“Uh, thanks.” Now that the sarcasm had been switched on, it was hard to stop.
“Your room feels cozier than mine. No wonder you can sleep fine.”
“Were you here, in my room last night?”
Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she could see Lee's features now. His eyes looked bigger in the dark, not so much like paint splatters. And he was smiling, which made him look almost handsome.
“In here?” He rubbed his chin, his light beard making a scratching sound. “No. This is the first time I've been in here.”
“Someone came in here last night. I saw them standing there at the foot of the bed.” Softly, she added, “Or so I think. It might have been a vivid dream.”
“That's so weird,” he said. “I swear someone came into my room last night, too. I didn't remember until just now.”
“Weird,” she said. “Who?”
“I bet it was the wacky housekeeper. She's got kind of a watch-you-sleep vibe. Can you imagine if you woke up to find her standing there at the foot of your bed with one of those huge knives she's got in the kitchen? Screaming about ghosts and search warrants?”
Katie rubbed her arms. “Great. Now I'll never sleep.”
“You can bunk in my room,” Lee said warmly. “I'll protect you.” He chuckled at himself, which took away the creepiness of his offer.
“My hero,” she joked.
He reached over and patted her feet through the blanket. “Come on. Get up, put some jeans on, and let's go check out Tilda's studio by ourselves. Dress warm. We'll have to go around outside, because it's over in a separate building.”
Katie mulled it over.
On one hand, she felt bad sneaking around the property when their hostess had been so generous.
On the other hand, a tour of the artist's private studio was included in the week's tuition, and it would likely be forgotten in the wake of Clive's death. Plus if she didn't go with him, Lee Elliot would go on his own, and she didn't like the idea of him sneaking in there without her.
“You're just like my big brothers,” she said, pushing away the blankets. “Always getting me into trouble.”
“That's what us boys are good for,” he said cheerfully. “Amongst other things.”
“Are you looking at me? Don't look at me when I get dressed.”
He snorted with amusement. “You're just a shadow. I can't see anything.”
“Then stop looking. I can feel your eyeballs groping me.”
The bed springs squeaked. “I'm facing away from you now,” he said. “Is that your closet door? It looks just like a person standing in the room.”
“I know, right? They should paint the closet door a light color.”
“Paint over perfectly good real wood?” He made a scoffing sound. “You're such a woman.”
She scoffed right back at him as she zipped up her jeans.
* * *
The snow crunched under their feet as they made their way out of the main house and along a path to a separate, smaller building. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and the air was crisp. The waning gibbous moon overhead shed plenty of light, and the snow dusting the ground made the property brighter.
Katie had a skip in her step as they approached the boxy shape of what they assumed was Tilda's personal art studio.
“You're having fun,” Lee said. “The key to making you smile is to invite you along on a crime spree, huh?”
She snorted. “My brothers were always finding abandoned farmhouses to break into. We felt like archaeologists making the find of the century back then.”
“Did you find anything of value?”
“Sure. Old newspapers. Broken beds. And a busted-up wooden doll straight out of a horror movie.”
He chuckled. “Treasures.”
“I still have the doll. It's a great prop for creepy photos. I have a friend who used it in a short film he made when we were in high school.”
“What was the film about?”
“A couple of college students who get murdered in the middle of the night by an ax-wielding lunatic in New Mexico.”
Lee stared at her for several shocked seconds before laughing. “Nice one, Katie Mills.”
“The movie was actually about cannibals,” she said. “Cannibals who had day jobs in the banking industry. It was sort of a metaphor.”
“I would pay good money to see that,” Lee said. “Where did this super fun childhood of yours take place?”
“South Dakota,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. “I thought I heard you say pop the other day when Holly brought us 7-Up. That explains it. You're from a pop state.”
“Where are you from?”
“Texas. Everything's called a coke there. Even Mountain Dew.”
“You're not far from home at all,” she said.
“Depends on how you look at it. I go to school in California. So I have two homes, or maybe no home. My home is my suitcase. I don't like to get tied down.” They reached the front door of the building, and he tried the handle. “Locked.” He shook his head. “I guess we'll have to bug Tilda to show us around tomorrow. Either that or do another jigsaw puzzle.”
She tried the handle herself, just to be sure. They turned to walk back to the main house, and she said, “I didn't think you were the type to give up so easily.”
He stopped so suddenly, she walked into him. He was more solid than he looked.
“Oh, really?” He turned and gave her a teasing look. “You think we should look around for a window and break in?”
“We could at least have a walk around the perimeter.”
“Something tells me you were the naughty little sister who came up with the ideas that got your brothers in trouble.”
She held up one finger. “You know, Lee Elliot, you're not a complete idiot.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
They circled around the building, and sure enough, there was an unlocked window at the back.
Katie climbed onto Lee's shoulders and crawled in through what turned out to be the window for a bathroom. She landed upside-down inside a tub without injury, made her way through the dark rooms to the front door, and unlocked it for Lee.
The two walked around together, turning on lights.
“This is not at all what I expected,” Lee said. “There aren't even any art supplies in here.”
“Great.” Katie fell into a leather armchair. “This isn't Tilda's art studio. It's a guest cottage or something.”
Lee picked up some unopened envelopes from the kitchenette's counter. “These bills are addressed to Clive Kingfisher. This must be his official business office, and where he stays when he's in the doghouse.” He dropped the envelopes. “Where he used to stay.”
Katie looked around the compact yet comfortable living room. “Not bad for a doghouse.”
“Except I can practically see my breath.” Lee walked over to the corner fireplace and started arranging wood and kindling. “Let's get some heat up in this joint.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” He struck a match and lit a crumpled newspaper. “It's a guest house, and we're guests.”
She laughed. “Your logic is undeniable, Lee Elliot.”
He gave her an appreciative smile. “I like that laugh of yours, Katie Mills. Almost as much as your sexy sarcasm.”
She crossed her arms. Since when was sarcasm sexy?
She watched as he blew on the kindling and coaxed a roaring fire to life. The room warmed up quickly, and soon he'd removed his sweater. He stood before the orange flames clad only in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed a surprisingly athletic build, like that of a swimmer or a gymnast.
Forget the sexiness of sarcasm. Since when was Lee Elliot sexy?
He reached for his rumpled sweater, which had a kangaroo-style pocket, and pulled out a silver flask. “Vodka?”
“I think I'm still drunk on whiskey from the wake.”
“Then another sip won't hurt
.” He waved the flask as he took a seat on the hearth, next to the crackling fire.
Katie quietly took a good look at the young man sitting across from her, trying to see the whole picture plus the details, all together. Tonight, alone together in this warm and cozy room, Lee was someone else. He was no longer the rubber-limbed, beige boy with paint-splatter features. He was a young man, but he was a man.
“Staring is rude,” he said.
“I'm an artist.”
“So am I, and I'd never stare at you like that. How do you like it?” He widened his eyes and made a funny face.
“You're right. It is rude.” She whistled and looked up at the wooden beams on the ceiling.
“Come sit with me, pretty girl,” he said. “I don't know about you, but wakes and funerals always put me in the mood to celebrate being alive. How are you feeling?”
“Also alive,” she said, because it sounded good. Better than telling him wakes and funerals were a pleasant change from seeing ghosts.
He patted the hearth again, and jokingly made a sound like calling a dog.
She ignored him.
After a minute, she finally got up from Clive's leather chair and joined Lee by the fire.
He used the bottom of his shirt to wipe the rim of the flask for her, exposing a section of toned midriff and a fuzz of golden body hair.
She took a sip of vodka from the silver flask while Lee watched her. He regarded her face with the appreciation of an artist. She became aware of her body, of how she was warming under his attention. She'd dated boys at college, but never anyone in the arts program. She'd never been looked at by an artist. Not the way Lee was looking at her.
Self-consciously, she said, “What?”
He smiled. “What, what?”
“You're staring again,” she said.
He took a swig from the flask. “And why wouldn't I be, pretty girl? I'd ask if I could paint you sometime, if it wasn't such a cliché.”
She burst out a short laugh. “You're such a cliché, Lee Elliot.”
“And you're an enigma, Katie Mills.”
“Kaitlynne,” she said.
“Kaitlynne,” he said softly. “Do you feel it?”
She raised her eyebrows and glanced at his lap area.
“Not that,” he said quickly. He took her hand and placed it, palm down, on his chest. “My heart,” he said.
She tilted her head to the side, confused.
He asked huskily, “Do you feel how alive we are, right here, right now?”
“I guess so.” She didn't pull her hand away. The thumping of his chest through his soft T-shirt was exactly what she wanted to feel.
“I've been dreaming about a girl,” he said.
She jerked her hand away and rolled her eyes.
“Not like that,” he said, smiling. “Actual dreams. Nightmares, I suppose. There's a girl, and she looks like you, but she's not you. And she's leading me up the mountain, up to that spot where we were painting with Tilda.”
She nodded. What were you supposed to say when someone talked about their dreams?
And then suddenly, a name was on her lips. “Darlene,” she said.
“Your friend who disappeared,” Lee said, nodding. “That's what I thought, but here's the strange thing. I had the dream the first night we were here, before I heard about Darlene, and before we went up there.”
“So? You said you did meet her last year, when your visits overlapped by a day.”
“You've got to admit, it's quite the coincidence.”
He took a noisy sip from the flask. She took it from his hand, and without wiping the lip, took a swig herself.
She smacked her lips. “You must be psychic, then. Like Holly. Are you sure you're not related to the Bagley women?”
He gave her a mock offended look. “You're a mean drunk,” he teased.
“You have no idea,” she teased right back. She had no idea what she meant, but it was just one of those things a girl says to a boy when she's in the mood for him to kiss her.
Lee took the hint.
Chapter 18
Wednesday morning, Katie woke up to someone gently shaking her.
Lee said, “We've got twenty minutes to get back into the main house before our alarm clocks start going off.”
“Then give me nineteen more minutes to sleep,” she groaned.
Lee yanked away the wool blankets she'd been huddled under, which gave her no choice but to battle him for control of the bed. They wrestled, then he kissed her and pulled away. He already had his shoes on and was ready to sneak back into the main house.
Katie sat up and looked around, feeling ashamed. They'd fallen asleep on Clive's bed. This was the last place a man had slept before he died, and he'd been alive two nights ago.
The thought of Clive in the bed, combined with the drinks from the night before, sent Katie running to the bathroom to throw up. On the plus side, the poison was now out of her system.
She came out of the washroom to find Lee leaning forward, examining the pillows on the bed.
He asked, “Why would Tilda's hair be on these pillows?”
Katie came over to look. Sure enough, there were a half dozen long, red hairs. Clive's hair had also been long, and his loose hairs were present on the white pillow as well, but they were a glossy black with silver roots.
“Gross,” Katie said. “Tilda was sleeping with Clive.”
“What do you mean, gross? You didn't find him attractive?”
She gave Lee an enigmatic smile. “I have strange taste in men, but not that strange.”
“You don't like older, powerful men?”
“No, not like my roommate, Darlene. She was always flirting with professors.”
“Until she flirted with the wrong one and got herself disappeared.” He coughed and frowned. “Sorry. I didn't mean to sound so flippant.”
Katie picked up one of the red hairs. “It's a bit wavy. Maybe it's actually Marco's.”
“You think Marco was sleeping with Clive?”
“Hmm.” She walked around to the side of the bed opposite Lee and started straightening the layers of blankets. “I think Holly's not a very good housekeeper. Maybe Marco was sleeping here in the cottage, and Holly didn't change the sheets when Clive showed up unannounced.”
“I guess it doesn't matter, because you and I were never here.” Lee winked at her.
“Time?”
He checked his phone. “Five minutes.”
“We were never here,” Katie said. “Last night didn't happen.”
“If you say so,” he said stiffly.
They finished tidying up the cottage and let themselves back into the main house without incident.
* * *
“Cigarettes,” Tilda said. “That's what I need.”
She was seated at the table in the dining room, wearing sunglasses, and drinking from a cup of coffee nearly as big as her head. She wore the same black dress she'd had on the day before, covered up with a bulky wool cardigan. Her red hair was frizzy on one side, but she still looked elegant.
“No cigarettes,” Holly said. “We threw them all out the last time you quit.”
Marco took a break from devouring his stack of pancakes. “Mom, I could take the Jeep into town and get you some ciggies.”
“No,” Holly said, shaking her head.
“Just until Christmas,” Tilda pleaded. “Then I'll quit again, Holly, I swear.”
Holly made a grumbling sound.
Tilda turned her head toward Lee and Katie, her eyes still hidden by the dark lenses. “I'm sorry I won't be able to give my art babies a lesson today.”
Katie's mouth twitched into a smile. She liked being referred to as an “art baby.” It made her feel like she knew her place in the world, as a baby in a family again.
“We could find something else to do,” Lee said. “Maybe we could get a tour of—”
Tilda waved her hand. “You'll be working, painting on your own in the student workshop.
Be good little art babies, will you? I'll look over your work later today. After I've had a cigarette.” She turned to her son and silently mouthed a thank you.
Marco asked his mother, “Hey, do you mind if I borrow one of your art babies?”
“Take your pick,” she said with a hand wave.
Marco looked right at Katie. “Want to go for a drive into town with me?”
“Sure,” she said. “I'd love to.”
Lee cleared his throat. “Just her?”
Katie said, “We can both go with you.”
“The Jeep only seats two,” Marco said, already pushing back his chair. He threw his napkin on his chair. “Give me five minutes and I'll meet you around front.”
Once he was gone, Katie turned to Lee. “The Jeep only seats two,” she said cryptically.
“I'll miss you terribly,” he said flatly.
“Shh,” Tilda said. “Stop yelling. Be quiet little art babies.”
* * *
The Jeep had a small bench seat in the back and could have accommodated more than two people, but Katie didn't suggest changing the plan. She was glad to get some time away from Lee, who'd done nothing wrong and was actually quite sweet, but still. Space. She wanted space. Their playful wrestling last night had seemed normal enough at the time, but in the light of morning, she didn't know what to make of it. Lee wasn't a “keep things casual” sort of guy. Which made him better than most guys, really. So, why did she hold it against him?
She watched the New Mexico landscape roll by. Most of the snow had melted away, but a few white pockets remained.
“The funeral won't be for several weeks,” Marco said. “The Kingfisher family wants to wait until after Christmas.” He kept staring at the road ahead. They'd been driving for five minutes, and it was the first thing he'd said.
“Fair enough,” Katie said. “There's no good time for a funeral. That's what my mother always says.”
Marco began chuckling. “It's always a good time for the funeral of someone you don't care for too much.” He turned toward her. One of his red curls had fallen on the center of his forehead. With the curl sticking out like that, he reminded Katie of a unicorn, or a hippo—though that was an unkind simile, given Marco's rounded build. She shifted her imagination back toward the unicorn, elegant and special.
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