by Mira Gibson
“I have you on surveillance footage here at the resort. You went into Benjamin’s room.” She said nothing and tried not to look terrified. “Your alibi at McCoy’s doesn’t check out either. You were never there.”
“I can explain-”
“You might not have to,” he cut in, dismissing her.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not my prime suspect.”
Relieved, she breathed, “Okay.”
“I’m going to ask you a straight forward question and I won’t accept anything other than a straightforward answer.”
The statement pitched her into sudden dread all over again, but she agreed without question.
Angling in and speaking discretely, he asked, “What can you tell me about Rose’s affair?”
Roberta came to mind, but she asked, “What affair?” He was studying her, analyzing every breath, judging every blink, but she didn't trust him with the information. “With who?”
“Lucas York.”
Chapter Fifteen
Pre-dawn twilight—gray and misty—gradually lifted as golden light streamed through the eastern windows of the resort lounge, marking the sunrise. Holly was seated cross-legged in one of the sofa-chairs, pliers in her hand, her jewelry case at her feet, a silver chain dangling from her fingers.
At the far side of the lounge, the assistant hotel manager was crouched in front of the fireplace, angling a long matchstick between logs and waiting for the flame to catch. Holly considered moving closer. The draft rolling off the windows chilled her bones, but she reasoned that the fire, once crackling, would warm the room.
She hoped the guests would sleep in. The lounge was quiet and empty except for the assistant manager, who rose to her feet and paced backwards a few steps, marveling at the fireplace and a job well done. As she started for the lobby, she smiled exhaustively—Coffee?
Holly declined and the young woman continued onward for the lobby.
She had slept badly, having gone to bed with wet hair after the long, disturbing evening.
Pinching the silver heart pendant between her thumb and forefinger, she squeezed a dab of bonding glue onto the bezel, set the tube on the lid of her jewelry case, and then used pliers to align the opal gemstone Roberta had requested in its proper place.
Sunlight pierced through the window, as she set the pendant on the case so it could dry.
Lucas and your sister were having an affair, Cody had told her.
Holly had willed herself not to believe it. Mary Cole had fed the accusation to the detective, who believed it outright. The girls were cunning, calculating, and demonic.
And yet the accusation riddled Holly with doubts.
Had Lucas been lying to her this whole time? Did his affection for her, the fact that he’d been drawn to her, amount to a perverse form of mourning? He couldn’t have her sister, so he was angling for the next best thing?
Roberta had gotten into her head, caused her to obsess over the necklace, and last night, Cody had used the same effect, passing along Mary’s unbelievable statement that Lucas York had been seeing her sister in secret at Diamonds.
She felt like her mind was splitting apart.
After weathering the conversation with Cody, she had returned to Room 112, disclosed the development to Lucas, who had seemed pained, but had denied the affair.
She had wanted to believe him, but struggled through tongue-tied excuses getting him out of the hotel, stammering nonsense about needing to join the Wythes for dinner, because she needed time to think.
As soon as he had left, she’d watched him through the glass entrance door—Lucas walking, his shoulders hunched in the biting wind. Holly hadn’t taken her eyes off his Ford, as he drove slowly out of the parking lot and hooked onto Keewaydin. When she realized she was stranded—her Saab at Rose’s house as well as the BMW, not that it was drivable—she had cursed. She had gotten one of the desk clerks to do her the favor of driving her to Shackles so she could collect her tools, some materials, enough to keep busy at the lounge even though she would’ve preferred to work and sleep in her studio, the one place that always felt safe.
Leaning forward, golden sunlight momentarily blinding her where it shafted through the window, she picked up the pendant and nudged the opal to test whether the glue had dried. It had adhered well enough so she used her fingernail to lift the bezel, working some movement into the tiny hinge. It looked good, though the irony wasn’t lost on her that she was making Rose’s necklace for the girl who had likely murdered her.
Holly couldn’t spend another minute wrestling with doubts. She wasn’t going to let a pair of teenage girls manipulate her.
But she couldn’t deny that she felt trapped. She had to find a way to convince Cody that Lucas was being set up, but feared the detective would never believe the girls were behind this. And what Lucas was going to do about it in the meantime, she didn’t have a clue.
The sound of teacups rattling on a tray stirred her from deep thought. Warren was easing through the lounge, a silver platter in his hands, a French-press filled with dark roast and antique teacups atop. He managed a chipper, Good morning when he reached her, gingerly sliding the tray onto a nearby coffee table then taking up in the sofa-chair across from her.
As he poured the coffee, he asked if she was enjoying the room.
Politely, she said, “I appreciate your hospitality,” and accepted the porcelain teacup he had offered.
“Cream?” he asked, motioning to a miniature pitcher on the tray. When she declined, he jiggled a sugar packet out of a container.
But she said, “Black is fine.”
“Have you seen the breakfast menu?” He was settling into his chair, crossing his legs and resting his own teacup in his lap.
“I’m fine for the time being.” She took a sip of coffee and wondered why the Wythe Resort was two hundred a night. The dark roast looked right but tasted watery.
Warren studied her for an uncomfortable moment. “You must be petrified.”
“I’m hanging in there-”
“You were almost killed.” He must have been able to tell she was taken aback that he had heard, because he mentioned, “The explosion. Why didn’t you say something yesterday? We had to hear it from the detective.”
“The police are handling it,” she told him as if that could possibly conclude this conversation.
“Are they?” he questioned, genuinely curious. “That’s not the impression I’ve gotten.” He scanned the wintery landscape outside, squinting through the glare and drinking his coffee in contemplative silence. “All that matters is Tucker. We must find him, get him back. I’ve been losing sleep over suspicions that the police are wasting time focusing on the murders.”
For an intellectual man who had made millions, his observation was flawed. “Warren,” she said, reminding herself to maintain a respectful tone so as not to offend him as she edged into her point. “The kidnapper is the killer.”
“Perhaps.” He didn’t seem convinced. The assistant manager was crossing through so he waved her over and when she reached them, he began listing, “Blueberry muffins, low carb pancakes with real maple syrup, and yogurt with fresh fruit,” with no pretense or thank you.
“And for you, Ma’am?” she asked, turning to Holly.
But Warren cut her off, snapping, “That is for her. You know I don’t eat breakfast.”
Though clearly insulted, the assistant manager remained stoic, working up a brittle smile and holding her shoulders back, as she said, “Certainly,” before rushing off towards the kitchen.
“I can’t possibly eat that much.”
Warren waved his hand as though it was of no consequence and refreshed his teacup.
“You don’t trust the police either,” he pointed out with remarkable intuition. “There’s no shame in being skeptical. I walk around with a lump in my throat and a lead ball in my stomach over the fact that my own son was... killed, while I slept, while Sarah slept as though n
othing was wrong. But Tucker is all that matters,” he repeated with conviction. After sipping his coffee, Warren pitched forward in his chair. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
Apprehensively, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What have you told the police?” When she said nothing, he lowered his tone. “I have resources, Holly. I can hire a private eye, get someone who's truly focused and invested.”
“I, ah...”
“You want him back, too, don’t you? Rose... God rest her soul, but Rose wasn’t the doting mother she should’ve been and she didn’t allow Sarah and I to spend as much time with our grandson as we would’ve liked. I am desperate.” He seemed choked up, but he swallowed his emotions before repeating, “Desperate to get him back.” Pleadingly, he went on, “You will never be want for anything, I can promise you. I see a future, a family, all of us. If there’s anything you know, if there’s anything you’ve heard, even if only a shred of information, perhaps something you think insignificant, I can assure you it is not.”
Debating, intrigued yet unnerved by his intensity, she finally asked, “Have you heard about Ron Conover and Diamonds?”
He frowned then encouragingly asked, “What’s Diamonds?”
“It’s a club. I thought...” She checked herself, censoring how she had arrived at knowing about the escort service. “I told the detectives, because it seemed relevant. But I wasn’t sure they had done anything about it. I don’t know for sure if they talked to Conover. I think a few of his girls could be behind this.”
“Conover, you say?” Pondering, he sipped his coffee.
It didn’t sound like a question.
The lounge was filling up, guests traipsing in and taking up in the various chairs and couches, their voices adding texture over the crackling fireplace.
Sarah Wythe floated in from the lobby, the stylish coif of her hair, her precise makeup, and the artful lines of her tailored dress clashing with the glazed-over vacancy in her eyes. Strangely, her hand was pitched in the air like Miss America. She looked lost gliding through the lounge, her gaze drifting aimlessly as though faces and furniture were one in the same.
Concerned, Warren rushed to her and in a coddling manner, brought her to his sofa-chair and eased her down. After kissing the top of her head, he offered her coffee and Holly tried not to stare at the woman who only yesterday had been lucid.
Sarah seemed delighted when she identified the teacup in her hand, smiling as though awed by a treasure. “Remember when we bought these?” she asked her husband.
“Of course,” he said curtly, but Sarah was already launching into the tale for Holly’s benefit.
“We flew to China. A filthy, just terribly dirty country, wouldn’t you agree?”
Warren’s smile seemed embarrassed.
“We went to a market, a bazaar,” she quickly corrected herself then laughed, “everyone smelled like rotting onions and I couldn’t wait to get out of there, but I insisted we buy this tea set.”
“It was the Yuyuan Bazaar in Shanghia and if I’m not mistaken, you enjoyed yourself,” he said, directing the comment to Holly before giving his wife another pat on the head as though she were a child, after which he excused himself.
Holly would’ve felt awkward being alone with Sarah if the woman had retained even a fraction of her personality, but she was far gone, lolling in a world of memories.
“I got into a bit of trouble,” she confessed as though they were close friends, setting down her teacup. “I’m supposed to apologize for showing up at your store unannounced.”
Unsure of what to say, she went with, “Oh, that’s okay,” but soon realized she had misunderstood the woman’s sentiment.
“I don’t see why I have to like you,” she said bluntly. “Benjamin didn’t even like Rose towards the end. He kept it to himself, but a mother knows.”
Was Sarah opening up? Or was this merely a flash of clarity, soon to be snuffed out when the next wave of her medication kicked in? Gambling—maybe the woman knew something about Benjamin and Roberta that Holly didn’t, some fresh angle that had strained the marriage and would give her insight—she asked, “Why didn’t Benji like Rose?”
“Oh, you girls.” She cackled, startling Holly. “When a person isn’t cut from the same cloth, they aren’t cut from the same cloth.” She shrugged as though at a loss for explaining it better. “And those blue eyes of his-”
“Benji had brown eyes,” she pointed out, confused that the woman could be so far gone she’d forgotten.
Leaning in, a knowing smile spreading across her face, she said, “Exactly.” When she straightened her back, finding something interesting about the snow-lain landscape beyond the window, she stated, “Tucker has the wrong eyes.”
Holly’s stomach lurched, suddenly realizing what the woman was alluding to. The connection, which she had never before put together, stunned her.
“Poor Benji,” she droned on. “He knew.”
“What did he know?” She needed to hear it before she would let herself freak out. “Sarah?”
The woman lolled her eyes at Holly as if on the brink of falling asleep—her eyelids heavy, a lazy smile forming across her taut face. “We love Tucker. We didn’t care about that test.” Longingly, she breathed, “We love him, sweet Tucker. We want him back.”
“Sarah.” She shook the woman’s leg to rouse her and Sarah’s eyes popped open. “What test?”
“Don’t tell Warren I told you. I’m already in trouble,” she mumbled, slipping away.
Holly began wracking her brain for the hospital where Rose had given birth to Tucker. Would Benjamin have ventured to the same hospital for a paternity test or get it done privately at a clinic?
She steadied her thoughts, though it was a struggle, reminding herself that Sarah was high on medication, as she quickly collected her tools and Roberta’s necklace, shoving them into her jewelry case and snapping it shut.
Just as she was rising to her feet, a waiter approached with a massive tray of food and Holly mentioned, “Can you see to it that Mrs. Wythe gets to her room?” before padding off to her own room to deposit the case.
Speare Memorial in Plymouth was where Rose had delivered Tucker, she recalled as she barreled into Room 112 and dropped her jewelry case on the floor, her mind reeling with the shattering possibility that Benjamin might not have been Tucker’s father.
After locking the door and rounding into the lobby, she told herself it would be crazy to jump to conclusions based on the drug induced ranting of an incoherent woman. Tucker could have blue eyes even though Rose’s had been fawn-brown and Benjamin’s had been dark as chocolate, couldn’t he? A medical anomaly, fine, but it was possible, wasn’t it? Their mother had light eyes, and Sarah’s were green.
She reasoned she would go to the hospital anyway just to set her mind at ease.
“I need a vehicle,” she told the desk clerk, whose response was bleary-eyed confusion.
“A taxi?”
“No, a car that I can drive. Warren told me this wouldn’t be a problem,” she lied.
Befuddled as he was at the unexpected demand, the clerk immediately consulted his coworkers, mumbling, Mr. Wythe as though their employer might skin them alive if they didn’t handle this swiftly and quietly.
As the clerks scrambled for a solution, pointing fingers and arguing about who among them couldn’t spare their vehicle—Not mine, there’s barely any gas, and My tires are low, and This is some serious bullshit—Holly devised she would first drive to Rose’s house, collect her twin’s identification, dress in her clothes, and then storm into the hospital to collect every last record archived under the name Wythe.
Grimacing, the clerk returned with a set of car keys and reluctantly handed them over. “It’s the brown Volvo with the I like lipstick around my dipstick bumper sticker.”
She cocked her head at that, but didn’t waste time commenting. Instead, she rushed outside and began scanning the cars in the parking
lot.
When she found the Volvo, which boasted a slew of tasteless bumper stickers—Vagitarian with two spread fingers for the V, and Two beers and I’m gay, and It was me, I let the dogs out—she discovered the door handle was encased in ice so she scraped her fingernails over the lock, inserted the key, and after whipping the door open, settled behind the steering wheel.
Some terrible AC/DC song blared through the speakers as soon as she turned the engine, but she lowered the volume, pulling around the parking lot and arching onto Keewaydin where she picked up speed.
When she reached the house, the maw where the garage used to be was charred and jagged, and she could see clearly where flames had licked towards the unscathed side of the house.
She hurried to the front door and fit the key into the lock. The foyer smelled singed as she stepped inside and the scent became overwhelming when she padded towards the stairs. A quick glance down the hallway told her why. The fire had eaten the wall, leaving it black and destroyed—electrical innards, frayed and tangled as a rats nest, poked through broken sheetrock.
She started up the stairs and walked briskly to the walk-in closet where stale smoke scented the air.
The necklace was hanging on the vanity mirror. She had every intention of acting quickly, fastening the necklace on and changing her clothes, grabbing her sister’s driver’s license from the purse Rose had favored, which was resting on a shelf above the clothing rack. But when Holly had the pendant in her hand, she became distracted, examining it from all angles.
It didn’t appear altered. Yet it looked slightly bulkier than she remembered, the opal more raised from the silver. Eyeing it closely, she discovered tiny hinges.
Using her thumbnail, she tried to lift the silver bezel, but it didn’t want to pop.
Frustrated, she fastened it around her neck, pulled her long hair out from under the chain, and changed quickly into a pair of designer jeans, a woolen sweater, and wedge-heeled boots then riffled through Rose’s purse in search of her twin’s ID.