Dark Homecoming

THE BODY COUNT RISES

“I have to believe that David is innocent,” Liz said.

“And therefore, these murders are the work of some avenging ghost . . .” Roger said.

“David wasn't here when Audra was killed,” Liz reminded him. “He was on a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, with
me
.”

“That's a pretty solid alibi.”

“So whoever killed these three people—”

“You don't believe the three deaths could be unrelated?” Roger interrupted.

Liz shook her head emphatically. “No. That's just impossible to believe. The same killer murdered Audra, Jamison, and Rita—and for similar reasons, I believe. And whether human or something else, something we can't explain, there is some connection to this house.” She paused and looked over at him. “To Dominique.”

“What do you intend to do now, Liz?” Roger asked.

“I'm not sure. I need to speak with David before I do anything. But then . . . I don't know what I'm going to do, but I'm certainly not just going to sit around here and wait for the next knife to swing through the air. Because I'm pretty sure the next target will be me . . .”

SLICE

 

 

THE INN

 

 

DARK HOMECOMING

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

M
rs. Hoffman had a face like a hockey mask. Hard, white, and plastic. She'd had so much cosmetic surgery that her eyes looked feline and her mouth had trouble making “O” sounds. Her cheeks were unnaturally round and shiny and her eyebrows never moved. Liz felt as if she were meeting a wax statue.

Only the eyeballs were animated. “Welcome to Huntington House,” Mrs. Hoffman said, looking Liz up and down like a Disney automaton.

Liz glanced away from the middle-aged housekeeper, murmuring a soft, polite, “Thank you.” She let her eyes take in the place she now called home, the fabled Huntington House. The floor was marble and the ceilings were very high, dripping with sparkling crystal chandeliers. A fireplace nearly the size of a garage stood at the far end of the room, and on the walls hung gilt-framed portraits of somber-looking forebears. Liz hoped that her own children, if she had any, would not inherit such dour genes from their father.

“Mr. Huntington wrote and told us all about you,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “We were all so very eager to meet his new bride.”

Liz turned her gaze to the assembly of chambermaids, housemen, cooks, and chauffeurs who had lined against the far wall of the drawing room for her inspection. For some reason they reminded her of the living deck of cards that Alice met in Wonderland. They all seemed flat and faceless, just a collection of spindly arms and legs. Liz offered a smile in their direction. She detected none coming from them in return.

“And where
is
Mr. Huntington?” Mrs. Hoffman inquired.

“He's at the stables,” Liz replied. “When the car dropped us off out front, he told me to head up to the house while he went down to see his horses.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hoffman said, showing slightly more teeth than before, which Liz assumed was the best she could manage for a smile. “How Mr. Huntington loves his horses. He always visits them first thing after a long trip away from home. He and his late wife rode every morning and every evening. Have you brought your jodhpurs?”

“I . . . I don't ride,” Liz told her.

Mrs. Hoffman gave her a look that suggested that if she could have raised her eyebrows, they would have reached her hairline. “You don't
ride
?” the housekeeper asked.

“No. David has promised to teach me.”

Mrs. Hoffman said nothing. She just stood there staring at her.

“I'd like to freshen up,” Liz said after several moments of uncomfortable silence. “Perhaps one of you would show me to my room.”

“Oh, but of course,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “You must be exhausted from your long trip.” She clapped her hands. “Jamison!”

A tall, reedy boy with freckles and wispy strawberry blond hair, dressed in a cream-colored shirt and matching trousers, stepped forward.

“Take Mrs. Huntington's bags to her room,” the housekeeper instructed.

Jamison nodded and lifted the two small pieces of luggage that Liz had carried into the house. Mrs. Hoffman gestured to Liz to follow her up the stairs.

“I've prepared your suite, but since I wasn't sure of your favorite flowers, I filled it with daisies,” the housekeeper told her as they began their climb, a few steps behind Jamison. “I trust they will be satisfactory.”

“Well, of course,” Liz said. “How very kind of you.”

“Daisies were Mrs. Huntington's favorite.”

Liz thought she should remind the housekeeper that she was Mrs. Huntington now, but thought better of the idea. She was sure it was just an old habit. Mrs. Hoffman had served David's late wife for many years. Liz was certain she didn't mean any disrespect.

As she climbed the stairs, she still couldn't fully believe she was here. Had it been just a month ago she'd met David? A month and a handful of days. He'd been sitting out there in the audience in the theater of the cruise ship, and their eyes had met across the footlights. In her sequined dancer's costume, Liz had spotted him looking at her. At least, it seemed as if he was. As she'd tapped and shuffled her way through the carefully choreographed routine, Liz had kept glancing out at the tables, and sure enough, the man at the front table, seated alone, never took his eyes off her. Surely it was her imagination, Liz had told herself. But when David had introduced himself to her after the show, she'd realized her instincts had been right.

Two weeks later, at the end of the cruise, after several romantic dinners and long swims in crystalline blue waters, the captain of the ship had married them. Liz's family, when she called with the news, was stunned. Her mother was still angry she'd been denied the chance to give Liz a big traditional wedding. But Liz didn't want that. She just wanted David.

Their cruise-ship idyll had been followed by an even more idyllic honeymoon, hopping from Rio to Cancún to Miami Beach in David's private jet. Liz had never imagined what being in love would feel like. She had thought she'd been in love before, but what she'd felt for that weasel Peter Mather, her college boyfriend, didn't come close to what she felt for David. Certainly nothing had prepared her for a man like David Huntington growing up in her working-class neighborhood in Trenton, New Jersey. David was thirteen years older than she was, thirty-five to her twenty-two. It was true, as her mother kept telling her, that there were still many things she didn't know about her new husband. But from the moment Liz had felt his gaze on her from the audience, it had seemed that she had known David all her life.

She looked up as she reached the landing of the staircase. There, in front of her, gazing down the stairs, was an enormous portrait in a magnificent gilt frame of a beautiful, dark-haired woman dressed all in white.

The portrait was so large, so majestic, that for the slightest of moments it took Liz's breath away.

Beside her, Mrs. Hoffman was smiling that strange, limited, plastic smile of hers. “Yes,” she said, looking up at the woman in white. “She was beautiful, wasn't she?”

“That's Mrs. Huntington?” Liz asked, aware that she'd just called her predecessor by the name she now rightly bore.

“Indeed. She was born Dominique DuBois. Even the name is lyrically beautiful, don't you think?”

“Yes,” Liz said in a small voice, forcibly moving her eyes away from the portrait.

“Come along, dear,” Mrs. Hoffman said, gently nudging her to resume walking. “Your room is right down the hall.”

Liz noticed the glance Jamison gave to the housekeeper.

At the end of the hall, they turned in to a large, airy room looking out over the gardens. The windows were open and a soft spring breeze was tickling the sheer white curtains. The walls were painted a soft cream color and the wooden floor was polished to a high gloss. Comfortable chairs surrounded a sleek modern coffee table and a gigantic flat-screen television. A daybed was strewn with colorful pillows. Tall black vases filled with crisp white daisies stood on every table.

“How very lovely,” Liz said.

“The bathroom is off here,” Mrs. Hoffman said, opening a door at one end of the room and revealing the sparkling white tiles within. “And over here,” she continued, walking now across the room, her low-heeled black shoes making a hard tapping sound on the wooden floor, “is the bedroom.”

Liz followed her inside. A large bed on a white platform, draped in white satin from an enormous canopy, sat in the center of the room. Enormous windows allowed in a flood of light. And as in the outer room, black vases filled with daisies were everywhere.

“I'll let you get settled and freshened up,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “Welcome once again to Huntington House.”

“Thank you so much,” Liz said, standing in the middle of the room, feeling a little out of place in such grandeur.

“Jamison,” the housekeeper called over to the young man. “Just place Mrs. Huntington's bag there and then go back downstairs and bring up any other luggage that Mr. Huntington has brought. And don't dawdle! I am sure they are both exhausted.”

With that, Liz was left alone in her room.

It was like a dream.

She gazed around at all the magnificence. This was
her
room. It boggled the imagination. It had all happened so fast—and such impetuousness wasn't like Liz. Everyone who knew her had been stunned. Her mother was furious that she'd never get to host a reception for her at the local VFW hall. Liz's best friend, Nicki, another dancer on the cruise ship, had questioned her sanity for marrying a man she'd known for just two weeks. But when Nicki had learned how rich David was—that he was the scion of the wealthy Huntington family of New York and Palm Beach, Florida—she'd changed her tune. “What a life he can give you, girlfriend,” Nicki had said, all wide eyes and excitement.

But it hadn't been David's wealth that had impressed Liz. For the first week she'd had no clue that he had any money. He was a widower, he told her. He was taking a cruise by himself to heal. At first Liz worried that she was a rebound lover, that David was fixating on her only because he was heartbroken over the loss of his wife. But he'd assured her that was not the case, that he loved Liz for herself, and that she was, in fact, very different from Dominique—precisely the reason he loved her, he said.

Liz stood at the window looking down at the gardens, the well-tended topiary and sparkling fountains. Very different from Dominique. Having now seen how beautiful, how glamorous, David's late wife was, Liz wasn't sure that was much of a compliment.

She stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was pretty, but her hair was a light, indistinct brown compared to the luxurious ebony tresses cascading over Dominique's shoulders in her portrait. Liz had a trim, lean, dancer's body, with shapely legs, but her small breasts and hips could hardly match the voluptuous curves of David's first wife. How could a wren compare to a raven?

“But he told me I was beautiful,” Liz whispered to herself, her eyes still on her reflection. “He told me I was exactly what he wanted in a relationship.”

David never spoke much about Dominique. He would say only that they had been happy once. Her death had been sudden and tragic—a boating accident, a terrible, unexpected event. Dominique had drowned. No one was to blame. A sudden storm had come up, and Dominique, out on the yacht on her own, without a captain, had been unable to steer the boat to safety. But whenever Liz asked for more details, her husband would grow silent. He told her he preferred not to talk about the past. He wanted to concentrate on the future.
Their
future.

Looking around the room, Liz imagined that their future would be quite bright. This house was big. Liz wasn't used to having servants. It would all take some adjustment. She wasn't sure she could ever get used to ordering people around.

But there was one request she'd make of the staff: the removal of the portrait of Dominique from the stairway landing.

Liz wouldn't ask right away. It might sound crass. But really, how could they start their marriage walking past the towering presence of David's dead wife every day?

Suddenly the room was suffused with the most glorious fragrance. Liz couldn't determine what it was at first, but then it struck her. Gardenias. That's what it was. Liz inhaled deeply. There must be gardenias growing in the garden below. How wonderful to wake up every morning smelling gardenias! She thought she'd enjoy living at Huntington House very much.

Liz looked over as Jamison and another young man, in an identical cream-colored uniform, entered the room carrying the luggage Liz and David had brought back from their honeymoon. Mrs. Hoffman followed, observing their actions with a keen eye. She looked up and spotted Liz.

“I'm sorry if we disturbed you, Mrs. Huntington,” the housekeeper said.

“Not at all. I was just admiring the beautiful gardens.”

Mrs. Hoffman's hard mask shifted ever so slightly—her approximation of a smile. “Yes, they are magnificent, aren't they?” She took a few steps toward Liz. “Do you have a green thumb?”

“I'm afraid not,” Liz admitted. “I can barely keep a houseplant alive.”

“I see.” Mrs. Hoffman's face returned to its former hardness. “Well, we have a very talented groundskeeper. He keeps the gardens full of color all year long.”

“Well, the gardenias smell so lovely,” Liz said. “I can hardly wait to see them. I was just standing here and caught a whiff and it was just unbelievably beautiful.”

Mrs. Hoffman looked at her. “Oh, it wouldn't have been gardenias that you smelled, ma'am.”

“No? But I was sure—”

“At one time, we did indeed have many beautiful gardenia shrubs lining the house. But you see, Mr. Huntington had them all pulled out by their roots.”

“Why would he do that?”

Mrs. Hoffman offered her a tight smile. “Well, it was just that . . . gardenia was Mrs. Huntington's signature scent. She always wore it. And I suppose the fragrance of the shrubs reminded Mr. Huntington of his wife, and so, in his grief, he had them all torn out.”

Liz just looked at her, completely at a loss for what to say.

“Are you finished with the bags?” Mrs. Hoffman was asking, moving away from Liz to speak to Jamison.

“Just one more downstairs,” the young man replied. “I'll go get it.”

“Well, be quick about it. We need to stop disturbing Mrs. Huntington. I'm sure she wants to rest after her flight.”

Jamison hurried out of the room with his companion.

The housekeeper turned to look back at Liz, who was still in the doorway, still unable to speak.

“I saw Mr. Huntington in the yard and he said to tell you he'd be up momentarily.”