Despite the lingering smell of smoke, Sam happily transplanted salvia and sage from the ghost garden to a sunny spot beside the town hall. The small wooden building was at the end of the row of shops. The town could easily expand the land around it into a park, if her Uncle Montgomery gave up his private parking spot and driveway in back. She envisioned benches and a fountain—tile or stone?—and pebble paths surrounding beds of flowers that bloomed all year around.

She thought best with her hands in dirt. She wondered if she could obtain a grant to study the earthquake fault and how it might affect the aquifer. Having grown up on a farm in a small rural area, she didn’t miss the city lights. Although fitting in had always been a problem for her. She knew where she belonged at the university. Here. . . She had no idea where she stood.

She might miss a social life once Walker returned to LA. She didn’t want to think like that. She had no claim on Walker. That had been understood from the first.

She would miss Walker reassuring her with a shoulder squeeze when she needed an extra zap of strength. Admittedly, his protective streak could use a good trim, but he wasn’t the type of macho man who shoved her aside and told her he’d do whatever needed doing. He just offered to be there if she needed him. She felt as if he’d cut open the cocoon binding her so she could spread her wings and fly anywhere she liked.

Like the tarot card Amber had shown her—the strings tying her up had been snipped. Freedom to choose her own road was scary.

She knew Walker was among the walking wounded, that he had issues over his son’s death and needed to resolve his father’s murder before he could move forward. And even knowing it meant he would be leaving her, she wanted to help him solve the case—as he’d helped her when she thought she’d lost her mind.

Voices rose inside the town hall. She tried not to eavesdrop. It was so peaceful here, marking out a garden, planning the colors and sizes of the flowers she needed.

“Keep your mother away,” Mariah shouted inside.

Mariah didn’t normally shout. Sam frowned.

“That’s impossible,” a low male voice rumbled. The mayor? “She’s responsible for the well-being of everyone in this damned town.”

“She’s responsible for destroying all this! She’s been here too long, Monty. The demons are sucking her dry. She retaliates by feeding on your energy and Kurt’s and everyone else’s that she encounters. Keep her healthy, happy, and anywhere but here.”

“And you know all this because your little nets are clean?” the mayor asked scornfully. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be out of work in that case.”

“No,” Mariah said wearily. “The place is possessed by centuries of souls that can’t pass on. You want a Valley of Death, call it Hillvale. Go look at your uncle’s art sometime, really look at it. I know you won’t believe that she’s draining you and Kurt, but study your uncle. Does he look healthy?”

Sam quietly set her tools in her garden basket and stood up.

Daisy had been protecting the art. Dinah’s mural could possibly be painted by one of the most brilliant artists of her era, and it resembled another in the lodge’s dining room. Valdis had talked about demons and paint. Mariah was fairly rational and even she was talking about looking at the art. Maybe it was time to do so.

Sam returned the garden tools to Cass’s shed and went to her studio to look up the phone number for the San Francisco art gallery where Jade had sold her work. Sam had always assumed the gallery was called Malcolm Magic after Lucinda Malcolm, the pseudonymous artist. It specialized in surreal fantasy but often included more realistic styles with hidden fantasy elements that Jade had found fascinating. Sam couldn’t see enough of the mural on Dinah’s wall to find hidden elements, but the style had resembled the art Jade had admired.

She dialed the old landline phone with trepidation, but it rang appropriately. Good to know it still worked. The gallery receptionist put her on hold, and a moment later, Elaine Lee answered.

“Samantha! How delightful to hear from you. When are you coming to visit?” Elaine spoke with a slight Cantonese accent, although Sam was fairly certain she’d lived in San Francisco most of her life.

“Actually, I’m in California now,” Sam told her. “I’m not sure I’m ready to drive in the city, but I’ve found a painting out here in the middle of nowhere that made me think of you.”

“Anything that makes you think of me is good,” Elaine chirruped. “I do hope it’s good. Where are you?”

“Hillvale.” Sam waited. As she feared, the normally chatty Elaine went silent.

“Hillvale?” she asked after a moment, with a degree of hesitation. “Why are you there?”

So even Elaine had known some part of her story—layers within layers to uncover.

“It’s a long story. I’d love to tell you sometime,” Sam said, not explaining. “I’m kind of caught up in something and can’t get away. But I’ve found a mural that someone tells me was painted by Lucinda Malcolm, and I thought you might be interested.”

It wasn’t as if Elaine could sell a mural. She would have no real reason to come up here. But Sam had hoped curiosity would drive her—and she might learn a little more about her birth parents.

“Lucinda lived in Hillvale for a time,” Elaine acknowledged. “Have you found any more of her work?”

“I’m no expert,” Sam warned. “I saw a piece resembling the mural hanging at the lodge. And one of the locals mentioned a cache of art hidden up the mountain.” That was almost pure fabrication. Daisy could have been time-walking when she saw art. But instinct demanded that she bring someone up here who understood more about painting than she did.

Elaine stayed silent long enough to indicate a lack of enthusiasm. “Hillvale isn’t healthy for artists,” she finally said.

“Did my birth mother tell you that?” Sam asked, baiting the hook. She wished she could see Elaine’s expression through the phone, but the resignation in her voice sufficed.

“Jade feared this day would come,” Elaine said with a sigh, not admitting anything. “Fine. I’ll take a look at my calendar and get back to you. Tell me how to reach you.”

Sam gave her the studio’s phone number and the one at the café. “I’ll give you my cell too, but it won’t reach me unless I’m off the mountain.”

“I do wish you’d come down here, Sam,” Elaine said anxiously. “I could meet you in Santa Cruz or somewhere if you don’t want to try city driving.”

“It’s all right, Elaine. I’m hearing the stories I need to hear. Keep in mind, I’m a scientist, not an artist. Wolf would be proud of me.”

Elaine’s voice brightened. “That’s true. I have a gallery opening this weekend, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I clear a place in my schedule. Just be careful!”

After reassuring her mother’s friend, Sam changed clothes, got in her Subaru, and headed for the lodge. The car shouldn’t sit idle for too long, she reasoned. Now that she had her license back, she didn’t need to walk everywhere—although the exercise certainly allowed her to eat as much of Dinah’s wonderful food as she liked.

Once she parked at the lodge, she wasn’t entirely certain what approach she should take. Lance wasn’t likely to be hanging about the computer room, and he was the one she really wanted to see.

The sheriff’s car was there, pursuing the ongoing investigations, so she assumed she couldn’t be in too much danger. She really didn’t want to talk to any officialdom except Walker though. She parked behind the lodge, near the small building she’d been told Lance used for his studio.

Deciding she’d use Elaine as her excuse for stopping by, she walked up to the studio’s open door as if the Kennedys really were her family and she belonged here.

Lance looked up from his work when Sam knocked on the door frame. Remembering Mariah’s warning, she studied him. He’d pulled his graying blond hair back in a piece of string at his nape. He had the same Viking bone structure as his sister. His jutting cheekbones and square jaw were just more masculine. If she did not mistake, his color was healthier today. He was tall and lanky and not muscular by any means, but he didn’t look like a weak man.

“Samantha,” he acknowledged with a nod, cleaning off his brush. “You have been very much a topic of conversation lately.”

Huh, she didn’t even need an excuse to stop in.

“Have I? Should I apologize?” She entered even though he hadn’t invited her. She was used to the absent-mindedness of her adopted parents. She stopped to examine a collection of small portraits grouped on one wall.

“No, not at all. I gather my nephews are somewhat bemused at learning their father wasn’t a model of good behavior, but he died when they were young. There was no reason to enlighten them.” He pointed at the photo-sized portraits she was admiring. “What do you think? I understand you were raised by professional artists.”

“That doesn’t mean I understand art,” she protested. “I’m just like everyone else, admiring for personal reasons and not necessarily for the right ones. You’ve captured likenesses extremely well as far as I can see. In this one, Mariah shines almost as brightly as the crystals she hangs in her nets. But in this one, Kurt is looking a little tired.”

She studied another of a gorgeous blond woman wearing what appeared to be a Hello, Dolly type of costume. The face looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. “Who is this?”

Cleaning his brush, he leaned over her shoulder. “Valerie. Isn’t she gorgeous? I had to do that from memory. While she’s on stage, I’m too enthralled to even sketch. Her voice is magnificent.”

“Valerie? Valdis? She was on stage?” That explained the carrying voice!

“That was a long time ago. She’s extremely talented, but she retreated from the public eye after her. . . accident.” He put his brush back in a mason jar holder.

Guessing he wouldn’t tell the story, wishing she could have the image to show to Cass, Sam moved on to the next portrait. “Who is this person with the red eyes?”

“Juan,” he said curtly, reaching over her shoulder to take down the image. “Something in the paint erodes the color after a while. I’ve been experimenting with the formulas used in the seventies, but I cannot achieve their clarity. Although I do recollect others developing the unfortunate redness, so perhaps the crystals they used were impure.”

“Crystals?” Sam studied the rest of the miniature portraits. He did have a gift for capturing likeness, although she couldn’t see much personality in the people represented. Monty and Kurt could have been stone statues for all the life they exhibited. She was surprised to find Dinah in the collection. She didn’t think Lance went to the café often. And was that Valdis again—without the scar and looking much, much younger?

“The formula included grinding crystals into the natural substances they used for coloration. I prefer not to use poisonous ingredients. I’ve experimented with both their formulas and my own, mixing the crystal in different mediums, but every so often, they still deteriorate.” He studied Juan’s image, shrugged, and added it to a stack turned to the wall.

“Perhaps Juan’s family would like the painting?” Sam suggested. “Can you blot out the red?”

He hovered uncertainly over the stack of canvas turned to the wall. “Juan was an unhappy man. When they were younger, my nephews had to buy his silence with their allowances when he caught them out past their curfew, until they started telling their mother rather than hand over the money. Thought that rather smart of them. So I did the same when he tried to blackmail me over a trifling incident. Not a very bright fellow. Do you really think his family would like the portrait?”

Sam remembered her one encounter with the surly security guard. He hadn’t seemed to be a bad man, but unhappy might describe him. Was that what Valdis had channeled—Juan’s unhappiness that he was poor and the Kennedys were rich? Her aunt could have picked up on that while Juan was still alive.

“I think they’d like it,” she said, keeping her voice light so as not to encourage him if he didn’t want to do it. “Families always think the best of their relations.”

“I’ll cover the red with a dab of tempera. That seems to limit the corrosion. Maybe Monty will take it to the family for me.”

He finally took the time to study her. “You are more interesting than the Kennedy side of the family. You resemble the Ingerssons. Valerie has those same delicate cheekbones.”

Ridiculously pleased that he’d noticed a family resemblance, Sam brushed at her cheek. She hadn’t realized anyone knew of her relation to Valdis. “My parents tended to paint me as square blocks or eagles or other weirdnesses, so I don’t see myself as others do.”

He nodded understanding and began rummaging through a stack of paintings. “The Ingerssons and their tribe eventually gave up portraits, probably due to the paint corrosion. But the artwork that survived is quite distinctive.”

He pulled out a faded canvas and held it in the sunlight, where she could see it. The subject appeared to be artists painting other artists, a vain conceit, but Sam recognized her own face in that of the woman being painted. She touched the woman’s wild mane of hair. “My grandmother?”

He nodded, and pointed at one of the artists in front of an easel. The man’s face was turned away. Only his blond haystack of curls was visible. “Your grandfather.”

“Well, I see how I came by the unruly hair,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. How did he know about her family? “You didn’t paint this, did you?”

“No, this was done before Valerie was born. She’s a little younger than I am, so I’d say this work is over fifty years old, just before your grandfather’s art became famous and brought notoriety to the commune. It’s not signed, but Valerie says it looks like her mother’s style. They were probably standing in front of mirrors so she could capture both of them at work. It used to hang in the lobby but Carmel had it taken down.”

“This paint didn’t corrode,” Sam noted with interest.

“But it faded, so they were experimenting with different mediums. We can learn so much from examining the work of the masters.” He set the oil back in the stack.

Sam wouldn’t call her grandparents masters if that was an example, but she nodded agreement anyway. “I noticed a painting in the dining room that resembles the mural in the diner. Was that done back then?”

He frowned. “Given its condition, most likely, although it appears a good deal of tempera was applied in some attempt to repair it. I never met most of the people the painting and the mural represent, so I can’t say if they’re a good likeness.”

“Perhaps the lodge’s canvas just needs a good cleaning, like the one at Dinah’s. Do you think anyone would mind if I took a look at it?” Sam wasn’t certain if she was learning anything valuable, but talking to Lance had been interesting. She’d have to ask Elaine about using crystals in paint.

“Not at all.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the lodge. “Go before the lunch hordes descend, and no one will know you’re there.”

Feeling as if she’d been dismissed, Sam thanked him for his time and loped toward the lodge. She hadn’t done a study of the Santa Cruz mountains, but in general along an oceanic fault, she assumed she would find sandstone and granite. If Daisy was finding crystals for her sculptures, and artists were grinding them into paint, she would guess there was some form of quartz diorite as well. She wasn’t a geologist, but she liked rocks. Diorite polished up nicely and made pretty kitchen counters. It was too hard for detailed carving, but she supposed it could be ground to add sparkle.

The dining room was empty. The lodge’s business hadn’t picked up since the fire. She’d hate to see the town dry up and blow away if the tourists didn’t come back. But she had ideas bubbling of how they could work with the burn site—if her step-grandmother would listen. Except Mariah wanted to keep Carmel away—odd.

Sam found the painting she’d noticed the one night she’d eaten at the lodge restaurant. It was too dark to really see it. Looking around, deciding there was no one to notice, she lifted the frame from the hook and carried it to a window. The porch overhang prevented too much sun from entering, but the light by the window was brighter.

She had seen Lucinda Malcolm’s work. This wasn’t it. She’d hoped it might be a valuable piece the Kennedys could sell to help cover expenses until the burn site was restored. But this was just what Lance had said—a tempera-dabbed oil, probably from half a century ago. It was another trite conceit—the artist portraying himself and his friends as the disciples at the Last Supper. The Jesus figure in the center was sitting behind a counter that looked like Dinah’s, and resembled the curly-haired man Lance had identified as her grandfather, although his hair was considerably longer in this work.

Anyone who portrayed himself as the Savior had to be an arrogant prick. She assumed his disciples were other members of the commune. They were all very young. Disappointed, she returned it to the wall.

Turning around, she almost pressed her nose into Alan Gump’s expensive vest. Off-balance, she stepped back and her spine hit the wall. “Hasn’t anyone taught you about personal space?” she asked irritably.

There was something about the lodge that made her say things she shouldn’t.

The bulky man shrugged and stepped aside enough that she could sidle past him. “I was just trying to see what you saw in that old piece of junk.”

“Bullies intimidate by occupying personal space,” she continued, easing toward the door. “It’s not a good policy around people who carry weapons though.”

Who in hell was this talking? She didn’t carry weapons. Sam wanted to bat her ear to see if Cass was inside her head again. But she didn’t sense Cass. Alan Gump just turned her into a porcupine for some reason. Maybe this was why the Lucys didn’t talk to him.

Ignoring her comment, he continued studying the painting. “Did you recognize anyone in this?”

Sam put a few tables and chairs between them. “Considering the painting is over half a century old, hardly.”

“I was told they were a cult. This seems to prove it.” He turned his back on the artwork to regard her. “The Kennedys are too polite to say so, but they don’t want you up here. I can set you up with a fine place in Frisco. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her time with these nuts.”

Appalled at the implication, Sam retorted, “Rich sexists like you don’t belong anywhere.” She swung on her heel and marched out.

She felt as if she’d just left a load of filth behind, but she was more worried about the words spouting from her mouth—as if they weren’t her own.