SEASON OF THE SERPENT By: Cara Swann [© 2000 by Cara Swann; all rights reserved] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An award-winning journalist can't accept the unsolved murder of her parents -- and finds the sudden appearance of a long-lost cousin too coincidental, thinking he may have had something to do with her parents' murder. Soon she is pursuing his past involvement with her father to buy an old rundown mansion. Upon her visit there, she is slowly drawn into the strange ghostly haunting in the mansion -- and attracted to the mysterious man who lives nearby, and who may be a murderer. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PROLOGUE Murdered! Both of them...dead, gone forever! How could this have happened? How could her parents be dead, when less than a week ago they'd been alive and well? Chelsea Seymour stood near the freshly dug graves, an umbrella protecting her from the softly falling April rain. She still couldn't believe they were gone. Even as the minister solemnly spoke his last words; even as the crowd of bereaved family and friends began to drift away; even as she saw the two coffins being lowered into the gaping holes which would forever prevent her looking upon those two dear faces again. People spoke in hushed whispers, condolences mingled with mixed emotions of anger, shock, disbelief. Men quietly touched her shoulder; women embraced her and murmured their offers of help; everyone asked if there was anything they could do, any way they could further assist the authorities. But Chelsea remained wordless, only her tremulous lips occasionally being wet and clamped tightly together revealing the inner turmoil of pain, confusion, rage and ultimately, the horrible devastation she felt at having been cruelly cheated by the violent murder of her parents. Several of her closest female friends, her mother's sister, Aunt Margaret, and co-workers from the newspaper remained steadfastly by her side, helping support her as she walked shakily back to the waiting car, all the time wondering if she'd ever be able to cope with what had happened. It was just as she turned to look once more at the cemetery, past the budding dogwoods and darkly wet magnolia limbs, past the slight rise of ground to the spot where the graves rested atop a knoll, that Chelsea saw the young man. He was standing underneath the gnarled magnolia, his boyish face staring intently at her. She had never seen him before, but then many of the mourners were unfamiliar to her. Aunt Margaret ushered her into the dim interior of the Limousine, saying, "Dear, we need to be getting back to the house, there will be mourners arriving." Chelsea settled back into the seat, still looking out the window to where the man stood, his gaze now directed at the graves. She asked, "Who is that young man by the Magnolia? Do you know him?" "Let me see..." Aunt Margaret peered through the smoky glass. "Oh yes, he introduced himself at the church, said he was Michael Forrest, a distant cousin of your father's mother's family, related through the Breaux family somehow or other. You know I could never keep them all straight, your paternal grandmother's family being so large. And after the mansion, Breauxland, burned and the Seymours both in it...well, they all drifted apart, went to different states." "Their home in Louisiana was so beautiful, father used to tell me about it, and...when his parents died so suddenly..." Her voice faltered, the realization of how deeply her father had grieved more vivid now that she grieved the same way. Aunt Margaret patted her shoulder, gave her an understanding hug. "You need time Chelsea dear, time to come to grips with this tragedy. "How will I ever be able to get over the rage I feel, the helplessness, the ugly reality of them being murdered, killed just because they happened to be in that convenience store when it was robbed?" She began sobbing, deep dry sobs of agony, knowing her life was forever changed because a criminal act had resulted in not just the everyday common robbery seen on the nightly news, but that it had resulted in her parents being shot simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They rode silently through the streets of Claymore, Mississippi and Chelsea looked on the familiar sight of quiet neighborhoods, the unchanged landscape of southern peacefulness where law-abiding people lived in unguarded homes. If only her parents had never taken the vacation trip to Florida, hadn't stopped at the convenience store...maybe they'd still be safely in the comfortable home coming into view. And the authorities didn't have a clue, not a single piece of evidence that could solve the crime - a fact that tortured and frustrated Chelsea. Cars already lined the wide street where oak and maple limbs entwined overhead, a steady drizzle misting the manicured lawns - such a dreary and dismal day, Chelsea thought. As they got out, the rain suddenly came down hard, a fierce straight rain that soaked to the skin, lightning ripping the gray skyline, rolling thunder summoning Chelsea into the house where people were gathered to offer comfort. But she feared they could never, ever ease the abysmal loneliness threatening to engulf her on this brutal day. Nor could well-meaning people ever help eradicate the anger and rage she felt at knowing a killer was walking around free out there, smugly thinking he got away with murder. It was wrong, unfair and Chelsea vowed to do all within her power to see justice done. CHAPTER ONE Chelsea fought her way through the endlessly long days of memories, the painfully heart-wrenching moments when she could not resist looking at the happy, smiling faces of her parents in framed photographs throughout their home. She spent a few nights in their modest, comfortable two-story house in the historic district of Claymore, recalling her childhood, how her parents had never wanted to overly spoil or pamper her as an only child. She'd always felt loved and cherished, yet not as though she deserved any special treatment merely because she had no siblings. Chelsea recalled her father's insistence on public schooling, to which her mother initially objected. But it had been the right decision, all the more so because in first grade she'd struck up a fast friendship with Anna Reeves, and their five years of closeness before Anna's untimely death was a highly treasured memory - as well as the inspiration for her career in journalism. With a fond smile, she remembered the way her father disliked flaunting their considerable wealth, instead preferring simple and quiet pleasures of family life. Her mother was an active volunteer in several charitable efforts; her father gave generously to charitable causes. His only vice, as he called it, was the collection of antiques, but even in that he often chose battered pieces he could lovingly restore in his shop. That two giving, caring individuals had been brutally murdered with such blatant disregard for human life only made the tragedy more distressing. What kind of person killed like that, Chelsea wondered over and over. Whoever it was had to be found, stopped... After a few days of being alone with these tortured thoughts, Chelsea returned to her small apartment, and went back to work. Her position as a reporter at the Claymore Clarion kept her busy meeting daily deadlines, but she often found herself distracted by painful emotions, unbidden images of her parents' murder interrupting her concentration. All the staff, a group of incredibly compassionate people, seemed to try and understand. But in the frantic pace of a newsroom, anyone who failed to move quickly and attentively toward the ultimate goal of getting out a newspaper could create complications. Chelsea did return many times to the house, gathering up the small treasures she wished to keep for herself, and deciding what antique furniture was to be stored until the day she might wish to use it, what pieces family members might want and what pieces could be auctioned. For after the will had been read, she knew she could not live in the house where so many, many loving memories would haunt her constantly. It had to be sold, and she arranged to put it on the market. Chelsea felt the acute responsibility of having to settle all matters regarding her parents' estate. At the reading of the will, she'd not been surprised by the size of the trust fund left to her, even though her share of the shipbuilding business would be bought by her father's partner, Hammond Garner. He'd been a loyal, hard-working partner and when her father had told her of the arrangements in the will years ago, she'd understood. She really had no interest in that enterprise since her own career was so fulfilling. In late May, at the end of another fast-paced day, Chelsea rushed to get her story on the city Council meeting filed so the editor, Don James, could approve it for the next day's lead. She watched Don read it on the VDT screen, nodding his approval, then say, "Good job, as usual." He leaned back in his chair, studied her over his glasses and said, "You don't have to work this hard, we could spare you a few days, you know." Don, at thirty-five, was only ten years her senior; but he was an astute editor. One thing she'd always appreciated at the Clarion was the instructional guidance - no one would jump down your throat if you made a couple of mistakes so long as you didn't let it become a pattern. She'd done her internship here at the local daily paper, and returned after graduating from the University of Mississippi at Oxford largely because of Don's expert guidance. She smiled, shook her head. "I need to work, keep myself busy instead of brooding. But..." "But what?" he asked. "It's just that I keep wondering why the authorities haven't found who killed my parents." He sighed, took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. "Those sort of robberies, who knows? Didn't they question you, and then explain about why there were no suspects?" "Yes, an investigator I saw there..." She swallowed hard, unable to avoid the painful memory of having to identify her parents' bodies at a morgue. "He said the surveillance video in the convenience store was the only evidence they had, and it was impossible to identify the killer, who wore black clothing, a ski mask, gloves. It's just so frustrating!" "Chelsea, are you sure you don't need some time away from here, a vacation or something?" She shrugged. "Maybe. ''How about the crime victims' meetings?'' "I've been attending, but I feel like I need to do more, try and find out something else about the murder..." "You are a fine reporter, and the investigative pieces you've done were good work, but you're too personally involved in this situation. Besides, Chelsea, that's what investigators are for, to find these savage criminals. You could get killed yourself if you did somehow locate the murderer." She bit her lips, knowing Don was right, but that didn't stop her from saying, "I would like a few weeks off. I need to talk to the investigator again." "I'd warn you to be careful, but...knowing how impulsive and persistent you can be, I'd be wasting my breath." He grinned, put his glasses back on. "Yes, you can have as long as you need off, a leave of absence. But I want to stress I consider this time to deal with your grief, not go chasing after a killer." "Thanks. And I will try to be cautious," she said, knowing he couldn't very well condone her conduct, but that, as a former reporter himself, he did understand. She went back to her desk where she turned off the VDT unit, grabbed her purse and left the building. Chelsea walked to her Toyota Camry parked on the street, and as she started to unlock the door, she heard a male voice behind her say, "Chelsea, I'm sorry I didn't get to offer my condolences at the funeral." She turned slowly to see a young man standing nearby, his boyish face warmly sincere. He was vaguely familiar, and then she remembered seeing him from a distance at her parents' funeral. Michael Forrest, her aunt had said, a distant cousin. Now that he was close, she noticed his good-looks; he had a short, stout build, and an open, friendly kind of face, one that made you want to trust him with confidences. But it was his gray eyes that connected him to her family, the same pale gray of her father and uncle's eyes. He smiled, ran a hand through his brown hair, asked, "Do I look familiar?" "Sorry for staring," Chelsea said, "I suppose I was looking at your family resemblance. You are Michael Forrest, a long lost cousin of my father's family, aren't you?" "Yes, and thanks for sparing me that awkward introduction." He leaned back against the car, causally crossed his legs one over the other, looking relaxed in his jeans and knit shirt. Chelsea said, "I was just on my way to my apartment. Would you like to come by for a glass of ice tea, it's really warm this afternoon. He exclaimed, "Hey, that'd be great! My Blazer's over there, so I'll be right with you." As she drove the mile to her apartment, Chelsea wondered about him, why he'd come here? Surely not just to extend his condolences. As he pulled in behind her at the curb, she motioned for him to join her, led the way up the sidewalk to the apartment complex in a modern brick building. Inside, she went to the tiny kitchenette and put on water to boil, hung the tea bags on the side of the pot. Then she told him, "I'll just be a sec, need to get changed out of this dress." In the bedroom, Chelsea pulled on faded jeans and a blue oversized blouse, then looked into the mirror. Her normally healthy rose-tinted skin had a sick pallor, making her distinctively arched black brows stand out dramatically, emphasizing her wide-spaced bright green eyes beneath which the dark smudges from sleepless nights looked like bruises. She ran a brush through her thick, wavy shoulder-length chestnut hair and put red gloss on her overly full lips, which she'd always hated until recently when they seemed to be all the rage. Appraising her petite body in the mirror, she again wished she could lose about ten pounds; but others told her the figure she wished to diminish was alluring in a voluptuous way. It was a very flattering compliment, and she'd given up on starvation anyway. Passing back through the kitchenette, she quickly made the ice tea and carried two tall frosty glasses on a tray into the small living room. Michael was studying the framed articles over her desk, and whistled low as she entered. "You are an ace reporter, huh? Winning awards for these, that's super!" Chelsea felt her face flush proudly; she'd won an award for her series of controversial articles about the potential environmental damage caused by air pollution from the pulp and paper mills in and around Claymore, angering various forestry-related enterprises. And one of her articles featuring interviews with impoverished blacks, who didn't have a clean water supply, had also gotten statewide recognition. "So, thanks for the tea," he said, taking the glass and sitting down on the overstuffed sofa. "I really meant what I said, about your parents." She sat down opposite him in a wicker armchair. "Thank you, it was...awful, just awful." "I don't know what is happening in this country when two people can't even stop at a store without..." He broke off, sighed. "Sorry, but...it just seems so senseless, random, so... I don't know..." "Yes, it was. And it upsets me the killer got away!" Chelsea burst out, immediately apologizing, "I'm sorry, it's just that I feel so helpless." He nodded, but his mouth thinned into a tense line. She explained, "I've been going to a group meeting of crime victims, been a couple of times just to um, try and...see if my feelings are normal." Sipping her tea, Chelsea recalled the grim faces etched with despair and helplessness, some of them so bitter they could never really be happy again. She never wanted to end up that way forever, but if the killer got away with it, still out there free to kill again... "Did it help?" he asked, leaning forward, staring at her curiously. "A little, but some of the people, they were so grim. It was a bit more than I could take." She paused, put her glass on a coaster on the wicker cocktail table. "But one thing I did learn is that when something like this happens to you, it suddenly makes you realize that no one's really safe. If it can happen to them, it can happen to you. It's as though some people want to avoid me, because of the association for themselves; as though they don't want to be reminded of how vulnerable we all are. And the terrible part is that victims are just that, victims. They did nothing to bring on their own murders, like some people want to think, I guess to try and distance themselves from such a fate." "It sounds as though the group did help you. At least it made you understand why it's painful for others to face their own vulnerability, and mortality." He put his glass on a coaster. "And I'm sure people don't mean to be rude...or avoid you." "At first, when my friends sort of stayed away, after the funeral, I figured they just didn't know what to say, how to console me. But now...even some of my family here are becoming standoffish." Chelsea was amazed she'd revealed so much of her inner pain, and quickly stood, averting her face. "Hey, I understand. I'm at a loss too, but I thought if I could talk to you, or just listen, that sometimes helps." She glanced back at him. "So how did you hear of their deaths?" He got up, moved around restlessly and finally said, "It's strange, actually. I had been here to see your father, he was interested in some property I own in Louisiana, and we were just at the initial stage of negotiating when this occurred. I'd gotten into town on Friday, and we had a meeting, then they left on the vacation. Troy had said he'd seal the deal when he got back...but now..." The words hung in the air between them, an unspoken tragedy having interrupted the final closing of a promising possibility. She wanted to know "Troy was going to buy ForestWillow, renovate it and either sell it or live there when he retired." "ForestWillow, a house?" Chelsea now stood facing him and was staring into his pale gray eyes. "Yes, it's my family's home, a big old monster that is in need of some tender loving care. I just don't have the funds, and it'd be a shame to see the place go to rot." "Where is it?" She watched his face brighten, his eyes light with pride. "Just outside Camile, Louisiana. In fact not too far from the scenic Great River Road along the Mississippi River where all those grand old plantations have been restored to attract tourist. Maybe that is what Troy had in mind, but he never said as much. Restoring ForestWillow for a tourist attraction, I mean." He sighed, then went to sit on the sofa. "My mother isn't well, and I'm the only heir, so it seemed like the best thing to do, sell and help save the house." "What is your occupation?" Chelsea asked, moving back to the armchair and lifting her glass to sip tea. "You won't believe it, but I'm a writer too." She laughed suddenly, surprised by the coincidence. "Ah, writing talent runs in the family!" "Yes, I suppose it does." "What kind of writing do you do?" She gazed at him, surprised they shared this common interest. "That's another weird thing, I work at a newspaper!" "Now that is strange!" Chelsea smiled, then asked, "Where do you work?" "I'm a copy reader, part-time staff reporter for the Camile Gazette. But, let me make this clear, it's just a small-town weekly, nothing like as large as the Claymore Clarion." Chelsea relaxed somewhat, feeling more at ease with him and glad for the company; the long evenings were getting unbearably lonely. He asked, "I was wondering if you might be interested in investing in the house? Drive down to Camile, stay for a visit and look ForestWillow over?" His question took her by surprise and she said nothing for a moment, instead looking at him closely. It occurred to her that, knowing her father, he would have never considered renovating a mansion for tourist business. On the other hand, he loved antiques and could have been thinking of turning the mansion into an outlet for his hobby, a place to sell antiques when he retired. "I didn't mean to spring this on you so suddenly, but I won't be able to stay here long...and it just seemed like a good idea." Michael shrugged, looked away from her pointed stare. "I do have some time off coming, but I plan on driving to Florida first, talk to an investigator. If I get through there in time, I might come back to Camile, drop in." "That would be fine. I'll be at ForestWillow, or if I'm not, you can usually find out where I am at the newspaper in town." He stood, said, "Thanks for the tea. Hey, it's nice seeing you again, and if you have time to get out my way, drop by." Chelsea rose, asked, "How about giving me directions, just in case I decide to come by." He told her the route, even made a rough sketched map of the side roads to his property. At the door, he looked into her eyes, said sincerely, "I'm real sorry about your folks. It's a shame, a real loss." "Yes." "Maybe some time away from here would give you a chance to sort of recuperate, not be reminded of memories all around you. If you come by, you're welcome to stay at ForestWillow as long as you like. Hey, listen to me...going on and on. I'll go, hope to see you again." Chelsea said, "It was nice seeing you again too." When she closed the door, her confusion deepened. Why had he come here? Was it only to see if she might invest in his property? Then she shook her head, thinking she was getting paranoid, something she'd have to guard against; the crime victims' group had discussed that very tendency. As she went to look through her closet, start to pack a suitcase for the Florida trip, Chelsea hoped she could turn up something to work with. How could she pretend nothing had happened, like everyone seemed to think she should, forget that a murderer was running loose? It went against everything in her nature to ignore such an injustice, she knew, and folding clothing carefully in the suitcases, her mind was made up. Whatever the outcome, she would have to probe into the case, assure herself that the authorities had done everything possible. After soaking in a warm bath, Chelsea got into bed, lay staring at the ceiling, wondering about Michael Forrest. How were they related? Did her father even discuss investing in his Louisiana property? Or had Michael simply hoped to get her involved by feigning a prior real estate deal? The idea that Michael might have heard of her parents' murder, then hatched this plan for monetary gain was deplorable - but it wouldn't be the first time a distant relative had sought to take advantage of family connections, she thought, disgusted with her suspicions. Would this always be her frame of mind? She had a fine edge of professional skepticism for her work, but this was going too far, being suspicious of relatives! It was the trauma, she told herself, the emotional havoc created by the gruesome murder of the two people who meant more to her than anyone else in the world. Closing her eyes, she felt unshed tears aching to be released, and adamantly held them back, swallowing the knot that had risen in her dry throat. "Anna," she said aloud, "it all began with you..." She could clearly remember Anna, the little freckle- faced, red-headed girl she'd met in first grade, how shy and introverted Anna had been. Chelsea had been quick to notice her faded dress, her badly worn shoes, tattered lunchbox in which she carried a homemade lunch, and the way other children looked disdainfully at her, as though they found Anna too poor to befriend. But not Chelsea. She'd instantly went to Anna's side, asked her name and they'd chattered about what they liked and disliked, finding a lot in common. Thereafter, though they were from vastly different backgrounds (Anna was the youngest of six siblings and her father worked in the local sawmill), they were inseparable. The summer after fifth grade, Anna began to get ill, and Chelsea recalled vividly how quickly she'd withered away, finally being diagnosed as having a rare kidney disease. Anna's family had no health insurance; the mill didn't provide it. They turned to the community for funds to help provide a transplant for Anna, and Chelsea had gotten her father to contribute the remainder when it was apparent the operation had to be done soon if Anna was to have a fighting chance to live. Chelsea still felt the hollow sensation of losing Anna that next winter, and no matter how much her parents explained that it was unavoidable, she hadn't been convinced. Even at that age, she'd been filled with outrage at the injustice done to Anna, the mill's lack of proper medical insurance that would have provided a transplant in time to have saved a child's life. That early tragic loss, Chelsea reflected, had fueled her endless quest for fair treatment for all, to learn the real facts, pursue truth and justice whatever had to be personally sacrificed. She would always credit having known Anna as the inspiration for her career in journalism. And she hoped that same burning desire for truth and justice would keep her motivated on the trip to Florida, help her keep relentlessly pursuing the nameless, faceless killer - however difficult and dangerous that might prove to be. CHAPTER TWO The long trip along the coast of Florida to Tampa was monotonous, tiring and when Chelsea checked into the motel, she only wanted to collapse from exhaustion. However, her first impulse was to phone the investigator, who told her again that the case was still open, but that no new evidence had been uncovered. She could hear the irritation in his gravely voice when she revealed she was in Tampa, and wished to come to his office the following morning. He did make an appointment, but his words were blunt, "I'll talk to you, but you're wasting your time here." It was dusk now, and she stood watching the last red-orange tint leave the sky, a deep twilight purple coloring the darkly moving bay waters beyond her window. She'd thought of staying at the family beach condominium in St. Petersburg, but feared the happy times she'd shared there with her parents would make it unbearable. Chelsea called room service, ordered dinner and ate while watching TV, wondering if this was a waste of time? After a shower, she fell into bed, emotionally drained from sheer frustration and physical fatigue after a day of driving to get to Tampa for a full night's sleep before confronting the investigator. And when she awoke the next morning refreshed and alert, she felt optimistic and determined. Choosing a two-piece beige linen skirt and jacket suit, she dressed and pulled her hair back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, hoping to achieve a no- nonsense look. But when she walked into the familiar precinct office of the investigators, Chelsea saw they were not impressed. Two of the younger men simply ignored her; the lone female gave her a sympathetic smile. But the senior male investigator of the group winked at her, his eyes roving her body frankly, clearly not put off by her severe outfit. Walking toward Investigator Joseph Means' desk, she saw him lift his burly shoulders, arrange his plain-featured face into a bland mask. He got up, straightened his tie and pulled up a chair, said curtly, "Sit down Miss Seymour." Slipping onto the hard chair, she sat stiffly, clutching her purse. "I know you told me there was nothing new..." "Right, and there isn't." He turned his palms up on the desk, admitted, "We haven't put much more time in on it." "But why? A killer is loose out there..." He held up a hand defensively, said sternly, "Look, do you have any idea how many murders we have in this district? See the file cabinet over there? Those are my cases, many of them unsolved. We have drug-related slayings, growing gang activities, and...I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, but the murder of your parents may never be solved." Chelsea snapped, "I suppose it doesn't matter to you." "Miss Seymour, it definitely does matter to me and to all of us in this division. But you have to face the fact that the killer was probably a drug-crazed addict, and just lost it when he saw two customers coming up the aisle. Do you have any idea how many drug addicts there are in this city? Not to mention that this one wore a perfect disguise..." "I know the video didn't show anything, but what about the clerk? Maybe he could remember something else." Chelsea forced back her own anger, managed to plead, "Couldn't you give me his address, let me talk to the boy?" "Why? We've already interviewed the kid, and he told us nothing that could help." "I might learn something though, just by having a different perspective. Have there been any similar robberies in this area?" He stood, straightening his tie again compulsively. "No, none with that M.O. Look, if the masked perp strikes again, we might do some stakeouts. But right now I have a meeting across town. I do understand your feelings, and I assure you we will continue to do all we can to find the killer. But I can't give you false hope; the chances are slim." Chelsea reluctantly got to her feet. "Thank you for seeing me. But please give me the address of the boy. I tried to find out where he lives. He's not at his sister's place in Tampa, I called her, and she wouldn't tell me where he is." "Do you really think you'll learn anything? The boy was scared to death, saw nothing but the black- clothed perpetrator and that sawed-off shotgun rammed in his face. That kind of thing has a way of making a kid go blank." "I'd very much like to try, but I won't harass him if that's what you're worried about." She looked in his eyes, her great need making her whisper urgently, "Please?" Throwing up his hands, he lowered his voice and said, "Okay, I'll give you the address. I shouldn't, but I will. You better make sure you don't cause the kid any more grief, hear?" She nodded, said sincerely, "Thank you." After jotting down the address for her, he walked her out of the building, and they parted on the street. As she drove away, Chelsea wasn't feeling disappointed, just resigned to the fact the investigators were overworked and unable to devote more time to this case. But she could; that was why she was here. She drove expertly through Tampa, having studied the city map the night before, at last pulling up at the convenience store. Her eyes focused on the young boy inside behind the cash register; he wasn't the same boy who'd witnessed her parents' murder, but she felt compelled to visit the scene of the crime, to study it as if it might somehow impart clues to her. Parking her car, she got out and walked casually to the small store, stopping to read the ads plastered on the lower part of the front window: SANDWICH MACHINE INSIDE, HOT SOUP, HOT COFFEE, ICE, COLD BEER. Pushing open the glass door, a jingling bell announced her entry; the teenage boy at the register looked up, his eyes narrowing with apprehension. She wondered briefly what kind of world it was that a person couldn't do their job without rabid fear of being robbed, maybe even killed? Chelsea sauntered through the store, going from aisle to aisle, covering the four quickly, seeing the restroom sign in the back. Had her parents gotten gas, then come inside to use the restroom, stumbling over the robber? The clerk asked, "Ca..can I help you?" "No, I was just looking. You don't have what I need." She smiled at the boy, who was still staring at her with a guarded expression, and then went on outside, hearing the bell ring again upon her exit. What had she hoped to accomplish by visiting the place? Had she wanted something unusual to jump out at her, a real clue as to who had viciously killed her parents? As she got in her car, Chelsea chided herself for such unrealistic hopes, and unfolded the paper to read the address Investigator Means had written for her. Maybe this would prove more productive. In fact, it proved more difficult to find the boy's home than she'd thought, since he lived in Clearwater. She stopped and ate lunch at a McDonalds, then drove around the city, finally locating the trailer park where his parents lived. The red-and-white mobile home, near the very end of a long line of similar manufactured housing, was just as Investigator Means had described it; she parked beside a primer-colored Camaro. Just as she opened her car door, one foot already on the ground, Jerry Yarbrough bounded out of the trailer, yelling, "Yeah, and that goes for me too! I'm outta here, going back to stay with Sandra in Tampa!" Chelsea saw him pause, look at her with curiosity, and start toward the car. She got out, standing and asking, "Are you Jerry Yarbrough?" He nodded, walked over and slouched against her car. "Yeah, you want to see me?" Chelsea thought he looked younger in person than in the photos she'd seen. His thin, longish blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail; an ear-ring caught the sunlight as he cupped a hand over the cigarette he was lighting, his face posed in a tough-guy squint - which only emphasized his youth instead of giving him the hard edge he probably intended. She took off her sunglasses, asked, "I was wondering if we could speak for a moment? That is, if you don't mind." He took a deep drag on the cigarette, let smoke stream out of his nostrils while he looked her over, then demanded, "Who are you? You ain't another one of them cops, are you? Because if you are..." "No," Chelsea quickly assured him, "I'm not. Jerry, my name is Chelsea Seymour." "Christ, was that your folks killed in the holdup?" His blue eyes widened, and he almost choked on the deep drag he'd just taken off the cigarette. "Yes, it was. I don't wish to upset you again, but I really would like to talk to you about what happened." "I'm sorry they got killed, I felt terrible about it. I mean, you know, it's my job and what with all the nuts out there, I know how dangerous my job is. But your folks, they just walked in off the street..." He looked at her, grimacing. Chelsea could see the horror of what he'd witnessed still painfully evident in his stricken expression. He shook his head, tossed the cigarette down and crushed it beneath his shoe. "I'm sorry as hell, I sure am. But don't see why you came to me..." "It was a tragedy, yes, but the investigators don't seem to be doing anything to find the killer." She moved forward, touched the boy's arm, and asked softly, "I was wondering if there's anything you've remembered, anything that could help identify the person who committed this crime?" He pulled away from her touch, smoothed his hands nervously along his faded, tight jeans. "Nah, I done told the cops all I remembered." "Are you sure? I know it must have been horrible, and you probably don't want to think about it, but I am determined to try and learn all I can about it. I might be able to notice something the authorities overlooked..." "You gotta be kidding! Lady, you have any idea what kinda nut the killer could be? These types, they don't let it go if you finger them. One of my buddies, he saw a drug deal go down in the projects, and told the cops. A couple weeks later, this carload of armed gang bangers ride up to his house, shoot out the windows, like to of killed his family! I ain't that stupid." Chelsea realized she had to convince him she wouldn't pose a threat to him, moved slightly nearer and said, "I do understand how violently dangerous the person is, but I just can't let them get away with it. I loved my parents, they were good people, and I plan to do everything in my power to see justice done." He gave a nervous laugh, coughed and patted his shirt pocket, got out a pack of cigarettes. "Look, I can't help you. Besides, you ought not be doing this, it's the cops' job." "But they're not doing it very well, are they?" "No, damn sure ain't. It's getting so you can't even work at a service station, a store, no place where I qualify to work, and be safe. Gangs, addicts..." He took a Bic lighter out of his jeans pocket, lit the cigarette as he glanced off at the cloudless horizon beyond the shabby trailer park. "Man, I'm gonna get outta this dump one day, get a decent job." "You're only eighteen, graduated high school last year, didn't you? Your whole future is ahead of you," Chelsea encouraged, trying not to let him see how badly the smoke was bothering her. "Yeah, but ain't lots of chances for me here so I'm gonna move on." His eyes drifted back to her. "Anyways, I gotta go now." He headed for the Camaro, and Chelsea trailed after him, asking, "Couldn't you at least tell me about it?" He shrugged, stopped close to the Camaro. "What's to tell? This guy had on black clothing, head to foot, ski mask..." "Were my parents coming from the restrooms?" she prompted, watching his face tense, lips clamp down on the cigarette. "No, they was at the cooler, I think getting colas, but...then this nut, he busted in the door, put that sawed-off in my face, and they heard the commotion. But before they could do more than just look scared, this guy starts pumping that shotgun at them." Chelsea shuddered, swallowed hard, asked, "Did they do anything to provoke him?" "Nah, not that I could see. These idiot robbers, who knows? Maybe he just didn't like their looks. He had a good disguise, so it ain't like they could finger him." Opening the car door, he paused and said, "Man, that dude looked back at me, told me to get on the floor and...those cold eyes, damn, real spooky, kinda silvery, like wolf eyes, sorta weird seeing them through those holes in the black ski mask." Slipping into the seat, he looked back at Chelsea, adding, "I got on the floor, pronto! And while he was grabbing the cash, I was scared stiff, just knew it was all over...that he'd shoot me in the back. Don't know why he didn't, just the breaks I guess." She realized he was starting the car, and said, "Well thanks for your time. Nice meeting you, sorry if I delayed you." He revved up the engine, a loud muffler rumbling underneath the car, yelled, "Yeah, nice meeting you. But you better let the cops handle this stuff." And then he backed away, revved the engine again, squealed off down the paved drive, leaving Chelsea standing there with their conversation ringing in her ears. She noticed a woman part the curtains in the trailer window, stare out curiously at her; deciding not to disturb anyone else, Chelsea turned away. Hurrying to her Toyoto, she got in and drove off, pondering Jerry's words. Had she learned anything? Or had it merely been a recap of all she knew? As she made her way back into Tampa, Chelsea felt discouraged and almost defeated. Joseph Means had been right, she had to quit grasping at straws... Back at the motel, she packed up and checked out, deciding to head for New Orleans, spend a few days with one of her favorite relatives; it would give her an opportunity to browse through antique shops, perhaps distract her preoccupation with her parents' murder. And while there, Chelsea thought she might be able to learn exactly how she and Michael Forrest were related; his strange appearance was still confusing. * * * * Afternoon heat waves shimmered off the tar-black asphalt as Chelsea headed along the serpentine two- lane highway, having just left Interstate 10 that had brought her north from New Orleans, where she'd spent an enjoyable few days. Abruptly the highway plunged into a hairpin curve and she slowed her speed, noticing the lush, untamed foliage on the roadsides, and a junglelike thickness of cypress trees wrapped in grayish wisps of moss, enveloping and obscuring the deep pine forest beyond. It was eerie, giving her a sense of being suffocated, stifled by the gloomy daylight that managed to penetrate the dense woods. The farther she went, the less the light, finally almost seeming to be dusk as she drove on, absorbed by thoughts of the past week. Thinking about her visit with her second cousin, Marcus Breaux, a widower in his sixties who owned an antique shop in the French Quarter, Chelsea felt more perplexed than ever about the mysterious Michael Forrest. She and Marcus had gotten along famously, recalling the many times her father had brought her to the shop through the years, how he'd loved collecting rare antiques. Chelsea had offered Marcus a selection of the pieces she intended to auction off, and he'd settled on several that her father had acquired from his shop. For the three days she stayed, they roamed through the French Quarter, chatting about the old days. And she'd had no trouble bringing the conversation around to Breauxland and the tragic fire that had destroyed the mansion back in 1954. Marcus had never lived there, but he had vivid memories of the loss and how devastated the entire Breaux family had been. However, when she asked specifically of family members, he was vague, as though long years apart had somehow given him amnesia. Perhaps it was a self-induced amnesia, in order to prevent reliving memories of a family that had at one time been close-knit, and was now permanently separated geographically. As Chelsea marveled at the unfolding landscape, getting an occasional glimpse of skyline overhead, she remembered the blank look on Marcus's face when she mentioned Michael Forrest. He said he had never heard of Michael, or of any Breaux relatives marrying a Forrest. He'd said it was a possibility a distant female cousin had done so, but the name was unfamiliar to him. So it was her skepticism and curiosity, the very traits that made her an excellent reporter, that propelled Chelsea onward, down the long winding blacktop where slow-moving murky river water ran parallel to the highway, sometimes seen, sometimes obscured by the dense vegetation tangled and twisted in snaky coils throughout cypress, willows and pines. When Michael had sketched the route, he'd pointed out that the Mississippi River had many tributary streams and bayous that fed into it, and some plantations had been built along these for fear of flooding by the mighty Mississippi. This road she was on ran alongside Black River, a sluggish stream where several mansions had been built in the early 1800s. After driving about fifteen miles, Chelsea found the gravel road that Michael had told her about. She turned off the main highway, and felt growing anxiety at the deepening gloom of encroaching moss-draped cypress, the one-lane road so narrow that the mossy tendrils swiped greedily at her little Camry, every now and then evoking a sharp screeching sound as a tree branch scratched the car. It seemed a long time on this road, with nothing but wild overgrowth clutching at her car from both sides, until she saw wrought-iron gates on the right side. She braked, sat there staring at the ornate lacy ironwork atop the elaborate gates, a large stone replica of a tiny island surrounded by turbulent waves perched over the word: INNISFREE. She shook her head, blinked her eyes; this wasn't the entrance to the grounds of ForestWillow, but it sure looked like it led to a grand estate. Curiosity piqued, she lowered the window on the right side of her car, slid over and tried to see down the paved drive past the locked gates. The dim light only enabled her to get a mere glimmer of massive white columns surrounding an imposing classic Creole-style plantation at the end of an oak- lined lane. She sighed, scooted over and drove on down the graveled road. Michael had not mentioned such a house; but perhaps that had been an oversight. Within two miles, she saw the rutted dirt road off to the left that Michael had told her to take; she pulled over, sat there feeling her skin prickle with heat and humidity. The narrow dark path through encroaching woods was no more than a thin ribbon, almost impassable with sandy ruts so deep she was afraid her car might get stuck. Resolutely, she eased along and managed to go at least a half mile before the path widened, giving a sensation of opening onto a field, then quickly narrowed for another half mile. Suddenly there was an ordered pattern to the trees on either side of her; pines and willows interspersed, and spaced at measured intervals, lined the path and at the end of the quarter mile ahead she saw the house. Stunned, Chelsea braked so abruptly she lunged forward, and would have hit her head on the steering wheel except for the seat belt. What she saw ahead was a monstrosity of perverted architecture, a jumbled mixture of Medieval Gothic and English Tudor so convoluted it almost defied belief. Feeling queasy, she had a sense of foreboding that left her weak and shaken. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles going white with tension; she swallowed hard, trying to overcome the nausea. Letting off the brake, she eased ahead toward the shadowy structure that seemed like a macabre mausoleum in this primeval wilderness setting. Chelsea saw a squirrel dart into her path, and braked hard; when it had passed, she hit the gas pedal, and the car shot forward much too fast just as she caught a glimpse of someone to the right dashing out of the woods. Alarmed, she stomped the brake, heard her tires slide in the sand, then sat there rigidly staring straight ahead, her body drenched with perspiration, moist heat pouring in through the window she'd forgotten to close. A husky voice cursed, "Damnit, you almost hit me!" Nervously, Chelsea glanced to her right, saw a tall, dark-haired male near the front of the car who quickly approached the open window and asked, "Don't you look where you're going?" "I'm sorry, I...it...I was..." "It's a good thing I saw you speed up, or I'd of been run over," he snapped, glaring at her. Suddenly Chelsea was furious, the past week's frustration surfacing as she jumped from the car, confronted the man who stared down at her from burning black eyes, his angular face tight with anger. She declared, "Why don't you look where you're going! I am on a road here, and you ran out in front of me!" "That doesn't excuse your lack of attention," he remarked flatly, standing his ground as she looked up at him. "Yes, but you shouldn't have run out in front of me like that. I mean, I could hardly see you, not coming out of that heavy wooded area like you did." He studied her a moment, asked, "Are you lost? Tourist get off the beaten path, end up on private property..." "No, I am a guest of Michael Forrest." "I see. Fine, just watch where you're going from now on." "What are you doing on his property?" she asked tartly, but got no reply. As he sprinted off, Chelsea became aware he was wearing a sweatshirt and jogging shorts, seeing the smooth, athletic precision of his hard, muscular body disappearing rapidly back along the path she'd just driven down. A voice shouted, "Chelsea, is that you?" She turned to see Michael walking briskly toward her, and silently cursed the rude, arrogant stranger again for ruining her plan to slip up on Michael unannounced, perhaps even have a private chat with his mother, if he'd been away. Michael was waving and shouting, "I heard voices, thought it might be you. Hey, this is a big surprise, figured you'd let me know ahead of your arrival. Welcome to ForestWillow, cuz." And as Chelsea looked beyond him to the dilapidated spectacle of what she supposed was once a mansion, she realized he'd certainly not told her precisely what a ruin the house was when he'd visited. And she wondered what other pertinent information he'd omitted, any other half-truths he'd slid past her during that brief visit. Chelsea sensed a haunted aura to the wilderness surrounding her, wondering if this wretched place could have possibly interested her father? As Michael approached, she felt almost sure he had lied about her father's involvement, and was determined to find out why. CHAPTER THREE Still unnerved by the near disaster with the stranger, Chelsea said, "There was a man, just came out of nowhere and I...almost ran him over." Michael stopped near her, asked, "A handsome devil?" "Yes, I suppose. I didn't look at him closely." But then she vividly recalled his narrow face, the deep- set, piercing black eyes, an arched eyebrow and sardonic expression; his dark complexion with inky close-cut hair, except for one unruly lock falling onto his forehead; and the last glimpse of his tall, lithe body moving away with effortless grace. It was this image that caused her to flush, reluctantly acknowledging to herself she'd felt an instant sexual attraction to the stranger; but her own pent-up frustration and his arrogance had been a volatile mixture. Insufferable arrogance in anyone was a trait she had never been able to tolerate. "It was probably just my neighbor, but let's forget that, I want to show you around." He opened the car door for her. "You must be tired, I'll pull the car on up to the house." She got in, feeling the humidity pressing like a heavy weight against her skin. "I wasn't sure I was on the right road." Michael switched on the motor, eased along the path as he explained, "Not much of one, but this is it." The pines and willows swiped at the car, and Chelsea dodged a limb that poked in her open window. "I just barely glimpsed the house before that man appeared out of nowhere." As they approached, Chelsea was silenced by the hulking mass rising out of the wild profusion of mimosa, willow and palmetto; it was a three-story structure, deteriorated into a bad nightmare. She stared at the sharply pitched roof, now covered in rusted sheet metal, and the brick exterior which had thick wisteria vines climbing it, almost obscuring the many long shuttered windows. Two chimneys seemed to sprout from the middle of the roof, and Gothic- arched windows gaped blankly from the attic. A gallery stretched across the front lower level, but ended abruptly at either side, not surrounding the house like the classic Creole styles. Michael braked, sat with the car idling. "I know it must look a wreck to you, but I wanted to point out some of the unique features, like the brick, which was virtually non-existent in 1800 Louisiana; it was all brought here by chartered boat from the north. And the basement, which you can see is somewhat above ground level." She did notice the outline of a basement, the large grimy oblong windows tightly closed. It looked dreadful, and she could imagine what a dank, airless enclosure it must be. Michael turned to the left, following a path that wound around to the rear of the house, saying, "It hasn't been truly cared for, not since the 30s when my maternal grandparents, Markham and Tabitha Forrest, redone this wing back here." Chelsea looked at a two-storied wing that protruded from the rear of the house, unseen from the front. She asked, "They worked on it then?" "Yes, you see they had intended to restore the whole mansion, but..." He pulled up beside his Blazer, which was outside a small metal garage. "Well, that's another story for another time." Chelsea sighed, feeling weak from the thick humidity. She said, "It's hot back home, but the humidity here is enough to kill you." "It's all the vegetation, trees, the heavy moss...and of course, the nearby river. Plus, it's hot as Hades today." He jumped out, came around and opened the door for her. "Let's get inside, at least it's cool in there." She slid out, followed him up a rocked pathway that was lined with red velvet roses, the bushes drooping over so heavily that a thorn caught in her white cotton pants. She exclaimed, "Ouch, I just got scratched!" "Sorry, but as you can see, we don't have a gardener and I've never been able to keep the grounds in shape." Chelsea paused a moment, looking around at the primitive splendor of a yard gone mad with untended shrubs, crepe myrtle, oleander, sweet olive all growing far beyond the boundaries of a garden that once must have been proudly pruned. It was breathtaking beauty in an enchanting through-the- looking-glass way, a haunting quality to the massive, moss-draped cypress trees. But she felt there was something menacing about the moss, so dry and sharp in places, the very texture having an amazing power to shut out light. Beyond the garden, the mossy tendrils devoured the trees, coming closer and closer to the house, darkening the grounds as it advanced slowly from tree to tree...steadily searching for the house, like a grim reaper of time. Michael headed up wide stone steps, and unlocked a heavy wooden door, carved in the pointed arch of Gothic Revival. Chelsea trailed him inside, feeling a rush of cool air as he said, "This two-story wing has eight rooms, four downstairs, four upstairs, and used to be the kitchen and servants quarters, but now it's used as the only livable part of the house." They entered a hallway, and she saw a steep staircase at the rear which led to the second floor. To the left was a doorway, and she saw a big room furnished with run-down furniture; to the right was a small kitchen, and it looked like an outdated 30s edition. He was talking: "And this is the bathroom, on past the kitchen, a real old version, claw-foot tub and all." She peeked inside; it was tiny, as though an afterthought, and rust pock-marked the ancient tub, toilet and sink, but at least it seemed clean, the plastic-flowered shower curtain spotless and the room smelling of disinfectant. "The other room back here, at the end of the hall, is full of junk. My bedroom is opposite the bath, across the hall here, but you can have it for now." He came to a standstill, arms folded across his chest. For a second, Chelsea felt unable to breathe; it was as though the place was closing in on her and she struggled to hide her discomfort. "No, I couldn't possibly take your room. Besides, I can't stay the night." He unfolded his arms, hung thumbs in jeans pockets, paced along the echoing hallway. "Surely you can spend the night? And I'd like you to stay a few days, let me have a chance to show you around, not just the house, but also the town and even do some sightseeing." "What about your mother? I realize she isn't well, and I'd hate to disturb her need for rest. I could get a motel room in town." At the mention of his mother, Michael got very quiet, his face draining of color. "Um, Chelsea, about my mother. You see, she isn't here." Chelsea studied him a long moment, satisfied she'd again stumbled over another one of his previous misleading statements. He put a hand on her arm. "Please, let me explain." She grimaced, giving her voice an acid tone, "You said she wasn't well, and I just assumed that she...that you took care of her here." "And I did, for years and years. But just this spring she got worse, and I had...to...have her put in the institution." "Institution?" Chelsea felt a prickle of panic run up her spine in spite of her resolve to learn about him. "A nice, quiet place...not that I ever wanted it to come to that, but she... There were times she was a danger to herself and I just couldn't cope any longer." He hung his head, and she felt a stab of compassion. "I'm sorry, what was her problem?" "My mother was diagnosed as a paranoid manic- depressive when I was just a child. She'd been on medication since then, but would sometimes quit taking it. And this last episode, when she...uh, almost injured herself, well, it convinced me that institutional care was the only way to keep her safe." Chelsea murmured, "I'm so sorry, it must have been difficult." "Yes...but I must apologize for not explaining this to you when I visited. However, when it comes to mental illness, some people have prejudicial attitudes." She stated, "Yes, I suppose you are correct. And I do understand the pain you must have felt at having her leave here." The decaying house gave her the creeps, but she hoped she could endure the gloomy atmosphere as long as necessary to uncover anything else Michael might be keeping from her, learn why he'd contacted her. "Hey, I should have told you about her. We are family, you know." She felt a twinge of quilt about her own suspicions; he looked so sincere, his boyish face creased by an honest, open smile. And those clear, gray eyes reminded her of her uncle's and father's, a genetic link to the Breaux family. "Yes, that's true," Chelsea said, as he suddenly propelled her down the hallway into the large room that served as the main living area. "Now that that's settled, we can sit down and relax before I take you on a tour of the rest of the house." "And by the way," he said, giving her a serious look, "though this place may be a weird combination of architecture, it is unique and could be made into a real showplace. Just think of Afton Villa, a pseudo- Gothic style that unfortunately was lost in a fire over a decade ago, but had been a big attraction. Or San Francisco Plantation, the steamboat Gothic mansion that pulls in a crowd. In the 1850s, around the time this place was built, modifications in architecture were due to the invasion of Victorianism, the twisted charm of it reaching Louisiana." Chelsea was impressed by his knowledge; he'd obviously given a great deal of thought to restoration of ForestWillow, but there was a bleak despair about the house, which had come to her at the first sight of the mansion. And now, as they sat down on a worn sofa, she surveyed the room of used, abused furniture, her eyes taking in the console TV, a big stereo system in one corner, a window air conditioner unit where faded brocade curtains were tied back to let in the cool drift of air. She sighed, leaned back and curled her legs up underneath her, lifted her damp hair off her neck and said, "I am exhausted." "Hey, I'll get us a coke, how's that sound?" She nodded, eyes closed. Hearing him leave the room, she opened her eyes to see long, trembling shadows of approaching twilight angling in the two tall, narrow windows. It was a disturbing sight, the shadowy fingers crawling across the badly worn carpet rug, slowly inching across the room toward where she sat on the sofa. She blinked, swallowed hard and began a ritual study of the room, seeing the yellowed wallpaper with rose design, the picture of a dark- haired woman hung over a wood-carved mantle, the fireplace below filled with soot and ashes. She got up, walked over to get a closer look at the picture and saw that the woman was very young, captured in an unguarded moment of waltz, head thrown back, arms slightly out to her sides and feet poised in a delicate, difficult step. Her burgundy taffeta dress had bubble sleeves, full circle skirt and enhanced her fragile petite figure; she had on rhinestone jewelry, elaborate ear-rings and necklace. But it was the facial features that made Chelsea peer even closer for the young woman was incredibly beautiful - black wavy hair, a small, heart- shaped face with luminous dark eyes that shone with a rapturous happiness glowing from within. "So what do you think of my mother?" "Is this her?" she asked, grateful for the icy coke he handed her, never taking her eyes off the portrait. "Yep, that's my mother, Adriana Forrest. She never married, Forrest is her maiden name." He spoke with such a matter-of-fact voice that Chelsea glanced at him, saw he was looking at her closely, perhaps gauging her reaction. "And your father, how did he feel about that?" she questioned, choosing a direct approach. "Can't say, never knew him." "Was that his choice or yours?" Chelsea watched him, aware he showed no emotion in his face. "Neither, I suppose. I could say it's mother's choice, she won't reveal who he was. You see, my mother was a feminist long before it became fashionable, she didn't wish to marry. And with the family inheritance she received, I can understand. It's just too bad she squandered most of it on living the jet- set lifestyle." He sipped his coke, grinned. "Hey, that was long ago, water under the bridge. I never saw much of that family money, it was mostly gone before I was born. At least she had fun before mental illness caught up with her." "The photo was made when she was...how old?" "I'm not sure, probably in her early twenties, at one of the society whirls in New Orleans, where she lived before I came along. Playing with the playboys, traveling and spending the money inherited from her maternal grandparents. Her mother and father, Tabitha and Markham, who were my grandparents, died in an airplane accident when she was just ten, and she went back to Texas to live with her grandparents, who by the way were rich devils from the oil business." "Well, she is very beautiful." Chelsea went to sit on the sofa, and he stood staring at the portrait. "Yes, but she sure could spend the old green stuff, and if it hadn't been for my inconvenient arrival, I bet she wouldn't have stopped with any left. Fortunately, she had enough in a trust fund for us to live modestly until just recently." "How exactly are we related?" Chelsea queried, hoping to catch him off-guard. "It goes back past my great-great grandparents. In fact, I can't really trace the line, but mother always talked of the Breaux family, how her maternal grandmother loved Breauxland, and how tragic it was when it burned..." He trailed off, went to look out at the dimming light filtering in the window. Chelsea thought this so vague as to be implausible, but in his glib manner, he'd smoothly dropped in the beloved Breauxland demise as a reference. How did he know all this background if he wasn't related? Could he have done some research? Nevertheless, she still had serious doubts about why he'd contacted her, and questions about how he'd come to know so much about her parents. The casual way he'd discussed the loss of a fortune he might have inherited struck Chelsea as false, again giving rise to her suspicion he'd lied about her father's plan to buy ForestWillow, that it was an attempt to ingratiate himself in her life, a sneaky way to get her to invest. Her mind was whirling with confusing thoughts, and she needed time to digest them, so she said, "I'm tired, think I need to freshen up before I take that tour." "Actually, it'd be best to wait till morning, the light would be better and you'd feel rested." He crossed the room, stopped at the doorway. "I'll get your luggage." She was alone in the shadowy darkness of the room, where the dull light played over the faded wallpaper, touching the framed portrait of the young woman frozen forever in a moment of happiness, still confused by a myriad of conflicting thoughts about Michael Forrest. When he returned, he called to her and she followed him up the creaking stairs, and down a poorly-lit hallway to the first door on the left. "I'd rather you take my room, but if not, maybe this won't be too bad. It's been closed up but just throw open a window, unlatch the shutters, let in the evening air, and it'll be better." He put his hand on the crystal doorknob, then looked at her and asked, "By the way, did your trip to Florida turn up anything?" She picked up a suitcase, avoiding his eyes. "No, and I don't know why I wasted my time there. Unfortunately, the killer will probably never be found." "That's too bad, I know how frustrated you must be. But hey, the cops might still get lucky, especially if that same person continues to rob convenience stores in that area." "I'd like to hope so, but...the investigator was very pessimistic." She watched him push open the door. "I'll see you in a little while, then." He started off, stopped and added, "Please think about staying a few weeks, I'd enjoy your company." Chelsea walked into the large, high-ceilinged room, the feeble light outlining bulky shapes of furniture, a ponderous four-poster bed with a canopy of gauze fabric draped over it dominating one wall, where she deposited the suitcase. She heard her footsteps sound on the splintery wood floor as she went over to three long windows, pushing back yellowed lace curtains, opening the center window, then unlocking, and flinging open the outer shutters, breathing deeply of the warm, moist air, the anemic late-afternoon light casting a long thin shadow of her across the floor. Turning back to the room, she was assailed by a musty, dusty scent that caused her to sneeze, and she immediately pivoted to the open window, inhaling the fresh, flower-fragrant air...her eyes falling to the lush landscape below, a tangled web of blooming shrubbery and richly verdant-leafed trees. At length, Chelsea looked around inside: The four- poster bed was the only genuine antique, the other furniture being circa 1930, a nondescript wardrobe and dresser, small desk and chair, all swallowed up in the spacious interior, an overhead fan suspended from the high ceiling. She made her way to the bedside table, flicked on a lamp with gold-fringed shade, saw how the warm glow transformed the gloomy decor into a more pleasing atmosphere. Grabbing her suitcase, she opened it and took out clothing, hung outfits in the wardrobe, wondering why she couldn't just accept Michael as being beyond reproach? Slumping down on the bed, she fingered the threadbare coverlet, afraid the grief and anger over her parents' murder might be driving her crazy with paranoia. Several people in the crime victims' group had been consumed with rage and frustration, and their emotional instability had scared her away more than once. She'd always prided herself on being a professional journalist with a fine edge of skepticism; but finding fault with Michael's intentions had to be paranoid. Could the stress and strain of the past few weeks have brought her to the brink of a complete emotional breakdown, she wondered. Mental fatigue overtook her, and she lay down, her head resting on the pillowsham. A slow, sultry breeze wafted in through the window, touched her lightly as she felt her eyelids growing heavy, her body relaxing...drowsy, so drowsy and tired, she thought vaguely... Just as she was on the edge of sleep, there came a muted, somber sound drifting in through the window. Chelsea heard it indistinctly, but the solemn sighing surrounded her, seeping into her consciousness. * * * * A piercing cry jerked Chelsea wide awake, her eyes flew open, and her heart thudded against her ribs. Sitting up, she listened in the quiet, eerie stillness, then heard the muffled sound of weeping coming in the open window, a heart-wrenching, persistent crying... She hurried across the room, looked out the window at the dark magenta shades of skyline beyond the moss-shrouded cypress and oaks, a dense ground fog coming from Black River, swirling across the grounds like a gossamer web. The weeping came again, a grievous, tortured sound, and as she strained to hear it better, there was no mistaking it was the weeping of a woman, not that of a man or child. It was occasionally mingled with deep sobs, a soft sniffling, then the disconsolate weeping would resume. She had a startling thought: Could the crying woman be Michael's mother? Was she somewhere out there on the foggy grounds? Could Michael have lied about her being in an institution? Chelsea ran from the room, hurrying along the dark hallway, hoping to get outside quickly, learn who was down there crying in the gardens. She was so preoccupied by the weeping, she didn't notice how the carpet was ragged near the first stair step, which tripped her and sent her feet flying out from under her as she found herself falling, falling... Strong arms captured her, pulled her up just as she was about to tumble down the long dangerous length of steep stairs. Gasping at her close brush with disaster, she looked up into the face of the dark stranger, his penetrating black eyes gleaming with a dangerous light, his lips curled into a mocking smile. "I see you didn't take my advice to watch where you're going." CHAPTER FOUR Chelsea was helpless in his powerful embrace, his strong arms pinning her to him, being held closely against his hard chest, his face very near hers. She wanted to break loose, but couldn't bring herself to move, not while he was looking at her with those mesmerizing eyes. He lowered his head slightly, a quizzical expression glinting in his ebony eyes, and for one split second, she thought he was going to kiss her! "What are you doing here and...who are you?" she demanded, her words clipped and defiant. "You could at least thank me for preventing a nasty fall, young lady." His low, hypnotic voice was like a caress, his eyes darkly intense as he studied her face, his gaze lingering on her lips a moment too long. Her knees went suddenly weak, and she could feel his strong heartbeat thudding against her; it made her keenly aware of his masculine strength, which only defined her feminine weakness more profoundly - a most annoying thought to Chelsea. She tried to move away from him, demanding hotly, "Let me go!" realizing his potent virility was almost irresistible. And the last thing she needed right now was the complication of feeling sexual attraction to this arrogant man! Briefly, he tightened his strong arms around her, eyes disbelieving, then said curtly, "As you wish." Abruptly, he set her away from him, and she almost fell, her legs shaky and refusing to support her. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders, steadying her on the first step. Then he pivoted, went down two steps, looked back up at her with an arched brow, and questioned in a lazy drawl, "Are you always so reckless?" "It's none of your business, and I'd just like to know why you think you have the right to barge into a private home! Where I come from, that's known as breaking and entering." Chelsea bit off the words, seeing him turn his back on her, descending the stairs smoothly and then glancing up at her to command, "Please tell Michael I was here, and that my father asked me to let him know he's needed at the newspaper tomorrow." "But who are you!" she demanded. "My name is Brant Langston, and I presume you are Michael's latest conquest, so your name is really unimportant." He strode down the hallway, footsteps receding until he reached the door, opened it, then slammed it savagely. Chelsea flinched at his abrupt, angry departure; what a male chauvinist he was! Just because she happened to be staying here, he assumed that she was...a...was one of Michael's... And the way he looked at her, his dark eyes smoldering with desire; the aura of sensuality that surrounded him, tightly reigned passion evident in every line of his tense, well-muscled body! Chelsea steadied herself with a hand on the banister, thinking he looked at her as though he could ravish her without a moment's concern, as though he knew his sexual magnetism would weaken her defenses! Here is a dangerous man, she told herself. Unfortunately, she admitted he had momentarily confused her with his overpowering sexuality; but she'd recovered quickly and now, hurrying down the stairs, she tried to put him out of her mind. The crying she'd heard once again occupied her thoughts, and she rushed outside, dusk now darkening the grounds. She stood on the stone steps, listening, but heard nothing except the crushing of underbrush as Brant Langston stalked into the woods, thick fog closing out her view of him. Just as she noticed Michael's Blazer was gone, she heard an engine, and saw headlights sweeping around the house, the Blazer coming into view. He parked, and jumped out, carrying a white paper sack. "Hey cuz, were you looking for me? I got us some dinner here!" Michael yelled, coming up the walkway and joining her, holding the door open with his free hand. She hesitated, but then went inside, deciding not to mention the peculiar crying she'd heard, since it might prove more productive to do a thorough search of the house and grounds for Adriana Forrest without his knowing of her suspicions. Instead she said through clenched teeth, "I had another run in with that brash, antagonistic man, Brant Langston." As he went into the kitchen, and put the white paper sack on the table, Michael said, "It seems you aren't impressed the rich and powerful Mr. Langston." "What kind of person goes around intruding on others, entering their house without knocking, taking all kinds of liberties? He really has some nerve, if you ask me." "Wait a sec, till I get the food out, I'm starving." He went to a cabinet, took out paper plates, put them on the table, explaining, "Ran into town, picked up some hamburgers at The Dutchess Cafe. Good burgers, not like those fast-food places." Chelsea slumped into a chair, and stared at him as he rinsed glasses, poured coke over ice and handed her a frosty mug, then a burger wrapped in white paper. "Here, you must be as hungry as I am." "I was, before the high and mighty Brant Langston startled me," she said, smelling the delicious burger and fries. Indeed, she hoped her unease with the wretched crying she'd heard could be passed off as a reaction to Brant Langston's rude intrusion. Michael bit into his burger, chewed and rolled his eyes, swallowed. "Yummy stuff." Then he wiped his mouth on a napkin. "Okay, Brant Langston...he lives on the grounds of that mansion back down the road, Innisfree. I know you must have seen it?" In spite of her upset, Chelsea felt her appetite returning and began unwrapping the burger, nodding and taking a small bite of the tasty concoction. "His mom and dad still live there too, but Brant has a separate place on the grounds. Anyhow, his dad, Hugh Langston, owns the Camile Gazette..." "That reminds me, he said to tell you that his father wanted you to come into work tomorrow, but couldn't he have phoned?" "Darn it!" He took a sip of coke, cleared his throat. "I was hoping to have Friday off, show you around some... No, I don't have a phone, one less expense." Chelsea thought that odd, but was glad he'd be away, giving her a chance to look around freely. She said, "That's okay about having to work, I understand. Is Brant involved in the newspaper?" "He occasionally helps at the newspaper, but mostly he now runs their off-shore oil businesses, which Hugh was in charge of until he retired a few years ago and bought the Gazette." "Hmm, I guess that explains him dropping by, but I still think it was rude, an invasion of privacy to come in the house uninvited." Chelsea ate a few more bites, sipped her coke and silently warned herself against getting too comfortable with Michael, even if he was being charming and attentive. And perhaps she'd over-reacted with Brant; after all, first she'd almost ran over him with her car, and then he'd saved her from a bad fall - and neither time had she shown a reasonable, mature attitude. It was difficult to deal rationally with him though, when his very presence overwhelmed her senses, causing her to go on the defensive, she reflected. "Brant does come and go here freely. Our property borders theirs, and he is the kind to roam around all the time. I don't particularly like it, but then what can I say? He is, technically speaking, my employer." Michael was finished with his burger, and began unwrapping another. "Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'I presume you are one of Michael's latest conquests.'" Michael chuckled, wiping his mouth again. "Yeah, he is often presumptuous." "From the way he said it, I gather you have your share of the girls, huh?" She looked at him, presented a mischievous grin, hoping the growing informality between them would allow him to open up more. "Nah, not really. I have dated most of the girls around here, but there's not that many to choose from...not in a small town like Camile." He drained his coke, leaned back in the chair and said, "I'm equally sure you have been wined and dined by many men." She finished the burger, and drank most of her coke before replying, "Hardly. Oh sure, I had boyfriends in high school, and in college...even got engaged to my high school sweetheart, when I returned home from college. But, it just didn't work out; we'd drifted apart, grown in different ways, so we wisely separated on good terms." She'd learned through interviewing that sometimes the best approach was to reveal something personal about yourself, put the other person at ease. "You take Brant Langston, now there's a strange bird." "What do you mean?" Chelsea asked, disappointed the technique apparently didn't work on him. "His wife, Lenore Gilham, was killed in a car accident, and Brant was driving. She was thrown from the car, didn't have on her seat belt, but he did and only got minor injuries. That was seven years ago, and Brant's about thirty-three now, doesn't seem interested in marrying again, rarely sees any woman. Very weird, him not wanting to marry and produce an heir. It's kinda strange too, that accident. The town gossips had it that Lenore was deliberately killed, her seat belt removed by him...but you know how people invent wild stories. It may be because Lenore was from an old money family here, one that had lost all their wealth, sort of like my situation." He paused, then began to clear the table. She helped, asking, "Why was that?" "Well, one reason for the rumors was that the Langstons aren't approved of by the old moneyed families. See, his mother is Cuban, Mariana Estevez, who apparently met Hugh shortly after arriving here in 1958 to escape Castro's new regime, which would have confiscated her parents' sugar and banana plantations. She was sent here, a fortune in her name; later, her parents were killed trying to escape. Hugh was only an oil-rig laborer when they met, but with the help of her money, he built up a vast empire in off-shore oil enterprises. It was socially unacceptable during those days, that Cuban blood and a poor boy making good, so to speak." He paused, then continued thoughtfully, "The generational rich can be snobbish, you know. Anyhow, what made it worse, of course, was when they bought the old Dequeant mansion, which was a shambles, and restored it, then renamed it -- an unforgivable sin. When Lenore married Brant, it was also rumored she did so for money only. The tales we do tell in small towns." Fascinated by this information, Chelsea said, "But that's so interesting. You seem to know all the local history, every family, all the gossip..." "Hey, I'm a part-time reporter, remember? It's my job to know all those things, and I cultivate it, as a personal curiosity and as a means of knowing people, making contacts, getting the best angle for articles. At a small-town weekly, you have to concentrate on local history, local happenings, even just the social visitations, club news, etc. We're not a city daily, like you're used to." "Cultivate a cozy familiarity in print, is that what you're getting at?" "Yes, in a way. Anyhow, I'm going to watch some TV, then turn in. Want to join me?" Chelsea followed him across the hall into the living room, saying, "I'm tired, may just go on up to my room." She wanted to be alone, think about what she'd just learned - and the longer she was around Michael, the more she was beginning to like and trust him, which dismayed her. He stood near the dark window, looked at her. "Sure, fine by me. I wish you'd take my room, where it's cooler, but if not, then leave the overhead fan on and if you need it, there's a smaller fan in the closet." "Thanks, and good night. See you in the morning." As she turned to go, he said, "I may be gone by seven, so if I am, just make yourself at home. You can look around at the rest of the house, but please be careful; there are unsafe places in the mansion, rotted wood, loose stairs, stuff that could cause an accident. I'll be back by noon if you want to wait for a guided tour." Chelsea thought his invitation to look around was more than she'd hoped for, that she'd certainly take advantage of it, see if Adriana Forrest was anywhere on the grounds. As she climbed the stairs, she paused at the top step, remembering the intimate closeness of Brant Langston holding her in his arms; she flushed, worried about the fiery attraction he held for her. Not only was he an arrogant, domineering male, but possibly a murderer as well! She told herself to avoid him and never, but never allow him to get her alone. After a quick shower, she got into the big four- poster bed, pulled the gauzy material closed around her and listened to the chorus of night creatures serenading her through the open windows. Chel an interesting diversion, she told herself. Even if the creepy house was moldering with decay; even if Michael was starting to seem likable; even if Adriana was sequestered on the grounds...even if another possible murderer was prowling around. It all presented an intriguing unsolved mystery, which provoked her instincts to solve. And besides, she wanted to learn if there was the slightest clue somewhere here about Michael's reasons for coming to her, if he'd honestly had a prior deal with her father or not. And perhaps in the process, she could rid herself of the obsession to find her parents' murderer, since it was plain that was an impossibility. Regretfully, she admitted it still seemed unlikely that the easy-going, friendly young man eager for her company was being deceptive. She had less trouble picturing Brant as a murderer, with his brooding dark looks, his ruthless arrogance...yes, he seemed a man who thought he could get away with murder. Had it been coincidence Brant had appeared immediately after she'd heard the crying woman? If he'd heard it, wouldn't he have mentioned that to her, she wondered? Then a terrible thought struck her: Maybe she had only imagined she heard that crying? Again, panic raced through her, making her break out in a cold sweat, doubting her sanity. Was the stress, the grief over losing her parents shattering her sanity? Causing her to have symptoms of hallucination? And then, unbidden memories of her happy childhood, of her devoted, loving, adoring parents flooded back; she'd kept them at bay during the activity of the day, but now she felt tears swimming in her eyes. She lay there, sadly staring at the moonlight streaming through the windows, hearing the scraping of the slow-turning overhead fan, praying sleep would come soon. Her mother's face, with the kind green eyes, filled her mind. Again she heard her mother's disappointment when she'd canceled going with them to Florida at the last minute... Chelsea suddenly sat up, stunned it had not occurred to her that she might have been killed too! Could her abrupt change of plans have inadvertently saved her life? She stifled a sob, forced herself to settle back on the bed. Why hadn't this occurred to her before now? Maybe it was just the tremendous loss she'd suffered that had prevented her considering she might have been spared by some twist of fate? Again, she recalled the reason she'd stayed behind: One of her co-workers at the newspaper had become suddenly ill, and begged Chelsea to fill in for him, so she had. Then she pondered how strange it was that the robber had not slain the clerk in that store. Why kill her parents, when they couldn't identify him either? Initially, Investigator Means had told her they found it baffling, but as time went by, they dismissed it as being nothing other than the irrational behavior of a drug addict... Chelsea sighed, the convoluted maze of never-ending questions leading her into an exhausted state, relief coming only when the oblivion of sleep overtook her. CHAPTER FIVE As Chelsea came awake slowly, she felt teasing air from the overhead fan; early morning was much cooler. She turned her head to look out the window, and saw only white swirls of foggy mist outside. Yawning, then stretching luxuriously, she slipped out of bed, pulled on her robe and went across the floor, the wood cool beneath her bare feet. At the window, she pulled the lacy curtains aside, saw there was a slow drizzle falling, misting the vibrantly green palmettos, willows, the shrubs and flowers with a glistening dampness. The grounds shimmered with an ethereal beauty, like an Impressionist painting with edges blurred, outlines smudged and only a hazy suggestion of what lay out there, what might be just beyond sight. She glanced at the bedside clock; it was already past seven, so Michael was probably gone. As she stood listening, the house was utterly quiet, matching the stillness outside the window, not even any birds chattering. Shivering at the eerie atmosphere, she started across the room to get dressed. Just as she pulled open the door of the wardrobe, Chelsea heard a piercing squeal; she stopped, her heart pounding. Then it came again, the shrieking now a familiar sound: blue jays! Feeling foolish about her nervousness, she told herself that from now on, she would not be so jumpy. Carelessly, she chose black leggings and black-checked tunic, dressed and brushed out her wavy hair. Grabbing her small makeup case, she went out into the hall, stared down the long narrow passage. From the dim light of an overhead lamp, she could make out three closed doors, and wondered vaguely what the rooms were like, hoping to find out shortly. As she walked along the badly worn carpeting, she cautiously edged around the ripped area near the top step, then hurried down to the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, and applied only a hint of makeup. Then she went to the kitchen, saw a note propped on the table, eagerly read it: Hey cuz, Had to rush off before you got up. There's milk and cereal for breakfast in the fridge. See you around noon! Michael Chelsea looked in the small refrigerator and took out milk, got the cereal, a bowl, and then sat down to eat. There was only the steady drip of rain off the roof, the hushed quietness of morning as she thought about the day ahead. It seemed ages since she'd left Claymore, but it was in fact only four days ago, one day in Tampa, three in New Orleans. She glanced at a wall calendar, Friday June 5th...and she had four weeks leave of absence! Three more to be spent here; that is, she thought, unless I can either prove or disprove the theory of Michael's having never had a deal with my father, unravel the puzzling circumstances. After rinsing out the bowl, she crossed over to the living room and went to peer out the window, seeing the rainy drizzle. Gloomy mist still hung over the grounds, wisps rising up into the moss-draped cypress trees, muffling the sound of bird calls as if they were far off in the distance. But she could see cardinals and sparrows nearby dipping and diving, perching occasionally on a stone birdbath. And then her eyes widened as white birds came flying through the woods beyond the garden, swooping soundlessly over the yard, some coming close enough that she was able to identify them as doves. It was a rare, enchanting sight, and she impulsively rushed out of the room, along the hall and then eased open the door, going out to stand at the top of the steps, oblivious to the misting rain. The white doves were a glorious sight to behold, and she stared with awe and wonder. Some were dropping down, gently landing on the ground in search of food...their soft calls similar to that of cooing pigeons, she thought, amazed to see more arriving. Only these were pigeons, exotic white fantailed pigeons that were so tame they began landing, and heading straight for her, obviously expecting a treat. Chelsea had nothing in hand, and regretted it; she stood there, surrounded by the pigeons and doves, then slowly ventured out into the yard, walking softly among them, avoiding the wet rose bushes, azaleas, oleanders...whispering soothing words, transfixed by the naturally serene beauty of this moment. Holding out an arm, hand extended experimentally, she was completely motionless; the doves studied her, and finally a pigeon flew off the roof to settle on her outstretched hand. She realized the rain had ended, but the birds were quite wet, the shrubs soggy... Yet none of this mattered, for she was lost in the sheer joy and appreciation of the unspoiled environment, the precious wildlife surrounding her. A crushing noise in the woods startled the pigeon; it flew, and others followed suit, some flying into the trees, others perching on sharp corners of the high rooftop. "I see you are enjoying my birds," spoke a husky voice, catching Chelsea off-guard. She whirled around to see Brant Langston emerging from the woods, tramping unceremoniously through the tangled bushes, halting a few feet from her. He was different somehow, and she finally realized the warm, friendly smile transformed his sharply angular features into a milder, less intimidating appearance. But his sudden arrival disturbed her, especially since she'd vowed not to be trapped alone with him. Yet here he stood, staring at her with what she now saw was a laughing light in his dark eyes. Hoping to make the best of it, she said, "Yes, I'm enjoying them...but I didn't know these beautiful birds were yours," slowly turning to face him squarely and meeting his direct gaze unflinchingly. She feigned a coolness she was far from feeling, deliberately moving her gaze over him, head to foot. He was wearing a brown polo shirt and white chino pants, a light tan windbreaker and cream-colored safari hat tilted down rakishly over his black eyes, which still had a glint of amusement. Brant was similarly studying her, and when their eyes met again, he put a finger up to tip his hat back. "We meet again, Miss." "Yes, and I must offer you an apology for my...uh, rude remarks last night and yesterday afternoon. I'm afraid you frightened me, I didn't know that you are a regular visitor here." "Apology accepted. I trust you have become more cautious?" He smiled again, but it was a slight twist of the lips, mocking and superior. "Perhaps, although I've always been impulsive." She took a step backwards, growing uncomfortably aware of his masculine nearness, the tangy scent of his aftershave, the mingling of woodsy pine and something she couldn't identify. He asked politely, "And your name?" "I thought that was unimportant!" she retorted, and could have bitten her tongue off for that stupid error, because now a knowing grin crept across his face, his black eyes roaming suggestively over her body. He said smoothly, "I can understand why Michael finds you appealing, you are a very attractive young woman." He advanced toward her, causing the doves and pigeons to loudly burst upward, the grayish sky filling with them as they soared up, up and swept away into the darkened forest. "Oh! You've frightened them away!" Chelsea exclaimed, avoiding him as she spun around and walked briskly across the yard, up the wide stone steps, pausing at the door. She looked back over her shoulder, saw he was still staring at her intently as he said, "I have pigeonniers on the grounds of Innisfree, you're welcome to visit any time, enjoy the birds." "Thank you. I may do that," Chelsea said, anxious to get away from him; his presence was much too disturbing, too dangerously appealing, wrecking her self-control. "And your name?" He removed his hat, wiped the moisture off, then looked at her. She saw his raven hair was mussed, an unruly lock falling onto his forehead. "Chelsea Seymour, I'm related to Michael." "So that is why you are visiting him?" The mocking smile had creased his face again, dark eyes fixed on her. "As a matter of fact, I may purchase ForestWillow for renovation," she said, turning to face him and see if she'd piqued his interest. "You can't be serious," he stated bluntly, coming closer, standing at the foot of the steps. "This place is a wreck, the foundation is probably weak, it is...quite frankly, it's dangerous to even be living in, and I've made Michael a significant offer for the property. Why he doesn't take it, I'll never know. But surely you can see this house is impossible to salvage?" Why hadn't Michael mentioned that Brant Langston wished to buy the property? She felt elated, having hit on another of Michael's omissions, but quickly assumed an irritable edge to her voice: "I do not! It is very distinctive architecture and with the right amount of effort, might be restored..." He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that shook her badly, seeing a glacial light enter his eyes. "You must be joking! It's a vulgarity...and even if it could be restored, it would never be considered a true masterpiece. Besides, with all the past tragedies that are associated with the place, I'd think no one would be interested in saving this house. His words made her cringe; she had wondered if there hadn't been some deep, dark mysterious occurrences in the past history of the creepy house, and wished she knew what they were. She would not give him the satisfaction of asking though, and said flatly, "If you'll excuse me, I have things to do today." "I see. Well, nice to chat with you, Miss Seymour." He bowed rather curtly, tipped his hat, smiled a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and then turned, striding quickly across the soggy yard, off into the wet woods. Chelsea entered the hallway, slammed the door behind her and fell back against it, her heart hammering. The man was insufferable! He...why, he acted as though he knew the power he had over women, as though he was irresistible... And while she admitted to herself it was true that Brant possessed a lion's share of physical and sexual magnetism, woe be unto the woman who fell in love with him! She'd met his kind before, all self-assured machismo and arrogant confidence they could master a female, bend her to their will... He infuriated her! But as Chelsea headed up the stairs, she recalled Michael saying Brant had not shown any interest in marrying since his wife's death. And that made her wonder about his male prowess: Was he perhaps feeling too guilty over that accidental death - if it was accidental? In her room, Chelsea made the bed, pulling the faded lacy coverlet up neatly, still perplexed by Brant Langston's behavior. The way he seemed to appear without warning, the way he would look at her, his dark eyes smoldering with desire...or was it something else she saw in those black depths? Maybe a murderous deception...the smug satisfaction of a calculating killer who'd murdered his wife and gotten away with it? Shivering at the evil thought, she went to find a dustcloth in the downstairs closet, hurried back to the bedroom and began dusting off the furniture. Then she placed her makeup and perfume on the dresser, glancing at her wildly wavy hair in the mirror; the moisture had made it crimp and crinkle, seeming to float around her in a cloud of soft chestnut color. She ran a brush through it, thinking that Michael's speculation about Brant's wife's death was beginning to plague her too. After all, it was only gossip, she reminded herself. Anxious to explore the house, Chelsea went out into the hall and was heading down the stairs when she heard a knock at the door. "Darn!" she said aloud, stifling her frustration. "First Brant, now who?" At this rate, she wondered if she'd get to look at any rooms before Michael returned. Downstairs, she opened the door and saw a flamboyant blonde standing there, hands on her slender hips, skin-tight black spandex shorts hugging her curvaceous figure like a glove. Chelsea asked, "Can I help you? I'm afraid Michael is out just now, but I'm his..." "Yes, I know, Mike told me when I ran into him at the newspaper." The woman lifted one hand, self- consciously smoothing her bleached hair that was permed into a stylish chin-length frizz. "Is Brantly here? I was just over at Innisfree, and his mother said he'd gone off through the woods." "He was here briefly, but left a little while ago." Chelsea noticed a flashy red Corvette parked near her Toyota. "We were suppose to go jogging." She narrowed her brown eyes at Chelsea, asked, "Do you know where he went?" "Last I seen of him, he was going toward the woods. But no, I don't know where he was heading." The woman studied her through narrowed eyes, running a long red fingernail over her bottom lip, saying, "I'm Muriel Gilham, Brantly's sister-in-law." "Nice to meet you." Reluctantly, Chelsea added, "Would you like to come in?" "No, I haven't the time." She turned, looked around at the grounds, brought her eyes back to Chelsea's face. "God, this place has deteriorated, a real wreck. Mike says you plan to purchase it, do some renovation?" "Maybe." Chelsea walked out to stand near her, suddenly realizing this was an opportunity to get more information. "Are you a friend of Michael's?" "We work together at the newspaper." Muriel went down the steps, stood on the rock walkway and then turned back to Chelsea. "I'd be careful of Brantly; he's dangerous." "Oh, how so?" Chelsea asked, looking at the woman smirk. "He can be a wolf, loves to chase pretty young things, like yourself. My sister, Lenore, he...drove her to drink." Her lips thinned, brown eyes glinting with hatred. "I'd like to prove the bastard killed her, but he was just a bit too clever." "I'm sorry," Chelsea said, moving down one step. "Michael said it was an accident." "Right, and fish can fly too." Muriel gave her a cool smile, said in a tight voice, "Just be careful of him. He can be charming, but that suave sophistication hides a dark side." Chelsea said, "Thanks for the warning, but about Michael..." "I've got to run, catch Brantly. It's stupid, but I can't quit trying to trap him, somehow prove what he did." She walked away swiftly, climbed into the Corvette, yelled, "Nice meeting you. Chelsea realized her palms were sweating; the woman had unnerved her. Was Brant Langston a killer? Certainly, she could understand Muriel's feelings; hadn't she herself just been trying to find a killer on that trip to Florida? Back inside the house, she saw it was near ten now, and didn't think there was time to investigate the larger part of the house. And she realized that going into that dark, musty area was the last thing she wanted to do on this murky morning. Instead, she went back upstairs, down the hallway, walked to the door past hers and tried the crystal- glass doorknob. It was unlocked, and as she pushed it, the door swung open, creaking on the hinges. An odor overwhelmed her, a combination of stale, close air and something else, like a whiff of a woman's cloying perfume...the scent of gardenias in bloom, but she couldn't name the brand. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior, she saw the heavy gold brocade drapes were closed, probably the outer shutters too. She located a lamp, switched it on, and stared with admiration at the well-preserved antiques. There was beautiful furniture in the spacious room, dominated by a massive tester bed that had a narrow burnished-gold canopy lining the solid wooden top, and as Chelsea looked around, she recognized other antiques - a bowback Windsor armchair at a rolltop desk, a golden-velvet padded Chippendale wing chair, amorie...book-trough table crammed full of books, papers and magazines, an Oriental lamp and Oriental rugs placed randomly on the hardwood floor. In one corner stood a Queen Anne curio cabinet, and she was drawn to it, marveling at the assortment of antique music boxes. Tentatively touching the doors, she was just about to open them and look more closely at the amazing collection, when tinkling notes began to play a Chopin waltz. Momentarily startled, she thought her movement had accidentally jarred one of the boxes into playing...but upon closer inspection, none of the boxes were open, none playing. She gasped, realizing the music was coming from across the room, near the door, drifting in from the hallway. Chelsea stood stiffly, apprehensive yet hoping Michael's mother was about to make an appearance. She heard a slight sound, as though a shuffling movement of feet coming down the hall; then, a powerful odor of the exotic perfume wafted over her, the sickeningly cloying scent of gardenias. She slowly turned, lifted her eyes eagerly to the open door, prepared to see an older version of the young woman in the picture over the mantel. She wasn't expecting to see nothing, and the shock of that empty doorway almost undone her. Exhaling, she realized she'd been holding her breath, and tiptoed across the room, peeked out into the deserted hallway, finding no one. Glancing back at the closet, she saw the door was slightly ajar and curiosity got the better of her. Easing it open, Chelsea saw rows of neatly hung outdated gowns, satins and silks, velvet and taffeta... Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes riveted to the burgundy taffeta dress crumpled on the floor. Impulsively, she bent to pick it up...studying it, feeling the luxuriant material between her fingers, holding it up and knowing, yes, realizing in a flash of understanding that it was the same dress worn by Adriana in the photo... But when had the woman been in this room, Chelsea wondered, and why did she evade everyone? She quickly looked out the door, but the hallway was still empty, and it occurred to her that Adriana couldn't have moved that quickly, nor that quietly... So what had she just experienced, Chelsea wondered, perplexed and more than a little wary of trusting her own instincts, which usually were unerringly correct. But now, as her hands began shaking, she felt betrayed by her own mind...unable to define exactly what she was experiencing, what she was hearing and seeing during these times alone, doubting her sanity yet again. CHAPTER SIX Still holding the dress in trembling hands, Chelsea jumped when she heard a door slam, and Michael's voice calling, "Hey cuz, where are you?" Chelsea stashed the gown back in the closet, softly closed the door and hurried out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her and rushing down the hallway, yelling, "Here I am, been in my room." He was mounting the stairs, his boyish face flushed, his voice exuberant: "I brought us some lunch, it's on the table. Come on, let's chow down." Less than enthusiastic about seeing him, she nevertheless followed him downstairs, asking, "Did it go well at the paper?" "Same old stuff, you know how it is. Rush, rush, rush. What gets me is, here you have this weekly, seven long days to get out a paper and what happens? The ones who have nothing new or timely to report stall till the last minute, so I always wind up copy reading a few articles right before it goes to press." He was shaking his head, going to get napkins from the cabinet, gesturing to the table. "This is good stuff, another local diner, Bea's place, great barbecued pork sandwiches." Chelsea sat down, allowing him to sort the food, dispense it. "I had a peculiar morning. Another encounter with Brant Langston. And Muriel came by, said you told her about me." "Yes, Muriel has the hots for Brant. I know she says she's sleuthing, but I think she is a victim of his hot Cuban sex appeal." Scooting into his chair, Michael grinned slyly. "But if I didn't know better, I'd think old Brant was becoming attracted to you, showing up here so often." "I thought you said he came and went freely all the time," she countered, unwrapping a sandwich, the appetizing aroma reviving her appetite. "Sure, but he seems to be making a point of running into you when I'm not here." He winked broadly. Chelsea said defensively, "I thought you said he had no interest in women since his wife's death? Besides Muriel expressed a distinct dislike for him, so I doubt she's as enamored of him as you suspect." He took a bite of the cold slaw, chewing thoughtfully. "How can I put this delicately...hmm... Oh heck, you may as well know, they're probably sleeping together. But I can't prove it, very discreet in their liaisons. Brant has that notorious red-hot Cuban passion, probably too hot for one woman to handle; rumors circulated about him cheating on Lenore. And Muriel is older than he likes his women, so you be careful cuz." "That's just what Muriel said, warned me away from him. I agree Brant strikes me as a potentially dangerous man." "Yeah, sexually that is. Otherwise, there's no proof he killed Lenore." Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Michael took a long swallow of ice tea, adding, "All that other stuff, it's just old women gossiping. They have nothing else to do in this small town." "That reminds me, Brant said he'd made you a good offer on this property. Has he?" Chelsea sampled a sweet pickle, savoring the blend of spices in it, carefully watching him. Michael paused, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, frowning. "Yeah, let's see, he's offered to buy the property, demolish the house..." "But he says it's dangerous, the foundation weak..." Suddenly Michael's face took on a closed look; his eyes went flat, lifeless, and he said slowly, "No one, and I repeat no one, is going to trash this house. And while I can appreciate Brant's viewpoint, it is my decision not to sell to him. In fact, I was kinda hoping to keep the house in the family, that's why I invited you here for a visit." "I didn't agree with his opinion, and told him so in no uncertain terms," she hastened to say, interested in his abrupt change of demeanor; this cold, steely- eyed Michael was closer to someone capable of lying about an involvement with her father. But perhaps he was rightfully angered over what he perceived as Brant's attempts to destroy ForestWillow? He had stopped eating, was staring thoughtfully out the window across the room. At length, he mused, "You know, I hate to mention this, but you see...Brant really wants this property. It joins his land, and has river frontage. Black River, which runs behind this house, is considered valuable territory; if Brant had this property, he could landscape to his heart's delight. Run a line of trees right down to the riverfront, create one of the older, longer versions of an oak alleyway leading to the big house, maybe turn Innisfree into a profitable tourist attraction someday when his folks are gone. It irks him he can't get me to sell." As his words died on his lips, Chelsea had a chilling thought: What if Brant wanted this land so badly he'd do anything to get it? Including getting her and Michael out of the way, whatever it took? Was that why he was always lurking about? Was he snooping on her and had she made a fatal mistake by goading him about her possible renovation plans? Michael coughed, resumed eating his baked beans, finally saying mildly, "Don't go worrying over that, now. It's just one of the little hassles I have to deal with." He brightened, declaring, "Look, the sun has come out!" The room gradually lightened as the sun shone brightly through the window, casting amber-shaded patches as it played over the yellow-checked curtains, Chelsea noticed, glad for the change of atmosphere - in Michael as well as the kitchen. "I never did look around in the other part of the house because I wanted to wait for you," she lied. "Good idea, we can't use lights over there. I mean, it was wired for electricity, but it would be too risky using it now. The wiring could be faulty." She blotted her lips with a napkin, got up to help clear the table and suggested, "I'd like to cook once in awhile, okay?" "I hope that means you're considering staying on longer, making this a vacation? I'm a lousy cook, and the take-outs are my usual fare. If you want to cook though, that's great." "Yes, I do think I'll stay a week or so. How about grocery shopping, let me choose some stuff..." "Hey, I know what we'll do. After roaming around the house and grounds this afternoon, we'll drive into Camile tomorrow, let me show you around town. How's that sound?" "Like a welcome diversion. I'm getting cabin fever, and I've only been here a short time," she said, secretly thinking of the odd experiences she had already had - hearing that weeping yesterday afternoon, and then that horrible episode earlier. The question that buzzed in her mind was whether Adriana was on the grounds? And if so, why was Michael lying about her confinement in an institution? But perhaps it was only her stressed-out condition making her imagine things? After all, she was already suspecting the worst of Brant, imagining him capable of murdering her simply because she might purchase ForestWillow. As one of her reporter buddies would say, "Get a grip, Chelsea!" Yes, she thought, it would indeed be good to get away from here briefly. And it had entered her mind to leave permanently, for staying might mean a complete emotional breakdown. But how could she live with herself if she ran away without understanding the strangeness she sensed about the house and its occupants, past and present? As she followed him across the hallway, she resolved to shelve the disturbing thoughts, give full attention to the mansion. Michael took a key off the wall where it hung near the door, unlocked the latch, placing his hand on the silver doorknob. "Are you prepared?" "I'm very curious," she said, with renewed determination. As he shoved hard on the massive cypress door, the rusty hinges gave a sharp piercing squeal, closely followed by a grating noise where the door had sagged against the floor. It was like entering midnight, almost dark, murky, only a glimmer of light slanting in between closed shutters. She could make out an overwhelmingly large room, dust motes sifting in tiny slices of sunshine penetrating cracked shutters. "I'm going to open a couple of windows, throw back the shutters, get fresh air and some light," Michael said, rapidly crossing the vast room, a screeching sound echoing eerily as he pried up a long, narrow window, then a banging clap as the shutters were thrust open. Chelsea gasped, shocked by the decay all around her: Sheer lacy curtains were nothing more than ripped wisps on the windows, now slightly stirred by the breeze. The black and white marble tile floor was littered with dead vegetation; the twenty-foot ceiling and walls were sweating from the moisture, and had splotches of green mold everywhere. The fetid odor almost made her gag, but she managed to stifle the nausea, hurrying to the window for a breath of fresh air. "Sorry, it's rank stuff, been closed up so long. Guess I haven't been in here since.... Oh, let's see, maybe last summer." Michael pushed wisteria vines away from the center of the window, allowing a drift of humid air inside. Chelsea was overwhelmed by the stale scent and asked, "Do you ever air this section?" "We, mother and myself, used to clean the whole house in spring, and she'd do minor stuff every month. But in the last couple of years nothing has been touched." He grimaced, frowning deeply. "It's a real mess, should have come in and done some cleaning before our tour. "Has it always been empty?" she asked, hearing her voice bounce around the vacant space. "No, not until about five years ago. It was filled with antiques, but gradually, we had to sell off nearly all the stuff just to make ends meet." "Hmm, I bet those were lovely items." Chelsea felt better, and began studying the area. "What is this room?" "The formal dining room, which connected to the servant's quarters/kitchen so they could serve meals." She looked at the peeling strips of wallpaper, pattern and color indistinguishable now; the hanging ornate light fixture, which was dangling precariously by an exposed cord; and then the carved and pointed Gothic-style door that opened into a hall. "Hey, I won't deny it's in bad shape, but look...did you notice the stained glass at the tops of these two long narrow windows?" Michael pointed out with pride. "No, I didn't see that. It is unusual, isn't it?" Chelsea had never witnessed such a weird display of pride in something so utterly wretched-looking; she watched him with growing amazement. "You bet! Let's go into the hall." He led the way, her close behind as they entered the great Baronial hall that separated four huge rooms. Directly across from the dining room was a parlor, with similar features, windows looking out on the front yard, Chelsea saw, suddenly overcome by the same putrid scent, holding a hand over her nose and mouth. Michael hurriedly pried up a window, flung open the shutters, and Chelsea saw a spinet piano revealed by a shaft of sunlight; it was off in one corner, sheet music open as though waiting for someone to play the score. Fighting the moldy smell, she walked over and looked at the piano, which was host to spider webs and green globs of mold. But as she came around to peer at the music, her eyes riveted to the yellowed sheets and her breath stopped: It was the same Chopin waltz she'd heard earlier coming from a music box! Michael was peering at her closely, and asked, "Hey, are you okay? You 're getting pale." "I...this...the music..." "Yes, mother used to play sometimes. I'd forgotten that was still here, the Chopin I mean. The piano, I fear, is done for." Chelsea felt faint; the shock of seeing that same waltz, coupled with the heat, stifling humidity and close, foul air was debilitating. She mumbled, "I...the heat...I'm not feeling well." He took her arm, directing her toward the corridor. "Let's go outside, we'll do this later. It's much too hot, I should have realized how uncomfortable this would be for you." She was vaguely aware of seeing two great fireplaces, mantel and hearths cast in one piece of iron, Michael saying how rare they were; then brief glimpses of the same pointed, carved Gothic-style doors up and down the Baronial hallway; and the narrow, steep, sharply curving wrought-iron stairway that led to the second and third floors, which Michael said had six rooms each with massive embrasures, latticed windows and unique shutters which folded in three sections, like tryptics. They went out French doors at the rear, him steering her to the overgrown garden, sitting her down on a stone bench underneath the live oak, cool and shady beneath the mossy branches. "Here, get some fresh air, breathe deep, bend down," Michael instructed, placing a hand at the back of her neck, gently moving her head downward in order to prevent fainting. Chelsea willingly complied, but she knew it wasn't really the heat and humidity that was causing her such distress. It was that music, that piano...and the way she felt just seeing it there, waiting, as though someone had momentarily walked away. Had Adriana been in there recently? Was she hiding somewhere in the dark depths of the spooky house, spying on them even now? And why? Were Michael and his mother playing some kind of sick game, trying to trick her, make her doubt her sanity? Doing a Gaslight number on her? Michael asked, "Does that help?" "Yes, I'm sorry for feeling ill." She lifted her head, running a hand through her damp, thickly waved hair. "I've always prided myself on being strong, felt I could handle just about anything..." "No, don't apologize. It was my fault, the stench even made me feel sick." She had an idea and said slowly, "Michael, I've got to tell you something. It wasn't just the smell, or even the sight of the interior...although I did get an eerie feeling, being in there. Somehow it was as if I'd stepped into a time-warp, got a distinctly uneasy sense of being on someone's private property, almost like trespassing..." He didn't look away as she met his flint-colored eyes, only stated flatly, "The piano, huh?" "How'd you know?" she asked, realizing he had taken the bait almost too quickly. "Why do you think it's still in there? Obviously, it would have brought in some cash, but mother wouldn't allow me to touch it. She always said it made her feel...strange, like she was communicating with someone who wanted to hear her play." "Really?" She sat up straight, staring at him, intrigued by this turn in the conversation; maybe she'd guessed what was going on here. "I can still hear her playing Chopin, not just that waltz but all the scores, over and over, night after night. It'd be summer, like now, and she'd sit there, the notes drifting out into the dark dense woods, carried away softly, mingling with sounds of the swamp creatures, punctuated by a whippoorwill's cry. Always, she had to wear the burgundy dress, fixed up fancy and delicately, as though on a date...sitting there utterly alone, staring out through the open windows, dark eyes dreamy and lost, focused on something I never could understand. It was as though she was possessed by magic; the music was perfection, as her fingers wove the intricate pieces into sheer beauty, evoking a dreamy romantic mood. For her eyes had the look of a woman in love, playing music for a lover who listened adoringly." Shuddering dramatically, hypnotized by his flair for story-telling, Chelsea said, "Maybe she was thinking of some man, someone whom she'd known and loved...even your father?" He stood, turned his back to her and shrugged. "I doubt it, since she never told me who my father was. Oh, occasionally she'd taunt me, say he was a sailor she'd met in New Orleans, or a musician from Texas...always someone different, until I was old enough to realize these were merely fantasies on her part. I was never able to get her to tell me the truth, not even when she was in her better, more stable moods. At those times, she'd dismiss it, say it was unimportant. That she'd chosen to keep me, and that was all that mattered." "I suppose that is how she felt, but it must have been difficult for you, growing up without a father?" In spite of her misgivings, she identified with the emotional pain in his voice; somewhere inside, he was still a hurt child, and she suddenly had a sense of his aloneness. Maybe she'd misjudged him terribly? Maybe he really was just a long lost relative, and in seeking her out, wanted to establish a family connection, find relatives who could end his loneliness? Being an only child of loving parents was difficult enough, but not having a father...only an unbalanced mother incapable of loving him unselfishly... "Yeah, I missed out on a lot, but I coped." He faced her, smiling now. "Hey, let's not waste time on past regrets. How are you doing now? Feel like walking around the grounds, down to the river?" Chelsea stood, felt her strength returning, and said, "Yes, I feel fine now. Let's go." He took her arm, and they walked through the overgrown garden, him pointing out how the magnolia and willow trees were circled around the edge of the yard, gesturing broadly to the scheme of the landscaping. It was weedy in places, but he said he'd mown the yard only last week...that it was impossible to keep it groomed beyond the small area where they now stood. Chelsea listened to him explain which shrubs had been cultivated by past owners, arranged in patterns to enhance the grounds, crape myrtle, oleander and lilac bushes interspersed with flower beds of multi-colored lilies, white chrysanthemums, pink, yellow and red roses, bright yellow hibiscus and camellias. All of these, she saw, had now grown to over-sized lush foliage, shrubbery hanging limp with the weight of blossoms, which gave off an aromatic perfume, drenching the humid air with heavy fragrance...and she breathed it, refreshing herself. Still guiding her, Michael took her through the garden, past the magnolia and cypress trees, entering the edge of deep woods, a forest dimmed in muted daylight. He said, "All the live oaks have air-plants, resurrection fern and Spanish moss, dilutes sunlight, not to mention the marsh pine, slash-pine and loblolly growing so closely it obscures the skyline." The hazy forest was enchanting in an eerie way, Chelsea thought, tramping over wet pine needles, deftly avoiding the woody growth Michael labeled bamboo vine, sweet-scented similax and swamp honeysuckle, which produced heady fragrances in the moist air. After they'd gone about a half mile, he said, "Listen a moment; we may be able to hear the river." Far off, she could make out a slight rushing sound, but it didn't carry well through the woods. "How much farther is it?" "About a quarter mile, and we'll be there." He led her onward, carefully helping her avoid being swiped by dwarf and saw palmetto, their shoes now damp from the saw grass in a low marshy area. Soon Chelsea began to notice an interesting mixture of trees, massive trunks and limbs that spiraled upward, their tops almost out of sight. She marveled, "What beautiful trees! So many kinds." "Yes, there's a wide variety of species near the river, water, willow and huge shumard's oak, water hickory, blue beech - those with the slate-gray bark over there." He pointed a finger to the stand of beech. "And right by those, the sweet gum and river birch." "I recognize the willows, the black willow is small, the weeping willow is like the ones growing along the lane to ForestWillow. By the way, is that the original name of the mansion?" "Yes, and my grandfather, according to mother, was captivated by it having forest in the name, our name being Forrest...partly why he bought it, she told me." Chelsea became aware of the multitude of wildlife sounds all around them: There was the caw of crows overhead, the musical trill of warblers, small birds chattering busily and in the distance, bobolinks. "Hey, I just remembered. You said you wanted to tell me something back in the garden. Was it only about the piano, and how it made you feel strange?" He had stopped abruptly, his foot propped on a rotting tree stump. Chelsea looked around at the encroaching forest, feeling claustrophobic, closed off from humanity, and realized what a vulnerable position she was in, standing here in the wilderness with a person she didn't know, couldn't trust. "Yes, that was all. I'm anxious to see the river, let's get moving." He gazed at her a long moment, then asked, "Can you hear the river now?" And as she stood listening, the fast-moving waters created gushing echoes that penetrated through dense woods...nothing like a slow-running creek she'd often witnessed back in Mississippi. "Yes, it sounds almost dangerous." He took his foot off the stump, headed along ahead of her, holding back bushes, urging, "Come on, we're almost there." And soon, they were approaching the river. Chelsea ducked a tree limb, came out to stand beside him on the bank, gaping at swift waters, shouting over the deafening noise, "It's beautiful but nothing like the creeks back home." "It's not usually so flooded; we had heavy spring rains." She watched the dark water racing along, sun- kissed on white crests, looking across its wide length, seeing overhanging tree limbs on the other side. "Is this a special place for you?" "Yes, I cleared it off years ago, made this little haven." He indicated the willowy landscape surrounding them, the green mossy ground beneath their feet, the sloping muddy bank down to the river, and then pulled back the thick, heavy limbs, urging her inside the verdant enclosure, which muffled the noisy rapids. "I do fish here sometimes. It's mostly a sluggish stream, but right in this area the waters pick up speed, really swift after lots of rain. But it's a great spot to fish." With false bravado, Chelsea said, "I love it, so private! We're almost hidden from the other side." She hoped her voice sounded convincing; the intimate closeness made her feel suffocated, his gray eyes now upon her with intense scrutiny. "Cuz, you are really pretty, all that wildly wavy hair, those big green eyes and full lips, little-girl pouty." His face held open adoration, his gray eyes dreamy and pensive. "Thanks." Chelsea said curtly, wary as she inched away from him, asking bluntly, "Exactly how old are you?" "Twenty-four, why?" "You look younger, have a boyish youthfulness about you. I'm only one year older than you." She turned away, her hands toying with the weeping willow limbs, eyes staring across the river. "Thanks, but I feel older than I am." She wanted to ask why, but he exclaimed, "Look at the yellow root around here!" pointing to the small fern-like shrub along the river bank. "The root of this stuff is bright yellow, very bitter but it can be made into a nice tonic for sore throat." "That's interesting." "Yes, but see those plants, the ones with flowery lace that looks like Queen Anne's lace?" She nodded, staring at the random scattering of green vegetation. "Deadly stuff, you better believe it. That's water hemlock, flowers only in late spring or early summer, real innocent-looking, resembles Queen Anne's lace so much. But the root, that's the bad stuff, one mouthful can kill an adult!" "How awful!" Chelsea said, studying the plant more attentively, amazed at its lethal potency, feeling a shiver run up her spine. Was he indirectly hinting at how easily she could be poisoned? Disgusted with her unrelenting suspicions, she forced herself to look at his grim face. "Yeah, and it's not a pretty way to die, either." "How do you know all this?" "I wrote a series of articles for the paper about native plants in this area, how to identify the deadly ones and describing the innocent ones. A real eye- opener." Chelsea breathed a sigh of relief, chiding herself inwardly again for letting her paranoia get the best of her. As they walked back through the forest, Michael told her about the abundance of wildflowers that bloomed in early spring, wild yellow lily, marsh blue violet, pink lady's slipper, waterlily and arrowheads...turning the swampy woodlands into nature's work of art. By the time they reached the house, red-gold fingers of sunset were slanting down through the mossy cypress, bathing the grounds in an almost mystical aura. They stood near the garden, Chelsea looking at the forbidding house before her, again uneasy about it, wishing she could somehow unravel the mysteries it harbored. As the sun sank lower, darkly moving shadows descended across the garden, coming closer and closer to her, then covering them with a sudden chill as they stood silently. "Um, Chelsea, about what I said at the river, admiring your appearance. I don't want you to think I'm coming on to you, or putting the moves on you." She felt her face flush, because that was what she'd thought - in addition to being distrustful of him. His words didn't quite erase her anxiety but she kidded lightly, "I'm glad you don't think we have to be kissing cousins." He chuckled, then took her arm and said, "Not that it wouldn't be nice, but I'm just not ready for marriage. I, well, I like to play the field, you know...but commitment, settling with one woman, not for me." "And you think that's what I'd want?" She was taken aback at his assumption. Yet, in spite of her doubts about him, Chelsea had to