Rupert’s lawyer had immediately set out trying to locate the mysterious heir. No one knew who the person was, as everyone had believed Rupert was the end of the Ezekiel line. Some around town were quite perturbed the old man had been able to keep such a whopper of a secret all these years.
Hitching Post didn’t care for secrets. Almost all who lived here hung their daily lives on the laundry line with the day’s washing and didn’t understand when others wanted to keep certain aspects of their private lives to themselves.
“When’s the deadline again?” Dylan asked.
A possessive glint flashed in Idella’s eyes. “The five-year waiting period will expire at midnight on January first.”
When the heir-hunt had started, Mayor Ramelle, who fully believed the search was a wild-goose chase, rounded up her fellow Harpies and stormed the mansion. Under her command as the estate’s trustee, the Harpies tackled the mansion’s refurbishment without waiting for word about the heir. They openly claimed that the home deserved saving, no matter who it ultimately ended up with. If someone turned up, the house would still be listed on the National Register of Historic Places and be known as a Harpies’ success story.
But make no mistake. The Harpies were rubbing their collective hands in eager anticipation of January first. That was when the house would be fully and completely theirs. There were already plans in place to rent out the space for parties, wedding receptions, and the like. The marketing strategy would fill the Harpies’ coffers and also provide them a place to hold their meetings, host fund-raisers, and throw fancy events like tonight’s masquerade ball.
Ainsley looked among us. “Has anyone ever learned the identity of the heir?”
We shook our heads. Oddly, no one had a clue.
“So strange,” she murmured.
“Indeed,” Idella said coolly, looking over our shoulders as another group noisily came inside.
The last I’d heard, Rupert’s lawyer had abandoned the search for the heir two years ago, declaring it a futile waste of his time. I had always suspected that Mayor Ramelle financially encouraged the lawyer’s desertion.
It benefited the Harpies greatly if the heir was never found.
Idella motioned us toward the stairs. “Please, please go on up. The party’s in full swing, and it’s bound to be a wonderful night.” Tsk.
As I passed her by, her gaze settled on mine and she gave me a slight smile, a thin tight line.
For some reason I was feeling rather like a fly being lured into a spider’s parlor as I carefully climbed the steps to the second floor, then the third. My skin tingled uncomfortably—my internal warning system kicking in. Ainsley had dubbed the response my “witchy senses” and it happened only when danger was near. Nervous, I kept a firm grip on the railing as I climbed, and when I looked upward toward the ballroom’s entrance, the tingling suddenly made sense.
Patricia Davis Jackson stood at the landing at the top of the steps.
Chapter Four
Wearing a phony smile and a lovely hoop-skirted sapphire blue ball gown that matched her eyes, Patricia said, “Dylan! There you are! I was starting to think you weren’t going to show, considering”—behind her silver mask, she cast a disapproving glance at a grandfather clock near the stairway—“you’re an hour and a half late.”
At the sight of the clock the tingling I’d been feeling worsened, raising the fine hair on my arms, making my skin bump over. This had to be the clock Delia had seen in her dream. Looking around, I was amazed to see just how many people had brown hair. From the Kirbys downstairs to my aunt Eulalie, who was swirling around the dance floor with Mr. Butterbaugh, to dozens more.
Dylan dutifully kissed his mama’s cheek. “We’re here now,” he said lightly.
“Yes, I see that.” She smiled lovingly at him and straightened his tie.
He was an only child, and it had been just him and his mama for a long time now. As critical as she could be to me, she adored every hair on his head, and it showed in the love in her eyes when she looked at him.
The only thing in her eyes when she looked at me was judgmental disdain. “Hello, Carly.”
“Hello, Patricia.” Civil. Perfectly civil.
“Your dress is lovely,” she said. “Wearing white after Labor Day is a bold choice.”
No ruckus, no ruckus, I silently repeated.
I declined to point out that my dress was ivory. “Thank you. So is yours. And is that a new hairdo?” I asked as innocently as I could. “It’s very becoming. Very Martha Stewart–ish, post prison sentence.”
It wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop me in the least. In reality her blond pixie-style cut with wispy ends looked modern and glamorous.
Patricia’s mouth tightened, as did Dylan’s hand around mine.
Warnings, both.
“Miz PJ!” Ainsley said, quickly sidestepping in front of me. “The house is amazing.”