Читать книгу The Mystery Man of Whitehorse - B.J. Daniels - Страница 9

Laci Cavanaugh woke the next morning dizzy, headachy and sick to her stomach.

“How much did you drink last night?” she asked her image in the bathroom mirror and groaned. It was so unlike her to overindulge. She didn’t even sample the wine when she was cooking, although most chefs did.

After the bride and groom had taken off, the bridesmaids had insisted Laci go into town with them to one of the bars. She’d been in a daze. She vaguely remembered the bartender having to ask them to leave at closing time. No wonder she felt so horrible.

But as she stared into the mirror she knew it wasn’t just the drinks that had made her sick this morning. It was that niggling worry that she had tried to kill last night with alcohol. Alyson. Her best friend was in trouble.

Or was she?

This morning, in the light of day, Laci had to question everything that had happened last night at the reception. What had she really seen? A split second of something dark and disturbing on Spencer Donovan’s face. She couldn’t even be sure it had been directed at Alyson.

True, Laci had thought a second later that when he’d looked at her he’d been upset—as if he’d realized she’d seen him. She remembered how rattled she’d felt, how convinced he meant Alyson harm.

This morning, though, she admitted it was probably the champagne. Or her imagination—which, as her older sister Laney often pointed out, was more often than not out of control.

Even the way Spencer had said goodbye to Laci could have been innocent enough. Only she could read something into “Goodbye, Laci.” Just as she could have imagined that he’d rushed Alyson off in such a hurry because he was afraid of what Laci would say.

She sighed. As if there had been anything she could have said to Alyson to keep her from going. She cringed at the thought of what she might have said. I saw your new husband look at you funny. Like he hated you. I think he wants you dead. Great thing to tell someone right before they take off on their honeymoon.

Wandering into the kitchen, she poured herself a large glass of orange juice. To make matters worse, she recalled her behaviour in front of the man in the school playground. He’d looked so familiar, but she couldn’t place him now any more than she could last night. Not that it mattered.

Taking a sip of orange juice, she eyed the phone. Even if she could have called Alyson—who would now be on a flight to Hawaii for her honeymoon—she wouldn’t have, she assured herself.

Besides, what would she say to her friend? By all appearances, Spencer seemed to be the perfect husband. Attentive, handsome, obviously educated, successful and well-off financially. Plus, Alyson adored him.

“You’re wrong about him,” Laci said with false conviction as she picked up the phone and dialed her sister’s cell. Laney was the sensible one. That’s why Laci always used her as a sounding board. And right now she needed sensible—even if her sister was on her own honeymoon.

BRIDGER DUVALL STOOD in the middle of the musty building in downtown Whitehorse, telling himself he should have gone with his first instinct and left town.

“What do you think?” the young Realtor asked. She was a cute blonde with a husband and at least one young son and was so green that he suspected this could be her first sale.

What did he think? He thought he should have his head examined. He looked around the building. The structure had been sitting empty for a couple of years at least. Which should have told him that opening any business in this town was more than a little risky, but a restaurant was crazy.

The building needed to be completely remodeled. Fortunately, he could do a lot of the work himself.

As he stood there, he could imagine the brick walls with art on them, cloth-covered tables along both sides with candles glowing, low music playing in the background and some alluring scents coming out of the kitchen at the back.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell his marinara sauce and hear the clatter of dishes, the murmur of voices and, of course, the comforting ding of the cash register.

“It would need a lot of work,” the Realtor said.

An understatement. “It would need a whole lot of work.” But even as he said it he knew he was going to take the place. There was plenty of light, the building was more than adequate for what he wanted to do and the price was right. With luck, he could be open before Christmas.

It wouldn’t be the restaurant of his dreams. Not in this isolated part of the state. But since he couldn’t leave here, he might as well do something while he was waiting.

“Let’s write up an offer,” he said and saw the Realtor’s surprise.

“Really?”

He laughed. “You talked me out of every other place in town.”

“Maybe I should try to talk you out of this one.”

“Don’t waste your breath.” He looked around him, seeing again the dust and dirt and peeling paint. Still…“There is something about this place.”

She followed his gaze, clearly not seeing it. “Well, if you’re sure this is the building you want…”

He smiled at her. “It is.” Wait until the residents of Old Town Whitehorse heard he was opening a restaurant. It would be a clear message to them: he was staying until he got what he wanted. Or until he went broke, he thought with a wry smile.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA what time it is out here?” Laney Cavanaugh Giovanni asked, sounding half-asleep as she answered the phone.

Laci hadn’t thought about the time difference between Whitehorse, Montana, and Honolulu. “Sorry. I needed someone to talk to.”

“You should get a pet. Or just talk to yourself.”

“I am talking to myself. I just don’t like the answers I’m getting.” Laci could hear her sister get up, then the sound of glass doors opening and closing as Laney took the phone outside. She could imagine the view of the ocean, the smell of salty sea air, the lull of the surf below the balcony and the cries of the gulls. Every woman she knew was on her honeymoon.

“How was Alyson’s wedding?” Laney asked after a big yawn. But she sounded more awake. And it wasn’t as though Laci would have let her go back to sleep—and she would know that.

“It was…nice.”

“Nice?” Laney asked. “Okay, what happened? You didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have, did you?”

Now that she had her sister on the phone, Laci wasn’t sure she wanted to tell her. It sounded too nuts, even for her. “Of course not. Look, it’s nothing. Really. Sorry I woke you up. I should let you go.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. What is it?” her sister demanded.

Laci groaned. “You’re going to think I’ve lost my mind.”

“I already think you’re nuttier than peanut brittle,” Laney said, repeating something their grandmother Pearl always used to say before a stroke had left her incapacitated in a nursing home.

“Okay, something did happen. At least I think it did. It was probably just my imagination. I’m sure it was.”

“Laci!”

“It’s Alyson’s husband, Spencer.”

“Do not tell me he made a pass at you at the reception.”

“No,” Laci said. It was much worse than that. “I caught him looking at Alyson strangely.”

“How strangely?” Laney asked, sounding as if she was taking this seriously.

Laci realized she’d hoped that her sister would tell her what a fool she was and relieve her mind. “He looked as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. As if he hated her. As if he wanted to harm her.” The words were out and she wished she could call them back. She felt as if she was being disloyal to her best friend. “I know it sounds round the bend—”

“How was he acting right before that?”

“That’s just it. He was laughing and smiling and dancing with her as if he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have married her. I’m sure I must be mistaken.”

She groaned, remembering the look Spencer had given her when he’d felt her watching him. He’d been upset, hadn’t he?

“That is really odd,” Laney said. “You’re sure he was looking at Alyson?”

“No. But since he doesn’t know anyone else in town, who else could he have been looking at? Like I said, it was just for an instant. I’m probably wrong.”

She waited for her sister to agree, but instead Laney asked, “Have you seen Alyson since?”

“No. Right after that they left on their honeymoon.” She recalled the way Spencer had hustled Aly off. “Just tell me that I’m silly to be worried about her.”

Her sister seemed to hesitate. “You’re silly to worry about her.”

The words lacked conviction but Laci felt better. “Speaking of honeymoons…”

“Yes, I probably should get back to mine,” Laney said, a smile in her voice.

“You know that I will always suspect that you eloped so you wouldn’t have to ask me to cater your reception,” Laci said.

Laney laughed. “I eloped because I’ve decided to become more impulsive, like you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Laci said in all seriousness. “One of us has to be the stable one. I like it when it’s you.”

“Eloping was the first impulsive thing I’ve ever done. You’re the one who always told me to go with my feelings instead of being so analytical.”

“I don’t know why you would take advice from me.”

“Maybe we’ll have a reception when we get back,” Laney said. “And you can cater it.”

“Okay,” Laci said but without her usual enthusiasm. Her mind was back on Alyson.

“We can talk more when I get home. It won’t be that long, which is why I’m resuming my honeymoon now,” Laney said, and Laci could tell by her sister’s tone that Nick had joined her on the balcony. Nick was gorgeous and crazy in love with her big sister. “'Bye, sis.”

“Oh, Laney, I forgot to tell you. Alyson and Spencer are spending their honeymoon in Hawaii, too. Maybe you’ll run into them.” But Laci realized her sister had already hung up.

AFTER WRITING UP AN offer for the building, Bridger Duvall spent the rest of the day digging through old newspaper archives, looking for any mention of Dr. Holloway, the Whitehorse Sewing Circle or Pearl Cavanaugh.

As he searched, he thought of Pearl’s grand-daughter Laci and their chance meeting at the wedding. Fate? Not likely given the size of Whitehorse, Montana. Laci lived five miles south of town in what was locally known as Old Town. The now near ghost town had once been Whitehorse. That was, until the railroad came through in the 1800s and the town moved north to the rails, taking the name with it.

He recalled the first time he’d seen Old Town. If a tumbleweed hadn’t rolled across the dirt street in front of his car, he wouldn’t have slowed and would have missed the place entirely.

Little was left of the small ranching community. At one time there’d been a gas station, but that building was sitting empty, the pumps long gone. There was a community center, which was still called Whitehorse Community Center. Every small community in this part of Montana had one of those. And there was the one-room schoolhouse next to it.

There were a few houses, one large one that was boarded up, a Condemned sign nailed to the door, an old shutter banging in the wind.

For years the community had been run by Titus and Pearl Cavanaugh, both descendents of early homesteaders and just as strong and determined as the first settlers.

Titus was as close to a mayor as Old Town had. He provided a church service every Sunday morning at the community center and saw to the hiring of a schoolteacher when needed.

Pearl’s mother Abigail had started the Whitehorse Sewing Circle. The women of the community got together a few times a week to make quilts for every new baby and every newlywed in the area.

The old cemetery on the hill had also kept the Whitehorse name. The iron on the sign that hung over the arched entrance was rusted but readable: Whitehorse Cemetery.

Bridger had learned a lot about the area just stopping at a café in Whitehorse proper, five miles to the north and the last real town for miles. All he’d had to do was ask about Old Town Whitehorse and he got an earful. The people were clannish and stuck to themselves. The old-timers still resented the town moving and taking the name. And, like Whitehorse proper, both communities were dying.

A lack of jobs was sending the younger residents to more prosperous parts of the state or the country. The population in the entire county was dropping each year. People joked about who would be around to turn the lights out when Whitehorse completely died.

While Bridger had learned a lot, he hadn’t gotten what he’d come here to find. Not yet, anyway.

And now he’d made the acquaintance of Pearl’s granddaughter, Laci. She was a cute thing, fair skinned, slender, with short curly blond hair and blue eyes.

Life was strange, he thought as he continued to search the old newspapers. In a way, his life had started here. And now here he was, thirty-two years old and back here in hopes of finding himself.

The one thing he’d learned quickly was that being an outsider was a disadvantage in a small Montana town. Not that he’d expected to be accepted immediately just because he lived here and was now opening a restaurant.

But he’d found it was going to take time. Fortunately, time was the one thing he had plenty of.

His eye caught on a notice in one of the old news-papers he’d been thumbing through. A city permit for a fence at a house owned by the late Dr. Holloway.

Bridger felt a rush of excitement. For months he’d been trying to track down his birth mother after finding out that he was adopted.

Not just adopted—illegally adopted. The story his adoptive mother told him on her deathbed involved a group of women called the Whitehorse Sewing Circle.

Thirty-two years ago, his parents, both too old to adopt through the usual channels, had gotten a call in the middle of the night telling them to come to the Whitehorse Cemetery.

There an elderly woman gave them a baby and a birth certificate. No money exchanged hands. Nor names. Bridger had surmised over his time here that the woman in the cemetery that night was none other than Pearl Cavanaugh.

How a group of women had decided to get into the illegal adoption business was still beyond him. Nor did he know how many babies had been placed over the years.

He’d come to town months ago, rented an old farm-house just outside of Old Town and begun his search.

Unfortunately, his quest had come at a high price. Most of the people involved were now dead. The doctor who Bridger believed had handled the adoptions—Dr. Holloway—had been murdered by one of his coconspirators, his office building burned to the ground, all records apparently lost.

The woman he believed to be the ringleader, Pearl Cavanaugh, had suffered a stroke. Another key player, an elderly women named Nina Mae Cross, had Alzheimer’s. Both women were in the nursing home now. Neither was able to tell him anything.

But Bridger was convinced Holloway was too smart to keep records of his illegal adoption activities with his patients' medical records at the office. So he held out hope that the records would be found elsewhere.

But where would the doctor have hidden them to make sure they never surfaced? Maybe in this house Bridger had discovered.

Or maybe no records had been kept. Certainly no charges had been filed against anyone involved, for lack of evidence.

But even if Bridger found proof, not one of the women in the original Whitehorse Sewing Circle was less than seventy now. None would ever see prison. The only thing he could hope for was learning his true identity.

“Even if you had proof that would stand up in court,” the sheriff had said, “you sure you want these women thrown in jail? If they hadn’t gotten you and your twin sister good homes, neither of you might be alive today.”

Bridger knew he probably owed his life to the Whitehorse Sewing Circle. The women had taken babies who needed homes and placed them with loving couples who either couldn’t conceive or were ineligible to adopt because of their age.

Also, something good had come out of his quest: he’d found his twin sister, Eve Bailey. Eve had grown up in Old Town and suspected from an early age that she was adopted. She’d come back here also looking for answers and, like him, had ended up staying.

As he copied down the address of the house that Dr. Holloway had owned, he felt a surge of hope. The doctor had lived in an apartment over his office. So what had he used the house for?

Bridger tried not to get his hopes up, telling himself that if he didn’t find anything at the house, there was always Pearl Cavanaugh’s granddaughter.

One way or the other, maybe he’d finally get lucky.

LACI JUMPED WHEN THE phone rang and picked it up before even checking caller ID. She’d been thinking about Alyson, so she’d just assumed it would be her.

“Laci?”

“Maddie?” She realized she hadn’t heard from her cousin in weeks, not since Maddie Cavanaugh had moved to Bozeman to attend Montana State University. “How are you?”

“Great. Really great,” Maddie said, sounding like her old self again.

Laci couldn’t have been more relieved. Maddie had been through so much, not the least being suspected of murder. But probably the hardest was her breakup with her fiancé, Bo Evans.

The hold Bo had on Maddie was still a concern. Laci feared that Maddie might weaken and go back to that destructive relationship.

“So tell me about your classes,” Laci said, and Maddie launched into an enthusiastic rundown. She sounded so happy that Laci began to relax a little.

Counseling and college seemed to have helped Maddie put Bo Evans and a need to punish herself behind her.

Maddie asked about Laci’s catering business, and Laci quickly changed the subject. Her lack of business was the least of her worries right now, but she didn’t want to get into the Alyson and Spencer situation with her cousin.

“I have a test first thing in the morning, so I’d better go,” Maddie said after they’d talked for a while. “I wanted to let you know that my roommate has invited me home for Christmas. She’s from Kalispell, so…”

Laci tried to hide her disappointment. Maddie had planned to spend Christmas with her. Laney and Nick had already made plans to have Christmas with his family in California. “Oh, you’ll have a great time. What a nice invitation.”

“You don’t mind?” Maddie asked, sounding relieved.

“Of course I will miss you, but I’m so glad you’re enjoying college and making friends.” Laci knew that Laney would now insist she come to California—the last thing she wanted to do. Christmas required snow. Christmas was Montana. Also, she couldn’t leave her grandfather alone for the holidays.

“I’m really proud of you,” Laci said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“You know us Cavanaugh women,” Maddie said with a laugh. “I’m excited about the future.” Her cousin sounded surprised by that. After everything she’d been through, it was no wonder.

Laci hung up, relieved that Maddie hadn’t asked about Bo Evans. Maybe she was finally over him. Laci would rather believe that than believe Maddie hadn’t wanted to come home for Christmas because she was afraid to see Bo again. Either because she feared she might be tempted or because she was scared of the Evans family. Laci could understand being afraid of that family.

ARLENE EVANS COULDN'T believe the mental hospital wouldn’t let her see her daughter Violet.

“I told you they wouldn’t let us in,” Charlotte said as she inspected the ends of her long blond hair.

Arlene glanced over at her younger daughter as she put the car into gear. More and more, Charlotte was starting to annoy her. The whiny voice. The obsession with her split ends. The way she’d put on weight since the “incidents.”

Arlene insisted the family all refer to the attempts on her life as “those unfortunate incidents” if they had to refer to them at all. She would just as soon forget the whole thing. But that was a little difficult since the entire country had heard about her three children trying to kill her.

It had almost cost Arlene the farm in lawyer fees to get her two youngest off. It had cost her her husband. Floyd divorced her and ran off with some grain seed saleswoman. Good riddance. She’d leased out the land and would be just fine now that her Rural Meet-A-Mate Internet dating service was doing so well. Being on national TV hadn’t hurt.

Whatever the cost, it had been worth it to get Charlotte and Bo cleared. In her own mind, Arlene knew where the blame for the whole mess lay: her old-maid daughter Violet. Violet had always been the problem child. Charlotte, barely eighteen, and Bo, now twenty, would never have even contemplated the terrible things they’d done without Violet as the ringleader.

Alice Miller, that old busybody who lived down the road, had suggested the children were fed too much sugar. The woman really needed to turn off the talk-show television and take care of her own business.

Fortunately, Arlene had been able to hire a good lawyer for Charlotte and Bo and got them probation. The judge had insisted they come home and live with her so they could begin to heal. Arlene wasn’t sure that’s what had been going on at the house, though.

Bo stayed in his room listening to that horrible music and barely had a civil word for her, except late at night when he went out doing who knew what. Charlotte, restricted from going into town on Saturday nights because of those other unfortunate incidents involving strange men, hung around the house and ate.

Half the time, Arlene couldn’t stand the sight of her own children. Now there was an episode for the talk shows.

The only way she’d been able to stay sane was to concentrate on her business. Her Internet rural dating business had taken off after she’d been interviewed on one of the national morning TV shows. But many locals were still wary of the Internet. She’d been forced to remove some people’s profiles who hadn’t asked to be put on her Web page. The ingratitude of people still amazed her.

Like the Cavanaughs. The whole bunch of them blamed Bo for Maddie’s problems. All Arlene could say was good riddance to that one, too. She hated to think what Bo’s life would have been like if he’d married that girl.

Arlene couldn’t believe the injustice in the world. That’s probably why, when she got to the point that she found herself finding fault with Charlotte and Bo, she would turn all her anger and frustration on the one person who really deserved it—her oldest daughter, Violet. On the fast track to thirty-five and insane, Violet had little chance of ever getting married now. And wasn’t it just like everyone to blame the mother for it.

“I’d love to give Violet a piece of my mind,” Arlene said as she left the mental hospital, tires spitting gravel. She’d even hired a lawyer, but the hospital hadn’t budged, saying that it would not be in Violet’s best interest to see her mother. As if Arlene gave a fig about Violet’s best interest.

Did Violet appreciate all the years Arlene had labored tirelessly to try to get her married off? No. How did Violet pay her back? She’d tried to kill her own mother and had drawn in her younger sister and brother as accomplices.

“Sometimes I just don’t know why I try,” Arlene said and sighed as she drove toward Old Town Whitehorse. Beside her, Charlotte pulled a candy bar from her jacket pocket, at least her third this morning.

“Watch where you’re going!” Charlotte yelled as the car almost went off the road. “What is your problem?”

Arlene got the car back on the road and looked over at her daughter again. She’d never noticed before how much Charlotte was beginning to resemble her sister Violet.

BACK AT THE HOSPITAL, Violet Evans felt the drool run down her chin but didn’t move a muscle to stop it.

“Violet?”

She stared into nothingness, her eyes glazed over, her mind miles away. Miles away in Old Town Whitehorse.

“Violet, can you hear me?”

The doctors called her condition a “semicatatonic state.” She’d been like this ever since she’d been brought to the mental hospital after admitting to trying to kill her mother. It was a textbook-classic case, she’d heard the doctors say and had to suppress the urge to laugh.

It should be textbook-classic; that’s where she’d found the symptoms for the condition. Lately, though, the doctors had noticed that she was starting to come out of it.

Violet loved fooling with them. One day soon she would come out of it, all right. She wouldn’t remember anything. When they told her about her crimes, she would be shocked, feel incredible remorse for the misery she’d caused and find it almost unbearable.

There would be suspicion with her apparent confusion about where she’d been, what she’d done. There would be more psychiatric tests, but finally they would have to release her back into society. They would have to since she’d clearly been sick when she’d tried to kill her own mother. And soon she would be well.

But for now, Violet Evans saw nothing, felt nothing, was nothing. At least on the surface. Her mind worked 24-7, planning and plotting for the day when she would walk out the front door of the hospital a free woman.

Inside, she smiled to herself. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon she would be free. Only this time she would be much smarter. This time she wouldn’t get caught. Nor was she just going to finish the job she’d started. That was the problem with too much time to think—it made you realize there were a lot of people you wouldn’t mind seeing dead.

THE PHONE RANG THE minute Laci hung up from talking with her cousin. She smiled as she picked up the receiver, sure it was Maddie calling her back.

“What did you forget to tell me?” she said without bothering to say hello.

Silence.

“Maddie?”

No answer.

She checked the caller ID. Blocked. Her heart began to pound as she recognized the faint sound of someone breathing on the other end of the line.

She told herself there was nothing to be frightened about. It was just a bad connection. Then why could she hear the breathing just fine? “Hello?”

Still no answer.

“What do you want?” she demanded into the phone.

The caller hung up with a click.

Her heart drummed in her chest as she tried to convince herself it was just a wrong number. She hung up and hit star-6-9.

The recording confirmed that the phone number could not be accessed.

She hung up, telling herself she was overreacting. As usual. But now she was spooked, the call feeling like an omen.