Читать книгу White Mountain - Dinah McCall - Страница 9

It was fifteen minutes after two in the afternoon when Jack pulled his rental car into the parking lot of Abbott House. He parked and got out, stretching as he stood. A twinge of pain rippled across his belly from his still healing ribs, but the cool, rain-washed air felt good on his face. He got out his bag and headed for the door, noting absently that the place looked deserted, but when he walked inside, a short, middle-aged woman looked up from behind the desk and smiled.

“Welcome to Abbott House.”

Jack nodded as he dropped his bag and pulled out his wallet.

“I’d like a room please.”

“For two?” she asked, looking past him toward the door.

“No, just me,” Jack answered and wondered why the woman looked surprised.

“Yes, sir, and how long will you be staying?”

“A week, maybe more,” Jack said. “I’m doing some research in the area.”

“Research?” the woman asked.

“For a book.”

“Oooh, a writer, how interesting,” she said. “Most of our guests are here because of the clinic, you know.”

“What kind of clinic would that be?”

“White Mountain Clinic. It’s a fertility clinic for women.”

“I see.” Then he gestured toward the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like there’s much business today. I thought the place was closed when I drove up.”

The clerk’s face fell. “Oh…that’s because everyone is at the funeral. So sad.”

Jack’s interest kicked in. “Someone local, I assume.”

She blinked back tears. “Yes, one of our residents, Franklin Walton. He’d lived here for many, many years, and his death was so unexpected.” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “He was murdered.” Then she added, “But not here, of course. Braden is a quiet little town. Nothing like that ever happens here, thank God. The tragedy is that it’s so soon after Dr. Abbott’s passing. Isabella is distraught, as we all are.”

Jack knew the name Franklin Walton. The man was the reason he was here. But he didn’t know who Isabella was, and the Abbott name meant nothing to him other than the name of the hotel.

“Dr. Abbott? Was he the owner of this hotel?”

She nodded. “Yes, but he and Dr. Schultz and Dr. Arnold also founded White Mountain Fertility Clinic. Most of the people who come to the clinic for help also stay here at Abbott House.”

“I see,” Jack said.

“I’ll need to see a credit card, sir.”

Jack pulled one out of his wallet and laid it on the counter. As she ran it through the system, he turned to survey the lobby. Like the house itself, it was quite grand to be in such an isolated location.

“This is quite a place,” he said.

The clerk smiled.

“Yes, isn’t it? It was built in the early nineteen hundreds by a well-to-do rancher who later went broke during the Depression. After that it went through a series of owners until Samuel Abbott bought it sometime during the seventies.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. “So am I to take it that Dr. Abbott and this Walton fellow were friends?”

The clerk looked up, a little curious as to the stranger’s interest.

“Yes. Mr. Walton lived here, as do Isabella’s other uncles.”

“Isabella?”

“Dr. Abbott’s daughter.”

“Other uncles? Are you saying that the murdered man was her uncle?”

“No, none of them are related by blood, but Isabella called them her uncles just the same.”

Jack nodded. “I know what you mean. Back home in Louisiana we sometimes call an elder member of our community by such a title. It’s our way of giving them respect.”

“Yes, exactly,” the clerk said, and then handed him a key. “You’ll be on the second floor, room 200. That’s the first one on your right at the top of the stairs.”

“I noticed this house has three floors. Are any of those available? I like heights.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but the third floor is the uncles’ apartments.”

One more bit of information to file away. “That’s fine,” Jack said, and smiled openly, not wanting her to question his curiosity. “It never hurts to ask, though, does it?”

Charmed by the big man’s smile, the woman felt herself blushing. He reminded her a bit of one of those hot young actors, only he was a bit older and had a much stronger jaw. Delia admired men with strong jaws.

“If we can be of any further service, don’t hesitate to ask. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock but the kitchen stays open until eleven o’clock at night, so you can order à la carte any time you choose.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, and picked up his things and started toward the stairs. As he did, he glanced up, then froze, his gaze fixed on the painting above the stairs.

The woman in the portrait was stunning. A thick crown of black hair framed a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine china. But she had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

“So beautiful.”

“Yes, isn’t she?” Delia said. “That’s the late Isabella Abbott, Dr. Abbott’s wife.”

“She’s dead?” The thought brought real pain.

“Yes, almost thirty years ago. She died in childbirth.”

Jack took a step closer, locked into her enigmatic stare.

A phone rang behind him, and he jerked at the sound. Only after the clerk began to carry on a conversation with someone on the other end of the line did he manage to tear himself away from the portrait and move toward the stairs. Halfway up, he found himself at eye level with her face. She was looking straight at him, beseeching him for something he couldn’t understand.

Breath caught in the back of his throat, and his mouth went dry. It was only with great effort that he tore himself away and continued up the stairs. Still rattled from the unexpected communion with a ghost, his hands were shaking as he stuck the key in the lock, then opened the door to his room. Without paying any attention to the fine old world furnishings, he walked inside, turned the lock as he dropped his bag, and sat down on the bed with a thump.

The room smelled like his grandmother’s house—of lavender and roses, with a slightly musty air that had nothing to do with lack of cleanliness and more to do with age. A ripple of uneasiness made the skin crawl on his neck. He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Isabella Abbott looking back.

“I’ve got to get a grip,” he muttered. “I’ll unpack, scope out the place and make a preliminary report before dark.”

But weariness overcame his good intentions as he lay back on the bed, telling himself he would rest for just a few minutes.

When he next opened his eyes, the room was in darkness. He rolled over and sat up with a start, confused for a moment as to where he was at. Then the scent of lavender drifted past and he remembered. He was in Abbott House.

His belly growled as he glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He’d missed dinner but was too hungry to wait until morning. Hopefully there would be a vending machine somewhere on the premises. All he had to do was find it.

As he slung his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked up and then out the window. The curtains had yet to be drawn against the night, and the silhouette of the mountain range behind the hotel was very visible. It loomed over the landscape—a dark and immovable force of nature against the blue-velvet texture of the sky.

Stretching tired muscles, Jack stood, then walked to the window. Below, the well-kept grounds of the hotel looked black outside the circle of illumination beneath the security lights. The place had a beauty of its own that was difficult to name. The grandeur of such a house seemed out of place in a land that still bore traces of wildness from its past. He thought of the man they had buried today. It was a good place in which to get lost.

But why he’d done it was the question of the day. Why had Vaclav Waller faked his own death? And why come here to Montana? There were any number of countries in which he could have chosen to hide.

He ran his fingers through his hair in quiet frustration and turned away from the window. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about all that. Right now he wanted some food and the rest of a good night’s sleep.

Isabella couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing her Uncle Frank’s face in the coffin. Even in death, she imagined she saw the horror he had experienced in knowing he was going to die.

They had laid Frank Walton to rest beside the man who’d been his best friend in life, but as the first shovel full of dirt had fallen onto his casket, Isabella had realized she had not known a thing about Frank Walton’s family. He’d always spoken of his past in vague references and of his family in the past tense, so she’d just assumed that he had outlived them all. But what if he hadn’t? What if there was the odd family member somewhere—a cousin, an in-law—someone who, if they had but known, would also have mourned his passing?

At the thought, she had looked up at the others and realized she knew little to nothing about them, as well. They had always been such constants in her life that she had taken them for granted, but she’d been jolted out of her complacency with the passing of her father and now her Uncle Frank. When this was over—when they could all think without wanting to cry, she was going to rectify her lack of knowledge. Family was everything, and now, except for five elderly men who were no blood kin at all, she had none.

The digital readout on her alarm clock read 12:10 a.m. She sat up with a sigh and swung her feet off the side of the bed. Maybe a glass of warm milk would help her sleep. It didn’t sound appetizing, but it still beat the chemical hangover that a sleeping pill always gave her. Grabbing her long white robe from the closet, she stepped into her slippers and headed for the door, confident that she would be able to slip in and out of the kitchen without disturbing anyone else’s sleep.

The soles of her slippers scooted silently along the polished hardwood floors as she moved down the hall. Seconds later, she circled the staircase and entered the lobby. Out of habit, she paused at the desk, checking the security of the hotel that was also her home. Satisfied that all was well, she started toward the kitchen. About halfway across the lobby, a hint of movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Then, as the movement became mass and the mass became a man, her heart skipped a beat.

“Hello…who’s there?” she called.

She heard a catch in his breath, and when he spoke, the husky timbre of his voice made her shiver.

Jack was still prowling about the premises in search of a vending machine when he heard a door open, then close. Instinctively he stepped back into the shadows, waiting to see who was coming, only to find himself face-to-face with a ghost. Not trusting what he thought he was seeing, he blinked, then rubbed his eyes. But the image didn’t waver or fade away. For the first time in his life, he understood the life-altering fear of being unable to move.

It was the woman from the portrait, and she came out from behind the staircase and into the lobby, pausing at the desk as if in search of an unseen foe. The expression on her face was drawn, and although he knew it wasn’t possible, he imagined that he heard her sigh. But that didn’t make sense. Ghosts didn’t breathe.

What was her name? Oh yes, Isabella. The clerk had called her Isabella.

Her beauty was evident, but it was the heartbreak in her expression that made his gut knot. What terrible tragedy had she endured in life that would carry over to the grave? She started across the lobby, then suddenly stopped and looked into the shadows where he was standing. When she called out, he nearly jumped out of his skin. From all he’d ever read, ghosts didn’t carry on conversations, either. Hesitating briefly, he moved toward her without taking his gaze from her face and didn’t stop until there was less than six feet between them.

“Isabella?”

The man’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet her name on his lips echoed in Isabella’s ears as if he’d shouted. She was used to strangers, but she’d never seen this man before. How had he known her name?

“How do you know me?” she asked.

Jack took a deep breath and reached for her hand.

Isabella flinched at the unexpected intimacy.

The shock of solid flesh beneath Jack’s hand was as surprising to him as his touch was to Isabella.

“You’re real!”

Isabella frowned. “Sir…are you drunk?”

Jack combed a shaky hand through his hair.

“No, but I’m thinking I might like to be,” he muttered.

“Are you a guest here?”

He nodded. “I checked in this afternoon.”

“Ah,” Isabella said. “That must have been when we were all at the funeral.” Then she pulled her robe closer around her body and tightened the tie even more. “I’m Isabella Abbott. Is there something wrong with your room? Is there anything that you need?”

Jack couldn’t stop staring at her. Even though he now knew his first impression of her had been nothing more than a midnight fancy, he turned to look over his shoulder to the portrait hanging over the stairs.

Suddenly Isabella understood.

She hid a smile. “Did you think I was a ghost?”

Jack looked back at her and then shrugged, unwilling to admit where his thoughts had taken him. Government agents should believe in facts, not ghosts.

“Actually, I came down to look for some sort of vending machine. It seems I slept through dinner and everything else.” When she smiled, Jack felt his stomach tilt, and was pretty sure it had nothing to do with hunger.

“I was on my way to the kitchen to heat some milk. I don’t much like it, but it does help me sleep. If you don’t mind a little potluck, I’m sure I can find something to make you a sandwich.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I would certainly appreciate it.”

This time her smile shot straight to his heart.

“I said I’d feed you, but not if you’re going to call me, ma’am.” She extended her hand. “Please…call me Isabella.”

Jack hesitated, then clasped her hand. It felt soft and warm and fragile. He looked straight past her smile into her eyes and saw a wellspring of such sorrow that he was overwhelmed with contrition. He’d come here under false pretenses, and making friends with anyone, especially this woman, didn’t set well with him. Then he took a deep breath and readjusted his thoughts. He wasn’t making friends. He was simply getting himself some food.

“All right…Isabella, you have a deal.”

“This way,” she said, and led the way into the kitchen, flipping a switch as she entered.

Suddenly the room was bathed in light, and Jack was struck anew by her beauty. Her hair was thick and straight and black, and her eyes were the color of dark caramel. When she smiled, her eyebrows arched in an impish manner. But she was thin—almost too thin—and when she began to take food from the refrigerator to make his sandwich, he wanted to tell her to make one for herself, as well. Instead he made himself remember why he’d come and began a quiet but pointed questioning that would have made his supervisor proud.

“So, you said earlier that you were at a funeral. I hope it wasn’t family.”

Her posture stiffened, and then she paused in the act of putting mayonnaise onto the bread. When she answered, he had to strain to hear the words.

“Yes, actually, it was.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

She reached back into the refrigerator, took out a platter of meat and chose two of the leanest slices of ham, then laid them on the bread.

“Thank you. Do you like cheese?” she asked.

He knew she was trying to change the subject, but he was unwilling to let it go.

“Yes, please.” His mind was racing, trying to think of a way to keep their conversation going. He remembered what the desk clerk had told him about the place. Maybe that would work. “So, have you always lived in Montana?”

She nodded.

“This is quite a place. Did you build it?”

She turned. “No, it’s quite old, actually. My father bought it over thirty years ago. It’s been in the family ever since. I was born here.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

“So you are following your father’s footsteps into the hotel business.”

Her chin trembled, and at that moment he hated himself for continuing with the charade. To his intense relief, she answered without any more coercion.

“The hotel was only a sideline,” she said softly. “My father was a doctor. He and Uncle David and Uncle Jasper founded the White Mountain Fertility Clinic in Braden.”

Jack quickly picked up on her use of past tense.

“Your father is no longer living?”

Isabella bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying. She had to get used to talking about this. It was now a hard fact of her life.

“No. He died a little over a week ago.”

“So it was his memorial service today?”

Isabella shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. “No, today was for my Uncle Frank. He was on vacation. Someone killed him.” She took a quick breath and then turned around.

“I’m very sorry,” Jack said. “That’s got to be tough…losing two members of your family so close together.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

There was a long moment of silence as she completed the sandwich. He watched without comment, noting the methodical movements of her hands as she cut the sandwich at an angle, creating two triangular halves. Then she placed it on a plate, added pickles, olives and a handful of chips, and set it on a tray. Without wasted motion, she laid a white linen napkin beside the plate, then took a glass from the cabinet and turned to him, the glass held lightly in her hand. But there was nothing casual about the look she gave him. He felt pierced through by her stare.

“What would you like to drink?”

“What do you have?” he asked.

“This is a hotel. You can have pretty much anything you want.”

“Any soft drink will do.”

She took a can of cola from the refrigerator, added some ice to his glass, and then put them on the tray before handing it to him.

“Here is your food. I hope it will hold you until morning. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock.”

Jack nodded and smiled. “It looks great. Thank you for going to so much trouble.”

Isabella folded her hands in front of her and tilted her head to one side. For a moment Jack had a vision of a certain teacher who used to chastise him for being tardy when he was a child.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Have a good night.”

He’d been dismissed. Without a reason to linger longer, he picked up the tray and started out of the room. He was almost to the door when she spoke.

“Forgive my emotional outburst,” she said softly. “The wound is still so fresh.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said, then looked at the tension on her face. “Will you be all right? I mean…I’d be happy to wait and walk you through the lobby.”

The offer was unexpected, and because it was, it was that much more precious.

“No, but thank you just the same, Mr….”

“Dolan. Jack Dolan.”

She tilted her head in the other direction, as if fitting the name to the man, then nodded, as if to herself.

“Good night, Jack Dolan.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good night, Miss Abbott.”

She turned her back on him to pour a serving of milk in a pan and set it on a burner to heat. At that point he remembered that she’d told him she’d been unable to sleep.

As he started up the stairs with his tray, he glanced at the portrait. The resemblance between mother and daughter was uncanny. No wonder he’d thought she was a ghost. He glanced down at the tray full of food and grimaced. If he ate all of this, he would be sleepless, too. And even if he slept, he suspected his sleep would not be dreamless—not after the encounter he’d just had.

He shook his head and tore his gaze from the painting.

Ghosts indeed.