Page 1112 of One More Kiss

Chapter2

After procuringJeff his tuna treat, I decided to tackle my four hundred and fifty-seventh attempt at searching for the key to the blasted attic. Beatrice had been hounding me for a solid week about that damn book—The Beginner’s Guide to Landscape Architecture. I had a feeling that Aunt Mercy only borrowed the thing to be sociable because there was no way my ninety-seven-year-old great aunt was going to utilize any aspect of that book herself.

I’d searched every bookshelf, every nook and cranny, and damned if I could find the thing. The only place I hadn’t explored yet was the attic, and that was because no matter what I tried, I could not open the door.

Mercy—well, now I—owned this 1870s Victorian, the style not typical to this tiny town on the coast of Georgia, but it seemed to fit regardless. I swear this thing was the bastard love child of the Addams Family house and the one from Beetlejuice. A full staircase led to the attic, the unthinkably thick wooden door defied physics, a locksmith, and every single key left to me in the transfer packet.

Skeleton keys, my ass.

There had to be another key around here somewhere that opened that stupid door. Either that, or I was going to take a blow torch to it.

I began my search in all the logical places one would think to leave a key: desk drawers, kitchen drawers, key hooks, and the like. When that turned up nothing, I expanded my search parameters to dresser drawers, candy dishes, and Mercy’s jewelry box.

There was something illicit in digging through someone’s jewelry box. Even if this house and everything in it was now mine, rifling through the box made me feel like I was a burglar or something. Well, it was less box and more like a jewelry wardrobe, but whatever. The mahogany chest stood about shoulder height with carved swirls in the trim and clawed pedestal feet almost reminiscent of an animal of some kind. It was one of the creepier pieces in the house.

Mercy had a boatload of jewelry: gorgeous cocktail rings and crazy-long strings of pearls. There were pins and broaches and even a tiara or two. One piece caught my eye, a giant sapphire cocktail ring that had to be worth a mint. Set in platinum and surrounded by a halo of diamonds, the dark-blue stone winked at me, practically begging for me to slip it on my finger.

Well, it technically was mine, right?

I plucked the gorgeous bauble from the velvet, but just as I was about to slide it on my finger, Jeff yowled right behind me. Jumping nearly a foot in the air, the ring slipped from my hand, and I watched in what felt like slow motion as Jeff leapt for it, catching it midair in his kitty mouth.

Then the little shit took off, tear-assing around the corner like a tiny little demon of destruction.

“Get your furry ass back here,” I yelled, racing after the cat from Hell as he bounded away.

The hall runner slipped and slid beneath my feet, and I nearly fell on my ass. I managed to catch myself before going down, but my scramble for balance cost me precious time, allowing Jeff to pick out a good spot to hide. Trying to calm my breathing, I listened for a skitter or scratch that would tell me where he was.

A flash of gray tail had me racing after him, and I nearly cornered him in the guest bath before he snaked around me like a Houdini kitty. Jeff took the corner too wide, though, smacking into one of the pedestal tables in the grand hall, knocking a vase over in his mad dash around the house. I nearly caught him again in the guest room before he faked me out and raced up the attic stairs.

I was smart enough not to believe I had him on the ropes. Jeff was a resourceful little bastard, and even with a locked door, I knew it would be foolish to count him out.

Racing behind him, I staggered to a stop when I not only found the attic door unlocked, but standing wide open, with Jeff zipping through it like it was just another Saturday. Like this damn door hadn’t been practically welded shut for the last few weeks. This had to be a freaking mirage or trap or some kind of portal to another dimension or something.

“Jeff!” I whisper-hissed, too scared to walk in there without a boatload of sage or some holy water on standby. “You little weasel! Get your furry ass out here,” I ordered, too scared to actually step one toe in that room.

Seriously, this was what horror movies were made of. But what if he dropped the ring or lost it? What if that stupid cat swallowed it and choked to death? Even if I hated him—which somehow, I miraculously didn’t—he didn’t deserve to die a horrible kitty death.

“Jeff!” I hissed again, praying he deigned to listen to me just this once.

Warily, I stepped into the musty attic. Sheet-covered furniture and what I hoped were oversized picture frames dotted the edges of the wide-open space. Closest to the entrance was an uncovered gilt-framed mirror resting precariously against the exposed brick. The corner was off-kilter and cocked out to the side like the heavy thing could fall at any second.

The fact that this one lone piece of furniture was uncovered creeped me all the way out. I’d barely caught my reflection in the mirror before I dutifully skittered my gaze away.

Definite haunted mirror vibes.

Every horror book I’d ever read flipped like a Rolodex in my brain.

Some people were afraid of basements.

Me? I was scared of attics.

Blame Jane Eyre or maybe Flowers in the Attic, but attics creeped me out.

“Come on, little dude,” I groused, full-on whining now that I was a few steps in. “I thought we were finally getting along. What do you want from me? More treats? A new cat tree? I will be the best cat mommy in the world if you just get the fuck over here and don’t choke on that ring.”

When I didn’t hear anything, I warned, “I do not know the kitty Heimlich, Jeff.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” a deep male voice said, and I screamed, whipping around, searching for it. I thought I was alone in this house. A raspy dude voice was not in the brochure.

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