The Fatal Fortune

by Castle, Jayne

  Guinevere shivered again, but not from the tension connected with Rick Overstreet’s name. This time it was strictly a result of the excitement that flared when Zac touched her.

  “Zac,” she whispered, eyes luminous, as he slipped the blouse off her shoulders.

  “Come here,” he murmured. “Give me something to think about besides my new secretary.”

  Guinevere sighed softly and went into his arms with the hot, exciting sense of abandon that always swept over her when Zac made love to her. Locked safely in his massive embrace, she gave herself wholeheartedly, rejoicing in the love that was growing steadily between them. She would let nothing interfere with this new love, Guinevere vowed silently. She would protect it and nurture it and care for it as if it were a delicate plant. She would let nothing come between herself and Zac.

  ***

  The subject of Madame Zoltana came up spontaneously the next day during coffee break, when two of the women sharing the table with Guinevere and Francine Bates mentioned the psychic as they sat sipping their morning coffee. Guinevere was elated, because Zac had been singularly unhelpful in suggesting ways of steering the conversation in a specific direction. This was a stroke of luck, and it was the first break she’d had in her investigation. She tried to seize it without being too obvious.

  “It’s absolutely incredible, even if it is just clever guessing,” confided Mary Hutchins. “I didn’t believe anyone could really know that kind of stuff about a person’s past, until Ruth introduced me to Madame Zoltana. It was amazing. She knew about my husband’s gallbladder operation. She told me Harold had just gotten a promotion and could expect another one next year. She even knew that my mother-in-law was coming for a visit in the near future. Gives you the willies, when you think about it.”

  “Are you going back for another appointment?” Guinevere asked.

  Mary hesitated. “I’m not sure. She told me last time she had to cut the session short because she was growing tired, but she promised me she could give me some helpful hints about decisions I’m going to have to make in the future if I returned. The thing is, I don’t really believe in this psychic nonsense, but this Madame Zoltana is—well, different than I expected. She really knows things. I’m not sure if I want to go back or not.”

  “What can it hurt, Mary?” Francine Bates asked logically. “You might learn something useful, something that could help you.”

  Ruth, the other woman at the table, bit her lip but said nothing. Guinevere wondered just exactly what Ruth had been told and how often she was going to have to return to Madame Zoltana in order to keep her own personal secret from haunting her. Ruth reminded Guinevere a lot of Sally Evenson. There was that same fragile, uncertain air about both, as if they had been kicked in the teeth by life and were having a hard time recovering. Madame Zoltana was definitely not helping Sally, and Guinevere had a hunch she wasn’t doing poor Ruth much good, either.

  “I don’t know,” Mary Hutchins was saying. “I’m not sure I like this psychic business. Going once for a lark was fine, but I don’t think I’ll go back. It was a little spooky, if you want to know the truth.” She looked at Guinevere. “What about you? Are you into the psychic bit?”

  “I don’t know,” Guinevere said slowly, trying to sound convincingly uncertain. “I’ve never been to a psychic. It sounds fascinating, though.” She turned to Ruth. “What do you think about this Madame Zoltana, Ruth?”

  Ruth gnawed on her lower lip and studied the dregs of her coffee. “It’s true,” she said in a low voice. “She does see things, things she couldn’t possibly know any other way except through her powers. And . . . and she tries to help.”

  “Help?” Guinevere prompted.

  Ruth nodded slowly. “Sometimes she can use her power to . . . to change things just a little. Enough to keep them from hurting you.” Ruth seemed to run out of words at that point. She lifted her head to look at Guinevere. “I don’t know what to think, to tell you the truth. Would you like to meet her?”

  Guinevere glanced at Francine Bates. “What do you think, Francine?”

  “I went to her a couple of times. Nothing much came of it, but it was kind of fun. Like going to a gypsy fortune-teller at a fair or something. I didn’t take it seriously.”

  “How much does it cost?” Guinevere asked.

  “Just twenty dollars for one visit,” Mary answered. “I guess it’s worth it just for the experience. As I said, I’m not sure I’ll go back, though.”

  “I think,” Guinevere said carefully, “that I’d like to try it at least once. How do I set up an appointment?”

  “That’s easy,” Mary assured her. “One of us who’s already been to her can call and set it up. She only takes referrals, you know.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Guinevere. “The psychic business must be pretty good if she can depend on making a living just on a referral basis.”

  “She doesn’t want to be pestered by a bunch of skeptics trying to make fun of her power,” Ruth explained in a small voice. “She doesn’t mind people who are seriously interested, or even just curious, but she sees no need to waste her time with casual walkins. She says she’s not a carnival sideshow and she doesn’t want to be treated as one.”

  “I see,” said Guinevere. “All right. I can’t claim to be a believer, but I am genuinely curious. Go ahead and set up an appointment for me.”

  Chapter Three

  The next day at Gage and Watson Guinevere deposited her shoulder bag in her desk drawer and went to work immediately. She had assigned herself this job in order to investigate Madame Zoltana, but that didn’t mean she could stiff Gage and Watson. She had her professional ethics, and she would make certain the company got its money’s worth from a Camelot Services employee. She was well into the document she was entering into the word processor, when Francine Bates arrived.

  “Hey, it’s all set, Gwen,” the older woman announced lightly as she went to her desk. “I just saw Ruth and Mary in the hall. One of them made an appointment for you with Madame Zoltana. It’s for this afternoon, right after work. I wrote down the address. It’s a small house up on First Hill.”

  “I didn’t know there were any houses left on First Hill,” Guinevere said dryly. “I thought the hospitals had taken over most of the neighborhood.” Several of Seattle’s fine medical establishments had located in the district known as First Hill, an older area that looked out over the heart of the city toward Elliott Bay.

  Francine laughed. “Not quite. There are a lot of apartments, and a few houses, still left.”

  “You said you’d only been to visit this Madame Zoltana once or twice, Francine?” Guinevere opened her drawer and stuffed the slip of paper with the address on it into her purse.

  “That’s all. I’m afraid I’m not a true believer. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe, if you know what I mean.” Francine paused thoughtfully as she started her word processor. Her voice grew more serious. “She really can tell you some incredible things. It can be . . . well, unsettling. But I think she helps some people.”

  “Helps them?”

  Francine nodded. “Poor little Sally Evenson, who used to sit at the desk you’re using, has really come to rely on her lately. Madame Zoltana has been a counselor and a sort of therapist for her.”

  Some therapist, Guinevere thought grimly. One who left the patient in a far worse condition than the one in which she’d found her. Whatever Zoltana’s game with Sally had been, as far as Guinevere was concerned it was the next best thing to blackmail. “Well, I’ll withhold judgment until I’ve met the woman,” she told Francine, just as Miss Malcolm arrived.

  Two hours later, at eleven o’clock, Guinevere got up from the word processor with a small sigh of relief. She forgot sometimes just how hard this kind of work could be. Coffee break was hailed joyously by one and all when it arrived.
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  “I’ll see you down in the cafeteria,” Guinevere said to Francine as they left the office and started down the hall. “I want to stop by the ladies’ room first.”

  Francine nodded. “Okay. We’ll be waiting.”

  Inside the restroom, Guinevere checked her hair, washed her hands, and straightened her royal blue blazer. A Camelot Services employee was supposed to look professional at all times. Satisfied, she went back out to the corridor, deciding to give Zac a ring. He was supposed to be meeting with the interior designer of his new office today for a final rundown on plans and preparations. Zac had not gotten along well with the interior designer during the past few weeks. There had been numerous arguments over what constituted essential furnishings and what nonessential furnishings. There had also been several knock-down-drag-out discussions over the cost of everything from the floor covering to the desk calendars. On most of those occasions only Guinevere’s presence had forestalled all-out warfare. Unfortunately, she couldn’t attend today’s conference.

  She was halfway down the hall en route to the pay phone at the other end when Rich Overstreet glided out of his office and into her path. His movements were catlike, like his eyes. Guinevere, who had been doing her best to avoid any such accidental meetings, managed a polite smile.

  “Good morning, Rick.” She accompanied the greeting with a small nod and attempted to step past him.

  “Join me for a cup of coffee, Gwen.” Rick did not move out of her way. The golden cat’s eyes were intent and serious. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t just now. I have to make a phone call, and then I’ve got to meet some friends down in the cafeteria.”

  His mouth crooked sardonically. “Don’t I qualify as a friend?”

  Guinevere gave up any pretense of superficial politeness. Two years had not changed Rick Overstreet; you still had to be blunt to get through to him. “Not exactly, no.”

  He put out a hand and caught her arm, his fingers resting on the fabric of her blazer. “Gwen, you know that’s not true. It’s been two long years and everything’s changed now.”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes scathing. “Because your wife is dead? That doesn’t change a thing, Rick. Please let me go.”

  “Did I hurt you so badly two years ago?” he asked gently.

  “No.”

  “I think you’re lying, Gwen.”

  “I was never the one who lied, Rick. You were the one who had that bad habit.”

  He shrugged slightly. “Can you blame me? I wanted you very badly, Gwen. I knew you wouldn’t come to me if you found out about Elena.”

  “You were right.” She had found out about Elena, just before she had been about to leave on that first weekend trip with Rick. Guinevere had been horrified, hurt, and infuriated. But she had been grateful she’d discovered the truth before she had gone to bed with Rick Overstreet. The thought of being the other woman made her sick.

  His eyes warmed with masculine promise. “Elena’s gone now.”

  “So is whatever we once had,” Guinevere said heartily. “Please let go of my arm, Rick.”

  “How long have you been seeing that guy who met you for lunch yesterday? He looked as if he owned you.”

  Guinevere’s eyes narrowed. “No one owns me, Rick. You of all people should know that.”

  Rick ignored the crack. “He didn’t look like your type at all, Gwen.”

  “You’re hardly an authority.”

  “More of an authority than you want to admit, and you know it,” he said softly, his fingers still gripping her sleeve. “We could have been good together, Gwen, if you hadn’t lost your nerve.”

  “It was hardly a question of losing my nerve. What I lost was my faith in you. You were a lying, cheating bastard then, Rick, and I doubt you’ve changed one bit. Excuse me.” She jerked free of his grip and strode briskly down the hall, not looking back. What rotten luck to run into him here at Gage and Watson after all this time. One of the perils of being an undercover investigator, Guinevere told herself with an inner sigh.

  Zac answered the phone on the third ring. Guinevere knew at once that things were not going well on the other end.

  “I hope you’re not yelling at her again, Zac. If you’re not careful, she’s going to abandon the whole job before you move in, and then where will you be?”

  “Not much worse off, if you ask me. Do you know what she wants to do now, Gwen? She wants to put grass on one entire wall. Grass, of all things. She’s gone crazy.”

  “I expect she’s talking about grass cloth, Zac. It makes a very handsome wall covering.”

  “There’s already a nice coat of paint on all the walls.”

  “Yes, but having one wall papered will soften the overall effect. Trust her, Zac. You hired her for her advice, so take it. Listen, I called to tell you I’ve got my big break in the Zoltana case,” she went on excitedly.

  “I’m not sure if I can stand the suspense.”

  “Now, Zac, don’t be condescending. This is important. I’m going to have my first appointment with Madame Zoltana tonight after work.”

  “Ask her to look into her crystal ball and tell you whether this interior designer of mine is going to survive until the end of the week or if I’ll be charged with justifiable homicide.”

  “You aren’t taking this seriously, are you?”

  “Damn right, I’m taking it seriously. Between you and the interior designer, the assets of Free Enterprise Security are going to be wiped out before I ever get into my new office.”

  “I mean my case. You’re not taking my case seriously.”

  “You want me to get on your case?” he threatened mildly.

  “Not particularly,” she retorted. “All right, Zac, go back to sniping at your interior designer. I’ve got more important things to do. I just thought I’d let you know where I’ll be after work, since you said something about having dinner together this evening.”

  “I’ll be at your place when you get home. Don’t be late, or I’ll eat without you.” Zak broke off to yell at the hapless designer. “For God’s sake,” Guinevere heard him shout, “put away that damn baby blue. I am not having baby blue in my new office.”

  “I’ll see you for dinner,” Guinevere said into the phone. “You can cook.” She hung up the phone before Zac could respond, wondering what he would end up bringing home for dinner. He was spending a great deal of time at her apartment these days, moving in slowly but surely, as if he hoped she wouldn’t notice. A couple of his shirts were now hanging unobtrusively in her closet, and he kept a toothbrush in the bathroom. His socks and underwear were starting to show up in a dresser drawer, all carefully folded. At least he was neat.

  Guinevere smiled to herself at the thought of Zac trying to be subtle. She left the pay phone and started toward the elevators. It was as she pressed the call button that she glanced back and saw Rick Overstreet leaning casually in the doorway of his office, lighting one of his fancy cigarettes. His eyes never left her as she got into the elevator. Guinevere shuddered as the elevator doors slid shut. He was beginning to make her feel like prey, she realized. And she hated the sensation.

  At lunchtime she hurried back to Camelot Services to conduct the interview with Evelyn Pemberton. Trina smiled knowingly as the secretarial candidate walked through the door, and Guinevere had to smile back. Mrs. Pemberton appeared at first glance to be exactly what she had been waiting for. In her early fifties, the handsome, gray-haired woman wore her years and experience with a womanly authority that Guinevere responded to at once. She’d like to have that same confident authority when she reached Mrs. Pemberton’s age. Guinevere rose to greet her, giving the woman her most charming smile.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Pemberton. Please sit down. I’m so glad you could come. Miss Hood has explained the job to you?”r />
  “She gave me an overview when I talked to her.” Evelyn Pemberton nodded cordially at Trina, who was getting ready to leave for lunch. “Mr. Justis sounds as if he can be a bit of a handful at times, but I’ve been married for twenty-five years and raised two sons. I’m quite familiar with the male of the species. They have their occasional ego problems, and they can be temperamental, but I’ve learned to manage over the years.”

  Guinevere nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Mr. Justis needs someone who can maintain a calm office environment. His clients are often nervous and worried, as you can imagine. It’s the nature of his business, of course. During the past year, his client list has been growing quite steadily, and he’s reached the point where he needs full-time secretarial assistance. The job routines will be quite varied, and confidentiality is an absolute must.” Guinevere glanced shrewdly at Evelyn Pemberton. “You do understand that? Mr. Justis would let you go in an instant if he thought you had been indiscreet about one of his cases.” But first, Guinevere added silently, he’d probably chew you to pieces.

  “And he’d probably chew me up into little bits before he fired me, right?” Evelyn Pemberton asked easily.

  Guinevere grinned. “I think, Mrs. Pemberton, that you have a good grasp of the job requirements. I’ll send you over to talk to Mr. Justis first thing in the morning.”

  “That will be fine.”

  * * *

  Guinevere found the little house on First Hill without too much trouble. It was located in the shade of an old brick apartment building that filled up most of the rest of the block. Madame Zoltana apparently did not believe in advertising. There was no sign out front announcing the sort of service being offered inside. The house was a basic, old-fashioned frame structure with a well-tended garden stretching around to the back. The curtains in the windows were dark and heavy and pulled shut, which was surprising on such a pleasant, sunny day.

  There was nothing to announce that this was the abode of a rip-off psychic. Guinevere checked the address one more time before going up the front porch steps. As she lifted her hand to knock on the screen door, it occurred to her that she was nervous. She had a fleeting wish that Zac had accompanied her, and instantly gave herself a mental kick for being so chicken. This was her case, not his.