Darkwood Manor Read online

  There were no more shots to be heard, and yet the feeling of being watched persisted.

  Haden believed that evil had seeped into the very fabric of the house. Of course that wasn’t possible, but for the moment she was alone, the skin on her neck was prickling—and why hadn’t she called Donovan before coming here?

  Logic warred with apprehension as she tugged on the gate.

  Squaring up, Isabella sent the now-circling crow a level look and let a purposeful stride carry her across the cracked cobbles of the courtyard.

  She fought her way through a second gate, this one made of spiked iron, and finally reached the portion of the manor closest to the cliff.

  The only visible path led her through an overgrown garden, down a tippy set of stairs and under a rotting pergola thick with vines and creepers. Thorns plucked at her coat and hair, but she persevered and eventually broke free of the cloying vegetation to a patch of ground covered in dormant roses.

  She scanned the weedy beds. No unusual sounds reached her. Sickly bushes guarded the area ahead. Far above, she spotted a large, open window, and directly below it, something black.

  Her first thought—snake—stopped her in her tracks. Her grateful second was that it looked more clothlike than serpentine.

  Katie had been wearing a khaki trench with a black sweater under it. Palms damp, Isabella moved forward. She was nudging a prickly bramble aside when the ground cover behind her rustled and a pair of hands seized her arms.

  “It’s me,” Donovan said before the scream in her throat emerged. “Did you hear the shots?”

  With her heart attempting to jackhammer a hole in her chest, the best Isabella could manage was a nod.

  “You do know you should have gotten back in your car and run, right?”

  “Yes, I thought about that a split second before you grabbed me.”

  Donovan drew her into a crouch and pushed the dead roses aside.

  With a fist pressed to her breastbone, Isabella stared. “What is that?”

  He twitched a limp, black sleeve, currently snagged on a thorn. “I’d say it’s an old suit.”

  “With no one in it.” Her eyes rose. “What’s an empty suit doing in this flower bed?”

  He shifted the sleeve again to reveal a metal barrel. “Covering a rifle at the moment.” His eyes rose. “Someone propped it up in the third-floor window. Orry and I were out on the cliff. Three bullets hit the rocks beside us. I saw a rifle—presumably this one—and a silhouette and fired…into the silhouette’s arm,” he added when she turned to frown at him. A faint grin tugged on his lips as he scanned the area again. “You want to know what Orry was doing here, right?”

  “Well, yeah. I’m also a little curious about where he is now.”

  “He said he was going to call the incident in.”

  “To who? He’s the acting sheriff.”

  “He’ll remember that at some point. In the meantime, I want to take a look at that third-floor room.”

  “Because empty suits don’t fire rifles, and ghosts don’t pop in and out of them on a whim?” She exhaled a portion of her tension. “Donovan, what’s going on here? Why would someone shoot at you?”

  He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s save that question for another time, call this evidence and take it with us into town.”

  “I thought… We’re going into town now?”

  “Right after we go through that room.”

  “But…”

  Cupping her nape, he forced her to meet his eyes. “Someone fired three bullets from the window above us, Isabella. You assume those bullets were meant for me. But I wasn’t alone on that cliff.”

  “I SWEAR I’VE STEPPED out of the real world and into Wonderland.” Isabella dragged a moldy piece of planking away from the third-floor bedroom wall. Donovan had her searching for cracks that might turn out to be hidden doors. “Whoever set this up would have had plenty of time to stroll right back through the bedroom door. No need for a secret passageway.”

  “We’re covering the possibilities, Isabella.” Donovan leaned out the window, looked up. “Why did your boyfriend buy this house?”

  “Ex-boyfriend, and I’m still working on that.”

  “Was he eccentric?”

  “A little. He liked psychic fairs. So did Killer, which surprised me.”

  “And Killer is?”

  “His legal partner, a prosecuting attorney so nicknamed for his ability to tear apart false testimony in court and reduce the witness to rubble. Killer and Katie have had a turbulent on-again off-again for the past two years. That’s how I met David.”

  “Are they on or off at the moment?”

  “Not sure. Off, I think. I should probably call him. More importantly, I should call Grandpa C or Aunt Mara, but…I don’t know.”

  “Text message?” Donovan assumed.

  She breathed out her frustration. “I don’t think she sent it, but they might. Grandpa C is forever pushing Katie to break out of her shell and do something wild. He says complacency breeds resentment, and Katie’ll regret her steady lifestyle down the road.”

  “But you disagree?”

  “Katie likes routine. Steady works for her. It just doesn’t work for Grandpa C.”

  “He sounds like a control freak.”

  “He can be, but Katie’s no pushover. He was furious that she took up smoking in college and that hasn’t stopped her.”

  “How did your grandfather feel about your ex?”

  “David? Oh, way too flighty. He likes Killer, though, which is probably why Katie won’t commit.” She indicated the area in front of the window. “Have you found anything there?”

  Donovan used his BlackBerry to photograph the dusty sill and floor. “Someone heavier than a ghost’s been walking around up here.”

  Because the sky outside had gone from gray to black, she used the flashlight she’d shoved in her coat pocket to peer behind a broken headboard.

  Once again, nothing. Next up was the armoire.

  Did snakes like closed spaces, she wondered, then opened the squeaking door. Thirty seconds and one giant spiderweb later, she was swiping sticky threads from her arms.

  While Donovan went into the hall, Isabella checked out the remainder of the wall.

  The far corner was blocked. Unable to search there, she leaned on the wall and shone her flashlight through a hole in the ceiling. “You know, Donovan, that suit we found smelled awfully musty. Maybe someone got it from a trunk up in the…”

  She stopped speaking when the wall behind her suddenly gave way. Unbalanced and too startled to react, Isabella toppled backward into absolute darkness.

  Dark, that is, except for the unblinking yellow eyes her flashlight beam caught as she fell.

  TOO MANY KIDS STILL VENTURED into the manor on midnight dares for the footprints Donovan spotted to signify much of anything. But he took pictures anyway and followed the ones he could as far as possible along the corridor. Still scanning the floor, he retraced his steps to the bedroom. “Isabella?”

  A muffled cry reached him, together with several thumps.

  Eyes sweeping from side to side, he crossed to the armoire and opened it.

  He didn’t see anything. However, he knew the thuds he was hearing weren’t his imagination.

  He attempted to pinpoint the source, had his hand on the paneling when a section of it sprang open and Isabella shot out.

  “My flashlight broke.” She let him catch her, but dragged him five feet away before using the cracked base to gesture. “There’s something in there.” She fisted the front of his jacket. “I saw round yellow eyes, Donovan. Snakes have eyes like that. I’m not going back in.”

  He resisted the urge to haul her up against him, didn’t want to know where it came from.

  “You don’t have to go in,” he said. “Just stay here and calm down. Breathe.”

  “I hate snakes.”

  “I noticed.”

  He kept a hand on her arm while he pushed the panel
open. His penlight revealed an empty room, maybe six by eight feet, with a rectangular hole at the far end.

  He shone the light up and around, examined all the corners, then switched it off and let the door spring closed.

  “It’s just a room, Isabella. No snake,” he said, and was glad to see the visual dagger she aimed at him. “Whatever was in there probably got out through the vent. I’d go with a cat myself.”

  “Right. You know what?” Tossing her broken flashlight aside, she made a double-handed motion. “I’m done with this place for now. I want to know who shot at you and Orry then threw an old suit and a rifle out the window. I also want your acting sheriff to make some attempt to locate my cousin.”

  Donovan rearranged a long strand of hair that had wrapped itself around her throat. “Still not quite buying that text message, huh?”

  She breathed out. “Katie and I are double-related. Her mother and my mother are sisters, her father and my father are brothers. We grew up together. I know how she thinks, how she acts, how she reacts. She wouldn’t have left in the first place, but if for some inexplicable reason she had, she’d have called me. She didn’t, so she must be in trouble. It’s as simple as that.”

  Nothing about any of this was simple in Donovan’s opinion, but something sure as hell was going on at Darkwood Manor.

  He only hoped the air of gloom that seemed to be enveloping the old house had its roots in the present and not in a virulent strain of madness from the past.

  MYSTIC HARBOR LIVED UP to its name, even in full daylight. The shops and storefronts had a faded, old-world look to them. The mist that drifted along the streets supplemented the haunted atmosphere of the town. Upper windows were shuttered, long planters were filled with herbs, and Isabella counted strings of garlic hanging in no less than five doorways.

  “I thought garlic warded off vampires,” she remarked to Donovan beside her.

  “A little extra protection never hurts.” He braked between the sheriff’s office and a shop whose hand-painted sign read The Root of Evil.

  She recognized Donovan’s cousin, Darlene, smoking a cigarette on a bench outside a quaint brick office.

  “You’re about to be ambushed.” Donovan twirled the truck keys on his index finger. “If you want to run, feel free. The cruiser’s not here. Means Orry isn’t either, and you won’t get any help from the other deputies.”

  Humor stirred. “But you will?”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got federal credentials, and friends in the IRS. Or so they’ve been told.”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “You’re good, Donovan.” Then she surprised herself by sliding a hand down the front of his jacket and yanking him across the gearshift for a kiss that, despite its brevity, seared the edges of her control. That it also tempted her to go a great deal deeper was the only hitch—and the primary reason why she dragged her mouth away and gave his jacket a shake.

  “Damn.” A sparkle brewed in her eyes. “Your kisses rock, Black.” The sparkle deepened to a tease. “For a fed.”

  His own eyes glittered in response. Isabella didn’t know where things might have gone if someone’s knuckles rapping the hood of Donovan’s truck hadn’t diverted their attention.

  “Take it inside, you two. Later.” Darlene crushed her smoldering butt. “My boss wants to meet Mystic Harbor’s newest homeowner.”

  Donovan’s lips curved. “You might as well go. I’m surprised old Gordie’s held off this long.”

  “What does old Gordie want?”

  “He’s the local Realtor.”

  “Is he as subtle as the nonlocal developer?”

  “Think steamroller, Isabella.” Reaching past her, he shoved the door open. “You’ll handle him just fine.”

  Because there was no Orry to badger, and Donovan only wanted access to the police computer, Isabella let Darlene whisk her across the street, through a shaded glass door and into the aftermath of a hurricane.

  Computers, some dating back twenty years, littered the reception area. Snapshots of every house in town lined the brick walls. There were three overflowing cabinets, two desks buried in paper, a sputtering printer in the corner and enough bottled water to float a square rigger, a model of which sat on a lopsided shelf outside a glass-encased inner office.

  Darlene navigated the mess with ease and beckoned for Isabella to follow. When she knocked, a loud belch emerged from inside.

  “Man’s a prince.” She shoved the door open. “You’ve got company, Gordie. Might want to polish up your manners.”

  The man who swiveled his chair to greet Isabella did so with a smile so broad it dwarfed the rest of his features. The skin of his face and neck was badly wrinkled and his bald head shone in the dusky light. As he stood to extend an over-tanned hand, Isabella’s first thought was basted turkey. Her second was that he looked like a tortoise minus its shell.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Ross.” He waved Darlene out, then rounded the desk to sweep a stack of files from a leather chair. “Gordie Tallahassee’s my name. Not real, of course, but bland doesn’t sell real estate, does it?”

  “I really wouldn’t—”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. Just call me Gordie and choose your poison. My bar’s the best in town.”

  “It’s eleven in the morning, Mr.—Gordie.”

  “Not in Venice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He spread his fingers and, to her amazement, his smile. “You make me think of northern Italy.” Plopping down on his desk, he rocked forward. “Tell me, do you have any Dark blood in your veins?”

  Her humor kindled by the absurdity of the situation, Isabella let her eyes twinkle. “No, but I have a Dark house on my hands.”

  “And therein lies our common ground.”

  Not bad, she thought. She’d been here less than two minutes and already they were talking property.

  “Let me guess. You want to buy Darkwood Manor, or more correctly, you know someone who does.”

  He regarded her through heavy-lidded eyes. “I won’t deny there’s interest in your property, possibly more than you know. Oddly enough, none of those interested parties— David Gimbel excepted—saw the previous owner’s desire to sell coming. I hounded the old coot for years to no avail. It got so every time I phoned, he’d swear and cut me off. Last time I called, he told me to contact him after Christmas. That was back in June. Two weeks later, David M. Gimbel struts into town, pleased as punch, and announces to everyone in hearing range that he’s the new owner of Darkwood Manor. You could have knocked me over with a feather, Ms. Ross, and that’s a fact.”

  “It’s Isabella, and I’m not surprised. About David, I mean. He was a master finagler.”

  Gordie’s smile tightened around the edges. “Not sure I’d use that term myself, but in any case, you’re the owner now, and you strike me as a woman with a savvy head on her shoulders.”

  When his phone rang, he lifted the receiver and dropped it back in the cradle. His eyes, Isabella noticed, never left hers.

  A light chill feathered over her skin. Shaking it off, she met his now-steely stare with a challenging one of her own. “Gloves off then, Gordie. You want Darkwood Manor. Unfortunately, so does my family. I’d call that a stalemate.”

  “I’d call that business.” With his teeth bared, he rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Money’s what it boils down to in the end.” He waited a beat, before adding a canny, “I hear you have a missing cousin.”

  “Your grapevine’s fast and accurate. Any rumors on it that would help me locate her?”

  “Sadly, no. Aaron Dark’s a rather unpredictable specter.”

  Was he serious? Narrowing her eyes, Isabella asked, “Do you have a deal in the works with Robert Drake?”

  His smile chilled. “What I’ve got, my dear, are buyers. One ghost more or less doesn’t mean squat to them, but then most never see the properties they purchase, so Aaron’s a non factor in their world. In yours—and as someone who w
as born and raised in Mystic Harbor, I can say this—you’ve taken on a great deal more than you can handle.”

  She continued to watch his face, wouldn’t let herself react to whatever it was that lurked beneath the surface. “If you think scare tactics will induce me to sell, Mr. Tallahassee, you’re wrong.”

  A tic made the loose skin of his jaw jump. “I don’t have to scare you, Isabella. Aaron can do that much more effectively than any human.”

  “You said the same thing to David, didn’t you?” she returned softly.

  “Yes, I did, and less than a week after we spoke, he drove off a cliff. It got me wondering.” Rocking forward once again, Gordie let his voice drop. “Just how much of the corporeal world do you suppose can be affected by someone on the other side?”

  Chapter Five

  Isabella marched into the sheriff’s private office, planted her palms on the desk and looked Donovan straight in the eye.

  “I want to see the police report of David’s accident.”

  Donovan’s lips quirked as he returned his gaze to the computer monitor. “You’ve got your left hand on it. But I can save you the trouble. There’s nothing conclusive inside.”

  “I was told there was no way to determine whether or not David’s car had been tampered with.”

  “Isabella, it was barely possible to determine what kind of car he was driving.”

  “So no one knows if he was alive or dead before he went over that cliff.”

  “He was alive.” Donovan looked up. “David was talking to Haden when he hit the guardrail. What?” he asked at her surprised stare. “You didn’t know that?”

  “I knew he was talking to someone while he was driving. I didn’t get a name.” She regarded the folder. “Can I look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She indicated the back of the monitor while she scanned the contents. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking out the rifle we found.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Yeah, it’s old.”

  She stopped reading. “Old enough to have belonged to Aaron Dark?”

  “There’s an eighteen seventies’ patent on the model. Aaron died in eighty-one.”

  She was endeavoring to make out the handwritten report when he came around the desk and eased it free.