"Sure thing. You can have any one you want for the same price, since you the only guest."
"Anything's fine. I just want to get some sleep. It's been a long night."
He pulled a thick ledger from under the counter and shoved it toward her. "Just sign there and I'll get you fixed up."
She tried not to show her surprise when he opened a door at the end of the second floor and she was ushered into an elegantly furnished room. An antique ball and claw foot canopy bed, beautifully preserved, rested atop a floral patterned wool rug, and a blocked front dresser with ball-and-claw feet adjoined the room's only window.
"This here's the best room in the house," the old man said. "Kept special for all them rich folks who stopped over on their way to New York."
"It's beautiful. Thank you."
"Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning. Have a nice night."
She locked the door behind him and perched on the edge of the bed. This might turn out to be an interesting assignment after all. Her gaze fell to the thick envelope on top of her suitcase, and she thought about reviewing the packet, but exhaustion won out over curiosity. Whatever information it contained had been delayed this long; three or four more hours wouldn't make any difference.
As she sank into the exquisite softness of the bed's feather mattress, she wondered if the old man knew anything about the "ghosts" that were supposed to haunt this hotel. The stories were probably either the byproduct of over-active imaginations, or a crude attempt to lower the value of the property. If she'd had to place a wager, she'd put her money on the latter choice. She'd heard other curators talk about attempts by unethical developers to lower the value of a building they wanted to purchase. The cheaper they got the property, the more money they made when they sold it.
Of course, there was a slight possibility that this hotel was haunted. She, of all people, couldn't deny the fact that ghosts did exist. Her experiences with the spirit of Magdalene Laroussard, one of the original owners of the plantation, proved that. She thought about the times when Magdalene's ghost appeared to her, begging for help. She'd been terrified at first, then driven to solve the mystery of Magdalene and her husband's disappearance when she realized that Magdalene needed her help. Each time she'd want to give up, Magdalene's spirit reappeared, begging her to continue. She'd finally located their remains, and once the two skeletons had been buried together, Magdalene's spirit never reappeared.
No wonder Mac wanted her to do this assignment! Her lips twitched as she imagined the expressions on the other curators' faces once they found out the hotel was supposed to be haunted. They probably came up with every excuse in the book to keep from getting this assignment. Well, since Mac had practically coerced her into taking it, he'd damn well better be prepared to make it up to her. After all, he was the one who was always telling his employees that paybacks were hell!
Sadie's warning suddenly came to mind, and she shivered, in spite of the warm night. Could this assignment have anything to do with Sadie's "brown man"? The old man she'd met wasn't black, although his skin was dark--well, more of a "swarthy" color. And, Jack had encouraged her to take this assignment when she'd considered "begging off," so technically, if the old man was Sadie's "brown man," Jack could have brought him into her life by urging her to take the assignment.
She remembered the old man saying she was the only guest in the hotel. Was that significant?
Chills raced down her spine when she realized that this was the perfect place for a murder. It was so far out that nobody would hear her screams for help. She'd walked right into this trap like a lamb to the slaughter. Sure, the old man seemed nice enough, but her experience from living in a big city had taught her that a friendly facade could sometimes hide a ruthless interior.
Was tonight the night she was fated to die? Would they find her in a bloody heap on the floor? Her heart thumped in her chest, and beads of sweat broke out on her brow. The muscles in her throat tightened until she could hardly breathe. It was everything she could do to throw back the covers and climb out of bed.
How long would he wait before he came to strike the killing blow? One hour--two? Would he wait until he thought she was asleep, then sneak into her room? Terrified, she forced one foot in front of the other, her gaze glued to the doorknob, expecting it to turn at any moment.
Had it moved? Dear God, what if she didn't make it to the door before he tried to get in? Her knees wobbled and beads of sweat rolled down her face, making her eyes water. Oh God, please don't let me die! She tried to walk faster, but her body refused to obey. It was as if she was caught in slow motion, out of sync with time and reality.
Would he murder her in the room and drag her into the hallway? Or worse, knock her out and slit her throat somewhere else to hide his guilt?
Steady now, feet. Keep moving. Her nightgown clung to the patches of sweat on her back; she could feel beads of perspiration trickling down her chest. It was like some damp, clammy hand was slowly closing in on the uppermost portion of her body, bringing with it a numbing terror that defied logic.
She was almost there--just two or three more steps. Her body inched forward, slowly, painfully covering the distance to the door. Why couldn't she go faster?
Shaking hands grabbed a wooden chair and turned it so that the back of the chair was braced under the glass doorknob, legs facing out. Would that hold her attacker off? She eyed the legs. They seemed thick enough to keep the door from opening--she hoped. Her breath came in painful gasps as she leaned against the door for support. She was safe for now.
A scratching sound at the window caught her attention. Oh God, was he trying to come in through there?
Please, God, no. Please, don't let him kill me, she prayed. Hands shaking, legs numb, she dragged her body along the wall, inch by painful inch, toward the window, wondering if each breath would be her last.
What could she use to protect herself? By now, her lungs screamed for oxygen and her vision narrowed to a tiny pinpoint of light. She forced herself to take a deep breath and the pinprick of light widened until she could see. Thank God. If he was coming to kill her, she needed to see which direction he sprang from. She had to find a way to protect herself. Her glance darted around the room, looking for something she could use as a weapon. The lamp? No, too far away.
The dresser was only a few inches to her right. Did it have anything she could use? Her purse, yes--grab the purse. Think, damn it, think. What did she have in her purse?
The muscles in her arm screamed in agony as she stretched taunt fingers closer and closer to the strap. She had it! Ever so slowly her fingers tugged on the smooth leather until she grasped the leather pouch in her hand. Inching her fingers across the top, she felt along the cold metal teeth of the zipper until she found the catch. Positioning one fingernail behind the clasp, she forced the metal tab backward, praying that her attacker wouldn't see what she was doing. Finally the opening was big enough to slip her hand inside.
Oh God, the curtain was moving!
Seconds stretched into years as the fingers of her right hand rummaged through her bag, feeling, then discarding the contents.
The left side of the curtain fluttered and she froze.
Oh God, was he climbing into the room? A scream formed in the back of her throat, begging to be let out, but she held it in, knowing that the noise would give away her location. Numb fingers wrapped themselves around cold metal. Sewing scissors--she had sewing scissors in her purse!
She swallowed the huge lump in her throat, wrapped the palm of her hand around the base of the scissors, and forced unwilling legs to move. Holding the scissors aloft, she jerked the curtains apart.
12
The scratching sound of Elizavon's quill pen halted at the sound of knocking on the library's massive oak doors. With a fleeting expression of annoyance, she dipped the tip once more into the inkwell, finished her note, then blotted the expensive linen stationery with a tissue. Folding the page into thirds, she ignored the creak of t
he doors as her butler entered, and tucked her letter into a cream colored envelope.
"What is it?" she asked, not looking up. "You know I don't like to be interrupted while I'm going though my correspondence."
Taft shifted his weight from one foot to another and cleared his throat. "There's someone here to see you, madam. A detective. Says his name is Mr. Rolfe."
Her gaze traveled to the multiple rows of books that stretched across the wall on her right, then swung back to Taft. "What does he want?"
"He said your attorney told him to deliver a package to you, and not to give it to anyone else. Shall I send him away?"
She exhaled slowly, her long sigh communicating her displeasure more eloquently than mere words. "No. Send him in."
"Very well, madam."
It was about time she received the background report on Jack Windom. She detested detectives, but the rodents did have their uses. They were like sewer rats, hiding amongst the debris of human nature, small, nosey and capable of ferreting out one's innermost secrets. Her lips formed a small, knowing smile. No one could hide secrets forever, especially with today's sophisticated technology. She'd soon learn everything there was to know about Jack Windom--and consequently, so would Mary.
A few moments later, the door swung open and Taft returned, followed by a tall, burly man dressed in a dark brown suit. She studied him for a moment, noting the tightly clenched hand that gripped the handle of his briefcase as if he expected it to be ripped from his fingers at any moment. The smile on his face slowly ebbed away, leaving the corners of his mouth turned downward. It was obvious he was ill at ease in these surroundings; probably spent most of his time with the trailer trash that frequented Boston's numerous bars.
She dismissed Taft with a wave, and locked her gaze with Rolfe's. "Sit down, Mr. Rolfe," she invited in a tone devoid of emotion.
He collapsed into a chair, and she almost smiled at the relief on his face. Where had Allan Charles dug up this odious creature--from underneath some slimy rock?
"I believe you have a report for me."
The chair creaked as he reached for his briefcase. "I've completed the background check on Jack Windom." He withdrew a thick envelope and pushed it across the desk. "I had to go to South Carolina to dig up the information on his wife; that's why it took so long."
Elizavon's head shot up, and she quickly masked her surprise. What had Jack been hiding? "What did you find out?" she asked, forcing her tone to sound disinterested. "Make it short. I only want the bottom line, not the boring details."
"He'd taken out a hundred thousand dollar insurance policy on her. Since she croaked just over a year afterwards, it sounded kinda fishy, so I went to South Carolina to see what I could dig up. Seems that his company had some big insurance push on at the time, and Jack wasn't the only one who took out a big insurance policy. From what the insurance company rep told me, over seventy percent of the folks who worked there were smooth-talked into taking out policies on their spouses. But Jack was the only one who collected."
Elizavon pressed the staff buzzer mounted on the underside of her desk, opened the lower left-hand drawer, and removed an envelope. She tossed it toward the detective, where it landed with a thud near his elbow.
"Thank you, Mr. Rolfe. You'll find the money for your fee inside the envelope. Should I need your services again, my attorney will contact you."
Taft glided into the room and waited beside the detective's chair. Before Rolfe could utter a sound, she dismissed them and he escorted the surprised detective from the room.
Once the door closed, Elizavon reached for the report and thumbed through the pages. So that's where he and Mary got the money to buy a half-interest in the plantation bed and breakfast. The story was a trifle too pat for her taste, and she wondered if Jack had taken out another insurance policy--this time on Mary.
Her frown deepened as she skimmed through the pages. After finishing the last paragraph, she shoved the report back into its torn envelope, then locked it away from prying eyes. Instead of returning to her desk, she wandered over to the French doors and stared ahead, oblivious to the brilliantly colored gladiolas that formed a semi-circle around the patio. The tick, tick, tick of the wooden clock on her right faded away as her weary mind tried to make sense of the information she'd received.
The bong of the grandfather clock chiming three times brought her back to the present. How long had she been gazing out the window? Taft's footsteps echoed on the marble floor in the hallway, and she watched in silence as he set a silver teapot and plate of sandwiches on a small table near her desk.
"I want to place a call to my niece," she announced. "Try the plantation first. If she's not there, ask for a number where she can be reached."
"Very well, madam."
She lifted a sandwich, then returned it to the plate. "Taft...there's something else."
He paused, one hand on the doorknob.
"Make sure you don't say anything to her husband. If he answers the phone, hang up. Under no circumstances is he to know that I want a private conversation with Mary."
13
Sadie glared at Mrs. Milliron as she rolled the serving cart over to the guest table, set the steaming bowl of stew in the center, then stacked the rice and vegetable dishes in a circle.
"Can't stand that woman," Sadie said. "There's something fishy about her."
Justine shushed her and tipped their pitcher so tea flowed into their glasses. "Don't be silly, Sadie. You don't like her because she told you she doesn't believe in Voodoo. Mrs. Milliron's a very nice woman. Please don't insult her again; she might quit this time, and Mary wouldn't like it if you ran off her housekeeper while she was gone."
"So what? We're here; we can handle a few guests."
Justine shook her head. "No, we can't. You and I are too old to keep up this place. Please, as a favor to me, don't say or do anything to upset her. She's only here three days a week; it's not like you have to put up with her all the time."
Sadie mumbled incoherently, then reached for her glass. "She better not cross me. I got enough things on my mind; don't need that woman adding to it." She ladled gravy over her rice. "Don't even know how to cook a decent gravy. Look at this--it's thin as water."
"What on earth is wrong with you?" Justine whispered. "Ever since Jack left to take Mary to the airport, you've been in a sour mood."
Sadie opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes suddenly rolled back into her head until her pupils disappeared from sight. She rocked back and forth several times, then sat perfectly straight in her chair until spasm after spasm rocked her frail body. Her head snapped back and forth like a rag doll being violently shaken by a child, and her arms flopped wildly on the table. Then, as quickly as the vision started, it was over.
"Don't touch her," Justine called out as the young couple seated at the table next to them rushed over.
"Are you sure she doesn't have epilepsy?" the man asked. "It looks like she's having a grand mal seizure."
Justine rose and stood between them and Sadie. "She doesn't have epilepsy; she's having a vision. Sadie used to be a Voodoo priestess, and this type of thing happens every time she has a vision. She'll be fine once it's over." She held up one hand. "Please, go back to your table and finish your dinner. There's nothing you can do."
The couple reluctantly returned to their seats, but kept their eyes glued on Sadie. When she slumped forward, they started to rise, but Justine motioned for them to stay where they were. She leaned over and gently shook Sadie's shoulder. "Sadie, can you hear me?"
A hushed silence fell on the room as everyone waited for Sadie to respond. Justine repeated her question a second time and Sadie's eyes fluttered open. "No need to shout. I ain't deaf. Give me something to drink; I'm thirsty."
Sadie peered at the couple watching her, then nodded to Justine.
"You might as well sit over here and listen to what she has to say, instead of straining to hear every word," Justine said. "Sadie has graciously agr
eed to allow you to hear the explanation of her vision."
They grinned sheepishly, then changed tables. Emily Baines, a tall blonde dressed in jeans and a blue sweater, patted Sadie's hand. "Are you okay? Is there anything we can get for you?"
"We thought you were having an epileptic seizure," her husband added.
Sadie's dark eyes glittered. "What? Ain't you never seen nobody have a vision before? Spirits done warned me about the brown man." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's getting closer. Spirits done told me so. We gotta watch out for him."
Emily's eyes widened to two huge orbs. "How often do they talk to you?--the spirits, I mean. What do they say? Do you actually see ghosts?"
Sadie sent her a haughty glare. "Spirits only talk to me when they got something to say. It's like somebody's talking to me, but I can't see nothing, only hear them."
"How long have you been hearing them?" Emily asked. "Have you heard them all your life, or did something happen, like an accident, to trigger them?"
"You mocking me, child?" Sadie's eyes sparkled with anger. "Why you asking all them questions about what I seen and heard?"
The woman leaned closer. "Sadie, I'm not making fun of you. I'm a reporter, and I'm very interested in paranormal phenomenon. You're the first person I've seen that has these 'visions,' as you call them. I'd like to ask you more about them."
Sadie stared at her for a few moments, then relaxed her shoulders. "Women in my family got the sight; always have. But only the second daughter. I'm the last of them; won't be nobody after me because I ain't got no children." Her shoulders drooped and her hand shook as she stood up. "I don't feel like talking no more. I'm going to bed."
Emily's mouth fell open as she watched Sadie shuffle out of sight. "Is she always like that?" she asked.
Justine brushed the front of her skirt. "Yes. You're lucky she said anything at all to you. Sadie's a very private person, and seldom shares her vision with outsiders. I doubt if you'll get her to add anything else."
Breaking the Chain Page 6
