Note of Peril

by Hannah Alexander

  “No preacher blood,” he said. “But I’ve lived a few more years than you, and I wouldn’t advise anyone to have the experiences I’ve had. Too many regrets aren’t fun.”

  She scowled. Just because she didn’t live like her parents didn’t mean she’d end up a lonely, boozing carouser like him.

  “You know what?” she said. “I’m not a kid, and I stay away from church because I don’t like sermons.”

  “Then I’ll stop preaching.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward a formal dining room at the far end of the wall of windows. “You really used to live and work in Las Vegas?” she asked, trying to mask the rumble of her stomach.

  “For several years.”

  A telephone rang in a nearby room, and he glanced at the grandfather clock that kept watch over the fireplace. “I’m sorry for the interruption, but I need to take this call.” He got up and strolled through a set of French doors into an expansive office at the far left of the great room.

  Through the glass of the French doors Delight saw him pick up a cordless telephone and settle into an executive chair behind a huge, polished oak desk.

  She got up and wandered around the room, picking up figurines and replacing them, studying the art on the walls, glancing out the windows. By the time they finished dinner it would be completely dark outside. And then what? How far could she really trust Denton?

  Grace glanced down at her menu, feeling overwhelmed. She suddenly didn’t want to be here. Why had she agreed to this dinner? And why had she accused Michael of betrayal? He didn’t deserve that.

  Michael looked up from his menu. “How hungry are you?”

  Grace spread her hands. “Not very.”

  “Trust me to order for you?”

  “Of course I trust you.” She tried to catch his gaze.

  Without looking at her, he motioned for the waiter and ordered.

  “I really do trust you,” she said when the waiter walked away.

  Michael nodded, but she glimpsed the doubt that lingered in his expression.

  She couldn’t blame him. “Michael, I—”

  “How much weight have you lost so far?”

  “Six pounds.” She gave him a tentative grin. “My clothes are already more comfortable, but don’t tell Sherilyn I said that. She’d just gloat.”

  “Believe it or not, I haven’t broken a confidence yet.”

  She felt the barb, and disappointment overwhelmed her. “Michael, I don’t know how to convince you how sorry I am.”

  He held up a hand. “I don’t want another apology. I’ve already forgiven you.” He frowned. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Just because you’ve forgiven someone doesn’t mean you’ve automatically stopped feeling the sting.”

  “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I’m afraid I want something you can’t give right now,” he said quietly, resting his elbows on the table. “You could apologize for the next hour, but today proved you don’t trust me. Not deep down.”

  “I was upset, and I struck out blindly.”

  “You don’t suspect someone you trust of betraying you.”

  “I didn’t realize it hurt you so much,” she said.

  He spread his hands on the tabletop. “I didn’t either. I guess the more I think about it, the more it upsets me.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m disappointed because I love you, Grace.” He stopped and glanced away, as if his own words had startled him.

  They certainly startled Grace. They also made her realize how very important their relationship was to her—how important it had been for a long time.

  “What really disturbs me is that you’ve known me for five years,” he continued. “If you haven’t learned to trust me in all that time, I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

  “Michael, I—”

  He held up his hand again. “I know this—” he gestured from himself to her and back again “—isn’t what I’d thought it could be. Maybe you were right. Maybe this isn’t the kind of atmosphere where a healthy romance can flourish.”

  She felt the echo of his words all through her body. He had been deeply hurt, and she’d been the one to hurt him.

  Delight’s stomach rumbled again as she strolled through the huge kitchen and inhaled the delicious aromas. Denton obviously made big bucks. This kitchen was four times the size of the one in her condo. He apparently liked to cook.

  She set her empty glass on the counter and continued her exploration to the curved staircase. Except for the occasional touches of pure country Ozark, like the primitive wooden rocker on the deck, this place screamed elegance.

  Her shoes sank into Berber carpet as she climbed the stairs. She was halfway to the top when lights came on in the upper hallway. Must be motion sensors somewhere. The trill of birdsong drifted through the hallway, followed by the muted strum of a harp. Major motion sensors.

  The upper landing also overlooked Branson, and by now a few pinpoints of light dotted the rolling hills. The tower at Shepherd of the Hills glowed with Christmas brilliance. Delight loved Branson during the holidays.

  Restless, and getting hungrier by the minute, Delight was about to return downstairs and force the issue when she noticed one closed door. The others stood open, with everything pristine and in place.

  Something about a closed door had always piqued Delight’s curiosity. Amid the sounds of birdcalls mingled with a flowing brook, she gripped the door’s handle and pushed it open.

  She flipped the lighted switch beside the door, and a golden glow illuminated a spacious bedroom suite and sitting area, a king-size mahogany sleigh bed with dresser and chest to match. A mural of Ozark forest graced the far wall. She stepped across the room to see if it was an actual painting or one of those wallpaper kits, but before she drew close enough, she spotted a desk in an alcove several feet from the bed…and a framed photographic collage at the corner of that desk.

  It was a collage of startlingly familiar photographs—all were of her.

  She crept closer as the hairs tingled at the back of her neck. None were publicity pictures. In fact, she didn’t even recognize a couple of the photos—they were from a distance…as if the photographer had snapped the shots without her knowledge.

  In the central picture she wore an open, friendly smile. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a long, tangled mess, and she wore no makeup. She hadn’t gone out in public without makeup since her eighteenth birthday.

  What was Denton Mapes doing with all these pictures of her in his bedroom?

  She heard a soft brush of movement behind her. “Delight?”

  She froze.

  “Wouldn’t you like something warm to drink?” Michael asked, his tone suddenly polite, as if he was already distancing himself from the conversation. “It’s cold outside.”

  She shook her head, took another long swallow of water and put the glass back down. “I’ve been so thirsty lately. Hot drinks just make me thirstier.” The aromas that usually caused her mouth to water now made her feel slight nausea.

  “I called the newspaper about that strange ad in the paper today,” he said. “Someone paid for it with cash, and they didn’t leave a name. Same with the singing telegram. Anonymous. I think it’s a pretty good guess that both were connected to the music box you received with the nasty note.”

  She blinked at him. “You’ve already checked that out?”

  “Of course. I know a few people I can call late on a Sunday afternoon.”

  She was deeply touched. In spite of his anger, he was still watching out for her. She’d been so scattered after her mom’s news that she hadn’t even thought to make those calls herself.

  The waiter brought the soup. Grace stared at the food, her eyes clouding with tears. Reaction was setting in. She needed to get away, needed time to think.

  It was all too much. Any other time she would have told Michael about her discussion with her mother today, asked his advice abou
t the mystery gift giver. Who else could she talk to? Not her mom, who already worried to much. Not Sherilyn. Michael would understand, and he might even drop some tidbit of wisdom softened with a dose of humor.

  But other than his attempts at detective work, Michael seemed to be withdrawing just as Grace was about to open up. How could she have done this to him?

  Michael picked up his plate and scooted from the booth. “Come on, let’s get some salad.”

  “I’m really not very hungry.”

  He stopped and looked down at her, then slid back into his seat. He reached out as if to touch her arm, but drew back. “Are you okay?”

  With the tears came the runny nose, and she fumbled through her purse for some tissues. “I’ll be fine. It’s just been a bad day, that’s all. First I read Jolene’s outrageous article, then I blow up and accuse one of my dearest friends unfairly and then find out I’m being stalked by some anonymous gift giver.” And finally I discovered that my long-lost father wants to get in touch with me.

  “Do you mean that?” Michael asked, his voice suddenly gentle. “That I’m one of your dearest friends?”

  “That’s nothing new.” She reached for her purse and slid from the booth. “I’m sorry—if I stay here I’m just going to make a spectacle of myself and embarrass us both.” She was in for a good crying jag. Time to admit defeat. “Can we take a rain check? I’ll treat next time.”

  “No, Grace, wait.” He reached for her.

  She drew away as the tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Before she could humiliate herself and make it harder for both of them, she walked out the door and into the snowy night.

  “What’re you doin’ with pictures of me in your bedroom?” Delight heard the tremor in her own voice.

  Denton looked irritable. “I didn’t expect you to come searching through my bedroom.”

  “I wasn’t searchin’. I was killin’ time while you talked on the phone forever—and you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Aren’t you being a little immature? Is it so unusual for a man to have photographs of an attractive woman on his desk?”

  “In his bedroom?” she exclaimed. “Those pictures were taken before I even started with Star Notes. In fact, I don’t even remember some of them. Where’d you get them?”

  He watched her in heavy silence for a moment, then sighed. “Would you believe they were sent to me by someone who knew of my interest in you?”

  “You knew me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t know you.” This was creepy. “You’re not some kind of stalker or something, are you?”

  “Of course not,” he snapped.

  She flung up her hands. “This is too weird.” Grace was right about him.

  Delight couldn’t go through with a seduction scene tonight or any night with this man—and that had to be what this whole private dinner was about. Maybe her parents had more influence on her than she’d thought. If her friends knew what a prude she still was…

  But no way would she sell her body for a show, not even for star billing, which Denton had never promised her anyway.

  Of course, he’d never touched her, never made a move….

  For a moment she tensed. She had to go past him to get out of this room. Would he grab her and not let her leave? He was accustomed to getting his way with women….

  She looked up to find him watching her with rapt attention, as if he’d been studying the expression on her face.

  He held a hand out to her. “Delight, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

  She stepped away from him. “I think I know all I need to.” Suddenly she wanted to be as far away from the man as she could get. What had she been thinking? Had she stooped so low, gotten so desperate for success, that she’d consider selling her body like a prostitute?

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and walked from his bedroom. “I’ll call myself a cab.”

  Chapter Twelve

  On Friday morning Grace gave in to the delicious guilt of Bertie Meyer’s black walnut waffles as she sat across from her mother at a table that overlooked the lake at Hideaway. Maple syrup pooled in the crisp squares, mingling with melted butter in a heady aroma that could make a person high.

  Her mom pushed her empty plate aside and leaned forward. “Have you called your father yet?”

  “Nope.” Grace refused to be rushed into something she wasn’t emotionally prepared to do. She placed another succulent bite of the waffle into her mouth.

  “Not that I’m nagging,” Mom said.

  Grace smiled at her and continued to eat.

  At forty-nine, Kathryn Brennan was a knockout, with a quick smile that radiated warmth and kindness, and gamine features that made her look ten years younger. People often mistook her for Grace’s older sister.

  Kathryn never sat still for long; she talked with her hands, and she had a charming quality about her that made people want to do whatever she asked.

  There were times, like now, when Grace would even call her a steamroller.

  “Looking forward to the date with Malcolm?” Grace avoided her mom’s pointed stare, turning her gaze to a flock of Canada geese taking a sabbatical in Table Rock Lake.

  “Very much.” Kathryn yielded to the unspoken request, and proceeded to fill Grace in on some particulars of the date plans and her hopes for expansion of the business.

  Grace finished her waffle and scraped the plate with her fork. She wouldn’t have a chance like this again for weeks, and she wanted to savor every bite.

  “Is your throat still acting up?” Mom asked.

  “A little.” A lot.

  “Very bad?”

  “Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. It’s probably just stress.” Either that or I’m never going to sing again.

  “What time is your appointment?”

  Grace checked her watch. “In about fifteen minutes.”

  “Does this thing with your father have you that upset? You’ve lost weight. I’m worried about you.”

  Grace shook her head. “I’ve lost weight because Sherilyn has me on a strict low-carb diet so I’ll be in shape for a television promo shot we’re doing during a Christmas show. The weight loss is a good thing.” Why was it that mothers were the only ones who didn’t see their daughters’ physical flaws?

  “So you’re not worried about talking to your father?”

  “I’ll be fine with it. Honest. I just haven’t worked up the nerve to call yet, okay?”

  “Then you’re not fine with it.”

  Grace sighed. Kathryn Brennan was relentless.

  “You know, honey, you’re right about too much stress. It’s more than any sane woman should have to deal with.”

  “I’m in show business. Sanity has nothing to do with it.”

  Mom frowned at Grace’s lame joke.

  “Sorry.” Grace decided not to mention the contract Sherilyn had been nagging her about this past week. “Don’t worry about me so much. I’m a grown woman, and I’ll be okay.”

  “What about those anonymous gifts you’ve been getting? And that strange ad in the paper Sunday? Everyone’s talking about them.”

  Grace refused to give in to the temptation to spill her guts at this point. She’d begun to brace herself for another little surprise after every show. No more had arrived yet.

  “Sometimes that goes with the job,” she said at last. It wouldn’t do to let her mother know how tense she’d been lately, how frightened she’d become about going home alone in the dark. Even driving down from Branson last night, she’d glanced in her rearview mirror a few too many times.

  “Do you think someone connected with Star Notes might be doing a lot of this stuff to boost sales?” Mom asked.

  “Could be.” Grace wanted desperately to think that was the extent of it. Information was definitely being leaked from an inside source.

  Grace knew the police could probably track down more about the music boxes and the ad, but she didn’t want to go to
the police. No crime had been committed, and they would likely tell her there was nothing to investigate. But she was spooked by all the things that had happened lately.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’ve worked with a lot of the cast from time to time over the years. Many of them are new, like Delight, Peter and Cassidy, but Ladonna, Blake, Rachel and Phoebe have been in Branson as long as I have. I know these people. I can’t imagine any of them betraying their co-workers.”

  The years seemed to have enhanced a certain quality of fire in Kathryn Brennan’s blue-green eyes when she felt passionately about something, as she seemed to at the moment. “I think you should be a little more cautious, Grace, especially with Henry dying so recently. Someone thought his death wasn’t an accident, or the police wouldn’t have been so quick to investigate.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Grace assured her. “But the medical examiner has ruled that Henry’s death was from natural causes.”

  “Even medical examiners have been wrong, you know. At least we can trust Michael. He would never do that to you for any reason.”

  “No.” Grace checked her watch again. “I’d better head toward the clinic so I won’t be late.”

  “You’ve got ten minutes, and it’s just up the street. What’s with you and Michael lately? Every time I bring up his name, you change the subject. Is there other trouble brewing with Star Notes?”

  “You mean other than the fact that Henry is dead, the remaining leadership is at loggerheads and Denton is threatening to delete several of my songs from the repertoire?”

  “Other than that,” her mom said dryly.

  “That about covers it.” Grace sighed and thought once more of Michael. She felt as if an invisible hand had reached into her body and was squeezing the life from her heart.

  She grabbed the check, hugged her mother and practically fled to the clinic.

  Michael unlocked the front door of Hideaway Clinic and flipped on the lights as he entered, glad no patients had arrived early.

  Ordinarily he didn’t work at the clinic on Fridays, but Dr. Cheyenne Gideon had expanded hours and opened two more exam rooms last week. Demand had expanded along with the clinic.