Читать книгу Zoey Phillips - Judith Bowen - Страница 11

THE TRIPLE OARLOCK was about fifteen miles west of town, not far as distances went in this country. It was snugged up against the rolling hills of the Fullerton Range. A rambling one-story ranch house, seventies style, was nestled against a windbreak of trees to the west, and the ranch buildings, most of them, were to the south and southwest. The sturdy pole fences weren’t painted and had weathered to a soft silver. The barns and outbuildings had been painted a traditional barn red; the lawns were tidy, the bare hedges clipped. Everything looked in good repair.

The apartment she was to occupy over the three-car garage stood about seventy-five feet southwest of the house. There was another parking spot, an open carport, attached to the house, probably a more convenient location for unloading groceries and passengers in inclement weather.

They parked by the garage and Cameron took Zoey straight up to the ranch house to meet his aunt.

“Marty? This is Zoey Phillips, you remember Harvey Phillips, used to be at the cement plant? This is his daughter.” He turned to Zoey. “My aunt, Marty Hainsworth.”

“How do you do?” Zoey said formally, extending her hand. The older woman she’d glimpsed at the firefighters’ dance shook it briefly, her grip firm and hard as a man’s. She was slight, thin-lipped, and had a pink chiffon scarf tied over her head. Zoey spotted old-fashioned hair rollers under the scarf.

“How d’ye do? I’m glad to meet you. Cameron’s been telling me about you.”

“He has?” She glanced at Cameron with a smile. He seemed faintly embarrassed.

“Oh, yes, and all of it favorable.” The aunt, who looked to be in her mid-sixties, put her hands on narrow, jean-clad hips. A toothpick bobbed in one side of her mouth. “Ryan, too. Matter of fact, he’s talked nonstop since Sunday about you and Mary Ellen Owen being back in town. You want a cup of tea or anything? You sure you want to stay out in that drafty old suite? I don’t like the idea. We got plenty of room up here in the house.”

“No to the tea, thank you very much. And, yes, I prefer to stay in the apartment by myself. I’m not a guest, you know, Mrs. Hainsworth—”

“Just call me Marty.”

“Marty.” Zoey smiled. She had decided that she was going to get along very well with the Donnellys’ aunt. “I have lots to do over the next few weeks—”

“What kind of work d’ye do, if you don’t mind me askin’?” Marty’s bright blue eyes, which reminded Zoey of Ryan’s, were curious.

“I edit books. Mainly, I edit Jamie Chinchilla’s novels and—”

“Oh, my! He’s one of my favorites. My sister Robin in Kelowna always sends me his books, when she’s finished with ’em. Or is this Chinchilla a she?”

The reading public had never seen a picture of the author, nor did most people know whether Jamie Chinchilla was male or female. For purposes of publicity, the author and publisher had decided to maintain the mystery.

“I’ve never met the author,” Zoey said truthfully. All her contact had been over the telephone. But she knew very well that Jamie Chinchilla was an elderly widow named Ruth Ohlmstad, who lived in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, and who had never been farther away from home than Halifax and St. Andrews-by-the-Sea, New Brunswick. Well, she’d been to Boston once, when she was twenty, she’d told Zoey. But that was it. Unlike her characters, Ruth Ohlmstad had never had a hair-raising adventure in her life. Her stories were complete products of an amazingly fertile and inventive imagination. Even her neighbors thought she was just good old Ruthie, stalwart of the Women’s League, co-president of the Lunenburg Historical Society and envied grower of prize-winning sweet peas.

“Well, ain’t that something! You settle in and let me know if there’s anything you need. We can supply most everything from brooms to biscuits. And you’ll be eatin’ with us, won’t you?”

Zoey shook her head. “Oh, no. I can manage quite nicely on my own, thanks anyway.”

Marty Hainsworth shot a quick, questioning look at her nephew. “Well, you’ll be havin’ Sunday dinner over here at the house, that’s for sure,” the woman said decisively. “Roast beef and all the trimmin’s, six sharp. I won’t hear of you eatin’ all by yourself on a Sunday. It ain’t right.”

“Thank you,” Zoey said, smiling. “That would be lovely. This Sunday, though, I’m having dinner with the Nugents. They’ve already invited me.”

“Well, all right. Just this once.” Marty cracked a smile. She seemed as dour as her eldest nephew, but Zoey liked her immediately.

Cameron turned to Zoey, one eyebrow raised. “Okay?”

She followed him back to the garage. Where was his daughter? Mind you, it was Friday. She was probably at school.

The entrance to the apartment was up an outdoor staircase with a landing midway. It wouldn’t be very convenient in deepest winter but she’d be going home before Christmas. “Cameron?”

Cameron was getting her bags out of the Toyota’s trunk. “Yes?”

“Um. Ryan does know about this, doesn’t he?” She’d received the distinct impression from the aunt that this was something dreamed up by Cameron and, possibly, Marty herself.

He straightened and appeared to think deeply about her question. “Well, no. He doesn’t actually know about it, not about you moving in here today—”

“That’s ridiculous! Why haven’t you told him?” Zoey panicked. She wanted to order Cameron to put her bags back in her car, wanted to return immediately to Stoney Creek. She’d stay with the Nugents. Or in the motel with the cockroaches, if she had to.

“It was his suggestion,” he said, regarding her carefully. “When he heard you were looking for a place, he mentioned the apartment to me as a possibility.”

“I see.” Although she didn’t really. “Well, if he doesn’t like this idea, I’m moving right back to town!” Zoey picked up the case that contained the manuscript. “This is downright underhanded. I don’t like it. It makes everything seem…cheap. Like—like I’m actually part of this stupid romance plan of yours.” Which she was…sort of.

Cameron Donnelly had the grace to color slightly. “Believe me, it was his idea,” he repeated stubbornly.

Zoey sighed. She gave up. First things, first: move in and get to work.

BY LATE AFTERNOON, after a trip back to town to buy groceries, Zoey had settled in. She hung her clothes in the wardrobe in the tiny bedroom, furnished sparsely but comfortably with a double bed, a carpet on the floor and bright chintz curtains at the window, which looked over the mountains to the west.

The combination kitchen-living room was small but efficient, with a sofa, several lamps and a coffee table. There was also a table by the window; it was covered with plants, which Marty must have brought in recently and which Zoey would remove as she needed the table for eating. The bathroom had a shower and a tiny tub, trailer-size, and just off the kitchen was a little sunroom. Zoey decided she’d use it as a dining nook. She moved the small white-painted wooden table and two chairs from the kitchen to the sunporch, then dragged a rocking chair from the cramped living room into the space she’d freed up. An aging fridge, humming happily now and full of provisions, completed the kitchen equipment, along with a narrow three-burner electric stove.

Now, to let Lydia know… She found a blank card and envelope in her briefcase.

Dear Lydia,

Just a quick note to tell you where I’m living—at Ryan’s ranch! No kidding. His brother suggested a little apartment over their garage as a place to stay—

Zoey decided not to mention the bit about Cameron’s proposition. There was something sneaky and unsavory about the whole thing.

—and it’s going to be ideal for my purposes. Work plus getting to know a certain somebody again! I rearranged some furniture, got in some food and will be using my cell. You’ve got my number, right? Anyway, goodbye for now and send Charlotte’s address when she has one.

Luv,

Zoey

Zoey sealed the envelope, pasted a stamp on and looked around the little apartment again. It would do. In fact, considering her purposes, it was ideal. She needed quiet, freedom from ringing telephones and interruptions, and she’d certainly get that here. There wasn’t a sound to be heard beyond the whisper of the wind in the trees and the far-off bawl of a calf or the occasional bark of a dog.

She shivered, looking out the sunroom window at the long stretch of frozen pasture to the east and south. Way in the distance, she could see reddish brown dots. Cattle, probably. This was rural! The snow dumped so far hadn’t stayed, and the weather had been glorious—crisp, cold and sunny.

Zoey had a peanut-butter-and-cucumber sandwich on rye for her supper and settled down to work. She heard a vehicle drive past about half past nine as she sat at the table in the living room, trying to make sense of the first chapter of this book, which was about danger on the high seas, Caribbean skullduggery, kidnapping, murder, an impossibly rich and beautiful heiress and an ancient Egyptian curse. She’d read this chapter, such as it was, several times already. Chinchilla might be one of the world’s most wonderful storytellers, but she didn’t know diddly about spelling or grammar or syntax.

Ryan?

She peeked out the curtains, staring into the darkness. There were lots of lights on up at the house; perhaps Melissa wasn’t in bed yet. She’d seen the child when Cameron had brought her home that afternoon, skipping and chattering beside him, going directly into the house without even a curious glance toward the apartment. Had they told her about the stranger living over the garage?

Zoey felt like a peeper. Or a mad relative hidden away from the neighbors. She had to fight the urge to look out the window every time she heard a sound. A dog. A car door. An airplane overhead. It was so quiet here that any noise seemed not only more noticeable than in her downtown Toronto apartment, but more significant. Zoey sighed. Maybe she’d get used to it. The main thing was to focus, concentrate on her work. All this other stuff was only a distraction. Interesting, but still a distraction.

She’d just returned to her desk with a cup of hot milk, thinking about packing it in and going to bed, when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs outside. Footsteps in twos and threes. There was a bang on her door.

“Zoey!”

She peered out the small glass square in the door, then unlocked and opened it.

“Zo-ey, ba-by!” Ryan was grinning as he stepped into the apartment, swept her into his arms and hugged her tightly. “Man, this is terrific news! Cam just told me. I don’t know why he didn’t say something earlier, the old son-of-a-gun. Thought he’d surprise me, I guess.” He held her away from him, his eyes devouring her hungrily. Then he looked around the room. “Everything okay? Can I get you anything? Warm enough?”

He stepped away from her and bent to check the thermostat on the electric baseboard heaters that ran around the room. “I see they’re working fine. Good!”

He glanced at her cup, and she suddenly remembered her manners. “Would you like something to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Hot milk.”

“Hot milk!” He laughed and shook his head. “No thanks. Now if that was a glass of brandy, maybe. Hell, I just wanted to come over tonight and welcome you to the ranch. Cam’s a terrific guy, eh? Doesn’t say much,” he said, winking at her, “but he’s got his head screwed on straight.”