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“Speak for yourself,” Heathcliff muttered from his chair by the fireplace as he started the difficult work of re-wrinkling his trousers. I heard a page turn in his book.
“Fine. Oscar, come help!” Morrie called. Oscar leaped up from his doggie bed under the window. “If you could root through Heathcliff’s bag while I look through my things, there’s a good boy…”
“Fine, fine.” Heathcliff stood up and shuffled over. He pulled something out from under the bed. “Is this it?”
“That’s the one.” I dropped my lipstick and ID inside. I glanced at my phone on the floor near Heathcliff’s chair. My fingers itched to take it with me.No, Heathcliff’s right. I’m supposed to be on holiday.I checked that the matching bandana I’d tied around Oscar’s harness was straight. “Quoth’s not here, though.”
“You know what he’s like in bird form,” Heathcliff said. “Time doesn’t move the same.”
I looked toward the window, a flicker of sadness licking my heart that Quoth wouldn’t be with us. But I knew he wouldn’t be late without a good reason. He must’ve been enjoying talking to the ravens.
“We’ll leave the window open a crack for him,” Morrie said, dropping the spare room key on the window sill. “Does that work?”
“Yes.” I sucked in a breath and smoothed my dress down one more time. “We can go now.”
Heathcliff stared forlornly at his book, then checked his whisky flask was securely stashed in his pocket.
Morrie tucked the toiletries bag back into the bottom of Quoth’s rucksack, smoothed down his impeccable suit, and offered me his other arm. “Let us wow them, gorgeous.”
CHAPTERFIVE
Voices and tinkling piano music greeted us as we moved downstairs. My stomach squirmed with fresh nerves, but I stamped them down.
I’m Mina Wilde and I have put several murderers behind bars. I am dating three of the most famous villains from classic literature. I can walk into a room and talk to some writers.
We moved through the deserted main lobby and down a wide hallway to the music room. This was a large, high-ceilinged room behind the restaurant where Meddleworth held cocktail events and small concerts. According to Jonathan, it was once a drawing room where the guests at a banquet would retire for the evening to listen to the piano or play cards. My heels and Oscar’s toes click-clacked across the marble floor. I could see it was a checkerboard pattern of black and white marble – that sort of contrast stood out to my eyes and made the room instantly more interesting.
“There are a variety of trays being passed around by the waitstaff,” Morrie whispered to me, giving me a description of the dark corners of the room I couldn’t quite see. “About thirty people are present, although none of them are as radiant as you. Someone is murdering a grand piano in the corner—”
“No murder,” I whispered back. “This is a murder-free holiday, remember?”
“If you say so, gorgeous. There are leather couches arranged under the window, and to your left is the bar—”
“Ah, sweet, fortifying alcohol.” Heathcliff slid his arm out from beneath my hand and bent over to kiss the top of my head. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared into the room before I could ask him to bring me back a gin and tonic. Morrie laughed. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I’ll be by your side.”
I made a dismissive gesture with my hand. “I’m not nervous. You cured me, remember?”
“Ah, but you forget that I know you. You’ve spent the last month stalking all these people on social media and learning every detail about them so you can make a good first impression,” Morrie pointed out. “Getting some excellent sex isn’t going to change that. I like to think you did that with me – if you google my name, you get all kinds of salacious fanfiction, most of which would be much closer to the truth of my life than Doyle’s stuffy old novel.”
“You’ve been googling yourself?” I asked.
“But of course.”
“That’s on-brand. Can we get—”
“Are you Mina Wilde?”
I turned toward the voice. The room is bright enough that I can make out the shape of a petite woman with wavy blonde hair wearing a stunning black sheath dress.
“I’m Mina.” I thrust out my hand for her to shake.
Her hand closed over mine in a friendly, excitable shake. She shook Morrie’s hand, too. “I’m Christina Olivian. I recognize your picture from your biography. It’s so lovely to meet you. I’ve been enjoying your story. Very racy!”
“I’ve been enjoying yours, too.” I recognized Christina’s name from the stack of excerpts we had to read as part of our pre-retreat homework. Of all the other writers, Christina’s story was my favorite. It was a haunting mystery of a missing girl and a Yorkshire manor house, told over three generations of women. It had a brooding, gothic vibe that captivated me, and I knew Heathcliff would love it.
But then, I wasn’t surprised. I went googling, too. Christina was already an accomplished writer, with two books already published (albeit by small presses) to critical acclaim. In person, she sounded much younger than her literary achievements and her lush work made her seem.
