Share No Secrets (10 page)

“Is something wrong?” he asked abruptly.

“Uh, no,” she stumbled, embarrassed, and closed her eyes. “It’s just my head. It hurts.”

“No wonder. Heads don’t take well to being slammed against concrete.” He reached out and gently touched her temple where blood had run into her hair and dried. She kept her eyes closed but a tiny sensation almost like a thrill ran through her at his touch. “I was scared half to death when I found you crumpled and unconscious on that sidewalk in the rain,” he said softly. “You looked so small and pale. Then I turned you over and saw the blood—”

“I’m back!” the doctor boomed, shattering the delicate moment. Adrienne didn’t know if she was angry or relieved. “We’re sending you off for a CT scan right now, Mrs. Reynolds. Going to see what’s in that noggin of yours.”

“Secrets of the universe,” she said dryly.

The doctor’s laugh crashed around her. “Good. I’ve got quite a few questions no one can answer.”

“Can she have something for her headache?” Drew asked.

“No medication until we’ve assessed the damage,” he blasted.

“Then how about a little quiet?” Drew asked. Adrienne opened her eyes to see the doctor’s head whip toward Drew, who smiled winningly. “You’ve got a nice voice, Doc, but you need to turn down the volume.”

“Oh,” the doctor said, stiffening as he turned slightly pink. “Must be left over from when I was lead singer with a local band.”

“Not the Ravens!” Drew exclaimed.

“Why, yes. You remember us?”

“I never missed you when you played around here. You were great!” He held out his hand and shook the doctor’s. “This is a real honor.”

The doctor smiled back happily, the earlier insult over his loud voice already a memory. Drew had mended the doctor’s injured feelings with three simple sentences. His charm remained fully intact, Adrienne thought. It was a winning charm. It could be a dangerous charm.

“You don’t have to stay here at the hospital, Drew,” Adrienne said. “This could take hours. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m staying.”

“Drew, really—”

“I’m
staying.”

Adrienne sighed and gave up, too tired, shaken, and sore to argue. Besides, even though she hated to admit it, she felt mystifyingly comforted to know that Drew Delaney was watching over her.

Kit Kirkwood looked into one of the small upstairs dining rooms and smiled. The room felt both elegant and intimate with its highly polished wooden floor, warm paneling, and the fireplace above which hung a painting of a beautiful woman playing the piano. Celtic music played in the background. “Sit down and have a drink with us, Kit,” someone at a table full of people asked. She smiled and shook her head. She was too busy.

As if responding to her thought, someone materialized beside her. Kit looked up to see Polly, the hostess. “Yes?” she asked, already knowing there was a problem.

Polly had two vertical lines between her dark eyebrows, a bad sign. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Kirkwood, but there’s a problem. We have reservations for two parties at the same time, both wanting the same table. All the tables are taken right now!”

“Polly, how did you make a mistake like that?”

“I didn’t!” the pretty hostess said in hot indignation. “I’ve had this job a year and I’ve never made a mistake.
Never!”

“Then what do you think happened?” Kit tried to calm her voice. It was eight o’clock, she had a splitting headache, a restaurant full of hungry people, a boyfriend waiting to have dinner with her, a temperamental chef threatening to quit, a mother at home in a state of mental collapse, and her own feelings bruised and battered by finding out one of her best friends was dead. No,
murdered.
Her stomach muscles clenched.

“So, what should I do, Ms. Kirkwood?” Polly went on relentlessly. “The Hansons are here with another couple and it’s Mrs. Hanson’s birthday. They’ve ordered a cake for after dinner. The Morgans are furious. They have that gorgeous nephew of Mr. Morgan with them and Mrs. Morgan is dressed to beat the band in a dress with a neckline cut halfway down to her navel. I’m sure she’s after him, even if she’s twenty years older than he is. That woman has no shame. But she always urges Mr. Morgan to give a
really
generous tip, so she’s not
all
bad.”

Kit took in the barrage of information as she passed a hand over her forehead and looked into the young, clear eyes of Polly. Gossipy or not, Polly was right. She didn’t make mistakes. Someone else was responsible for penciling in two reservations for the same time. Maybe even Kit herself. She’d been fairly distracted lately.

“All right.” Kit forced herself to sound coolheaded. “Because there are four people in the Hanson party, one having a birthday, we’ll seat them. Put them at the upstairs table by the window overlooking the courtyard. That party is almost ready to leave.”

“That’s what they really wanted,” Polly added helpfully.

“Good. Meanwhile, take the Morgans to the bar. I want them to have free drinks. And Mrs. Morgan loves piano music. Alfred is supposed to start playing in ten minutes. Have him play anything Mrs. Morgan wants. Tell him I said
not
to act like he minds if she sits on the bench with him after her third martini.”

“Even if she sings along?” Polly managed to wail in a whisper. “Alfred
hates
that!”

“He’ll have to hide his feelings if he wants to keep his job. And have Troy check on them regularly.”

“But Troy is a waiter. He doesn’t tend bar.”

“I know that, Polly, but Troy could charm Attila the Hun. He can keep the whole Morgans party happy until a table opens up.” Kit gave the pretty young woman a dazzling smile. “Get to work, Polly. If anyone can successfully juggle these people, it will be you. All seven of them.”

“But not eight,” Polly said in spite of the compliment. “Alfred is gonna be
pissed
if Mrs. Morgan sits with him.”

“Alfred isn’t a customer, and I’m sure he can bear up for just one night.” Kit put her hands on Polly’s slim young shoulders. “March, young lady. You have your orders.”

With a sigh, Polly headed back to the entrance area where seven people had begun to quarrel with each other over who should be seated next. New arrivals looked at them warily. Kit detested scenes like this in her restaurant. Her headache kicked up a notch.

“Uh, Ms. Kirkwood?”

She whirled to look at a very young, skinny busboy with flaming cheeks and too much gel in his spiky hair. “What is it?”

“Well, I was out back—my regular smoke break, mind you—I wasn’t goofin’ off, and I saw this woman roamin’ around out there. I think I’ve seen her before. Maybe she’s the one that brings those scented candles you sell in the foyer. Tall and real skinny—looks like the wind could blow her away. Old clothes, hair comin’ down from a bun. I asked if I could do somethin’ for her, and she said, ‘No one can help me now.’ She looks sort of crazy—”

Kit pushed past him and headed through the noisy kitchen to the back door. The phrase from a Keats poem, “Alone and palely loitering,” popped into her mind when she saw Lottie Brent seated on a wrought-iron seat for two beside a small tree strung with white lights glowing like miniature stars in the darkness. The woman stared to the right at the small gazebo and the crowded tiki bar. “Lottie?” Kit asked gently as she sat down on the bench beside the woman.

Lottie Brent gave Kit a startled, slightly discomfited look, then stared straight ahead. “My goodness, I didn’t think you would be summoned to my side.”

“People have been looking for you since morning.”

“I didn’t mean to cause worry for anyone.” Lottie was nearly seventy but had the sweet, lilting voice of a young girl. And although she hadn’t gone past the eighth grade, she spoke with a beautiful lyric quality Kit had always loved. “I didn’t want to talk to anyone,” Lottie said. “I had to think. I’ve walked around all day. Then I decided I wanted to sit in your enchanted garden. I didn’t mean for you to even know I was out here, but I felt drawn to this place. I
had
to come. It’s so lovely in the evening, like something out of a fairy tale.”

When Kit constructed the half-acre garden linking the main dinner restaurant with the smaller and informal lunchtime building known as the Grill, people had laughed at her fanciful inclusion of the gazebo, a wishing well, a patio surrounded by tiki torches, and a stereo system that played spirited dance music for those who chose to drink at the outside bar. Once she’d finished construction of the “garden,” Kit considered the expense well worth it. Nobody laughed at it anymore. People came long before their reservations to wander through the little park and admire the many light-draped trees, to have a drink at the horseshoe-shaped bar surrounded by tiki torches, and to drop coins in the small wishing well—money collected every month and donated to the animal shelter. In summer, customers even stopped near the front door to talk to Sinbad, a huge white cockatoo who sat regally in a big wrought-iron cage as he acquired an impressive vocabulary from his visitors. Kit had paid a fortune for the bird and Sinbad acted as if he knew he was worth every cent of it.

Kit looked covertly at the woman. Lottie was thinner than the last time she’d seen her. She had dark hollows under her eyes, and the thin white scars clustered on her temple seemed more noticeable than usual in spite of the paleness of her complexion.

“Sinbad is looking quite impressive,” Lottie said finally. “Smooth, shiny feathers and a noble posture.”

Kit forced her voice to sound light. “He
should
look good. He spends half his day preening and looking in his mirror. He’s the vainest bird I have ever met, not to mention a huge flirt.”

Lottie smiled. “You could always lift my spirits with your nonsense, Kitrina. But he
did
whistle at me.”

“See? He has excellent taste in women. He
never
whistles at Mrs. Morgan. He can spot fake breasts and bleached hair a mile away.” This time Lottie giggled softly. Kit laid her own hand over the woman’s, which was dry and cold in spite of the warm evening. Lottie quickly pulled the cuff of her long-sleeved cotton dress over a wide, rough scar on her wrist, a wrist Kit knew had one time been bound by rope. “Why don’t you come in the restaurant?” Kit asked. “I’ll fix you something to eat.”

“Thank you, Kitrina, but I’m not hungry.”

“Can I bring you something to drink?”

“Maybe a cup of tea, but not right now.” Lottie’s grip tightened on Kit’s hand. “You know, of course, Julianna is dead.”

“Yes,” Kit managed, barely above a whisper.

“She was murdered.” Lottie’s voice was tranquil, as smooth and rich as velvet. “I knew this tragedy was corning.
Today.”
Kit raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I know folks say I’m crazy with my premonitions and predictions. I always watch for signs of God’s will manifesting itself in the softness of the night, or during the tumult of a storm, or in the burning sun of the day, so people think I’m losing my mind. But when your mother and I were young, she lived at la Belle with her parents and I lived in the cabin so near.” Kit knew her mother’s and Lottie’s histories well, but she let the woman continue uninterrupted.

“We became friends, Ellen and I. We were so close, just like you and Julianna. Your mother understood me. She listened to me. We shared the bond of feeling, of sensing, that there was something wrong about the hotel.”

“It’s just a building, Lottie,” Kit said gently. “Bricks and mortar and wood.”

“And something else, dear. The place has a spirit. A building should not have a spirit, but that one does. One that is
bad.”
Lottie paused, and began to clutch Kit’s hand so tightly it was painful. “Kitrina, whether you believe me or not, God
did
warn me near dawn that something bad was to become of Julianna in la Belle.”

Kit didn’t believe in the supernatural, yet talk of signs and portents of approaching disasters made her nervous. All of her life she’d listened to her mother’s growing, disturbing belief in the paranormal, particularly when it came to the hotel, and lately Ellen’s preoccupation with it had made her certain the woman was losing her grip on reality. Now Lottie was on the same jag and it scared her because, in many ways, Lottie meant even more to Kit than her own mother. “Are you sure you didn’t dream it, Lottie?” she asked almost desperately.

“No, dear. Don’t look so alarmed. And please don’t react like most people do. You never were like most people. Not you or Julianna or Adrienne. I believe that’s why the three of you were such good friends. You were like-minded, each one of you special, and therefore drawn together by your sympathies of thought and feeling. And none of you believed I was crazy.” She stared intently into Kit’s face, her once beautiful amber eyes dimmed and clouded by early cataracts. She needed surgery, Kit thought, but Lottie didn’t have the money and would never let anyone pay the medical bill for her.

“While it was still dark this morning, I was awakened by an owl,” Lottie began as if merely continuing her last sentence. “It was very close, very loud. I sat straight up in bed, took a deep breath, touched my locket with Julianna’s portrait inside, and a feeling washed over me. It was a mixture of dread and fear. And helplessness.” Her voice rose. “I got out of bed and tried to think of ways to help my baby.” She sighed. “But there was no help for her. Not in life, at least. Perhaps she has found peace in death.”

Kit let the silence hang a minute while Lottie dabbed at tears and coughed behind a thin, embroidered handkerchief. But even in her extreme distress, she possessed an air of patience and serenity. Kit had always admired Lottie’s self-possession. She was so different from Kit’s own mother, Ellen, who over the years had turned cowering and anxious when she wasn’t being high-handed and strident.

“I thought Julianna might be where she’s been going often lately. La Belle. There’s a badness in that place. I’ve always felt it. Real, dark, tangible
evil.
It comes creeping like a mist and slips right into your soul before you ever even realize it. I warned Julianna about it a hundred times, but she wouldn’t listen. She gave me a kiss and said ‘Thank you for worrying about me anyway, Mama.'” Lottie smiled faintly in memory. “Then she went off and played loose with danger.”