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As we clattered down the concrete steps leading to the basement apartment, the rain cascaded over the back of my neck. We seldom bothered with umbrellas because in Seattle, chances were good a rainstorm would be accompanied by windy weather. Umbrellas were sitting ducks for destruction.
Carter seemed to have a prescience about our visits; as usual, we waited mere seconds before the door opened. He stood back, graciously ushering us in. As we entered, the familiar comfort of the room welcomed us with its overly lush Victoriana décor, the aging upholstery that was still clean as a whistle, and the warm glow of the incandescent bulbs lighting the Tiffany lamps.
Carter was wearing his usual smoking jacket—this time a deep plum—and black trousers. Other than Roman, he was the only person we knew who could make a cravat look good. He waited till we were seated and then rang a bell.
A woman gracefully entered, wearing a stiff maid’s uniform. She carried a tea tray filled with delicious bites of cake and cookies and scones, and then she brought back a tray with a chintz teapot and cups and saucers. As she poured, we took a moment to sink back in the overstuffed seats, and relax.
Carter motioned for her to leave, then turned to us. “I’m glad you came. I assume you have some questions for me, but let them wait for a moment. I was going to contact you tomorrow anyway. I have news for you, and I’m not sure just how you’re going to take it.”
One of his cats—he had three and adored them—jumped up on my lap. I had, when they were babies, attempted to drag them off in my tabby form because they were crying for their mama, but now Roxy, the cream and white fifteen-pound wonder who had been an adorable tiny kitten, landed in my lap with a thump.
I grimaced—she managed to hit a trigger point to a sore muscle, but the minute she started to knead, a soft spot in my heart flared and I found my territorial nature softening. I wasn’t sure why, but lately I’d been more open to other cats. My hackles were less likely to flare.>On Fifteenth, we passed by Volunteer Park, then as we approached Lake View Cemetery where Bruce Lee and his son Brandon were interred, we came to East Garfield Street and Camille turned right. East Garfield buttressed Interlaken Park. This was definitely a neighborhood that made perfect sense for one of the ES Fae to live in. Shortly before Auburn Place East, Tad eased into a driveway and we followed suit.
Violet’s house was a cute little cottage, and from what I could see from the front yard, it backed up against the park. Chiffon yellow, the house stood out like lemon pudding, but ivy-covered trellises leaned against the front walls, giving them a gothic appearance in the gloom-soaked October night. The porch light was on. Tad and Albert waited at the front door for us to join them.
“I left the light on this morning before I left. It hasn’t been turned off, as you can see.” Albert inserted the key into the lock.
I had a momentary flash of curiosity, wondering why it was Albert and not Tad who had possession of Violet’s spare key, given that Tad had the hots for her, but decided it wouldn’t be diplomatic to ask.
As Albert opened the door and stood back, allowing us to enter, Menolly stopped at the doorstep. I glanced at her, puzzled, but Albert seemed to immediately understand because he crossed the threshold and turned around to face her.
“Please, be welcome and enter.” His voice was surprisingly gracious and I suddenly understood. She had never been in the house and it was a private residence. It didn’t take the owner to welcome her in, but merely someone on the inside. Hell, a maid could unbar the way, or even a child.
The prohibition to entry didn’t count if the place was a publicly or governmentally owned institution—like a frat house or a dormitory or a hotel, which was why we’d been able to break into Dredge’s room at the Halcyon Hotel and Nightclub, and into the fraternity housing Dante’s Hellions. Nor did the prohibition bar a vampire from entering an apartment building . . . he or she just couldn’t break into the personal residences. Nobody was really sure what caused the force field, but it was there, and it worked.
Menolly crossed the threshold and Albert shut the door.
The house had an odd, empty air to it. Not the sense of abandonment when a place was left to rot and ruin, but of a flurry of a home whose owner had whisked away on vacation, or an unintended trip. Everything was neat and in order, and plants filled every spare surface of every table and shelf. They grew profusely, vining out like crazed groupies, their foliage thick and lush and vibrant green.
Camille lingered over one pot of flowers, gently fingering the leaves. “Violet is quite the gardener. Look at how beautiful and lush these are. Orchids like this are hard to grow for even experienced gardeners, but this one’s branching out like it is on steroids.”
The flower had five big blooms on it, the color of twilight, and while I knew squat about orchids, I did know enough to understand that they weren’t the easiest plant to keep alive. But then again, for one of the woodland Fae, it wasn’t at all surprising that her houseplants were thriving.
I glanced around. A cat was curled up on the sofa, staring at us. He was a gray and white fluff ball, with fur a lot longer than my own. Essentially, one gigantic tribble on legs. He yawned, and I smiled softly. This was his territory, and while my inner tabby let out a little hiss, the two-legged side of me that loved my own kind wanted to scoop him up and snuggle him and rub my nose in his belly. Camille did just that, laughing when he started to purr and lick her nose.
“I love this little guy.”
“He’s a keeper, all right.” I scritched him between the ears and he softly patted my hand with one paw, claws in. “You’re a well-behaved little munchkin.”
I glanced around. The apartment was tidy. There were no dirty dishes, no scattered papers. Absolutely no sign of a struggle. As I crossed to the desk, Albert went into the kitchen and we heard the rattling of cans—most likely pet food. Tumpkins jumped out of Camille’s arms and headed in the direction of the sound of the can opener.
A sudden thought crossed my mind and I turned to Tad. “The cat will be safe with Albert, won’t he? There won’t be any unnecessary . . . um . . .” Hallmark didn’t make a card asking an acquaintance to please avoid draining the cat of blood.
But Tad got my drift. “Albert loves cats. Very few vamps manage to get close to felines, but he always does. They seem to know that he would never hurt them.” By the soft look in his eyes, I could see he was telling the truth and it made me feel a lot more kindly toward Albert.
I slid into the chair at the desk and rifled through Violet’s desk drawers. Even they were organized in what appeared to be an almost OCD manner. It was obvious she wasn’t a smoker, nor did I find any booze or . . . I looked around. No books. There were no books in the apartment and no television. Oddly enough, the entire place felt devoid—except for the houseplants and the cat. In fact, now I knew what it reminded me of. It felt like a hotel room—impersonal.
I looked for a calendar but couldn’t find one. “Do you know if she had a Day-Timer?”
“Nah, she used the calendar on her phone and synched it to her laptop.” With a frown, Tad looked around. “Speaking of, I don’t see her laptop anywhere, or her tablet. She might have taken them with her, wherever she went.”
“Maybe in her bedroom?” I often took my laptop to bed with me to play games or answer e-mail before I went to sleep.
Blushing, Tad led the way. He stopped for a moment, staring at the bed as we entered. Covered with a gauzy spread, the bed was a king-sized futon, and a filmy nightgown made of spidersilk lay across the bottom. Two hooks had been drilled into the headboard, and velvet ropes hung down from them. One guess what they were for, I thought, trying to repress a smile. I’d seen Camille’s toy box often enough. I knew restraints when I saw them, just like I knew that my sister liked to be tied up at times.
But Tad just stared at them, glaring.
There was no sign of any computer anywhere, but I did find something under the pillow. A journal, written in an ES Fae language. I flipped through it, able to pick out a word here and there, but my command of the dialect wasn’t good enough.
