Cordelia’s fingers ached. “Someone’s here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTHEPARTY
“DON’T GO OUTthere,” Cordelia whispered, grabbing her sister’s hand. She stepped next to Eustace in the vestibule. In a matter of minutes, their home would be crawling with guests: a slew of semi-hostile strangers who wanted them off this land, and one murderer who was stalking them outright. She suddenly wasn’t sure if she wanted Eustace to open that door.
“We’ll go together,” Eustace said, and Cordelia nodded, taking a deep, stabilizing breath.
They swung the door wide to find Arkin parking the old Mercedes. “My uncle sent me to help valet,” he called to them shyly.
Cordelia smiled with relief. “It’s good to see you again,” she told him, even though she didn’t exactly mean it. He’d been so looming and peculiar before, like he was a starving man and she a steak. But tonight, he was back to his usual state of idiosyncrasy—painfully unsociable, all arms and legs, few words, less chin. She was beginning to feel sorry for him.
He gave her a quizzical look, lumbering near the car, gawky and graceless.
“You were here the other day with your uncle,” she reminded him. Surely he hadn’t forgotten. He’d startled her so. “You surprised me on the third story?”
“Right,” he said, cutting his eyes away. “Sorry.Again.”
She waved it off. “Just glad you’re back. Be sure to arrange the cars in rows across the lawn. And leave enough space for them to pull out, or it will be madness when everyone goes to leave.”
He nodded once more, eyes cast to the ground.
“Have you ever done this before?” Cordelia asked him. His self-doubt was practically palpable. She was beginning to worry that she should have hired a service.
“Cordy, leave the poor boy alone,” Eustace said, tugging at her shoulder. “He can park a car, for Christ’s sake.”
Arkin smiled tightly in their direction.
“We’ll leave you to it then,” Cordelia said as they went back inside. Once the door was closed, she asked Eustace, “You don’t think… I mean, it couldn’t have been Arkin you saw that morning? Could it? He is tall. And young. He could be fast. He knows the place.”
Her sister laughed dryly. “Are you kidding me? That kid couldn’t outrun a snail. He’d be too busy gawking at his own feet. The guy I saw was cocky. An arrogant bastard who knew he had the drop on us. Arkin doesn’t know his own shadow from a turd on the ground.”
Cordelia shrugged a shoulder and followed Eustace out back. She trusted her sister. When the man came, she believed Eustace would know him. And they had the cameras to pick up any suspicious activity.
The guests trickled in over time, a steady stream of curious busybodies and wide-eyed voyeurs, mouths agape as they marched through the vestibule and stair hall, the elaborate dining room and kitchen, out through the green maze of the solarium and into the twinkling gardens. Cordelia and Eustace took them in turns, escorting them primly from one feature to another, pointing out the house’s many exceptional details—the carving of Winter Bone over the parlor door, the inlaid stair hall floor,the stunning stained-glass window over the stairs and its play of light—before releasing them outside, where they gasped with wonder at the labyrinth of flower beds and party tables under a darkening sky.
Cordelia shook so many hands and made so many introductions, she would never remember them all. It was a bigger turnout than they’d expected, and she had to admit that in this, Gordon had played his part well. She recognized a few faces: Gladys from the coffee shop scowled as she climbed the steps to the porch but kept her dark thoughts to herself. And Dr. Mabee brought his plump wife, Rebecca, but sadly could stay only a short while. Bennett Togers sauntered up behind them, face long and expressionless.
“I’m glad you made it,” Cordelia told him. “I hope we don’t disappoint.”
But the attorney didn’t smile or make small talk. “I’m here to see to the preservation of the property and the signing of the trust. That is all.”
Cordelia grinned anyway as he strode off to find a drink.
By the time their last guest arrived, Cordelia was willing to bet money the town of Bellwick had been emptied out. Wandering bodies milled the gardens like herd animals set to graze. Couples shared benches beside the boxwoods. Even some children scampered across the promenade, their laughter ringing through the hills.
For the most part, they were polite, though they were often slow to take Cordelia’s hand. And she noticed the occasional glare from a shadowy alcove of the garden. They kept their words few and their voices clipped, but she could see them relaxing over the course of the night, forgetting where they were. Shoulders rounded as they grew more comfortable, chatter escalated like the chirping of birds, smiles sprung onto their faces. The wine helped. And Cordelia kept it flowing. She’d been sure to order several crates for just that reason.
To her way of thinking, it didn’t matter how they showed up; it mattered how they left. If they left easy and happy and ready for a good night’s sleep, then they would remember this night—and more important, thisplace—fondly. And perhaps that would erase a little of the skepticism and wariness built into the bedrock of Bellwick. It would be a start, at least.
Even more important, if they let their guard down, it would be easier to detect the person she and Eustace were searching for. Who had been on their property? Who knew their secret? She kept her eyes peeled for someone who looked a little too familiar with the surroundings, a little too comfortable. Someone who didn’t goggle at the chandeliers and fine moldings as if they’d never seen them before. Someone who strode with assurance across the polished parquet floors and the soft ryegrass outside. Someone who didn’t look as out of place as everyone else.
But so far, she’d come up short. And there’d been little opportunity to pull her sister aside and find out if she’d had better luck. With such an overwhelming turnout, they could have really used Gordon to help corral guests and keep them occupied. Once again, Cordelia doubted her decision to send him away.
Still, the night wasn’t a total bust. She’d made a few good connections thanks to the party, including a woman whose aunt told her stories about gatherings held at Bone Hill at the turn of the century: seances and other spiritualist practices that were fashionable then. People purportedly came from all over to attend, and a maid would bring their stories with her into town. Another woman said her grandmother claimed the house had been a den of gamblers and card players, where the wealthy occasionally won but more often lost. “Built their fortune on other’smisfortunes,” she said blackly. “Cards and dice in the early years. Before that, darker, unspeakable things.”
The best was an old man who looked like he could be a hundredif he was a day. He hadn’t a hair left on his liver-spotted head, but he was still standing. His father had once been a groundskeeper on the property, filling his children with stories about Morna’s natural prowess with the local wildlife and the kindness of Linden’s wife, Hyacinth, who often baked treats for the man to take home.
“Sometimes she would send us medicines,” he recalled. “Homemade cough syrup—stuff like that. Tasted something awful but worked like a charm. My father said it was Linden who made the medicine, but no one ever believed him.”
