CHAPTER 7
Jillian was touched when her entire family arrived at the cemetery.
Of course, they were all heading to Connecticut, anyway, but they were there all the same. Connie and Joe were there, too, which wasn’t surprising, since they were her best friends. Connie told her that they had decided to drive up that night and not take the kids, since her mother didn’t mind staying with the girls for the weekend. Henry, who was like family, was also there. Again, no surprise. Even Amelia, her grandfather’s right hand, was there. Gracie Janner was there, as well, as always the dedicated assistant.
She was somewhat surprised that Robert Marston wasn’t there, but then, she had told him to give her room.
Father Hidalgo, who had conducted the services at Milo’s funeral and memorial, was there, greeting her with a warm smile, a hand squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. They chatted, and she assured him that she was fine—moving on. It was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Moving on? She was just trying to do it slowly. Intelligently. With a measure of sanity.
She thanked them all for coming and stood by the gravesite, while Father Hidalgo read the appropriate prayers.
It wasn’t that she believed that the essence of Milo was really there, in the ground. And she didn’t think that it was necessary to pray directly at the gravesite of a loved one who had passed on. It was simply a matter of respect, done in memory. Loving memory. He had been a best friend. And she missed him. He had loved to read, and they had talked about books constantly, arguing about plots, motive and characterization. They were both movie buffs and art fanatics, too. She had gotten to know him their senior year of college, when they had both joined the study abroad program and ended up arguing over the relative merits of the Italian and French masters. He’d had sandy hair, always a bit too shaggy, powder-blue eyes, and a tall, lanky appearance. His smile had been quick, even when he was dying. He had told her that all the drugs made him smile, but she had known that he smiled only to make it better for her.
At the end of the casual graveside service, Robert Marston arrived. He had changed from his business attire to a sweater and black leather jacket. Dark glasses—worn against the glare of the newly fallen snow?—hid his eyes. He stood a small distance away from the family, hands shoved into his pockets, watching. Rock still, yet she had the feeling he was ready to leap at the slightest sign.
Sign of what?
Hidalgo finished speaking. Jillian placed a lone red rose on Milo’s grave, dusting snow from the angel she’d ordered to go with his marker.
As she started away from the grave, the others followed. She thanked her family for coming. Everyone tried to be light and at ease. Gary remarked that he was starving, and Eileen said she wanted pizza, while Griff argued that they should stop at the great Chinese place off the highway.
Douglas suggested a vote, and pizza won out.
Jillian had known that Robert was standing to one side, watching her, as they made their plans while standing by the road that ran through the huge cemetery. They were surrounded by stones, angels, kneeling Virgins, winged victories and more. Oddly enough, there was a sense of peace here that she hadn’t felt in a long time. But Robert’s presence seemed to shatter that peace.
When she slid into the back of Eileen’s Audi, she was startled to find him following her. As always, his proximity created a flux of emotions within her. That strange sense of fever.
Happiness. Fear.
Fear?
Yes, and she didn’t at all understand why.
“You’re riding with us?”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I just…well, you seem to like having a car available.”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve been assured there are a number available at the house.”
“There are.”
He shrugged.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, still watching him.
“Of course.”
“You were late,” she said.
He shrugged. “I had a few things to tie up at the office.”
“Oh.”
Eileen and Gary entered the car. “Thank God everyone voted for pizza,” Eileen said.
“They were afraid not to,” Gary told her.
“Why?”
“They all know you like to win.”
“Gary!” Eileen protested.
“Just kidding.” He brushed her cheek with a gloved hand, turned back to Jillian and winked. Then he asked softly, “You all right, kid?”
Jillian felt a flush touch her cheeks, and she knew Robert Marston was watching her. “Yes, of course.”
The pizza place was near the highway, but still in New York state. When they stopped, Jillian stalled, watching as Eileen and Gary went on ahead.
“I thought we’d decided to back off,” she told Robert. It was a year—exactly a year—since Milo died. She should be, at the least, reflective. But instead she was glad to be with Robert, glad that he had come in Eileen’s car, and feeling guilty that she was so glad.
“We did.”
“Then why did you come in this car?”
“Because you shouldn’t be alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m with Eileen and Gary.”
“You shouldn’t be alone with your family.”
Puzzled, she frowned, staring at him. “Robert, what is wrong with you?”
The others were standing at the door of the pizza parlor, waiting, exhaling clouds of breath. Eileen stamped her feet to warm them. It was cold. Winter had come early, already bringing snow that stayed on the ground.
“Let’s just go in,” he suggested.
She balked, tightening against his touch on her shoulder. “No. I want to know what you’re talking about.”
“I saw the fortune-teller.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in fortune-tellers?”
“I don’t.”
“Then…”
“I believe that someone is putting someone up to something, and that you may be in danger.”
“Someone in my family?” she asked incredulously.
“Humor me?” he said, his eyes a cobalt blue against the bronze of his features.
“Jillian!” Griff called. “We’re turning to snowmen here.”
“Well, go in, you idiots, we’re coming!” she called back.
They filled three big tables in the pizza parlor, which was warm and welcoming. Already the place was dressed for the holidays. One window had been decorated for Hanukkah, one for the African and island holiday of Kwanzaa, and the rest of the place had been done up for Christmas. Garlands were strung everywhere, red, green, gold and silver. Tinsel decorated every possible surface. The cheese shakers on the tables were in the shape of ceramic reindeer. A beautifully decorated artificial pine stood in the far corner near the kitchen. JOYOUS NOEL was proudly proclaimed in block letters above the open counter.
“Jillian, see the strings of holly on that tree?” Henry, at the next table, called to her.
“They’re great,” she replied.
“We’ll get some,” he said.
“Sure. We’ll go hog-wild and start the whole Christmas thing this weekend,” she called back.
Eileen, across from her, wrinkled her nose with a sigh. “If you start now and insist on a real tree again, it will be dead as a doornail by Christmas.”
“Bah, humbug,” Gary teased.
“Nice way to talk to your almost wife,” Eileen told him.
“It’s the ‘almost’ part that makes me crazy.”
“We won’t get the tree yet—we always go and cut down a tree for the house in Connecticut, anyway, and it’s too early for that,” Jillian said. “But Henry loves to decorate for Christmas.”
“So do you,” Eileen charged.
Jillian smiled. “Guilty.”
Griff was across from her. “It’s as if you’re still waiting for Santa Claus.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Anyone want kitchen sink pizza?” Theo asked, sliding into the chair on Jillian’s right side. Robert was to her left.
“I’ll take anything but anchovies,” Jillian said.
“They’re the best part,” Theo complained.
“I’ll do anchovies with you,” Gary told him.
“Fine. You have your pizza, I’ll have mine,” Theo teased Jillian.
“If that’s the way you want to be,” she teased back.
Robert had been quiet, watching them all, Jillian noticed. The thought made her uneasy. “What do you like on your pizza?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “Whatever you like.”
“No, seriously.”
He smiled. “Seriously. Whatever you like.”
She turned away from him, aware once again that he was watching them. She ignored him, disturbed by the comments he had made outside. This was a pleasant occasion, especially considering the circumstances. Still, she was uneasy, and it lasted all through the meal and the drive to Connecticut.
* * *
Agatha heard the cars arriving. The great double doors to the house swung open, and she stood there, tall, slim and shivering, beckoning them to hurry on in. “It’s simply frigid out here. Come in, come in. I’ve put tea and hot wine on, some sweets, everything warm and toasty. Hurry.”
There was a great deal of confusion as everyone entered the old mansion, greeting Agatha, distributing overnight cases. Jillian found herself watching Robert as he surveyed the house, which she had always thought was magnificent. The original structure—now just an office off to the side—had been built in the late sixteen hundreds. The newest addition had been built in 1845. Her grandfather had bought the home when he first became successful, and through all the years since, it had been a labor of love. He had always restored rather than redone. The huge colonial porch was much as it had been when the country had declared independence. The huge dining room remained, with its double fireplace banking the wall into the left parlor. Though modern appliances had been purchased, the old brick ovens remained in the kitchen. A beautiful stained-glass window had been added above the staircase sometime just after the Civil War, but every square foot of the house retained a special ambiance. If there was anything in being a Llewellyn that Jillian had ever cherished, she supposed, it was her right to be in this house.
She and Milo had been married here.
And he had died here, as well.
“Jillian,” Agatha said, hugging her fiercely. Despite her age and diminutive size, she had a fierce strength. Jillian gasped, then hugged her back and kissed her cheek.
“I’ve all the Christmas boxes down,” she told Jillian delightedly. “I thought you might want to begin with the windows or the mantels this weekend.”
“Sounds great.”
“We have a great deal of work to do this weekend, Jillian,” Daniel said, hanging his coat in the closet just off the richly tiled mudroom.
“I’m sure we’ll have time for some Christmas,” Agatha said.
“But, Aggie, dear,” Griff told her, stopping to give her a hug, “it isn’t Christmas yet.”
“It’s never too early for Christmas,” Agatha said. “Is it Douglas?” she asked.
Jillian looked to her grandfather, who shrugged, then smiled slowly. “Not at our ages, Aggie. We never know when we’re going to see our last, right, old girl?”
“Aye, and that’s the way of it,” Agatha said, her old eyes meeting his.
“Both of you, stop it! We’re going to have lots of Christmases,” Jillian protested.
“It’s not one’s age, is it? It’s one’s health,” Robert Marston said softly.
Jillian spun around. He was watching her. She felt uneasy again.
“I think I’ll grab some tea and run on up. I’m very tired,” Jillian said.
“Try the mulled wine,” Agatha told her as she headed into the huge brick kitchen. “It’s my best, filled with honey, cinnamon and a dab of lemon.”
Jillian did, using the huge dipper to scoop out a cup from the cauldron that sat over the open fire. It was very hot; she blew on it. She took a sip. “Delicious, Agatha. Henry, you’ll love it.”
As the others trailed into the kitchen, she slipped out, returning quickly to the foyer to get her overnight bag. When she reached the entry, though, she was startled to hear a loud mewing sound.
She hesitated. The wind?
The sound came again, from the entry doors. She walked into the mudroom, instantly feeling the chill from outside. The mewing came again. She opened the front doors and looked around. Nothing. She heard the sound once again and looked down.
A huge, furry black cat was on the porch. As she looked, he mewed again, rubbing against her legs.
“You poor thing. You must be freezing.” She reached down for the cat. “My goodness, but you do look like Jeeves.”
She held him close to her, reentering the house, closing the main doors and locking them, then leaving the mudroom.
“Jillian?”
It was her grandfather, and he sounded concerned. She walked into the kitchen with the cat.
Connie leapt up, gasping. Eileen, who had been facing the fire, turned, then screamed. “Jeeves!” she cried out.
“Can’t be,” Griff protested.
“Of course it’s not Jeeves,” Jillian said quickly. “It’s all right, it’s just another poor cat. The creature was crying, freezing outside on the porch. Agatha, have you seen him before?”
“Never,” Agatha assured her.
“Well, he’s got to stay, at least tonight. Maybe he belongs to a neighbor.”
“Jillian, the nearest neighbor here is nearly a mile away,” Daniel reminded her.
“Then, he’s my cat now,” she said.
“I’ll get him some milk,” Agatha said, rising.
“Give him some of this warm mulled wine,” Griff said cheerfully. “That’ll knock him out. Aggie, this stuff has a punch to it. What do you think the alcohol content is?”
“Bosh, now, it’s a bedtime drink, to help you sleep,” Agatha told him.
“I’ll sleep. Like a rock,” Connie said.
“Even if a Jeeves look-alike has come to town,” Joe muttered.
“The world is full of black cats,” Jillian told him, somewhat amused that big tough Joe was spooked by a cat just because it looked like one that had died.
“Yes, but that one…” Eileen murmured.
“Looks exactly like Jeeves,” Theo finished.
“Exactly,” Eileen said, so softly that the word sounded unintentionally spooky—and funny.
“Maybe Jeeves wasn’t really dead,” Theo suggested.
“He was dead, all right. Cold, and stiff as a poker,” Griff murmured.
“It isn’t Jeeves,” Robert Marston said suddenly. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, sipping mulled wine, but he stood, then, and walked over to Jillian, who was still holding the cat, which he studied carefully.
He still seemed electric, Jillian thought. Dark hair falling slightly over one eye, his gaze very deeply blue, very intense. He had shed the leather jacket and now seemed like energy and fire in his navy pullover sweater and dark trousers. She held her breath when he was near her, afraid to reach out and still uncertain whether what she felt for him was right.
Especially tonight.
“Are you so sure it isn’t Jeeves?” she murmured.
His gaze met hers. “Yes, I’m positive,” he said. “He was cremated, remember.”
“Jillian, come on,” Griff said softly. “We were worried. A black cat dying right on your desk on Halloween? After what had happened at Hennessey’s?”
“He died on my desk?” Jillian said.
“You said you told her,” Griff accused Connie.
“Forget it,” Jillian said. “We’ve got this guy to think about now. Agatha, we have a litter box around somewhere, right?”
“We do.”
“I’ll keep it up in my bathroom, and keep him with me.”
“What will we call him?” Griff mused. “Jeeves Junior?”
“That’s horrible!” Eileen cried.
“Why? We all loved Jeeves,” Jillian said. “Jeeves Junior has a ring to it. Well, good night, all. If you’ll excuse me…”
She walked past Robert Marston. He smelled wonderful.
She wished that…
No.
He’d said she was in danger. Well, he was definitely dangerous. It was far too easy to forget everything, absolutely everything, when she was with him.
She had to be careful. Because he had been watching them all again, she was certain. Especially when he announced that the cat had been cremated.
As she kissed her grandfather good-night, she realized that he had been awfully quiet.
Watching as well.
* * *
It was a fantastic old house, Robert thought. Douglas was rightfully proud of it. He stayed up with Douglas, despite knowing it was going to be an early morning. The film crew and photographers were arriving at eight a.m. And though he had offhandedly assured them at the meeting that he was willing to do whatever they wanted for the ad campaign—an exceptional idea, since it kept him close to Jillian—he was a little edgy about what to expect. He had always been good with figures, concepts and management, he was an accomplished history buff, and he had played sports in school, making a good tackle because of his size and speed. But he’d never envisioned himself as an actor, and he had to admit to a fear of making a fool of himself.
That wasn’t going to stop him, though. He had started off at Llewellyn with more curiosity than anything else—not believing seriously that Douglas’s dream meant there was any real danger to Jillian. But now he was feeling an urgency to be with her. It seemed ridiculous to be away from her; in fact, he felt absurdly as if he had every right to be with her, and it was alarming to feel such real emotion. He was already in love with her, but more than that, he felt oddly as if it were the deepest emotion in the world, as if he’d felt it for years, as if they’d weathered many storms together. And yet he completely understood and respected her feeling that they had to slow down. That…
That it was all crazy.
But today, after seeing Shelley Millet, aka Madame Zena, he felt as if he had a real reason to worry, as if there really were something going on. Forces. Good and evil.
No, he didn’t believe in forces, he told himself.
But evil surely lived and thrived in the minds of men.
And there was the whole thing about the cat. He had been late to the graveside service because he’d taken it on himself to do some investigating into the death of the animal. Through Daniel’s secretary he had found out that the cat had been taken down to one of the building maintenance men and cremated in the furnace.
The maintenance man must have thought he was insane when he insisted on sifting through the ashes, but he’d bribed the fellow to silence and could only hope that the man would keep his word.
He had brought the ashes to a friend at an uptown police precinct. He wanted them analyzed. He was pretty sure that if any foul play had been done to the cat, there would be some evidence in the ashes. Jeeves had died on Jillian’s desk. That seemed an unlucky circumstance, with everything else going on—
“Don’t forget to take a look while you’re here,” Douglas said.
“I’m sorry?” Robert looked questioningly at Douglas.
Douglas smiled ruefully. “You’re worrying, eh?”
He shrugged. “I’m taking your concern seriously, sir, that’s all.”
“Even if it came from a dream?”
“Well, I don’t actually believe there’s meaning in dreams.”
“Maybe dreams warn us of what we see by day but don’t really want to admit we see,” Douglas murmured.
“Maybe.”
“You watched everyone when Jillian brought that cat in, didn’t you?” Douglas demanded.
“So did you.”
“Aye, that I did.”
“And?”
Douglas shrugged. “Well, everyone knew old Jeeves had died. So I couldn’t really tell too much.”
“You think someone in the office killed Jeeves?”
“You do, don’t you?”
“I have no idea.”
Douglas nodded in reply, staring at the flames that burned low in the kitchen grate beneath the cauldron of mulling wine. “Well, I’m afraid I have no idea, either. I found a pretty good replacement, though, eh?” he said, looking up with a wry smile.
“You brought that cat?” Robert said.
“Aye, and shush. Only Henry knows. Do you think I’m an evil old man?”
“Hell, no. I think you’re damn clever. And I wish I’d thought of it.”
Douglas laughed and rose, shaking his head as his back creaked. “Old age. It’s brutal on the body. Well, as I was saying while you wandered off, don’t forget to look in the library while you’re here. I understand you like books.”
“I do.”
“Good night, then. You’re all settled?”
“Yes. Agatha showed me my room earlier.”
“You’re next to her.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re next to Jillian. I arranged for it. You will keep an eye on her?”
“Yes, of course.”
Douglas nodded again. “See you in the morning, then.”
Robert watched Douglas go up. Then he rose, drained the last of his wine and set their glasses in the sink. He looked around the kitchen, then instinctively walked around the house, checking the locks on the doors.
At last, he walked up the stairs to his assigned room. There he found another concession to contemporary times. The bathroom was pleasantly modern, and the shower ran very hot.
After showering he toweled dry, slipped into a pair of flannel pajama pants and crawled into bed. Despite the heat of the shower he’d taken, his head seemed to be spinning. The mulled wine, he thought, idly remembering Griff’s comment. Man, that wine must have some mean alcoholic level. He hadn’t felt the effect of a few glasses of wine in a long time. Maybe it had been more than a few glasses.
He started to doze, then was surprised to hear a door open and close near his own. He crawled from the bed, slipped on a robe and opened his own door. Jillian was just starting down the hall, the black cat in her arms.
He followed her, calling her name quietly in the darkened hallway, lest he startle her. “Jillian?”
She swung around. She was clad in a white velvet robe that hung beautifully on her long, slender frame. In the dusky light, her hair curled over the velvet like a sea of flame. Her eyes seemed huge in the night. He felt a fierce tugging somewhere within him, wanting to reach out and pull her against him. He wanted…
Christmas. The Christmas of a thousand days together, laughter, comfort, the complete knowledge that they belonged together. He wanted to trim trees and dress a house, talk about PTA meetings and even groceries.
“Are you all right?” he asked politely.
“I’m fine. He just seemed hungry.”
“I’ll go down with you. I could use a drink of water.”
“Too much mulled wine, huh?” she queried, smiling. “It’s potent.”
“It is.”
“According to Agatha, it will allow you to see leprechauns.”
“Only leprechauns?”
“Well, banshees, maybe a few pixies or the like. Ghosts.”
“I’ll drink a lot of water.”
They reached the bottom of the grand stairway. Jillian made a right, through the huge paneled parlor to the kitchen beyond. She set the cat on the floor, went to the fridge, and poured a bowl of milk for the cat and a glass of water for Robert.
She leaned against the refrigerator, watching the cat.
“He is a lot like poor Jeeves, isn’t he.”
“Yes.” He drank the water, watching her. “You all right tonight?”
She looked at him. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, it’s been just a year,” he murmured.
She smiled slightly and nodded. “You would have liked Milo. He was so bright and interested in everything. He loved books, just like you.” She hesitated. “He was a friend from school, like Connie. When he first got sick, I went with him one day to the doctor’s office. It was horrible, going to oncology. There were so many people there. Older people, many of them in wheelchairs. Some children. And some young people, like Milo. I was so upset because…I don’t know, it seemed so impersonal. So cold, and sometimes so pointless.”
“You thought you could change it all if you married him?”
“I did change some of it,” she murmured. “And I learned that money does talk in America.”
“So you made his life better,” he said.
“He made mine better, too.” She turned back to the refrigerator, ready to get him more water. She paused, pointing to one of the small pictures stuck to the refrigerator with a rose magnet. “That’s Milo.”
He moved to stand by her to look at the picture. Jillian and the young man were sitting together, wearing winter sweaters and sharing a bowl of popcorn, in front of a roaring fire. They were both smiling, as if they had been caught in a private moment of laughter and warmth.
Milo had a slender face, blue eyes and curly, dark blond hair. He was wearing a gold-colored sweater and brown pants. Nice looking. He had the look of someone who liked books, movies and art museums.
“You look very happy together,” he said.
“He was the world’s best friend,” she said softly.
“I’m sorry. Very sorry. I’m sure I would have liked him very much, if I’d ever had the opportunity to meet him.”
“Thanks,” she said. She had turned away from him. “I think he would have liked you, too.” She turned back to him, her eyes serious. “I don’t care what that Madame Zena said to you, Robert. We’re all a little eccentric, but I love my family.”
He decided not to tell her that it had been Douglas who first voiced fear regarding her safety. “It’s just good to be near you—even if I am keeping my distance,” he said huskily.
“You’re awfully good to be near, too,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Too good.” She laughed. “Well, I’m taking Jeeves Junior and heading on up. Early call tomorrow.”
She picked up the cat, which purred with pleasure.
I understand completely, fellow, he thought. Wish I were you.
Jillian started out, and he followed her. They walked up the stairs together.
“You’re comfortable?” she asked him.
“Great room. I’m right next to you.”
She looked at him strangely.
“Do you mind?”
“No, I, uh…well, it was Milo’s room.”
“Milo’s room?”
“When we came here…he was very sick, you know. He—he died here. There’s actually a connecting door between the rooms, but I think there’s a wardrobe blocking it now.”
“Ah.”
They reached the landing.
“Well, good night,” she told him.
He thought there might be regret in her words. He hoped so.
“Good night,” he said. He turned away quickly, walked into his room and closed the door. The light from the bathroom still burned. He left it on, closing the door so the room wasn’t pitch dark.
He crawled into the bed. The water had helped. His head wasn’t spinning quite so badly. He hoped to hell he wasn’t going to have a major headache come morning.
With the spinning stopped, the wine quickly went to work to make him doze off. But just when he had fallen asleep, he suddenly tensed, waking himself.
He was certain he had heard something.
He opened his eyes.
There was someone in the wing chair by the bed. He froze, blinking.
Yes, there was someone there. A man, just sitting, stroking a cat.
His surprise was so great that he let out a gasp.
At the sound, the man in the chair gasped back. “Damn!” his visitor exclaimed.
Robert blinked again, his eyesight improving in the murky light.
“You scared me to death,” the man continued.
“I scared you? Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my room?”
“Oh, I think you know who I am. And actually, you’re the one in my room, you know.”
He was dreaming. It was the wine. Definitely that damn mulled wine. Because the man seated in the chair facing him looked like none other than the deceased Milo Anderson.
Robert rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “That stuff is wicked,” he muttered.
“Yes, it is. But you should follow me. To the library. That’s where you’ll find what you need to know.”
Robert looked into the darkness again.
The chair was empty.
He jumped up and turned on the light. There was no one in the room. He felt like an idiot. A cold idiot. The temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees at least, he was certain.
He looked at the bedside clock and groaned. Almost three a.m. He needed some sleep. Badly.
He crawled back into bed. Milo had appeared because they’d been talking about the man after imbibing killer wine. His dream apparition had told him to go to the library because Douglas had been suggesting he make sure to browse the library while they were there.
He punched his pillow, closed his eyes.
In a short while, he fell asleep again.
His imagined nocturnal visitor did not return.
At seven a.m., his alarm clock blared. Morning had come.