A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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can’t believe I was screaming like that. I wouldn’t have worried you for the world. How ridiculous. I guess it happened because it’s Halloween.”
He smiled. “Why, Miss Jillian, you’ve never been afraid of Halloween, or the dark, or things that go bump in the night.”
She lifted a hand. “I’m at a loss myself. But I’m sorry.” She set her palm on his chest. His heart rate was slowing.
“I’m fine, Miss Jillian. Just fine. The old ticker is pumping just as it should. Shall I fix you a drink? A hot toddy?”
“No, no more alcohol,” she said.
He arched a brow.
“I had a few Guinness Stouts,” she told him.
“Well, then, what say we share some hot chocolate?”
She smiled. “Sounds good.”
As she had since she’d been a little girl, after her mother died, she slipped her hand into his. They walked out to the second floor landing and down to the kitchen together.
As they chatted, memories of the awful vividness of the nightmare faded.
She didn’t tell him much about her Halloween evening at Hennessey’s, though. And she didn’t say a word about the tarot card reader, or the arrival of Robert Marston.
Eventually, warm and relaxed, she yawned, thanked Henry and headed up to bed.
She tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. Suddenly, after all these years, she hated the dark.
She rose. The main light would be too bright. Even the reading light by her bed would be too much. She turned on the bathroom light, then left the door open a crack and lay back down in bed.
Better, but still…
She’d never been afraid before. Of the darkness, of the night. If there were ghosts in her life, they were good ghosts. People who had loved her. Her mother. Her father.
Milo.
Her eyes fell on the snow globe that sat on her nightstand between the lamp and the silver-framed picture of Milo and herself. Always smiling. No matter what pain had plagued him. He had loved art and music, dance, theater, the world. An eternal optimist. The pain was okay, because he was living, still with her, still seeing the world. Death would be okay, too, because then the pain would be gone, and there was a better world.
He had given her the snow globe. It played a beautiful, if somewhat sad, tune, though the title was a mystery. It held a wilderness scene, with horses and riders racing through a winter landscape. She shook it and watched the snow fall.
“I wish you were with me, old friend,” she said softly.
A few minutes later, she felt an odd sense of peace settling over her.
Finally she slept. And the dream didn’t come again.
Connie was the first to enter Jillian’s office in the morning. She stepped in humming, then came to a dead halt. A scream escaped her, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to stop it.
Someone rushed in behind her, and she spun around. Daniel Llewellyn.
Like her, he stood dead still. Staring. At the cat.
“Jeeves is…dead,” she said.
“Sure looks like it,” Daniel said.
“Hey, what’s all the commotion?” Griff demanded, walking in behind them.
They both looked at Griff with almost as much surprise as they had stared at the cat.
“You’re early,” Connie said.
“Keeping on my toes,” Griff said lightly, then saw the cat. “Whoa, what happened to him?”
“Connie?” Joe rushed in, looking anxiously at his wife. “I heard you screaming. What—”
“It’s the cat,” she explained.
“The cat?” Joe queried, puzzled.
“Jeeves apparently climbed up on Jillian’s desk to die last night,” Daniel explained. “We shouldn’t have kept a cat in the office in the first place,” he muttered.
“I looked after him,” Griff said, walking over to the dead cat, picking it up. “He’s cold. Dead a long time. What could have happened to him? There are no dogs in here, no cars to run him over—”
“Maybe he was just old,” Joe suggested tactfully. “I mean, no one knew much about him.”
“Should we have…an autopsy?” Connie asked. “An investigation?”
“Cut him up?” Griff demanded indignantly. He stroked the dead cat, looking hurt and troubled.
“I don’t think we can call the police in over a dead cat,” Daniel said dryly.
“But…” Connie began, and shivered suddenly. “A black cat…just dead. On Halloween.”
“In Jillian’s office,” Joe said.
“And after last night,” Connie moaned.
“Last night?” Daniel queried.
“She passed out at the bar,” Joe explained.
“The golden girl got drunk and passed out?” Griff said skeptically.
Connie offered him a withering glare. “Of course not, she just—”
“It was the fortune-teller,” Joe said.
“Tarot card reader,” Connie corrected.
“What?” Daniel demanded, incredulously.
“She started screaming that Jillian was a witch.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ve all called her a name or two along the way,” Griff drawled.
“It was spooky,” Connie informed them firmly.
“Yeah, it was kind of uncanny,” Joe agreed, setting his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “Then Marston appeared—”
“Robert Marston showed up at the bar?” Daniel asked sharply.
“And Jillian passed out?” Griff said, brow furrowed as he tried to understand the chronology of events. “Because of Marston?”
“No…no…” Connie murmured uncertainly.
“It was the bar, I guess,” Joe said.
“The bar or the beer?” Daniel asked.
“She wasn’t drunk,” Connie told him.
“The fortune-teller made her think she was a witch?” Griff asked, as confused as his brother.
“No…but I…” Connie began.
“I don’t think we should let her find Jeeves like this,” Joe said flatly. “She loved that cat.”
“She loves anything with fur,” Daniel commented.
“Is that true of her men, too?” Griff asked Connie, teasing.
“Griff…” Daniel began warningly.
“Hey, she’s coming!” Joe alerted them, stepping in and closing the door. “She’s on her way down the hall.”
Griff quickly slid the dead cat behind his back. Connie rushed over to him, standing behind him so the dead cat was fully hidden.
“The tray of cookies is still there,” Daniel muttered.
“I’ll just grab it,” Joe volunteered.
When Jillian stepped into her office, it was more than weird. Connie and Griff were standing to one side, were very close to one another, looking like