Three Little Words. Carrie Alexander
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reared back. “Good heavens, no!”
Claire produced a dutiful chuckle. “Mr. Reed was making a joke, Em.”
Maybe not, Connor thought, although he was prone to finding sinister implications even where there were none. A hazard of his profession, where the boy next door was likely a freckle-faced killer.
“There is no crime at Bay House,” the older woman scolded.
“Of course not.” Claire avoided Connor’s eyes so carefully he knew she was wondering if he was here to investigate a story.
“That’s good to hear,” Connor said. “Seeing as I’m on vacation—” he stressed the word for Claire’s benefit “—I’d rather not be awakened by bumps in the night.”
Claire scoffed as she came back around the desk and reached for his gym bag. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that.” Connor got the bag before she did. She straightened, giving him a genuine smile as she raised a hand to her mouth to whisper, “Shari has a heavy step.”
He nodded, liking Claire. If she’d made an instant judgment on his name, she hadn’t let it color her conduct.
“This way, Mr. Reed.” He followed Claire up the stairs as she rattled on about the history of Bay House and its owners, the Whitaker family. “I’m putting you in the bridal suite.” She put the heavy latchkey into the keyhole and cranked. “The room is named after the family’s infamous jilted bride, Valentina Whitaker. Don’t be put off by any rumors you may hear. They have little basis in reality and are purely speculation.” Claire’s eyes danced. “Or so Emmie makes me say.” She opened the door with a flourish.
“Sounds like a subject I’m not sure I want to explore.” Connor dropped his gym bag to the floor as he moved into the room. It was bright and airy, decorated with a mix of homespun—rag rugs, a folded quilt, an old-fashioned washstand—and froufrou—a crystal chandelier and a lot of photos in fussy silver frames.
“This’ll do,” he said. The best thing about the room was the bed. A big and sturdy four-poster. He could peel back the pristine linens and delicate lacy stuff and collapse.
Claire gestured. “You have a small balcony and a private bath. And, of course, Valentina.”
Connor looked at the wall she indicated. An oil-painting portrait was prominently featured above the fireplace. A serene blonde posed in her wedding gown, hands clutching a bouquet of white roses. “Uh-huh,” he said. Claire was waiting for further reaction, so he added a salute. “Nice to meet you, Valentina.”
“Nice?” Claire made a face. “That wasn’t my reaction.”
Connor turned away. “I get all kinds.”
“Oh!” Claire looked mortified. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear, making a dangling earring swing against her neck. “I didn’t mean you. Valentina’s the one I’m not comfortable wi—” She stopped, rolled her eyes, then started again. “What I meant was…”
Connor winced while she fumbled for words. For all that he told himself he didn’t care, he remained hypersensitive about other people’s reactions to him. Claire might be a rare open-minded individual, but few were immune to overwhelming public opinion. The gossip would start soon enough, and he didn’t want to put these well-meaning people in the middle.
He shot a look over his shoulder, interrupting Claire. “Listen, don’t worry. I’m not here to make trouble. I should be checking out in a couple of days.”
Claire’s face was pink and worried. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, but there was a classic grace in her strong bones, tall form and abundant curves. Up to now, her manner had been assured, so he doubted that she was normally so easily flustered. It had to be him or Valentina. And who could be disturbed by a bride, even one who’d refused to smile?
“Please, Mr. Reed. You must stay as long as you’d like. We don’t take reservations for this room, so it’s yours for an extended stay if you wish.”
“All right, thanks,” he said, unsure of his plans but wanting to erase Claire’s worried frown.
“Anything you need, please ask. Emmie and her brother, Toivo, the owners, are usually on the premises. I’m here almost every day. Breakfast is served in the dining room, or you can arrange for a tray….”
Connor nodded her out of the room, sensing that she was on the verge of asking him his business in the area if he gave her an opening. He didn’t. His face was a mask.
Finally she said good-day. He closed the door and pressed a palm to one of the raised panels, leaning all his weight against it as his heavy eyelids closed.
Finally alone. Thank God.
The funny thing was that he used to be what was commonly called a people person. Go back to his college days, even a few years ago, and he was right there in the center of it all, ready to talk and argue and laugh with anyone who showed a glimmer of a fascinating mind.
Now he was so…exhausted.
Not only from defending himself. He was tired of talk, tired of words, tired of the way both could be twisted and distorted. As if it was all just a cruel game.
Be damn grateful you’re no longer a player, he thought, but inside he knew that was a cop-out.
He’d played. And he’d lost more than he’d ever imagined.
A vital part of himself was missing.
TESS’S HEAD SWIRLED with horrific images and words as she drove to the Three Pines nursing home, twenty-five miles from Alouette on a twisty two-lane country road. The highway was a better route, but also longer and busier. She wanted time to think before seeing Connor again.
To think in peace. If she could get the awfulness out of her head.
She’d only scraped the surface of all the information available on the Internet on Connor Reed, though the majority of it—muck included—had centered on his most recent involvement with the overturning of the murder conviction against Roderick Strange. Several years ago, Strange had been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of a young woman in rural Kentucky. He’d also been suspected in several other disappearances, but there hadn’t been enough proof. Finally, in the Elizabeth Marino case, he’d been convicted and sent to prison.
Until Connor’s involvement.
Connor Reed was a very successful true-crime writer. The Alouette library had a couple of his books, including his blockbuster bestseller, Blood Kin. Even though she hadn’t read any of them—being partial to cozy mysteries over the stark and often bloody reality of nonfiction—she was surprised she hadn’t immediately recognized his name. Maybe making up her own stories about him had distracted her. Little had she known that by comparison with the truth, her imaginings were harmless.
About a year and a half ago, at the peak of the original trial, Connor had signed a ballyhooed, big-bucks contract with Scepter Publishing to write a book about Roderick Strange. According to the news reports, during the months after the man’s guilty verdict Connor had uncovered vital evidence and given it over to the courts, which ultimately led to Strange’s conviction being overturned. People had been in an uproar. There were protests, public debates, hate mail and death threats. Connor was roasted over the coals by many, defended by only a spare few.
Though he’d been invited to all the talk shows, he’d spurned the attention and made little public comment. Even that had been turned against him by those who said he was only looking to cash in by saving the inside story for his impending book.
So far, there was no book. Tess had perused the Scepter Publishing Web site, but found no firm publishing date for a work by Connor Reed. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t already written the manuscript….
She wrinkled her nose, slowing at the intersection where the country road crossed with the highway. The idea of such a book was distasteful. In good conscience,