by Joanna Wayne
“You prima donna whore. You think you’re something with that Fort Knox rock hanging around your neck. Well, let me tell you something. Nobody walks out on me. And you can kiss this goodbye.”
The chain of the necklace cut into her neck as he ripped it from her. She went at him with both fists flying. But he was too quick. The crystal lamp base came down on her head.
She tried to get up, but the room was spinning and her legs wouldn’t move.
“I’ll see you in hell, Katrina, but you’ll be there long before me.”
She watched in horror as he held the burning candle to the drapes, the flame licking at the fabric until it ignited. She was going to die on her honeymoon. Murdered by the man who’d promised to cherish her for the rest of her life.
THE NECKLACE in Katrina’s pocket was so hot she could barely stand to touch it now. She left the path and started to run through the woods. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care.
“KATRINA. Katrina, stop.”
She didn’t and Bart took off after her, determined not to lose her in the lush growth of young evergreens. He’d been only a few steps behind her, about to surprise her with a kiss when she’d bolted and run.
“Katrina. Wait!”
She was faster than he was. It was as if she floated over the snow, so light she didn’t sink into it with every step the way he did.
He stopped and leaned against a tree. He didn’t have the strength to run like this. He shouldn’t be running at all in his condition.
He could barely stand. But then he heard her crying, and he found the strength to push ahead. She was hugging a tree, crying into her fists. The pain he’d felt from running was nothing compared to what he felt at seeing her like this.
He took her in his arms and held her close. “What’s wrong, Katrina?”
“Everything.”
“I’m here now. We’ll make it right.”
“Oh, Bart. I wish that were true, but you can’t make it right. No one can.”
“Try me.”
She pulled away from him. “Look at me, Bart. Take a very good look. I’m not what you think I am.”
“I think you’re…”
“No. No more pretense.” She backed away from him, but her gaze held firm. “I’m the Katrina O’Malley in the picture, and I died in the Fernhaven Hotel seventy years ago.”
Chapter Ten
Bart stared at Katrina, shocked and hurt by her words. “Why are you saying these things?”
“I have to say them. They’re true.”
“Look, Katrina, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you’re in some kind of trouble I can help you. I’m a cop. But I can’t do anything unless you level with me.”
“I know how this sounds. Believe me, I know you must think I’m a mental case, but I’m telling you the truth.”
“No.” He couldn’t believe this. He wouldn’t. She was afraid and she’d concocted this bizarre story so he’d walk away and forget her.
“Listen to me, Katrina. Whatever you’ve done, we’ll find a way through it. Just let me help you.”
“Oh, Bart, I wish that you could, but nothing can help.”
She bit her bottom lip, but still tears filled her eyes. Not tears of joy this time. He was pretty damn sure of that. He reached out to take her in his arms. She pulled away.
“I should have told you the truth from the beginning,” she said. “This is all my fault. I should never have let it go this far.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I wanted to be with you. I knew it couldn’t last. I just wanted to feel alive, to feel you.”
“You are alive. I see you. I touched you. I made love with you. Now give up this ridiculous charade, and let me help you.”
“I can’t.”
“Do you trust me?”
“It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of truth.”
“Did you take something? Have you been on drugs?”
“No, Bart. You want an easy answer, but there’s not one. I’m dead. And I’ll be leaving this place soon.”
“I won’t let you go.”
She started to sob, and this time when he reached for her, she melted in his arms.
He didn’t know what was going on, but he couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t lose her. What he knew about love, you could put on the back of a postage stamp in large block letters. But he’d connected with Katrina in a way he’d never connected with anyone before, and he refused to give her up before they had a chance.
“Go back to my room with me. We’ll talk,” he pleaded.
“That will only make it harder.”
“You’re not dead, Katrina. And you weren’t in this hotel seventy years ago. You’re young and vibrant with no signs of age.”
“Time doesn’t exist in my world. It folds and wrinkles and doubles back on itself, but it has no permanence.”
“If there’s no time, then stay with me.”
“I can’t. I don’t control that.”
“Why do you think you’re dead?”
“I don’t think it. I know it, but I didn’t realize it at first. It was only when no one saw me, when rescuers walked up to me, felt my wrist, and then walked on by that I began to think I might have died in the fire.”
“But I see you, Katrina.”
“That happens sometimes. When it does I leave, the way I should have done with you. I never meant to hurt you, Bart. I never meant to let you get so close. You have to forget me. It’s the only way.”
“Forget you? Do you know what you’re asking? You came into my life and took over my body and soul, and now you think you can just walk away, and I’ll forget you. It may be that way in that crazy world you’ve concocted in your mind, but it’s not that way in mine.”
“I have to go.”
Her words were a strained whisper. She was hurting, but so was he. He couldn’t get through to her, couldn’t find a common ground. It was as if they spoke two different languages. The words sounded the same, but they had different meanings.
She pulled away from him, then put her hand to his cheek. “I love you, Bart, but the love came years too late.”
He closed his eyes, fighting his own bitter tears. When he opened them, Katrina was gone. He didn’t chase after her this time. He had to think, had to sort this out in his mind.
He started back to the hotel, but he couldn’t go back to his room. He couldn’t bear to have the memory of making love to her torment him.
He went back to the winding path and followed it to the most remote cabin, the one that sat near the ravine where Elora Nicholas’s body had been found. He could disappear into the woods there and be totally alone.
Katrina was tearing him apart, but he couldn’t give into the grief. He still had a killer to find.
CARRIE AND RICH were on the highway just before noon. She’d been impatient, but Rich had assured her that this was far earlier than the snowplows would have cleared the roads in this area before the new hotel had been up and running. The owners of the hotel obviously had clout.
They’d made stops at two of the names on his list of locals. The first was a widow who’d taught history at the local high school for thirty years before retiring a year ago. She knew lots of mountain lore, but none of it concerned the spirit world. She’d never heard anything about an intersection of the two worlds and if she had, she would have dismissed it as rubbish.
Her late husband had spent hundreds of hours in the very spot where the first hotel had burned down searching for valuables lost in the fire. He wasn’t the only one. Years ago, scouring the area with metal detectors had been a major weekend activity.
As far as she knew, none of the seekers had ever had ghostly experiences, except maybe some of the hippies who were tripping out.
She was convinced that Elora Nicholas had been murdered by someone new to the community. Basically, it was a result of the hotel and the influx of people it had brought to their little corner of th
e world.
All of which was interesting, but no help.
The second stop had been at the home of Ben Getts, a retired plumber from Seattle. He and his wife had finally packed it in and moved to their mountain cottage. He’d actually done some work on the Fernhaven when it was being built. Apparently Owen Billings had worked with the roofing crew, and he’d gotten the plumber a job laying pipes for the numerous fountains in the garden and along the paths to the cabins.
The man knew of the problems Owen’s wife was having. He was sympathetic, but he wrote it off as a problem with depression and overdosing on pills.
“A wasted afternoon,” Rich said, when they finally hit the highway again. “We’ve got a time bomb inside a killer’s head, and we’re hitting nothing but brick walls.”
Carrie grabbed a tissue from her pocket just in time to catch a sneeze.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks.”
“Sounds as if you’re coming down with a cold.”
“I’m pretending I’m not,” she said, “but I wish we could have talked to your grandfather and to Dr. Lipscomb today instead of having to wait until tomorrow.”
“It will be late afternoon before all the roads are cleared and safe for driving.”
“Do you have any more names on your list?”
“A couple, but they can wait.” Rich adjusted his sun visor to better block the late afternoon sun. “I’d like to go back to the hotel and have a look around those outer cabins again before dark. I have a strong hunch that if the killer strikes, it will be there instead of the main hotel.”
“I have that same hunch. They’re a much easier target than the main hotel, especially since all the new security’s been added.”
“You can stay inside if you like. No use to be out in the weather if you’re already getting sick.”
“I’ll take that offer. I’d like to find Jeff Matthews and hopefully take a look at some of his snapshots. I don’t expect it to help with the investigation, but it can’t hurt.”
“Careful with Jeff Matthews.”
“You’re surely not thinking of him as a possible suspect?”
“I haven’t ruled out anyone.”
“I can handle him.”
“He’d like to handle you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Guy’s got the hots for you.”
“C’mon. No way.”
“Believe me. Guys can tell. He wants your body.”
“I’ll sneeze all over him a few times. That should eliminate the lust factor.”
But even if it didn’t. Carrie was not afraid of Jeff Matthews. Her only fear was that he and his pictures would be yet another dead end.
JEFF’S ROOM was luxurious, with white down comforters on the two single beds and fluffy pillows in forest-green cases to match the sheets. There was a huge dresser, a love seat and chair in cherry wood and a woodsy print and a large round table with a beautiful glass-and-metal lamp.
The view was the only thing that indicated the room might be at the lower end of the pricing scale. His window looked out over the employee parking lot, though it did offer a glimpse of the edge of the garden.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, turning so that she could take in the array of snapshots that plastered every piece of furniture in the room and took up a great deal of the floor space.
“I’m trying to decide which ones to use.”
“Do you always take so many shots?”
“No. I usually take about a third this many.”
“Did you find Fernhaven that fascinating?”
“Absolutely. I hate to leave.”
“Then you must have no complaints about the service or your accommodations?” She was fishing, though she didn’t know if she wanted more ghost stories or assurance that he hadn’t encountered any disembodied or apparitional spirits.
“I have one. For this price, I should have had some young starlet tuck me into bed every night and then crawl in with me to keep me warm.”
Rich had been wrong. Jeff didn’t have the hots for her. He just had the hots, period. Any woman would do. She walked to the desk and picked up a snapshot of the exquisitely carved domed ceiling that topped the Glacier Ballroom.
“It’s a work of art,” Jeff said.
“It’s beautiful, and your picture captures it well.”
“That’s one of many. I spent a lot of time in the ballroom. Full or empty, it had a mystical ambiance about it. Unfortunately, ambiance is the most difficult element to capture on film.”
“That’s why I never take pictures,” she admitted. “The image in my mind is always far more potent that the one I get from my camera.” She put down that picture and picked up one that had been taken in the garden. “That looks like sparkling raindrops,” she said, running her finger over a spot on the edge of the photograph.
“It’s spray from the fountain. I had to take that picture a dozen times at a dozen different times of the day to get it to come out right.”
“And you go to all that trouble for your travel articles?”
“No, the articles are to keep me from being a starving artist. These are pure art.”
“You should find a gallery in Seattle to showcase your photographs.”
“I’m working on it.”
She moved from the desk to the round table beneath the window. She went through a new stack of photos, but these were all taken around the waterfall. Some were just magnificent scenery. An other showed a mother tugging her small son back from the edge. You could see the alarm in her eyes and the wonder in the child’s face.
The pictures were intriguing, but they weren’t getting her anywhere. She was ready to thank him for his time when she came across a shot that turned her stomach. It was a couple going at it in one of the hot springs near the cabins. It was dark, but you could still see a lot more of their naked bodies than Carrie wanted to see.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize that was in there.”
Jeff tried to take it from her, but she held on. “I know that woman. She’s…” Her mind drew a blank, but she was certain she knew the woman from somewhere. Then it hit her. “She’s on a sitcom.”
“She could be.”
“No, not could be. She is. And you’re not here for your art or your articles. You’re a nosy, voyeuristic paparazzi.”
“You make paparazzi sound like a dirty word.”
“That’s because it is.”
“Hey, I just snap the pictures. It’s the millions of scandal-hungry fans that shell out cash for the tabloids every week that keep the business afloat.”
“But you are the one who violates the person’s right to privacy.”
“It’s called survival. A picture like that can feed me for a month. Besides, the print version won’t be that revealing. They have to keep them clean enough to make the grocery shelves.”
But her image of Jeff as a talented, yet-to-be discovered artist had been shattered, and the new image galled her. “I’m out of here, Mr. Matthews. Thanks for your time, and I’d advise you to check out of the hotel immediately. If not, I’ll be forced to tell them how you’re violating the privacy of their other guests.”
“I can’t believe you’re that bent out of shape over one picture. And, hard as it may be for you to believe, the actress will love the exposure, pun intended. If she was modest, she wouldn’t be going at it in a public place.”
He had a point, but that didn’t make his behavior any more acceptable.
“Wait. I know you don’t like my tactics, but I have a few pictures I think you should see.” He picked up a brown envelope from the desk and handed it to her.
She loosed the clasp and slid the pictures onto the table. The first one was the snapshot he’d taken of her sitting on the bench in the garden, but there were at least a dozen more, all of her.
In the second one, she was waiting for a hotel elevator. Most of the picture was in perfect focus, but there was one fuzzy area, as if someone had spil
led something on the print.
She skimmed the rest of the pictures, all taken in various parts of the hotel or the grounds. And in every picture, there was a blot of some kind, indistinct, but vaguely in the shape of a person.
That was odd, since the other pictures he had on display were perfect. But even creepier was the fact that he had taken so many shots of her.
“Have you been stalking me?”
“You might say that.”
“Why?”
“You make an interesting picture, don’t you think?”
“Why did you blur the shots?”
He leaned against the window frame. He was looking right at her, but he’d lost his boyish smile. “I didn’t blur the shots. I took a clear image. That’s the way they came out.”
“There must have been something on your camera lens.”
“I’m a professional photographer. My lenses are spotless.”
“Then how do you explain this?” she asked, trailing her finger over one of the flaws.
“I can’t. I was hoping you could.”
He was serious, or he was a darn good actor.
“I don’t have a clue,” she admitted.
“It’s as if you have some kind of aura that’s so strong, it’s visible to the camera. Sometimes it seems dark. Other times it exudes a faint glow. But then you can see that for yourself.”
She could see it, but there had to be a reasonable explanation. “Maybe it’s the light here in the mountains. You must have had the same problem when you photographed other people?”
“It happened a time or two, but never as strong or as consistent as with you.”
“It must be your camera.” Or else he was playing tricks with her mind.
“I’m as confused by this as you are,” Jeff said. “But there’s more.” He opened one of the drawers below the TV cabinet and took out another brown envelope, this one much larger than the one that had held her photographs.
“Take a look at this,” he said, handing her a photo that had been taken near the garden gazebo.
She wasn’t in the picture. Neither was anyone else, yet a human-shaped blur appeared to be sitting on the iron bench. And the eerie glow was more pronounced than ever, as if someone were holding a candle underneath the photograph.
