Alice obviously heard the horn. He could almost hear the muscles of her face pull into a frown. “You’re in your car.”
She sounded as disapproving as his fourth-grade teacher, who’d liked to make him write, “I will not make up stories that frighten other children,” a half-million times on the chalkboard.
“Yes.”
“Why aren’t you sitting at your desk writing this fabulous new book that’s going to make you rich…er?”
“I’m taking a brief trip. Going to my hometown.”
“Haven’t you traveled enough?”
“It’s my favorite holiday. Don’t I deserve a break? I’ve been invited to a murder mystery party for Halloween weekend.”
She laughed, her smoky voice thick from decades of cigarettes and expensive bourbon. “Right up your alley, so I guess you’re allowed. Does your family know you’re coming?”
He heard the unasked question. Does your grandfather know you’re coming? “No.” And it was probably just as well since his relationship with his grandfather had grown decidedly strained over the years. Another reason for accepting Mick’s invitation. It was past time to mend that fence, to fix that broken relationship.
Jared had gotten friendly with a grizzled old Russian lieutenant over the past several months. On Saturday nights, Nicolai liked to drink vodka and reminisce about the family he’d lost because of his obsession with his career. Every word he’d spoken had reminded Jared that it was time to extend an olive branch to his grandfather before it was too late.
“You’re going to show up unannounced?” She sounded surprised that her reserved client would do something so impulsive.
Yeah, it was slightly out of character, which was what he needed. “Actually, I’m not going to show up unannounced. Miles Stone, the secret agent who’s a cross between James Bond, Austin Powers and Maxwell Smart is showing up unannounced.”
Another low laugh. “Bond I get, given your looks.”
He grinned. It wasn’t a compliment. A disgruntled Alice had once told him he was much too good-looking to be taken seriously as a brilliant criminalist.
“And I guess you probably like women as much as Powers. But, I gotta tell ya, you’re too young to remember, but I’m not. Maxwell Smart wasn’t the best secret agent in the world.”
“Which is why my obnoxious cousin mentioned him.”
“Gotcha. Is that why you didn’t RSVP? To get even?”
“Nah. Mick has no idea I’m back. He knew I was supposed to be overseas until after Christmas. He sent the invitation to taunt me about missing my favorite time of year. Again.” He smiled evilly. “He deserves to have a guest crash the party.”
“Hope he doesn’t kick you out of his house.”
“It’s not in his house. The party’s taking place in the house of my childhood nightmares.”
As expected, the bloodthirsty sixty-year-old, who loved his books, was immediately intrigued. “Tell me more.”
After he had, she said, “Is your cousin in the habit of having private parties in the houses he’s got listed for sale?”
Actually, he didn’t imagine Mick would give something like that a second thought. “The house is in trust with a lawyer. I’m sure he got permission.” Since he and Mick hadn’t spoken in ages, Jared didn’t know how he’d finagled the use of the house for the weekend. But he’d bet there was some back-scratching involved.
In Derryville, back-scratching was involved in every deal. From which fireman would drive the big rig for the Labor Day parade, to who got to flip the switch for the Christmas tree in town square, Derryville was a microcosm of the good old American barter system. It didn’t trade in goods…just favors.
God, it all sounded so appealing. The very sameness, the normalcy that had made him long to escape years ago was exactly the balm his battered spirits needed right now. Home. It was so blissfully, soul-soothingly simple. Easygoing and peaceful. Exactly what he needed after a year of crazy but wonderful Russian cops, and just plain crazy criminals. Which is exactly what had made him decide to accept his cousin’s invitation.
He could hardly wait for the weekend to begin.
“HURRY HOME NOW. It’s after nine. Chief Stockton won’t want to see any ghosts and goblins on the street so late.”
Gwen Compton waved at one last straggling group of trick-or-treaters as they skipped across her front lawn. They laughed and yelled, kicking crunchy brown leaves out of the way in their haste to make it to just one more house before heading home.
The full moon cast gentle illumination on the road leading down the hill, so she didn’t fear for the children’s safety. The road wasn’t busily traveled. Only their guests—all of whom were already settled in for the night here at the bed-and-breakfast—used it. The moon was aided in its quest to brighten the night by softly glowing streetlights, which had miraculously escaped the mischief night BB guns that had taken out many of those downtown.
She watched the kids dart from puddle to puddle of light, pausing beneath the lamps to grab one more bit of candy, to toss out the odd apple or exchange a lollipop for a jawbreaker. Probably all of them were jamming chocolates into their mouths in spite of their parents’ dire warnings to let them check their candy before they ate it. In a town like Derryville, who could blame the kids? The only slightly scary thing about this peaceful Illinois place was the house in which she stood. Her home.
Shutting the door, she sagged against it and sighed, both relieved the evening was over, and also slightly sad to see it come to an end. Her first Halloween in the spookiest haunted house in town. Her home, which she adored—dark corners, scary turrets, strange creaky noises and all. And it had been a resounding success.
Of course, they probably wouldn’t have a single guest for the rest of the year. But she knew when they opened last month that Halloween would be a sellout, given the house’s reputation. They’d come close to meeting her prediction. Only two of their thirteen rooms remained vacant. That had proved fortunate. A broken pipe had caused a flood in her room, forcing her out. She’d have to stay upstairs for a few days.
“Aww, dangit, they’re gone. Think that’s it for the night?”
Glancing up, she hid a smile. Her great-aunt Hildy was peering out the window, looking mad enough to spit.
“I think so.”
“Rats. I didn’t make it outside in time to sing to that last group.” The old woman shook her head. “Knew I shouldn’ta had that second frankfurter for dinner. I been in the bathroom half the night and missed mosta the fun.”
Not particularly caring to hear about the bathroom habits of an old lady, Gwen turned to lock the front door.
“I still think I shoulda got that psycho killer mask and a chainsaw and chased the little devils down the hill.”
“You would have fallen and broken your hip.”
Her great-aunt shot her a look that demanded an apology. Gwen refused to give her one. Spry and in physically perfect condition or not, Hildy was eighty-five years old.
“You coulda done it,” Hildy finally said. “The old Gwennie would have.”
The old Gwennie. Hmm…Gwen remembered her. Sometimes she even smiled when she thought about that wild, free-spirited person who’d been hell on wheels as a teenager, rebellious and daring as a young adult. Who’d loved hack-em-up thriller movies, and had once dreamed of being in the FBI so she could outwit her own Hannibal Lechter.
Gone. Long gone. Somehow that person had become a quiet, rather sedate woman who ran an inn with her elderly relative and did nothing more exciting than occasionally go out without wearing