Читать книгу Three Little Words - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 8

WHILE THE WOMEN who ran the B and B debated in loud whispers that carried from the next room, Connor stood in the middle of the Bay House foyer and looked around with dull disinterest. Under normal circumstances, he’d have paid more attention to the stately Victorian architecture and tasteful surroundings. But it was growing impossible to focus on details. His eyeballs were scratchy and his lids seemed to be lined with lead. If they didn’t give him a room soon, he’d end up curled in a ball under the potted palm.

He took a few steps to the open doorway that led to a sunlit dining room, intending to hurry the process along. The hushed conversation stopped him.

“I won’t let you do it, Claire.” That was the older woman’s voice. Connor had momentarily forgotten her name, but she was short and round with dumpling cheeks and a severe gray braid that pulled her forehead taut.

“We have no other space to offer. I hate to turn away a guest when we’re struggling to turn a profit.”

“What about the attic? Won’t one of those rooms do?”

Claire Levander, who was the manager Tess had told him to seek out, made a discouraging sound. “Noah and Roxy are repairing the damage from last winter’s frozen-pipe burst.”

The innkeeper frowned at Claire. “I wish you’d stayed put. I didn’t have to worry about the prophecy going into action when you were living at Bay House full-time.”

Connor swayed on his feet. He was too tired to figure out riddles.

“Yeah, because Noah and I had sucked up all of Valentina’s wedding karma.” Claire gave a wry laugh. “Now that we’re living together and practically engaged, your ancestor needs a new victim.”

“Oh, you,” the older woman fretted. “Hush. That’s not the way to convince me to give Mr. Reed the bridal suite.”

Connor stepped forward, putting a hand on the door trim and clearing his throat. Both women whipped around. “I need a room,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay whatever you like. I don’t care if it’s a bridal suite as long as it has a bed.”

Claire, a thirtyish brunette who was very well put together, turned to the other woman. “Emmie—c’mon. What can it hurt if I give him Valentina’s bedroom?”

Emmie’s face puckered with indecision, but stubbornness won out. “No.” When Claire opened her mouth to protest, she repeated, “No. You know why.”

Connor’s heavy head dropped forward. He didn’t need this hassle. “Does it matter if I tell you that Tess Bucek sent me?”

The two women looked at each other for one astounded, quizzical beat. Then they turned to Connor. “Tess?” they said in unison.

Emmie’s manner did a sudden one-eighty. “Why didn’t you say so?” she cried, coming toward Connor with her arms open. She gave him a welcoming squeeze. “If you’re a friend of Tess’s, you’re a friend of mine. And you’re in luck, because the best room in the house is available.” That wasn’t what she’d been whispering ten seconds ago, but Connor wasn’t going to argue when Emmie was motioning the inn manager toward the foyer. “Claire will check you right in. Welcome to Bay House.”

With an amused smile, Claire slipped behind a handsome polished desk and retrieved the registry book. She flipped it open, studying him closely. “Here you go, Mr. Reed. Are you a particular friend of Tess’s?” Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she handed him a pen.

Connor took it and signed the book. He knew he looked disreputable at best, so why the sudden interest and approval? Was Tess’s say-so that important? Or were they setting him up for…well, he couldn’t imagine what.

“Nope,” he said. “I met her for the first time about an hour ago. In the library.”

Emmie looked less impressed, but Claire wasn’t concerned. “All the same, we’re very pleased that Tess sent you to Bay House.” She glanced at the name he’d scrawled in the registry and gave a little start.

Connor grimaced. He’d told them only his last name when he’d arrived, but had forgotten and signed his name in the guest book in its notorious entirety.

Claire snapped the book shut before Emmie could lean in for a look. Very smooth. Her smile didn’t even waver. Connor gave her full marks for discretion and for maintaining the warm reception, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was accustomed to awkward reactions. All that he hoped was that when word spread, Tess wouldn’t be besmirched by his unsavory reputation because she’d vouched for him.

A number of tagged room keys hung on a small Peg-Board on the pale gold wall. Instead of reaching for one of them, Claire took a small silver key from her pocket, opened a desk drawer and slowly withdrew a tasseled latchkey, almost as if she were a magician pulling silk scarves from a hat.

Connor was baffled by the significance. A key was a key and a room was a room. Wasn’t it?

His sense of disquiet deepened. Both women were treating him oddly—for whatever reason—but that didn’t seem to be why his scalp prickled. He glanced behind him, then up a staircase that was still grand despite its threadbare carpeting. A flash of movement on the second-floor landing was followed by a series of diminishing thumps.

“Who was that?” Connor asked.

Claire hadn’t even looked. “Only the maid.”

“Never mind her,” Emmie said hastily.

“Shari won’t bother you.” Claire’s voice had gone up two octaves.

Connor knew she was prevaricating and found it all very curious. “She’s not related to Norman Bates, is she?”

Emmie reared back. “Good heavens, no!”

Claire produced a dutiful chuckle. “Mr. Reed was making a joke, Em.”

Maybe not, Connor thought, although he was prone to finding sinister implications even where there were none. A hazard of his profession, where the boy next door was likely a freckle-faced killer.

“There is no crime at Bay House,” the older woman scolded.

“Of course not.” Claire avoided Connor’s eyes so carefully he knew she was wondering if he was here to investigate a story.

“That’s good to hear,” Connor said. “Seeing as I’m on vacation—” he stressed the word for Claire’s benefit “—I’d rather not be awakened by bumps in the night.”

Claire scoffed as she came back around the desk and reached for his gym bag. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that.” Connor got the bag before she did. She straightened, giving him a genuine smile as she raised a hand to her mouth to whisper, “Shari has a heavy step.”

He nodded, liking Claire. If she’d made an instant judgment on his name, she hadn’t let it color her conduct.

“This way, Mr. Reed.” He followed Claire up the stairs as she rattled on about the history of Bay House and its owners, the Whitaker family. “I’m putting you in the bridal suite.” She put the heavy latchkey into the keyhole and cranked. “The room is named after the family’s infamous jilted bride, Valentina Whitaker. Don’t be put off by any rumors you may hear. They have little basis in reality and are purely speculation.” Claire’s eyes danced. “Or so Emmie makes me say.” She opened the door with a flourish.

“Sounds like a subject I’m not sure I want to explore.” Connor dropped his gym bag to the floor as he moved into the room. It was bright and airy, decorated with a mix of homespun—rag rugs, a folded quilt, an old-fashioned washstand—and froufrou—a crystal chandelier and a lot of photos in fussy silver frames.

“This’ll do,” he said. The best thing about the room was the bed. A big and sturdy four-poster. He could peel back the pristine linens and delicate lacy stuff and collapse.

Claire gestured. “You have a small balcony and a private bath. And, of course, Valentina.”

Connor looked at the wall she indicated. An oil-painting portrait was prominently featured above the fireplace. A serene blonde posed in her wedding gown, hands clutching a bouquet of white roses. “Uh-huh,” he said. Claire was waiting for further reaction, so he added a salute. “Nice to meet you, Valentina.”

“Nice?” Claire made a face. “That wasn’t my reaction.”

Connor turned away. “I get all kinds.”

“Oh!” Claire looked mortified. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear, making a dangling earring swing against her neck. “I didn’t mean you. Valentina’s the one I’m not comfortable wi—” She stopped, rolled her eyes, then started again. “What I meant was…”

Connor winced while she fumbled for words. For all that he told himself he didn’t care, he remained hypersensitive about other people’s reactions to him. Claire might be a rare open-minded individual, but few were immune to overwhelming public opinion. The gossip would start soon enough, and he didn’t want to put these well-meaning people in the middle.

He shot a look over his shoulder, interrupting Claire. “Listen, don’t worry. I’m not here to make trouble. I should be checking out in a couple of days.”

Claire’s face was pink and worried. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, but there was a classic grace in her strong bones, tall form and abundant curves. Up to now, her manner had been assured, so he doubted that she was normally so easily flustered. It had to be him or Valentina. And who could be disturbed by a bride, even one who’d refused to smile?

“Please, Mr. Reed. You must stay as long as you’d like. We don’t take reservations for this room, so it’s yours for an extended stay if you wish.”

“All right, thanks,” he said, unsure of his plans but wanting to erase Claire’s worried frown.

“Anything you need, please ask. Emmie and her brother, Toivo, the owners, are usually on the premises. I’m here almost every day. Breakfast is served in the dining room, or you can arrange for a tray….”

Connor nodded her out of the room, sensing that she was on the verge of asking him his business in the area if he gave her an opening. He didn’t. His face was a mask.

Finally she said good-day. He closed the door and pressed a palm to one of the raised panels, leaning all his weight against it as his heavy eyelids closed.

Finally alone. Thank God.

The funny thing was that he used to be what was commonly called a people person. Go back to his college days, even a few years ago, and he was right there in the center of it all, ready to talk and argue and laugh with anyone who showed a glimmer of a fascinating mind.

Now he was so…exhausted.

Not only from defending himself. He was tired of talk, tired of words, tired of the way both could be twisted and distorted. As if it was all just a cruel game.

Be damn grateful you’re no longer a player, he thought, but inside he knew that was a cop-out.

He’d played. And he’d lost more than he’d ever imagined.

A vital part of himself was missing.

TESS’S HEAD SWIRLED with horrific images and words as she drove to the Three Pines nursing home, twenty-five miles from Alouette on a twisty two-lane country road. The highway was a better route, but also longer and busier. She wanted time to think before seeing Connor again.

To think in peace. If she could get the awfulness out of her head.

She’d only scraped the surface of all the information available on the Internet on Connor Reed, though the majority of it—muck included—had centered on his most recent involvement with the overturning of the murder conviction against Roderick Strange. Several years ago, Strange had been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of a young woman in rural Kentucky. He’d also been suspected in several other disappearances, but there hadn’t been enough proof. Finally, in the Elizabeth Marino case, he’d been convicted and sent to prison.

Until Connor’s involvement.

Connor Reed was a very successful true-crime writer. The Alouette library had a couple of his books, including his blockbuster bestseller, Blood Kin. Even though she hadn’t read any of them—being partial to cozy mysteries over the stark and often bloody reality of nonfiction—she was surprised she hadn’t immediately recognized his name. Maybe making up her own stories about him had distracted her. Little had she known that by comparison with the truth, her imaginings were harmless.

About a year and a half ago, at the peak of the original trial, Connor had signed a ballyhooed, big-bucks contract with Scepter Publishing to write a book about Roderick Strange. According to the news reports, during the months after the man’s guilty verdict Connor had uncovered vital evidence and given it over to the courts, which ultimately led to Strange’s conviction being overturned. People had been in an uproar. There were protests, public debates, hate mail and death threats. Connor was roasted over the coals by many, defended by only a spare few.

Though he’d been invited to all the talk shows, he’d spurned the attention and made little public comment. Even that had been turned against him by those who said he was only looking to cash in by saving the inside story for his impending book.

So far, there was no book. Tess had perused the Scepter Publishing Web site, but found no firm publishing date for a work by Connor Reed. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t already written the manuscript….

She wrinkled her nose, slowing at the intersection where the country road crossed with the highway. The idea of such a book was distasteful. In good conscience, she couldn’t argue too strenuously against Connor’s turning over the evidence he’d found, as terrible as the result had been. She had more trouble with the idea of him profiting from the tragedy.

Perhaps he did, too?

The light turned green. She tapped on the gas and drove through the intersection. Then what about his other books? Those cases had also involved ugly crime, real people and grieving families.

On the other hand, who was she to be judgmental?

Tess skirted the town, finding Three Pines easily enough, as she’d visited before, delivering books to a longtime library patron who’d been in residence the previous winter. The nursing home was a horizontal structure, formed from a central hub with four wings that spoked out in a crooked H formation. She spotted Connor in the parking lot outside of Wing D, leaning against the bumper of a dusty Jeep.

Her heart gave a little jump as she pulled in beside him.

It was early evening yet, but the sun had lowered far enough to send slanting rays through the tall Norway pines that surrounded the facility. Sharp-edged shadows stretched across the paved lot, casting his brooding face in an appropriately murky light.

Tess got out of her car. “Hi!”

Connor nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

“Beautiful evening,” she said, compelled to combat her doubt with chirpiness. “You’re looking well.”

“I slept for a couple of hours.”

“And shaved.”

He touched his chin. “Just for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” She maintained a cheery smile while attempting an unobtrusive evaluation. He’d changed, too, into a fresh white T-shirt and belted khakis. But he still looked sad and withdrawn.

Her heart went out to him, even though her head kept asking questions. Was Connor Reed heartless? Greedy? Or merely an average guy stuck in a bad situation?

“So you found the place okay,” he said.

“Yesiree. I’ve been here before.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “You’re Mary Sunshine.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Just weird.”

She cocked her head. “How so?”

He shrugged. “I guess it’s the Midwestern in you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, not bad. Not bad at all. Just makes me think I’ve been hanging out with the wrong people.” He reached to take her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Without thinking, she withdrew, crossing her arms over her front.

Connor stopped. Looked at her for a long minute, his face darkening. Finally he shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” he said shortly, and walked toward the paths that bordered the different wings in wide gray outlines. He took the one that led to Wing D, not even looking back to see if she’d followed as he made a sharp turn and was swallowed by the shadows beneath the wide eaves of the entrance.

Tess hesitated for another moment before hurrying after him. “Look,” she said, trotting to catch up to his long strides. “I’m not—I didn’t—”

He’d stopped at the door next to an outdoor aluminum ashtray overflowing with butts. “You know who I am,” he said without looking at her.

She let out a soft sigh. “Yes.”

“You can leave right now if you don’t want to be associated with me. I understand.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

He threw a glance over his shoulder. “How come? I’m generally acknowledged to be a pretty despicable guy.”

She moved a little closer. “Maybe general knowledge isn’t what it’s cracked up to be?”

“Are you asking me a question?”

“I might be.”

“Well, now’s not the time.” He opened the door and stood aside to allow her through. “Your choice.”

She marched inside. She’d made a promise, after all.

They entered into a small reception area. An attempt had been made to improve on the sterile concrete-block look of the facility, with hunter-green paint, a couch, buffalo-plaid curtains and accessories that included duck decoys and wildlife prints. A predictable decor, but better than austerity.

A long hallway ran down the middle of the wing, with residents’ rooms on either side. There was an unstaffed reception desk near the lounge, and an empty wheelchair and a gurney parked outside one of the rooms. The place seemed deserted, except for a uniformed attendant turning a corner at the other end of the hall.

“This way,” Connor said. “Sonny’s three doors down on the left.”

An old woman with a walker poked her head into the hallway as they passed, looking both curious and eager for visitors. Tess would have stopped to chit-chat, but Connor was already disappearing into his grandfather’s room. She smiled at the woman and said hello before hurrying to catch up again.

She arrived in time to see Connor giving his grandfather a careful hug. “So you came back, eh?” the old man said.

“Told you I would. And I brought a visitor.”

A gnarled hand waved dismissal. “Bah. Visitors.”

“You might like this one.”

Tess stepped forward. “No, please, sit,” she said, when Connor’s grandfather saw her and started to rise from his chair by the window.

He didn’t listen, and straightened slowly with one hand clenched on the head of a cane. His forehead pleated with a deep scowl.

Connor steadied his grandfather’s stance. “Grandpa, this is Tess Bucek, from Alouette. Tess, my grandfather, Addison Mitchell.”

“Mr. Mitchell.” Tess offered her hand, hoping the lighthouse keeper wouldn’t bite it off.

The old man clasped it briefly, but with a strong pressure. He peered at her with eyes that were sharply blue beneath eyebrows like fuzzy caterpillars. “Bucek? Don’t recall any Buceks in Alouette.”

“Right now, I’m the only one left. My parents were Tony and Annabel Bucek. I doubt you’d remember either of them, sir.”

“Good people?”

She blinked. “Acceptable, sir.”

“Sir?” He snorted. “I s’pose you can call me Sonny. Take a seat if it suits you, there.” He lowered himself to the padded chair, letting out a rusty chuckle as Tess sat and crossed her legs. “Still a ladies’ man, eh, Connor?”

“Tess is—” Connor shrugged, looking to her for help.

“Just a visitor,” she said, smoothing her skirt. No need to embarrass the old man by baldly pointing out the reason for her visit. “I met Connor today in the library. I work there.”

Sonny grunted.

Connor excused himself and went out to the hall to find another chair. His grandfather stared out the window, ignoring Tess. She looked around the room. Besides a hospital bed, there was a TV bolted near the ceiling and a small desk with a few framed pictures on it and nothing else. No reading material.

She cleared her throat.

Sonny’s eyes swiveled to her.

“Connor asked me for help,” she confided, leaning toward the old man. He was probably the prideful type who’d need reassurance that she could be discreet. “Just between us.”

Sonny’s speckled bald head wavered with a nod. “Fine by me. The boy’s been on the rocks.”

“Oh. Actually, I didn’t mean his, um, dilemma.”

“Dilemma?” Connor said, coming back in the room carrying another chair. He set it down beside his grandfather’s.

“Nothing,” Tess said brightly.

Connor glowered.

“You look just like your grandfather,” she said, teasing him a bit. In his heyday as cantankerous Old Man Mitchell, she silently added, continuing to smile sweetly as Connor got settled.

“Thanks.” He slumped back in his chair and his knee touched hers.

She sat up even straighter, edging away slightly. And got another black glower. There was no decent way to explain that she wasn’t disgusted by him—she was magnetized. Disturbed, too, in every sense.

Sonny’s lips had folded inward into a secretive sort of smile. For being nearly ninety and on death’s door, he appeared to be in fairly good shape. A silvery fringe of white hair ran from ear to ear, his eyes were clear and active, and his posture was only slightly hunched even though he moved with the deliberation of old age and arthritis. He had a lean physique like his grandson, gone to scrawniness and skin and bone. Thin, age-spotted skin stretched taut over the knobs of his knuckles where he continued to grip the cane propped beside his chair.

Either he kept up with current events on his own via the television news or he’d been told about Connor’s troubles. Tess thought it was cute how the old man had presumed she was “comforting” his grandson.

Wrong, but cute.

Although, if ever a man had looked in need of comforting…

She shifted around in her chair. Connor gave her a glance, but he kept talking with his grandfather, telling him about the trip back to Alouette and checking in to Bay House.

Sonny shook his head over the idea that the once grand house had become a bed-and-breakfast inn. “Shame. The Whitakers still there?”

“Yes, they are,” Tess said. “Emmie and Toivo. Sister and brother,” she explained to Connor, in case he didn’t realize. She’d been halfway positive he’d back out of the decision to stay at Bay House once he’d been introduced to its homey comforts and familiar hosts. He didn’t seem like a homey and familiar guy.

“Bossy and goofy, them two,” said Sonny with a scowl that was mostly for show.

Tess smiled. “You make them sound like the eighth and ninth dwarfs.” She’d have called them energetic and endearing. But then she’d only had long-distance grandparents, so that was a soft spot for her. Soft, sore…same thing.

“What about the lighthouse?” Sonny asked.

Connor made an apologetic sound. “It’s not looking so good, Grandpa. Really run-down.”

Sonny huffed. “That’s the government for you. I’da stayed if they’d have let me. Instead, I’m wasting away, good for goddamn nothing.” He deliberately turned his head to stare out the window, exuding a deep dissatisfaction.

Tess was uneasy, even more so when suddenly the old man glared at her. “I ever run you off Gull Rock?” he accused.

She gritted her teeth. When she was a child, it had been a prank among the older kids to dare each other to sneak onto the lighthouse grounds. They would make bets of how far they’d get before the lighthouse keeper caught sight of them. One boy had been famous for getting swatted in the behind by the old man’s broom.

“No, sir,” she said.

Sonny squinted skeptically.

“When you were still the light keeper, I was only—” she calculated “—about six or seven.” And frightened silly by the other kids’ stories of the legendary lighthouse hermit. No one had ever mentioned that Old Man Mitchell’s grandson had been visiting only several years back. It was probably more fun to scare each other.

“Buncha brats,” Sonny said. “Always screaming like a pack of gulls.”

“They were just being kids, Grandpa,” Connor said. “I made friends with a few of them, my summers up here.”

“Hooligans, the lot of you,” the old man groused. “Came to no good, I betcha.”

Conner smiled, though his expression remained somber. “Yeah.” He sighed. “You could be right about that.”