Never Sleep With Strangers (10 page)

“Please, Jon,” Dianne said quietly. “We all just love doing this. Don't let what happened last time make you paranoid. Cassie didn't kill herself. She was very beautiful but maybe not particularly coordinated. She fell, Jon. She fell, you've gone through hell and that's that. It was a long time ago, we're all having a wonderful time now and we'll all be extremely angry with you if you make us leave!”

“And that's a fact,” Anna Lee said determinedly.

“I'm just very concerned about you all, and—” Jon began.

“Jon Stuart, you are not going to throw an old lady out on the streets!” Reggie said indignantly.

And he was defeated. Sabrina could see his expression change as he looked at the elderly author. He took her hand and kissed it. “Never, Regina, in a thousand years would I think of putting you out on the streets.”

“Damn straight, dear boy!” she declared, and she leaned across the bar to kiss his cheek.

Jon set down the drink he had been making. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, let's leave it at this. If there are any more incidents, or if it looks as if the weather could present real danger, it's over.” He poured himself a straight shot of bourbon and hoisted it.

Anne Lee smiled. “Hear! Hear!” she cried, and she too leaned over the bar, planting a kiss not on his cheek but on his lips.

“Whoa, hot one!” Brett declared. “Well, I'm awfully damned glad we're going to keep this party going, but I'm sorry, I'll be damned if I'll kiss you, Jon.”

“You'll be decked if you kiss me!” Jon warned in turn, and the whole group laughed.

“You won't deck
me,
will you?” Dianne Dorsey asked sweetly. “My turn,” she said, leaning over the bar and kissing him on the lips as well.

“Hey, ladies, I'm bartending here, too,” Brett commented. “Don't all fight to kiss me at once!”

“Silly boy, those are surely the most used lips in history,” V.J. drawled.

“Oh, let's be nice,” Anna Lee said, and she kissed him, lingering just a bit.

“Much better. Share the wealth,” Brett told Jon.

Jon shrugged. “Well, it is my house.”

“House!” Susan exclaimed. “He calls this a house.”

Sabrina wasn't sure why—she didn't mean to be a killjoy in the least—but she suddenly wanted to be away from the crowd, away from the joking.

And away from all the well-used lips.

She felt strangely like an outsider. They had all known each other much longer—and much better. They had all been here when Cassandra died. They seemed to form an enclave, and she felt oddly excluded, yet at the same time a little relieved to be so. She needed to get away for a bit, to feel a touch of reality.

Jon had mixed her drink; she saw it on the bar. But she took her towel and silently slipped away, making her way upstairs to her room.

She showered, washed her hair, wrapped herself in a towel and curled up on the bed to call her sister. Tammy was two years her junior, an archeology major who had married one of her professors. Nothing in the world made either of them happier than digging in the dirt for ancient relics, unless it was their newborn son, Tyler Delaney. Though she was happy as a lark, Tammy was also feeling the confinement of new motherhood, and she was eager to hear all about Scotland.

“Aren't you having fun?” she inquired now.

“Sure. Why do you ask?” Sabrina replied.

“Well, you've already called Mom. Now me. Surely you have better things to do with your time. So tell me, what's going on? Are you having problems with the master sleuth himself?”

“Who?”

“Oh, don't play innocent with me. You know I'm talking about Jon Stuart. Tall, dark and handsome. Man of mystery with the great accent. The faster-than-a-speeding-bullet affair of your life. So, did he or didn't he do in his beautiful, bitchy wife? Have you learned anything new over there?”

Sabrina stared at the phone. “He was cleared of all charges, you know.”

“Lots of people have been acquitted on all kinds of charges. That doesn't make them innocent.”

“No, I don't believe he did it,” Sabrina said firmly.

“Oooh, listen to you. So the flame is still burning brightly. He remains tall, dark, handsome and totally enchanting! So where is he, and why are you on the phone with me?”

“Everyone's down by the pool—in the castle dungeon, if you can believe it. Jon was threatening to call the whole week off because he found a bullet in the wall.”

“Well, it is Mystery Week,” Tammy commented. “Isn't that the kind of thing that happens? Mysterious clues and all?”

“He says it's not part of the mystery.”

“Is he telling the truth?”

“I imagine. He was trying to make us all go home. Reggie Hampton—she's a tough old bird who writes adorable mysteries featuring a cat—refused to go.”

“Good for her,” Tammy said. “Then again, maybe you should come home. That way you could quit calling us long distance.”

“Very funny. See if I call you for a friendly chat again.”

“How's your ex, by the way? Brett is there, right? Honestly, I have to admit to being totally jealous. I'm sitting here with baby oatmeal, poo-poo diapers, and my boobs are swollen enough to burst. And you're off jet-setting in Scotland with the rich and famous. Not fair. Besides, Mom always liked you better.”

Sabrina started to laugh at the old joke, glad that she had called. “Mom never liked me better, and you're being totally irrelevant.” She and Tammy had fought like the dickens growing up, but now her sister was her best friend, and the only person other than herself and Jon who knew she'd had a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet affair with him.

“So how is old Brett?”

“Brett's fine. He's at the pool, too, whining because he isn't getting as many kisses as Jon.”

“Ah,” Tammy murmured, “so that's it. Those other writers—those hussies—are down in the dungeon kissing tall, dark and handsome. And you're jealous, so you ran to your room and phoned home.”

“Don't be silly. I called to ask about Tyler,” Sabrina protested.

“Our beautiful baby is fine. He's an angel, too—sleeps all the time. I'm waiting for him to wake up.”

“Think you deserved such a good baby?” Sabrina teased.

“If you want me to suffer, I'm suffering. I'm going to have to poke the kid awake soon. I'm not kidding—this nursing thing is killing me. I think I could do lethal damage with a jet spray of milk at the moment. But back to you and Mr. Mystery. Now seriously, pay attention to me here. Why not take the bull by the horns? Sleep with good old tall, dark and handsome again, and find out if you've been carrying a torch all these years for something imagined or something real. Just remember that it's Mystery Week, and make sure you know who you're sleeping with. Don't go sleeping with any strangers!”

Sabrina was startled to feel an uneasy sensation sweep over her as her sister jokingly, unknowingly, echoed what Brett had said in the chamber of horrors.

“I'm here as a professional fiction writer involved in a charity event, nothing more,” Sabrina said. Yet to her own ears, even as she spoke the lie, she froze, certain she had heard a soft clicking sound on the line.

Had someone been listening in on her conversation?

“Sabrina?”

“Yes, I'm still here,” she said softly. She didn't know why, but she felt the same deep sensation of unease again. It was unnervingly akin to fear.

It was a big house—castle—and she was certain it had several phone lines, but not necessarily one for each guest room. Someone had simply accidentally picked up in the middle of her conversation and then hung up again.

So why did she feel someone had been listening in?

“Give my nephew a kiss for me,” Sabrina said quickly. “Love you. I'll call again in a few days.”

“Great, bye, have a good time!” Tammy said.

Sabrina stared at the phone for a moment, then hung up. And suddenly she had the uneasy feeling that someone was behind her. She whirled around on the bed.

She was alone in her room, but the doors to the balcony were open.

She held tightly to her towel and rushed over to step outside.

There was no one there.

But she could see Jon Stuart, out on his balcony. For a moment, she was relieved to see him. He, too, had left the crowd and come upstairs. Okay, so maybe she had been jealous. And maybe she had felt out of his league down by the pool, realizing that he'd had many lovers in his life, and she had just been one of them. After all, it was rumored that he'd been having an affair at the time Cassandra died, and if so, that affair would have been with someone who was here now….

The thought hurt. Like a knife in the pit of her stomach. She gazed at him, wondering what was going on in
his
mind….

Then she realized that she was standing on the balcony with only a towel around her.

Maybe he hadn't seen her.

He raised a hand in a silent salute.

She waved back and retreated in a flash, anxious to get dressed.

At least, she told herself, if Jon had been on his balcony, he couldn't have been in her room. No one had been in her room. True, the balcony doors had been open, but no one had been out there, and, despite the celebrated guest list, she doubted there were any superheros among them who could have
flown
away.

Of course, Jon might have been on the phone in his room, listening in on her conversation, she thought.

No, he would have apologized, and he would have hung up right away.

Surely he would have done so. But how did she really know? Had she made of him what she wanted him to be? In fact, if she thought about it, maybe she didn't know him at all. And so much time had passed.

Maybe he truly was a stranger.

And some very strange things were happening here….

Stop! she told herself. Get dressed, and get ready to take part in Mystery Week.

It got dark so early, and now it was almost dusk. Time to head down to the chapel.

 

She loved the chamber of horrors.

It was just so
good.

The people were so real. The fear and the terror were so real. And deep in the dungeon, with the recessed lighting, it was like a secret world where famous killers could come to life. Their victims could almost be heard in their silent yet eloquent screams.

Walking softly through the fantastic exhibits, she felt a pleasant sense of power.

No one knew.

“Here!”

She spun around at the whisper, trembling with a pleasant fear.

For a second, just a split second, she thought that one of the wax figures had come to life, that Jack the Ripper prowled the dungeon or that a headsman was stalking her.

The pale, purple-gray light was so eerie.

The figures were so real.

She could hear her heart slamming against the walls of her chest. Someone was moving, furtive in the darkness…stalking?

Then she heard her name whispered, and delicious chills cascaded down her spine. It was him. He had come.

Then she saw him, and she started to hurry to him, wondering at the stricken expression on his face.

“She knows!” he gasped. “She knows, and she intends to blackmail us. Oh, God, I don't know what to do. I don't—”

She threw her arms around him, hushing him, calming him. “Now tell me who you're talking about and what exactly happened.”

He did, and as he spoke, he shook. He was afraid. Afraid for the future, afraid for her. She had never been loved so in her life.

“My God, I couldn't bear it if—” he began.

“Hush, hush, my love! Nothing bad will happen.”

“But I don't know what to do!”

She smiled, shaking her head. “I do,” she said softly. “Don't you worry.” She held him close and looked around at the tableaux. Hooded headsmen, masked murderers. She smiled and soothed him. “Don't you worry. I know exactly what to do.”

T
he castle was most definitely large, Sabrina thought, descending the main stairs to the foyer. It was full of people, guests and staff, and yet now, at dusk, as she hurried to her appointment, she didn't see a soul. Eerie.

She headed around the stone expanse of the main stairway to where the second set of winding steps led down to the dungeon beneath. She hadn't felt unnerved just glad that they were going swimming. Now, however…

Turning away from the cheerful recreation area, she came to a pair of heavy, brass-accented wooden doors and paused. They were open to the exhibits, of course, Joshua Valine's fabulous tableaux of lives—and deaths—gone by. The track lighting within allowed an eerie mauve glow to whisper out of the room like fog on a dark night. She shivered, then thought that she had heard someone inside.

“Hello in there!” she called. Her voice seemed very loud. She stepped in, following the path to where Jack the Ripper stood over his last victim, Mary Kelly. Sabrina found herself pausing again, biting her lower lip. Mary Kelly really did resemble Susan Sharp. The sculptor obviously had an odd sense of humor—or esthetics. After all, he supposedly liked Sabrina and he had made her the victim on the rack. Then again, none of the women in the exhibit had fared any too well.

She heard a noise behind her, like a whisper of air, and she spun around. “Hello? Who—”

She broke off, looking around. She could see no one moving about at all. Camy Clark as Joan of Arc gazed heavenward from her stake. She herself was stretched out on the rack. Joe Johnston, shaved and wearing a white wig as Louis XVI, faced the guillotine with Anna Lee Zane as Marie Antoinette at his side. They all looked incredibly real, as if they had just been in action but suddenly stopped dead when Sabrina turned around.

Goose bumps broke out over her arms, and she took a step backward. She nearly screamed as she backed into someone. Then she saw that it was only the straw setup for the Joan of Arc display.

Face it, this place is scary as all hell, she told herself. No one had been in here, watching her, even if she had felt a presence, felt someone's eyes on her. It was just the eerily realistic wax figures “watching” her. All the figures, with their penetrating glass eyes.

Sabrina hadn't meant to run, but she did.

And as she did so, she thought she heard the sound of laughter. Soft, whispering laughter, like an airy breeze.

Okay, so you're losing your mind here, she told herself as she hurried toward the second set of wooden doors. She assumed they led to the chapel, and she pushed them open, entering the room.

It wasn't the castle's chapel, but the crypt.

Stone shelves and flooring housed ornate tombs, with angels hewn of marble, crosses, death's-heads and more funerary art decorating individual graves. Sabrina felt as if she had entered the catacombs of a great cathedral, there seemed to be so many dead from so long ago, stretching out at least the length of one wing of the castle. Only here, in the entry, was there dim lighting to show the unwary guest what he or she had stumbled upon. There was nothing awful about the crypt—no visible bodies decaying in shrouds, no skulls or bare bones upon the shelving. If she weren't alone, she'd be fascinated, eager to study the crypt's dates and art. And Terry would be in heaven here.

But, admittedly, Sabrina was spooked. Goose bumps were popping out on her arms again. She turned about, then paused, turning back. A stone sarcophagus lay dead ahead of her, a shiny new cross and fresh flowers atop it. Sabrina saw that a banner was tied to the flowers, and she approached the casket to read the words.
Rest in peace and God's love, dear Cassie.

Sabrina backed away, startled and uneasy. She'd had no idea that Cassandra Stuart had been buried here, in this castle, where she had died.

Feeling suddenly as if the crypt were closing in on her, Sabrina turned and hurried out. She closed the massive doors behind her, and as she did so, she was suddenly certain that she heard the laughter again.

“Get a grip!” she whispered angrily to herself. If the creatures in the tableaux were coming alive to taunt her, they weren't magically making their way into the crypt, as well. This place was simply spooky as all hell.

“Great setting for a Halloween party,” she murmured irritably, realizing that, of course, it was also a great place for a Mystery Week. They had taken place here before Cassie died, and they should continue to do so. She, Sabrina Holloway, was a mystery writer. She was supposed to come alive with excitement over this type of affair, the way the others did. This was supposed to be fun.

She leaned against the crypt doors. “Right. I'm having so damn much fun, I can barely stand it,” she whispered softly to herself.

She straightened her shoulders and headed for the third pair of doors, which had to belong to the chapel.

They did.

She breathed a sigh of relief, looking in. The chapel was beautiful, with its stone arches, altar and ancient pews. The stations of the cross had been etched in stained glass along the walls, with special lighting set behind to show them off even in the gloom of the dungeon. Evidently a few Stuarts had their tombs in here instead of the crypt and these were between the stations, their occupants elaborately carved in stone atop their final resting places. Like the crypt, the chapel seemed to be immaculate, with nary a cobweb or spider. Tapers burned on the altar and from beautiful candlesticks at the end of each pew.

Sabrina started toward the altar. As she reached it, she heard footsteps behind her, and she spun around, thinking she'd scream and tear out her hair if no one was there this time.

But Dianne Dorsey, clad in a black cocktail gown, her neatly cut ebony hair swinging, was coming toward her, a smile on her face.

“Am I glad to see you!” the young writer exclaimed.

Sabrina smiled. “I'm glad to see you, too.”

“Are you the murderer?” Dianne asked anxiously.

Sabrina laughed. “I'm not supposed to tell you if I am.”

“Well, if you are, I'll be the first to go.”

“And vice versa, of course.”

“Your note sent you here?” Dianne asked.

Sabrina nodded. “I'm supposed to meet with one of my wayward girls. Choir practice.”

Dianne laughed. “Well, despite the fact that I'm Mary, the Hare Krishna, by day, evidently I moonlight for your call-girl outfit at night.”

“Oh, no, you mean you're not an angelic but misguided chorister?”

“Well, I'm sure I sing just as angelically as anyone, but my note said that I'm to be reprimanded for missing the last ‘appointment' you arranged for me.”

“With whom?”

“Demented Dick—who else?” Dianne laughed.

“Oh, well, consider yourself duly reprimanded.”

“Not that I would have missed a date with Jon as Demented Dick had I had one!”

Her airy comment had Sabrina turning with curiosity about the nature of Dianne's relationship with their host, but Dianne had begun walking through the chapel, looking at the stained glass stations of the cross.

“These are really beautiful, aren't they?” the young woman observed.

“Gorgeous,” Sabrina agreed.

“It's Tiffany glass,” Dianne explained. “Jon's grandfather put them in, turn of the century. Jon told me the last time we were here.”

Curious, Sabrina followed her. “That week must have been so awful. So tragic.”

Dianne shrugged. “I hate to sound like Susan, but Cassie was so…hated.” She flashed a small smile at Sabrina. “Mostly by women, of course.”

“Apparently Jon was happy with her,” Sabrina ventured, just a little embarrassed by her not so subtle fishing expedition.

“John was planning on getting a divorce.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“He…”

Dianne smiled. “You're assuming I was sleeping with Jon?” she demanded.

“I wasn't assuming anything. I—”

“Actually, I adore Jon. He's a good friend, one of the best guys out there. Tough and rugged, willing to go to bat for a friend.”

“So are you saying that you weren't having an affair with him?”

“I'm saying that I would, wouldn't you?” Dianne said pleasantly.

“I wasn't here,” Sabrina reminded her without answering the question.

“Oh, I see. This is the mystery that everyone
really
wants to solve this week. So you're looking for the criminal, too. You're asking if I was having a mad, passionate affair with Jon, flew off the handle and threw his nasty wife over the balcony? No, Sabrina. Jon was a big boy, he could handle himself. He wouldn't have thanked anyone for interference on his behalf. Besides, he did care about Cassie. She could be dazzling when she chose to be. I think she was becoming rancid because she realized she was losing him, and she was trying desperately—and pathetically, perhaps—to win him back.”

“You think so? Then you hated her but felt sorry for her as well?”

Dianne shook her head. “Nope. Don't go giving me any gentler emotions where Cassie was involved. I simply hated her. I had good reason. But don't think that
only
women despised the little darling, no matter how dazzling she could be. She did a few terrible things to men, as well. Then again, I must admit, there were those who absolutely adored her. Like your ex.”

“Brett?” Sabrina said, surprised.

Dianne looked at her, arching a brow. “Oh, dear, I'm sorry—are you two getting back together? Brett does keep implying that you're a twosome, but V.J. told me it wasn't so.”

“V.J. is right—it isn't so. I had just never realized that Cassie was among Brett's…women.”

“Really?” Dianne said, sounding startled. “Well, maybe he didn't want his feelings known…especially by you. You may not be back together, but Brett seems to wish it were so.”

“Dianne, are you saying that Brett was having an affair with Cassie? Here, in Jon's house?”

“His castle, darling. You mustn't call it a house,” Dianne said, amused. “But yes, they were having an affair, in Jon's castle. They were discreet. Brett was in the midst of a wild infatuation—but you know Brett well, so you know how his infatuations come and go. Cassie probably wanted to irritate her hubby, but Brett really does value his friendship with Jon.”

“But not enough to avoid sleeping with his wife.”

“Now, that's a dangerous tone. Moralistic, even. How intriguing. But then, our host does have an impact on most women, doesn't he? We all instantly spring to his defense. Like Lucy defended Count Dracula even as he sucked her blood dry!”

“I'm not trying to be moralistic, and I hardly see Jon Stuart as Count Dracula.”

“Tall, dark, handsome…devastating,” Dianne said. “I admit, I adore the man. He'd be welcome to my blood anytime.”

“But, Dianne, I can't see where, with any man, sleeping with his wife would encourage a friendship.”

“I told you, Brett was infatuated. Madly in love.”

“Dianne, you bitch!”

Dianne and Sabrina both swung around at the sound of the voice coming from the doors to the chapel.

“Brett, this is a house of worship!” Dianne said. “He can't say that in a chapel, can he?” she asked, glancing at Sabrina.

Sabrina shrugged. “He said it, didn't he?”

“You could go to hell for that, Brett,” Dianne taunted.

But Brett wasn't amused. He was striding down the aisle between the pews. “It's not true!” he stated furiously, glaring at Dianne, then looking more petulantly at Sabrina. “You know me, it's not true!”

Sabrina looked at him, slowly arching a brow. “What isn't true, Brett? Are you trying to tell me that you weren't having an affair with Cassandra Stuart?”

He didn't exactly deny it. He spun on Dianne again. “Where did you get your information? It's all a pack of lies!” He was clearly agitated, hands on his hips, handsome face contorted.

Dianne lifted her chin. “From someone who knew.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Someone Cassie confided in.”

“She was delusional! Don't you dare go around spreading the story that I was sleeping with Cassandra.”

“Is it a story, Brett?” Dianne challenged.

“Damn you, Di—” he began.

But Dianne interrupted him, black hair tossed back defiantly, hands—with long, black polished nails—on her hips. “Maybe
you
pushed her over the balcony, Brett.”

“Me? Oh, this is rich, Dianne! Come on, I wasn't married to her. I didn't need to get rid of anyone. You were crazy about Jon. Always have been, always will be. And now you're pointing a finger at me, trying to make my wife think—”

“Ex-wife, Brett,” Sabrina interjected.