The Prophet (15 page)

In the split second before either of us spoke, it occurred to me that she must have come in another way because I hadn’t heard the front door or her footsteps. She’d just appeared there in the archway. Despite the mild weather, she wore a coat in a chic military style that complimented her lean lines. She unbuttoned it now as she took a step into the room.

“I hope you don’t mind my having a look around,” I said awkwardly. “I was just waiting for Clementine.”

“Not at all. You must be Amelia. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

From who?
I wondered.

She came forward and offered her hand. “I’m Isabel.”

“Clementine has told me a lot about you, too,” I said.

The handshake was brief, but her grip was warm and firm, and she looked me directly in the eyes when we spoke. I appreciated that.

“So, you’re Amelia,” she murmured again, and I thought she studied my face a shade longer than was polite.

Discomfited by the scrutiny, I turned. “This is such an interesting room.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s a little over the top, but it serves the purpose.” She slipped out of her coat and tossed it onto the back of a chair. As she moved about the table, her scent came to me again, dreamy and exotic, and now it reminded me of the fragrance I’d smelled on the walkway just before I’d entered Clementine’s garden. On anyone else, such a heady perfume might have been cloying, but somehow it seemed as much a part of her as the green-gold eyes and dark hair.

Picking up the deck of tarot cards, she idly tossed out a few face up on the table. I saw Justice, the Page of Swords, the Moon and one that might have been lovers before she quickly scooped them up. A little shiver went through me because I had the notion she’d just done an impromptu reading, and judging by the speed with which she’d returned them to the deck, she hadn’t liked what she’d seen saw.

Clementine appeared in the doorway with a tray just then. “I see you two have already met. Come in to the parlor and have some tea. Grandmother sent over your favorite macaroons.”

“Bless her heart,” Isabel murmured as we exited the room.

I took one last look at the tarot cards, then followed the sisters into the next room where I perched on the edge of a black leather chair as they seated themselves side by side on the cream chenille sofa. Ursula came in and made herself at home on Isabel’s lap while Clementine poured out the tea and passed around the cups. “This is a brand-new blend,” she said. “It has the most luscious flavor.”

“Oh, it’s peach,” I said, after sampling the tea. “You’re right. It’s delicious.”

“The single origin makes all the difference,” she said. “That’s hard to find these days except in specialty shops like ours.”

“I’ll have to pick up some next time I’m in.”

Isabel grew weary of Ursula and our small talk. She shooed the cat away and picked up her cup, eyeing me over the rim. “Tell me again how you two met? You’re neighbors, you say?”

“No, we’re not neighbors,” Clementine corrected. “I saw Amelia and Angus out walking one morning and invited them to breakfast.”

“Angus is…?”

“My dog.”

Clementine turned to face her sister. “You have to meet him sometime, Isabel. He’s such a sweetheart and he has the most beautiful eyes.”

“I’m sure he does, but you know I’m a cat person.” Was that the tiniest bit of reproach I heard in her tone? “No offense,” she added.

“None taken. Ursula is a real beauty.”

“She’s certainly the queen bee around here,” Isabel said. “She’s a very special cat.” She took another sip of her tea. “My sister tells me you’re a cemetery restorer. She’s quite impressed, aren’t you, Clem? She and Grandmother have always loved poking about in old graveyards. How did you come by that line of work?”

Why did I have a feeling she already knew more about me than I would ever voluntarily reveal? “My father was a caretaker. I grew up in a house at the edge of a cemetery. I always loved playing there as a child. I thought it very peaceful and beautiful.”

Clementine leaned forward. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“Why, yes,” I said benignly. “Old graveyards are full of them.”

She looked horrified. “Really?”

“She’s pulling your leg, Clem.” Isabel laughed, a deep, throaty, sultry sound that made me think of her with Devlin. “I’m sure if you took a midnight foray into an abandoned cemetery, you’d be in far more danger from criminals and drug addicts than from ghouls.”

“Crime in cemeteries can be a problem,” I agreed, my mind on Oak Grove. It was just a matter of time before I would be going back there, to the place where it had all begun. I pictured Devlin that first night, standing among the headstones, stoic and professional in the face of such a brutal discovery.

I felt Isabel’s eyes on me and took another sip of my tea to suppress a shiver.

“I don’t like to think that someone could come back from the dead,” Clementine said uneasily. “The very idea makes my blood run cold.”

“Don’t worry,” Isabel murmured, placing her hand on her sister’s arm. “
No
one is coming back from the dead.”

I had no idea why, but her words troubled me, and I thought again of Robert Fremont.
Her scent is still on my clothes,
he’d said.
I can smell it even now.

My gaze went from sister to sister. They made such an attractive pair, sitting there side by side on the sofa. Almost like bookends, with the same dark hair, the same hazel eyes. The same polite smiles.

Maybe it was my own uneasiness with the circumstances or the specter of Devlin still hovering in the background, but I had a feeling there was more to the Perilloux sisters than met the eye. I couldn’t help remembering that fleeting hesitation when Clementine had mentioned buying her house and settling in Charleston. I’d sensed then some unpleasantness that had driven her decision. And now her references to ghosts…to her fear of someone coming back from the dead.

It probably was my imagination, I decided. I’d been charmed by her that first day, and as far as I could tell, nothing had changed except my own attitude.

I tried to bury my discomfort as I glanced at Isabel. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but your perfume…it’s so haunting. Almost hypnotic.”

Hypnotic indeed. What with the heat of the tea, my imagination and Isabel’s perfume, I was starting to feel a little woozy.

“What a gratifying description,” she said. “A fragrance should haunt, don’t you think? Like an elusive memory.”

Did her scent haunt Devlin? I wondered. “I’ve been sitting here trying to identify the top notes. Tuberose? Freesia? Orange blossom?”

“She’ll never tell.” Clementine gave her a sister a dark look. “I’ve been asking her to share for years.”

“It’s an unsuitable scent for you,” Isabel scolded. “You know that.” To me, she said, “Our mother is a perfumer. She created signature fragrances for us on our eighteenth birthdays.”

“What a lovely gift,” I said.

“Yes, it was. But Clem never wears hers anymore.”

“And you know why.”

Another look flashed between them. It was evident that they were able to communicate volumes with just a glance or the brush of a hand. My mother and aunt Lynrose were like that. They often spoke in little riddles and sister shorthand, and as a child, I hadn’t understood much of their conversations. I’d only listened in because I was soothed by the sound of their voices, mesmerized by their lovely, Lowcountry drawls. It was only in looking back that I realized I had often been the subject of their hushed talks.

I was feeling warmer and more uncomfortable by the moment. I wanted nothing more than to throw open a window and let a blast of fresh air dilute the effects of Isabel’s perfume. Where earlier I had thought it lush and dreamy, now I found it positively suffocating.

Was that my feeling or was Fremont trying to communicate with me?

I had no reason to think that either of the Perilloux sisters had even known Robert Fremont, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t wait to be away from their company. The urgency was almost overpowering.

I set aside my cup. “Thank you so much for the tea, but I really should be going. I still have work to do this afternoon.” I turned to Isabel. “It was very nice meeting you.”

“The pleasure was mine, I’m sure. As I said earlier, I’ve heard so much about you.” Her phone rang and she rose to answer it. “Will you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

Clementine stood, as well. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get you that peach tea.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. I can pick some up in the shop. Please don’t bother.”

“No bother at all. I can always bring Isabel another tin.”

Despite my protests, she disappeared down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. I was left standing alone in the parlor. I could hear Isabel’s voice in the next room. She was speaking in a low tone, but the house was so quiet, her voice carried easily.

“No, it’s fine. She’s just leaving.”

A pause.

“By the way, you were right.”

She listened for a moment longer, then said, “Come over whenever you want. I’ll be waiting… .”

Chapter Seventeen

I
hurried down the steps of Isabel’s house, happy enough to be out in the fresh air. The breeze revived me at once and cleared the vestiges of her rich—yes, cloying—perfume from my nostrils. But as I headed down the walkway, I had a notion the scent clung to my clothes. Shrugging out of my jacket, I tossed it onto the backseat of my car even as I recognized that my behavior was unreasonable and perhaps even childish.

Clearly, the woman had made an impression, and I had enough self-awareness to recognize that my jealousy played some role in the case I had begun to build against her. A case entirely without merit because there wasn’t a shred of evidence that connected her or Clementine to Robert Fremont. Unless one counted Devlin. And, honestly, wasn’t he at the root of my suspicion?

All those meaningful glances and subtle inflections had probably been nothing more than the bond between two close sisters, like the one my mother and aunt shared. That I had read so much into a very brief conversation was surely a testament to my current frame of mind. As much as I liked putting together puzzles, maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a detective, after all. Obviously, I lacked the necessary objectivity when it came to matters involving John Devlin. And all the snooping, the paranoia, the jumping to conclusions, was exhausting. I’d even imagined that I was being followed before I had ever uttered a word about gray dust or Darius Goodwine to anyone but a ghost.

None of this rationalization was at all a comfort to me. It wasn’t as if I could ring up Fremont and tell him I’d changed my mind, our arrangement just wasn’t working out for me. He’d promised to keep his distance so long as I helped him, but if I broke our agreement, I had no doubt he’d do whatever he deemed necessary to coerce my cooperation. He needed to move on and I needed to get a grip.

Forget about the Perilloux sisters, I told myself. They weren’t a part of this. I needed to forget about Devlin, too, for the moment and concentrate on what I’d learned from Dr. Shaw. He’d been a fount of information, and now I was anxious to get home to my computer to follow up. But first I needed to retrieve the book he’d loaned me from his office. I’d laid it aside when I rose to help him to his chair, and I’d left without it.

As I hurried up the drive to the side entrance, I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder at Isabel’s house. My curiosity had been assuaged, and that was the end of it. My path need never cross hers again. Clementine might be harder to avoid since she lived so near me, and I felt a momentary guilt at my willingness to discard her so easily. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for friendship, either. Being a loner was too deeply ingrained.

Layla was away from her desk, but I decided not to wait for her. Instead, I went straight back to Dr. Shaw’s office and knocked. The doors were slid back, and I hovered on the threshold, searching for him.

He wasn’t at his desk or atop the ladder. I didn’t think he’d gone far, though, because the French doors were open, and I could hear voices in the garden. I went over to let him know I’d come back for the book.

Just as I started to step through onto the terrace, his voice lifted. “You have some nerve!”

I withdrew immediately, startled by his anger. He didn’t appear to notice me, nor did his companion, the man from the blue Buick. He’d removed his sunglasses, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of his face. It finally came to me who he was, and my heart thudded anxiously. Tom Gerrity. The private detective who had once been a cop. I’d met him months ago when I’d gone to his office. Of course, at that time, Robert Fremont had posed as Gerrity. His ghost had deliberately deceived me so that I would still think him human. But in Gerrity’s office, I’d seen a picture of the three men—Gerrity, Devlin and Fremont—on the day they’d graduated from the police academy. Only one of them remained a cop, but I believed them to still be connected by circumstances revolving around Fremont’s death.

“I told you never to come here,” Dr. Shaw said coldly.

“That’s what happens when you don’t return my phone calls,” Gerrity said. “Or show up for our meeting.”

“Something came up.”

“Too bad. You don’t keep your end of the bargain, I don’t keep mine. Simple as that.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who reneged. This was over a long time ago. Why did you have to come back?”

“Times are hard, doc. In a downturn like this, fat gets trimmed. People in my line of work become expendable.”

“Your line of work? You mean dealing in filth?”

Gerrity laughed. “I’ve heard worse. At least no one can accuse me of murder.”

Murder?
I shivered as his implication sank in. Dr. Shaw?

He withdrew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Gerrity. “This is the last of it. Do you understand me? Don’t ever come back here again.”

Gerrity took the envelope, glanced inside, then tucked it away. “Pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

He gave a mock salute as he turned toward the gate and disappeared.