All Night Long

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “I should have picked up the makings for breakfast on my way here today.”

  “You can always drive into town. The Ventana View Café opens at six.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She had to squeeze past him to get into the cabin. The action forced her to brush against his solid, unyielding frame. She could feel the heat coming off him. The tantalizing trace of his clean, male scent sparked another little frisson of awareness through her.

  When she turned in the doorway to say good night, she was startled to see that he was studying her with an unnervingly intent expression.

  “What?” she asked warily.

  “You’re serious about breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most women I know aren’t big on breakfast.”

  She had no intention of explaining that breakfast was one of the small but crucial rituals she employed to maintain a sense of order in her private universe. Breakfast signified the end of night. It was a very important meal. But there was no way she could explain that to him. He would not understand.

  The only person who had ever comprehended the vital importance of breakfast was the last of the half dozen therapists she had consulted over the years. Dr. LaBarre had done her gentle best to wean her patient from some of the other slightly obsessive routines that had at one time or another threatened to rule Irene’s life. But the good doctor had allowed the breakfast thing to stand on the grounds that it had other virtues.

  “Any nutritionist will tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Irene said. She felt like a complete idiot, the way she always did when she was compelled to explain or cover up her need to stick to a ritual.

  To her astonishment, Luke didn’t even smile at that. Instead he inclined his head in a very solemn manner.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Breakfast is critical.”

  Was he making fun of her? She couldn’t be sure. She drew herself up and took a step back, preparing to shut the door.

  “If you don’t mind, I need to make a phone call,” she said.

  “Sure.” He moved back a little. “See you in the morning.”

  She closed the door partway and then hesitated briefly. “I almost forgot. Just so you’ll know, I will probably check out tomorrow.”

  He gave her a hard look. “You booked two nights.”

  “The second night is a contingency, in case I’m unable to leave on schedule for some reason.”

  “We don’t do contingency bookings here at the Sunrise on the Lake Lodge. We’ve got a strict twenty-four-hour cancellation policy.” He checked his watch. “You’re way past the deadline.”

  “We will discuss your cancellation policy tomorrow after I find out whether or not I’ll need to spend another day in Dunsley. Good night, Mr. Danner.”

  “Good luck with your personal business here in town, Miss Stenson.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, the sooner it’s finished, the better.”

  His mouth kicked up in an amused smile. “I’m getting the feeling you’re not real taken with our picturesque mountain resort community.”

  “Very observant of you.”

  “Good night—”

  “Don’t say it,” she warned. “I’ve heard it before.”

  “Can’t resist.” He grinned. “Good night, Irene.”

  The door made a very satisfying thunk when she closed it in his face. The snick of the bolt sliding into place sounded even better. Very firm. Very final. Luke Danner might be new in Dunsley, but he was, nevertheless, a part of this place that she hated. The last thing she wanted to do was get involved with him.

  She went to the window and peeked through the curtains to make sure that he was, indeed, leaving the premises.

  Sure enough, he was going down the steps. He raised one hand in casual farewell, letting her know that he was aware that she was watching him.

  When she was satisfied that she was alone, she took the phone out of her purse and hit redial. She had lost track of the number of times she had called Pamela’s number since arriving in Dunsley that afternoon.

  Still no answer.

  She ended the call before voice mail picked up. She had lost count of the number of messages she had left today. There was no point leaving another.

  Two

  Spectacular, haunting, amber-brown eyes lit with intelligence and shadowed with secrets; gleaming dark hair cut with precision to follow the line of her jaw; a sleek, vital, delightfully feminine shape; sexy high-heeled boots and a dashing black trench coat. And the lady did breakfast.

  What was wrong with this picture?

  He sure as hell was no fashion guru, but he trusted his instincts, Luke thought. Right now his instincts were telling him that Irene Stenson wore the boots and the trench and the attitude the way a man might wear a Kevlar vest—as battle armor.

  Who or what was she afraid of?

  And what was it with all the lights? He’d checked again a few minutes ago. Cabin Number Five still looked like a bulb factory run amok. He’d only gotten a quick look earlier when he walked her back to the place, but he was sure he’d seen a couple of night-light fixtures plugged into the wall sockets in the front room. Then there was that flashlight she’d pulled out of her pocket.

  Scared of the dark, Irene Stenson?

  He abandoned the attempt to finish the chapter he had been working on all week and powered down the computer. He couldn’t think about The Project tonight. His brain was consumed with the puzzle that was Irene Stenson. Other portions of his anatomy seemed to be equally interested in investigating the matter. He had left Irene in her cabin three hours ago, but he was still restless and vaguely, disturbingly aroused.

  He needed to prowl. On nights like this, the really long nights, he usually went for a walk to knock off some of the sharp edges. Afterward he poured himself a medicinal dose of the strong French brandy that he kept in the back of the cupboard to smooth out a few of the remaining rough spots. It was not always an effective routine, but it worked fairly well. Most of the time.

  Tonight was different, though. He didn’t think a hike along the lake shore and a shot of brandy were going to do the trick.

  Maybe everyone in his family was right, maybe he was having some problems getting his act together and maybe things were getting worse, not better, as he had begun to believe. Hell, maybe he was a basket case, just as they all feared.

  But one thing he knew was true—he hadn’t lost his obsession with dots. Whenever he saw an interesting assortment of the little suckers, he got a bone-deep urge to connect them.

  Irene had hit redial on her phone at least five times while she watched the evening news with him. Whoever it was she had come to Dunsley to see had never answered. Something told him that she wasn’t going to be able to just sit quietly waiting much longer. She had as good as admitted that she wasn’t thrilled to be here and she was looking forward to escaping as soon as her personal business was concluded.

  The muffled rumble of a car engine emanated from the narrow drive that linked the cabins to the main lodge. Lights flashed on the other side of the curtains, spearing the night briefly before turning toward the main road.

  His one and only guest was leaving. Had her phone call finally been answered? Or was she skipping town and her bill here at the lodge?

  Automatically, he checked his watch and made a note of the time. Ten twenty-five.

  There was not a lot going on at this hour on a weeknight in early spring here in Dunsley, certainly nothing that was likely to lure an out-of-town visitor with obviously sophisticated tastes. The Ventana View Café closed promptly at nine. Harry’s Hang-Out, the only bar, generally remained open until midnight, providing there were enough custom-ers, but somehow he didn’t think its quaint charms would interest Irene.

  He went to the window and watched the twin beams of the snappy yellow compact sweep out onto the main road. She turned left toward town, not right to the highway.r />
  Okay, she wasn’t ducking out on the lodge tab. She was definitely off to meet someone. But a lady who was afraid of the dark probably didn’t go out alone a lot at this hour unless it was absolutely necessary. Someone or something here in town must be damned important to Irene Stenson.

  He had lived in Dunsley for several months. It was a very small town, a place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. Hell, that was the primary reason he had decided to move here. Offhand he could not think of anyone in the community who might scare a woman like Irene, but he was willing to bet that she was afraid of something.

  And just why the hell did he care?

  He thought about the mix of anxiety and somber determination that had been vibrating in her all evening. He knew the face of raw courage and sheer grit when he saw it. He also knew what it was like to go out into the night to meet the bad guys. You didn’t do it alone unless there was no alternative.

  Maybe Irene could use some backup.

  He fished the keys out of his pocket, grabbed his jacket and went outside to the SUV.

  Three

  The drive to the Webb house took Irene through the heart of Dunsley’s minuscule downtown. The trip proved to be an unsettling experience. So much seemed familiar.

  It wasn’t right, she thought. The place should have changed more than this in the intervening years. She paused at the four-way stop that marked the main intersection. It was as if Dunsley had fallen into a black hole seventeen years ago and remained trapped in a time warp.

  True, most of the storefronts had been modernized and repainted. A few of the shops bore new names. But the changes were all superficial. Everything looked uncomfortably the same, if ever so slightly out of phase. Yep, definitely a time-warp thing, she told herself.

  There were almost no other cars on the streets at this hour. She tromped on the accelerator, anxious to get to her destination.

  The lights were still on in the gravel parking lot outside Harry’s Hang-Out. The second H in the faded neon sign still flickered, just as it had seventeen years ago. The small herd of battered pickups and SUVs parked in front was identical to the one that had filled the lot in her youth. Her father had been roused out of bed in the middle of the night on more than one occasion to quell a brawl at Harry’s.

  She drove past the park and kept going for a short distance. When she reached Woodcrest Trail she made a left and entered the closest thing Dunsley had ever had to an upscale neighborhood.

  The houses on Woodcrest Trail sat on large, heavily forested lots that ran down to the water’s edge. Only a handful of the homes were owned by local families. Most were summer places that were dark and empty at this time of the year.

  She slowed and turned into the narrow lane that led to the Webb house. The windows on this side of the two-story structure were dark, but a light burned over the front door. There was no car parked in the curved drive. The implication was that no one was home, she thought. But Pamela’s e-mail had been very clear about the date.

  She brought the compact to a halt, switched off the engine and folded her arms on top of the steering wheel, wondering what to do next. The decision to come to Woodcrest Trail after not getting any answers to her phone calls had been an impulse prompted by a growing sense of frustration and anxiety.

  Pamela had been expecting her this evening. She should have been here, waiting. Something was wrong.

  Irene opened the car door and got out slowly. The chill of the night closed in around her. She gave herself a few seconds to deal with the trickle of fear that darkness always induced. Then she walked quickly to the safety of the well-lit front door and leaned on the bell.

  There was no response.

  She looked around and saw that the garage door was closed. If her memory was correct, there was a small window on the far side.

  She hesitated. It was very dark on the other side of the garage. She fingered the small penlight in her pocket. She needed more firepower, she thought. The flashlight in the glove compartment was larger but not large enough to go up against that kind of heavy night.

  She went back to the compact, opened the trunk and selected one of the two industrial-strength flashlights she kept inside. When she hit the switch, the strong beam cut a reassuring swath through the shadows.

  Steeling herself, she went back across the drive, rounded the corner of the garage and peered through the grimy glass window. A BMW loomed inside.

  Another shivery chill went through her. Someone, presumably Pamela, was here. Why wasn’t the person answering the phone or the door?

  A faint gleam of light caught her eye. It emanated from the back of the house.

  She turned and went slowly toward the glow, feeling a lot like a moth being drawn to a candle flame.

  The route took her past the utility room door on the side of the house. She remembered that entrance well. Pamela had kept a key hidden under the steps so she could sneak in and out at night. Not that her father or the housekeeper had ever paid much attention to her comings and goings, Irene thought with a small pang.

  At fifteen, she and every other teenager in town had envied Pamela Webb her amazing degree of freedom. But from an adult perspective it was clear that her old friend’s much-vaunted independence was the result of parental neglect. Pamela had lost her mother in a boating accident on the lake when she was barely five. Over the years, her father, Ryland Webb, had been consumed with his political career. The result was that Pamela had been abandoned to the care of a series of nannies and housekeepers.

  Irene unlatched the gate at the end of the walk and moved into the moonlit garden. The curtains at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room were open. The light that she had followed came from a table lamp that had been turned down very low.

  Irene aimed the big flashlight through the glass. It came as a shock to realize that she recognized the furniture. Another case of time warp, she decided. Years ago the house had been decorated by a professional designer imported from San Francisco. The interior was meant to invoke the ambience of a luxurious ski chalet. Pamela had privately labeled it Outhouse Chic.

  She studied the shadowed room carefully and methodically, starting on the left where the massive stone fireplace formed most of the wall. Halfway across the space she saw the overturned slipper. It lay on the rug at the end of the brown leather sofa. A portion of a bare foot extended slightly off the edge of the cushions.

  Irene stilled. Stomach tensing, she moved along the wall of windows until she could aim the beam of the flashlight directly at the front of the sofa.

  A woman reclined on the cushions. She was dressed in camel-colored trousers and a blue silk blouse. Her face was turned away from the windows. Blond hair tumbled across the brown leather. One limp arm dangled above the floor.

  A cocktail pitcher and an empty martini glass sat on the low wooden coffee table.

  “Pamela.” Irene pounded on the glass. “Pamela, wake up.”

  The woman on the sofa did not stir.

  Irene seized the handle of the sliding glass door and tugged with all of her strength. The door was locked.

  Whirling around, she raced out of the garden, the beam of the flashlight bouncing wildly, and hurried back to the door of the utility room.

  Crouching, she felt around beneath the bottom step. Her fingers brushed across a small envelope taped to the underside of the tread.

  It took a considerable amount of effort to loosen the aged duct tape, but finally the envelope fell into her hand. She could feel the weight of the key inside. Rising, she ripped open the sealed packet, took out the key and fitted it into the lock.

  She opened the door, groped for and found the light switch. The weak bulb in the overhead fixture winked on, revealing decades’ worth of boating, fishing and water-skiing gear.

  She raced down the shadowed hall into the living room.

  “Pamela, it’s me, Irene. Wake up.”

  She stopped beside the sofa and reached down to grip Pamela’s sho
ulder.

  The flesh beneath the thin silk blouse was icy cold. There was no doubt as to the identity of the woman. Seventeen years had made remarkably few changes in Pamela’s extraordinarily beautiful features. Even in death she was a classic, patrician blonde.

  “Dear God, no.”

  Irene stepped back, swallowing the nausea that threatened to well up inside. Blindly, she reached into her purse for her cell phone.

  A figure moved in the darkened hallway that led to the utility room.

  She whipped around, clutching the heavy flashlight. The fierce beam fell on Luke. It was all she could do to suppress the scream that threatened to choke her.

  “Dead?” Luke asked, moving toward the sofa.

  “What are you doing here? Never mind.” The questions would have to wait. She punched out 911 with shaking fingers. “She’s very cold. Too cold.”

  He reached down and put his fingers on the woman’s throat in a practiced manner. Looking for the pulse, Irene thought. She knew from the way he did it that this was not the first time he had dealt with a body.

  “Definitely dead,” he said quietly. “Looks like she’s been that way for a while.”

  They both glanced at the empty pitcher on the table. Standing next to it was a small prescription bottle. It, too, was empty.

  Irene fought the guilt that clawed through her. “I should have come here earlier.”

  “Why?” he asked. He went down on his haunches to read the label on the little bottle. “How could you have known?”

  “I couldn’t, I didn’t,” she whispered. “But I knew there was something wrong when she never answered the phone.”

  He studied the body in a meditative way. “She was cold before you even checked in at the lodge this afternoon.”

  He’d definitely had some experience with the dead, she thought.

  The 911 operator spoke sharply into her ear, demanding to know what the problem was.