Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  “Sure,” Joe said with a slow smile. “No problem. See ya at the Grille.” He beckoned for Cady, who seemed uncertain about whether to stay or go. But in the end, the lab left the porch when she saw a squirrel, electing to chase it across the yard.

  Diana closed the door and leaned against it, listening as Joe called Cady to follow him back into the woods. The whole incident left her upset and a little queasy. What had Jonathan been thinking? Was he really that desperate to get her back? And how convenient was it that he’d found this last letter from Aunt Belinda.

  The envelope felt strangely warm and solid, much more so than its appearance and weight would permit, and Diana held it for a moment, closing her eyes, pulling it to her chest, and breathing deeply, as though she could smell the scent of Aunt Bee’s lilac powder. A tear stung one eye, then suddenly, they came in torrents, unstoppable and exhausting, as Diana made her way to her favorite settee in the den.

  She cried for things she knew about—for the loss of her aunt, for the years they could have had, but didn’t. For the way Belinda had died, alone and helpless under someone’s heavy hand, evil and malignant. She cried for the disintegration of her law practice, for the blood, sweat, and energy she’d put into it, believing that no one could take it away from her if she worked hard enough...and the way it was eroding because of one selfish, angry man.

  It was a long time later when Diana opened her swollen eyes and looked around. She sat up carefully, suppressing a groan and wincing at the pounding in her head from such hard tears. Now. Now that she had all of that out of her system, she must read Aunt Belinda’s last words to her.

  She slid a finger under the flap and tore the envelope open.

  Inside was a neatly-clipped newspaper article from the Seattle Times and a letter from her aunt. Diana put the article aside and unfolded the letter.

  Dearest Diana—

  I hope this finds you well. I am fine, but missing you, and, knowing that you are so busy that it is difficult to get away, I still hope that you will be able to come up here this summer sometime and visit with me to make up for our lost years.

  I have a wonderful neighbor whom I’d like you to meet—he has been an enormous help to me around the house, and with other things that you may not yet understand. I think he might be someone you would enjoy getting to know.

  I’ve enclosed this newspaper article because I’d like you to do some research for me and find out more about this situation of assisted suicide. I have been having some odd readings in the cards lately, and feel as though something is about to happen. If I could find out more about the people in this article, perhaps it would help. I continue to dream about it and have visions during my readings about those people who succumbed to the temptation to kill themselves.

  If you learn anything at all, no matter how insignificant, please let me know so that I can put myself out of this misery!

  I am sorry this note is so short. I just want to get this in the mail to you. There’s something compelling me to even drive to the post office on a Sunday afternoon in order to post it. It’s something that I need to do.

  Take care of yourself, and I hope to see you soon. Your loving aunt Belinda.

  Diana’s throat tightened, its dryness painful when she swallowed, and she knew she would have cried again if she had any more fluid in her body. Instead, she could only blink sandpaper-dry eyes and gently set the letter aside, once again suppressing the ache of guilt.

  She reached for the newspaper clipping.

  API, Salem—Oregon’s recently-approved assisted suicide statute has been exercised more than five times in the last two months, reports State Attorney General David Anthony. “There have been five deaths identified as assisted suicide by the families of the victims, or by pre-recorded videotapes taken at the scene in which the victim succumbed to the carbon monoxide poisoning used to kill them.”

  In each case, Anthony states, the attending physician has testified to the extent of the patient’s illness, stating that it was a case of terminal illness. Doctor Cameron Darr, one of the physicians who advised and assisted at three of the suicides, spoke in defense of his patients’ wishes when the family of one contested the victim’s health status. “Marjorie Gaunt had just been diagnosed with bone cancer, she was terminal, and she chose to spare her family the long, drawn-out illness that would have ensued, and would absolutely have resulted in her death. She simply chose to die at a time and place, and in an environment, that suited her.”

  Marjorie Gaunt’s family, residents of Beverly Hills, CA, and well-known for their chain of Amaretto’s restaurants along the West Coast, charge that since she had just been diagnosed, Dr. Darr should have taken time to treat her before recommending that she move ahead with her plans for suicide.

  “Ms. Gaunt was ill, and she did not want to experience further pain. She knew she was terminal, and she made her decision. I merely assisted her in attaining a graceful way to end her life,” responds Dr. Darr.

  Ms. Gaunt’s son, Bradley Gaunt, has told the press that he intends to open an extensive investigation into the situation of his mother’s death and, if necessary, will sue the State of Oregon to suspend Dr. Darr’s medical license until the case has been resolved.

  Other similar cases have been filed in states such as Michigan, where an assisted suicide statute has not been approved, but retired pathologist Jack Kevorkian has been a champion of assisted suicide. In 1999, Dr. Kevorkian was convicted of assisting a patient to commit suicide in the State of Michigan.

  Diana frowned and checked the date on the article. It was more than seven years old, and the images included a picture of Marjorie Gaunt, and one of the state’s Attorney General. The woman was elderly, and she was flanked by her son and daughter, the caption explained.

  If Aunt Belinda held onto an article that was so outdated it was probably related to one of her psychic visions. But what did she want from Diana?

  She reached for the letter, which she’d left on the table next to the chair, and reread it. Aunt Belinda had been insistent that she was bothered by (having visions and dreams was how she phrased it) people who chose to commit suicide, and she wanted Diana to do research on the people in the article. That was easy enough, but it didn’t seem pressing.

  After staring at the letter—holding it in her hands, as if to feel any remainder of Aunt Belinda’s presence, she pulled to her feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and find out who killed her aunt, and why. She was certain, in the deepest part of her, that this letter and article had something to do with it. Aunt Belinda had sensed that something was going to happen. She just hadn’t known it was her own murder.

  Time to do a little research. Diana pulled out her laptop and plugged it in, waiting for it to power on. She was feeling around in the large, outside pocket for a pen when she touched the tattered binding of Aunt Belinda’s journal. Starting in realization, she pulled out the book, followed by the Tarot cards that were still wrapped carefully in their mahogany box.

  She hadn’t looked at the Tarot cards in weeks, and she’d forgotten about the journal. All at once, she remembered the image from her dream of the old, tattered book. That looked just like the one in her hands. A little prickle skimmed over her, raising the hair on her arms.

  I guess it’s time to read a bit more of Aunt Belinda’s journal. Diana flipped toward the back of the book, hoping that the last entries would give her some clues as to what was bothering her aunt when she died...and if perhaps it had anything to do with someone trying to burn her house down.

  The last entry, written Sunday night—the night of her death—gave little information but a discourse on the status of her flower garden and a discussion of the quilting ladies’ evening out at the Green Oaks Grille the night before. Only the last paragraph caught Diana’s interest: “I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and expect to have the results of those tests back before I go. I’m sure it will be good news, and then I can find out what is going on. I hope
that Diana gets back with me soon. Perhaps I’ll call her about that little Diana-gram I sent her.”

  Diana-gram. Diana gave a melancholy smile at the terminology, and sobered at the realization that Aunt Bee had expected to be given a clean bill of health at the doctor’s office. How frightening that she should die by someone’s hand the very night before.

  Diana flipped a few pages back in the journal, skimming the entries and finding nothing of interest other than one page of rants and raves about Helen Galliday and her meddlesome ways. Apparently, Helen had tried to set Aunt Belinda up with the postman and it backfired when she found out that he hated cats.

  As she glanced up from the journal, her gaze fell on the bright screen of her laptop. Diana gently put the book aside and turned her attention to finding something out about Marjorie Gaunt—a woman who wanted to die.

  The keys clicked and the computer hummed as she browsed through the reams of information on the Internet, trying to find something of interest. It took awhile, but she finally found another article about Marjorie Gaunt.

  API, Salem—SERIAL KILLER! ANGEL OF MERCY! Those were the opposing sentiments raised today by picketers outside the capital building in Salem. The case of Marjorie Gaunt is receiving widespread attention from parties including the American Civil Liberties Union, who supports the right to assisted suicide, and the AARP, who expresses severe concern that the elderly will be taken advantage of if this statute continues to remain in force.

  The case of Marjorie Gaunt involves Dr. CameronDarr, an oncologist who recently came under fire for a more recent assisted suicide. Gaunt’s family alleges she wasn’t ill enough to be diagnosed as terminal and that Dr. Darr urged her to kill herself prematurely.

  Dr. Darr, who has assisted in more than five suicides in the last six months, including that of Mrs. Enid Oregon, former wife of the World Toy Emporium magnate, was unavailable for comment.

  Marcus Sperka, attorney for the Gaunt family, anticipates that they will obtain enough evidence to take this case to trial by the end of the summer.

  Diana took note of the name Enid Oregon—another woman who sought her own demise. She noticed that date on this article was only four months after the previous one. The picture of Marjorie Gaunt was the same, but there was another photo captioned “Cameron Darr.” Diana peered at the controversial physician, who had a grainy, black-and-white countenance due to the quality of newspaper print and the limitations of her PC. He had dark hair and a full moustache, but there was something about his eyes that caught her attention. The way he looked at the camera—it was a candid shot, taken, perhaps, outside of a courtroom or at a press conference—gave her a shiver.

  “I don’t think I’d take his word for the fact that I was dying,” Diana murmured aloud, reaching for another bite of the limp sandwich.

  She searched a bit longer online, but found nothing new about Marjorie Gaunt. Perhaps the case had never gone to trial, or maybe the Gaunt family couldn’t find the evidence it was looking for to convict Darr.

  Diana closed the lid of the laptop. Weariness pulled at her, and she knew her mind was too tired to function further tonight, but then her attention fell upon the mahogany box.

  She hadn’t even opened it since the awful experience at Jonathan’s condo, when she’d been destroyed by pain and illness. But tonight, she was drawn to the cards and she moved toward their little wooden chest as if in a dream.

  She had to do it. Though exhausted beyond belief, Diana took a deep breath, steadying herself. Aunt Belinda, if you’re here...help me.

  Now was the time, she thought to herself. If she was ever going to believe that she had some kind of ability, this would have to be it. Diana closed her eyes and gingerly shuffled the oversized deck of cards, remembering what Ethan had once told her. “Open your mind, and let the images of the cards lead you on a trip through your subconscious. The pictures are only there to open doors in your mind. They mean whatever you want them to mean.”

  As she shuffled, a card flipped from beneath her fingers and fell to the floor. It landed face-down, and Diana stared at it for a moment, her body going hot and cold and weak all at once. She drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes...and decided to leave it there for a while. She’d continue with her plan to deliberately choose from the deck and turn that card over only when she was finished.

  Moving the errant card out of the way, she set the neatened deck on the floor. Although she wasn’t sure what she was doing, Diana went with her instinct. Heart pounding, she cut the deck once to the left, and then stopped, staring at the stack of cards. A tingling in her fingers crawled up her arms and sparked in her stomach, and she knew this was the right thing to do. She didn’t feel ill. She felt energized.

  With a deep breath and a quick prayer, Diana reached for the deck and turned up three cards in rapid succession, laying them out in front of her.

  The first card she had seen before: Two of Swords. It depicted a blindfolded woman holding two long swords crossed in front of her, as if to block someone or something. Diana remembered that it implied avoidance or the obstruction of emotion.

  The tingling became stronger and her heart galloped in her chest as she realized that was how she’d been, how she’d previously responded to the possibility of another level to her knowledge for a very long time. This card, she thought in a burst of self-revelation, shows how I was before I came to Damariscotta.

  Her heart slowed its breakneck pace to a calmer one as she looked at the second card. It was an image of a chalice overflowing with water, held by a large hand belonging to an unseen entity. A dove swept down into the cup. The caption on the card read Ace of Cups.

  Diana knew from the times she had looked through the book on the Tarot that the suit of cups implied emotion or intuition, perhaps even love or affection. The ace of any suit was the epitome of that suit, embodying the essence of that symbol and exhibiting it in its truest, fullest form.

  If the first card is the way I was, Diana thought to herself, then perhaps this suggests how I am now. Past, present, and future.

  She looked at the card again and felt fullness. Her cup was overflowing, she was attuned, sharp, and vulnerable to her feelings at this time. Emotions had bubbled within her—warred within her—at a heightened level for the past few weeks. Her feelings for Ethan, the fear of why she’d been a target for vandalism and the break-ins, the confusion and fear over her aunt’s murder, the depression from the implosion of her career...and now, the opening of her mind to accept the abilities that Belinda had understood so well.

  All of these emotions swarmed over her, swamping her so that she felt exhausted and exuberant at the same time. Confused and mixed up, frightened and exhilarated by love. These forces were foreign to Diana in their strength—to she who had always prided herself on her stability and unemotional detachment to people, places, and events.

  She took a deep breath, suddenly at such peace with herself that calm settled over her. Now, the third card. The future, perhaps.

  This, too, was a card she did not recognize but could glean some meaning from its caption. King of Wands, it read. Diana didn’t know much about the suit of wands, except that it implied creativity, energy, and action. The wands were equated with the element of fire, which was a forceful, bold entity. The king himself sat on an ornate throne, holding a wand as a staff.

  Diana stared at the card, trying to equate the persona of the king with something that could happen or be a part of her future. The king could symbolize a person—one who exhibited those energetic, forceful characteristics...or it could mean she would attain or experience an atmosphere of drama or daring...or, even, that she herself was symbolized by the energetic persona of the king.

  She shook her head, still looking at the King of Wands, wondering what it could mean.

  After a long moment, she came back to herself, back to the floor where she sat cross-legged. Her eyes lit on the fourth card, the one that had fallen from the deck while she was shuffling. With a deep
breath, she reached for it. Flipped it over. And saw Death.

  Now, she shivered as a blast of cold air rushed over her, and that same black wave of terror she’d felt at Jonathan’s threatened to encompass her.

  No, not again. No...

  She fought, focused on the Ace of Cups, turning her mind sharply, firmly from the image of Death. I won’t succumb this time. She focused, meditated, prayed, hypnotized herself with the picture of the overflowing Cup, curling her fingers around solid objects: the edge of the piecrust table, the cushion of the settee.

  And all at once, Motto appeared, jumping up onto the sofa next to her. He butted against her leg and side with his warm, furry body. Then he looked at her with blue eyes and sat next to her, large and warm and alive, twitching his tail as she came back to herself.

  Smiling, victorious, she gathered the feline into her arms. And he let her.

  * * *

  Diana woke in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright in her bed.

  Cameron Darr.

  Marc Reardon.

  Cameron Darr was Marc Reardon.

  The names were merely rearrangements of the letters—anagrams. Dianagrams! Of course. How could she have missed such an obvious thing?

  Scrambling out of bed, Diana fumbled for the lamp and turned it on. She sat on the edge of the mattress, breathing as if she’d been running and running.

  Queasiness grew in the pit of her stomach. Aunt Belinda had known what she was doing when she sent her that article. But was it true—was Marc really Cameron Darr? And if he was, what was he doing in Damariscotta, using a different name?

  The possible explanations were obvious: he had changed his identity and disappeared to escape the lawsuit, or had just moved away to start anew after being accused of murdering Marjorie Gaunt. Diana knew how much damage even a minor malpractice lawsuit could do to a physician’s practice—she wouldn’t blame him if he’d decided to relocate and start over again. Many doctors had been forced to do so.