Down the Rabbit Hole

by J.D. Robb, Mary Blayney, Elaine Fox, Mary Kay McComas, Ruth Ryan Langan

Genres: Romance Anthologies & Collections; Paranormal Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Some of your favorite romance authors present five stories told through the looking glass—including "Wonderment in Death," a Lieutenant Eve Dallas novella from #1 New York Times bestselling author J. D. Robb!

You’re late for a very important date...

Enter a wonderland of mesmerizing tales. It’s a place that’s neither here nor there, where things are never quite as they seem. Inspired by Lewis Carroll’s whimsical masterpiece, ranging from the impossible to the mad to the curiouser, these stories will have you absolutely off your head.

Don’t be afraid to follow them…

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

Release date: September 29, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 432

Sample

WONDERMENT IN DEATH

J. D. ROBB

CHAPTER ONE

The dead were his business.

Over the years, he’d built a tidy fortune—though it was never enough, never quite enough—exploiting the dead and those who loved them.

He loved his work, reveled in it, and all the bright and shiny things his efforts amassed. But over and above the profit, or at least running through the dollars and euros and pounds, was sheer glee.

A man who didn’t laugh himself sick seven times a day didn’t know how to live.

One of his greatest amusements—and in truth he had so many—but one of his greatest was when the time came around to turn the living into the dead.

That time had come around for Darlene Fitzwilliams, she of the ebony hair and haunted blue eyes. Such a pretty creature. He’d thought so on their first acquaintance, and had thought the same a number of times over the past five months.

He might have kept her longer, as he did love pretty things, but she had committed the greatest sin.

She’d begun to bore him.

She sat now in the cluttered, colorful parlor of his cluttered, colorful house, as she had once every week for four and a half months. She called him Doctor Bright, one of his many names and as false as all the rest.

“Doctor Bright,” she said after sipping the tea he always provided, “I had a terrible argument with my brother this afternoon. It was my fault—I missed an important appointment with the lawyers regarding the estate. I just forgot. I was distracted, knowing I’d be coming here, and I forgot. Marcus was so upset and impatient with me. He doesn’t understand, Doctor Bright. If I could just explain . . .”

Bright lifted his dark, dramatic eyebrows. “What did your father say, dear?”

“He said it wasn’t time.” She leaned forward, all that hope and faith (and how tedious that had become) glowing on her face. “I’m so anxious to talk to him and Mama again.”

“And you will, of course.”

He sipped his tea, smiled at her. “Drink your tea. It will help open you to communications.”

She obeyed, biddable, boring girl.

“It’s hard not to tell him. And Henry.”

The tea made her talkative, a little giddy. The effects had amused him initially. Now he saw her as an excitable little mouse, scurrying everywhere at once. And he wanted to whack her with a hammer.

“I’m going to meet Henry tonight,” she continued. “He wants to set the date, and that’s something else I want to talk to Mama and Daddy about. They were so pleased when Henry and I got engaged. And then . . .”

“Transitions, a journey.” He played his fingers in the air as he spoke, watched her watch them dance. “Nothing more.”

“Yes, I know that now. It’s just . . . I want to share this with Marcus, and with Henry.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No. I promised you, and my father. You said I’d know when it was time, and I feel it is. I hate not being honest with the people I love, even for people I love. If Henry and I set the date tonight—that’s a kind of journey, too, isn’t it? Marriage.”

“And do you feel ready for that journey?”

“I do. Coming here, all I’ve learned, it’s shown me there aren’t any ends, just other paths. Before I came to you, everything seemed so dark, so final. And now . . .”

She beamed at him, her eyes wide and bright, and just going glassy. “I can never repay you for all you’ve given me.”

“It’s my gift to give. Regrettably, at a price.”

“Oh, of course.” She laughed—giddy, yes giddy, primed by his tea party. Opening her bag, she took out a thick red envelope.

Always red for Ms. Fitzwilliams, with cash (he only took cash) in the amount of nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars sealed inside. He’d told her red protected the offering, and nine was a number of power.

In truth red was his current favorite color (though it was about to be supplanted by purple), and he found all those nines amusing.

Darlene set it, as she’d been instructed, on the silver tray on the tea table.

“And the tokens?” he prompted. He wouldn’t touch or count the money. The lovely Ms. March would see to all that. But when the biddable girl took two red pouches from her bag, Bright’s fingers itched.

These he took, these he touched, these he stroked.

The desk clock was old, heavy crystal, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Its monetary value Bright estimated in the low thousands, but it was worth so much more to him.

He could feel Gareth Fitzwilliams’s energy shimmering on it, and his father’s before him, and yes, even generations back. So many hands touching, so many eyes marking time.

He opened the second pouch, took out the slim, antique ladies’ watch. A tiny diamond butterfly perched above the twelve, and pretty diamond chips circled the face.

Yes, Bria Fitzwilliams had worn it often, choosing it in lieu of more stylish and practical wrist units, clasping it on thinking of her own mother, her mother’s mother, and back five generations.

Time marked again, birth to death, death to birth and round and round.

“You chose well.”

“They’re favorites.”

“Strong energy. Strong connections. Are you ready?”

He slipped each pouch in a pocket so he could take her hand, lead her from the room. He could feel the vibrations—excitement, fear? Wasn’t it all too delicious?

He led her up stairs he liked for their zigzagging climb, down a corridor he enjoyed as the paint and wainscoting he’d designed gave it the illusion of a slant.

The girl weaved like a drunk, so he had to stifle a quick giggle.

He took her into what he called the Passage Room, where lights glowed blue. She took her seat—a good girl—in the high-backed armchair on the raised platform. The height would keep their eyes level, an essential element to what came next.

“Breathe deep,” he told her as a blue mist swirled around the chair. “Slow and deep. Hear my voice.”

Behind him a white spiral formed on the wall, began to spin. Lights flashed, strobing colors.

“Open your mind.”

A hat seemed to float down, to settle on Darlene’s head, its long, red feathers swaying. For a moment it banded tight around her skull, caused discomfort, then that eased, and colors washed the room. She smelled flowers, and her mother’s perfume.

“Mama.”

“A moment more.” Pleased with her quick response, he stepped over to a cupboard, opened it, and chose a hat for himself out of the dozens stored there.

A top hat in bold red, for young Ms. Fitzwilliams.

“Into my eyes, into my voice. Follow both to the threshold.”

Her eyes were glass, pinned to his. Helpless, he thought, and this time he did giggle.

He slipped into her mind—so easy now, like sliding on ice—and saw as she saw.

A sun-drenched meadow under perfect blue skies. Birds twittered; a warm breeze fluttered the flowers spread everywhere over the ground.

There, under a tall tree spreading dappled shade on a pretty slope, stood Gareth and Bria Fitzwilliams. Young, smiling, he handsome in his white suit, she lovely in her flowing white dress.

With a happy cry, Darlene ran to her dead parents and embraced them.

Touching, Bright thought, so very touching. He dabbed a mock tear from the corner of his eye and gave her nearly twenty minutes to walk in the meadow.

It was never enough, of course, and she was protesting, reaching out, when the blue mist swirled over the flowers. But it was all he could spare her this time—this last time.

He gave her instructions, made her repeat them twice before he removed her hat, and his own. He led her downstairs where the inestimable Ms. March had her coat and bag—and what was now inside it—waiting.

He helped her on with her coat himself, checked to be sure the recorder was properly affixed. After all his time and effort, he deserved to join the farewell party.

“Once you’re in the car, driving away, you won’t remember me or this house or anything we’ve talked about. You’ll remember your parents, of course, and all you spoke of with them.” He kissed her hand, gallantly. “It’s been a pleasure, my dear.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“And where are you going now?”

“To see my brother. We argued. I need to tell him everything and give him a gift.”

“That’s excellent. Good-bye, Ms. Fitzwilliams.”

“Good-bye, Doctor Bright.”

She walked out and to the curb, where his own driver held open the door of his town car. He waved her cheerily off, stepped back, shut the door.

And laughing like a loon, did a jig around the foyer.

“Oh, was that too, too precious?”

He grabbed March’s hands, and kicking off her practical black heels, she joined him in the dance. Giggling with him, she pulled the pins out of her sensible bun so her long, brown hair tumbled and swirled.

“It’s party time, Bright!”

“It’s always party time, March!”

They clutched each other, swaying as they caught their breath. “A surprise party,” he said, “and we mustn’t be late. To the theater, March, and don’t spare the popcorn!”

They raced off together to watch the show.

In the car, Darlene felt energized, almost euphoric. The lights of the city glittered like ice. She was warm, almost too warm, in the car, and reached for the tall, slim glass of clear liquid marked Drink Me.

Cool and light on the tongue, it made her smile.

She was going to see Marcus. They’d argued earlier, she could hardly remember why. But the why didn’t matter. They would make up, and she’d tell him about the dreams she’d been having. Dreams of their parents, and how they’d helped her accept their sudden, tragic deaths.

They were together, away from all pain, all worry, all sorrow.

She felt the same, right at that moment. She should contact Henry, tell him she’d bring Marcus with her. They’d set the date for the wedding.

But when she started to reach for her ’link, a pain shot up her arm.

Because she wasn’t supposed to do that, she remembered. She wasn’t supposed to talk to Henry yet. Marcus. She was supposed to see Marcus.

She didn’t complain when the car pulled over a block from Marcus’s building, but got out, began to walk. The frigid January wind whistled around her ears. It was almost like voices.

A new year, she reminded herself as headlights beamed into her eyes. The year she’d marry Henry Boyle: 2061.

Her parents had died in June of 2060. She wanted them at her wedding. She’d dream them there, she decided. She’d explain it all to Henry—no, Marcus; Marcus first. And they’d all be happy again.

“Evening, Miss Fitzwilliams.”

She stared at the doorman. He wore a big red heart over his chest and was gobbling what seemed to be a cherry tart.

Then she blinked, and it was just Philip the night doorman in his thick navy coat.

“You okay, miss?”

“Yes, yes. Sorry. My mind went somewhere. I’m going up to see my brother.”

He opened the door for her and, God, the lobby looked so long, so narrow, so bright. “Is he alone?”

“As far as I know. He came in a couple hours ago. Want me to call up for you?”

“Oh, that’s all right.” The elevator doors looked so shiny. She could see worlds reflected in them. She stepped in, had to think very hard to remember. “Fifty-two east.”

The ride up made her feel a little drunk. She needed something to eat, she decided. Had she had dinner? Odd that she couldn’t remember.

A couple got in as she got out, called her by name.

“Oh hello.” She smiled at them, the man with the grinning cat’s face and the woman wearing a crown. “I’m going to see Marcus. I have something for him.”

She rang the bell on her brother’s door, waited with a smile until he opened it.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I know.” Just as she knew he was still angry with her. She held out a hand for his. “I’m so sorry, Marcus.”

He sighed, shook his head. Closed the door behind her. “I miss them, too, Darli, and we owe it to them to make sure everything’s done right, for the estate, for the business, for the rest of the family.”

“I know.”

“You can’t keep closing in, shutting down.”

“I know. I know. It’s been so hard, Marcus, losing them the way we did, and I haven’t handled it well. I haven’t done my share.”

“It’s not about the work,” he began, then his eyes narrowed on her face. “Have you been drinking?”

“What? No!” She laughed. “Just tea, lots of tea, and I’ve got so much to tell you. I needed to talk to them first.”

“To who?”

“Mama and Daddy, of course.”

“Darlene.”

“I needed to know they’re all right. In a better place. I can see them there, and it’s beautiful. It’s Wonderland!”

“Okay.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “Okay.”

“I brought you something, like a peace offering.”

“Fine. Take off your coat, let’s sit down. We need to talk.”

“In a minute,” she muttered. She opened her bag, stared at the red scarf. Her fingers floated over it, through it, and down to the bright red rose beneath.

“For you,” she said and pushed it at him. In him.

He looked at her so strangely, but then he wasn’t the sort of man who expected a flower. Delighted, she pulled it back, pushed it at him again.

And again, until he sprawled in the meadow covered with red roses.

“I’ll get Mama and Daddy now, so you can talk to them. Sit right there!” She raced across the meadow, pushed past long, flowering vines that barred the view. And climbed to the top of the hill.

She saw her parents dancing by a silver lake and, laughing, flew toward them.

And flying, never felt the fall.

CHAPTER TWO

Instead of enjoying a rare night off sprawled out with her ridiculously sexy husband watching a vid where lots of stuff blew up, Eve Dallas stood over death.

She’d pulled rank—a favor for a friend—to take primary on what, on the surface, struck as a murder/suicide. Sibling rivalry taken to extremes.

The friend was currently in the kitchen area of the crime scene—the swank Upper East Side penthouse of the late Marcus Elliot Fitzwilliams—with her own pretty sexy husband. And the uniformed cop who kept them in place.

Eve studied the silver shears deeply embedded in the victim’s chest. Cause of death might have been apparent, but she opened her field kit, crouched to do her job.

“Visual identification of Fitzwilliams, Marcus, confirmed with print match on scene. Victim is thirty-six, single Caucasian male, owner and only listed resident of this unit. Employed CEO and president of Fitzwilliams Worldwide.”

She took out microgoggles, lifted one of the victim’s hands with her own sealed ones. “No visible defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. COD, three puncture wounds to the chest. ME to confirm.”

Bled out right here, she thought.

“An attempt to resuscitate the victim resulted in some compromising of the scene.”

Rising, she crossed over to the open terrace door, studied the bloody palm print on the glass. Running it, she ID’d the victim’s sister. Who was even now splatted on the sidewalk below.

Eve stepped out into the cold, looked down to the street, the police barricades, the crowd lined up behind them.

The icy wind dragged at her short, choppy brown hair, had her sticking her hands in the pockets of her long leather coat to warm them.

“Long drop,” she muttered.

And since she’d gotten a report from the first-on-scene, she knew Darlene Fitzwilliams had taken that long drop less than ten minutes after the doorman had let her into the building.

She’d talk to the doorman herself, but for now . . .

She wandered back inside. “She comes in. Not much time for an argument or to get heated up. Plus, who carries a pair of scissors that size in a handbag? Stabs the brother in the heart, three times, walks over, goes outside, jumps.”

Eve scanned the room.

Rich, tasteful, with some humorous touches, like the pencil sketch of a frog wearing a crown.

She’d have her partner do a solid run on both of the dead, and the family business, when Peabody got there. But for now, she’d get a sense of things from Doctor Louise Dimatto and Charles Monroe.

The kitchen—a lot of steel and glass—flowed into a lounge area—lots of leather and wood. Charles and Louise sat hip-to-hip on a long, low sofa the color of fog. He had his arm around her shoulders; she had her head tipped toward him.

She’d changed her hair, Eve noted, wearing the gentle blond in a straight, chin-length deal, sharply angled.

And she’d been crying, which made Eve uneasy.

While Louise looked delicate, Eve knew her to be tough as they came, strong enough to defy her wealthy, conservative family and start her own clinic, run a mobile medical that serviced some of the diciest areas in the city.

But now she was pale and puffy-eyed, and fresh blood stained her elegant blue sweater.

Her eyes, nearly the same color as the sofa, met Eve’s.

“Dallas. I couldn’t save him. Marcus. I couldn’t save him.”

Eve nodded to the uniform standing by to dismiss her, then, nudging a shallow bowl of wooden balls aside, sat on the table to face her friend.

“I’m sorry. You knew Marcus Fitzwilliams.”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids. We even dated awhile. Our families . . . There was some hope we’d make a match of it, but we didn’t suit that way. We’ve been friends for most of our lives. You met him—Marcus and Darlene and their parents—you met them at the wedding.”

“Okay.” Eve had a vague recollection of the man she’d just examined dancing with Louise, lifting her off her feet with a laugh, spinning her around.

“It was only a few weeks later—we were just back from our honeymoon, Charles and I—when Gareth and Bria, Marcus’s parents, were killed.”

“How?”

“It was an accident.” Charles spoke now, using his free hand to grip Louise’s. “Rain-slick road, a semi lost control, overturned. Eight people were killed, the Fitzwilliams among them.”

“They were so close,” Louise murmured. “It crushed Marcus and Darlene.”

“Take me through tonight.”

“We were coming over, just for drinks. To catch up. We’ve all been so busy, and we wanted to catch up with each other.” She closed her eyes. “And he wanted to talk to me about Darlene—as a doctor.”

“Why?”

“He was worried about her. She wasn’t coping well. She’d closed off from friends—I can’t count the times she’s put me off in the last few months. There’s considerable to deal with, the business, the estate, but Marcus told me she was dragging her heels at every turn. She’s engaged—a great guy—but she’d been drawing back from Henry, too. She’d been secretive. Darlene’s always been so open—naively so, really—but that changed.”

“And that caused friction between them, between the siblings?”

“Some, yes. But not—” Louise shook her head, took a steadying breath. “They loved each other, Dallas, they’re friends as well as family. Darlene was going through a difficult period. They argued. Marcus told me they had a shouting match just today when—”

“Today?”

“She missed an appointment, regarding the estate. And not for the first time. An estate is complex and broad-based and takes a lot of time and work to handle. Marcus felt, and I agree, that settling it, closing it, was important for Darlene. It would help her reach some sort of closure. But she put up a lot of roadblocks. She’d say . . .”

“She’d say what?”

“She’d say she needed to talk to her parents before she signed off on anything.”

“Her dead parents.” Sitting back a little, Eve laid her hands on her thighs. “Was she using?”

Louise sighed. “I’ve never known her to, and I’ve known her most of her life. Henry—her fiancé—told me she was using some sleep aids. Herbal-based, nothing heavy.”

The scene, Eve thought, and the players in it read loud and clear. “She argued with her brother today, came here tonight. You were coming over. As far as you know she wasn’t expected.”

“She wasn’t. She was supposed to meet Henry for dinner, about eight. I hate how this sounds, but he was going to contact me, let me know her mood. We thought a kind of intervention. If it seemed right, Henry would bring her over here, and we’d talk to her together. All of us who loved her.”

“Henry Boyle. Where is he now?”

“You said I couldn’t contact anyone, so . . .” Tears rose up in Louise’s eyes again. “He must be waiting for her. He doesn’t know she’s— I know how it looks.” Some of that toughness came through as Louise leaned forward, gripped Eve’s hands. “I know it looks as if Darlene came here and killed Marcus, then herself. It’s not how it looks. I knew them, Dallas. There’s something else here.”

“What time did you get here?”

“About . . . eight fifteen, eight twenty?” She looked at Charles for confirmation.

“Yes, close to that. When our cab pulled up there was already a crowd, people shouting. The doorman told us it had just happened. Just minutes before. He was pretty shaken up, told us he’d just spoken with her about ten minutes earlier, and she’d gone up to see Marcus.”

“There was nothing I could do for her.” Louise drew in a breath. “Nothing I could do.”

“We ran in,” Charles continued, “both of us thinking of Marcus. Security let us up—they know us, came with us. Marcus didn’t answer, so they bypassed.”

“He was on the floor. I tried to— Maybe if I’d had my medical bag.”

“Louise.” Charles pressed his lips to her hair.

Turning into him, she squeezed her eyes shut. “No, I couldn’t have brought him back. He was gone, but I had to try.” She looked down at the blood on her sweater. “He was family to me. They were family.”

“We contacted you,” Charles said. “Right away. We didn’t touch anything but . . . but Marcus, and contacted you.”

“Was Marcus involved with anyone?”

“No, not right now. For the last several months, he’s been focused on the family business, the estate, the Fitzwilliams Foundation.”

“Who gets the money now?”

“I don’t know.” Because her voice was thick, Louise cleared her throat. “There are aunts, uncles, cousins. Many of them are involved in the business, the foundation.”

“Do you know who I’d talk to about that?”

“Ah, probably Gia Gregg—the family attorney. My family’s, too. She’d know.”

“Enemies?”

Louise shook her head. “I can give you a list of friends, family. I don’t know enemies—though I’m sure he had a few. He was a tough and exacting businessman. He’d been groomed to run the family empire, and he didn’t suffer fools. Someone set this up, Dallas. Someone set this up to make it look as if Darlene killed him, then herself. I’m telling you, that’s impossible.”

Eve pushed to her feet. “Make me a list. Friends, exes, family, coworkers. Anyone you can think of, and their connection to both Marcus and Darlene. I’m going to have you taken home.”

“Home? But—”

“There’s nothing you can do here.” Harsh as it was, it was true. “You called me for a reason, now trust me to take care of your friends.”

“I do.” Clinging to Charles’s hand, Louise rose. “I trust you’ll find out who’s responsible for what happened here. You need to trust me. What you see here is a cover.”

She rode down with them, arranged for a black-and-white to drive them home.

Then she ducked under the barricade. As she approached the body, Peabody pushed her way through the crowd of gawkers.

“Sorry, Dallas. Twenty-minute delay on the subway.” Peabody pulled her pink and green hat—with bounding pom-pom—farther over her dark flip of hair as she studied what was left of Darlene Fitzwilliams. “Wow. Long drop.”

“Fifty-second floor.”

“Really long.”

“I gave her a cursory look when I came on scene, so I’ll finish her. I’ve already done the one upstairs—her brother. Multiple stab wounds, heart area. Big pair of scissors. Talk to the doorman again, see if he wavers in his statement. He says he talked to the sister here, let her go up to see her brother. Some ten minutes later, she came down, the hard way. Security—along with Charles and Louise—”

Peabody’s head swiveled back. “Charles and Louise?”

“They were coming to visit the brother—old family friends of Louise’s. He was dead when they went in.”

“Oh man.” Peabody’s dark eyes reflected sympathy. “Are they still here?”

“I just sent them home. This one has a fiancé I need to contact who’s apparently waiting for her. She’s going to be really late for dinner.”

“I’ll say.” Peabody tipped her head back, looked up. “Murder/suicide.”

“It sure as hell looks like it. Louise gauges that as impossible. Talk to the doorman, any other wits you can find. We treat it as undetermined until otherwise.”

Opening her field kit, she knelt beside the shattered body, and put aside what it sure as hell looked like.

CHAPTER THREE

Eve officially identified the body, determined time of death—within two minutes of the first victim. Cause of death was brutally apparent, but the ME would determine if there were other injuries, injuries incurred before flesh and bone met concrete.

No sign of struggle, no break-in, she thought. If the doorman stuck to his story, he’d opened the door for Marcus approximately two hours before his death.

No one except the sister had come calling.

The apartment security showed only the sister at the door, only she going inside.

Sitting back on her heels, Eve played it through.

Sister, depressed, unable to cope with parents’ sudden death, friction with brother. Arguments, including one that day. Suffers a breakdown, goes to brother’s apartment, stabs him, crosses over to the terrace doors—leaving a bloody handprint—walks out, climbs up, jumps off.

She could see it, just that clearly. And she could hear Louise’s voice telling her it wasn’t possible.

“Okay, Louise.”

Who else had motive? A lot of money and power at stake. The murder weapon. Determine if the scissors belonged to the sister, the brother, or who else. Tox report. Maybe, despite Louise’s belief, the sister leaned on illegals to get her through.

Who else had access to the penthouse?

“Bag her,” she ordered the waiting morgue attendants, and started to rise when she saw