“How was school?”
He pushed the mousy colored curls away from his eyes. “End of the year, teachers are wrapping up with a lot of tests.”
“That blows.”
He shrugged. “Only if you didn’t study.”
I made a noise of agreement and took the opportunity to ask, “Do you know three guys about your age that hang out at the dry cleaners?” I gave him their descriptions the best I could remember.
Stephen didn’t have to think about it. “Yeah, Tony, Ted, and Greg, they’re in my grade.”
“They’re not friends of yours, are they?”
“No, more like... passing acquaintances.” His eyes narrowed as he grew suspicious. “Why, what’d you do?”
“It was nothing,” I said, waving away the topic. He didn’t believe me. “Really,” I repeated, “it was nothing.” I told him the entire story, but left the ghost part out.
“So you led them to believe you were friends with a murderer and had a gun pointed at their heads?”
“Stephen, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t point a gun at more than one target. And who mentioned heads? Now you’re just exaggerating.”
“Honestly, Adelaide, I don’t know why you do the things you do.”
I didn’t enjoy being lectured by an overly mature teenager. I retorted in my usual fashion. Ordering, “Go clean something.”
* * *
Missy swished in a few minutes before nine. She wore a wispy black dress that sat stark against her skin. We were both pale, but pale wasn’t her natural skin tone. I imagined her at the beach, slathering on sunscreen to maintain her image.
“Hello, Adelaide.” She said it nice enough, but I knew better. Feeling sour inside, I opened the bottom desk drawer, removing my bag and stuffing my paperback inside. I stayed only long enough to pass along the daily updates. We both managed our pretended civility.
Stepping outside the office I took a deep breath, waiting for the negativity to dissipate. I hated being an empath. Every task became exhausting. The resentment sat like a lump; it didn’t fit. I stepped off the curb, walking across the lot toward my car. The distance ate away my bitterness, leaving me feeling like an empty cup.
Chapter 21
Raindrop Road was where all the rich people lived. Their mansions lined the beach, a would-be perfect location if not for the tip of Sea Island which obscured the view. It was only a stretch of sand that far south, so they probably didn’t mind.
I headed northeast, wondering if maybe I should have printed directions off at work. I had very little experience with the fancier side of the island. I coasted along in the dark, squinting for house numbers. Of course rich people were too classy for clearly marked mailboxes.
Reed lived at fifty-five Raindrop Road. I found not only the gate but the gatehouse, equipped with a security guard and all. He wore a uniform, white short-sleeve dress shirt and black slacks. I told him my name and he didn’t seem surprised. Reed had invited me; I was expected. But the prick still made me fish out my license, not an ID, but my license, as if he was a cop. And after a ridiculously thorough inspection he handed it back, giving me directions (like I’d never traveled up a driveway) and telling me where to park.
It was dark, so I didn’t get the best look at Reed’s house, but I still got an eyeful. It was a three story massive rectangle of gray stone lit from the outside and yet shadowed by the age old oaks that hugged each corner. It was... monumental.
Disregarding the instruction to drive around the side, I parked out front instead, wanting to use the main entrance. The door was imposing, standing a few feet taller than most. I searched for a doorbell, or even a knocker, finding only an old-fashioned hand pull.
A tall, solid woman answered the door, face flowing with little definition into the sturdy column of her neck. Her hair was thinning, a situation made more obvious by the extremely bright, and completely unnatural, red hair she sported. She wore a maid’s outfit—not the kind Francesca had—a real maid’s outfit.
“I’m here to see Mr. Wallace.”
She looked me up and down with a dour expression and no nonsense attitude. “Yes, he’s expecting you. Come in.”
It was a seasonal vacation home, but it lacked all things cozy. Reed had spared no expense outfitting the place. With dark polished wood and glossy marble floors, it had an old English Regency feel. For example, there was even a library.
Reed was waiting for me there, behind an impressive desk made of ebony with a light burl inlay. His house dripped money, and yet it lacked in style, no, not style, but personality. It was as devoid of character as Lucas’ kitchen had been, maybe more so.
He hadn’t noted my entrance, and was absently swirling his crystal glass, amber liquid swirling inside. My disapproving guide cleared her throat. “Ms. Graves to see you.” With that, she whisked herself away.
As he stood, he pushed the strewn papers together into a rough pile. “Hello, Adelaide,” he smiled.
I glanced at the towering shelves, each row carrying an arrangement of books. I couldn’t tell where the room ended. “So you live in a castle,” I said casually. He gestured for me to sit across from him, which would put me in the hot seat just like an interviewee. I ignored the chair, choosing to wander around the room instead. “And you keep servants.”
“I assume you’re referring to Marta, my housekeeper.” He came out from around the desk, hooking a leg over the corner to sit on the edge and watch me.
I forewent my snarky reply, getting straight to the point. “So tell me what the hell is going on.”
“I think the less you know the safer you’ll be.”
“I don’t have a security crew watching my house, you’re right, but I’ll take my chances.”
He wasn’t happy, but I doubted it had anything to do with my safety. Reed Wallace was an information hog. He sighed. “I assume you’ve realized that Theodore Dunn was killed by Beagban.”
“Beagban?”
“The man that kidnapped us,” he explained.
I guess Gap-tooth had a real name. It was stupid. I nodded for him to continue.
“Beagban is acting on orders, Larson Hurst’s orders. Beagban is a pawn really, the muscle.”
“Who is Larson Hurst?”
“He’s an old acquaintance of mine. Once a friend, but now a rival.”
“Rival?” I asked in disbelief. “He had your buddy Theodore Dunn murdered. The two of you must be very competitive,” I said sarcastically.
“Lars no longer has a conscience, and if he did he wouldn’t listen to it. The stakes are too high.”
“That guy Beagban mentioned a book?” I prompted.
Reed’s emotions spiked, though he didn’t so much as twitch. “Allegedly Anastas Demidov could contact those from another realm.”
My heart stopped. “Ghosts?”
“No, demons.”
I was stunned speechless.
“Anastas kept a record of his findings, a demon diary so to speak.”
“Allegedly,” I reminded him.
“Allegedly, yes, there was no witness to his demon encounters. In fact, no one even knew of his gift. The book came to light after his death. The family found it while sorting through his things and word spread.”
“So you and Lars went racing after it?”
“No, I don’t believe Lars knew. Typically he’d have minimal interest in such things.”
“So why is he murdering for it now?”
“Theodore heard about the book. He was deeply interested in history, especially relics of the occult, and had a network of gifted acquaintances.
“The journal was being held by Anastas’ niece in Canada. She’d had offers on it, and though she discounted it as superstitious nonsense, she was willing to sell. I provided Theodore with the money to bid and a private jet.
“I spoke with him just once after he procured the book. He’d briefly read throug
h and found it to be genuine. Anastas really had the gift. Theo also found the information highly dangerous.
“I made immediate arrangements for him to return to the States, thinking St. Simons would be a nice quiet place for him to study the book more closely in relative safety.”
I was overwhelmed by his guilt. He blamed himself for Theodore’s death.
“As you know, he never made it here. Beagban was waiting on the island.”
“So that’s why you want me to search for a guilty person,” I said as it dawned on me. “You think someone from your company told Lars what you were up to.”
“I made all of Theo’s flight arrangements from my New York office. No one I met by appointment ever entered unsupervised. Only the senior members would have had access to waltz in unaccompanied.”
“Or the cleaning crew, or your secretary, or any other number of people. Maybe Theodore talked to someone,” I suggested.
“No, I’ve already investigated those options. I’m certain it was someone from my company. Lars is paying one of my employees to pass along important information, I’ve suspected it for some time.”
I believed him. Having overheard a conversation at the dinner party between this Beagban character and a cohort, it seemed logical to suspect a Wallace Enterprise employee. “Okay, so Lars finds out about the book, knows it’s potentially dangerous, and that you want it. Naturally he sends in the muscle to kill your friend and steal the book. But that doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head as I paced. “Beagban kidnapped us, willing to torture the book’s location from you.”
“It would appear the book is missing.”
“Missing?” I echoed.
“Beagban took Theodore’s briefcase. It was empty. He went back to search for the journal, thinking Theo stashed it before he died, but it wasn’t there.”
“How do you know all that?”
“Lars told me.”
“What, did you just call him up and have a chat over the phone?” I mocked.
“It was an unpleasant necessity. I needed to ensure that Beagban wouldn’t continue to pull rogue stunts.”
“Rogue stunts, as in killing off another friend?” I said dryly.
“No, Lars told him to kill Theo. I was referring to the kidnapping,” Reed explained.
“So Lars, your rival, just agreed to put Beagban on a leash? That seems unlikely.”
I could feel him struggling to explain properly. “Having Beagban kidnap me—”
“—us,” I corrected.
“—was...”
“Sloppy,” I supplied.
“...embarrassing. To have your employee calling the shots while you have no clue what’s going on is embarrassing. It made Lars look a fool. If for no other reason than his own reputation, he won’t let Beagban step out of line again.”
“That’s not much comfort. What happens when Lars decides it’s in his best interest to have one of us offed? It’s not like he had to have Theodore killed. Beagban could have stolen the briefcase without going stab-happy.”
I instantly regretted the callous remark, feeling Reed’s guilt and sadness, but he never let it show. “No one is standing between him and the book, so no one is in immediate danger. Lars and I are both aware the book is missing, it’s now a matter of who will find it first.”
“You told Lars you didn’t have it, and he believed you?” I asked incredulously.
“If I had the book I wouldn’t be on the island.”
“So what now?” I asked. “Any leads?”
“None whatsoever. But in the meantime I want you to attend retreat functions searching for the leak.”
I stopped pacing to ask, “What’s Lars up to? I can’t imagine he’s twiddling his thumbs while you’re poking around St. Simons.”
“He boasted about sending someone who could sense the book.”
“Is it true?”
“Lars doesn’t give idle threats.”
“I thought you said he was boasting.”
Reed stood. “The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Chapter 22
Aleuromancy, as I soon found out, was the use of flour as a means of divination. Reed took me to the kitchen, a large space tucked away on the ground floor. That was where I met Betsy Cross, his cook.
Short and thin with graying hair, Betsy created the illusion of fragility. Watching her haul an iron skillet with one hand while tenderizing a lump of meat with the other somewhat dispelled the image. She moved from counter to counter, picking up some things and discarding others, looking like a bird, quick and decisive.
“This must be the empath you spoke of,” she said without looking at me. “Have a seat, have a seat.”
Reed sauntered to the center island, parking himself on a barstool. Betsy ignored him, maybe the only woman alive who could. Even I, somewhat immune to the charm, couldn’t help but appreciate his charisma.
The allure had nothing to do with his clothing, though I liked the sentiment. He’d left his jacket and tie behind in the library, unbuttoning the collar of his starched white and rolling the sleeves up past his elbow. Even undone he was the perfect picture, just your average executive enjoying some downtime.
I could see his muscles flex beneath the fine cloth of his shirt. He bent forward to pick over a cheese platter Betsy had provided, and I watched in fascination. But the allure wasn’t his body, either. It was his attitude.
Reed Wallace moved like an emperor of old, not just confident in his superiority, but certain, as if destined by the powers that be to rule over us lesser folk. What was it he knew, what made him so sure about... well... everything?
He spared me a glance over his shoulder, brows knitting before a smile spread. His smug amusement rocked me into reality where I found myself standing in the doorway, gaping like a fool. I’d been watching Reed eat cheese, wondering if anyone had ever looked so concise and fluid while consuming finger food.
Reed nudged the platter in my direction as I sank onto a stool. I ignored it, unwilling to even look in his direction.
It was as if the charm was a separate being, sentient and scheming. It waited until I was comfortable, and after having an entire conversation with Reed without so much as a spark, it struck, spelling me into a stupor.
Reed broke the silence, saying, “Betsy practices aleuromancy. I thought you might like to meet someone capable of divining the future.”
I already had. Apparently Reed didn’t know about Nancy Bristow. Good to know, and somewhat comforting. I often worried just how much Reed knew about me.
Betsy set down a loaf of bread. It was straight from the oven. “Did you bake my fortune inside?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” she said, producing a variety of jams and butter. “This is for eating.”
“Oh.”
Reed was amused. I could easily imagine him swirling his wine in a lackadaisical manner while he laughed at me. His emotions were at odds with Betsy, whose brisk movements wafted an steely intent as she went about the kitchen, focused and alert on her work. But their feelings were soft, easily ignored, just a background whisper barely heard over my own ambivalence.
“It’s not an unreasonable guess,” Betsy assured. “The Greeks often hid paper fortunes in dough. And of course now we have the fortune cookie, though they hardly ever have a prediction inside. Useless advice more often than not.”
“So the practice didn’t start in China?”
“No,” she said, pulling a ceramic bowl from the top shelf. “Aleuron is Greek for flour, and it was believed that Apollo presided over this particular form of divination.”
“How do you do it?” I asked with unaffected interest.
Betsy carried the bowl under her arm and propped on one hip. It looked Dutch-Amish, the foreign lettering circled around an outmoded couple. She absently tossed handfuls of flour inside while speaking. “There are different ways, some more dramatic than others. For example
, I could sprinkle the flour over a sacrificial victim.”
“Lucky for you, Betsy doesn’t take herself that seriously,” Reed joked.
“I could throw the flour onto a fire,” Betsy continued, “or even the floor.”
“Is that how you do it?”
“Too messy,” Betsy answered. “Marta hates trying to sweep under the stoves.” I watched her lower the bowl under a facet, filling it with water. “I’m just going to rinse the flour out and look for a pattern in the residue.” And she did just that.
The air became thick with anticipation as we waited for Betsy to forecast the future. She moved away from the sink, turning the bowl toward the light.
As her sense of discovery grew, so did her delight. Betsy Cross loved her gift and she was thrilled to use it. “I see...” Betsy squinted, lowering her nose until it touched the rim. Abruptly she lowered the bowl, turning to Reed. “She finds it,” she said, nodding toward me. “She finds what you are searching for inside the turtle.”
And just like that the air was muddied with confusion. Reed was silent and thoughtful, but I didn’t know enough to be preoccupied. “Are you talking about the book?”
“I know even less than you,” Betsy admitted. “Mr. Wallace asked me to do a casting with the both of you in mind—this is what I see. I don’t know what book you speak of, but whatever he’s looking for, you will find.”
“Inside a turtle?” My tone implied that I found the idea improbable.
She shrugged.
Suddenly I was hungry. So while Reed turned reflective, I shoveled down some cheese and bread. Betsy returned to being busy, racing around the kitchen and fixing me a drink in the process.
“Did you become a cook because it was convenient to your gift?” I asked her.
“No, I always loved working in the kitchen. I spent a lot of time baking as a child. I grew up on a farm,” she explained.
“Me too,” though I hardly baked.
“Without my passion for food I may have never discovered my additional abilities, funny to think. But I doubt that happens often. The Universe is too smart for that.”
“Is that what you believe? That the Universe has a personality, and it gifts us with extra abilities as it sees fit?” I didn’t have a circumspect belief system, but if I did, a cosmic brain wouldn’t be it.