Joanna Wayne - Behind The Veil

“I just don’t get it,” Marley continued, this time swallowing first. “Why would a good-looking woman like that seamstress go up to the Bluffs to see a dangerous lunatic? Unless she’s a descendant of one of the Moriah’s Landing witches and is going up there to consort with her own kind.”

Shamus shook his head and pushed his plate away. He’d had his fill of the sandwich and Marley. “Becca Smith’s no witch and you damned well know it. And if it was any of your business what she was doing at the Bluffs, she’d have told you.”

Kevin propped his elbows on the table. “Yeah, but as much as I hate to admit it, Marley might actually have a valid point this time. Bryson is weird, acts like some freaking vampire, never coming out except at night. And I saw him talking to Becca outside Wheels last night.”

“A freaking vampire. That’s him, all right. So why would a beautiful woman let herself get picked up in the man’s own car and driven to his godforsaken castle?”

“Do you know for a fact that she did?” Shamus asked.

Marley leaned forward. “I saw her with my own eyes. I was just leaving the liquor store when I saw her get in the car with Bryson’s butler. I followed them all the way to the road for the Bluffs.”

“Maybe Bryson’s trying to get to Claire Cavendish through Becca,” Kevin offered. “That would make sense if he’s the one who kidnapped Claire in the first place, and a lot of folks think he is.”

Shamus plucked his fishing hat from the back of his chair. “That’s hogwash.”

“Yeah, but if he did kidnap Claire, he might be afraid she’s going to remember enough to get him arrested now that she’s out of the hospital,” Kevin argued. “Becca does live in the Cavendish house, you know. And the two of them are friends. I’ve seen them out together.”

“It would be just like the guy,” Marley said, his face growing red and his voice lowering to a husky whisper. “The dirty, murdering son of a bitch. We’ve had enough of David Bryson in this town. It’s time somebody around here gets rid of him once and for all.”

Shamus stared him down. “Someone might one day, but it won’t be you. You’re a dirty coward to the bone, Marley Glasglow. All bark and not enough teeth left in your ugly mouth to bite.”

“Go to hell.”

“I probably will. I’m just hoping it’s not today.” Shamus pulled a few wrinkled bills from his front pocket and dropped enough money on the table to cover his tab and a small tip.

A few seconds later, he stepped out the door, the news about Becca Smith visiting David Bryson hitting him like a bottle of cheap wine. But unlike Kevin and Marley, he had enough sense to keep his opinions to himself.

IT WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES past three o’clock when Becca thanked Richard for the ride home and climbed out of David’s black sedan. The partial tour of the house had lasted until one-thirty. After that, she had eaten the lunch Richard had served, a cream-based soup, a green salad and a chicken-pasta dish as good as any she’d ever eaten. He’d said the accolades belonged to the cook, who was off today.

Richard had joined her for lunch, and they’d talked at length about possibilities for the house. Once she’d taken the tour, ideas had leapt into her mind at the speed of light, and she’d worried that she sounded more like a kid with a new toy than a professional with a new challenge. It seemed that money would not be an object and that both David and Richard trusted her judgment implicitly. The only restriction was that she limit her work to the bottom floor of the east wing of the house.

Reaching into the deep pockets of her skirt, she pulled out the key and fit it into the lock. A white envelope was taped to the door just above the knob. Apparently one of her customers had dropped by while she was out, though she always encouraged them to call first. She pulled the note from the door and stuffed it into the canvas tote.

The familiarity of the shop wrapped around her as she stepped inside and switched on the light. Although she only managed Threads, the owner seldom took any interest in the place anymore. That worked out well for Becca. In a lot of ways the shop was more home to her than her room in the Cavendish house. At work, her mind stayed busy, found creative outlets for the restlessness and waves of undefinable anxiety that never fully deserted her. But alone at night, there was no escaping the fact that no matter how hard she pretended otherwise, Becca Smith was a total fraud.

She started a pot of fresh coffee, then retrieved the envelope that had been taped to her door. Fitting the tip of a silver letter opener beneath the seal, she ripped the envelope and slipped the note out and into the light. It was written on lined notebook paper, with black magic marker, the print crude and uneven.

Stay away from David Bryson or risk meeting the same fate as Natasha Pierce.

The print was childlike. The message was not. She read the note out loud, then shook her head as the initial wave of anxiety settled into disgust. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t funny. But more likely it was a genuine warning from one of the locals who had been exposed to the tales of witchcraft and murderous mad scientists for so long, they actually believed them.

She kept busy as the coffee finished perking, putting away her samples, straightening a stack of fabrics, watering her potted ivy. When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup and dropped to her sewing chair.

Images of the Bluffs crowded her mind. The place was magnificent. It was difficult to believe that someone in the seventeenth century had the vision or the money to build such an incredible structure.

For the first time in—in as long as she could remember—she had found a project she could sink her teeth into. She would bring the Bluffs back to life, and just maybe she’d bring its strange owner back to life, as well. If she did, some woman would thank her for it.

Unless…She picked up the note and stared at it again. Unless David Bryson really wasn’t the man he seemed. Unless he really was the man who had killed those women twenty years ago. Unless he was the man who had kidnapped and tortured poor Claire Cavendish until he’d driven her out of her mind.

She tried to picture him in that role. The image didn’t jell. Still, she’d make better decisions if she relied on facts instead of rumors and groundless superstitions. She usually kept the shop open on Saturday for the benefit of customers who worked during the week, but she’d already been out of the shop for hours so a couple more wouldn’t matter.

And right now sitting at the sewing machine didn’t seem nearly as urgent as going to the library to peruse the microfilm file of newspapers from twenty years ago. She knew they were there—just one more of the famous tourist draws to a town that made a lucrative business out of fear and superstition. But Moriah’s Landing didn’t have the monopoly on that. Everyone believed what they wanted.

In the end, she probably would, too.

FOURTH YOUNG WOMAN This Year Found Murdered.

Becca shivered and crossed her arms over her chest as she read the sketchy but chilling account of the murder. Apparently, few facts had been released to the paper, but she’d heard bizarre tales about the gruesome side of the killings from several of her customers. The events had occurred twenty years ago, but sitting alone in the library, immersed in the newspaper articles, she had the eerie feeling that the bodies were still as fresh as the one that had just been found on Old Mountain Road, not far from the Bluffs.

The first murder had been solved. The last three had not. The fourth victim had been Joyce Telatia, of the Boston Telatias, one of the wealthiest families in the Northeast. The killer could have probably made millions in ransom if he’d only kidnapped her and not killed her. But apparently it was death and not money that drove the monster. And his lust for murder might well have been fueled by publicity surrounding the vicious murder of Leslie Ridgemont, Kat’s mother. In that case the motive had been jealousy and lust, but with the three later victims, there appeared to be no motive, just random killings of innocent victims.