Share No Secrets (41 page)

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.

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.

“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.

“What are you daydreaming about?” the woman snapped behind Adrienne, making her jump. “The gala officially starts in fifteen minutes. People should be arriving soon.”

“It’s not fashionable to be on time,” Adrienne said.

“In my day it was. Punctuality is next to godliness, my father always said.”

“I thought that was cleanliness. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.'”

Miss Snow glared and swept away to the kitchen for one last inspection. At least she’s off my back for a while, Adrienne thought. If she’d been Miss Snow’s parakeet, she would have found a way to break free of the bars and soar to freedom or die trying.

Adrienne’s feet had already begun hurting when the first guests arrived twenty minutes later. She had lingered to the side of one window and watched a couple wait in their parked car until they saw another couple walking toward the gallery. Then they had scrambled from their Mercedes, joined the first intrepid couple, and thereby made a merry little group of four people, supposedly so different from a pathetic straggling of two. Miss Snow nearly ran over Adrienne reaching the front door, welcoming them profusely, giggling girlishly, handing them pamphlets, and pitting her copious application of lavender eau de toilette against the other women’s Opium and Intuition.

Six more people had shown up when Drew Delaney strolled through the door looking devastating in a tuxedo. He glanced at Miss Snow rakishly and said, “Why, Miss Petunia, don’t you look fine?”

Petunia? Adrienne thought. Miss Snow’s first name was
Petunia?

Miss Snow gave him a frozen look. “How do you do, Mr. Delaney? Are you personally covering our little event for the
Point Pleasant Register?”

“Yes, ma’am, and it is my honor. I wouldn’t assign it to any of my reporters. I just decided to hog the whole event to myself.”

“You don’t know anything about art,” Miss Snow pronounced darkly.

“Now that’s not quite true. I’ve studied up on the subject since my grandmother made me take those china-painting lessons from you when I was ten.”

China-painting lessons?
Drew?
Adrienne was choking on a sip of champagne when Miss Snow waved an imperious arm toward her. “I’m quite busy tonight, Mr. Delaney. I hope you don’t mind if I turn you over to the capable hands of Ms. Reynolds.”

“I would consider it an honor and a
great
pleasure to be in the hands of Ms. Reynolds,” Drew drawled, assuming a leer. Adrienne would have assaulted him verbally if she could have stopped coughing.

“Adrienne, you should drink water if you can’t handle spirits,” Miss Snow chastised. “When you’ve recovered, please show Mr. Delaney around.”

“I think he’s been here before,” Adrienne managed.

“Then show him around
again.”
Miss Show’s voice was pure steel.
“Please.”

“Yes,
please,
Adrienne,” Drew said somewhat pathetically. “I can’t remember a thing about the place.”

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered as “Petunia” fluttered back to the front door and Drew stood grinning at her. “Do you want a drink?”

“I don’t think I can get through the evening without one,” Drew said.

“That makes two of us.”

“Really? You looked like that first one might have been too much for you.”

“It was a combination of hearing Miss Snow’s first name and knowing that you took china-painting lessons from her. Really, Drew.
China
painting?”

“It was the summer my parents were deciding whether or not to get a divorce. They went off and left me with my grandmother, who
forced
me to take the lessons from her good friend. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my whole life. All my friends were playing baseball. That was in the days before soccer became the rage. Anyway, I’ve lived in fear the rest of my life that the china-painting episode might leak out, and here it did, right in front of the prettiest girl this side of the Mississippi.”