No Hope In New Hope (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 7) Read online

  We’re talking serious damage here. I glanced back up to the locked glass cabinet door housing those rifles. Again I asked, was this hunter, or something else? The something else was looking like the clear winner.

  This cache and the over-the-top security left questions…

  Chapter 6

  Going To The Mattress

  Not willing to linger longer than necessary, I exited the basement and the front foyer then made my way down the hallway to the family room and back stairway that led to my apartment over the garages. I now had answers to that evening’s noisy mysteries, but was uneasy by what I had inadvertently discovered.

  No sooner had I taken a few steps into the art hallway, an ear-piercing sound blasted me from the speaker in the wall: the driveway annunciator. Who was driving up at this late hour? I raced to the family room French doors, but was too late, barely catching sight of taillights through the opaque drapes, passing by toward the garages.

  Okay, it was decision time. Do I stay put or sprint up the back stairs to the apartment? I chose the apartment, racing like hell, two steps at a time and shut the door behind me.

  I heard the side door below me open and close. I could have sworn I’d locked it. Maybe I’d mistakenly turned the key the wrong way and the door was never locked. Was it Clay? …And if it wasn’t…then who was it?

  I visually scanned for something to protect myself with. I looked down. I was still clutching that flashlight. It would have to do. I stood behind the door and waited to see if the intruder headed my way with my cell phone still on speed dial for 911. I wasn’t about to make that call quite yet though. I wanted to be sure about this. What if Alicia and Chris missed their flight and returned home? I’d look like some kind of lunatic. So I waited, ready to handle whatever would play out.

  Then I heard footsteps on the backstairs.

  I knew if it was Clay, he’d have called or texted by now.

  I was about to dial 911, but then my cell flipped from my grasp, bounced off one of the upholstered chairs and landed silently across the carpeted room. My eyes flashed back to the door handle that was now slowly turning.

  …Alicia and Chris would have at least knocked, right?

  Damn. I’d forgotten to lock it. I quickly raised my arm back, gripping the flashlight tightly. The door eased open then paused, as though someone was waiting, listening. I took a breath and brought my arm up higher getting ready to bring it down hard. I saw a hand appear and decided it was now or never and swung hard. But that hand shot out, blocked my swing and knocked me off balance.

  Next thing I knew, I was flat out on the carpet with Clay on top, staring down at me and wearing that sly grin of his.

  “I wasn’t falling for your behind-the-door move again.”

  “You know I hate surprises,” I scolded halfheartedly.

  “…Oh, baby,” he said, laying his killer kiss on me.

  Our lips parted. I grinned. “About time you got here.”

  “How about we take this hello to the mattress?” he said.

  I was still smiling. “It’s an orthopedic one too.”

  Chapter 7

  Snacking & Surmising

  “You’re becoming a dicey liability when I arrive late.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Then I suggest you don’t.”

  “Hey, I couldn’t help it,” said Clay, eating cold chicken.

  Our going to the mattress had worked up our appetites.

  I dug into pasta primavera on a bed of arugula. “So?”

  “So what?” Clay asked, taking another bite.

  “What was the big delay all about?”

  I could tell he was giving that some thought by the way he didn’t answer right away. Was he making something up?

  Now, you see what I have to deal with: a world of doubt.

  He wiped his mouth. I would have licked it for him, but stayed in my seat, trying to save my energy for later.

  Something wasn’t right. “I should tell you…” he began.

  I knew that look and set my fork down. “Okay, what?”

  He leaned back, sighing, probably trying to figure out how to phrase his next words so I wouldn’t freak out.

  “It’s not what you think,” he finally replied lamely.

  “Oh, yeah? I’ve heard that line before.”

  He eyed me “This trip also involves a new venture.”

  I stopped eating. “Why do I have a feeling you’re about to lay one on me that might interfere with my digestion?”

  “You have to trust me on this.”

  “How can I when you haven’t told me yet?”

  “Well, I was coming to that.”

  I waited a beat. “And?”

  “Oh, hell! I sold my bookstore: lock, stock and barrel.”

  I waited for the punch line. Nothing. “Seriously?”

  “No joke.”

  “Who did you sell it to?”

  “Remember that manager I hired a while ago?”

  “The one Martha, Hazel and Betty rubbed egos with?”

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. “The one and only.”

  I thought how upset the ladies would be. “But why?”

  “Sales were slow. Everything’s digital. I wanted out.”

  “You mean you were too busy tramping the globe.”

  “True, but I’ve been thinking of diversifying anyway.”

  So this was the crux of it. “Into what field?”

  He watched me warily. “I might try my hand at art.”

  I played along. “By painting, buying or selling it?”

  “Selling it. I figured New Hope might be the ticket.”

  I slapped the table. “I knew this was too convenient!”

  “Convenient?” Clay asked innocently.

  “Don’t give me that doe-eyed look, you con artist.”

  “Okay, so maybe I may have been negotiating.”

  “What do you mean, negotiating?”

  “To babysit the Worths’ gallery to see if I liked it.”

  “And what about Martha, Hazel and Betty?”

  “That’s what is so great about this,” Clay said.

  Those poor ladies. “Hey, speak English.”

  “I hired them for this gallery to help us out.”

  “Whoa, just a minute! What do you mean, us?”

  Chapter 8

  Ruminating

  As the sun streaked across my laptop, I glanced at Clay. He was still sleeping. His revelation last night was a whopper. I was grateful Alicia stocked us with plenty of coffee for the coffeemaker sitting on our kitchen counter. I’d personally thank her for that. It was helping clear the cobwebs, while I considered what had and was happening. Clay’s latest news caught me off guard.

  I was letting him sleep in, mainly because I didn’t want Clay to distract me with his clever remarks that might confuse and disguise further what was now the real reason why we were in New Hope in the first place: the Worths’ art gallery and the possibility of him buying it.

  So what about the gallery in question?

  Was Clay serious when he said he wanted to see if it was a good fit? As far as selling his bookstore, that had come out of left field. But then again, he’d been traveling so much lately, along with my semi-retired crew and me. It didn’t make sense to keep it, especially after I’d sold my antique store there and was writing full-time on the fly. When I sold my store, Clay hired Martha for his bookstore.

  So this arrangement worked well for everyone.

  He was right when it came to books. Digital books were replacing physical books in sales just about everywhere. All I saw when I traveled were e-readers. It was much easier to travel with one device rather than several books, which were cumbersome and bulky. I loved my e-reader. As a lover of the written word, I was a quick convert once I got my hands on one as a gift from Clay.

  As an author, forgive this pun: I saw the writing on the wall. After my fourth mystery, I went digital format only. So far I was pleased by my decision. Cla
y’s decision made sense too. But his one about this gallery had me stumped.

  Why art? Or was something else going on here?

  I swear I’ve become so distrustful, on the lookout for sneaky ulterior motives where people claimed there were none. Was I wrong feeling that niggling doubt? I felt it now sitting in the back of my mind just waiting for me to stumble upon something that confirmed it.

  I thought back to what I’d discovered in this house: the extensive artwork, which should be expected here, and the security system, which was also expected. But that loaded gun cabinet in the basement, I did not expect. I couldn’t nail down this instinctive feeling nagging me about this whole trip so far, but it was there nevertheless.

  Was Clay treading into an area he shouldn’t?

  I leaned back, thinking, taking another sip of my coffee. Maybe Clay really was genuinely interested in diversifying like he’d said. But the more I thought about it, the more I understood where he was coming from. He always traveled, so he could pick up art anywhere and network at the same time. And the ladies would have a place to work that was stimulating but still safe…well, safe for the ladies maybe, but certainly not for this town or anybody in it.

  Once we got together, there’d be No Hope In New Hope.

  Chapter 9

  A Not So Picture-Perfect Gallery

  After breakfast, Clay took the red Jeep and drove us to the art gallery. He left his car rental outside by the Worths’ basketball court: another fringe benefit on their property. The more I thought about this whole art gallery venture and its advantages: Clay might be onto something.

  Downtown streets were metered, but Alicia and Chris said they had a free parking area for employees. I scanned the tiny lot while we parked. Five spots exactly: meaning not many employees. Was the gallery small too?

  Clay thought it best if we used the front door rather than disturb the employees by entering through the back one. Introductions should be made first. Clay said to not let on his interest in buying the gallery, only that we’d be helping out Alicia and Chris. We’d mention our crew later on.

  My first surprise: the gallery was in an old house. I heard a jingle and glanced up. The door hit a tiny bell each time someone entered, just like Clay’s old bookshop in Highlands.

  …Was that a good omen or bad one?

  I had a feeling that the ladies would probably like that reminiscent touch. Clay was several steps ahead of me; I hung behind to gaze around the airy gallery. It had a twelve-foot ceiling that opened up to the polished rafters. A metal curved staircase led to a loft area. Swathes of beige silk hung from the elongated multi-paned windows. I’d expected a store, but this was an historic house located on a side street, trimmed in intricate wood detailing everywhere.

  Several well-used brown leather wingchairs half-ringed an old marble fireplace. An antique mahogany coffee table anchored them. The effect gave the older gallery an air of intimacy, yet came off as sophisticated at the same time. I liked it. And judging by Clay’s smile, he did too.

  I heard the clatter of high heels on the hardwood floor and turned. A blonde in her thirties approached Clay, but not before I caught a flicker of annoyance at me before her smile masked it. Had I imagined it? I inched possessively in Clay’s direction, while stiffly surveying her.

  Her hair was pulled back in a French twist. She was slim with a toned body: her snug black dress barely covered her shapely legs. Ignoring me completely, her blue eyes latched onto Clay’s.

  I disliked her already.

  I glanced over at tall, dark and hunky Clay, who was smiling down at her from his over six-foot perch. I frowned with a tinge of jealousy and felt like kicking him.

  Clay liked blondes: they were his favorite.

  “And what can I do for you today, Mr.…?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him.

  “Please, call me Clay,” he responded smoothly.

  I closed the distance on the two of them. After seeing her, I already regretted how I looked: my long blonde hair in a casual ponytail, my choice of wearing well-worn jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. She checked me from head to toe, remarking glibly and dismissing me with, “There are other galleries in your price range…Miss.”

  I feigned shock. “What, you don’t have any Pissarro or Cortes paintings here?”

  That was when Clay discreetly pinched me.

  I smiled sweetly at him. “What can I say, I’m a high-end kind of girl.”

  Chapter 10

  Ah, The Subtleties Of Nuance

  Her face went scarlet. “Excuse me? You’re together?”

  “I’m Mr. Masters,” Clay said, smiling warmly at the blonde. “I’m here to help run this gallery, while Alicia and Chris are over in London. I’m sure they called to let you know about me.”

  The woman quickly regained her composure. “I’m an art restorer and not usually on the gallery floor. I rent my own space here in an office near the young lady, who does the framing in the back area. That’s where I spend most of my time.” She added disdainfully: “I am not a salesperson.”

  I cleared my throat loudly and Clay remembered me. “Oh, this is Samantha Jamison, a friend of mine who will be helping me. Alicia mentioned she had a workspace in the loft that Samantha might use for writing.”

  Blondie waved a hand. “No need. The brochures are just fine. Their printer takes care of that. He does a terrific job.”

  Fuming, I eyed Clay, who swiftly said, “No, she writes.”

  She glanced my way. “What? Jingles, commercials…?”

  “No, murder mysteries…slow painful ones.”

  “Oh, well, isn’t that nice,” she said condescendingly.

  I began moving forward, but Clay blocked me.

  “How about you show us around, Mrs.…?”

  “Miss, Anne Wythe, both ending with an e,” she purred.

  I gave her a syrupy smile. “How quaint.”

  She threw me an annoyed look. “Historical lineage.”

  Just then a scream emerged from the back area.

  “Oh no! What has Abby gotten into now?” Anne Wythe, along with her two e’s, rushed off.

  Clay looked at me. “I think we should go see too.”

  “Oh, brother,” I hissed, annoyed. “Next thing you know, she’ll tell us her ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

  He grabbed my hand and began pulling me toward the commotion in the back. “Come on. It could be worse.”

  “How? We’ll be stuck listening to her for over a week.”

  Clay looked at me, laughing. “Or maybe longer.”

  “I’m afraid I might have to kill her first.”

  “Don’t say anything you might regret.”

  “No, actually I think it would give me great pleasure.”

  “You see?” Clay said, “That’s another example.”

  I looked at him, mystified. “An example of what?”

  “Why we’re so great together.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked flirtatiously. “And why is that?”

  “I never quite know what to expect from you. I like it.”

  I nudged him. “I like to keep you on your toes.”

  But then Clay abruptly turned serious, leaning into me.

  “Do you feel what I’m feeling about this, Sam?”

  I stopped and looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  He frowned. “I think we’ve walked into a hornet’s nest.”

  I agreed, nodding. “Let’s just hope we don’t get stung.”

  Chapter 11

  Addressing Abby

  We entered the packing area, where a frail-looking brunette, wearing glasses, was now the recipient of that witch’s forked tongue. I decided at that moment Blondie didn’t deserve that genteel name of Anne. It didn’t suit her.

  Abby had a rag around her bleeding finger.

  “But there’s a guard on the paper cutter!” yelled Anne.

  “I rushed an order for UPS and it malfunctioned again.”

  “I hope
you didn’t screw up this packing slip too.”

  “I read that old slip correctly,” said the teary-eyed girl.

  “How stupid can you get? That old lady had a stroke.”

  Then Anne began shouting something about a packing label that had the wrong address on it. The nude painting went to a little old lady who had bought a still life of fruit.

  I sighed to Clay. “Tell me there are better days than this in an art gallery.”

  He chuckled. “This might be an off-day around here.”

  “For the gallery or her royal highness, Anne-with-an-e?”

  Abby had handed Anne a slip. “Read that slip yourself.”

  Anne snatched the invoice from Abby’s unsteady hand.

  We watched in silence while Anne looked at the slip.

  “Well, I may have switched the addresses by accident.”

  Biting her lip, Abby said nothing.

  Then Anne threw the paper invoice down and walked out, hissing over her shoulder, “If you were bright enough to double-check it then none of this would have happened. I’m an art restorer helping out, not an order-taker.”

  I snickered. “She could’ve fooled me,” I whispered.

  “Why do you think she’s so excitable?” Clay teased.

  “Don’t even bring up the blonde thing,” I said.

  He winked. “I wouldn’t dare. It would be detrimental.”

  “We should introduce ourselves to Abby,” I murmured.

  But then Anne stuck her head back into the room.

  “If you will excuse me, I need to make a few calls.”

  “Of course, we’ll touch base with you later,” said Clay.

  “Much, much later,” I mumbled.

  Hearing my snarky remark, Abby tried not to laugh.

  I stuck out my hand, “Hi, my name is Samantha.”

  She briefly released her injured finger to shake my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Abigail. Call me Abby with a y,” she chuckled.

  Clay stuck his hand out, “Hi Abby. I’m Clay.”