Killer Charms
Page 1
Killer Charms
Marianne Stillings
Contents
Chapter 1
Logan Sinclair was surprised when Drew Mochrie herself opened the…
Chapter 2
SFPD detective Andrea Darling waited for the call to ring…
Chapter 3
The lass covered her surprise well, Logan would grant her…
Chapter 4
At Sinclair’s ominous decree, Andie’s heart missed a beat. Then…
Chapter 5
Someone was crying…who was crying?
Chapter 6
Had she won, or lost? Had she hooked him, or…
Chapter 7
Andie went through the rest of the morning in stunned…
Chapter 8
On the phone, Ross’s voice sounded skeptical.
Chapter 9
Andie doubled her fists and punched her pillow, trying to…
Chapter 10
It was just past twilight when Logan pulled the Lexus…
Chapter 11
“The body’s this way, Inspector Darling.”
Chapter 12
Andie watched Nate pace the floor of her living room.
Chapter 13
Logan went to the door expecting to be dazzled by…
Chapter 14
Andie all but held her breath. She knew she was…
Chapter 15
Ethan gestured to the file in his hand. “Officer Jacob…
Chapter 16
“In other words…” Andie shifted the cell phone from one…
Chapter 17
Forty-eight hours were up; time for him to put his…
Chapter 18
Ollie stepped out of the bathroom, took one look at…
Chapter 19
When the police arrived, Logan put a sardonic look on…
Chapter 20
By the time Logan exited the station, night had fallen,…
Chapter 21
“Andie, darlin’?”
Chapter 22
She stood by the side of the hospital bed, gazing…
Chapter 23
Awaiting Andie’s return, Logan wandered the mansion, being sure to…
Chapter 24
This was it. Time to set a trap for a…
Chapter 25
Logan sat in his car on the darkest part of…
Epilogue
“This is insane,” Logan groused as he escorted Andie up…
About the Author
Other Books by Marianne Stillings
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Everyone lives by selling something.
Robert Louis Stevenson
San Francisco, California
Logan Sinclair was surprised when Drew Mochrie herself opened the front door. He’d expected to see some harried maid and not the woman he’d set up as his mark. The fact she was so anxious to meet him that she’d ignored one of the maxims of wealth and performed an underling’s chore, mitigated any lingering doubt as to the course he was hell-bent to take.
Aye, and wasn’t the hungry shine of her eyes more revealing than anything he’d find in even the most comprehensive personnel file?
“Miss Mochrie, is it?” he said, as though he didn’t know damn well who she was. He considered a bow, then discarded the idea as being a bit much. “I am Logan Sinclair, and this is my assistant, Oliver Kerr.” He gestured to the man standing behind him on the bottom step of the porch.
Ignoring Ollie, she said, “I’ve been expecting you.” Her gaze raked him head to toe. “And a distinct pleasure it is to see a fellow Scot after these two years in America.” She offered her hand.
He clasped it between his own, giving it a squeeze. Immediately, her lips bowed in a demure smile. She lowered her lashes, and her cheeks flushed.
“The photo on the back of your books don’t do you justice, Mr. Sinclair,” she purred. “It’s a fact, you’re younger and more handsome in the flesh.”
Her none-too-subtle innuendo aside, it was clear she didn’t realize who he was; more’s the better since his plan would go straight to hell if she did, and all would be for naught.
She might even figure out what he’d come for.
As he held her hand and waited—lest recognition dawn belatedly—Drew Mochrie’s blue eyes did not narrow in recollection. There was no suspicious “Have we met?” No tilt of the head and thoughtful finger tap to the jaw. No “You seem so familiar.” Instead, she appeared to accept who he said he was without question.
Aye, then. The con is on.
The knots in his gut that had plagued him for these last many weeks began to loosen. His shoulders relaxed, and he allowed himself a genuine smile of relief.
He released her hand, and she said, “Agreeing to come all the way from Scotland, and so quickly, too, is most gracious of you, Mr. Sinclair. I’m forever in your debt.”
Then, as though she couldn’t restrain herself one second longer, she sucked in enough breath to douse five thousand birthday candles. Clutching at his sleeve, she gushed, “I must add, Mr. Sinclair, ’tis God’s own truth that I’m a great admirer and have read both your books, and I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, and you so…well, you standing here, handsome as a Hollywood film star, and won’t all my friends be jealous, and well, impressed, too, that the renowned Mr. Sinclair himself was willing to come and help me urge my brother to move from where he lingers just beyond the veil to a place of peace and tranquility, and since I did promise Bartholomew when I first arrived here from Edinburgh that he would nae be sorry for taking me in after my divorce from that bastard who treated me like so much baggage, and penniless as I was since my first husband had done much the same thing, leaving poor, helpless me with nothing…”
When the woman seemed in no danger of deflating for several seconds yet, Logan simply nodded absently, his attention caught and held by a photograph on the far wall of the grand foyer.
As Miss Mochrie jabbered on, he stared at the picture of the girl and young man, realizing at once who they were.
Grief and guilt turned to anger, surging through his blood, washing away any hesitancy that might have remained.
For once in his life, he was doing the right thing. Aye, it was a rare event, given his proclivities, but this debt was an old one, and he intended to repay it the only way he knew how.
At last, Miss Mochrie seemed to run out of breath and words at the same time, ending her fawning, self-indulgent tirade on a tittering snort.
When she finally fell silent and just blinked worshipfully up at him, he said, “Thank you for your warm welcome, lass. Now, please be so good as to show me where the tragedy happened.”
Her expression went instantly from open admiration to closed apprehension. Her fingertips covered her lips. “Hmm. Of course. Aye. It’s this way and through the kitchen.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he nodded to Ollie, who shot a sardonic look at the retreating Miss Mochrie, then picked up his enormous camera bag and joined Logan in the foyer.
Whether from inclination or nerves, as she escorted them through the mansion and down the cellar steps to the scene of the “unfortunate incident,” she chirped away like an overcaffeinated parrot.
Drew Mochrie had been much younger when Logan had last seen her in Edinburgh. In the intervening years, she had gone from a pretty, self-indulgent, silly teenager, to an attractive, self-indulgent, silly woman.
As for himself, he’d morphed from a young man with too much money and too little humility, to the curiosité du jour of the rich and famous, a tabloid “clairvoyant”…among other things.
No wonder Drew didn’t recognize him; he barely recognized himself.
When they reached the bottom of the cellar stairs, she made as if to speak, but he stopped her.
“Say nothing,” he instructed. “And leave off the light, if you will. I want no influences. The information I receive must be pure.”
In the near dark, he saw her nod. “I understand,” she whispered, then closed her mouth and pressed her lips together.
Silence at last. Logan wanted to shake his head and cast off the woman’s babbling the way a retriever shakes off water.
Instead, he inhaled a calming breath and let it out slowly, then moved to the center of the room. His stance solid, his jaw tight, a serene expression planted on his face, he waited for, eh, contact.
Whenever he performed, he hoped he portrayed the vision of a dauntless champion, stalwart yet humble in the face of a force far greater than he. Mere Logan Sinclair he was, reluctant cog in the vast wheel of the churning and mysterious Universe; a simple servant to the Powers That Be, and though he hadn’t asked to be burdened with this unique gift, oh, no, he soldiered on—for the good of mankind, of course.
He bowed his head in reverence to those very Powers that had designated him—of all mortals—as their liaison, their ethereal middleman, as it were.
Furrowing his brow, he sought to display that wee touch of modesty that convinced clients he was sincere in his duty, humbled by his task.
True believers just loved that crap.
Even so, once he could seduce them into trusting him, he closed the deal; done and done, and they never knew what hit them.
Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he cocked his head as though listening heavenward for his name to be read.
In the dim light, he could just make out Drew’s face. Was that anticipation contorting her features? Or apprehension? In any event, the lass was primed and…
“Ready?” he said.
She licked her lips and gazed up at him, an odd look in her eyes. “Might I share a…ehm, a confidence with you?”
He grinned, pouring on the charm. “Now, if you can’t trust the likes of Logan Sinclair, dear lady, who can you trust?”
She lowered her lashes and shrugged. Sticking out her lower lip like a child about to confess stealing oatcakes, she murmured, “Well, you see, it’s just that you never know who in this world you can truly rely upon to keep one’s secrets, do you, Mr. Sinclair? I mean, people so often are not at all what they appear to be, and it’s left to us to discern the heroes from the villains in our lives.”
If he’d’ve let himself, he would’ve felt her remark pierce his chest like a Highland dirk. But he’d hardened his heart years ago, and the blow slid harmlessly off and away.
“Indeed, lass.” He smiled. “Indeed.” Taking her hand, he patted it. “Now what is this secret you wish to share?”
Hesitating for a moment, she cleared her throat, and said coyly, “I…well, it’s possible I may not have done right by my brother. I suppose I just want to make certain you can convince him to, you know, go on his way. His…his spirit haunts me, blames me, I think for…for…” She shook her head. On a soft, high breath, she said, “Och, never mind.”
His first thought was that any haunting she was feeling was her own guilty conscience, but when she looked up at him and batted her lashes, he realized she was simply trying to seduce him into her game.
“Aye,” he coaxed. “Your trust in me is not misplaced, I promise. I will do exactly what I have come to do.”
While it wasn’t a lie, it wasn’t the truth she would be expecting.
He grinned again. “Let’s get on with it now, shall we, lass?”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded, then licked her lips in a quick, nervous gesture.
“The energy here is strong,” he began. “I’m already picking up…I’m getting something…something…someth—…ah, I understand now. This is where your brother’s body was found. Here. On the floor twixt these first twae wine racks.”
As predicted, Drew gasped in amazement. “Indeed it is!” More tentatively, almost as an afterthought, she inquired, “Are you getting anything…else, Mr. Sinclair? Have you made contact—”
“Wheesht,” he gently admonished. “’Tis complete silence I need, or he who has passed beyond the veil will not venture back.”
“Aye, of course,” she mouthed.
“Anything showing up through your lens, Ollie?”
Ollie held a camcorder rigged with night vision and a microphone to capture a manifestation, should one occur.
Right.
“Nocht,” Ollie muttered, then snapped his gum.
“Perhaps we need to try another…hello, what’s this?”
Logan lifted his voice to just the right pitch between awe and curiosity. Straightening, he nodded several times as though someone had spoken to him.
He turned to Drew. “Your late brother’s given name was Bartholomew. You called him Tolley.”
“I did!” she squeaked, her voice pitched high as though she’d just been taken aback by a beady-eyed rodent. “Everyone dear to him called him that. But he has nae been known by it since our bairnskip in Edinburgh. Certainly nobody in America called him that for these last many years.” She blinked in awe, like a child attending her first hogmanay. “So you’ve reached him, then? You truly have? Can you tell him he’s dead and needs to move on—”
“Your brother has a message for you,” Logan interrupted. “He wants you to know…what’s that? My spirit guide, Allister, informs me your brother is most concerned for your finances. He fears you may succumb to the lure of some nefarious scoundrel.”
“Och, tell him to have no fear then,” she scoffed. “I’m not so foolish as that. His…that is to say, my millions are quite safe. Assure him of the fact, if you would be so kind.”
Logan sent her an approving look, adding a dash of tenderness to his next words. “Just so. Aye. He’s heard you and glad for your caution. But there’s something else, something…what was that?”
He raised his head again, squinting his eyes as though it was an effort to hear. “The what, necklace? Thank you, Allister. Tolley wants to know about a necklace of some sort. A large diamond offset by rubies. A gift to your family from the last tsar of Russia, perhaps?”
“The Star of Avril? My, but you are so clever, Mr. Sinclair!”
He grinned shyly to hide his satisfaction at confirming the gems were still within reach. “Oh, I am not the clever one, lass. It is Allister who speaks to the departed. I am merely his obsequious transmitter. This, eh, Star of Avril which concerns your brother so much. Is it…tucked away where greedy hands nae can reach it?”
“Of course!” she snapped. “’Tis in a safe-deposit box at the bank. I would never keep such a treasure about the place.”
“Indeed not.” Logan continued smiling, though not so brightly as before. “We must move quickly now,” he warned. “Tolley grows tired. His energy begins to wane. Have you any questions for your brother before he withdraws once more?”
Her hand fluttered in front of her mouth for a moment, and her thinly plucked brows edged toward each other in a worried frown. “Aren’t you going to tell him to move along now?”
“First, I must assure he’s prepared for such a shock.”
Lifting his voice, Logan said, “Allister, kindly ask Tolley if he is happy and free of worldly ills, if you will.” He waited a heartbeat, then, “Your brother is at peace, Miss Mochrie, but seems a bit bothered by something to do with how he met his daith. Something…unresolved. Something that keeps him from accepting his fate.”
She looked up at him, then clasped her hands in front of her waist. “This is most distressing, Logan,” she said, her voice choked with tears. “May I call you Logan?” She laid a trembling hand on his arm.
“Of course,” he said warmly.
She sniffled. “Something unresolved? Oh, dear.”
Tugging a tissue from a pocket in her dress, she touched it to her nose. “Can you not simply instruct him to let go and go into the ligh
t, or something?”
Heaving a sigh of deep, deep regret, Logan said, “I no longer feel his presence. It seems we’ve lost Tolley, lass. For now.” He took the woman’s hand, patting it gently. “I’m so sorry. ’Twas too much for him. But we can try again another day if you like, when he’s more up to it.”
He felt her body shift as she reached toward the wall to snap on the light switch. Overhead, a single low-wattage bulb flicked to life, but was only marginally better than the dark. Logan glanced around at the racks and rows of dusty bottles and the intricate cobwebs anchoring the corners of the room.
“Tolley always was a fragile sort.” She sighed absently, then smiled up at him. Her blue eyes were glassy with either unshed tears or dust allergies. Hard to say, given the nature of the woman.
Shifting her gaze to the cement floor where her brother’s dead body had lain, she explained, “’Twas just over a year ago. He’d come down for a bottle of after-dinner port, you see. Tripped on the steps and bit the biscuit.”
Logan said nothing.
She sniffed, straightened. “Well. This has been a most satisfying start, Logan, though I’m disappointed Tolley lingers about so.”
Logan turned to Ollie. “Anything, lad?”
There wouldn’t be. There never was.
Oliver shut off the camera. “Nae, sir. Time to be packing up.” He crouched in front of his case on the floor and began preparing his equipment to be shut away.
“Perhaps we’ll have better luck on the next go-round, lass,” Logan said. “Shall we set another appointment, Drew? May I call you Drew?”
Her lashes fluttered as she pressed her glossy lips together and smiled. She made a singsong hum at the back of her throat that Logan took to mean she was considering her options. A moment later, she said, “Come with me up to my office. I’ll write you a check.”