dawning horror, she scanned the information. The hollow in her stomach deepened as she clicked on the first link, which led her into the archives of a popular weekly newsmagazine. Graphics popped up, followed by text, then pixel by pixel, Connor’s photo, taken outside a courthouse. He was surrounded by reporters. His hair was shorter and he was dressed in a suit and tie, but the face was the same—drawn, serious, haunted.
She read the headline with a dry mouth. Crime Writer’s Evidence Sets Murderer Free. Roderick Strange to be released from prison. Victim’s family outraged.
My God! This wasn’t fantasy—it was real-life drama.
Beyond her wildest dreams.
CHAPTER THREE
WHILE THE WOMEN who ran the B and B debated in loud whispers that carried from the next room, Connor stood in the middle of the Bay House foyer and looked around with dull disinterest. Under normal circumstances, he’d have paid more attention to the stately Victorian architecture and tasteful surroundings. But it was growing impossible to focus on details. His eyeballs were scratchy and his lids seemed to be lined with lead. If they didn’t give him a room soon, he’d end up curled in a ball under the potted palm.
He took a few steps to the open doorway that led to a sunlit dining room, intending to hurry the process along. The hushed conversation stopped him.
“I won’t let you do it, Claire.” That was the older woman’s voice. Connor had momentarily forgotten her name, but she was short and round with dumpling cheeks and a severe gray braid that pulled her forehead taut.
“We have no other space to offer. I hate to turn away a guest when we’re struggling to turn a profit.”
“What about the attic? Won’t one of those rooms do?”
Claire Levander, who was the manager Tess had told him to seek out, made a discouraging sound. “Noah and Roxy are repairing the damage from last winter’s frozen-pipe burst.”
The innkeeper frowned at Claire. “I wish you’d stayed put. I didn’t have to worry about the prophecy going into action when you were living at Bay House full-time.”
Connor swayed on his feet. He was too tired to figure out riddles.
“Yeah, because Noah and I had sucked up all of Valentina’s wedding karma.” Claire gave a wry laugh. “Now that we’re living together and practically engaged, your ancestor needs a new victim.”
“Oh, you,” the older woman fretted. “Hush. That’s not the way to convince me to give Mr. Reed the bridal suite.”
Connor stepped forward, putting a hand on the door trim and clearing his throat. Both women whipped around. “I need a room,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay whatever you like. I don’t care if it’s a bridal suite as long as it has a bed.”
Claire, a thirtyish brunette who was very well put together, turned to the other woman. “Emmie—c’mon. What can it hurt if I give him Valentina’s bedroom?”
Emmie’s face puckered with indecision, but stubbornness won out. “No.” When Claire opened her mouth to protest, she repeated, “No. You know why.”
Connor’s heavy head dropped forward. He didn’t need this hassle. “Does it matter if I tell you that Tess Bucek sent me?”
The two women looked at each other for one astounded, quizzical beat. Then they turned to Connor. “Tess?” they said in unison.
Emmie’s manner did a sudden one-eighty. “Why didn’t you say so?” she cried, coming toward Connor with her arms open. She gave him a welcoming squeeze. “If you’re a friend of Tess’s, you’re a friend of mine. And you’re in luck, because the best room in the house is available.” That wasn’t what she’d been whispering ten seconds ago, but Connor wasn’t going to argue when Emmie was motioning the inn manager toward the foyer. “Claire will check you right in. Welcome to Bay House.”
With an amused smile, Claire slipped behind a handsome polished desk and retrieved the registry book. She flipped it open, studying him closely. “Here you go, Mr. Reed. Are you a particular friend of Tess’s?” Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she handed him a pen.
Connor took it and signed the book. He knew he looked disreputable at best, so why the sudden interest and approval? Was Tess’s say-so that important? Or were they setting him up for…well, he couldn’t imagine what.
“Nope,” he said. “I met her for the first time about an hour ago. In the library.”
Emmie looked less impressed, but Claire wasn’t concerned. “All the same, we’re very pleased that Tess sent you to Bay House.” She glanced at the name he’d scrawled in the registry and gave a little start.
Connor grimaced. He’d told them only his last name when he’d arrived, but had forgotten and signed his name in the guest book in its notorious entirety.
Claire snapped the book shut before Emmie could lean in for a look. Very smooth. Her smile didn’t even waver. Connor gave her full marks for discretion and for maintaining the warm reception, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was accustomed to awkward reactions. All that he hoped was that when word spread, Tess wouldn’t be besmirched by his unsavory reputation because she’d vouched for him.
A number of tagged room keys hung on a small Peg-Board on the pale gold wall. Instead of reaching for one of them, Claire took a small silver key from her pocket, opened a desk drawer and slowly withdrew a tasseled latchkey, almost as if she were a magician pulling silk scarves from a hat.
Connor was baffled by the significance. A key was a key and a room was a room. Wasn’t it?
His sense of disquiet deepened. Both women were treating him oddly—for whatever reason—but that didn’t seem to be why his scalp prickled. He glanced behind him, then up a staircase that was still grand despite its threadbare carpeting. A flash of movement on the second-floor landing was followed by a series of diminishing thumps.
“Who was that?” Connor asked.
Claire hadn’t even looked. “Only the maid.”
“Never mind her,” Emmie said hastily.
“Shari won’t bother you.” Claire’s voice had gone up two octaves.
Connor knew she was prevaricating and found it all very curious. “She’s not related to Norman Bates, is she?”
Emmie reared back. “Good heavens, no!”
Claire produced a dutiful chuckle. “Mr. Reed was making a joke, Em.”
Maybe not, Connor thought, although he was prone to finding sinister implications even where there were none. A hazard of his profession, where the boy next door was likely a freckle-faced killer.
“There is no crime at Bay House,” the older woman scolded.
“Of course not.” Claire avoided Connor’s eyes so carefully he knew she was wondering if he was here to investigate a story.
“That’s good to hear,” Connor said. “Seeing as I’m on
