Sapphire Nights

by Patricia Rice

  His stern visage offered no expression. “You would need to be a suspect in a crime for me to access your personal history. And DMVs require a birth certificate, a passport, or the equivalent these days before they’ll issue a license. Name and address alone won’t do it.”

  “Then charge me with a crime,” she said angrily. “I can’t go on like this.”

  “I’ll find a free clinic. If you’ll go with me and have blood tests done, I’ll ask the sheriff if special circumstances warrant entering the database. It’s not likely to have anything much, but the DMV should have your social security number if you have one. That’s enough to get me your birth date and your full credit record.”

  “Tell me the name of my parents,” she said. “Maybe their names will jog my memory.”

  “This is just basic search engine stuff. You can look yourself up online or go into the university enrollment database.”

  “Not without a computer,” she pointed out. “If I had one, it’s gone too. I can’t keep driving up to the lodge if I have no license.” She grimaced. Now he knew for sure she was breaking the law if she got into the car.

  “Point taken, sorry. Their names were Jade and Wolf Moon. Ring any bells?”

  She played the names in her head, searching for familiarity. But she’d probably called them Mom and Dad. “Nothing, not even the weirdness of their names,” she replied with a sigh. “Can you research them more? They’re dead. It’s not as if it’s an invasion of privacy. They’re not exactly common names, are they?”

  “That’s a thought,” he agreed. “What if something in your subconscious about your parents is drawing you here? I can dig around into their background.”

  She frowned skeptically. “Weird names do not necessarily mean they come from a weird town.”

  He pondered possibilities and frowned as he did so. “They sound like hippy names, but the commune was two generations ago. Your parents might have been born here, but the commune was gone by the time you were born. And if they returned as adults, someone in town would have remembered you or them.”

  “That’s for sure. I was hoping someone here would know me, but the whole town must pass through the café and no one recognizes me. But now that I have names, I can kind of ask around, so thanks for that. At least I know I’m not an alien from another planet. What about the skeleton? Has it been there long enough to be related to the commune?”

  He tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes into his inscrutable expression. “The commune was gone thirty or forty years ago, and the skeleton hasn’t been there that long, so no. Mostly, I need to question people who lived here eighteen years ago.”

  Wondering why his mood had changed, Sam watched a dust trail coming up the road. Someone was driving too fast. “And maybe you could ask if they remember my parents? This town is the only connection I have besides the university.” She didn’t let excitement build. There were too many unanswered questions and speculation was useless. “What about some of the people my age or a little older? Could their grandparents have lived up here? I mean, what else would draw young people up here?”

  “The excellent company?” he asked, lightening up. “You have a point. The vortex is a draw, but we’re not famous like Sedona. Want to help me nose around looking for old-timers?”

  “Might be better asking questions than answering them for a change,” she said with a grimace. “Where is this vortex?” She watched a white Escalade pull up at Cass’s house.

  “You’re sitting right above it.” Walker gestured at the basin at the foot of the amphitheater. “Guess that means you’re not psychically in touch with the earth spirits or whatever nonsense they profess.”

  Guess that made her a Null. She felt good out here, grounded, but not spiritually evolved in any way. They both watched the Escalade. “Who’s that stopping at Cass’s?”

  “Carmel Kennedy. She’s been on the warpath ever since she arrived the other night. I just steer clear. Monty and Kurt are the ones who suffer. She owns the biggest share of the resort and almost all the land around town, so they’re at her mercy.”

  “They could find employment elsewhere,” Sam said callously. The passenger remained in the car while the driver loped up to Cass’s door, knocked, then pulled the old ringer. The chauffeur wore black and gold livery—quite a retreat to days gone by. “I hope her driver is paid well to wear that outfit.”

  “Francois insisted on it is what I heard. He likes the military look. I wonder what they want with Cass? I’d heard there was a feud between her and Carmel.”

  Sam broke off a grass stem and chewed on it. “My mind reading skills say she is furious about your skeleton, and she wants to blame it on Cass and demand she clean it up. Or take the fall.”

  Walker snorted. “Good instincts. I understand the grave has been a major part of the ongoing discussions at the lodge.”

  They watched as the driver returned to the car, backed out, and drove up to the cemetery. He stopped at the arch, and a tall woman with Viking shoulders got out. She wore a casual loose beige tunic and trousers that Sam could tell from this distance were raw silk. The color complemented Carmel’s tawny, sleek hair. Sam pulled at a strand of her own childish white-blond haystack. She would never look that sophisticated.

  “Do you believe in evil?” Sam asked as the figure below picked her way up the partial gravel path to the enormous monument to the Kennedys.

  The driver opened his window and a plume of smoke filtered out.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Answering a question with a question is evasive. If that driver sets the mountain on fire with his cigarette, does that make tobacco evil? Or the driver?”

  “I guess it’s the concept of evil that needs defining. Do I believe in the devil? No. Do I believe some people completely lack moral fiber and soul? Yes. And fire in these woods is a natural occurrence. Forests require fire to start new trees. You should know that.”

  “I do, but I worry about all the people here. They could lose everything.”

  “And again, I ask what prompted this conversation?”

  “You won’t appreciate the answer.” Telling him a spirit and tarot cards warned of evil and fire would only make him question her sanity more. “So should we search for a free clinic?”

  She got up and dusted off her jeans as Mrs. Kennedy emerged from the tomb, tucking something into her purse. “Did she just take something from a grave?”

  “Don’t rush to judgment. It might just be her flashlight. Or maybe she uses it as a vault for her jewels. Anything in there is hers anyway.” Walker stood and checked his phone. “Time for me to get back to work. I’ll let you know when I find a clinic.”

  “And anything else you uncover about me?”

  “Of course, if you’ll begin those discreet inquiries into who’s lived here for the past twenty years and who might be related to people from that time.”

  “I can be a detective,” she said teasingly. “I have a notion that environmental science is a waste up here.”

  The car below pulled away, and they strolled down the hill.

  “Not a complete waste. If the Kennedys keep buying up property to build condos and a spa, the town might need you for an environmental impact study.”

  He said it with a laugh, But Sam felt a cold chill down her spine. Was this the reason she’d been steered up here?

  Chapter 9

  Afternoon, June 18

  * * *

  As Walker drove his route, he used his radio and Bluetooth to make calls. Just because he was 99% positive he’d proved his father had died on this mountain didn’t mean he could shirk his official duties to investigate his personal concerns. He made his usual stops, talked to the people along the route he was there to protect, and drew satisfaction from the basic task. These past years, he’d distanced himself too much from his original purpose in pursuing a career in justice. This job was a good reminder, although it offered a few too many opportunities to brood about what he�
�d lost and how he would move forward. Having Sam’s case to work on was a relief.

  Once he was off duty, Walker pulled into the sheriff’s office in Baskerville. He checked his desk for the coroner’s report, but it still wasn’t ready.

  Sheriff Brown came in and caught Walker’s scowl. “The body’s been up there for twenty years or so. Coroner figures another few days won’t hold us up. He’s got a fresh victim to work on.”

  “I’d be good with that except this skeleton is stirring up the locals. They’re only at the finger-pointing stage now, but you know how quickly that escalates.” Especially with the Lucys chanting and beating the bushes.

  “That’s what we have you for, de-escalation. Don’t see how your amnesia victim fits in, though.” Brown threw a stack of papers on his desk.

  “You’d have to understand how superstition and gossip work in a place like Hillvale. Half the town believes in ghosts. Some of them are trying to hold exorcisms. And the Kennedys are out to sweep the whole scene out of sight. And for reasons beyond my understanding, Miss Moon is in the thick of it.”

  “Well Jennifer has the clinic lined up, like you asked. And she’s done some basic research on the family. We can’t place them in Hillvale, but the Moons are originally from ’Frisco, not Utah. You might be onto something.”

  “That’s a start, thanks. I’m going to treat Miss Moon as a missing person and run her through the database, along with Cassandra Tolliver. Two people in town have filed a missing person report on her.” —After he’d persuaded Harvey and Dinah that he couldn’t search without one. Legalities tended to elude the village inhabitants. “Weird to have two essentially missing persons in one small town.”

  “Plus the skeleton, if he’s your father as you suspect. He went missing too. Not that any of this connects as far as I see.”

  The sheriff hurried off, leaving Walker to commune with his computer. It wasn’t as if he had a life after work. Once upon a time he thought he had—but that illusion had ended badly. He straightened his aching leg, kneading the muscle as he typed one-handed.

  He dug into Samantha’s history first, since it would be the shortest and easiest. As he’d told her, she was pristine clean. She didn’t even have traffic tickets. Her driver’s license photo matched her appearance, so she was definitely the Samantha Moon in her textbook. Amazingly, she’d sought a TSA Pre-check recently, so she had fingerprints on file. Had she planned on doing a lot of traveling? On what money?

  The address she’d given to the TSA was different from the one on her license. He looked it up—just graduate student housing. He sent a message to the Provo police department asking them to question the residents, but unless she was in danger or a murder suspect, they wouldn’t act quickly.

  He could send one of his investigative firm’s agents, but the downside of working corporate-level research was that they were accustomed to paid travel expenses and billable hours. As CEO, he could order them to do as told, if he had a good reason. But he was supposed to be taking a sabbatical.

  Sam’s credit bureau report showed one credit card with little activity. Her only employment history was at the university. With date and place of birth, she could apply for her birth certificate. Then she could get a new social security card and driver’s license.

  Sam was only six years younger than he but her sheltered life escalated the difference.

  He sent all the information to his research assistant back in LA.

  Walker noted recent credit inquiries. Often, employers would check the bureaus when they were considering a new hire. Sam must have driven to California for a reason. For a recent grad, a job made the most sense. Of course, not enough employers did due diligence, so these could be dead ends. He wouldn’t make inquiries until he’d shown them to Sam.

  Since he’d positively identified Sam, he didn’t have a good excuse to investigate her parents, so he started on Cass. Cassandra Kennedy Tolliver—Walker’s eyebrows rose over that—had been born sixty-seven years ago. She’d lived in San Francisco in her early years. She’d gone to Berkeley, and her address after that varied between Hillvale and Berkeley. Cass was practically the stereotype of the hippies who’d inhabited the commune over forty years ago—except for that Kennedy part. With that name, she could have been living with family at the resort.

  He’d have his assistant do a genealogy search to see how Cass was related to the current Kennedys. He noted she moved into the house on Cemetery Road when she was in her early twenties, but no mortgage or deed was filed. That indicated no ownership transfer— a family trust, perhaps. At the time, she appeared to be working for a charitable foundation as director. If she was a Kennedy, then her wealthy family had enough connections that they could have found the job and given her the house. Or they could have funded the charity for all he knew.

  She married Tolliver when she was twenty-three, and he died not long after she moved into the house, when she was barely twenty-five, so she wasn’t living at the commune. They appeared to have one child—which was a surprise to him. None of this was helping him find her—unless he wanted to blame the Kennedys for Cass’s disappearance. She had a history of being a thorn in their collective sides—but if she was family, it was hard to imagine they’d hurt her.

  He found no credit cards in her name. She had no known employment these days, so there were no workplace inquiries. She kept a bank account at one of the private banks the wealthy used, so he had to assume she’d come into money at some point.

  She had no frigging driver’s license. How had she left the mountain? Broomstick?

  Without even a driver’s license photo to use, Walker had little to enter on a missing person bulletin, but he sent one out, then called the Monterey police to have them start questioning at the restaurant listed in Sam’s GPS.

  He’d have to look for Cass’s son next.

  A little after eleven, a report of shots fired in Hillvale dragged Walker from his desk. If the Nulls started shooting at the Lucys, he’d need to permanently rent a room at the lodge.

  Late evening, June 18

  * * *

  Sam woke to an odd howling moan that halted when she sat up, as if she’d startled an owl into silence. Rubbing her sleepy eyes, she glanced at the clock—it wasn’t even midnight.

  The mountain air was chilly at night. She slept in heavy socks and sweats. Pulling on a cardigan she’d been using as a robe, she abandoned her bed. A cup of warm milk might relax her shattered nerves and put her back to sleep.

  She wished she had a computer. A mindless game always helped. . .

  Wait, what? She remembered playing mindless computer games?

  Now she really wouldn’t sleep.

  Emma woke up from her bed in the suitcase and came out to curl around Sam’s ankles. The cat’s dish was empty.

  Sam had bought a few basic fresh groceries with the money Dinah had given her. She poured a little milk into Emma’s water dish as a treat, then heated more in a saucepan. Looking out the studio’s enormous windows, she rubbed her elbows. What else might she remember if she tried hard enough? Or was trying the problem? Did she need to be startled into remembering?

  It would be far more useful if she could remember why she was in California than the fact that she used computer games to go to sleep.

  While Emma happily lapped her treat, Sam watched a light bob up the shortcut path from town. Mariah lived down there, but she was up at the crack of dawn and had to be asleep at this hour. So who was coming up the path?

  Car beams flashed on the road on the other side of the bushes, heading in the direction of the cemetery. Who would go to the cemetery at midnight?

  She ought to drink her milk and go to bed. But she was too on edge. Living with uncertainty was not conducive to sleep, and this mystery wasn’t helping.

  She pulled on her furry boots and a coat, filled a travel mug with warm milk, and let herself out on the balcony. The car lights had gone out. The flashlight was still approaching. Did she need a weapo
n? She snorted. As if she knew how to use one.

  So, sneaky does it. She’d already found several flashlights scattered around the studio, presumably for power outages. She tested the one in deck storage and it worked. The concrete steps didn’t creak. With light off, she quietly slipped down them.

  The person on the path wasn’t as surreptitious. They walked right up past the rose bed with their flashlight still on. Heart pounding, Sam waited in the shadows of the wall. There were only two houses out here, the studio and Cass’s place. The person would have to walk right past her to reach the mansion.

  Did she make herself known or follow them?

  The light hesitated at her driveway. The figure was tall and lean and quite possibly male, judging by shoulder width. The silhouette of long hair tied at the nape made her doubt her assessment until she remembered Harvey, the guitarist at the diner. A car door slamming up by the cemetery caused him to flick off his light.

  The evening fog was rolling in, but she could see enough to follow him as he walked down the drive to the road. She had absolutely no reason to be suspicious, except that was apparently what she did. Was that telling her something from her past?

  He didn’t try to hide as he strolled toward the cemetery. She was probably out of her gourd to even bother keeping up with him. But her head was empty and needed filling, apparently.

  He grew more cautious as he approached the cemetery. The car had turned off its beams and engine. The night was still. The wisps of fog could easily be mistaken for spectral figures forming and dissipating. An eerie creak caused her to bite her tongue and freeze, before she realized what it might be—the door to the Kennedy vault.