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 phenomena. It also explained why she'd have signed Iris up without giving her any forewarning. Sandrine knew Iris's ambivalence about going public with her abilities. She'd probably guessed-correctly-that Iris would've refused to come had she known about the conference.
She read through the brochure, looking for more information about the organization, but most of the text inside outlined the conference schedule and speaker bios. There was almost nothing about the Cassandra Society itself.
She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she'd brought her laptop computer from home. If there'd ever been a time for a Web search, it was now. There had to be more detailed information about the Cassandra Society on the Internet than she was finding in this oh- so-uninformative brochure.
She finger-combed her damp hair away from her face and crossed to the closet where she'd deposited her luggage without unpacking yesterday afternoon. The second luggage rack in the closet sat conspicuously empty, reminding her that wherever Sandrine had gone, she'd taken her bags with her.
Pushing away a wave of despair. Iris unzipped the garment bag that contained the two dressy outfits she'd brought with her. The cinnamon-red silk dress was a little longer than the natural linen sheath and would hide her skinned knees. She pulled it from the bag and smoothed the sleek skirt. It would work for the cocktail party. Meanwhile, she had just a few hours to research the Cassandra Society before the party.
Maddox started undressing as soon as he stepped inside his squat little bungalow nestled at the outer edge of the rain forest north of Sebastian. The house wasn't much to look at. But the view from his back veranda was worth every penny he'd spent on the place.
Mount Stanley, the dormant volcano that had formed the island of Mariposa centuries ago, had long since transformed to a lush, blue-green peak towering over the tiny Caribbean island. Its southwestern face filled his panoramic view of the rain forest that spread, thick and teeming with wildlife, as far as he could see.
He didn't let many people in town know about this place. It would raise too many questions about where he got the money to buy a decent-sized house with a spectacular view on an island where land and housing were at a premium. Even inland places such as his cost a small fortune, a fortune a jack-of-all-trades beach bum like Maddox Heller shouldn't have at his disposal.
He'd created his life from scratch on the island. Well, from scratch and occasional dips into a massive trust fund that had sat in a bank accruing interest from when his father had died and left him his fortune eight years ago.
The old man hadn't bothered to acknowledge him before that. Married, rich and successful, he probably would never have admitted paternity if he hadn't gotten sick of his legitimate kids and their profligate spending and left Maddox half his fortune to spite them.
The money was still there, for the most part. Maddox had spent some of it, early on, taking care of his mother. But she'd died two years after his father, and he'd left the money mostly untouched since then.
When he decided to make the move to Mariposa, he'd brought nothing but the clothes on his back and the ancient Steinway upright piano that had been his mother's.
He showered quickly, taking time to shave the shadowy thatch of beard darkening his jaw line. Toweling dry his hair, he booted up his laptop computer and typed in a search for "Celia Shore."
Scores of hits came up immediately. The first link read Celia Shore-Official Web site. He clicked it and the Web site loaded a splash of vibrant pinks and teals. Across the top of the page was a photo of a beautiful blonde in her thirties. A radiant glow of pearl pink edged the image.
To her right, her name was written in looping cursive, with a line of narrow, straight type below: Psychic Healer
Well, well.
Chapter Three
"Are you calling from Mariposa? Is something wrong?"
Tears stung Iris's eyes at the sound of her sister's concern. "Yeah, Lily, there is."
She told her older sister, Lily McBride, what she knew about Sandrine's disappearance, including the Cassandra Society. "Ever heard of it?"
"No, I haven't."
"I need to find out more about who they are and if they're somehow connected to what's happened to Sandrine. You got a minute to do an Internet search for me?"
"Don't start playing Nancy Drew with this. Iris. Take the next flight home and let the police handle it."
"They're not handling it, and I don't think they will unless there's someone here to push them into it, I have to stay, at least a few more days. I'll be careful, I promise."
"No, you won't. You never are."
Iris couldn't blame Lily for thinking so, she'd always had an impetuous streak to go along with her insatiable curiosity. But the last couple of years had taken a toll on her impulsive tendencies. She couldn't afford to take too many chances; her body wouldn't hold up.
But Lily didn't know that. Iris hadn't told either of her sisters just how bad the pain had become. Her younger sister. Rose, was still a newlywed who deserved a little uninterrupted happiness, and Lily was eight and a half months pregnant with her first child and didn't need any added stress. Iris couldn't burden either of them yet. Not until she figured out how to stop the pain from rendering her an invalid.