Upon a Mystic Tide Read online

  “I couldn’t.” Maggie backed away then turned from the window.

  “Why not?”

  She sighed her impatience. “Geez, think about it, MacGregor. Bess hasn’t made the connection between Tony and Seascape Inn yet. She believes Tony is telepathic, which doesn’t scare her witless. But she will make the connection. And when she does—aside from trying to convince you I need a long vacation at a quiet sanatorium—how do you figure she’ll react to me advising her to trust a ghost?”

  Chapter 2

  John Mystic had experienced only three gut-wrenching wants in his whole life: to marry Bess Cameron and build a home where they’d both be content and happy; to find Elise Dupree’s missing daughter, Dixie; and to keep the truth about his parents a secret he took with him to his grave.

  He’d married Bess and built a home. Unfortunately, he’d never once thought it necessary to mention his wants, including keeping her and staying in it. He’d done everything humanly possible, but he hadn’t found Dixie—yet. The painstaking search continued. And he’d kept the secret about his parents, though doing so had demanded he distance himself from his sister, Selena, who had a knack for making people talk. Otherwise, sooner or later, she’d have wheedled it out of him.

  John also had learned a hard lesson. Sometimes, no matter what a man does, no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t win. And too often when he loses, others also pay the price.

  Knowing the secret had cost him his sister. The distance between them had hurt her. It’d hurt him and their uncle, Maximilian Piermont, too. Dixie’s case had cost him his wife. And he, Bess, Elise, and Dixie, all had paid the price, in spades.

  It shouldn’t have happened that way, though John didn’t know how the hell he could have avoided it. He and Bess hadn’t been married long when, with her blessing, he’d struck out on his own to open Mystic Investigations. Maybe if they’d been married longer, she’d have felt more secure. Maybe if he’d known what a closed society New Orleans was, he would have been better prepared for closed doors and not needed society matriarch Elise Dupree’s case. But he hadn’t known, and he had needed it. And so when tragedy struck Elise and she’d come to John with the story of her daughter Dixie’s kidnapping—an elopement, according to the FBI—John saw solving the case as his big break. If he found the girl, kidnapped or eloped, his business would be set for success. Bess would be proud of him. And he’d have proven to her his worth.

  He hadn’t planned on getting emotionally involved with Elise. Bess didn’t know it, but Elise had become the closest thing to a mother he’d had since he was three years old. He hadn’t planned on Bess getting riled over the relationship, or on her forming the opinion that he was obsessing on the case, either. And he certainly never had planned on losing her over it. Events had snowballed and it all had just . . . happened.

  By the time he’d realized their marriage was in trouble, it was too late for an easy fix. Things had gotten complex and, he admitted it, his pride stepped in. He couldn’t find Dixie, couldn’t stop looking for her. Couldn’t tell Elise he’d failed her when she’d needed him most. And he couldn’t, wouldn’t, crawl back to his doubting-his-worth-already wife a failure.

  Instead, determined to turn things around, he’d dug in his heels and formulated a plan. A simple plan. Find Dixie for Elise, paying her back for caring about him and trusting him with her daughter’s life, for opening society’s doors for him—and for her sound investment advice—and when all that had been settled, as a successful man Bess would be proud of, he’d reclaim his wife and his home.

  It would’ve worked. Except Bess filed for a divorce. And he still hadn’t found Dixie. And, God help him, three days ago, Elise had died.

  Elise’s funeral this morning had been sheer hell. Bryce Richards, Maggie and T. J. MacGregor, Selena, and Uncle Max all attended to support John. Bess hadn’t.

  He thought he just might hate her for that.

  Sometimes, no matter what a man does, no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t win.

  And so he’d come here. Back to where he always came when he needed support. Needed to feel close to her again. Needed to relive the good times and glimpse again elusive peace . . .

  Through the car radio, Bess’s familiar, silky-voiced sign-off snagged John’s attention. “Rest easy, New Orleans. See you at twilight.”

  Innately alerted, he punched the knob, squelching the radio. Silence filled the car, and then subtle sounds of crickets and frogs carried in on the sultry night air. Parked in the driveway, his stomach tense and in knots, he again stared through the windshield into the dark windows of the empty house he and Bess once had shared. She was in trouble; he felt it.

  During her radio program, not a hint of anything being wrong had been heard in her voice. Bess was far too private, too cool and controlled, to let anyone know an imperfect ripple she couldn’t smooth out by herself had trespassed into her world. They might have spent more of their seven-year marriage separated than together, but he knew her the way only a husband knows his wife, and something had Bess in a tailspin and doing some serious reeling. Question was, What?

  Maybe she’d had a fight with her sorry Spaniard, Miguel Santos. Unlikely. She’d been seen all over the French Quarter with him lately, and seemingly everyone in New Orleans—eager to impart their backdoor censure of John’s treatment of her, yet not bold enough to just do it—had made a point of telling him how happy she’d looked. No, not the Spaniard. Had to be something else. What, precisely, John hadn’t a clue, but he certainly knew what wasn’t the reason for her upset: their relationship and imminent divorce. Bess didn’t give a damn about either, or about him.

  An empty ache had him slumping, fighting a longing pang for the old days. They’d been happy once. Here. In this house. He squeezed the steering wheel. She’d loved this house. Why hadn’t she stayed in it and demanded he leave? Too many memories? Too many shattered dreams haunting every room?

  Those had been his reasons for moving out and leaving the house empty. As for her reasons, only she knew. He still couldn’t believe she’d actually suggested they rent it. John grunted. He’d flatly refused, of course. The idea of another couple living in their home, sharing meals in their kitchen, making love in their bedroom . . . well, it got to him. Obviously, it hadn’t bothered her. And that had gotten to him, too.

  He let his gaze drift up the white brick to the second-floor veranda. How many nights had they come out of their bedroom door, tossed a blanket down on the veranda floor and, wrapped in each other’s arms, dreamed into the stars?

  Plenty.

  But not enough.

  And there never would be more.

  Regret swam in his stomach. A future of silence engulfed him, dark and oppressive and yawning. He gripped the wheel tighter, making knobs of his knuckles, and frowned down at the front door. A spray of amber light from the streetlamp swept over the sleek landing and he imaged her standing there in it, greeting him as she had so often, open-armed and smiling. God, but he missed her. Sometimes he missed her so much.

  Why had she done it? Why had she left him with no more than a phone call? Why had she waited years before filing for the legal separation, knowing it’d take over a year from then for the divorce to be final? Why had she left him at all? They’d been happy. She’d loved him, damn it. He knew she’d loved him.

  The box-hedge outside the passenger door rustled. His neighbor, Peggy, spying on him again. He sighed. She’d report to Selena and, before sundown, he’d get another when-are-you-going-to-stop-going-

  over-there-and-get-on-with-your-life call. Didn’t he wish he knew?

  His gaze drifted back to the house. Maybe Bess had waited to file for the divorce because she’d feared losing her job. Millicent Fairgate was a real hard-ass who’d do anything to protect her legacy—the station. John never had liked her, and didn’t know anyone who did besides Elise. A whiff of scandal and, in a finger snap, the social-minded airhead would fire Bess.

  But, no,
not the job. Slumping back in his seat, he rested his shoulder against the door, his hand on the gearshift. Bess could hold her own with Millicent and she wouldn’t put up with that. Santos had to be the reason. Maybe Bess was ready to marry the guy.

  Bess? Married to another man?

  John’s stomach soured, his muscles all clenched at once. Torn between denial, anger, and guilt—resenting all those feelings and more—he stiffened in his seat. Why had she done it? Why had she done anything that she’d done? And what difference did it make now? In three weeks, they’d be history. The divorce would be final, and their marriage would be over. It’d be too late.

  It was already too late. Elise was dead.

  The empty ache inside him deepened to a gaping hole. In finding Dixie, he’d taken too long.

  The cell phone rang.

  Ignoring it, he stared sightlessly at the house, feeling as lost and alone as he had in the early years, when he and Selena first had moved in with their Uncle Max. God, John had hated those feelings then. He still hated them—as much as he hated himself for coming here.

  Yet he continued to do it. He looked down at the yellow carnation petal in his hand. Elise had died holding it. Where had it come from? He’d probably never know. Odd, but it comforted him. And after the funeral today, he needed comforting. He just hadn’t been able to face that empty apartment alone.

  The phone rang for the third time. He frowned at it, certain if he didn’t answer it, the damn thing would ring forever. When it rang a fourth time, resigned, he lifted the receiver. “Mystic.”

  “John, it’s me, Bryce.”

  His lawyer calling him now? But they were friends, too, and considering the hour—a shade shy of dawn—this had to be personal. Since Bryce’s wife Meriam’s death, Bryce’d had his hands full with his three children, his practice, and his grief, but the predawn SOS calls had ceased months ago. Until now.

  Couldn’t anyone just be happy anymore? “The kids okay?”

  “Suzie’s still having nightmares. Her therapist says she needs more time to get used to losing her mom. Selena’s talking with her, too, trying to help her get and keep both oars in the water.”

  “That sounds like Selena.” She never had beaten around the bush.

  “Yeah, I’d be nuts without her help on this.” His indrawn breath crackled through the phone. “Hey, I didn’t call to complain. You doing okay, buddy?”

  He’d never been less okay. “I’m fine.”

  “I tried calling you at home . . .”

  John looked up at the house. This was home. Not the apartment he lived in and avoided as much as possible. For six years home had stood empty. Now Elise was gone, too. Pain crushed him in a wrenching vise.

  “I called on the cell a while ago but got no answer.”

  John sort of remembered the phone ringing earlier, when Bess had been talking to that guy, Tony. Weird message. Weird man. Maybe he and/or his message was what had Bess rattled. They’d surely given John the creeps. “Must have stepped out.”

  “Where are you?”

  John sucked in a sharp breath. “Working on a case.”

  Bryce let out a ragged sigh, proving he knew exactly where John was at the moment, and it worried him. “I’m sorry, buddy. I know how close you and Elise were.”

  Close? She’d trusted him with her daughter’s life. She’d called him dear heart. Close? Close? “She . . . mattered,” he choked out. “Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the call.”

  “John, wait. As soon as you can, drop by the office. I know the timing is lousy, but we need to talk about this property settlement dispute. We’re out of time.”

  The divorce was the last thing he wanted to talk about right now. “What dispute? I told you to give Bess whatever she wants.”

  “That’s the dispute. She doesn’t want anything.”

  Not anything? “What do you mean, she doesn’t want anything?” John cranked the engine, turned on the headlights, then backed out of the driveway, swearing he’d come here for the last time. He’d listened to Bess on the radio for the last time too. If she knew he did either, she’d have a field day analyzing him.

  Maybe she’d have better luck than he’d had. Why did he come here? Why did he listen to her program every night? Knowing she had become involved with another man, why did he still hunger for the sound of her voice?

  Maybe he still loved her.

  Impossible. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. John Mystic was no woman’s chump.

  So why did he keep putting himself through this?

  It didn’t matter. He’d done both for the last time. And how many times he had made and broken those promises to himself before didn’t matter either. This time, he damn well meant them.

  “I meant exactly what I said,” Bryce told him. “Bess refuses to touch any of the assets you two acquired. Francine’s having a virtual stroke, but Bess won’t budge.”

  Bess’s lawyer having a virtual stroke ranked as her problem, but Bess’s refusal—that was another matter. An infuriating one. Was she sending John another of her infamous messages?

  Probably. Probably her way of telling him she wanted nothing of his, of theirs, because it held no value to her. He held no value to her.

  Yeah, Bess never had screamed her intent or opinions, or anything else, for that matter. Cashmere, eel-skin women like her opted for far more subtle means of torture. Always sending confusing signals and silent messages a man had to try to decode. Always analyzing their men too. But his cashmere, eel-skin woman wasn’t going to get away with it anymore.

  He should have stopped this a long time ago and hadn’t. But, by God, he’d stop it now. She would not blow them off as if their marriage had meant nothing. He wouldn’t let her do that to either of them. “She’ll take half, and that’s my bottom line.”

  “She’s refused, John,” Bryce said. “She’ll accept nothing.”

  John frowned at the street. Between streetlamps and glaring neon signs, dark shadows muddied the pavement. “Why?”

  “Francine doesn’t have a clue.”

  “Do you?” They were friends too, and had been for years. Bryce, his now-deceased wife, Meriam; T. J. MacGregor and, more recently, T. J.’s wife, Maggie. John and Bess had been, or were, friends with them all.

  “No,” Bryce said. “She hasn’t said a word about it to me. Whenever I try to bring up the case, she ducks the topic or gives me one of her this-conversation-is-unethical looks.”

  Oh, her settlement refusal was a message, all right. “Unacceptable.” John hit the blinker and changed lanes to pass a battered green pickup with two German Shepherds loose in the truck bed. It seriously needed a new muffler, and the right-rear fender had rusted out.

  “Francine says Bess isn’t negotiable on this.”

  “She damn well better be, because I’m not agreeing to her nothing business.”

  “Why not? Clearly, this is the way she wants it.”

  “I said, unacceptable.” He braked hard. Was he going to hit every red light in the city between Pontchartrain Drive and the apartment?

  “John, as your lawyer, I have to point out how many divorcing spouses would love to be in your position on this. Especially those with your kind of assets.”

  “I’m not one of them, okay?”

  “That’s apparent. My question is, why?”

  “I’m just not. Let’s leave it at that.” Isn’t this stupid light ever going to change?

  “Can’t do it, buddy. Francine’s going to want a reason. And if you expect Bess to go along with what you want, you’d better make it a good one.”

  John sped to the corner, then stopped at yet another red light. On the crossroad, cars whizzed through the beams of his headlights. Bryce was right. Bess wouldn’t rant or rave, she’d just quietly refuse to budge an inch. “You want a reason? Okay, here it is. Bess is running on emotion, not logic. After that guy Tony’s call, if Millicent Fairgate hasn’t already, she’s bound to fire Bess. She’s going to need—”


  “I’ll be damned.”

  Puzzled, John frowned at the phone receiver, then put it back to his ear. “What?”

  “You want her back.” Bryce sounded incredulous.

  John’s stomach lurched. It was too late for that. He’d run out of time. Elise was dead, and Dixie was still missing. And only a chump would want back a woman who’d walked out on him.

  The light turned green and he punched down on the accelerator. “I want to make sure she has the resources to take care of herself until she decides what to do with the rest of her life. You know how proud she is, Bryce. The woman’s so stubborn she’d die before asking anyone for anything—especially me.”

  “I hear she’s changing, though I can’t say I know it for fact. But Santos did give her Silk, and she accepted it.”

  “Silk?” Three more blocks. Just three more blocks and he’d be there. “What does Bess need with fabric? She can’t sew a stitch.” When they’d gotten a little frisky and she’d caught the heel of her pump in her hem, he’d had to mend the slinky, hip-hugging sexy slip she called a skirt. God, her legs went on forever in that thing.

  “Silk is a Yorkie.”

  A dog? A flash of anger raced through John’s chest. Jealousy ran fast on its heels. “She accepts a dog from Santos, but won’t touch a thing she acquired with her husband? That proves my point. It’s not as if we didn’t both work. She can’t even use that excuse.” Definitely sending him a message. Definitely. “I’m telling you, Bryce, she’s not running on all cylinders.”

  Bryce softened his tone. “John, you and Bess are divorcing. Whether or not she’s running on a single cylinder isn’t any of your business. What I mean is, her job and future aren’t your problems anymore.”

  Seething, John swiped at his blinker. “Until July tenth, she’s my wife. That makes her problems my problems.” He whipped into the parking lot, then cut the engine and the lights. “Now you call her shark of a lawyer and tell her Bess takes half, or no divorce.”