Darkwood Manor Page 6

  “I phoned Gunnar Crookshank, Isabella. He was first on the scene and in charge of the investigation. I’ll get his take on what happened. We can go from there.”

  Less than a foot away from him with no obstruction between them, it suddenly struck Isabella just how compact the sheriff’s office was. And how strangely airless.

  “You, uh…” She shoved her thoughts in order. “Did you find any incriminating footprints on the cliff or inside the manor this morning?”

  With his eyes still on hers, Donovan reached back to close the computer file he’d been reading. “All I discovered is that Orry’s afraid of the manor, but then I should have figured as much since he’s still terrified of Haden.”

  Air notwithstanding, a laugh bubbled up. “You’re joking, right? Haden’s a teddy bear. Gordie Not-His-Real-Name Tallahassee is the man Lucas needs to watch out for. Or just plain watch.”

  “He wants Darkwood Manor, huh?”

  “And anyone standing between him and his goal out of the picture.”

  The office became a great deal more claustrophobic when Donovan wrapped his fingers lightly around her throat and slid them downward.

  At close range, Isabella noticed a rim of gold around his dark eyes. The spell only shattered a little when he murmured, “Do you have a will?”

  She made a strangled sound. “Do I what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Yes, I did. Yes, I do, and before you ask, my shares in the family business go to Grandpa Corrigan and Aunt Mara.”

  “What about your personal assets?”

  There went the spell. She told herself not to grind her teeth. “You’re wrong, Donovan.”

  “They go to your cousin, don’t they?”

  “My parents live very well in Boston.” She kept her tone even. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “I’m not accusing Katie, Isabella, I’m just—”

  “Being a cop.”

  A trace of a smile crossed his lips. He continued to hold her with his eyes—until his hand slid under her hair to the back of her neck. “You still scare the crap out of me, lady.”

  Breathe, she ordered herself as her vision began to cloud. Then, in a moment of pure recklessness, gave up the fight, curled her fingers in his hair and fused her mouth to his.

  ALTHOUGH SHE KNEW SHE shouldn’t, the woman chain-smoked while she waited. Fog rolled in to blanket the harbor side of town. It swallowed up boats and businesses, houses and haunted mansions. It made her skin crawl.

  From her current perch, she could see Darkwood Manor directly across from her on the ridge. Thick, gray mist skirted the foundation, slithered up the outer walls and spread through the tangled gardens to the headstone at her feet.

  A wail, long, shrill and somehow mournful rode the heavy whorls. She sucked in smoke, paced in agitated lines and told herself this was the surest way out of a very deep rut. Her ticket to ride—whenever, wherever. For the rest of her life if she was prudent and didn’t wind up like David Gimbel, a pile of ashes at the bottom of a deadly cliff.

  She smoked two more cigarettes before she heard the approaching footsteps. Did she see a figure near the manor at the same time?

  She squinted through smoke and fog, but couldn’t make anything out.

  “What are you doing?” the person behind her asked.

  “Not sure.” She craned her neck. “I thought I saw someone. He’s gone now.”

  “He?”

  She wanted to snap at the droll tone, but thought better of it. “Why are we here,” she asked, “when we know Isabella’s still in town?”

  “Work your brain, kiddo. Balance the fear factor against her stubborn streak. We need to do more if we want her gone.”

  Nerves jittered. “How much more?”

  “As much as it takes.”

  She caught a gleam of metal as a knife embedded itself, blade down, in the ground next to an unmarked gravestone, and for a moment, wished she could walk away from all of this.

  IT SEEMED EVERYONE IN Mystic Harbor was curious about the new owner of Darkwood Manor. Word that Isabella was in town spread faster than the fog that threaded its way through the streets.

  The manager of the fish market offered her a deal if she decided to turn Darkwood into a hotel. So did the local butcher and two of the bakeries. As they were leaving, a fortune-teller from the Mystic Tearoom rushed out to give her a free reading.

  Danger waited for her at Darkwood Manor. A man with dark hair wished her harm. Whether human or ghost the woman wouldn’t say, but she added that Isabella could take heart because Aaron Dark’s wife was on her side. Then she pressed ringed fingers to Isabella’s forehead, clucked her tongue and whispered that it was sad when innocent blood was spilled. Sometimes, the tree of life bore bitter fruit. There were many secrets yet to be revealed….

  Okay, Isabella reflected, as the woman dissolved into the mist, that was weird, but no more so than the arthritic Brothers Grimm who performed weekly rituals to cleanse the town of the evil still being generated by Aaron Dark’s malevolent spirit.

  A discovery that both surprised and delighted her was that Haden owned and operated a restaurant behind the sheriff’s office. It was called the Cave, had a welter of round, wooden tables crammed into a long, underground room and was filled to the rafters with Dark-related memorabilia.

  “Don’t order from page two of the menu,” Donovan warned as they descended into a den of smoke, herbs and flickering black candles.

  Moody strings and pipes poured through mounted speakers, while a wall-to-wall collection of people dug into their entrées. She recognized most of the dishes, but figured a full quarter of the patrons had ordered from page two.

  Haden waved them to a table under a smudgy charcoal portrait.

  “Meet Sybil Dark,” he said gruffly and gestured for her to sit. “Got something to show you. Donovan’ll get you a drink. Make it strong,” he advised, then settled his bulky frame and shook out a chart the size of a road map. It would have hung over the edges like a cloth if he hadn’t refolded it into a rectangle.

  “This is the Dark family tree. See these limbs here?”

  She nudged his broad palm from the center. “I do now.”

  “There’s Aaron and Sybil, and off to the right, Aaron’s sister, Millicent. Aaron and Sybil had triplets. They were nothing but babies when all hell broke loose up at the manor. After Sybil left, Aaron shipped them off to his parents in Virginia and let them do the raising. Which was a good thing in the end since, as you know, old Aaron eventually went mad. You following me so far?”

  “Triplets, grandparents, unfaithful wife, madness. Got it. It looks like one of the three died.”

  “The girl died giving birth. The boys have their own stories. What matters here is that George and Darlene follow the daughter’s line. Me and Donovan come down through sister Millicent’s. Going back up the tree, the two of us have a bit of Moldavian, what we now call Romanian, royalty in our blood.”

  “Courtesy of a certain bloodthirsty count?” Isabella teased.

  “Courtesy of a Moldavian prince whose wimpy descendant lost power after the occupation of 1821.” He flapped a hand. “But that’s not the point, is it? What I’m trying to say is that unless Millicent went mad like her brother, Aaron—and some say she did—then Donovan’s worries about what might be waiting for him down the road are unfounded. It’s George and Darlene who should be worried, and having met them last night, you can see, they’re not.”

  Okay, now she was lost. “Why are you telling me this, Haden? I don’t believe in inherent madness. Donovan’s the one you need to convince.”

  “Yes, but I can’t, can I, or I would. I need you to do it for me.” He raised his voice and half his body to shout. “Watch that tray, Claudia. New worker,” he explained, then winced as the young woman overbalanced in the opposite direction. “Keep the family tree, Isabella. Manor’s yours. You should know what and who you’re dealing with up there. Use both hands,” he or
dered the new server, then stood and rushed after her.

  Donovan neatly avoided the rattled woman in the middle of the busy room. He set a bottle of red wine and two glasses on the table, pulled out a chair across from Isabella and sat. “So. Anything I should know about?”

  She spun the folded chart. “The Dark family tree, specifically your branch. Haden says you have princely ancestors, but given the country and the time frame, I suspect Gypsy offshoots.”

  “My former sister-in-law would probably agree. My brother had nomadic tendencies throughout their married life.”

  As expected, the wine he poured was full-bodied and strong. “I didn’t get that far down the tree. What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Quinn, and before you look, he’s dead.”

  Her voice and expression softened. “I’m sorry, Donovan. What happened?”

  “He decided to try BASE jumping without a parachute. Didn’t work out for him.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Forensics said no.”

  She stopped him from raising his glass. “That doesn’t make him insane, or validate your theory in any way.”

  “It doesn’t support your belief, either.”

  “There’s absolutely no precedent,” she began, but a swish of air and a snap of gum interrupted. “I’m leaving in fifteen,” a server with long, red hair announced. “Do you want to order now, or wait and let our newbie Claudia do the honors?”

  “We’ll wait,” Donovan said.

  The server pushed her sleeve up to reveal a watch with a braided yellow-and-white-gold band. “I can check back in ten. Otherwise, I hope you’re not hungry.”

  Isabella set her glass down so quickly that wine sloshed over the sides. “Where did you get that watch?” She managed—barely—not to make a grab for it.

  “Some guy.” The woman put a protective hand over her wrist. “It’s not hot.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “She isn’t.” Donovan flipped out his ID. “But I am.” He indicated the watch. “Easiest thing all around would be for you to let the lady look.”

  The server, whose name tag read Lindsay, hesitated, then stuck her arm out. “There. See? It’s not much. Probably turn my wrist green by the end of the night.”

  “Can I see the back?”

  “Still a cop,” Donovan reminded when Lindsay hesitated again.

  “I don’t have to do this.” She pouted but gave in, flicked the clasp open and tossed the watch down. “There’s nothing special about—” She stopped, frowned. “What are those letters?”

  Isabella’s fingers remained steady as she read aloud the engraving on the back plate. “From JDC to KLR.” She raised her eyes to Donovan’s face. “From James Donal Corrigan to Katie Lynn Ross.”

  ORRY SLASHED A HAND THROUGH the air. “It doesn’t prove a damn thing.” He had to shout to be heard over Lindsay and his deputy, who’d mistakenly believed he was the only man in her life.

  “It proves Katie was in Mystic Harbor,” Donovan replied evenly.

  “Did I say she wasn’t?”

  “Yeah, you did. This morning, on Dark Ridge. Before those three shots were fired.”

  Orry ground his teeth. “I explained that, Donovan. I had to respond to a call—a speeder on the Coast Road.”

  “And Deputy Dawg over there couldn’t have handled that while you checked out a potentially deadly situation?”

  Orry’s ears and neck reddened. “You prioritize your way, and I’ll do it mine. Could be I prevented another person from flying off Cemetery Point.”

  Perched on a cabinet at the back of the office, Isabella smiled. “That’s very conscientious of you, Acting Sheriff Lucas. But Donovan and I stayed at the manor for over an hour after the shots were fired. You didn’t come back.”

  “What, you think a shooter’d have hung around that long? If you didn’t find anything, what was the point of me showing up an hour later? For all we know, some college kid got hold of his granddaddy’s old hunting rifle and decided to play a Halloween trick.” When Lindsay’s voice rose to a squeal, he slapped his knee. “Stop badgering her, Lee. You and Lindsay have been dating. She had some fun with another guy for a night. You’ve done the same thing yourself. Why don’t you both go home?”

  Donovan leaned against the door, preventing anyone from exiting. “The watch, Orry.”

  “What? Oh, right.” He gave the silvery face a poke. “Tell us where you got it, Lindsay, this time without the hysterics.”

  She shot Donovan a mutinous stare, Orry a sneer and Isabella a watery-eyed plea. “He was just a guy. I met him over at the Raven on Wharf. We danced, had a couple drinks, got a little, you know…”

  “Friendly?” Donovan suggested.

  “Woozy,” she snapped, then slumped in her seat. “Maybe he slipped something in my drink.” She appealed again to Isabella. “I don’t remember what happened next.”

  Donovan circled her chair. “But you do remember him giving you the watch.”

  “I guess so. It was right before we left. He wanted me to come to his truck with him, but I said no. That’s when he pulled it out.”

  “And then?” Orry pressed.

  When she folded her arms, Donovan set his hands on either side of her chair. “What did the man look like, Lindsay? Can you describe him?”

  Her breath huffed out. “It was dark, and like I said, I was feeling woozy. Pretty sure he had a beard. Or maybe it was just a mustache. Anyway, his hair was dark and sort of scruffy.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Nuh-uh. He said he was doing an Aaron Dark, and he was only in town for supplies, but when he saw me going into the Raven, he just had to follow.”

  Although a vein in her temple jumped, Donovan thought it had more to do with her glaring boyfriend than his questions. He continued to study her as he asked Orry, “Do you have anyone who can do a composite?”

  “For a watch? Are you kid—?”

  “I can draw,” Isabella told him.

  “Am I in trouble?” Lindsay asked.

  Her boyfriend snorted. Donovan bit back a smile. “Not if you cooperate.”

  She turned in her seat. “You won’t press charges?”

  “I don’t care about the watch,” Isabella said. “All I want to do is find my cousin.”

  Orry stood. “I need to use the washroom. I’ll dig out the art supplies on my way back. Meantime, Donovan, why don’t you flex your fed muscles and make those two stop squabbling.” This as Lindsay and the deputy resumed their shouting match.

  Hopping from the cabinet, Isabella strolled up to offer Donovan a serene smile. “When did you say the real sheriff gets back?”

  He fought an urge to run his thumb over her lower lip. “On or around Halloween.”

  “I was afraid of that.” She glanced over as the phone rang—and rang and rang. “The deputy appears to be embroiled. Looks like you’re it, Black.”

  Donovan waited through two more rings before reaching down and picking up. “Sheriff’s office.” He hooked Isabella’s arm when she started to leave. “Where? Okay, call Abel’s Towing, and wait for us to get there.”

  Keeping his eyes on Isabella’s, he ended the call.

  “Why a towing company?” she asked with remarkable calm.

  “There’s a vehicle hung up on the rocks half a mile from Dark Ridge. As far as the deputy can tell, it’s a red, two-door sports car. Like the one you said your cousin Katie drives.”

  Chapter Six

  Suspended by its left rear axle, the car was virtually invisible from the road. When the fog parted, Isabella spied a wheel, part of a fender and a portion of the roof.

  The deputy who’d discovered it had two floodlights aimed at the swaying vehicle, but most of the light bounced off the fog.

  Orry insisted it hadn’t been there earlier in the day, but then Isabella reasoned he had to say that given his excuse for leaving the manor.

  None of the volunteer search
and rescue workers wanted to rappel down the cliff in the slippery conditions, so Donovan strapped on the gear and did one of the jobs he’d been trained to do. At the top, Isabella paced and breathed and told herself not to assume the worst.

  Fragments of memory spun through her head. Vacations with Katie, school dances, boys, men.

  She winced at the last two things. She and Katie had been a tad competitive where male attention was concerned.

  With a rude “Yo, blondie,” Orry strode over and shoved his two-way into her hand. “Your fed boyfriend wants to chat. Press the top button and speak up. Equipment’s twenty years old.”

  “Donovan?” Isabella returned to the edge. “Is there anyone inside?”

  “A woman.”

  Her heart leaped into her throat. “Is she conscious? Can you get her out? Is it Katie?”

  “I don’t want to move her, she’s unconscious, and I don’t know. What does your cousin look like?”

  Hadn’t she showed him a picture? Isabella pushed the hair from her face. “She’s twenty-eight, five-six, average weight. Her hair’s chin length, dark and layered. She wears three earrings in each ear and—”

  “Hang on.” Donovan’s crackling voice was barely audible above the approaching siren. “It isn’t Katie.”

  The knots in her stomach went cold. “Are you sure?”

  “This woman’s in her thirties. She has blond hair, and she looks shorter than five-six to me. Car’s a Mustang.”

  And Katie drove a Camaro. Isabella didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Either way, she was concerned for the injured woman.

  “Paramedics are here.” She glanced at the flashing lights. “They’re unloading a rescue stretcher.”

  Orry snapped his fingers for the radio. “This is why I chase speeders, Ms. Ross. Sorry it’s not your cousin.”

  Isabella ignored his sarcastic tone and rubbed her arms to ward off the damp, October chill.

  “Freaky night, isn’t it?” For some reason, the acting sheriff glued himself to her side as the paramedics started down. “Did you see that guy in the rusted-out pickup? He went past us like a bullet.”