Timothy (27 page)

It could have simply been a mistake, I thought. He was distraught and the body had been in the water for over a week. It would have been an easy mistake to make—his stress and heartbreak and agony, and then having to look at a body that had been in the water for so long, that the fish had been at—it would have been incredibly traumatizing, and a mistake could easily have been made under those circumstances.

It should be easy enough to find out whether Timothy had ever broken his arm. I couldn't just take someone like Taylor Hudson's word for it.

I stopped walking, and Minette looked up at me, her face clearly expressing her puzzlement at my abrupt stop.

If Carlo hadn't identified the body, they would have tried to identify it by other means—dental records, bone breaks—things like that. But once he positively identified the body as Timothy, they wouldn't have looked any more.

So if the body hadn't been Timothy's, whose was it?

Someone else who'd disappeared around the same time, obviously.

I could do an Internet search and find out.

My head was starting to hurt as I walked the dog back toward the house. The mist was clearing and it was getting hotter. The Latino who'd been fishing things out of the pool was helping with one of the tents and had taken off his shirt—and I stopped short.

He was one of Timothy's models—that's where I've seen him before.

He smiled when he caught me looking at him, and winked suggestively. I looked away and started walking quickly back to the house.

I ran into Olivia when we reached the upstairs hallway. I asked her to bring some toast, fruit, and a pot of coffee up to my rooms.

Once safely back in my room, I took a long, hot shower. I felt much better once I was finished, and the confidence that began growing when I was walking the dog was now even stronger. This wasn't going to be my last day at Spindrift, everything was going to work out.

I was examining my clothes when Olivia knocked on the door. Once she'd set down my breakfast tray on my desk, I asked her if the clothes could be cleaned.

“Well, sir, it looks like greasepaint,” she said, examining them critically. “You never can be sure, so I'll send them out to be dry-cleaned, sir, and we can hope for the best.” She was leaving the room when Joyce almost knocked her down on her way in.

“That coffee smells heavenly—Olivia, would you be a dear and bring me a cup?” she asked with a large yawn. She sat down on the bed. “I'm exhausted,” she said as she helped herself to a piece of toast from my tray and slathered strawberry preserves on it. “I don't know why I always forget I can't sleep in a bed other than my own. But I just couldn't face the drive home last night. Frank of course is snoring away like there's no tomorrow.”

I gave her a weak smile.

“I'm sorry I was just too tired last night to talk to you—but then again, it was probably for the best anyway. One can't really talk about anything truly serious at a party.” She yawned again and leaped to her feet when Olivia rapped on the open door. She carried in another carafe of coffee and a cup for Joyce, which she set down on the desk next to my tray.

“Shut the door, will you, Olivia?” I asked pleasantly.

Joyce quickly gulped down a cup of coffee and moaned in pleasure.

“I don't know what there is to talk about,” I replied, pouring a second cup for myself. “Really, Joyce, everything's fine.”

“Carlo was being a jackass last night, and he needs to apologize to you, that much is for certain.” She sipped at her coffee and moaned again with pleasure. “My God, I wish my cook could make coffee half as good as Delia's! If Carlo wasn't my brother I'd steal her right out from under him.”

“I'm fine, Joyce, really.” I ate a piece of toast and swallowed it down with some coffee. “I was kind of a wreck last night, I admit, but you know, it was a rough night for me. But I have it under control this morning, really. Last night I was ready to pack up and get out of here. But this morning it doesn't seem nearly as hopeless as it did when I was caught up in all the emotions. I love Carlo, and I'm not giving up without a fight.”

“I'm so glad to hear that,” she replied. “Carlo really does love you, Mouse. I haven't seen him this happy in years. And as for Timothy—”

I stopped her. “Joyce, thank you and I appreciate your concern—but I don't want to talk about Timothy with anyone other than Carlo.” I took a deep breath. “All this time I've been too afraid to mention him or bring him up, but that's been the wrong approach. We need to bring everything out into the open, talk about it, and then we can move on.”

“But you're all wrong—”

“The party was lovely, Joyce.” I changed the subject firmly. “And thank you so much for taking charge the way you did. You did an excellent job.”

“I—” She paused and looked at me, and held up her hands. “Okay, you win. But promise me you'll talk to Carlo about it today—that you're going to clear the air once and for all.”

I smiled at her and raised my right hand, like I was swearing on a Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “Joyce, I solemnly swear to you that I am going to get everything straightened out with my husband.” I winked at her. “Now, can we change the subject?”

She nodded and gave me a relieved smile. “I thought the party went extremely well, don't you?”

I nodded, and she stood up, yawning. “I think I'm going to go shower now, and see if I can get Frank up.” She smiled at me, and leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “Seriously, Mouse, you ARE the best thing to HAPPEN to Spindrift in YEARS.”

After she left, I finished my breakfast and changed into a yellow pullover shirt and a pair of jeans. I hugged Minette and took a deep breath. “Wish me luck, girl,” I whispered to her, “I'm going to go face down the dragon.”

She wagged her tail happily.

Olivia was in the hallway putting yellow roses into a vase when I walked out of my room. I took a deep breath and steeled my nerve. “Olivia, do you know where Carson is, by any chance?”

She smiled. “I believe he's in the east wing, sir.”

“Thank you.” I replied and started to walk away. But after taking a few steps, I stopped and turned back to her. “Olivia, I want to thank you.”

She looked puzzled. “Whatever for, sir?”

“You've been wonderful ever since I came here,” I replied sincerely. “And you do an amazing job. I just wanted you to know I've noticed, and I deeply appreciate it.”

She colored. “Th-thank you, sir.”

I turned and walked away, heading for the east wing.

I knew exactly where I'd find him, and I was right.

He was in Timothy's rooms.

The door was open, and he was changing the linens on the bed. I stood in the doorway and watched as he spread the covers back over the bed and tucked the red velvet bedspread underneath the pillows. I stepped over the threshold and slammed the door shut behind me.

He straightened up and turned to face me, raising an eyebrow. In his usual aloof, disdainful tone, he said, “Is there something you need, sir?”

I'd never hated anyone so thoroughly in my life as I hated Carson in that instant. I remembered every rude thing he'd said to me, the contemptuous way he spoke to me, the disdain in his every glance. I'd put up with his horrible behavior for far too long. The costume was the last straw. I wanted nothing more than to slap that look right off his face and hurl invectives at him. Instead, I maintained my own composure. “Yes, Carson.” I walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back. I spun around and faced him, a big smile on my face. “I want this room emptied.”

He paled, but his face was impassive. “Emptied, sir?”

“Yes, emptied.” I walked over to the closet and threw the door open. “All these clothes—I want them bagged up and disposed of. Everything that was his—I want it all gone. I don't care what you do with these things. Give them to some charity, drag it all outside and burn it—I don't really care. But I want everything gone by Monday—and I am including the furniture in that. I want this room completely stripped down to bare bones—it's time for these rooms to come back to life, and the sooner the better.”

He stepped closer to me. “You might think you're going to get rid of Mr. Timothy by getting rid of his things, but they're just that—things.” He stroked the curtain hanging around the bed. “You'll never get him out of Mr. Carlo's heart, you know. This house—this room—will always be Mr. Timothy's. You'll never change that.”

“Well, we'll just see about that, won't we?” I smiled brightly at him. “You seem to have forgotten something very important, Carson—Timothy's dead. And all this—” I waved my hands around. “Keeping his rooms ready for him, like he's going to walk back through the door at any minute? Dead means dead, Carson. He's gone and he's never coming back. And keeping the rooms like this is just sick.”

He didn't react. He just kept standing there and looking at me.

“And by the way, I wanted to thank you for all your help with my costume for the ball.”

He didn't say anything.

“You've hated me ever since I came here,” I went on. “You've undermined me, treated me with contempt, and what you did last night was unforgivable.”

The reserve broke. “Of course I hate you!” he snapped. “Coming here, to Mr. Timothy's house, trying to take his place. I won't have it.” He walked over to the closet and got out a cashmere sweater. He held it to his face and smelled it. “You don't know anything. Mr. Timothy was everything you aren't. He was smart and funny and kind, stylish and—”

“A whore.” I interrupted him. “He was nothing but a cheap little whore who couldn't keep his pants up.”

His eyes blazed. “And what of it?” he sneered. “Mr. Timothy didn't care about any of those people. He thought it was fun to toy with them and their emotions. That idiot trainer, Taylor Hudson—he would come back from the studio after meeting one of them there, and he would laugh about how stupid they were, how easy it was to make them fall in love with him. It was all a game to him, and why shouldn't he have some fun with his life?” His voice broke. “And then he died because I wasn't here that day. I could have saved him had I been here. It wouldn't have happened if I had just been here.”

Despite everything I couldn't help but feel sorry for him in his grief. “Carson—”

“And then he brings
you
here. To Mr. Timothy's house, like someone like you could ever take his place.”

And my sympathy was gone in that instant.

“You're forgetting something, Carson,” I said, allowing myself a little smile.

“What?”

“This is Carlo's house, not Timothy's. And now it's mine.” I paused at the door. “I want all of his clothes gone by the end of today and this furniture out of here by Monday afternoon—or you're fired…and I'll see to it you never work again.” I slammed the door behind me and walked down the hall.

By the time I reached the grand staircase I was close to hyperventilating. I stood there for a few moments, taking deep breaths and trying to get my heart rate to slow down.

That really wasn't so hard
, I thought as I felt myself returning to normal.
You should have never put up with anything from him in the first place.

There was a part of me that hoped he wouldn't clean out the room, so I could fire him.

As I walked down the stairs my confidence began rising again. I had done it, after all. And after Timothy's rooms were cleared out, the studio would be next. I would use it as an office, where I would work on my writing once the demons were exorcised. If Carson didn't like it, he could quit. I could run the house myself. I didn't need Carson—we didn't need him.

And now I was going to make everything right with my marriage.

Carlo was on the phone when I reached his office. He nodded to me as I entered and shut the door behind me. He looked pale.

“Uh-huh……yes…of course, yes…I understand…yes.”

He hung up the phone and looked at me, his face incredibly sad. “Well, that's that.” He laughed bitterly. “It's all over.” He shook his head. “I owe you an apology, Mouse. I was rather beastly to you last night, and I'm terribly sorry—you have no idea how sorry I am, Mouse. The last thing in the world I would ever want to do is hurt you—and all I've done, over and over again, is hurt you.”

“I don't mind, really.” I started to walk toward him, but the look on his face stopped me. “What is it, Carlo? What was that phone call? You don't look well.”

“I was stupid to think I could ever be happy again. I'm sorry, Mouse.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. I opened my mouth but no words came out. I couldn't think of anything to say. I felt the tears rising in my eyes. He didn't love me, he wanted me to go. “Carlo—”

“I knew it would eventually come back, these things always do.” He went on, pacing around the room. “It was always just a matter of time. I stayed away, thinking that would do the trick—but no, I couldn't forget. Always I remembered, always. And I tried everything I could think of to make me forget. But nothing worked and then I met you.” He gave me a weak smile. “I thought—when I met you I thought we might be able to be happy together. You were sweet, such a sweet young boy so full of love with no one to give it to, and you made me smile, you made me forget for a time.”

“Carlo, please.” I finally said, trying to keep the tears back. “We can still be happy.”

“No, Mouse, we can't.” He gestured to the phone. “You asked who that was. It was the sheriff calling me to tell me. The call I always knew would come, the sword of Damocles that's been hanging over my head. You see, someone found him.”