The Highland Heist, page 20
No, that wouldn’t be the best option right now. They were solving a mystery. And they had a daughter to consider.
Grace forced a whimper under control. “Then she’s gone after Lillias.”
Was that her voice? So high pitched?
Frederick’s brow shot up.
Zahra looked between them, her gaze narrowing on Frederick. “Are we going after Mrs. Dixon, Sayid?”
Frederick glanced out the nearest window as the rain pelted the glass. “Of course we are. She’ll not get much done alone, and I’m afraid she’s not prepared for the people who may be pursuing her.”
The thunder crept in again, and Grace moved another step closer to Frederick. “Daisies are very beautiful.”
Frederick turned his attention back to her, his gaze searching her face. Where was his clairvoyance now? Had he used it all up on Lillias for the moment?
“And I love strawberries … and bunnies … and those Italian sunsets are nice too.”
His eyes widened as another rumble shook the house, sending Grace directly into his chest. His strong arms wrapped around her, and he lowered his chin to her head. She could have sworn she felt him smiling.
“Zahra, do you think you could go to your room and start packing?”
The little girl nodded and dashed down the hallway, leaving the adults in silence.
“And snowflakes,” Grace muttered into his shoulder, burying herself as deeply into him as her body allowed. “Snowflakes are just lovely. I’m sure Zahra will love seeing snow.”
Thunder rumbled again, but Grace could only focus on the comforting weight of Frederick’s arms around her. She hated thunderstorms. She’d gotten better over the years—she didn’t hide in small, enclosed spaces during them anymore—but the irrational terror still had a way of creeping in. How could she help it? It had started during a storm the night her mother had died, giving birth to her baby brother. Her mother’s screams had been drowned out by the storm, until those screams stopped forever.
She tried to take a deep breath to regain some sense of control, but it got caught in her throat, lodged there like a sob.
Silly. Weak. Detectives were not afraid of storms. And mothers certainly shouldn’t be.
“It’s just a storm, darling,” Frederick murmured against her hair. “But I know you could use a little distraction. And I’m never hesitant to provide one.”
She nodded, tightening her grip on him as she searched for a semblance of reason, but sometimes fear was far more persuasive than reason.
“Run along to our room, and I’ll let the policeman know we will be packing our things for the next hour, so that he will keep watch over Mrs. Lindsay.”
Grace looked up at him and sniffled. “I’m not a coward, Frederick.” Just to reassure him.
“I know.” He smiled in the dashing way she felt all the way to her toes. “But being afraid does not make one a coward. I’ll not be far behind.”
With that promise from his very kissable lips, she turned and started toward the main stairway, covering her ears as she went. But before she could escape to the relative safety of their room, a sharp knock came from the front door.
She froze mid-step, her hand instinctively covering her ears against the growl of thunder. Who would be knocking at the door in the middle of a storm like this? Another knock came—this time harder, more insistent. Grace glanced down the hallway. With the servants absent and the house eerily quiet, she had little choice but to investigate herself. Could it be Detective Johnson? Perhaps he had more information about Mr. Barclay—some piece of the puzzle they’d missed. Her gaze flicked to the stairs again, lingering on the safety of her room … and Frederick’s promise to distract her.
Maybe she wouldn’t answer after all.
The knock came again, followed by a muffled voice. “Please, open the door. Lillias!”
Grace’s blood ran cold. The voice was familiar—impossibly so.
Every concern about the thunder fled her mind completely. She may pretend to believe in ghosts, but she didn’t really believe in them, though she’d been on an alarming number of ghost hunts in her life. This voice was not the mumbled, distant sound of a phantom. It was unmistakably alive.
She took a step toward the door.
“Lillias,” the voice called again, followed by a desperate series of knocks that only made Grace’s pulse race faster.
Could it be? Could her mind really be playing such a cruel trick on her? Was this a hallucination brought on by the storm, or—she straightened, her fear pushing aside some of the dread clouding her thoughts. Well, there was only one way to find out.
With a quick turn of the lock and a pull of the door, Grace swung it open.
But instead of proving herself wrong and sane.
She proved ghosts were real.
Because standing in front of her, drenched from head to toe, his face pale and body trembling, stood Anthony Dixon staring right back at her.
“Grace?”
Her breath caught, as though her lungs had decided to skip a beat in protest. The ghost knew her name. Of course, it knew her name—every legendary spectre knew its victim’s name. Dickens’ ghosts all knew Scrooge’s name. King Hamlet called his son by name. Did the headless horseman know Ichabod’s name? She couldn’t remember.
“What are you doing here?” Tony’s ghost asked her as he leaned a palm against the outside doorframe, as if to steady himself. “Are you going to let me in?”
Let him in? Oh no! Every legend where someone let a spectre in the house ended very badly for the living people.
So she did what any rational person afraid of storms who was talking to their dead brother-in-law should do.
She shut the door in his face.
Chapter 17
Frederick rounded the hallway to see Grace as she stared out into the storm with the front door wide open, her face much too pale to be normal. He hurried his pace.
He was almost at her side when he caught sight of someone standing just beyond the threshold. But before he could do anything, Grace slammed the door shut, narrowly missing the poor soul outside.
“What are you doing?”
She spun toward him, her eyes impossibly wide. “That was Tony Dixon,” she said, pointing a shaky finger toward the door. “At the door. The ghost of Tony Dixon knocked and I opened it. And there he was.”
A knock came, almost as if to underscore her words. “Grace, let me in.”
Grace’s eyes grew wider. If that were possible. “See?”
“Tony Dixon?” Frederick repeated, as if the name might suddenly make sense if he said it out loud.
She nodded solemnly. “His ghost.”
He narrowed his eyes at his wife. There had to be a rational explanation for this. “Grace, ghosts don’t knock.” Had he truly said that out loud?
“How do you know?” she shot back, her voice high pitched and panicked. “I think Jacob Marley knocked before visiting Ebenezer Scrooge.”
Another knock interrupted her, this one more impatient. “For heaven’s sake, I’m not dead!”
“A villainous ghost would say that, Frederick,” she squeaked and then met his gaze. Whatever she saw there seemed to calm her. “You’re right. If he were truly a villainous ghost, he’d just walk through the door.”
Frederick stared at her a moment longer and then opened the door, revealing a shivering Tony Dixon who, in Grace’s defense, looked as if he had crawled out of a graveyard somewhere and was barely clinging to life.
With a nod of gratitude, Tony stepped across the threshold and would have collapsed to the floor if Frederick hadn’t caught him. He felt very much flesh and blood. Drenched, shivering, and cold, but alive.
“Grace, call for Zahra. We’ll need her help. Have her bring a blanket from the bed and meet me in the library. The smaller room will be much warmer than this open space.”
Grace sent another look to Tony, then Frederick, and ran up the stairs, calling for Zahra as she went.
Frederick adjusted his grip, shifting Tony’s weight onto his shoulder, and half-dragged, half-led the man into the library. Tony let out a groan as he settled into the high-back chair by the fire, his movements sluggish but intentional.
Was this really happening? Tony Dixon wasn’t dead?
Frederick crouched beside him, studying the man who, by all logic, should still be in the morgue. “I imagine you have quite the story to tell.”
Tony’s breath shuddered as he forced himself upright against the cushions, his face pale and hollowed out like old parchment. He ushered up a weak smile, his brown hair plastered over his pale forehead. “Certainly not a fun one and a little impossible to believe.”
“I’m fairly good at believing the impossible.” Frederick raised an eyebrow. “Allow me to fetch tea and sandwiches for you, and then I’ll be back to hear it. I know Grace would want to as well.”
Tony caught Frederick’s arm as he stood. “Where’s Lillias?”
Frederick’s shoulders slumped a little, and he nodded. “I’ll explain everything when I return. For now, rest and get warm.” He shrugged a shoulder, tagging on a grin. “And try not to do anything ghostly, especially when my wife enters the room.”
Tony coughed out a laugh, and Frederick made a clipped pace to the kitchen. He hadn’t seen Tony since learning the man had tried to maim him during a horseback ride due to jealousy over Lillias. Had that only been seven or eight months ago? It felt like a lifetime, and certainly their situations had changed dramatically since then.
To his surprise, Mrs. Lindsay sat in the kitchen, sipping some tea, and tried to stand as he entered the room. He waved her back to her seat. “Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay, but I’ll see to things myself while you recover.”
The last thing he needed was to try and catch someone else from hitting the ground.
“I’ll not have an earl poking around in my kitchen like a scullery maid.”
He dipped his head in reference to her words and offered a smile he hoped she’d accept. “You’ve had quite the time of it the past day, and I’m capable, perhaps not as much as a scullery maid, of finding something to eat.”
Mrs. Lindsay’s chin lifted in quiet approval, though her eyes were still narrowed. “I’ve already made some sandwiches, knowing you all would be needing them after my layin’ up,” she said with a huff. “Doesn’t do well for a cook to leave her kitchen unattended.”
“I’m certain no one can use this kitchen quite as well as you.” Frederick scanned the space. “And I’m in awe that you’ve already been up enough to make sandwiches.”
“And tea.” She gestured toward the side table. “Tea’s steeping on the stove there, under the cozy, and the sandwiches are in the icebox.” She pointed. “There.”
He followed her directions, chuckling quietly to himself. “You are a wonder, Mrs. Lindsay.”
In all his adult life, Frederick would never have imagined himself in a modest townhouse kitchen, preparing sandwiches for his mistakenly deceased brother-in-law after his sister-in-law went missing on a quest to find a will in a castle she wasn’t even supposed to be in.
He shook his head as he balanced the tray carefully.
And this was his life.
He met Grace and Zahra just outside the door to the library. Grace held a large blanket in her arms and sent him a look of relief. “Oh good. You’re going in too. I just wanted to make sure we all saw the same thing at the same time.”
Frederick paused, balancing the tray in one hand, and raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, Tony is quite solid—and alive. Though he may not feel like it at the moment.”
Grace peeked past him at the door, biting her lip. “I must admit, I’ve never read where a ghost chose to stand outside in the rain when he could very well materialize through a door. So at least that’s in his favor as proof.”
“I do not think ghosts are usually polite,” Zahra added, and Frederick’s grin slipped wide.
“Ah, Grace. More proof.” He gestured toward Zahra. “Ghosts are not usually polite.” Frederick gave a faint chuckle as he nudged the door open with his foot.
Grace rolled her eyes, though her smile almost made an appearance, until the door creaked open and Tony, still slumped in the chair, came back into view. “He still looks ghostly,” she whispered, following him into the room with Zahra at her heels.
Zahra tilted her head, her little face scrunched up in concentration. “He does not look very dead, only very wet.”
Tony let out a raspy laugh from the settee, accepting the blanket Grace handed him and wrapping it around himself. His teeth chattered, but he managed a weak grin. “I am that.”
“This is Zahra.” Frederick set the tray nearby. “She’s our daughter we adopted from Egypt.”
“Adopted?” Tony took a longer look of Zahra and pressed his head back against the chair. “What an introduction to the world outside of Egypt.”
“She’s probably seen worse.” Grace stepped to the tea and poured a cup, offering it to Tony, her expression still wary.
He shot Zahra a look before taking the teacup from Grace. His hands shook the cup all the way to his mouth, but after a few sips he offered a relieved sigh. “Thank you. It feels like I haven’t been warm in weeks. Definitely not since I woke up.”
There was a quietness about Tony Dixon, maybe even humility? Had that been a trait of his before his financial troubles, or was it something learned from hardship?
Frederick understood that type of life learning all too well.
“Where exactly did you wake up?” Grace slid down on the settee nearby, her attention fully fixed on Tony. Frederick guessed his wife was still trying to convince herself Tony wasn’t going to evaporate before her eyes.
Tony’s head lolled back against the settee, his body seeming less tense than it had been. “The morgue.”
Grace gasped.
“Good night, Dixon,” Frederick muttered, crossing the room to sit beside Grace. “The morgue?”
“Nearly terrified one of the watchmen to death.” Tony’s eyes opened slowly, and he gave a weak shrug. “Once he called the doctor and consulted the coroner, they determined I wasn’t actually dead.”
“My faith in the medical community has just grown exponentially.” Frederick’s tone was dry, inspiring a tired grin from Tony.
Tony’s mouth twitched in a weak grin. “The doctor said the wound was shallow, but the blood on my shirt made it look worse. Someone must’ve assumed I’d bled out. The watchman told me they’d had several accidents that day, so I was sent to the cellar until the coroner could ‘process’ me for the police.” He shivered, and Frederick was certain those chills had more to do with the memory than the cold.
“Shallow wound?” Frederick clarified.
Tony nodded. “The doctor thought I’d been stabbed by someone untrained or interrupted in the process. The coroner believed that the cold in the cellar slowed my bleeding, my pulse, my breathing—it made everything look like I was …”
“Dead?” Grace finished for him, her eyes wide. “Tony, if you hadn’t awakened when you did …”
“Don’t mention it, Grace.” He raised a palm to stop her. “I can’t think about it, especially after waking up in a room full of coffins.”
“You must have felt like you’d stepped straight into Dracula,” Grace whispered.
“Or a nightmare.” Tony took another sip of tea, his hand steadier.
“And they just … released you from the morgue?” Frederick couldn’t quite grasp the idea of it. “Shouldn’t they have sent you to a hospital?”
“They were going to,” Tony admitted. “But I escaped.”
“Escaped?” Grace repeated, her initial shock giving way to the unmistakable gleam of fascination.
Frederick could just imagine the images she was creating in her head.
His shoulders tightened. None of those imaginings could equal what it must have been like for Tony. Nightmare, indeed.
“I couldn’t stay. They wanted to call the police, get me to a hospital, but all I could think about was Lillias and the baby. How afraid she must be.” He raked a hand through his damp hair. “I’ve made mistakes—plenty of them—but I wasn’t about to let them think I was dead and unable to protect them.” His voice broke, and his head dropped back against the chair. “So I walked out when they weren’t looking. Found my way home.”
“You realize we have to alert the police,” Frederick said, breaking the silence. “They’re searching for your murderer.” He paused and reevaluated his sentence. “Your presumed murderer since you’re clearly alive.”
“Or mostly alive.” Grace added helpfully.
Both men turned to her.
“Well, look at him,” she said, waving toward him. “He’s far too pale to be fully alive. Tony, you need sustenance if you’re to make a proper recovery.”
Tony smirked faintly. “If it’s any comfort, Grace, I feel mostly alive.” He reached for a sandwich, though his hand still shook.
“Did you see who attacked you?” Frederick asked, steering them back to the matter at hand.
Tony pulled his attention from Grace back to Frederick. “I did. At least a blurry memory of him, but I’d met him before.”
“Mr. Clark?”
Tony froze mid-bite. “You know him?”
“There’s much to explain,” Frederick said carefully. “But first, how much did you know him? Do you have any idea why he’d target you?”
Tony took another bite, clearly savoring the food. Had it been almost three days since he’d had a proper meal? Not that Frederick would consider a sandwich a “proper” meal, but more than he imagined waited in a morgue.
“I met him just this week.” Tony squinted. “Is it still this week? My days are all muddled.” He shook his head, clearing it. “At first, he seemed pleasant enough—a bit too friendly, perhaps—but I’ve dealt with his type before at the Lucky Coin.” He looked between them. “I—I assume you know of my … difficulties there.”
Frederick nodded, silently urging Tony to continue.
“He was overly interested in Lillias. Even asked about you, Grace. That put me on edge. Then he kept trying to get me drunk, plying me with whisky. When I refused to talk, he grew agitated. I noticed his accent slip—Scottish—and called him out. I told him I’d go to the police in the morning to find out who he really was.” Tony set the cup down as if he’d used up too much energy holding it. “He threatened me. I threatened back.” His eyes withered closed. “I suppose he acted on his threats.”
