“I have it all planned out.”
“I had no doubt of that.”
“You must trust me, dear Captain. I will tell you more later, but now I need a distraction—a ‘faveur discrète’. Let us go upstairs and celebrate!”
I swirled the rest of my brandy and tossed it down my throat. The warmth of it invigorated me. Now wasn’t the time to consider the meaning of all this. I would do that when she slept—whenever she slept. Sometimes she would not sleep for days. I pulled her close to me and stared down into her cherub-like face. How could such a face hide such a mind?
“You are full of surprises, my sweet one.”
“Happy surprises?” Her coy look stirred my loins.
“Are there any other kind?” I scooped her up in my arms. She kissed my neck as I stepped over the body of our hostess. I accidentally kicked her and foolishly offered an “Excuse me.”
To that, she giggled again. “David,” she whispered in my ear, “Lennie Ree can’t hear you. She’s dead.”
By the time we made it upstairs, I was nearly naked and completely hers.
***
Hours later I slipped out of our stolen bed to go downstairs in search of food. I was thinking not only for myself but also for my beloved, who was always ravenous after a murder. Now that she was with child, I was sure she would be even hungrier. But I needed food myself too. This was no small house—surely there would be something hidden in a larder somewhere. Maybe even some lemonade for my Isla.
Being the lover of the demanding, demented cherub took a lot of energy, and I needed to build my strength. I walked down the stairs holding up my trousers with one hand and whistling. I paused at the bottom step to give a respectful nod to our dead hostess. Just as I stepped over her the front door opened—there was nowhere to hide. The housekeeper, a tall, thin woman dressed in all black, did not see me at first. She set her basket down on the entryway table and left her purse there while she removed her plain black hat. I could see by her demeanor she was not someone to be trifled with—a no-nonsense kind of woman.
I decided to take the bull by the horns. Some women preferred to be charmed into doing whatever it was I wanted them to do; others preferred the direct approach. I chose the second option and hoped for the right results. If she failed to amuse me, then of course we would simply have to kill her too.
“And who might you be?” I asked in a commanding voice.
The woman appeared calm, not shocked in the least by what she saw or by my question. She had not run out the door, which she very well could have. Out of respect, I buttoned my trousers and my open shirt.
“Docie Loxley is my name. I am the housekeeper.”
“Well, Miss Loxley, it appears that my hostess has had an accident and died.”
“That much I see, and it is a shame. I have not been paid in six months. Who’s going to give me my wages now?” She walked toward the stiff body of Lennie Ree Meadows and touched her with the toe of her black boot as if she wanted to make sure she was dead. She needn’t have bothered.
Isla said from behind me, “We should bury her. But somewhere where dogs won’t find her. You don’t want the dead to come back. They smell awful.” She hopped on my back as if she were a child and I a child’s party entertainer. I did not argue but gave her a piggyback ride up and down the stairs. Isla giggled with pleasure. At least she was clothed now, although her hair was mussed and she smelled of our lovemaking. She slid off my back and stepped gingerly over our hostess. She presented herself to the housekeeper, her hands on her hips. If the housekeeper knew that her life was in the young woman’s hands, if she understood that Isla could and would kill her if it pleased her, she gave no sign. She sighed and said to her, “You needn’t bother yourself with this mess. I will bury her after breakfast. She’s not in any hurry. Are you hungry?”
Apparently deciding the housekeeper should live, Isla bobbed alongside, free spirit that she was, and followed her into the larder. I heard Isla ask her as if it were the most natural thing, “After you bury the old lady, would you mind helping me get my hair in order? It’s a rat’s nest.”
I didn’t hear the woman’s reply but if she had given the wrong one, I would have heard Isla’s angry scream. As they left, I stole a tablecloth from a nearby table and covered the deceased woman’s body. “Again, my apologies, madam.” Leaving her in Miss Loxley’s hands, I walked away from the whole mess in search of more brandy.
Now there were three of us—three savages and all with black hearts.
Chapter 1—Carrie Jo
“Dang it!” I woke myself up again faced with a choice—either put my size-seven foot on Ashland’s behind and kick him off our brand new canopy bed or get up and leave. After five nights of unintentional access into his less than faithful dreams I had had about enough. It was too late to get into a knock-down, drag-out fight, so I decided to take the high road. In an angry huff, I sat up like a snapped rubber band and threw back the covers. Naturally, he didn’t flinch.
Of course not! Why should he stop dreaming about some curvaceous supermodel while I’m fuming right beside him?
I stared down at the perfectly peaceful face of my sleeping husband, and my heart was a ball of feelings—none of them good. I couldn’t decide which I hated more: that I couldn’t control my dream catching or that I couldn’t stop thinking about what I saw. Maybe it was just that I wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night—God, I was tired! Call me sensitive, but the images of wanton women twisting under my husband in the throes of passion were just a bit more than I could bear. The last thing I wanted to do was fall asleep again and “enjoy” the big finish.
He’s lucky we have a housekeeper who likes to cook for him because I sure as hell won’t be making him breakfast! Not this morning!
Still, in the back of my mind I knew how this would play out. He’d wake up as chipper as a beaver with a new log without a clue as to why I was so pissed. I sure couldn’t come out and tell him. Nope. No way was I giving up the high ground now. I might have issues, but I wasn’t the cheater. I’d slap a big ol’ fake Carrie Jo smile on my face and pretend that everything was right as rain. Thankfully, he did not have women’s intuition. For someone who had extrasensory gifts, Ashland Stuart was none too perceptive—at least not when it came to me.
Swearing under my breath, I got out of bed and walked to the large round window across the room. The moon glowed round and near-perfect above the city of Mobile. A few wisps of clouds passed in front of it, but they quickly skittered away as the breeze blew in and along with it the fog from the nearby bay. According to the weatherman, the temperatures were never this warm in January, but people didn’t seem to mind. They liked wearing flip-flops and t-shirts even in the dead of winter. As my old friend Bette used to tell me, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes, dah-ling. It will change!” She’d chuckle and shake her head in amusement, white curls bouncing with every shake. I wondered what advice she’d have for me now. She loved Ashland, that much I knew. I had known her less than a year and she was thirty years my senior, but she had truly become one of my best friends ever. I missed her every single day. She had been a second mom—a confidante, my protector. I loved her.
I leaned against the window with arms crossed and stared down at the quiet downtown streets below. From the top floor of our Victorian home, the view was peaceful, with the exception of the occasional siren from the nearby police station. My friend and assistant Rachel informed me that the quiet façade would quickly fade when Mardi Gras kicked off in a few weeks. Apparently it was such a parking and traffic nightmare that she’d already developed maps to help us navigate traffic and avoid the bead-hungry, moon-pie-seeking masses. We even changed our office hours to accommodate the local parade calendar. I looked over my shoulder at Ashland—he didn’t stir. Typical.
Think about something else, Carrie Jo!
I tried to distract myself with thoughts of work. I still couldn’t believe I had
an office—a real business of my own. Word had gotten out about my role in the restoration of Seven Sisters and the additions to the facility. Those old plantation owners were beginning to see what a lucrative venture restoring these beautiful downtown homes truly was. Of course I could not take all the credit. It took a team, and many of those team members were no longer with us. Like it did so often recently, my mind traveled back to the first time I visited this charming yet dangerous city. Some people called Mobile the Azalea City; others called it the Port City. In my own experience I believed a better name would be the Supernatural City. I had never been to New Orleans, but I was pretty sure that old city had nothing on this one.
I nervously spun the white gold wedding band on my finger and stared at the shiny ring in the moonlight. Tears flooded my eyes. We’d fought so hard to keep it all together, and now here I was staring out the window unable to sleep beside the man I loved. I did love him, and he loved me. I would just have to figure out a way to get my dream catching under control.
Suddenly I felt two hands on my shoulders. I gasped and nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned to find a laughing Ashland standing behind me with his hands raised in surrender. “Sorry! I thought you heard me. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What the hell?”
He laughed again. Normally I would find the sound cheerful, even sexy. Now I just wanted to slap him. He said in a softer voice, “You were deep in thought. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
“Well, you did. Let me catch my breath.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come back to bed? Maybe I can find a way to soothe your nerves?” He rubbed my shoulder, but I didn’t encourage him.
I stammered for a moment, then stomped to the bed and grabbed my blanket, intending to find sleep elsewhere. “I can’t sleep. You go to bed. No sense in both of us being tired.” Playfully he grabbed the other end. He still had no clue how mad I really was. He had no idea that I knew about his breast-centric dreams. “Let go, Ashland!”
“What did I do? I said I was sorry. Now come to bed.”
I glared at him. Unless I was willing to tell him the truth, I would have to do as he asked. “Fine! I just hope I can sleep. My eyes are going to look horrible in the morning, and I have to meet with Desmond Taylor. You know, you’ve had me up every night this week.”
“What? Have I been snoring? I’m sorry, Carrie Jo. Maybe I should get some of those strips for my nose—the kind that keeps your airways open. You should have said something sooner.” I flopped in the bed and turned my back to him, beating my pillow into submission. He tucked the blanket around me and kissed me on the cheek.
Darn him! How dare he be kind! I like being mad at him.
“I promise to pick some up tomorrow, and don’t worry about Taylor. You’re a genius. He would be lucky to have you work on his project. In the meantime, if my snoring gets really bad I can go sleep in the guest room. Should I?”
I sighed, guilt over my snooping washing over me. “That won’t be necessary.” As he put his arm around me and held me, I realized I was being a fool. A man’s mind was his own territory—it belonged solely to him, and that included his dreams. How would I like it if Ashland saw a few of my dreams? I never planned to dream some of the crazy stuff I did, but it happened. I let him cuddle up to me, and I enjoyed his clean sandalwood scent and his strong arms. Well, as long as he’s only dreaming about it and not acting upon it, then we should be okay. Chances are he doesn’t even remember them. Most people don’t remember their dreams at all. Still, I had to do something if I wanted to stay married. And indeed I did.
I glanced back at the clock on the bedside table. It was 4:45. Weird. What were the odds of that happening again? I had woken myself up early every day since Monday. Now it was Friday night—no, make that Saturday morning. As I pondered the puzzle, my eyes grew heavy and I soon fell back to sleep.
I chose to think about something else for a while. Like Delilah Iverson. I’d put her to the side too long. I had promised myself after my friends died (they did die, didn’t they?) that I would dig in deeper. If for no other reason than to honor their lives. I hadn’t kept my word, which wasn’t like me at all.
Conjuring her image from my memory of our ballroom encounter, I whispered her name. It felt right to seek the ghosts of the past. Maybe that’s what I needed to do if I wanted to stay out of Ashland’s head. Since I could not turn my dream catching off, I needed to learn how to focus on using it productively.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Chapter 2—Delilah
Another hot summer day passed by without a single customer darkening the door of the Iverson Sundries Store. A small, greasy-faced child plastered his face on the front glass of the store before he was shooed away by his rotund mother, but that was the closest thing to a customer we had. A stray cat had made his way in the back door, which I’d absently left open, but I showed him the way out with the help of one of my new Shoemaker brooms. Around 4 o’clock, after sweeping the floors for the third time, counting spools of thread and repeatedly climbing the ladder to check the top shelf of my stock, I gave up. Miss Page had been true to her word. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with me or my business. For weeks I had managed to ignore the hisses and unfriendly faces, but now it was all too much. Mobilians had clearly cast their vote for the respectable Claudette Page. Friendless, hopeless and feeling defeated, I decided to call it a day. It was sad to say, but even the newly arriving northerners avoided my store. It was a hard pill to swallow.
In contrast, Adam’s woodworking business continued to increase—there was never a lack of activity at his shop. It took hard work to get it moving; I had to give him credit for that. In the beginning nobody had wanted to give him a chance either, but he’d been persistent. And it didn’t hurt that he had a handsome face and friendly demeanor. Funny how nobody wanted to have anything to do with me, but my “brother” was perfectly acceptable. But then again, he wasn’t an illegitimate bastard, a social usurper. What would my parents say about all this? What would I say to them?
I strolled down the wooden sidewalk, making a right turn toward Adam’s shop—I was happy to make the turn off Dauphin Street away from the snooty shoppers who crowded every store but mine.
With a tinge of bitterness, I recalled this morning’s conversation with the only other Iverson in this town. “It seems to me that Mobile has far too many aspiring female woodworkers. For God’s sake, Adam, don’t encourage them.”
“What am I supposed to do, Delilah? Close the shop door and forbid anyone to walk inside without your permission? You cannot tell me you’re worried about a few silly girls. You know only you have my heart.”
We rarely spoke openly about how we felt about one another, and I was beginning to think that he was doing so now only to prevent further argument. Any other time he did not want to talk about our future together, or love, or feelings—except after the lamp blew out. I welcomed the guilt that came with the memory of our first time together. It had been awkward but wonderful until the sunlight streamed into the room and I woke up alone. He barely spoke to me in the days that followed, but he could not keep up the isolation since we lived in the same apartment above the store.
Well, I only had myself to blame. I loved a man who most of the county considered my brother. For the hundredth time I asked myself, “What was I trying to prove?” It’s not like I needed money—both Dr. Page and my parents had been generous in their bequests to me—but I enjoyed working in the shop. It was the only life I knew, and now Claudette Page had seemingly put an end to all that. Mounting pressure from the unofficial leader of the local moral society had taken its toll.
The afternoon heat rolled up from the sidewalk like an unseen blanket. I suddenly missed the coolness of Canada; even my unfriendly cousins were not as cruel as Mobile society. Unwilling to witness their collective disdain any longer, I kept my eyes on the path in front of me until I crashed into another pedestri
an. My victim was a young woman, slightly taller than me but wearing more fashionable attire than mine—a moss-green dress that flattered her wide gray eyes. Despite her otherwise polished appearance, she had a bundle of tight curly red hair that appeared barely controlled by a diamond-shaped green hat. Before I could mumble an apology and continue on my way, she said, “Miss Iverson? Adam Iverson’s sister?”
“I am Delilah. May I help you?”
“Your brother tells me you are an excellent dressmaker. I happen to be in need of an excellent dressmaker.” She rocked back on her heels delightedly, as if she were doing me the greatest favor imaginable by offering me a job. The young lady appeared oblivious to the stir our collision had caused. When I did not respond immediately she added, “Oh, my manners. My name is Maundy Weaver. I own the dress shop two streets over.” She stuck her lace-gloved hand out to me, and I shook it.
“I had no idea my brother made a habit of visiting dress shops. Thank you, but I don’t need a job.” I tried to get by her, but she touched my arm.
“If I could have just a minute of your time. Would you join me for a glass of something cool?”
She quietly added, “My shop is just a minute away.”
I was curious now, so I nodded and followed behind this mysterious Maundy Weaver. Her shop was indeed just two minutes away. I was surprised I had never seen it, but then again I had not spent much time exploring the area. I wondered how well my “brother” knew the woman and why she believed I needed a job. With a polite smile, she opened the side door and we stepped into a small parlor. She waved me to a seat at a polished two-person table. I recognized the work—Adam had built this. As Miss Weaver poured us a glass of something that looked like iced tea, I looked about me. Through an adjoining door I could see into her store. She had customers, busy dressmakers and an endless sea of colorful fabrics neatly arranged along the walls. In her parlor there was no evidence of her dressmaking business. However, I could see that she was fond of pink roses for her china, and many decorations displayed that painted theme.
The Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection Page 48
