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Day One

“We do ask that you watch your step and use the handrails.” Gwen Ricci indicated the stairway leading up to the guest cottage and the broad ironwood porch. “We added traction strips to each tread because … you know the Pacific Northwest! Always raining, especially here in Washington, and we don’t want our guests to fall.” She smiled back at Mario’s cousins from Minneapolis, Minnesota. “Also, Cecily, please be careful with those heels that they don’t slip between the boards!” Gwen found herself mentally adding, Stupid inappropriate heels.

Funny. Gwen was already talking to herself. Usually it took three days of unrelenting company before she was adding sarcastic mental asides. With Cecily and Landon, it had taken less than thirty minutes.

“I didn’t realize there would be so many steps.” Cecily paused halfway up the stairs and put a hand on her richly endowed chest.

Gwen paused, too. “Do you have a heart problem?”

“No. No, I don’t think so, although my mother died at an early age of a heart attack, so that’s always a concern.”

“What a relief!” Gwen started up the stairs again.

“My father died of an accident when I was only sixteen, leaving me an orphan.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Why were they talking about her father? It looked like sixteen was quite a few years back for Cecily.

“And I do have a joint disease that makes all this climbing tragically difficult.” Cecily took a long, martyred breath. “But don’t pay a bit of attention to me. I can handle the pain.”

Okay, I won’t. Yet Gwen kept her tone encouraging as she said, “Once you get inside the guest cottage, you’ll decide that it’s all worthwhile.” She reached the porch, turned and waited while Cecily continued her laborious trek up the stairs.

Mario, honey, what were you thinking? He had located his cousins through a genealogical service and emailed with them for a month; then one day the phone rang. It was Landon Ricci, accepting an invitation to stay with Mario and Gwen; an invitation Mario swore he had not extended. But Mario, being Mario—tall, handsome, expansive, hospitable, and Italian to his bones—had assured them they were welcome.

Then Mario—being the owner of an expanding electrical firm with locations from Portland to the Canadian border—had an emergency call this morning, leaving Gwen to welcome his guests.

Yep. When Mario got home, Gwen was going to kill him.

Cecily managed to get to the porch. She clutched the handrail and pulled in deep breaths of air. She looked back along the gravel path that they had just traversed—past the goldfish pond, the bubbling fountain, the hot tub, and the lush green lawn to the main house—and said, “Your house … you say you designed it yourself?”

As always when Gwen viewed their tall, narrow Venetian-style home, she smiled. “We did design it ourselves. Mario and I took a tiny one-story built in the thirties and remodeled it. Of course we needed more room, so we deliberately built up three and a half levels to keep the same footprint and reduce the environmental impact. That is so imperative in a fragile ecological area like the Olympic Peninsula, don’t you think?”

Most people were impressed, or at least pretended to be, by the Riccis’ care for the ecosystem.

Cecily said, “That explains why it looks out of balance.”

You’re one to talk. Gwen’s mental sarcasm was getting louder.

Cecily was a tall woman, architecturally top heavy; strip off her top and bra and she could pose as the figurehead on the bow of a ship. Her tiny waist flared out at the hips, giving her an extreme hourglass figure. She wore a low-cut button-up white shirt that showed eight long inches of cleavage and a tight black skirt.

And those heels. Gwen didn’t remember the last time she’d seen stiletto heels outside of a Hollywood awards show. They were a rare sight anywhere in Washington and almost nonexistent in the nearby small town of Virtue Falls.

“I simply don’t know how I’ll manage these steps”—Cecily pointed toward Landon, laboring up beneath the combined weights of two bags—“back to your house and up to the second floor to the kitchen every day.” A delicate pause. “I mean, Landon and I are allowed in the house, aren’t we?”

“Of course, you’re welcome anytime.” Gwen felt her smile become fixed, and she could not bring herself to make eye contact. “It’s only ten steps up to this porch, there are no steps in the cottage, and in the house, our living room is on the ground floor. I can serve your meals there on a tray if you like.”

“Oh, no.” Cecily sounded shocked. “I’ll come to the kitchen table. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Landon arrived on the porch in time to stop any unwise retorts from Gwen, so she unlocked the cottage, flung open the door, and waved Cecily and Landon inside. “You’ll love it here, I promise.”

The guest cottage was actually a luxury suite, with a small kitchenette, a bathroom with a shower and a soaking tub, and a main room big enough for a king-size bed, a gas fireplace, and a sitting area. The idea of a cottage had been forced on the Riccis by the realization that people—friends and relatives—were going to want to visit Washington in the summer when the days were long, the weather was warm, and every turn in the road revealed another snowcapped mountain peak or long reach of dunes that led down to an isolated beach.

Gwen had designed the cottage and coaxed the Virtue Falls planning commission into allowing them to build it by donating massive native growth easements on either side of their property, easements that in perpetuity could never be developed. Then she had decorated it herself, wisely keeping to cool shades of blue and white, and for color, a delicately patterned Japanese red silk kimono displayed on the wall. She wanted nothing to distract from the centerpiece of the room—the wall of windows that looked out over the magnificent vista of forest, beach, and ocean.

Gwen waited in anticipation for the gasps of awe and praise.

Cecily said nothing.

Landon put down the suitcases with a thump.

After a silence that went on five beats too long, Gwen said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes! Of course! It is so … original … and cutting-edge clever. I can’t imagine how much thought and effort you put into designing and decorating this place.” Cecily went to the bed and pressed on the plush down comforter. “I simply don’t understand why we aren’t allowed to stay in the house with you.”

Gwen barely knew how to respond. Guests were always enthusiastic about the idea of their own residence set in such magnificent surroundings. “Well, because … in the house, the second bedroom is small and off the kitchen and has no view. We built this so our guests could enjoy some privacy and—” She stopped herself.

She and Mario worked hard. They had built the firm together, they were childless, and they were dedicated to each other. For them, after a hard day at work, having their home to themselves was important, and she would not apologize for offering luxurious accommodations to relatives who had invited themselves to stay.

With a snap, she said, “As I said, you’re welcome to visit at the main house at any time. Now, the kitchenette is stocked with juices and healthy snacks. If you’ve forgotten any toiletries, you should find what you need on the tray on the bathroom counter. The gas fireplace is on a timer, so if you wish to enjoy the firelight as you go to sleep, feel free to do so.” She glanced at Landon.

He grinned like a normal man who looked forward to a romantic evening with his wife. But he kept his mouth shut.

Landon was tall and lanky, with a gaunt look around his cheeks and prematurely gray hair. He hadn’t said a word since his initial Hi, good to meet you, and Gwen wondered if Cecily withheld food as punishment for insubordination.

Poor guy. Gwen put her hand on the cloisonné tray with the bottle, the cork pull, and the two gold-rimmed crystal glasses. “As a welcome gift, we left you an appetizer tray and wine from one of Washington’s finest wineries. The Chardonnay is one of our favorites, so we hope you will enjoy it.”

Cecily sighed wistfully. “If only I could. But my acid reflux won’t allow me to drink the tiniest drop of liquor of any kind.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Gwen was pretty sure she didn’t give a damn.

“It’s really okay. I’ll be the one laughing when you drinkers destroy your livers.”

Gwen, and her liver, were speechless.

Oblivious to her faux pas—or was she?—Cecily walked over to the window and looked out.

Gwen told herself to relax, for who could resist that idyllic view of primal forest and distant ocean?

Cecily ran her hand over the sill, looked at her fingers, rubbed them as if she had detected dust, and asked, “Where are the curtains?”

“The curtains?”

“Yes. Curtains. For this window.”

“The copper trim was added as a decorative frame for the view. It doesn’t need any more embellishment.”

“It’s not about embellishment, Cousin Gwen.” Cecily sounded as if she was explaining the principles of decency to a child. “People can see in!”

Gwen took a firm grip on her patience. “No. They can’t. Virtue Falls is the closest town, five miles to the north. We’re off the main highway, no one comes out here, and even if someone wandered onto the property by mistake, the ground drops away steeply at this side of the cottage and it’s impossible for anyone on the ground to see more than the bottom of the deck.”

Cecily’s artificially plumped lips wrinkled like a prune. “Can someone get up to the deck from the ground?”

“No, the only way onto the deck is through these doors.” Gwen flung open the sliding glass door and stepped out to let the cool ocean breeze cool her cheeks.

Landon followed her out.

Cecily hurried after them. “Heavens, Cousin Gwen! I don’t want you to feel guilty or remiss.”

Not a problem!

“I just feel so … exposed.” Cecily hugged herself.

Gwen wanted to say, No one wants to look up your skirt. Instead she said, “We have never had trespassers.”

With halfhearted enthusiasm, Landon said, “This is really nice.”

Which wasn’t the kind of admiration Gwen was used to, but after her pummeling by Cecily, she was grateful for even such slight praise. She waved an arm. “Washington in all its grandeur!” Then she cursed her own nervous, chirpy voice.

Cecily turned back toward the cottage—and promptly stuck her stiletto heel into the crack between the boards on the deck.

Gwen and Landon leaped to her assistance.

Cecily moaned about her joints and nerves and examined her shoe with a ferocious and furious intensity, an intensity she transferred to Gwen when Gwen suggested she put on flats to more easily navigate the rugged Washington landscape.

In a low voice that throbbed with drama, Cecily replied that heels were an important part of her exotic persona.

Gwen didn’t have a single doubt that her own khaki trousers, button-up shirt, old-fashioned boat shoes, and chin-length brown hair with its streak of premature white did not, in Cecily’s estimation, contribute to an exotic persona, or any persona at all.

Gwen announced that dinner would be served at seven and escaped back to the main house.

*   *   *

Late that afternoon, Mario found Gwen sitting in the dark in the pantry on a low step stool, drinking a glass of sauvignon blanc. He flipped on the light. “Things aren’t going well?”

She looked up at him, at her husband who had visited this plague upon them. “Did you meet them?”

Mario had immigrated from Italy after their marriage; he had a warm, deep voice with a marked Italian accent and an Italian’s sense of hospitality. “As soon as I got home, I went to the cottage with a bouquet of flowers to welcome our guests.”

Gwen sipped the wine.

“Cousin Cecily seems a bit … overbearing.”

“I suspect we may find her so.”

“But why are you hiding in the closet drinking wine?”

“I’m trying to kill my liver early.”

Now Mario was truly confused. “Kill your liver? What are you talking about? Why would you kill your liver?”

“I believe it is Cecily’s fondest hope that those of us who partake in the evening alcoholic beverage will all die a miserable death.”

Mario left, and in a few minutes returned, holding a glass of red wine. He bumped Gwen’s butt over on the stool. “Now. Tell me what she said.”

Gwen told.

Mario groaned. “I’m sorry. When he called and said they coming to visit, I was so taken aback I didn’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ve missed my family in Italy, and I thought finding Landon through that genealogy service was a good thing.”

“Really. It’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to say, either.” Gwen didn’t understand Mario’s obsession with family. If there was one thing they had plenty of, it was visitors: family and friends who flew in, stayed a few days, entertained themselves, bought dinner once, and left before they acquired that “guests who have stayed too long” stench.

Mario hugged her shoulders. “You should have gone to California, to the condo, and stayed until they left.”

“I couldn’t abandon you like that. Now, if this happens again—”

He flipped up two fingers to ward off the evil eye. “I suppose I should have been worried that I hadn’t met him.”

“Probably,” Gwen said dryly.

“But we have so much in common! He’s my age. He’s an electrician. He looks like me.”

For the first time since Cecily and Landon had arrived, Gwen laughed. “He does not look like you.” She placed her glass on the shelf next to canned tomatoes. She turned Mario’s face toward hers. She ran her fingers through his dark, curly hair, looked into his warm brown eyes, and rubbed the stubble of beard on his deeply tanned skin. “Landon looks like a faded copy of you. His complexion is yellow. His hair is gray and lank and thin. You’ve got a nose that rides proudly on your face.”

Mario touched it. “It’s a big nose.”

“A noble Roman nose. The tip of Landon’s droops as if it is tired. And he’s skinny.”

“I am not skinny,” Mario admitted.

“Women all over Virtue Falls would love to run their fingers over your broad and manly chest.”

He chuckled deeply when her fingers followed her words. “You are a wicked creature.” He captured her hands and kissed her palms, first one, then the other, then dipped his head in to kiss her on the lips.

But after twenty-two years of marriage, she could tell he wasn’t really paying attention. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

He pulled back. “My cousin Landon is pussy-whipped.”

She waggled her finger at him. “That is not politically correct.”

“Sometimes my English fails me. How do you say it so it is politically correct?”

She didn’t have an answer, and even if she had, it wouldn’t have done any good. Mario ran their company with a firm hand and a low tolerance for inanity, and based on the hour Gwen had spent in Cecily’s company, that woman specialized in inanity and perhaps malice.

“Cecily is Landon’s second wife,” Mario told her. “She was his secretary, then his executive assistant. Then his first wife divorced him and left town, and these two immediately flew to Las Vegas and married. I assume it was then she cut off his balls and put a chain through his hole punch.”

Torn between horror and amusement, Gwen said, “Figuratively, I hope you mean.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose. But I have no patience for men who let their women run roughshod over them.”

She lifted her eyebrows at him.

“I am the boss here!” He thumped his chest with his fist. “As long as you let me be.”

“Good that you realize that.” Because she had a determinedly cheerful personality, she said, “Maybe it won’t be so bad. They’re only staying two days. Then we can have our lives back.”

Mario nodded solemnly. “Yes. Thank God.”

*   *   *

Landon planted his feet on the front porch. “We shouldn’t walk into their house.”

“Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen both said to come over any time. This isn’t any time, it’s dinnertime.” Cecily walked into the ground-floor entry of Mario and Gwen’s home. “And I’m hungry.”

Landon didn’t move. “Here it’s only five o’clock.”

“My stomach says it’s seven o’clock. Are you coming or not?”

“Let me ring the doorbell so they know—”

Cecily got back there in time to grab Landon’s wrist. “Absolutely not. I want to know what they’re up to.”

“They’re not up to anything. They live here!”

“Then it won’t matter if I come in.” Cecily squeezed his wrist and winked. “Come on. Maybe we’ll catch them doing the wild thing.”

“I don’t want to catch them doing the wild thing.” But Landon followed her in.

Before he could loudly slam the door to let Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen know they had company, Cecily rubbed up against him and fanned his check with her lashes. “What do you say to us doing the wild thing later?”

“With the fireplace going.”

“That’s my boy. So passionate. Like a lion.”

Landon soundlessly shut the door behind them.

Cecily glanced into the large living room. The ceiling towered two stories above the floor, drawing the eye up to the massive chandelier, which glowed in soft shades of blue. It wasn’t a normal chandelier, either. The hangy part was heavy stainless steel, and around that in a wide circle, forty blown-glass sperm-looking shapes raced in a clockwise circle. As if that wasn’t appalling enough, two matching scones hung on either side of the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The second-level gallery ran the length of the living room, with a stainless steel railing and some blobs of glass inserted here and there. And most awful of all, the furniture was uncomfortable. “Cousin Gwen could really use some advice with her decorating.”

“You know when we were in here the first time, she said the views were so spectacular, they didn’t need any embellishment.”

Cecily looked at him.

“I guess she was wrong,” he said.

Cecily considered the curved flight of hardwood stairs that led to the second level and sighed. “My poor joints. Thank heavens I took a rest after she dragged us out to that hideous cottage or I’d never be able to make it. And me falling through the crack on that deck was clearly a sign of their criminal negligence.” She gripped the handrail, then paused—and listened—between each step.

“Do you want some help, honey?” Landon cupped her butt.

“You’re a naughty boy!” She reached the gallery, started toward the kitchen, and heard a muffled noise that sounded like voices from the back of the house.. “Landon, why don’t you go down the hall and check out the guest bedroom Cousin Gwen didn’t want to put us in? I can’t believe it’s all that awful.”

Landon glanced around, shrugged, and headed down the hall.

Cecily watched him affectionately. He was a good man. He really was. She hadn’t married him merely because he was easily manipulated. He was also good in bed, and his family had an established business. Mind you, his mother despised Cecily and made them live above the garage, but when she really got to hating Cecily, she would buy them plane tickets and send them on vacation for a week or two. And she would never let him starve.

That kind of integrity meant a lot to Cecily.

Again she heard those muffled voices, and she glanced at Landon.

He paused as if he’d heard them, too.

“Go on, darling!” she trilled, but quietly.

He went on.

When he took a turn into one of the doors, she headed through the library, past the half bath, and into the kitchen.

No one was here. Perplexed, she looked out the window at the patio. No one was out there, either. Then she heard muffled voices coming from the closed door across from the bathroom. She tiptoed back and leaned her head against the wood.

Bingo! Mario’s deep voice and Gwen’s sickeningly cheerful one. Cecily could almost make out the words … She was sure she heard her name …

“What are you doing?”

Landon’s furious whisper made Cecily jump hard enough to clink her teeth together. She backed away and whispered back: “Don’t do that! Don’t you know I could rupture a disk in my poor back?”

“What are you doing?”

“They’re in here.” She pointed. “In the … the pantry, I guess.”

“But why are you listening to them?”

“I’m not listening to them. I can’t quite hear them!” She would have to order an electronic listening device. She had one at home, straight from Amazon.com, and she’d heard some interesting conversations between her in-laws.

Then she realized that Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen had stopped talking. They must have heard Landon and his big fat mouth.

Grabbing him by the shoulder, she steered him back toward the stairway. When they got to the gallery overlooking the living room, she called, “Cousin Mario! Cousin Gwen! Where are you?”

She heard the click of the latch as they came out of their secret room, and the scurry of Gwen’s feet into the kitchen.

Cousin Mario came around the corner and through the library, his arms spread expansively. “Come in. Come in! We are preparing your dinner. I hope you like poached salmon. But if you don’t, we also have a lovely lean steak we can place on the grill.”

He looked guilty. Cecily was sure he looked guilty, and she smiled for all she was worth and went right into his arms. She pressed her breasts onto his chest—Gwen was as flat as two peas on an ironing board, so Cecily didn’t have to imagine the way his eyes widened in delight—and she said, “I love salmon. Why, in Minneapolis, we get fresh Atlantic salmon and I chomp it right down.” She licked her lower lip.

Cousin Mario leaped away like her embrace scalded him. “This is Pacific salmon. Superior flavor and very healthy.”

“That sounds absolutely … yummy.” Cecily started along the gallery toward the kitchen, where she could hear Gwen rattling the pans; she knew perfectly well he was watching her bottom in the tight black skirt.

“Stop!” he called.

With a taunting smile, she turned to face him. “Why, Cousin Mario, what is it?”

“We don’t wear shoes in our house. Gwen reclaimed the hardwood floor from the original home, and heels such as yours can damage the finish.” He frowned and looked toward the pantry.

She saw what he saw—tiny divots in the floor where she had already walked back and forth.

Her voice came out louder and more culpable than she intended “I can’t walk around without the proper footwear. As a child, I suffered rheumatoid fever.”

For a moment Gwen popped her head out of the kitchen. “Rheumatic fever?” She sounded incredulous.

“Yes! That! It damaged my heart, and I almost died! My poor father … I remember him holding me in his arms and crying. My circulation is terrifying.”

Like a clown jack-in-the-box, Gwen disappeared again.

Cecily continued, “Sometimes my toenails turn blue. If I went barefoot, I would fer-eeze!”

Cousin Mario acted as if he hadn’t quite heard her. Or he heard her and didn’t care. “We have heated floors and slippers for our guests. What size do you wear?”

“I wouldn’t dream of wearing someone else’s slippers.” Cecily shuddered in simulated horror. “Why, that would be as germ-laden as wearing rented bowling shoes. With my poor circulation”—maybe if she said it again, he would understand—“that would be incredibly dangerous.”

Cousin Mario smiled in a rather steely fashion. “The slippers are new, of course, and we have different sizes. Please take off your heels before you do any more damage.”

She looked down the half story into the living room. “This is such a beautiful house!”

“Thank you.” Cousin Mario looked at her feet. “When I was a young man in Italy, I worked in leather and shoes. I would say you wear a size nine.”

“A size eight. I have small feet for my height!”

Landon, that loser, said, “I thought you wore a size nine, too.”

She shot him a glare. “You know how it is. Sizes vary. There’s no quality control anymore.” She smiled at Mario. “Eight and a half.”

He opened the coat closet, rummaged around, pulled out a box, and brought out a pair of white scuffs.

She frowned. “Those look like something an old lady would wear.”

“We also have soft-soled flip-flops, but those would bare your toes.” Mario’s eyes were big, soft, and brown. “I would hate for your toenails to turn blue.”

Was he teasing her? She would make him pay. “I’ll take the flip-flops.” She sighed when she saw them; they had a bow. But at least this way Mario could admire her pedicure. Leaning against the handrail, she said, “My back. I can’t bend over. Cousin Mario, would you do it for me?”

“Of course.” He knelt at her feet. He rather brusquely removed her heels and slid her feet into the flip-flops.

She spread her legs.

He got to see that she wore a thong; she knew it by the way he flushed and scrambled to his feet. Taking her stiletto heels down to the first floor, he placed them in a basket by the door.

She made her way into the kitchen, trying not to shuffle in those appalling slippers, and halted in dismay.

My God. Cousin Gwen not only couldn’t dress with a lick of fashion, she was also a card-carrying member of the Absurdly Gaudy Decorative Tile Association. Her backsplash was matte gray subway tiles interspersed with mosaics of bright blue shiny ocean scenes. Why not fling in tiny pictures of the Little Mermaid, Prince Eric, and Ursula while she was at it?

Cecily managed to sound breathless and admiring. “Cousin Gwen, did you have a decorator to help with this? Because I can’t imagine how you would do this on your own.”

Gwen put the lid on the large, simmering pot. “Thank you! I confess, I did it all. It was a labor of love.”

Cecily turned to face the living room. “That chandelier! I can’t find the words!”

“I designed the whole house around that chandelier.” Cousin Gwen came to stand at the railing beside Cecily, and she had this smug cast to her mouth. “Gesvold created it.”

Cecily got the feeling only an idiot wouldn’t know who this guy was, so she nodded as if she was impressed.

“I was lucky. He has a studio in Virtue Falls. I liked his work, so I commissioned him to create a dramatic lighting event. He was an unknown then, right on the cusp of fame. He fashioned the glass to look like dozens of balloons blown up and released at the same time.”

Or sperm swimming upstream. “So that was on purpose?”

“We both agreed it added an element of playfulness to the dramatic scenery. Then to create the space where the chandelier could float, we had the contractor level the walls between the two small ground-floor living areas and raise the ceiling. Our bedroom is above.” Gwen pointed. “The kitchen, the pantry, and the half bath are on this level, and down the hallway is—” She stopped suddenly.

“The guest bedroom?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.

Firmly Gwen said, “A very small guest room with a tiny attached bath over the garage.” At once she went on to say, “Of course Gesvold created the matching sconces on the wall.” That smug smile was back. “Our house was featured in Sunset magazine, and within a year Gesvold was famous. I keep a copy of that Sunset if you’d like to look at it.” Cousin Gwen pulled it out of a drawer and shoved it into Cecily’s hand. “Page eighteen.”

Cecily leafed through the magazine, cooing at the glossy photos of their deck and the kitchen and their chandelier and their stupid handrail and them—looking smug, both of them—in every shot. “I’m not familiar with this magazine. Is that for, like, AARP members?”

Cousin Gwen didn’t even act insulted. “Sunset is the premier magazine for the western states.” She checked her big pot, then hurried out to the grill, then came back in and checked a little pan.

Cecily handed the magazine to Landon. “Here, honey, you should look at this. It certainly makes our place look humble.” When she thought of the leftover furniture and cramped quarters of that daughter-in-law suite in Minnesota, she got a bad taste in her mouth. “I had better sit down and eat soon. My joints are so painful, I’m feeling faint.”

Mario held out a chair at the shiny black stone table. “Right here, Cecily. Landon, you sit there.” He opened their matte black Sub-Zero side-by-side refrigerator—Cecily bet it cost five thousand dollars—and pulled out a bowl of …

“What is that?” She pointed to the mound of some kind of beans.

“Spicy roasted chickpeas. Wait until you try them. Gwen makes them herself.” He shot a proud smile at his wife and brought out another plate. “We also have roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, tomato and avocado wheat toasts, and mushrooms and olives marinated in virgin olive oil and herbs.”

Cecily was about to burst into a rant about people who were too cheap to serve meat when Gwen said, “Mario makes the olives and mushrooms. It’s a recipe from his family in Italy.” Cecily must not have hidden her feelings deep enough, for Gwen said, “I hope you’re not allergic to mushrooms.”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’m so sorry.” Cecily smiled at him. “I would love to indulge in Mario’s specialty.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’m always aware of the possibility of allergies, so I made another bowl of olives that have never even seen a mushroom.” And he handed her her own bowl of olives.

Now she would have to eat one of the revolting little black and green grease balls.

He watched proudly as she put one in her mouth and rolled it around. Oh, God. They weren’t even pitted. She spit it daintily into her palm. “That is so good!”

Landon, that idiot, was tossing back chickpeas without a thought of what it would do to his digestion later. So much for his plans for a cozy fire.

Before anyone urged her to indulge in any more of this heathen food, Cecily hurriedly said, “Sadly, I’m also allergic to peppers. My digestion is so delicate!”

The house phone rang, a two-tone warble, and Mario groaned. “It’s my office.”

Gwen touched his arm. “I’ll take care of it. You stay and entertain your cousins.”

Cecily watched her grab the cordless and walk down the hall, talking with a brisk efficiency quite unlike her usual lighter, nervous tone.

“Should you let her talk to the customers?” Score one for Cecily!

Yet Mario frowned. “Gwen was the firm’s original bookkeeper, receptionist, and dispatcher. She’s still the bookkeeper and our backup dispatcher. We go to the office together almost every day.”

“But she can work from home?” Cecily asked.

“Yes, but only reluctantly. She is essential to keep our office running efficiently.” He was obviously proud of his wife.

But he was a man. He must want more than that skinny piece.

Gwen came back in and put the receiver back on the cradle. “Melanie needs a heating element, so I sent Jack out. They’ll take care of it so you can enjoy our guests.” She smiled brightly, shot back out to the grill, and came in carrying a long platter.

At the stove, she lifted a gigantic slab of steaming salmon out of the pot and placed it on the platter.

Mario carried it to the table and with a flourish placed it in the middle of the table.

The stupid fish was covered with garlic slices, capers, and peppercorns, and rested on top of artfully arranged grilled asparagus.

Oh. My. God. Was she supposed to eat that?

Then Cousin Gwen emptied the other pan into a bowl and put an appalling pile of grains on the table.

Cecily couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “What is that?”

“It’s farro.” Mario sat and shook out his napkin.

“Pharaoh? Like Yul Brynner in The Ten Commandments?”

Gwen actually laughed. At Cecily. “Farro is an ancient grain that is healthful and easy to digest. I made it into this risotto everybody loves.” Cousin Gwen sat down and lifted the serving spoon. “Can I serve you?”

“Of course!” Cecily extended her plate and thought, I’m going to starve.

Day Three

“Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen, we have enjoyed our stay here at your magnificent home so much. Why, you have opened our eyes to the kinds of decorating I have never even imagined.” Cecily opened her gaping maw and shoved in another spoonful of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes.

Gwen couldn’t stand to watch. She turned back to her preparation of Mario’s fruit-and-yogurt parfait, and her heart beat to a single thought. They are leaving this morning. They are leaving this morning.

Cecily continued, “Why, Landon and I were saying how much we just love you both.”

They were leaving. They were leaving.

“You’ve taken us all around Virtue Falls, down the beach, up to the mountains. We have so much in common. And our time here has been so brief.”

Leaving. Leaving.

“So we changed our minds. We’ve cleared our schedule, and we’re going to stay another two days!”

Gwen whipped around and stared at the breakfast table.

Mario sat frozen, his gaze on his iPad.

Landon smiled—vacantly, as always—and ate the cereal, the fried eggs and bacon, and the white bread laden with butter and jam.

Cecily patted her lips with her napkin and smiled hugely. “I am so happy we made this decision!”

Gwen turned back to the parfait, topped it with her homemade granola, and said clearly, “No, you’re not.”

“What?” Cecily asked.

“You’re not staying.” Gwen picked up the parfait and turned in time to see Mario come to life.

“What Gwen is trying to say is, you can’t,” he said. “Gwen and I have reservations at a bed-and-breakfast in Victoria for the weekend, and as soon as you leave, we’re on our way.”

Gwen put the parfait in front of him. She put the spoon into his hand and pressed his fingers with approval. He was not a man who lied well or often, but this time he’d done a magnificent job of smoothing over Gwen’s blunt refusal.

“But we’ve made our plans!” Cecily managed to project all the blame on them.

Which after two days of her didn’t surprise Gwen at all. “I wish you had consulted us. We could have told you it wasn’t possible.” The refrain that sang through Gwen’s veins now changed to You are leaving, you are leaving.

“We canceled our hotel in Seattle.” Cecily was accusatory.

“Mario can help you get a room. Can’t you, darling?” Gwen put her hand on his shoulder.

“I can pull strings. In fact, I can get you a suite. For a discount.” Mario smiled with all his charm at Cecily. Throwing down his napkin, he rose from the table. “Landon, let me help you get your bags in the car.”

Landon sat like a lump. “But I’m not done eating.”

Mario looked at him.

Landon scrambled to his feet. “Sure. Good idea.”

The two men left the kitchen, Mario herding the reluctant Landon ahead of him.

Cecily sat up straight, indignant. “This is so upsetting.”

“I can imagine.”

“We have loved spending this time with you.”

Free food, free lodging, as many insults as you can shovel out from between those sugarcoated teeth. “I know. It has been such an experience!” Take that! Cecily wasn’t the only one who could sling a double entendre.

“I would think you could change your plans.”

“We really can’t.” Because we don’t have any plans.

“Is this a special occasion of some kind?”

You’re leaving. “Our first date.”

“That is so romantic! You must have had many, many, many anniversaries of your first date.”

“Are you done eating?” Gwen snatched up Cecily’s bowl of cereal. “We had better go help the men pack your belongings. I don’t know about Landon, but I could never trust Mario to get everything I need.” Like all the guest soaps and our towels.

Gwen didn’t really care, though. Cecily could steal the whole cottage as long as she left and never came back.

Cecily stood up, indignation radiating from every stiff line of her well-rounded figure. “At least I’ll never have to wear these ugly slippers again.”

“That’s the way. Look for the silver living,” Gwen said encouragingly.

Cecily marched down the stairs to the front door. She donned her stiletto heels—the heels she’d had to be reminded to discard every time she came in the house—and stalked outside.

You’re leaving. You are so leaving …

Gwen got into the cottage in time to see Cecily storm into the bathroom and slam the door.

Landon whimpered.

All of Gwen’s political correctness collapsed. Mario was right. The guy was pussy-whipped.

Gwen knocked at the bathroom door. “Cousin Cecily, I will start packing for you.” That sounded, she realized, like a threat.

Hmm. In fact it was.

She picked up the empty suitcase and flung it on the bed.

Cecily snapped open the door and came out holding her cosmetic bags. Three of them, pink and decorated with a curving sparkly C. “I’ll do it.”

Gwen stepped out of the way. “We’ll wait out here on the deck.”

Mario said, “Good idea.”

They headed out the door.

Landon followed.

Cecily snapped, “Landon, you stay!”

Mario held the door for Gwen, shut it behind them, and said, “Arf.”

“Good boy!” Gwen said.

They grinned at each other and went to lean against the rail.

“So,” Gwen said. “We’re going to Victoria to celebrate our first date.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me. You want me to make a reservation?”

“This is your busy season. Can you take the time off?” Gwen asked.

“I’m the boss. I will make the time.” He pulled the phone from his pocket. “Besides, after this, I owe it to you.”

She nodded. “You really do. Don’t worry, I’ll hold these two days over your head forever.”

He laughed.

Inside the cottage, something shattered.

With a growl, Mario placed the phone in his pocket and started toward the door.

Gwen stopped him. “No. Let it go. We’ll clean it up. We’ll replace it. What maters is—they’re leaving.”

But when Cecily slipped on her way down the stairs and landed with a thump at the bottom … they didn’t leave.

And after a few weeks, Gwen began to fear they never would.

Five Weeks Later

Mario opened the pantry door. “Why are you sitting in here in the dark?”

Gwen looked up at him, a dark figure silhouetted against the light. “There’s no intercom in here. Cecily can’t find me here.”

He snapped, “She’s bedridden.”

“She’s contaminating the whole house. I want to hide.”

He didn’t answer.

She could almost see impatience radiating from him, and she hated him. Hated him for not taking her side. Hated him for betraying her. “Come in or go out.”

He stepped in and shut the door with a crash.

Gwen had been bullied enough, and Mario wasn’t going to bully her too. “I expected you hours ago. Our dinner is ruined. Where have you been?”

“Working. Did you get the bookkeeping done?”

“I didn’t have time.” Gwen tried to control herself, but she heard her voice grow high and childish. “I had to cook and wait on her. I offered to bring in a nurse. She doesn’t want to put us out. She got mad when she spotted a piece of celery in the soup, wouldn’t eat it, accused me of trying to poison her. I wish. So she ordered pizza. An all-meat pizza! With pepperoni. It was dripping with grease, orange grease. She got it on her nightgown and on the sheets, I had to help her out of her clothes and change the sheets and wash everything, and I couldn’t get the stains out. Then tonight, after Landon got here, I had a few minutes to myself. I sat down with the accounts, and I can’t make them balance.” She looked at Mario accusingly. “Someone is siphoning money out of our account!”

In a level tone, he said, “You’re hysterical.”

He didn’t believe her.

She came to her feet. “Hysterical? Where were you? I’m here all day long with her. All I want is for you to come home—and where were you?”

“Cleaning up the mess Landon made of the job in Poulsbo. The man is an idiot. I can’t even use him as an apprentice. No wonder his electrical firm failed.”

“Landon was home hours ago.”

“I sent him home! The homeowner was shouting at him, at me. What did you expect?”

“I expected you to come home, not stop at a bar and have a drink!” Because she could smell the liquor on him.

For the first time, Mario softened and sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just … it was a long, hard day.”

“And you don’t like to come home anymore.”

He hesitated one moment too long.

Her voice rose. “It’s unpleasant here. Those people are always here.”

“What’s wrong with Cecily now?”

“She has headaches, asthma, intestinal parasites, degenerative joint problems, and every other dramatic and unprovable ailment known to man.” Gwen put her hand to her head. She had never in her life suffered from a migraine. But she thought she had one now. “I swear she cruises the online medical sites every night looking for more ridiculous ailments to add to her already bulging curriculum vitae.”

“She’s a full-blown hypochondriac.”

“Yes! And you’ve got a hysterical wife.”

“You are not the problem.” He sounded sincere.

But … “We haven’t made love in four weeks!”

“Landon has been working for me for four weeks. I don’t have you to do the books anymore.” Mario’s voice rose. “I’m overworked!”

Gwen poked her finger at the chest she had admired so much five weeks before. “I would like to point out that you are the one who contacted your cousin Landon. You are the one who was too weak to say no when he announced they were coming to visit. And now they live here!”

Mario glared as if he hated her.

That was it. That was the end. She shouted, “And you’re having an affair!”

“What?” He shook his head. “What?”

“Come on. It’s obvious. We haven’t had sex. You’re never home. Someone’s embezzling money.”

He lifted his hands in exasperation and let them drop. “No one is embezzling money. You made a mistake with the accounts.”

“No. I didn’t. And don’t try to turn this on me. You’re never home. We never have sex!”

His swarthy complexion flushed dark. His brown eyes flashed with fury. “You pretend to be asleep when I come to bed! How dare you? I would never cheat on you! You are my wife. I take my vows seriously. You are insulting me!”

“You stopped at a bar!”

“For a drink!”

They both froze, breathing hard, glaring at each other.

Mario took a breath, a step back, and then he ran his eyes up and down her body. “You’re thinner.”

“I forget to eat.” She couldn’t eat. She was too worried, too sick at heart.

“She said that, didn’t she? Cecily said it. She said I was cheating on you.”

Gwen turned her head and stared at the package of dried whole-wheat pasta. “She didn’t say it exactly. She never says anything exactly. She saw me watching for you and asked when you usually come home. And after you were late a few times, she gave me advice on how to dress to attract you again. As a gift, she went online and ordered a dress for me. And a padded bra.” Gwen could scarcely speak for distress. “She gives me makeup tips.”

Mario turned toward the door. “I am throwing them out of the house.”

Gwen grabbed his arm. “She’ll sue us. Every day she insinuates—”

Mario turned back to her, and he was angry and anguished. “Better to lose everything we own than to lose each other!”

Gwen stared at him, at his strong, beloved face, and for the first time in weeks, the brittle shell around her shattered.

She gave a sob.

He opened his arms.

She went into his embrace.

He rocked her.

She laughed and cried.

He suggested sex in the pantry would be a good way to make up.

She looked around for a way to make it work. “I’m afraid we’ll knock ourselves out with careening canned goods.”

He kissed her.

When he pulled back, he said, “We could do it in our bed. That would be new and exciting.”

“We can’t.”

He was instantly irritated. “Why not?”

“Because they can hear us.”

“What?”

“The last time we made love, Cecily teased me about it the next day. She said she was surprised you weren’t bruised from my bony hips.”

Mario flushed hot, burning her through their clothes. “I built this house. Our suite is insulated, soundproofed. Our door is solid. How could she have heard that?”

“I don’t know, but she did. And then when we stopped … making love, she knew that, too. She has the hearing of a vampire bat.”

“It’s true. She is a bloodsucker.” He thought for a minute. “We could save ourselves trouble if we simply murdered them.”

Gwen nodded judiciously. “Good idea. How do you want to do it?”

“We’ll have to make it look like an accident.” He stroked his chin in mocking consideration. “I know! You can give Cecily lots of green vegetables.”

“I already am. I grind them up, hide them in the food. She never knows it.”

“You are very smart.”

“I got tired of listening to her complain about constipation.”

He laughed his booming Mario laugh she had not heard for too many weeks.

“Shhh. She’ll hear us.” But Gwen clung to his shirt and grinned up into his face. “When I run her bath, I could drop in a toaster.”

“I like that. But if Landon was around, he would somehow figure out a way to blow the circuits and she would escape injury.”

Gwen snorted. “How about a bomb? We could wire the bed so when she puts her rapidly expanding behind on it, the mattress blows up.”

“Too complicated. I could wire explosives into her lamp, and when she turns it on, it blasts her out the window.”

“Too fancy. We could just throw her out the window.”

“She would land on those mammoth tits and bounce.”

Gwen giggled.

“And that girdle she wears would explode and the elastic would put someone’s eye out.”

Gwen giggled harder. “It’s a shaper, honey. They call them shapers now.”

Mario waited until Gwen had found a napkin and wiped her damp eyes. Then he said seriously, “Or I could tell Landon to get the hell out.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because after today, he’s afraid of me.”

“Oh.” Mario seldom lost his temper, but when he did, it was powerful and impressive. Apparently, Landon had finally set it off.

“I would tell Landon to get out, go bodily pick up Cecily and fling her over my shoulder—”

“She would be thrilled by that. If she is to be believed, you want her.”

Now he snorted. “She can’t tell a wandering eye from the evil eye?"

Gwen should not feel so pleased about Mario’s harsh comments.

Mario continued, “I’ll use a fireman’s carry on her, and while I’m bringing her down, you will swiftly pack their belongings. I’ll put her in the car. You will dump their suitcases on the driveway. We will come inside, lock the doors, and go upstairs and make love.”

“We would have to bar the doors and windows.” Gwen’s brief burst of exuberance evaporated. “I don’t doubt that somehow she has managed to make copies of our keys and gain access to our security information.”

Now Mario was paying close attention. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. She’s always on the computer.”

“She isn’t smart enough.”

“I think that’s where you’re wrong. I think she’s very smart.” Gwen remembered those wide curious eyes, those clever, cutting comments. “She’s cunning.”

“Smart enough to hack into our accounting system?”

Gwen’s jaw dropped.

He used his finger to shut it. “That’s it. Tomorrow they are going, never to return, and we will deal with the ramifications as we must.”

Gwen nodded. “Yes. You’re right. This ordeal is over.”

*   *   *

Cecily took off her headphones, put the digital spy recorder into her bag, and slipped backward through the dining room down the hall to her room.

“Where have you been?” Landon was in bed in his pajamas. “I thought you were injured. I thought you couldn’t walk by yourself.”

“Don’t be stupid. I need to think. Our futures are at stake.” She sat down at the dressing table and stared at her husband.

He looked back, his small eyes pleading. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Go to sleep. I have to think,” she said again. But she couldn’t contain herself. “Those bastards!”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Your cousins.” She tapped her nails on the dressing table. She had been going to teach Gwen how to do a manicure tomorrow, but now that was out.

“We could leave.” Landon had been nagging about that, and tonight he had been whining worse than ever.

“Why would we do that?” As if she didn’t know.

“I’m tired of working for Cousin Mario.” Landon’s lip trembled.

“Is he working you too hard, darling?” she crooned. “That’s not nice of him to take advantage of you because you’re his cousin. Maybe you should take tomorrow off. Take a mental health day. Stay here with me.”

His eyes got round. Something about her demeanor must have frightened him. “No. No, that’s okay. We owe him for keeping us here.”

“We don’t owe those people anything. I wouldn’t have fallen down their crummy stairs if they hadn’t been negligent.” She fought to regain control of her temper. “So you’ll go to work tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

She didn’t know where he was going to go. She didn’t care. But she didn’t want him hanging around, messing up her plans. “You are too good to Cousin Mario.” When she thought about Cousin Mario, how pissed he was at Landon and at the havoc Landon had created with his incompetence, she chuckled deep in her chest.

Landon was such a lousy electrician. By the time she had decided to shut down their business, she knew more about wiring than he did. She knew more about how to earn a living, too, and she wasn’t about to let this jackpot go because Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen had finally gotten suspicious.

Now Cecily had to make a decision. Should she allow them to throw her out, and Landon, too? She could sue them for her injuries, take everything they had. But she was already taking them for a bundle. To mess with Gwen’s mind and make Mario’s wife incompetent in his eyes, Cecily had been playing in their business accounts. But she had also gained access to their credit cards, their bank account, all their investments. She could transfer money out their bank accounts, and tonight that was what she intended.

But now, after hearing their conversation in the pantry … Cousin Mario had been leading her on, looking at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, making her think he was hot for her.

And she had believed it. She was a vibrant woman, years younger than dried-up old Gwen, and Cecily could bring Mario’s peen to attention with one lick of her tongue.

But now he had made fun of her. He had scorned her figure. And Gwen, that bitch Gwen, had laughed.

Cecily was determined.

They were going to be sorry.

They were going to pay.

*   *   *

It took three days for Mario and Gwen to firm up their plans to rid themselves of their unwelcome guests.

First Mario went to the Virtue Falls sheriff, Garik Jacobsen, and confessed the situation in full.

Sheriff Jacobsen was new to the job, but he had law enforcement experience and a calm demeanor. After listening to the story—and shaking his head in disbelief—Garik assured Mario the difficult part was evicting someone who resided in your home. If Mario managed to get them out of the house without physical harm, any attempt on their part to get back in could rightfully be called breaking and entering and the sheriff’s department would respond accordingly.

Meanwhile, Gwen changed her password and examined the accounting, and came to the conclusion someone had been moving cash out of the company accounts. All signs pointed toward their longtime employee and receptionist, Rylee Ellinger. But Gwen had been suckered one too many times. She didn’t believe that lie, although she complained worriedly to Cecily.

While assuring Cecily she was a confirmed idiot—and she felt that way—Gwen fetched and carried, served food (although without the greens, because she actively wanted Cecily to be constipated) and offered sympathy for Cecily’s ongoing illnesses.

She also delivered a series of FedEx overnight packages to Cecily, several every day. Not that Cecily hadn’t always received a lot of packages. The woman obviously had an online shopping addiction. But to order with overnight shipping—that was new. Gwen couldn’t help it; she worried that Cecily had somehow overheard the eviction plans and intended some kind of dangerous mischief.

Then Cecily started opening the boxes in front of Gwen, pulling out dresses and heels, urging Gwen to try them on right now, and generally acting as if Gwen’s failing marriage required emergency measures. That reassured Gwen about Cecily’s intentions, and she didn’t even wince much when Cecily assured her they would “spruce her up and win back her man’s attention.” Sometimes she thought the glint in Cecily’s eyes seemed more malicious than usual. But that was a matter of degree, and Gwen told herself all she wanted was to focus, to survive until she could see Mario pick Cecily up out of bed and dump her on the doorstep.

On day three, at seven a.m., Mario and Gwen finally gave up on trying to sleep. They got out of bed and smiled tensely at each other. They knew what they had to do. They stood ready to do it. But they were kind people. Hospitable people. They tended to see the best in others.

Okay, it hadn’t worked out this time. They weren’t the type who wanted to think that Cecily and Landon were evil. Except in looking back over the last interminable weeks, Gwen could see how she’d been manipulated, brainwashed, taken to the breaking point by exhaustion and a well-planned campaign to undermine her hard-won confidence.

Landon was nothing but a tool in Cecily’s grasp, but he knew what his wife was, and he had done nothing to stop her. He had put Mario through hell; Landon was weak and guilty, and Gwen despised him.

Mario and Gwen went downstairs to the main level. To the level overlooking the living room. To the level of the kitchen, the pantry, and the festering stink hole of a guest bedroom where Cecily and Landon slept.

They walked into the kitchen, and Gwen stood looking at the stove where she had worked like a galley slave these last few weeks. “Perhaps I should fix breakfast for them before—”

“No!” Mario said. “No more. You are my wife. You are done working for them. You are my love. My life. Let us never again forget how much we mean to each other.”

She leaned against him, a sideways stretch that put her head on his shoulder. They stood together for a moment, gathering strength for the deed ahead.

Then he straightened away from her. He turned his head to the side. “What is that noise?”

Gwen did the same. “That ticking? The battery in the clock must be going out.”

“No. No! That is no battery. That is…” Mario looked around. “It’s coming from the living room.”

They walked to the rail.

The sound seemed to be coming from the wall by the fireplace.

“I don’t know what that is.” Mario ran down the stairs and stood listening. He walked toward the center of the room “It’s from one of the sconces.”

“The wiring has gone bad?”

“Impossible. I wired it myself.” He headed for the utility room. “Let me get a ladder.”

Gwen came slowly down the stairs. When it came to his work, Mario was obsessive and meticulous; for that reason, he had no patience with Landon’s incompetence.

Mario carried in the ladder and set it up by the wall.

Disquiet sat heavily on her shoulders, for Gwen wondered—had they read Landon wrong? Was he spiteful? Had he done something to sabotage the wiring in their house as revenge for Mario’s firing him?

Mario climbed up until his head was level with the sconce and leaned closer. “Definitely a ticking. It sounds like a timer is in there.”

Gwen watched him. She looked up at the chandelier. She loved those sconces. She loved the chandelier.

She loved Mario.

If Cecily had somehow realized their plans, overheard their plans with that uncanny hearing of hers, and forced Landon to do something dastardly …

Now Gwen heard another sound. The tap tap tap of Cecily’s stiletto heels on the hardwood floor.

Impossible. She was bedridden.

But Gwen glanced up, and there Cecily was, peeking around the corner of the kitchen. She wore headphones. She held a small disk-shaped transmitter in her hand. Her face was a gargoyle mask of cruel satisfaction.

Gwen looked at Mario.

He was reaching for the swirled blue glass cover to slide it off.

Gwen glanced back at Cecily.

Cecily ripped off her headphones and tossed them away. She ran backward toward … safety?

And in that split second, all was clear.

Gwen shouted, “Mario, don’t touch it!”

Too late. He tugged.

The sconce exploded in his face.

He flew backward, broken, blasted …

One split second of horror.

Then the wiring in the house sizzled and sparked. The chandelier blew off the ceiling in a thousand glass shards.

Gwen looked up, and saw her doom descending.

The heavy pendant and wide arms slammed to the floor.

Cecily ran out of the pantry, around the corner, and leaned over the railing.

Cousin Mario had been hit by the full force of the explosion. Cousin Gwen had been standing directly under the chandelier.

They were dead, gone, extinguished in an instant.

Lifting her arms, Cecily shrieked, “Take that, you bastards!”

Down the hall, she heard the door slam. Landon came running out of the bedroom, dressed and ready to go to “work.” He looked around at the bodies, at the flames that licked the wall where the sconce had been, at the smoke that oozed from every outlet and every light fixture. “What have you done?” he shouted.

“I killed them. I killed them!” Cecily did a sort of flamenco, slamming her stiletto heels on their precious restored hardwood floor. “They insulted me. They laughed at me. And I killed them!”

“Are you crazy? You’re crazy.” Landon turned on her. “The police are going to take you away!”

She stalked him like a giant cat with sharp claws and long fangs. “The police are not going to take me away. I don’t know anything about electricity. I’m not the one who blew the wiring in that house last week. I’m not the one Cousin Mario fired.”

Landon fell back, step by step, along the railing toward the bedroom. “But you do. You know wiring. You know as much as I do!”

“Do I?” She took another step. Another.

“And I don’t hold a grudge against Mario!” Landon stumbled on a piece of broken glass. He righted himself, grabbed the handrail, and backed up some more.

“Who’s going to believe you?”

She acted as if she had tasted blood and wanted more. “But I didn’t do anything here. To this house.” The handrail ended at the stairway. He whirled and ran a few steps, then turned and shouted, “You’re … you’re lying!”

“This place out here in the wilderness is going to burn. By the time anyone sees the smoke, it will be ashes. All the evidence will be destroyed.” She paused at the top of the stairs, and like a merciless triumphant goddess, she lifted the briefcase in her hand. “I moved money out of their accounts into ours. Yesterday, Cousin Gwen left her desk open. I found cash and credit cards, and I’ve got them in here.” She gestured down the stairs. “You can come with me or you can stay here and wait for the cops … or be burned alive.”

“But you killed Mario and Gwen.” He gestured toward the living room. Didn’t she understand? “You killed them!”

“They deserved it. Talking about me like that. Calling me like a bloodsucker.” She whirled in a circle. “I made them pay. I made them— Ugh!” She tripped on a hunk of blue glass. Her heel slipped off the top stair tread. Her eyes grew so wide he could see the whites all the way around. Her arms windmilled wildly, the briefcase slapping the air.

Landon lunged for her.

Too late. Wide-eyed and screaming, she tumbled backward down the stairs.

With a harsh crack, her neck met the edge of the tread. She went limp, landing facedown and catawampus across the last three steps.

The briefcase tumbled, edge over edge, to the bottom.

Landon raced after her. Then, two steps above her and with a sudden onset of caution, he stopped. “Cecily?”

She didn’t grab for him. Her hand rested still and limp.

“Cecily? Are you okay?”

She didn’t speak.

He shuffled down one step, then another, and with his toe pushed on her shoulder.

She rolled over.

All her viciousness, her triumph, her madness—they were gone. Her jaw was slack, her head crooked at an awkward angle.

She was dead. Cecily was really truly dead.

Aghast, Landon looked across at the graveyard of bodies. “B … but, Cecily, now the police are really going to believe I did it. I didn’t kill them, but you made it look like I did, and now you’re dead, and it looks even worse. This is not fair! I didn’t do this! I’m innocent!”

Smoke began to ooze out of the return air vents. Heat made the wallboard turn tan where the studs were catching fire. In the attic, he heard a blast; this home ran propane heat. The fireplaces were gas.

Cecily was right. The whole house was going to burn to the ground.

He knelt beside the body of his wife.

But not too close.

He extended his shaking fingers.

But he didn’t quite touch her. “Cecily, you have to get up. We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t know what you planned, exactly, but whatever it was…” He picked up the briefcase. He opened the latch and looked inside. He saw a roll of twenties and a clutter of credit cards. “You stole all this?”

She stared straight up, her eyes wide and glazed.

He dug into the side pocket, pulled out pages of information on the money transfers from the Riccis’ accounts to theirs. “I can’t believe that you … all these years, I didn’t realize…” He held on to the briefcase, hurried over to Cousin Mario. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I didn’t know what she intended. Really. Really I didn’t.” Poor Cousin Mario. The explosion, at face level, had erased his features, yet Landon knew that in life they had looked alike. So much alike.

A thought came to him. From nowhere. It just came to him.

They did look alike, he and Mario. They really did. If he had Cousin Mario’s identification, he could take their car, drive to Seattle, use the credit cards to obtain more cash, and while the fire department and the police were trying to figure out what had happened here, he could get away.

He glanced back at Cecily, half expecting her to be on her feet and nagging at him.

But she was still dead.

Cousin Mario and Cousin Gwen were still dead.

The house was still on fire.

If Landon stayed in here, he would die, too.

If he stood around outside, he would be arrested for the murder of three people.

If he wanted to live, and live free, he had no choice.

Kneeling beside Cousin Mario’s body, he gingerly searched his pockets.

Car keys. Wallet, with driver’s license, credit cards, and cash. Fifties, hundreds …

The smoke was getting thicker. The flames were heating the house. Landon had only a few minutes to make his final decision.

But that was a lie.

He had made that decision the moment he picked up the briefcase.

*   *   *

At three o’clock that afternoon, the border guard at the Peace Arch on the Canadian border was suitably impressed when a silver Mercedes-Benz E400 Cabriolet convertible, top down, pulled up to his station. “Nice car,” Walt Bingham said as he took the proffered ID. “Mr.… Mario Ricci.”

“Thank you.” The gentleman in the driver’s seat looked relaxed.

A little too relaxed, to Walt’s mind. Most people, no matter how innocent they might be, were nervous when crossing the border.

Mr. Ricci said, “Actually, it’s my wife’s car, but mine is an electrician’s truck, so she let me borrow it for the trip.”

Walt frowned at the photo on the driver’s license, then looked at the guy’s face. “Would you take off your sunglasses, please?”

The guy whipped them off.

“This is you?” Walt asked.

“Mario Ricci. Yes.”

“You don’t look like you’re this old.”

“Facelift.”

Walt didn’t like him. Men didn’t admit to stuff like that. At least not so readily. “Could I see your registration and insurance?”

“Let me see if I can figure out where she stashed it.” Mr. Ricci dug around in the console and came up with the papers.

Yep. Car was registered to him and … “What’s your wife’s name?”

“Gwen. Is there a problem?”

Walt shook his head. “No. Everything looks like it’s in order. Pop the trunk.” He walked to the back and found a duffel bag.

Mr. Ricci appeared at his side. “Want me to open it?” Without waiting for an answer, he unzipped it and showed Walt the contents.

Walt poked around a little more, looking for … something. “Why are you visiting Canada?”

“Vacation.”

“Without the wife?”

“She’s got relatives visiting, so I’m getting out of town.”

“I can relate to that.” Walt handed back the paperwork, slammed the trunk, followed Mr. Ricci back, and waited while he got back into the driver’s seat. “How long will you be staying in Canada?”

“Once the relatives leave…” Mr. Ricci shrugged. "They said they were going to stay for two days."

Walt waved him through. “Enjoy your stay.” He didn’t like the feel of the guy, but he couldn’t arrest a guy based on nothing more than his instincts.

He watched the car pull away and accelerate.

All that Mr. Ricci left behind was the faint smell of smoke and the memory of his parting smile.

Read on for a sneak preview of

OBSESSION FALLS

the new novel from Christina Dodd

Available September 2015

Excerpt from Obsession Falls © 2015 by Christina Dodd

CHAPTER ONE

The highway from Idaho’s Sun Valley travels north into the Sawtooth Mountains with two lanes and strategically located turnouts in case a person needs to change a tire or gawk at the scenery. The road winds past shacks constructed of beer bottles and aluminum siding, past rusty mobile homes and clapboard houses in need of paint. That highway is a drive back in time, to a moment when the West opened its arms to every pioneer and misfit in the world.

Then the National Forest Service moved in.

No one ever said they did it wrong. The world deserves places of wildness, where no one logs trees that have grown since the time of Jesus, where snowmobiles and ATMs can’t challenge black bears to battle and take out rare and delicate flowers. Most people want a place where hikers and backpackers can roam the wilderness, and then only in summer months when winter retreats … and waits.

But even the National Forest Service can do nothing about Wildrose Valley. Wildrose Valley Road turns off the main highway, and rises up and up in hairpin turns that make flatlanders clutch and cringe. The surface is gravel, full of washboard stretches that beat a woman’s teeth together as she drives her rented black Jeep Cherokee toward the place where she had been born.

She tops the summit and there it is—the valley, slung like a hammock between the mountains. Ranchers had settled here in the early twentieth century, carving out tracts of land where they raised cattle and children, grew gardens and alfalfa, fought freezing cold and the Depression and bankruptcy.

But here and now, in August, the valley is wide, yellow with grass, dappled with cattle and antelope. Meadows stretch miles to the far horizon where the mountains close in. The Forest Service likes to think they protect the wilderness; in truth, the Sawtooth Mountains themselves are the sentinels and guardians of the land.

Taylor Summers had spent her first nine years roaming the Sawtooth Mountains in search of a safe place, away from her home, away from her parents’ constant, bitter arguments about her father’s ranch, her mother’s ambitions, and Taylor, who had somehow become the heart of their conflict.

Then, on her tenth birthday, she had moved with her mother to Baltimore, and was never again to see Wildrose Valley … until today.

She drove slowly down the steep grade and into the flatlands, absorbing the changes. Where small craftsman-style ranch houses had once stood, mansions now sprawled. Not many mansions, though; rich people bought wide acreages and surrounded themselves by vistas that could not be blocked.

Taylor didn’t blame them. Today, when she rolled down her windows, she heard nothing but the wind through the golden grasses and the occasional call of a bird. She recognized a few landmarks: a stand of maple trees where she used to play, the unpainted wreck of a barn where she’d swung in an exhilarating ride on a rope out of the hayloft and through the wide-open doors.

And there! There was the turnoff to the Summers ranch, owned by her family for over a hundred years, until her mother forced her father to sell it in the divorce and divide the profits.

Involuntarily, Taylor’s foot slipped off the accelerator and the car slowed.

Look! The people who bought the place had put up a phony gate, and they had the guts to put up a sign calling the place SUMMERS FOREVER.

They not only had claimed her heritage, they’d also claimed her name.

The bastards.

Taylor rolled up her windows, put her foot back on the gas, and drove through ruts and dust through the flats at the end of the basin toward her goal, where the mountains came together, squeezing the road like a vise.

An hour of driving too fast got her at last to the serenity of mountains. Here was the forest she sought. The air was thin, sharp, fresh with the scents of pine and earth and growth and, yes, surely … inspiration.

Taylor had always considered herself a true artist.

Sure, she had gone to college to study graphic design, and sure, she had segued into interior decorating. But for all that she had besmirched her talent with good jobs that made gobs of money, she hugged close a strong sense of superiority. Deep inside, she had believed that if she flung away the trappings of success and became a full-time artist, her talent would change the world.

So to celebrate the crashing destruction of her second engagement, she had flown to Salt Lake City, rented a vehicle, and driven north along the Wasatch Range. She stopped to sketch every vista, expecting that sensitive, brilliant, expressive art would form beneath her fingers ……

No. Not once. Not a hint of genius, of uplifting emotion or self-knowledge or glory or pain. All these years of believing in herself, and this … this was it?

Drawn by the conviction that if she got home, she would rediscover her muse, she drove north, into Idaho. In Sun Valley, she rented a room, spent the night, and now here she was, heart pounding as she pulled into an isolated picnic area. She backed the Cherokee into a parking spot hidden by brush and trees. She grabbed a bottle of water, her waist pack, and her drawing pad, and climbed out. She followed a trail that wound through the trees, looking for the one spot she wished, believed, hoped, would reignite her vision.

In less than a mile, the forest ended and a wide, green meadow opened its arms to her, and she recognized this place. This, far more than the ranch, was home. Here her father had taught her to camp, to hike, to hunt. Of all her early life, those were the moments she treasured.

Taylor climbed up on one of the smooth, massive black basalt boulders abandoned by the glaciers. To her left and her right, as far as she could see, forbidding and majestic pinnacles pierced the pale blue of the August sky. To capture the grandeur of the Sawtooth Mountains required bold-hued oil paints done on a large canvas by a master.

All they had was her.

But she was here, and she longed to pay tribute to the forces of the earth.

Opening her sketch pad, she took up her charcoal pencil and gave her soul over to the vista before her.

When she had finished, she pulled back and studied her achievement.

In high school, her art teacher had told her anyone could draw a mountain, but a true artist depicted the soul of the mountain and gave the viewer a sense of glorious austerity or forbidding heights or searing cold. A true artist created not art, but feelings: longing, terror, love. Most of all, Taylor’s art teacher warned her against making mountains look like ice cream cones.

Taylor could state with great assurance the mountains she had sketched did not look like ice cream cones.

They looked like ingrown toenails.

She rifled through her sketch pad, looking at each and every one of her drawings. How had she reduced the imperious majesty and eternal grandeur of the western mountains to such a disgusting human condition? She had dreamed of and planned for this, imagined her artistic talent would blossom in the place so long cherished in her childhood memories. Instead, she was a failure, such a failure that she was almost relieved when she heard a car bouncing along the washboard gravel road behind her. She shut her drawing tablet, slid off the rock, and headed into a stand of pines.

Not that she needed to hide. She had as much right to be here as anyone. But she was a woman alone. The car probably contained a rancher or some tourists, but wild game attracted out-of-season hunters, old gold claims dotted the creeks, and longtime residents carried guns. Up here, it was better to be safe than sorry.

When a black Mercedes came around the bend, hitting every rut as if it was a personal challenge, she grinned.

Rich tourists. She knew the type, city folks who could not believe that every road in America wasn’t paved for their convenience. She wondered how far they would go before the washboards defeated them, or before they destroyed their car’s oil pan on a protruding rock.

They passed out of sight behind a boulder as big as a house, where the road cut through the meadow, and there the sound of the engine cut out.

Probably they had a picnic lunch. They’d dine and head back …

She glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. Pretty soon, she needed to return to her rental Cherokee, too. It was a good two-plus-hours drive back to town. But first …… she started walking deeper into the woods, looking for something less imposing to sketch. A tree, maybe. Or a bug.

On the road, two doors slammed.

One man spoke, coldly, clearly: “Get him out of the trunk.”

CHAPTER TWO

Taylor stopped.

Him? Out of the trunk?

She didn’t like this guy’s tone. She didn’t like his words.

Who, or what, was in the trunk?

“Do you think this is far enough?” The other man sounded itchy, nervous.

She started walking again. None of her business ……

“How the hell much farther do you want to drive on that miserable crapfest of a trail? Jimmy said to bring him up here, find some place lonely, finish him, and dump the body—”

She froze.

“Isn’t this lonely enough for you?”

“I guess—”

A thump.

“Yes!”

Finish him? Dump the body?

She felt disoriented. Birds were twittering. Above her, massive Douglas fir trees wrapped the heavens in their branches and sang a song to the wind.

And someone within her earshot was talking about … dumping the body?

“Then that’s what we’re going to do,” the first guy said. “You want to argue with Jimmy?”

“No. No,” the other guy stammered. “Not that scary bastard.”

Some guy named Jimmy had hired these guys to ……

The trunk latch opened with barely a sound.

A child’s scream filled the air.

This could not be happening. Taylor could not be up here, alone in the most peaceful place on earth, trying to get back her artistic mojo, and bear witness to a murder. A child’s murder.

The second man said, “Jesus Christ, he hurled all over the trunk. I’m going to have to take this to the car detailers to get it cleaned up.”

“No, you’re not. How are you going to explain barf in the trunk? Tell them we were hauling a kid in there? Clean it yourself.” The first guy had a baritone voice, and when he rolled out the orders, he did it with authority.

Above the voices, the child’s wail became sobbing, punctuated by gasps for air.

Taylor did not want to be here.

But she was.

Chills ran up her arms, and she felt like hurling, too.

She left the protection of the trees and moved quietly into place behind the boulder.

She was safe here. She was. The boulder was as big as a house. Dense. Tall. Rolled into place by some ice age glacier.

She was safe.

She was a fool.

With her back against the rough stone, she slid and looked, slid and looked. Finally the car came into view.

And the men.

And the little boy.

And the guns.

Pistols, big pistols, held with casual familiarity in the men’s hands.

One guy was bulky and narrow-eyed. He was in charge.

One was thin and muttering. He held the boy by the scruff of the neck and shook him like a terrier with a rat.

The boy … the boy was about eight, white-faced, dark-haired, covered with vomit. Terrified.

Taylor was terrified, too. Her hands trembled. Her knees shook. Her heart thundered in her ears.

But she could still hear the casual slap Mr. Skinny gave the boy.

“Shut up,” he said.

The boy sobbed more softly.

She looked again. She recognized the big guy. Seamore “Dash” Roberts, running back, Miami Dolphins, big scandal, jail time, a career that barely survived in arena football … yeah.

The other guy wasn’t anybody. He was just, you know, sweaty.

Both guys wore suits. Up here. In the land of ranchers, Ford trucks, tourists, and the occasional tree-hugger. So these men in the suits were out of place. But they didn’t care. Because they were here to kill the boy and get out.

Good. Good. She could ID these guys … when she got down to the police department. After they’d murdered that little boy.

“Where do you want to do it?” Mr. Skinny asked.

Dash glanced around.

Taylor flattened herself against the rock.

“There, by that tree stump.” He pointed. “That way we can prop him up. He’ll face the road and when McManus shows up, he’ll see him right away.”

“Let him search.” Mr. Skinny laughed.

The boy’s crying gave a hitch.

She glanced again.

He was terrified. Yes, he was. But he was also eyeing the men, looking around at his surroundings, like he knew he had to make a run for it. Like he knew he had to save himself.

“Christ’s sake, think about it.” Dash again, snappy and scornful. “There are wild animals up here. Wolves. Coyotes. We hide the body, they’ll drag it away and eat it. Jimmy will be furious. He’s paying, and he wants the most bang for his buck. Shock. Horror. All that crap.”

“He really wants to get this dude’s attention, doesn’t he?”

“You don’t want to get on Jimmy’s wrong side. He knows how to handle business.”

The child shivered convulsively. He wore a school uniform. A school uniform, for shit’s sake, with slacks, a pressed shirt and a tie. He was old enough to know he was going to die, and young enough not really to understand.

Well. Who did understand? She didn’t. She wished she could help him. But there was no way. She wasn’t carrying a gun. She couldn’t just run at these guys, guys who were obviously professional hit men, and save the kid. All she would do was die, too. That wouldn’t help the boy. She could do nothing but watch helplessly.

Even as she thought that, she was quietly, relentlessly tearing the sheets out of her drawing tablet. They were eight-by-eleven, good-sized sheets of paper with whipped cream clouds and ingrown toenail mountains.

She didn’t have a plan.

Or rather—it was a stupid plan.

But the wind was blowing. The stand of trees was no more than twenty yards away. If she ran fast enough and dodged quickly enough, she could get away. And she couldn’t stand to live the rest of her life knowing she didn’t make even the most feeble attempt to save a child from murder by two professional killers.

Stupid plan. So stupid. She was going to get herself killed.

She heard her father’s voice in her head. Taylor, you can’t outrun a bullet.

She knew it. She really did. But the boy’s crying was getting louder again, the men more silent. They were getting down to business, which was to murder the child and pose him so that guy, McManus, saw him as soon as he drove up the road.

Shock. Horror. All that crap.

When she had freed a dozen sheets of paper, she put the tablet on the ground and stepped on it. Holding three sheets high above her head like unformed paper airplanes, she let the wind catch them, heard them flap, took a breath—and released them.

About the Author

CHRISTINA DODD’s fifty novels have been translated into twenty-five languages, featured by Doubleday Book Club, and recorded on Books on Tape for the Blind. They have won Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart and RITA Awards, and have been called the year’s best by Library Journal. Dodd herself has been a clue in the Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle. With more than fifteen million copies of her books in print, her legions of fans always know that when they pick up a Christina Dodd novel, they’ve found, as Karen Robards writes, “an absolute thrill ride of a book.”

Enter Christina’s worlds and join her FREE mailing list for news, exclusive excerpts, and book sales at her Web site, at www.christinadodd.com. Or sign up for email updates here.

Also by Christina Dodd

Virtue Falls

The Listener

Candle in the Wind

Treasure of the Sun

Castles in the Air

Priceless

Greatest Lover in All England

Move Heaven and Earth

Once a Knight

Outrageous

A Knight to Remember

That Scandalous Evening

The Runaway Princess

Someday My Prince

Rules of Surrender

Rules of Engagement

Rules of Attraction

In My Wildest Dreams

Lost in Your Arms

A Well Pleasured Lady

My Favorite Bride

Scandalous Again

Just the Way You Are

One Kiss from You

Almost Like Being in Love

A Well Favored Gentleman

Some Enchanted Evening

Close to You

The Barefoot Princess

Dangerous Ladies

Trouble in High Heels

The Prince Kidnaps a Bride

Tongue in Chic

My Fair Temptress

Scent of Darkness

Touch of Darkness

Thigh High

Into the Shadow

Into the Flame

Danger in a Red Dress

Storm of Visions

Storm of Shadows

In Bed with the Duke

Chains of Ice

Chains of Fire

Taken by the Prince

Secrets at Bella Terra

Revenge at Bella Terra

Betrayal

The Smuggler’s Captive Bride

Last Night

Kidnapped

Wilder

Wild Texas Rose

Stone Angel

Lady in Black

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these novels are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE RELATIVES. Copyright © 2015 by Christina Dodd. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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Cover designed by Ervin Serrano

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e-ISBN 9781466885288

First e-Book Edition: March 2015

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Begin Reading

Teaser

About the Author

Also by Christina Dodd

Copyright