amusement. âOf course. Moe loves TV, I remember.â Personally, when she was in Moeâs position, Gwen hoped television would have no part of her existence. A world without TVâno reality shows, no WWF smack-downs and no Jerry Springerâsounded like heaven to her. Then remembering the Madonna bustier suggestion, she added, âYou know, those ice cream cones would break in no time flat.â
Hildy thought about it. Finally, her eyes narrowed and her brow pulled into a frown. âThat dirty old geezer. He always wasâ¦â
âNever mind, Aunt Hildy. Iâm sure he didnât mean anything.â No way did she want to get into a discussion about Aunt Hildyâs former associates tonight. Yes, sheâd loved the stories as a kidâ¦the gorier the better. Hildy used to call her Gruesome Gwen because sheâd been so fascinated by the wicked old days. Sheâd learned all anyone could know about prohibition, the benefits of a Tommy gun, how many men Pretty Boy Floyd had murdered and John Dillingerâs penis size before her eighteenth birthday.
The penis size thing was still pretty interesting.
But she hadnât had time for stories since theyâd moved here.
âAll the candy gone?â
âJust about. Iâm glad you insisted on buying so much.â Gwen lifted the nearly empty bowl, casting a rueful eye to one lone piece of bubble gum and a few forlorn-looking Tootsie Rolls. âI never knew there were so many kids in Derryville.â
Hildy tugged her wig off and patted a strand of white hair into her bun. âAnd every one of them had to come here.â
Gwen couldnât count the number of times a group of children had come to the door tonight, looking uniformly terrified but so excited they couldnât stand still. Each time, theyâd pushed forward one unlucky little soul to be their spokesman. The voice would tremble, the eyes would sparkle with fear. Eventually each would muster up the courage to whisper, âTrick or treat.â
Theyâd peer around her, trying to get a look inside the infamous house, which had cleaned up rather well after months of work. Well enough to open their inn before the end of the year, as she and Hildy had hoped when theyâd moved here last February.
âIâm bushed,â Hildy said, rubbing at her hip, visibly fatigued. âYou think you can close up for the night, sugar lips?â
Nodding, Gwen kissed the old womanâs forehead, wishing sheâd realized sooner that Hildy wasnât feeling well. âGo on.â Hugging her aunt again, she took care to be gentle with those fine, delicate old shoulders, on which Gwen had leaned more than once as a girl.
As Hildy walked away, she said, âDonât forget to thaw out the muffins so theyâll be ready for the morning.â
âI wonât forget.â
But, of course, she did.
JARED REACHED Derryville very late, due to Friday night traffic on the interstate, but he didnât worry. This gathering was set to last the whole weekend. Besides, since he wasnât expected, it would be easier to slip insideâin characterâto surprise his cousin. If he got the chance, he could manipulate the âevidenceâ and pin the crime on Mick. Guilty or not.
Mick deserved some payback for the Maxwell Smart stuff.
He cut off his headlights as he drove up the hill leading to the old Marsden house, not even fully realizing he was holding his breath as the imposing building came into view.
It hadnât changed. Dark and angled, it was an architectural monstrosity that had never fit in with the quaint mid-western town. It overlooked Derryville like a crouching dragon guarding its village for its supply of tasty virgins.
Several cars were parked in the lot at the side of the house, evidence of the party underway. The building appeared dark, so it was possible some people had retired for the night. Or, perhaps, they were busy being bumped off in Mickâs game of âfigure out who the killer is before you get murdered yourself.â
Jared got out of the car after tucking his keys up behind the sun visor. As soon as he had a chance, he planned to come back and move his Viper into the garage. He also left the invitation and his wallet in the glove box, intending to be in character as of this moment. He didnât worry about anyone stealing anything. This was Derryville, after all.
As he walked to the porch, he noticed a small sign. Mick had gone all out, having a fake sign painted for his inn. In print, it didnât make much sense. Little Bohemie Inn. Spoken aloud, howeverâ¦âLittle Bohemian. Cute, Mick.â
He paused at the bottom step. âFinally gonna get to see the inside,â he murmured. His mind tripped back to long, restless nights when heâd lie awake in his bed, imagining the horrors buried beneath the floorboards of Miser Marsdenâs house.
What would old man Marsden say if he knew one of the townâs most famous residents had used descriptions of his home in his earliest horror-writing efforts? The Marsden house, with its dusty turrets, so dark and imposing against even the sunniest summer skies, had definitely been inspiring when it came to writing spooky tales. But practically nobody knew about the stories, long buried in trashed periodicals or out-of-print slasher rags. Jared was now on the bestseller lists with nonfiction, not the dreck heâd tried to write while in college.
Heâd never seen the inside of the houseâthough not for lack of trying. He and Mick had climbed the rickety outside steps up to the wide, creaking wooden porch to ring the doorbell once, years ago. Theyâd done it on a double-dog dare, to see if old man Marsden really did have a Doberman named Killer, trained to bite the nuts off any boy stupid enough to trespass on his property.
Marsden hadnât answered. Neither had Killer. Which left Jared with hope that he might someday be able to father a rugrat or two. He also hoped that if there were any ghosts in the Marsden place, Killer wasnât among them.
A dog howled in the distance and he had to laugh at his own start of surprise. Shaking off old memories, he put one foot on the step, then paused. Miles Stone, superspy extraordinaire, would never walk through the front doorâor worse, knock.
Without another thought, he turned and made his way around to the back of the house. Heâd just stepped through an unlocked back door when he realized he wasnât alone.
A figure in whiteâeither a ghost or the most attractive female heâd ever seenâstood a few feet away. Jared froze, watching her move into the kitchen, unaware of his presence.
She was clad in a shimmering gown, and her golden hair was long and wildly curled against her curvy body. While sheâd been silhouetted in the doorway, heâd gotten a glimpse of a sweetly soft face complete with full pouty lips. Every male instinct he possessed came to attention instantly in a way he hadnât experienced in a long time.
Remaining in character, Miles Stone prepared to do what any James Bond would do. Find out who she was. Remove any weapons she might be carrying.
Then get her into bed.
2
GWEN
