The music grew louder and more relentless. He thought his skull might explode.
He collapsed on the rug. The violent energy of the waltz carried him off into the night.
31
Marge folded her elbows on the counter and gave Isabella an expectant look.
"Well?" she said. "Did you have a good time at the ball, Cinderella?"
Isabella sipped her tea and swiveled slowly from side to side on the stool while she considered her answer.
"It was very exciting," she said, choosing her words with care.
"Any pictures?" Marge asked.
"No, to be honest, I didn't even think about taking pictures."
"Darn."
The bell over the door chimed. Violet and Patty walked into the cafe, raincoats dripping.
"We came for a full report," Violet announced. "Are there pictures?"
Isabella set down her mug. "I was just explaining to Marge that there are no photos. To tell you the truth, things got a little complicated down in Sedona. This guy broke into my room and tried to bribe me to make it look as if I was on the take and Fallon had to beat him up. Then we went to Cactus Springs to check out my grandmother's trailer and another guy showed up who convinced us to help him find an old artifact. When I located the artifact, he tried to kill Fallon, and Fallon had to beat him up, too, and then we came home."
Marge, Violet and Patty exchanged looks.
Marge frowned at Isabella. "That's it?"
"Pretty much," Isabella said.
"Gee," Violet said. "Guess that's the last time we let you and Fallon go off on a romantic getaway trip."
Marge shook her head. "I can't believe it. We send the two of you off to a glamorous ball with a beautiful gown and glass slippers, and you and Fallon end up getting attacked?"
"The best part is that I found out my grandmother is alive, but I can't contact her yet because it might put her in jeopardy."
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.
Run.
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 con
vinced 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.
"Must have taken Carolyn that long to concoct a plan."
"I don't think it was her plan."
"Got any ideas?" Zack asked.
"I've got a feeling that someone played on Carolyn Austin's obsession with revenge. That person suggested a way to destroy the Jones family's grip on Arcane, and Carolyn ran with it."
"You're thinking Nightshade, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"I'll let you work that angle. I've got a budget to get through my Council while everyone is feeling more charitable towards J&J."
"Congratulations," Fallon said. "The Jones show of force seems to have worked."
Zack laughed. "I don't think that filling the room with a lot of Joneses was what turned the tide."
"Maybe it was my new status as a psychic Sherlock Holmes."
"Don't knock it. Isabella's defense of your investigational talents is definitely proving to be an asset. Several key members of the Council are now referring to you as Sherlock."
Fallon groaned. "Just what I need."
"Goes to show that language is everything," Zack said. "You can thank your new assistant for giving you a new image within Arcane."
"You can thank her for Wyman Austin's resignation, too."
"Yeah?" Zack sounded interested.
"Jenny and I had a long talk out on the hotel terrace. Isabella was there. She helped Jenny deal with what happened on the night of Tucker's death. There was a lot of crying, and afterward Jenny seemed relieved or something."
"Thanks to Isabella?"
"Yes."
"Lot of good energy around your new assistant," Zack said.
"She's a full investigator here at the firm now."
"Right. So when are you going to marry her and make her a partner?"
Fallon felt something snap inside him. "It's not that easy, damn it."
"Hey, hey, calm down, cousin. Didn't mean to shock you. I just assumed--"
"When it comes to Isabella, don't ever assume anything." Fallon surged to his feet, phone clenched in his hand. "You think it's easy to marry her?"
"Well, Aunt Maryann approves of her. She told your folks that it was a perfect match. Naturally your parents told mine."
"And now everyone in the family thinks I'm going to marry Isabella?"
"It would seem to be the logical next step," Zack said, speaking carefully now.
"This hasn't got a damn thing to do with logic."
"With you, everything comes down to logic. Am I missing something in this equation?"
"People in Isabella's family don't get married," Fallon said through his teeth.
"Some kind of religious thing?"
"Some kind of conspiracy theory thing. Marriages mean licenses. Isabella was raised not to leave a paper trail. She doesn't even have a birth certificate."
"So we're just talking about a piece of paper?"
Fallon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to regain control. "I'm overreacting here, aren't I?"
"You do sound uncharacteristically emotional," Zack agreed. "But you're a Jones and you're in love. We get emotional about this kind of stuff in our family."
"It's not just the license," Fallon admitted after a while. "I don't want her to stay with me out of gratitude or pity."
"Gratitude? Pity? Trust me, Fallon, a lot of people feel a lot of things when it comes to you, but gratitude and pity are rarely on the list. Why would Isabella feel either?"
"Can't talk about it right now. Got work to do."
"Wait, don't hang up."
"Serves you right after all the times you hung up on me when you were working as a contract agent for J&J."
Fallon cut the connection and went to the window. From that angle he could see most of the counter inside the Sunshine. Isabella was no longer inside the cafe. She must have finished her morning break and must have now been on her way around the corner to the grocery store. She would spend a few minutes chatting with Harriet Stokes while she collected the mail.
She's okay.
But his Jones intuition was riding him hard now, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. He needed to find Isabella. There was no logical reason to take the gun, but he pulled out the lowest drawer of the desk and picked up the weapon and the holster.
He buckled the gun in place, took his leather jacket off the wall hook and went to the door. He would just amble down the street to the grocery store and intercept Isabella when she emerged with the mail. They could have another cup of coffee and tea together at the Sunshine.
The computer pinged. Something important had just come in. He went back across the room to see the new data that had arrived.
I'm like one of Pavlov's dogs, he thought morosely. I respond to that damn ping the way the animals did to a bell. I start salivating. My reward is another dot of light on the paranormal grid instead of some kibble, but that's the only difference. I'm a creature of habit and a lousy conversationalist. Even the bad guys get bored listening to me. What was it Garrett said? Not a lecture on para-physics. Just shoot me now.
Why would Isabella want to marry him even if she didn't have a phobia about licenses and paper trails? Great. Now he was feeling sorry for himself.
The encrypted message was from Max Lucan.
The buyer who commissioned the delivery of the mirror showed up at the motel where Garrett was staying. Sander Clay. The name should ring a few bells. He's the CEO of Clay Tech Industries. Turns out the Feds have been watching him for months because they think he's involved in illegal arms dealing (the normal kind). My people grabbed him when he tried to terminate Garrett. Got it all on video complete with sound. Turned everything over to the FBI. Garrett is talking as fast as he can. He even admitted to killing Caitlin Phillips.
My work here is done. Any luck on your end?
Fallon straightened. He did not have time to respond to the query. The need to find Isabella was escalating.
He was heading back to the door when another ping sounded. He wanted to ignore it, but his intuition told him something important had come in.
The new e-mail was from the head of security at the L.A. Arcane museum.
. . . Can confirm that the entire staff submitted to a Q&A with Clare Lancaster Jones, the lie detector-talent you recommended. Everyone passed with flying colors. The list of names is attached. I'm at a loss to explain the theft of the mirror. A full inventory is currently being conducted to determine what other artifacts, if any, were stolen....
The sense of urgency was pushing adrenaline through his veins, but he desperately needed answers. He pulled up the list of museum employees who had passed the psychic version of a lie detector test and compared it with the list he had ordered from the museum's personnel department.
There was one name on the list of employees that was missing from the list of people who had submitted to Clare's Q&A.
Lights lit up all over the grid as the connections slammed into place. He now knew who had sold the Quicksilver Mirror and, most likely, a number of other artifacts on the black market. But first he had to get to Isabella.
He went down the stairs to the empty first floor. When he reached the street, he headed for the grocery store.
Harriet Stokes was at the counter. She looked up from a gardening magazine when Fallon entered.
"Morning, Fallon. How's it going?"
"Fine." Fallon looked around, taking in the shelves of canned goods, the small freezer section and the bins of bulk nuts and grains. "Where's Isabella?"
"Haven't seen her yet this morning." Harriet put down the magazine. "Expect she's over at the cafe having coffee with Marge and Violet and Patty. Everyone in town wants to know how Cinderella got on at the ball."
"What ball?"
"That would be the one which required a fancy dress and glass slippers."
"What are you talking about?" Fallon headed for the door. "Never mind. I don't have time now."
He went outside and cut back across town to the Sunshine. When he yanked open the door, Marge, Violet and Patty stared at him.
"Where's Isabella?" he asked.
Marge frowned. "She left a while ago. Said she was going to pick up the mail."
Fallon went cold. "She never made it to the grocery store."
Violet smiled. "Take it easy. She said she was going to check up on Walker first. She was a little worried about him for some reason."
"Son of a bitch."
He broke into a run, heading toward Walker's cabin on the bluffs. He was dimly aware of Marge, Violet and Patty following him. Other people peered curiously out of doorways and shop windows.
When he went past the Scar, Oliver Hitchcock came out of the front door.
"Hey, Jones, what's up?" he shouted.
"Isabella," Fallon said. "She's in trouble."
The crack of thunder and the flash of lightning announced the rain.
By the time he reached Walker's cabin, he was thoroughly soaked. He did not feel the cold. An icy psi fever was burning in him.