The Sinner Read online

  “Yes, I’d love to, but I’ll need to stop by the house first.” I glanced down at my grubby work clothes. “No respectable establishment will allow me in the front door until I shower and change.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Temple said with her usual frankness. “Take your time and give me a call when you’re ready. I’ll be down at the circle with James and Detective Kendrick. Fascinating place,” she said with a strange smile.

  My curiosity about the activity in the circle tempted me to halt work and follow her. But if Kendrick really was avoiding me for whatever reason, maybe it was best that I also keep my distance.

  Dropping to my knees, I pulled on my gloves and set to work once more, determined not to dwell on Kendrick and the excavations or my conversation with Darius Goodwine. But it was hard to discount Darius’s warning about the cold-blooded nature of the Congé when Dr. Shaw had told me something similar. He’d even gone so far as to warn me to keep our discussion private. How strange to think that for most of my life I’d feared the ravenous appetites of ghosts when my greatest threat might now lurk among the living.

  I worked for another hour or so and then loaded up the car and called to Angus. Once home, I left him in the backyard to explore while I went from room to room making sure everything was as I’d left it that morning. The added precaution had become a daily routine. Checking and rechecking doors and windows, glancing inside closets and underneath beds. With everything that had happened, I couldn’t be too careful. I had no one I could trust down here, no one I could turn to for help. Angus and I were on our own and maybe we always had been.

  Satisfied that the premises were secure, I filled his food and water bowls and then hurried into the bathroom for a cool shower. A little while later, dressed in a pair of jeans and a sleeveless blouse, I headed into town to meet Temple.

  I’d chosen a small establishment that I thought would be mostly empty at such an early hour because we had a lot to discuss. I no longer suspected her of having anything to do with the Congé—an utterly preposterous notion—but despite her modest background, she was well connected. She’d attended Emerson University with the offspring of the rich and powerful and she still traveled in privileged circles. If anyone would know about a secret organization affiliated with the Order of the Coffin and the Claw, it would be her. However, I had to take care that no one overheard us. Darius Goodwine’s motives might still be in question, but I trusted Dr. Shaw with my life.

  As I strode along the sidewalk on my way to the restaurant, my gaze strayed to the locksmith’s shop and to that gilded key painted on the window. I thought back to the lurking shadow behind the key and to the flash of those ruby earrings. I’d caught a glimpse of the victim just days before her death, but I couldn’t have known then what lay in wait for her, perhaps in the shadows of that very shop.

  I had a few minutes before meeting Temple and so I crossed the street and tried the door. When I found it unlocked, I stepped inside before I could change my mind.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Some dark, sinister place, I supposed, but the shop was well lit and tidy. Display cabinets formed a U around the narrow room and the walls were lined with dozens of old padlocks, reminding me once again of all those hanging keys in Rose’s sanctuary.

  As my gaze moved over the shop, I experienced the same sensation I’d felt in the courtyard. I’d been led to this place for a reason. Whatever Martin Stark’s relationship to the victim, whatever his family’s history with Atticus Pope, I had a feeling he was somehow a piece of my larger puzzle.

  He stood behind the back counter, head lowered to his work, but as I moved into the shop, he pushed up his headband magnifier to observe me. He wasn’t much older than Annalee Nash, mid-to late thirties, I guessed, but sunlight glinted on silvery strands in his hair.

  He showed no reaction to my presence and that surprised me. A part of me had expected him to share in that odd feeling of providence, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Not at first. Then as I approached the counter, his eyes flared with the same hostility I’d noticed in the clearing. Our paths had never crossed, but for whatever reason my presence provoked a negative reaction in him.

  “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.

  “I was told you had an impressive collection of antique locks, but I never dreamed there’d be so many. I hardly know where to look.”

  “If you’re interested in something specific, I can point you in the right direction,” he said.

  “Nothing specific. As a matter of fact, I’m hoping you can tell me something about an antique key that I own.” I stepped up to the counter and removed Rose’s key from my blouse, extending the ribbon so that he could study the intricate scrollwork. “I inherited it from my great-grandmother. She was a collector of lost keys. I don’t know where she happened upon this one. I don’t know anything about it at all except that it looks very old. I was told there was once a sister key, but I have no idea what happened to it.”

  “Might be helpful if I could have a closer look,” he said as he pulled the lighted magnifier down over his eyes.

  I was reluctant to remove the key from around my neck. I’d grown too accustomed to relying on its protection, but I sometimes wondered if the key was nothing more than a symbol through which I could harness the power that I already possessed. If I lost the key, would I still be able to keep the ghosts at bay with the unbound energy of death? I didn’t want to take that chance. However, I was the one who had approached Martin Stark so I could hardly balk at his request. I slipped the ribbon over my head and placed the key in his hand.

  At the moment of contact, his fingers parted and the key clattered against the glass top of the display case.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He clenched his fingers into a tight fist as if the key had somehow burned him. Not such a far-fetched notion. I’d also experienced a warming sensation from the metal, usually in the presence of ghosts.

  He bent over the counter. “The scrollwork is extraordinary,” he muttered.

  “Could you make a guess as to the age?”

  “Eighteenth century at least. It’s been well taken care of. Treasured, I would say. Even the bit is in good shape, but something has been scuffed out on the shank.” He pushed back the magnifier as he glanced up at me. “Do you see what I mean?” He ran a fingertip across the metal near the bow.

  “Aren’t those just scratches from ordinary wear and tear? It is an old key, after all.”

  “They may look random to the naked eye, but with sufficient magnification, you can tell the marks were deliberately etched into the metal. My guess is to cover up a number.” He took out a powerful-looking scope from beneath the counter and once again bent over the key as he adjusted the light. “I can make out a deeper engraving beneath the scratches. Maybe a three or an eight.”

  I leaned in for a closer look. I’d worn that key every day for over a year, ever since it had been placed on my bedside table. How was it that Martin Stark had discovered something in the metal that I’d failed to notice in all that time?

  “Why would someone scratch out a number?” I asked.

  “Probably to insure the key wouldn’t be associated with a certain house or building if it fell into the wrong hands. The Carolinas have always been home to dozens of secret meeting places, especially during times of war.”

  I was instantly intrigued. Was that why I’d been led to this shop? Was that Martin Stark’s role in my bigger puzzle? To alert me to the snuffed-out number?

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked anxiously.

  “You’re aware of the signature of the locksmith?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s integrated into the scrollwork of the bow. See the way the metal curls around on either side to form double S’s? Samuel Story was a renowned Charleston metal smith. Many of the homes in the historic di
strict still have original Story locks.” He glanced up. “Is that where your great-grandmother lived?”

  Was that suspicion I heard in his voice? “She came from humble beginnings so I’m certain she never lived in the historic district. She may have spent time in Charleston as a girl, but she moved to the Blue Ridge Mountains after she married. She lived in Aiken County at the time of her death, but that was a long time ago.”

  The bells over the door jangled as someone came into the shop. For a moment, Martin Stark remained fixated on Rose’s key. He seemed reluctant to part with it. Then picking up the ribbon, he dangled the key in the air for a moment before dropping it into my palm. “If you ever decide to sell it...”

  “I won’t. But thank you so much for your help.”

  Twenty

  Temple was seated in the bar when I arrived at the restaurant. She waved me over and smiled a greeting as I slid onto the stool across from her. We ordered drinks and then sat sipping wine while we caught up on our current projects.

  “You’ve certainly been busy,” she remarked after I’d told her all about my current restoration.

  “It’s been a challenging project,” I said.

  “I’m not talking about work. I haven’t spoken to you in a while and now I find out you’ve embroiled yourself in yet another murder investigation.”

  I frowned at her assessment. “I wouldn’t say embroiled. I stumbled across a body and called the police.”

  “You seem to have a knack for finding crime scenes,” she murmured. “What do you make of that whole circle situation? The mortsafes and the dead woman. Not to mention the missing skull. They must all be related in some way.”

  “Didn’t you ask Detective Kendrick?”

  “He wasn’t at all forthcoming. A very taciturn man, your Detective Kendrick.”

  “My Detective Kendrick?”

  She shrugged. “He’s very attractive but a little too intense for my taste. You definitely seem to have a type, though.” She lifted her drink, eyeing me over the rim. “What’s going on between you two, anyway?”

  “Nothing’s going on. Why do you imply that there is?”

  “He had a noticeable reaction when I mentioned your name and he went out of his way to avoid running into you in the cemetery. In much the same way, I might add, that you’re avoiding eye contact with me at this very moment.”

  “I’m not.” I gave her a deliberate stare. “And there’s nothing going on with Detective Kendrick and me.”

  She gave me one of her knowing smiles. “If you say so. But if there were, you’d have no reason to feel guilty about it.”

  “Why would I feel guilty?”

  “Because you’ve always been loyal to a fault. But you don’t owe John Devlin anything. Whatever you had with him is over. He’s in the past. Although I can certainly understand why you’d feel a little gun-shy after what happened.” She paused thoughtfully. “What did happen, exactly? I’ve never been clear on that.”

  Nor was I. All I’d been told was that his grandfather had gotten mixed up with some very bad people and Devlin thought it dangerous for us to be together. Of course, I knew there was more to his reasoning than that. Somehow his departure was linked to his past and to his legacy as a Devlin. I had to wonder if it might be connected to my legacy, as well. He and I had shared an experience during our time at Kroll Cemetery, a supernatural encounter that should have brought us closer together, but instead had deepened the chasm between us. I hadn’t understood our estrangement then and I still didn’t understand it now.

  “It was a matter of timing,” I said uneasily. “His grandfather became ill and Devlin had commitments and responsibilities.”

  “What utter nonsense,” Temple said bluntly. “I hope you didn’t buy that flimsy excuse. And I must say, if his grandfather really was so ill, he appears to have made a full recovery. He looked perfectly fine when I saw him last week.”

  I scowled across the table at her. “When did you see him? And how do you even know Jonathan Devlin?”

  “Oh, I don’t know him. But I happened to be at a restaurant in Charleston the other night when he and Devlin came in together. The resemblance and age difference were sufficient for me to assume he was the grandfather.”

  I toyed with my wineglass. “Did you talk to Devlin?”

  “Just to say hello. He was with a strange party of mostly elderly gentlemen. Very staid and conservative. Old-money types. With the exception of the amazon in red, they looked as if they were headed to a wake.”

  I told myself to let the matter drop, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from asking, “The amazon in red?”

  Temple rolled her eyes dreamily. “Elegantly windblown and legs for days.”

  “And you say she was with Devlin’s party?”

  “Yes. In fact...” Temple trailed off as her gaze turned anxious. “I got the impression she was with Devlin. The two of them appeared close.”

  My heart jolted painfully. “How close?”

  “No PDAs but lots of whispering and meaningful gazes.” She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “I’m not telling you this to hurt you. I hope you realize that. I just thought you should know in case you’re letting something pass you by out of misplaced loyalty to Devlin.”

  “Thank you,” I managed, even though I couldn’t catch my breath for a second. I felt as if I’d fallen from a very high place and landed on my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs. I was devastated by Temple’s revelation, but not really surprised. A part of me had been waiting for this moment ever since Devlin had ended things in Kroll Cemetery. I knew there was the possibility, even the probability, that he would move on, especially now that he had returned to the Devlin fold.

  “He introduced us, but I don’t remember her name,” Temple went on. “Claire something-or-other, I think.”

  Of course her name would be Claire or Charlotte or Caroline. I had a very clear picture of her. Blonde, beautiful, sophisticated. Smart, too, I imagined, and from just the right kind of family. A golden woman. The kind I’d always imagined with Devlin, this Claire something-or-other.

  Claire.

  How I hated that beautiful name.

  I gulped air and then some wine.

  “Are you okay?” Temple asked worriedly.

  “I’m fine.” I forced a normal tone to my voice. No easy feat considering the lump in my throat and the ringing in my ears.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I said flatly. “I don’t want to talk about Devlin or Kendrick or any other man, for that matter. I want to ask you about the Order of the Coffin and the Claw.” I’d planned to bring up the subject more casually, but I needed an immediate diversion. Something to erase the images floating around inside my head of a beautiful blonde on Devlin’s arm and in his bed. Claire. Claire something-or-other.

  I shuddered and gripped the stem of my wineglass.

  “Why do you want to talk about the Claws?” Temple asked in annoyance. “I’ve never understood your fascination for that group, especially now that you’re no longer with John Devlin. This doesn’t have anything to do with the reason you two broke up, does it?”

  “No, not really. At least, I don’t think so. But it may have something to do with the body I found in the caged grave.”

  Temple’s eyes widened. “My God, really? How?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “But you’re not embroiled in the investigation. Oh, no, not at all.”

  “Okay, maybe I am a little,” I relented. “It’s only natural to be curious. And to be honest, I’ve always had a feeling that you know more about the Order of the Coffin and the Claw than you’ve ever admitted.”

  She sighed and took a sip of her wine. “You and your c
onspiracy theories. I told you before, even if I’d had the right pedigree for those people, I was never a joiner.”

  “I know that’s what you said, but you did go to school with them. You attended their parties. You must have heard things.”

  “Like what?”

  I glanced around the restaurant, feeling the same kind of paranoia that Dr. Shaw had displayed in his office. “This is going to sound strange, but bear with me, okay?”

  “Sound strange? Coming from you?”

  “Have you ever heard of another secret group that recruits from the Order?”

  She gave me a doubtful look. “What do you mean, ‘recruits’?”

  “The elite chosen from the elite. I can’t say much more than that. I just wondered if you’d ever heard of such a thing.”

  I expected her to brush me off or laugh again in my face, but instead she fell silent as she stared into her wineglass.

  I leaned in. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

  She glanced up. “Call me crazy, but I actually think I know what you’re talking about for once.”

  “You do? What have you heard?” I pressed.

  Now she was the one who leaned across the table, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “There was this guy I dated briefly at Emerson. Aaron, I think his name was. Cute boy. Very sweet. He wasn’t like the other Claws I knew. Not at all arrogant or full of himself. He was quiet and unassuming. A deep thinker. He seemed to abhor everything that the Order of the Coffin and the Claw stood for. All the parties and ceremonies. The secrecy. He told me once he’d only agreed to the initiation because he was legacy and it was expected of him. Anyway, we went out a few times and then he just stopped coming around. We were hardly serious so I wasn’t bothered by his behavior, but I did find it odd. It wasn’t like him just to disappear without a word.”

  “You never saw him again?”

  “Not for months. Then I ran into him one day in Charleston. It was the strangest thing, Amelia. He’d changed so much I almost didn’t recognize him. Not just his physical appearance, but also the way he carried himself, the way he spoke...everything about him was different. I found his transformation very unsettling.”