by Jayne Castle
"No," he said flatly.
"Okay, then how about this one? A lot of people seem to have disappeared in both cases."
"I'll admit that Sandra Thornton apparently dropped out of sight for a couple of years but she eventually turned up again. Who have you got on your list?"
"Everyone who was close to Troy Burgis fifteen years ago."
It was his turn to prop himself up on one elbow. "You've got my attention. Now tell me what the hell you're talking about?"
"I told you that I contacted Troy Burgis's alumni association. Well, this morning I got a call from someone who knew Burgis in college, Karen Price. Turns out that within a few months after he vanished into the catacombs beneath Old Frequency, the other three members of his band, his girlfriend and two ghost-hunter buddies, were supposedly killed in various accidents."
"Supposedly?"
"Get this: None of the bodies were ever found. What do you say to that?"
He wanted to tell her that she was letting her imagination run off with her common sense but for some reason he couldn't seem to summon up a logical counterargument.
"Huh," he said instead.
"Admit it, London. It's pretty darn weird that all four of them disappeared within a few months, isn't it?"
"Okay, it's weird, I'll give you that."
"While we're on the subject of a conspiracy theory," Lydia said, "there's something else that's been bothering me about Sandra Thornton."
"I'm listening."
Lydia's brows came together in a perplexed frown. "If she was so obsessed with Mercer Wyatt, why wait nearly two years to try to kill him? You'd think that the fires of passion would have cooled after so much time apart."
What was she talking about? he thought. Didn't she understand?
He leaned over her, trapping her beneath him, savoring the warmth and softness of her, losing himself in the hot rush of need.
"Don't know about Sandra and Wyatt," he said. "But I can guarantee you that two years apart from you wouldn't do a damn thing to cool this fire."
The huge vase filled with flowers was waiting for her the next morning when she walked into her office. It sat right in the middle of her desk. The glorious blooms and lush, artfully arranged greenery spilled out over the top in a massive waterfall of color that covered the entire surface.
Lydia's heart leaped. After-the-ball flowers from Emmett.
"Aren't they gorgeous?" Melanie called, hurrying toward her down the hall. "They arrived just before you got here. I took the liberty of reading the card. Couldn't resist. Guess who loves you and worships the very ground upon which you walk?"
Lydia smiled and walked to the desk to cup a dark pink orchid in one hand. "It was very sweet of him. He's so busy these days, I can't believe he found the time to order the flowers."
"Don't know how busy he was before you wore Midnight to the ball last night, but he's sure gonna be a whole lot busier from now on, thanks to you."
Lydia stopped smiling and picked up the card.
Midnight becomes you. I am your devoted slave forever.
Yours in gratitude,
Charles
"You should have seen yourself on the rez-screen last night. You were fabulous. It was so exciting to watch you and Emmett walk into Restoration Hall. Just take a look at these pictures in the papers." Melanie waved a handful of tabloids. "That dress was perfect and Charles is now the hottest designer in the city."
Lydia took the copy of the Tattler from her and examined the photo that covered the front page. It showed her walking along the red carpet on Emmett's arm, heading toward the doors of the ballroom. He looked great, she thought. Cool, confident, totally in control. Power formed an invisible aura around him. He could have stepped right out of one of the ballroom murals, a modern-day Jerrett Knox leading the forces of good against Vincent Lee Vance's evil legions.
She, on the other hand, had the glassy-eyed gaze of a deer caught in the headlights. Probably the fault of all those camera lights, she decided. But she had to admit that the dress looked good.
"Amazing what the right clothes will do for a woman," she said.
"I'll say." Melanie inhaled the fragrance of one of the blooms. "All right, pal, let's have the whole story. Remember, you promised me every little detail."
"Don't worry, I took notes." Lydia started to toss the Tattler aside but paused when she noticed the second glaring headline.
Wyatt Shot by Ex-Lover. Woman Takes Own Life. New Guild Boss and Bride Find Body
"Oh, yeah," Melanie said, following her glance. "It says you and Emmett rounded off your big evening by discovering the body of the woman who shot Wyatt. You two really know how to have fun, don't you?"
"It was ghastly." Lydia shuddered. "She was wearing a scarlet nightgown that the cops think Wyatt gave her during the time of the affair."
"So, it was a lovers' triangle all along, huh? But it involved one of Wyatt's old flames, not Emmett and his ex-fiancée."
"That's the assumption. But I have to tell you that something about the whole thing feels off. Emmett agrees with me. We both wonder if—"
Lydia stopped talking in midsentence when the cadaverous figure of her employer loomed in the doorway of her office.
"What's going on in here?" Shrimpton peered at the flowers through his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Where did those come from?"
"Just a gift from a grateful patron of the museum, sir," Melanie said smoothly.
Shrimpton grunted. "Thought maybe London had sent them."
Lydia concentrated on rezzing the kettle. "Emmett is very busy these days."
"He's got his hands full, all right, what with running the Guild and finding dead bodies," Shrimpton agreed. "Word is, Wyatt's going to make it. Should be interesting to see if he can get control of his organization back from London when he gets out of the hospital."
"What?" Lydia spun around, cup in hand. "Are there rumors of some sort of power struggle between Emmett and Mercer Wyatt? That's ridiculous."
Shrimpton shrugged his bony shoulders. "Wyatt's not a young man anymore and the Guild Council has accepted London."
Melanie nodded. "Good point. It's a done deal. It certainly won't be easy for Wyatt to grab his job back if Emmett decides to hang on to it. And why would London give up power now that he's got it?"
"Because he doesn't want to run the Guild on a permanent basis," Lydia said, clutching the handle of the teapot very tightly. "Emmett told me that, himself. He's just doing the Cadence Guild a favor by holding things together until Wyatt is back on his feet."
"If that's really what he's doing, it's one heck of a favor." Melanie chuckled. "Everyone knows that, historically, whenever there's a temporary power vacuum at the top of the Guild because a boss gets seriously ill or injured, someone else takes over. When the old chief recovers he rarely gets his office back."
Shrimpton nodded. "Very true. If London does hold things together for Wyatt and then steps down when the old man comes back, one thing's for sure."
"What's that?" Lydia asked warily.
It was Melanie who answered. "Wyatt will owe London, big time. You know what they say, the Guild always repays its favors."
Shrimpton squinted at Lydia. "Let's get to what's important to us here at this museum. We've got to make the most of this opportunity. As long as you're married to the current Guild boss, Lydia, you're a hot attraction."
"That's for sure," Melanie chimed in. "After all the media coverage last night, you're now an even bigger draw than you were when you were just the Mystery Mistress. We're talking sex, murder, and a terrific dress."
Lydia groaned and flopped down into her desk chair. "I can't stand it."
Shrimpton ignored that. Clearing his throat portentously, he held up a page of handwritten notes. "This is an updated list of reservations for private group tours to be escorted personally by you, Lydia. The first one today is a Hunter-Scout group at ten-fifteen."
"Not another group of Hunter-Scouts." Alarmed, Lydia sat bol
t upright. "I barely survived the last one. I lost all control. The little monsters crawled all over the artifacts in the Tomb Wing and tried to summon flickers. It's a wonder they didn't manage to set fire to the museum."
Melanie tsk-tsked. "Don't whine, Lydia. You know that every Hunter-Scout troop in the city wants a tour conducted personally by the boss's wife herself."
"More to the point, thanks to the Hunter-Scouts' interest in you, Lydia, we've quadrupled our income from student and youth groups in the last few days." Shrimpton rattled his notes. "Now, then, after the morning group tour you're free until five. Then you'll be escorting a VIP after-hours tour."
"Hold it right there, sir." Lydia sat forward and glanced at her calendar. She saw the note she made and smiled in anticipation of triumph. "I can't do the tour this afternoon. Melanie will have to handle it. I'm scheduled to oversee the transfer of the Mudd Sarcophagus, remember? The movers arrive at five."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you," Shrimpton said. "The sarcophagus isn't leaving today, after all. The collector's assistant called late yesterday to postpone the pickup until Monday. Something about not being able to coordinate the security arrangements and the moving company."
"All right, I give up." She shrugged. "With Emmett working so late every evening, I suppose it doesn't matter if I stay late here tonight." She checked the time on her watch and looked at Shrimpton. "But if I'm going to be stuck here until six-thirty, I assume that you won't have any objection to me taking a long lunch hour this afternoon?"
"No, no, of course not." Satisfied that she wasn't going to raise any more objections to the VIP tour arrangements, Shrimpton gave her a toothy smile and hastily backed out of the doorway.
Melanie looked sympathetic. "Don't worry, all these special group requests will dry up real quick if and when Emmett goes back to being a private consultant."
"When, not if," Lydia said forcefully. "He is going to step down, I tell you."
"Yeah, sure. So, why the request for the long lunch hour? Going to check out some galleries for the Hepscott project?"
"No, it's a personal matter."
"Hey, if you're going to shop for shoes and charge it to the Guild, the least you can do is invite your best friend to go along," Melanie pleaded. "I'm sure I can talk Shrimp into letting me have some extra time."
"I'll bet you could," Lydia said. "But I don't think you'll want to come with me on this errand. I'm not going to shop. I'm going to visit the home of a dead man."
Melanie grimaced. "See? That's your problem in life, Lyd. Your idea of how to have fun just isn't normal."
Chapter 22
A few minutes after noon, Lydia knocked on the door across the hall from Professor Lawrence Maltby's apartment. Cornish opened it cautiously.
"You're back." He squinted at her with deep suspicion. "How come?"
"I want to take another quick look inside Professor Maltby's apartment. But the door is locked now."
"Owner came by and locked up yesterday."
"I see." She shot a speculative glance at the closed door on the other side of the corridor. "I wondered if, by any chance, Maltby might have given you a key?"
"Key?"
"Neighbors do that sometimes," she explained.
Cornish snorted. "Not in this part of town, they don't."
"Oh." Well, so much for the easy way. She thought about the window that opened onto the alley. The intruders had busted the lock the night she and Emmett had discovered them inside. Perhaps the owner of the building had not had time to get it replaced.
Cornish looked sly. "But Maltby was always lockin' himself out on the nights he went down into the tunnels. He took to hidin' a key under a loose floorboard on the back stairs. I saw him use it a couple of times. He never knew I knew about it. Expect it's still there."
"Will you show me where it is?"
"Depends." Cornish squinted. "Heard you and London got married. That makes this a Guild matter, right?"
She cleared her throat. "Sort of."
"So if I do you a favor, it's like doing one for the Guild."
She cleared her throat. "Sort of."
"A hundred will get you the key."
"If I pay you, it's not exactly a favor."
Cornish shrugged. "Up to you."
She sighed and reached into her purse. "Try twenty bucks."
"Get real. The other night London paid me a hundred just to tell him a couple of things about Maltby. That key's gotta be worth at least that much."
"A hundred bucks to show me where the key is hidden? That's outrageous."
"Take it or leave it."
"I don't have a hundred on me."
Cornish did not appear concerned. "If this is a Guild matter, London won't stiff me. He can send the cash tomorrow."
She did not have a lot of options here, Lydia reminded herself. "Okay, okay. A hundred bucks. Payable tomorrow. If the key works in that door."
"It'll work." Cornish darted out into the hall and scuttled down the dingy corridor toward the fire stairs.
"Used it myself a few times to see if he'd left any Chartreuse behind when he went out."
"It's so nice to have neighbors you can trust."
Key in hand, she let herself into Maltby's apartment and closed the door. She stood quietly for a moment, taking in the stale, sad feel of the place. No one had cleaned yet. Maltby's books and papers still littered the floor. The overturned furniture, torn cushions, and crumpled rug appeared to be in the same positions in which the intruders had left them. It did not look as if they had returned to risk a second search. Perhaps they had concluded that whatever they were looking for was not here.
She put her purse down on the kitchen counter and began to wander slowly through the small space. The first time she had been here, there had been no opportunity to do a thorough search because there had been a dead man lying on the floor and Emmett and the cops had been pounding on the door.
When she and Emmett had come back it had been at night. They had had only the flashlights for illumination. The trapped milk carton had been a major discovery so they had not lingered to do a more in-depth search.
Today she was hoping that there might be something else of interest here. She did not know what she was looking for or what she hoped to discover, but there was simply no place else to go. All the leads from the Old Frequency College Alumni office had led to dead ends, literally.
She rezzed a light switch and discovered that the building's owner had turned off the power in the apartment. Luckily she had remembered to bring along a flashlight. More important, today she had the added benefit of natural light coming through the small windows in the front room and the study.
She opened the refrigerator to see if there was anything else of interest inside and immediately regretted the move. In the short time that the power had been cut off, the few items of food stored inside had gone very bad.
Holding her breath, she opened her psi senses, probing for illusion-trap energy. Nothing.
Hastily she closed the door and moved on to the kitchen cupboards. In the dull light of day, she saw several small things that had escaped her notice on the first two visits: a box of matches, some poison meant for various types of urban vermin, a foul-smelling sponge. But none of the odds and ends looked promising. None carried the taint of psi energy.
She moved back out into the living room and methodically went through every book and journal on the floor and the few that had been left on the shelves. She got down on her hands and knees and searched beneath the overturned sofa.
Nothing.
She did the grimy bathroom next, checking inside tissue boxes and investigating drawers.
Nothing.
She saved the small room that Maltby had used as a study for last on the assumption that, between the intruders and Emmett and herself, it had been thoroughly searched. Nevertheless, she took her time, painstakingly exploring every nook and cranny.
She was on her hands and knees beneath the desk, abo
ut to give up, when she saw the little amber bead.
It had rolled into the corner and lodged in a dusty cobweb. The filmy stuff coated the bead, dimming the natural glow of the amber. If not for the weak sunlight plus the beam of the flashlight, she doubted that she would have noticed it at all.
Leaning forward, she poked the hilt of the flashlight into the abandoned web, breathing a sigh of relief when no seriously annoyed spider made an appearance.
The bead rolled free, making a delicate clatter on the wood floor. She picked it up and scrambled out from under the desk.
Rising to her feet, she blew off the dust and debris and held the bead to the light.
The amber gem was about half an inch long, cut in an oval shape and pierced so that it could be threaded on a string. No doubt it had once been part of a necklace or a bracelet.
Don't get too excited, she thought. It had probably belonged to Maltby. He had been a tangler and, according to Cornish, he had spent a lot of time underground. That meant he would have worn amber.
But few men wore rez-amber in the form of beads or bracelets; besides, she had noticed Maltby's amber the day she found his body. It had been set in an inexpensive ring.
Had Maltby had a female visitor before he died?
She rolled the bead in the palm of her hand. A small, elegantly inscribed letter A had been cut into one side. The owner's initial?
A memory tingled at the back of her mind. Recently she had heard a woman's name that began with the letter A.
She concentrated for a few seconds and then it came to her. Burgis's girlfriend, the woman who had been Karen Price's roommate at Old Frequency College, had been named Andrea Preston.
Excitement flashed through Lydia. Coincidence? I think not.
Okay, so she was feeling smug. She had a right. The bead was a genuine clue.
She removed a tissue from her shoulder bag and carefully wrapped it around the bead. She could hardly wait to show the amber to Emmett tonight.
Chapter 23
