Deadline. Metsy Hingle

same as last time.”

      The other man swore. “All right. Take care of it.”

      “Since it’s so close to home, I’m going to bring in an associate to handle it.” While he hated giving up any of the money and could easily handle the situation himself, he opted to play it safe. That idiot De Roach may have called him from someplace where the number could be traced back to him, and this was no time to take chances. “But don’t worry, it won’t cost you any more.”

      “You can afford it with what I’m paying you.”

      It was true, he admitted to himself with a smile. The association the two of them had formed all those years ago had afforded him a good life—a life he had no intention of giving up just because De Roach was a loose-lipped drunk.

      “Whatever you do, just make sure that you keep my name out of it.”

      When the line went dead, he sat back in his chair. Unlocking his desk drawer, he retrieved the small black book he kept hidden in a secret compartment. He dialed another number, safe in the knowledge that the call was routed through an intricate untraceable network system across the country.

      “Father Peter.”

      The man smiled at the irony. “Father, I have a donation for the church. I’d like you to say a mass for a sick friend.”

      “And what is the name of your sick friend, my son?”

      “Lester De Roach.” He’d long admired the creativity of the man who made the contracting of a hit sound like a donation to a religious group.

      “And did you have a particular mass that you want me to remember him in?” he asked.

      “Tomorrow if possible. Or just as soon as you can.”

      “Consider it done. I’ll remember him in my morning prayers,” he promised.

      “Thank you, Father Peter. I’ll put the donation in the mail to you in the morning.”

      “It’s my pleasure to be of service, my son. God be with you.”

      He hung up the phone and smiled again. This time tomorrow Lester De Roach would be with God or, more likely, with his counterpart in hell.

      Tess braked when she approached the first red light. As she waited for the light to change to green, she opened the candy bar and bit off a chunk. The calorie-laden chocolate was just what she needed to give her the energy to make the rest of the trip.

      When the signal flashed green, Tess continued through the next two lights, traveling along rolling hills and quiet streets. The sliver of a moon and the stars that she’d noted before stopping for gas seemed to have ducked behind a blanket of clouds, making the night sky even darker. Unlike the big city, there were no neon signs flashing every few yards, and only an occasional lamppost on a street corner provided light.

      Finally, she saw the sign that read Magnolia Lane and flicked on her turn signal. And the moment she turned onto the lane, Tess knew she’d made the right decision in choosing the quaint-sounding guesthouse over the two hotels in town. As she drove down the road toward the main house, she felt as though she’d stepped back in time. There at the end of the road, resting atop a bluff and surrounded by trees, was a picture-perfect Victorian house. Painted all in white, curved brackets framed the inviting front porch. As she drew the car to a stop, Tess noted the cane rockers, also painted white, that dotted the porch. She could easily imagine herself sitting there in the summertime, sipping glasses of lemonade to beat the heat.

      She shut off the engine. For several moments, she sat there, staring at the house and taking in the details. Open shutters surrounded the multipaned French-style windows, giving the house an added charm and a sense of protection. She knew a little about architecture, and she recognized the columns that braced the roof of the porch were a Queen Anne design. Exiting the car, Tess continued to admire the house. She noted that the mill-work on the base of the columns featured a cloverleaf theme that had also been adapted for the rafter tails and the post brackets. The white-on-white scheme pulled it all together, giving the building a sense of unity. At the bottom of the porch, white and yellow chrysanthemums had been planted along the border of a white wooden skirt that echoed the same detailing on the house. Five wooden steps led up to the porch, where white flower boxes placed on either side of each window were filled with more lush, yellow chrysanthemums.

      Suddenly eager to go inside and see the rest of the place, Tess popped the lock on the trunk of the car and hurried to the rear to gather her bags. With her suitcase and computer travel case in tow, she headed up the stairs and into the guesthouse. It was like walking into someone’s home—someone’s beautiful antebellum home, Tess amended. The floors were made of polished oak. An heirloom rug filled the center of the floor. On it rested an antique table with a cut-glass vase filled with fresh white roses.

      “Good evening, ma’am. Welcome to Magnolia Guesthouse,” a lovely blond woman with a sugary accent greeted her from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

      With those blue eyes, skin like milk and pretty smile, all the girl needed was a hoopskirt, Tess thought, and she would have been convinced that she had been transported back to the nineteenth century. Shoving aside her foolish thoughts, Tess walked over to the registration desk. “Hello. I’m Tess Abbott,” she said as she set down her bags. Up close, she realized the girl was a little older than she’d thought at first glance, probably in her mid-twenties. Yet she’d ma’amed her as if she was pushing forty instead of someone who had just turned twenty-nine. “I believe you have a reservation for me.”

      “Did you say Abbott?”

      “Yes, I did,” Tess informed her and thought she’d caught a flicker of recognition on the other woman’s face. But it was gone so quickly, Tess was sure she’d been mistaken.

      “Just give me a sec,” the woman said as she punched data into a computer system.

      Definitely not the nineteenth century, Tess thought, smiling to herself.

      While the girl worked at the computer, Tess used the opportunity to scan the rest of the room. She noted the small silk pillows in rich jewel tones with needlepoint appliqués propped along the back of a settee. A lush green ficus tree sat in one corner. Another table with more roses sat near a window. Her gaze gravitated to the far wall, dominated by a traditional fireplace. A fire burned invitingly in the grate, reminding Tess of the damp chill in the air when she’d gotten out of the car. Her eyes lifted to the painting above the mantel. It was the portrait of a beautiful redheaded woman sitting in a garden that looked very much like the one that she’d seen outside.

      “Oh, here you are, Ms. Abbott. It looks like we were expecting you yesterday,” she said in that same slow, sweet voice.

      “Yes, I had hoped to arrive yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I was delayed. I did call and leave a message that I’d be arriving a day later than planned.”

      “Yes. So you did. It looks like you spoke with Ms. Maggie. She’s the owner of Magnolia Guesthouse. She’s left a note in the system for me to call her when you arrive.” The girl picked up the phone. “If you’ll just give me a sec, I’ll let Ms. Maggie know that you’re here.”

      A few moments later, a striking pixie of a woman with a friendly smile came bustling down the hallway. “Ms. Abbot,” she called out and extended her hand. “I’m Maggie O’Donnell. Welcome to Magnolia Guesthouse.”

      “Thank you,” Tess told her.

      “I realize it’s late and you must be tired, so I won’t keep you. But I wanted to talk to you about your accommodations.”

      The woman was right. She was tired, and after the day she’d had and the incident at the convenience store, she didn’t need anything else to go wrong. “Ms. O’Donnell, please don’t tell me there’s a problem with my reservation.”

      “The name’s Maggie,” she corrected. “And there’s no problem at all. It’s just that you requested one of the cottages