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“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” she said with a smack of her lips that sounded like a
tsk
and a proud smile.

Wearing a slim-fitting gown of black silk and lace, Idella looked as tall, lithe, graceful, and confident as ever. In her mid-fifties, she came from old money and it showed from her razor-sharp sleek bob, a shiny chestnut color with blond highlights, to the emeralds on her ears and wrists to the body-skimming designer column dress she wore, which had a high neck, long sleeves, and was embroidered with what had to be thousands of tiny glass beads. Though she’d never held a full-time job, she was the secretary of the Harpies and a member of just about every committee in town. There was a deeply ingrained high-society air about her, as though she lived in Beverly Hills and not Hitching Post.

The only time I’d seen the slightest crack in her self-assured veneer was when Gabriel was diagnosed with lung cancer a couple of years ago. He’d only recently announced his remission and looked as well as I’d seen him in quite some time as he took my hand. His brown hair was full and thick and matched his grizzled trimmed beard. He’d regained lost weight and his skin glowed with health and vitality.

I could tell from a good foot away, however, that he’d yet to stop smoking his beloved pipe. The sweet scent of pipe tobacco permeated his whole being, and I wanted to chastise him for risking his health in such a way.

“How are Roly and Poly doing, Carly?” he asked, then raised bushy eyebrows above bright blue eyes. “Is Poly adhering to his diet?”

I wrinkled my nose. “If you mean his diet of eating anything he can get his paws on, then yes. Strictly adhering.”

He frowned. “You must get his weight under control. It’s almost time for their checkup,” he added, his tone softer and less chastising.

“Don’t remind me.” I already dreaded trying to wrangle the pair into their carriers.

“This mansion is a feather in the Harpies’ cap, Idella,” Carter said, coming up beside us.

I couldn’t blame Carter for sucking up. Idella and Dr. Gabriel were probably some of the biggest tithers at his church.

“Is it booked solid yet for the coming year?” Ainsley asked her.

“Not quite,” Idella said with another
tsk
ing lip smack.

She had the worst habit of finishing almost every sentence with the annoying mannerism, which was so uncharacteristic of her prim and proper bearing that it stood out like a black mark on a diamond.

Tucking her dark hair behind her ear, she said, “We must wait a little longer before we start taking reservations.” Her gaze dropped to Ainsley’s cleavage, and the corner of her lip turned down in disdain.

Idella was a bit of a buttoned-up prude.

“Oh, that’s right,” Ainsley said, not noticing the look. “I’d forgotten about that bit of business. Any news on the mysterious heir?”

Idella beamed at that. “None whatsoever.”
Tsk.

When Rupert Ezekiel, the one-hundred-and-three-year-old previous owner of the property, had died nearly five years ago his will stated that the house be held in a trust under Mayor Ramelle’s control until his unnamed next of kin was located . . . or for a period of five years, at which time the house would be given to the Harpies to do with as they saw fit.

Rupert’s lawyer had immediately set out trying to locate the mysterious heir. No one knew who the person was, as everyone had believed Rupert was the end of the Ezekiel line. Some around town were quite perturbed the old man had been able to keep such a whopper of a secret all these years.

Hitching Post didn’t care for secrets. Almost all who lived here hung their daily lives on the laundry line with the day’s washing and didn’t understand when others wanted to keep certain aspects of their private lives to themselves.

“When’s the deadline again?” Dylan asked.

A possessive glint flashed in Idella’s eyes. “The five-year waiting period will expire at midnight on January first.”

When the heir-hunt had started, Mayor Ramelle, who fully believed the search was a wild-goose chase, rounded up her fellow Harpies and stormed the mansion. Under her command as the estate’s trustee, the Harpies tackled the mansion’s refurbishment without waiting for word about the heir. They openly claimed that the home deserved saving, no matter who it ultimately ended up with. If someone turned up, the house would still be listed on the National Register of Historic Places and be known as a Harpies’ success story.

But make no mistake. The Harpies were rubbing their collective hands in eager anticipation of January first. That was when the house would be fully and completely theirs. There were already plans in place to rent out the space for parties, wedding receptions, and the like. The marketing strategy would fill the Harpies’ coffers and also provide them a place to hold their meetings, host fund-raisers, and throw fancy events like tonight’s masquerade ball.

Ainsley looked among us. “Has anyone ever learned the identity of the heir?”

We shook our heads. Oddly, no one had a clue.

“So strange,” she murmured.

“Indeed,” Idella said coolly, looking over our shoulders as another group noisily came inside.

The last I’d heard, Rupert’s lawyer had abandoned the search for the heir two years ago, declaring it a futile waste of his time. I had always suspected that Mayor Ramelle financially encouraged the lawyer’s desertion.

It benefited the Harpies greatly if the heir was never found.

Idella motioned us toward the stairs. “Please, please go on up. The party’s in full swing, and it’s bound to be a wonderful night.”
Tsk.

As I passed her by, her gaze settled on mine and she gave me a slight smile, a thin tight line.

For some reason I was feeling rather like a fly being lured into a spider’s parlor as I carefully climbed the steps to the second floor, then the third. My skin tingled uncomfortably—my internal warning system kicking in. Ainsley had dubbed the response my “witchy senses” and it happened only when danger was near. Nervous, I kept a firm grip on the railing as I climbed, and when I looked upward toward the ballroom’s entrance, the tingling suddenly made sense.

Patricia Davis Jackson stood at the landing at the top of the steps.

Chapter Four

W
earing a phony smile and a lovely hoop-skirted sapphire blue ball gown that matched her eyes, Patricia said, “Dylan! There you are! I was starting to think you weren’t going to show, considering”—behind her silver mask, she cast a disapproving glance at a grandfather clock near the stairway—“you’re an hour and a half late.”

At the sight of the clock the tingling I’d been feeling worsened, raising the fine hair on my arms, making my skin bump over. This had to be the clock Delia had seen in her dream. Looking around, I was amazed to see just how many people had brown hair. From the Kirbys downstairs to my aunt Eulalie, who was swirling around the dance floor with Mr. Butterbaugh, to dozens more.

Dylan dutifully kissed his mama’s cheek. “We’re here now,” he said lightly.

“Yes, I see that.” She smiled lovingly at him and straightened his tie.

He was an only child, and it had been just him and his mama for a long time now. As critical as she could be to me, she adored every hair on his head, and it showed in the love in her eyes when she looked at him.

The only thing in her eyes when she looked at me was judgmental disdain. “Hello, Carly.”

“Hello, Patricia.” Civil. Perfectly civil.

“Your dress is lovely,” she said. “Wearing white after Labor Day is a bold choice.”

No ruckus, no ruckus,
I silently repeated.

I declined to point out that my dress was ivory. “Thank you. So is yours. And is that a new hairdo?” I asked as innocently as I could. “It’s very becoming. Very Martha Stewart–ish, post prison sentence.”

It wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop me in the least. In reality her blond pixie-style cut with wispy ends looked modern and glamorous.

Patricia’s mouth tightened, as did Dylan’s hand around mine.

Warnings, both.

“Miz PJ!” Ainsley said, quickly sidestepping in front of me. “The house is amazing.”

Ainsley had always been the protective sort, but I wasn’t sure who she was guarding in this situation—Patricia or me. After all, Ainsley was one of the few allowed to call Patricia by her endearing nickname, as her mama and Patricia were close friends.

Patricia smiled a genuine smile, and it transformed her whole face from pinched prune to Southern beauty. She grasped Ainsley’s hands. “It definitely is.”

Longingly, I glanced toward the ballroom. I didn’t want to stand here under Patricia’s scrutiny. I spotted my daddy standing in a corner, a cocktail gripped between his hands.

He was a man after my own heart.

I squeezed Dylan’s arm and glanced around the small group on the landing. “I’ll catch up with y’all later. I see my father.” And the bartender.

The blessed bartender.

“Lovely,” Patricia said snidely.

Dylan sighed heavily. Or maybe that was me.

I made cross-eyes at Ainsley and turned to go. I’d taken only two steps before I was jerked backward. I’d have fallen flat on my rear if not for Carter catching me, his strong hands grabbing hold of me just under my rib cage. He carefully set me to rights, and I glared at Patricia.

Whose stiletto was firmly planted on the train of my gown.

“Oh my! Look at that. I’m terribly sorry,” she trilled with a malicious gleam in her eye as she removed her foot from my dress. “What an unfortunate accident. I hope the dress isn’t torn.”

I clutched my locket and clenched my jaw. Hard.

“It’s okay,” Ainsley said, crouching down to inspect the dress. “No rips. You’re good to go.” She smoothed my hem and gave me a little push forward.

Trying to get me to go before I said or did something I’d regret.

I took a step, caught Dylan’s gaze, held it.

He must have seen the about-to-snap look in my eye because he cupped my face in his hands, leaned in and whispered, “Love you, Care Bear,” just before kissing me.

I heard Patricia suck in a breath and resisted the urge to turn around and stick my tongue out at her. Instead I headed through the wide entryway that housed a coatroom and a hallway that led to the restrooms, and straight across the dance floor to the bar. Buffet tables lined a long wall, and I noticed silver candlesticks of varying heights had been used as decorations. Seeing them increased my anxiety over Delia’s dream.

At the bar, I ordered a drink. A strong one.

My father sauntered over. “After what I just witnessed, you might want to make it a double.”

“Already did,” I said, thanking the bartender when he handed me the glass.

Daddy curled an arm around me, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and threw Patricia a weary look. “Are you still considering marrying into that family?”

My father, Augustus Hartwell, was an astute man who tended to cut straight to the chase on important matters.

“There’s been no mention of marriage,” I said, watching Patricia laugh it up with Ainsley.

Daddy
harrumphed
. “We both know it’s only a matter of when, but I do say that Patricia should be right glad your mama hadn’t witnessed what just happened.” His voice dropped to a deadly serious tone. “She might have pushed Patricia straight over that railing.”

He sounded like he shared those same vengeful thoughts, which wasn’t like him at all. Daddy was a peaceful sort of man. Patricia’s spitefulness toward me had clearly worked its way under his skin.

A surge of love for him swept over me, and I leaned up and kissed his cheek. “That would be
quite
the ruckus.”

He patted my cheek. “That’s a fact. You know, part of your mama’s crazy plan for me to infiltrate the Harpies is to soften up Patricia with my abundant charm.” Puffing up, he straightened his bow tie. “Smooth waters for you to sail on into her life with Dylan at your side. I’m not sure your mama is aware what a challenge that might be.”

So that’s how my mama had spun her scheme to him. No wonder he’d agreed to put himself through this humiliation. He’d do anything for me.

I sipped my drink—an act of great control because I wanted to slam it back—and looked up at my father. “As charming as you are—and you are—smooth waters are not in my and Patricia’s future, Daddy. She just made that quite clear. So save yourself. Run. Run far away from this group and don’t look back.”