Then he slid off the bed, checked her pulse (none), replaced the pillow, and stood back to look down at her.
“Thanks in advance, Belinda.”
His smile was cold and pleased as he strode from the room.
He paused only to scoop up the remains of the tuna sandwich bribes and dab the floor where they’d been with a damp paper towel. Then he walked out of the house without a second glance.
Though his hands were shaking a trifle, he was still smiling.
ONE
Boston, Massachusetts
Diana Iverson strode into her sleek office suite carrying a fresh, large coffee and her laptop case while thumbing through emails on her smartphone. Despite being exhausted, she had a confident stride that matched her jubilant mood.
“You did it! You won the case!” Corey, her receptionist, came around from behind the desk and gave Diana a hug.
“Thanks,” she said, unable to hold back her own smile as she read an email over her receptionist’s shoulder. “Dr. Merkovitz is just as pleased.”
Extricating herself from Corey’s exuberant hug, she set her computer case on the table and sank into one of the leather chairs in the reception area, sipping from her scalding coffee, scrolling through the emails on her phone.
“Merkovitz is a douche,” said her outspoken assistant Mickey Luciano—and also the best paralegal with whom she’d ever worked—as she emerged from the depths of the suite. Perching on the edge of the table next to her boss, she crossed her arms over her middle as Diana set her phone aside. “He probably didn’t show his appreciation at all, did he? Dickwad probably figured it was his due.”
Diana ran a hand through her thick, bouncy curls and immediately regretted it, knowing how messy and out of control they would make her look. “He might be a jerk,” she said, slipping off her heels, “but he’s an influential jerk, and winning his malpractice case is going to go a long way toward building up this firm’s reputation.”
But even as she said the words, she felt a niggle of discomfort.
Yes, she—a young woman who owned a small, relatively new law firm—had won the high-profile case.
Yes, Roger Merkovitz could make or break her in the medical malpractice community of Boston because he was the executive medical director for MassGeneral, the largest, most reputable hospital in Boston. But he was an unpleasant man and difficult to work with.
And...Diana had never felt completely comfortable about the case in which a young man had expired during routine orthopedic surgery on a fractured tibia. There was something about it that bothered her.
Regardless, she’d done her job: defended her client to the best of her ability, and subsequently won the case. And she’d been brilliant, if she did say so herself.
Now it was done, making Merkovitz her most valued client. Jonathan would be so pleased. And maybe even her mother would find something nice to say for once.
It had been a long, grueling week, and even though it was Friday, she had more to do before she could relax. Jonathan was at a convention in Atlantic City this weekend, so he wouldn’t be around. She could pull out the Desai and Morbuti case files and start reviewing them. And—
Diana realized with a start that Mickey was speaking to her. “What?”
“I was saying…was it worth 60 hours a week for the last six months, not to mention your other cases? Was it worth sitting in the same room as Merkovitz, letting that snake snap and yell at you at the same time as he was looking down your blouse?”
“He wasn’t looking down my blouse,” Diana said, seizing on the lowest-hanging fruit of her assistant’s tirade. “He’s Jonathan’s colleague. He wouldn’t do that.”
Mickey snorted violently. “Yeah, right.”
“Well, anyway, the hours might be long, but they’re necessary if I want to build up this firm,” Diana told her. “It benefits all of us,” she added, looking around at her two staff members. Yes, that was it: two full-time staff members, although she had a slew of consulting attorneys and paralegals she could call on as needed. Her reputation was solid and professional, built on her own blood, sweat and tears.
“I suppose it’s a necessary evil, working with him. Let’s just hope we don’t have to do it again any time soon. So why don’t you go down to Atlantic City and meet up with Jonathan?” Mickey said. “Take a breather this weekend? Play a little blackjack or something fun. Do you even remember what fun is, Diana?”
“Jonathan doesn’t gamble,” Diana replied, imagining her serious fiancé sitting in his hotel room. He’d be working on the speech he was giving to a group of cardiologists at their annual convention. “Although he’s probably golfing right now. But…I suppose I could bring my files with me,” she murmured, flipping through her mental to-do list.
“You should celebrate,” Mickey said. “Dom is taking me out for dinner tonight since we won the case. You should do the same. Or better yet, stay in town and just do something for yourself.”
“By the way, here are your messages,” Corey said, handing Diana a stack of pink notes.
Diana took another gulp, and then began to flip through the slips as she pulled up her schedule on the smartphone. Corey had taken several phone calls from physicians from MassGen—that was good, word of mouth from the Merkovitz case already—and…hmm. Joe Tettmueller? From the Damariscotta Police Department? She sat up straight and looked at Corey. “Joe Tettmueller? What did he say?”
Corey shrugged. “He called three times while you were in court. He didn’t say why.”
“Damariscotta, Maine. That’s where Aunt Belinda lives,” Diana said slowly.
She hadn’t seen her great-aunt for more than fifteen years due to an estrangement between Belinda and Diana’s mother. A wave of memories—of the big clapboard house, the bright, sunny kitchen, the walks in the woods, the smell of the lake on a summer day—assaulted her. “I wonder what he wants.”
The phone rang, its low, tasteful bleep breaking into her thoughts. Corey looked down at the phone, then at Diana. “Caller ID says it’s from Maine. It’s probably him again.”
She took the phone, a sudden surge of trepidation replacing the nostalgia.
She had to get up to visit Aunt Belinda in the next few months. She had to. Before it was too late.
“Hello. This is Diana Iverson,” she said into the phone.
“Ms. Iverson,” said a man in a very slow, comfortable drawl. “This is Captain Joe Tettmueller from the Damariscotta Police Department. Are you related to Belinda Lawry?”
“Yes, she’s my great-aunt,” Diana replied, her heart beginning to pound. No. She already knew what he was going to say.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Your Aunt Belinda is dead.”
* * *
Three weeks later
Damariscotta, Maine
Diana found the cards wrapped in black silk, nestled in a plain mahogany box.
She fanned the deck in her hands, recognizing the swords and cups of the Tarot. Tracing the soft, rounded corners, she noticed how dull the gloss had become, as if the cards had often been fingered and shuffled.
An intricate design of royal blue, black, and dark red in a snakeskin pattern decorated the backs of the cards, and on the front were kings and queens, cups, wands, pentacles, and swords—all in painstaking detail and bright colors.
As Diana held the oversized cards in her hands, the vaguest, faintest whisper of a memory—like a dream—settled over her.
Then it was plucked away like a veil being drawn from her head. In the wake of the wispy thought, some awareness skittered over the nape of her neck, raising the fine hair there and causing prickles to run down her spine.
She gave a short, sad laugh, then rewrapped the cards and set them back in the box. Aunt Belinda, she thought, shaking her head. I waited too long.
Diana’s eyes moistened and the back of her throat burned. The first summer she visited Damariscotta had been twenty years ago, but she remembered it vividly. She’d been te
n, tall and gangly with teeth that needed orthodontic attention—a serious city girl with wild, bushy hair and a penchant for reading instead of the outdoors. But a summer with Aunt Bee had begun to change that.
A real tear stung her eye and Diana brushed it away. Later. She’d grieve later. She had work to do now. Her law practice to run. And a fiancé…maybe…to return to.
At the thought of Jonathan, a crushing pain settled over her chest. Despite the sad news, this visit to Damariscotta—to Aunt Belinda’s house—couldn’t have come at a better time.
Diana drew in a deep breath and closed her mind to the hurt. Later.
The shrill brrring of an old-fashioned phone jolted in the silence. Relieved from the heaviness of emotions she’d tried to ignore, she reached for the shiny black monstrosity, complete with dial and heavy handset. “Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Mickey. News on the home front—don’t know whether you’ll be happy about it or not,” said her assistant in a tone that indicated she already knew the answer. “I tried your cell first, but the call didn’t go through.”
“So, what is it?”
“Merkovitz called. I told him you were out of town on a family emergency.”
Diana had come up for Belinda’s funeral the week after Captain Tettmueller had called, but returned to Boston the same day.
Since then, she’d worked from home and avoided Jonathan as much as possible for the next two weeks, trying to figure out what to do. How to handle the rift between them.
So when the probate had been settled early this week and she had gained access to Belinda’s property, Diana took the opportunity to leave Boston and put some space between her and her fiancé.
Former fiancé.
Maybe.
Her heart squeezed whenever she thought of breaking things off permanently. For good. She could already hear her mother’s voice: I knew you’d never be able to keep a man like him.
“Merkovitz has been named in another suit,” Mickey was saying.
Diana squeezed her eyes shut as a churning began in her stomach. “Already?”
“Merry Christmas in July,” Mickey said dryly.
“Let me find something to write with.” Diana pulled Aunt Bee’s box of Tarot cards back out of the bedside stand, setting it on top, and looked in the empty drawer. There wasn’t anything to write with inside. “I’m not on a cordless phone, so hold on while I go grab one.”
“Do you have wi-fi? I can email you the info.”
Diana gave a short, strained laugh and shoved a hand into her short, thick hair. “In Damariscotta? Don’t make me laugh. This place is in the middle of the forest, practically in a small mountain range. I can hardly get my cell phone to work, which is making me climb the walls. But the cable guy is supposed to come tomorrow, so I should be online by then,” she added, rising abruptly to head briskly to the kitchen.
Once there, she picked up the extension—another wired plastic monstrosity—and rummaged through a drawer to find a pen and paper. “Why don’t you give me an overview and send the details by email,” she told Mickey. “It’ll be several weeks before the deposition.”
“And you’ll be back in Boston by then, won’t you?”
“I’ll be back in a week.” Even as Diana made her vehement comment, she felt a twinge of discomfort.
She couldn’t afford to be away from her practice for very long, but at the same time, all of a sudden, she had an inheritance to deal with—Aunt Belinda’s house, as well as all of her personal effects and a substantial sum of money that had made Diana’s eyes widen and her knees give out when the estate lawyer called with the information.
And aside from that, she didn’t mind the excuse to put some distance between her and Jonathan.
It’ll be okay. He loves you.
But did he really?
Her mother’s admonishments suddenly filled her thoughts: You’re so gawky with those long legs and clumsy hands, Diana. I keep expecting you to drop anything you get near. And stop playing with your hair. It looks terrible, all bushy and messy when you do that.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pushing her mother and her criticisms away. I am a successful businesswoman. I have a thriving practice. I’ve got a successful, handsome fiancé who loves me.
Her stomach ground tightly. He does love me.
“All right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” she said abruptly, looking at the list of notes she’d just made.
Her assistant disconnected and Diana returned to the bedroom, distracted by the faint drum of pain starting at the back of her head. She hadn’t had a migraine in years, but this felt like the beginning of one.
Or maybe it was just tension, thinking of Roger Merkovitz. Of having to start the process all over again with him and a new case. Another half-year of 80-hour workweeks.
The receiver of the bedside phone dangled from the table, a testament to her hasty departure to find a writing implement. And although she didn’t remember doing it, the box of cards had been knocked off, and the deck lay scattered all over the wool carpet.
Hanging up the bleeping receiver, Diana crouched to gather up the cards. She noticed they’d all landed face down except for one. Reaching for the swatch of black silk, she replaced it in the mahogany box, then picked up the single face-up card.
The artistic rendering was exquisite, she thought, looking at its bold red and blue design. The Fool, she reflected, dimly remembering Aunt Belinda’s explanation of this first card of the Major Arcana—the backbone, so to speak, of the Tarot.
What had Aunt Belinda told her about the Fool?
Diana stared at it for a moment, looking at the out-flung arms of the young, carefree man as he danced down a slight incline. The Fool looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. He was handsome and smiling—which was more than Diana could say for herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt carefree or relaxed...especially now, when the thumping in her temples was beginning to nauseate her.
She needed to take something to catch it before it got worse, but she wasn’t going to leave a mess. Diana placed The Fool at the top of the deck and set the cards in their mahogany enclosure, swathing them with the ends of the black cloth. Just as she put the box back in the drawer, the irritating brrring of the phone broke the stillness.
This time, she answered the phone in the kitchen, deciding that if her smartphone was going to refuse to work she needed to get a cordless phone. Tomorrow.
“Hi sweetie.” It was Jonathan.
Diana drew in a deep breath. That was the thing about these old phones—no Caller ID.
“How are you?” he said in his soft, empathetic voice. “How are things up there? I miss you.”
She gave herself a mental shake. I need to forgive him and forget. “I’m doing all right,” she said, making her voice sound livelier than she felt.
“I tried your cell, but it just went to voice mail without ringing. I guess you are in the middle of nowhere.” He gave a little chuckle that sounded strained—which was only right, she reminded herself. He’d been the one who strayed; he was the one who’d put the chink in their relationship.
If only she hadn’t gone down to surprise him in Atlantic City after winning the Merkovitz case.
But then she’d never have known. She drew in a deep breath and tried to calm her churning stomach.
“Yes, it’s a little rustic up here. How are you?” Diana pulled the refrigerator door open. She found a six-pack of beer—Aunt Bee drank beer?—a bag of prewashed carrots, a half gallon of milk long past its expiration date, and three-quarters of a stick of butter. Guess it’s going to be the Grille for dinner tonight.
She realized Jonathan had paused in a stream of complaints about the other partners in his practice and seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Normally, she followed his explanations closely, but all she could think about this time was whether she was one of the new partners.
Valerie Somebody.
Doctor Valerie Somebod
y: Young, Sexy Cardiologist—who’d been sharing a hotel room with Diana’s fiancé in Atlantic City.
Her fingers tightened on the phone as she swallowed a ball of nausea. A dull pain began to thud in her temples. “I’m sorry, Jonathan, what were you saying? The line’s a little fuzzy.”
“I asked if you wanted me to bring anything when I come up this weekend.”
She bit her lip, wishing there was a way to keep him from coming. She wasn’t certain she was ready to see him yet.
But when she’d confronted him about Valerie Whoever, he’d apologized—even cried when he told her it had been a one-time thing and that he’d made a mistake, and that he didn’t want to lose her.
I love you, Diana. I was just a little scared—things have happened so quickly between us—and I made a mistake. I felt terrible the whole time. I knew it was wrong. I’m sorry I hurt you.
“Well?” he asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.
“Um, I really can’t think of anything I need right now,” she replied—then forced herself to joke, “other than a cell tower in the yard here, but I don’t think even you can make that happen.”
He chuckled at the compliment. “Well, then, that’s it. My flight gets in Friday night—can I text you the details? How far of a drive is it up there to your aunt’s?”
“It’s a bit more than an hour from the airport. You can try to text. I’m pretty sure I can get service in town,” she told him, and briefly closed her eyes when a telltale flicker of white light skittered across her vision. This migraine was coming on fast.
Just then, a knock sounded on the front door—the old, heavy brass knocker thunked twice, then paused, then twice again.
“Belindaaaa,” a masculine voice called as Diana heard the door open. “Belinda, it’s me!”
Diana started for the foyer before remembering she was restricted by the ugly black phone cord. “Jonathan, I’ve got to run. Someone’s at the door.”
“Belindaaa!” The door closed and footsteps thudded across the wood floor.
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 2
