The Last Resort in Lost Haven

by Penny Plume

  She shuddered; no matter how uncomfortable the conversations got at Horizon House, they would be better than what was happening in the Gallagher place. She passed a few more lumber-era estates and several weak imposters wedged in by Chicago millionaires, then the road curved to the left and the houses fell away.

  Rolling dunes with rippling grass stretched to the north and east, broken here and there by a clump of cypress trees. The shoulder was wide enough for cars to park and let tourists out so they could take pictures of the dunes, which were not only beautiful, but also part of the legend of Lost Haven and the buried town of Sanctuary.

  Jenna had to smile. She felt a little guilty about fanning the flames of that silly myth when folks came into her shop, breathless about the ghost town and endless possibilities of buried treasure, buried churches, buried dreams.

  The residents of Lost Haven had a line about it: “Anyone who believes in buried Sanctuary has their head in the sand.”

  It was never spoken around tourists. That would be mean, and also cause them to spend less money in town. But Jenna wouldn’t have said anything about it, even if she didn’t own a business. It wasn’t her place to pop someone else’s balloon, and she loved trying to talk history with them in the nook.

  If they stayed for more than three minutes they might realize there was no mention of a buried town in any of her books, but Jenna didn’t think they cared about that. They cared about the adventure, the mystery of it all, and as she pulled up to the black wrought-iron gates marking the edge of the Kavanaugh estate, she knew exactly how they felt.

  The gates were anchored by massive brick posts on both sides of the road. Landscaped grass and trees shaded the area and kept erosion down, which was ironic, considering what the Kavanaughs had done to the rest of the land. Eight-foot black iron fencing marched up the hill to her left and along the right side of the road beyond the gate.

  Jenna mused that the fence alone cost more than her entire house, ten times over. She eased to a stop near the gate and waited. A camera peered down at her from one of the brick posts, and another, smaller post held an LCD screen within reach of her window.

  The screen said:

  NO SOLICITORS

  NO TOURS

  INVITED GUESTS ONLY

  VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  PUSH HERE TO CALL

  Jenna frowned. She was invited, right? Bart had said they were all supposed to come…

  She also realized, at that moment, she was about to enter a locked compound—basically a luxury bunker—with a bunch of murder suspects.

  Was that a good idea?

  Once the gate closed, that was it. She wasn’t leaving unless the Kavanaughs wanted her to. Garrett would be there along with the state investigators, she assumed, but she’d never confirmed that with Garrett. What if the Main Street shop owners were all being drawn into Harrison Kavanaugh’s web like fat little flies? What if—

  The horn blared and Jenna bucked against the seatbelt hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

  “What’s the holdup?” Lawrence shouted. His 1976 convertible Corvette was an inch from her back bumper, and his head was tilted back to soak up the morning sunshine. He wore round sunglasses and looked like he’d spent an hour on his hair.

  Jenna recovered. “Good morning, Lawrence.”

  “Mornin’, hot stuff. Did you murder anyone else last night?”

  “No. You?”

  “Only a bottle of red wine. If I barf on a priceless rug, don’t let the Kavanaughs sell me into sex slavery. Well, not to anyone cheap.”

  “I think they can hear you.”

  Lawrence considered that for a moment. “Well, nice knowing you.”

  Jenna said. “I’m going in.”

  She tapped the screen.

  A deep, serious male voice immediately said, “State your purpose.”

  Jenna panicked, blurted: “Er, I’m invited.”

  “For what?”

  “The…inquisition?”

  The speaker paused. “Name.”

  “Jenna Hooper.”

  “Who is that behind you?”

  “Lawrence Donald.” Jenna felt like she was ordering executions at a drive-through.

  “Tell him to wait after you pull through. The gates will close behind you, and he is not to attempt to follow you. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” She stuck her head out the window. “Don’t follow me. You have to wait your turn.”

  “I shall comply,” Lawrence droned.

  The gates parted. Jenna’s car vibrated from the power of the motors, and when the black iron stopped moving she pulled ahead.

  The gates closed behind her.

  No turning back now.

  The road continued north for a short uphill stretch before a sharp curve to the west, and the hillside on her left suddenly leveled off onto a round plateau that had to be three hundred yards across.

  Dozens of buried lawn sprinklers sent a fine mist over sculpted hedges, vibrant (and weedless) flowerbeds, and grass so green it looked painted. To Jenna, it looked like a yard that was to be observed but never enjoyed.

  The wide asphalt driveway cut through all of it and rose on a gentle upward slope toward Horizon House. She’d never been this close before, and Jenna had to slow down so she could take it all in.

  The house had at least five stories—it was hard to tell because the windows weren’t all aligned or even close to the same size, though each one was bigger than her front door. The architecture was rooted in Victorian but stretched out into Tudor and, in a few ominous spots, Medieval.

  The walls were massive stone slabs carved perfectly to allow for doors and windows—even the windowsills were stone—and copper gutters etched with patina followed the dozen rooflines she could see.

  The round, glass observatory perched on top of the structure was barely visible from this close, but Jenna thought she saw someone standing there, looking down at the driveway. At her.

  Then the towering facade of Horizon House blocked her view. She brought her eyes down and saw Wilford’s old Mercedes and Garrett’s patrol car parked to the left of the wide stone steps and massive, double front doors that reminded Jenna of an unwelcoming church, and headed that way.

  She pulled counter-clockwise into a crushed stone loop that ringed a small pond and fountain—all of it large enough to swallow her house and yard—and passed a narrow lane that curved around the northern side of the house and disappeared. She caught a glimpse of a massive garage with at least four overhead doors before coasting past the steps and easing to a stop, wincing as her brakes squealed just a bit.

  Before she could open her door Lawrence whipped around the driveway, his tires barking on the asphalt, and parked on an arrogant diagonal next to her. He tossed his keys and sunglasses onto the passenger seat and said, “Looks like the snipers missed you too.”

  “So far.” Jenna got out and turned in a slow circle, taking in the estate. From where she stood she couldn’t see anything beyond the edge of the plateau except sky and water. It felt like she was floating on a cloud, an island untouchable by the outside world.

  What would it be like to wake up here every morning? To do the same things she did at her home—eat breakfast, look for clean underwear, get bored, watch dumb TV—but do it all here?

  She couldn’t picture it.

  “Did you just lock your car?” Lawrence asked.

  Jenna came back to the driveway. “Hm?”

  “You just locked your car door.” He nodded toward the towering mansion. “Do you think they’re going to steal it?”

  “Habit, I guess. But if they want to take it into that garage and turn it into a Lexus, they can borrow the keys for a while.” Jenna didn’t carry a purse. She only had her phone and her keyring, with three whole keys, and stuffed everything in her pockets.

  Lawrence bent an elbow toward her. “Shall we?”

  She hooked her arm through. “Let’s.”

  They walked t
ogether toward the steps. Lawrence wore a black Hawaiian shirt with subtle neon green turtles swimming along the bottom and not-so-subtle green shorts that matched the turtles.

  “Thanks for dressing up,” Jenna said.

  Lawrence was offended. “This is my mourning shirt. Look, the turtles are sad.”

  “Probably because they have to be so close to those shorts.”

  “Said the girl wearing pleated shorts.”

  Jenna said, “Wait, what’s wrong with pleats?”

  “Oh, only everything.”

  Jenna frowned at her shorts. She paused at the bottom of the steps and told Lawrence, “I don’t care. They’re comfortable.”

  “They’d better be.” He pulled her up onto the first stone stair, which was deep enough to require two steps to cross before the next rise. Lawrence said, “Do you feel like Cinderella?”

  “Was she ever part of a murder investigation?”

  “That was the sequel. Cinderella and the Glass Slipper Killer.”

  “Then yes, I do feel like Cinderella.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Lawrence snapped. “I’m Cinderella. You be the wicked step-mother.”

  They both choked back laughter—very inappropriate given the circumstances—then stopped and turned when Belma’s stubby white delivery van banged onto the plateau and tilted toward a parking spot.

  “Never mind,” Lawrence said. “The real thing is here.”

  They waited while Belma chucked things around in the cab, got sorted and slammed the door before churning around the back of the van toward them, her brown and mint hair quivering like meringue. She carried a purse the size of a small bed.

  “Did I miss anything?” she huffed.

  “Yes, we’re all dead,” Lawrence said.

  Belma stomped up the stairs without pausing. “Good.”

  Jenna whispered, “Belma isn’t a morning person.”

  Lawrence squinted after her, considering something important. “You’re assuming she’s a person.”

  They caught up to her as she pressed a button nestled in the intricate stonework framing the double front doors, which were eight feet tall and stained and lacquered to bring out the deep, robin’s eye grain.

  Belma stared at the door and said, “I just want you guys to know, whatever happens in here today, we’re still friends.”

  Jenna blinked. What the heck did that mean?

  Lawrence seemed even more confused. “We’re friends?”

  Five seconds later the door on the right opened. A thin man in his fifties stepped back and gestured toward the interior.

  “Welcome to Horizon House.”

  Jenna heard a slight accent—Scottish?—and smiled at him as she moved inside. The smile faltered when she saw what he was wearing. Black suit pants with a razor-sharp crease, white shirt and black tie, which were all normal enough. But instead of a suit coat he wore a black bulletproof vest. The wide Velcro straps were all perfectly aligned and Jenna wondered if the thing had been tailored.

  He noticed her staring and winked, a gesture so fast she wasn’t sure it had happened.

  “Precautions,” he said.

  Lawrence and Belma didn’t notice. They were gaping at the front hall, which was worth gaping at. The ceiling was five stories high, all the way up to the roof, and massive wooden beams supported a Volkswagen-sized chandelier suspended around the third floor.

  Stonework and polished wood paneling flowed up the walls around lush paintings of landscapes, epic battles, and dour people. Staircases curled up both sides of the wide room to an open landing on the second floor, and the higher floors each had exposed hallways with thick wooden railings. The intricate woodwork of the floor was mostly covered by a blue, maroon and gold rug the size of a swimming pool.

  Closed double doors at the base of each staircase led somewhere grand, Jenna had no doubt. The front hall pushed toward the center of the house, and the back wall had a large opening that showed a hallway going left and right. Another opening beyond the hall led to a large open space, which Jenna couldn’t see much of, but the far wall was entirely glass.

  It was a brilliant, elegant design. As soon as someone stepped through the front door they could see all the way through the house to the sky and lake beyond—to the horizon. It worked like a magnet, drawing Jenna’s eye and pulling her deeper into the mansion so she could see more.

  It apparently had the same effect on Lawrence and Belma. The three of them looked like sleepwalkers, shuffling through the front hall with their mouths open.

  “Mr. Kavanaugh and guests are in the receiving room,” the man at the door said.

  Jenna turned. Was he a butler? Should she call him Butler? Should she tip him? And what was a receiving room?

  He tilted his head toward the back of the mansion as he swung the door closed.

  “Thank you,” Jenna said, slightly embarrassed about her ignorance, her open mouth, and her pleated shorts.

  The receiving room was sunken three steps lower than the hall and large enough to receive an entire house. The decor carried the same timeless accents of wood and stone in the front hall yet had a contemporary feel, with heavy leather furniture placed around low glass tables.

  The room was two stories high and seemed to stretch the width of the mansion, but Jenna could see subtle, inlaid doors along the left wall on both sides of a massive stone fireplace. A polished wooden bar ran down most of the right wall, ending at an opening into a very formal dining room.

  Wilford sat in one of the leather chairs with a cup of tea. He lifted it in greeting. Bart Kavanaugh and Sherri were perched on the edge of a couch, whispering. The other people in the room were all standing and staring at the newcomers.

  There was Garrett, in full uniform and looking slightly uncomfortable next to a man Jenna didn’t recognize. He wore a suit and had a lined, golf-tanned face with a paler frame where his wraparound sunglasses would go.

  They were half-turned toward Harrison Kavanaugh, a lean man in a gray suit and blue tie that made his eyes glow. He had a full head of groomed white hair and a narrow face that had always reminded Jenna of a fox.

  The man slightly behind him and to the left, whom Jenna had never seen before, was at least a foot taller than Kavanaugh and three times as wide. He looked to be in his early thirties and his vast shoulders, phone pole neck and small ears seemed carved out of the same piece of oak. Jenna remembered Bart saying something about a bodyguard the night before, but this guy looked like a hired goon, even with the perfectly tailored suit.

  Jenna stared, knowing she was being rude but unable to help it. The man stared back with no expression. He didn’t even blink.

  Kavanaugh stepped forward. “Find the place okay?”

  Bart snorted.

  Lawrence said, “Is the bar open?”

  “Always,” Kavanaugh said. “McTavish will make whatever you like.”

  The man in the tactical vest waited behind the bar. Jenna hadn’t seen or heard him come in from the hall, but there he was, hands folded in front of him, waiting.

  Lawrence slopped down the steps. “Bloody Mary, and make her bitter and angry at life.”

  “Certainly,” McTavish said. His hands went to work behind the bar but his eyes lifted to Belma and Jenna. “And for the ladies?”

  “Large double-shot latte with extra foam and French vanilla syrup,” Belma challenged.

  “Skim or whole milk?”

  Belma blinked. “Skim.”

  McTavish cocked an eyebrow at Jenna.

  “Just coffee, please.”

  “Cream, sugar?”

  “Oh, I can get it, just show me where it is.”

  Bart snorted again and whispered something to Sherri, who covered her mouth.

  McTavish gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s no trouble at all, but help yourself to the tray at the end of the bar.”

  Feeling more self-conscious than she had since middle school, Jenna started down the three steps into the room. She briefly imagined
herself arriving for a swank ball in a dress she’d needed a loan for, making a grand entrance, and promptly falling on her face because of the stairs. It made her wonder why someone would put them there.

  She glanced at Kavanaugh and saw him watching her, scrutinizing, and realized: Of course. The darn steps were deliberate—he could stand there without a care while everyone coming in had to pause, focus on not breaking an ankle, and try to look classy while doing it.

  Well, despite her shorts and tank top, Jenna didn’t much care for appearing classy—and she certainly didn’t appreciate being manipulated by Kavanaugh and his architecture.

  She forced a calm, breezy expression on her face, stared back at Kavanaugh, and navigated the steps without falling. She didn’t even lose a sandal.

  There, how’s that for elegance, buster? Take that right in your stupid fox face.

  Kavanaugh’s mouth twitched to the side—Disappointment? Anger?—then he turned to say something to the tan guy.

  Swollen with accomplishment, Jenna pillaged the coffee tray. It had thick white mugs, a heavy carafe, steel pitchers of various creams, and a bowl of chunky, irregular sugar cubes. They were sand-colored with large crystals, and Jenna wondered if there was such a thing as handcrafted artisan sugar cubes. She dropped three in her coffee and faced the room.

  Kavanaugh seemed to be waiting for her. His mouth twitched again, then he said, “Let’s get this nonsense over with.”

  Jenna sat on a long couch with the window wall to her right. Belma and Lawrence both joined her when their drinks were ready, and the couch had enough room for all three of them to lay down and not be legally cuddling.

  Kavanaugh held a hand out toward the tan guy. “This is Detective Olson from the state police. He’s investigating Ingrid’s death, and he’s going to find out who killed her.”