Adelaide Confused (17 page)

“
I assume you’re referring
to Marta, my housekeeper.” He came out from around the desk,
hooking a leg over the corner to sit on the edge and watch
me.

I forewent my snarky reply,
getting straight to the point. “So tell me what the hell is going
on.”

“I think the less you know the safer you’ll
be.”

“I don’t have a security crew watching my
house, you’re right, but I’ll take my chances.”

He wasn’t happy, but I
doubted it had anything to do with my safety. Reed Wallace was an
information hog. He sighed. “I assume you’ve realized that Theodore
Dunn was killed by Beagban.”

“Beagban?”

“The man that kidnapped us,” he
explained.

I guess Gap-tooth had a
real name. It was stupid. I nodded for him to continue.

“Beagban is acting on orders, Larson Hurst’s
orders. Beagban is a pawn really, the muscle.”

“Who is Larson Hurst?”

“
He’s an old acquaintance
of mine. Once a friend, but now a rival.”

“
Rival?” I asked in
disbelief. “He had your buddy Theodore Dunn murdered. The two of
you must be very competitive,” I said sarcastically.

“
Lars no longer has a
conscience, and if he did he wouldn’t listen to it. The stakes are
too high.”

“That guy Beagban mentioned a book?” I
prompted.

Reed’s emotions spiked,
though he didn’t so much as twitch. “Allegedly Anastas Demidov
could contact those from another realm.”

My heart stopped.
“Ghosts?”

“
No, demons.”

I was stunned speechless.

“Anastas kept a record of his findings, a
demon diary so to speak.”

“Allegedly,” I reminded him.

“
Allegedly, yes, there was
no witness to his demon encounters. In fact, no one even knew of
his gift. The book came to light after his death. The family found
it while sorting through his things and word spread.”

“So you and Lars went racing after it?”

“
No, I don’t believe Lars
knew. Typically he’d have minimal interest in such
things.”

“So why is he murdering for it now?”

“
Theodore heard about the
book. He was deeply interested in history, especially relics of the
occult, and had a network of gifted acquaintances.

“
The journal was being held
by Anastas’ niece in Canada. She’d had offers on it, and though she
discounted it as superstitious nonsense, she was willing to sell. I
provided Theodore with the money to bid and a private
jet.

“
I spoke with him just once
after he procured the book. He’d briefly read through and found it
to be genuine. Anastas really had the gift. Theo also found the
information highly dangerous.

“
I made immediate
arrangements for him to return to the States, thinking St. Simons
would be a nice quiet place for him to study the book more closely
in relative safety.”

I was overwhelmed by his
guilt. He blamed himself for Theodore’s death.

“
As you know, he never made
it here. Beagban was waiting on the island.”

“So that’s why you want me to search for a
guilty person,” I said as it dawned on me. “You think someone from
your company told Lars what you were up to.”

“
I made all of Theo’s
flight arrangements from my New York office. No one I met by
appointment ever entered unsupervised. Only the senior members
would have had access to waltz in unaccompanied.”

“
Or the cleaning crew, or
your secretary, or any other number of people. Maybe Theodore
talked to someone,” I suggested.

“
No, I’ve already
investigated those options. I’m certain it was someone from my
company. Lars is paying one of my employees to pass along important
information, I’ve suspected it for some time.”

I believed him. Having
overheard a conversation at the dinner party between this Beagban
character and a cohort, it seemed logical to suspect a Wallace
Enterprise employee. “Okay, so Lars finds out about the book, knows
it’s potentially dangerous, and that you want it. Naturally he
sends in the muscle to kill your friend and steal the book. But
that doesn’t make sense,” I said, shaking my head as I paced.
“Beagban kidnapped us, willing to torture the book’s location from
you.”

“It would appear the book is missing.”

“Missing?” I echoed.

“
Beagban took Theodore’s
briefcase. It was empty. He went back to search for the journal,
thinking Theo stashed it before he died, but it wasn’t
there.”

“How do you know all that?”

“Lars told me.”

“
What, did you just call
him up and have a chat over the phone?” I mocked.

“
It was an unpleasant
necessity. I needed to ensure that Beagban wouldn’t continue to
pull rogue stunts.”

“
Rogue stunts, as in
killing off another friend?” I said dryly.

“
No, Lars told him to kill
Theo. I was referring to the kidnapping,” Reed
explained.

“So Lars, your rival, just agreed to put
Beagban on a leash? That seems unlikely.”

I could feel him struggling
to explain properly. “Having Beagban kidnap me—”

“—
us,” I
corrected.

“—
was...”

“Sloppy,” I supplied.

“
...embarrassing. To have
your employee calling the shots while you have no clue what’s going
on is embarrassing. It made Lars look a fool. If for no other
reason than his own reputation, he won’t let Beagban step out of
line again.”

“
That’s not much comfort.
What happens when Lars decides it’s in his best interest to have
one of us offed? It’s not like he had to have Theodore killed.
Beagban could have stolen the briefcase without going
stab-happy.”

I instantly regretted the
callous remark, feeling Reed’s guilt and sadness, but he never let
it show. “No one is standing between him and the book, so no one is
in immediate danger. Lars and I are both aware the book is missing,
it’s now a matter of who will find it first.”

“
You told Lars you didn’t
have it, and he believed you?” I asked incredulously.

“If I had the book I wouldn’t be on the
island.”

“
So what now?” I asked.
“Any leads?”

“
None whatsoever. But in
the meantime I want you to attend retreat functions searching for
the leak.”

I stopped pacing to ask,
“What’s Lars up to? I can’t imagine he’s twiddling his thumbs while
you’re poking around St. Simons.”

“
He boasted about sending
someone who could sense the book.”

“
Is it true?”

“Lars doesn’t give idle threats.”

“I thought you said he was boasting.”

Reed stood. “The two are
not mutually exclusive.”

Aleuromancy, as I soon
found out, was the use of flour as a means of divination. Reed took
me to the kitchen, a large space tucked away on the ground floor.
That was where I met Betsy Cross, his cook.

Short and thin with graying
hair, Betsy created the illusion of fragility. Watching her haul an
iron skillet with one hand while tenderizing a lump of meat with
the other somewhat dispelled the image. She moved from counter to
counter, picking up some things and discarding others, looking like
a bird, quick and decisive.

“This must be the empath you spoke of,” she
said without looking at me. “Have a seat, have a seat.”

Reed sauntered to the
center island, parking himself on a barstool. Betsy ignored him,
maybe the only woman alive who could. Even I, somewhat immune to
the charm, couldn’t help but appreciate his charisma.

The allure had nothing to
do with his clothing, though I liked the sentiment. He’d left his
jacket and tie behind in the library, unbuttoning the collar of his
starched white and rolling the sleeves up past his elbow. Even
undone he was the perfect picture, just your average executive
enjoying some downtime.

I could see his muscles
flex beneath the fine cloth of his shirt. He bent forward to pick
over a cheese platter Betsy had provided, and I watched in
fascination. But the allure wasn’t his body, either. It was his
attitude.

Reed Wallace moved like an
emperor of old, not just confident in his superiority, but certain,
as if destined by the powers that be to rule over us lesser folk.
What was it he knew, what made him so sure about... well...
everything?

He spared me a glance over
his shoulder, brows knitting before a smile spread. His smug
amusement rocked me into reality where I found myself standing in
the doorway, gaping like a fool. I’d been watching Reed eat cheese,
wondering if anyone had ever looked so concise and fluid while
consuming finger food.

Reed nudged the platter in my direction as I
sank onto a stool. I ignored it, unwilling to even look in his
direction.

It was as if the charm was a separate being,
sentient and scheming. It waited until I was comfortable, and after
having an entire conversation with Reed without so much as a spark,
it struck, spelling me into a stupor.

Reed broke the silence,
saying, “Betsy practices aleuromancy. I thought you might like to
meet someone capable of divining the future.”

I already had. Apparently
Reed didn’t know about Nancy Bristow. Good to know, and somewhat
comforting. I often worried just how much Reed knew about
me.

Betsy set down a loaf of
bread. It was straight from the oven. “Did you bake my fortune
inside?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” she said, producing a
variety of jams and butter. “This is for eating.”

“Oh.”

Reed was amused. I could
easily imagine him swirling his wine in a lackadaisical manner
while he laughed at me. His emotions were at odds with Betsy, whose
brisk movements wafted an steely intent as she went about the
kitchen, focused and alert on her work. But their feelings were
soft, easily ignored, just a background whisper barely heard over
my own ambivalence.

“
It’s not an unreasonable
guess,” Betsy assured. “The Greeks often hid paper fortunes in
dough. And of course now we have the fortune cookie, though they
hardly ever have a prediction inside. Useless advice more often
than not.”

“
So the practice didn’t
start in China?”

“
No,” she said, pulling a
ceramic bowl from the top shelf. “Aleuron is Greek for flour, and
it was believed that Apollo presided over this particular form of
divination.”

“
How do you do it?” I asked
with unaffected interest.

Betsy carried the bowl
under her arm and propped on one hip. It looked Dutch-Amish, the
foreign lettering circled around an outmoded couple. She absently
tossed handfuls of flour inside while speaking. “There are
different ways, some more dramatic than others. For example, I
could sprinkle the flour over a sacrificial victim.”

“
Lucky for you, Betsy
doesn’t take herself that seriously,” Reed joked.

“
I could throw the flour
onto a fire,” Betsy continued, “or even the floor.”

“Is that how you do it?”

“
Too messy,” Betsy
answered. “Marta hates trying to sweep under the stoves.” I watched
her lower the bowl under a facet, filling it with water. “I’m just
going to rinse the flour out and look for a pattern in the
residue.” And she did just that.

The air became thick with
anticipation as we waited for Betsy to forecast the future. She
moved away from the sink, turning the bowl toward the
light.

As her sense of discovery
grew, so did her delight. Betsy Cross loved her gift and she was
thrilled to use it. “I see...” Betsy squinted, lowering her nose
until it touched the rim. Abruptly she lowered the bowl, turning to
Reed. “She finds it,” she said, nodding toward me. “She finds what
you are searching for inside the turtle.”

And just like that the air
was muddied with confusion. Reed was silent and thoughtful, but I
didn’t know enough to be preoccupied. “Are you talking about the
book?”

“
I know even less than
you,” Betsy admitted. “Mr. Wallace asked me to do a casting with
the both of you in mind—this is what I see. I don’t know what book
you speak of, but whatever he’s looking for, you will
find.”

“
Inside a turtle?” My tone
implied that I found the idea improbable.

She shrugged.

Suddenly I was hungry. So while Reed turned
reflective, I shoveled down some cheese and bread. Betsy returned
to being busy, racing around the kitchen and fixing me a drink in
the process.

“
Did you become a cook
because it was convenient to your gift?” I asked her.

“
No, I always loved working
in the kitchen. I spent a lot of time baking as a child. I grew up
on a farm,” she explained.

“Me too,” though I hardly baked.

“
Without my passion for
food I may have never discovered my additional abilities, funny to
think. But I doubt that happens often. The Universe is too smart
for that.”

“
Is that what you believe?
That the Universe has a personality, and it gifts us with extra
abilities as it sees fit?” I didn’t have a circumspect belief
system, but if I did, a cosmic brain wouldn’t be it.