Violet looked blank. “I thought you said your grandmother was dead?”
“Fallon is sure she is okay. She’s gone underground until we wrap up the case.”
Marge’s brows rose. “Your grandmother sounds like a very interesting woman.”
“She is,” Isabella assured her. “All in all, it was a very busy trip, but it’s good to be home.”
“You can take the girl out of Scargill Cove but you can’t take the Cove out of the girl,” Patty said. “Welcome home, Cinderella.”
“Thanks,” Isabella said. “If it’s any consolation, I can tell you that Fallon looked great in a tux.”
Marge smiled. “I’d have paid good money to see Jones in a tux.”
“Worth every penny, trust me,” Isabella said.
Violet laughed.
Marge snorted and straightened. She looked at Patty and Violet. “You two want coffee?”
“Of course,” Patty said.
She plunked herself down on one of the stools. Violet hopped up onto another one.
Marge went to the coffee machine.
“Anyone seen Walker today?” Isabella asked.
“The muffins are gone,” Marge said. “So he must have come by on his morning rounds.”
“He’s probably at the hot springs,” Violet said. “He spends a lot of time there during the daylight hours. Why?”
“I don’t know,” Isabella said. “For some reason, I’ve been thinking about him a lot this morning.”
Marge poured coffee into two mugs. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up sooner or later.”
Isabella slipped off the stool. “I’m going to the grocery store to collect the mail. But first, I’ll drop by Walker’s place and see if he’s there. Maybe he’s ill.”
“Just be sure you don’t do anything to startle him,” Marge warned.
“I’ll be careful,” Isabella promised.
She slipped into her yellow raincoat, collected her umbrella and went outside onto the street. She paused briefly and looked up at the window of Jones & Jones. Fallon was not visible. She knew that he was probably at the computer, phone to his ear, multitasking as he searched for a trace of the person who had supplied the Quicksilver Mirror to Sloan.
She walked to the end of the street and followed the bluff path to the weathered cabin that Walker called home. The cabin looked much the same as it always did, lonely and forlorn. But it always seemed to her that there was a certain stalwart air about the place, as if the cabin would persevere, regardless of the ravages of time and the elements. Walker had infused the place with his own energy and aura, she thought.
She went up the tumbledown steps, careful to avoid the broken middle tread, and then stopped. The shades were pulled down but that was par for the course with Walker. There was no smoke from the chimney but that, too, was normal. Still, something in the atmosphere was raising goose bumps on her arms. She opened her senses.
A terrible cold fog enveloped the cabin. Walker’s home was always awash in a haze of secrets, but until now, the mists had been tinted with the chill of old mysteries. Not today.
Today the fog seethed and burned with the ominous dark radiance that warned of impending death.
Heedless of Marge’s advice, she pounded on the door.
“Walker, it’s me, Isabella. Are you in there?”
For the first time she became aware of the faint notes of a delicate melody. The light, tinkling strains of the waltz were barely discernible above the crashing of the waves below the bluffs. There was an eerie undercurrent in the music that rattled her senses. Her intuition was screaming at her.
She was suddenly certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Walker was in mortal danger.
Pushing past the panic, she twisted the old knob, expecting to find the door locked. But to her surprise, it opened. The music was louder now. Searing fog swirled in the small, rustic front room. Walker lay un-moving on the floor in the center of the energy storm.
“Walker.”
She moved into the room and crouched beside him, searching for a pulse. Relief swept through her when she found one. Walker was alive but unconscious. There was no blood. She ran her hands through his unkempt hair but found no signs of a wound.
The music seemed to be getting louder now. For some reason the icy strains of the waltz made it hard to think.
She glanced around, looking for the source of the disturbing music. An elegant gilt-and-enamel music box sat on a small table. The glass lid was raised. Two tiny dancers, a man and a woman, dressed in late-nineteenth- century ballroom attire, twirled slowly, their movements jerky.
The box looked Victorian.
It was getting harder to see now. The room was spinning slowly around her. She had to get outside.
She heard footsteps in the short hallway. A figure wearing a set of high-tech headphones appeared.
“Oh, crap,” Isabella said.
Frantically she called on her talent, and for a few seconds, she was able to push back the dark waves of the waltz that threatened to drown her.
She jammed a hand into the pocket of her raincoat. The business card was still there. Clutching it in her fingers, she crumpled to the floor.
Fallon would come looking for her. He would notice every detail that seemed wrong or out of place. A business card did not fit into Walker’s decorating scheme.
The steady beat of the waltz was in control now. She could not fight it any longer.
The music pulled her into an endless night.
32
Wyman Austin came to see me this morning,” Zack said. “Told me that he’s resigning from his seat on the Council. The official reason will be the usual.”
Fallon cradled the phone against his ear and propped his heels on the corner of his desk. “He wants to retire and spend more time with family and friends?”
The call from Zack was important but Fallon was having a hard time focusing on the conversation. An unpleasant restlessness had set his senses on edge.
“Right,” Zack said. “The steam has already gone out of the rumors. Word is spreading fast that Carolyn Austin started them. This morning I had a conversation with Hector Guerrero and Marilyn Houston. They are both convinced now that the Council will vote to continue funding J&J and the Nightshade project.”
“Good, because it isn’t finished yet.” Fallon rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get rid of the tension that had been building within him for the past few minutes.
“I agree,” Zack said. “Wyman Austin explained that Jenny finally told him the full story of what really happened the night Tucker died, including her role in it. She had been trying to protect her parents from finding out what kind of man her brother really was and dealing with her own guilt. I’m sure you’re aware that Carolyn Austin went into a very deep depression after the loss of her son.”
“Yes.”
“Took more than a year for her to recover. When she did, she became obsessed with revenge. She blamed you and the rest of the Joneses. She set out to try to destroy the family’s grip on Arcane.”
“Sure,” Fallon said. “I understand vengeance. It’s a solid motive, but there’s something wrong with the timing here.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been almost three years since Tucker died. Why go after the Jones family now?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the connection.
