King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  “Why? What was it about? Did she want to break the engagement? Or did you? What was going on?”

  He glanced at her sharply. “You’d do just fine were you to join the police, Mrs. McHennessy.”

  She didn’t flush, and she didn’t back down. “Justin, please, answer me.”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I’ve answered everyone else. We fought over the newspaper.”

  “The newspaper?”

  He looked at her steadily, a rueful smile playing over his mouth. “You don’t understand my lack of undying grief, do you? Of course it hurt when I heard Susan was dead. But I never asked her to be my wife.”

  Kit shivered at the familiarity of it all. Hadn’t she once heard him deny that he had known Mary Browne intimately?

  “But you were…you were…”

  “Involved with her, yes. I met Susan in London, while I was working on a project there. She was a very lovely woman. I was attracted to her.”

  “But you weren’t interested in marriage. Just…an affair.”

  He laughed. The sound was brittle, like crackling leaves. “You’re thinking like a soap opera. Was I to spend my life pining for you to return? I never married because I never met the woman with whom I wished to spend my life. And yet, I’m fond of the weaker sex.”

  “Would you stop that, please?”

  “What?”

  “Sounding so…Irish!”

  He looked startled, and then he smiled. “You don’t mean ‘Irish,’ do you?”

  “No! I mean like some ancient lord and master. But please excuse me. Go on.”

  “All right. As I was saying, I met her in London. We were together frequently, and I asked her to come here and spend a week with me. We arrived separately—I had to stop in Dublin overnight on business. I saw the announcement of my engagement in the paper, and when I got home, Susan was in the process of refurbishing my house. She had also acquainted herself with a number of the townspeople.”

  “And?”

  “We had a fight. A serious one.” He grimaced. “I liked Susan. She was fun; she had a passion for life. But she could also be cruel, vindictive—and spoiled. She liked to play with people. I think I was part of a collection to her. The idea of adding an Irishman to her string of suitors appealed to her. She’d been dating a Belgian trapeze artist before she met me—haven’t you read that anywhere?”

  “No, I hadn’t,” Kit said. “But I didn’t think the papers said everything anyway.” She stared into his eyes. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “The American way,” he said, a little bitterly. “Give a man a fair shake.”

  “If that’s the way you want to see it.”

  He shrugged. “Well, then, you’ve gotten your answers. Susan couldn’t believe that a man wouldn’t choose to fall down on his knees in gratitude if she deigned to marry him. She was also quite convinced that men made more than adequate punching bags. She slapped me, leaving a couple of very nice scratches along my cheek.”

  “And?” Kit queried, swallowing hard.

  “And later she was murdered. But not by me.”

  Kit looked at him steadily, but she said nothing.

  “Do you believe me?” He still sounded amused.

  “Yes. I—I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Was that the truth? Or was she there only because he had asked her, because he had beckoned? Would she follow him blindly to the brink of death just because he possessed such a raw—and fatal?—attraction? She didn’t want to think so. She wanted to believe that she was interested only in the truth.

  He smiled, lowering his eyes.

  “So who murdered her?” she asked at last.

  An oath of irritation escaped him. “How would I know? Do you think the murderer is going to come to me with a full confession? Maybe the Belgian trapeze artist—I don’t know. Susan was capable of acquiring enemies.”

  “Justin! How can you ignore things? Another girl was murdered eight years ago, on the same night Michael died.”

  He sighed. “And you’re quite certain the two are associated?”

  “Yes, I am—and so is half the world.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said coldly, “You should go home, Kit.”

  “You just gave me the key to the cottage.” He didn’t reply, so she went on. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you owned the cottage?”

  He shrugged. “What difference does it make? I own half the land around here.”

  It makes a difference, she wanted to scream. It makes a tremendous difference.

  Kit shivered suddenly. The wind outside had risen abruptly, and now it sounded like a hundred women moaning in the night. Here along the cliffs, where the air never seemed to be still, it was easy to see how legends about banshees had grown.

  She didn’t believe in banshees, but she couldn’t escape the chill as she gazed at Justin. His features had been cast into shadow by the flickering blaze in the hearth, and his eyes were dark…bottomless.

  Kit swallowed fiercely. She didn’t believe in banshees or spirits. But something was going on.

  “More coffee?” Justin asked.

  She nodded. She needed something warm.

  He walked around to the coffeepot, which had been left at the far end of the table. Kit watched him as he moved. His hands looked very strong. In general, he was a powerful man, well over six feet, trim but broad-shouldered, and fit. Physically he could have performed any or all of the murders.

  She jumped when his hand came down on her shoulder, and she couldn’t help the fear in her eyes when she looked up at him.

  She saw his features tauten, his mouth compress, but he said nothing as he set the steaming cup down in front of her. Then he refilled his own cup and sat down again. His eyes were cold when they fell on her. “You can run again…if you’re frightened.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Justin.” Was she lying? She didn’t know.

  His look said clearly that he doubted her words. Kit reached nervously for a cigarette. She watched him as he lit it for her, then tried to put her nebulous feelings into words.

  “Justin, you have to be concerned. Two women have been murdered, and I believe that Michael was murdered, too. He wasn’t stupid. I just can’t see him falling off a cliff.”

  “There was an autopsy, Kit. There was no sign that he had fought with anyone. His death has a perfectly logical explanation. He wandered out on the cliffs. It was dark. He didn’t know the area, and he fell.”

  “I’m not the only one who thinks he was murdered,” Kit murmured resentfully.

  “Oh? Who else?”

  She probably shouldn’t have spoken, but she met Justin’s eyes squarely. “Constable Barney Canail from Bailtree believes the same thing.”

  “Does he now?” He appeared to be only vaguely interested.

  Kit rose, stubbing out her cigarette, then carried her coffee cup as she wandered over to the mantel. She stared into the fire as she spoke again. “Haven’t you noticed that it’s only women associated with you who are murdered?”

  When he replied, his voice rang out harshly behind her. She was startled to see that he, too, had risen and followed her.

  “You’ve just told me that your husband was murdered, and he wasn’t a woman ‘associated’ with me. If it’s accusing me of murder you are, then do it and be done with it.”

  For a second, she couldn’t speak. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Justin; I just can’t understand how you can be so unconcerned.”

  “Unconcerned? By God, woman, you do sound daft! My home’s been prey to every constable, sheriff and bobby this side of the Atlantic, not to mention private detectives and sniveling reporters. I’m concerned, all right. I’m just a wee bit weary, that’s all. I never did see your husband alive, Mrs. McHennessy. And I had no association at all with young Mary Browne. I had no help for anything the girl chose to say. Now, if you think I’m a madman, the door is open.”

  Kit swallowed and turned back to the fire, watching the flame
s dancing before her. “I don’t think you’re a madman. But someone is.”

  “That’s why you should go home.”

  “Justin,” Kit began a little weakly, “I think it has something to do with All Hallows’ Eve. That’s when Mary’s throat was slit. That’s when—”

  “Give it up, won’t you? All Hallows’ Eve is nothing but a picnic in the hills. A bonfire. Men play their pipes, and they drink themselves out cold. The time is coming; you’ll be able to see for yourself. We Irish are the ones who are supposed to be hung up on the old legends, not you Americans. You’ve been reading too much, girl. Seeing too many movies.”

  That could be true. She couldn’t deny that the subject had preyed on her mind, so much so that she saw demons where men stood, and was ready to find evil in a village of kindly farmers.

  She turned to face him, feeling frustrated. “Justin, don’t you understand? You’ll never be in the clear—not until the murderer is found.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Kit, don’t you think we’ve been through it all a hundred times? Liam and old Barney and I, turning it over and over in our minds. There aren’t any answers. None that we can find, anyway.” He grinned at her. “Not unless the ancient druids are risin’ up from the earth.”

  “That’s not funny, Justin.”

  “Ah, surely, Kit, you canna take such things seriously.”

  “Then this murderer will never be caught.”

  “Not unless he strikes again.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking me? There are some as think I should know.”

  “Why did you give me the key to the cottage? Why, when you’ve already told me to leave?”

  “If you’re going to be here, I want you near. I told you that. I can reach the cottage in ten minutes from here.”

  “But do you want me to stay, Justin? Or to go?”

  He shrugged, but his gaze never faltered. “I would rather you left—for your own safety. You see,” he said lightly, mockingly, “this time I will find you.” Why?

  The word seemed to scream inside her mind, but she swallowed it back, because she didn’t have the nerve to ask the question.

  Kit watched him as he came toward her. It was a matter of only a few steps, and then he was standing before her, his hands on her shoulders. Her bones felt very delicate beneath them. She looked up into his eyes, so full of secrets, and the flames danced and crackled, sending shadows over his features. Her heart was beating quickly, but she couldn’t have said whether she was frightened or excited.

  He smiled slowly, a secret smile, a little bit arrogant, a little bit amused. He knew the effect he had on her, he knew that he frightened her, and sometimes that amused him. He also knew that she was attracted to him, and that, too, amused him.

  Kit felt humiliatingly weak. If he had asked her into that bed that minute, she would have obliged him, then wondered later why she had.

  “I think you should go,” he told her. “I want you to stay.”

  Kit cast her head back, cocking it slightly. “You should be a grieving man, Justin,” she said softly.

  “I wasn’t in love with Susan.”

  “Nor are you in love with me.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a wistful smile. “I might have been. Had you stayed.”

  She needed to answer him. To say something that would break the spell he had cast over her. Justin was a man who needed no illusions. She was certain that he could meet any attractive woman, assess her, and decide in moments if he wanted to make love to her or not. For him, it would be that simple. The message would be in his eyes, and Kit was certain that most women would respond to it.

  But she didn’t want to be just one more in a long string of casual lovers. She didn’t want to have a fascination with him that bordered on obsession. But she did, and she could only stare at him when he spoke.

  “Do y’know, Kit, I fell a little bit in love with you that first night I saw you. You had on that gauzy shift, and your hair was flying about you like waves of silk. I knew ye’d just come from some man’s bed, and that ye’d liked it there, and I felt an envy in my heart for that man. You were so fresh and innocent. I wanted to touch you then. And I wanted to touch you when I finally did, although I knew it wasn’t right, because you were everything that you said—young, hurt, and too much alone. I’m not a fool, woman, or a celibate. I haven’t spent these eight years living like a monk. But I’ve thought about you—often. And, seeing you now, nothing has changed. There’s still an innocence about you that makes a man want to protect you, but there’s something else, too. It’s in your smile, in the way you move. Something that brings out all that’s primitive in a man and makes him tremble with longing.”

  “No, Justin, there’s nothing. There can’t be.”

  “There will be,” he said, and the words were a warning.

  “Mom!”

  They snapped to attention when Mike burst into the room.

  “Mom! Come see what Molly made. They’re really neat! And she says she’ll show us how to make them!”

  Kit breathed deeply. Mike had made the room ordinary again. Even Justin was ordinary again, not a demon—or a diabolical god. He was smiling as he looked at Mike, his arm resting on the mantel. He was just a very attractive man, intrigued by the antics of a boy.

  “What are you talking about, Mike?” Kit asked her son.

  “The faces, Mrs. McHennessy.” It was Molly who answered her, following Mike in from the kitchen. She smiled broadly, a tall woman with iron-gray hair and a warm smile. Douglas had her smile, Kit thought.

  “Come see for yourself, me girl!” Molly urged.

  Mike took her hand and dragged her along. She caught Justin’s eyes; he grinned and shrugged. She could hear him walking behind her.

  They were lined up on the long kitchen worktable. At first Kit thought they were only an assortment of vegetables: turnips, beets, potatoes. Then she saw that they all had faces carved into them. Macabre faces, with slanted eyes and broad, toothless grins. They made her uneasy, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away from their evil grimaces.

  “They’re jack-o’-lanterns!” Mike exclaimed. “Molly let me help her—but just a little.”

  “Jack-o’-lanterns?” Kit murmured stupidly.

  “Why, ’tis almost All Hallows’ Eve,” Molly said, her tone slightly chastising. She picked up one of the potatoes and traced the toothless grin. “This lot is for the church fair on Sunday. They will’na last the month, of course. We’ll do another lot before the night is on us.”

  “Potatoes?” Kit asked.

  Behind her, Justin laughed. “I’ll have ye know, Mrs. McHennessy, that the potato is the original jack-o’-lantern. You Americans came up with the pumpkin.”

  “Really?” Mike demanded.

  “Oh, aye, really!” Justin replied. He sat on one of the old kitchen chairs and drew Mike to his side, handing him another of the potato faces. “The Irish began carving these little faces centuries ago for All Hallows’ Eve. They were done to drive away the evil spirits that might have been about. That’s why they’re so ghoulish.”

  “’Tis even an Irish legend that supplied the name,” Molly inserted proudly.

  “Really?” Mike repeated, his eyes wide and fascinated.

  Justin laughed. “Really. ’Tis said there was a man named Jack, and a miserly fellow he was. So miserly that he denied God, and he denied the devil, and lived out his days believin’ in none other than himself. Came the day old Jack died, he was barred from heaven. But neither would the devil take note of him, and he was also barred from hell. So Jack’s spirit was doomed to roam the earth forever, with never a place to call home.”

  “Wow!” Mike murmured. He looked at Justin and grinned. “So people put little candles inside the faces, and then they were lanterns!”

  “Right!”

  Mike looked at Molly. “Could I keep this one? Could I, please?�
��

  “Aye,” Molly agreed.

  “Mike, I don’t think—” Kit began.

  “’Tis just a potato!” Justin protested with a laugh.

  It was indeed only a potato. In a few days it would start to rot, and Mike would have to throw it away. She would be an idiot to cause a fuss over a potato.

  “When it starts to smell,” Kit said, “you’re going to have to get rid of it.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  All three of them were staring at her, as if she was behaving peculiarly. She hadn’t thought she’d given her feelings away, but apparently she had. She would have to be more careful.

  She smiled, then gave Molly a little hug. “Molly, Justin, thank you so much for the lovely dinner. I think I should get Mike into bed now.”

  “Ach, ’twas nothing. Such a pleasure to see ye, lass. I’m hopin’ ye’ll come agin,” Molly said.

  The older woman’s hug was as warm as her words. Kit drew away, a little guiltily. “I’m not sure how long we’re staying yet, Molly, but I promise I’ll come to say goodbye.”

  “I’ll walk you to the car,” Justin said.

  Mike held his potato tightly as they walked along the path to Kit’s car. There was only a sliver of a moon, but it was enough to cast an eerie glow on the carved face, and suddenly Kit realized why the jack-o’-lanterns had frightened her. There was something about the face that reminded her of the mask of the goat-god, Bal. Something about the grin, something about the slitted eyes.

  She swallowed. It was only a potato, she insisted to herself.

  Mike crawled into his seat. Justin opened the driver’s door for Kit, but he didn’t touch her.

  “I’ll help you move into the cottage tomorrow,” he told her.

  “There’s no need. I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

  “Well, then, you can tell me in the morning. I’ll be there early.”

  “Justin—”

  “Good night, Kit.” He stared into her eyes. “You will see me. We’ve still got things to settle, don’t we?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer as he smiled across at Mike. “Night, Mike.”