A Murder at Alcott Manor Page 3

  Voices murmured low and nondescript, like distant chattering at a cocktail party. “Uh-uh-uhhhh,” one voice cautioned and rose slightly louder over the others.

  Her heart stuttered with adrenaline at the sound. Whenever Asher caught her eating sweets, he used that parental expression with her while he wagged his finger at her face.

  He was dead, she reminded herself. There was no need to be afraid.

  When the tall, dark-haired man in the faded red T-shirt and jeans passed by the doorway, she put the cake on the table. Although she caught only a glimpse of his muscled physique, she recognized him in an instant.

  She tip-toed quickly though the dining room, the foyer, and up to the grand staircase. Following the man she knew as Mason Holloway, she wondered why he would be at Alcott Manor. Tom hadn’t mentioned anything about him to her.

  Mason knelt on the third step from the bottom and sanded a small area of unfinished wood by hand. That was definitely the Mason she remembered—a perfectionist. Traditional. Classic. A genuine if-it’s-worth-doing-it’s-worth-doing-right kind of guy. His rhythmic scratching of the sandpaper against the raw wood kept perfect time. When she leaned close to the back of his neck, she found mixed scents of fresh citrusy sweat and something powdery.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered against his damp skin.

  Mason stopped sanding and turned to face her, though she knew he couldn’t see her.

  His commanding presence reeled her in and swept her toward him. She couldn’t help herself: she kissed his soft lips.

  The tug in her midsection pulled her away from him. Her fingertips grazed his cheek before she was jerked backward in a rush, away from him and the manor. Back to her body that was asleep and dreaming in the car.

  She was waking up.

  Mason Holloway glanced around the main foyer where he had been sanding a step on bended knee. He could have sworn he’d felt a touch on his cheek; he could have sworn he’d felt a kiss on his lips; he could have sworn he’d heard Layla’s voice.

  Soft as a whisper, but clear as day.

  4

  Layla stood behind Alcott Manor in her real life this time, her waking world where the ocean waves crashed onto the white sand beach and the soft grassy lawn stretched toward the manor. She remembered what the home was like when she was a little girl, when the white paint curled away from the house in long strips as though it tried to escape its destiny. Nothing stuck to the house at that time. Not paint or good fortune or restorations.

  For many years, there had been a barbed wire and chain link fence around the property, with another one around the house, and heavy chains with locks at the gate because people had died here.

  In fact, the house had a long history of death, from Anna Alcott, who was rumored to have been shot and killed by her husband Senator Benjamin Alcott, to more recent deaths like a young teenager and a restoration specialist, both of whom had fallen to their deaths under suspicious circumstances.

  For those reasons and more, she had often wondered if Alcott Manor was cursed like people said it was. But Asher died here. And that removed a curse from her life.

  When the house was fully restored, the family would offer tours of the home and the property. The revenue from the tours would bring significant income for the entire Alcott family and she would get a big part of that. Peyton was right. She would have to push for a quick finish.

  She passed the first two squares of rose gardens that had been recently renewed to the original glory she had seen in old photographs. The landscapers had done a beautiful job. Installing benches and gliding chairs was a lovely touch.

  Ferns stretched long and lithe in the shade of ancient magnolias. A plentiful herb garden of echinacea, chamomile, and passionflower bloomed just shy of the back porch. The sweet scent of oleander reached her nose before she finally spotted the shoulder-high bushes in a gathering closer to the water. The perfume from the small white flowers reminded her of the neighborhood potluck picnics of her childhood where several families would meet near the banks of the Ashley River.

  They brought with them enough meatloaf sandwiches, casseroles, potato salad, and brownies to feed an army. The floral essence of the oleander always caught the breeze and flavored their gatherings. It still made her think of Southern ladies in wide-brimmed sun hats who wore stockings and drank sweet tea. It was the scent of a more innocent time in her life, and she inhaled the fragrance deeply.

  She walked along the pebble path that led to the portico where Tom stood waving. She waved back. Because of the number of shares she held in the private family corporation, Tom needed to have her buy-in and support on this—hopefully—last restoration. This one had to go smoothly since there wasn’t any more funding for another one.

  Her former husband had led a resistance to the restoration within the group of Alcott family members. He had them convinced that tearing down the manor and selling it to developers would cost less and yield more. Some of his believers remained in the family. At Tom’s request, and as the largest stockholder in the family-wide investment, she became the liaison between Tom’s restoration work and the family. Sort of a restoration advocate, which she always had been anyway.

  In these final stages, he wanted her onsite as much as possible—taking pictures of finished areas, being educated and up-to-date on everything that had been completed. Touting the positive and squashing the negative.

  “Layla, you look amazing, sweetheart.” The top section of Tom’s blond hair lifted in the breeze and revealed a receding hairline. She guessed that he’d probably lost most of his hair trying to restore her ancestral home.

  She felt a smile pull at the corners of her mouth, which she would have thought impossible given her dreadful morning. But she was nothing if not polite; in her book, manners were a consideration for others. “Thirty pounds so far this year and sixty overall.”

  “If only I were twenty years younger.” Tom kissed her on both cheeks. “I appreciate you coming out, darlin'. I know this must be hard for you right now.”

  That was the second time someone had said those words to her this morning.

  Tom finger combed the top part of his hair and she thought that made it look puffy.

  “Not as hard as some other things. I’ll be fine.”

  “Come on in.” He patted her back when they walked through the kitchen door. “Coffee?”

  “Yes. Please. Make mine a double.”

  The kitchen appeared just as it had in her dream, a rehabilitated snapshot frozen in time. It had a war-torn feeling, seeping from the walls like an endless fatigue. The manor had been through a lot over the years. She could relate.

  He took two mugs from the lowest shelf and filled them to the brim.

  She thought for a moment about how her dead husband had let his insurance policy lapse and increased hers to the max. He had two things on his mind—murder and money. The hot coffee hit her empty stomach and she struggled to keep it down.

  She eyed the cake on the side table and caught her breath. A piece on the table had a bite taken out of it and three crumbs had fallen to the side.

  Couldn’t be.

  Tom gestured to the cake. “Here. Help yourself. One slice won’t hurt you. Two probably won’t either. I have no idea how this got here, maybe one of the workers brought it in. Looks like someone already took a bite. Sorry about that. House full of men around here, you know how that goes.”

  Tom put a slice on a plate and handed it to her, and she took a bite. It tasted just as chocolatey as it had in her dream.

  Tom went on about how he had hired a new builder who was taking care of the final repairs. She chewed her cake and nodded, but Tom’s voice became almost inaudible. The half-eaten piece of cake on the table was exactly like the one she’d left in her lucid dream. A shiver of nerves and vulnerability twitched through her.

  The cake competed with the numbers that were crowding her brain like traffic on the freeway at rush hour. In her typical style of delayed react
ion, she realized that with Asher’s quarter of a million dollars of debt following her around, she’d never be able to buy another house for her and her girls.

  No one would give her a mortgage with that kind of debt. It would take her thirty years or more to clear it from her name. For the rest of the time that she had the girls with her, they would be crammed into whatever tiny apartment she could afford. Her girls were going to hate that. They were used to having a yard and a swing set and room to run.

  She helped herself to another bite of cake. The fudgy chocolate taste was an old friend. One she hadn’t visited with for a long time. The flavor worked its culinary magic and coated the prickly edges of her regrets.

  Tom’s voice cut into her thoughts. “All that’s to say that I appreciate you taking the lead with your family organization. I really do want to finish up this restoration. For you. For the entire family.” He squinted slightly and appeared to study her face.

  She was sure he could tell she had been crying. Before she’d left her car, she checked her face in the rearview mirror and saw that her eyes were red. Her make-up was gone. Her lips were swollen, and she had that red blotch on the end of her nose that showed up when she had a hard cry.

  Her ever-ready make-up bag was stocked full to the zipper, and she had reapplied her face as best she could. There wasn’t anything she could have done about her red eyes.

  The very thought of all that debt felt like a lone locomotive heading straight toward her in a dark tunnel. She took another bite. This cake was maybe the best she had ever eaten. Definitely not from a box.

  “How did your meeting go this morning?” Tom sipped his coffee.

  Yesterday she had told Tom she couldn’t meet with him first thing this morning, that she had to meet with her attorney first.

  “Ah, well. Not as good as I’d hoped. Seems Asher let his life insurance policy lapse, and he left us about half a million dollars in debt. So, the bank is taking the house and I get to pay back the remaining three hundred thousand.” She said the last bit of news as if she’d just won an award or gotten a promotion.

  Tom’s face sagged with worry. “Layla, I’m so sorry.”

  A memory of Asher’s throaty laugh echoed through the crowded hallways of her mind. He was never happier than when Layla was burdened with a task that kept her at home or kept her weighted down.

  “Where are you and the girls going to go?”

  The absence of his life insurance policy made her want to scream. She was screwed. So effing screwed. She chewed the last bite slowly. The taste and the texture covered the helpless feelings and made them less noticeable. But it also covered her teeth, so she put her hand over her mouth before she said, “Not sure yet. I’m gonna have to figure that out.”

  She smiled her professional closed-lip nurse’s smile, the one that covered all potential concerns. Usually that expression was a comfort to patients’ families, but Tom didn’t appear to be comforted. Neither did he return her smile.

  He shifted his position to lean against a work table, and his studious expression deepened with lines of concern. After a while he said, “You know, as a true Southerner, I can’t help but think about how my mother would skin my hind end if I didn’t help a woman in distress. Especially a woman with children. A good woman.”

  “No, Tom. I can handle this. Don’t you worry, I’ll work this out. I’ll get money from the tours when the restoration is done. I have my nursing job. I shouldn’t have said anything. This is all just so fresh.”

  “Money from the tours is a long way off. Listen—”

  She pressed her lips together in a polite smile.

  “The builder and I were just talking about bringing someone on who would be something of a caretaker for the property. We’d like for them to live here, give the house more of a homey feel. Maybe you’d want to take that job. It would give you and the girls a place to stay, for a while anyway. It’s a short-term solution, but maybe this would give you a chance to get back on your feet.”

  “Gracious, I don’t know anything about taking care of a historical property. I’m not handy. Most I could do to help around here would be to put in an IV or administer meds. Maybe take someone's pulse.”

  “We just need a—um, consistent presence here. The house has a dark history, as you know. That’s part of what we think has attracted the ghosts and hauntings over the years. We’ve been told that having a regular presence throughout the manor would help us keep a more, ah, positive environment. We need people here around the clock. Stirs the energy up, apparently. In a good way. You and the girls could really help.”

  She didn’t say anything, but she gave him a look that said that she questioned what he was saying, a look she’d honed over her many years as a mother.

  “What I'm telling you is true,” Tom said. “Now, I know this could be a little awkward, given that Asher died here. So, I’ll understand if you just can’t. But it’s a huge house, you could effectively avoid that area if you wanted. I’d just like to help you however I can.”

  She felt everything about her soften in light of Tom’s kindness. Trusting someone else for help didn’t come easily to her these days, not after Asher. Not after a lot of things in life. Though she didn’t think she could push away a helping hand, not now.

  Someone yelled Tom’s name from the front of the house. He patted the table between them once and hard, like a that’s-that slap and turned to leave. “You think about it.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight for a moment. She and the girls had nowhere to go, and it was her responsibility to provide a safe home for them. “I’ll take it temporarily. Just until the restoration is complete.”

  His broad smile was as bright and honest as the sun, and the warmth of it reached her heart. “Good deal.”

  The text alarm dinged on Tom’s phone and he glanced at the screen. “I have to sign for a lumber delivery.” He paused at the doorway that led to the main areas of the house and pointed to her. “Stay there. I’ll be right back and we’ll discuss details.”

  “Will do.” She gave him a mock salute.

  The distant hammerings in the house banged in counterpoint to one another, and she was certain she could feel their impact on the inside of her head. Hell of a morning.

  Electric saws whirred. Men yelled unintelligible words to one another from other parts of the house.

  Three hundred thousand dollars.

  No life insurance.

  Bastard.

  The short curtains that framed the kitchen window ballooned on a breeze, and she thought she heard the distant echo of Asher’s laughter.

  The cake helped assuage some anger. She hadn’t eaten any sweets since she started losing the weight—sleep eating aside. Today was a special occasion. Yes, very frigging special. She cut a half slice this time and took a giant bite.

  “Uh-uh-uhhh…” she heard Asher say. His no-no-nos to her were stronger than a memory, but not as loud as an actual voice. She took a huge bite that nearly filled her cheeks.

  “Tom—oh, hey. Sorry. I was looking for Tom.”

  A fit and fabulous ginger-eyed man waved and smiled from the doorway. His equally fabulous white-toothed grin plowed into her like a speeding truck.

  “Mmfm.” She knew him immediately but remembered her mouth was full of chocolate cake and pressed her lips together.

  Mason.

  Adrenaline shot in every direction of her body like a spray of fireworks. This was the Mason she’d grown up with, the one she went to senior prom with, the one who had been her best friend since they were in junior high together. The one she had secretly hoped to marry.

  She couldn’t blame him for not recognizing her, it had been ten years since they had seen one another. And aside from her significant weight loss, she had grown her hair down to her elbows, and, oh, dyed it light blonde.

  The short sleeves of Mason’s red T-shirt were stretched to accommodate his oversized biceps. When he extended his hand, she noticed the substantial muscles on
his forearm, and here she was with cake in her mouth. He probably never ate cake.

  “I’m Mason Holloway.”

  His confident smile radiated, and his chest puffed when he strolled—cool and self-assured—in her direction. If she hadn’t known all the other sides of him, she would have thought him vain, showing off his best attributes front and center. He displayed every good look he had to offer like a fisherman’s lure, trying to attract his target. He’d never approached her like that before, and that only sped up the fireworks inside of her.

  His hand reached for her face and a faraway memory of prom night revisited her. He’d reached for her then, too. He’d touched the back of her neck, brought her to him and kissed her full on the lips. Their first kiss.

  Her first kiss ever.

  Her heart remembered that night and jump started into a rat-a-tat-tat.

  His eyes shifted from hers to the side of her face. He picked something from the side of her mouth.

  Good Gawd.

  “You like cake?” He held the substantial crumb for her to see, then tossed it into his mouth. Another grin.

  “Mmm.” She fought the rest of the chocolate that covered the front parts of her teeth. “Always have,” she said from behind her hand.

  His expression softened, as if he saw something familiar but wasn’t able to place what it was. “I think chocolate cake just became my new favorite dessert.”

  It was like being at a masked ball where you knew your suitor, but they had no idea who you were. She rather liked this arrangement.

  Tom rounded the corner. “Sorry about that, Layla—oh, I see you’ve met Mason, our builder. He and his team are doing all the heavy lifting for the final repairs.”

  “I knew that was you!” Mason’s accent had remained Southern strong. His grin dissolved into open-mouthed surprise.

  With her lips together, she continued to run her tongue over the front of her teeth to clear away all traces of the treat she wasn’t supposed to have. Then she finally said, “Hey, Mason.”