Newport: A Novel by Jill Morrow

mystery,” Amy intoned. “Shall I continue?”
    He placed both hands on the head of his walking stick and pulled himself to the edge of the sofa. “Yes, yes. By all means!”
    “The next card represents what crosses the situation, good or bad. You are lonely, sir, aren’t you?”
    This was a definite deviation from the usual script. Typically this was the point where Amy introduced a financial tidbit, some hint of promised wealth.
    But Bennett Chapman’s response came quickly enough that it was clear she was onto something. “Yes,” he said, and the word was so hollow that it was all Catharine could do not to stare at him. Here in her tiny parlor, this powerful millionaire, this captain of industry feared by many, suddenly seemed nothing more than a forlorn old man. She turned toward Amy, willing her to proceed at a quicker pace. Where was the clever stock tip that would pique Bennett’s curiosity? What had happened to the sage advice meant to encourage his return for several more readings?
    Instead Amy doubled over in her chair and clutched her stomach.
    “What’s wrong?” Catharine jumped from her seat. “Are you ill?”
    All color drained from Amy’s face as she turned toward Bennett Chapman. “Who is Elizabeth?” she asked.
    He started as if a jolt of electricity raced through his body. “Elizabeth?”
    “Yes. There’s someone here named Elizabeth who wishes to speak with you.”
    Startled, Catharine instinctively cased the parlor. Only the three of them sat there, shrouded in the afternoon shadows. Was Amy speaking of spirits? This sort of thing had never been in the repertoire before.
    Bennett began to shake. “Elizabeth? Here? My God. She is . . . was . . . my wife. She passed away long ago.”
    “She sends her love,” Amy said. She looked almost as surprised delivering the words as Catharine felt hearing them. “She knows you have been thinking about her lately.”
    Bennett’s shaking became so pronounced that Catharine could not help but place a firm arm around his shoulders. Tears slipped from his eyes, but he did not seem to notice as they trickled down his cheeks. “Of course I’ve been thinking about her,” he whispered. “She was my wife, after all, and as I approach the end of my days, I am overcome with . . . she was quite a woman. No one will ever measure up to her.”
    Amy’s voice softened. “She says that she cannot bear your aching. She wants only for you to be happy. If you care about her memory, she says, you will take another wife to make your last days on earth comfortable and sweet.”
    “Another wife?” The words flew out of his mouth on a puff of forced air. “But—”
    “She says that the opportunity is nearer than you think.” Amy spoke faster now, as if she were reading aloud. “She says you should marry my aunt, Catharine.”
    “What?” Catharine barely recognized her own shocked voice as it echoed through the room. It did not surprise her that Amy knew some biographical facts about Bennett Chapman. Heavens, there was plenty of information about this man—and others—stashed away in the metal strong box they kept in their safe. But what on earth could have prompted the unexpected marriage message? And why hadn’t Amy said anything to her before blurting it out in the midst of a reading?
    Bennett’s grasp tightened around the head of his walking stick.No longer frail and malleable, he shot to his feet in a rage. “Fraud!” he shouted. “This is a despicable scheme to get your hands on my fortune, isn’t it? You ought to be horsewhipped! As it is, I’ll be paying a visit to the authorities on my way back to the hotel!”
    “Sir, please.” Catharine stood as well, resting a hand on his sleeve. He shook it off. “Please, Mr. Chapman, we mean you no harm.”
    He whirled toward her, brow lowered and walking stick raised to strike. She recoiled. Then, suddenly, his anger seemed to subside a bit. His gaze stayed hooked to hers, mellowing as he studied