The Gems of Vice and Greed (Contemporary Gothic Romance Book 3), Page 3

  “And the three of you ladies drove all the way from Philly?” Orbra said to Iva when she could speak clearly. “You have my condolences.”

  “It’s really Hollis who’s the saint. He drove us, the lovely man, and that’s why I told him he could golf as much as he wanted while we’re here. And if he could get tickets, he could go to that college football game—the big in-state rivalry, whatever it is. I told him the only thing he has to attend is the reunion.” Iva’s cheeks went slightly pink with pleasure at the mention of her husband, to whom she’d been married less than two years.

  “Oh,” Leslie said, reaching for a small blueberry scone. It was warm and practically crumbled in her fingers, chock-full of tiny wild blueberries. “You’re here for the big class reunion on the nineteenth.”

  “That’s right. There ain’t enough of us left from each of the classes—we’re all dead—so we bunched ’em all together into one big reunion,” Helen informed her. “It’s my fiftieth reunion, and Pauline’s forty-fifth, and Iva’s—what one is it?”

  “Thirty-fifth.”

  “Right. Thirty-fifth.” Helen paused, peering at Iva as if she didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “I thought you were older than that. Aren’t you—”

  “You’ll never guess who’s staying in the Sunflower House,” Iva exclaimed. She glanced at Leslie. “It’s too bad your bed and breakfast isn’t ready yet, because you could have been the one to host him.”

  “Who?” asked Cherry.

  “It’s a famous writer,” Helen said in what was possibly supposed to be a low voice, but rang in Leslie’s eardrums nevertheless. “Mildred didn’t tell us his name—claims she was sworn to secrecy, the crotchety old bat—but we figured it out. She can take her mysterious winks and hints and—”

  “Mildred is the owner of the Sunflower House,” Orbra told Leslie in an aside before turning back to Iva. “I heard someone was coming to stay there in the off-season—some big celebrity who wanted privacy. I was hoping for Robert Redford myself. It used to be Paul Newman I hoped would show up, but then he died. And then James Garner, but he died too.” She tsked, as if it were the poor actors’ faults they’d passed on before chancing a visit to Sematauk.

  “Who is it?” asked Leslie—more interested in keeping the topic away from her not-so-haunted house than who the celeb was…because she was still remembering that odd sort of groan and shudder she’d felt when the staircase railing was opened. Not that anything had happened otherwise, but it had only been yesterday.

  How long did it take for ghosts to bestir themselves once awakened? Didn’t they most often show themselves at night, anyway? After the so-called witching hour of midnight?

  Leslie hadn’t slept at home last night, as it turned out, for Cherry had made her share a bottle of wine and watch reruns of 30 Rock till after midnight, and she ended up sleeping in her aunt’s guest room. So this would be Leslie’s first night in the house since the stairway had been opened, since she’d felt the house shudder and moan—and what sort of nonsense was she thinking?

  Maybe she’d inhaled too much drywall dust or paint fumes. Leslie gave herself a mental shake and tuned back in to the conversation—still apparently about the identity of the mysterious celebrity staying at Sunflower House.

  “It’s the man who writes them big action books, Mildred said. She told me in confidence, hear? They make movies about ’em with Tom Cruise—is that the guy?” Helen peered at Pauline as if to read the answer in her bottle-bottom glasses. “The one who danced in his underwear?”

  “That’s Tom Cruise, yes. Action movies based on books, starring Tom Cruise. Jack Reacher?” Orbra asked.

  “No, not that one. The other Jack,” Helen grumbled, frowning. “The author, I mean. His character had a Greek name or maybe a Roman name…something like one of them musicians nowadays.”

  “At least, that’s what Mildred was dropping hints about,” Pauline said.

  “Wait, are you talking about Jeremy Fischer?” Leslie said, a spark of interest sizzling through her. “He writes the Bruno Tablenture books?”

  “Yes, that’s him! Not Jack. Jeremy. He’s done locked himself away in the tower room at Sunflower, going to be writing on his new book, Mildred said.”

  “Jeremy Fischer? For certain?” Even Aunt Cherry seemed impressed, and it took a lot to impress her. Or maybe she was just assessing her chances of getting to meet the man. “How do you know? He’s such a recluse. He doesn’t even do book signings.”

  “I told you, Mildred dropped a lot of hints for us. She even got a bunch of his books about Bluto, Brundo—whatever—those detective stories on her bookshelf in the sitting room. We’re staying there too, you know,” Helen added for Leslie’s benefit. “Mildred just put them books out casual-like, but all of a sudden there were a bunch of them there. And they were signed. But I know it’s him. He’s telling everyone his name is John Fischer, though.” She rolled her pale blue eyes.

  “So tell me about this haunted house of yours,” Iva said, turning back to Leslie.

  The sudden change of topic caught her by surprise, but Leslie recovered immediately. “There’s really nothing to tell. The house needs some updates—it’s been empty on and off for the last thirty or so years. The last woman who lived there stayed on the main floor, so there’s work that needs to be done on the second and third floors. I just had someone in yesterday about replacing a big wrought iron staircase.” And, thank goodness, she’d just this morning hired a high school student as an intern to help her out after class and on the weekend with whatever needed to be done.

  “Are you talking about that big, grand staircase in the foyer? It always reminded me of that stairway Rhett carried Scarlett up in Gone with the Wind,” Iva said with a sigh. “I loved that movie.”

  “That’s the one. Some of the spindles are missing, and other ones are rusted.”

  “Leslie needed a blacksmith and I told her to call Declan Zyler,” Orbra said with a wink at her friend. “Cherry here can’t wait to see him in action in that hot, dark smithy—all sweaty and muscular and—”

  “And I figure if he’s doing work for my niece, I have an excuse to—er—check up on it.” Cherry grinned, looking very much like a naughty Helen Mirren with her spiky champagne hair and pink lipstick. “Leslie was on the front page of the paper today too—did you see it? Not because of the staircase, but because of her being famous and her plans to open a bed and breakfast. But you can see the missing section of railing behind her. Unfortunately, Declan wasn’t in the picture. Did you get my extra copy, Orbra?”

  “Of course. It’s in the back. I’ll get it later. What were you going to do if he had been in it? Hang it up in your office?”

  “Maybe.” Cherry’s eyes danced mischievously, then she glanced at her watch. “Time to go. I’ve got a hot class and have to turn on the heaters.”

  “You’ve got hot flashes?” Helen demanded in her growly voice. “And you’re going to turn on the heaters? That’s about the dumbest thing—”

  “No, she’s got to teach a hot class,” Orbra said. “Cherry’s got a yoga studio, and one of the classes is done in a very hot room.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try doing those Yogi Berra things,” said Helen, crumbs flying again. “I could probably put my foot behind my head, now that I got a new hip—”

  “So about this ghost,” Iva said, closing her soft, wrinkled hand over Leslie’s as she shook with silent laughter. “Can I come over and walk through the house? I have a real sense for the otherworldly…maybe it will show itself to me.” Her eyes danced with enthusiasm, and Leslie had a moment of relief that Fiona wasn’t here too—for she and her grandmother-in-law were peas in a pod when it came to that sort of thing.

  “Of course, feel free to stop by any time. I’ll show you around—it sounds as if you’ve been in the house before.”

  “Yes, well, back when we were growing up—”

  “What’s this about the ghost?” demanded Helen. “Have you
seen it, then, missy?”

  “Don’t shout,” Pauline said, elbowing her companion. This was the first time she’d joined the conversation since the tray of scones and sandwiches had been delivered. She appeared to have sampled a bit of everything, if the remains on her dainty plate were any indication. “She’s just sitting across the table from you. And you’re talking about Shenstone House, aren’t you?” She directed her question to Leslie.

  Apparently, the conversation was going to center around the so-far-nonexistent ghost, despite efforts to the contrary. So Leslie decided she might as well dive in. “Who is supposedly haunting the place anyway?” she asked. “I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be seeing a male or female ghost.”

  “Well, you do know the history of the house, don’t you?” Pauline Whitten pulled herself upright and, gripping a teacup between two sets of fingertips, fixed her eyes on Leslie.

  “A little of it. I know it was built at the turn of the century, and that in the twenties, a rival of Al Capone’s used it for a hideaway from the cops in Chicago.”

  “I know about all that,” interjected Helen. “My mama used to tell me stories about during Prohibition. Those damned gangsters used to come over here from Chicago across Lake Michigan to get away from the authorities. They’d bring their families and make like a vacation. Or their girls—you know the ones, the floozies with the short skirts and rolled garters. They even smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey.”

  “Oh, come now, Helen. You like your Maker’s Mark just as much as anyone else I know,” Pauline said.

  “I do, but I ain’t breaking the law drinking it!”

  “Yes, there were hideaways all along the west coast of Michigan, all the way up to Traverse City,” Pauline continued. “They probably used the Great Lakes to smuggle in booze too, from Canada. Didn’t even have to go all the way to Detroit—could just go right over past Sault Ste. Marie and through Lake Huron to Ontario.”

  “The name of the bootlegging gangster who owned Shenstone House was Sal ‘Red Eye’ Marciano,” Leslie continued. “And there’s a rumor he hid a bunch of jewels here in the area.”

  “That’s right!” Helen jabbed her talon-finger at the table at large. “We used to sneak around that house, trying to find the hidden gems. Place was empty as often as it was lived in, you know—probably got a curse on it, now’t I think of it—and there was a time we sneaked inside too. Had a smoke, even. Never got caught, neither!”

  “We never did either,” said Pauline smugly.

  Cherry and Orbra were laughing. “We sneaked in there too. But our generation was more interested in smoking pot and making out in the house than finding a cache of jewels.”

  Leslie looked around at the table in amazement. “Are you telling me you all were sneaking into Shenstone House?”

  “Well, yes. An abandoned house, just far enough outside of town and in the woods to be secluded, but not so far away from everything so as to be scary…what do you think?” Cherry said.

  “I never did,” Iva said primly. Her friends looked at her with disbelieving eyes. “I didn’t sneak. Tommy Bradberry had a key, and we used to go in there to make out.”

  “That’s because the people who was living there when you were hot to trot traveled to Europe all the time,” Helen said. Then she wheeled her eyes toward Leslie. “And you never sneaked inside yourself, missy? You had to be the only generation that didn’t do that.”

  “I was only here for a few summers in my early teens. Besides, I think Mr. Mineera was living there at the time. He had big dogs.”

  “Ah, yes, that’ll do it,” Cherry replied.

  “Look! There he is!” Helen fairly bolted out of her chair. “That has to be him!” She leveraged her walking stick to heave herself to her feet. “Right there on the corner! You shoulda been watching!” she screeched at Pauline, and almost lost her balance in the process. “We almost missed him. Not that you can see anything anyway—”

  “Who? Where?”

  “It’s that Jeremy Fischer. See, the guy with the beard? It has to be him. He’s with Mildred and— Hey! Why does Aaron Underwhite get to meet him?” Helen’s nose was pressed to the tea shop window.

  Leslie looked outside as well. Sure enough, standing on the street corner was a small cluster of people: a woman who was probably the innkeeper at Sunflower House, an attractive man of about forty with dark hair and a full beard and mustache, and an elegant couple in their late forties. The last were dressed in business suits and were shaking the man’s hand.

  “Aaron Underwhite’s the mayor, Helen,” Orbra said. “I suppose he’s probably welcoming the celebrity to our town. He and Regina are always very gracious to anyone who visits.”

  This pulled Helen away from the window. “Aaron Underwhite is the mayor? And he’s married to Regina Clemons? Didn’t she used to go with Colter Bray? And now she’s married to the Underwhite boy? I’m gobsmacked!”

  Orbra appeared to share Helen’s emotion. “How do you remember all of those people? They were at least twenty years younger than you—and you haven’t lived here for fifty years.”

  Helen tapped her temple with a curved finger. “Perfect memory, right here. Never forget a face or nothing.” She turned back to the view. “Now how the hell am I going to get me an invite to meet Jeremy Fischer?”

  “You’re staying in the same inn, Helen,” Pauline said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  The gleam in the elderly woman’s eye was enough to make Leslie shudder. She was suddenly relieved her own inn wasn’t quite ready to open. She didn’t think she could handle customers like Helen Galliday.

  ~ THREE ~

  * * *

  “Steph? You here?” Declan called as he came in through the back door, clumping into the mudroom in his heavy work boots.

  He was sweaty and smelled pretty ripe from spending three hours in the smithy working on Leslie van Dorn’s stair railing. He hadn’t planned to start working on it so soon—he hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he had plenty of jobs—but she kept popping into his mind and he found it difficult not to think about her.

  He wasn’t exactly sure why she’d lodged there in his head. It wasn’t like there’d been some great big sizzle of attraction between them. Sure, he saw how pretty she was under the ball cap and dust she wore, but as far as he was concerned there was a lot more to a woman than the way she looked. God help him, he’d learned that the hard way.

  Whatever. He wasn’t going to drop everything to get her job done, but he’d work on it when he had the urge to do so.

  “Steph?” he called again, hesitating on the threshold. Normally, he’d strip everything off in the back hall of wherever he was living and leave it—wet, stinky, and smoky—until later, but living with a teenaged girl he hardly knew put a cramp in that style.

  Dec still could hardly believe the phone call, six months ago, that had upended his entire life. One minute, he’d been enjoying the single life—working his ass off on various locations in Savannah or Atlanta and making a buttload of money, hanging with his buddies, dating occasionally…and the next minute, he was answering the phone to a girl—woman—he’d dated the summer between high school and college. The old Seger song “Night Moves” mashed up with Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long” (both good old Michigan rockers) pretty much described the summer he spent hanging out with Cara Doucette.

  He’d answered the call, recognizing that it was from back home in Sematauk—maybe his friend Jed had gotten a new number—and nearly fell out of his chair when the voice said, “Declan? This is Cara Doucette. A real blast from the past, huh? How are you? You got a minute?”

  She’d spoken so quickly, spewing it all out in one breath, that it took him a second to catch up. “Hey, Cara. Nice to hear from you. Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes.” He did his best to keep the question and wariness from his voice. From his and his buddies’ experience, when an old flame looked you up—whether it be via social media or directly like this—it wa
s because she was interested in one of two things: another hookup, or to show the guy how successful/happy she was without him.

  Fortunately, she didn’t beat around the bush. In fact, Dec had the feeling she was actually reading off something she’d written, for she launched right into a speech that yanked the rug of life out from under his booted feet.

  “I have something to tell you. I should have told you back then, after we broke up, but I didn’t. There were lots of reasons, and I’m sorry for it, I made a mistake. A big mistake. Except she’s not a mistake at all. Oh, damn.” Her voice dropped, implying she’d gone off script. “Dec, I’m just going to come right out and say this. That summer you and I were together—well, I got pregnant, had the baby, and you’re the father.”

  He pulled the phone away to stare at it. A roaring sound filled his ears, and his insides surged and swirled into something worse than the morning after too many beers. His brain pretty much exploded into nothing…then crashed back into his skull with a whirlwind of emotions.

  “Declan? Are you there? I know it’s a shock, but…”

  He hardly heard anything she said at first, and it took him a long time—a long time—to calm down enough to get the basic facts. He was the father of a fifteen-year-old girl named Stephanie. Cara had gotten married to her ex-boyfriend—the one she’d broken up with just before she and Declan got together; Dec had been her summer fling and rebound—and they’d raised Stephanie in Sematauk. She never told anyone except her husband that Stephanie wasn’t his child.

  “So…why tell me now?” he managed to say from between stiff lips. Somehow, he couldn’t drag in a deep enough breath.

  “Because she wants to meet you.”

  Something rushed through him—warmth and delight, followed abruptly by a stark, ice-cold chill. “Ohhh…kay,” he managed to say. The questions swirling around in his head—he could figure out all the answers later…and dissect the emotions (shock, anger, confusion) as well. Now, he would take one step at a time.