Forbidden Touch. Paula Graves

glass and started polishing. “A man go into the Tremaine yesterday. Say his friend missing from St. George. Gone, nobody know where.”

      Maddox hadn’t heard about it. “Did he talk to the police?”

      Claudell made a face. “They want it go away.” He lowered his voice, as if imparting a deep, dark secret. “There more.”

      “More disappearances?”

      Claudell nodded. “Bad thing happen at St. George. You smart, you stay away.” The telephone sitting at the end of the bar began ringing. Claudell went to answer it.

      Maddox looked down at Sandrine’s image on his cell phone. Where’d you go, darlin’?

      The bartender wasn’t what he’d call a reliable source; his integrity was questionable, and he was a sucker for a spooky story. But if Iris’s friend Sandrine wasn’t the only person to go missing from St. George—

      His cell phone vibrated against his palm. The display panel popped up, showing an unfamiliar number. Maddox slid off the bar stool and headed outside, pushing the connect button on the phone. “Yeah?”

      “Is this Mr. Heller?”

      Well, hell. “Who’s askin’?”

      “My name is Charles Kipler. My client Celia Shore wants to thank you for your aid to her this morning.”

      “I think you must have the wrong guy.”

      “You weren’t the man who gave aid to an injured woman on the beach earlier this afternoon?”

      He ought to deny it. Save himself the headache. But there were a lot of unanswered questions about the woman on the beach, or more specifically, Iris’s connection with her, that piqued his curiosity. “That was me. How did you get my number?”

      “I’ll explain later. Ms. Shore wants to see you. She’s at St. Ignacio Hospital. I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you to her room. How soon can you get here?”

      “You expect me to drop everything and come visit your client, and you won’t even tell me how you got my number?”

      “Yes.”

      Frowning, Maddox tightened his grip on the cell phone. “Isn’t she a little busy undergoing treatment or something?”

      “She’s been released to a room to recover. She’s doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

      Maddox quelled the urge to ask just what those circumstances might be. This guy might be a jerk, but he’d known just what buttons to push to make Maddox too curious to resist the request. He could poke around for answers once he was face-to-face with this Celia Shore. “I need to change clothes. I can be there around two-thirty.”

      “I’ll be in the lobby waiting.”

      “How will you know it’s me?”

      “I have a photo of you.” The man hung up before Maddox could respond.

      He snapped his phone closed and rubbed his forehead, where the day’s tension was beginning to form a painful knot right between his eyes.

      Where had the man found a photo of him? He didn’t make a habit of posing for snapshots. Although it was possible, he supposed, that someone on the beach had used a photo phone just as he had in Iris’s hotel room.

      The more important question was, who was Celia Shore and why did she want to talk to him?

      

      THE PHONE on the hotel bedside table rang while Iris was dressing after a long shower. She grabbed the receiver, hoping Sandrine would be on the other end of the line with a crazy explanation for where she’d been.

      But it was the hotel front desk. “There’s a letter at the front desk for Miss Beck,” the concierge explained in his crisp British accent. “Shall I send a porter with it?”

      “Please.” Iris finished dressing in a hurry and dug in her handbag for money to tip the porter. He arrived within five minutes and traded a creamy linen envelope for the cash. Iris locked the door behind him and opened the envelope, hoping the contents would give her a clue to Sandrine’s whereabouts.

      A rectangular card with embossed edges lay inside the envelope. “You and a friend are invited to a cocktail party in the Paradise Room at Hotel St. George,” she read. The date listed in shiny silver ink was today’s date. Eight o’clock.

      The invitation requested an RSVP and listed a cell phone number. Iris picked up the phone and dialed the number.

      A woman with a Midwestern accent answered on the first ring. “Cassandra Society.”

      Iris paused. Cassandra Society? What was the Cassandra Society?

      “Hello?” the voice repeated.

      Iris cleared her throat. “Hi. I received this invitation to a cocktail party tonight in the Paradise Room.”

      “Will you be able to attend?”

      “Do you mind telling me how many people you expect to attend?” Crowds in close quarters were a nightmare for her these days.

      “Sixteen invitations went out. We’ve had twelve people confirm so far.”

      A maximum of thirty-two people. In a private hotel meeting room, a number that size should be bearable, she decided. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

      “Your name?”

      “I’m calling for my friend. Sandrine Beck.”

      There was a brief pause on the line, punctuated by the sound of papers rustling. “You must be Iris Browning.”

      Iris dropped onto the edge of the bed, surprised. How did this woman know her name? “Yes.”

      “Sandrine mentioned you’d be here today. I hope we’ll see you at the seminar tomorrow, as well?”

      Seminar? What in the world had Sandrine gotten her into? She licked her lips and took a plunge. “I’ll be there.”

      Wherever there was.

      She hung up the phone and stared at the balcony door across from the bed, her mind racing to catch up with the chaos of clues she’d just received about her friend’s whereabouts.

      Seminars meant a conference of some sort. That would be easy enough to establish. She picked up the phone and called the front desk. The concierge answered.

      “This is room two-twelve. I believe the Cassandra Society is holding a conference of some sort in this hotel, correct?”

      “That is correct. Is there a problem?”

      “No. No problem. Can you tell me anything about the Cassandra Society? What’s its focus?”

      The concierge hesitated before answering. “I believe that information is covered in their conference brochure, madam. Shall I have someone bring you a copy?”

      “Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful.”

      “You are most welcome. I’ll send someone presently.”

      She thanked the concierge again and rang off. Within a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door, and a bellman handed over a tri-fold brochure printed on dove-gray paper. The title was printed in clean black type: Expanding Horizons: The Third Annual Conference of the Cassandra Society.

      Iris opened the brochure and scanned the contents. Most of the language was carefully chosen to portray the Cassandra Society conference as scientific inquiry, but the bottom line was, the conference catered to people interested in psychic phenomena. That made sense, given the organization’s name. Cassandra obviously referred to the heroine of Greek mythology whose prophecies were fated never to be believed.

      The conference was exactly the sort of thing that would interest Sandrine. She was a medium herself and liked to study paranormal