Grace picked up her glass and took a sip. The wine was starting to soften the edgy sensation that had been riding her hard all day but she knew from experience that the effects would not last. She told herself to think positive but she had a bad feeling that the old dream would return that night.
She studied Millicent. “Do you really think Nyla is a threat?”
Millicent shrugged. “I’m just saying it would be a good idea to be careful for a while. I’m telling you, Nyla Witherspoon is unstable. She and Sprague had what can only be called a fraught relationship but the capper was the new fiancé.”
“Burke Marrick,” Kristy said. She made a face. “AKA Mr. Perfect.”
“You know what?” Millicent said. “Burke Marrick was Sprague’s worst nightmare. Sprague was always worried that some good-looking, fast-talking con man would come along and sweep Nyla off her feet. Why do you think Sprague insisted on paying her bills and keeping her on an allowance? He was trying to protect her.”
Kristy sniffed. “Small countries could live on Nyla’s allowance.”
“The actual amount is beside the point.” Millicent aimed the olive spear at Kristy. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s money, and I know how people react to it. Trust me, no one ever thinks they have enough. Nyla couldn’t stand the thought that the bulk of her inheritance was tied up in a special trust that she could not access until her father’s death. And I’ve got a hunch Mr. Perfect was pushing her hard to get ahold of the money.”
A grim silence settled on the table. Grace reflected on the fact that they had all had their run-ins with Sprague’s temperamental daughter. Nyla had seemed jealous of the three of them. Now she would have her inheritance to go with her charming fiancé. From a certain perspective, life was suddenly looking quite rosy for Nyla. And for Mr. Perfect.
Grace cleared her throat. “You do realize what you’re saying, Millicent. If you’re right, that means that Burke Marrick is also a suspect.”
Kristy put her glass down very quickly. “What if Nyla and Burke planned Sprague’s murder together?”
Millicent shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“I think we had better hold off on the conspiracy theories,” Grace said. “If you’re going to make a list of suspects, you’ll need a really big sheet of paper.”
Kristy and Millicent looked at her.
“What do you mean?” Kristy asked. “Sprague was so nice. So generous.”
Understanding gleamed in Millicent’s eyes. “You’re right, Grace. After Nyla and Marrick, the next name on the list just has to be Larson Rayner.”
“We all know there was not a lot of positive energy lost between Larson and Sprague,” Grace said. “Nothing like a falling-out between business partners to create motive.”
“That’s true,” Kristy said. “Remember how Larson stormed into the office last month and accused Sprague of stealing his clients?”
“Professional envy and a strong dose of jealousy, not to mention a decline in revenues.” Millicent smiled. Her green eyes gleamed. “Great motives for murder.” She looked at Grace. “I wonder if Larson realizes that you’re the reason why Sprague’s business took off a year and a half ago.”
Grace felt herself turning pink. “That is a gross exaggeration. I had a few ideas and Sprague let me run with them, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Millicent said cheerfully. “Before you came along, Sprague Witherspoon was just another motivational speaker in a very crowded field. You’re the one who launched the business into the big time.”
“Millicent is right,” Kristy said. “If poor Sprague hadn’t been murdered last night, he would have become the number one self-help guru in the country within a few months, thanks to you.”
“The Witherspoon Way was doing well before you came along,” Millicent said. “But the really big money didn’t start rolling in until after the cookbook was published. The affirmation-of-the-day blog caught fire after that. During the past few months, Kristy couldn’t confirm speaking engagements and seminars fast enough. Isn’t that right, Kristy?”
“Yes.” Kristy smiled reminiscently. “Sprague was on the road every week. I don’t know how he did it. But he never complained when I booked back-to-back seminars.”
“He loved it,” Grace said. “He thrived on the travel and the crowds. He had so much charisma and such an incredible ability to communicate with an audience.”
Kristy nodded sagely. “But it was the cookbook and the affirmation blog that put the Witherspoon Way over the top. You’re the one who came up with both projects.”
“The cookbook and blog would never have worked if they hadn’t been done under the Witherspoon name,” Grace said. “All I did was dream up some marketing ideas that suited Sprague’s approach to positive thinking.”
“It’s called branding,” Millicent said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a call from Larson Rayner soon making you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Kristy brightened. “Maybe he’ll offer all three of us positions in his firm. We are, or rather, we were Sprague’s team. Larson must realize that we’ve got exactly the qualifications he needs to take him to the top.”
“True,” Grace said. “But you might want to rethink that career path if it turns out that Larson Rayner is a suspect in Sprague’s murder. Could be tough to book future seminars for him.”
Kristy winced. “There is that little problem.”
“As for that list of suspects we were talking about,” Grace said, “it doesn’t end with Nyla, Burke and Larson Rayner. You’ll have to add those odd and disgruntled seminar attendees—the folks who emailed Sprague to complain because their lives did not undergo a dramatic change after they started practicing the Witherspoon Way.”
“Well, shit,” Millicent said. “You’re right, Grace. That would make for a very long list.”
Kristy sighed. “It may be sort of tacky under the circumstances but I can’t help noticing that if Larson Rayner is on the suspect list, our pool of potential employers is going to be extremely small. I don’t imagine there are a lot of folks out there looking for people who possess the skills required to manage the office of a motivational speaker.”
“On the other hand,” Millicent said, going very thoughtful, “if Rayner is cleared as a suspect, he’s going to need us. I wonder if he knows that?”
Grace picked up her wine. “Time for some serious positive thinking, as Sprague would say.”
“We need a Witherspoon affirmation for successful job hunting,” Kristy announced. She gave Grace a misty smile. “You’re the affirmation writer in the crowd. Got one for us?”
Millicent laughed. “Well, Grace? What would be a good Witherspoon Way saying for those of us who find ourselves suddenly unemployed?”
Grace ran one fingertip around the rim of her wineglass and gave the problem some thought.
“If Sprague were here he would remind us that no one finds an interesting future by staying indoors and waiting for a sunny day,” she said. “To discover your future you must go outdoors and take a walk in the rain.”
“That sounds about right,” Kristy said. Her warm eyes turned somber and serious. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but working for the Witherspoon Way really did change my life.” She raised her wineglass. “Here’s to Sprague Witherspoon.”
“To Sprague,” Millicent said.
“To Sprague,” Grace said.
Millicent downed the last of her martini and signaled the waiter for another round.
“I probably shouldn’t say this,” she said, “given how much money I made working for the Witherspoon Way and absolutely no offense intended toward you, Grace, but I have to tell you that I really detest those dumbass Witherspoon Way affirmations.”
Three
The dream was lying in wait for her . . .
. . . The wind shrieking through
the old, abandoned asylum caught the door at the top of the stairs and slammed it shut.
The darkness of the basement closed in around her. It was suddenly hard to breathe. She knew she could not allow her own fear to show. She had to stay strong for the boy. He was unnaturally calm, the way people are in dreams. He clung to her hand and looked up at her.
She knew that he was waiting to see if she would save him. That was what adults were supposed to do—save little kids. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t a real grown-up. She was only sixteen years old.
“He’s coming back,” the boy said. “He hurt that lady and he’s going to hurt us, too.”
She aimed the cell phone flashlight at the long bundle on the floor. Her first thought was that someone had left an unrolled sleeping bag in the basement. But it wasn’t a sleeping bag. The eyes of the dead woman stared up at her through the thick layers of plastic.
Heavy footsteps thudded on the wooden floor overhead. Hurriedly she switched off the flashlight.
“Hide,” she said to the boy in the language of dreams.
The door at the top of the steps opened. The entrance to the basement was once again illuminated with an empty gray light. Soon the monster would appear.
“It’s too late,” the boy said. “He’s here now.”
There was a small prescription medication container on the floor near the dead woman. Next to it was a liquor bottle. She could not see the brand on the bottle but she could make out the word vodka.
The only way out was through the door at the top of the stairs . . .
The ping of the email alert brought her out of the nightmare on a rush of adrenaline that tightened her throat and iced her blood. For a few seconds her heart pounded to the dark rhythm of the killer’s footsteps. She hovered in the murky terrain between the dream state and the waking state.
Breathe.
It had been a while since the dream had haunted her nights but she had long ago made the breathing exercises a daily routine. It was one of three rituals that she practiced regularly. All were related to the nightmare of the past.
She sat up quickly on the edge of the bed and focused on her breath. But the edgy, fight-or-flight sensation threatened to overwhelm her. She could not sit quietly so she got up, went out into the living room and started to pace. Sometimes it took a few minutes to calm her nerves.
The gentle glow of night-lights illuminated every room in the small apartment. In addition, the drapes were open to allow the city lights to pour in through her fifteenth-floor window. She did not turn on any of the regular lamps and ceiling fixtures because she did not want to further stimulate her already overstimulated senses.
Breathe.
The images of the dream flashed and flared, clawing at her awareness in an attempt to drag her down into the dark, seething pit of raw panic. Her skin prickled. Her pulse pounded.
As she paced, she made the promise that she always made to herself during a bad attack. If she did not get things under control she would take a dose of the anti-anxiety medication the doctor had prescribed. In the past few years that vow, combined with the breathing exercises, was usually sufficient to get through even the worst episodes.
Just give the breathing exercises a chance to work. The meds are in the drawer. Don’t worry, you can have one if you really need it. You knew tonight would probably be a bad night.
Breathe.
She needed to go through the door. She had to get outside.
She unlocked the slider. Cold damp air swirled into the room. She stepped out onto the balcony. The rain had stopped. The jeweled cityscape of Seattle sparkled around her. The Space Needle glowed reassuringly, a giant torch against the darkness.
She focused on the exercises.
The thud-thud-thud of the killer’s footsteps faded back into memory.
Gradually her pulse steadied and her breathing returned to normal.
When she was sure she was back in control she returned to the living room. She closed and locked the slider.
“Crap,” she said aloud to the silent room.
And everyone wondered why she had never married, why she never let any man spend the night. Panic attacks were like earthquakes. It wasn’t a matter of if there would be another one. It was only a question of when it would strike. She had discovered the hard way that it might be weeks, months or even years between attacks. Or it could be tomorrow night. How did a woman explain that to a potential lover?
Maybe, if her social life ever progressed beyond the short-term-relationship pattern she had developed, she might find a man she could entrust with her secrets. But somehow that had not yet happened.
She had overcome the shivery jitters but she knew she would not be able to go back to sleep, at least not for some time. On the other hand, there was no job waiting for her in the morning, she reminded herself. She was free to sleep late. Now that was a truly depressing thought because she always got up early, even after a bad night. She was doomed to be a morning person.
She went to stand at the window. Although there were a number of condo towers, apartments and office buildings scattered around her, she could see a wide slice of the Queen Anne neighborhood. The hillside was dotted with the lights of the exclusive residences that had been built there to take advantage of the views. Tonight one of the big houses was dark and empty. Sprague Witherspoon’s body was probably in cold storage in the medical examiner’s office, waiting to be autopsied. The hunt for his killer had begun.
She thought about the vodka bottle that she had found at the scene. Another wave of anxiety whispered through her nerves. It had to be a coincidence. There was no other explanation.
She suddenly remembered the ping that had shattered the nightmare. She went back into the bedroom and picked up the phone. When she saw the sender’s name she almost plunged straight into another full-blown panic attack. For a few beats she simply stared at the screen in stunned disbelief. This could not be happening.
Sprague Witherspoon had sent her an email from beyond the grave. The message was a macabre twist on one of the Witherspoon Way affirmations:
Each day brings us another opportunity to change the future.
Congratulations, your future will soon be very different.
Four
Well, that was the most awkward evening I’ve spent in some time,” Grace said. “And I include the night of my high school prom, during which I discovered that my date was deeply depressed because the girl he had wanted to be with had turned him down.”
“You want awkward?” Julius Arkwright asked. “Try the annual business dinner and charity auction I’m scheduled to attend later this week.”
Grace gave that some consideration. “I don’t think that qualifies as awkward. A business dinner and charity auction sound boring, not awkward.”
“Yeah, boring, too,” Julius agreed. “I will have to make casual conversation with a bunch of people who are as dull as I am. But the really awkward part comes later, when I deliver the most boring after-dinner speech ever written. The charity auction isn’t so bad. I’ll be stuck buying a piece of art that I don’t want but that isn’t exactly awkward. That’s just costly.”
He didn’t seem to care about the financial cost of the event, she noticed. Interesting.
She had been introduced to Julius for the first time that evening. She barely knew him but she was already certain that he ranked as the least boring man she had ever met. That was, however, beside the point, she told herself. They were talking awkward, not boring, and she doubted that any business dinner could have been as unnerving as the blind date that she and Julius had just endured.
And the date was not over—not until she got back to the lake house. To get there she had to clamber into the front seat of Julius’s gleaming black SUV. She hated SUVs. They were not designed for women who were frequently obliged to shop in the petite departm
ent.
She tucked her trench coat around herself and tried to discreetly raise the hem of her pencil-slim skirt so that she could position her left high-heeled sandal on the floorboard of the vehicle. Reaching up, she grasped the handhold inside the cab and prepared to haul her bodyweight up into the passenger seat.
There was no hope of negotiating the business gracefully. Even if she had been wearing jeans and athletic shoes she would have had a problem. Dressed in a snug-fitting little black dress and heels the best she could hope for was to make it up and into the seat on the first try with as little bounce as possible.
She tightened her grip on the handhold and pushed off with her right foot.
“Watch your head,” Julius said.
Before she realized what he intended she felt his hands close around her waist. He lifted her as easily as if she were a sack of groceries and plopped her on the passenger seat.
She tried to control her trajectory and landing but she bounced, anyway. Her coat fell open, exposing a lot of inner thigh. By the time she got things under control Julius was closing the door.
Crap.
The awkward night was not showing any signs of improving. There was probably an affirmation for a blind date gone bad but what she really wanted was a therapeutic glass of wine.
She watched Julius round the front of the SUV. For a moment his hard profile and broad shoulders were silhouetted against the porch lights of the Nakamura house. In spite of all the warnings she had been giving herself that evening, an unfamiliar and decidedly dangerous sense of anticipation sparkled through her. For the duration of the short drive home she was going to be alone with Julius. That was probably not a good idea.
He opened the door and climbed behind the wheel. She watched him angle himself into the seat with the easy grace of a large hunting cat settling into high grass to wait for prey.
Well, of course he had made the process look easy. It wasn’t as if someone had literally tossed him up into the seat.
He closed the door. An ominous but rather exciting sense of intimacy seethed in the dark interior of the SUV. At least it seemed ominous and exciting to her. Julius appeared blissfully unaware of the edgy vibe. He was no doubt eager to dump her on her doorstep.