by Adrianne Lee
The door beside the sideboard swung open, and a young woman came through with a tray. She began gathering the used dishes. Nikki helped herself to a second cup of coffee, then studied the girl. A teenager, she realized on closer observation. “Good morning.”
“’Morning. We keep the coffee fresh all day, if you want refills. All we ask is that you return the cups to the sideboard when you’re done.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Nikki sipped her coffee and watched the girl work. “Do you know anything about Wedding House?”
“Some. I’ve lived in Port Townsend all my life.” The girl lifted her head. “What do you want to know?”
She’d been studying this room and, unlike the rest of the house, there was something inauthentic about it—as though it had been recreated, instead of restored. “Would you know if this is the section of the house that was damaged in the fire?”
“The fire ‘mad Luis’ started, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t say. I only started working here this week. It’s a summer job, you know.”
“I see. I just thought there might have been rumors over the years, something that indicated—”
“Isn’t that information in the brochure Ms. Conrad puts out?”
Nikki smiled. “I hadn’t thought of that. It probably is. I’ll have to look.”
“Should be some on that table in the entrance. If it’s not mentioned there, you could always ask Mr. Conrad. He did the restoration work on the mansion. He’s in the kitchen right now.”
In the kitchen. Nikki’s pulse leaped, evoking the tangle of opposing emotions. Did she want to see him? Yes, she decided, more than she wanted to avoid him. But what if he didn’t like her hunting him down in the far reaches of the mansion? She supposed she could say if she was going to include Wedding House in her book she needed to see the kitchen, as well as every other nook and cranny about this place. It was the truth.
She topped off her coffee, then followed the girl through a swinging door, down a short hall and into an old-fashioned farmhouse-size kitchen with lots of work space and modern appliances. The scent of baking bread permeated the air.
Chris Conrad sat on a stool pulled up to a butcher block table, reading a newspaper. Intent on whatever article held his focus, he paid no attention to the girl who carried the dishes to the sink. Or to the woman—presumably the gem of a cook—who was cleaning vegetables at a second sink near the stove.
Intermittent sun shone in through a wall of garden windows that gave a breathtaking view of the cloud clotted sky and the sparkling bay. Gentle light touched Chris’s raven hair, giving it a bluish hue. His expression seemed less fierce than usual in this relaxed state. But Nikki couldn’t disregard the conversation she’d overheard. How would he handle her if she was “the problem” he and Olivia had been discussing? Was he capable of violence? She remembered his quick temper and decided she didn’t want to find out firsthand. “Good morning, Chris.”
He jerked as though she’d slapped him, rustling the paper. His brown eyes settled on her, then opened wider than usual at her look. His jaw dropped. His surprise lasted a whole second, then a cloud shifted across his face, darkening his expression much as the clouds in the sky outside blotted the sun. “Ms. Navarro.”
“Oh, I thought we weren’t going to be formal. It’s Nikki, remember?”
He shifted against the back of the stool and stroked her from head to toe with an assessing gaze, this time like a man aware of his sexuality, aware of the silent attraction bouncing between them. Nikki steeled her nerves against the sensuous onslaught that his glance pulled through her traitorous body. Damn her. Damn him.
He said, “Is something wrong?”
The question startled her. Was he asking about his effect on her? Or fishing to see whether or not she’d seen the message on the mirror? “Why would you assume something was wrong?”
He shrugged. “Our guests don’t usually come into the kitchen.”
She tipped her head to one side and tried to read him. She found it impossible. Maybe she should just tell him about the message and be done with it. But her nerves felt as raw as the vegetables the cook was peeling. She waved a hand. “I need to see the whole house if I’m going to include it in my book”
“Are you going to include it?” He looked disinterested.
Was he? “I won’t know that until I’ve visited all the others on my list. Do you care?”
“Personally, no. But my sister does, and anything that makes Liv happy...well, let’s say I won’t object.”
“I shouldn’t think you would.”
“Would what?”
“Object to free advertising.”
“Wouldn’t make me much of a businessman, would it?” Although he said it with conviction, she had the distinct impression being a businessman was not a priority with Chris Conrad. But his sister was another matter. There was no mistaking the determination to make and keep his sibling on an even, happy keel. Nikki couldn’t help liking him for that. Or keep from wondering if such a man could harm any woman.
She glanced at the two women in the kitchen with them. “There is something I’d like to discuss with you. Alone.”
His dark eyebrows slipped into a frown. “Okay.”
He suggested the dining room. It was still deserted. She started to ask him about the writing on the bathroom mirror, then lost her nerve. “Chris, this room—it doesn’t seem as old as the rest of the house.”
“It’s not. This room and part of the parlor were destroyed in the fire my...uncle set.” As he spoke of his uncle, his hands clenched into fists. But as his gaze shifted over the workmanship, his eyes lightened, the tension at his mouth softened, and his fingers uncurled. “It turned out damned well, considering what had to be done.”
He launched into a description of the necessary shoring up of the frame of the house in this area—speaking as though she understood and shared his interest. She admired the joy he took in his craft, envying the fulfillment he seemed to receive from working with his hands.
Such strong hands.
He spun to her, smiling. The sexy, unconscious grin turned her knees to mush. Conjured images of those hands on her body. Those fingers writing threats on steamy glass. She blurted, “Did you leave me the warning on the bathroom mirror?”
“What?” He appeared genuinely surprised.
“Someone wants me out of this house. I wondered if that someone was you.”
The suggestion seemed to hit a nerve. But he didn’t deny it. Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t? She wished she knew. “Was it you?”
“I don’t write on bathroom mirrors,” he said tightly. He stalked to her, halting a hair’s-breadth away. His eyes were as dark as chips of tar. “If I want someone to leave my house, I ask them politely. If they resist—” his gaze traveled up and down her, not seductively this time, but as though he were sizing her up “—and if they’re too big to remove bodily, I call the police.”
Nikki blushed. Ire flared through her. “Well, I didn’t imagine the threat. You can see it for yourself.”
“Show me.” He gestured for the door.
Side by side they ascended to the third floor. She moved fast, anxious to prove to him that she wasn’t a liar. Anxious to see his reaction to the message. Anxious to know whether or not she could trust him.
By the time they reached the bathroom, the food in her stomach felt congealed—as heavy as the tension between them. She flung open the door. He walked in first. She hung back, pointing. “There.”
He squinted at the mirror.
“You might have to look closely.” She started toward him. “It was very clear with the glass steamed.”
He shook his head. Nikki’s pulse wobbled. She stepped beside him, eyeing the mirror. All she saw was Chris’s and her reflections framed like some family photograph, the images clear, undistorted in the gleaming glass. She leaned forward to fog the mirror with her breath. Not a smudge in sight.
She s
ucked in a gulp of air. “Someone wiped it clean.”
He looked skeptical. “Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
“Positive.”
“I mean, you’ve had a shock, what with your resemblance to Theresa and all,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “Maybe your imagination is working overtime.”
“I said it was here.” She glared at him. “Now it’s not. Someone wiped it clean.”
She expected another argument Instead he grew thoughtful. Then conspiratorial. “Someone is trying to sabotage this opening. Maybe even scare Liv. And what better way to distress her than by frightening you, by ensuring Wedding House won’t be in your book?”
“You think someone would go to those lengths?”
He shrugged. “If I knew who was behind it, I’d have a better idea why they were doing it. And how far they’d go.”
She hugged herself.
“Watch your step,” he spoke quietly, as though not wanting anyone else to hear. “Cut this visit as short as you can.”
“Are you saying I’m in danger?” She felt chilled to the bone at the suggestion.
“I honestly don’t know.” He reached a hand as if to touch her cheek, then let it fall. “But I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
For a charged second they stared at each other. Nikki thought he might kiss her. Instead, he brushed past her and hurried out. She stood staring after him. His tenderness and his warning had her reeling. What was going on in Wedding House? Was she in real danger? Could she find out her connection to Theresa before something awful happened?
She had a terrible sense of urgency. She needed to get in touch with her Internet contacts and see what she could find out about Theresa Aznar.
As she exited the bathroom, she spied a flash of purple coming out of the library. Marti beamed at her. “Nikki, just the person I wanted to see.”
Marti hurried along the hallway to join her. This time the mystery author carried a purple-covered book, something that looked like a journal.
Nikki nodded toward it. “Taking notes for the workin-progress?”
“Trying to.” Marti pursed her lips. “I was hoping to find something in the library relating to Wedding House.”
Nikki frowned, recalling that this woman had lied to her about what she’d been doing in the library last night Maybe she was lying still. “Isn’t all that information in the brochures?”
“Only what they want you to know,” she said cryptically. “I’m after something else.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t know. Call it intuition. But something about this tragedy is upside down.” She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll find a clue in that room down the hall.”
“The master bedroom?”
“Yeah. Want to help me look?”
“Sure.” Nikki wanted another look at the portrait, too. Wanted to tear that bedroom apart looking for clues about her relationship to Theresa. She’d do her e-mailing immediately afterward.
As they came abreast of the master suite, Marti leaned over the railing and grinned ghoulishly. “Supposedly, Luis De Vega shoved Theresa over this railing at this exact spot.”
Nikki shuddered, then scowled. “That’s history I could do without knowing.”
“Holy Joe, I didn’t mean to shake you up.” Marti grimaced, lurching away from the railing and hugging her journal. “I’m always forgetting others don’t share my love for the morbid. Please, forgive my bad manners.”
“No problem.”
They stepped over the velvet cord and into the bedroom. Marti turned toward her, her vanilla hair shifting. “Have you heard the rumors of Theresa haunting this house?”
“With my breakfast, and I’m warning you, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Really? Well, I’m keeping an open mind.” Marti laughed as though at herself. “Can’t think of a better place to haunt. Wait till you see this bathroom...it’s unbelievable.” She disappeared through a large door at the end of the room.
Nikki had seen all the bathrooms she cared to for one day. She spun toward the portrait and again her gaze snagged the picture holding her spellbound. She truly could have posed for this painting. What did that mean? She stepped to the hearth, studying the canvas carefully, wondering how to discover the bride’s secret.
The sheer curtains at the French doors that led to the balcony spread as if by a sudden breeze. Nikki lurched toward the movement, her pulse sputtering.
A man rushed through the opening and into the room.
Fear flashed through her.
He was stooped, yet tall. His leathery flesh and tan work clothes were streaked with dirt as if he’d been rooting in soil. A cloth hat was pulled low on his forehead, half hiding a face that seemed melted, the skin puckered and hideous. His black eyes flared with fright, or...madness.
The groundskeeper? Nikki gasped.
In Spanish he cried, “For the love of God!” His voice, a pained wail, wrapped around her like a coil of barbed wire. He leaped toward her, brandishing a pointed weapon.
Nikki yelped and reared backward, slamming hard against the fireplace. The breath rammed from her lungs.
“Why do you torment me?” the man cried. He clutched one hand to his chest and flailed the air between them with the pointed weapon—a chisel, she realized with horror. He was going to stab her.
“Leave this house, Theresa!” he shrieked. “Or I must send you back to hell!”
Chapter Four
Nikki shook her head. “I’m not—”
“Holy Joe!” Marti’s book hit the carpeted floor with a muted thud.
The man jerked toward her, then back to Nikki. Confusion and fright stole the madness from his eyes. He stammered, “L-leave me alone.”
Clutching the chisel to his chest, he ducked past Nikki and hurried from the room.
“What in the world?” Marti’s eyes were rounded, her face overly pink. “Who was that frightful creature?”
Nikki’s heart raced. Her knees wobbled. “The groundskeeper, I think.”
“Jorge Rameriz?” Marti retrieved her book. “He looked about to stab you with that chisel. Why, for goodness’ sake?”
Nikki drew a steadying breath, then laughed nervously. “He seemed to think I was Theresa. He said if I didn’t leave here, he’d personally dispatch me to hell.”
Instead of being appalled, Marti seemed elated. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “Ooh, maybe he thought you were the ghost. Perhaps he’s had encounters with her.”
“There is no ghost in this house, Marti.” Nikki felt her composure returning at the ludicrous idea, at the lack of sympathy from this woman. “If anything, he was reacting to my resemblance to the portrait. He’s definitely a sandwich short of a picnic.”
Nikki could almost see the wheels turning in Marti’s mystery-conjuring mind, as if she suspected this episode was a vital clue in her investigation of the De Vegas. She said, “Maybe I’ll have a little chat with him. He was here, you know, at the time of the murders. And servants are often the best sources of information.”
Nikki recalled her conversation with the kitchen helper. That young woman hadn’t been of much assistance. But Jorge Rameriz was a different matter. She’d meant to speak with him since coming here. Of course, she’d envisioned the encounter being an enlightening one, not a frightening one.
She supposed she’d still have to speak with him, but not immediately. “I intend to talk with him, too. But not right now. Let him calm down. Regain some of his sense. Next time I meet that man, I want to look as little like Theresa De Vega as I can manage.”
“Good luck with that, my dear. I’d say you’ve set yourself an impossible task.”
Nikki prayed that wasn’t so. Chris’s caution to watch her step, Jorge’s threat, the psychic’s presages, the message on the mirror—someone was determined to chase her off. Or worse. She shivered. Damn it all. She would not give in to this mass intimidation. She would, however, find out what she could,
as quickly as she could, about Theresa. “Speaking of tasks, would you know where I could find a phone outlet? I have to send some e-mail.”
“The TV room.”
NIKKI SPENT the next hour and a half composing, sending and reading incoming e-mail. One of the missives was from her editor, checking on her progress on the book. She lied, stating that she’d already begun compiling information, photographs. She sent out several e-mails with questions about Theresa Aznar.
She actually felt hopeful as she unplugged her laptop. Though she knew not to expect answers with lightning speed. The Internet and e-mail were only as fast as the person at the other end of the communication.
The waiting would drive her mad. She’d be checking anxiously, over the next day. This was the first time she had a name, a solid starting place. Something for her contacts to work with. Perhaps Aznar family members would come out of the woodwork. Someone who knew Theresa. Maybe someone who knew something about her.
Meanwhile she’d better start making good on the promise to her editor. She returned her laptop to her room, changed into jeans and a T-shirt, donned a baseball cap and gathered her camera equipment.
Her first stop: the master suite. She snapped several shots of the painting. Wait until her publisher saw this. Wedding House was a shoo-in for the book, but she wasn’t about to mention that to anyone. Not even the Conrads.
She spun away from the portrait and finished the roll of film with photos of the room. No one intruded on her, but she felt as though she was not alone, as though someone watched her. She sneaked several glances at the painting, half expecting to see Theresa’s gaze following her, but all she saw in those aquamarine eyes, so like her own, was the same pride, defiance and touch of sadness she’d seen the first time.
She was alone in the room—with her overactive imagination. And yet the odd sensation of being watched stayed with her. Needing to shake off the dark feeling, she headed downstairs.
On the second floor, she encountered Dorothea standing in the doorway of the ballroom, sipping from a coffee cup. Her normal exuberance was missing. She seemed upset, worried. Nikki tensed. “Is something wrong?”
