Demon on a Distant Shore (2 page)

I headed for the stairs and looser, more comfortable clothes. “There’s a lot to be taken into consideration before we decide.”

“Such as your lonely roommates?” Mel suggested, so close on my heels I’m surprised I didn’t back-kick her knee.

Not that I’d notice. I can’t feel Jack or Mel. Nope, no chill aura, no eerie sensation, nothing.

I went in my bedroom, thankful they waited outside, for once. But they waylaid me when I came out. I whistled through my teeth, pretending I didn’t hear them as I went downstairs and through the front door.

“Hello, Sweetheart.”

“Hi. Are you still on stakeout?”

“No. I have what we need. I’m with some friends, Michael and Brienne Eccleston. I think you may be able to help them.”

“
The
Ecclestons? You didn’t tell me they’re friends.”

“It never came up in conversation.”

True, but you’d think he would mention a friendship with Clarion’s wealthiest, most influential family.

I dredged my memory for what I knew of the Ecclestons. If I remembered rightly, Michael inherited the estate when his elder brother Gordon died in Guatemala in 2007. One-year-old Gordon Junior became Michael’s ward. Michael and Brienne married two years ago. They were in their early forties and this was the second marriage for both of them. The only other thing I knew was Brienne had a stroke three years ago.

“Gordon Junior is missing. The lad likes to hide, but he has not been seen for over twenty-four hours this time,” Royal was saying.

“They haven’t called the police?”

“They do not believe foul play is involved. They are convinced he hid in the house and put himself into somewhere he cannot escape from.”

Losing a kid in your own house sounded far-fetched, but far be it for me to turn down the Ecclestons if they wanted our services.

I signaled left onto Montgomery. The car idled while I waited for a break in traffic. “Okay, but what makes you think I can help?”

“A staff person was murdered in the house thirty years ago.”

Ah, so
that
was it.

Despite it happening three decades ago, I had heard of the murder. I doubt anyone in Clarion had not. The butler Nicholas Jordan was stabbed to death in the mansion’s kitchen. A maid found him the next morning. Nothing was taken from the house. The verdict was an unknown assailant entered the estate with the intent to kill Jordan, and made his escape unseen after the deed, leaving no evidence with which the police could work. They did not have security cameras on the estate back then.

“Ah, right. Maybe. If the murderer is still alive.”

Chances were Nicholas Jordan lingered in the Eccleston place, and the dead see everything.

David Eccleston came to Clarion from Scotland in 1802 as a boy of fourteen, made his fortune and left a mark on the economy which continues to this day. I’ll say this for the Eccleston families, they spread the wealth around. Their various foundations support the arts, education, family welfare and a dozen other worthy causes.

The Eccleston patriarch built his home on Michigan, high in the Avenues where the wealthy have estates which run to six or seven acres. The mansion sits on a small hill, elevated above the rest of the estate. It’s a magnificent eight bedroom house of brick and red sandstone with cylindrical towers, steeply pitched roofs with eyebrow dormers, heavy leaded glass windows and cookie-cutter moldings. A large brick porch extends from the west entrance. I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle as I drove up the gravel driveway and parked out front.

The door was open. I stepped inside a grand entryway of polished parquet floor and walls papered in a pale gold and cream pattern. A small chandelier hung at the front door and another farther back beside the broad oak staircase.

I tapped the door. “Hello?”

A butler came through one of the two doors on my right. An honest-to-god, stiffly-starched butler in a penguin suit. Eyebrows over deep brown eyes were lifted enquiringly.

I smiled. “I’m Tiff Banks, here for Mr. and Mrs. Eccleston.”

“They don’t want to see you. Now piss off,” he said without a change of expression.

Before I could lever up my dropped jaw, Royal came through the first door on the right, light from the chandelier sparkling on his copper-gold hair.

He took my hand. “Come and meet Michael and Brienne.”

The butler spun on his heel and walked away, moving quickly through the hall to a passage which ran beside the staircase. A darker splotch marked the back of his black jacket.

The shade of Mr. Nicholas Jordan. I could deal with a shade better than a rude employee, but I had the feeling getting anything from the cantankerous old bastard would not be a breeze.

Royal led me into the library, and what a library, with the ceiling sixteen feet high, mahogany paneled walls and a stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow. Books lined the entire west wall, with a gallery reached by a narrow staircase for easy access to those at the top. The room, while not cozy, was welcoming despite the size, with armchairs, two sofas, occasional tables and a big mahogany desk taking up most of the space. Vases of flowers stood among stacks of books, elegant ornaments and
tock
ing clocks.

Wearing a white, short-sleeved linen dress cinched with a wide brown belt, Brienne Eccleston waited in front of the fireplace. She came toward us slowly, cautiously, leaning on her cane. Her right eyelid drooped at the outer corner and her mouth turned down slightly on one side. She was still a pretty woman, tall and slim with shoulder-length ash-blond hair and hazel eyes.

Michael remained at the fireplace, thin, tall but slightly bent-shouldered, short blond hair already graying at the temples and sideburns, and washed-out blue eyes. His tan Bermuda shorts and white polo shirt looked good on him..

Brienne presented her hand. “Miss Banks, thank you for coming.”

“I hope I can help, Mrs. Eccleston.” I took her hand and gently squeezed

She smiled. “Brienne, please.”

“Call me Tiff.”

She released my hand, though Royal’s big, warm hand still held my other. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” she suggested. She let herself down on the nearest armchair and propped her cane against it.

Michael didn’t say a word and his eyes regarded me disapprovingly from under crunched brows. I had the feeling he was not a believer.

Royal and I settled side by side on a long couch.

“Understand we wouldn’t consider your services had not Royal recommended you,” Michael said sternly.

Royal’s hand increased the pressure. I gave him a thin smile which didn’t reassure him I would not tell Michael Eccleston into which orifice he could insert his job offer.

“Michael,” Brienne reproved. “How she gets results doesn’t matter.” Her expression turned somber. “We last saw Gordon yesterday morning.”

“What time?”

“Around ten. This isn’t the first time Gordon’s taken himself off. He likes to explore and he likes to hide. We lost him for ten hours one day last month, until we found him in a corner of the attics. He planned his adventure, took his laptop, some books, and a veritable picnic basket of goodies and settled in for the duration.”

“Did he take anything this time?”

“Not that we can see.”

“I presume you made a thorough search?”

“We tore the place apart.”

“And he didn’t sneak outside?”

“We have the best security coverage available. We reviewed footage of the grounds. He’s in here somewhere. We hope you can find him.”

“I’ll get started then, shall I?” I got to my feet, pulling my hand free of Royal’s. “Can someone show me the way to the attics?”

“The attics?” Brienne echoed.

“I like to start at the top and work my way down,” I lied. I actually wanted to be as far as possible from other people.

Brienne slowly got to her feet. “Michael dear, will you find someone to show her the attics?”

Brienne’s stroke left her with impaired peripheral vision and weakness in one side of her body. Getting around must be a slow, careful process for her and tromping through the house with me would be exhausting. I hoped Michael didn’t volunteer. I didn’t want him in earshot.

Michael
humphed
as he left the room.

Brienne smiled at me. “Don’t mind Michael. He’s a cynic at the best of times. I understand from Royal you helped the police department with a number of investigations before you two became partners. Is it some kind of . . . psychic ability?”

“Something like that.”

Michael returned with a brown-skinned woman in black slacks and green dress shirt. Glossy blue-black hair wound around her crown in a braid. After a swift peek at me from wide brown eyes, she directed her gaze to the floor.

“Anarosa is our housekeeper,” Brienne said.

I got to my feet. “This may take some time.”

Brienne nodded. “As long as you require.”

Anarosa ducked her head and about-turned. I followed her from the library, trusting Royal to keep Michael and Brienne occupied while I worked.

Anarosa led me to the far end of the hall, to an elevator just past the stairs. She kept her gaze averted as we rode up.

“Every inch of this place was searched?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Several times.”

“How long have you worked here, Anarosa?”

She met my eyes and smiled. “Thirty-one years, Ma’am. I came here as a maid when I was sixteen.”

The elevator stopped with barely a shudder. We stepped out in a wide landing with paneled walls and ceiling and a plush forest-green carpet. Old paintings lined the walls, heavy frames all but touching. I followed Anarosa to a wood door, then up a twisting staircase which brought us to another passage, this one narrow and uncarpeted. The passage spanned the breadth of the house and others ran off from it. The attics must be a warren.

Anarosa faced me with her head down. “Is there anywhere particular you want to start, Ma’am?”

“This is good, Anarosa.” I stared at her bowed head. “Is anyone else up here?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Okay. I’d like you to go downstairs now.”

She left quickly. I waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade, then went in the nearest room.

It was empty, dust on the bare board floor smeared by adult-size footsteps, and light came through a small dormer window beneath the eaves. I went to the window and enjoyed the sunlight on my face. A balustrade like a stone banister surrounded the roof and blocked the view of the estate, but the valley stretched beyond.

I went to the middle of the room. “Nicholas Jordan. Come here.”

I gave him a minute, then spoke again. “I know you can hear me, Jordan. Come talk to me. It might be to your advantage.”

Jordan walked in the room a minute later.

His eyebrows still rose over dark-brown eyes. Grease slicked short brown hair parted in the middle. His ears were on the large side and stuck out from his head like handles. His mouth drooped sourly below a long, thin nose with pinched nostrils.

“What do you think you’re playing at, you foolish woman. Go back to your séance. Perhaps someone will knock on the table and frighten the living daylights out of you.”