After Glow

Chapter 21

It was after two in the morning before they got back to the town house. Martinez had had a lot of questions and she was, as Emmett had expected, not real happy with him. The detective had made several pointed remarks about how nice it must be to have the financial resources and the manpower of the Guild at one's disposal and how pleasant it would be to be able to conduct an investigation just once without worrying about budgetary constraints.

"You owe me for this, London," had been her parting remark. "I hear the Guild always repays its debts. I'll be waiting."

But despite the grumbling, he knew that Martinez had been deeply relieved to be able to close the high-profile case.

Emmett folded his arms behind his head and contemplated the night view of the Dead City through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The spires and towers that rose above the high walls were bathed in moonlight tonight. The effect was surreal, mysterious, and always compelling.

What was it about the magnificent ruins that called to people like Lydia and himself, people who resonated on the psychic plane with the psi energy that spilled from the ancient colony?

Beside him Lydia stirred, turned onto her side, and propped herself on one elbow. Fuzz, nestled between them at the foot of the bed, opened one of his four eyes and then promptly closed it.

Lydia put her palm on Emmett's bare chest. "Can't sleep?"

"I wonder where she was during the past two years," he said.

"Sandra Thornton?"

"Verwood says that it's as if she disappeared right after the relationship with Wyatt ended. Then, nearly two years later she reappears and tries to murder Wyatt. A couple of days later Verwood gets an anonymous tip that she's living in a run-down apartment in the Old Quarter. And a short time later she's dead from an overdose."

"Maybe she left Cadence for a while. She might have been living in Resonance or Frequency or one of the smaller towns."

He thought about that. "I'll have Verwood keep looking. I'd really like to know where Thornton spent the past couple of years."

There was a short silence during which Fuzz wriggled around a little and made himself more comfortable.

"I've got a few questions of my own." Lydia settled herself back on the pillows. "I can't get past the fact that Sandra Thornton checked out the same way Professor Maltby did. An overdose of Chartreuse in both cases seems like too much of a coincidence to me."

He thought about that. Okay, he had problems with her anti-Guild attitude and her tendency to blame ghost-hunters for anything and everything that went wrong underground, but he had learned the hard way to respect her intuition.

"What possible connection could there be between Maltby and Sandra Thornton?" he asked.

"There's one real big connection. Us. You and me, Emmett."

He turned his head to look at her serious, shadowed face. "What are you talking about?"

"Think about it," she said earnestly. "We were on the scene both times the bodies were discovered. Doesn't that strike you as good grounds for a conspiracy theory?"

"No," he said flatly.

"Okay, then how about this one? A lot of people seem to have disappeared in both cases."

"I'll admit that Sandra Thornton apparently dropped out of sight for a couple of years but she eventually turned up again. Who have you got on your list?"

"Everyone who was close to Troy Burgis fifteen years ago."

It was his turn to prop himself up on one elbow. "You've got my attention. Now tell me what the hell you're talking about?"

"I told you that I contacted Troy Burgis's alumni association. Well, this morning I got a call from someone who knew Burgis in college, Karen Price. Turns out that within a few months after he vanished into the catacombs beneath Old Frequency, the other three members of his band, his girlfriend and two ghost-hunter buddies, were supposedly killed in various accidents."

"Supposedly?"

"Get this: None of the bodies were ever found. What do you say to that?"

He wanted to tell her that she was letting her imagination run off with her common sense but for some reason he couldn't seem to summon up a logical counterargument.

"Huh," he said instead.

"Admit it, London. It's pretty darn weird that all four of them disappeared within a few months, isn't it?"

"Okay, it's weird, I'll give you that."

"While we're on the subject of a conspiracy theory," Lydia said, "there's something else that's been bothering me about Sandra Thornton."

"I'm listening."

Lydia's brows came together in a perplexed frown. "If she was so obsessed with Mercer Wyatt, why wait nearly two years to try to kill him? You'd think that the fires of passion would have cooled after so much time apart."

What was she talking about? he thought. Didn't she understand?

He leaned over her, trapping her beneath him, savoring the warmth and softness of her, losing himself in the hot rush of need.

"Don't know about Sandra and Wyatt," he said. "But I can guarantee you that two years apart from you wouldn't do a damn thing to cool this fire."

The huge vase filled with flowers was waiting for her the next morning when she walked into her office. It sat right in the middle of her desk. The glorious blooms and lush, artfully arranged greenery spilled out over the top in a massive waterfall of color that covered the entire surface.

Lydia's heart leaped. After-the-ball flowers from Emmett.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" Melanie called, hurrying toward her down the hall. "They arrived just before you got here. I took the liberty of reading the card. Couldn't resist. Guess who loves you and worships the very ground upon which you walk?"

Lydia smiled and walked to the desk to cup a dark pink orchid in one hand. "It was very sweet of him. He's so busy these days, I can't believe he found the time to order the flowers."

"Don't know how busy he was before you wore Midnight to the ball last night, but he's sure gonna be a whole lot busier from now on, thanks to you."

Lydia stopped smiling and picked up the card.

Midnight becomes you. I am your devoted slave forever.

Yours in gratitude,

Charles

"You should have seen yourself on the rez-screen last night. You were fabulous. It was so exciting to watch you and Emmett walk into Restoration Hall. Just take a look at these pictures in the papers." Melanie waved a handful of tabloids. "That dress was perfect and Charles is now the hottest designer in the city."

Lydia took the copy of the Tattler from her and examined the photo that covered the front page. It showed her walking along the red carpet on Emmett's arm, heading toward the doors of the ballroom. He looked great, she thought. Cool, confident, totally in control. Power formed an invisible aura around him. He could have stepped right out of one of the ballroom murals, a modern-day Jerrett Knox leading the forces of good against Vincent Lee Vance's evil legions.

She, on the other hand, had the glassy-eyed gaze of a deer caught in the headlights. Probably the fault of all those camera lights, she decided. But she had to admit that the dress looked good.

"Amazing what the right clothes will do for a woman," she said.

"I'll say." Melanie inhaled the fragrance of one of the blooms. "All right, pal, let's have the whole story. Remember, you promised me every little detail."

"Don't worry, I took notes." Lydia started to toss the Tattler aside but paused when she noticed the second glaring headline.

Wyatt Shot by Ex-Lover. Woman Takes Own Life. New Guild Boss and Bride Find Body

"Oh, yeah," Melanie said, following her glance. "It says you and Emmett rounded off your big evening by discovering the body of the woman who shot Wyatt. You two really know how to have fun, don't you?"

"It was ghastly." Lydia shuddered. "She was wearing a scarlet nightgown that the cops think Wyatt gave her during the time of the affair."

"So, it was a lovers' triangle all along, huh? But it involved one of Wyatt's old flames, not Emmett and his ex-fiancée."

"That's the assumption. But I have to tell you that something about the whole thing feels off. Emmett agrees with me. We both wonder if—"

Lydia stopped talking in midsentence when the cadaverous figure of her employer loomed in the doorway of her office.

"What's going on in here?" Shrimpton peered at the flowers through his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Where did those come from?"

"Just a gift from a grateful patron of the museum, sir," Melanie said smoothly.

Shrimpton grunted. "Thought maybe London had sent them."

Lydia concentrated on rezzing the kettle. "Emmett is very busy these days."

"He's got his hands full, all right, what with running the Guild and finding dead bodies," Shrimpton agreed. "Word is, Wyatt's going to make it. Should be interesting to see if he can get control of his organization back from London when he gets out of the hospital."

"What?" Lydia spun around, cup in hand. "Are there rumors of some sort of power struggle between Emmett and Mercer Wyatt? That's ridiculous."

Shrimpton shrugged his bony shoulders. "Wyatt's not a young man anymore and the Guild Council has accepted London."

Melanie nodded. "Good point. It's a done deal. It certainly won't be easy for Wyatt to grab his job back if Emmett decides to hang on to it. And why would London give up power now that he's got it?"

"Because he doesn't want to run the Guild on a permanent basis," Lydia said, clutching the handle of the teapot very tightly. "Emmett told me that, himself. He's just doing the Cadence Guild a favor by holding things together until Wyatt is back on his feet."

"If that's really what he's doing, it's one heck of a favor." Melanie chuckled. "Everyone knows that, historically, whenever there's a temporary power vacuum at the top of the Guild because a boss gets seriously ill or injured, someone else takes over. When the old chief recovers he rarely gets his office back."

Shrimpton nodded. "Very true. If London does hold things together for Wyatt and then steps down when the old man comes back, one thing's for sure."

"What's that?" Lydia asked warily.

It was Melanie who answered. "Wyatt will owe London, big time. You know what they say, the Guild always repays its favors."

Shrimpton squinted at Lydia. "Let's get to what's important to us here at this museum. We've got to make the most of this opportunity. As long as you're married to the current Guild boss, Lydia, you're a hot attraction."

"That's for sure," Melanie chimed in. "After all the media coverage last night, you're now an even bigger draw than you were when you were just the Mystery Mistress. We're talking sex, murder, and a terrific dress."

Lydia groaned and flopped down into her desk chair. "I can't stand it."

Shrimpton ignored that. Clearing his throat portentously, he held up a page of handwritten notes. "This is an updated list of reservations for private group tours to be escorted personally by you, Lydia. The first one today is a Hunter-Scout group at ten-fifteen."

"Not another group of Hunter-Scouts." Alarmed, Lydia sat bolt upright. "I barely survived the last one. I lost all control. The little monsters crawled all over the artifacts in the Tomb Wing and tried to summon flickers. It's a wonder they didn't manage to set fire to the museum."

Melanie tsk-tsked. "Don't whine, Lydia. You know that every Hunter-Scout troop in the city wants a tour conducted personally by the boss's wife herself."

"More to the point, thanks to the Hunter-Scouts' interest in you, Lydia, we've quadrupled our income from student and youth groups in the last few days." Shrimpton rattled his notes. "Now, then, after the morning group tour you're free until five. Then you'll be escorting a VIP after-hours tour."

"Hold it right there, sir." Lydia sat forward and glanced at her calendar. She saw the note she made and smiled in anticipation of triumph. "I can't do the tour this afternoon. Melanie will have to handle it. I'm scheduled to oversee the transfer of the Mudd Sarcophagus, remember? The movers arrive at five."

"Oh, sorry, I forgot to tell you," Shrimpton said. "The sarcophagus isn't leaving today, after all. The collector's assistant called late yesterday to postpone the pickup until Monday. Something about not being able to coordinate the security arrangements and the moving company."

"All right, I give up." She shrugged. "With Emmett working so late every evening, I suppose it doesn't matter if I stay late here tonight." She checked the time on her watch and looked at Shrimpton. "But if I'm going to be stuck here until six-thirty, I assume that you won't have any objection to me taking a long lunch hour this afternoon?"

"No, no, of course not." Satisfied that she wasn't going to raise any more objections to the VIP tour arrangements, Shrimpton gave her a toothy smile and hastily backed out of the doorway.

Melanie looked sympathetic. "Don't worry, all these special group requests will dry up real quick if and when Emmett goes back to being a private consultant."

"When, not if," Lydia said forcefully. "He is going to step down, I tell you."

"Yeah, sure. So, why the request for the long lunch hour? Going to check out some galleries for the Hepscott project?"

"No, it's a personal matter."

"Hey, if you're going to shop for shoes and charge it to the Guild, the least you can do is invite your best friend to go along," Melanie pleaded. "I'm sure I can talk Shrimp into letting me have some extra time."

"I'll bet you could," Lydia said. "But I don't think you'll want to come with me on this errand. I'm not going to shop. I'm going to visit the home of a dead man."

Melanie grimaced. "See? That's your problem in life, Lyd. Your idea of how to have fun just isn't normal."