madam?”

  “No, thank you, Rivers. That will be all.” She waited until the sound of Rivers’s footsteps had faded away, then turned to Trick. “£ Tr>&lYour knee seems to be doing better. How’s the eye?”

  “They were able to save it.” He flipped up the patch to show her. “But the optic nerve damage is irreversible, and the eye tends to wander. Hence the patch.”

  “I like it,” she said. “Gives you a swashbuckling look. All in all, I’d say you’ve been lucky.”

  “Lucky?” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear about Ellison?”

  “That would be the crook who took off with the lion’s share of your fortune.”

  “And my girlfriend.”

  Nevada’s eyes widened for a moment, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Ah,” Great-aunt Leticia crowed, “but that’s where the luck comes in. Ellison did you a favor, boy, taking that grasping, disloyal, stone-hearted, money-hungry gold digger off your hands the way he did.”

  The phone was ringing as Marcello let himself back into Britt’s suite. She was still downstairs, presumably supervising Lakeshore Lodge Idol, which meant he had to wait for the answering machine to pick up. He dared not risk answering himself. He was safe only as long as no one realized he was here.

  The answering machine beeped. “Damn it, pick up already.” Trick. Worse, Trick in a temper. No mistaking the irritability sharpening his voice.

  Marcello grabbed the receiver. “Where have you been? I expected to hear from you hours ago.”

  “We ran into some trouble. The delay put us behind schedule, but we arrived safely at our destination about forty minutes ago.”

  “Safe arrival is the important part.”

  “How are things at your end?”

  Frustrating. Maddening. Irritating. “Fine,” Marcello said. “No sign of Sarge as yet. How do things look on your end?”

  “We haven’t seen Sarge, either, though we did spot a few of his fellow soldiers.”

  “More vampires?”

  “Probably not, though I can’t swear to it. Same army, I think, but different unit. One of them cornered Nevada in a mall restroom this afternoon, but she managed to slip out right under his nose.”

  “Clever girl,” Marcello said.

  “Yes,” Trick agreed, “she is.”

  A little added inflection in Trick’s voice made Marcello wonder if there was something going on between Trick and Nevada. Admittedly, a week ago such a development would have concerned him, but then a week ago he had been half-convinced that Nevada was a vampire. Since then, the lab results had come back on her pills—allergy medicine, not some exotic drug designed to suppress bloodlust.

  “Listen,” Trick said. “I have a job for you. Write this down, okay?” He rattled off an address in San Franc
isc£in eigo.

  Were Trick and Nevada in San Francisco? No, Marcello told himself. He was not going to speculate about that. The less he knew—or even thought he knew—the less he could reveal if Sarge caught up with him again. He touched the worst of the wounds on his chest, still painful and raw.

  “Got it?” Trick asked.

  “Yes,” Marcello assured him.

  “Good. I want you to get on your computer and see if you can find out who owns that property. If it’s a corporation, try to figure out who’s the linchpin of the organization.”

  “Lynch pin?” Marcello asked, certain he must have misunderstood, because he was almost certain to lynch meant the same as to hang. So what on earth, he wondered, could a lynch pin possibly be? A most peculiar language, English.

  “The head honcho,” Trick translated, though translated to what language Marcello could not have said. “Head honcho? This is like a hat?”

  “No,” Trick said. “The principal stockholder or the CEO, the man in charge.”

  “Oh.” Marcello still did not see the connection, but he let it slide. “I can do that, yes.”

  “Good. I’ll call again some time tomorrow to—”

  “Wait!” Marcello said. “Do not hang up. I have a message for Nevada from Jonathan Calhoun, that funny little man from the Midas Lake Historical Society.”

  “You spoke to him?” Trick said. “Do you think that’s wise? The more people who know you’re still in Midas Lake, the more likely it is that Sarge will find you.”

  “Relax,” Marcello told him. “I didn’t speak to Mr. Calhoun. Britt ran into him, and he told her he’d found an old letter from your ancestor, Silas. He seemed to think Nevada would be interested in it.”

  “I’ll mention it to her,” Trick promised.

  After getting off the phone with Marcello, Trick showered and shaved for the second time that day, then dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He wondered how long it would be before Great-aunt Leticia went to bed. He really needed to talk to Nevada.

  Okay, he admitted to himself, talking wasn’t all he had in mind. Hence the showering and shaving, which, as it happened, had taken a little longer than anticipated. Rivers, well-trained servant that he was, had unpacked Trick’s luggage. The problem was, Trick now had no idea where anything was. It had taken him almost ten minutes just to find the box of condoms he’d bought in Sacramento.