by Keta Diablo
Calder’s death would be unbearable for her, a near death-blow, but she wouldn’t engage in self-pity or wallow in misery. She’d emerge from this tragedy as she had from others, feisty as ever, her inquisitive mind seeking...no, demanding answers. That’s what worried him.
She didn’t buy his story at the cemetery about a car accident. He saw it in the tremble of her lips, the firm set of her perfectly formed chin. Everything about Cecily, at least in his opinion, was damn near perfect. As a child, her enormous eyes overpowered the elfin features—the splatter of freckles across the bridge of that small, straight nose, the sculpted cheeks and lush, pink mouth (the upper lip thinner than the lower) but time had only proved a patient God had done some of His best work the day He created the twins.
Calder, his eyes so much like Cecily’s, were closed forever now. That knowledge elicited a sorrow so deep he wondered if he’d ever recover. God, if only he had gotten there before Calder, if only Calder had taken a different path, if only...if only. The what-ifs would haunt him till the day he died. He knew one thing for certain; he would avenge his best friend’s death.
A familiar voice drifted across the room and caught Marcel's ear. Christ, Trina had arrived. She stood before Cecily and he could almost hear the snake-like hiss in her words. Pushing from the fireplace, he crossed the room and approached them, just in time to hear Trina say, “I suppose you’ll be heading back to Gull-whatever-it-is in the next day or two.” She looped her arm into Marcel’s while Cecily's distinct scent—white tea roses and some delectable substance he'd never been able to identify—infused the air around them. God, he was doomed, cursed forever.
Trina again. “I mean there’s no reason for you to linger, is there?”
“Landing,” Cecily said with a bite of venom only Marcel detected. “Gull’s Landing, and I believe I’ll be staying for some time.” The frosty glance she tossed Marcel was proof she hadn't bought his story. “We were just discussing this at the cemetery, weren’t we, Marcel? I have some loose ends to tie up before I return to Minnesota.”
“Loose ends?” A dose of panic ringed the woman's high-pitched words. “Whatever do you mean? Don’t you have a shop or something to get back to?”
“Sheath your claws, Trina. I'm after answers, not your precious Marcel.” She crossed her heart, her passive tone not lost on him. “I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible as I go about my unfinished business.”
Damn, she was a cool bitch, had always been, even in grief. How did she do it, pitch his emotions into full battle mode? Like so many times before, he didn’t know if he wanted to strangle her or fuck her...here, right now. No, that wasn't true. He had only to look at her long, graceful neck, picture his face buried in the sweet spot at the hollow of her throat, feel the faint rhythm of her pulse and the fuck team won.
“Well, I hope this unfinished business won’t keep you from your livelihood too long.” Trina brushed an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve and then looked up. “I am truly sorry about Calder, Cecily.”
“Thank you for coming.”
The vapid woman clinging to his arm turned to him. “I should be going. Will I see you later tonight?”
Marcel steered Trina toward the front door. “Looks like this won’t be breaking up for quite some time. How about I call you tomorrow?”
“Please do,” she said before she pulled the door open and walked down the front steps.
Marcel met Elliott in the hallway while walking back to their guests. “Where have you been? Why do you always disappear when people need you the most?”
Elliott gave a snort and a lopsided grin. “Which question should I answer first?”
“This one. Are you drunk again?”
“Not drunk enough as far as I’m concerned.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s eating you alive, but of all days, pull your shit together. Mom has been asking about you.”
“Of late or today?”
“Both, asshole.” Marcel raised his hand with a dismissive wave. “Just make the rounds, set Mom’s mind at ease, will ya?”
“I’m on it,” Elliott said on a salute and entered the great room with him.
* * *
Cecily pinched her forehead with her thumb and index finger the moment the last guest closed the entry door. God, she needed a drink, maybe four.
Marcel and Elliott were clustered around two potted ferns in a corner of the room, their low-voiced conversation getting more animated by the second. Mae had risen from one of the settees and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, her hand emerging with two glasses and a bottle of Don Julio Blanco. Cecily didn’t think tequila would do much for her headache but it sure could dull the anguish of Calder’s death.
Mae handed her a glass half full. “This should help you sleep.”
She gave a weak smile and sneaked a glance at Mae’s sons. “I am exhausted.”
“Me, too, dear. Looks like it’s time to shoo Elliott to bed and then find mine.” She filled Cecily’s glass before delivering a kiss to her cheek. “See you in the morning.”
After Mae and Elliott exited the room, Cecily plopped into a wing-back near the fireplace and surveyed the mahogany bookshelves overflowing with hardcover books in every field and genre. When Marcel walked across the room, she looked up, and then reminded herself that Marcel never merely walked but moved like a well-oiled machine, as if he owned the very ground at his feet and everything around it. Tension rode the crest of the same grimace he'd used on Elliott moments ago when he settled into the chair opposite her.
Their eyes, locked in a timeless moment and silence droned on for what seemed an eternity. Focus, Cecily, focus. She jerked her chin toward the archway. “Is Elliott all right?”
“He dilutes all his problems with alcohol these days.”
“You're not the only one who loved Calder like a brother, Marcel.” His eyes had left hers and lingered on the archway Elliott had just walked through. “But I'll take the bait. What do you mean your brother dilutes all his problems with alcohol these days?”
“I don't want to talk about Elliott right now.”
“You never want to talk about anything. But I do. Let's talk about Calder.”
His gaze returned to her. “Let's talk about you. How are things at The Goat's Pecker?”
She rolled her eyes. “Why do you do that, make fun of everything I do? You know perfectly well it's The Goat's Beard. God, you're such an asshole.”
“You're right. Look, I'm sorry. How is the store?”
“Holding its own, and for the record, I don't read tea leaves or tarot cards.”
A faint smile curled the corner of his lips. “I know. Mom said you sell remedies, tinctures, oils, and you heal people.”
“The first part is right, the second a bit of a stretch. I recommend alternative means to treat what ails them when conventional medicine fails.”
“Right up your alley, huh?”
Her heartbeat picked up. There's no way he could possibly know the secret she'd harbored for years. She forced a composed expression. “What makes you say that?”
“The starling you found under the oak tree in the back yard. You don't remember?”
“Of course, but I'm surprised you do.”
“You were ten and cried for hours over that crippled bird. Finally, Mom talked you into putting him back on the ground, said he'd be flying like a starling by morning.”
Wrong. I closed my eyes and gently stroked that bent wing. The starling flew like a brand-new bird that very afternoon.
“Then what happened?”
“You asked Mom what a starling was.”
“I remember now, and she said, 'The most graceful bird in the world.’”
“Yes.” Sorrow and something she couldn't decipher banked in those argent silver eyes. “So, that's why I'm not surprised about The Goat's Beard.”
She had to look away, couldn't allow herself to fall into that depthless chasm, succumb to the chaotic emotions he summoned in her
—hunger, need and primal lust. Calder had tried to warn her about Marcel, and now her beloved brother was dead. Her mind swam in a sea of confusion. What had Calder meant when he told her to run?
She changed the topic, away from the bird. “When I asked Calder why he dropped out of college a year ago, he wouldn't tell me.”
Marcel lifted a shoulder. “If you think I talked him into it, you're wrong.”
“He wanted to get a degree in criminal law. What happened?”
“Lots of people drop out, work for a time or fuck around until they find their path, but most eventually return to school one day.”
“Guess he doesn't have that option now.” Another slice of her heart fell to some unknown place inside her. “He said he drove limos. Who was he working for?”
“Me.”
Marcel didn't work, and if he did, she was quite sure he worked for the devil. “You?”
“Yes, I bought a limo service.”
She couldn't hide her laughter. “Mae never mentioned that. Why on earth would you buy a limousine service? You don't need the money.”
“It's not about the money. Is there something wrong with making an honest living for a change?”
She jumped on it like a crocodile after raw meat. “Why? Did you make a dishonest one before buying the limo service?”
He drew that long, lean body up from the chair and pinned her with a glare. “Since you seem so intent on kicking my ass all night, I'm going to bed.”
She lifted her empty glass in his direction. “Just trying to get at the truth.”
Anger flashed in his eyes. “The truth? Here's the truth. You ran off two years ago and didn't give a shit about anything at the time, or apparently any of us either.”
The glass clattered to the floor when she bounded to her feet. “You know that's not true. I left because...because—”
“You couldn't handle this wild, crazy thing between us. You couldn't handle it because of your parents' death. You're afraid to love anyone because you might lose them too.”
“Coming from the man who doesn’t know squat about love, and lower your voice, you'll wake Mae, and besides, that's not what I was afraid of.”
Arms out at his sides, his voice hoarse, he shook his head. “What then, what were you afraid of?”
“Calder said...he warned me.”
Before his eyes narrowed, a spark ignited in them. “He warned you? About what? What did he say?”
God, she couldn't do this now, not with him looking at her like that, not while a thousand questions slithered through the pathways of her brain. Calder hadn't told her enough and she needed more pieces of the puzzle before she could confront Marcel. One thing she knew, whatever it was, Marcel would never hurt her. Not in a physical sense anyway. “I don't want to talk about it right now.”
“You're lying. You've said a thousand times there were no secrets between you and Calder.”
“I know what I said.” She spat the words. “It should please you to toss that in my face. Apparently, there were things Calder kept from me. That's why I'm not going back to Minnesota until I find out what he wanted to warn me about, not until I have answers.”
“Well, one can only hope you'll soon tire of this wild goose chase you're on and run back to that loser, biker boy, Leif.”
She advanced until she stood inches from his face. “And I suppose Trina is a prize? Oh,” she said with a snort. “I forgot, she was crowned The Corn Princess at the Des Moines County Fair, after all.”
That smoky voice dripped sarcasm. “Iowa State Fair.”
Cecily stared him down, arrested by the raw male potency emanating from the man. Here they stood, faced off like rabid Pit Bulls, neither blinking until a single tear slid from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
Marcel drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Then he opened them, shook his head and stormed from the room.
The delicious scent of his favorite cologne, Gucci Guilty, lingered in his wake.
Chapter Three
A glint of light crept through the curtains in the room, rousing Cecily from sleep. She rubbed her eyes and stretched while vignettes of dreams flashed behind her eyelids. A child again, she'd been scampering through Mae and Gus' home, the very same opulent house she was in now on Grand Avenue in Des Moines, Iowa.
Her dream began on the main level, anchored by the same hardwood floors throughout. She swept through the great room with its mahogany bookshelves flanking the fireplace. From there, she entered the dining room where holiday meals were shared. She tiptoed toward the armed chair at the head of the table and stepped on the shiny metal button set into the floor. Mae told her the button was once used to summon servants from the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen, her favorite room in the house with its abundance of white cabinets and stained-glass fronts, a large, round table where they’d taken most of their meals, and the French doors leading to the enormous back yard.
In her dream, something nudged her toward the grand staircase with the brass railing. At the top of the landing, she'd discover eight bedrooms with a green marble washstand in every room. Another endearing leftover Mae said from when the house was built in late eighteen-hundreds. The master bedroom sat at the end of the long hallway, Mae and Gus' room, complete with sewing room and renovated master bath.
The last two bedrooms on the left side of the hallway—closest to the master—were locked as usual, the intimidating, silver padlocks glaring back at her. She couldn't recall a time those inaccessible rooms weren't locked. On the right side of the hallway, sat Elliott and Marcel's bedrooms, and nestled beside them, hers and Calder's.
She bolted upright when a thought interrupted her dream, forcing her to abandon sleep. The door to Calder's room was closed but it shouldn't be locked. With a burst of energy, she scrambled from bed, pulled a pair of worn-out jeans over her hips, plucked a fuchsia tank top from her open suitcase and slipped it over her head. Barefoot, she walked from her room and listened for sounds of life in the house. Eerily quiet, which meant Mae was no doubt in the kitchen and Elliott and Marcel off shuttling clients in their pseudo limo service. With outstretched arm, she paused at the door of her brother's room and drew a deep breath. You can do this, Cecily. You have to do this, no matter how much it hurts.
Drakkar, Calder's characteristic scent, lingered in the air and nearly severed her at the knees. She drew a deep breath to steel her nerves and then closed the door behind her. She'd find the same scent on the pillows and pervading his clothes in the walk-in closet. God, you can do this, Cecily, you must do it. Her feet stumbled toward the four-poster bed and eventually the nightstand. She thumbed through several books he'd been reading, her fingers halting on his distinctive writing in the well-used calendar/address book. So many nuances about her twin were identical to hers. She could have just as well written the names, the dates and the events.
Phone numbers, notations about work-related meetings, luncheons and seemingly insignificant locations stared back at her. Why so many out-of-town events? She made a mental note to ask Marcel if his so-called limo service provided transportation beyond the city limits...way beyond. Hmm, perhaps, the distant locations weren't so insignificant after all. If Calder had been involved in dubious undertakings, he'd never leave his personal address book in the open for everyone to see. He was too smart for that.
She scanned the richly decorated room and the dark, patterned drapes covering the window. Definitely masculine in tone and design. Think, girl, think. She slapped a hand to her forehead, the muffled words slipping from her mouth, “Of course, the secret panel.” With renewed determination, she walked toward the large wall opposite the bed and counted off thirteen panels (Calder's lucky number). Like she had done so many times when they were children, she wedged a fingernail beneath the single panel on the right and eased the wood forward. It released with a familiar popping noise. Acutely aware of the dread rumbling in her gut, nostalgia washed over her as she stared at the hidden contents.
She removed a piec
e of faded green fabric, folded in thirds and tied with the same color cord. It felt heavy in her hand. Again, dread gripped her but she'd have a better chance of forcing herself to stop breathing than walking away now. With trembling fingers, she untied the cord and allowed the fabric to fall away. A shiny, silver knife lay in her hand...no, it looked more like a dagger with a six-inch blade and ornate carvings on the pearl handle. One such carving was of a serpent wrapped around a knife. And the cross with a loop at the top? Wait...hadn’t she seen the same tattoos in blue ink on Marcel’s shoulder and arm? There had to be a connection between this knife and Marcel. And, why in hell would Calder hide a dagger in the wall?
Next, she picked up a book from the secret cubby and flipped through the pages. It wasn't a book but a journal with entries penned by Calder...dates and one-word entries that meant nothing to her. Agony clutched her heart. So, twins did keep secrets from one another. She never thought she'd see this day, not between her and Calder.
She tucked the journal and the dagger under her arm, replaced the panel and rose on shaky legs. Marcel would tell her nothing, of that she was certain. She'd have to dig deeper, find out about the dagger, try to decipher the notations in the journal and make a call to the local funeral home. If they wouldn't help her, she'd drive to St. Louis, speak to the coroner and get his version of the incident and a copy of the death certificate.
Her bones ached again. She imagined psychic folks would call it her sixth sense, an anomaly she acquired at birth or inherited from some long, gone ancestor. The premonitions were a curse sometimes, but also a help when she needed them most in life. Another thing kicked in, an invisible aura of deceit. It hung around her like a funereal veil. Her brain was too cloudy right now to determine whether the aura was nefarious or a result of her overactive imagination. She knew Marcel almost as well as she knew herself. His eyes had shifted one too many times when she questioned him about Calder's death at the cemetery, and what the hell was up with Elliott? Why did Marcel say, “He dilutes all his problems with alcohol these days?”
