The Raven Master

Startled, Janine laid down the spatula and looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize that you were acquainted with Miss Barker.”

Edna stoically lifted her chin. “She was a godly woman and a valued member of our congregation.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words sounded trite but not knowing what else to say, Janine returned her attention to the eggs she was scrambling.

“I must call the Reverend Mr. Weems about the services,” Edna murmured sadly, lifting a china cup from her place mat and handing it to her grandson. “Such a horrible thing to happen.”

Jules nodded somberly. “Yes, horrible.” He dutifully placed a chaste peck on his grandmother’s upturned cheek, then crossed the room and set Edna’s cup beside the coffee-maker.

As Janine transferred scrambled eggs from the frying pan into a serving bowl, Jules glanced warily over his shoulder then whispered, “Did you see the flames?”

“Excuse me?” A spoonful of congealed egg hovered in midair.

“The flames,” he repeated impatiently, his eyes glittering strangely. “They were positively immense. Did you see them?”

Unnerved, she slowly set the spoon in the bowl. “Yes, from my bedroom window.”

Jules poured two cups of steaming coffee and continued in a hushed voice. “It was a magnificent spectacle, wasn’t it?” Before she could respond, he’d returned to the kitchen table and set a steaming cup in front of his grieving grandmother, who patted his arm and smiled up gratefully.

Sighing, Janine shook her head. Appearance notwithstanding, Jules Delacourt was definitely an odd duck, a twenty-three-year-old man with the emotional development and bizarre imagination of a child. He seemed harmless enough, although Janine was occasionally unnerved by his propensity to read a sinister intent into ordinary events.

A raspy female voice suddenly demanded, “Who the hell do I have to kill to get a cup of coffee?”

With a glance toward the doorway, Janine set the bowl of eggs and a platter of crisp bacon on the table. “Good morning, Althea. You’re up early.”

The sullen woman shuffled across the linoleum and slid onto an empty chair. “One of the waitresses called in sick,” she muttered peevishly. “Good old Al gets to cover the morning shift again.”

Always the caregiver, Edna was instantly concerned. “The poor woman. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

Althea shrugged. “Could be a case of the clap, for all I know.”

Janine rolled her eyes, wishing to heaven that Althea wouldn’t deliberately bait the other guests. The sharp-tongued woman wasn’t likely to change tactics, however, and since she obviously enjoyed shocking people, poor pious Edna was a particularly tempting target for Althea’s crude comments and tawdry wit.

Now Edna glanced quickly at her grandson, who was busily filling his plate, a crimson streak below his ear the only indication that he’d heard the coarse remark. The older woman returned her attention to Althea and frowned disapprovingly. “That was quite unkind, dear.”

Ignoring the rebuff, Althea yawned and stretched luxuriously, seeming unconcerned that her silky peignoir had spread apart, exposing considerable cleavage above the lacy bodice of her gown. Unconcerned, but not unaware. The subtle tilt of her freshly glossed lips indicated that she’d noted Jules’s discomfort and was amused by it.

In spite of the overbleached hair and exaggerated, chorus-girl makeup, Althea was an attractive woman. To her, however, only adjectives like stunning, gorgeous and breathtaking were acceptable.

Embittered and emotionally bruised by several failed relationships, Althea flaunted her fading assets with the terrified desperation of a woman still grieving for her lost youth. Each new crow’s-foot sent a dagger into her heart; every sagging muscle was a personal tragedy of gigantic proportions. After all, she was only forty-four, still in her sexual prime. It wasn’t her fault, Althea had once complained, that society valued a tight butt over the wisdom gained by experience.

And Janine suspected that Althea Miller was nothing if not experienced.

At the moment, however, Janine hoped that a caffeine fix would temporarily silence the woman’s disruptive tongue, and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Althea gurgled in delight, downed the hot liquid as though it were a shot of whiskey, then unceremoniously held out the cup for a refill. Janine complied without comment.

“Ahh.” Althea took a healthy swallow, then set down the cup and lazily raked her fingers through a shoulder-length mass of brittle, strawberry-blond hair. “Nectar of the gods.”

Jules, who apparently was desperately trying to avoid looking at the woman’s partially exposed bosom, laid down his fork and delicately dabbed his lips. “Have you heard about last night’s fire?”

Althea emitted an annoyed snort. “Damned sirens kept me awake half the night.”

“Marjorie Barker died,” Jules intoned, his eyes glistening with barely suppressed excitement. “It was tragic, simply tragic.”

At the mention of her friend’s name, Edna twisted her linen napkin. “Such a dear woman. She volunteered at the hospital, you know.”

Leaning forward, Jules lowered his voice. “I heard that the authorities suspect arson.”

Edna sniffed loudly and murmured an obtuse biblical quotation that seemed irrelevant to the discussion.

“What if it really was arson?” Jules insisted. “That means that Miss Barker was actually murdered. Think of it! A real killer loose right here in Darby Ridge. Why, we could all be in mortal danger.”

Althea made an impolite noise. “Bull. The man-stealing slut got what she deserved.”

Edna gasped and turned as white as her uniform.

Janine looked up from the toast she was buttering. “That was a very cruel remark, even for you.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Althea fidgeted with the cup handle. “I was just trying to convince the paranoid prophets that nobody’s going to skin them in their sleep, that’s all. I mean, everyone knows the Barker broad wasn’t particular about bed partners, and she probably ended up boinking somebody else’s man.”

“How dare you defile a virtuous woman?” Edna’s eyes flashed blue fire. “Mark my words, Althea Miller, your evil tongue is an abomination to God, and He will have His revenge.”

Jules pushed his plate aside. “Perhaps Miss Barker was mixed up with the mob.”

Janine frowned. “Excuse me?”

“She could have been a gangster’s moll,” Jules suggested, obviously enthused by the grotesque theory. “Perhaps she was killed because she knew too much, or she might have had gambling debts, so the mob hired a hit man to, ah, off her.”

Smirking, Althea propped an elbow on the table. “You been watching the ‘Untouchables’ again, honey?”

Jules stiffened indignantly.

Janine pinched the bridge of her nose and moaned. The young man’s macabre speculation made her skin crawl, and when the door bell rang, she was relieved to excuse herself from the unpleasant conversation.

Exiting the kitchen, Janine passed through the formal dining room to the small foyer at the base of the staircase. She absently tucked a stray strand of nondescript brown hair behind her ear, smoothed her oversize fleece top, opened the door and felt the breath back up in her throat.

A stranger was lounging lazily against the doorjamb. “I was told you might have a room for rent.”

She took a step back, uncomfortable with the man’s nearness and the disturbing familiarity his casual stance displayed. There was something unnerving about his gaze, a primal stare that made her instantly wary.

But the man had obviously been directed here—the antiquated Victorian manor was separated from town by a wilderness ravine and accessible only by a rickety wooden bridge—and a paying guest was always a welcome sight. Assuming, of course, that a person dressed in worn denims and black leather could afford the price of a room.

As she glanced beyond the porch, however, she noted a dusty beige minivan parked on a grass flat at the end of the rutted gravel road. If the man could afford a vehicle, he probably wasn’t a vagrant.

Managing a strained smile, she finally found her voice. “You were correctly informed, Mr….?”

“Coulliard. Quinn Coulliard.” He regarded her intently, with magnetic eyes the color of polished steel. “Are you the proprietor?”

“Yes. Janine Taylor.” She cleared her throat and offered her hand. His palm was firm, warm and surprisingly soft. After a lingering moment, she withdrew it and clasped her hands together. “What brings you to Darby Ridge, Mr. Coulliard?”