The Edge of Eternity

by Amanda Stevens

  A pretty blond waitress in a pink uniform hurried over to pour him a cup of coffee. “Hi, I’m Katie,” she greeted with a perky smile. “Would you like to see a menu?”

  “No, coffee is fine.”

  “Are you coming or going?” she asked curiously.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you coming from or going up to the hotel?”

  The question took Paul by surprise. “I just drove down, but how did you know that?”

  “Just a guess.” Her smiled turned appreciative as she gave him a quick once-over. “You’re not from around here, that’s for sure.”

  Ignoring her mild flirtation, Paul picked up his cup. “That’s good coffee,” he murmured after taking a sip.

  “Coffee’s our specialty,” she said proudly. “We may not have the fancy lattes and cappuccinos they have in Seattle, but no one makes a better cup of java than Audrey.”

  He set down his cup. “Would that be Audrey Sylvester?”

  The young woman’s brows shot skyward. “How do you know Audrey?”

  “I don’t. But one of the managers at the hotel suggested that I talk to her. I’m trying to find someone who may live around here.”

  She nodded. “Audrey would be the person to talk to, all right. She knows everyone, and I do mean everyone, in town.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She’s always here,” the waitress said with a resigned sigh. She glanced over to where an older woman dressed in an identical pink uniform appeared to be engaged in a heated conversation with a customer. “Hey, Audrey! This gentleman would like to have a word with you.”

  “Hold your horses, I’ll be right there,” came the grumpy reply.

  The older waitress took another few minutes to finish up with the customer, then, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder, she strode toward Paul. She was a formidable-looking woman, tall, stout, with chopped-off hair and a scowling, put-upon demeanor. Judging from her dour expression, her philosophy wasn’t that the customer was always right, but rather an annoyance that had to be dealt with.

  “I’m Audrey Sylvester,” she said as she tilted her head to get a better look at Paul through the huge glasses she wore perched on the end of her nose. “What can I do for you?”

  “He’s trying to find someone,” Katie offered helpfully.

  “Now was I talking to you?” Audrey demanded testily. Her cranky disposition was a stark counterpoint to the other woman’s youthful verve. “And by the way, if you’ve finished admiring the scenery, why don’t you see to your other customers? You don’t get paid to stand around gawking at strangers.”

  Katie turned bright red and scurried off in dismay.

  Oblivious—or more likely indifferent—to the younger woman’s embarrassment, Audrey Sylvester leaned an arm against the counter as she continued to study Paul through her glasses. “So who did you say you’re looking for?”

  “A man named Roland Latimer. I was told you might know where I could find him.”

  Something flickered in Audrey’s eyes, but before she could respond, a loud crash drew them around with a start. Katie had dropped a carafe of scalding coffee, and the glass had shattered against the tile floor. She didn’t seem to notice the dark stain spreading toward a nearby table as she gazed at Paul in astonishment.

  “Well, don’t just stand there.” Audrey threw the young woman a towel. “Get that mess cleaned up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her focus still on Paul, Katie hurried around the counter and headed for the kitchen door, muttering something about a broom and a mop. Taking one last glance at Paul, she pushed open the door and rushed through.

  Paul turned back to Audrey. “What was that all about?”

  Audrey shrugged. “She’s still pretty green. You’ll have to excuse her jitters.”

  Paul wasn’t at all convinced that the young waitress’s inexperience had caused her to drop the coffeepot. He had a feeling it had something to do with Roland Latimer.

  “Do you know Roland Latimer?” he asked bluntly.

  Audrey straightened and, grabbing a fresh towel, busily scrubbed at an invisible spot on the counter. “Nope, haven’t had the pleasure. You might want to talk to Zoë Lindstrom, though. She’s lived here a lot longer than I have. If anyone can help you, she can.”

  Why did he get the feeling that Audrey Sylvester, like the assistant manager at the hotel, was trying to get rid of him? Just who the hell was this Latimer guy? “Where can I find Ms. Lindstrom?”

  “It’s Miss, actually. She’s never married. But anyway, she prefers Zoë. Her house is only a couple of blocks from here. When you go out the door, turn right and stay on Front Street for two blocks, then make another right on Tall Pines. About halfway down the street you’ll see a white two-story house with a wrought-iron fence around the front yard. Kind of run-down looking. That’s Zoë’s place. You can’t miss it.”

  “Should I call first?” Paul asked as he reached for his wallet.

  “I’ll give her a buzz and let her know you’re on your way over.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” Paul started to toss some bills onto the table, but Audrey put up a hand to stop him.

  “Coffee’s on the house. If you liked it, spread the word. Maybe we’ll get a little tourist business from the hotel.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  As Paul walked away from the diner he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the young waitress standing at the plate-glass window, staring after him, but when he turned, she darted away, as if not wanting to be spotted.

  Something strange was going on around here, Paul decided. And that something obviously had to do with Roland Latimer.

  Chapter Seven

  No one was about. The silence was a little unnerving, Paul decided as he followed Audrey’s directions. He wasn’t used to such sluggish traffic on a Friday afternoon. By midday in Seattle the streets would already be clogged with commuters anxious to jump-start their weekend.

  He’d once been just as eager to get home, but since the accident—since Elizabeth had frozen him out of her grief—he’d gotten into the habit of working late on Friday nights to avoid the traffic. By the time he left the office at around ten or eleven he mostly had to contend with the pedestrians that jammed the streets.

  If he drove, he still tried to avoid the main arteries, but on the occasions when he walked home, he took his time, enjoying the excitement that thrummed through downtown.

  Before Damon was born, he and Elizabeth had taken full advantage of the Seattle nightlife. Their Belltown condo was only minutes away from some of the hottest nightclubs in the city. Another few blocks and they had their pick of restaurants and bars along the waterfront.

  Nowadays Paul usually came home to a dark apartment. Elizabeth made a point of turning in early, but he’d often see a light underneath her door which he took to mean she was still awake. He used to knock softly to check on her, but she’d come to resent the intrusion, so he’d stopped. He shouldn’t have, he realized now. He shouldn’t have let her push him away.

  Turning down Tall Pines, he spotted the house Audrey had described, and pausing outside the wrought-iron gate, he glanced around as a strange uneasiness gripped him.

  The house disturbed him. He couldn’t explain it. The structure itself was quaint and charming with its bay windows and wraparound shape. The architecture was reminiscent of some of the older neighborhoods in Seattle, but unlike most of those homes, this one hadn’t been recently renovated. The paint was peeling and the porch sagged at one end. But it wasn’t the overall deterioration of the place that sent a chill up Paul’s spine. Nor was it the sudden drop in temperature as he opened the gate and stepped into the deeply shaded front yard.

  Something inside the house made him want to turn and hurry away without looking back.

  Which was crazy, Paul chided himself. He hadn’t even reached the front porch yet. How could he possibly be put off by a house
he’d never set foot in?

  Whatever the reason for his apprehension, he wasn’t leaving. He’d come here looking for Roland Latimer and he wasn’t about to give up the search because he’d picked up strange vibes from a house.

  Before he could change his mind, Paul hurried up the porch steps and knocked. He’d almost begun to think no one was home when the beveled-glass door finally opened to reveal a tiny gray-haired woman who looked to be around seventy.

  She wasn’t at all what Paul had expected. His strange aversion to the house had led him to dread an encounter with the occupant. But the twinkle in Zoë Lindstrom’s blue eyes reminded him of his grandmother, and he found himself immediately responding to her warm smile.

  “You must be the man Audrey sent over,” she said as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “I hope my stopping by like this isn’t too much of an inconvenience,” Paul said apologetically. “Audrey seemed to think it would be okay.”

  “It’s no inconvenience at all. I’m used to people dropping by. Won’t you come in?”

  It seemed a little odd to Paul that she would be so open and welcoming of a complete stranger in this day and age. He hesitated. “This won’t take but a minute. We could speak out here if you prefer.”

  She gave him an impish smile, as if reading his mind. “I’m a very good judge of character. You don’t strike me as the dangerous sort, Mr….”

  “Blackstone. Paul Blackstone.”

  “What a nice, solid name,” she said with another smile. “I’m Zoë. Please come in, Mr. Blackstone. Or may I call you Paul?”

  “Of course. But before I take up any more of your time, perhaps I should tell you why I’m here.”

  “Why don’t you tell me over tea? I hear the kettle now. Your timing is excellent.” She took his arm and pulled him inside. Then, closing the door, she hustled off down a narrow hallway, presumably toward the kitchen. “Please make yourself at home,” she called over her shoulder. “The parlor is just to your right.”

  Paul stood in the foyer for a moment and glanced around. The interior of the house was bright and pleasant, with lots of windows and gleaming hardwood floors. The faint scent of lemon furniture polish lingered in the air, and as he walked into the living area, the old-fashioned, afghan-draped furniture reminded him yet again of his grandmother. A fire crackled behind a metal screen, and the disquiet he’d experienced outside seemed even more incongruous in the midst of such cheerful homeyness.

  A few minutes later Zoë returned with a tea tray. She’d removed her apron, and Paul saw that she was dressed in dark slacks and a pale blue sweater that complemented her gray hair and deepened the sapphire of her eyes. She’d undoubtedly been very pretty in her day, but rather than trying to preserve the vestiges of youth, she seemed to have embraced her golden years.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” Paul took the tray, and she motioned to the table in front of the sofa.

  “Just put it there. Thank you so much for your help. Such nice manners,” she commented appreciatively. “An attractive but rare quality in young men these days.”

  Paul didn’t feel all that young, but he supposed age, like so many other things, was relative.

  Zoë patted the seat beside her. “Please join me. There’s nothing like a cup of tea on a chilly day like this. Of course—” She paused as she poured out the tea “—you Seattleites prefer your coffee, don’t you?”

  “How do you know I’m from Seattle?” Paul asked, surprised yet again by the observation. But then, he supposed his tailored slacks and cashmere sweater was something of a uniform for the thirty-something, urban-dwelling professionals so prevalent in the Emerald City.

  Zoë shrugged, giving him the same answer as the young waitress had. “I know you’re not from around here.”

  “No, I’m not. Which is why I came to see you,” Paul said as he accepted the delicate demitasse cup. “I’m trying to find someone—a local. Audrey Sylvester told me that you’d lived here longer than she has and might be able to help me.”

  Zoë picked up her own cup. “Does this person you’re looking for have a name?”

  “Roland Latimer.”

  She’d been lifting the teacup to her lips, but now her hand froze in midair as her eyes widened in shock. “Roland Latimer. Are you sure that’s his name?”

  Paul’s earlier uneasiness returned as he observed her reaction. “Positive. My wife met him at a party at the hotel last night.”

  “But…you didn’t meet him yourself?” she asked carefully.

  Paul frowned. “No. Why?”

  Zoë’s hand was steady as she lifted the cup to her lips. Her expression turned pensive. “Did your wife describe him to you?”

  “No, she didn’t. Look,” Paul said impatiently, “do you know this guy or don’t you?”

  “I’m familiar with the name, but I’ve never met him. I can assure you, I would have remembered that.” Zoë gave a wry chuckle as she took another sip of her tea.

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m the butt of some inside joke here?” Paul muttered in frustration.

  Her blue eyes twinkled over the rim of her cup. “I suppose that’s because you are, in a way.”

  “Meaning?”

  She placed her cup and saucer on the table, then returned her attention to Paul. Her eyes were still twinkling, but unless he imagined it, he glimpsed a shadow behind the amusement. “Roland Latimer has been dead for over seventy years. He was killed in the fire that destroyed the original Fernhaven Hotel.”

  The hair at the back of Paul’s neck lifted at her words. “Are you telling me that my wife saw a ghost?” he asked in astonishment.

  She laughed again, the sound as light and airy as a wind chime. “Let’s hope not! Roland Latimer was a very nasty customer. Alive or dead, I wouldn’t want to cross paths with him.”

  Paul set aside his own tea. “Then I don’t understand. Why would Audrey Sylvester lead me to believe that you could help me find him?”

  “She meant well, I’m sure. Around here I’m considered something of an expert on local history. I was born on the night of the fire, you see, and I’ve always had a fascination for the tragedy. I even wrote a book about it years ago. The manuscript was published by a small local press, and only a handful of people outside my own family bought it. But Audrey has always been one of my most devoted fans.” Zoë’s self-deprecating smile was still charming, even though her words were hardly what Paul had expected. “I suspect that’s why she sent you to me. She probably recognized Latimer’s name from my book.”

  That might also explain the younger waitress’s startled reaction, Paul thought. But it did nothing to clarify how his wife had conversed with a man who had supposedly been dead for seventy years.

  Zoë got up and walked over to one of the built-in bookcases flanking the fireplace. Carefully selecting a volume, she brought it back over to the sofa, then leafed through the pages until she found the one she wanted. “That’s Roland Latimer.”

  She pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired man of about forty. He might have been described by some as handsome, but Paul thought the cruelty in his face gave him a sinister, almost serpentine appearance.

  “Who was he?” he asked uneasily.

  “A very complicated man, from everything I’ve been able to learn about him. Complicated…and evil.” Zoë shivered as she studied Latimer’s photograph. “None of that matters now, though, because I seriously doubt that Latimer is the man your wife saw at the party last night.”

  She doubted it? How could there be any question when Latimer had been dead for decades?

  Zoë gave him a regretful smile. “I’m afraid your wife may have been the victim of a practical joke. A couple of the locals have had a bit of fun trying to convince some of the hotel employees that the place is haunted and they’ve used information from my book to make their stories sound authentic. If the man bothers your wife again, you should call the police. They’ll take care of him.”

&nb
sp; “That’s good advice.” Almost against his will, Paul glanced at the picture of Latimer. He didn’t like looking at the man, but there was something disturbingly familiar about his features. “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.”

  “It was my pleasure.” When Paul started to stand, she put her hand on his arm. “Wait—” She jerked her hand back as if she’d been burned. The book slid to the floor with a bang as the color drained from her face.

  Paul sat back down. “Are you all right?” he asked in concern. “Do you feel ill?”

  “No, it’s just…I didn’t expect…” Zoë searched his face. “Is there another reason you came to see me, Mr. Blackstone?”

  On some level he registered the fact that she had decided not to call him Paul after all. “No, why?”

  Her hand had been steady before, but now he noticed a pronounced tremble as she picked up the book and set it on the table. “There isn’t something more you want to ask me?”

  Paul shrugged. “No, that was it, and I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time. I really should go.”

  Her hand clutched his arm and she flinched again. But this time she didn’t let go. After a moment her eyes fluttered closed. “Your son,” she said softly. “How did he die?”

  The blood in Paul’s veins turned to ice as he jerked his arm free of her grasp. “How do you know about my son?”

  “You’re still grieving,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. The loss of a child brings on a special kind of pain.”

  “How do you know I had a son?” Paul demanded.

  “I can…sense these things. I have what some people call ‘the gift.’”

  “You’re psychic?” His voice hardened almost imperceptibly.

  “I can’t predict the future. But I do have certain abilities. Do you know what a medium is?”

  “You communicate with the dead,” Paul said.

  She nodded solemnly. “Occasionally.”

  His tone turned contemptuous. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in any of that stuff.”