The Inn (15 page)

“M
r. Jack?”

The new master of the house was standing at the window, looking out at the people gathered around the wood box. He barely lifted an eyebrow as Zeke approached him.

“Mr. Jack, may I speak with you a moment?” the caretaker asked.

Jack turned around to look at him. Zeke watched him carefully. Jack seemed distracted, angry. Of course, that might have been grief. His grandmother had just died. But it seemed to Zeke to be something more, too.

“What is it?” Jack asked, his voice cold and hard and small.

Zeke steadied himself. He had long anticipated that this conversation would be led by Cordelia, that it would have been Cordelia to tell Jack what he needed to know. But now Cordelia was gone. Zeke was on his own.

“Now that you're in charge here,” the caretaker began, “now that the house belongs to you . . .”

He stopped. He couldn't go on speaking.

“Out with it, you old fool,” Jack said impatiently. It was almost as if Cordelia was now inhabiting her grandson's body.

“I've lived here a long time,” Zeke said. “I've seen many things—”

“I expect you have,” Jack said, cutting him off. “And I expect that you will assist my wife in everything she wants to do to fix this place up. Do you understand?”

“But that's what I need to talk to you about, Mr. Jack. . . .”

Jack pushed past him and headed into the parlor. “There's nothing to talk about! I want this place to be a destination that people seek out from all over the world! Do you understand, Zeke? I want to be a success!”

He jabbed a finger against the old man's chest, his eyes wide and wild.

“But you will be, Mr. Jack,” Zeke said. “I'm sure of it.”

Jack looked away from him. His gaze fell onto the fireplace with all the bricks piled around it.

“You've just got to hear what I have to tell you,” Zeke went on. “There's things you need to understand. Things you need to do. Your grandmother was going to explain them all to you, but now it's up to me.”

Jack turned back to look at him. He was scowling.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“After everybody is gone from outside, after you and I are all alone, there are things I need to show you, Mr. Jack.”

“What kinds of things?”

“I can't show you now, not with people still in and out of the house. But you need to know, Mr. Jack.”

Jack looked at him suspiciously. “Why the great mystery, Zeke?”

“For now, please, just trust me.” He drew closer to Jack. “Help me put the bricks back into the fireplace.”

Jack grimaced. “You mean seal it back up?”

Zeke nodded.

“But why? Didn't you hear what I said, Zeke? I want my wife's renovations to go forward. I want this place to become a popular resort.” He leaned down close to Zeke so as to make himself clear. “I want to make a lot of money,” Jack enunciated.

“That's good, but we need to brick up the fireplace. . . .”

Jack laughed at him. “My grandmother is dead! I don't have to worry about her foolish sentiment anymore! We need a fireplace, Zeke! This is a goddamn New England bed-and-breakfast! Guests expect fireplaces!”

“But, Mr. Jack, you've got to listen to me!”

Just then, Zeke heard the back door open and the sound of people coming inside the house. Chief Carlson was speaking with Annabel.

“Please, Mr. Jack,” Zeke whispered, “will you let me speak with you privately later?”

Jack glared at him. “Yes,” he said finally. “All right. But don't you dare touch those bricks in the meantime.”

He strode off toward the kitchen.

Zeke turned around and looked at the fireplace.

He heard the scurrying down below.

T
hat night, Annabel slipped under the sheets beside Jack. What a terrible day it had been. They hadn't had much time to talk about anything with the cops and the forensics team in and out of the house. Neville had decided he couldn't leave without knowing what had happened to Priscilla, so he was staying on at the house. Around five o'clock, Paulie's brother had arrived with spare keys to Paulie's truck and drove it off the property, but not before insisting he look around the house himself for any clue as to what had happened to his brother. And Richard Carlson had been there until the sun went down, scouring the place with his eyes, seeming to commit every inch of the house to memory.

Annabel just wanted the day to be over, hoping that when she woke up the next morning she'd realize it had all been a bad dream.

Jack lay there beside her, eyes open, just staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh, Jack,” Annabel said. “I worry now that the Blue Boy will never shake its reputation of being cursed and haunted.”

“Don't you worry, sugar babe,” her husband told her, still staring at the ceiling. “We are going to do just fine.”

“What were you and Zeke talking about earlier? After the chief finally left?”

Jack didn't take his eyes off the ceiling. “Just a few things that needed to be done around the house.”

“You seemed to be very intent. And when I came in, you both stopped speaking.” She pulled closer to Jack. “Is there anything going on that I need to know?”

He turned his eyes abruptly to meet hers.

“No,” he said. “Nothing you need to know.”

“I feel so badly about Neville,” Annabel said. “Not knowing about Priscilla, whether he should stay here or go back home. . . .”

“He's paying for his extra night here, isn't he?”

Annabel spun on her husband. “Jack! How unfeeling of you! Of course, he's not paying. He offered, but I said he could stay here as our guest.”

Jack grunted.

Annabel settled back against her pillows. “I know it was uncomfortable when the police chief kept asking you about Priscilla,” she said. “But that was just his job. He had to ask those questions. Now hopefully he can find out what happened and we can move forward.”

“You'll keep going on with the renovations?” Jack asked.

Annabel looked over at him. “Do you think I should?”

“Yes.” He smiled at her. “In fact, I'm going to help finish the fireplace myself.”

She returned his smile.

“Where do you think they went?” Annabel asked him.

“Who?”

“What do you mean, who? Priscilla and Paulie.”

Jack shrugged. “They ran off together. She was kind of trampy, wasn't she?”

Annabel frowned. “Not at all. How can you say that?” She thought Jack was being awfully cavalier and insensitive.

“Besides,” she said, “Paulie's truck was still in the driveway . . . and Priscilla left her things.... Jack, something bad happened here today. The chief speculated that whoever killed Roger Askew may have come by here, disposed of the hand, and then taken Paulie and Priscilla away, maybe at gunpoint or something.”

“So he was certain that the hand in the wood box was this guy Askew's?”

“Yes,” Annabel replied. “There was a tattoo or something that clinched it.”

“Well,” Jack said. “It's as good a theory as any.”

Annabel shuddered. “If I hadn't run to the market at that particular moment, he might have taken me, too.”

Jack reached over and stroked her hair. “It's okay, baby,” he said.

“But Jack,” Annabel went on, “I worry about the publicity. I mean, with everything . . . the hand in the wood box, Cordelia's death, the missing people . . . We'll never break free of the macabre reputation the Blue Boy has had for so long.”

“Well, I wouldn't worry your sweet little head about it, angel baby,” Jack said, rolling over toward Annabel. “We are going to be a huge success. Trust me.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I know I'm right.”

He began to kiss her. Annabel tensed. She didn't feel like making love. Not after everything that had happened today.

But unlike last time, Jack was rock hard.

She couldn't stop him. She felt him grab hold of her pajamas and yank them down. He mounted her, and without any foreplay at all, he clamped his lips onto hers and entered her, roughly and abruptly. Annabel shuddered. She surmised that Jack was acting as quickly as he could, before he went limp again like last time. He thrust into her four or five times, then reached orgasm. He withdrew and rolled over onto his back again, breathing heavily.

Annabel just lay there. She felt dirty and violated. Their sex life hadn't been good in some time, but it had never been like that, so quick and so rough. Soon Jack's breathing turned into snores. Annabel slipped out of bed and took a long, hot shower.

More than ever, she wanted to run. Run as fast as she could and as far as she could, far, far away from this strange old house and these dark, cold woods, until she was safely back among the skyscrapers, bright lights, and taxicabs of New York.

“T
hanks very much,” Neville said, accepting the mug of coffee and gratefully bringing it to his lips.

The morning sun was streaming into the kitchen. The Englishman watched as Annabel sat opposite him. Neither had said more than a few words since getting up. Neville had been unable to sleep much. He'd tossed and turned all night, and one glance in the mirror had shown him just how tired he looked.

“What will you do?” Annabel asked. “I mean, how long will you wait?”

“Well, the chief wants me to stick around for a while. He said he might have to ask me more questions.” Neville grinned sheepishly. “I guess I'm a suspect.”

“We all are,” Annabel said, “but there's no evidence any crime was committed.”

Neville sighed. “Well, I'm not scheduled to fly back home to England for another week, but Florida is certainly no longer in the game plan. I'll stay here a few more days, if that's okay. I'll be glad to pay for my room—”

“No,” Annabel said. “I wouldn't hear of it.”

“Please, I can't stay for free.”

Annabel shook her head. “After all we've been through, I insist you stay as our guest.”

“You're very kind,” Neville told her.

They exchanged small smiles.

“It must be so hard for you,” Annabel said after a pause. “Worrying about Priscilla. We've got to just continue to hope that she's okay.”

Neville frowned. “I suppose that's the way to look at it, but I must be honest and tell you, I think she's gone for good. Whatever madman stabbed that man on the trail in the woods has taken her, as well as that man who was here working on the fireplace. And given how he butchered his first victim in the woods, I don't suspect he's going to go any easier on these two.”

“But if he
has
taken them, as the chief suggests,” Annabel said, “then maybe he's using them as hostages. Maybe he'll release them unharmed. This Roger Askew was occasionally a drug dealer. It was probably a revenge killing, and the murderer will try to use his hostages to negotiate with police. We've got to keep believing that Priscilla and Paulie will be returned safe and unharmed.”

“I like your optimism,” Neville said, taking another sip of his coffee and then setting it down on the table in front of him.

Silence resumed. Nobody had mentioned breakfast.

“Is Jack still sleep—” Neville began to ask, but at the same moment his coffee mug flew off the table, shattering on the floor and spraying the hot brown liquid everywhere.

“Oh!” Annabel exclaimed.

Neville jumped up. “Dear Lord, did I do that?” he asked, flustered and surprised. “My arm wasn't anywhere near it, I swear! It just fell off on its own!”

“It doesn't matter,” Annabel said. She had sprung to her feet and grabbed a dish towel and was now soaking up the spilled coffee. “We're all jittery this morning.”

Neville was squatting down beside her, collecting the shards of pottery from his mug. “But, really, I didn't do it. It was the strangest sensation. It almost seemed as if a child ran by and knocked the mug from the table. A child—a little person.”

Annabel stopped what she was doing and looked over at Neville. Their eyes met just a few inches apart.

“A little person? What do you mean? Did you see something?”

Neville stood, carrying the shards over to the trash and dropping them inside. “No, not really. It was just how you sometimes have a sense—see something very briefly in your peripheral vision, maybe, and you get a sense of something. It felt like someone ran by the table and knocked the coffee to the floor deliberately. Someone small.”

Annabel stood, dropping the coffee-soaked dish towel into the sink. She seemed struck mute by what Neville was saying.

He tried to smile. “Well, don't I sound like a lunatic. I suppose you're right. We're just jittery. I'm sure I did it myself, and I apologize.”

“No need . . . to apologize,” said Annabel, though she continued to seem very distracted.

Neville watched her as she walked out of the kitchen toward the parlor. She seemed to be looking for something. He poured himself more coffee into a new mug and sat back down at the table. Annabel returned in a matter of minutes.

“Everything all right?” he asked her.

“Yes. I was just . . . listening for Jack.”

“He's still asleep then?”

“No,” Annabel told him, sitting back down. “When I awoke, he was already up and getting dressed. He said he was going to work with Zeke this morning repairing some broken eaves in the attic. He said we were losing a lot of heat through there.”

“Yes,” Neville said. “I think I heard them banging around up there this morning.”

“I'm sorry if they disturbed you.”

“Not at all.” He cupped his mug in his hands, careful to keep it away from the edge of the table. “So no more guests arriving?”

“No,” Annabel replied. “There had been a couple scheduled for next week, but I called and canceled, refunding their money. Until all of this is over—in fact, until the renovation is done—I think it's best not to have anyone staying here.”

“That's smart,” Neville said.

Suddenly he felt compelled to say something.

“You know, I'm not sure why I need to tell you this, but here goes.” He paused for just a second. “I don't think I'm in love with Priscilla. I think maybe that's why her behavior toward Jack the other night didn't really bother me.”

Annabel lifted her eyebrows. “I see,” she said.

“Of course, I want her to be found,” Neville went on, “and to be safe and unharmed and all of that. But I'm not in love with her. If I were, her behavior would have been very troubling to me.”

Annabel gave him a tight smile. “I think what you're telling me is that I ought to have found Jack's behavior troubling.”

“No, I would never presume to suggest—”

“It's okay,” Annabel said. “I did find it troubling. Jack was the aggressor, not Priscilla. But, you know, I'm not nearly as troubled by it as I might have been.”

They shared a small smile again.

Neville liked Annabel. He suspected her marriage was not very good. Almost as if he were reading her mind, he saw the Blue Boy Inn as their last, best try to make things work. And now, to be hit with all this . . .

Annabel excused herself. She needed to call Chad Appleby. She was determined to press on with the renovation, and she hoped Chad would be as well.

Neville sat at the table looking across the room, staring out the window into the gray winter day. Where was Priscilla? What had happened to her? Would she come back?

And if she did, would he tell her what he had just told Annabel?