In Too Deep

is alive, but I can’t contact her yet because it might put her in jeopardy.”
    Violet looked blank. “I thought you said your grandmother was dead?”
    “Fallon is sure she is okay. She’s gone underground until we wrap up the case.”
    Marge’s brows rose. “Your grandmother sounds like a very interesting woman.”
    “She is,” Isabella assured her. “All in all, it was a very busy trip, but it’s good to be home.”
    “You can take the girl out of Scargill Cove but you can’t take the Cove out of the girl,” Patty said. “Welcome home, Cinderella.”
    “Thanks,” Isabella said. “If it’s any consolation, I can tell you that Fallon looked great in a tux.”
    Marge smiled. “I’d have paid good money to see Jones in a tux.”
    “Worth every penny, trust me,” Isabella said.
    Violet laughed.
    Marge snorted and straightened. She looked at Patty and Violet. “You two want coffee?”
    “Of course,” Patty said.
    She plunked herself down on one of the stools. Violet hopped up onto another one.
    Marge went to the coffee machine.
    “Anyone seen Walker today?” Isabella asked.
    “The muffins are gone,” Marge said. “So he must have come by on his morning rounds.”
    “He’s probably at the hot springs,” Violet said. “He spends a lot of time there during the daylight hours. Why?”
    “I don’t know,” Isabella said. “For some reason, I’ve been thinking about him a lot this morning.”
    Marge poured coffee into two mugs. “Don’t worry, he’ll show up sooner or later.”
    Isabella slipped off the stool. “I’m going to the grocery store to collect the mail. But first, I’ll drop by Walker’s place and see if he’s there. Maybe he’s ill.”
    “Just be sure you don’t do anything to startle him,” Marge warned.
    “I’ll be careful,” Isabella promised.
    She slipped into her yellow raincoat, collected her umbrella and went outside onto the street. She paused briefly and looked up at the window of Jones & Jones. Fallon was not visible. She knew that he was probably at the computer, phone to his ear, multitasking as he searched for a trace of the person who had supplied the Quicksilver Mirror to Sloan.
    She walked to the end of the street and followed the bluff path to the weathered cabin that Walker called home. The cabin looked much the same as it always did, lonely and forlorn. But it always seemed to her that there was a certain stalwart air about the place, as if the cabin would persevere, regardless of the ravages of time and the elements. Walker had infused the place with his own energy and aura, she thought.
    She went up the tumbledown steps, careful to avoid the broken middle tread, and then stopped. The shades were pulled down but that was par for the course with Walker. There was no smoke from the chimney but that, too, was normal. Still, something in the atmosphere was raising goose bumps on her arms. She opened her senses.
    A terrible cold fog enveloped the cabin. Walker’s home was always awash in a haze of secrets, but until now, the mists had been tinted with the chill of old mysteries. Not today.
    Today the fog seethed and burned with the ominous dark radiance that warned of impending death.
    Heedless of Marge’s advice, she pounded on the door.
    “Walker, it’s me, Isabella. Are you in there?”
    For the first time she became aware of the faint notes of a delicate melody. The light, tinkling strains of the waltz were barely discernible above the crashing of the waves below the bluffs. There was an eerie undercurrent in the music that rattled her senses. Her intuition was screaming at her.
    Run
.
    She was suddenly certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that Walker was in mortal danger.
    Pushing past the panic, she twisted the old knob, expecting to find the door locked. But to her surprise, it opened. The music was louder now. Searing fog swirled in the small, rustic front room. Walker lay un-moving on the floor in the center of the energy storm.
    “Walker.”
    She moved into the room and crouched beside him, searching for a pulse. Relief swept through her when she found one. Walker was alive but unconscious. There was no blood. She ran her hands through his unkempt hair but found no signs of a wound.
    The music seemed to be getting louder now. For some reason the icy strains of the waltz made it hard to think.
    She glanced around, looking for the source of the disturbing music. An elegant gilt-and-enamel music box sat on a small table. The glass lid