Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  She tilted her head and slid him a sideways glance. “Even if that were true, why wouldn’t I just come right out and invite you, why trick you…if, as you say, I recognized who you are?”

  “I’m expensive. Maybe you’re…tight.”

  She waited a heartbeat, then hummed, “I’ll never tell.”

  Unmistakable desire flashed in his eyes. His gaze dropped to her mouth. When he looked her in the eye again, he said, “The way I figure it, you thought to have me hang about, use my services in your parlor tricks without forfeiting the going rate.” He cocked his head in an Am I right? sort of way.

  “And what exactly is the going rate, Mr. Sinclair? Tight though I may be, I’m certain I could accommodate your inflated…fee.”

  With obvious deliberation, his gaze meandered down her body and back up again. “No doubt.”

  Andie sent him a wry smile. “We Yanks have another saying…Nothing ventured, nothing gained. So, I’m guilty as charged, Mr. Sinclair. I tricked you, and you’ve caught me.”

  One more step, and he stood only inches from her. The heat from his body wrapped around her like invisible chains, reminding her she was playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man.

  “Aye, I’ve caught ye,” he murmured. “Question now is, what do I do with ye?”

  Judging from his body language and the gleam in his eyes, he’d already pretty much decided.

  And the hook is set.

  Reaching toward him, she placed her open palm on his chest. Solid muscle met her hand, and a shiver of excitement she didn’t want to acknowledge skittered along her flesh.

  “Well, Mr. Sinclair,” she breathed. “I suppose I’m at your mercy then…”

  Behind her on the small foyer table, inside her handbag, her cell phone buzzed.

  With a blink of irritation, Sinclair looked over her shoulder toward the noise. Andie dropped her hand and swallowed, grateful for the interruption.

  “I have to get that,” she said, trying to sound casual, composed. She’d been at the end of her ploy, and short of faking a heart attack, couldn’t think how she’d put the man off. He was obviously in the mood for sex and expected to get it. While it was necessary that she become involved with him, he was moving so fast, she wasn’t sure she could control the situation much longer.

  Sleeping with a suspect was not only outside accepted police procedure, it was absolutely forbidden. Not that toying with him hadn’t been a little fun, but she hadn’t expected him to put such heavy moves on her within hours of their meeting.

  She needed to regain control of the situation. She was supposed to be keeping him off-balance, not the other way around. From now on, she was going to have to be very creative in her refusals or end up in real trouble.

  Moving away from him, she went to the table, opened her purse, and took out the phone. “Yes?”

  “You get down and dirty yet, Inspector?”

  Dylan, right on cue.

  “Oh, damn,” she said, adding a touch of regret to her voice. Aware Sinclair could hear every word, she continued, “Are you sure you can’t make it?”

  “So, Inspector,” Dylan whispered in her ear. “What are you wearing?”

  “Well if you’re sick, you’re sick,” she said, emphasizing the word while trying to curtail a sneer at her partner’s typical jerk behavior.

  Whatever clever parting shot Dylan intended was wasted as Andie slapped the cell phone shut and tossed it back into her purse. With a small frown, she turned to Sinclair.

  “No séance tonight, swami. Looks like my underhanded tactics to obtain your services on the cheap have all been for nothing.”

  “Well now,” he said quietly. “That is a shame. And you having already paid to let the place.” A frown creased his brow. “Surely you’re not planning to sleep here tonight in this great big place all by yourself?”

  “Maybe,” she said lightly, looking around. “Maybe not.”

  Though her tone had been flip, once more, she felt her stomach tighten as a sense of dread overtook her. It was as though someone had just walked over her grave.

  Unconsciously, her gaze flashed for a second to the top of the stairs. Nothing there. Of course not. Her shoulders relaxed.

  The house was big and old and spooky, and she had been nervous—that’s all it was. There were no such things as spirits, so it could not have been a ghost she’d seen hovering on the landing, staring down at her. Like a nitwit, she’d screamed, and the mirage had instantly disappeared. When she realized screaming was as good an excuse as any to keep Sinclair from driving off, she’d screamed again—loud, long, and with an enthusiasm that would put a banshee to shame.

  In the end, she supposed having an overactive imagination had paid off—the suspect had entered the residence, giving her the desired result. She was in control. With any luck, it wouldn’t take long to worm her way into Sinclair’s confidence and gather the evidence she needed, the end result being, justice would be served, and so would her career.

  With a quick glance up the stairs, Sinclair said, “You keep looking up there. Are you sure you did nae see a ghaist?”

  “Positive.” Her cell phone rang again, and she answered it, making sure Sinclair missed not a word. When the call ended, she tossed the phone back into her purse. “My mechanic had the car towed. It’s in the shop. Something to do with a fuel line, whatever that is.”

  He walked to the front window and looked out into the dark night. With his back to her, he said, “I get the feeling you’ve done with me for the night, now that I’m no longer of any entertainment value.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just that the evening I had planned fell through. I’m disappointed.”

  He turned. “Perhaps we can find a way to ease your grief.”

  “Perhaps. But not tonight. I suddenly have a severe headache and want nothing more than to close this place up, sink into a hot tub, then go to bed.”

  He swallowed, as though the images she painted with her words formed exactly the way she wanted them to on his primitive male brain. “You sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’m going to hang here for a while, then just call a taxi back to my hotel—”

  “Where are you staying? Where are you from? How long will you be in town?”

  She pressed her lips into a flat smirk. “For an all-seeing, all-knowing swami, you sure have to ask a lot of questions.”

  His gaze was steady and came that close to being dangerous. “No matter, lass. I’ll find it all oot.”

  Her brow arched. “Going to look into your crystal ball?”

  Sending her a slow grin, he whispered her own words back at her. “I’ll never tell.”

  In spite of herself, she laughed. “Okay, look. To thank you for rescuing me from the side of the road, why don’t I take you to dinner tomorrow night? I’d like to learn more about your…gifts, and I can tell you my long sad life story.”

  He tilted his head, then smiled. “Right. Have it yer way, lass. Where shall I pick you up?”

  “I’ll meet you. Eight o’clock at the Cliff House. The reservations will be under my name.”

  “I guess it’s good night to you then, darlin’ Andie.” Without further comment, he turned and walked toward the door.

  She closed it behind him, waiting until she heard the sound of his car fade in the distance. After she was certain he wasn’t coming back, she called Jericho and filled him in on the arrangements for the following night. When he started to make some stupid-ass remark, she ended the call.

  Oh, Dylan Jericho was harmless enough, just persistent. When they’d both been in uniform, he’d tried to date her. Her constant refusals had been tough on his ego, so he retaliated now whenever he got the chance with suggestive remarks and innuendo. Aside from his juvenile behavior, she liked the guy. And if he ever got too irritating, she simply shut him down. He was a smart man, a solid partner, and a damn fine detective. She’d trust him with her life, just not her heart.

/>   Her heart, she trusted to no man.

  Slipping the cell into her purse once more, she glanced around the silent foyer and let out a long breath of relief. The whole ordeal—from sitting and waiting in her car for Sinclair to “happen” by, to locking the door behind him as he left—had been exhausting. But she had hooked him in, and tomorrow night, she’d set the prong so deep, he’d never get away.

  As she was about to call for a cab, she noticed a light was on somewhere down the hall, just past the left staircase.

  Wandering in that direction, she realized the light shone from an open doorway. She peeked around the threshold into what she realized was the library.

  The mahogany-paneled room was enormous, rising two stories, and stacked, baseboards to ceiling, with thousands of volumes, many of which looked to be quite old. The place smelled of beeswax, leather soap, and musty wood. Old houses smelled old, and though the cool air wasn’t stagnant, the atmosphere itself was thick.

  Comfortable-looking leather chairs sat adjacent to fringed Victorian lamps, and a circular reading table with six chairs waited in front of the massive carved white-marble fireplace. In the middle of the table lay what appeared to be an antique wooden Ouija board, its two rows of letters and single line of numbers painted in old-fashioned black-and-gold script. In the left corner shone a full moon; on the right, a sun. The words YES and GOOD-BYE and NO were spaced evenly along the bottom border. The triangular planchette sat in the middle of the board, benignly pointing to the golden moon.

  Andie smiled. She and her best friend, Kim, had played with a Ouija board when they’d been kids, but she had always suspected Kim of shoving the pointer exactly where she’d wanted it to go, making sure the answer to the question, “Am I going to marry Tony Gibson?” was invariably YES. Tony was best friends with Kim’s older brother, and either ignored twelve-year-old Kim completely or teased her about her red hair until Andie wanted to punch the kid in the cojones like her brother had shown her to do when guys got out of line.

  Andie meandered across the room, running the tip of her finger around the board. That stupid Ouija board had been her only foray into the “spirit” world, but she’d always considered it an interesting coincidence that Kim did eventually end up marrying Tony Gibson, who, as it turned out, absolutely adored her and had all along.

  Feeling weary after such a long day, she moved away from the table to let her body sink into the cushions of the overstuffed leather chair closest to the fireplace. Taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly, trying to loosen the tightness around her neck and shoulders. A back rub would sure feel good about now.

  She thought of Logan Sinclair’s strong fingers. Boy, howdy. He probably gave fantastic back rubs, and the front rubs undoubtedly made women scream with pleasure.

  Damn jerk. Why did he have to be a criminal? He was just the kind of man she’d secretly longed for all her life. Smart, handsome, witty, charming, sexy, with that something, that elusive quality in his eyes that spoke directly to her soul.

  Of course he’d turn out to be the worst possible kind of man for her—a con artist, a cheat, a liar. Hell, for all she knew, he was a murderer, too. Dammit.

  Well, the bottom line was, her heart was still right where it should be, inside her chest and not in the hands of a man who’d abuse it. Her career came first, rising within the ranks, making a name for herself. Let other women fall in love and have families; she was cut out for a career, and that being the case, she wouldn’t settle for less than becoming a legend.

  Her grandfather had done it. Her father had done it. Her brothers, Ethan and Nate had done it. She’d always come in fifth best, but not anymore. Now the fire that drove her would burn brightly for the world to see, and she’d outshine them all. She lived in an age where a woman could have it all, and she wanted it…all of it, and she’d get it.

  No more, Oh, isn’t Andrea pretty? She should be a model. An actress. A beauty queen. A politician’s wife. Nobody gave her any credit for her brains, even today, even with women accomplishing great things. If you were good-looking, it didn’t follow that you could be smart. Men only saw your face and body, and in some cases, a woman’s looks were a detriment because men were too stupid to see past her boobs or butt to the dynamic, energetic, competent woman beneath.

  She was lucky, and it was nice to be nice-looking, and she was thankful for the genetic crapshoot that had blessed her with an attractive face and good body, but it was also frustrating in many ways. Unless you were a model or actress or beauty queen or politician’s wife, good looks could be a liability. Even though it was the new millennium, she had to work twice as hard to be considered half as good as her male counterparts.

  Fine. She could do that.

  And collaring Logan Sinclair was just the first step in that journey.

  Suddenly very weary, she let her head fall back, her lids drift closed.

  The image of the blurred outline at the top of the stairs eased into her mind, but this time, didn’t startle her. A ball of opaque light, perfectly round, hovered in midair inside the shapeless form, then expanded, until a woman stood there.

  A soft hum that seemed to come from nowhere, yet everywhere, lulled Andie’s tired mind. The melody was gentle, like a lullaby, and she drifted down a bit, and down, and down…

  The morning is warm, and the front door stands wide open to let in a coolin’ breeze from the bay. Not a bit of fog this day, which for springtime is a rare thing indeed.

  As I’m gazin’ out onto Van Ness Avenue, a pair of sweaty gray horses pulls against their harness, their heavy burden bound for the docks, no doubt. The teamster cracks the whip above their heads, and they mind to, and pick up their pace, poor beasts. The wagon wheels groan, and shod hooves clatter against the brick pavement as they make their way down the street.

  The dray passes, revealing three boys playing at jacks in the hardpan in front of Houghton’s Feed and Grain. The lads are wearing knee pants and black suspenders, and laugh and punch at each other the way boys do.

  Heavy tread pricks me ears, and through the open doorway, what do I see, but himself stroll by. He disappears from view. I hear one step, another, then silence. A shuffle and a scuffle, and he returns to the threshold, filling it with his height and wide shoulders. He’s handsome in his policeman’s uniform and hat. Brass buttons gleam like small suns marching in a line down the front of his dark blue coat.

  He smiles at me, and I look into his eyes. An unusual shade they are. Not quite green, nor not brown, neither, but both. Such as the sea at morning time, glittering-like, as it splashes about your ankles, and you can see through the water to the golden sand beneath.

  I can see m’self in his eyes. No, not me reflection, like in a pane of shop front glass down on Market Street. It’s that he admires me; that’s what I see. And why shouldn’t he then? I’m pretty enough, I’ve been told by the baker’s son, and the lad who delivers the ice, and by the likes of Tommy O’Neill who kissed me on graduation day.

  “Hello, Miss,” the policeman says to me, and I say hello back like I don’t care one way or t’other. Under the curve of his thick brown handlebar moustache, his fine lips tilt into a smile, and I feel like me heart just flew out the window to the far-side of the moon, and only he can catch it and hand it back into its rightful place.

  And that’s how we meet, you see. Him, walking his beat up Van Ness Avenue, glancing in the dusty windows and open doors to see that all is a’right.

  “Do you work here, Miss?” he says to me, those eyes of his betraying his reason for wishin’ to know.

  “Me da is Timothy Conner, the man what owns this emporium,” says I, pointing to the noonday basket under me arm. “I’m just bringing his supper.”

  His grin broadens. “Then I’m wishing I was one Timothy Conner at the moment, to share a meal with such a pretty girl.”

  I can feel me cheeks warm at his remark. “And maybe it’s a fortunate thing that I bring Da his supper every day about this time.�
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  “Ain’t it, though,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

  “And maybe tomorrow, there might be an extra piece of apple cake wrapped in the oilcloth, in case your duties bring you this way again.”

  “Is that by way of a bribe, Miss?”

  I tilts me head and gives him a sidelong glance. “Might be it is.”

  “Then I’ll give Conner’s Dry Goods my full attention while I make my rounds, in case thieves have a mind to crack a window and make off with a bit of pink calico.”

  I laugh at that, me head spinning, me mouth nearly too dry to speak, truth be told. I swallow, knowing me cheeks are no doubt shiny now with the very heat of his attention. Under me long skirt, me legs wobble and knees knock together like the Nervous Nellie I am. “Then, perhaps I’ll see you again, Officer…”

  “Harte,” he says boldly as you please. “Officer Jacob Harte. Ever and always, at your service, Miss Conner.”

  With the tap of his cudgel against the shiny rim of his hat, he smiles at me, and I know…

  Chapter 5

  Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune or misfortune at their own private pace, like a clock during a thunderstorm.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Someone was crying…who was crying?

  Andie sat up with a start, eyes wide, heartbeat banging her eardrums. The shaking hands that flew to her face were met with her own tears.

  Blinking, trying to focus, she stared at her dampened palms in confused wonder. Why was she crying?

  But even as she stared all around her, the mournful sobs continued. Slowly, she lifted her head, seeking their source. Her gaze flitted to every corner of the room.

  She was alone.

  The crying softened into a faint mewling, then faded into nothingness. Andie licked her lips, trying to regain her composure.

  As though pulled from the very ether around her, quiet words formed inside her head…Jacob…dearest love…forgive me…Jacob…forgive…