The Artisans (11 page)

“Here.” Maggie scoops a ponytail holder from her purse and hands it to me. The purse is worn and unimaginative. I make a mental note to sew her a new one. “Girl, you have enough hair for three people. I sort of hate that about you,” she whines.

With a smile, I take the band from her and secure my hair in a messy bun.

“All I’m saying is you can always create more designs, better ones. You’re just getting started. And Ben will get sober, and you’ll be famous, and live in hotels and drive a Maserati.” She straightens her back and grins like she just delivered the pep talk of the century. Her gaze zooms in on my face and her smile dims. “Try to get some sleep, will ya? You look tired.” She stands, “I wish I didn’t, but I really have to go. I’m grounded with an eleven o’clock curfew all month.”

“For?” I prod.

“Being out past my twelve o’clock curfew.” She gives me a sheepish grin.

I push her shoulder. “Dummy.” I’m envious and happy for her at once. What’s it like to have two parents looking out for you like that? Maybe my mother would have watched out for me, but Dane and I don’t have what Maggie has. “It’s okay. Thanks for everything. I’d be lost without you guys. If I ever do get famous, I’m buying you both Ferraris.”

“Done,” they answer together.

As my friends wind their way through the house, I tag along behind. The place is library quiet. Two old servants, a Goth girl, her cat, and some ghosts don’t make as much noise as one might think. “Oh! Did you find out anything about Gideon’s parents?”

Maggie shoots me a smirk over her shoulder. “It’s still weird hearing you call the Maddox tycoon Gideon.”

I ignore her. “Did you?”

When we reach the foyer, Dane makes an about face and walks to the staircase. He squats, settling his lean frame on the second step and waits. I sigh and follow with Mags trailing after. “There’s not much to tell, Rae. It’s not like we sit around reading Fortune 500 or watching CNN, but most of it is public record. The story is Nathan Maddox committed suicide three or four years ago when Gideon was around fifteen. Poison.”

“Whoa.”

“Right? Pretty intense.” Maggie slides around me and takes a seat next to Dane. The staircase is widest at the bottom, but she sits so close their thighs touch. He’s big and dark, and she’s fair and petite. They’re quite the pair. Her head droops. She leans against him, stifling another yawn.

I’m sorry she’s tired, but I really need to hear this. “What else?”

Dane glances at the top of Maggie’s head every so often as he speaks. “There was some epic legal battle. Stepmom contested the will that leaves everything to Gideon on his twenty-fifth birthday. She lost. Board of directors runs the company until then. Gideon is just the face with no real power, though it sounds like he’s required to be involved, attend their meetings and shit. When she didn’t get her money, old lady Maddox disappeared. Gold digger, I guess, ’cause no one’s heard from her since. They were only married five years.”

“What about Gideon’s real mom?”

“Died. When he was little, I think, I don’t remember.” When Mags readjusts her head on Dane’s shoulder, he wraps his arm around her, pulling her close. “I asked around for more than what’s common knowledge. Nathan Maddox was a judge for a while and a lot of their ancestors were, too. Guess that’s where they got all their money.”

That’s a lot of death for one little boy. I refuse to feel sorry for him, though. A lot of people suffer. Not everyone turns bitter enough to inflict their pain on others.

“And now I’ve got to get her home before her parents ground her again.” Dane stands, hauling my weary friend up with him. Maggie’s elbow pushes Dane’s sleeve up, and I gasp. As he steers her toward the door, I stop him with a hand to his wrist.

“Bro?” I glance from the ugly black and purple bruises on his bicep to his face.

He shakes his head, and mouths.
Don’t.

I feel the frown covering my face. My lungs fill with the air to argue. Dane’s father cannot be allowed to get away with abusing his son.

“Later.” His eyes plead, glancing from Maggie to me. One look at the terror in his eyes and I give in, like always.

Oblivious to our exchange, Maggie grins at me like a drunkard over Dane’s chiseled arm. “Do you think I could spend the night sometime? When I’m not on lockdown anymore?” Dane stops and angles around so we face each other again.

“You want to?” My heart lifts at the thought. “You wouldn’t be scared, you sure?”

“For a brilliant girl, sometimes you’re so stupid.”

I grin. “I’ll ask.”

***

“Edgar!”

It feels wrong to yell in a house that’s more museum than home, but it can’t be helped. I haven’t seen my cat in almost twenty-four hours, and I’m nearing panic mode. I’ve been everywhere, from the mill to greenhouse, in and out of drawing rooms and bedrooms, and any other kind of room you can think of. As of eleven-thirty, there were only four places I hadn’t checked, and as I leave Gideon’s study, I’ve just marked another off my list.

That leaves the attic, cellar, and west wing. Awesome. The thought of dealing with ghosts in the attic is too much tonight, same with the cellar. When Jenny mentioned those places, her voice was severe with warning. Either will be my absolute last resort. Idiotic cat. Probably curled up on some chair in a room I’d recently searched, laughing his kitty heart out. No way could I assume that, though. He’s my baby.

That leaves me with one choice.

Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner! The west wing it is. I head up the stairs as quietly as possible. Not that I can’t go days without seeing Jamis, but the one time you hope to avoid Mr. Crabby Pants … bang! There he’ll be.

Other than our ‘moment’ in my workroom, the guy has barely spoken to me since I got here. He glowers at me with his beady little eyes through a couple of slits in his face. Jerk wad. I picture him as Gideon’s snooping little stoolie, watching me, reporting back to his master. Jenny keeps telling me what an honorable, loyal little stoolie he is, but other than the time he brought me cool stuff, I haven’t seen anything admirable. At all.

I veer to the left and sneak into the west wing through double mahogany doors. The air inside the vast hallway feels bristling and eager with no lights on. “Edgar! Come here, sweetheart. You’re scaring mommy.”

No meow answers from the black. I feel along the wall for a light switch finding nothing. The lamp I bump into on a buffet, however, makes a great substitute. My fingers twist the knob under the shade and glorious, if dim, light shines forth, enough to see by. “Okay. Operation: Where’s My Damn Cat is a go.” The hall is ridiculously long, with doors to the left and right that go on forever. The task of finding one silly feline inside is daunting.

“One room at a time, Weathersby, let’s go.”

The first three doors lead to elaborately decorated bedrooms. They appear neat, but dusty, as though no one’s used them in years. There’s a distinct smell in this wing of the house: pleasant, woodsy, though none of the fireplaces are in use, and tart, like black licorice. Edgar’s not in any closet or under the furniture. Where is that darn cat? In the fourth room, I flip on a small table lamp. It’s a sitting room, or maybe a library. There is a truckload of books in here.

An old camera sits on a tripod in the center of the room near an ornate armoire. The camera’s middle looks like a leather accordion with two wooden boxes on either end. A big brass lens sticks out the front. I wonder if it’s the same camera I saw downstairs on my first visit. I think it is.

Maybe Gideon collects them. Dozens of pictures fill small silver frames all over the shelves. The same little boy with blond curly hair smiles out from most of them. He grins from a bed or wheelchair in some. In others, he’s older, leaning on a pair of crutches. My mind wanders to the lion-head cane Gideon holds. The idea it’s just for show seems doubtful now.

I lift another framed picture. A young Gideon sits in a high back chair with a book in his lap. There’s a crow on his shoulder with sleek, glossy wings, a childhood pet perhaps? How cool is that? Standing with Gideon in the photo is a tall man. Dark hair flows to just above his shoulders, but the same beautiful features make his identity unmistakable. Nathan Maddox, Gideon’s father. I replace the photo on the shelf.

A quick sweep of the room produces no cat. I do however spy a painting over the large fireplace. This is clearly not a photo but a portrait of Nathan’s dad with a woman. Not the blond beauty on the wall in the east wing, this woman is a redhead. She lacks the coldness and severity of Nathan’s second wife’s features, and has a sweet expression with laughing eyes. I doubt Gideon was born bitter and ruthless and he learned it from someone. Of the two people in the portrait above me, I’m going with his father.

The room is flooded with pictures, trophies, and plaques dedicated to Judge Nathan Maddox, honors from other businessmen, awards for this and that. Daddy issues, much? I glance back up at the painting. Nathan is leaning toward his pretty young wife, his hands clasping hers in a possessive hold. How could she be happy married to a guy like that? She’s smiling, face radiating joy and contentment. I think I might have liked her. Maybe. She’s the only Maddox I can say that about.

On the far wall are four more family portraits. Under each one is a title, name, and date. All judges starting with Judge Mathias Maddox 1863 to Magistrate A. K. Maddox 1948. They stare out with stern expressions on their handsome faces. I get the feeling the Maddox men have never been the warm fuzzy types.

Who cares? I chastise myself. Find Edgar.

The last place I look is beneath the desk. I don’t find him, but I didn’t really think I would. As I rise, my hands grasp the top of the desk for balance. The surface is covered with books. Correction: green, leather ledgers with rows and rows of names, amounts owed, dates. Some are marked paid, a few are highlighted or starred or both. Who uses actual books to do this stuff anymore? Bookies? I thought everyone kept their records on computer programs. Of course, we don’t. Ben and I are small time and can’t afford a laptop, but Gideon is practically King Midas, isn’t he?

Curious, I open the desk drawer. Sweat breaks out across my brow as I pick amongst the items inside. Stacks of bank statements, bills, I’m no longer looking for my cat. I’m openly prying into someone else’s private affairs. An envelope is stuck under the blotter on the desktop. It’s worn and stained. The handwriting is small and neat, addressed to Judge Nathan Maddox from S. Allen Gamble, Malcolm College, Wiltshire, England.

Footsteps in the hall send my heart rocketing to my throat. I stuff the letter inside my blouse, and shove the drawer closed.

“What are you doing in here?”

My head snaps up. Crap. Gideon stands in the doorway, glaring. I straighten, stall by pretending to smooth my skirt. “I, uh …”

“Weren’t you given strict instructions never to come to this part of the house?” He takes a step, his hand tightening on his beautiful cane.

“Yes. I was, but—”

“And because I leave for a few days, you think you can just disregard my rules and do whatever the hell you please?” Another step, and another, he moves slow and purposefully, like a tiger.

“No, I—”

“And of all the rooms to find you in, here you are, in my—”

“Shrine?”

He stops two feet from me, his brow in deep furrows. “Private office.”

He hits the light switch on the wall next to us, shedding more light on his features. Obviously furious, I wish I didn’t notice the condescending arch of his golden eyebrows, or how the quick toss of his head flips his curls back in a way that’s both confident and sexy. With both eyes visible—one bright blue, the other sea green—they hypnotize me, but nobody would miss his commanding presence, despite his awful behavior.

Gideon gazes at his desktop. A noisy breath escapes his nose, before he faces me again. “What are you doing in here?” His voice is steely calm.

“Snooping.” Damn. “Searching, searching, I’m looking for Edgar. My cat. I can’t find him. I’ve been all over the house.” My heart pounds, and my hands are clammy, but I resist the urge to wipe them on my skirt. First rule of battle: never let them see you sweat.

I swallow thickly as he moves closer. “I don’t think Edgar is hiding in my paperwork, do you?” He slams the ledger on his desktop shut. His bloodless face is less than a foot from mine. “In the future, should you need something, inform Jamis or Jenny.
They
have permission to be here. You do not. Now get out!”

“Hey! I—”

“Get the hell out!” He swipes the lamp from his desktop, and it shatters on the floor.

Anger swells my chest. He angles as if he’ll walk away, but my finger juts out. I poke his chest, stopping him. “Quit bossing me around, Gideon.”

His gaze drops to my finger and back to my face as if I’ve lost my mind.

“Look, I’m sorry. Do you think I wanted to come in here? I said I would play your game your way, but don’t talk to me like I’m nothing. I almost pissed myself a dozen times living in your stupid, ghost-filled, nightmare-inducing, creep show of a house.” My throat constricts. Tears burn, threaten to fall. “And I want my cat!” He could be sick, hurt, chased by a poltergeist in the shape of a dog. I
have
to know he’s okay. “He’s all I have.”

Gideon straightens to his full height. I swear the corner of his mouth twitches.

Is he laughing at me? More water collects in my eyes, threatening to spill over the rim. He’s not going to make me cry again. At least, he’s not going to see it. I whirl and run around the far side of his desk.

I leap aside as he lunges for me. “Raven, wait.”

Wait? Nothing doing, pal. It’s too late for talking. “Go, stay, come, fetch, beg …” I’m muttering like a loon as I break for the door, but I don’t care anymore.

“Raven, you’re out of control.”

Seriously? And smashing a lamp isn’t? I’m stressed. I’m female. I’m an artist. That’s pretty much the trifecta of emotion. When I hear a thud, I fly out the door and down the hall. Footsteps echo behind me. He’s moving pretty fast for a guy who needs a cane. Maybe I was wrong about that.