Onyx Webb 9

by Diandra Archer

  “No, I’ll be fine,” Gerylyn said. She sensed someone had walked up behind her, and she turned her head. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Stoller, there’s a young lady out in the hallway who has asked to speak with you.”

  “A young lady? Who?”

  “She said her name is Juniper.”

  10:22 P.M. EST

  THE MANSION BALLROOM

  KODA STOOD AGAINST the wall in the rear of the ballroom and watched as the musical trio he’d hired executed a seamless segue from “Creep” by Radiohead to a pretty decent version of “Everlong” by the Foo Fighters.

  There was only one problem.

  No one was dancing.

  It only took a few seconds for Koda to realize his mistake. When the band provided him with a list of the type of music they often played, he’d checked all the songs that he liked.

  The problem was that Koda was twenty-four years old, while the guests were all in their fifties and sixties. A few were in their seventies and eighties.

  Making matters worse, a few guests had already made an early exit due to the weather. His father would be livid if everyone cleared out because they didn’t care for his music selection—especially before the big solicitation of donations to the foundation.

  Koda made a quick trip to the stage and approached the piano player from behind. “Let’s change things up a bit,” Koda said.

  “Something newer?”

  “No, no. Older,” Koda said. “You know, classics. Songs that everyone will know like—”

  “Sinatra? Elvis? Maybe some Elton John?” the piano player asked.

  “Slow Elton is fine,” Koda said. “No ‘Benny and the Jets.’”

  Koda returned to his spot against the back wall and watched as the trio on stage launched into an easy-listening version of “Your Song” by Elton John, followed immediately by Ella Fitzgerald’s “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

  Five minutes later, the dance floor was jammed to capacity.

  Another disaster diverted.

  A young man wearing a mask approached. “Mr. Mulvaney?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was sent to find you.”

  “By who?”

  “Ms. Stoller. She said you need to come see her immediately,” the young man said.

  “Did she say what it was about?”

  “No, sir. But she doesn’t seem very happy.”

  10:28 P.M. EST

  KEY WEST, FLORIDA

  TOMMY BILAZZO SAT on the living room sofa and studied the invitation. He had a decision to make. He wasn’t much for parties, especially when they required formal attire—and costumes, no less—but Declan was reaching out to him. After all this time, there had to be a reason.

  Tommy thought he knew what it was. No one lived forever.

  Well, not most people at least.

  Tommy had kept his distance from Declan for forty years, the only exception being in the late ‘90s when he’d run into financial problems—mortgaging his Key West property to chase a hot stock tip, a computer company called Dell—right before the stock took a nosedive. It was a financial mistake from which Tommy could not recover without Declan’s help.

  More accurately, Declan’s money.

  Asking for the money wasn’t all that hard. After all, Tommy had played a major role in the Disney land scam that led to Declan’s wealth, a portion of which was rightly his. What Tommy feared was that reconnecting with his childhood friend would result in Declan wanting to see him.

  Was it time to tell Declan the truth?

  He’d have to wait and see how things played out.

  If Tommy learned one thing since the day he’d returned from the dead, it was that secrets tended to weigh more and more every year they went untold—until one day they were simply too heavy to carry.

  The invitation said cocktails were at eight and dinner would be served at nine. There was no reason to rush.

  Ghosts don’t do cocktails, and they never eat dinner.

  10:34 P.M. EST

  THE MULVANEY MANSION BALLROOM

  DECLAN WAS STANDING in the back of the room sipping a ginger ale in hopes it might ease his pain when Quinn walked up.

  He looked stricken.

  Declan took one last swallow of his ginger ale. “I know. The governor refuses to do anything.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “He wants to know what proof I have that Wyatt is innocent,” Quinn said.

  “Seems reasonable,” Declan said. “Why don’t you tell him?”

  “That’s the problem,” Quinn said. “The proof is—”

  “—your dead sister,” Declan said.

  “How do you know that? Did Stormy Boyd tell you?”

  Declan nodded, which was a lie. Declan learned of Juniper from a different, darker source.

  Father Fanning.

  But Declan had no intention of bringing the dead priest into the conversation.

  “So, you believe me,” Quinn said.

  “It doesn’t really matter what I believe,” Declan said. “But, yes, I believe you. Let me ask you this. If Wyatt didn’t do it, then Juniper must know who the real killer is. Correct?”

  Quinn nodded. “It’s a cop who used to work for the Savannah PD—a dead cop.”

  “The man being dead doesn’t help your cause,” Declan said. “Have you got anything else connecting the cop to Juniper’s murder? Any tangible proof?”

  Quinn remained silent.

  “I see.”

  “I trust your judgment, Mr. Mulvaney,” Quinn said. “Tell me what you think I should do.”

  “The only thing a person can do,” Declan said. “Tell the truth and hope it’s enough.”

  “The governor won’t talk with me anymore,” Quinn said.

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” Declan said.

  The chairs on each side of the governor were empty as Declan and Quinn approached. Declan slid into the chair on the governor’s left, and Quinn into the opposite chair on the man’s right.

  “It looks like I’m being ambushed again,” the governor said.

  “I’ve given you a lot of cash over the years,” Declan said. “And I have rarely bothered to call favors. But I am now. I want you to listen to what Quinn has to say with an open mind. Understood? Don’t forget, not every donation was in the form of a check. Some of it was in bags of unmarked one-hundred-dollar bills, as I recall.”

  “I’m sure you know the story about the frog and the scorpion, don’t you, Declan?” the governor asked, his eyes narrowing. “You sting me—”

  “—we both drown,” Declan said. “Yeah, well the problem with that, at least for you, is that I don’t give a shit.”

  It took Quinn ten minutes to methodically detail each of Juniper’s visits and what she remembered—the most important fact being that the person who took her was not Wyatt Scrogger.

  “You done?” the governor asked finally.

  Quinn went quiet.

  “So, let me see if I’ve got this right. The reason you know Wyatt Scrogger is innocent is because your sister told you so. Your dead sister, Juniper. She’s the one who told you. Wait—I know what this is. This is one of those Candid Camera things,” the governor said, looking around the room. “I’ll bet you’ve got a camera on me right now, don’t you? There, I see it, right there in the corner.”

  10:37 P.M. EST

  FRONT ENTRANCE OF THE MANSION

  KODA WENT TO the front entrance of the mansion and saw Gerylyn. Then he noticed the person standing with her, and his mouth dropped open.

  Juniper raised her mask.

  “What’s going on? Does Quinn know you’re here?” Koda asked.

  “No,” Juniper said. “I’d rather not upset him.”

  “She’s here because of your recklessness,” Gerylyn snapped.

  “Me?” Koda said. “What did I do?”

  “It’s not what you did,” Gerylyn said. “It’s what you didn’t do. I warned you at Thanksgiving that, should you decide to go forw
ard with tonight’s event, it was imperative that you cover every mirror in the house. Well, it seems my advice fell on deaf ears.”

  “I know,” Koda said. “But my father—”

  “Excuses won’t protect you, nor will it protect any of your guests,” Gerylyn said. “What time is it now?”

  Koda looked at his watch. “It’s past ten thirty.”

  “Good, there’s still time to get the mirrors covered,” Gerylyn said.

  “Now?” Koda said. “I’ve got a million things to do still. Do you have any idea how many rooms there are in the mansion? How many mirrors there are?”

  “Well, that’s something you should have thought of earlier while you had the chance,” Gerylyn said.

  “I don’t think covering the mirrors matters now,” Juniper said. “I’m pretty sure the dark entity is already here.”

  “The dark entity?” Koda asked.

  “He’s been following me—here and on the other side,” Juniper said. “I’m pretty sure he’s already here.”

  “We’ll deal with him later,” Gerylyn said. “Right now, let’s focus on the mirrors. Koda, is there anything in the house we can use? Any old bolts of material laying around perhaps?”

  “We have sheets. Pillow cases. Oh, wait—I know what we can use,” Koda said. “Juniper, stay here with Gerylyn. I’ll be right back.”

  Koda grabbed the frozen handle on the rear of the catering truck and yanked it upward, releasing the latch, and then rolled the door into the up position. With any luck the tablecloths were still there.

  Fortunately, they were.

  What he needed now was some help.

  10:43 P.M. EST

  CHARLESTON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  ALEC YOST WOULD have preferred to have flown back to Los Angeles, where he bought a home after the band’s first album went two-times platinum. But a commitment was a commitment—especially when the commitment was to Declan Mulvaney.

  Alec had to go.

  But it didn’t mean he had to go sober.

  Alec exited the first-class section of the American Airlines 727 with nothing but his guitar, hoping no one would recognize him—not that Charleston was a hot spot for a paparazzi stakeout.

  The decision to tell the band to go home had been an easy one. Alec wanted to be alone. He didn’t tell them why, only that it was a small group and he could handle the gig on his own.

  Alec’s reputation as a hard-edged, wild-eyed punk rocker was highly overblown—something he’d manufactured—smoke and mirrors.

  All things being equal, Alec preferred doing toned-down acoustic performances like the one he decided to do that evening.

  Alec stepped through the sliding glass doors and was hit with a blast of freezing wind. Fortunately, the limo was only a few feet away.

  Arranged for the entire band, the limousine was enormous, complete with a plasma screen television, DVD player, and surround-sound Sony Play Station. It had everything but a dance floor.

  Most importantly, it had a bar stocked with enough alcohol to keep a bachelor party going for hours. Alec opened the cabinet and saw there were two bottles of Jack Daniels. He leaned over and tapped on the glass partition, and the driver lowered the window.

  “Yes, how can I help you, sir?” the driver asked.

  “How long will it be until we get there?” Alec asked.

  “Under normal circumstances, twenty minutes,” the driver said. “But with the icy roads, it could take an hour.”

  Alec nodded and leaned back. Two bottles of Jack. A one-hour trip.

  It should be just about enough.

  10:45 P.M. EST

  AT THE BAR

  OLYMPIA WASN’T SURE she should have another drink. What was this—her third? Or was it going to be her fourth?”

  “What can I get you?” the masked female bartender asked.

  “I don’t know,” Olympia giggled. “Surprise me.”

  “Do you know how to make a greyhound?” Graeme Kingsley asked from his place in line behind Olympia.

  Olympia turned and saw the tall and muscular man standing there.

  Yowza, Olympia thought.

  Speaking of greyhounds…

  Robyn stood behind the bar, her identity shielded by the mask, and poured two ounces of Tanqueray Gin and four ounces of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice into a silver cocktail shaker.

  As tempted as Robyn was to lift her mask and say hello to Graeme, her desire to maintain her anonymity won out. She had no desire for anyone to tell Koda she was there, fearing an unwanted confrontation in front of everyone.

  “Do you have any syrup?” Graeme asked.

  “Heavy or light?” Robyn asked.

  “Make it a light kiss,” Graeme said.

  “Shaken or swirled?” Robyn asked.

  “Swirled, of course,” Graeme said with a smile.

  Robyn added a small squirt of simple syrup to the cocktail shaker, gave the container a few good swirls, and then poured the contents into a glass over ice—adding a pre-cut grapefruit wedge as the final touch.

  Olympia didn’t take the drink—she didn’t even notice it was there—she was too busy staring at Graeme and running through her mental checklist.

  Handsome. Check.

  Muscular. Check.

  Sexy Australian accent. Check.

  Heterosexual. Dear God, please.

  Graeme took a step forward and grabbed Olympia’s drink from the bar, raised the glass to his lips, and took a sip. “Not bad.”

  “You can say that again,” Olympia said.

  “I’m Graeme Kingsley,” Graeme said, handing the drink to Olympia.

  “I’m Olympia. Olympia Fudge.”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” Graeme said. “I’ve had my eye on you since the minute you walked in the door. And I’ve seen you on the telly.”

  “Oh, you have, have you,” Olympia said, batting her eyelashes.

  “I’m staying here at the mansion,” Graeme said. “What do you say I take you on a quick tour of the place?”

  “Really? While you’re at it, is there any chance you might be able to find me a decent dress so I can change out of this costume?”

  “Now why would you want to go and do that, love? You look magnificent just the way you are.”

  That was it. Olympia had already decided she was going to find an empty room, lock the door, and ride the Australian’s tight little kangaroo buns until dawn. Unfortunately, it became clear her plans would have to wait when Koda Mulvaney walked up.

  “Graeme, I need your help,” Koda said.

  “Okay, mate, whatever you say,” Graeme said. “Can Ms. Fudge tag along?”

  “Absolutely,” Koda said. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Robyn watched as Koda led Graeme and Olympia from the room, grateful for the mask and wondering where they were off to.

  Then, just like before, the lights flickered.

  Something wasn’t right. Robyn felt it in her bones.

  10:59 P.M. EST

  THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, SOUTH CAROLINA

  WE’RE ALMOST OUT of gas,” Maggie said.

  “Good,” Newt said.

  “You’re a strange bird, you know that?” Maggie said. “I just said we are almost out of gas, and you said good. I can’t think of a single situation where running out of gas could be good.”

  “I’m hungry, that’s how,” Newt said. “I can’t justify asking you to stop for food, but if we have to stop for gas anyway, then I can grab something to eat without putting us behind schedule, hence—”

  “—being almost out of gas is good.” Not only did Newt understand standard conjectures in algebraic cycles and could calculate Pi to a million digits without a calculator, he was good at simple things too.

  Like getting gas.

  “Oh, no,” Maggie said. Maggie and Newt peered through the windshield at a sea of flashing lights from a mass of police cars and fire trucks. “What—?”

  “Stay here,” Newt said, unfastening his s
eat belt. “I’ll go check it out.”

  “Apparently, a tanker truck overturned on the railroad tracks in the center of downtown Florence,” Newt said once he’d returned to the car. “They’re afraid it’s going to blow. We need to turn around and go back.”

  “Go back? How far?”

  “About four miles,” Newt said looking at the GPS on Maggie’s cell phone. “Then we should be able to find a way around the city. I figure we’ll lose fifteen to twenty minutes, tops.”

  Maggie and Newt found the road they needed and exited the highway. “Make a right,” Newt said. Several miles later, Newt instructed Maggie to make another right. “Stay on this for ten miles or so until we’re well south of Florence, and then we can get back on the highway.”

  Simple enough.

  “Which road do we turn on to get back on the highway?” Maggie asked after they’d driven for what seemed like a longer time than it should have taken to pass the city.

  “We passed it about five miles ago,” Newt said. “I decided we can keep going this way.”

  As if on cue, a bell dinged indicating low fuel.

  “Don’t worry,” Newt said. “We’ll see a gas station in a bit.”

  Maggie clutched the steering wheel and leaned forward, peering into the darkness—as if by doing so, she could will the vehicle forward without running out of gas.

  “There on the left,” Newt said, pointing at a Chevron sign off in the distance. “See, I told you.”

  The gas station was small, but at least it was open. Maggie pulled the car to an island, and they both got out. “I’m going to hit the bathroom while you pump the gas. I’ll meet you inside to grab snacks for the road,” Newt said.

  “Why do I have to pump the gas?”

  “Because you have a heavy winter coat, and I only have this thin jacket,” Newt said.