Читать книгу The Amulet - Joanna Wayne - Страница 11

Rich’s grandparents’ house possessed a warmth that seemed to seep from the painted walls and the worn rugs themselves. The furniture was heavy and over-stuffed, made for settling into with a good book or a mug of hot chocolate. The coffee and end tables were knotty pine, possibly homemade.

It was different than the foster home where she’d grown up. Most of the furniture in the house had been off limits. She was pretty much ignored except when the social worker came to call. Then everything was rosy.

Rich took off his jacket and tossed it on top of a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. “Make yourself comfortable. I won’t be but a few minutes. I need to check on a couple of things while I’m here.”

“It looks as if your grandparents just stepped out for a few hours,” Carrie said, running her fingers across the carvings on the back of a wooden rocker before draping her own jacket across the beautiful wood.

“In their mind they have,” Rich said. “They think they’re coming back as soon as Gramps gets his strength back from his last heart attack. It’s the only way they’d agree to leave the place.”

“Hello, Jackson,” she said, bending to pet the dog who was nosing her leg and sniffing her fingertips. “You like the smell of Maizie’s cooking, don’t you, boy?”

Jackson licked her hand in answer.

“Don’t they allow pets in the home where your grandparents are?”

“No, but even if pets were allowed, they wouldn’t have taken Jackson.”

“They can’t just leave him out here by himself.”

“He’s not by himself. He’s got the mountains and the neighbors.”

“But he’s grieving for your grandparents.”

“Missing someone doesn’t kill you. Being thrown into an environment where you can’t run free might.” He walked away, leaving her standing by the brick hearth and an enormous fireplace that still held the smell of wood smoke. On the opposite wall, three windows looked out on the mountains.

Haunted mountains where a man could go hunting and come back without his mind. She stared into the distance for a while, trying to make sense of Maizie’s story. Finally, she gave up and went in search of Rich. She found him in the kitchen, replacing a bulb in the overhead light fixture.

She started to question the need for replacing bulbs in a house where no one lived, but decided what Rich did in his grandparents’ house wasn’t her concern. She rested her hands on the back of a kitchen chair. “Tell me more about the Indian legend.”

He finished changing the bulb and climbed down from the chair he’d been standing on. “It’s just a bunch of nonsense.”

“Like what?”

“It has variations. Which one do you want?”

“Let’s start with the variation Maizie believes, the one she thinks robbed Tom of his reasoning abilities.”

Rich opened the freezer section of the refrigerator, took out the old ice and dumped it in the sink. Once that was done, he straddled one of the kitchen chairs. “Basic legend is that the dead sometimes got trapped in the mist and their spirits can’t break away from the mountains.”

“Why would it trap them?”

“That’s the part that varies according to who’s telling the story. Some think it’s a form of punishment. Some say the undead are warriors left to guard the land. Some believe it was because they had some task that was still unfinished and they can’t be released until they fulfill their obligation.”

“That’s downright creepy.” But she could see where they got that idea. The mist had seemed almost alive the other night when she and Rich had hiked to the ravine. “Do they believe all the ghosts are Indians?”

He exhaled slowly, and she got the distinct impression that it bothered him to talk about this. She didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if she was going to jump on the ghost bandwagon.

“Some folks think that when the original Fernhaven Hotel burned to the ground that a large number of the guests were trapped in the mist.”

“Why would they be trapped?”

“I don’t know. It’s a ghost story. It doesn’t have to make sense.”

“It could be that when the guests died so suddenly, many of them were in the prime of life,” she said.

“Who cares? It’s fiction. Get it?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Then make sure you remember that wasn’t a ghost who abducted Elora Nicholas and shot Bart. It was a live, human killer that I plan to apprehend.”

“That we plan to apprehend,” she corrected him.

“Whatever.” Rich stood and scooted the chair back to the table, clearly ready to drop the conversation.

She wondered if he really feared she was flaky enough to buy into the ghost story if he talked about it too much. If so, he had a lot to learn about her. Not that she gave a darn if he learned it or not. When this case was over, she hoped to be through working with him.

Her mind went back to Bart. God, how she’d love to talk to him about this and get his take on the ghost gambit and how that might or might not hinder their chances of getting the locals to work with them on this.

Bart’s insight in situations like this was always amazing. He wasn’t from around here, not even from the state of Washington, but he had a way of getting people to open up to him—the way he’d got her to talking about herself that night after she’d first had to pull her gun on a suspect.

She’d spilled her guts, shed a few tears and then ended up laughing over a stale cream-filled donut in the middle of the night.

Rich turned and walked toward the front door with the mixed-breed hound at his heels. He didn’t bother telling her he was ready to cut out anymore than he’d asked her if she wanted to stop at his grandparents’ house in the first place. He just did things. Maybe it was the mountain way, but she doubted it. It was more likely the Rich way.

She mulled over the ghost idea as she followed him to the car. She didn’t buy the legend, but something might have happened that night to spook old Tom right out of his mind.

If so, the investigation could get really creepy before it was all said and done. But in the end, they’d get their man. She had no doubt of that.

Their killer was not trapped in the mist.

KATRINA HELD the diamond-and-emerald pendant in her palm, letting the silver chain loop around her fingers. The jewels warmed her hand as if they contained a literal fire. It was the only warmth she felt anymore, and it made her ache to get on with this and finish what she was here for.

She stood in front of the window, watching the world go by, a world she didn’t understand anymore. Maybe she never had. She’d certainly gotten love all wrong. And when love was wrong, all of life was wrong.

She wondered if the man she’d seen in the ballroom the other night had gotten love all wrong? Or was he still searching? She thought it might be the latter. His eyes had been so penetrating, so intense she’d felt as if he were touching her.

She hadn’t seen him again, and she hoped she didn’t. Of all the nights she might have yearned for his company, now would be the worst time to feel any kind of attraction or form even the most pregnable of bonds.

Still she was aware of him, sensed that he was here in the hotel. But why? Not for fun. There hadn’t been a glimpse of frivolity in his eyes. And here she was thinking of him when all her thoughts should be on the reason she was here.

Katrina left the window and stepped into the hallway. She had to keep her mind clear. Her task was simple, but there could be no mistakes.

She slipped the pendant into her pocket. It was the key to everything.

FOR A HOTEL that had been crawling with security guards ever since the abduction, Bart found it surprisingly easy to move through the building at will. If he’d been officially assigned to the case, he could have never taken such liberties. There were definitely advantages to working a crime detail without the restricting properties of a badge.

He’d already learned a lot, though most of his facts had come from eavesdropping rather than snooping through guest rooms. Jeff Matthews, the young Caucasian in room 211 puzzled him.

Supposedly, he was a freelance travel writer and photographer, but Bart had spotted him following a blond woman the other day at a distance and shooting candid shots of her through a high-powered binocular lens. Bart doubted the shots would ever show up in a travel magazine.

He watched while the photographer stepped out the door of his hotel room, then waited until he was on the elevator before Bart slipped into his room. Breaking in was easy. Locked doors never stopped cops.

As expected, photographs were scattered about the room, spread out on the round table by the window, displayed on the bed and even lined up on the floor.

Bart checked them out. The ones on the bed were of a starlet he’d caught on the late show a few weeks back. One snapshot showed her in the garden, lip-locked with a movie-star handsome guy Bart had spotted getting off the ski shuttle yesterday.

The photos spread on the table seemed more legitimate. They showcased the magnificent foyer, the garden gazebo and the sparkling crystal chandeliers in the ballroom. Looking at the photographs, it was clearer than ever that the whole place was a monument to the past. The photos could have come straight from a 1930s travel magazine.

The photos on the floor were puzzling. They looked like mistakes, but Bart couldn’t imagine a professional photographer saving his errors.

He stooped to get a better look. They appeared to be shadows, most dark, but some with an eerie glow to them.

They had been taken on Fernhaven property, inside the hotel, near the more secluded cabins, and some in the wilderness areas.

One grabbed his attention and held it. He picked it up and studied it. The snapshot was mostly trees and shadows. Yet, it held a frightening familiarity for him. Or maybe it was just that the picture took him back to that horrible night when he’d taken the bullet.

He returned the picture to the floor, leaving it exactly as he’d found it. But as he opened the door and stepped into the hall, he decided that Jeff Matthews was worth watching. He might be a photographer just as he claimed, but he could be more. He could be a murderer.

But then so could dozens of the other men who worked or were registered at the Fernhaven Hotel.

Bart was almost to the stairwell when he sensed someone following him. He spun around to find the old woman he’d met in the garden the other day just a few steps behind him.

“You get around,” she said.

“You, too.”

“Not so much. Mostly I stay in the garden.”

“Then I’m surprised you’re not there now. It’s a beautiful day for mid-December and it may be the last we have for awhile. They’re predicting snow in the mountains by the end of the week.”

“Snow can be beautiful, or deadly.” She shuffled forward and laid a hand on his arm. “She’s in the garden, just past the fountain where I was when we last talked.”

The woman’s change of subject confused him for a second. “Are you talking about Katrina?”

“Yes. If you hurry, you can find her.”

“Did you look for me just to tell me that?”

“It’s not as if I have a lot of other things to do.”

“Does she know you came to find me?”

The old woman smiled sheepishly, her wrinkled lips almost disappearing as she did. “If she knew, she’d leave before you got there.”

“You’re not trying to play matchmaker, are you?”

“What if I am?”

“You’ll be disappointed. I’m not exactly what you’d call a great catch.”

“But you might be exactly right for Katrina. You’ll never know unless you give it a try.”

He knew, but still he wanted to see her again. “Thanks for the information.”

“Just don’t disappoint her.”

“I’ll try not to.” That was as much as he could promise. He didn’t know if he’d disappoint her or not since he had no idea what she’d want from him—if anything.

He gave the woman a parting smile and hurried away, taking the stairs two at a time, as he’d always done. He didn’t know what he’d say to Katrina if he found her in the garden. He’d never been good at small talk unless it involved crime, and there was no reason to suspect she’d be interested in police work.

He raced through the hotel and took the double doors to the garden. It was nearly deserted, but he passed a woman pushing her baby in an old-fashioned perambulator and a man sitting in his wheelchair reading. Neither of them made eye contact as he walked by.

Katrina wasn’t near the fountain and neither was anyone else. He was about to give up when he spotted her standing in a cluster of potted tree peonies obviously straight from the hotel greenhouse.

She looked even more beautiful than the silky blossoms, and he stood there and stared like some awkward teenager. She was dressed differently than she’d been the first time he’d seen her. The dress was not as formal, not as revealing. She looked younger, more innocent. The dazzling pendant was missing from her neck, but her eyes sparkled as brightly as the diamonds had.

No two ways about it. She got to him. He should turn around and walk away. Forget that. She was moving toward him, her full lips slightly parted, her red skirt dancing just above her shapely ankles.

“Are you looking for me?”

Her bluntness surprised him, especially when he’d expected she’d ignore him. “Yes,” he answered, thinking even his voice sounded strained since he’d taken the bullet.

“What do you want?”

He tried to think of something clever, or even accurate. Nothing came to mind. “I saw you a few nights ago in the ballroom.”

“I know.”

“I’d like to get to know you better.”

A troubled look settled in her green eyes. “It wouldn’t work.”

“I’m not trying to make something work. I just thought we could talk.”

“About what?”

He had no idea. But now that he was with her, he didn’t want to walk away. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Katrina.”

“Your last name?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Are you married?”

She looked away. When she turned to him again, her eyes were moist.

“No. I was, but no longer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She took a step toward him. “I’m not what you think.”

“I think you’re beautiful and that I’d like to know more about you.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider your proposition.”

He shrugged. A little conversation didn’t actually qualify as a proposition in his book. Besides, he’d never been one to chase a woman who wasn’t interested. He wouldn’t start now.

“Just forget it,” he said. “I thought we might keep each other company for a while, but it’s no big deal.”

She bent down and picked one of the blossoms, then cradled it in her hand. With little left to say, he started to turn away.

Before he could, she walked toward him, took his right hand and pressed the flower into it. The petals fell apart and caught on the wind, flying around him like drunken butterflies. He caught one between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t want to forget it. I’d like to see you again,” she whispered. “But don’t look for me. I’ll find you when the time is right.”

He felt lighter than air when she walked away and disappeared behind the clusters of potted blooms. He’d never met a woman who intrigued him the way Katrina did. Tough that it had to happen now when he had his work cut out for him.

Timing was everything. Ask any cop who’d ever lived and they’d tell you that.

BY ONE THAT AFTERNOON, Rich and Carrie had made five calls on people from his list and stopped for sandwiches and coffee at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Cedar Cove. They’d discovered absolutely nothing new and Carrie was fighting the urge to taunt “I told you so,” by the time they pulled up in front of the small white house where Selma Billings lived with her husband Owen and at least three large dogs who looked as if they might think the deputies were their afternoon snack.

Even Rich stayed in the car until a man in overalls ambled out from the far side of the house and called off the barking animals. Still wary, Carrie remained inside the vehicle until it was clear the dogs weren’t going to fly into attack mode.

“Morning, Owen,” Rich said.

Owen yanked a red mechanic’s towel from his back pocket and wiped his hands before extending his right hand to Rich. “What brings you out here? Not more trouble at the hotel, I hope.”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Selma took it hard when that girl was abducted and killed. She’s been having a hard time anyway since she lost the baby. She miscarried, you know?”

“I didn’t know,” Rich said, “but I can see how that would be upsetting.”

“Yeah, good thing construction work is slow this time of the year. I’ve mostly been doing mechanic work around here. If you know anyone who needs their car worked on, send him to me. I can use the money what with Selma’s doctor bills and all.”

“I guess it’s nice that you’re a man of many talents.”

“It helps,” Owen agreed. “Have you got a suspect yet?”

“Not yet, but we’re working on it. That’s why we’re here. This is Deputy Fransen,” he said, motioning toward her. “We’d like to ask you and Selma a few questions. It won’t take long.”

Owen turned to Carrie, nodded, then turned his attention back to Rich. “If I knew anything, I’d have called you.”

“Sometimes a man sees or hears something he doesn’t know is relevant, things that only add up when linked with the rest of the evidence.”

“I haven’t seen or heard anything about that night except what’s been in the papers and what folks around here are speculating. But I’ll talk to you long as you like. I just don’t want Selma dragged into this. She’s upset enough as it is. You understand, don’t you?”

He looked to Carrie as he made that last statement, as if he expected her to back him up. She did understand, but that didn’t change things. “We really need to talk to both of you,” she said.

He rubbed a work-scarred hand across his jaw, then shook his head. “She’s not in good shape, not good at all. She’s back on those pills Dr. George prescribed.”

“What kind of pills?” Carrie asked.

“They’re supposed to make her less depressed, but they don’t seem to be helping much. Besides, there’s nothing she can tell you. She hardly leaves the house anymore except to go to the grocery store or over to her mother’s.”

“Okay,” Rich said. “We’ll leave Selma out of this. We’re just trying to find something to help us get a handle on who might have committed the crime.”

“Hope I can help then. The guy needs to be locked away, whoever he is. Locked away or given a taste of his own medicine. Come on back to the garage. We can talk there. It’s warmer than standing out in this wind.”

Carrie wanted to protest. It wasn’t that she was insensitive to Carrie’s condition, but Maizie had said ask Selma about the mountains, and that was what Carrie had hoped to do.

Not that she was chasing ghost stories, but what seemed ghostly in the cold mists of twilight might have a perfectly logical explanation. What seemed to be a spirit could well be a living, breathing killer.

They were already following Owen to the garage when the front door of the house opened and a tall, thin woman dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt stepped onto the porch. Her long blond hair hung limply past her shoulders and her bangs reached her eyelashes.

“It’s okay, baby,” Owen called to her. “The deputies are just here to talk. We won’t bother you. Stay inside where it’s warm.”

“You can talk inside,” she said. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s okay. We’ll use the garage.”

“I’ll bring out some coffee,” she said.

“No, don’t bother, baby. They won’t be here long.” He picked up his pace.

Carrie slowed, then turned back to the house. Selma was still standing there staring at them. She looked like a lost child. No wonder Owen felt he should protect her. Even the dogs had gone back to quietly sit at her feet as if they knew her emotions were fragile.

Selma hugged herself as if to ward off the wind’s chill, but she didn’t go back inside. She looked right at Carrie, and Carrie had the crazy feeling that she didn’t want her to walk away. Maybe she needed someone besides Owen to talk to.

“Your wife looks upset,” Carrie said, running to catch up with the men. “Maybe I should sit inside with her while you two talk.”

Rich glared at her. She ignored him.

“I won’t question her, Owen. I won’t talk at all unless she brings up something she wants to talk about.”

He pulled his lips taut and rubbed his chin again as if her offer required some major thought. “That might be good,” he said. “She could probably use some woman company. Just don’t upset her.”

“I won’t ask any questions about the abduction.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I guess it would be all right. She’s not well. Even if she talks, it won’t make sense.”

That was it—way easier than she’d imagined. Rich was still glaring, no doubt sure she wasn’t going to keep her promise. That’s how little he knew of her.

Carrie hurried to the house. And for the millionth time in the past few weeks, she wished Bart was here. He’d know just how to handle this.

Selma was still standing at the top of the steps when Carrie reached them. She didn’t even ask why Carrie had come back. She just walked to the door and opened it, as if she’d been expecting Carrie’s company all along.