Passion to Die For

“Besides,” Anamaria said, resting one hand lightly on the swelling of her stomach, “I figure if I want to drive it, I’d better do it before Gloriane gets too big.”

Ellie’s gaze dropped to Anamaria’s belly; then she pointedly looked away. She never thought about having children. Never. It was safer that way. Well, except when she saw an expectant mother or a sweet, innocent infant. Or when she watched Russ and Jamie fussing over two-month-old Sara Elizabeth. Or noticed how solicitous Robbie was of Anamaria. Or let her defenses down and remembered back to when she was a child herself and for such a very short time, things had seemed…hopeful.

For a moment she closed her eyes, grinding her teeth, shoring up that little bit of weakness around her heart. When Anamaria’s hand settled on her arm, it startled her eyes open again.

“Are you all right?”

It was such an easy question to lie to. She’d been doing it for years—smiling, tossing off an airy I’m fine. Truthfully, for a good portion of the past five years, she had been fine. She’d had more in her life—a career, a home, a good man and dear friends—than she’d ever dreamed of.

Now, thanks to Martha, it was hard to imagine that anything would ever be fine again.

Still, she managed an uneven smile. “I’m fine. How is Mama Odette?”

Anamaria clearly recognized the question for the evasive tactic it was, but let it slide. “She’s great. The doctors say she’s got the heart of a woman half her age.” After a pause, she went on with a sly smile. “And Mama Odette says she’s not giving it back.”

Ellie laughed in the moment before her thoughts took a melancholy turn. Anamaria had never known her father, and her mother had died when she was a little girl. But she’d had an amazing family welcoming her with open arms—her grandmother, Odette; her aunts and their daughters; Odette’s sisters and their daughters. Dozens of strong, smart and loving Duquesne women gathering her in.

And Ellie had had her mother and her father, neither of whom had wanted kids in the first place. Her paternal grandmother had been a cigar-smoking, whiskey-drinking old woman who’d scared the wits out of Ellie every chance she got, and her maternal grandparents had never been a part of her life. She’d had aunts and uncles but could hardly remember them, had cousins but had never known them.

It wasn’t fair—all those people who’d loved Anamaria, and not even one who’d wanted Ellie.

Life ain’t fair, Martha had often said as she’d unscrewed the cap from yet another bottle of booze.

The click of the turn signal penetrated Ellie’s thoughts, and she looked up to see that they’d reached the mall. It was small, but it offered a lot, including their reason for coming there. In a small first-level storefront was the Seasonal Store. If you celebrated a holiday, any holiday, the Seasonal Store was the place to shop. Right now the front half was filled with all things Halloween, while in the rear, Christmas was encroaching on the space allocated to Thanksgiving.

“You shouldn’t have put off buying your costume for so long,” Anamaria admonished as they wound through the racks. “There’s not a lot left for adults.”

“Are you dressing up?” It had taken Ellie’s staff three years to nag her into joining them among the ranks of the costumed. She’d had fun. She’d felt free. She had looked forward to repeating it this year…until things had changed.

“Of course I am,” Anamaria replied, then added drama to her voice. “I’m going as the great Queen Moon, who knows all, hears all and sees all, but doesn’t tell all for less than a gold doubloon.” She took a costume from the rack, studied it a moment, then returned it to pick up a different garment. “There really was a Moon in our family—she was Mama Odette’s great-grandmother—and her faithful believers really did call her Queen. Who knows? Maybe I’ll channel her Saturday night.”

Psychic gifts ran strong in the Duquesne family. It had made Ellie wary when she’d first met Anamaria. Could Anamaria see things that no one else could? she’d wondered. Would she give away secrets Ellie had so stubbornly kept?

The answers, the last six months had determined: seeing secrets? Probably. Sharing them? Definitely not.

“How about this?”

Ellie turned away from a moldy-looking corpse outfit to find Anamaria holding a full black skirt. She lifted one flirty strip of nearly transparent fabric, then let it flutter down again. “Just a skirt?”

“I have a white peasant top you can borrow and a burgundy velvet shawl with fringe. And some black knee boots, a scarf to tie over your hair, maybe a long wig and voilà.”

“Voilà what?” Ellie asked drily. “Serving wench? Pirate lady?”

“Depending on how low we can get the neck of the blouse, maybe pirate’s lady friend,” Anamaria teased.

“I think she was closer the first time with wench,” a voice said from behind Ellie. “After all, isn’t that just an old-fashioned way of saying whore?”

Ellie restrained the impulse to whirl around. She didn’t need to look to know it was Martha who had spoken, didn’t need to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d caught Ellie off-guard.

Anamaria gave Martha a long, level look, then took hold of Ellie’s arm. “Let’s find a wig.”

Ellie’s feet automatically followed Anamaria’s lead, but Martha wasn’t about to be ignored.

“You’re that psychic girl that’s married to the youngest Calloway boy, aren’t you? Man, you must have put some mighty good voodoo on him, getting him to marry you, what with him being rich and white and you being neither.” Martha fluffed her hair and smiled broadly. “What does your psychic gift say about me?”

“Just ignore her,” Ellie said, but Anamaria wasn’t listening.

She walked in a slow circle around Martha. “Your whole life, you’ve cared for no one but yourself. You’ve disappointed and hurt all those who should have mattered to you. But there’s still time to change. You can’t undo the past, but you can change the future.”

Martha’s eyes widened for an instant; then her laughter sounded, loud and coarse. “I surely do intend to change my future. Wow, you really must be psychic or something. Don’t you think, Ellie?”

Ellie’s face was hot, her stomach knotted. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears so she would never have to hear that voice or that laughter again, wanted to scrub her eyes with her knuckles to chase away the sight of that smug, vicious face. But she would never be free of Martha now that the woman had tracked her down, so running was next on her list of desires. She’d even taken a step back when Martha’s gaze shifted past her, and the woman gave a friendly wave.

“There’s Reverend Fitzgerald’s wife, Kayla. Such a nice girl. We met at the church this morning—I dropped in for a little meditation time—and she invited me to go shopping with her. She needs a birthday gift for her mother-in-law, who’s about my age. Thanks for the advice, Anamaria. And, Ellie—” her blue gaze sharpened “—I’ll be seeing you around.”

Ellie wondered if Anamaria heard the threat in those last words as clearly as she did. Martha was doing a very good job of insinuating herself into the lives of Ellie’s friends. They were nice people; they’d never suspect her of having an ulterior motive. And once she’d weaseled her way in, how much easier would it be for her to convince them of the truth of her tales about Ellie? She would paint herself the victim, the loving mother who had tried so desperately to help her out-of-control daughter, and people would have no choice but to believe her.

And she had proof.

Once Martha exited into the mall, the air inside the shop became easier to breathe. Ellie took a cleansing breath, chasing away the last of the cigarette and booze odor, and found Anamaria studying her somberly, her dark eyes troubled.

“Who is she, Ellie?”

Numbly she shook her head, then dug some nonchalance from deep inside. “Just some wacko who seems to have fixated on me. No big deal.”

“As I recall, the last wacko in town who fixated on someone tried to kill both my brother- and sister-in-law. The Calloway family in general and Russ and Jamie in particular considered it a very big deal.”

“This woman’s not violent.” Not beyond a slap now and then. The occasional physical violence had been easier to endure than Martha’s relentlessly cold treatment. Bruises healed. Emotional scars didn’t.

“That’s what they thought about Lys Paxton until she started trying to kill people.”

Ellie moved past displays of candy, spiders and webs, camouflage face paint and long fake fingernails in deep purple, black and bloodred, and Anamaria followed. “Martha Dempsey is many things,” she said, shooting for a breezy tone, “but she’s not a killer.”

“What is she to you?”

“A blast from the past. How’s this?” Stopping in front of a selection of cheap wigs, Ellie picked up one from the top row and clamped it onto her head. The mirror next to the display showed a fringe of brow-brushing bangs and a straight fall of silken strands that ended past her shoulders. The jet-black hue gave her skin a sickly blue tinge.

“Unless you’re going as a wench of the undead, that is so not your color,” Anamaria teased. “Try this.”

She handed over another long wig, this one dark copper and curly. The color wasn’t as surprising a contrast as the black wig, but it was different enough to be fun. She pulled it off again and combed her fingers through her own blond hair. “Let me pay for this and the skirt, then let’s get out of here.” She didn’t want to run into Martha again and certainly didn’t want to be reminded how easily the woman was finding welcome in Ellie’s own town.

She’d checked out and they were walking back through the mall to the entrance when a laugh echoed across the space. She tried to ignore it, but her gaze traveled that direction anyway, to the few occupied tables at the sidewalk café that fronted the fountain. Kayla Fitzgerald sat at one, her smile serene, and Martha sat to her left. At the next table, chairs turned for easier conversation, were Sara Calloway and Jack Greyson, the man she old-fashionedly referred to as her beau.

A chill swept over Ellie. Kayla was the pastor’s wife; she had to be nice to strangers. But Sara was Anamaria’s mother-in-law. More important, she was the closest thing to a mother Tommy had ever had.

She’s taunting you, a voice in Ellie’s head whispered. She’s saying, “Look how easily I can get to them, and there’s only one way you can stop me.”

Only one way to Martha’s way of thinking: give her money and trust her to go away…until the money ran out and she needed more. Ellie could give her everything and still never buy her silence.

If there was just some way to get rid of her for good…

Get rid of her. The words echoed across the years, hurtful, yet another betrayal to a girl who’d already experienced too many. They slowed her steps until she was hardly moving.

Ellie didn’t have a clue how to manipulate and control people, but she knew someone who did. Part of Randolph Aiken’s duties as lawyer to his respectable and influential Old South family had involved persuading people who might prove cause for embarrassment to disappear, to keep their distance from and their silence about the family.

People like Ellie.

She didn’t know if Randolph had taken a liking to all the people he threatened on behalf of the Aikens, but his attitude toward her had always been somewhat paternal. He’d given her advice, stayed in touch with her long after she’d expected him to vanish, had helped her move to Charleston and put her life back together. It was his contacts that had gotten her her first job, his assistance that had led to her owning her own restaurant.

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