Haunted by Murder Page 6

  It took several minutes of encouragement before Stephanie finally let go and sighed into a more relaxed posture.

  “What is Brad saying?” Mag took over again.

  “I can’t … he looks so angry … something about money and books.” Her voice dropped an octave as she imitated a lower pitch. “Where’s the other set of books?”

  Now, they were on to something. Mag’s stomach jumped twice and then settled to a soft flutter. The same way it always had when she was closing in on her prey. “Keep going. Tell me what you hear.”

  Stephanie’s eyelids fluttered while she accessed the memory. “The bang of his fists on the table.” A short pause. “No, the desk. He is pounding on the desk. I can hear my own breath wheezing in and out. My heart is beating fast and my face feels hot.”

  Speaking softly to keep Stephanie from dropping out of the meditative state, Mag probed, “Yours or Brad’s?”

  “I don’t know; it’s all running together. I feel like I’m in both skins.”

  “Describe the desk.” The gentle request came from Clara, who thought focusing on something mundane would provide a little breathing room from the escalating emotions.

  “Looks like mission oak. Brad turning away. I can see the back of his head, and I don’t want to do it, but I can see myself pick up the paperweight.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Round with colored swirls. The glass is cold and smooth and hard.”

  With a cry, Stephanie bolted up off the couch, her eyes wild and her breath panting, her hand going to the back of her head and clutching. “I killed him. I can feel the blood on my hands.” She collapsed into Clara’s waiting arms.

  “Way to go, Maggie. She’s fainted.” Even as she shot a dirty look her sister’s way, Clara went into first aid mode and lowered Stephanie to the sofa as gently as she could, given the girl had gone all dead weight. “We need to get her feet elevated. That was just cruel.”

  In the act of shoving a pillow under Stephanie’s feet, Mag replied coolly, “You think so? I think I just did her a huge favor.”

  “How do you figure?” Clara dipped a napkin in one of the glasses of ice water on the cart and applied the cool cloth to the younger woman’s chalk-white forehead.

  “I made her give me some evidence to track. The desk and the paperweight.” Mag had apparently forgotten it was Clara who had brought up the desk, but she let it slide. No use getting into an argument when there were more important things to worry about.

  “You think it’s possible that what she dreamed actually happened.” It was more a statement than a question, and a good one at that. Stranger things had certainly happened, and they couldn’t afford to discount any possibility.

  “We’ll do a room-by-room search, and if we find them, we’ll see if we can turn up a few more clues. Roma said she had a touch of the sight. It could be coming out in these dreams, but we only have Roma’s word on that, so we’ll look for proof and settle the matter one way or another.”

  As plans went, it wasn’t the worst one Clara had ever heard, but with her sympathies still engaged, she wasn’t about to admit that to Mag. Chafing Stephanie’s chilled fingers to warm them, she looked at her sister. “Do you think she killed him?”

  “I hope not,” was the terse response. “Hush now, she’s coming around.”

  When Stephanie’s eyes fluttered open, they were haunted and sparkled with tears. “Call the police,” she whispered. “I need to turn myself in.”

  “Not just yet.” Mag patted her shoulder in an awkward attempt to soothe her. This wasn’t her area of expertise. But sleuthing was. “Let us call Constance to sit with you. Give us permission to take a look around before you go making any rash decisions based off what might have been nothing more than a dream.”

  Taking a softer approach, Clara pushed gently, “You called us to help and that’s all we want to do. Give us an hour or two, please.”

  After a moment, Stephanie nodded.

  Mag got down to business.

  Chapter Seven

  While Clara sat with Stephanie, Mag bearded Constance in her den. Okay, so calling an immaculate kitchen a den might be a stretch, but that was where she found the housekeeper polishing silver with a vengeance. She looked up when Mag limped into the room and her expression was guarded.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions about the night Brad disappeared?” Sometimes, even when she tried her best, Mag missed a pleasant tone and landed somewhere between brusque and aggressive.

  This was one of those times, but Constance wasn’t having it. She fixed Mag with a mama bear of a look and said, “She’s not going to give you money.”

  The comment flustered Mag, something that didn’t happen all that often and threw her off her stride. “I … what?”

  “I won’t have it. Whatever woo-woo game you’ve cooked up, you can quit it now. She’s not going to pay you a red cent.”

  Sucking a breath in through her nose and letting it out the same way, Mag called on every shred of patience she could muster. “Look, I know there are plenty of grifters out there and you’ve probably dealt with more than your fair share, but we’re not after Stephanie’s money.”

  Constance waved the butter knife she’d been polishing and Mag couldn’t help but assess the silver’s age and try to place the maker by the pattern. It was second nature to her by now.

  Catching the look, Constance crowed, “See, there’s that look again. You’re just as greedy as the rest of them. I saw it all over you the first day you showed up here to gawk at the place and you’re almost drooling right now.”

  Unable to help herself, Mag grinned. “You’re right. I can’t help myself when I see beautiful old things still being used. Antiques are a passion for me and my fingers itch to touch them. I am greedy, but only to know who made that knife. And to imagine how happy the smith would have been to know his work had lasted all this time.”

  A grunt of disbelief and a raised eyebrow from Constance made Mag continue and this time it was her eyes that fired.

  “I wouldn’t take the knife if you offered it to me. Not for free. We Balefires pay our own way. Always. Now, I’m going to help Stephanie by getting to the bottom of what happened here the night Brad disappeared. Not for money, but because a friend asked me for a favor.”

  Favor didn’t exactly describe being held hostage by ghosts, but it was the best explanation Mag planned to give.

  Cooler now, Mag leveled Constance with a direct look. “Believe me or not, that’s your choice, but we are going do everything in our power to get to the bottom of this, with or without your approval. If you want to help Stephanie, tell me what you remember about the last night Brad spent in this house.”

  Silence fell around a Clint Eastwood-worthy face-off.

  Constance flinched first. She tossed out her earlier statement again as both a reiteration and a warning. “She’s not paying you.” And then unbent enough to tell her story. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t much of one anyway.

  “I’ve been over and over it in my head, and I can’t think of anything special or different about that night. Brad is a good man and he loved my girl for her, not her money. He lost his breath every time she walked into the room. You can’t fake that kind of thing.”

  Mag would beg to differ, but she’d barely managed to get on the edge of Constance’s good side, so she kept her doubts to herself.

  “Nothing stands out at all?”

  Laying the shining knife back on the table, Constance waved Mag to a seat and set about what she’d shown to be her go-to in times of stress, putting on another pot of tea.

  Impatient to be on with her business, Mag opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again when a plate of macarons landed in front of her in all their delicate pastel glory. She’d have preferred milk to tea, but the cookies were a particular favorite of hers.

  Even better, as she settled back in her seat, Constance pushed the velvet-lined tray of silver over to allow Mag a chan
ce to choose a piece and look at the hallmark. It might have been only a delaying tactic, but if it was, it was effective.

  “We had salmon for dinner that night. And yes, I say we. Over the years, the lines have blurred, and I like to think I have her mother’s blessing for treating Stephanie like one of my own. We’re family to each other.”

  Nodding, Mag nipped off another bite of macaron, and waited for Constance to continue.

  “There’s nothing much else to tell. After dinner, I went home and watched my stories.”

  And finally, a tidbit Mag could use.

  “Went home? I thought you lived here.”

  “Oh, I do. Newly married couples need their privacy, and to be honest, I like a bit of my own. When Brad proposed, I thought it was high time I found my own place. Newly married couples need their privacy,” Constance repeated, insistent. “Not that some people have the same consideration, but Stephanie wouldn’t have it. I’m approaching retirement age, and she’s got it in her head it’s time she took care of me instead of the other way around.”

  The sharp scent of polish and the swish of cloth over silver continued and so did Constance.

  “Next thing I know, she’s hired a contractor and an architect to convert some space and add on a little. I have my own little home, but it’s still connected to the house.”

  “So you were on the spot, so to speak, but not within hearing distance that night?”

  Constance nodded. “Yes, that’s right. My hearing isn’t what it used to be, regardless. But I can tell you I came in to make Stephanie a cup of herbal tea at around ten o’clock, and everything seemed fine. Then, in the morning, he was gone without a trace.”

  Mag ran that information around in her head for a minute before picking up on the one odd thing Constance had said. “You mentioned that some people had no consideration for Stephanie’s privacy. What did you mean?”

  Constance yanked the tray of silver back over, grabbed a serving spoon, and started polishing like she wanted to get to the chewy, Tootsie-Roll center. “Cheyenne,” she said, as if Mag ought to know already.

  “She was supposed to stay here —crash is the word she uses—for a couple of weeks before classes started. Then she met that juvenile-delinquent boyfriend of hers at a coffee shop. Calls himself a brew steward. What is that supposed to mean, I ask you?”

  “Kids these days,” Mag said because it seemed to be the expected response. “Cheyenne is Stephanie’s cousin, right?”

  “Yes, but she’s not a Huffington.” Constance declared, as if that made any difference when it came to family. “Cheyenne comes down from her mother’s side. Feckless idiot, if you ask me, but Stephanie wouldn’t turn her away, so in she moved and then up and transfers schools to be closer to that coffee-making twit.”

  Tell me how you really feel, Mag thought, but kept that to herself. “Was Cheyenne here that night?”

  “Not that I saw. Sleeps over at her boyfriend’s house most nights, but she keeps odd hours studying and working. On her last year of business school and already thinks she’s capable of running one herself. Might be, too, if she’d focus less on that good-for-nothing she’s attached herself to. If you want to know where Cheyenne was that night, you can ask her yourself. I saw her slink in here not an hour ago.”

  Other than giving Mag another line to tug, Constance hadn’t been a lot of help. “Could you come sit with Stephanie while we take a look around?” And because she could see the other woman gearing up to protest, she added, “You can check our pockets before we leave if it makes you feel any better.”

  “Don’t think I won’t.” But Constance followed Mag willingly.

  “I feel so violated,” Mag muttered.

  She very nearly was when Constance got a look at Stephanie’s pale face and tear-ravaged eyes. If dirty looks could break skin, both the Balefires might have exploded on the spot.

  Mag and Clara left the pair in the sitting room and made their way throughout the rest of the house. The main floor boasted high, coffered ceilings and intricate moldings that would have given the rooms a more formal feel if not for the use of cheerful fabrics in bold colors and patterns.

  Framed family photos hung side by side with paintings that might well have belonged in a museum. Clara found the juxtaposition charming and considered the placement as physical evidence of how Stephanie valued people over things.

  Even if they found a bloody paperweight under her pillow, Clara would have a hard time believing a woman like that would kill her fiancé over money. It just did not compute. “I don’t think she did it.”

  “I think sometimes you let your emotions get the best of you.” Mag retorted. “It’s better to remain vigilant, and open to any possibility. If she did do it—and mind you, I’m not saying I’m sold on the idea either—then this could be the danger Roma sensed.”

  Clara sighed, “Fine, let’s keep moving, then. We’ve seen every room on the first floor and there’s no desk here like the one Stephanie described.”

  “No, but it was a dream,” Mag allowed, “and she said she couldn’t get a good handle on her surroundings. I’m more concerned about the paperweight.”

  “You don’t think she’d know if she owned a paperweight of that description?” Clara asked.

  Mag shrugged, “She never said she didn’t. This house is enormous, and she’s not the only one who lives here. I think we’d be negligent if we didn’t take a look around and see if there’s anything that appears out of place. Think about it—you bash someone over the head, there’s bound to be evidence. And how would she have gotten the body out of the house by herself?”

  Looking at it that way, Clara realized Mag was looking to rule out rather than to prove.

  “I can’t see her having the ability to pull off something like that on her own, and then only remember it in a dream. Another reason why it seems unlikely she played a role. But you’re right; we’ve got to check all the angles. We’re most likely looking at a case of creative denial and a keen imagination. But, I can’t say I’m willing to pass up the chance to nose around this place,” Clara admitted. And, there it was.

  Mag grinned and nodded, then circled back to the front entrance where a grand pair of staircases arced up to a second-floor balcony, branching off into two wings. From what Stephanie had said, her suite was positioned to the left and her cousin Cheyenne’s to the right, with a row of guest rooms separating the two.

  A thorough search of Stephanie’s bedroom proved nothing more than the girl’s love of all things pink, and there was no desk or paperweight of the type described, even in the locked office adjacent to her sleeping quarters. The guest rooms netted a similar result, and with no other place to search, Mag and Clara found themselves standing in front of the mysterious Cheyenne’s closed door bickering over what to do next.

  “We can’t just barge in. Constance said she was home.” Mag hissed.

  “Then just knock on the door.” Clara whispered back.

  “No, you.”

  “No—never mind,” Clara rolled her eyes and decided engaging in a childish argument with her sister, no matter how tempting, wouldn’t help matters. She raised a hand and knocked lightly on the door.

  When no one answered, Clara put her ear to the door and tuned into her witchy senses. “There’s nobody in there. Let’s just have a peek.”

  “You’re a regular rebel, Clara Balefire.” Mag said with a mixture of mockery and genuine admiration.

  Clara creaked the door slowly open and took in the scene before her. A large four-poster bed sat on a platform in one corner, the covers rumpled and pillows tossed haphazardly over the floor. Every surface was covered with articles of clothing—many still carrying the store tags—bottles of expensive hair and skincare products, and enough half-empty glasses to stock one of Mag’s hutches at Balms and Bygones. In short, the room was a mess, and it was clear that Constance had chosen to leave Cheyenne to her own devices.

  Mag let out a low whistle. “It’s taking
everything I have inside not to let loose a cleaning spell over this room. How can people live like this? And what on god’s green earth are these?” Mag held up a g-string thong and wrinkled her nose at it.

  “Trust me, you don’t even want to know,” Clara said, attempting to hold back a giggle.

  “You’re probably right about that. Regardless, I don’t think we’re going to find what we’re looking for poking around in here. Let’s check outside.” Knowing full well they wouldn’t find what they were looking for outside, Mag avoided Clara’s gaze and took advantage of the opportunity to snoop even further.

  “A house this size might look like a fortress, but there must be half a dozen ways to get in or out. You’ve got your second floor balconies. Notorious for being left unlocked because people assume height equals security. Rookie mistake.” Mag exited through an unlocked side door and pointed upward. Using the tip of her cane to sweep away newly fallen leaves, she inspected the ground for disturbances.

  “This area’s clear.” Satisfied, she continued her sweep of the exterior of Stephanie’s home. “Let’s check the backyard.”

  Clara fell into step beside her sister, thrilled to finally get the chance to check out the grounds, and meandered through what felt like an old English garden with a modern twist. This late in the fall, all that was left were the hardier plantings—shrubs and some ornamental grasses, but come spring, it would be a showplace.

  After rounding another curve in the garden path, Clara’s breath caught in her throat and Mag stopped dead in her tracks when what looked like an authentic gypsy wagon loomed into view. Pretty painted flowers traced along the faded green body of the wagon and along the trim around windows and door. The domed top created a cheery arch against the sky.

  The biggest surprise was finding their host there.

  Stephanie leaned on one arm against the wagon’s porch rail, talking to a girl of about twenty-two who sat on the steps with her elbows on her knees. When she caught sight of Mag and Clara approaching, she waved them over with a weary hand. It seemed her time spent with Constance had been bracing because the blotchy redness around Stephanie’s eyes had receded dramatically. Or maybe the housekeeper was right and a good cup of tea was all she’d needed.