White Wedding

by Jean Barrett

  She had assured a reluctant Dorothy that she knew her way around a kitchen and could manage just fine on her own. Well, it was true that on her way up through the ranks to her present position as assistant manager, Lane had helped out in hotel kitchens whenever emergencies had demanded it. But she was hardly a skilled cook. Still, this meal didn’t demand culinary talent, not when the essentials had already been assembled by the caterer back in Ephraim.

  It was a light, simple supper that was a long way from being the elaborate Christmas-night fare originally intended. No one in the house would have an appetite for more. Maybe they wouldn’t want to eat even this much.

  But Dorothy had insisted on preparing something, just as an equally stubborn Lane had finally insisted on replacing her. She had sent the woman to her room to lie down. She was worried about Dorothy. Beneath that stoic exterior, she’d looked ill. She had to be stricken, or she would never have let Lane relieve her.

  The woman’s husband was missing. Now her brother. Her distress was understandable. But it was more than that, Lane felt. More even than the accusations fired at her loved ones. Nils, she decided. That secretive something about Nils.

  Lane moved to the stove to check on the soup. She stirred the rich, creamy contents of the pot. Then she went back to the butcher’s block where she continued slicing the bread.

  None of the others had volunteered to help her, much to her relief. She had been grateful to escape the disturbing climate of the lounge where Jack had tried to organize another planning session and, to his disgust, had failed. Ronnie did nothing but cling to him and moan about their situation. Stuart continued to sulk. And Hale was only interested in begging forgiveness of a coldly silent Allison. They were all of them behaving like fools.

  Fixings for the sandwiches, Lane reminded herself. What did the refrigerator have to offer? She went to look and was reaching for a platter of sliced turkey when she was startled by a sudden thumping noise in the cellar below the kitchen.

  She froze, her throat constricting with fear. Someone was down there just beneath her! She thought of the cavern adjoining the cellar and the body of Teddy Brewster. She thought of the spectral figure she had glimpsed by the chapel. Her imagination raced with alarming possibilities.

  Not daring to move, she strained her senses. She could hear another sound now in the cellar. A soft shuffling of footsteps crossing the floor. Then a creaking as a considerable weight placed itself on the bottom tread of the cellar stairway. He was coming up!

  He was coming up, and she was alone in the kitchen with nowhere to hide. Her position by the refrigerator at this end of the long room placed the cellar door between her and the far exit to the dining room. She was trapped unless she moved, and moved fast.

  Slamming the refrigerator door, Lane rounded the butcher’s block, pausing for a fraction of an instant to snatch up the long-bladed bread knife. Then she fled in the direction of the dining room.

  Too late! She was passing the cellar door when it burst open, almost catching her in the side. A tall figure emerged from the shadowy stairwell. Lane whirled, the sharp knife in her hand raised in self-defense.

  “Sweet Judas!” Jack thundered. “First I get attacked by a cellar beam that has no business being that low, and now you want to stab me with a bread knife!”

  Lane, trembling in a condition of aftershock, lowered the knife. “You’ve given me heart failure,” she accused him. “How did you get down there?”

  “The stairway, what else?”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant how did you get by me without my noticing? Never mind. I guess I must have been in the depths of the pantry scrounging for that sandwich tray when you slipped past. You might have announced yourself.”

  “Sorry.”

  No, he wasn’t. Jack Donovan had been up to something again, and he didn’t want her to know about it. “What were you doing sneaking around down there, anyway?”

  “Just having a look. Making sure everything is secure.”

  He was lying. He’d been engaged in some mysterious activity in the cellar. She’d stake her shrimp bisque on it. “Why don’t you trust me to know what you were really doing?”

  He sniffed the air, sidetracking her with an appreciative murmur. “Mmm, that’s what I call a savory aroma.”

  The soup! Lane flung the knife back on the butcher’s block and raced to the stove, rescuing the bisque just before it reached the boiling point. With that crisis out of the way, memory kicked in. Jack had had a hand clamped to his forehead when he stumbled into the kitchen. Swinging away from the stove, she saw that his hand was still nursing his brow.

  “What do you mean you were attacked?”

  “Like I said, I smacked into a low beam.”

  “Serves you right for poking around down there in the dark. Let me see.” He joined her by the stove, lowering his hand to reveal a shallow gash. “It’s bleeding,” she said.

  “Probably will require a lobotomy.”

  Two homicides for certain on their hands, a killer on the loose possibly hunting for a third victim and Jack Donovan could still joke. What was she going to do with him?

  “Not before we try first aid. Sit,” she ordered him, pointing to a stool near the kitchen sink.

  “Now who’s bossy?”

  But he obeyed her, perching on the stool while she went into the pantry to collect a first-aid kit she had noticed on one of the shelves. His stillness while she cleaned the wound and applied a dab of antibiotic ointment unsettled her. Correction. It wasn’t his silence. It was his physical closeness, making her breathlessly aware of his strong sexuality. Just touching that potent male flesh, even if it was injured flesh, had her insides fluttering. She could feel his eyes, as blue as an Irish tarn, watching her every move.

  “How are you doing, Lane?” he finally asked. This time his voice was completely sober, with a genuine concern that touched her.

  She understood him. He wanted to know about her endurance of this nightmare in which they were all caught. “I’ve been better,” she murmured. She paused, then went on to confess, “I’m angry, Jack. Under everything else, I’m angry. Senseless, deliberate death like Dan’s just makes me furious.”

  “I know.” His hand came up and stroked her cheek. It was a comforting, tender gesture, and it made her all warm and liquid inside. “We’re going to survive this thing, sweetheart,” he promised her gently.

  She nodded, feeling too vulnerable to answer him. She busied herself capping the ointment and returning it to the kit. “I don’t think you need a bandage. Any sign of a headache?”

  He shook his head and was silent again. His hand had left her cheek, but his disarming gaze was still pinned on her face. There was no way she could avoid his questioning stare. Her eyes finally met his, searching his expression.

  “You’re going to start talking about this baby business again, aren’t you, Jack?”

  He smiled in a familiar innocence. “Would I be so crass as to try to discuss that when we’ve got a killer stalking us?”

  She didn’t trust that smile. It was too appealing. She couldn’t think when they were alone and close like this. In fact, she could barely function. He was a temptation she had to escape.

  “I’m going to slip upstairs for a minute,” she informed him. “I promised Dorothy I’d look in on her.”

  “Want some company?”

  “No, but if you’re feeling ambitious while I’m gone, you could start putting together the sandwiches. Everything is ready for them.”

  Lane got away before he could object. There was an enclosed back stairway just off the kitchen. She used this service route to reach the second floor where all the bedrooms except Jack’s were located.

  She emerged at the end of the hallway, which traveled the entire length of the lodge. As she made her way down the long passage, she was aware of the ceaseless wind roaring around the house. It seemed to emphasize the lonely, poorly lighted stillness of the corridor. Nothing stirred. No one was up h
ere except Dorothy and her.

  Lane wasn’t particularly nervous about this fact. Not until she reached the far end of the passage, anyway. Dorothy was occupying the bedroom directly across the hallway from her own room. Her door was closed. Lane’s door was not closed.

  Her heart beating a strange tattoo, she stood there staring at her half-open door. She had shut it when she last left her bedroom. She was certain she had firmly shut the door. Someone had been in her room. Who? Why?

  She hesitated, but in the end her anger was stronger than fear. She resented the invasion, and she intended to understand it. Cautiously she spread the door inward until it was fully open. There was silent darkness on the other side. She listened. No sound, no movement.

  Ready to bolt if need demanded it, she reached inside and located the switch on the wall. Her effort was answered with the welcome glow of the overhead light. Her gaze swept the room from corner to corner. Nothing. Her intruder was gone. But he had left something for her. Something that made the dread rise in her throat like sour bile.

  With growing distaste Lane slowly approached the bed. The macabre object rested against her pillow. It was a puppet. A female puppet with glassy staring eyes, sprawled limbs and a jaunty sprig of Christmas holly in its coarse hair. The throat had been slashed with a sharp instrument and smeared with something red representing blood.

  It was a malicious, sickening thing that made her flesh crawl. But there was worse. Pinned to the coverlet with the ornate dagger from the library was a crudely lettered note. “If you want to live, stay away from the Dinosaur Man. He’s a killer.”

  Lane recoiled from the nasty arrangement, her elbow knocking into the bedside lamp. It overturned with a loud clatter. Dorothy must have heard the noise. Within seconds she was in the room and beside Lane. Lane caught the sharp hiss of her indrawn breath as she discovered the grotesque threat on the bed.

  “I didn’t know there was one of them in the house,” she whispered. “It must have been part of the library collection.”

  “The puppet?”

  Dorothy nodded. “Members of the Menominee Thunder Clan carved them long ago. Most of them were meant as charms of goodwill. But sometimes they were used to cause harm to enemies.”

  “You mean like voodoo dolls?”

  “In a way.”

  Lane shuddered.

  “Who could have done this?” Dorothy wondered.

  Lane didn’t answer her, but she had a strong suspicion about the author of the warning. It could be Stuart, who had made himself familiar with the bizarre collection in the library and who had used the same dagger once before. This was exactly the sort of wicked prank a rebellious teenager would pull. Maybe it was prompted by resentment because he knew she guessed his secret shame. Nor could she forget that Ronnie and Hale were worried about Stuart and concealing something unpleasant concerning him.

  But there was no way to be certain this was the identity, or the explanation, of her stealthy visitor. She was still in a shaken state when Jack arrived on the scene seconds later.

  “Hey,” he complained cheerfully from the doorway, “I’ve run out of turkey slices and patience.”

  When neither woman answered him, he came into the room. “What’s going on?”

  Lane moved aside, offering him a view of the bed and the ugly evidence on it. He looked and then uttered a savage obscenity.

  There was a long, uneasy silence. Jack finally turned to Dorothy. “Mind leaving us alone for a few minutes?”

  Dorothy hesitated, then exchanged quick glances with Lane.

  Understanding the woman’s reluctance, Lane offered reassuringly, “It’s all right, Dorothy.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

  Jack’s gaze followed her across the hall. When her door had shut behind her, he turned to Lane with a troubled expression. “She hasn’t forgiven me for not going on with the search for Chris.”

  Lane shook her head. “Dorothy realizes that you did your best and that there isn’t anything more to be done about Chris until daybreak. Allison knows it, too, even if she does refuse to admit it.”

  “Then why did the woman look at me as if I’m a heartless—” He broke off in sudden understanding, his eyes cutting in the direction of the bed. “The damn note! She was afraid to leave you alone with me because of this damn note!”

  “Only for a second, maybe. She doesn’t seriously believe the accusation.”

  Jack fumed in silence for a minute, then made up his mind. “I don’t want you alone anymore. Not after this. If the rest of them are dumb enough to go off on their own and risk death, I can’t stop them. But we’re going to be smarter than that.”

  “How?”

  “For starters, you’re not staying in this room tonight.”

  He was right. She would never be able to close her eyes on that pillow, to forget that the bloodied puppet had occupied it. “I suppose I could move in with Allison or Dorothy.” Ronnie, she knew, was out of the question.

  “Uh-uh. After what’s been happening here, I don’t trust anyone.”

  “I suppose that’s what you didn’t want Dorothy to hear. All right, who would you suggest that I spend the night—” Realization came in a flash. “Oh, no. There’s no way I’m going to share quarters with you.”

  “Why? Because you’re wondering now yourself whether I’m dangerous?”

  He was dangerous, all right. But not in the way the warning on her pillow meant.

  “Come on, Lane,” he argued, “be sensible. The guesthouse offers the best protection. It has a strong door and solid inside shutters on every window. You’ll feel safe there, so what have you got to worry about?”

  “Aside from you shifting into your overprotective mode again, I think I have plenty to worry about in a situation like that.”

  “What? You think I’m asking us to sleep in the same bed? Forget it. You get the bed, I get the sofa. It’s a very comfortable sofa.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No tricks, I promise. I just want you safe.”

  She was a fool to consider it. On the other hand, she was angry. She resented the note and its warning to stay away from Jack. No one had a right to threaten her like that and then assume that she would be intimidated into quaking obedience. In the end, defiance won out.

  “All right, but there’d better be a healthy amount of space between the bed and that sofa.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS, as Lane discovered a few hours later, but she was afraid it wasn’t enough. She stood just inside the guesthouse, clutching an overnight bag in her hand and surveying the place, while Jack securely locked the door behind them. The room was generous in size, but at the moment it felt far too intimate.

  She eyed the bed. It was an enormous affair. A richly carved and painted Scandinavian cupboard bed whose mattress was about three miles off the floor. You had to use steps to climb into it.

  Lane couldn’t stop looking at that bed. Definitely meant for two people, it conjured up lush images of a wedding night. Come to think of it, at this moment she was feeling about as nervous as a virgin bride.

  Bad comparison. What was she doing dreaming up nonsense like that? And what did she have to be nervous about? They were sharing a room, not a bed. It wasn’t a mistake to be here. She could trust him. Couldn’t she?

  Stop looking at that bed, she commanded herself. You’ve got a whole room to look at. Look at the fireplace. The fireplace is wonderful with all that intricate carving around it.

  Lane cleared her throat. “The fireplace is wonderful,” she observed in as casual a tone as she could muster. “You’re lucky to have one in here.”

  “Mmm, except it doesn’t work. I don’t know, something about a faulty damper or a blocked chimney. Not to worry, though. There’s dependable electric heat.”

  Aggravatingly at ease with the situation, Jack began to move from window to window, closing and barring the shutters, making the place snug and safe. Well, she could be at ea
se, too.

  “Oh? Is that what I hear humming down below?”

  “No, that’s the big generator that feeds all the power to the lodge and guesthouse.” He turned from the last window, noticing that she was still standing there with her bag in hand. “You are planning to take off that coat before you go to bed, aren’t you?”

  Lane started, feeling a betraying flush on her cheeks. “Sorry. I—I was just busy admiring all the Nordic decoration in here.” She nodded in the direction of what promised to be a bathroom behind a door that was slightly ajar.

  “All yours,” he said. “I’ll see about making up the sofa for myself while you take your turn in there.”

  Lane, wanting to eliminate any awkwardness, made certain that she was already installed in the cupboard bed when Jack emerged later from the bathroom after his own preparations for the night. She eyed him dubiously over the edge of the comforter under which she was safely buried. He padded across the room, his long, muscular legs as bare as his feet. She hoped he was wearing something under that short robe. Not that she planned to look when he shucked it before he slid under his blanket on the sofa. The remembered image of his naked body was disturbing enough. She didn’t need any risky glimpse of the reality.

  On his way to the sofa he must have noticed the concern on her face. Fortunately, he misread it. “Stop worrying, Lane. Your reputation is safe. We were pretty careful getting you out here. No one in the house has any reason to guess you’re anywhere tonight but behind your own bedroom door. Ready to have the lights doused?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Seconds later they were in darkness except for the faint glimmer of a night-light from the half-open door of the bathroom.

  “Good night, Lane.”

  “Night, Jack.”

  She heard him settle himself on the long sofa. She curled on her side under the comforter, making her own nest for the night. The cupboard bed was as cozy and sheltering as a warm cocoon. She refused to linger over the realization that it was also very lonely.