A Sister Would Know. C.J. Carmichael
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the ring of uncompromising truth.
No, in all honesty she couldn’t say she disliked the man, even though he manifestly had no use for her.
“I’ve buzzed the landlady,” Grant explained when she was almost beside him. “She should—”
He dropped the end of his sentence as a thin woman in her fifties, with sharp features and her hair up in curlers, pushed open the security door.
“Don’t just stand there, Thorlow. You’re letting in the cold.” She stood back, surprised when not one but three of them entered the warm vestibule. Her piercing gaze skimmed right past Grant and Davin to settle on Amalie.
“Ohhh!” She sucked in a breath and stared.
One corner of Grant’s mouth curled in amusement. “Identical twins.” He leaned against a bank of metal mailboxes. “Heidi Eitelbach, this is Amalie Fremont. And her nephew, Davin.”
Amalie stepped forward. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Eitelbach. My nephew and I were hoping to stay in Helena’s apartment while we—while we settle my sister’s affairs.”
“If you’re planning to settle her affairs, you can start right now.” Heidi Eitelbach stamped a small slippered foot on the linoleum flooring. “Your sister was three weeks late on her rent, and if you’ll be staying more than a few days, you’ll have to pay for the whole next month, as well.”
Amalie hadn’t counted on this. “How much?”
“Four hundred and fifty per month.”
Times two. She’d have to transfer funds from her savings. Oh, Lord, what was she doing? “Fine. I’ll write you a check now.”
The landlady appeared surprised. “I want you to know we’re real strict around here. No parties, no loud noise after ten.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
The woman wasn’t about to take her word. “Any sign of trouble and you’re out. And don’t think just because you have a kid—”
Was everyone in Revelstoke this callous? Amalie had to struggle to keep her tone civil. “There won’t be any parties, Mrs. Eitelbach. Even if I knew anyone in this town—which I don’t—my sister has just died. I’m hardly about to start celebrating.”
Grant intervened quickly. “Amalie has a key, Heidi. I’ll take her and the boy up, then come back with your check.”
“Don’t let her sweet-talk you out of it.” Heidi pointed a finger at Grant’s chest. Right about the spot where that button was missing.
“I won’t.” Grant opened the door to the stairwell. “Up one floor.”
Amalie followed Davin, with Grant behind them both. The landlady had been downright rude, and not a word of condolence about her sister’s death. Obviously, she shared at least some of Grant’s antipathy toward Helena.
A sudden urge to cry was almost overwhelming. Amalie faltered and grabbed at the railing.
“You okay?” Right away Grant was beside her, and she wondered how he could be concerned about her tripping on the stairs, when he didn’t seem to care a whit about her sister’s death.
He put a hand under her elbow as she regained her balance. Lord, he was big. His presence loomed like the mountains. Solid. Unyielding.
And very masculine.
“I’m fine.” She picked up her pace, despite the pounding of her heart, which had accelerated rather than abated during her brief pause.
At the top landing, Grant gave directions again. “First door on the right.”
Davin rushed in as soon as Amalie twisted the key. She let him go ahead, while she hesitated on the threshold with Grant.
“This is just a hunch, but I’m guessing Mrs. Eitelbach didn’t care much for my sister, either.”
Grant leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the hall. His posture was relaxed, but Amalie felt that he was watching her keenly.
“She’s a sharp old bird,” he said, “but she didn’t mean any harm. She had a lot to put up with.”
Amalie pulled her checkbook out of her purse, then searched for her ballpoint pen. “I suppose you mean from Helena?”
His gaze unwavering, he didn’t say a word.
Quickly, Amalie wrote out the check for nine hundred dollars, unable to stop her hand from shaking as she added her signature. It was so much money. Her parents would really think she was crazy if they knew.
When she was done, she contemplated her companion. The hall light overhead cast long shadows across the lower portion of his face. She noticed a mark now, under his bottom lip, where he might have cut himself shaving that morning.
“Just what is it you have against my sister? What did she ever do to you?”
Grant stepped away from the wall. “It’s not so much what she did to me as what she did to my friend.”
“Oh?”
“The man she was skiing with?”
She tried to remember. “Ramsey—”
“Ramsey Carter.” The name came out short, clipped with anger. “My best friend. My married best friend.”
Amalie stared at him. “You can’t mean—”
“Your sister was having an affair with a married man. Now he’s dead, and his widow will have to raise their two children on her own.”
Grant took her check, holding it between his thumb and forefinger gingerly, as if it were something he’d rather not touch.
“That’s one of the things I have against your sister.”
CHAPTER THREE
HELENA’S APARTMENT WAS A SHOCK. Amalie stood with her back to the closed door—Grant Thorlow’s final words still echoing in her ears—and surveyed the scene.
“Kind of weird, isn’t it?” Davin said. He’d turned on the television and was manually searching the channels. “I mean, there’s nothing here. Not even a lamp.”
It was true; the only illumination came from a bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. An old sofa—the kind you might see discarded at the side of a curb—was against the long wall of the living room. Opposite was a small TV, sitting directly on the stained, tan carpet.
“I guess Helena didn’t have much money.” Or maybe she hadn’t planned on staying very long.
Amalie set down her purse, then followed the short hallway to the right. Here was the bathroom and two bedrooms. The first was empty; the second was obviously Helena’s. On the floor was an old mattress, the bedding scattered and wrinkled.
An old oak dresser stood in the corner, next to the open doors of a closet. Eager to find something, anything, that would connect this place with the fastidious sister she remembered, Amalie opened the drawers of the bureau, but here, too, all was a jumble.
Automatically, she started sorting and folding, only pausing when the lush wool of one sweater had her peeking at the label. Cashmere, sure enough, from a designer Amalie had seen advertised in fashion magazines.
Intrigued, Amalie checked over the rest of the clothing. Interspersed with regular, department store items, the kind she normally bought for herself, she found a couple more treasures—a beautiful hand-knit sweater, some silk lingerie.
In the closet, the same dichotomy was evident. Mixed in with a beautiful Anne Klein suit and butter-soft leather pants were no-brand jeans and cotton T-shirts.
Probably the less-expensive items had been purchased here in Revelstoke, but it