A Season of Miracles (13 page)

“Are you suggesting that—”

“I'm suggesting that it might have been important to find out just exactly what happened to it.”

“Jeeves died in my office?” Jillian demanded.

Both men turned and stared at her. Robert flushed, gritting his teeth, looking away. “Don't you ever knock?” he asked somewhat harshly.

“Daniel?”

“He died of old age, Jillian. He liked you, he was comfortable in your office, so it was where he went to die.”

“We should have found out exactly why he died,” she said. “We have no idea how old he was.”

“Jillian,” Daniel explained patiently, “you'd had an episode the night before.”

“An
episode?
”

“You passed out after that fortune-teller played some kind of hocus-pocus on you. It was Halloween night, and a black cat died on your desk. We decided not to tell you,” Daniel explained patiently. “I'm sorry,” he added. “We did what we thought was best.”

“Out of love,” Robert murmured, still not looking at her.

“Of course,” Daniel said, though she had a feeling Robert had been speaking sarcastically.

“Please don't hide things from me again. For any reason,” she said, and turned around, leaving them both.

Back in her own office, she closed up her desk. Then she stopped by Eileen's office and told her cousin she would be in the coffee shop downstairs.

 

“Mr. Marston.”

The voice that came through on his private line was hushed. The woman had refused to identify herself to the temp, and he had almost refused the call. But now something in the hesitant urgency touched him, and he was glad he had taken it.

“Yes, this is Robert Marston. Who is this? And what can I do for you?”

“It's Mary. Mary MacRae. I work at Hennessey's. I'm the one you gave the money to that day. The ex-junkie,” she added so quietly he almost didn't hear her.

He frowned. “Are you all right? Do you need something?”

“No, no, I'm fine, thank you. I found Madame Zena.”

“Oh?” He leaned forward, wondering why his heart had suddenly jolted. He was angry with the fortune-teller; all he wanted to know was who had put her up to her shenanigans.

“She'll see you downtown in an hour, the Voodoo Café‚ off Hudson.”

“But—”

“I have to go.”

The line went dead.

An hour later, as he parked his car, he wondered if he was going a little mad himself. The Voodoo Café?

But the place was a neat little establishment, no darker than many trendy restaurants. The place was decorated with fine African and island art, and it offered Haitian, African and Creole dishes. He hadn't eaten, and he didn't see Madame Zena anywhere, so he sat in a booth and ordered coffee and the seafood specialty.

Right after his coffee arrived, a woman slipped into the booth across from him. Madame Zena. She looked quite different. She was stunning, with her hair short and expertly styled to emphasize the clean lines of her features. She was wearing a knit suit and gave the impression of cool competence and confidence.

“Madame Zena,” he murmured. “Thank you for coming. May I buy you something to eat?”

“Sure. Did you order the special?” she asked.

He smiled. “Don't you know what I ordered?”

She met his eyes, then turned to the waitress coming toward her. “I'll take the special, too, Kia, thanks. And coffee.”

He leaned back.

“Impressed?” she asked him.

“Because you knew I ordered the special? It wasn't a bad guess.”

“All right, fine.”

“Look, I'm worried about Miss Llewellyn.”

“She isn't Miss Llewellyn. She's Mrs. Anderson. I remember the write-up in the paper when she was married.”

“I'm worried about Jillian,” he said.

“You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because she's in danger.”

“From whom?”

“That I can't tell you.”

He lifted his hands. “But you can help me. Who hired you?”

“Hennessey's hired me.”

“No, no, I know that. Who hired you to—”

“You
know,
” she said, shaking her head. “That's just the problem. You
know.
” She lifted a hand to summon the waitress. “This isn't worth my time.”

“I'm sorry. I'm a realist. I've seen very bad things happen in this world, and I've seen them happen because of other people's actions. People hurt people, Madame Zena—”

“Yes, people hurt people,” she said. “We agree on something.”

“So if you would just tell me who—”

“No one put me up to anything, Mr. Marston. My name is Shelley Millet, not Madame Zena. But I am not a charlatan, and I am not playing cruel games. I think that Jillian is in danger. There was something…something in the past. A great tragedy, a terrible force. You were part of it.”

“I'm telling you, I didn't know her before.”

“The past is as great as time itself, Mr. Marston.”

“You're talking in riddles. I never met Jillian before. I went to school with Theo Llewellyn, but I never met Jillian until I came to work at Llewellyn Enterprises. Until the other night. I never hurt her, and I never would. Don't you understand? I'm trying to help her.”

“Why are
you
so sure she needs help, Mr. Marston?”

He hesitated. “I can't answer that.”

“A feeling?” she enquired.

“No. I'm simply not at liberty to say.” If there was something sinister going on, the last thing he wanted to do was give her fuel to add to the fire that someone at Llewellyn had lighted.

“You're an ass, Mr. Marston,” she said softly, leaning back.

“What?”

She smiled. “Sorry. That was rude of me. But there you are—educated, young, powerful, built like steel, full of sense and logic. An intelligent man. But you must see, and if you don't, you are in trouble. The world is full of good and evil.
Yin
and
yang.
Forces. And chances. Karma. Call it whatever you will, Mr. Marston. But if you can't open your heart and your mind, you will fail again.”

“Fail? Again? At what? How did I fail before?”

“You were arrogant then, you are arrogant now. You believe too strongly in your sense of purpose, in your belief in the power of the mind and the body.”

He shook his head. “I came to you for help. You're playing word games.”

“I'm trying to help you.”

The food arrived, but he hardly noticed what he was eating, too lost in the frustrating conversation to give his mind to the meal.

“So…you recognized Jillian psychically, not by sight. And you knew me the same way. Then something made you start screaming, ‘Witch!' at her, and your eyes just happened to roll back in your head when you met me?”

To his surprise, she hesitated, looking slightly disturbed. “I knew who you were.”

“Who told you?”

She ignored him and said instead, “I knew her husband. Who is dead a year today.”

Robert felt a strange chill. He gave himself a mental shake, annoyed, and reminded himself that he didn't believe in psychic phenomena. “Did he read tarot cards, too?”

“No. He was a teacher. As I am. We taught at the same inner-city school.”

“So you knew Jillian then?”

“No. He had quit teaching by the time they were married. He was very ill already.” She had eaten a large portion of her food, and now she glanced at her watch and sighed. “We don't get much time. I have to get back. I'm sorry if you feel I'm not trying to help you. I am. But I'll never be able to do anything for you unless you open your mind.” She rose, a slight smile on her lips. “You're a good man, a decent man—even if you are being an ass.”

“Oh?” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You want to help her? Stay with her. Watch out for her. Don't leave her this time, thinking that you are all powerful and your name will be enough to protect her.”

“This time.
This
time?” he said angrily. “There you go again.”

“Good and evil, Mr. Marston.”

“Yes, we agree, good
people.
”

“Christmas. The season is approaching quickly.”

“What? Is she going to be run over by a reindeer? Miss Millet—”

“It's a time to believe, Mr. Marston. A time when goodness should win out, a time for miracles. But I promise you—miracles never occur for people who don't believe in them.”

“And what is the miracle I'm looking for, Miss Millet?”

She stared at him with her curious golden eyes for a moment. “Life, Mr. Marston. Life itself is the miracle. Now, if you'll excuse me…?”

She turned and headed for the door, then stopped, looking slightly puzzled, and turned back. “By the way, the cat was poisoned.”

“What?”

He was standing before he knew it, but she was already leaving.

He dropped several bills on the table and chased after her, catching up with her halfway down the street. He grabbed her arm. “How do you know that?” he demanded. “How do you even know about the cat?”

“What difference does it make? You won't believe me if I tell you.”

“Give it a try.”

“Milo,” she said.

“What?” He released her arm.

“Milo, Mr. Marston. I don't know how, or why. I don't usually get messages from the dead. Strangely enough, he's also the one who says you're a decent human being. I really have to get back.”

She tried to turn, but he caught her arm again.

“Wait. If you know all this, if Milo is telling you things, surely he's told you who's doing it,” he taunted.

“No. He doesn't know.”

“Milo—the deceased Milo—talks to you, but he doesn't know what's up. He warns of danger but he can't tell you what it is?” His voice dripped deep, harsh skepticism.

“If you don't want to listen to me, don't try to find me anymore. What I do know is that energy is never destroyed. There will always be good and evil, and now the evil has come again. Jillian is in danger. Maybe you're even the cause of the danger. Now, if you'll let me go…”

“But—”

“If you're ever willing to really listen, Mr. Marston, you can call on me again.”

“One of them put you up to this. One of the Llewellyns. Griff? This would be his idea of a practical joke. Daniel? Maybe he's all show—maybe he hates Jillian for being Douglas's favorite, and for being a direct heir. But this has gone too far. Whatever you've been paid, I'll up it. This has turned serious. And if I find out you're an accessory in any way, if you hurt her—”

“I'm not about to hurt her, Mr. Marston. But don't you see? You're being a blind fool. No, Mr. Marston, I am no danger to Jillian. I am not about to hurt her. But you—if you continue to be so damn sure of yourself, you will.”

She jerked her arm free and stared at him indignantly.

He shook his head and, totally frustrated, let her go.

J
illian 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.”