She sped to the kitchen, took a flashlight from the cabinet drawer, turned it on to check the batteries and hurried back to the newfound door. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. The room was larger than she had anticipated and a somewhat jagged crescent-shape, a peculiarity created by two walls of the octagonal library converging at this room's widest point. She estimated the room extended about twenty feet in either direction and was six to eight feet wide at its breadth. The wall to her left was lined with a deep bookshelf which had ancient-looking books stored on it. The shelves in this antechamber to the library were as high as the ceiling, which she assessed to be about twenty feet. The titles to most of them were unintelligible to her, being in a foreign language she guessed to be Celtic in origin. Others were on topics of occult interest, some of which were in German or French.
These books were far older and more rare than the ones in the library proper. McCann must have been a collector of rare old esoteric writings as well as antiquities. She wondered if this was how he spent the money he made working with Spencer, or if the collection had come with him from his youth. She wondered, too, about his keen interest on the subject of paranormal activity. Had this been one of the reasons his young bride had changed her mind about coming to him? Maybe Spencer had nothing to do with that part of the story. Constance could have become frightened of McCann and the tremendous occult knowledge he wielded.
She picked up one of the venerable volumes, held it close to her breast, tried to establish a feel for the man who had owned it. She received no impressions other than the ones she had already gleaned from his visitation earlier in the library. She thumbed through the brittle, time-marked pages, saw many handwritten notes and detailed pictures in margins and spaces where the typeset letters were absent. She stared at them until she felt light-headed, then closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. These books were older than McCann; she could tell by the energy surrounding them, they had indeed been with him much of his life.
Interesting that the collection in the library itself held a great number of weathered volumes, though none were as old as these. There, too, were more modern volumes on the occult, tomes that were from the last century. Had Leonard and Betty Tatum also been collectors of para-psychological books? Some of these volumes seemed almost as old as the printing press itself. What an incredible accumulation of information on the subject. What a coincidence she and Kim were also aficionados of the occult sciences. This might very well be the most complete library on paranormal sciences in the world, though she had heard some of the European libraries were fabulous. She had never seen so many books on one subject before in a private library.
But what was she thinking? There would be lots of time later to explore the library as well as this cache of priceless books. She was inside a secret passage that corroborated Missy's story of watching her father's murder from behind a hidden door to the library. What she needed to do now was to find the key to open that door. This wall, like the one outside the passage, was laden with artifacts, all of which looked hundreds of years old. How did McCann get all these? Were they stolen—part of the loot he and his partner smuggled? “Honestly, Liz!” she sighed, “keep your mind on the task at hand and ask questions later."
She looked at the two walls for a sign. Half of the wall in front of her was unadorned. She studied the pieces on either side of the bare expanse of wall, found nothing resembling the button she had pushed to gain entrance to this room. At last she reached to touch the wall—it moved; she felt it slip open toward her, released by some unseen spring mechanism. The resultant crack was large enough to peer through the bookshelf, over the books and into the other room. From this vantage point, one could see and hear anything that went on in the vicinity of the desk.
On closer examination, she noticed the panel she had opened could swing all the way into the crescent-shaped room; on her side of the third shelf of the bookshelf was a small lever, which she pressed. There was a faint click and the entire section of shelving glided several feet, opening like a door into the library, leaving a portal through which she could pass into the other room.
The crescent room was flooded with luminosity from the window-walls of the library, leaving Liz to blink back the bright light. That was when she noticed the dark stains on the wall of the crescent room. They were the shape of a hand about the same size as hers. Liz felt her stomach churn when she placed her hand in the print on the wall, then jerked away from the warm, wet-feeling stain. But it wasn't wet. Why did she have that sensation?
She took a deep breath and put her hand again on the stain. It was blood. She had recoiled because the flash of recognition had hit her when she first touched the spot. Now she allowed herself a full exploration of the sensation. The hand print was Missy's. When Ptarmigan left the house after shooting her father, Missy must have opened the wall, just as Liz had done and gone into the library. Missy was in shock. Liz saw Missy touch her father's face; thereby getting his blood on her hands. When it started to sink in that her father was dead, Missy knew she had to wake her mother, but she didn't want to tell anyone about the secret room; it was the one special secret she shared with no one.
She must have gone out through the hidden portal and closed it, then up the stairs to awaken her mother. Touching the walls to close the entrance to the library had left the telltale stains behind in the crescent room; stains which no one had ever seen. Missy might have never gone into that room again, never realized she had left stains on the wall. Of course, it still didn't prove Ptarmigan had killed her father, but it did suggest she had been watching whatever had happened from the crescent room. Liz could still see the possibility that Leonard had shot himself; Missy could have invented the part about Ptarmigan to protect her father's image, if only in her own eyes.
Yet the fact Missy herself had been murdered for something she knew suggested her story about Leonard was on the mark. What else could she have known that would have merited her death? Come to think of it, knowing Ptarmigan murdered Leonard wouldn't have been enough in itself. It would have been necessary for her to prove her story and she hadn't been able to prove anything. Had she also stumbled onto the true reason Leonard was being blackmailed, or was Missy's memory of the event clouded by something Liz hadn't been able to discover as yet? Liz retraced her steps to the crescent room, closed the entrance. These blots would remain intact until they needed to be investigated by the proper authorities. She left the crescent room, walked back into the hall. To her surprise, the door slid back into place behind her. What she wanted to know now was how to get into the hidden first floor room across the hall.
Chapter 8
Kim knocked on the door of Wade's lake cabin. She had some misgivings about meeting him at his private cabin for lunch, but he had explained he had to be home until four o'clock to see the man who was subletting the cabin for the fall. Besides, he didn't like to go out in public since people were starting to recognize him and cause scenes when he went out, even in his own hometown.
Wade answered the door wearing a broad grin and a very skimpy Tasmanian Devil Speedo that looked more like getup for a porn flick than an actual garment. Kim rolled her eyes, shook her head. “Oh,” Wade said, “I was just on my way to change out of this. Come on in and have a seat while I go change, won't you? I didn't expect you for another fifteen minutes at least. You know your way around, don't you?"
Kim pursed her lips, closed the door behind her as she stepped inside. “Yeah, sure, don't worry about me. But you are liable to catch your death running around like that. You'd better go change right away."
Wade disappeared around the corner as she let her eyes accustom themselves to the interior of the cabin. “Lunch is just about ready,” he called back over his shoulder. “You don't mind tossing the salad, do you? All the ingredients are there in the sink."
She pitched her purse onto the sofa, headed toward the kitchen to wash her hands and start the salad. “No, of course not,” she affirmed under her
breath. “Nothing like that."
In a flash Wade returned, sliding in behind her as she dried her hands. He slipped his hands around her waist, breathed in a deep whiff of her hair. She wrested his hands from around her middle, turned to face him. He was barefoot with tight black trousers and a white silk shirt he hadn't bothered to button. She bit her lip to stifle the laugh she felt coming. Somehow, it always made her want to laugh when Wade tried to play sexy. He was more convincing when he didn't try so hard. Maybe it was just that she'd have thought him sexier if she didn't know him so well. Maybe he just too much like Frank.
She busied herself buttoning his shirt then she looked up at him. “There you go. Want to tell me what this last farewell is all about?"
He took her hand, pressed it to his lips. “Later. I'll tell you in a little bit. Right now, let's just get this salad together and sit down to a nice, quiet little meal, shall we?"
"Sure. You want to set the table while I finish the salad?"
"Yeah, right. No problem. You're handy around the kitchen, aren't you?"
She smiled. “No more than the average woman, I think."
He laughed. “Well, maybe that's true. Most of the women I know in California aren't your average Texas women, though, and I tend to forget what a real, down-to-earth woman is like. Sure makes me appreciative of you, though."
"I guess that makes sense. Hadn't thought about it that way before. I suppose most of us down-to-earth types tend to think of those California girls as being more appreciated by men. I assume it is all in what you're used to, though.” She tore the leafy green lettuce into small pieces and added cherry tomatoes, alfalfa sprouts and pecans, then she tossed them with the raspberry chipotle vinaigrette dressing she found on the counter.
"To this man, the girl next door is much more appreciated. You always will be.” He grinned at her from the dining room, where he had just turned on the music system. Celtic harp music flowed through the room.
Kim took a deep breath and smiled at him as she brought the salad to the table. “What a beautiful choice of music. I'm sorry, Wade. I guess I don't ever give you a fair shake anymore, do I?"
He ducked his head like a small boy, “Oh I don't know. You have always been nice to me. I know I'm a task to deal with. I don't mean to be that way. It's just ... well, when I'm close to you, I don't seem to have possession of any common sense at all. I say and do stupid things I would never say or do around other people."
Kim almost laughed as she thought about what he had said. “Not really your fault, you know. It is this tremendous talent I have for bringing out the worst in people, men in particular."
Wade did laugh then. “You're something else, you know that?” he said, glancing at her with wide, open eyes.
She grinned, supposing that was his innocent look, “Eat your salad, silly. What else are we having?"
"Oh, I broiled steaks and baked potatoes. It is pretty hard to mess those up, even for a klutz like me.” He looked at her, then back to his food. “They're warming in the oven."
They ate in silence for a few moments before Kim broached the subject she wanted to discuss. “Wade?"
"Yes, Kim? What is it?” He looked up, chewed as he listened.
"How well do you know John Carter?” she said carefully.
"John? I suppose I know him as well as I know anyone in the business, why?"
Kim put her fork on the table, leaned toward Wade, a serious expression on her face. “Liz and John seem to have hit it off pretty well, and I was just wondering what sort of man he is."
Wade frowned. “You're worried about Liz? She's a big girl now, Kim. Don't you think she can make her own decisions about men?"
"It's not that,” she protested. Was it? “It is this whole thing with the McCann house. John couldn't wait to get us over there to see the place and as soon as we had seen it and said we liked it, he started trying to talk us out of staying there. What I want to know is if we can trust him."
"I would trust him with my life, Kim. What you don't know about John is that he took trying to cleanse the spirits from that house seriously. When others failed, he moved in himself, certain he would be able to overcome whatever obstacles there were. He had a complete breakdown over that house. It changed his life, nearly ruined his career. He swore he would find someone who could fix the place, or else he would burn it to the ground."
"You mean it was the McCann place and not drinking that did that?"
Wade brought the steak and potatoes to the table, nodded. “That's right. He got his agent to tell the press it was a problem with drinking that put him in an institution for eight months. He was afraid if anyone knew it was all over the McCann mansion's unruly ghosts he would be labeled unstable and no one would want to work with him again."
Kim giggled despite herself.
"What, Kim?” Wade looked at her questioningly. He was being serious.
"It's like that saying, ‘Don't tell my mother I work in the oil field, she thinks I'm a piano player in a whorehouse.'” She giggled again. “I'm sorry, but it is."
"It is, rather, isn't it?” Wade grinned at her. He would never understand how her mind worked, no matter how long he knew her.
She was silent for a few moments, then spoke, “Wow. Is he mentally unstable?"
"The psychiatrists gave him a clean bill of health—and of course, told him to stay away from the house. But he has this agreement with Mrs. Tatum and he feels a great responsibility. He promised her he would make sure the spirits were put to rest at the mansion.” He thought a moment, “It seems he will do just that or die trying."
"Has John ever endangered anyone else?” she pushed her empty plate away from her.
Wade shook his head. “No, John has never been dangerous to anyone but himself. He became obsessed with the idea that he had to stay there, no matter what he saw or heard. It messed him up. He tried to kill himself twice because he thought there was a spirit trying to possess him. Said he thought the spirit was too dangerous to have a body to walk around in."
Kim rose from the table, paced the floor. “You're telling me he's suicidal, but not dangerous? Wade, that's a contradiction in terms. Any man who would try to kill himself wouldn't have any problem about trying to kill someone else."
"That was in the past. He has been stable for more than five years now. Look, he's a great guy. He had a tough time of it. Now he's better.” Wade stood and moved to her side in a few steps, reaching out to comfort her.
She pushed him away. “I'm sorry, Wade, but the things you told me haven't made me feel better."
Wade pulled her into his arms, held her there despite her protests until she stopped struggling. “Kim, darling, John would never hurt you or Liz. I would stake my life on it. He has had problems, but he's over that now. He knows what his limits are and he won't cross the line again. Trust me."
Kim relaxed a bit, but was still steeled against his embrace. “I can't shake the feeling he knows more than he's told us. I need to know what he's hiding."
Wade caressed her cheek, looked deep into her eyes, continued to hold her. “Don't you think it's enough he nearly lost his life over this place? What more do you think he's keeping from you? You know, maybe he doesn't trust you yet, any more than you trust him. Maybe you and he just need a little more time to get to know one another.” He moved his face close to hers.
Kim knew he was going to kiss her and she didn't want that. Or did she? She tried to relax, to accept the inevitable, but she wanted to run and hide. She wanted to push herself away from him and leave. She wanted to put her arms around his neck and lose herself in the moment. She closed her eyes as his lips brushed hers then settled in for a deep, passionate kiss.
She was floating on a dangerous tide of forgotten, yet all-too-familiar emotions. She didn't want to be hurt again. This time she had to keep her head, had to stay on top of the situation. She had to be the one calling the shots. His kiss burned against her skin, made her tingle all the way to her toes. This ha
d happened once before with Wade and now she remembered how encompassing it had been. She had tried to deny it, to tell herself she felt no attraction for him, but just now she couldn't find one single argument strong enough to coax herself out of his arms.
She kissed him back then like a hungry tigress ready to devour her prey. This was crazy; this couldn't be happening, but here she was in Wade's cabin alone with him and wanting him desperately. Don't cross this line, she told herself, but she knew it was already too late; she was already putty in his hands. All he had to do was keep on kissing her this way and she would be done for before she could regain any of her better judgment.
She tried again to push him away, but they seemed glued together. An eternity passed and the feelings deepened until they swirled in her head like she was caught in the middle of a consuming vortex. Her heart pounded. Her breaths became ragged rasps; still he kissed her and she clung to him as though his kisses were all that could keep her alive. How could she have forgotten this feeling? This was the one that always got her into trouble and she had left herself open for it one more time. Two ex-husbands and an empty pit in her very soul later, she still couldn't pull herself out of this maelstrom of lust and need.
She abandoned her thoughts to her senses. She wouldn't think about it or try to fight it anymore. She would let Wade have whatever he wanted from her and later she would struggle again to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart, like she had done both times before. It would be the same as always; how could it be different? She didn't care. These feelings were all the reality that mattered to her right now.
McCann's Manor Page 8
