Moonstone Shadows

by Patricia Rice

  But she did. The impact was instantaneous. The layers sorted so he could almost see what they contained.

  The stones were old, extremely old. Flashes of Carmel dressed to the nines rushed by. With Hannah’s hand squeezing his, Aaron hung on despite the growing pain the fleeting images inflicted. Faces, a glitter of water and sunlight, a rush of rocks and debris. . . A long period of darkness followed by sunlight again. He forced himself to dig deeper into the stone’s memories—an impossibility he would never have considered without Hannah.

  And there. . . the vague impression of despair and anger from the man attaching the stone to the carved granite of a rounded boulder. The man’s hatred of the priest became crystal clear with a devastating glimpse of a young girl, battered, bruised, and wasted to nothing.

  Staggering, Hannah released his hand.

  Oh God, what had he done? Aaron instantly dropped the rock and grabbed her elbow. She was shuddering and barely able to stand.

  Was using her enhancement harming her? He tried not to panic as she swayed and held her head. He helped her to a seat.

  “I’ve read the history but it was no more real than a fairy tale until now,” she whispered.

  Aaron’s instinct screamed to take her home—but what if he was the problem?

  Mariah took the seat beside her. “History?” she demanded.

  Knowing Keegan’s wife was descended from the natives of this land, Aaron couldn’t shield her from their knowledge. But he didn’t want Hannah to suffer more.

  He signaled Harvey to bring over wine, then crouched in front of Hannah, rubbing her hand. “I’m sorry. I never should have subjected you to that. I’ve never seen so many levels at once.”

  She clutched his hand but shook her head. “No, it’s good to know our theories aren’t too far off. Make sure you write about this in your journal. It’s essential knowledge.”

  Deodamnatus, did the woman never let up on that library? She could have died holding that rock.

  “What is?” Mariah demanded. “Did you see Carmel’s killer?”

  “No, Carmel is no more than a fleeting moment in the rock’s timeline. I have a feeling we could have gone back centuries, but it’s like watching a bloody violent TV series mixed with hours of static,” he said curtly.

  When Hannah didn’t seem prepared to faint, Aaron took the seat on the other side of her and continued, “We’d have to examine each crystal to piece together an entire history of all they’ve absorbed. It could take years.”

  Harvey passed around plastic cups of cheap wine, then leaned against the stage with Keegan.

  “What history?” Mariah demanded, not taking the wine.

  “Carmel, the commune, the flood—we didn’t even reach the medieval. We stopped at the mission, I assume the one that was never quite established here.” Hannah sipped the wine and grimaced.

  Aaron stiffened, fearing she might be in pain. But apparently she didn’t like the wine because she continued in her normal lecturing voice.

  “I’d read that the priests considered their converts as slaves. I’m trying to adjust my thinking to theirs, but they considered natives as lesser animals to be trained like dogs, I think. They kept young girls in nunneries no better than pigsties.”

  “You saw all this?” Mariah asked incredulously.

  “No,” Aaron responded impatiently, wanting to take Hannah away. “You asked for history. The crystals are living history, but they aren’t sentient.”

  Hannah took another sip. “The rocks seem to absorb their surroundings. We saw mudslides and maybe the waterfall and a brief glimpse of Carmel. It was the man who attached the rock to the lamassu who gave off the strongest vibration. Aaron’s psychometry kicked in more strongly with human touch.”

  Aaron hurried up the explanation. “And the sculptor probably held the crystal longer than anyone else did. Carmel just picked through the box, with nothing more than greed on her mind, so we received nothing from her. Whoever plucked the rock from the grotto didn’t keep it long and they left no distinct impression.”

  “But you saw what the native sculptor saw?” Mariah asked, a little more politely this time.

  “His daughter, battered, bruised, filthy, and dead,” Hannah said flatly. She turned to Aaron. “I had the impression that she tried to escape her prison and died in consequence, but she was so thin, anything could have killed her. That ancient cemetery could hold dozens of dead girls, or given the history, hundreds of natives dead from the disease the white men carried.”

  There was the pain shadowing her eyes. He’d done that to her, given her that horror.

  Mariah’s fingers balled into fists. Keegan appeared distressed but didn’t intervene.

  “The cause doesn’t matter as much as the consequence.” Accustomed to keeping his feelings bottled, Aaron shoved them down now and gave the curt explanation. “The natives killed the priests and set fire to the mission. Soldiers were called in to staunch the uprising. The resort property is a burial ground for violence and human evil.”

  “Latter days of the mission,” Mariah interrupted angrily. “By then, California had its own government. The military sent to protect the missions started usurping the land. The soldier in Eversham’s painting was probably one of them. The priests first pushed the tribes off their lands. After the military took over the missions, the soldiers offered freedom. But without the lands that had once been theirs, my ancestors had little choice but to starve or work for the soldiers. At least the soldiers paid their workers, in most cases.”

  “What does any of this have to do with Carmel?” Keegan demanded.

  Keeping his eye on Hannah, who was regaining her color, Aaron shrugged off his disappointment. “Very little. Carmel collected semi-precious stones in superstitious belief that they gave her powers over men. What matters is that these stones came from the soldier’s collection, that the natives believed him when he said the crystals would guard against evil ever happening again.”

  “But as a just-in-case, the shaman added his own magic, and they put the stones in the lamassu, essentially, a native version of guardians at the portals of hell. It’s hard to register our modern interpretation of their beliefs about priests as demons or evil feeding on the spilled blood of warriors.” Hannah nibbled at cheese Fee arrived to pass around. “But stopping evil was the intent.”

  “But evil did return,” Mariah reminded them. “There have been battles here after that period. Fifty years later, miners were fighting over gold in the streams. Ranchers fought over water rights. Blood has been shed on these mountains since the beginning of time. So these rocks are worthless as protection.”

  “Daisy’s lamassu prevented a rockslide from killing you,” Aaron pointed out. “They’re not worthless. But if our theories are correct, they must be employed with good intentions. If the earthquake of 1812 toppled the statues and floods buried them, then the stones merely absorbed nature, and maybe began leaking the evil from the burial ground.”

  “So they’re not inherently evil but might help us if we use them for good?” Hannah asked.

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Aaron said, more grimly than he’d intended. “If we’re to capture a killer, we should surround ourselves with good intentions.”

  “The way putting your antiques in good hands ultimately replaces bad memories with good ones! The journals say that works.” Finishing off her wine, Hannah jumped up and kissed Aaron’s cheek. “Brilliant.”

  He did his best not to rub the place where she’d kissed him. He feared he’d been branded as her white knight, when he was everything but. He almost sympathized with the beleaguered Spanish soldier in the painting.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Fred Roper, the lodge manager said when Aaron and Walker approached him the day after the meeting about staging a re-enactment. “We have fifty guests staying over until tomorrow. I can’t tell them to leave their rooms and not come back for hours.”

  As always, Roper was freshly shaved and dressed in a well
-tailored suit and an expensive tie. His unfortunately small eyes gave him a shifty look. Aaron figured the lodge manger needed glasses and was too vain to wear them.

  “The town is preparing festivities to entertain your guests. We should easily be done in two hours. We can set up the cameras as the guests are shuttled into town. Blame it on me,” Walker suggested. “Say the police are investigating criminal activity.”

  Roper looked properly horrified. “I can’t do that. We have a reputation to maintain.”

  “I suppose calling it a Fumigation Party isn’t any better,” Aaron suggested. “Make up a better name, but we need them out of here tomorrow night.”

  “This is highly irregular. If Mr. Kennedy has approved this, I must persuade him otherwise.” He stalked toward his office as if he had a stick up his rump. Aaron eyed his own walking staff and wondered if he could impale a walking asshole with it.

  He wanted this damn murder solved so he could decide what to do about Hannah before life got more complicated.

  “Kurt had a call from a client and got held up,” Walker explained apologetically after Roper’s departure. “I called Monty. He should be on his way.”

  “Why haven’t they covered this place in security cameras?” Aaron swung to examine the lobby ceiling where cameras would normally be installed.

  “Roper and Carmel opposed them. Given what we know of their shady affairs, it’s understandable. Discreet meetings require privacy.” Walker studied the hallway from the restaurant and didn’t expound further.

  Lance hurried in from the back hall and the direction of his cabin, looking more harassed than usual. “Roper just called. Is this really necessary? Can’t we just let well enough alone and move forward?”

  Aaron filled a cup with water from the lobby water cooler and handed it to Lance while Walker gave his reassuring spiel.

  “Of course, it’s up to you and your nephews. I’m not in a position to call it obstructing justice if you refuse. I simply want to take a killer off the streets.” Walker nodded toward the front door, where Monty was jogging up the steps. “Have you talked with your nephews about your concerns?”

  “Carmel’s their mother. I can’t talk to them,” Lance said in obvious distress. “I don’t want them hurt anymore.” He handed the paper cup back to Aaron and walked off.

  Aaron closed his eyes and absorbed the brief images Lance had left, but they were distorted by too many emotions at once. Lance was a very confused man. Images of Carmel overlaid with those of Val and his nephews and Lance’s fears gave him nothing to work with.

  “At least I don’t see him whacking Carmel,” Aaron said grumpily as Monty entered. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  Walker snorted inelegantly. “Thanks for that.”

  “Your manager objects to our plans,” Walker informed Monty the moment he reached them. “So does Lance.”

  “They’re protecting Mom in their own way, but we’re doing this. If weird Lucy woo-woo can catch a killer, we want it done. If it doesn’t, then we’ve wasted a lot of energy but nothing is harmed. Fee is already planning a taco cart. Give the woman a stove and she’s a dynamo. What else have you got?” Monty practically bounced up and down with eagerness.

  “Security cameras. Are you planning on installing any?” Walker pointed at places on the ceiling where he wanted them.

  “We can’t get them in by tomorrow but they’re on our agenda. I told Roper to draw up a list of staff working that night. I’ll go throttle it out of him while I’m here. What else?”

  Giving Mayor Monty a task was a kindness or the man would pace the town in personal search of his mother’s killer, Aaron knew. The Lucy tendency to create community projects worked the same way. People needed to feel useful. He preferred to go his own way, but he understood the need to help—and hated being helpless.

  He got permission to explore Carmel’s suite again. He hadn’t known the woman well and was glad of it by the time he was finished. He found no trace of murderous intent on anything in there, just layers of vanity and spite and a degree of boredom. Carmel had written herself into a corner, apparently, and lacked the imagination or drive to dig herself out of the image she had of herself.

  There was probably a lesson in that. Aaron didn’t know if he had the incentive to explore it yet.

  He paced the perimeter of the lodge, recalling as much of that night as he could. It was up to him to place people on the outside. Others would have to recreate that evening from the inside.

  He examined rocks along the path, hoping he might sense the vibrations of a murder weapon, but there was nothing. Frustrated, he traced the path Francois might have taken from Carmel’s back door to his rooms. The chauffeur hadn’t passed Aaron, so he would have had to have taken a round-about route.

  When he arrived at the outside door to Francois’s meager room near the kitchen, it was open. Assuming Walker had released it so the lodge could return it to use, he leaned in.

  Lance was ripping out the walls.

  Twenty-seven

  “I’m a librarian, not a fashion model,” Hannah told the mirror in her room over the shop the day after the Lucy meeting. She’d taken her clothes over to Tullah’s store to wash them and ended up buying a few more outfits. Trying on new clothes made her feel a little ridiculous. She’d never spent much time primping. Her head had always been elsewhere.

  That was the problem—her head was very much attached to her body since meeting Aaron. She had physical needs she’d never indulged before. Hadn’t an obsession with a man in a painting started her down this path? Maybe she ought to have her head examined again, as Aaron kept insisting.

  She’d have to go back to Scotland to do so. She’d seen Aaron’s despair when Carmel’s rock had nearly brought her to her knees. For his sake, she’d have to return for medical procedures—and to stay if she really was dying. Only one of them should have to suffer, and he’d already had his share.

  She was still the Malcolm librarian. That had been an inescapable fact since childhood. She’d never really known any other task or calling. She had a job for life, just as Keegan had a responsibility to keeping the physical library, and Aaron had a responsibility to protect. It was their nature and couldn’t be changed.

  And no matter how obsessed she might be with the impossible, librarians didn’t allow valuable books to slip through their hands. They just didn’t.

  She had to face Cass before she could even think of leaving Hillvale.

  What she wanted just as much was to find out about the Eversham painting, but that was a little trickier, especially since she couldn’t come out and accuse Cass of stealing it. But who else would have been able to find it?

  The mirror showed that the retro-shirtwaist she’d found in the thrift shop worked well for her, and the mini-skirt was an added bonus. She preferred nondescript neutrals, not baby blue, but the sparkly belt made her happy—and confident enough to do what needed to be done. Deciding the dress looked appropriately librarian-ish with its upright collar in back and modest V neck in front, she headed downstairs.

  The workmen were almost finished with the back wall of the shop. Aaron’s inventory was less cluttered, and someone had even returned the fountain to bubbling. She didn’t know if those changes had dispelled the gloom of Aaron’s eccentric collection, but the morning sun seemed to shine brighter through the new front window.

  Guests of the current bridal party spilled through the street, enjoying the sunshine and each other, as it should be. They didn’t need to know of the foul cloud looming over the hill.

  The tale of Cass’s ancestors would fill a gap in Hannah’s knowledge and perhaps help with understanding Carmel’s death. Hannah needed those journals.

  As she determinedly strode up the residential lane toward the cemetery, Samantha leaned over her garden gate and waved. “Want company?”

  Courage only went so far, and Hannah almost melted in relief. “If you have time, I’d love it. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”<
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  Wearing her usual dirty denim jeans and a t-shirt, Sam strolled under her arbor of cascading roses as if she were a princess in royal attire. In Hillvale, as Cass’s adopted granddaughter and the Kennedys’ niece, that was close enough.

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to crack,” Sam said with a grin. “Cass is a force to be reckoned with, but she’s had her own way for too long. We either stand up to her or become her flunkies.”

  “I’ve never been the flunky sort, but I’ve never challenged authority either. I’ve simply gone my own way. I’m starting to think that just holding books in my head isn’t enough. I need to find the ones that are missing.” She hesitated to say more than that. The moonstone’s healing properties were mostly a fairy tale that she desperately wanted to believe in.

  Mariah emerged from her eccentric cottage wearing a sleeping Daphne over her chest. “I need out of the house. If this is a round of Cass wrestling, I’m ready for some fun.”

  “Incorrigible,” Sam declared, admiring the sleeping babe in her rosy bonnet. “Teaching Daphne rebellion before she can even speak.”

  “She speaks,” Mariah said in an ominous tone. “The child knows how to make her needs known.”

  Hannah touched tiny curled fists. “This is the reason I do what I have to do. Children need instruction. They need to have access to knowledge. Cass needs to share.”

  Cass was waiting for them on her wide, shady front porch, a pitcher of lemonade prepared. “It’s about time you visited,” she said sternly. “I didn’t know how many invitations I had to send.”

  “If your idea of an invitation is to tell me you’re keeping a valuable library from me or stealing Aaron’s painting, then pardon me, I’m slow.” Feeling defiant, Hannah let out all her suspicions while she poured lemonade for Sam and Mariah. Then she settled on a porch swing.