Crave

by Karen E. Taylor

  I thought for a minute. “A Guinness, I guess. And a club sandwich?”

  He reached under the bar to get a glass, and pulled me a draft. “The kitchen won’t be open right now,” he said, shaking his head as he set the glass on a paper coaster, “but I’ll see what I can find for you.” He left the bar, returning a few minutes later with a small bowl filled with pretzels and chips. “No real food back there and no one to cook it if there were. But we have these. Can I get you anything else?”

  I took a sip of my beer, then shrugged. “Probably not. Unless you can recommend a good hotel nearby?”

  “That I can do, and easily, too. Right across the street is the side entrance to one of the better hotels in the neighborhood. A grand place, almost a landmark, it is. And being as it’s only a Tuesday, they should have a room or two available. When you get there, tell them Michael sent you.”

  “Thank you, Michael.”

  “A pleasure, Miss.” He set my tab in front of me. “And welcome to New York.” He moved away and tended to some of the other customers.

  I glanced at the bill and raised my eyebrows. Welcome to New York, my ass, I thought. It’s more like put your hands up in the air and give us everything you’ve got. I couldn’t believe they could charge this much for a beer. I finished my drink, thankful I hadn’t ordered more, then gathered up my bags and left some bills on the bar.

  The side door to the hotel was locked, but I walked around to the front entrance. It is a grand place, I thought, taking in the lush exterior and the uniformed doormen, much too grand for my tastes and budget. But it was my first night here and all I cared about now was a warm bed.

  Paying for the room in cash was a complication I hadn’t expected. “Yes, I’m quite sure I don’t have a credit card,” I told the woman at the reservation desk for what seemed like the hundredth time. “And I don’t see what the problem is. I have more than enough cash to cover the cost of the room. I don’t mind paying in advance.”

  “But,” she said, shuffling papers around, “what about extra costs? And what if there’s damage to the room? I need someplace to charge it. I’ll have to get somebody to okay this. And at this hour where will I find someone?” She glared over at me. “Are you sure . . .”

  “Look.” I took my wallet out of my purse, slammed it down on the counter and pushed it over to her. “Pick it up and look inside. No charge cards. Not a one. But there’s money. Take what you need to cover your ass and let me get some sleep.”

  “Is there a problem?” A large man walked up and stood next to me at the counter. A very large man. He towered over me and the woman behind the desk.

  The woman flinched. “Oh, no, no problem, Mr. Adams, except this young lady wants to pay cash and I . . .”

  “Last time I checked, Mary, cash was still the legal currency.” He glanced down at me. “She seems a perfectly nice young lady. Take her money and give her a room. I’ll authorize it.”

  She shrugged, took my money and handed me a room key and a receipt. “If you would stop by the desk tomorrow morning, Miss, we’ll give you an itemized list of charges. And we can settle up then on anything extra.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Mary.” The man smiled at the clerk, picked up my bags and took the key out of my hand. “And now I will show you to your room.”

  The elevators were ornately decorated and extremely slow, giving me enough time to study this man. He was easily over six feet tall, I judged, and probably tipped the scales at three hundred pounds or more. His skin was pale, his hair jet black; his clothes fit him perfectly. In his impeccable and undoubtedly expensive suit, he exuded a heady combination of power and charm. He certainly wasn’t the bellboy. “Thank you,” I said to him with a smile, “I really am tired and all I want is a hot bath and a soft bed.”

  “A sentiment,” he said, “with which the owners of the Westwood all agree. We are, after all, in the business of providing just that.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, I am one of the owners.”

  I laughed. “Well, I was pretty sure you weren’t the bellboy. But I appreciate you vouching for me.” I gestured at my clothing. “Especially since I don’t really look like a perfectly nice young lady.”

  He snorted. “Clothes aren’t important. You have a nice face. And a familiar one, somehow.” The elevator stopped and he allowed me to go first. “The room’s to your right,” he said, catching up with me. “But no, you can’t be familiar. This must be your first visit to town.”

  “Yeah, it is. Does it show?”

  “You seem a little lost, yes.” He stopped outside a door, unlocked it and flipped on the light. “This is a nice one,” he said, setting up a luggage rack and putting my bag on it. “These used to be apartments at one time, you know. So each room is just a bit different.”

  I looked around. It was a lovely room and I said so. He seemed pleased. I reached into my purse, then hesitated. Does one tip the owner of a hotel? He noticed my confusion and laughed. “Save it, sweetheart, and buy yourself a cup of coffee tomorrow morning. Enjoy your stay, be sure to lock the door after I leave, and if you need anything at all just call down to the desk.”

  I followed him to the door and clicked the dead bolt after it closed. “I’m here,” I said out loud. “I’m really here.” I tossed my purse onto the bed, and walked across the room. Pulling the curtains open, I looked out onto the city. It was so big. How would I ever get around?

  At least I had a place to start, thanks to Angelo. Griffin Designs, just a cab ride away tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t be there, of course, since it would be daylight. But maybe I could trade my likeness of her for an address where she would be.

  And then?

  All of a sudden I started to shake. What would I do when I finally met her? Kill her? Find her sleeping in a coffin and drive a stake through her heart? I sat down on the bed and unlaced my boots, pulling them off and tossing them across the room. I’d probably just done the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my whole wretched life. I had no plan; all I had was anger and my thoughts of revenge. Those might have carried me this far, but I doubted I could ride them all the way. And what would I do when I ran out of money?

  I got up, unzipped my suitcase and pulled out the silk bag that contained Moon’s shells. I shook them out into my hand and looked at them. I hadn’t washed them after Moon’s murder—it hadn’t seemed like something I should do—so some of them still carried the stain of her blood. A wave of anger swept over me. One more victim to add to my list of scores to settle.

  I cupped the caracoles tightly as I breathed my request for guidance into them. But I didn’t drop them. Instead I stood still for a while, listening to the sounds of the city outside. Somewhere out there was the person I was looking for, and the answers to my questions rested only with her. It had nothing to do with Moon or her shells. I was on my own, at last. Small comfort now that this was what I had wanted for many years.

  I put the shells back into their bag, noticing as I did that one of them had cut my palm. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it stung and I was bleeding. Absently, I put the hand up to my mouth and licked off the blood.

  “Ick,” I said, making a face and going into the bathroom to wash my hand and to get a drink of water. “I can’t imagine having to make a steady diet of the stuff,” I told my reflection as I rinsed my mouth. “But maybe you get used to it after a while.”

  I smiled into the mirror and examined my mouth. Philomena had always been quite strict about not ingesting blood, as if the slightest taste would cause me to grow fangs. “Nope,” I said, running my tongue over very decidedly not-sharp canines, “not tonight.”

  I stripped off my clothes, turned out the lights and crawled into bed. I lay awake and looked out on the night sky, listening to the sirens racing up and down the streets. I forced myself to not think past this particular moment, to not even consider what would happen to me tomorrow. As my eyes closed and my mind started to wander, I seemed to hear Moon’s soft voice. “Sle
ep, child. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

  Chapter 15

  I woke at dawn, having forgotten to pull the curtains closed the previous night. Once I was awake and remembered where I was, going back to sleep was impossible. So I showered and brushed my teeth, then opened my bag and took out a clean set of clothes. I laughed to myself as I zipped up my jeans; at least I didn’t have to worry about what to wear, since all I’d brought was black jeans and T-shirts. Opening my cosmetic bag, I applied a small touch of color to my cheeks and eyelids, added a little mascara to my eyelashes. I pulled out the vials that Angelo had given me one by one and lined them up on the glass shelf above the sink, reading the labels and descriptions again. Courage, attraction, disguise, confusion, command and a few others, plus the control that had worked quite well on the bus. He’d been so happy to provide them and so sure of their powers. The very least I could do was use them. But which would be most appropriate for this auspicious occasion?

  I picked up the bottle labeled “Command” and read, “Apply to palms of hands for success in bending others to your will.” I shrugged and unscrewed the cap. It smelled earthy, a combination of wet autumn leaves and fresh dirt, with a delicate underlay of rotting meat. “Yeah, ’Lo,” I said, wrinkling my nose, “people will agree to anything you want just to get the smell out.” But I took a second sniff and felt myself strangely drawn to the aroma. I dabbed just a bit on the palms of both my hands, rubbed them together and cupped them around my nose. Like so many perfumes, it had a different scent when applied to skin. “Not too bad,” I said to my reflection. “Let’s see if this one works as well as the other.”

  The Griffin Designs offices turned out to be not that far from the hotel. “You might still want to take a cab,” the woman behind the desk advised. “It’s easy to get turned around unless you know your way.” I’d made arrangements to keep the room for at least one more night, and paid in cash again. There’d been no problem this morning, perhaps because of Mr. Adams’s endorsement from last night. She’d had to answer the phone in the middle of our transaction, so I glanced around the lobby, then walked over to peer into the hotel restaurant. It was quite elegant, white linen cloths on the tables, flowers in tiny little bud vases and cut-crystal and silver salt and pepper shakers. “If you want breakfast,” the woman said as I walked back over to the desk and she handed me my receipt, “don’t eat here.” She looked around to make sure she wasn’t overheard. “Leave this place to the rich tourists. There’s a perfectly good diner one block over. And they won’t charge you New York rates for eggs and coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  I followed her instructions and found a plain place with more of a homey feel than the hotel’s restaurant. Sitting at the counter, I felt more comfortable with the glass and chrome shakers and the cheap green-speckled Formica counter. The waitress, I realized with a pang, reminded me of Moon, so I ordered a cup of coffee, deciding that my normal morning tea might make me homesick. I also ordered two pieces of toast, more to give myself something to do than to eat.

  I poured as much cream into the coffee as would fit in the cup, made a show of putting jelly on the toast. But I wasn’t particularly thirsty or hungry. I was nervous. Why on earth did I come here?

  “More coffee?” The waitress gave me a tired smile. “That’s a pretty ring you have on, honey. It’s a lily, right?” I looked down at my hand and nodded, suppressing the wave of sadness and anger I felt inside.

  “You get that around here somewhere?”

  “No, it was a gift. From someone back home.”

  “That’s nice. Must’ve been from a young man, I figure, seeing as how you’re such a pretty young thing. He come with you?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  “Oh, Lord, and didn’t I just put my foot into it? I’m sorry, honey, you’re awful young to be carrying such a sorrow.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, pulling a bill out of my pocket and putting it on the counter. “I’m not all that young. And I’m glad you mentioned it, actually, since I was just wondering what the hell I was doing here. Now I know—I’m going to meet my mother. And she’ll balance the account.”

  I walked out onto the street and hailed a cab for Griffin Designs.

  “I’d like to see Ms. Griffin.” The receptionist looked up at me with no recognition and no enthusiasm.

  “Ms. Griffin?” She held up a finger while she picked up the ringing phone. “Griffin Designs, may I help you?” She paused for a second—“Just one moment, please”—pushed a button on the console and hung up the phone, turning to me again. “Sorry,” she said, “the phones are hell right before a show. Who did you say you wanted to see?” The phone rang and she sighed. “See? They’re hell.”

  I waited. “I’d like to talk to the owner,” I said when she looked back at me again.

  “Oh, I see. She’s not here right now. Did you want to wait for her?”

  “Will she be in?”

  She shrugged. “As far as I know she will be.” The phone rang again and she answered it.

  I shook my head when she’d finished. “Man,” I said with a smile, “I’d hate this job.”

  She shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I’ve had worse. Anyway, I guess she’ll be in. At least no one’s told me differently. Do you have an appointment?”

  “Well, no, but I’m sure she’ll see me. We’re, um, old friends.”

  She nodded, looking me up and down. “Okay, then, have a seat. But I’ve got to warn you, she hardly ever hires anyone off the street. And you’re just a little bit too short.”

  “Too short?”

  The phone rang and she stopped again to answer it. I really would hate to have her job. You never even got to finish a sentence.

  It didn’t seem to faze her, though. She switched from phone to conversation without so much as a blink. “Yeah, short for a model. Otherwise, you’ve got the build for it.”

  “Scrawny, you mean?”

  She laughed. “Here we prefer the word sleek. Or lithesome. Or whatever the hell the fashion industry is pushing down our throats this week.”

  “I’m not looking for a job.”

  “Okay, whatever. Suit yourself. I just happen to know for a fact that she doesn’t have old friends. Or any friends.”

  I smiled. “Now, that’s not much of a surprise at all.”

  “You do look sort of familiar, though.”

  “I’d guess I would. I’m her . . .”

  “Shhh.” The receptionist seemed to spring to attention. As if on cue, the elevator doors opened behind me. I didn’t turn around at first. “Morning, Lucy.” The voice was deeper and more harsh than I’d expected, clipped and quick. “And what do we have here?”

  “She wants to see you. But she doesn’t have an appointment.” The phone rang again, and Lucy seemed happy to return to it. I had the feeling the owner made her nervous. Not surprising, I thought, considering what the owner is.

  “Another one?” She sounded annoyed. “Well, turn around, girlie, and let me look at you.”

  I turned and came face-to-face with a total stranger, who obviously didn’t think I was one.

  She beamed and enveloped me in a hug. “Oh, it’s so good to see you. And much earlier than you normally get about. What’s happening? How’ve you and that handsome hubby of yours been getting along?” She stepped back and took a long look at me. “Damn it, Deirdre, every time I see you, you look worse than before. What the hell have you been doing to yourself? And where did you get those god-awful clothes? And that horrible haircut?”

  I ran my hand through my hair. “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it.” She linked her arm in mine. “Send some coffee back, Lucy. And some Danish, I think.” She moved me through the inner door and walked me down the hallway. “I do hope you have time for a good gossip, Deirdre. It’s been so long.”

  We reached an office at the very end of the hall. She entered first and then beckoned me on. “Come in, come in. No need to be formal. Something m
ust be going on with you or you wouldn’t be here. You’d be cozied up in that little cabin with that detective. So sit down and tell me all about it.”

  I sat as ordered; she was such an imposing woman.

  “Well?”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Funny, very funny.”

  “I’m not joking. Who are you?”

  She stopped for a second, gave me a critical look, blinked once and moved closer to me. “Jesus.” She shook her head; her heavy earrings made a clacking sound. “You aren’t Deirdre, are you?”

  “No, I’m not her. I’m Lily Williams, her daughter.”

  “Daughter? You’re her daughter?” She took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “There’s no question about the resemblance, although now that I look closer, I see a difference. It’s your eyes, I think.” She cocked her head to one side. “They’re not as deep. Deirdre has always had eyes you could fall into.”

  I disengaged myself from her hands. “I don’t want to be rude, but who are you?”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Betsy McCain.” She reached out to shake my hand, obviously an instinctual reaction, since we’d already had more than enough body contact for politeness’ sake. “I bought Griffin Designs from your mother a couple of years ago. She didn’t tell you?”

  “Ms. McCain, I have never spoken with my mother; I haven’t met her. I didn’t even know where to find her until a few days ago.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Lucy came in with a plate of pastries and some coffee, setting it on the large desk. “Thanks, Luce. And hold my calls, will you?” Lucy nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

  Betsy walked around to the desk. “She must have had you when she was very young, I suppose.” She poured herself a cup and motioned me to come over. “Here, fix it yourself,” she said, shoving a cup into my hands. “I’m not very domestic.”

  “Not all that young.” I poured half a cup and topped it off with creamer. “Far as I can tell, she was twenty-eight at the time.”