“She’s certainly incommunicado,” Adrienne said, looking at Skye. “That’s not like her.”
“Maybe she just decided to blow off the day—go shopping or something without being bothered.”
“Go shopping on a day when the restaurant is open? I don’t think so. She believes the place will fall apart if she’s not there supervising everything.”
“I guess she doesn’t feel that way today. You don’t think she’s sick, do you?”
“She’d be home.” Adrienne thought. “Ellen has probably called her by now and Kit is with her mother but not answering her cell phone.”
Skye looked at her gloomily. “This morning Mrs. Kirkwood looked so awful and she barely talked to us. What happened today sure isn’t going to convince her not to tear down the Belle.”
“It’s like one final sign that the place needs to be destroyed if you believe in portents and omens and things like that.”
“Mrs. Kirkwood does.”
“With a vengeance. And frankly, after today, I know I’d never be able to enjoy the place again.”
In fact, Adrienne had a slightly ill, repulsed feeling, as if she’d participated in something foul and shameful. Her fingers still tingled with the sensation of touching Julianna’s cooling skin and of looking into that beautiful face stilled by death.
But she had to think of Skye. She could not let herself fall apart and leave Skye to process the shock of the morning all alone.
Adrienne forced a smile. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to turn this into a nice afternoon, but in spite of everything, I’m hungry. How would you like some chicken salad sandwiches on the terrace?”
Skye looked relieved, as if she’d been afraid her mother was simply going to collapse, and she managed an imitation of her usual exuberant tone. “I would love one.”
“You know, Vicky and I ate chicken salad sandwiches all the time when we were young,” Adrienne said as Skye followed her into the periwinkle-blue and yellow kitchen with a giant red begonia hanging above a window. “Mom said we were addicted to them.”
“At her parties, Aunt Vicky serves fancy food that doesn’t nearly fill me up.”
“You’ve become a regular at the parties she gives now that Philip has decided to run for governor.”
“Aunt Vicky gets pretty mad that you don’t come to them.”
“I’m a disaster at political social functions. I have a tendency to say exactly what I think to the wrong people. I don’t know about Vicky, but I’m sure Philip is relieved that I don’t come.”
“He lets a kid like me come, but I think that’s because Rachel insists. She thinks the parties are really boring. Her boyfriend Bruce comes, but he talks to everyone just like Uncle Philip does. She says I keep her company. We giggle about everybody.”
“How polite of you.”
“Well, not to their faces, Mom!”
“I didn’t think so, or you wouldn’t be invited so often. Philip wouldn’t let anyone mess up his events, no matter what Rachel wants.”
“Rachel says what Uncle Philip really wants is to be president of the United States someday.”
“He always has. But I don’t think Vicky especially wants to be first lady. When they got married, she thought she’d enjoy the campaign life. I believe she’s changed her mind, though. It’s a much bigger strain than she thought it would be.”
Their usual easy chattiness soon died, however. Time once again seemed suspended for her as she and Skye sat under the big oak tree overhanging the flagstone terrace. Skye watched a mother robin bringing worms to her squawking babies in a high nest. “I hope none of them fall on the terrace stones when they start trying to fly.”
“That hardly ever happens.”
“It did two years ago,” Skye pointed out. “Remember those awful noises the mother bird made when she saw her baby dead? She sounded like she was crying. Wailing.” Skye shivered slightly. “I’m going to put my inflatable pool float on the stones right under the nest. That way if any of the babies fall, they won’t get hurt.”
“That’s a good idea,” Adrienne said, noting her daughter’s preoccupation with death. First she’d brought up the death of Ellen Kirkwood’s adopted son Jamie last summer, now the baby robin. But who could blame her? No fourteen-year-old should see the horror Skye had seen this morning.
Adrienne had just forced down another bite of sandwich she didn’t want when a girl’s cheerful “Hi, you two!” startled her into dropping her food.
“Rachel!” she exclaimed in surprise and pleasure. She hadn’t seen her niece for a couple of weeks and didn’t hear her light footsteps as she approached them on the terrace. “Shouldn’t you be slaving away at the Point Pleasant Register?”
“They have this silly idea they can put out the evening edition without me.” Rachel tweaked Skye’s hair and grinned at her. “Did you add blond highlights?”
“No, the sun did.”
“They look fabulous. I wish my hair was as light as yours.”
“It’s almost the same color,” Skye said. “Just a couple of shades darker.”
At twenty, Rachel Hamilton was tall and slender with long ash-blond hair, large dark blue eyes with sweeping black lashes, flawless skin, a beautiful smile, and cheekbones a model would envy. In fact, she’d been offered modeling jobs, but she’d always declined. She was far more interested in sports—particularly tennis, at which she excelled—and college, where she was a journalism major between her junior and senior years. This summer she had an internship at the Point Pleasant Register.
Skye idolized her elder cousin. Rachel was a heady mixture of beauty, brilliance, athletic prowess, and sophistication. Although Vicky always said Rachel’s “terrible twos” had lasted for four years until school captured her interest and abruptly stopped a long bout of sulking and tantrums, Adrienne never remembered Rachel going through an awkward stage physically or socially. Ever since she was six, she’d been lovely and poised, the perfect daughter for Adrienne’s politician brother-in-law, Philip Hamilton. But perhaps Rachel’s greatest charm was the fact that she seemed unaware of how special and accomplished she was. Her manner was casual and unassuming, completely without pretense.
“How about a sandwich? I made too many.” Adrienne held out the plate and Rachel took one. “So, how is my sister? I haven’t talked to her for a few days.”
Rachel shrugged. “Mom’s all caught up in Dad’s campaigning. Things are really hectic. The house is like Mission Control at Cape Canaveral.” Skye giggled and Rachel grinned at her. “Of course, the election is over a year away. I can’t imagine what home life will be like this time next summer. Thank goodness I’ll be gone.”
“But after your college graduation you’ll be free to go on the campaign trail with your mom and dad,” Skye said.
“I guess I could.” Rachel looked into the distance, prankishness in her eyes. “Or I might run off to Cannes or Venice with some completely unsuitable guy. A devilishly handsome gigolo with no regard for the flag, apple pie, or the American way. He’ll just want to sunbathe and go yachting and take me to elegant gambling casinos every night and drive my parents totally crazy!”
“Really?” Skye asked in wonder.
“No, not really.” Adrienne smiled. “Rachel would never do anything to displease her father, and believe me, that would displease him!”
“An understatement if ever there was one,” Rachel agreed. “But it’d be fun to do something shocking sometime.”
“Wait until after Philip wins the election to do something shocking,” Adrienne advised. “If you do something to screw up the campaign, you might find yourself written out of the will. Besides, I think your father has his heart set on you marrying Bruce Allard.”
“Oh, Bruce,” Rachel said without enthusiasm. “Four years older than I am and son of one of the town’s finest families. The perfect catch.”
“Well, he is cute,” Skye offered.
“But boring,” Rachel stated.
“Brace’s father owns the newspaper. He’s just marking time there because his father wants him to have a taste of ‘the real world’ before he takes over someday. Not that he has the slightest interest in newspapers. He talks about the stock market all the time. All the time. He thinks art is a waste of time, Aunt Adrienne. He can’t dance. And he wants six kids.” Rachel turned horrified eyes to Skye. “Six kids! What about my waistline? My thighs? I’d always be in maternity clothes and have a permanent spot of baby spit-up on my shoulder.” She clapped a hand to her heart and looked upward. “Oh, heaven help me, marriage to Bruce is just too unbearable to even contemplate!”
Skye burst into laughter, as Rachel buried her head in her arms in mock despair. Adrienne knew Skye felt included and like a grown-up when Rachel discussed boyfriends with her. And although Rachel had made fun of what seemed to be a very nice and proper young man, Adrienne didn’t feel guilty for laughing along if Rachel could get even a smile out of Skye on such a sad day.
After the excitement of the morning, Brandon had been nearly comatose on his giant plaid dog cushion in front of the living room fireplace. In the winter, he lay for hours staring steadily at the flames and sparks behind the screen. In the summer, he lay for hours staring into the empty fireplace. Skye insisted that at these times he was having deep thoughts. Adrienne thought he was just acting weird to get attention. However, he was extremely sociable and had roused himself at the sound of a guest’s voice that had floated into the house through the open terrace door. He lumbered outside, already growing stiff from his morning of unaccustomed rowdiness, sat down beside Rachel, and offered her his paw.
“How do you do, sir?” Rachel gravely shook his paw. “You look especially spiffy with that red bandana around your neck.”
“He was bathed and groomed at Happy Tracks yesterday,” Skye said, smiling. “The groomer always ties on a bandana, but it got a tear in it this morning when he was running through the woods at the Belle.”
Adrienne looked at Rachel. She rubbed the dime-sized strawberry birthmark beside her right earlobe, a mark she usually hid with concealer. She only touched the mark when she was nervous, but her expression showed no surprise, and Adrienne suddenly understood the reason for her niece’s midday visit. The Point Pleasant Register editor, Drew Delaney, must have found out that she and Skye had been the ones who discovered Julianna’s body and sent her over.
“Rachel, let me guess,” she said casually. “Mr. Delaney is at la Belle Rivière as we speak.”
Rachel nodded reluctantly, then added with some aplomb, “He is the newspaper editor. Where would you expect him to be when there’s been a murder?”
“Exactly where he is. But he told you to come here and find out what you could from Skye and me, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” She colored slightly, then gave her aunt a sincerely regretful look. “I wish I could tell you that I argued with him about trying to get information from you, but I didn’t. The murder of Julianna Brent is the biggest thing to happen in Point Pleasant all year. I’m ashamed to admit this to you because I liked Julianna although I hardly knew her, but I’d like to get a scoop on this. Bylines on stories about an event this sensational could get me a great job at an important newspaper next year.”
Adrienne didn’t approve of the journalistic imperative to dig for a story no matter who had to be pumped for information, but she admired Rachel’s forthrightness. “Did the sheriff tell Delaney about Skye and me being there?” she asked.
Rachel shook her head. “It was that caretaker. Somebody Duncan. He called the newspaper this morning.”
While they were being questioned, Claude Duncan had retreated to his cottage on the grounds. Adrienne knew he’d called Ellen Kirkwood, who’d showed up shortly afterward with her husband in tow. The busy-bee Claude had also called Drew Delaney, she thought in annoyance.
“Duncan said you and Skye were there, but he wanted to make it clear that he’d found the body and that you and Skye just got in his way while he was trying to protect the crime scene. He wanted to come in for an interview and photos.” Rachel smiled. “Drew said the next murder might be Sheriff Flynn killing Claude Duncan.”
“Dealing with Claude will take every ounce of control Lucas has, but I have faith in him,” Adrienne said. “He knows Claude isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Lucas was remarkably patient with him this morning even though Claude was a handful.”
“He sounds crazy.” Rachel paused, her expression changing to one of sympathy. “I know Julianna had been your friend for a long time, Aunt Adrienne, and Skye liked her so much. Finding her body must have been awful for you two.”
“It was.” Skye’s voice had become small and frightened. “She was lying on the bed looking so beautiful and peaceful.” A shallow wrinkle appeared between Rachel’s eyebrows as she clearly concentrated on every detail of the scene. “The sheet was pulled up to her shoulders. She could have just been sleeping. But Mom said there was a big hole in her neck—” Skye drew a deep breath and turned pale.
“That’s enough,” Adrienne said firmly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know you’re trying to do your job, but we’re in no shape to talk about this. I don’t think Sheriff Flynn would even want us to be discussing it with the press right now.”
“He’ll have to talk about it sometime.”
“Yes, but not right now. The murder only happened a few hours ago, Rachel. Give the police time to sort out what’s happened.”
“I’d rather get the story before they’ve had time to put their own spin on it.”
Adrienne looked at her niece disapprovingly. “Rachel, you can’t believe Lucas Flynn would manipulate evidence in a murder case!”
“Well, maybe not Flynn.” Rachel sighed. “Look, Aunt Adrienne, I didn’t mean to step on any toes where the police are concerned. I know you have a connection with them—”
“This has nothing to do with Lucas.”
“Okay.” Rachel held up her hand for truce. “I just want to get the story accurately and as quickly as I can. I feel bad for Julianna, but I have to look at this thing from the standpoint of my career. I’m sorry if I offended you by not being as softhearted as you’d like me to be, but in this situation, I have to be a professional first.”
“I understand, Rachel,” Adrienne said mildly. “But being a compassionate human should run neck and neck with being a professional. I hope you never forget that.”
Skye, who had been looking uncomfortable, as if she expected her mother and her cousin to get into an argument, suddenly said, “Didn’t Aunt Vicky get married at the Belle?”
“In a church, but her wedding reception was in the grand ballroom,” Adrienne corrected. She smiled at the memory. “Mom had taken me downtown to Miss Addie to get my hair trimmed. Judging by the results, Miss Addie had been sipping whiskey in the back room for her nerves. She just ruined my hair. I looked like a complete dork and I was so jealous of Vicky that afternoon! But I was proud, too,” Adrienne went on. “Vicky and Philip looked like movie stars. There was a professional photographer, of course, and thank goodness for him because Dad took about a hundred photos and every one of them was either blurry or cut off the top of people’s heads. I’ll get out the album and show them to you later, Skye. The professional ones, I mean. The photographer really did justice to Vicky and Philip, and to the Belle. The ballroom looked like it belonged in a palace. There was even a fountain of champagne.”
Skye looked starry-eyed. “Nothing that fabulous will ever happen to me.”
“Of course it will,” Rachel said, smiling and looking slightly starry-eyed herself. “From what Mom says, it really was a magic day.”
“Even though a lot of people believe something is wrong with that place because there’s just one disaster after another at
the Belle?”
“I don’t believe in curses or anything occult,” Rachel stated. “The deaths and accidents at la Belle have just been the result of coincidence.” She took another sip of lemonade and announced, “I’m going out diere as soon as I leave here.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Adrienne said.
“Why not?”
“Because of the violence. Someone was murdered there, Rachel. You shouldn’t be around that kind of scene.”
Rachel looked at her defiantly. “Aunt Adrienne, I’m a reporter. It’s my job to be around that kind of scene. Good heavens, what do you expect me to do when I have a full-time job and my editor orders me to cover a homicide story? Shudder and say I won’t work on any stories that are upsetting?”
“No. But you’re not a full-time reporter yet And this was the murder of someone you knew.”
“Barely. I wasn’t friends with Julianna like Skye. And I’m less than a year away from being a full-time reporter. And I’m going to be a good one. A great one.”
“She’s going to win the Pulitzer prize,” Skye informed her mother with pride. “That’s the best thing a reporter can win.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, Rachel, but you’re only twenty. You don’t have a lot of experience and for now—”
A cell phone rang, cutting off Adrienne. “My phone,” Rachel said. “They probably need me at the newspaper.”
“Rachel Hamilton.” Her face lit up as she said, “Hi, Drew! What’s up?” Within a few seconds, her smile faded. “But I was planning to go out to the Belle. I’m at Aunt Adrienne’s and I was leaving in a few minutes.” Another short silence. “Plans for the county fair? Who cares about that?” Silence. “Well, I know some people care about it, but there’s been a murder. And you want Bruce to cover it? I know he has more experience than me, but his writing isn’t as good as mine.” Skye gave her mother a portentous look as Rachel’s face set in hard lines. “No, I’m not countermanding your orders. I’m just, well, giving you my point of view.” Silence. “Okay. I’ll meet with the chairman of the fair planning committee in twenty minutes. But I still think—”
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