Terror Mansion (Decorah Security Series, Book #12): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella (2 page)

“Great going, Granger,” Wyatt muttered under his breath as he turned and left the workshop, clenching his fingers around the business card that he’d slipped into his pocket.

He’d come here like a knight in shining armor to save a woman he’d only met in a dream. Instead, she’d seen him as a con artist, which meant he was light years from convincing her to trust him. Still, he had unearthed some useful information. She’d said someone was stalking her. Likely someone in town.

But he was pretty sure that wasn’t the extent of the danger. Not when he’d sensed two different threats in the nightmare.

On the face of it, that seemed like too much of a coincidence. Yet he knew there were vortexes in the affairs of humans that swirled around like ocean currents, washing good or bad events in one particular direction. He was sure Kate Kingston was caught in one of those currents, a bad one.

He winced, because the idea of her being in so much danger was like barbed wire twisting in his gut.

“Crap,” he muttered. He hated dreaming of the future, hated having to tell anyone about his ability. On the other hand, a dream had brought him and Kate Kingston together.

He laughed sharply. They weren’t together. He was the last person on earth she wanted to be with.

It was like what had happened with his mother, and the memory still had the power to make him wish he’d been normal.

As a very young child, he hadn’t understood the implications of his dreams. In fact, he’d often been confused about what had happened and what was going to happen.

The first time he’d tried to warn anyone about what he’d seen was when he was eight. He’d woken from a nightmare of his uncle getting killed in an auto accident. Mom had come in to comfort him, and he’d pleaded with her to call Uncle Don. She’d woken him up in the middle of the night, and Wyatt had thought everything was okay, until the next day, when his uncle’s car had been hit by a tractor trailer, and he’d never escaped from the wreckage.

After that Wyatt’s relationship with his mother had changed. It was like she blamed him for causing the accident, and he’d half believed that himself.

It wasn’t until years later that he’d felt the compulsion to tell anyone else about a dream. He’d been dating a girl named Sandy in high school, and he’d known her father was going to have a heart attack. He’d told her, and when it had happened a couple of days later, she’d broken up with him.

Once again, he’d made the wrong decision. After that, he’d kept his mouth shut about future events. It wasn’t until Frank Decorah had come up to him at a campus job fair at the University of Maryland and offered him a job as a private detective that he’d started to think of his nightmares as an asset.

Frank had told him he looked for agents with special talents, and Wyatt had asked why the guy thought he qualified. The agency head had kept his gaze steady and said, “I think you know.”

In a dimly lit corner of an off-campus bar, they had gotten into a long conversation about Wyatt’s unique ability. It had been almost like having a therapy session. Finally he’d been able to talk to someone who understood what he could do and appreciated it.

And when he’d joined Decorah Security, he’d felt like he’d joined a family. Some might think of it as a family of misfits. He thought of it as being more of a home than anyplace he’d ever been.

oOo

Kate watched the man leave. He’d said his name was Wyatt Granger. He’d said he worked for some outfit called Decorah Security. She supposed she could call them, but as she’d told him, that was no guarantee it wasn’t bogus.

She made a snorting sound. For what reason exactly? Why go to the trouble of scamming a silversmith named Kate Kingston who lived in a little tourist town in Maryland?

As she dragged in a breath and let it out, she thought about Granger—not as a scam artist but on a personal level. Under other circumstances his dark good looks would have appealed to her. But he’d squandered any chance of her being interested in him by sneaking into her building—then coming up with that psychic mumbo jumbo.

And yet, she
had
thought someone was poking around her workshop. That’s why she’d bought the gun and gone to a firing range where she’d acquired some marksmanship proficiency.

You could say he’d confirmed her worst fears. Or maybe he was working with the stalker.

So now she was elevating her suspicions to conspiracy level?

She made a dismissive sound. She had work to do this afternoon. She used several different methods for creating jewelry. For making earrings and other small pieces, she sometimes worked with flat strips of sterling silver that she could cut with a jeweler’s saw. Sometimes she put small pieces together with soldering silver. But her favorite method was involved using sterling silver clay, a commercial product that came in lump form or as a paste extruded from a syringe—for finer work.

Yesterday, she’d used it to make some free-form swirling designs.

She’d been about to check the pieces before firing them on a stove burner when she’d been interrupted by Granger.

But was it a good idea to be working with heat when she was feeling so— She cast around for the right word and came up with “unsettled.”

Maybe she should just look for design ideas. She often got her inspiration from art books and even current fashion magazines. She selected some of her favorites from the shelves in the workshop and took them to her apartment, settling on the couch and opening an Art Nouveau book with full-color illustrations of William Morris wallpaper, tile, fabric, and carpet designs.

She smiled as she studied a flower pattern that she admired, thinking that she could translate it into a delicate silver pin.

But after ten minutes, she admitted that there was no way she could focus on art. Instead, her thoughts kept coming back to her warring appraisals of Wyatt Granger. He’d sounded sincere, but she’d learned early in life that it was dangerous to trust people you didn’t know. And she didn’t think his strange visit was a good reason to change her view of human nature.

oOo

While Wyatt returned to his car, he kept mulling over his own past. And as he climbed behind the wheel, he realized why he felt so wound up with this case. Since the time when he’d seen his Uncle Don’s car crash, his psychic dreams had been detached warnings. Even when he’d known Sandy’s father was going to have a heart attack, that hadn’t affected him personally. This time was different because he knew that if he couldn’t make Kate believe him, it was going to be a personal disaster. He’d known that when he woke from the dream. He knew it now.

He gave a hollow laugh. How could that be true? He’d just met Kate Kingston. But that didn’t stop her from mattering to him on a subconscious level he couldn’t even understand.

He drove away from the dock area, then turned onto a series of side streets to a bed and breakfast he’d seen on the other side of the harbor from Kate’s workshop. It was a large white house, probably once the home of a prominent St. Stephens merchant. Over the years, extensions had been added to the sides, changing it from a private residence into a commercial establishment.

He was relieved to see the “Vacancy” sign was still hanging from the board that announced the name, “The Crow’s Nest B&B.”

When he pulled into the parking lot, he looked back toward the former warehouse. Although the circuitous auto route here had taken five minutes, you could get to Kate’s place by walking across a short bridge that spanned a little creek flowing into the harbor.

Pleased with the easy access, he climbed out of his car.

Since this was the end of the tourist season, there were only a few cars in the lot. Wyatt walked along a path of crushed oyster shells through nicely kept flower gardens to the front door of the rambling white house, then stepped into a wide front hall. From there he could see a parlor furnished with period antique side pieces and comfortable modern sofas.

Almost at once, a middle-aged woman with round face and her hair swept up in a bun came bustling into the room hall.

“I’m Mrs. Babson,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“I was looking for a room.”

“For one night or more?” she asked with a hopeful note in her voice. Probably he’d make her very happy by paying for a few days.

“Actually, I’ve been traveling around the country, writing articles on towns where people might want to go on vacation. And I was thinking of staying in St. Stephens for several days—finding out about the area,” he said, giving the story that he’d concocted after he’d left Kate Kingston’s workshop.

“Oh, we certainly would love the publicity,” she said. “Can I read some of your work?”

Wyatt grinned, thankful that he often used a similar cover and was prepared for the question. “I’ve got a collection of my articles on my Web site.” He gave her the URL for Wyatt Granger, author.

“And who would the article be for?”

“I’m doing it on speculation,” he answered. “But I’m thinking the
Washington Post
might be a good place to start.”

“Yes, we do have a front room available, but it’s our most expensive.”

“Can I see it?”

“Of course.”

She led him upstairs to a large room with a canopy bed and a huge bathroom with a whirlpool tub.

He strode to the window and looked out, seeing that he had an excellent view of Kate Kingston’s workshop.

Mrs. Babson named a fee.

“That’s fine. Why don’t I start with three days?” he said.

She was happy with the arrangement, and they went back downstairs to a small office off the parlor, where he gave her his credit card and got the key to the room.

“What can you tell me about the town?” he asked when he’d paid for the room.

“I suppose you looked up the history?”

“Yes. It was settled early because it was on the coast, and there were lots of rivers for navigation. Then it declined because it was so far away from the mainland. Didn’t you used to have to take a ferry to get here?”

“Unless you went the long way round,” she acknowledged. “But the town is so charming because it retains its colonial flavor. People come here for the atmosphere. It’s also great for boating, seafood and anything else you want to eat, and we have lovely shops along Main Street that sell all kinds of merchandise you won’t find in the chain stores.”

After the lead-up, he got to the point of his questioning.

“That’s perfect for my article. But I was also looking for a present for my girlfriend. Maybe some silver jewelry. I saw a sign on that building over there. It’s a silversmith’s workshop.”

“Kate Kingston’s workshop. But she doesn’t have a showroom there. She has a consignment arrangement with some of the shopkeepers.”

“And you’d recommend her work?”

Mrs. Babson looked out the front window, toward the graying building where Wyatt had just been.

“Kate’s new in town, and she’s very talented.”

Wyatt heard the hesitation in her voice.

“But?” he asked.

“She’s had a little trouble fitting in with the other artisans.”

“How do you mean?”

“I really don’t like to gossip.”

“Okay. I understand. I’ll just go out and try to get a feel for the town.”

“Do you want to bring your luggage in?” Mrs. Babson asked.

“Yes. I’ll do that and then go out.”

He brought in the travel bag he kept ready in the trunk of his car, then drove back to Main Street so that he could take a quick look at the shops. Several seemed like a good bet for silver jewelry. He parked once again and stopped in a candy shop where he bought a bag of saltwater taffy.

“So what should I make sure I don’t miss in town?” he asked the teenage girl behind the counter.

She shrugged. “A lot of people like the Maritime Museum.”

“Okay, good. But I’d like to find a present for my girlfriend,” he said, using the same ploy he’d tried before. “Would silver jewelry be a good choice?”

The girl leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “Some of it is pretty expensive. But some is priced better.” She held up her hand to display a pretty ring. “This was really cheap.”

“Thanks for the tip. Do you know what I should ask for? I mean what artist?”

She glanced toward the door, then said, “Kate Kingston did it. She gave me a good deal.”

“It’s very nice, but are there other silversmiths you’d recommend?”

“There are other good ones, but they’re more expensive.”

“Okay, thanks for the tip.”

He left with the candy and the information, then strolled down the street, stopping at a shop called Indulgences which advertised “fine jewelry, pottery and other items made by local artisans.”

Through the window, he could see only two people in the shop. One was a tall, balding man with sloping shoulders, standing behind a counter. He was wearing a yellow polo shirt and tan slacks. The other was a middle-aged woman with short curly hair dressed in a baggy, rainbow-colored dress and a lumpy sweater. The two people looked like their discussion wasn’t entirely friendly discussion.