Sinister Summer Read online

  “I should have called you back sooner, Aunt Jean. I should have come for a visit—I know I kept promising,” Diana said aloud. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Jean, I hope you’ll forgive m—”

  Thud!

  The noise had her spinning like a nervous schoolgirl. It came from down the hall, and the timing made it seem like a very emphatic reaction to her confession—as if Aunt Jean’s spirit was there, listening in irritated agreement…

  Ha. Diana laughed, but it sounded nervous to her ears.

  “A ghost? As if,” she said aloud. “Ha.”

  Thunk.

  Thud.

  Crash!

  This time she actually did gasp as she spun in the direction of the noise. Diana shoved a hand into her briefcase, searching for the can of Mace as her heart galloped in her chest.

  For a moment, she almost wished she did believe in ghosts—but she certainly didn’t.

  Since she didn’t, that meant someone else was here.

  Even so, Diana wasn’t about to run off without confronting whoever it was. Maybe someone had been squatting here for the last few weeks since Aunt Jean died. The big house had been empty, for nearly a month, though one of Captain Longbow’s teenagers had come over daily to see to the cats. And the house itself was well outside the town, tucked away in the woods on the north end of Wicks Lake.

  She gripped the Mace and crept down the hallway, hardly noticing the sunbeams shining through in random shafts, spotlighting the glitter of dust motes. The noise sounded like it had come from Aunt Jean’s library.

  For the first time, she mildly regretted declining the offer from her aunt’s attorney, who’d volunteered to show her around her newly inherited property now that probate had, shockingly, been quickly and efficiently completed. But Diana wanted to be alone the first time she came to the house again, especially after everything else she’d been through in the last three weeks…

  It seemed like months since that Friday when she’d settled the Gallatine case and been assigned as lead on the new one, then received the call from Captain Joe Longbow with the bad news about Aunt Jean.

  That night, in a blur of emotion—guilt, grief, exhaustion—Diana had flown on a whim to Vegas. She’d needed Jonathan. She’d needed to unload, to relax, to try and find a way out of the grief and guilt that swamped her.

  And now she needed more space: from people, from work, from questions and demands.

  And, most of all, she needed space from Jonathan.

  The door to Aunt Jean’s library had spilled open in a narrow vee, revealing a small slice of sunshine from somewhere inside. Everything else was quiet and still. She stopped to listen, keeping her breathing slow and steady. Then, angling the Mace’s spray nozzle in a defensive position, Diana peeked around the door into the library.

  There was no sign of anyone in the room. The windows were closed, the curtains had been pulled back in preparation for her arrival today, and nothing seemed to be disturbed—

  Then she saw it. On the floor: the mahogany box, a swath of black silk, and a tumble of brightly-illustrated cards.

  Aunt Jean’s Tarot deck.

  It looked as if it had been knocked off the table—the small, walnut piecrust table that had been next to her aunt’s favorite rocking chair, both tucked in the corner near the window, for years. The rocking chair had been replaced with a large, upholstered armchair the last time she was here, but the table was still the same, with what appeared to be the same potted African violet holding court.

  Strangely enough, the plant was completely undisturbed.

  It could have been one of the cats making the noise, knocking over the box…But Diana hadn’t seen either of them come out of the den, and they were nowhere in sight now.

  And the cards…there they were, strewn on the floor as if someone had thrown them there in anger or frustration.

  Her breath and heartbeat hitched. Diana forgot about the Mace and the possibility of an intruder as she crouched. The cards might not mean anything to her, Diana—but to her aunt they’d been a source of comfort and guidance. This Tarot deck had been more personal to Genevieve Fickler than any of her other possessions except her wedding ring. Thus, even for pragmatic Diana there was something sad and horrible about seeing those cards lying on the floor. It was like a violation of her aunt’s privacy or some deep part of herself.

  Like another death.

  As Diana crouched next to the pile, she noticed all the cards had landed face down except for one. She plucked up that single card first instead of gathering up the entire lot.

  The Fool.

  Its artistic rendering was exquisite, with a bold red and blue design. She examined the card, with its depiction of a carefree man with out-flung arms as he danced down a slight incline. The Fool looked like he hadn’t a care in the world. He was handsome and smiling—which was more than Diana could say for herself. That probably explained the recent return of her migraines, which had come back with a vengeance after years of relative quiet.

  Maybe the next few days here in Wicks Hollow would help her relax a bit. At least with the spotty cell phone access here on the northeast end of the lake, thanks to the thick pines and rolling hills surrounding it, and no wifi in the house (yet), she’d be slightly less obsessed with connecting back to her office—something Mickey had been delighted to hear.

  “You need a break, Di,” she’d told her. For the hundredth time. “Even Mr. McNillan insisted. He said to take a month.”

  “That’s only because he wants me sharp and ready for AXT,” Diana said ruefully.

  “And that’s a bad thing? Look, you need some space, girlfriend. Lots of space.”

  The problem was, Mickey was right. Diana definitely needed some space. Particularly between her and her fiancé.

  Her former fiancé.

  Her maybe former fiancé.

  Diana’s heart squeezed and her stomach pitched whenever she thought of breaking things off permanently with Jonathan. She could already hear her mother’s wounded, weary voice: I knew you’d never be able to keep a man like Jonathan Wertinger.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pushing her mother and her criticisms away. I am a rising star litigator. I’m going to make partner at thirty-five. I’ve got a successful, handsome fiancé who loves me.

  Her stomach ground tightly.

  He does love me.

  As if she’d brought him to mind, her cell phone rang—Jonathan’s picture flashing onto the screen.

  She hesitated, then, both hating herself and feeling relieved that he’d called, she answered. “Hello Jonathan.”

  “How are you, Diana?” he said in his soft, empathetic voice. “How are things up there? I really miss you.”

  “I’ve only been gone six hours, Jonathan. We’ve seen each other far less during a regular work week.” Then she gave herself a mental shake. I need to forgive him and forget. It’s the mature thing to do. We all make mistakes.

  She walked out of the den, back down the hall toward the kitchen. She needed water and to take medication for the brewing migraine before it got away from her.

  “I know. But the fact that you’re not here in Chicago makes it feel more…distant. I guess because it is.” He gave a little chuckle that sounded strained—which was only right, she reminded herself.

  He’d been the one who strayed; he was the one who’d put the chink in their relationship.

  If only she hadn’t flown out to surprise him in Vegas after winning the Gallatine case and getting the news about Aunt Jean.

  But then she might never have known. She drew in a deep breath and tried to calm her churning stomach. If she could face down Judge Stern (more than appropriately named) and argue a difficult point with eloquence and brevity, she could handle the man she loved.

  “How are you?” Diana pulled the refrigerator door open. She found a six-pack of beer—Aunt Jean drank beer?—a bag of prewashed carrots, a half gallon of milk long past its expiration date, and three-quarters of a
stick of butter. Guess it’s going to be Trib’s or the Lakeshore Grille for dinner tonight.

  She realized Jonathan had paused in a stream of complaints about the other partners in his practice and seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Normally, she followed his explanations closely, asking thoughtful questions to prove she was listening, but all she could think about this time was whether She was one of the new partners.

  She. Valerie Somebody.

  Doctor Valerie Somebody: the young, sexy, bodacious cardiologist who’d been sharing a hotel room with Diana’s fiancé at the Venetian in Las Vegas.

  Her fingers tightened on the phone as she swallowed a ball of nausea and blocked that image as quickly as it came. But the dull pain of her migraine thudded deeper and more insistently in her temples. “Sorry, Jonathan, what were you saying? The line’s a little fuzzy up here.”

  “I asked if you wanted me to bring anything when I come up this weekend.”

  Diana frowned. She’d been trying to think of a good way to dissuade him from coming, but so far nothing had presented itself. She could just tell him not to come, but that, she knew, would cause more drama and pleading—something she simply didn’t have the energy to deal with now. Especially since, at the moment, her head felt as if a low, harsh bell was tolling inside it.

  “Well?” he asked, a tinge of impatience in his voice.

  “I really can’t think of anything I need right now,” she replied—then forced herself to joke, “other than a cell tower in the yard here, but I don’t think even you can make that happen.”

  He chuckled at her compliment, her lapse in attention obviously forgiven. “Well, then, that’s it. My flight gets in Friday night—can I text you the details? How far of a drive is it up there to your aunt’s?”

  “Yes. I’ll pick you up at the airport in Grand Rapids. Wicks Hollow is a little more than an hour from the airport.” She briefly closed her eyes when a telltale flicker of white light skittered across her vision. This migraine was coming on fast.

  Just then, a knock sounded on the front door—the old, heavy brass knocker thunked twice, then paused, then twice again.

  “Jean,” a masculine voice called as Diana heard the door open. “Jean, it’s me!”

  The door open?

  “Jonathan, I’ve got to run. Someone’s at the door.”

  Who on earth thought they could just open the door?

  “Jean?” The door closed and footsteps thudded across the wood floor as the man called out again.

  And walk in?

  Diana, annoyed and a little nervous, disconnected the call before Jonathan could reply, and started for the foyer.

  “What was so important you wanted to talk to me about? Anyway, I’m also here to pick up the beer you owe—” The man stopped as Diana swung around the corner from the kitchen. “Oh! I’m sorry, I just stopped in to see Jean—er, Genevieve.”

  “Excuse me, but who are you?” A pang of apprehension at the sight of a tall, unshaven and very unkempt young man standing in her foyer made her voice high and tight.

  And, oh crap. She’d left her Mace in the den.

  Diana came halfway across the high-ceilinged foyer and folded her arms beneath her breasts. Obviously the guy knew her aunt—or, at least, she hoped he knew her aunt. So he probably wasn’t a squatter.

  “I’m Ethan Murphy, a friend of Genevieve’s. Who are you?” his voice was polite, but the dark gaze that examined her was thorough enough that she felt it.

  He was young and fit, probably late-twenties, and looked like a hipster gone mountain man. He had a wild-looking beard and mustache that needed trimming, long sideburns, and a dark ponytail that rode low upon his neck. Other than that, he didn’t look like a vagabond, for he was dressed in clean, neat clothing: jeans, a t-shirt, and a denim jacket that appeared to be in good shape. His casual leather shoes looked expensive.

  By now, Diana wasn’t nervous—mostly irritated, and a little confused. Maybe he did the lawns or was a delivery courier.

  But still—he’d just walked in without even knocking.

  “I’m Diana Iverson, Mrs. Fickler’s niece,” she told him coolly.

  “You’re Diana?” To her surprise, he smiled, and the crinkles that fanned from the corners of his eyes required her to adjust her estimate of his age upward a notch. Closer to thirty. “I’m so glad to meet you. She’s spoken often of you. So you were finally able to make it up here for a visit? I’ll bet she’s thrilled.” He took a step toward her, then hesitated when she didn’t respond with her own smile.

  “Mr.—uh—” Her head was pounding, and she could hardly think.

  “Actually, it’s Doctor—Murphy. Ethan Murphy,” he said as if surprised that she didn’t know his name. Now his eyes became wary, perhaps even suspicious.

  He didn’t look like any doctor she knew, unless he’d just come back from a stint with the Peace Corps or Doctors Without Borders, where, clearly, they had no access to razors or scissors. Though…hmmm…the name rang a faint bell…

  “Dr. Murphy, I’m not sure what you’re doing, barging into my aunt’s house like this—”

  “I’m sorry if I startled you. She’d been trying to get ahold of me, but I was out of the country.”

  She put a mental checkmark in the Doctors Without Borders column.

  “And I also stopped in to get the beer she owes me. It’s probably in the fridge.” The smile returned and she noticed a deep crease on the left side of his face that ended at the unruly beard. “We had a little bet, and she lost.”

  Diana frowned as headache pain radiated in a sudden shaft above her left ear and nausea rolled in her belly. The flashes of light were becoming stronger, nearly blinding her as they skittered across her vision. It was coming on far too quickly, and the migraine would soon be unbearable. She needed him out of the house as quickly as possible.

  “Dr. Murphy, I don’t know when you spoke to my aunt last—”

  “Like I said, she tried to contact me—it was a few weeks ago—”

  “—but I have some bad news for you,” she continued to speak over his congenial explanation while trying to ignore the agony that was beginning to seep toward the front of her temples. “I buried her about two weeks ago. She’s dead.”

  “What?” Shock replaced confidence and charm.

  “My great-aunt passed away three weeks ago Wednesday night,” she told him. “Heart failure—in her sleep. They didn’t find her till Friday morning.” Nausea settled in her stomach like an immovable boulder and she swallowed hard, blinking against the string of lights that hovered at the edge of her vision.

  Please go away before I lose it and vomit right here.

  “My God.” Murphy skimmed his hand over the hair pulled smoothly back into its tail. “I had no idea—I’m sorry.” He stepped toward her then seemed to think better of it. “What happened? She was fine when I talked to her. She sounded fine.” His eyes were a sharp, hard beer-bottle brown as they looked closely at her. Almost as if he didn’t believe her.

  The migraine was becoming more insistent and she had to resist the urge to push her fingertips into the sides of her forehead to keep from sobbing. “She died in her sleep, Dr. Murphy, and the funeral was the Monday following. Two weeks ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have quite a bit to do.”

  “Of course.” His voice was clipped and Diana felt the weight of his intent stare as he persisted. “Uh…are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. I just didn’t expect visitors at this time.” She forced herself to say the words as politely and calmly as possible. “Especially ones who let themselves in.” A large black spot leapt before her eyes and she blinked rapidly, and in vain, to make it disappear. She gagged and managed to hold back the nausea.

  “Right. Sorry about that.” But he sounded less apologetic than offended. “I apologize for barging in on you like this.” Murphy backed toward the door while he continued to study her with a frown. “Your aunt was a good friend of mine. If
there’s anything I can do to help you out, please let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, purposely neglecting to ask how to contact him. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  She barely closed the door behind her unwanted visitor when a moan escaped from the back of her throat. Fighting the black spots and flashes of light that accompanied the debilitating pain, Diana hurried to find the bag where she’d left her medication.

  Moments later, she was curled up on Aunt Jean’s bed, hands fisted over her closed eyes, fighting the agony.

  Ethan strolled down the lane from Genevieve Fickler’s house and cut across the Hornbergers’ yard to his own, two houses down a twisting, narrow tire-track lane that ended at his small log cabin.

  How could Jean be gone?

  Just…all of a sudden dead?

  He was devastated.

  Strangely enough, despite an almost fifty-year difference in their ages, the elderly woman had become one of his closest friends here in Wicks Hollow. She was funny and interesting, and passionate about everything from legalizing marijuana to protecting the environment to playing Scrabble and reading Tarot cards. She’d been at Woodstock, and hadn’t left any part of her hippie days behind except, as she put it, the bra-burning and the LSD.

  Ethan was even more disturbed that he’d missed the funeral—and no one had thought to contact him. What the hell was up with that? Joe Longbow should have known he’d want to know.

  But he had been out of the country. And he’d arrived here too late last night to go into town, where he surely would have gotten the news.

  And what was up with the cold brush-off given him by Jean’s niece? Not that he should be surprised. He’d heard enough about Jean’s beloved Diana over the last couple years to make his own assessment—the woman was a self-centered, career-focused ballbuster who had no time for family or anyone but herself.

  Her bitchiness was annoying and maybe not all that surprising, but what was far worse was that Jean was gone.

  Aw, dammit. I’m going to miss the hell out of you, Jean.

  To his surprise, a wayward tear stung one eye as he yanked open the door to his cabin. Cady bounded across the room to meet him, leaving a telltale imprint on the couch from which she was supposedly banned.