There was a short pause on the other end of the call.
“One more thing you should know about Gwen Frazier,” Sam said finally.
“Yeah?”
“She sees ghosts,” Sam said.
“What the hell?”
But it was too late. Sam had already ended the connection.
Judson stood quietly, letting the energy of the oncoming storm and the prospect of seeing Gwen again stir his senses.
After a while, he turned and went back inside the cottage to pack for the long drive to Wilby.
Ghosts were no big deal. He saw a few every night in his dreams.
Four
Gwen sat at a small table in the tearoom of the Riverview Inn and watched the dark-haired man with the eyes of a raptor enter the lobby. An eerie storm of amber lightning flashed and sparked in the atmosphere around Judson Coppersmith. The disturbing heat in his aura had not diminished since the disastrous evening in Seattle. His dreams were growing more powerful.
The effect that Judson had on all of her senses had not lessened, either. A near-violent rush of awareness, an effervescent excitement mingled with dread and an uncanny sensation of knowing, shivered through her. The same intuitive certainty that had both compelled and alarmed her that night in Seattle came crashing back. This is the one.
The paranormal fire that surrounded Judson roared in the cozy lobby of the old Victorian inn. But Gwen knew that she was the only one who could see the flames. The handful of guests seated in the wingback reading chairs did not look up from their books and magazines. Riley Duncan, the front desk clerk, did not take his eyes off his computer screen.
Trisha Montgomery, the proprietor of the Riverview Inn, was seated across the table from Gwen in the tearoom. She, too, was oblivious.
“Between you and me, you should try to stay out of Nicole Hudson’s way while you’re in town,” Trisha said. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “That woman isn’t right in the head. You know as well as I do that she wasn’t what anyone would call stable two years ago. I can tell you for a fact that her mental health hasn’t improved in the past two years.”
“Don’t worry,” Gwen said. She suppressed a small shudder. “I have no intention of crossing paths with Nicole if I can avoid it.”
“That won’t be possible, not if you hang around for more than a day or two,” Trisha said dryly. “Wilby is one very small town.”
Trisha was in her late thirties, an attractive woman with short, curly brown hair that framed a fine-boned, heart-shaped face. Gwen had met her two years earlier at the start of Evelyn’s research study. At the time, Trisha had been a newcomer to Wilby, a newly minted multi-millionaire who had made her fortune in the high-tech world. She had retired at an early age to do what she had always dreamed of doing—run a quaint B&B in the Oregon woods. To the surprise of just about everyone in town, she had made the old inn a year-round success.
Gwen tried to pay attention to Trisha, but her eyes kept returning to the lobby where Judson was approaching the front desk. She knew that the storm of amber light that blazed around him was a vision conjured by her psychic senses. Normally, she kept her talent tamped down when she was around other people. But today she was tense and very much on edge and therefore not in full control. Her other sight had flared a moment ago when Judson had opened the door. Even though she had been anticipating his arrival, seeing him for the first time after a month of thinking about him far more often than was good for her had rattled her senses and raised her talent.
What on earth was going on in Judson’s dreams that caused her to perceive him like this—a hard, relentlessly determined man walking through a storm of hot amber light?
She had a talent for analyzing dreams, but she needed context to comprehend what her intuition was trying to tell her. Judson was still very much an enigma, and given his reaction to her offer of dream therapy that night in Seattle, she had a feeling that he intended to remain a mystery.
He must have sensed that he was being watched because he stopped before he reached the front desk and raked the small lobby with a single glance, sizing up the handful of guests the way a predator considers potential prey.
She knew that he had jacked up his talent a little because at that point some of the guests belatedly became of aware of something dangerous in their midst. A few of them raised their eyes from their magazines or broke off conversations long enough to glance around, instinctively searching for whatever it was that had raised the hair on the back of their necks.
But as was so often the case, they chose to ignore the primal message that their senses were sending. After all, this was a warm, safe place, and the newcomer looked well dressed, calm and controlled. He made no overtly threatening moves.
The guests went back to their magazines and conversation. Perhaps their intuition had told them what had been clear to Gwen when he walked through the door. They were safe. None of them was Judson’s intended prey today. He was here for her.
With an effort of will, she forced her vision back down into the normal zone. The surreal ultra-light fire winked out, but the sense of recognition was as strong as ever. This was the man she had been waiting for—not just since she had made the phone call to Abby—all of her life. Her pulse beat faster. Her fingers tightened on the teacup.
Pull yourself together, woman. She had always been a dreamer, but she had learned long ago not to get carried away by her own dreams.
At that instant, Judson looked at her through the open French doors of the tearoom. Another unsettling jolt of awareness thrilled her senses. She was pretty sure that she saw a flash of heat in his topaz eyes.
She inclined her head in what she hoped was a cool, polite acknowledgment of his presence. He returned the small gesture—equally cool and polite—and continued on to the front desk to check in.
Gwen turned her attention back to Trisha.
“Is Nicole still running the florist shop?” Gwen asked.
“Oh, yes,” Trisha said. “She’s really good at the business, even if she is a bit nutty. Handles all the weddings, funerals and high school proms in the area. She does the weekly arrangements here at the inn.” Trisha angled her delicate chin toward the floral display that sat on the round table in the lobby. “But last month I stopped by her shop to discuss some changes I wanted to make in the flowers that go into the rooms. The door of her office was open. I’m telling you, the inside looked like some kind of weird shrine to that man she was seeing two years ago, the one who went over the falls.”
Unease twisted through Gwen.
“She’s still carrying the torch for Zander Taylor?” she asked, just to be certain.
“I’m afraid so.” Trisha made a face. “And she still blames you for his death. As far as I can tell, Zander Taylor was the only serious relationship she has ever had. She’s great with flowers and animals, but not with people. I thought you should know. You might want to be careful around her.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Gwen said.
“I see you booked a week with us for yourself and this Judson Coppersmith,” Trisha said, probing gently.
“I need time to arrange Evelyn’s funeral and take care of her legal and business affairs,” Gwen said. “Judson is going to help me.”
Trisha frowned. “No offense, but why you? Didn’t Evelyn have any family?”
“No. She left everything to me.”
“I see. I hadn’t realized that.” Trisha gave her a commiserating smile. “You probably won’t have any trouble selling the house she lived in here in town, but what on earth will you do with the old lodge out at the falls, the place she called her research lab?”
“I have no idea,” Gwen said truthfully. “I suppose I’ll hire someone to clean out the equipment and the instruments she installed and then try to sell the place. I’m hoping I can get things wrapped up in a week, but there’s a lot to handle.”
“This Judson Coppersmith you’re expecting is a friend?”
&nb
sp; “Not exactly, more of a financial adviser,” Gwen said. She was proud of the smooth way that came out. She had been working on Judson’s cover story all morning. “He’s had some experience with this sort of thing, settling estates and such.”
Trisha’s expression cleared. “Good, because I think you’re going to need some help. I doubt that Evelyn paid much attention to her business affairs. All she cared about was her research.”
“I know.”
“She was a real eccentric in a town full of that particular breed, but I’m going to miss her.”
“So will I,” Gwen said.
Trisha cleared her throat. “Sara, one of my housekeepers, says there’s a large cat in your room.”
“Evelyn’s cat, actually. Max. I couldn’t leave him there at the house. There’s no one around to feed him. I didn’t know what to do with him, so I brought him here with me. I hope that’s not a problem. I brought his litter box with me. I’ll pick up some cat food later.”
“It’s okay.” Trish smiled. “I allow pets.”
Judson had finished at the front desk. He walked through the doors of the tearoom, a leather bag in one hand. His profile suited his hawklike eyes, Gwen thought, all sharp planes and angles. There was a prowling, muscular grace in his stride. He wore khakis, a gray crewneck pullover and low boots. The unusual amber-colored crystal in the black metal ring on his right hand caught the summer light streaming through the window. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn that it glowed, as if infused with some energy. Just like his eyes, she thought.
Judson stopped at the table and pinned her with his bird-of-prey eyes.
“Hello, Gwen,” he said.
“Judson. Nice to see you again.” She managed a bright, welcoming smile. “You made good time. This is Trisha Montgomery. She owns the inn.”
“Welcome to the Riverside Inn,” Trisha said, smiling warmly.
“Thanks,” Judson said.
“I understand you’ll be staying with us for a few days while you help Gwen settle Evelyn Ballinger’s affairs,” Trish continued.
Gwen knew a rush of panic. She had not had time to brief Judson on the cover story she had concocted.
Judson looked at Gwen, utterly unfazed, his brows elevated ever so slightly. “That’s right.”
Gwen breathed a sigh of relief and flashed him an approving smile. He had handled the situation very smoothly. As well he should, she thought. He was a security consultant, after all.
Trisha got to her feet and took her computer bag off the back of the chair. She hitched the strap of the bag over one shoulder. “If you two will excuse me, I need to have a chat with my cook. Please let me know if I or anyone else on the staff can help in any way.”
“We’ll do that,” Judson said.
Trisha went briskly toward the kitchen. Judson lowered himself into the chair across from Gwen. He set the leather bag on the floor near his feet.
“So, we’re here to settle Ballinger’s affairs?” he said, speaking in very neutral tones. “That’s our story?”
“Well, it’s not like I can announce that we’re conducting a possible murder investigation, now, is it?” Gwen said. She spoke crisply, authoritatively. It did not require psychic intuition to know that with a man like this a woman had to take charge right at the outset and stay in charge. Guys like Judson Coppersmith were far too accustomed to giving the orders.
“Probably best not to bring up the word murder yet,” Judson agreed. “You’d be amazed how that subject tends to upset people.”
“I realize we can’t discuss it in public. The room I booked for you is next to mine on the third floor. There’s a connecting door so we can talk privately without being seen coming and going from each other’s rooms.”
“Wow,” he said, his voice still perfectly neutral. “Connecting doors.”
She was starting to get flustered. “The inn is a little more expensive than either of the two motels in town, but it’s actually a good bargain when you consider that we get breakfast and afternoon tea.”
“Afternoon tea?” Judson repeated thoughtfully. “Will there be scones and clotted cream?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be picking up your expenses, of course.”
Something that looked suspiciously like amusement came and went in his eyes. “I’ll keep track and make sure you get a detailed accounting when I send you my bill.”
No doubt about it, he was laughing at her.
“I realize that you consider this case very low-rent compared to the jobs you’re accustomed to handling for some no-name government intelligence agency. But Abby assured me that due to some unfortunate circumstances on your last mission, you are currently without a client and that you would give this investigation your full attention.”
Judson’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Rest assured you have my full attention, Gwen Frazier.”
A middle-aged woman in a white pinafore apron appeared at the table. Her nametag read Paula. She handed Judson a menu and beetled her brows in a severe manner.
“It’s almost four o’clock,” she warned. “Tearoom closes at four. We’re out of sandwiches and cakes. I think I’ve got a couple of scones left, but that’s it.”
“Just coffee, please,” Judson said.
“Huh.” Paula was obviously disappointed that Judson was not going to argue about the closing time, but she recovered quickly. “Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” Judson said.
Naturally, Gwen thought. How else would a man like Judson Coppersmith take his coffee?
Paula eyed Gwen. “More green tea?”
“Please,” Gwen said.
“Heard you’ve got Evelyn Ballinger’s cat upstairs in your room,” Paula said.
“That’s right,” Gwen said.
“Gonna take it to the pound?”
“No, I’ll probably haul Max back to Seattle with me.” Gwen paused. “Unless you know someone who might like a nice cat?”
“Nope. Got too many cats around here already. Folks from Portland are always driving up here to dump their unwanted cats and dogs on the side of the road. Besides, according to Sara, the housekeeper, Evelyn’s cat isn’t a nice cat. Sara says it hissed at her from under the bed when she cleaned your room today.”
Paula stalked off toward the kitchen.
Judson waited until she was out of earshot. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a cat.”
“For now, apparently.” Gwen said. She lowered her voice again and leaned forward a little. “How long do you think it will take you to conduct the investigation?”
“Depends how far you want me to go with it.” Judson kept his own voice at a normal, conversational level.
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It will take me about five seconds at the scene to determine whether or not your friend was murdered.”
“Really? Your brother made it clear that you’re a professional investigator and that you have a talent for this sort of thing, but five seconds at the scene of the crime doesn’t sound like enough time to conduct a thorough investigation.”
Judson swept her misgivings aside with a slight motion of one powerful hand. “Murder is murder. It leaves a calling card, even when it’s done by paranormal means. But you already know that, don’t you? You must have sensed something when you found your friend’s body—something that made you suspect foul play.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “Okay, obviously, I have my suspicions, but my talent is kind of dicey when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“Dicey?”
“I read dreams and view auras. I don’t investigate murders. Look, the bottom line here is that I need to be absolutely certain about what happened to Evelyn. That means that I need an investigator who is willing to spend more than five seconds at the scene.”
“Is that right?” Judson lounged back in his chair and shoved his booted feet straight out under the table. He hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt. “What, exactly, do y
ou want from me?”
“Well, I expect you to determine cause of death, for starters.”
“You mean, you want to know if Ballinger was killed by paranormal means.”
“Yes. I admit that given her health history it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that she had a heart attack or a stroke. I want to be sure.”
“What else?” Judson asked.
“If you conclude that she was murdered, I want you to find the killer, of course.”
“See, that’s where things can get—what was the word you used? Oh, yeah, dicey.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Complicated?”
“Very complicated.”
“Because you aren’t particularly good when it comes to identifying the killers?” she asked in her sweetest tones.
“Nope. I’m good at that, too.”
He broke off when Paula returned to the table with his coffee and the check for Gwen to sign. Paula hovered while Gwen scrawled her name and a tip on the little slip of paper.
Paula took the signed paper and departed in the direction of the kitchen.
“She didn’t look impressed with the tip that you left,” Judson observed.
“Well, she should have been impressed. It was a good tip. I’ve worked as a waitress. Everyone knows that ex-waiters and -waitresses always overtip, even when the service is lousy.”
“I’m just saying she didn’t look impressed.”
“And she doesn’t like cats, either. Forget Paula. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. You said you’re good at identifying the bad guys. So what is the hard part of a murder investigation for you?”
Judson picked up his coffee. “The complication in situations like this is finding the type of evidence that we can take to the local cops, the kind they need to make an arrest and build a case.”
“But isn’t that what you and your brother do?”
“Not exactly,” Judson said. “Mostly we work off the record.”
“Off the record?”
“Didn’t Abby explain what it is that Coppersmith Consulting does?”
Gwen hesitated. “She said you conducted security investigations for a government agency that recently shut down due to severe funding cuts.”
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