The Darkest Corner Page 4

  Eve had made it clear that the men’s employment was nonnegotiable, so there was no point in Tess complaining about them. They mostly stayed out of her way. Deacon, Axel, and Colin all lived in the carriage house. She had no idea where Dante lived, though she didn’t think it was anywhere in Last Stop. Everyone in town would know if he did. He seemed like a city boy to her with his fancy shoes and expensive suits, so her best guess was he had a place in Dallas.

  Elias was a different story. He lived a few blocks away, in Last Stop’s one and only apartment complex. The reason she knew that was because Stella Longbow had followed him home one afternoon and then tried to tell everyone at the Clip n’ Curl he’d invited her inside but she’d turned him down since she was a happily married woman. What she’d failed to mention was that Elias had called the sheriff about a Peeping Tom, and when the deputy had shown up he found Stella crouched in the bushes.

  But Eve had been right. The five of them always found ways to occupy themselves. If she didn’t need help with anything funeral home–related, they kept the grass mowed and the flowerbeds weeded, maintained the upkeep on the old Queen Anne house, kept all the vehicles maintenanced, and generally did the things she never could’ve done herself. She especially appreciated it when they did those things without their shirts on.

  They’d started a pool at the Clip n’ Curl to see who would be the first to get one of the men into bed, though they’d told Tess she wasn’t allowed to enter since she had the unfair advantage of practically living with them. Since Tess had no intention of sleeping with any of them, and even less intention of telling everyone at the Clip n’ Curl if she did, she was fine with the banishment. So far, no one had claimed the $347 pot.

  If Tess had a choice, she would never step foot in the viper’s nest that was the Clip n’ Curl, but every Friday like clockwork her grandmother had an appointment to get her hair done, and Tess was her only mode of transportation, so she was a firsthand witness to the conversations held between the sacred walls of Last Stop’s only beauty salon.

  Tess had tried to explain to the women that Axel seemed devoted to his wife, but Jo Beth Schriever—great-grandniece of Delores from slumber room one—said that if Axel had a wife she was either dead or long gone, which meant he was fair game. Tess had never heard that rule before, but she’d conceded to Jo Beth’s explanation because the young woman had a gleam in her eyes that could only be attributed to baby fever or mad cow disease.

  Carol Dewberry, who’d been happily married for forty-seven years, had offered to be the treasurer of the pool money since no one in their right mind would let Theodora be in charge. And anyone who had a lick of sense would know Carol would be holding on to that money for eternity, because men like the ones living in the carriage house weren’t looking for women like what Last Stop had to offer. They probably looked for women with edges and attitudes as rough as theirs. Someone as dominant as they were.

  Tess had much better things to do than waste time chasing men. When she’d been engaged to Henry, she had barely dodged the marriage bullet. She was an educated and independent woman with her whole life ahead of her. She’d watched her mother do nothing but chase men and money, and she’d be damned if she ever did the same.

  That wasn’t to say she didn’t want to settle down someday. She did. And she wanted a family. The kind of family she’d missed out on growing up. But she also wanted to be picky. She didn’t want to settle for someone like Henry, and she almost had. She wanted to be an equal partner. And she wanted excitement and passion at least once in her life. There was nothing wrong with that.

  She was thirty years old, so she figured she had a few more years before she really needed to panic. Besides, her social calendar was about as full as it could get. She worked (granted, the dead weren’t exactly considered social), she took yoga three mornings a week (though sometimes she walked right by the studio to the donut shop next door), she was a member of a book/wine club (albeit, she and her best friend Miller were the only members), and she’d almost worked all the way through her expert-level crossword puzzle book.

  Busy. As. Hell.

  She’d never been the type of woman to be able to attract a man like Deacon Tucker, but there was something about him that . . . clicked. Sure, he was sexy as hell. He had those dark, brooding good looks that reminded her of the heroes she liked to read about. And his hands . . . they were large and rough—working man’s hands. Then there was that hint of a dimple in his cheek that peeked out during one of his rare smiles, and the slight misalignment in the bridge of his nose that made her curious to know how he’d broken it.

  And then there was the fact that he was just a good guy. He was a man who liked to keep busy, and more often than not if things were slow, he’d fix something around the funeral home or work in the yard. The harder the work, the more he seemed to like it, as if he were punishing himself by working himself to the bone.

  He wasn’t amusing or boisterous like Elias, or smooth and charming like Dante. But there was an air about him that stood out from the others. He commanded without having to say a word. She was drawn to him, and there were moments when they spoke or stood close that the space around them was so electrically charged she didn’t know how others couldn’t feel it.

  His eyes were an intense blue she could get lost in for hours. There’d been a moment not too long ago when she thought he might lean down and kiss her. When they’d been lost in conversation, their words softening to whispers and their breath mingling as they stood close together. A spell had been cast, and she’d leaned in, only to be interrupted when the back door opened.

  He hadn’t seemed to mind that afternoon that she wasn’t a bombshell and didn’t have the same raw sex appeal he did. He’d wanted to kiss her anyway. She hadn’t imagined the desire in his eyes. But she wasn’t going to change a darned thing about herself to try and get his attention. She was who she was, and what she wasn’t was the kind of woman to make heads turn when she walked into a room. Except the time she’d gone to a wedding reception with the back of her skirt tucked into her underwear.

  She was done trying to please men. She’d learned that very difficult lesson with Henry. She wanted a man to please her for once, and if Deacon Tucker couldn’t look at her and see how great she was, then he just didn’t deserve her.

  “Gah,” Tess said, grabbing one of her pillows and whacking herself in the face a couple of times with it.

  Her internal monologue sounded dangerously close to the pep talks her grandmother used to give her as a kid. There was no dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed. What she needed to do was to make a choice for her future. Whether or not that future included the Last Stop Funeral Home was still up in the air. She’d never fit in in Last Stop. But it was the only home she’d ever known.

  The biggest question was, if not Last Stop, then where?

  “I’m a grown woman,” she muttered, tossing the pillow aside in frustration. “I’m not going to fear change. I’m going to take life by the balls . . . and . . . and . . . never mind. Life doesn’t have balls. It’s a ridiculous saying. I’m going to make an adult decision about my future and be happy about it. Dammit.”

  Having made up her mind, she nodded defiantly and threw her legs over the side of the bed. She had no idea what that future held, but she couldn’t see herself living forever on the third floor of a funeral home she didn’t own. She should be settled by this point in her life—with long-term job security and at least the possibility of a home and family on the horizon. What kind of quality of life was it to spend each day behind her desk, wondering when someone would die? That was weird, even for her.

  Another crack of thunder shook the room, and this time the red numbers on her clock went blank as the electricity went out.

  “Well, shit.” It looked like she’d be showering in the dark. And she definitely needed a shower, considering the fine sheen of sweat that covered her body. Even with modern conveniences like AC, it was still an old house and h
eat rose to the third floor.

  She moved to the window and stood to the side, slightly behind the curtain. She didn’t figure anyone who had to get up this early needed to be greeted with the sight of her naked body. She had the pale skin of a true redhead, to the extent that Henry had once shielded his eyes because he’d said her paleness was like staring into the sun. He’d been kidding—she was almost positive—but there was no need to be a glowing beacon in the window to anyone who glanced up.

  The view from the top of the funeral home was something she’d miss if she left. It was the best view in town, not because downtown was especially nice to look at, but because it was interesting to watch the comings and goings of people in their daily lives. Watching from above sure as heck was more fun than being down there in the middle of them all.

  The Queen Anne Victorian mansion, which had once been a combination of the Jessups’ family home and the funeral parlor, sat at one end of Main Street. At the other end was a Gothic-style courthouse, complete with ugly gargoyles and creepy statues of Justice and Mercy.

  When the funeral home had started encroaching on their living space, the Jessups had built a new mansion outside of the city limits. The funeral business had boomed in the twenties, when prohibition and public hangings were all the rage. It had been convenient to put the bodies in a wagon and wheel them down the street in a public procession to the funeral home.

  Nowadays, the most exciting thing she’d seen from her window was Ernastine Forster get into a tussle with Earl Twitty over the last handicapped parking space. Ernastine had used her battle tank of a Buick to push him right out of the spot. And then she’d popped him in the nose when he got out of the car to confront her.

  Headlights glared through droplets of water as a vehicle turned onto Main Street, coming straight toward the funeral home. The closer the vehicle got, the closer she moved to the window, squinting so she could see better. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was her body transport van.

  Her skin flushed with annoyance and she could feel the blood rush to her face. She’d always cursed her redhead’s complexion, but at least people could tell in advance when she was irritated or angry.

  “What the hell are they up to?” Tess fumed.

  The last time she checked, she was the one in charge of the funeral home, and she wanted an explanation as to why they’d taken company property out for a joyride in the middle of the night. Good grief, she didn’t really know anything about the men other than their names and a few things she’d picked up from conversation here and there. What if they’d been out drinking? What if they were using her van to sell drugs? She could get in a whole heap of trouble and never even know what hit her until it was too late.

  She decided not having hot water was the least of her worries, so she hopped in a tepid shower, soaped, rinsed, and brushed her teeth to save time, and then hopped back out again just a few minutes later. Since she’d be working on Mrs. Schriever for most of the day, she pulled on jeans and an old button-down oxford shirt in a blue pinstripe. It was soft and a little frayed around the collar and cuffs, but she’d keep the sleeves rolled up. It wasn’t like Mrs. Schriever was going to complain about her sartorial choices.

  Tess had never been one for makeup, but she slathered on moisturizer and piled her wet hair on top of her head, pinning it with a couple of bobby pins. It probably wouldn’t stay, as her hair had a mind of its own, but trying was half the battle.

  She grabbed a flashlight from her nightstand drawer and headed into the darkness of the house. When Eve had done renovations, she hadn’t touched the top two floors. Tess wasn’t sure if she was trying to save money, or if it was her way of showing her irritation that George Jessup had made sure Tess was there to stay. Either way, the old and new didn’t mix all that well, and it was probably a good thing no one but her ever ventured past the first floor.

  The floors and wallpaper were original to the house, and the hallways were cramped and narrow. And when it was raining, like it was now, it smelled like a hundred-plus years of moldy, wet house. The only rooms on the third floor were the large bedroom she used, which had once been the nursery, an attached sitting area, and a bathroom that had knocking pipes and low water pressure.

  She stifled a sneeze at the small landing on the second floor, and then squeaked as something nipped her ankle.

  “Dammit, Lucifer,” she hissed, letting out a shaky breath. She shone the light on the cat and he hissed back and ran upstairs. She wasn’t sure how he’d do it since she’d closed her door, but he always managed to find a way into her room. When he was in an extra special mood he’d leave a mouse on her pillow for her.

  The black cat had come with the house, and according to Mr. Jessup, Lucifer’s ancestry went back as far as his own family. Tess was more inclined to believe that Lucifer was actually the devil incarnate and had been the only cat ever on the premises, since no one could remember kittens being born or a female cat in the general vicinity to make the mating dance possible.

  Tess kept him fed, but he was just as unpredictable as the men who’d taken her van, coming and going at all hours of the day and night and generally being rude and surly. Though none of the men had bitten her on the ankle yet.

  The beam of the flashlight didn’t hide the disrepair of the upper floors. The red-and-gold floral wallpaper had faded to orange and was peeling in places, and the carpet runner was thin and worn. The second floor wasn’t in use. The doors were always kept closed and most of the rooms were vacant. The rooms that did have furniture had white sheets draped over it. There was a full second-story balcony that went the entire way around the house, and there were white rocking chairs placed in pairs every so often. Green ferns hung from hooks and the glass gleamed. But the exterior was a façade that only pretended to welcome guests. Who’d want to be a guest at a funeral home anyway?

  Once she got to the landing between the first and second floors, it was like walking into another house. The curved staircase and bannister were a focal point from the front of the funeral home. The carpet became thick and lush beneath her feet, and the bannister gleamed with polish. The original chandelier, which had once held tapered candles that some poor soul had to light every night, hung from the foyer, only with the candles replaced with candelabra lights.

  Flashes of lightning lit the interior ominously as she crept down the stairs. She hadn’t heard the rumble of the garage door open, but the thunder had been pretty vigorous, and with the electricity out they probably couldn’t get the door open anyway.

  It was an old house that creaked and moaned from time to time, but tonight, as the storm raged around it, it was silent. If there was anyone in the house, she should’ve heard them.

  Unless they didn’t want to be heard.

  She shivered, her flesh pebbling despite the heavy heat. The beam of her flashlight seemed insignificant against the big and drafty house. The front door was locked up tight, and she shone her light into the room to the left of the door—slumber room one. It was empty. At least for the next few hours.

  Across the foyer was slumber room two, the wooden double doors wide open. Tables were set up with dark blue cloths for refreshments, which reminded her that she needed to put in a call to Piper Prewitt to see what time she could deliver the cookies for the viewing the next night. Piper made cakes and other bakery items out of her house because rent was too high in the strip down Main Street. But there wasn’t a person in a fifty-mile radius that could bake better than Piper.

  Toward the back of slumber room two was a small formal parlor that had been beautifully decorated in shades of ivory and cream. The furniture was antique and uncomfortable, and the room was only used to meet with grieving, and sometimes not grieving, families as they picked out burial plans. She hated the room. It seemed cold and distant, whereas the rest of the rooms were done up in warm, tasteful colors.

  Her office was under the stairs directly across from the parlor. Her door was also closed, which was just how she’d left it
. She turned the knob to see if it was still locked. It was. The house opened up toward the back, where the kitchen was, and a wall of bay windows looked out over the rose garden. They were taking a beating out there, thanks to the storm.

  She crept into the kitchen next, her favorite room in the whole house. It was open and airy, and there were pale yellow padded benches with pillows beneath each of the bay windows. She’d often grab a book and read there for hours, occasionally looking out into the gardens and daydreaming. Or when her grandmother came to visit, she’d make a pot of tea and wheel it over on the little tea cart, and they’d sit and talk about everything from the weather to politics. And they’d do it in Russian, because her grandmother was always afraid that the harsh, heavy language that was a part of their family heritage would someday be lost if not used.

  Tess spent most of their time together promising her grandmother that she’d teach her children the language and tell them stories of the old lands. Though Tess wasn’t going to tell too many stories, because her grandmother had led a pretty colorful life. As the daughter of a Russian mobster she’d picked up a lot of things that most children shouldn’t.

  The talk of heritage and children often led to her grandmother asking if she was any closer to giving her great-grandchildren, and if not, she knew of a nice young man or two who could probably get the job done. Russians were hardcore. And Russian women were worse than hardcore. Tess would rather face an alley full of maniacs than cross a Russian woman during the wrong week of the month. Or her grandmother any day of the month. So the suggestion of her having children wasn’t really a suggestion, but more of an order. And Tess wouldn’t put it past her grandmother to hire a man to show up on her doorstep one day ready to get the job done.

  The longer she searched the house the more uneasy she felt. There were no beams from flashlights or headlights that she could see. It was nothing but darkness, the raging storm, and the occasional flash of lightning. It was moments like these when she wished she had a dog to keep her company instead of a satanic cat.