After sending the text message telling Heather he was outside, Chris sat in his car and thought that if his mother were here, she would be lecturing him about how a gentleman always walks to the door to get his date. A real gentleman doesn’t wait in his car for her to come to him. Of course, this was not a date, and if his mother were here, he wouldn’t be. Or more accurately, if his mother were still alive, he wouldn’t be picking up Heather so he could meet his uncles for dinner.
A few minutes later Chris watched as Heather’s front door opened and she stepped outside. Bella, her calico cat, dashed out between her legs, attempting an escape, but Heather leaned down and scooped her up, tossing the cat back in the house before closing and locking the door.
He watched as Heather came down the walkway in his direction. Normally, he found her fondness for goth fashion last century, yet this evening he thought it might serve as a nice distraction, taking his uncles’ focus off him and putting it on what they might see as a curiosity—Heather. He didn’t feel guilty using Heather in this manner, considering he had already discussed it with her. Chris had to give her credit, she had out-Gothed herself, with a floor-length transparent lacy jacket over what appeared to be a leather bustier, miniskirt and knee socks—all in black. She wore her straight dark hair down tonight, and her eye makeup heavier than usual, with black lipstick and matching nail polish. The army boots were a nice finishing touch.
When she reached the passenger side of Chris’s car, he leaned over across the seat and pushed opened the door for her. As she climbed in, he said, “You look nice tonight.”
“You’re full of crap,” she said dryly as she got into the seat, shut the car door and buckled up.
“If you don’t believe you look nice, then why not wear something else?” he asked.
She looked at him. “I never said I don’t like the way I look; I just know you don’t like it. Even though you’re the one who encouraged me to go full Goth tonight. Although, I don’t think of it as Goth. I’m not Goth.”
“Whatever you want to call it, you do it with flare.”
Heather grinned. “Okay, that’s a compliment I’ll accept—because I believe it was delivered in sincerity.”
Chris chuckled and turned on the engine.
“Are you picking up your uncles?”
“No. They wanted to drive themselves. They’re following Walt and Danielle to the restaurant.”
“Did you see them yet?” She scooted around in the seat, readjusting her seatbelt so she could look at Chris.
“I stopped over there right after they arrived. Stayed for about twenty minutes.”
“And?” she asked.
“And what?”
“How did it go? Do you think they’re sincere or after something?”
“Apparently they had Danielle investigated.”
Heather frowned. “Why?”
Chris shrugged. “I guess they thought we were an item.”
“You almost were. What was their verdict?”
“They were afraid Danielle was a black widow.”
Heather scrunched up her face. “She what?”
Chris then recounted the conversation he’d had with his uncles involving Danielle.
After he finished the telling, Heather sat quietly for a moment, considering the uncles’ reaction. Finally, she said, “Well, maybe it proves they really care.”
“What makes you think that?”
“If they’re worried about someone like Danielle bumping you off for your money, maybe they really do care.”
“I still don’t follow you.”
“My mom always freaked over some of my friends, worried they were bad influences. The truth was, I was probably the bad influence. But my point being—”
“Yeah, what is your point?”
“That after Mom was gone, I realized she imagined all those worries because she loved me. Of course, I could be totally wrong, and maybe your uncles are the jerks you always thought they were. If that’s the case, just be glad they aren’t biological uncles. Trust me, knowing the blood of someone who could practically be considered a serial killer, like my great-grandfather, is running through my veins—well, that sucks. Big time.”
“I don’t think his blood is actually running through your veins,” he gently teased.
“Maybe not his blood, but his crappy DNA.”
“Maybe not even his DNA.”
“If you’re suggesting I might be adopted, no. I’m not that lucky,” Heather scoffed.
“I wasn’t talking about adoption. Danielle told me something interesting about DNA results she learned when researching on that genealogy website. Each of your parents gives you fifty percent of your DNA. But that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily an equal portion of whatever they had. For example, maybe your mom is half Irish and half Italian. The fifty percent she gives you might be all Irish—or all Italian. So the other half doesn’t even show up in a test. It’s entirely possible the DNA your mom passed on to you came from just one of her parents—the parent not related to the killer. And it’s also possible your mother didn’t have any of his DNA either, maybe her father passed her just the DNA from his mother, not his father.”
“Or it’s possible the fifty percent my grandfather gave her was from his whacked father—and the fifty percent she gave me was from her father. So that would make me fifty percent serial killer.”
Chris let out a sigh and said, “Sometimes you’re not the most positive person.”
Loyd sat in the passenger seat of the rental car, his body hunched over as he gripped the top of his cane, its bottom end resting by his feet on the floor mat. In the driver’s seat was his brother Simon, who drove the vehicle, following Walt and Danielle to the restaurant.
“I don’t understand, if Chris isn’t in a relationship with the woman, why is she the executor of his will?”
“Maybe the private investigator got it wrong?” Simon suggested.
With a grunt Loyd said, “Considering his fee, his information had better be accurate.”
“I’m not sure our plan is going to work now. There’s clearly something going on between her and that Marlow character.”
“I could have told you that when I caught the guy patting her butt when they were coming down the stairs and didn’t know I could see them.”
“It just doesn’t feel right. Too much could go wrong now…” Simon muttered.
“I’m in this to win.” Loyd lifted his cane briefly before smacking it back down on the floor mat. “We’ve come too far to turn back now. I don’t believe Zara is the last cockroach to come scurrying out of Chris’s woodpile. Everyone is taking those gall darn DNA tests these days. It’s only a matter of time before Chris does—if he hasn’t already. We need to get this fixed before we have to stomp another interloper.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, each thinking of why they had come to Frederickport and their impressions of Marlow House. Finally, Simon said, “That Packard of his is in pristine condition.”
“Thing must have cost him a fortune,” Loyd grumbled.
The uncles and Walt and Danielle arrived at Pearl Cove first. The hostess sat them at the large booth overlooking the ocean, which Chris had called to reserve earlier that day. The four had just ordered their cocktails and hadn’t yet looked at their menus when Chris and Heather showed up.
Loyd’s eyes widened when he spied Heather walking toward the table with Chris. “Who is that with our nephew?” he asked Walt.
Walt glanced over at Heather and smiled. “Her name is Heather Donovan. She lives a couple of doors down from us and works for Chris at his foundation office.”
Before Loyd could ask more questions, Chris and Heather arrived at the table. Walt and Simon stood up to greet them, yet Loyd remained seated and hammered the bottom end of the cane against the floor a couple of times. Danielle wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of greeting, if it was his way of expressing his inability to stand with Walt and Simon, or just an annoying habit.
After Chris introduced Heather to his uncles, the server arrived with some cocktails. The moment he left the table, Loyd reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a cigar, and bit off one end.
“Where’s the ashtray?” Loyd asked, looking around the table, the unlit cigar hanging out of his mouth.
“You can’t smoke that in here, Uncle Loyd,” Chris told him.
Scowling at his nephew, he said, “I always have a cigar when I have a cocktail.”
“Maybe you do, but you can’t have one in here,” Chris said.
Simon reached over and touched his brother’s sleeve. “It’s the law, Loyd. You can’t smoke in a restaurant anymore. You know that.”
Begrudgingly Loyd shoved the cigar back in his pocket and mumbled how it was a stupid law. He then looked at Walt and asked, “You look like a man who might appreciate a good cigar.”
Walt smiled. “I used to.”
Loyd patted the pocket holding the cigars. “When we get back to Marlow House, you can have one with me.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I don’t smoke anymore,” Walt told him.
“Nonsense, one cigar won’t hurt you.”
“Anyway, Marlow House is nonsmoking,” Walt added.
Loyd frowned and looked over to Danielle, waiting for her to contradict Walt.
“Uncle Loyd, if you want to smoke a cigar, you’ll have to do it outside,” Chris said.
Loyd frowned. “In this weather? I’ll freeze to death!”
Looking to change the subject, Simon asked Heather, “How long have you worked for my nephew?”
“Umm…” Heather glanced at Chris for a moment and then back to Simon. “I guess about a year and a half.”
“I’m curious about your background. Have you worked with other nonprofit organizations before? Perhaps you have some corporate experience?”
Heather took a sip of her water and studied Simon. “Are you asking why Chris hired me?”
“I suppose I am.” Simon picked up his martini and took a drink, his eyes never leaving Heather as he waited for her answer.
Heather grinned at Simon and said, “I suppose he hired me because I ran into his car.”
“You what?” Loyd barked. “What do you mean you ran into his car?”
“It wasn’t just any car.” Heather took another sip of her water and added, “It was his brand-new car. And wham! I plowed straight into it, right in front of Marlow House. I think he felt sorry for me.”
Chris nodded. “I did feel sorry for you. You’re not pretty when you cry.”
Heather turned to Chris and said, “Oh, shut up.”
“Do you always tell your employer to shut up?” Loyd asked.
Heather looked at Loyd and shrugged. “Only when I think he needs to shut up.”
Chris laughed at Loyd’s sour expression. “You have to understand, Uncle Loyd, Heather and I were friends before I hired her. So we don’t have a particularly formal relationship.”
Heather’s eyes widened in surprise. “Seriously, you considered me a friend even before I slammed into your car?”
Chris shrugged. “Sure.”
Heather looked at the uncles and said, “You know, that really means a lot to me. After all, I did accuse him of murder once. That’s when I was living at Marlow House.”
Walt and Danielle sat silently and listened to the peculiar banter between Heather and the uncles. Since no one was paying attention to them, Walt slipped his hand under the table and onto Danielle’s knee. She glanced over to him and smiled; he smiled back, his hand gently massaging her knee, the fabric of her leggings separating his touch from her skin.
He leaned over and whispered, “One reason I prefer dresses.” Only Danielle heard. She responded with a giggle.
Chris heard the giggle and became momentarily distracted as Heather went on to explain to the uncles why she had been living at Marlow House. While the ridiculous chatter between his uncles and Heather filled his head, he tuned them out for a moment, focusing instead on Walt and Danielle. The pair seemed oblivious to what was going on around them, only paying attention to each other. Chris couldn’t help but notice the way they looked at each other, neither aware he was watching. It was in that moment he felt an intense pang of regret for what he had once imagined he could have with Danielle. Yet, looking at Walt and Danielle now, he knew—as he had always known—he would never be able to compete with Walt, even if Walt had remained in the spirit world.