“Zoey Eberhardt doesn’t exist,” Liz announced. No town, county, or state records bore her name, she said. She didn’t vote, didn’t have a driver’s license, and didn’t own a house or rent an apartment in the state. Anywhere. When Anna countered, saying she knew through Clovis that Zoey had worked a seasonal job on Summit and must have rented a place nearby, Liz was adamant. She had checked every database for Zoey, both public and the ones that were none of her business as an ordinary citizen.
“She’s hiding her identity,” Anna said. “That’s the only explanation.” Zoey had changed her name and erased her past—and done a thorough job of it. But why?
Before Liz hung up, Anna asked her to look for a list of graduate students going for a master’s degree in design at Colorado State. Unless Zoey had somehow, without being in the master’s program, roped undergraduate design students into helping her work on the Morgan-Sadler House, her real name had to be on that list.
Anna retraced her steps until she was back at the house’s entryway, strode to the front door, and pushed it open a crack to check for cars in the parking lot. All four were still there. Alex and the Gilmartins were either inside the house or had gone back outside, somewhere out of view.
She walked back to where the entryway met the hall and made a right. “There’s the one door,” she mumbled to herself as she passed a narrow door that appeared to open into a broom closet rather than a bedroom. Miraculously, just as Clovis had described, the staircase was several steps beyond the door to her left.
As Anna headed up the stairs, she heard a man’s voice echo faintly from the second floor, floating downward like an autumn leaf. He was singing, she realized, in a cloying, almost feminine tone. It was the same line over and over again: “I want candy.”
Anna walked gingerly up the steps, close to the wall where the wood was less likely to creak under her feet. She recognized the tune. It was an old pop song, reworked by a dozen different bands over the decades, but without the other lyrics. The singer merely repeated the same line, his voice becoming more demanding with repetition.
Anna crept up the remaining steps, her eyes on the landing above, her ears alert, trying to determine if the voice was coming from her left or right. She wondered where Clovis was on the second floor and if she too heard the man singing. Seeing no one ahead, she stepped to the landing. The voice was coming from a room to her left. “I want candy. I want candy.” It was ridiculous, almost laughable, but as it continued, it set her heart pounding.
Pressing close to the wall, Anna drew near the open door and peered around the door jamb, inching forward until she saw Alex Root at the far end of the room by the windows. He was oblivious to her, his total focus on something or someone just out of sight. As he continued to sing, his body swayed like a cobra but his eyes never left the object of his desire. But who was calling the dance? The skin on Anna’s arms and neck prickled.
“Samhain candy?” a woman’s voice said. Alex stopped moving, and in a moment Anna’s question was answered. A woman flung out a leg, her body slowly following it as if compelled to move forward by her own limb, and Maddy Gilmartin came into view. She stood five feet from Alex, quiet and still, then winked and tossed back her hair, and again Alex swayed and sang, “I want candy.”
“Just wait, Alex,” Maddy said. “A few more days, that’s all.”
“I want candy.”
“Midnight, baby. Samhain. The veil between the realities will thin to nothingness.”
At that, Alex’s voice became gruff and insistent. “I want candy. I want candy.”
A shudder of revulsion ran up Anna’s spine. She had to get out—and without being seen or heard. But she wavered on her feet, torn between dashing down the stairs for the front door in spite of the noise she’d make and gently backing away, looking for Clovis at the other end of the hall.
She glanced over her shoulder. Where was Clovis? And who was she? Was she part of whatever sick thing was going on here? Just yesterday, Anna thought, she’d wondered if Russell might have been paranoid. But the poor man had probably only scratched the Gang of Four’s bizarre surface.
Anna turned and stepped slowly from the door. Once past the staircase, she hurried down the hall, relieved with every footfall that her rubber-soled hiking shoes didn’t squeak or strike a creaking floorboard. She searched for Clovis ahead, refusing to look over her shoulder. But she felt eyes boring in on her. She felt them on the back of her head, down the bones of her neck and over her shoulders.
What have you gotten yourself into now? she thought. And poor Esther! Some monstrous plan had been hatched, and she was defenseless against it.
Paul. Anna stopped cold. Where was he? Was he also on this floor? She spun around. No one. There was no one in sight, no sound from Alex and Maddy’s room. She almost laughed. Their room. There was more than an affair going on between those two. It was something far beyond that.
“Anna.”
Anna wheeled back. “Clovis, there you are,” she called out, relief washing over her. She walked swiftly up to Clovis, trying for a calm, cheery demeanor. She knew she’d failed when Clovis asked her, as one might ask a frightened child, if she’d gotten lost.
“I guess I did,” Anna replied. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch. When she bit the inside of her lower lip, the twitching only worsened.
“That’s easy enough to do,” Clovis said, shoving her hands into her cardigan pockets. “It’s the rabbit-warren layout of this house. Very confusing.”
Anna knew her nervous fidgeting didn’t match her explanation. No one twitched that much over taking a few wrong turns—and Clovis knew that too, but she didn’t press the issue.
“Where’s Paul?” Anna asked.
“I saw him downstairs a minute ago. Why?”
“No reason.” Another lie. She wanted to know if Paul had heard Alex singing, if he knew what his wife and his friend were up to. She wanted to know where Paul was, period, because she would never again allow herself to be alone in this scourge of a house with him or any of the other historical society members. Except maybe Clovis. She was starting to like this woman, and she didn’t believe her capable of murder.
“Can I make a suggestion about something that’s none of my business?” Anna asked.
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Start another group. Call it something else, but give it the same mission. Then leave this group.”
Clovis folded her arms around herself. “I founded the Elk Valley Historical Society,” she said defiantly. “They’re not going to force me out.”
“Start another group, Clovis. Find like-minded people to join you. Lots of them. And swamp the current society.” Anna jabbed a thumb toward Alex and Maddy’s room, as if it—with its singing and talk of the veil between realities—represented the entire Elk Park Historical Society.
“Can I do that?” Clovis pursed her lips, considering the idea.
“Why not? Yank it right out from underneath them. You’re dealing with a hostile takeover, aren’t you? If you start an organization and new members come in with the express purpose of undermining that organization, tear it up and start again—and do it with bylaws stating that only officers or those who have been members for at least three years can nominate new ones.”
Anna could see that Clovis had never contemplated such a move—but she was mulling it over now. Her hands dangled at her sides, her eyes were alight with the possibilities. “I like the way you think,” she said.
“And if you decide to go through with it, I have a friend who can help you write a press release for the new group.”
Her small chin set with determination, Clovis simply said, “All right, then.” She had made her decision.
Anna scanned the corridor. Either Alex and Maddy had hidden themselves in their room or they had made their escape while Anna’s back was to the door. “I think we can talk now,” she said. “You said last night you wanted to tell me something.”
“I wanted to t
ell you two things.” Clovis leaned in, speaking softly now. She knew voices carried in the empty house. “I already told you one, about Ruby refusing to help Esther. But there’s something else. Zoey offered to buy Esther’s house.”
“Offered?”
“She told Esther she’d pay for the repairs required by the IHD. Esther can continue to live there, but when she dies, the house is Zoey’s.”
6
Well isn’t that convenient? Anna thought. And how is it someone Zoey’s age has the kind of money it takes to buy a large house? She rolled down the driver’s side window of her Jimmy, and fresh, clean air, charged with the recent rain, flowed onto her face. She headed north on Elk River Road, her mood lifting as the distance between herself and the Morgan-Sadler House grew.
At first she’d worried about leaving Clovis with Alex and the Gilmartins, but the three had seen her with Clovis at the house and knew Anna would point a finger at them if anything happened.
But Esther was another matter. Anna’s last words to Clovis, as she headed down the front steps and for her car, were to warn Esther against selling her house to Zoey. Despite her financial situation, Anna said, she mustn’t sign anything. One look at Clovis and Anna knew she understood. While Esther was alive, the house was still hers.
Anna considered making a stop at the Municipal Building for a chat with Detective Lonnie Schaeffer of the Elk Park Police, but her need to head home, to Jackson and her research, won out. Anyway, she reasoned, the only solid piece of information she had was that Clovis and Esther had spoken to Ruby Padilla the night she was killed. Much earlier in the night, she was sure. She couldn’t picture the two skulking around the Padilla house at midnight.
Besides, she couldn’t bear what she knew would be the look on Schaeffer’s face. What are you up to now? Why do bodies follow in your wake? Though the detective had entered her life as the man tasked with breaking the news that Sean had died in a traffic accident, they were friends now. Bodies had followed in her wake, and Anna suspected that Schaeffer felt a sense of protectiveness toward her that she did not want to exploit.
Near Buckhorn’s on Summit Avenue, Anna searched the curb for a vacant spot. Her research would begin here. Jazmin Morningstar, the girl Gene had hired to work in his store last January, was on the job today, and if anyone had the inside story on the Gang of Four, she did. A block east of the store, Anna eased into a spot and shut off the Jimmy’s engine.
A bell over the door sounded as she entered the store, and Gene looked up from the cash register. Anna loved the way he looked at her, beaming as though it was the highlight of his day simply to see her face. If he were another man, she’d say he was a charmer who knew how to work it, but Gene hated games. He never faked it, and he loathed dishonesty in all things. Unyielding integrity, kindness, and humor—all in one man. How had she hit the jackpot?
“Hey,” he said, slipping bills into a zippered cash bag.
“Hey, Mr. Westfall. Is Jazmin here?”
Jazmin peeked around a metal postcard rack next to the counter, her bright orange hair leading the way.
“I believe she is,” Gene said.
“Can I take a little of her time? Ten minutes.”
“If you’re going to talk to me about Halloween, forget it,” Jazmin said. “I’m not changing my plans.” She dropped a roll of cellophane tape to the counter, and Anna saw black nail polish again. The girl was never without it. One day, Anna thought, she would walk into Buckhorn’s and Jazmin Morningstar, the nineteen-year-old wiccan girl whose real, lovely name was Hayley Todd, would be scrubbed of black—nails, eye liner, clothes—and Anna would know she had freed herself.
In the meantime, small victories. Jazmin had called the thirty-first of October Halloween, not Samhain, as was her habit.
“If Jazmin wants to talk, it’s OK with me,” Gene said.
The girl balked. There was still an ember of animosity between them, Anna knew, and Jazmin needed to stoke it. It was a cord connecting her to her old life, and it was too soon to sever it. “But my break? If I have—”
“It won’t count against your break,” Gene said. “Watch the register while you talk. I’ll be back.” He lifted a chin at Anna. “Still on for dinner? I make a mean pumpkin pie.”
Her temporary distaste for anything pumpkin at an end, Anna said, “You bet.” She watched him, her smile broadening as he adjusted a Thanksgiving display on his way back to the office. When Anna looked back at Jazmin, she met the girl’s rolling eyes.
“You’re worse than my parents,” she moaned as she trudged behind the counter.
It was the first time Jazmin had voluntarily mentioned her parents, who were living in Montana. Another small victory, perhaps. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now listen, I need your expertise.”
Jazmin brightened. She always did when Anna asked her questions, when she was treated as someone who “actually has a clue,” as Jazmin had often complained.
“About Halloween?” Jazmin said, a not entirely malicious gleam in her eye.
“I don’t care about Halloween.” Anna quickly searched the store for customers, and seeing only one, an elderly woman out of earshot, she began. “I’m researching the family histories of Paul Gilmartin and Zoey Eberhardt. Have you ever heard of them?”
Her eyes narrowing, Jazmin backed up, bumped into a stool, and sat without looking. “The Paul Gilmartin married to Maddy Gilmartin?”
“You’ve heard of them?”
“Anna, what are you getting into now?” Suddenly Jazmin was the older one of the two, a parent admonishing a child who was about to put her hand on a hot stove. She propped her feet on the stool’s crossbar and dropped her head into her hands, exasperated by her elder’s foolhardiness.
“So tell me what I’m getting into,” Anna said, leaning across the counter. Jazmin was as thin as an autumn twig. Gene was paying her well—why was she still not eating enough?
“Maddy Gilmartin is one crazy woman. She’s heavy into demonology.”
“I hear she teaches it.”
“She breathes it. Stay away from her. You’re not prepared.”
“How do you know about her?”
Jazmin looked down at her hands. Either the answer embarrassed her or she was bracing for Anna’s disapproval. “A friend took her seminar last Halloween. She thought it would be a kick.”
“Was it?”
“Are you kidding me? Do you think wiccans get into stuff like that?”
“I know they don’t.” Not usually, she added silently. “Did your friend ever talk about the seminar?”
“It scared her to death. On Halloween night all the students had henna sigils tattooed to their arms. Here,” she said, laying a palm on the inside of her right forearm.
“Sigils as in occult symbols?”
“As in demon’s names—their seals. Every student chose a demon for the night. Paul Gilmartin was there too. They’re doing it again this Halloween.”
Anna was horrified by what she was hearing. “The institute let Maddy get away with that?”
Jazmin spread her arms and assumed a grown-up air, cutting through to the bottom line. “Hey, nobody forces them to take the seminar.”
Anna stood straight. “Fortunately, I’m not doing Maddy’s genealogy.”
“I wouldn’t touch her husband’s, either. You don’t know anything about their world.”
“Jazmin, you realize I was involved in wicca.”
“That’s all you know about. Wicca’s safe.”
“It’s not safe.”
“Other things are dangerous, and you don’t know anything about them.”
Anna relented. Jazmin was certain only of what she’d been told, and Anna had told her nothing about her forays into the world beyond wicca. Like most young people—like Anna herself at nineteen—Jazmin couldn’t conceive of those she knew possessing more complicated, more dangerous pasts than her own short one.
Anna noticed Gene pacing the back of the store, trying to
keep himself occupied as he waited to resume his work behind the counter. She’d kept Jazmin for longer than ten minutes. “One last thing,” she said. “Have you heard of Alex Root?”
Jazmin’s jaw dropped, her patience with Anna at an end. “What the heck, Anna?”
Anna held up a hand. “All right, all right. Just tell me.”
“I met him on midsummer’s night, last June. I know he teaches classes on astral projection, so I thought, hey, I’ll meet him.” Jazmin hopped off the stool. “He pretends to be this New Age guy, but he’s into some nasty stuff too. He talked about demons and I took off.”
“Very wise of you.” The image of Alex, swaying and singing, was still sharp in her mind.
“So what about you? You’re the one messing with these people.”
Like Lonnie Schaeffer, Jazmin too had a protective nature, Anna was beginning to realize. It wasn’t tender, and it revealed itself in frustrated sighs and rolled eyes, but it was genuinely felt. “I’ll be very careful. Thank you for telling me about them.” She started to move for the leftmost aisle in the store, where Gene was tidying an already tidy shelf, but turned back to Jazmin. “And you’ve never heard of Zoey Eberhardt? She’s about thirty, dark hair, and she worked downtown over the summer.”
“Nope. But if she’s with those other three, I’d stay away from her. You shouldn’t make enemies—those people can wait years to get revenge.”
Anna headed back to Gene, and before he could say a word, she leaned close and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “Discretion,” she said, casting her eyes about the store.
“There are always customers, inside or outside Buckhorn’s,” he said with a grin.
It had become a joke between them. Never more than a peck on the cheek or lips in Buckhorn’s. He was discreet, he was a gentleman, and she loved him for it.
“I have to go,” she said. “I think I know how to uncover both hidden family trees.”
Gene raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Already?”
“Possibly.” Anna grinned all the way to the door and most of the way down Summit to where her Jimmy was parked. She’d be a fool to push him away—ever again. There was an end to even Gene Westfall’s patience. He’s a good man, Sean. And I think I’m ready.
Anna Denning Mystery Series Box Set: Books 1–3 Page 57
