“That’s right,” Gwen said.
“Gonna take it to the pound?”
“No, I’ll probably haul Max back to Seattle with me.” Gwen paused. “Unless you know someone who might like a nice cat?”
“Nope. Got too many cats around here already. Folks from Portland are always driving up here to dump their unwanted cats and dogs on the side of the road. Besides, according to Sara, the housekeeper, Evelyn’s cat isn’t a nice cat. Sara says it hissed at her from under the bed when she cleaned your room today.”
Paula stalked off toward the kitchen.
Judson waited until she was out of earshot. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a cat.”
“For now, apparently.” Gwen said. She lowered her voice again and leaned forward a little. “How long do you think it will take you to conduct the investigation?”
“Depends how far you want me to go with it.” Judson kept his own voice at a normal, conversational level.
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It will take me about five seconds at the scene to determine whether or not your friend was murdered.”
“Really? Your brother made it clear that you’re a professional investigator and that you have a talent for this sort of thing, but five seconds at the scene of the crime doesn’t sound like enough time to conduct a thorough investigation.”
Judson swept her misgivings aside with a slight motion of one powerful hand. “Murder is murder. It leaves a calling card, even when it’s done by paranormal means. But you already know that, don’t you? You must have sensed something when you found your friend’s body—something that made you suspect foul play.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “Okay, obviously, I have my suspicions, but my talent is kind of dicey when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“Dicey?”
“I read dreams and view auras. I don’t investigate murders. Look, the bottom line here is that I need to be absolutely certain about what happened to Evelyn. That means that I need an investigator who is willing to spend more than five seconds at the scene.”
“Is that right?” Judson lounged back in his chair and shoved his booted feet straight out under the table. He hooked his thumbs in his wide leather belt. “What, exactly, do you want from me?”
“Well, I expect you to determine cause of death, for starters.”
“You mean, you want to know if Ballinger was killed by paranormal means.”
“Yes. I admit that given her health history it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that she had a heart attack or a stroke. I want to be sure.”
“What else?” Judson asked.
“If you conclude that she was murdered, I want you to find the killer, of course.”
“See, that’s where things can get—what was the word you used? Oh, yeah, dicey.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Complicated?”
“Very complicated.”
“Because you aren’t particularly good when it comes to identifying the killers?” she asked in her sweetest tones.
“Nope. I’m good at that, too.”
He broke off when Paula returned to the table with his coffee and the check for Gwen to sign. Paula hovered while Gwen scrawled her name and a tip on the little slip of paper.
Paula took the signed paper and departed in the direction of the kitchen.
“She didn’t look impressed with the tip that you left,” Judson observed.
“Well, she should have been impressed. It was a good tip. I’ve worked as a waitress. Everyone knows that ex-waiters and -waitresses always overtip, even when the service is lousy.”
“I’m just saying she didn’t look impressed.”
“And she doesn’t like cats, either. Forget Paula. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. You said you’re good at identifying the bad guys. So what is the hard part of a murder investigation for you?”
Judson picked up his coffee. “The complication in situations like this is finding the type of evidence that we can take to the local cops, the kind they need to make an arrest and build a case.”
“But isn’t that what you and your brother do?”
“Not exactly,” Judson said. “Mostly we work off the record.”
“Off the record?”
“Didn’t Abby explain what it is that Coppersmith Consulting does?”
Gwen hesitated. “She said you conducted security investigations for a government agency that recently shut down due to severe funding cuts.”
Judson looked pained, but he did not correct her.
“That’s true,” he said. “But the great thing about working for our former client was that the guy in charge wasn’t overly particular about the sort of legal technicalities that regular law enforcement has to deal with. Sam and I were hired to gather intelligence and make security recommendations. We were not in the business of making arrests.”
“I see.”
“Is there a problem here?” Judson asked.
“I’m not sure yet. Did your brother warn you that if we do manage to prove that Evelyn Ballinger was murdered, the local chief of police will probably consider me to be the lead suspect?”
Judson drank some coffee and lowered the cup. “I believe Sam did mention that possibility, yes.”
“Let’s get something straight here, Judson. I’m employing you to find the person who murdered Evelyn Ballinger, assuming she was murdered. I expect you to do so in a way that keeps me out of jail.”
“I usually charge extra for that kind of work.”
She stared at him, speechless for a few seconds. Judson used the time to down more of the coffee.
“Are you serious?” she finally managed.
“No.” His smile was cold steel and his eyes burned. “Don’t worry, you’re getting the friends-and-family rate. That means you won’t pay extra for little add-on services like making sure you don’t get arrested for murder. I’ll throw those in for free.”
“Gosh, thanks.” Her temper threatened to flare, but she wrestled it to the ground. It wasn’t like she had a lot of options when it came to investigators, she reminded herself. “What, exactly, do you propose to do first?”
“According to Psychic Detecting for Dummies, the first step is to visit the scene of the crime.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll do that later tonight when I can get inside without being seen.”
“There’s no reason to sneak around. As it happens, I have the keys.”
“Well, hey, that sure makes life simpler. Can I ask why you happen to have the keys to the victim’s house?”
Gwen braced herself. “Evelyn didn’t have a lot. She spent her life studying the paranormal.”
“Not a profitable career path unless you’re a scam artist.”
“No,” Gwen agreed. “But what Evelyn did possess, she left to me.”
Judson’s brows rose slightly. “This case is getting more interesting by the minute. You do realize that in some circles the fact that you are Ballinger’s sole heir might be viewed as a motive for murder?”
“Trust me, the thought has crossed my mind more than once today.”
Five
Judson let himself into his room on the third floor and tossed the black duffel onto the bench at the foot of the big four-poster bed. One thing was now blazingly clear. Nothing had changed when it came to his reaction to Gwen. When he had seen her there in the tearoom, he had experienced the same rush of sensual hunger—the same bone-deep thrill—that had slammed through him a month earlier when he’d met her for the first time in Seattle.
She’d hit his senses like an intoxicating drug that night. He’d gotten the same exhilarating shock today.
If anything, his reaction was even stronger this time, probably because he’d been thinking about her nonstop for the past month.
She was tall for a woman, just the right height for him, Judson thought. Attractive, but not in the generic cover-girl style. What she had was a hell of an edge.
She wore her dark hair snugged bac
k in a sleek knot that emphasized her regal nose, high forehead and deep, watchful, witchy eyes. Her curves were subtle but one hundred percent feminine. There was a sleek, feline quality about her that appealed to all of his senses.
Which immediately brought up the obvious question. Where was the man in her life? According to Sam and Abby, there was no significant other in Gwen’s world. But that seemed unlikely. Who do I have to kill to get to you, Gwendolyn Frazier?
The old floorboards creaked beneath his boots when he crossed the room. The inn dated from the late eighteen hundreds. According to the black-and-white photographs on the walls, it had started out as a private mansion. The lumber baron who had built it had used it as a summerhouse to entertain guests and business colleagues.
He stopped at the window to study the view. The river was visible through a thick stand of trees. From where he stood, he could not see the falls. He thought about what he had managed to discover concerning the events of two years ago. The first two deaths had occurred less than three weeks apart. Gwen had found both bodies. A few days later, Zander Taylor had gone over the falls, an apparent suicide. Gwen had been the one who had called 911 on that occasion, too.
It was all very murky, but the one fact that stood out was that the series of mysterious deaths had ceased following Taylor’s death. The surviving members of Ballinger’s research project were all still alive according to Sam. At least they had been until this morning.
But now the director of the project was dead. And once again it was Gwen Frazier who had found the body.
He contemplated the heavily forested landscape for a while. There was a lot of wilderness left in the mountains of Oregon. Every year, people went out hiking in this part of the Pacific Northwest and disappeared forever. The rough terrain provided ample hiding places for all kinds of predators, including the human kind. A killer could commit murder and vanish into the woods for as long as it suited him.
He turned away from the window and yanked off the crewneck pullover. Opening his leather bag, he took out a fresh edition of the shirt in a slightly different shade of gray, grabbed his overnight kit and went into the grand, Victorian-style bathroom to freshen up. He wasn’t used to working for private pay clients, but he suspected that neatness counted; at least he was pretty sure it counted with a client like Gwen. Downstairs in the tearoom she had made it clear that she had some doubts about both his talent and his commitment to the job. He’d better get his act together before she fired his ass.
He had to consider the reputation of Coppersmith Consulting, he told himself. It wasn’t like he could afford to lose another client.
It took him half a second to recognize the guy in the mirror. His eyes didn’t appear quite as bleak and soulless as they had for the past few weeks. He’d been right about one thing: Gwen Frazier was the distraction he’d been needing.
He tucked the clean shirt into the waistband of his khakis and left the giant bathroom.
A muffled meow stopped him. He turned toward the connecting door. It was closed and locked on his side, but he could see the shadows of four paws under the lower edge. The cat meowed again, sounding curious this time, and began to pace back and forth on the other side of the door.
Judson unlocked the door on his side, but when he tried the handle, he discovered that it was still secured on Gwen’s side.
“Sorry, cat,” he said. “You’re stuck in there for now.”
There was another muffled meow from the other room. This time the cat sounded irritated.
“Take it up with the boss lady,” Judson said.
He went back across the room and paused to brace his right boot against the bench at the foot of the bed. He pulled up his pant leg and checked the pistol in the leather sheath strapped to his ankle.
Satisfied that he was appropriately dressed for business—probably overdressed for this job—he let himself out into the hall and went back downstairs. A disturbing whisper of energy arced across his senses when he realized that Gwen was not waiting for him in the lobby.
The desk clerk looked up from whatever he was working on and squinted through his black-framed glasses. He was in his early thirties, with a stocky build and sandy brown hair that had evidently been thinning for a while. The comb-over style was not working for him. His nametag read Riley Duncan.
“If you’re looking for Ms. Frazier, she went outside to talk to a guy,” Riley said.
Judson nodded. “Thanks.”
He looked out the window and saw Gwen in the parking lot. She was not alone. A tall man with a shoulder-length mane of blond hair was with her. Something about the way the two stood together made it clear that they were not strangers. Gwen’s tightly crossed arms and angled chin told him that she was not happy with the way the conversation was going.
He pushed open the front door and went outside. It was late afternoon, and the Pacific Northwest was still basking in the long days of summer. But here in the mountains, twilight fell early, even at this time of year. The shadows were already creeping over Wilby.
Anticipation heated Judson’s blood as he walked toward Gwen and her companion. Maybe this was the guy he was going to have to kill to get to Gwen.
Gwen was facing the entrance of the inn. She was still wearing the trousers and dark, long-sleeved pullover that she’d had on earlier but she had added a lightweight black jacket. She saw him immediately. Relief followed by an urgent warning flashed through her eyes. Her smile was too bright and too welcoming. It was the smile a woman gave to a man with whom she was intimately involved. What’s wrong with this picture? Judson wondered.
“Oh, there you are, Judson,” she said quickly. “I was just explaining to Wesley that you and I have plans for this evening. This is Wesley Lancaster. Wesley, this is Judson Coppersmith.”
It didn’t take any psychic talent to know that he had just been promoted from the role of financial adviser to that of lover, Judson thought. No problem. He could work with that. He moved to stand very close to Gwen, his shoulder just brushing hers.
“Lancaster,” he said. Taking his cue from Gwen, he was careful to keep his tone civil, at least until he figured out what the hell was going on.
“Coppersmith.” Wesley acknowledged the introduction with a short, brusque inclination of his head that went well with his short, brusque greeting. It was clear that he was not thrilled to learn that Gwen was not alone.
At close range, it was clear that somewhere along the line a few Vikings had contributed to Wesley’s gene pool. He was tall, narrow-hipped and strategically muscled in the manner of a man who spent a fair amount of time at his gym. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, light-colored eyes and the elegantly styled sweep of blond hair added to the image. All he needed was an axe, shield and helmet to complete the look, Judson thought.
Instead of the battle armor, Wesley wore a pair of hand-tailored black trousers and a dark blue silk shirt. The collar of the shirt was open partway down his chest. A slouchy linen jacket, a pair of Italian loafers and some designer shades finished the look. But Judson was sure that no self-respecting Viking warrior would have been caught dead at his own funeral pyre looking like he was dressed to make a pitch at a Hollywood film studio.
“Wesley is the ghost hunter on Dead of Night, the television show that investigates reports of old hauntings and paranormal occurrences,” Gwen said.
That explained a lot, Judson thought.
“Is that right?” he said. He made himself stop there. No sense pushing the envelope by adding that he considered all ghost hunters to be frauds and that he had never heard of the show.
“Gwen tells me that the two of you are in town to handle Evelyn Ballinger’s funeral and her affairs,” Wesley said.
“That’s right.” Judson went for casual, still trying to get a feel for the vibe between Wesley and Gwen. They clearly shared a past, but beyond that things got murky fast. “What brings you to Wilby?”
Wesley blew out a long sigh and looked troubled. “I came here to see E
velyn. I’ve been trying to contact her for several days now. She stopped replying to my e-mails, and she wouldn’t respond to the messages I left on her voice mail. I decided to grab a plane to Portland and drive up here to Wilby to find out what was going on. It came as a hell of a shock to discover that Evelyn died sometime last night.”
“Why were you so concerned about her when you couldn’t get in touch?” Judson asked. “Close friends?”
“Business associates,” Wesley said grimly.
Gwen unfolded her arms and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. “Evelyn did some contract work for Wesley. She was his primary researcher. She checked out stories of hauntings and paranormal activity. It was her job to identify locations that were suitable for episodes of Dead of Night. After Wesley made his choice, I wrote up the script.”
Judson looked at her. “You did the scripts?”
“Yes,” she said. She glared, silently daring him to challenge that.
“For a series that investigates haunted houses?” he said carefully.
“Yes,” she said. Ice dripped from the word.
Wesley scowled. “You got a problem with that, Coppersmith?”
“No,” Judson said. “I knew Gwen was a psychic counselor, but I didn’t realize that she had been writing fiction, that’s all.”
Gwen raised her eyes toward the evening sky and looked mildly annoyed.
“Dead of Night is not fiction,” Wesley snapped. “We deal with real hauntings. Gwen’s scripts are based on the actual details and rumors that surround old murders and mysterious disappearances and deaths.”
“I see,” Judson said. “How many people work for you?”
Wesley eyed him with impatience. “Several, why?”
“Just wondered if you’re in the habit of hopping a plane and driving a couple of hours to see one of your staff whenever you can’t get in touch by phone or e-mail.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwen’s expression sharpen. He felt energy stir and knew that she had heightened her talent. She was studying Wesley’s aura. What do you see, Dream Eyes?
Wesley was getting angry. “Evelyn was late with the results of her last research project. She’d missed two deadlines. Every time I asked her if she had finished researching the next location, she told me that she just needed another few days to finish. Finally she stopped taking my calls. Dead of Night operates on a very tight schedule. I can’t afford to sit around and wait on a researcher. So, yes, when I couldn’t get hold of her, I came here to see her in person. I had no clue that she’d died during the night.”