A muffled meow stopped him. He turned toward the connecting door. It was closed and locked on his side, but he could see the shadows of four paws under the lower edge. The cat meowed again, sounding curious this time, and began to pace back and forth on the other side of the door.
Judson unlocked the door on his side, but when he tried the handle, he discovered that it was still secured on Gwen’s side.
“Sorry, cat,” he said. “You’re stuck in there for now.”
There was another muffled meow from the other room. This time the cat sounded irritated.
“Take it up with the boss lady,” Judson said.
He went back across the room and paused to brace his right boot against the bench at the foot of the bed. He pulled up his pant leg and checked the pistol in the leather sheath strapped to his ankle.
Satisfied that he was appropriately dressed for business—probably overdressed for this job—he let himself out into the hall and went back downstairs. A disturbing whisper of energy arced across his senses when he realized that Gwen was not waiting for him in the lobby.
The desk clerk looked up from whatever he was working on and squinted through his black-framed glasses. He was in his early thirties, with a stocky build and sandy brown hair that had evidently been thinning for a while. The comb-over style was not working for him. His nametag read Riley Duncan.
“If you’re looking for Ms. Frazier, she went outside to talk to a guy,” Riley said.
Judson nodded. “Thanks.”
He looked out the window and saw Gwen in the parking lot. She was not alone. A tall man with a shoulder-length mane of blond hair was with her. Something about the way the two stood together made it clear that they were not strangers. Gwen’s tightly crossed arms and angled chin told him that she was not happy with the way the conversation was going.
He pushed open the front door and went outside. It was late afternoon, and the Pacific Northwest was still basking in the long days of summer. But here in the mountains, twilight fell early, even at this time of year. The shadows were already creeping over Wilby.
Anticipation heated Judson’s blood as he walked toward Gwen and her companion. Maybe this was the guy he was going to have to kill to get to Gwen.
Gwen was facing the entrance of the inn. She was still wearing the trousers and dark, long-sleeved pullover that she’d had on earlier but she had added a lightweight black jacket. She saw him immediately. Relief followed by an urgent warning flashed through her eyes. Her smile was too bright and too welcoming. It was the smile a woman gave to a man with whom she was intimately involved. What’s wrong with this picture? Judson wondered.
“Oh, there you are, Judson,” she said quickly. “I was just explaining to Wesley that you and I have plans for this evening. This is Wesley Lancaster. Wesley, this is Judson Coppersmith.”
It didn’t take any psychic talent to know that he had just been promoted from the role of financial adviser to that of lover, Judson thought. No problem. He could work with that. He moved to stand very close to Gwen, his shoulder just brushing hers.
“Lancaster,” he said. Taking his cue from Gwen, he was careful to keep his tone civil, at least until he figured out what the hell was going on.
“Coppersmith.” Wesley acknowledged the introduction with a short, brusque inclination of his head that went well with his short, brusque greeting. It was clear that he was not thrilled to learn that Gwen was not alone.
At close range, it was clear that somewhere along the line a few Vikings had contributed to Wesley’s gene pool. He was tall, narrow-hipped and strategically muscled in the manner of a man who spent a fair amount of time at his gym. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, light-colored eyes and the elegantly styled sweep of blond hair added to the image. All he needed was an axe, shield and helmet to complete the look, Judson thought.
Instead of the battle armor, Wesley wore a pair of hand-tailored black trousers and a dark blue silk shirt. The collar of the shirt was open partway down his chest. A slouchy linen jacket, a pair of Italian loafers and some designer shades finished the look. But Judson was sure that no self-respecting Viking warrior would have been caught dead at his own funeral pyre looking like he was dressed to make a pitch at a Hollywood film studio.
“Wesley is the ghost hunter on Dead of Night, the television show that investigates reports of old hauntings and paranormal occurrences,” Gwen said.
That explained a lot, Judson thought.
“Is that right?” he said. He made himself stop there. No sense pushing the envelope by adding that he considered all ghost hunters to be frauds and that he had never heard of the show.
“Gwen tells me that the two of you are in town to handle Evelyn Ballinger’s funeral and her affairs,” Wesley said.
“That’s right.” Judson went for casual, still trying to get a feel for the vibe between Wesley and Gwen. They clearly shared a past, but beyond that things got murky fast. “What brings you to Wilby?”
Wesley blew out a long sigh and looked troubled. “I came here to see Evelyn. I’ve been trying to contact her for several days now. She stopped replying to my e-mails, and she wouldn’t respond to the messages I left on her voice mail. I decided to grab a plane to Portland and drive up here to Wilby to find out what was going on. It came as a hell of a shock to discover that Evelyn died sometime last night.”
“Why were you so concerned about her when you couldn’t get in touch?” Judson asked. “Close friends?”
“Business associates,” Wesley said grimly.
Gwen unfolded her arms and shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket. “Evelyn did some contract work for Wesley. She was his primary researcher. She checked out stories of hauntings and paranormal activity. It was her job to identify locations that were suitable for episodes of Dead of Night. After Wesley made his choice, I wrote up the script.”
Judson looked at her. “You did the scripts?”
“Yes,” she said. She glared, silently daring him to challenge that.
“For a series that investigates haunted houses?” he said carefully.
“Yes,” she said. Ice dripped from the word.
Wesley scowled. “You got a problem with that, Coppersmith?”
“No,” Judson said. “I knew Gwen was a psychic counselor, but I didn’t realize that she had been writing fiction, that’s all.”
Gwen raised her eyes toward the evening sky and looked mildly annoyed.
“Dead of Night is not fiction,” Wesley snapped. “We deal with real hauntings. Gwen’s scripts are based on the actual details and rumors that surround old murders and mysterious disappearances and deaths.”