Mrs. Dempsey turned to lock the gaping front door and was startled by the muffled sound of a child’s whimper coming from within the house. She stepped back inside and waited. Breathing soft and shallow, her ears strained for the slightest sound. The silence surrounding her only deepened.
“I know what I heard,” she muttered, “and it came from up there.” Mrs. Dempsey’s eyes followed the wide staircase curving up to the second floor. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in,” she shouted, “but I will not tolerate trespassers.” She waited, but still heard only silence. “Come out at once.” Still nothing. Shaking her head in frustration, Mrs. Dempsey proceeded across the foyer to the foot of the stairs, the heels of her shoes clapping against the hardwood floor.
“If I have to come up and find you, I can assure you, your parents will be informed of your ill conduct.”
The silence continued. She began the climb with determined steps and her anger mounted as she passed from room to room, only to find each one empty. With an exasperated sigh, Mrs. Dempsey stepped back into the hallway to await a sound that might give their position away.
A muffled thump sounded above her head. She threw her hands on her bony hips in agitation. The attic. I should have known. Well, when I’m through with them, they’ll wish they had never started this preposterous game of hide and seek.
Mrs. Dempsey went over to the narrow passage leading to the attic and looked up. The gloom waiting at the top seemed to deepen and grow into something forbidding. Chilled air enveloped her. Her instinct told her to avoid the attic altogether and leave the house at once, but her legs were suddenly leaden.
“This is absurd.” Her voice quavered. She took a deep breath then lifted an unsteady hand to grip the banister before mounting the steep stairs.
Mrs. Dempsey felt the chilly air grow colder and her heartbeat sped up. By the time she reached the shallow landing at the top, her warm breath was misting in the frosty air. Her hand trembled as she grasped the knob and turned. After a gentle push, she shivered as she watched the door swing back on un-oiled hinges.
Standing very still, Mrs. Dempsey gave her eyes time to adjust to the dimness of the attic. She expelled the breath she had been holding and was assaulted by the musty smell. She forced her feet forward.
Swallowing to lessen the tightening of her throat, she stated firmly, “I know you’re up here, so you might as well show yourself.” With a cautious step, she walked deeper into the cavernous, bare-wooded room.
Bright shafts of light streaming in between the slats of the shuttered widows did little to expel the oppression surrounding her. Shadows clung to the rafters, creating the eerie sensation that she was being watched. She felt exposed and her brittle confidence began to crumble. Her eyes searched the corners and any deep shadow that might hide the small form of a child, but the further she searched, the more desperate her plight became. Her thinning confidence vanished altogether with the dawning realization that she was alone.
Then a fleeting whisper passed her ear. Her heart raced as a child’s soft moan trickled from the rafters. A tiny whimper filled the stale air, and she spun around, eyes wide, scanning the shadowy corners. Seeing nothing, her fear mounted and a cold, clammy sweat dampened her skin just as the sickening smell of death reeked through the air. Surging vomit filled her throat as she reeled and ran for the door.
“Stop, please! I hurt so bad. I want my mommy! Find my mommy!” The frightened little voice rang in Mrs. Dempsey’s ears and her quick breath became sobs. Every hair on her body stood on end, tingling against raw, trembling nerves. She was unable to suppress a terrified scream as a seemingly huge presence filled the doorway in front of her.
CHAPTER TWO
The noise level in Grady’s Bar & Grill had risen to a low roar as the lunch rush reached its peak. Thomas Shear tossed his paper napkin on the shellacked wooden table and leaned his elbows against its edge. The excitement shining in his eyes clouded as he watched the man sitting across from him.
Jonathan Fields stood five eleven and was leanly muscled thanks to routine visits to the gym and martial arts sparring with Tom. His short, curly hair was blond and his eyes were dark brown. At the moment, his wide generous mouth, usually quick with a smile, was turned down at the corners.
“Okay. Are you going to tell me what’s buggin’ you?” Tom asked. “You’ve hardly heard a word I’ve said.”
Jonathan looked at Tom with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t mean to put a damper on your good news. It’s great, it really is.”
“But–”
“But nothing. It has nothing to do with you.” Jonathan let out a frustrated sigh and lifted his gin and tonic to his lips.
Tom waited. He crossed his arms over his broad chest covering his black and silver striped tie and watched his friend fidget with the fries that had grown cold on his plate. Muted conversations continued around them. Clinks and scrapes from utensils blended with the voices. Stevie Ray Vaughn, singing about flooding down in Texas, emanated from ceiling speakers installed throughout the restaurant.
The two men had known each other since their freshman year of college. They were like brothers, but Tom wasn’t sure how they had become so close because they were like night and day. Jonathan was fair and of average height. While handsome, he had a boyish charm that could make the most hardened spinster radiate a blushing smile. Tom was six two and dark. He was more serious, with a sensual charm that made women turn for a closer look. And, what could be more different than an analytical attorney and a creative artist?
“Marsha’s talking marriage again,” Jonathan admitted suddenly, returning Tom’s blunt stare. “Last night she told me to make up my mind about which I love more—her or my bachelorhood. She didn’t exactly say it, but I could hear the ‘or else.’ I thought things were going great. I don’t understand why she wants to change everything. Our life’s perfect the way it is.”
“Apparently, she doesn’t think so,” Tom replied. “Who says things have to change anyway? You’re already living together. A legal document somewhere binding you at the hip shouldn’t make any difference.”
“Oh, yeah? You know as well as I do that after marriage comes kids. It’s a huge domestic step. One that I’m not sure I’m ready for.”
Tom stifled a smile. “You talk like she’s ready to give birth any minute. Marsha’s not exactly the barefoot and pregnant type, Jonathan. Besides, I doubt very seriously if she would give up a flourishing career as a criminal psychologist to become the next June Cleaver.”
The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitched as he met Tom’s eyes. “You’re right. June Cleaver she’s not.” He let out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid of turning into a statistic. In my profession, I deal with divorce every day. It seems marriage always starts out full of love and promises, then something somewhere down the line goes wrong and it turns into a court battle of who gets what and how much.”
Tom looked around for their waitress and caught her eye with a quick wave of his hand. “Do you want another drink?”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Tom motioned for two more drinks then sat back in his chair to study his friend. “You may not like what I’m about to say, Jonathan,” he said, “but I don’t see a problem. You and Marsha love each other. And if you really love someone, you’ll try your best to make a marriage work.
“Personally, I can’t understand your hesitation,” Tom continued, ignoring Jonathan’s brooding. “Marsha’s a sweet, intelligent, beautiful woman. And she’s in love with you. I wish I could be so lucky.”
“You think I’m a total asshole, don’t you?”
Tom chuckled. “I didn’t say that, you did.” Tom smiled and shook his head. “No. But you’re crazy if you let a woman like Marsha slip through your fingers.”
He looked up as their waitress approached with their drinks. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked with a soft, southern drawl, returning Tom’s smile as she cleared
the table of plates and empty glasses.
“Not right now, thanks.”
As she walked away, there was no mistaking the admiration in his expression for the sway of shapely hips that were hugged by tight, low-riding jeans. As he watched, she gazed back at him and her long, blond ponytail slipped over her shoulder. Tom’s lips parted in a handsome grin, seeing the invitation in her whiskey-colored eyes, but he made no move to pursue it. Instead, he turned his attention back to Jonathan, catching the knowing gleam in his friend’s eyes. “What?” Tom said, feigning innocence.
“Nothing.”
The silence lingered and Tom’s disbelieving grin spread. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of losing your freedom,” he said continuing the conversation.
Jonathan’s silence confirmed Tom’s suspicion, and a low chuckle rumbled in his chest.
“This may come as a shock to you, buddy, but your freedom flew out the window the minute you laid eyes on the woman. I think you’re afraid of the inevitable.”
Jonathan looked stricken. “Me? Afraid? You’re nuts,” he said and changed the subject. “Tell me more about this house you’ve found.”
Tom’s excitement returned. “Considering its age, it passed the inspection with flying colors,” he said. “The best things are that the entire electrical system’s been rewired, and it has modern plumbing. The house sits on a full acre, and there are big oaks and dogwood trees everywhere. There’s a tall hedge that lines the property, so I’ll have privacy. Oh, and there’s even a huge, barn-like metal shed in the back. I’m telling you, Jonathan, it’s perfect. The whole street’s perfect. The houses have been beautifully maintained. I think mine’s the only house on the block showing signs of neglect.”
“I’ve traveled that street a million times on my way to the courthouse. Isn’t it still residential?”
“Mostly,” Tom replied. “The house is within walking distance of the town square, so there are a few businesses mingled in. I should blend right in after I fix the place up and have a few yards of concrete added in back for parking.”
“What about a business license?”
“It’s in the works.”
Jonathan smiled at Tom’s enthusiasm. “You know, with you being a business owner and all, you’re going to be asked to contribute to the restoration of The Strand Theater there in the square, along with other historically significant properties in the area.”
“I probably will,” Tom replied with a grin.
“Have you checked out Eddie’s Trick Shop, yet? I picked up a pair of fake ice cubes with bees in them a couple of months ago for a gag. They have everything from clattering teeth to costumes. Then there’s Shillings. It’s right on the square and a great place for dinner.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Tom lifted his glass and took a drink. “I plan on doing some exploring.”
“Well, while you’re at it, you’ll want to experience the Theater in the Square. You’ll see everything from plays to concerts. Just take a lawn chair and a cooler and you’ll be all set.
“Marsha’s personal favorites are the antique shops. She could spend hours browsing.” Jonathan’s grimace transformed into a mischievous grin. “That’s how I learned where all the good pubs are.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled with amusement as his smile grew. “I appreciate the tips.”
Jonathan nodded. “I’m here to serve.” He picked up his drink. “Who’s handling the closing?”
“Russ Carson. Ever heard of him?”
“Sure I have. I’m just surprised he’s still handling real estate deals. His specialty now is criminal law, you know. And he’s damn good, too,” he added. “What time is your closing?”
“Three,” Tom stated, glancing at his watch. “As a matter of fact, if I don’t get my ass in gear, I’m going to be late.”
“Yeah, I need to be going too. I have a meeting with a new client at four. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You may regret that offer on moving day,” Tom warned, motioning for the check.
“Yeah, I probably will.”
A petite woman with fiery red hair looked up as Tom entered the reception area of the Carson, Stiles & Bradford Law Firm. The décor was elegant and expensive. Oil paintings of landscapes hung on the walls in ornate frames. Crystal lamps cast a soft glow over the room where cherry-wood tables flanked a leather sofa and chairs. The flaming-haired receptionist sat at a desk made of the same fine, dark wood.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“My name’s Thomas Shear. I have a three o’clock appointment with Mr. Carson.”
She spoke into her telephone, then smiled up at Tom. “Someone will be with you in a moment.”
Within seconds, an adjoining door opened and a tall brunette stepped through. Her high-heeled steps were whispers as she crossed the thick carpet. The smile that greeted him was warm and friendly. Her sky-blue eyes seemed to light up and come alive.
“Mr. Shear, hello,” she said, offering her diamond-laden hand. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Ellen Brighten, Mr. Carson’s personal assistant. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you to the conference room.”
She led Tom down a hallway decorated in the same color scheme as the reception area. Closed doors along either side piqued Tom’s imagination before he was led through the only opened doorway at the hallway’s end. The conference room had a long oak table in its center. Honey-brown leather chairs circled the table and more landscape paintings hung on the walls. In the center of the table were crystal bowls filled with an assortment of bite-size candies and mints.
“Am I the first to arrive?” he asked.
“Yes, but Miss Stafford should be along any minute.”
“Miss Stafford?” Tom was confused. The name meant nothing to him.
“She’s the realtor handling the sale.”
“But I thought Mrs. Cutter was doing that.”
“She was,” Ms. Brighten answered. “But because of personal reasons, she decided to turn the sale over to Miss Stafford. She called only this morning to inform us of the change. I hope this isn’t going to cause an inconvenience.”
“No, of course not,” Tom replied. His mouth quirked. “It’s just that I’m beginning to feel like I have the plague. First Mrs. Dempsey, then Mrs. Cutter, and now Miss Stafford.”
Ms. Brighten looked startled. “I’m sorry. I was under the impression you had been told about Mrs. Dempsey.”
Tom stilled and held the woman’s gaze. “Told what?” he asked, detecting a heartbeat of hesitation and a slight shift in her direct blue gaze.
“Mrs. Dempsey was killed in an accident.”
Tom was stunned. “I had no idea. When I went to the office to confirm the sale, I was given to Mrs. Cutter and things progressed from there. She mentioned an accident, but said nothing about it being fatal.”
Ms. Brighten seemed surprised by his reply. “Someone should have informed you of the circumstances,” she stated with just the right touch of remorse. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Shear.”
A buzz from the conference phone halted further inquiry. As she answered, the shocking news of Mrs. Dempsey’s death lingered in Tom’s mind. He wondered how and when it happened.
“Miss Stafford has arrived,” she told him, returning the handset to its cradle. “Will you excuse me?”
“Certainly,” he said, and turned to admire a painting of a shimmering lake. Cattails edged the shallows, and a field of yellow wildflowers drew the eye to a snowcapped mountain range in the distance. An adjacent door opened and Tom turned from the painting to see a tall, thin man dressed in a tailored gray suit enter the room.
“Mr. Shear? I’m Russ Carson,” he said, flashing Tom a smile before placing a manila folder thick with legal documents at the head of the table.
Tom returned Carson’s firm handshake. He guessed the man to be in his mid-forties even though a shock of white hair belied his true age. Returning the piercing gaze he received from d
ark, calculating eyes, Tom judged his companion to be a beguiling, ruthless man.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” a feminine voice replied from the doorway. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
Tom turned to the attractive young woman entering the room and was pleasantly surprised by the alluring smile he received. Her lips were full and inviting. Her nose was petite with an impish turn at the end. Her skin was flawless except for the tiny mole that kissed the left side of her mouth. He couldn’t help but imagine her bare, slender thighs as they moved beneath the soft fabric of the skirt that exposed shapely knees and calves.
“Ah, Miss Stafford. As a matter of fact, Mr. Shear and I were just introducing ourselves,” Carson replied.
Miss Stafford looked directly at Tom and the saliva in his mouth dried up. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t had the pleasure,” she stated.
Tom took her small hand in his and had to give himself a mental shake to avoid losing himself in the depths of her emerald eyes. “I assure you the pleasure is mine,” he managed to say and realized she barely reached his shoulder.
As she turned away and walked around the table, he noticed the way her long, auburn hair hung in soft, gentle waves down her back and felt a sudden, strong urge to reach out and stroke it. Startled by his distraction, Tom stifled the unexpected impulse and found his chair; putting the expanse of the table between them. Still, the soft, musky scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils like an aphrodisiac.
Carson opened the folder and removed the first set of documents. “Shall we begin?”
CHAPTER THREE
Chief Bill Swainer sat behind his wood-grained laminate desk with his arms folded over his scrawny chest. His office, like the rest of the building, was painted neutral beige with blue trimmings. A laminate bookcase that matched his generic desk stood against one wall and three tall filing cabinets lined another. Two chairs, made of metal tubing with barely cushioned cloth backs and seats, were as generic and nondescript as the rest of the furnishings. At present, both chairs were occupied.
Portrait of Rage (The Marcel Experience Book 1) Page 2