Adrienne couldn’t let herself believe she’d actually heard the voice of Lucas Flynn, the county sheriff and the man she’d been seeing for a year. Then he called to her again. Brandon barked joyfully and ran to the door while Adrienne nearly tumbled off the rail back onto the porch in her surprise and relief.
Skye still clutched her hand. “It’s a trick!”
“I know Lucas’s voice, Skye. So does Brandon. He’s at the door with his tail wagging.”
Skye looked at her dog, bouncing in front of the dresser that blocked the door on which Lucas still banged. “Adrienne! I saw your car. I know you’re in there!”
“Yes, I’m here. And Skye,” Adrienne called breathlessly as she crossed the porch. “Someone’s out there with an ax.”
“It’s me, Miz Adrienne,” Claude Duncan, the caretaker, yelled almost pleasantly in a razor voice. “Didn’t know you was inside. Thought it was the murderer. Miz Julianna’s in there dead, you know. Found her less than a half hour ago.”
Adrienne and a slightly less rigid Skye began pushing the dresser aside. “Oh God, Claude, why didn’t you say it was you?”
“Didn’t want the murderer to know who I was.
” This made sense only to Claude. After all, he’d just been trying to break into the room and then the jig would have been up. But such was the way Claude’s mind worked.
Adrienne and Skye moved the dresser, opened the door, and finally got a good look at Claude Duncan. He stood wavering, wearing the hood of his windbreaker tied so tightly around his face only his bloodshot eyes and three-day growth of beard showed. He reeked of bourbon. Even at the best of times, Claude was no genius. Now he was clearly badly hung-over. And he did hold an ax. Skye had been right about their “assailant’s” weapon.
But Adrienne looked at him only a moment. Then her gaze flew to Lucas. A heavily muscled man of six feet two with earnest dark gray eyes and what some people called a lantern jaw, he was an imposing figure in jeans and a T-shirt. In uniform with a gun at his side, he was downright intimidating. His broad forehead was creased with worry, his rough sandy blond hair rumpled as if he’d run his hand through it, as Adrienne had seen him do a hundred times when he was concerned or distressed. He pulled her into his arms.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, now that you’re here. Skye and I were so scared.”
He squeezed her, then turned to Skye and hugged her, too. “You’re white as a ghost, princess.” Then he looked at the bed, his expression appalled. “Good God. It’s Julianna Brent”
“I told you,” Claude announced hotly. “I told you she’d done been murdered!”
“I thought we were going to get killed, too,” Skye said. “Mom and I were going to jump off the porch to escape Claude and his ax.”
Lucas whirled furiously on Claude, who looked startled and backed up a step, blinking rapidly. “What are you doing with that damned thing, anyway?” Lucas shouted.
“Protectin’ myself!” Claude blustered. “I don’t have a gun like you cops!”
“You don’t need a gun!”
“No, sir, I surely don’t,” Claude returned sarcastically. “Just ‘cause we got us a killer roamin’ around don’t mean an innocent guy like me needs somethin’ for protection. What was I supposed to do if the killer was in here waitin’ for me when I came back? Kick him?”
“That’s the point. You shouldn’t have come back to this room alone,” Lucas said in loud frustration. “Are you nuts? You should’ve waited for me.”
Claude stuck out his chest. He was only twenty-nine, but he looked much older because of his sagging eyelids and puffy features. His complexion had turned a sickly yellow and glistened with perspiration. “I’m caretaker here. This place is my responsibility.”
“Well, no one expects you to give up your life for it, which you could have done.” Lucas’s tone had softened. After all, anyone acquainted with Claude knew that reasoning with him was a lost cause. He hadn’t been the smartest person in town even before the drinking had taken its toll. “Think of Mrs. Kirkwood, Claude. She would be devastated if anything happened to you.”
“She is a kind lady,” Claude said earnestly, looking half sick at the thought of his own murder and half pleased at Ellen Kirkwood’s resulting grief if such an appalling thing should happen. Adrienne could tell he’d imbibed even more than usual, probably at the thought that the Belle would soon be a memory—as would his job, such as it was.
She looked at Lucas. “How did you know we were here?”
“You must have seen the big car wreck when you came up to the Belle. I was there. The commotion woke up Claude—”
“Like to scared me to death,” Claude broke in excitedly. “I was outta my cottage lickety-split. Then I saw a side door open on the Belle. I came in to see what was goin’ on. I found—” He nodded at the bed where Julianna lay. “Couldn’t believe it! But I didn’t do nothin’ to her. I mean, I didn’t move her or nothin'. I just ran right down to where the wreck was. Knew there’d be cops. I started yellin'. They told me to go away. Then Sheriff Flynn came. I told him what was up here. Then I raced right back up to guard the scene. Like on TV. I thought you were the killer come back, Miz Adrienne. To dispose of the body, you know. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
But Claude no longer looked defensive or even abashed by his ludicrous behavior. He’d probably be bragging about his quick-wittedness and heroism for months to come in every dive bar in town.
Lucas shot a professional look at the bed, although Adrienne knew him well enough to see pity and repulsion in his eyes. “Claude says she’s dead.”
“I’m almost certain she is,” Adrienne said tentatively. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I touched her. Just her neck and her wrist. There’s no pulse. She’s still warm. Her neck …”
“Someone slashed her throat?” Lucas asked in a carefully controlled voice.
“No. Her neck isn’t slashed. There’s just a hole. Like someone jabbed her with something. An ice pick, maybe. There’s a lot of blood.” Adrienne’s own throat tightened. She tried to swallow and couldn’t. Her voice wavered. “I didn’t touch the … wound.”
“All right, everyone out of here,” Lucas abruptly ordered in a commanding voice. “Go outside, but don’t leave the grounds. I’ll have questions after I’ve gotten some EMS people and the coroner up here.” He looked at Adrienne. “I’m sorry, but you and Skye might have to stay a while. Got two people dead in that car wreck, so everything will be slowed down.”
“It’s okay.” She tried to manage an air of bravado. “We have a thermos of coffee.” She began to tremble again. “We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll take care of ‘em,” Claude stated.
Lucas looked grimly at the man exhaling liquor fumes. “You just go back to your cottage, stop drinking bourbon, have at least two mugs of strong coffee, and for God’s sake, quit swinging around that damned ax! You look like a lunatic in a horror movie.”
“I wasn’t swingin’ it,” Claude returned petulantly.
“You were when I was coming up the hall. Now get outside and put down the damned thing before you hurt somebody.”
“Well, hell,” Claude muttered. “I was just protectin’ myself, like I said. You cops wanna have all the weapons and leave us civilians with just our bare hands for defense. You see where that got Miss Julianna.”
“Shut up, Claude,” Lucas said mildly, almost automatically. Adrienne smiled at Lucas weakly in a failed attempt to look brave, took Skye’s hand, and led her daughter from the room. Brandon, for once, followed meekly behind as if he were always the obedient and well-trained dog. Claude brought up the rear, muttering heatedly about his constitutional right to bear arms.
Outside, Adrienne had to use every bit of her willpower to keep from breaking into a run. All she could think of was getting herself and Skye away from the new nightmare world of la Belle Rivière where beautiful Julianna Brent lay dead with a gaping hole in her neck, and a jumpy-eyed Claude Duncan followed them still wielding his ax.
On television, the lead cop viewed the body of at least one innocent victim each week. He looked at it coolly and often made a clever remark to his partner before beginning the dispassionate routine of his investigation. But it had been a long time since Sheriff Lucas Flynn had seen a body, and as he looked down at the pale, beautiful corpse of Julianna Brent, he felt anything except dispassionate and clever.
Everyone had cleared the room fifteen minutes earlier. He’d made the necessary calls on his cell phone, then took a few minutes to clear his head from dealing with the carnage down on the narrow road where a pickup truck had managed to wipe out a small car, and brace himself to deal with more carnage in this elegant hotel room.
He turned off the small chandelier and stood stock-still in the room, barely breathing, absorbing the ambience. The morning fog had burned away and bright sunlight pressed against the windows, but it was blocked by drawn brocade draperies. The only light came from candles that had burned low. The room was filled with the scent of jasmine, now too strong to be as pleasant as it would have been a couple of hours ago. One candle flame flickered against a glass figurine of a girl in a ruffled gown standing on the bedside table next to Julianna. The sparkle of the opalescent glass finish made the figurine seem to waver, as if alive.
Lucas moved closer to the bed and sadly looked down at Julianna. Her perfect face looked unearthly, almost angelic, and the candlelight brought out the sheen of her copper-gold hair spread over her creamy shoulders. He knew that beneath the closed lids, the eyes were the color of sherry, large and long-lashed. She’d fastened those incredible eyes on him just last week as she leaned across his desk and told him she thought she was being followed, watched, stalked. She’d said she was in fear for her life. And he had done nothing.
Shame washed over him as he stood looking down on that lovely face still holding on to a vague flush of life. Three summers ago, before he was elected sheriff, he’d been walking down Riverfront Street with an annoying guy who’d decided they were best friends and tagged after Lucas whenever he saw him. While the guy jabbered, Lucas’s attention had been drawn across the street to a tall, willowy woman with a cascade of copper curls and a pair of skintight jeans. “Julianna Brent’s back in town, actin’ like she’s the queen of the world,” the guy had said in a snide voice. “Always did think she was better than everybody else, but she fell on her pretty face. Serves her right.”
Lucas, having lived in Point Pleasant only four years at the time and still considered a newcomer, was forgiven for not knowing Julianna’s story. The guy had launched into the saga with nasty vigor. “Her daddy run off and left her and her younger sister, Gail, when they was little. The mother, Lottie, went crazy. Or crazier than she already was. She had some bad experience up to the Belle that people say gave her mind a turn, but I couldn’t get the straight of it. Anyway, she never mistreated the girls or nothing, but she made a fool of herself on a regular basis. Came to town near naked one time. Said it was too hot for clothes.
“Julianna never seemed one bit embarrassed about the runaway daddy, the crazy mama, or the tumbledown shack she called home,” the guy had gone on with gusto. “Carried herself like a queen and people let her get away with it because she was so beautiful. When she was eighteen, she ran off to New York and damned if she didn’t make it as a model like she always said she would. She was hot stuff for a while, so my wife tells me. I don’t keep up with the fashion world myself.” At that he’d guffawed and jabbed an elbow in Lucas’s ribs.
“So she’s just back here visiting?” Lucas had asked.
“Hell, no. She got messed up on drugs. My wife says all them supermodels do.” Lucas pictured the guy’s wife—a brawny, glowering woman who worked at the local Farm and Feed Outlet—and doubted that she was an expert on the inner life of supermodels. “Julianna was using cocaine and maybe heroin. The wife says they snort the heroin so they won’t have track marks. So Julianna got all screwed up, freaked out on one of them fashion shootouts, then couldn’t get work ‘cause she was unreliable. She went into rehab, then came back here to rest. That’s what she said. Rest. So while she was here, she met this artist guy, Miles Shaw. Long hair, weird clothes, highfalutin’ ideas about art. You know the type. Doesn’t really work—just paints pictures. He used to date that Kirkwood woman that owns The Iron Gate. I always thought she could do a lot better. Anyway, after they broke up, Julianna married Shaw and stayed here in Point Pleasant But she’s still wild. I hear stories.”
“What kind of stories?” Lucas asked.
“Just stories” the guy said darkly, clearly not knowing anything concrete or he would have gone into every detail. “The other sister, Gail, seems fairly normal if not too friendly. She’s a waitress at Kit Kirkwood’s restaurant and dates that cop Sonny Keller. A deputy. Pretty steady guy. But Julianna’s another breed. The wife says she makes up stuff so she’ll seem more interesting. I think she’ll end up just like her mama.”
Lucas hadn’t actually met Julianna until he’d started dating Adrienne. The few times they’d run into each other at Adrienne’s home, Julianna had been charming, extroverted, a bit flirtatious, and in the process of divorcing Miles Shaw, who was not taking the breakup gracefully. If he hadn’t fought Julianna so hard, Adrienne had told Lucas, they would have been divorced a year ago because Julianna had become bored with marriage to a talented man who would rather paint than spend a night on the town, and who wanted to keep her all to himself. Possessive, people said about Shaw. Lucas had thought that with a wife like Julianna, who wouldn’t have been?
There had been public trouble between them only once, though. One Saturday night, Julianna had summoned the police when a drunken Miles had hammered and shouted and cried at her apartment door. The next day, when Lucas talked to him, he’d acted genuinely humiliated and contrite. His record showed no similar previous behavior. Lucas had been glad when Julianna didn’t pursue further legal measures against her husband because he was certain she’d somehow provoked Shaw’s uncharacteristic outburst A long time ago, Lucas had been deeply in love and flatly rejected. He knew how Shaw must have been feeling.
“How did she die?”
The female voice cracked like a whip behind Lucas. He turned to see Ellen Kirkwood standing in the doorway, her face rigid, her gaze fierce. Behind her hovered her husband, usually the picture of handsome confidence but now looking almost meek with slightly hunched shoulders and eyes fixed on a point beyond Lucas’s shoulder.
“Julianna Brent was murdered, Mrs. Kirkwood,” Lucas said quietly.
“I know that. Claude called me.”
“He shouldn’t have.”
“Well, he did. How was she murdered?”
“We’re not sure yet.” The woman started forward, making for the body, but Lucas held up his hand. “Please don’t come into the room. We have evidence to collect.”
“It’s my hotel,” Ellen Kirkwood said challengingly. “I should think I have access to my own hotel.”
Lucas kept his face bland although her tone rankled. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kirkwood, but this is a crime scene. I can’t let you in here even if this is your hotel.”
“Ellen, please.” Gavin’s usually energetic voice sounded thin and fatigued. Lucas had a feeling he’d been arguing with Ellen all the way to the hotel. Damn Claude for calling her, he thought. And damn Gavin Kirkwood for not keeping his wife away from the hotel. “We have to let the sheriff do his job,” Gavin continued, stroking his wife’s thin arm. “He has to find out who murdered this woman.”
“You keep calling her ‘this woman.” You know very well who she was.” Gavin flushed. Mrs. Kirkwood’s fine-boned, thin-skinned face seemed turned to stone, and her wintery gray eyes were hard as flint. “Do not talk to me like I’m a child, Gavin. I simply want some answers. I have that right.”
Lucas took a deep breath. “You certainly do, ma’am, but as of now I don’t have any to give you. I can’t even tell you how she was murdered except that there’s a deep puncture wound in her neck.” Gavin closed his eyes as if he were queasy. “We haven’t found a murder weapon.”
“Do you know who she was here with?” Ellen demanded. “Who she was, shall I say, sleeping with in my hotel?”
“We don’t know that she was here with anyone.”
“I should think that would be obvious. Don’t you, Gavin?”
Gavin Kirkwood jerked slightly, looking trapped. “How should I know, Ellen? Dear, please let me take you home. We shouldn’t be here.”
“He’s right, ma’am,” Lucas said firmly, wanting to shake Gavin. The man, as always, looked debonair and acted completely helpless. “There is nothing you can do, and I don’t have any information to give you, yet.”
“Ellen, please calm down,” Gavin pleaded. His handsome face had a sickly gray pallor beneath the perpetual tan. “You have to remember your heart. You’re not supposed to get upset.”
Ellen waved her hand impatiently. “I know I’m not supposed to get upset. I don’t need you to tell me that constantly. But I can’t help it. My God, Gavin, there’s been a murder!”
Lucas, reminded of the woman’s ill health, pushed down his anger at her haughty tone and tried to soothe her. “We’ll be doing the best we can, ma’am,” he said kindly. “We’ll find out who killed her and why. We just need a little time.”
“Time.” Suddenly, energy seemed to drain out of the woman. Her posture slackened, making her look at least two inches shorter and frail. The skin loosened around the aristocratic bones of her face, and her eyes grew vague, almost dreamy, as she looked around the room. “Time won’t help,” she went on in a voice like a frightened, haunted child’s. “Have you forgotten where you are? La Belle Rivière. It’s cursed, this place. Julianna’s mother knows it. Lottie. We were childhood friends, did you know that, Sheriff? And this place nearly killed her. Now it’s killed her daughter.”
“This place is over a hundred years old,” Gavin said tentatively. “Naturally people have died here. It doesn’t mean the hotel is haunted, Ellen.”
Ellen dismissed his words with a wave of her thin hand. “I know it’s not unusual that people have died in a place this old. But there have been too many deaths.” She fastened her unnaturally pale eyes on Lucas and he felt as if someone were closing a cold hand around his heart. “You see, la Belle Rivière is one of those cursed places on earth where death has found a haven. I wanted to destroy it before it could kill again, but I was too late.” She glanced at Julianna’s chilling body and gave another long sigh. “And I’ll probably always be too late, because la Belle will probably destroy me before I can destroy it.”
Almost two hours had passed before Adrienne and Skye finished the waiting, the questioning, and arrived back at their home on Hawthorne Way. When Adrienne pulled into the driveway, the slate-blue and stone house looked strange to her, like some calm haven she had left days or even weeks ago. She was surprised when they walked inside and she could still detect the faint scent of the rich coffee Skye had brewed that morning.
The house had been designed by an architect and built for her parents in the sixties. It was one story and had been sleek, even glamorously modern. Then her parents had built an addition in the seventies, another in the eighties, and the last in the early nineties. The additions had been the inspiration of her father, who had no architectural talent but a determination that the additions be built to his capricious specifications.
The resulting house now conformed to no particular style. It jutted at various odd angles, each addition looking like a branch growing haphazardly from the trunk of a tree. Her mother had made attempts to soften the lines with carefully placed shrubbery and lush rhododendron bushes, but the greenery could only do so much in the way of improvement. Most of her neighbors on Hawthorne Way were glad that at least the unfortunate house stood on over an acre of ground, far enough away from their own carefully designed upscale homes so as not to be too great a residential blemish.
When they died within months of each other four years ago, Adrienne’s parents had left the house to her and her sister, Victoria. Vicky lived in an elegant Colonial three miles away, but neither she nor Adrienne had wanted to sell, so Adrienne and Skye had moved from their cramped, square little cottage into the whimsical expanse of the family home and loved every misshapen line of it.
Inside, Adrienne locked the front door, which normally she never did when she was home during the day. She felt shaky, weak, nervous, and slightly disoriented, as if she’d been up for twenty-four hours straight and run a marathon as well. She couldn’t ever remember feeling as physically drained as she did at this moment.
Skye looked at her helplessly. “All I want to do is lie down on the couch, but I feel like we should be doing something important.”
“Such as?” Adrienne asked tiredly.
“Calling Julianna’s mother?”
“The police will inform Lottie Brent. I couldn’t bear to tell her anyway,” Adrienne said. “She adored Julianna.”
“What about Julianna’s sister?”
“I think the police or Lottie should tell Gail. She’s never liked me,” Adrienne said. “She thought I was jealous of Julianna. I believe hearing the news from me would be even worse for her. She’s so different from Julianna.”
“But she likes Kit.” Skye’s eyes widened. “Mom, when we saw Mr. and Mrs. Kirkwood at the Belle this morning, Mrs. Kirkwood said she hadn’t talked to Kit. Maybe Kit still doesn’t know what happened to Julianna and it would be awful if she heard from someone else.”
Adrienne stood quietly for a moment, thinking. Or rather, dreading. Skye was right. She should be the one to tell Kit of their friend’s death. But it wasn’t just a death, which would be bad enough. It was a murder. How could she break the news to Kit without upsetting her too much? There was no way. Besides, Kit had always been the strongest of the three of them. She could probably handle the tragedy better than Adrienne was doing.
Adrienne glanced at her watch. It was just after eleven. Kit would be at her restaurant getting ready for the lunch crowd. With almost dragging steps, she went to the phone and dialed the number of the restaurant After two rings, a cheerful, young female voice said, “The Iron Gate. May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Ms. Kirkwood.”
“I’m sorry but she’s not in. May I take your name and have her call you back?”
Adrienne knew Kit often used this excuse when she was too busy to come to the phone. “My name is Adrienne Reynolds. I’m a very close friend of Kit’s and there’s something important I need to tell her. Even if she’s busy, please ask her to come to the phone.”
“Ms. Reynolds, she’s really not here. I’ve worked here a year and I’ve never known her not to be in at this hour, but she called in and said she had something to do and she couldn’t come in until this afternoon.” The girl’s tone was sincere. “I’m sorry. I can leave a message for her.”
“That’s all right. I’ll try her cell phone. Thank you…”
“I’m Polly. You’re welcome. And good luck.”
Adrienne tried Kit’s home number and connected only with the answering machine. She left a message asking Kit to call her back. She then tried Kit’s cell phone with no luck.
“She’s certainly incommunicado,” Adrienne said, looking at Skye. “That’s not like her.”
“Maybe she just decided to blow off the day—go shopping or something without being bothered.”
“Go shopping on a day when the restaurant is open? I don’t think so. She believes the place will fall apart if she’s not there supervising everything.”
“I guess she doesn’t feel that way today. You don’t think she’s sick, do you?”
“She’d be home.” Adrienne thought. “Ellen has probably called her by now and Kit is with her mother but not answering her cell phone.”
Skye looked at her gloomily. “This morning Mrs. Kirkwood looked so awful and she barely talked to us. What happened today sure isn’t going to convince her not to tear down the Belle.”
“It’s like one final sign that the place needs to be destroyed if you believe in portents and omens and things like that.”
“Mrs. Kirkwood does.”
“With a vengeance. And frankly, after today, I know I’d never be able to enjoy the place again.”
In fact, Adrienne had a slightly ill, repulsed feeling, as if she’d participated in something foul and shameful. Her fingers still tingled with the sensation of touching Julianna’s cooling skin and of looking into that beautiful face stilled by death.
But she had to think of Skye. She could not let herself fall apart and leave Skye to process the shock of the morning all alone.
Adrienne forced a smile. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to turn this into a nice afternoon, but in spite of everything, I’m hungry. How would you like some chicken salad sandwiches on the terrace?”
Skye looked relieved, as if she’d been afraid her mother was simply going to collapse, and she managed an imitation of her usual exuberant tone. “I would love one.”
“You know, Vicky and I ate chicken salad sandwiches all the time when we were young,” Adrienne said as Skye followed her into the periwinkle-blue and yellow kitchen with a giant red begonia hanging above a window. “Mom said we were addicted to them.”
“At her parties, Aunt Vicky serves fancy food that doesn’t nearly fill me up.”
“You’ve become a regular at the parties she gives now that Philip has decided to run for governor.”
“Aunt Vicky gets pretty mad that you don’t come to them.”
“I’m a disaster at political social functions. I have a tendency to say exactly what I think to the wrong people. I don’t know about Vicky, but I’m sure Philip is relieved that I don’t come.”
“He lets a kid like me come, but I think that’s because Rachel insists. She thinks the parties are really boring. Her boyfriend Bruce comes, but he talks to everyone just like Uncle Philip does. She says I keep her company. We giggle about everybody.”
“How polite of you.”
“Well, not to their faces, Mom!”
“I didn’t think so, or you wouldn’t be invited so often. Philip wouldn’t let anyone mess up his events, no matter what Rachel wants.”
“Rachel says what Uncle Philip really wants is to be president of the United States someday.”
“He always has. But I don’t think Vicky especially wants to be first lady. When they got married, she thought she’d enjoy the campaign life. I believe she’s changed her mind, though. It’s a much bigger strain than she thought it would be.”
Their usual easy chattiness soon died, however. Time once again seemed suspended for her as she and Skye sat under the big oak tree overhanging the flagstone terrace. Skye watched a mother robin bringing worms to her squawking babies in a high nest. “I hope none of them fall on the terrace stones when they start trying to fly.”
“That hardly ever happens.”
“It did two years ago,” Skye pointed out. “Remember those awful noises the mother bird made when she saw her baby dead? She sounded like she was crying. Wailing.” Skye shivered slightly. “I’m going to put my inflatable pool float on the stones right under the nest. That way if any of the babies fall, they won’t get hurt.”
“That’s a good idea,” Adrienne said, noting her daughter’s preoccupation with death. First she’d brought up the death of Ellen Kirkwood’s adopted son Jamie last summer, now the baby robin. But who could blame her? No fourteen-year-old should see the horror Skye had seen this morning.
Adrienne had just forced down another bite of sandwich she didn’t want when a girl’s cheerful “Hi, you two!” startled her into dropping her food.
“Rachel!” she exclaimed in surprise and pleasure. She hadn’t seen her niece for a couple of weeks and didn’t hear her light footsteps as she approached them on the terrace. “Shouldn’t you be slaving away at the Point Pleasant Register?”
“They have this silly idea they can put out the evening edition without me.” Rachel tweaked Skye’s hair and grinned at her. “Did you add blond highlights?”
“No, the sun did.”
“They look fabulous. I wish my hair was as light as yours.”
“It’s almost the same color,” Skye said. “Just a couple of shades darker.”
At twenty, Rachel Hamilton was tall and slender with long ash-blond hair, large dark blue eyes with sweeping black lashes, flawless skin, a beautiful smile, and cheekbones a model would envy. In fact, she’d been offered modeling jobs, but she’d always declined. She was far more interested in sports—particularly tennis, at which she excelled—and college, where she was a journalism major between her junior and senior years. This summer she had an internship at the Point Pleasant Register.
Skye idolized her elder cousin. Rachel was a heady mixture of beauty, brilliance, athletic prowess, and sophistication. Although Vicky always said Rachel’s “terrible twos” had lasted for four years until school captured her interest and abruptly stopped a long bout of sulking and tantrums, Adrienne never remembered Rachel going through an awkward stage physically or socially. Ever since she was six, she’d been lovely and poised, the perfect daughter for Adrienne’s politician brother-in-law, Philip Hamilton. But perhaps Rachel’s greatest charm was the fact that she seemed unaware of how special and accomplished she was. Her manner was casual and unassuming, completely without pretense.
“How about a sandwich? I made too many.” Adrienne held out the plate and Rachel took one. “So, how is my sister? I haven’t talked to her for a few days.”
Rachel shrugged. “Mom’s all caught up in Dad’s campaigning. Things are really hectic. The house is like Mission Control at Cape Canaveral.” Skye giggled and Rachel grinned at her. “Of course, the election is over a year away. I can’t imagine what home life will be like this time next summer. Thank goodness I’ll be gone.”
“But after your college graduation you’ll be free to go on the campaign trail with your mom and dad,” Skye said.
“I guess I could.” Rachel looked into the distance, prankishness in her eyes. “Or I might run off to Cannes or Venice with some completely unsuitable guy. A devilishly handsome gigolo with no regard for the flag, apple pie, or the American way. He’ll just want to sunbathe and go yachting and take me to elegant gambling casinos every night and drive my parents totally crazy!”
“Really?” Skye asked in wonder.
“No, not really.” Adrienne smiled. “Rachel would never do anything to displease her father, and believe me, that would displease him!”
“An understatement if ever there was one,” Rachel agreed. “But it’d be fun to do something shocking sometime.”
“Wait until after Philip wins the election to do something shocking,” Adrienne advised. “If you do something to screw up the campaign, you might find yourself written out of the will. Besides, I think your father has his heart set on you marrying Bruce Allard.”
“Oh, Bruce,” Rachel said without enthusiasm. “Four years older than I am and son of one of the town’s finest families. The perfect catch.”
“Well, he is cute,” Skye offered.
“But boring,” Rachel stated.
Adrienne peered over the rim of her coffee cup. “Just because he doesn’t dream of casino-hopping doesn’t mean he’s a bore. He works at the newspaper, the same as you. You must have things in common.”
“Brace’s father owns the newspaper. He’s just marking time there because his father wants him to have a taste of ‘the real world’ before he takes over someday. Not that he has the slightest interest in newspapers. He talks about the stock market all the time. All the time. He thinks art is a waste of time, Aunt Adrienne. He can’t dance. And he wants six kids.” Rachel turned horrified eyes to Skye. “Six kids! What about my waistline? My thighs? I’d always be in maternity clothes and have a permanent spot of baby spit-up on my shoulder.” She clapped a hand to her heart and looked upward. “Oh, heaven help me, marriage to Bruce is just too unbearable to even contemplate!”
Skye burst into laughter, as Rachel buried her head in her arms in mock despair. Adrienne knew Skye felt included and like a grown-up when Rachel discussed boyfriends with her. And although Rachel had made fun of what seemed to be a very nice and proper young man, Adrienne didn’t feel guilty for laughing along if Rachel could get even a smile out of Skye on such a sad day.
After the excitement of the morning, Brandon had been nearly comatose on his giant plaid dog cushion in front of the living room fireplace. In the winter, he lay for hours staring steadily at the flames and sparks behind the screen. In the summer, he lay for hours staring into the empty fireplace. Skye insisted that at these times he was having deep thoughts. Adrienne thought he was just acting weird to get attention. However, he was extremely sociable and had roused himself at the sound of a guest’s voice that had floated into the house through the open terrace door. He lumbered outside, already growing stiff from his morning of unaccustomed rowdiness, sat down beside Rachel, and offered her his paw.
“How do you do, sir?” Rachel gravely shook his paw. “You look especially spiffy with that red bandana around your neck.”
“He was bathed and groomed at Happy Tracks yesterday,” Skye said, smiling. “The groomer always ties on a bandana, but it got a tear in it this morning when he was running through the woods at the Belle.”
Adrienne looked at Rachel. She rubbed the dime-sized strawberry birthmark beside her right earlobe, a mark she usually hid with concealer. She only touched the mark when she was nervous, but her expression showed no surprise, and Adrienne suddenly understood the reason for her niece’s midday visit. The Point Pleasant Register editor, Drew Delaney, must have found out that she and Skye had been the ones who discovered Julianna’s body and sent her over.
“Rachel, let me guess,” she said casually. “Mr. Delaney is at la Belle Rivière as we speak.”
Rachel nodded reluctantly, then added with some aplomb, “He is the newspaper editor. Where would you expect him to be when there’s been a murder?”
“Exactly where he is. But he told you to come here and find out what you could from Skye and me, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She colored slightly, then gave her aunt a sincerely regretful look. “I wish I could tell you that I argued with him about trying to get information from you, but I didn’t. The murder of Julianna Brent is the biggest thing to happen in Point Pleasant all year. I’m ashamed to admit this to you because I liked Julianna although I hardly knew her, but I’d like to get a scoop on this. Bylines on stories about an event this sensational could get me a great job at an important newspaper next year.”
Adrienne didn’t approve of the journalistic imperative to dig for a story no matter who had to be pumped for information, but she admired Rachel’s forthrightness. “Did the sheriff tell Delaney about Skye and me being there?” she asked.
Rachel shook her head. “It was that caretaker. Somebody Duncan. He called the newspaper this morning.”
While they were being questioned, Claude Duncan had retreated to his cottage on the grounds. Adrienne knew he’d called Ellen Kirkwood, who’d showed up shortly afterward with her husband in tow. The busy-bee Claude had also called Drew Delaney, she thought in annoyance.
“Duncan said you and Skye were there, but he wanted to make it clear that he’d found the body and that you and Skye just got in his way while he was trying to protect the crime scene. He wanted to come in for an interview and photos.” Rachel smiled. “Drew said the next murder might be Sheriff Flynn killing Claude Duncan.”
“Dealing with Claude will take every ounce of control Lucas has, but I have faith in him,” Adrienne said. “He knows Claude isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Lucas was remarkably patient with him this morning even though Claude was a handful.”
“He sounds crazy.” Rachel paused, her expression changing to one of sympathy. “I know Julianna had been your friend for a long time, Aunt Adrienne, and Skye liked her so much. Finding her body must have been awful for you two.”
“It was.” Skye’s voice had become small and frightened. “She was lying on the bed looking so beautiful and peaceful.” A shallow wrinkle appeared between Rachel’s eyebrows as she clearly concentrated on every detail of the scene. “The sheet was pulled up to her shoulders. She could have just been sleeping. But Mom said there was a big hole in her neck—” Skye drew a deep breath and turned pale.
“That’s enough,” Adrienne said firmly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know you’re trying to do your job, but we’re in no shape to talk about this. I don’t think Sheriff Flynn would even want us to be discussing it with the press right now.”
“He’ll have to talk about it sometime.”
“Yes, but not right now. The murder only happened a few hours ago, Rachel. Give the police time to sort out what’s happened.”
“I’d rather get the story before they’ve had time to put their own spin on it.”
Adrienne looked at her niece disapprovingly. “Rachel, you can’t believe Lucas Flynn would manipulate evidence in a murder case!”
“Well, maybe not Flynn.” Rachel sighed. “Look, Aunt Adrienne, I didn’t mean to step on any toes where the police are concerned. I know you have a connection with them—”
“This has nothing to do with Lucas.”
“Okay.” Rachel held up her hand for truce. “I just want to get the story accurately and as quickly as I can. I feel bad for Julianna, but I have to look at this thing from the standpoint of my career. I’m sorry if I offended you by not being as softhearted as you’d like me to be, but in this situation, I have to be a professional first.”
“I understand, Rachel,” Adrienne said mildly. “But being a compassionate human should run neck and neck with being a professional. I hope you never forget that.”
Skye, who had been looking uncomfortable, as if she expected her mother and her cousin to get into an argument, suddenly said, “Didn’t Aunt Vicky get married at the Belle?”
“In a church, but her wedding reception was in the grand ballroom,” Adrienne corrected. She smiled at the memory. “Mom had taken me downtown to Miss Addie to get my hair trimmed. Judging by the results, Miss Addie had been sipping whiskey in the back room for her nerves. She just ruined my hair. I looked like a complete dork and I was so jealous of Vicky that afternoon! But I was proud, too,” Adrienne went on. “Vicky and Philip looked like movie stars. There was a professional photographer, of course, and thank goodness for him because Dad took about a hundred photos and every one of them was either blurry or cut off the top of people’s heads. I’ll get out the album and show them to you later, Skye. The professional ones, I mean. The photographer really did justice to Vicky and Philip, and to the Belle. The ballroom looked like it belonged in a palace. There was even a fountain of champagne.”
Skye looked starry-eyed. “Nothing that fabulous will ever happen to me.”
“Of course it will,” Rachel said, smiling and looking slightly starry-eyed herself. “From what Mom says, it really was a magic day.”
“Even though a lot of people believe something is wrong with that place because there’s just one disaster after another at the Belle?”
“I don’t believe in curses or anything occult,” Rachel stated. “The deaths and accidents at la Belle have just been the result of coincidence.” She took another sip of lemonade and announced, “I’m going out diere as soon as I leave here.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Adrienne said.
“Why not?”
“Because of the violence. Someone was murdered there, Rachel. You shouldn’t be around that kind of scene.”
Rachel looked at her defiantly. “Aunt Adrienne, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to be around that kind of scene. Good heavens, what do you expect me to do when I have a full-time job and my editor orders me to cover a homicide story? Shudder and say I won’t work on any stories that are upsetting?”
“No. But you’re not a full-time reporter yet And this was the murder of someone you knew.”
“Barely. I wasn’t friends with Julianna like Skye. And I’m less than a year away from being a full-time reporter. And I’m going to be a good one. A great one.”
“She’s going to win the Pulitzer prize,” Skye informed her mother with pride. “That’s the best thing a reporter can win.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, Rachel, but you’re only twenty. You don’t have a lot of experience and for now—”
A cell phone rang, cutting off Adrienne. “My phone,” Rachel said. “They probably need me at the newspaper.”
“Rachel Hamilton.” Her face lit up as she said, “Hi, Drew! What’s up?” Within a few seconds, her smile faded. “But I was planning to go out to the Belle. I’m at Aunt Adrienne’s and I was leaving in a few minutes.” Another short silence. “Plans for the county fair? Who cares about that?” Silence. “Well, I know some people care about it, but there’s been a murder. And you want Bruce to cover it? I know he has more experience than me, but his writing isn’t as good as mine.” Skye gave her mother a portentous look as Rachel’s face set in hard lines. “No, I’m not countermanding your orders. I’m just, well, giving you my point of view.” Silence. “Okay. I’ll meet with the chairman of the fair planning committee in twenty minutes. But I still think—”
She held out the phone and stared at it. Obviously, Drew Delaney had hung up on her. Her face grew red, her eyes angry. “Damn,” she muttered. “Bruce. He wants Bruce to check out la Belle this afternoon. Bruce can’t write his way out of a paper bag. I can’t believe Drew won’t let me cover this story!”
“Is Drew the gorgeous guy you said looks like George Clooney?” Skye asked innocently. Rachel flushed and gave her a look that clearly told her to shut her mouth. “Gosh, I’m sorry you can’t do the story, Rachel,” Skye said lamely, to cover her gaffe.
“It’s not your fault.” Rachel jammed her cell phone into her purse. “I just thought Drew had more faith in me.”
“Bruce is a full-time reporter,” Adrienne said, searching for a way to appease the furious girl. “You’re an intern who will be leaving in a couple of months. Drew is probably thinking of whom he has to work with for the next few years. He’d rather ruffle your feathers than Brace’s.”
“Or else he’s playing up to Bruce because his father owns the paper. I don’t like to think Drew would let that influence him, but maybe so,” Rachel said, her spirit suddenly gone flat “According to Mom, you know Drew a lot better than I do.”
Adrienne felt color rise to her cheeks. How long ago it seemed she’d had a teenage romance with Drew. How she’d daydreamed about him, pined for him with all her teenage devotion, spent days sunk in angst because he didn’t seem to know she was alive. Then suddenly, when she was a junior and he was a senior in high school, he’d begun dating her. She’d thought she was madly in love with him. No, she’d known she was madly in love with him, known it without an ounce of adolescent delusion. They’d even talked of marriage someday soon.
Right after he’d graduated from high school, he’d left for college in New York City, bidding her a tempestuous farewell. She’d been heartsick and lived for his letters and phone calls. But the calls dwindled from twice to once a week, then stopped altogether. Impersonal postcards replaced the long letters. Through friends Adrienne learned he spent Christmas in New York and by the next summer, he’d charmed his way into the inner circle of an affluent family and married the lovely daughter. Adrienne had been crushed. Furious. Devastated. And she was embarrassed to think that even now, the memory of Drew’s desertion brought a sharp prick of pain, even though another disastrous marriage to a minor Broadway starlet had followed what turned out to be his first failed attempt at nuptial bliss. After the last, he’d returned home just eighteen months ago to a job as editor of the Point Pleasant Register.
Adrienne knew Vicky had probably told Rachel old stories about Drew in order to underscore his feckless nature and tendency to use his considerable charm to flatter and get what he wanted from people. She doubted if Vicky’s point had been made, though. Lately, Adrienne had wondered if Rachel were developing a crush on Drew. And the girl had certainly come to think she was an indispensable asset to the newspaper and to Drew Delaney. Adrienne doubted that anything Vicky could say would change Rachel’s mind in the slightest.
“Well, I have to get on to this earth-shattering story about the county fair,” Rachel suddenly announced, standing up. “Thanks for lunch.”
“It wasn’t much and I’m sorry it had to spring from such awful circumstances,” Adrienne said.
Surprisingly, Rachel cocked her head, the anger vanishing from her gaze. “Well, at least Kit Kirkwood won’t be losing her inheritance in the next few weeks. The cops certainly won’t be quick to allow the destruction of the site where a world-famous model was murdered, and Ellen Kirkwood isn’t in the best of health.” She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? Kit may end up with la Belle after all.”