“My God, Kit, that’s terrible!” Adrienne exclaimed. “How badly is Gavin hurt?”
“Broken hip, broken ribs, broken collarbone, shattered ankle. He had a concussion and the vision in his right eye is blurry. At least the doctor expects that to clear up fairly quickly. The rest of the stuff …” She sighed. “He’s in bad shape.”
Kit sounded almost, no, definitely upset. And the circles around her eyes said she’d been up all night. Adrienne was astounded not only that Gavin Kirkwood had been nearly killed by a hit-and-run driver, but also that his longtime nemesis Kit seemed to care so much. She’d arrived at Adrienne’s ten minutes ago dressed hurriedly in jeans and a blue satin blouse, and requested a quick chat and a cup of “real” coffee before she had to go back to the hospital.
“How is Ellen taking it?” Adrienne asked as she poured Kit’s second cup of coffee and also handed her a blueberry muffin, which Adrienne was starting to consider her piece de resistance in the kitchen. “Mother was home with a headache when it happened,” Kit said through a mouth full of muffin. “Adrienne, this is delicious! I might start having you make some for the restaurant. Anyway, Mother had taken her migraine medicine and no one could rouse her. I used my house key to get in. She was too groggy to understand at first” She paused. “I’ll need another muffin.”
“I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“My stomach thinks different Anyway, Mother seemed okay at first, then fainted when we got to the hospital. Her breathing was bad, her color was awful, so now there are two patients in the family. Mother is in the room next to Gavin’s. The only physical problem with her is strain put on her weak heart, but Gavin’s physical state has certainly knocked the emotional stuffing out of her. I don’t think she’s issued an order all day. She just stares at the television and says ‘It’s my fault'”
“Does she mean Gavin’s accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident”
“Okay, the attempt on his life. Why would someone trying to kill Gavin by running him down in the middle of town be her fault?”
Kit shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to come to the gala tonight”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. And you didn’t have to come here to explain. You look like you’ve been up all night.”
“I have, but I couldn’t sleep even if I had the time. After finding that photo of Trey yesterday morning, though, I wanted to check on you in person so I could really see if you’re all right”
“I am, considering all that’s been happening. So far, Lucas hasn’t been able to come up with any answers about the picture, though.”
“No one at police headquarters jumped up and confessed to raiding the files?”
“Not a soul, even though Lucas said he has an idea who might be responsible. He won’t tell me whom he suspects. Of course, he’s not in peak form with his injury. I know he’s in pain, although he won’t admit it” Adrienne closed her eyes briefly. “In the last two weeks, the world has turned bizarre, Kit I think I’m becoming almost numb to the shocks.”
“You’re far from numb, sweetie,” Kit said. “Where’s Skye, by the way?”
“At her friend Sherry Granger’s. I have to be at the French Art Colony in about an hour to help with preparations, and she didn’t want to spend the whole afternoon there. Since the Grangers are attending the gala tonight, Louise Granger suggested Skye spend the afternoon there and come with them. Considering all that’s been happening around me lately, I think my daughter is safer in other people’s company. And that’s a terrible thing to have to admit.”
Kit reached out and touched Adrienne’s hand in an uncharacteristic gesture of affection. “I know it is. Listen, Adrienne, I don’t want to spook you on your big night, but you’re right. You’re not out of danger and neither is your daughter. That’s why I think that after tonight, you should leave town. I know you’re worried about your job, but Mother has lots of influence. So does your brother-in-law, if just once he’d ever do anything for you instead of for himself.”
Adrienne glanced down. “You think I’ve been irresponsible for staying here so long.”
“You could have been killed at Lottie’s cabin,” Kit said softly. “Where would that have left Skye? Adrienne, you’re the best mother in the world. But you’ve gotten yourself into a panic over your job, over not having enough money to support your daughter, and that’s caused you to take risks. I’m partially to blame for not offering you the money to leave town, but I didn’t think you’d take it.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“You’re like Lottie and I respect your principles, but you have to accept help from someone—if not me, then Vicky—and stop being brave.”
“You mean being an ass.”
“Well … yes. What happened to Gavin wasn’t a random hit-and-run, which only proves this mess is far from over.” Kit’s grip tightened almost painfully on Adrienne’s hand. “So be careful, tonight, Adrienne, and then leave. Take your daughter and get out of this town for as long as it takes. If you don’t, you’re risking both your lives.”
“Thank heavens, I finally I got things under control in the restaurant,” Kit exclaimed as she rushed into her apartment, slamming the door behind her. “Now it’s back to the hospital for afternoon visiting hours. I’ll make my visit short, though. Then we can spend some time together.” She stopped. “What’s going on?”
Miles Shaw stood in front of her in the living room, a leather suitcase sitting beside him, a canvas tote slung over his shoulder. “I’m leaving tonight, Kit”
“Leaving?” she repeated slowly, then smiled in relief. “Oh, going back to your apartment That’s not necessary. You’re not crowding me.”
“I’m not going back to my apartment I’m leaving town.”
“Leaving town?” She blinked at him. “Where are you going? Why?’
“I can’t answer either one of those questions. You’ll just have to take my word for it that I have to go.” He smiled. “Kit I really appreciate you giving me sanctuary after Margaret got killed and the police were breathing down my neck, but—”
“Giving you sanctuary? Is that what this was about?”
“Ummm … mostly. I told you that when I asked if I could stay with you. Maybe I didn’t use those exact words …”
“Maybe you didn’t? You sure as hell did not use those exact words.” Kit’s voice rose along with her color. “You didn’t use words even close to those. You used words like ‘You’re the only person I trust’ and “I need you more than I ever realized.'”
“Enough,” Miles said, wincing as he raised his hands in a gesture for silence. “I was pretty out of control. Maybe I implied things I shouldn’t have.”
“Like telling me Margaret had been one of many stupid dalliances after Julianna left you and now you realized that you wanted to be with someone you really cared about? Someone like me?”
Miles was beginning to look cornered. “Kit, you know you mean the world to me. You always have. It’s just that I have to get out of town.”
“Why? You have an alibi for the time of Margaret’s death.”
“Yes, but there’s another reason. One I can’t tell you.”
“You always play the mystery man, Miles.” Her voice began to tremble. “You’ve been divorced from Juli for years. Now she’s … gone. And I know you didn’t love Margaret. I thought finally we had a chance.”
“Maybe we do. Just not now, Kit. Please let me go without the memory of you clinging and begging and haranguing.”
“Clinging, begging, and haranguing? Is that how you see me?”
“Well, yeah. It’s what you’re doing now. Have a little faith in me, Kit.”
“Faith in you? Why should I have faith in you?”
“Because you love me?” She stared at him. “Because you do love me, Kit. I know it. And because you’re a strong woman with a lot of pride.”
“I thought I was clinging.”
Miles briefly closed his incredible green eyes. “I can’t have this argument with you, Kit. I’m not going to have it. I’m leaving. I’ll get in touch with you later. I promise.”
He leaned forward to give her an obligatory kiss, but she pulled away. He saw tears in her eyes—tears shimmering over intense fury. He strode past her and out the door.
As Miles dashed down the back steps from her apartment, he could feel her at the window, still watching him. He thought about turning and giving her a wave, but he didn’t know if she’d find it encouraging or insulting. He really didn’t want to make her even angrier. Or to hurt her, but he had to leave. Tonight.
There was only one thing he had to do first.
“Don’t drink all the refreshments, Adrienne,” Miss Snow ordered. “After all, we are expecting quite a few guests tonight. We want to provide a wide variety of beverages and plenty of each kind. It would be so embarrassing to run out.”
“I’m sipping a bottle of Coke I brought from home, not sucking the punch bowl dry,” Adrienne returned irritably. She’d been working at the French Art Colony for three hours under the direction of Miss Snow, and the strain was getting to both of them. Two other people had arrived to help prepare for the gala, but Miss Snow made it obvious she found them below snuff. And Miles Shaw had neither shown up nor called, which caused Miss Snow tremendous distress she tried to hide by making excuses for him. Adrienne had often wondered if Miss Snow’s pristine mind had made room for one object of erotic fantasy—Miles. She clearly adored the man. Adrienne was certain Miles knew. Miles always knew which women he had power over, and he used it shamelessly.
Miss Snow looked at the locket watch hanging over her flat chest. “The gala will start in less than two hours. The display rooms are now closed while the judges make their decisions.”
“I know,” Adrienne returned. “That’s why I retreated to the kitchen.”
“I would suggest you retreat to your home and change clothes. You’re certainly not wearing that, are you?”
Adrienne looked down at her jeans, T-shirt, and scuffed white running shoes. “Why, yes. I picked out this outfit especially for tonight.” Miss Snow scowled. “I’m not going all the way home to change,” Adrienne said patiently. “I told you that I have my clothes in my car. I’ll freshen up in the bathroom.”
“You’re going to take a bath in there?”
“A quick shower. That’s what the shower is for. I promise to clean the bathroom thoroughly before the guests arrive. I just don’t want to go home, then get caught in the evening traffic trying to get back here.”
“Oh.” Miss Snow brightened. “That means your daughter won’t be attending.”
“Yes, she will.” Miss Snow looked so crestfallen that Adrienne took pity on her. “Of course, my brother-in-law, Philip Hamilton, and his family will be attending, too,” she reminded the woman.
Miss Snow had obviously forgotten about Philip in her dismay over Miles Shaw’s absence, but the mention of his name brightened her right up. “Oh, yes, Mr. Hamilton. How lovely it will be to have him here.” Along with his money and the press coverage his attendance would bring, Adrienne thought sourly. “You know, I was great friends with his Great-aunt Octavia.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Miss Snow looked at her sharply, not sure whether or not she was being insulted. She was, but Adrienne didn’t want to completely alienate the woman even before the evening began. “From what I’ve heard, Octavia was a lady of taste and refinement.”
“Oh my, yes,” Miss Snow tittered. Her eyes took on a glow of remembered bliss. “Once we went to the opera together. It was one of the most stimulating evenings of my life.”
What a humdinger of a life you must have had if opera with that disdainful, dry stick of a woman Octavia Hamilton was a highlight, Adrienne thought sadly, but managed a smile. “I think I’ll give my daughter a call.”
“Why don’t you call the Hamiltons too and make sure they know what time the gala is starting. I’m thrilled that they are attending. I wonder if any of the paintings will appeal to Mr. Hamilton?” she mumbled, dashing off to make sure the gallery was in tip-top shape for the arrival of what she obviously considered royalty.
Adrienne called Skye and was surprised when Vicky answered Skye’s cell phone. “Skye’s here with us,” Vicky said cheerfully. “She and Rachel are playing tennis. Skye left her phone on the kitchen counter so I just picked it up when it rang.”
“She’s supposed to be at the Granger house,” Adrienne said sharply.
“It seems Mr. Granger is having heart pains. Or what he thinks are heart pains. His wife is beside herself and she brought Skye here so she and her daughter could hover by the dying husband’s bedside throughout the afternoon and night. The girl seemed really bummed out, as Rachel would say.”
“Maybe he is sick,” Adrienne said in alarm.
“He looked amazingly healthy for a man who’s having a heart attack,” Vicky said. “He even turned down an ambulance. I think he just didn’t want to get dressed up and come to the gala. But don’t you worry, honey. We’ll be there!”
Vicky sounded as if she were not only in a good mood, but also sober. At least Adrienne felt relief on that account “How’s Skye?”
“Fine. She brought the outfit she’d taken to the Grangers to wear tonight and it’s lovely. Anyway,” Vicky went on, “even Philip seems kind of excited about tonight A little of the hoopla over Margaret has died down. I guess it will flare up again when her body is released for the funeral, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now I’m just enjoying having some normal family life without Margaret bossing everyone around.” Vicky’s voice tightened when she spoke of Margaret her hatred of the woman still vibrating in her tone, and Adrienne’s old, unsettled doubts about her sister playing a part in Margaret’s murder began a slow and sickening rise. She forced them down, feeling treacherous for having any doubts, and changed the subject
“I know Philip will refuse to be on time,” Adrienne said. “He’ll want to make an entrance. But please don’t be too late, Vicky. I don’t want half the gala to be over before all of you arrive.”
“I promise we won’t be late. By much,” Vicky giggled again. “And good luck tonight I hope your painting wins.”
“Me too, but I’m not counting on it. By the way, one of the ladies on the board, Miss Snow, used to be a friend of Great-aunt Octavia’s. It will thrill her senseless if Philip makes a big deal over her. She’s tall, usually dressed in dark colors, has white hair drawn straight back, and she’s about a hundred and twenty years old.”
Vicky laughed. “I’ll warn Philip. Even if she’s from Ohio and can’t vote for him, he’ll still want to charm her.”
“Especially because she has friends who Uve in West Virginia who can vote for him. Thanks for taking care of Skye today.”
“No problem. See you later.”
Adrienne hung up, trying to feel confident about the evening. But the suspicions she’d formed about Vicky and Philip lately had already ingrained themselves far too deeply for her to relax knowing Skye was in their care.
She was worried, and the feeling wouldn’t go away.
Miles turned off the highway and drove slowly up the road to la Belle Rivière. He stopped in front, looking up at the grand old hotel. The evening sun had only begun to dim, turning from saffron to burnished gold against the sky. Venus, often called the evening star, glittered directly over la Belle, like a beacon signaling him, the north point in the compass of his grief.
He was relieved to find the place deserted. Not even thrill-seekers had turned out to stare at the murder site. They were probably having dinner, Miles thought. If television was dull tonight, they’d wander over, half excited, half scared that there would be more action at what most people had come to consider the “cursed” hotel. Ellen Kirkwood would be pleased, he thought. Local residents no longer thought she was crazy. They thought she’d been right all along about the resort being evil.
Miles pulled around to the back of the hotel and off to the side, where his car would be hidden by massive bushes. He got out and stood facing the hotel, studying every long porch, every balustrade, every door, and every window. And every shadow, because for early evening, the place seemed too full of shadows. It must have something to do with the architecture, he thought, a little ashamed of the pause those shadows gave him. He wouldn’t let them scare him. Hell, Adrienne Reynolds had come up here to paint at least once after Julianna’s murder. She hadn’t been afraid, so he certainly wasn’t going to get spooked. When he caught himself saying this aloud, he promptly shut his mouth and blushed, grateful there was no one to either hear him or see him.
Miles grabbed his knapsack out of his trunk and walked toward the back of the hotel. Security on the place had tightened since the day Claude died. Police had sealed the doors with yellow tape. Miles decided it would be easiest to break a window. Vandalism wasn’t his style, but in less than a month wrecking balls would attack la Belle, so what would one broken window matter?
Miles took a hammer out of his knapsack and struck a pane in a French door. It didn’t tinkle like crystal. The glass made a sharp cracking noise, then tumbled to the floor. He reached in and unlocked the door, not worrying about a security system. Kit had told him Ellen had turned off the system months ago, almost hoping someone would break in and burn down the place so she wouldn’t have to bother with demolition.
Miles picked up his knapsack and walked slowly into the hotel. He’d broken the window of an office. Out of curiosity, he opened a couple of the file drawers, but they were empty. Maybe Ellen had stored files on the people who once stayed in the hotel. Or maybe she’d had them destroyed. He sat down behind a fine mahogany desk that must have been used by the manager and would be sold at auction before the hotel was demolished. Idly, he opened a drawer, and near the back he found a bent and faded photo of a teenaged girl sitting on the fountain out front. An auburn-haired girl.
Miles looked closer, squinting in his intensity. Good God, it was Julianna! She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, wearing shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs and a tight T-shirt with no bra on underneath. She looked saucy and innocent at the same time. And she was beautiful. That photo had to have been taken twenty years ago, Miles thought, but someone had kept it tucked away all those years. The uptight, religious creep Mr. Duncan who had managed la Belle for a quarter of a century until it closed, Miles deduced. The guy whose mouth was constantly pursed with disapproval and righteousness. So he’d secretly lusted for Julianna. She’d even had that sanctimonious twerp itching for her.
Miles started to put the photo back in the drawer, but instead slipped it carefully into his pocket. He grabbed his knapsack and walked from the manager’s office through the huge lobby heavy with marble and mirrors, and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor.
Daylight still shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows at each end of the hall and he didn’t need to use his flashlight to find the right room. Number 214. Juliana said it stood for February 14, her birthday and Valentine’s Day. They’d spent their honeymoon night in this room. And she’d been murdered in this room. Miles reached out and ran a long index finger over each number. Then he tore down the yellow crime-scene tape. He knew the police had exhausted all the evidence the room had to give, and they still hadn’t come up with Julianna’s killer.
Miles placed his hand on the doorknob, then paused. He’d known he would visit this room again, but he hadn’t expected to feel reluctant, almost squeamish, about entering the once-beautiful scene of his honeymoon night. He and Julianna had drunk champagne there and flung their glasses into the fireplace. They’d listened to music, and with her in an exquisite blue satin and lace nightgown, they’d danced to “Sweet Dreams.” Again and again. They had giggled and caressed and made a fervent promise to love each other until the seas ran dry. It was a trite and hackneyed promise, but nice.
Unfortunately, only one of them had meant it.
Miles wandered over to the bed, forcing himself to look down. The spread and sheets were gone, but the mattress remained. The sight of large, rust-colored stains near the top made his stomach turn. Julianna’s life force had drained out through her neck onto that mattress, leaving only brownish mottling behind. He wondered if she had regained consciousness after she’d been stabbed in the neck. If so, had she known she was dying? What had been her last thoughts? Had he even once crossed her mind?
Miles realized he could never know the answers to these questions. Trying to figure out Julianna as she was dying was as futile as trying to figure her out when she was living.
Miles sighed and went to the French doors, opening the draperies closed against them. The sun had set even lower, turning the sky to a glorious flaming copper. He opened the doors, letting the fresh evening air drift into the room. Then he sat down on the soft blue carpet near the windows, unzipped his knapsack, and withdrew three candles in cut-glass jars. He lit them and the sweet scent of jasmine slowly began to waft around him. When they were married, Julianna had kept jasmine-scented candles alight most of the time. He would always associate the smell with her. It was a pleasant, a treasured, association.
Miles closed his eyes and remembered the day he had taken almost fifty photos of Julianna on the grounds of the hotel, photos he would later use when doing miniature portraits of her, one of which he put in a locket and gave to Lottie for her birthday. He remembered the reverence in Lottie’s once-beautiful eyes when she’d looked at the tiny painting. He also remembered the hatred in Gail’s.
Whisking away that particular memory, he carried the knapsack out on the porch, withdrew a portable CD player from it, stuck in a CD of the Eurythmics singing “Sweet Dreams,” and slipped on headphones. Then he opened a tiny bottle filled with brandy Alexander mix, the kind of bottle they gave you on airplanes. Brandy Alexanders had been Julianna’s favorite drink. He twisted off the cap, stood and walked out on the porch, then held up the bottle to the dazzling evening sky.
“To you, Julianna. You were my only love. You will always be my only love.”
He tilted back his head and let the sweet liquid pour down his throat He was so engrossed in his toast, in the taste of Julianna’s favorite drink, in the sound of Annie Lennox’s haunting voice singing “Sweet Dreams,” that he didn’t hear someone running up behind him. He only felt the thrust of strong hands against his back before he toppled over the railing and fell two stories onto the sturdy, sharp, upturned spikes of a thatching rake.