by Jenna Ryan
It took a moment for her head to clear. “Was that a clever distraction?”
“More like self-indulgence. Don’t get bogged down by the lipstick. It’s possible the text messages will provide more of a clue.”
“I still don’t think Katie sent them—except the second one did refer to Killer.” Lifting her face, she let the rain slide over her cheeks. “I just want one thing here to make sense.” She gave the manor a resolute look. “We need to go through it, Donovan. There must be something inside. Signs of a struggle, speakers, wires, more hidden doors. Katie would have put up a fight.”
“Not if she was chloroformed.”
“What about her watch? Did it fall off accidentally, or did the man from the tunnel steal it because he’s holding her somewhere?”
“You think a kidnapper would give his victim’s watch away as a gift?”
“He might if his brains are below his belt. People do stupid things.”
“Okay, we’ll search. But first you can pick up some of those lipstick samples.” At her pointed stare, he chuckled. “Any information will be helpful. I just think the text messages will tell us more.”
Too cold and wet to respond, Isabella returned to her car and let him follow her to town. Frustration set in when the drugstore sales person told her the samples, the names of which she couldn’t recall, were gone.
Thirty minutes later, still frustrated but finally dry in jeans, slouchy boots and a gray military-style jacket, Isabella headed up to the main lodge to wait for Donovan.
Morning adventure aside, she’d talked to him, given chase with him and, having sent the thrill-seeking teens on their way, kissed him on a rain-drenched path. It hadn’t been awkward—or at least not too awkward—and all in all, she’d only thought about the night they’d spent together twenty or thirty times. Forty, tops. Yes, he looked great naked, and the sex had been the most amazing of her life, but that didn’t spell love to her. Denial maybe, but not love.
The first thing Isabella saw when she entered the lobby was Robert Drake coming out of George’s front office.
When he spotted her, he gestured behind him. “The phone was ringing. I thought it might be important, and there was no one here.”
She smiled. “Was it?”
“What? Oh, no. Someone selling tickets.”
“I see. Mr. Drake?”
Already en route to the door, the developer halted. His keys jingled at his side. “I’m late for an appointment, Ms. Ross.”
“Yes, I sensed that. Is there some reason you haven’t approached me about purchasing Darkwood Manor?”
His eyes came up. Sharply. “Being a hotelier, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in selling.”
“I’m not, but being a developer, I’d have expected you to inquire.”
His lips quirked at the corners. “Time isn’t a thing I like to waste. I deal with those who are willing to sell first and see how far that takes me.”
“I sense an underlying strategy in that sort of approach. If it were me, I’d have asked.”
A dark brow rose. “But then you aren’t me, are you, Ms. Ross, and sometimes a mountain simply can’t be moved.”
“Most times, I should think.”
He stopped jingling. “On the other hand, there are ways to circumvent mountains, or if necessary, cut off the access routes leading to them.”
“True,” she agreed in a pleasant tone. “But I’d think twice about cutting off a mountain with the potential to erupt. The area near a volcano, specifically my grandfather, tends to suffer, and my sources tell me you’ve been acquiring land around Darkwood Manor recently.”
“Safe land, Ms. Ross. Not the kind where people’s lives might be at risk. We’ve all heard the wails coming from the manor. The locals believe Aaron Dark’s spirit is unhappy about his house changing hands. Many believe he has the capacity for murder even in his disembodied state. Now, where you might see that as a selling feature, I see it as a potential death knell. The question is, whose death might it portend?”
With a gratuitous smile, he executed a smart turn. And walked straight into Donovan.
ACTUALLY, IT WAS GEORGE who almost got steamrolled, but only because bouncing off Donovan caused Drake to crash into her.
She would have fallen if she hadn’t been clinging to Donovan’s arm. As it was, she stumbled into a support beam, closed her eyes and began a slow descent to the floor.
Donovan caught her while the developer made his apologies and a speedy escape.
“Is she drunk?” Isabella asked, then remembered George’s agenda and winced. “She didn’t get the loan.”
George’s smeared lipstick created an exaggerated upward bow. “Eleven minutes,” she slurred. “That’s all it took for that tight-assed marmot to shoot me down. ‘Place is a liability,’ he said. ‘You’re better off bankrupt.’ Good thing I didn’t feel that way when I changed his dirty diapers.” Her head rolled in Donovan’s direction. “Where’s Haden?”
“Probably at the restaurant.” He raised a brow at Isabella, who took her hand.
“Was that freight train that hit me Robert Drake?”
Isabella smiled. “We were having a chat.”
“We heard,” Donovan said. “Can you handle her?”
“Think so. You might want to check the office. Drake was exiting as I was entering.”
“Her room’s through the kitchen, to the right. Get her settled. She’ll sleep it off.”
Easy for him to say. It took Isabella twenty minutes to coax the older woman into bed. She kept insisting that the banker should be shot and Orry Lucas with him.
“One’s a marmot, the other’s a rat. No, worse, he’s a snake. Can’t trust a damned snake…”
“I never do.” After removing the red pumps, she used a throw to cover the lodge owner’s splayed limbs. “Try to sleep, okay?”
George’s response was a stuttering snore.
Pausing at the door with her hand on the light switch, Isabella stared at the woman’s face and wondered how far a person might be willing to go if she was desperate enough.
EVEN IN BOOTS WITH THREE-INCH heels, Isabella matched him stride for stride. It was close to 4:00 p.m. and already dark as hell, but time felt short, and Donovan had learned to trust his instincts in that regard.
“I’m not accusing, I’m just saying,” she maintained as they climbed the stairs to the manor. “George needs money that I’m betting Robert Drake would be more than willing to pay.”
“For what?”
She stopped on the porch. “Donovan, you told me not ten minutes ago that George told you the message she gave me came from Robert Drake, a guest who, twice in one day, has apparently taken it upon himself to answer the phone in her office. You tell me, is there any chance that George would accept money from Drake for sending me up to Darkwood under false pretenses?”
“I don’t know.” And that pissed him off, because he wanted to say no and mean it. “She used to slip me and my buddies six-packs of beer the year before we were legal.”
He could see she was trying not to smile. “First of all, is that relevant? And second, is it supposed to be a good thing?”
“To three guys who scored two crappy beers apiece on a Friday night in Mystic Harbor, it was good enough. Denny Lucas stole his beer from the corner store, then pinned the thefts on his cousin. Orry cleaned out a lot of jail-cell toilets as payment for his so-called crimes.”
“Which you evidently knew he hadn’t committed.” Eyes twinkling, she patted his cheek. “You were an adolescent angel, Black. I’d scold you except Aunt Mara was my George, and my friends and I preferred wine to beer. So, I’ll go with the adage innocent until proven guilty, and hope the snake reference she made had nothing to do with the snake in my bed last night.” Stepping around him, she gave the door a shove. “But I still don’t trust Robert Drake.”
“You’d be a fool if you did.” Donovan’s gaze swept the cobwebbed ceiling before coming to rest on the ball
room entrance. “Are you sure Katie was in there when she disappeared?”
“She called the angel on the outer molding a gargoyle, so I know she got that far.”
“Does she like exploring old houses?”
“Hates it. I’m the old-house freak. It’s why I scout and Katie crunches numbers.”
“And does number crunching for the Corrigan-Ross Hotel Group pay well?”
She cast him a knowing look. “Quite well. My salary’s higher, if that’s your point. But I’ve been part of the business longer than her. Katie taught Accounting at a Boston business school for three years before Grandpa C convinced her to join the family team.”
“Convinced or coerced?”
Irritation moved in. “You think Katie engineered her own vanishing act, don’t you, that she hated her life and work, and here was a golden opportunity to ditch them both and start again.”
“It’s been done before.”
“I’m sure it has, but Katie’s not a drama queen. If she wanted out, she’d have left the business and possibly Boston as well—after she told me what she was planning to do, because she’d have known I’d help her do it.” She motioned sideways but kept her eyes on his and her expression composed. “The angel’s this way.”
Her unruffled comeback intrigued him, almost as much as the display of Irish temper. He handed her a flashlight. “Show me where you were standing when you heard the ghostly warning.”
She led him into the ballroom. “There was a creak, then about twenty seconds later, a female voice. It seemed to come from everywhere, but a wide-range speaker could simulate that effect, no problem.”
He felt her tracking the line of his gaze.
“Are we looking for something in particular, Donovan?”
His lips twitched. “Can’t you smell it?”
“All I smell is must, old wood and damp from the rain.”
“Nothing else?”
She walked away, breathed in. “Does dust have a smell?” But as she drew alongside the window, she swung around and ran her light through the shadows. “Ghosts don’t wear cheap cologne.”
Donovan angled his beam over the back wall. “Looks like you’re busted, Lucas.”
One of the deeper shadows stirred. “Show-off,” the man who’d created it muttered. “I thought you were intruders until I heard you talking.” Orry raised a hand to shield his eyes. “Turn that damn thing off, Donovan. I’m not a suspect in a lineup. What are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t Isabella be asking that question?”
The deputy opened his mouth, but a sharp snap of metal had him closing it again. Only his eyes moved as he offered a shaky, “What was that?”
Isabella set her teeth. “I’m not sure what it’s used for, but I’m really glad I wore boots, because it has a hard bite.”
Donovan dropped his gaze. What he saw had his nerves twisting into knots of white-hot fury.
Wrapped around Isabella’s ankle was a very old, very nasty foot trap.
ORRY BROUGHT AN EMERGENCY kit from the cruiser, then stood back as far as possible while Donovan examined her ankle.
Thanks to her jeans, her slouchy leather boots and the poor condition of the trap, the teeth had only penetrated deep enough to draw blood. The wounds would sting for a while, but when she considered what might have been, Isabella thought she’d gotten off lightly.
Judging from the murderous expression on his face, Donovan disagreed. He turned her foot to inspect the bloodied spots. “When was your last tetanus shot?”
“I had a booster in May. I’m covered.”
“You’re lucky the spring was rusty.”
“And my boots have thick folds.” She tried not to mourn the loss. “Aunt Mara gave them to me,” she said wistfully. “They’re Italian.”
“Now they’re ventilated,” Orry called across the room.
Donovan unwrapped a roll of gauze. “Bring your flashlight over here, Lucas. My battery’s dying.”
“I really should be getting back.”
“Did you ever tell us why you were here?”
Scowling, Orry made his way toward them. “Cousin Katie’s still missing, isn’t she? What do you think I was doing?”
“It looked like you were hiding in a corner,” Isabella remarked.
“I explained that.” Orry’s neck went red. “For all I know you could’ve been prowlers.”
“And you being the law, cowering took precedence over a potential confrontation.”
“I was scoping the scene, lady. Don’t tell me your fed boyfriend’s never done that before… Arghh!”
To Isabella’s shock, the deputy’s feet shot out from under him. He landed on his back between a broken table and a twisted roll of carpet.
Donovan tied off the gauze, gave her ankle a quick inspection and, catching her chin, said, “Stay right here.”
The manor had gone eerily dark over the past fifteen minutes. Tugging on her ruined boot, Isabella stood to test her ankle. The pain only climbed to her knee now. “Is he conscious?”
“He bumped his head on the table. He’ll be fine.”
On her hands and knees, Isabella located her flashlight. She was reaching for it when she spotted an object less than three inches from her outstretched fingers.
“Hell,” she exclaimed softly and set her hand down with care. “Donovan, there’s another trap over here.”
She didn’t realize he was beside her until he drew her to her feet. “It’s for squirrels.”
When Orry let out a low groan, she shook his arm. “Should we call 911?”
“It’d be the compassionate thing to do.” The woozy acting sheriff rolled over, groaned again.
“Don’t move,” Donovan told him.
“So, I’m supposed to, what, lay here and bleed to death?” Orry probed his skull. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’d rather crawl to my cruiser for help.”
“Watch your fingers as you crawl.”
Orry climbed awkwardly to his knees, yelped and pitched face-first into the remnants of a split seat cushion.
“Okay, that’s it,” he blustered at shaky half volume. “Whatever’s going on in this loony bin, I’m done with it.” The volume rose together with the quaver. “Do you hear me? All I want to do is get the hell out of here in one piece. It’s her house. You don’t like us being here, punish her, not me.”
Despite the absurdity of his outburst, a head-to-toe chill pricked Isabella’s skin. “I hate it when someone panics,” she said under her breath. “It’s contagious, and that sucks. Can I move now, Donovan?”
“Yeah, but slowly. You, too, Orry. Get off your stomach.”
“I can’t. The floor won’t… I can’t.”
“Contagious,” Isabella repeated, but took the hand Donovan held out to her.
“Walk where I walk,” he said. “Grab Orry as we go past. Keep him behind you, and don’t let him push.”
She inspected the floor, but couldn’t see anything except shadows within shadows. “I feel like we’re tiptoeing through a minefield.”
“We are.” Donovan held her back. “Orry slipped on a bunch of ball bearings, and I’ve counted seven traps so far. Different sizes, different types, but all open and waiting to be sprung.”
Chapter Thirteen
Orry insisted his vision was spotty, so they left the cruiser behind the manor, where he’d parked it, and drove him to the hospital clinic. A nurse there examined and rebandaged Isabella’s wounds, leaving the unfortunate doctor to deal with the acting sheriff.
“Between threats and curses, Orry told me a number of people have been after him to investigate the wail we’ve been hearing,” Isabella said to Donovan when they returned to the street. “For people, read mayor and council. Orry knows who signs his paycheck.”
“He has the makings of a great politician.” She waved at the deepening mist. “So, now we trade a rainy day for a foggy night.” Picking Donovan’s pocket, she regarded his BlackBerry. “Wow, time flies even faster w
hen you’re not having fun. It’s almost eight. No wonder I’m starving.”
“The Cave it is.” Donovan propelled her through the alley shortcut to Haden’s restaurant.
As always, the place was crammed, a testament, Isabella supposed, to Haden’s unusual menu selections and the eerie yet oddly welcoming ambiance.
She studied an oil portrait of Aaron Dark from a variety of angles. “Every time I see him, I get this tweak of familiarity.” At Donovan’s elevated brow, she grinned. “Nothing to do with you. With someone, though.” She altered the angle of her gaze. “Right now, I’m thinking Rasputin.”
“Trust me, Isabella, Aaron was no holy man.”
“Neither was Rasputin. Maybe they were distantly related, and that’s why people are so certain Aaron’s ghost still haunts the manor. Some souls just refuse to move on.”
“Refuse to or can’t.” Donovan drew her through the crowd toward a single empty booth. “It depends on whether you view Aaron’s alleged presence as a stubborn last stand or the fate of a man condemned by a higher power.”
“Could be it’s a bit of both.” Haden shuffled over, shoulders slumped, head bent. “Figured you’d show up when I didn’t come to the manor. It wasn’t cold feet,” he said defensively at Donovan’s faint smile. “I’ve got two people off sick.” He gave a sheepish wave. “Aw, hell, I admit it, I was scared. Come to the kitchen, and we’ll talk. Got moose on the board if you’re feeling adventurous, Isabella.”
“From Rocky to Bullwinkle,” she murmured as she and Donovan followed Haden’s broad back to the swinging door.
Someone’s iPod belted out the music from Ghostbusters while more than a dozen kitchen staff rushed from one station to the next. The choreography of chaos fascinated her. Not a bump or spill to be seen.
They threaded their way through the culinary battlefield to Haden’s cluttered office. Once there, he mopped his bushy face with a napkin and regarded his nephew.
“Got the floor plan I was gonna take to the manor right here. Now, you tell me how those inside and outside measurements add up.”
Because numbers were absolutely not her thing, Isabella left Donovan and his uncle to their discussion and wandered back to the door.
