Share No Secrets

by Carlene Thompson

  “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.

  4

  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?

  Miles realized he could never know the answers to these questions. Trying to figure out Julianna as she was dying was as futile as trying to figure her out when she was living.

  Miles sighed and went to the French doors, opening the draperies closed against them. The sun had set even lower, turning the sky to a
glorious flaming copper. He opened the doors, letting the fresh evening air drift into the room. Then he sat down on the soft blue carpet near the windows, unzipped his knapsack, and withdrew three candles in cut-glass jars. He lit them and the sweet scent of jasmine slowly began to waft around him. When they were married, Julianna had kept jasmine-scented candles alight most of the time. He would always associate the smell with her. It was a pleasant, a treasured, association.

  Miles closed his eyes and remembered the day he had taken almost fifty photos of Julianna on the grounds of the hotel, photos he would later use when doing miniature portraits of her, one of which he put in a locket and gave to Lottie for her birthday. He remembered the reverence in Lottie’s once-beautiful eyes when she’d looked at the tiny painting. He also remembered the hatred in Gail’s.

  Whisking away that particular memory, he carried the knapsack out on the porch, withdrew a portable CD player from it, stuck in a CD of the Eurythmics singing “Sweet Dreams,” and slipped on headphones. Then he opened a tiny bottle filled with brandy Alexander mix, the kind of bottle they gave you on airplanes. Brandy Alexanders had been Julianna’s favorite drink. He twisted off the cap, stood and walked out on the porch, then held up the bottle to the dazzling evening sky.

  “To you, Julianna. You were my only love. You will always be my only love.”

  He tilted back his head and let the sweet liquid pour down his throat He was so engrossed in his toast, in the taste of Julianna’s favorite drink, in the sound of Annie Lennox’s haunting voice singing “Sweet Dreams,” that he didn’t hear someone running up behind him. He only felt the thrust of strong hands against his back before he toppled over the railing and fell two stories onto the sturdy, sharp, upturned spikes of a thatching rake.

  EIGHTEEN

  1

  Miss Snow had looked daggers at Adrienne as she ascended to the second-floor bathroom with her dress, makeup bag, and curling iron. The woman considered getting ready for the gala at the French Art Colony a travesty. Adrienne wondered why Miss Snow thought a full bathroom complete with shower and tub had been provided if not for such emergencies. Miss Snow lived only two houses down from the gallery and had marched home to change from one nondescript dark dress to another.

  At present, Adrienne was reveling in both Miss Snow’s absence and in the warm water pouring down from the shower onto her aching shoulders. She’d lifted quite a few paintings and moved some heavy furniture today. It certainly wouldn’t have killed Miles Shaw to help them out, she thought crankily. But leave it to him to sweep in halfway through the show, the great artiste who was far above messing with the drudgery of getting ready for such an event. And who would he bring as his date? Adrienne wondered as she shampooed her hair. Kit? No, Kit had said she couldn’t come because of her mother and Gavin. Margaret was dead. Maybe he would come alone, but she couldn’t see him missing the event altogether. He was too addicted to the praise his work always elicited.

  Adrienne stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a terry bathrobe she’d brought from home. Then she opened the door a crack to clear the room of steam. She couldn’t even see her reflection in the mirror. She rummaged through her bag until she found a texturizer she could run through her long hair to control the natural curl on a humid night, then she began an assault with the blow dryer.

  In twenty minutes, even Adrienne was amazed at the transformation she had wrought The turquoise sheath Skye had helped her pick out the one she’d insisted on “because it’s exactly the color of your eyes, Mom,” fitted perfectly, stopping just above her knees, with a scoop neck low enough to show off her mother-of-pearl necklace to perfection. She’d swept up her hair to show off her dangling mother-of-pearl earrings. Even the shoes with their four-inch heels, again Skye’s choice, didn’t feel too uncomfortable. She just hoped they didn’t start pinching before the evening was over.

  The gala was set to start in forty-five minutes. Already a crew worked in the kitchen, making sure the champagne was properly chilled, preparing petit fours and hors d’oeuvres. Maybe I should have brought some of my blueberry muffins, Adrienne thought Miss Snow would have been horrified.

  She decided to call Skye to make sure all was on schedule at the Hamilton home. She was surprised when Skye answered. “Hi, Mom,” she said cheerfully. “Are you all dressed up yet?”

  “I sure am. I don’t look bad, if I do say so myself, but I hope I don’t fall down the stairs in these shoes.”

  “You won’t I’ll bet you look awesome. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, but why are you answering the phone? Isn’t anyone else home?”

  “Nope.” Adrienne felt a surge of alarm. “Uncle Philip left right after you called earlier. He said he had some things to do and he’d be back in time to get ready. Aunt Vicky made him promise. But then she waited and waited, and I could tell she was getting nervous. So she left about twenty minutes ago to find him. She said she was fairly sure where he was, but she didn’t tell Rachel and me. And then Rachel and I were going to start getting dressed when her favorite lipstick broke off and dropped to the floor. Can you even believe it? She said it went perfectly with her dress, so she went to the drugstore to look for a color that was close to the one that broke, even though the lipsticks they have at the drugstore aren’t as expensive as what she had. I couldn’t go because I was in the bathtub.”

  “But she still isn’t back.”

  “She just left a few minutes ago, Mom. Picking out the right lipstick can take time,” Skye said, as if she were an old hand at choosing cosmetics.

  “And Philip and Vicky are gone. What about Miss Pitt?”

  “She’s not here today.”

  “So you’re there all alone?”

  “Mom, will you chill out?” Adrienne heard the exasperation in Skye’s voice. “I’m not a little kid. I’ve got all the doors locked. Besides, Brandon is with me, remember? He’ll protect me.”

  “If something happens, he’ll be the first one to hide under the bed. That is, if he can fit under it.” Skye giggled. “Well, there’s nothing I can do, although I’m not happy about you being there alone. If I wanted you to be alone, I could have left you at home.”

  “Don’t get mad, Mom. It’s just for a little while. Rachel will be home any minute. Aunt Vicky and Uncle Philip, too. I’m fourteen,” Skye said, as if it were forty. “I can take care of myself. Look, Mom, I just got out of the tub to answer the phone. I gotta start getting dressed. I’ll see you tonight, and I promise everything will be fine.”

  Before Adrienne could voice more worries or issue further safety instructions, Skye wisely hung up. Adrienne sighed and tucked her cell phone back in her purse. She would just have to hope that all would go well tonight. And tomorrow, she would take Kit’s advice and leave town until the increasingly dangerous situation that had developed lately had come to an end.

  But right now, she had other, simpler worries to occupy her mind. Miss Snow had just returned, dressed from head to toe in her best evening black, looking angry enough to chew nails.

  2

  “Miss Snow, what’s wrong?” Adrienne asked in alarm. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I am most certainly not feeling all right.” Miss Snow had added a thirty-six-inch strand of fake pearls to her outfit and she twisted them so hard Adrienne was afraid the string would break. “I called Miles Shaw to make certain he would be attending tonight. Well, it seems that not only will he not be attending the gala, his answering machine says he has left town! I cannot believe it! On the night of the French Art Colony gala, that man left town! For good! He’s moved!”

  Miss Snow might as well have announced that Miles had blown up the courthouse. She whipped out an ancient black fan, sank down on a straight-backed chair just inside the door, and began furiously waving the fan in front of her flushed face. “Never in the history of the French Art Colony has something of this magnitude occurred! And I was in charge this year. I will be blamed!” She
fanned harder. “On my word, I shall never forgive that man!”

  Oh boy, now he’s had it, Adrienne thought, almost bursting into laughter. Being suspected of viciously murdering Margaret Taylor could not possibly be as serious as having incurred the infinite and eternal wrath of Miss Snow. Could Miles feel it chasing him like a heat-seeking missile wherever he’d made the foolhardy choice to go except the gallery? If so, he’d better get used to it because Miss Snow would never forgive him.

  Adrienne dared to touch the woman’s frail shoulder. “You seem quite agitated, Miss Snow. May I get you a glass of water?”

  “No,” the woman barked. “I would like a good, stiff brandy. And please don’t dawdle with it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ma’am? Adrienne couldn’t remember the last time she’d called someone “ma’am,” but she scurried off like a frightened parlor maid, rushed into the kitchen, and demanded that someone find her a snifter and a bottle of brandy. “It’s not for me,” she added unnecessarily to one of the caterers. “I think Miss Snow is on the verge of fainting.” Or falling into an apoplectic fit, she thought, torn between apprehension and mirth.

  Half an hour later, Miss Snow was on her feet and issuing orders. Again. Adrienne knew Miss Snow lived alone in a large, two-story home that had once housed an extended family, and she wondered if the woman retreated into silence when she closed her front doors, or secretly ordered around long-dead or -escaped relatives. Adrienne thought she’d spied a parakeet in the front window about a year ago, but parakeets weren’t known as responsive recipients of domination. Still, the hapless bird would have been someone for Miss Snow to talk to.