Читать книгу Bone Cold - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 20

Thursday, January 18 8:45 a.m.

For Anna, the next twenty-four hours crawled by. She had found herself on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching for the one that didn’t fit. She’d noticed each groan and creak of her old building, had heard each footfall in the hallway outside her door.

Sleep had eluded her. She’d tossed and turned, remembering the past and worrying that somehow it had caught up with her. When she had managed to drift off, she’d awakened terrified, a scream and Timmy’s name on her lips. Timmy’s name, not Kurt’s.

A fact she found odd and somehow more frightening.

Anna was uncertain who she blamed more for her state of mind: Ben Walker for having found her so easily or Detective Malone for planting the seed of doubt about Minnie’s letters.

She’d decided on a combination of the two but focused the majority of her irritation on Detective Malone. Because until him, she had taken Minnie’s letters at face value.

Anna muttered an oath and stepped out of her morning shower. Damn Malone for making her jumpier than she already was. For scaring the life out of her yet being unwilling to do a thing to help. She shook her head. Minnie wasn’t some obsessed fan playing a sick game with her, she was a child. She thought like one; she wrote like one. And she needed Anna’s help.

And help Anna would give her, NOPD or no NOPD.

Anna checked the time, then dried off and dressed. She didn’t have to be in to The Perfect Rose until noon. That gave her three full hours to do a little investigative work of her own.

She found her shoes, stepped into them and tied the laces. The night before, she had called the number Minnie had given in her first letter. A man had answered. That had been a disappointment. She had hoped to reach Minnie directly. Undaunted, she had taken a deep breath and asked for the girl.

The man had been silent for a full fifteen seconds, then had hung up on her without saying a word. It was then that Anna had known for certain that Minnie needed her.

In the hopes of the child answering, Anna had called back a half-dozen times, including twice this morning, but had gotten no answer. Today, she planned to drive across the lake to Mandeville—a bedroom community on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain—to check out where Minnie lived. Once there, she would decide what to do next.

An hour later she saw that there was little she would be able to do with this address. It belonged not to a residence, but a mail and copy store.

Anna double-checked the number, then went inside. She smiled at the man behind the counter and introduced herself. “I’m a writer and I’ve been corresponding with a fan. She claimed this as her return address.” Anna handed him an envelope. “I’ve responded so I know she’s received my letters, but now I wonder how that can be.”

The man, who turned out to be the store owner, handed the envelope back, smiling. “Actually, one of the advantages of renting a mailbox from us instead of the post office is that you get a street address instead of a P.O. box number.”

“You’re saying, this person rents a box from you?”

He smiled again. “That’s correct. You see, a street address suggests permanence. Permanence equals solvency. Commitment. Believe it or not, a street address helps when applying for a job or credit. There are other advantages to using our box service. For one, you can receive shipments from carriers who won’t deliver to a P.O. box, Federal Express for one. Also, we offer other features, like a forwarding service. For an additional charge, of course.”

Obviously, this guy believed in his business. She worked to hide her disappointment. “It sounds like a great service.”

“It is.” From the way he was looking at her, he was ready to sign her up. “Let me get you some information.”

Before she could refuse, he had retrieved a flyer from under the counter. “Just in case you should ever need one.”

She thanked him, slipped the flyer into her pocket and returned the conversation to the reason for her visit. “I really need to get in touch with the girl who wrote this letter. Is there any way I can get her actual address from you?”

“Sorry.” A customer entered the store and the man’s gaze drifted toward the door, then back to her. “I can’t give that out.”

“Not even if it’s an emergency?”

“We guarantee our clients full privacy. Short of a court order, that is.”

“Look—” she lowered her voice, pleading “—it’s really important that I find out who’s renting that box.”

“Can’t do it. Sorry.”

She lowered her voice more. “I know this sounds crazy, but a little girl’s in danger. Couldn’t you bend the rules just this once? Please?”

His expression went from helpful to annoyed. Obviously, he didn’t buy the kid-in-danger scenario. She tried again anyway. “Please? I promise, this is a matter of life and death. An eleven-year-old girl—”

“No,” he said sharply. “I will not make an exception. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a customer.”

Anna left the store, frustrated, fired by renewed annoyance with Detective Quentin Malone’s lackadaisical attitude. If Malone had been the one demanding the box owner’s address, he would have gotten it. No pleading necessary. She was certain of that.

What did she do now?

The name, she realized. Minnie went by the surname Swell, an unusual name for this part of the country.

Jo and Diane. At the Green Briar Shoppe.

Of course. Jo Burris and Diane Cimo knew almost everybody on the North Shore. If anyone by that name had passed through their boutique, they would remember.

Anna climbed into her car and drove across Highway 22 and onto the service road. Anna had met the two women when she had wandered into the boutique on her first visit to the North Shore. Warm, fun-loving and outgoing, Jo and Diane had made her feel as welcome as an old friend. An hour and a half later, Anna had exited the store with two outfits she couldn’t afford and two new friends worth more than any amount of money.

Jo’s shop was located in an aging strip mall on the service road just a couple of minutes from what had become the hub of Mandeville. Anna parked in front of the store, climbed out of her car and went inside. The bell above the door tinkled, and Jo, a gorgeous woman of an indeterminate age, looked up from the box she was unpacking.

She smiled warmly. “Anna, I was just thinking about you.” She spoke in a honeyed drawl that Anna didn’t doubt had sent many a man’s pulse racing. “We’ve gotten the prettiest things in.” She held up the rose-colored chenille sweater she was unpacking. “With your hair, honey, no man could resist.”

Anna laughed, took the sweater and held it against her while she stood in front of a mirror. She gazed at her reflection, then made a sound of regret and handed it back. “It would, Jo. If only I could afford it.”

“You could put it on layaway, pay just a little every week.” Jo’s bangle bracelets clicked together as she refolded the sweater. “It would look so good on you.”

Anna didn’t weaken, though she longed to try the sweater on. Instead, she turned the conversation to the reason for her visit.

“Swell,” Jo repeated, drawing her eyebrows together in thought. After a moment she shook her head. “Sorry, Anna honey, I just don’t recognize that name.”

It had been a long shot, Anna knew, but still she was disappointed. “How about the name Minnie?” she asked. “Hear anybody talk about a girl named Minnie?”

Again Jo shook her head. “But Diane might have. Or one of our customers. We can ask around, if it’s important?”

“It is, Jo. Really important.” They chatted a few minutes more, during which Anna avoided Jo’s not-so-subtle curiosity about the reason finding Minnie Swell was so important. After quickly flipping through the racks, oohing and aahing over several things and promising to come back and shop when she had more time, she left—no closer to helping Minnie than she had been first thing that morning.

When Anna arrived at work fifty minutes later, she found several messages waiting for her, two from her agent and one from Dr. Ben Walker. She returned her agent’s call right away. “Hey, Will, what’s up?”

“They’ve upped their offer.”

Her stomach dropped to her toes. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, Madeline called this morning and upped Cheshire House’s offer on the new proposal.”

“But why would they up their offer?” she asked. “I haven’t even officially refused—”

“I’d called, expressed your concerns, pointed out what a monumental personal sacrifice they were asking you to make.” He made a sound of satisfaction. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

Anna swallowed hard, heart thundering in her chest. “Will,” she murmured, “the issue isn’t the money. It was never the money.”

“Anna, they’re offering fifty thousand.”

For the second time in five minutes, Anna’s stomach took a tumble. “Say that again.”

He repeated the figure and she laid her hand on Dalton’s arm for support. She knew that figure was a far cry from the multimillion-dollar advances the brandname authors pulled in per book, but it was a quantum leap from the twelve-thousand-dollar advance she had received for her last.

“How much?” Dalton whispered, nearly dancing with excitement.

Propping the phone to her ear with her shoulder, she opened and closed her hands five times. He brought his to his chest in mock heart failure.

“Same contract stipulations,” her agent continued. “A full tour and no-holds-barred publicity campaign.”

Her soaring spirits took a nosedive. “They won’t budge on that? “

“Not even a millimeter.” At her silence, he rushed to add, “Think about it, Anna. Think about what this could mean to your career. We’re talking bestseller lists. Name recognition. An advertising budget. Then, if this book sells as they expect it will, the publishing stratosphere. Now, think what you stand to lose if you turn this offer down. With your present numbers it’s not going to be easy to sell you to another house. You’ll be regarded as a bad bet and a money loser.”

His words hurt. That he could spit them at her so matter-of-factly, with no regard for her feelings, hurt more. “I thought you believed in my work,” she said, voice thick.

“I do. But in this market it takes more than a great story to sell books. It takes a hook. And you’ve got that, Anna. Use it. Don’t throw this opportunity away.”

“I hear what you’re saying, but I…I can’t do this.” She shook her head. “I know I can’t.”

“Why are you sabotaging yourself this way?” His tone took on an unpleasant edge. “Don’t you see? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you can’t throw it away.”

“I don’t want to, but—”

“I’ll go back to the table. I can get you more money than this. I’ll get you a guaranteed publicity budget. Cover and title approval. Right now they see you as a potential gold mine, and if you agree to go along with their plans—”