Evie could sense the spirit’s discontent, but communication didn’t seem to be happening. Her ADHD went into hyper-focus, calling up the names of the men who’d been around the boutique owner that night. “Vincent, he’s your father, right? He’s distraught over losing you.”

  The ghost uttered a rude noise, mostly inside Evie’s mind. Then anger seemed to rise. Still, no communication.

  “And Nick is devastated. I assume he’s your lover? He stayed behind to make funeral arrangements. You don’t happen to know who gave you the limoncello, do you?” It wasn’t that anything was found in the shot glass, but Evie wanted to pin the spirit to the moment she died.

  Matt was the word that floated across Evie’s brain. “Matt? The male model? What did he have to do with the boutique?”

  Brother. Stupid gay. The angry red darkened.

  Evie tried to piece together being gay with stupid and brother with what the spirit was feeling, but she simply didn’t know the people involved well enough to bridge the gap.

  To her annoyance, her phone shrilled with a fire alarm—Loretta’s idea of a joke. Evie switched off the ringer—too late. The aura evaporated. With a sigh, she called Jax back. “I had her, darn it, and the phone spooked her.”

  “I spooked the spook, new record for me.” Jax sounded more amused than concerned. He was starting to accept that Evie could do weird things, but his pragmatic lawyer mind didn’t fully comprehend the supernatural. “Roark’s been digging around in the sheriff’s files.”

  “I thought the state cops took over? And that’s why they’re trying to pin motive on Larraine, because the governor hates her rainbow image tarnishing his true-blue state?” Evie checked behind stall doors but the lounge was empty.

  “You still haven’t learned politics, have you? Anyway, Sheriff Troy has his own informers, it seems. You’d better hope nothing ever happens to him. That man has your back, whether you know it or not.”

  Evie wandered out of the lounge and down the hall, looking for inspiration. “He has the hots for my mother, but she won’t give him a second look.”

  “That’s what happens when one has her head in the clouds instead of right down here on earth. Let that be a warning to you.”

  Evie laughed. “After last night, you think I’m not right down here on earth with you? Tell me what the sheriff found out.”

  Jax might be a pragmatic lawyer, but he was a creative lover. She didn’t know how she’d ever done without him—and that wasn’t just in bed. He was the side of her brain that went missing at birth.

  “Lady Katherine was a mere Katherine Gladwell without a hint of Italian in her.”

  “Not a lady, gee, who woulda guessed?” Evie mentally smacked herself for being judgmental. Aristocrats might have suspicious auras too. But frauds. . . yeah, that almost made sense. Not Italian? Her mind spun into overtime.

  Accustomed to her spinning wheels, Jax ignored the commentary. “She used to sell cosmetics in one of London’s department stores. Vincent, her father, is a dealer, always looking for investments for his next big thing. He’s been bankrupt a time or two. Their big break came when Lucia Ugazio, Katherine’s half-sister, came to stay with her a few years back. Lucia is the actual Italian in the family.”

  “Half-sister, huh. Kit-Kat and Lucia shared a mother, who presumably was not Italian?” Evie tried to form a picture puzzle in her head as she searched for the fraudulent Lady Katherine’s elusive aura.

  “Yes, but the mother died. The problem is, no one can find Lucia. Her father was the Italian in the family. He left her the estate where La Bella Gente obtains its olive oil. She’s supposed to be the brains behind the manufacture and sales of their products, but no one ever sees her except in commercials.”

  “Do they know when she was last seen? Maybe she lives in Italy.”

  “They’re working on tracking her. Her passport hasn’t been used since she went to Italy a few years ago. Her passport address is the house she shared with Katherine. Katherine may have been the last person to see her.”

  “Well, if Lucia’s passport hasn’t been used, unless she’s traveling with a fake, she couldn’t have been here to kill her sister. Pris went to Italy because of the olive oil connection. She can check out Lucia’s farm.” Not that her cousin did anything she didn’t want to do, but Pris wasn’t stupid. It was her career being jeopardized by vicious rumor. “Do we know how the other guys are connected?”

  “Matthew Gladwell is Katherine’s brother and CFO. Rube hasn’t traced the male models except to learn they were hired in London. The boutique’s products are made in the UK by a company run by Vincent and his investors. Nicolas Gladwell is in charge of marketing, another relation to our victim, a distant cousin from her father’s side.”

  Evie frowned. “The man who wept over her? I thought they were lovers.”

  “The family tree looks like a banyan, so many divorces that it’s hard to say who’s related to whom. He might only be a cousin-in-law or a step-cousin. Whatever, they’re keeping it all in the family.”

  “And Katherine is dead while Lucia is missing. Hiding, maybe? And Lucia and Katherine’s mother is dead also? Not a lucky family.”

  “The mother was English, apparently didn’t like Italy, abandoned Lucia to her father and returned to marry Gladwell as far as we’re able to tell. But she died not long after Lucia left Italy for London.”

  “Huh, not liking this family. How many more boutiques does the company have or are we the first?” Evie decided she might be more productive if she visited La Bella Gente to see who was in charge.

  “They’re opening shops up and down the east coast. They have several in London. Roark and Ariel are looking into their finances. At least those are in English.”

  “Any nearby besides the one here?” Keeping her eyes open for flitting colors, Evie aimed for the side door of the plant.

  “On this side of the pond, their business model seems to be tourist towns. Myrtle Beach and Hilton Head, I think. I don’t know why they didn’t try Beaufort instead of Afterthought.”

  “They had Larraine to back them here. Our new mayor loves their product. I have to go home and fix an after-school snack for Loretta and catch up on the gossip. Will you be home for dinner?” Evie stepped into the parking lot and aimed for her Subaru.

  “Unless the brouhaha at city hall gets any worse, I’ll be there. Tell Loretta I’ll help her with her project this evening.” He signed off.

  Evie gave a sigh of happiness. She had feared guardianship of a millionaire child would be beyond her abilities, but it was turning out to be the best thing that had ever happened to her. And to Jax. His uptight aura was starting to unfurl in cheerful hues that might actually reflect happiness for a change. And Loretta said Evie’s bubble was bubblier instead of sharp these days.

  And a souped-up, cherry-red station wagon was far better than the Miata she’d once dreamed of owning. She settled behind the wheel, turned the ignition. . . and almost jumped out of her skin.

  In the passenger seat glowed a very confused lemon-yellow aura marred by angry tinges of red with hints of muddy blue fear.

  Well, she’d wanted to see blue in a ghost for a change.

  Eight: Pris

  Italy

  * * *

  Pris studied the enormous, draped poster bed in the room to which Emma Rossi led her. The room itself was probably larger than her studio apartment. The bed might be the size of her kitchen. But the draperies were worn chintz and brown water spots stained the fading pink walls.

  Still, from the double French doors, the view of the hill bathed in moonlight was spectacular. Once upon a time, she supposed, there had been gardens and terraces. Now, only the kitchen garden remained. Palaces were difficult to maintain without servants. Or very large families.

  She’d seen olive trees on her way up here, so she assumed Gladwell’s farm and production plant were nearby. She had no notion of how to approach it. She just resented the heck out of being accused of murder by bigots like Jane Lawson.

  Pris hadn’t had a new call for her services since the poisonous lie had hit Lawless Jane’s faux news column. Maybe she shouldn’t have insulted the columnist on election night, but it had been too irresistible. Who knew people actually listened to idiots if they shouted loud enough?

  When she’d set her sights on Italy, she’d rather counted on Dante being on an archeological dig elsewhere, though. She already knew that she couldn’t use her gift to influence his thoughts, drat the man. He’d seen right through her head games—or he was thick as a brick.

  The area did have cooking schools, and she’d love to attend one, but she didn’t have that kind of cash. It had taken her entire savings account and everything the family could scrape together to send her here.

  Thinking on minimal sleep and a six hour time difference wasn’t productive. She should hit the sack, but childish giggles in the hall meant trouble. The dolt didn’t know what he had in those kids. Their open minds were quite brilliant.

  Wondering who and where their mother was, she eased open the heavy door and studied the hall. There, in the shadows, wearing thin nightshirts, the twins crouched on the marble stairs, peering down between the stone railings.

  Growing up in a family as weird as hers, Pris imagined all sorts of possibilities, but accepting that most families were normal, she joined them. She could hear Dante muttering below and caught flashes of the denim shirt he’d been wearing at dinner. What was the man doing?

  She’d been accused of reacting without thinking, but what was there to think about?

  Pris took the stairs down, the twins on her heels. They caught the giant imbecile in the act of balancing the quilted coat from the wardrobe and what appeared to be a stack of table linen while maneuvering his crutch into the immense front room. What did one call a room like that? It was big enough to be a ballroom. Or a grand hotel lobby.

  He glared at them and continued on his appointed path.

  Her nemesis was a large man, as tall and muscled as her cousin Evie’s team of demented military rejects. Worse yet, he was even more good looking than the male models who’d been escorting Lady Katherine. Dark hair with a slight curl—check. Square jaw—check. Rugged cheekbones—check. . . Oozing testosterone—lethal.

  Unfortunately, he had a poor opinion of women who took matters into their own hands, which was great. She’d irritate him as he did her.

  “You are seriously strange.” She usurped the stack of table linen.

  Hanging on to the coat, he lurched on his intended path toward a sofa with gilded, delicately curved legs that would never hold him.

  “You don’t have sleeping bags or air mattresses or cots or anything in this gothic palace?” Pris refused to lay the linens like sheets on the delicate antique.

  The twins dashed over to bounce on the upholstered sofa, raising clouds of dust in the dim light of a single lamp.

  “If I were in my flat in Rome, I’d have all the above. Those things weren’t invented in the 1800s and thus do not occupy this hellhole.” Finally speaking, he glared at the twins, who didn’t seem to notice.

  “This is where communication matters. Don’t expect me to read your mind.” She gestured at the twins. “Upstairs. Show me the blankets.”

  Amazingly, they took off in the direction of the stairs. She followed. At least they understood English.

  Dante had stacked his weird bedding on a chair and fixed himself a drink by the time she returned with arms full. Behind her, the twins dragged a narrow foam mattress. “On the floor or on that antique? Will it even hold you?”

  He glanced at the narrow sofa with distaste. “Probably not, but I don’t think I can manage the floor.”

  Forming a simple image of a lounge chair, she projected it to the kids. “Any big chairs down here?”

  They screwed up their little foreheads in thought, then dashed off again. She didn’t normally intrude on other minds like that, but children were delightfully simple. The resulting headache was almost worth the attempt.

  “Shouldn’t they be exhausted and sleeping?” Dante asked irritably, setting down his drink and attempting to arrange the foam on the narrow sofa.

  “I suspect they’re night owls, accustomed to prowling while your exhausted mother sleeps. They really do need a nanny. How bad is the leg?” Pris talked while watching the twins to see their direction.

  “Bruised tibia, maybe cracked, minor damage. It will heal on its own if I keep it iced and stay off of it for a while. Staying off is the problem. Why are you really here?”

  The twins shouted from the rear of the house. Ignoring his question, she followed the noise to the open kitchen doors. They were wrestling with an old—rusted—iron lounge chair on wheels. Pris assumed it once had a cushion. It was now no more than uncomfortable mesh, but it might work.

  It might work better with a little oil, but she managed to get the corroded wheels rolling the short distance into the kitchen so she could shut the doors. By that time, Dante had lurched his way back to join them.

  He snorted, lifted the thing in one hand, and moved it against a wall out of the traffic pattern of the kitchen.

  “Tell them they did good,” Pris whispered as the twins puttered around the chair, probably stirring the spiders.

  “Thank you, Alex, Nan, you are geniuses,” he said in a gravelly voice that could indicate disuse as much as it might show emotion.

  “Can we have a dog?” Nan asked instantly, proving they could talk when interested.

  “I’m afraid that’s up to your grandmother,” he said with what sounded like genuine regret. “How about a cookie and milk before you go to bed?”

  For a very brief moment, Pris almost liked the man.

  That wore off fast. Once the twins had consumed their treat and Pris attempted to usher them upstairs, Dante caught her arm.

  “If you’re not their nanny, then you can stay down here and explain what the hell you’re up to.”

  Dante disliked sitting still. He was accustomed to staying busy from the moment he rose to the moment he hit the bed, which could be twenty-four or thirty-six hours later, depending on travel schedules. Alcohol and painkillers had slowed him down tonight, but he still wanted to pace while the she-devil debated running away.

  To her credit, she chose to make up his bed instead. He probably shouldn’t call her a she-devil, but the irritating female had a way of looking at him as if she could see straight through his skull. Her eyes were almost amber in this light, like cat eyes, with great long lashes that concealed shadows beneath them. Beneath those witchy streaks of silver hair. . . Si, she worked at that image.

  He grabbed one end of the bedding and helped arrange it, then collapsed on a tall kitchen stool. “I’m not the one refusing to communicate now.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be running around the world, too busy to help others.” She opened the refrigerator and began removing items.

  He winced, remembering how they’d parted. But he really was busy, and she had plenty of family more than ready to go off on insane trajectories and wild rides. They hadn’t needed him—and he didn’t have time to be needed. “So you thought you’d just pop in and make yourself at home? How do you even know where I live?” He found one of the leftover breadsticks and chomped down on it.

  Her eyebrows raised in perfect brown arches. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they formed a diabolical curl. She fished a ceramic bowl out of a cabinet and smashed eggs into it before she answered.

  “You do remember my cousin Evie and her team of hacker geeks? Do you really think you popped into town, then disappeared again, without anyone checking you out? Jax might take you at your word, but friends don’t let friends get taken for a ride.” She whisked the eggs, then began flinging in other ingredients without measuring.

  “Ives have their own genealogical genies to prove my identity. Jax didn’t need help. And I only came to give him a warning. It wasn’t as if I asked to borrow money. So don’t bullshit me. Why are you here?”

  Damon Ives-Jackson, his newly discovered distant cousin, had explained some of his significant other’s witchy family history. Dante had heard weirder. His mother’s side of his family kept entire libraries of their eccentricities. The fact that this particular American branch of Malcolms had developed a reputation for fraud. . . Probably didn’t hold water. Still, Dante had seen them in action and remained wary of their anarchy that had almost got him arrested.

  “Well, since Vincent Gladwell and his daughter entered town on the heels of your departure, resulting in the destruction of my reputation and business, I think I have every reason to check them out. It seemed overly coincidental that he’s a neighbor of yours.” She filled a second bowl with flour and began adding handfuls of this and that.

  Dante processed this, but it made little sense. “Gladwell doesn’t own the land. Lucia Ugazio does. She’s his stepdaughter. Her cousin is running the farm these days. I’ve never spoken to Gladwell. I’m not certain he’s ever been here.”

  He had ten tons of resentment he could dump on the subject of Lucia Ugazio, but that was none of her damned business.

  “That’s not what he leads everyone to believe. According to the La Bella Gente website, Vincent developed a special variety of olive tree that flourished on this particular type of soil, generating top quality oil. Using old family recipes, they’ve been producing an extraordinary lotion that will make everyone who uses it rich and famous. Or something like that.” She threw handfuls of the flour mix into the eggs.

  Dante snorted. “That’s a bunch of marketing rot. Those trees have been there since the beginning of time, along with the grape vines. Leo is slowly replacing the oldest of both with new varieties and testing the results, and the family did once sell creams and lotions in the local market, but wine and olive oil are more lucrative. What’s La Bella Gente?”

  “Boutique selling olive-oil-based cosmetics. They’re also opening small Italian bistros where they sell gourmet olive oil, among other things. Their dried pasta cooks up like leather.” She pounded her fist into the dough, sending up clouds of flour.