Jon frowned. “About what?”
“Oh, some silly thing. I don’t even remember, do you, Dianne?”
The young woman arched a brow, then lifted her shoulders. “No…I can’t quite remember. At the moment.”
“Five minutes ago you were all arguing so passionately that you didn’t pay any attention to what was going on, and now you can’t remember what you were talking about?” Jon asked skeptically.
Sabrina shook her head. The color in her cheeks heightened, and her lashes fluttered before her eyes met his again.
She was lying, Jon knew.
“You are all acting like a bunch of lunatics!” Thayer accused.
“Well, what do you want?” Brett said irritably. “I’m shot all over with red paint. Damn! Damn! Shit! Ah, hell, sorry, Jon.”
“I say it’s cocktail hour,” Reggie announced.
“Hear, hear,” Tom agreed.
“Well, now, wait!” Joe protested, rubbing his bearded chin and looking at them all. “Let’s check out the situation first. We’re here to solve a mystery, Sabrina, what happened here?” he asked.
Sabrina looked at him, started to speak, then stopped. She glanced at Jon, looked away.
What the hell? he wondered.
Then she shook her head sheepishly at Joe. “Honest, you know how opinionated we all are, Joe. It was dumb, but we got so involved talking, none of us was paying any attention.”
“Well, this is a total loss!” Joe said, disgruntled.
“No, it’s not,” Tom argued. “We know that the butler didn’t do it, since Mr. Buttle, the butler, is now dead.”
“The butler is dead?” a new voice suddenly inquired. Susan Sharp, in a deep blue cocktail dress that emphasized her darkly attractive looks, swept into the chapel. She spotted Brett and burst into laughter.
“Well, you didn’t last very long, did you, dear?”
“Susan, trust me, you won’t last very long, either,” Brett promised her direly.
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport. They killed you, and I’m alive and well.”
“No, Susan,” Brett informed her firmly. “Carla—the call girl with the clap—is alive and more or less well. For the moment.”
“As Sherlock Holmes would say, ‘The game is afoot!’ Reggie informed them. “And the week has just begun. We are beginning to learn a few things. The butler is out of the picture. We now know that Sabrina isn’t the killer, or Dianne.”
“That’s not true. We don’t know anything, except that none of them will talk!” Tom protested. “Remember, the killer may have an accomplice. Someone to lure the victims to their dooms. That means that Dianne or Sabrina could easily be guilty of complicity in murder.”
“But who pulled the trigger?” Joe demanded. “Let’s see, everyone is here except…V.J.”
“Excuse me—right here, at the chapel door,” V.J. called, and they all turned to look at her.
Entirely elegant in a floor-length, sequined gown, V.J. was casually leaning against the doorjamb and watching them all with amusement as they argued.
“Ah, but where were you?” Tom demanded, smiling as he sauntered over to her.
For the first time it occurred to Jon that his two friends made a very nice looking couple. Tom Heart, too, looked elegant, in a dinner jacket, tie and vest, his silver-white hair gleaming. Interesting. Maybe something was brewing there. The two had always seemed so compatible. The last time they’d all been together here, V.J.’s husband had been living. No more. And rumor had it that though Tom was still married, he’d been separated from his wife of thirty years for several months.
V.J. lifted a champagne flute to them all. “Where was I? Where I was supposed to be. I was at cocktail hour—all by myself. I had no idea that the party was in the chapel.” She looked around. “So the butler bit the dust. That kind of ruins the fun—we know we won’t get to say that the butler did it! Well, the chapel is lovely. Much better than the crypt. If we’re all going to spend time down here, at least it’s with this beautiful stained glass and not with coffins and dead people.” She winced. “Oh, sorry, Jon. I forget they’re your relatives.”
“I understand, V.J.,” he told her. “I prefer cocktails with the living myself.”
“I told you it was cocktail hour,” Reggie said. “V.J. is the only one of us with any sense.”
“Hell, I agree with that.”
“Brett McGraff!” Reggie reprimanded him indignantly. “We’re in a chapel!”
“Sorry,” Brett muttered in resignation.
“Oh, Brett,” Dianne warned, “that stuff is dripping onto your pants now.”
“Hell, you’re right, it is. Damn! Oh, shit. There I go again, swearing in the chapel. I wish I could stop that!” Brett said. He leaped to his feet, glanced at the crucifix on the altar and crossed himself quickly. The others were staring at him. “All right, all right, I was brought up in the Catholic Church. Do you mind?”
With that he spun around. “I’ll be changing my shirt so that I can come to cocktails in ghostly white apparel.” He stomped out of the chapel. “Shit!” he swore one last time.
The tension was broken as the others burst into laughter. Reggie started out after him. “Ladies, gentlemen, I’m going up for cocktails. Anyone joining me?”
“Definitely,” Jon agreed.
“Joe Johnston, get up here and escort an old lady,” Reggie commanded.
“Yes, ma’am!” Joe said, hurrying to her side.
The others began filing out. Jon paused by the door, waiting.
Tom escorted V.J. Dianne, Thayer and Anna Lee exited together, Dianne still insisting to Thayer that she hadn’t seen anything. Susan brushed by Jon.
Sabrina remained by the altar. She looked at him as if she was trying to figure out how to escape him when he stood blocking the only exit.
He walked toward her. “Were you intending to stay behind for some reason?” he inquired.
“No,” she said quickly.
“Are you trying to avoid me?” he inquired.
“No,” she repeated.
But she was lying again. And he thought he knew why. The argument between Brett and Dianne had been over him. Or Cassie. Or what had happened three years ago.
And Sabrina didn’t want him questioning her.
Well, maybe it wasn’t the time.
She stood very still, trying to keep her beautiful blue eyes level with his. Her hair was falling around her shoulders like silk, and he suddenly ached to reach out and touch it.
No, he admitted to himself, he wanted more than that.
There was so much in life that went by so swiftly. So much that a man barely remembered. But he remembered Sabrina. Her tentative smile. Her gentle touch. Her passion. The way she’d been so trusting way back when.
She was still tentative at times.
But not so trusting.
She was very wary, watching him.
He felt a renewed bitterness that she could suspect he would cold-bloodedly kill his wife. He wished he could reach out, shake her and tell her he was innocent. No, he didn’t want to shake her. He wanted to touch her. Hold her. Again. Hell, Brett McGraff was worrying about the things he’d been saying in the chapel. The things Jon wanted to do in the chapel were surely far less forgivable.
God, he could remember the way she looked naked, covered with a sheen of sweat, crystal blue eyes half shielded by the fall of her lashes, every curve of her body inviting.
“The others are way ahead. I guess we should hurry,” she said, and she stepped past him, striding quickly toward the doors.
He followed her, and, unable to stop himself, caught her arm, swinging her back around to face him.
“We have to talk,” he said.
The words came out sounding far more harsh than he had intended.
She gazed at his hand where it rested on her upper arm. Her long blond hair brushed over his fingers, soft as silk. To his dismay, that slight sensation was arousing.
“Not here, no
t now,” she said nervously.
“We have to talk,” he insisted.
“Later,” she said, pulling free.
“I’m taking that as a promise,” he told her.
He ushered her out. Aware that, though she had shaken off his touching, she was sticking very close to him.
And he realized that she didn’t want to be left alone in the dungeon of Lochlyre Castle.
With him.
But then again…who did?
9
Amazingly, Sabrina didn’t dream that night; she slept like a log. The evening had ultimately gone pleasantly, with everyone trying to figure out why the butler had died first. Dinner had been delicious, rack of lamb, and she’d been starving. She had opted for regular coffee rather than decaf with their late dessert, and despite even that, she had come upstairs, changed into a nightgown—and slept.
Only the persistent tapping on her door forced her to wake up. And by then it was morning.
“Sabrina, hey, wake up! Hurry!”
At her ex-husband’s urgency, she catapulted out of bed and into her robe and hurried to her door.
Brett was in jeans and a heavy sweater. “Hey, sleepyhead, you’ve got less than a week now to find the killer. If you sleep the whole thing away, you’ll never be the master sleuth.”
“I’m awake. What’s the rush?”
“Riding!”
“Riding?”
He nodded. “A riding party is going out. Come on, hurry, we’re probably late already. The others might have headed out. Come on, you want to see the countryside before bad weather moves in, right? Get dressed. I’ll wait for you.”
“I need coffee, Brett.”
“I’ll get it for you.” He waved his hands at her. “Go on, get moving. I’ll bring you coffee.”
He closed her door and disappeared. She shrugged and decided that if the rest of the household was headed out riding, she didn’t want to be left behind. She loved horses, and the countryside did look beautiful.
She hopped in and out of the shower, careful to bring her clothing into the bathroom with her. She emerged in jeans, shirt, jacket and boots to find that Brett had returned and was comfortably curled on her bed—offering her coffee.
She took the cup.
“Get up,” she commanded him.
“Why?” he demanded.
“You make it look as if you’ve been sleeping here.”
He frowned, studying her. “What are you so afraid of?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you care what something looks like?”
“Brett, you’re my friend, I care about you, but you are my ex-husband, and though I’ll surely make lots of new mistakes in my life, I’m not going to repeat old ones. I’m not marrying you again, and I’m not sleeping with you again, and I don’t want people thinking that we’re a twosome.”
He was still studying her as he stood up. “So.”
“So what?”
“So there is something between you two.”
“Who two?”
“You and our host. I was right.”
“You were right about what?”
“You slept with him.”
“Oh, Brett, please.”
“I still love you, Sabrina.”
“Brett, you never loved me.”
“I did. I do. But don’t worry, I’m going to prove to you that I can be good for you. Drink your coffee, and let’s get going.”
There was no one in the hallway, on the stairs or even in the great hall as they walked out of the castle into the front courtyard. The stables were ahead to the right. Two horses were saddled and bridled and ready for them.
“I guess the others have gone on ahead,” Brett murmured.
“Are you sure?” Sabrina demanded, suddenly suspicious.
He laughed. “Well, since I’m already a ghost, you know that I’m not the murderer, so I’m not luring the Duchess to her doom.”
“You’ve got a point there,” she said. She walked up to one of the horses, a sleek bay that stood about sixteen hands high. She stroked the horse’s velvety nose. “What a beauty. This is a great idea, Brett. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Yeah, sure, let’s get started.”
He gave her a hand before leaping up on the roan that had been tethered next to the bay. He started from the castle at an easy lope, looking back a little uneasily. Sabrina thought he was worried about her.
“Go on, you know that I can ride!” she told him delightedly.
Riding had been one of the benefits of growing up in the Midwest. But this was some of the most spectacular scenery she had ever seen. The ground was rolling here in the valley, while majestic hills rose up around them. Leaving the castle behind, they came up on a little promontory. She could see the hills rising higher and higher toward the mountainous country to the northwest, the loch shimmering in the sun below them and a sea of grass and flowers seeming to flow all around them. The air was crisp and cold with the promise of strong weather to come, yet it felt delicious, and she was delighted to be out.
“Which way did they head? Do you know where we’re going?” she asked Brett.
“Of course.”
“How?”
“I was here before, remember?”
“Where are we heading?”
“That way.” He pointed to the northeast.
“Oh. Race you to that copse!” Sabrina called out, and she nudged her mount. Her horse smoothly began to run. The animal was graceful, the air was invigorating, the world around her was beautiful. Sabrina felt a pure rush of exhilaration.
She heard Brett pounding up behind her, and at the copse she reined in, waiting for him.
“Remember when we went riding outside Paris?” he asked her. “There were flowers everywhere.”
“There were women everywhere,” she corrected him.
He shrugged that off, looking at her, his brown eyes sincere. “I’ve learned my lesson, Sabrina.”
“Brett, you make sexual innuendos every time you’re around anyone who’s even remotely female.”
“Even remotely female? I resent that!”
“Brett, you—”
“Sabrina!” He reached over, placing his hand on her thigh. “I only do that because I want you so badly and I can’t allow other people to see just how much.”
She stared at him. “Oh?” she said softly. “Brett, were you having an affair with Cassandra Stuart when she died?”
“Me?” he demanded, startled. Then he huffed, “This place is getting to you, Sabrina. You can’t let it. Cassie is dead and gone. We need to let her rest in peace, forget the past and get on with our lives. Come on, I’ll race you to that next little hill there!”
He took off; she followed. As they rode, the wind whipped around her, colder than it had been only minutes before.
She looked up. The sky had been a deep, striking shade of blue. Now it was darkening to mauve. She reined in next to Brett on the hill. “Looks like that bad weather is coming in. We should find the others.”
“Maybe they’re up ahead in that hunting lodge.”
“I don’t see any horses.”
“Maybe the horses are in back. Let’s get there and see.”
He nudged his horse into a lope. With little other choice, Sabrina followed.
Jon’s note that morning had read simply: “Attend the séance in the crypt at 11:00.”
Joe Johnston and Tom Heart were in the great hall when he went down for coffee, and like the good game players they were, they were trying to figure out why the butler should be the first to die.
“He knew something. People who know things are dangerous,” Joe said.
“He was blackmailing someone,” Tom suggested.
“Obviously,” Joe agreed.
“I say there’s an accomplice in this. Not a single person acting alone,” Tom continued to theorize.
“I say that there isn’t enough information in as yet, but I agree with you—I think we ha
ve two people acting on this.”
“Now the danger involved in having an accomplice to murder is that, even if you commit the perfect crime yourself, you have to worry about the other person. Leaving a clue. Panicking. Giving something away.”
“Being an idiot and doing the wrong thing.”
“Exactly!” Tom said, pleased that Joe seemed to agree with his thinking. “Especially when the murderer is a clever enough person but emotionally involved with the accomplice.”
“And the accomplice is an idiot. Happens often enough.”
“And naturally, a man can prove to be a real fool himself when he commits murder because of a woman—”
“Meaning,” V.J. interrupted from the doorway, “that the woman, who is, naturally, the accomplice, is an idiot?”
“Now, Victoria—” Tom began.
“Oh, now, Tom, don’t you ‘Now, Victoria’ me!” V.J. said sternly. “You were implying that the murderer must be a clever man with a female accomplice who must be an idiot.”
“Both could be incredibly clever,” Joe suggested diplomatically, but it was too late.
V.J. gave him a withering stare. “Perhaps a woman is the killer, and her bumbling assistant is a male,” she said.
“Perhaps a woman is the killer,” Tom said, looking at V.J., “and her male accomplice is a bumbling idiot madly in love with her, trying to keep them both from spending the rest of their lives behind bars.”
“Either that,” Jon interjected smoothly, “or both of our killers are women. V.J., my love, we know that women can be deadly. We grant you that!”
V.J. sniffed, shaking her head sadly at him. “I can see that I’m outnumbered. Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a date with destiny.” She exited the room.
Joe glanced at his watch. “Well, excuse me, too.”
“Crypt?” Jon asked.
“Séance?” Tom queried.
“The séance is in the crypt. We might as well head down together,” Jon said.
“Sir, it’s your castle,” Tom said gallantly. “Lead the way.”
Jon was surprised to feel an uneasy sensation prickling the back of his neck as his colleagues followed him down the back stairs to the dungeon. He was surprised to realize that having anyone behind him had become an unnerving experience.
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