Share No Secrets (40 page)

“Maybe
you didn’t? You sure as hell did
not
use those exact words.” Kit’s voice rose along with her color. “You didn’t use words even
close
to those. You used words like ‘You’re the only person I trust’ and “I need you more than I ever realized.'”

“Enough,” Miles said, wincing as he raised his hands in a gesture for silence. “I was pretty out of control. Maybe I implied things I shouldn’t have.”

“Like telling me Margaret had been one of many stupid dalliances after Julianna left you and now you realized that you wanted to be with someone you
really
cared about? Someone like
me?”

Miles was beginning to look cornered. “Kit, you know you mean the world to me. You always have. It’s just that I have to get out of town.”

“Why? You have an alibi for the time of Margaret’s death.”

“Yes, but there’s another reason. One I can’t tell you.”

“You always play the mystery man, Miles.” Her voice began to tremble. “You’ve been divorced from Juli for years. Now she’s … gone. And I know you didn’t love Margaret. I thought finally we had a chance.”

“Maybe we do. Just not now, Kit. Please let me go without the memory of you clinging and begging and haranguing.”

“Clinging, begging, and haranguing? Is that how you see me?”

“Well, yeah. It’s what you’re doing now. Have a little faith in me, Kit.”

“Faith in you? Why should I have faith in you?”

“Because you love me?” She stared at him. “Because you
do
love me, Kit. I know it. And because you’re a strong woman with a lot of pride.”

“I thought I was clinging.”

Miles briefly closed his incredible green eyes. “I can’t have this argument with you, Kit. I’m
not
going to have it. I’m leaving. I’ll get in touch with you later. I promise.”

He leaned forward to give her an obligatory kiss, but she pulled away. He saw tears in her eyes—tears shimmering over intense fury. He strode past her and out the door.

As Miles dashed down the back steps from her apartment, he could feel her at the window, still watching him. He thought about turning and giving her a wave, but he didn’t know if she’d find it encouraging or insulting. He really didn’t want to make her even angrier. Or to hurt her, but he had to leave. Tonight.

There was only one thing he had to do first.

“Don’t drink all the refreshments, Adrienne,” Miss Snow ordered. “After all, we are expecting quite a few guests tonight. We want to provide a wide variety of beverages and plenty of each kind. It would be
so
embarrassing to run out.”

“I’m sipping a bottle of Coke I brought from home, not sucking the punch bowl dry,” Adrienne returned irritably. She’d been working at the French Art Colony for three hours under the direction of Miss Snow, and the strain was getting to both of them. Two other people had arrived to help prepare for the gala, but Miss Snow made it obvious she found them below snuff. And Miles Shaw had neither shown up nor called, which caused Miss Snow tremendous distress she tried to hide by making excuses for him. Adrienne had often wondered if Miss Snow’s pristine mind had made room for one object of erotic fantasy—Miles. She clearly adored the man. Adrienne was certain Miles knew. Miles
always
knew which women he had power over, and he used it shamelessly.

Miss Snow looked at the locket watch hanging over her flat chest. “The gala will start in less than two hours. The display rooms are now closed while the judges make their decisions.”

“I know,” Adrienne returned. “That’s why I retreated to the kitchen.”

“I would suggest you retreat to your home and change clothes. You’re certainly not wearing
that,
are you?”

Adrienne looked down at her jeans, T-shirt, and scuffed white running shoes. “Why, yes. I picked out this outfit especially for tonight.” Miss Snow scowled. “I’m not going all the way home to change,” Adrienne said patiently. “I told you that I have my clothes in my car. I’ll freshen up in the bathroom.”

“You’re going to take a
bath
in there?”

“A quick shower. That’s what the shower is for. I promise to clean the bathroom thoroughly before the guests arrive. I just don’t want to go home, then get caught in the evening traffic trying to get back here.”

“Oh.” Miss Snow brightened. “That means your daughter won’t be attending.”

“Yes, she will.” Miss Snow looked so crestfallen that Adrienne took pity on her. “Of course, my brother-in-law, Philip Hamilton, and his family will be attending, too,” she reminded the woman.

Miss Snow had obviously forgotten about Philip in her dismay over Miles Shaw’s absence, but the mention of his name brightened her right up. “Oh, yes, Mr. Hamilton. How lovely it will be to have him here.” Along with his money and the press coverage his attendance would bring, Adrienne thought sourly. “You know, I was great friends with his Great-aunt Octavia.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Miss Snow looked at her sharply, not sure whether or not she was being insulted. She was, but Adrienne didn’t want to completely alienate the woman even before the evening began. “From what I’ve heard, Octavia was a lady of taste and refinement.”

“Oh my, yes,” Miss Snow tittered. Her eyes took on a glow of remembered bliss. “Once we went to the opera together. It was one of the most stimulating evenings of my life.”

What a humdinger of a life you must have had if opera with that disdainful, dry stick of a woman Octavia Hamilton was a highlight, Adrienne thought sadly, but managed a smile. “I think I’ll give my daughter a call.”

“Why don’t you call the Hamiltons too and make sure they know what time the gala is starting. I’m thrilled that they are attending. I wonder if any of the paintings will appeal to Mr. Hamilton?” she mumbled, dashing off to make sure the gallery was in tip-top shape for the arrival of what she obviously considered royalty.

Adrienne called Skye and was surprised when Vicky answered Skye’s cell phone. “Skye’s here with us,” Vicky said cheerfully. “She and Rachel are playing tennis. Skye left her phone on the kitchen counter so I just picked it up when it rang.”

“She’s supposed to be at the Granger house,” Adrienne said sharply.

“It seems Mr. Granger is having heart pains. Or what he thinks are heart pains. His wife is beside herself and she brought Skye here so she and her daughter could hover by the dying husband’s bedside throughout the afternoon and night. The girl seemed really bummed out, as Rachel would say.”

“Maybe he
is
sick,” Adrienne said in alarm.

“He looked amazingly healthy for a man who’s having a heart attack,” Vicky said. “He even turned down an ambulance. I think he just didn’t want to get dressed up and come to the gala. But don’t you worry, honey. We’ll be there!”

Vicky sounded as if she were not only in a good mood, but also sober. At least Adrienne felt relief on that account “How’s Skye?”

“Fine. She brought the outfit she’d taken to the Grangers to wear tonight and it’s lovely. Anyway,” Vicky went on, “even Philip seems kind of excited about tonight A little of the hoopla over Margaret has died down. I guess it will flare up again when her body is released for the funeral, but I’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now I’m just enjoying having some normal family life without Margaret bossing everyone around.” Vicky’s voice tightened when she spoke of Margaret her hatred of the woman still vibrating in her tone, and Adrienne’s old, unsettled doubts about her sister playing a part in Margaret’s murder began a slow and sickening rise. She forced them down, feeling treacherous for having
any
doubts, and changed the subject

“I know Philip will refuse to be on time,” Adrienne said. “He’ll want to make an entrance. But please don’t be
too
late, Vicky. I don’t want half the gala to be over before all of you arrive.”

“I promise we won’t be late. By much,” Vicky giggled again. “And good luck tonight I hope your painting wins.”

“Me too, but I’m not counting on it. By the way, one of the ladies on the board, Miss Snow, used to be a friend of Great-aunt Octavia’s. It will thrill her senseless if Philip makes a big deal over her. She’s tall, usually dressed in dark colors, has white hair drawn straight back, and she’s about
a
hundred and twenty years old.”

Vicky laughed. “I’ll warn Philip. Even if she’s from Ohio and can’t vote for him, he’ll still want to charm her.”

“Especially because she has friends who Uve in West Virginia who
can
vote for him. Thanks for taking care of Skye today.”

“No problem. See you later.”

Adrienne hung up, trying to feel confident about the evening. But the suspicions she’d formed about Vicky and Philip lately had already ingrained themselves far too deeply for her to relax knowing Skye was in their care.

She was worried, and the feeling wouldn’t go away.

Miles turned off the highway and drove slowly up the road to la Belle Rivière. He stopped in front, looking up at the grand old hotel. The evening sun had only begun to dim, turning from saffron to burnished gold against the sky. Venus, often called the evening star, glittered directly over la Belle, like a beacon signaling him, the north point in the compass of his grief.

He was relieved to find the place deserted. Not even thrill-seekers had turned out to stare at the murder site. They were probably having dinner, Miles thought. If television was dull tonight, they’d wander over, half excited, half scared that there would be more action at what most people had come to consider the “cursed” hotel. Ellen Kirkwood would be pleased, he thought. Local residents no longer thought she was crazy. They thought she’d been right all along about the resort being evil.

Miles pulled around to the back of the hotel and off to the side, where his car would be hidden by massive bushes. He got out and stood facing the hotel, studying every long porch, every balustrade, every door, and every window. And every shadow, because for early evening, the place seemed too full of shadows. It must have something to do with the architecture, he thought, a little ashamed of the pause those shadows gave him. He wouldn’t let them scare him. Hell, Adrienne Reynolds had come up here to paint at least once after Julianna’s murder. She hadn’t been afraid, so he
certainly
wasn’t going to get spooked. When he caught himself saying this aloud, he promptly shut his mouth and blushed, grateful there was no one to either hear him or see him.

Miles grabbed his knapsack out of his trunk and walked toward the back of the hotel. Security on the place had tightened since the day Claude died. Police had sealed the doors with yellow tape. Miles decided it would be easiest to break a window. Vandalism wasn’t his style, but in less than a month wrecking balls would attack la Belle, so what would one broken window matter?

Miles took a hammer out of his knapsack and struck a pane in a French door. It didn’t tinkle like crystal. The glass made a sharp cracking noise, then tumbled to the floor. He reached in and unlocked the door, not worrying about a security system. Kit had told him Ellen had turned off the system months ago, almost hoping someone would break in and burn down the place so she wouldn’t have to bother with demolition.

Miles picked up his knapsack and walked slowly into the hotel. He’d broken the window of an office. Out of curiosity, he opened a couple of the file drawers, but they were empty. Maybe Ellen had stored files on the people who once stayed in the hotel. Or maybe she’d had them destroyed. He sat down behind a fine mahogany desk that must have been used by the manager and would be sold at auction before the hotel was demolished. Idly, he opened a drawer, and near the back he found a bent and faded photo of a teenaged girl sitting on the fountain out front. An auburn-haired girl.

Miles looked closer, squinting in his intensity. Good God, it was Julianna! She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, wearing shorts that showed off her long, tanned legs and a tight T-shirt with no bra on underneath. She looked saucy and innocent at the same time. And she was beautiful. That photo had to have been taken twenty years ago, Miles thought, but someone had kept it tucked away all those years. The uptight, religious creep Mr. Duncan who had managed la Belle for a quarter of a century until it closed, Miles deduced. The guy whose mouth was constantly pursed with disapproval and righteousness. So he’d secretly lusted for Julianna. She’d even had that sanctimonious twerp itching for her.

Miles started to put the photo back in the drawer, but instead slipped it carefully into his pocket. He grabbed his knapsack and walked from the manager’s office through the huge lobby heavy with marble and mirrors, and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor.

Daylight still shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows at each end of the hall and he didn’t need to use his flashlight to find the right room. Number
214
. Juliana said it stood for February 14, her birthday and Valentine’s Day. They’d spent their honeymoon night in this room. And she’d been murdered in this room. Miles reached out and ran a long index finger over each number. Then he tore down the yellow crime-scene tape. He knew the police had exhausted all the evidence the room had to give, and they still hadn’t come up with Julianna’s killer.

Miles placed his hand on the doorknob, then paused. He’d known he would visit this room again, but he hadn’t expected to feel reluctant, almost squeamish, about entering the once-beautiful scene of his honeymoon night. He and Julianna had drunk champagne there and flung their glasses into the fireplace. They’d listened to music, and with her in an exquisite blue satin and lace nightgown, they’d danced to “Sweet Dreams.” Again and again. They had giggled and caressed and made a fervent promise to love each other until the seas ran dry. It was a trite and hackneyed promise, but nice.

Unfortunately, only one of them had meant it.

Miles wandered over to the bed, forcing himself to look down. The spread and sheets were gone, but the mattress remained. The sight of large, rust-colored stains near the top made his stomach turn. Julianna’s life force had drained out through her neck onto that mattress, leaving only brownish mottling behind. He wondered if she had regained consciousness after she’d been stabbed in the neck. If so, had she known she was dying? What had been her last thoughts? Had he even once crossed her mind?