Christmas Awakening

by Ann Voss Peterson

  “No. We’re fine. It’s late.” Brandon gave Marie’s hand a little squeeze, then slipped his fingers free.

  A weight shifted into Marie’s chest.

  “It’s a big house. A lot to do,” Shelley rattled on. “I can see why Edwin lived in the house. It’s the only way to get everything done. And he didn’t have anything to do with the cooking.”

  Marie knew Brandon wasn’t going to offer the butler quarters, not until she was done with them. But she half expected him to let Shelley move into one of the guest rooms. And she had to admit, having someone else living in the house would make it easier for him to keep his distance, easier for them both.

  “You’re right, Shelley,” Brandon said. “You are trying to do way too much. We’ll have to start interviewing for cooks. Let me know when you have some good prospects lined up.”

  “Cooks?”

  “Unless you’d rather take applicants for the butler’s job.”

  “I’ll get some cooks lined up right away, sir.” She glanced at Marie, and gave her a somewhat apologetic smile.

  “Good night.” Brandon gave Shelley a nod. He held the door open for Marie, and she slipped through into the night.

  Oyster shells crunched under their feet. The night was cool, but even so, it felt balmy compared to the frigid air in Charlotte’s study. Marie had heard cold spots were thought to be caused by spirits’ attempt to manifest themselves. But she hadn’t really connected those dots the first time she’d passed through the east garden. She wouldn’t miss it again.

  They wound their way to the garden. Holly and boxwood flanked the path. A plastic-covered fountain hulked near the house, its musical trickle silenced in preparation for the freezing temperatures of winter. The white concrete bench she’d spotted from the window glowed in the artful landscape lighting, nearly as bright as the shells at their feet.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Search me.” Brandon jabbed the fountain’s covering with the tip of his cane. “This garden was redone after Charlotte’s death. What was your father’s favorite feature of this garden?”

  Marie glanced at him. Did he now believe? She didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t, either. But at least he was trying. He was keeping his mind open. He was supporting her.

  “My father. What did he like?” Marie blew a breath through tense lips. “I have no clue. My father was never into nature.”

  “Charlotte loved the rose garden on the west side of the house. And the gardens around the boathouse.”

  Marie shook her head. “I have a feeling it’s this garden.” The scent tickled Marie’s senses, as if a confirmation of her belief. “Jasmine.”

  “Where?”

  She turned around slowly. It seemed to be everywhere, faint in the outside air. Too faint. “I can’t tell. I can hardly smell it.”

  “There must have been something about this garden that your father liked. He was the one who had it redesigned. I left it all up to him. I couldn’t have cared less at the time.”

  What did her father like? “I don’t know what it would be. I didn’t know him to ever be passionate about gardens. Drake House, that’s all he really cared about. He loved Drake House.”

  “That doesn’t tell us anything.”

  “Wait. Maybe it does. I have an idea.” She took the side path and wound her way through loosely mulched plants. She stopped at the concrete bench and sat down facing the house.

  Landscape lighting shot upward, highlighting the house. The dark bushes stood out in sharp relief against the mansion’s snow-white siding. Columns soared up to the third floor where the slate roof took over, all sharp angles and graceful slopes. In the summer, the fountain’s magic would play against the backdrop of it all, its music adding to the mansion’s grandeur.

  Brandon sat down beside her.

  Shivers prickled over her skin. “This is it. This is my father’s favorite part of this garden.”

  He squinted at the bushes, the fountain, the smaller plants protected by mulch. “What is it?”

  “My father loved Drake House more than anything, except maybe me. You have to admit, the house looks spectacular from this vantage point.”

  Brandon didn’t look up. His eyes were still locked on the mulched plants at the bench’s base. “What’s this?” He reached into a patch of ivy and pulled something out. He held it in the air for her to see. A barrel key.

  Marie’s pulse fluttered. “Any ideas where it’s from?”

  Brandon shrugged and held it up higher to catch the landscape lighting. The key carried the patina of age and had a leaf-shaped end. “There are a few of the old doors in the house that use a key like this, but this looks like the wrong size.”

  “Where else could it have come from?”

  “Lexie Thornton had a crew here working on the garden. Maybe it belongs to one of them.”

  Of course. Lexie had designed the garden. Her family’s landscaping company had provided all the plants, the fountain and the bench. “Maybe Lexie could tell us more, not just about the key. Maybe she can help point us to whatever it is we’re looking for.”

  “How late is too late to give her a call?” Brandon glanced down at his watch.

  “I don’t know. She works so hard, I’d hate to wake her. Maybe we should look around a little more first, try some of the doors in the house.”

  “Sure. I’ll ask Shelley if she knows anything about the key, if she’s still here.”

  “And Isabella?” Marie couldn’t help thinking the key had to be related to something that had been going on. And Isabella seemed to be hiding the most secrets of anyone at Drake House.

  Brandon nodded. “Right.”

  They pushed up from the bench at the same time. Beneath them, the concrete shifted. Brandon grabbed Marie’s arm, steadying them both.

  “What was that?” Marie said.

  Brandon gripped the top of the bench and pushed. It moved under his hand.

  For a split second, Marie thought she saw a hollow space in the base of the bench. A space with something that looked like paper tucked inside. “Wait. Do that again.”

  Brandon lifted the edge of the bench.

  Marie leaned close, her pulse racing. This had to be it. She peered into the dark space. “The legs of the bench are hollow. And there’s something…” She dipped her hand inside. Her fingers touched the edge of a rolled piece of paper. She pulled it out.

  Brandon lowered the bench’s seat back into place. “What is it?”

  Marie unrolled the paper. At first she wasn’t sure. All she could see were penciled lines. “This is strange. It looks like a drawing of some sort.”

  Brandon studied it over her shoulder. He guided her hand, positioning the paper to take advantage of the landscape lighting. “It looks like a diagram. A sketch of the undercarriage of a car.”

  Sure enough. She could make out the wheels and the axles, the engine area and the gas tank. “What is this?” She indicated a pointy object near the gas tank.

  “Some sort of spike?” He raised dark eyes to meet Marie’s. “It’s positioned to puncture the gas tank.”

  A pop split the air and echoed off Drake House.

  Marie’s heart jumped. “What was that?”

  Brandon stiffened. He spun around, looking for the source of the sound.

  Another pop. The bench made a snapping sound and something hit Marie in the leg.

  “Get down!” Brandon threw his arms around her. His body slammed into her, and both of them tumbled to the ground.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brandon could feel the air rush out of Marie’s lungs as he came down on top of her. He raised himself up on his elbows, trying to lift his weight off her. “Marie, are you okay? Say something.” He held his breath, willing her to speak, to be all right.

  She coughed, gasped, nodded her head. Her breath sputtered and caught. Scooping air into her lungs, she looked at him with wide eyes. “I’m fine. I’m…What was that?”

  “A gun.�
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  “Someone is shooting at us?”

  “Yes.” And Brandon had to get Marie out of here. He had to get her someplace safe. “Can you move?”

  “I don’t know. I think something hit my leg.”

  A bullet? Brandon’s gut tensed. Had Marie been shot? “Where?”

  She moved her left leg under him. “I can’t…You’ll have to get up.”

  “Not until you’re out of the line of fire.” Marie might already be shot. He wasn’t going to move aside and risk her being hit again. “Move to the other side of the bench. I’ll shield you.”

  “But you—”

  “No arguments.” He glared directly into her eyes. She had to listen to him. She had to do what he said. “Go.”

  She gave a nod.

  He lifted his weight off her, balancing on hands and toes, as if he were doing a push-up.

  Marie rolled in one place until she lay on her stomach. She started crawling.

  Pain screamed up Brandon’s damaged leg. Gritting his teeth, he held on, trying to compensate with his good leg and arms.

  She moved out from under him. As she cleared his body, he could smell blood. Something dark glistened on one leg of her jeans.

  Damn. He hadn’t been fast enough. It had taken too long for him to recognize the popping sound, to realize what it was. And his failure had left Marie hurt. Shot.

  Reaching the corner of the bench, Marie rose to hands and knees. She moved faster, slipping between the holly bush and the bench.

  Another pop echoed off the house. Something hit the concrete bench close to Marie’s head. Too close.

  “Get down!” Brandon yelled. He struggled to his knees. To his feet.

  “Brandon!” Marie screamed. She popped up behind the bench, as if she was going to jump out and save him. “You’ll be shot!”

  “Stay there.”

  Another shot cracked in his ear. Again, something hit the bench. The bench. Not him. Even though he was standing in plain view. Even though he was a big, open target. Even though he’d done everything he could think of to draw the fire to him and away from Marie.

  “Marie, stay down.” He raced for the bench. He climbed into a spot next to her. He brought his hand down on her head, physically pushing her head lower, under the protection of the bench. He laid his chest on top of her and he wrapped his arms around her body.

  She hunkered down, making room for him. She trembled all over.

  Brandon held her tighter. Anger balled in his chest like a hard fist. Marie had almost been hit again. She’d almost died. No matter how careful he’d been, no matter how hard he’d tried to shield her, protect her, she’d come so close to losing her life he could hardly breathe. “Why didn’t you get down? Why didn’t you do what I said?”

  She shuddered, as if letting out a silent sob. “I thought…I thought you were going to be killed.”

  He forced a breath into tight lungs. She didn’t understand. In true Marie fashion, she’d thought only about saving him. Only about making sure he was safe. “Whoever is out there, he’s not gunning for me.”

  She shook her head, as if she didn’t want to believe the obvious.

  It didn’t matter. Not now. Now the only thing that meant a damn was getting Marie out of this mess. And the first thing he had to do was douse these lights.

  He peered over the bench. His cane lay in the center of the path, its wood dark against the oyster shells. Too far to reach. Even if the shooter wasn’t gunning for him, Brandon couldn’t chance it. He didn’t dare move that far from Marie.

  He looked down at his feet. What he wouldn’t give to be wearing hiking boots about now. Or a pair of the steel-toed work boots Doug Heller preferred. His Bruno Maglis would have to do. Any luck and their sheer expense would make up for what they lacked in heft. Yeah, right.

  Forcing his arms to release Marie, he slipped one shoe off.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving us some cover. Stay down.” He slid between Marie and the prickly wall of holly. Using his hands and one foot, he pulled his body forward until he reached one of the landscape lights, a canister pointing up toward the siding of Drake House. Holding the shoe by its toe box, he brought the heel down hard against glass.

  The lense protecting the light cracked but held.

  He struck it again. And again.

  Finally it shattered. One more blow and the light went dark.

  He moved to the next light, the only one left that illuminated the bench area where they hid. He pulled back his shoe, ready to strike again.

  A gunshot split the air.

  Brandon ducked. His heart pounded; his breath rushed in his ears. He twisted back to check on Marie. She hadn’t moved. “Marie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Had that bullet been meant for him? He didn’t think so. The other shots had been fired close to Marie, too close. If the shooter had aimed at him this time, he should have been able to do a better job of hitting his target than that.

  Unless he was just trying to scare Brandon. Trying to get him to abandon breaking the second light.

  Hands clammy, he grasped the shoe and brought it down on the lens. Two more blows and the bulb was broken. The area was dark.

  He scrambled back to Marie. The shells around the bench dug into his hands, his good knee. Now that the would-be killer had lost his spotlight, Marie was safer. But he still knew where she was hiding.

  Brandon scanned the garden, searching for another spot to hide. But most of the garden was young, the plants still small. Only the holly and boxwood were left from the old east garden. Only they were large enough to conceal two adults. And only the bench could stop a bullet.

  There was nowhere else to go.

  Brandon looked down at the shoe still clutched in his hand. Maybe Marie and he didn’t have to find a new hiding place. Maybe they only had to make the shooter think they had.

  He dragged the shoe against the shells, making a shuffling sound. After several seconds of that, he flung it into a far section of the garden. Slipping off the second shoe, he flung that one as well.

  Now to get back to Marie.

  He moved slowly, careful to make no sound, careful to avoid rustling against the bushes. When he reached Marie, he slipped his arms around her as he had before. Lying flat behind the bench, he held her back tight to his chest. He brought his lips to her ear, her hair like silk against his cheek. “Shh.”

  She nodded. She didn’t move. She barely seemed to breathe.

  A minute passed. Two. It seemed like forever. Finally Brandon could hear the crunch of oyster shells underfoot.

  He listened, struggling to hear the sound, to track it, over the beat of his own pulse, the hiss of his own breathing.

  It came closer. Closer. It stopped.

  Beneath him, Marie trembled. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest cease as she held her breath.

  He wrapped her close, shielding her. If only he had a weapon. His cane. Even one of his shoes. Anything. He’d fight. But he’d used everything he could think of. Everything he had. And all that was left was to wait and see if it was enough.

  A siren screamed from the direction of the highway.

  The police. Thank God.

  Footsteps crunched on shells. But this time going away, getting faint.

  The siren drew closer. Red and blue light flashed from the other side of Drake House, radiating out from the corner of the east wing like an aurora during an eclipse.

  Unless the gunman was an idiot, he had kept running and was long gone by now. Brandon closed his eyes and scooped in a deep breath of Marie’s scent. He lay there for several seconds, soaking in the feel of her, the knowledge that she was safe.

  Finally he forced his arms to release her. He forced his body to move away. Cold air filled the warmth where she’d been. His chest ached with it. It was all he could do to keep himself from gathering her against him again.

  He looked at her, wanting to make sure she was okay. His gaze
landed on her bloody jeans. “Let me see your leg.”

  She sat up. Grimacing, she pulled the leg of her jeans up to her knee. A red stain darkened her calf.

  He moved to the side to get a better view of her wound. He could see a cut. He could see blood, but not as much blood as he’d expected.

  “It’s not too bad,” Marie said. “I think it’s just a cut. Maybe from a fragment of the bench.”

  She was probably right. In everyday life, the size of the cut and amount of blood would have horrified him. After all Marie had faced in the past few days, it seemed like nothing. She was alive, after all.

  She was alive.

  He could hear footsteps circling the house from either side, and low, official voices. The police. Josef must have called. Or Shelley.

  “Whoever was shooting at us must think I found something. That I know something. That’s why he’s trying to kill me. To keep me quiet. Like he did my father.”

  Marie had voiced that theory before. And it made sense. But to Brandon, it didn’t feel right. He’d been asking as many questions as Marie. He’d been with her, in her father’s quarters, in Charlotte’s study, in the garden fishing the sketch from the bench. So why didn’t the shooter see him as a threat, too? Why wasn’t the shooter just as eager to kill him?

  The words Marie heard in the psychomanteum filtered through his mind. All Brandon loves will die. And who did he love? Who had he always loved?

  Marie.

  TO BRANDON’S RELIEF, it didn’t take long for the police officers to secure the house and grounds and lead Brandon and Marie safely inside. A few minutes later, Chief Hammer joined them. Dressed in jeans with what little hair he had left plastered flat to one side of his head, he obviously hadn’t been at the station this time. He’d no doubt been sleeping comfortably in his bed beside Mrs. Hammer. And although Brandon didn’t have unshakable confidence in the Jenkins Cove Police Department or their leader, he was unspeakably glad they were here.

  They’d saved Marie’s life.

  He answered the door himself, ushering the chief inside. “Thanks for coming personally, Chief. I know it’s late.”