by Leslie Kelly
Another low laugh. “Bond I get, given your looks.”
He grinned. It wasn’t a compliment. A disgruntled Alice had once told him he was much too good-looking to be taken seriously as a brilliant criminalist.
“And I guess you probably like women as much as Powers. But, I gotta tell ya, you’re too young to remember, but I’m not. Maxwell Smart wasn’t the best secret agent in the world.”
“Which is why my obnoxious cousin mentioned him.”
“Gotcha. Is that why you didn’t RSVP? To get even?”
“Nah. Mick has no idea I’m back. He knew I was supposed to be overseas until after Christmas. He sent the invitation to taunt me about missing my favorite time of year. Again.” He smiled evilly. “He deserves to have a guest crash the party.”
“Hope he doesn’t kick you out of his house.”
“It’s not in his house. The party’s taking place in the house of my childhood nightmares.”
As expected, the bloodthirsty sixty-year-old, who loved his books, was immediately intrigued. “Tell me more.”
After he had, she said, “Is your cousin in the habit of having private parties in the houses he’s got listed for sale?”
Actually, he didn’t imagine Mick would give something like that a second thought. “The house is in trust with a lawyer. I’m sure he got permission.” Since he and Mick hadn’t spoken in ages, Jared didn’t know how he’d finagled the use of the house for the weekend. But he’d bet there was some back-scratching involved.
In Derryville, back-scratching was involved in every deal. From which fireman would drive the big rig for the Labor Day parade, to who got to flip the switch for the Christmas tree in town square, Derryville was a microcosm of the good old American barter system. It didn’t trade in goods…just favors.
God, it all sounded so appealing. The very sameness, the normalcy that had made him long to escape years ago was exactly the balm his battered spirits needed right now. Home. It was so blissfully, soul-soothingly simple. Easygoing and peaceful. Exactly what he needed after a year of crazy but wonderful Russian cops, and just plain crazy criminals. Which is exactly what had made him decide to accept his cousin’s invitation.
He could hardly wait for the weekend to begin.
“HURRY HOME NOW. It’s after nine. Chief Stockton won’t want to see any ghosts and goblins on the street so late.”
Gwen Compton waved at one last straggling group of trick-or-treaters as they skipped across her front lawn. They laughed and yelled, kicking crunchy brown leaves out of the way in their haste to make it to just one more house before heading home.
The full moon cast gentle illumination on the road leading down the hill, so she didn’t fear for the children’s safety. The road wasn’t busily traveled. Only their guests—all of whom were already settled in for the night here at the bed-and-breakfast—used it. The moon was aided in its quest to brighten the night by softly glowing streetlights, which had miraculously escaped the mischief night BB guns that had taken out many of those downtown.
She watched the kids dart from puddle to puddle of light, pausing beneath the lamps to grab one more bit of candy, to toss out the odd apple or exchange a lollipop for a jawbreaker. Probably all of them were jamming chocolates into their mouths in spite of their parents’ dire warnings to let them check their candy before they ate it. In a town like Derryville, who could blame the kids? The only slightly scary thing about this peaceful Illinois place was the house in which she stood. Her home.
Shutting the door, she sagged against it and sighed, both relieved the evening was over, and also slightly sad to see it come to an end. Her first Halloween in the spookiest haunted house in town. Her home, which she adored—dark corners, scary turrets, strange creaky noises and all. And it had been a resounding success.
Of course, they probably wouldn’t have a single guest for the rest of the year. But she knew when they opened last month that Halloween would be a sellout, given the house’s reputation. They’d come close to meeting her prediction. Only two of their thirteen rooms remained vacant. That had proved fortunate. A broken pipe had caused a flood in her room, forcing her out. She’d have to stay upstairs for a few days.
“Aww, dangit, they’re gone. Think that’s it for the night?”
Glancing up, she hid a smile. Her great-aunt Hildy was peering out the window, looking mad enough to spit.
“I think so.”
“Rats. I didn’t make it outside in time to sing to that last group.” The old woman shook her head. “Knew I shouldn’ta had that second frankfurter for dinner. I been in the bathroom half the night and missed mosta the fun.”
Not particularly caring to hear about the bathroom habits of an old lady, Gwen turned to lock the front door.
“I still think I shoulda got that psycho killer mask and a chainsaw and chased the little devils down the hill.”
“You would have fallen and broken your hip.”
Her great-aunt shot her a look that demanded an apology. Gwen refused to give her one. Spry and in physically perfect condition or not, Hildy was eighty-five years old.
“You coulda done it,” Hildy finally said. “The old Gwennie would have.”
The old Gwennie. Hmm…Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person who’d been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Who’d loved hack-em-up thriller movies, and had once dreamed of being in the FBI so she could outwit her own Hannibal Lechter.
Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing a bra.
But that was okay. Everyone had to grow up sometime.
“I like this costume better on you, anyway,” Gwen replied, not responding to Hildy’s remark. She gave her great-aunt a visual once-over, studying the spiked, shocking-pink wig, and the thigh-high white patent leather boots sticking to the skinniest pair of old lady legs this side of a refugee camp. Combined with the glitter makeup on the woman’s eyes, the red leather skirt, white spandex top and pink feather boa, Hildy made quite a picture. Seeing Aunt Hildy as a punk rocker had probably been more effective at giving kids nightmares than any chainsaw wielding maniac could ever have.
“Sam seemed to like it,” Hildy said with a suggestive wag of the eyebrows.
Sam Winchester was Hildy’s eighty-seven-year-old gentleman friend. He and Hildy had been “stepping out” together for a few months, which Gwen was glad about. Hildy might be too old to settle down, marry and have the children she’d never had, but she certainly wasn’t too old for a little romance, a little happiness. Heaven knows she hadn’t had much of either one in her life.
“Toldja no kids would recognize you as Glenda the Good Witch.” Aunt Hildy rolled her eyes as she again examined Gwen’s pink dress and the long ringlets she’d curled into her hair.
“But everybody’s seen The Wizard of Oz.”
“Bo-o-o-ring. You gotta stop playing it safe. You’re a hot tomato, sugar lips. You just need to get back to normal, be daring like you used to be.”
She ignored the lecture on not playing it safe—lord knew, she’d been hearing it almost daily for almost two years, since her parents’ untimely death had shocked her into a life of safety and solitude. The ugly public breakup with her former fiancé had also made her “tuck up inside her shell like a pansy-ass turtle,” as her Aunt Hildy liked to say.
She didn’t mean to play it safe. In fact, recently she’d begun trying to do at least one spontaneous, risky thing each day, even if it was only wearing a darker shade of eye shadow, or a thin, filmy blouse on a windy October day. With a bra.
She could also admit, if only to herself, that it probably was the old Gwennie who had fallen crazy in love with this dark, gothic-looking house from the moment she’d laid eyes on it.
“You should’ve dressed up as that singer Madonna,” Hildy added. �
�Moe says you coulda superglued some of them big, pointy ice cream cones over your ta-tas and looked just like her in one’a her bustiers.”
Gwen also ignored the ta-ta remark. She didn’t want to think about the possibility of supergluing anything to her breasts. Particularly since the suggestion had been made by Moe. Her great-aunt’s best pal. The dead gangster whose ghost currently made his home in their basement.
She supposed there were worse ways Hildy could spend her golden years than talking to the ghosts from her past. She was just thankful Hildy had lived to see her golden years. And that Gwen was around to take care of her and share them with her.
Hildy’s family had disowned her when she was a disgraced teenager, having fallen in with a notorious gang of Chicago bank robbers back in the thirties. From what Gwen could gather, Hildy’s own parents had done nothing to help her when she’d been thrown into jail, only grudgingly letting her come home after she’d served her three-year prison sentence.
Aunt Hildy’s life hadn’t gotten much easier once she was released. Never allowed to forget she’d disgraced the family, her sadness had led to deep depression, and eventually a nervous breakdown. She’d spent years in and out of mental institutions. Something Gwen still had trouble fathoming, considering Aunt Hildy had been a smiling, gentle presence through her whole life.
She put her arm around her elderly aunt’s frail shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. Gwen was too grateful to have the slightly zany, but deeply loving old woman around to quibble over trifling matters like talking to a dead gangster. Hildy was the only family she had left. And Gwen would do anything to make her final years happy, tranquil ones. Anything to help Hildy forget that her family had once betrayed her.
“How would Moe know about Madonna?” she finally asked, knowing demonstrations of affection made Hildy uncomfortable.
“TV.”
She turned out all but one light in the foyer, partially to prevent her aunt from seeing her amusement. “Of course. Moe loves TV, I remember.” Personally, when she was in Moe’s position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TV—no reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springer—sounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, “You know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.”
Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. “That dirty old geezer. He always was…”
“Never mind, Aunt Hildy. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.” No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildy’s former associates tonight. Yes, she’d loved the stories as a kid…the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because she’d been so fascinated by the wicked old days. She’d learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillinger’s penis size before her eighteenth birthday.
The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.
But she hadn’t had time for stories since they’d moved here.
“All the candy gone?”
“Just about. I’m glad you insisted on buying so much.” Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. “I never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.”
Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. “And every one of them had to come here.”
Gwen couldn’t count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldn’t stand still. Each time, they’d pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, “Trick or treat.”
They’d peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when they’d moved here last February.
“I’m bushed,” Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. “You think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?”
Nodding, Gwen kissed the old woman’s forehead, wishing she’d realized sooner that Hildy wasn’t feeling well. “Go on.” Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.
As Hildy walked away, she said, “Don’t forget to thaw out the muffins so they’ll be ready for the morning.”
“I won’t forget.”
But, of course, she did.
JARED REACHED Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didn’t worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasn’t expected, it would be easier to slip inside—in character—to surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the “evidence” and pin the crime on Mick. Guilty or not.
Mick deserved some payback for the Maxwell Smart stuff.
He cut off his headlights as he drove up the hill leading to the old Marsden house, not even fully realizing he was holding his breath as the imposing building came into view.
It hadn’t changed. Dark and angled, it was an architectural monstrosity that had never fit in with the quaint mid-western town. It overlooked Derryville like a crouching dragon guarding its village for its supply of tasty virgins.
Several cars were parked in the lot at the side of the house, evidence of the party underway. The building appeared dark, so it was possible some people had retired for the night. Or, perhaps, they were busy being bumped off in Mick’s game of “figure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.”
Jared got out of the car after tucking his keys up behind the sun visor. As soon as he had a chance, he planned to come back and move his Viper into the garage. He also left the invitation and his wallet in the glove box, intending to be in character as of this moment. He didn’t worry about anyone stealing anything. This was Derryville, after all.
As he walked to the porch, he noticed a small sign. Mick had gone all out, having a fake sign painted for his inn. In print, it didn’t make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, however…“Little Bohemian. Cute, Mick.”
He paused at the bottom step. “Finally gonna get to see the inside,” he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when he’d lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsden’s house.
What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the town’s most famous residents had used descriptions of his home in his earliest horror-writing efforts? The Marsden house, with its dusty turrets, so dark and imposing against even the sunniest summer skies, had definitely been inspiring when it came to writing spooky tales. But practically nobody knew about the stories, long buried in trashed periodicals or out-of-print slasher rags. Jared was now on the bestseller lists with nonfiction, not the dreck he’d tried to write while in college.
He’d never seen the inside of the house—though not for lack of trying. He and Mick had climbed the rickety outside steps up to the wide, creaking wooden porch to ring the doorbell once, years ago. They’d done it on a double-dog dare, to see if old man Marsden really did have a Doberman named Killer, trained to bite the nuts off any boy stupid enough to trespass on his property.
Marsden hadn’t answered. Neither had Killer. Which left Jared with hope that he might someday be able to father a rugrat or two. He also hoped that if there were any ghosts in the Marsden place, Killer wasn’t among them.
A dog howled in the distance and he had to laugh at his own start of surprise. Shaking off old memories, he put one foot on the step, then paused. Miles Stone, superspy extraordinaire, would never walk through the front door—or worse, knock.
Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. He’d just stepped through an unlocked ba
ck door when he realized he wasn’t alone.
A figure in white—either a ghost or the most attractive female he’d ever seen—stood a few feet away. Jared froze, watching her move into the kitchen, unaware of his presence.
She was clad in a shimmering gown, and her golden hair was long and wildly curled against her curvy body. While she’d been silhouetted in the doorway, he’d gotten a glimpse of a sweetly soft face complete with full pouty lips. Every male instinct he possessed came to attention instantly in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Remaining in character, Miles Stone prepared to do what any James Bond would do. Find out who she was. Remove any weapons she might be carrying.
Then get her into bed.
2
GWEN HAD REMEMBERED the muffins forty minutes after she’d gone to bed in one of the upstairs guest rooms. “Damn,” she’d sworn at her absentmindedness. How could she have forgotten when Hildy had reminded her?
To give herself credit, she had been working awfully hard. Eighty-hour workweeks filled with ladders, paint cans, scrub brushes and sewing machines could drive every thought out of anybody’s head. But it wasn’t anybody who was going to have to oversee breakfast for their guests. It was her body.
Sighing heavily, she’d gotten up, wishing she’d thought to grab a bathrobe from her own room before coming upstairs for the night. Her thin negligee had done nothing to warm her. She’d made a mental note to stop to get the robe before coming back up.
In the kitchen, she hadn’t bothered to flip on the blinding overhead fixture. The lamp in the hallway banished most of the shadows, and she’d left the small light over the stove on, as usual, in case Aunt Hildy needed something during the night.
Now she was inside the room—maneuvering around familiar cabinets and fixtures—and that was when she realized she wasn’t alone. A man stood near the table. A man clothed all in black.
He remained motionless. A shadow. A phantom. A spectral memory of someone who’d stood there decades before.
