“Well, we’re glad you’re here safe and sound. If you’ll just follow me, Ms. Greene, I’ll show you to your room.”
“Please, call me Melody.” Using her most ingratiating smile, she looked up at the man and noted in response, a faint upturning at the corners of his mouth. Personally, she didn’t care much for her name and usually went by Mel, but men seemed to like ‘Melody,’ and as a ‘wannabe’ hard-nosed journalist, she didn’t hesitate to use the fact to her advantage.
“Melody, then. And you may call me Edward. Follow me.” As she walked behind him, Mel mentally gave herself a point. Getting on a first name basis with the people you were going to interview was a great way to ensure they would be willing to open up to you—or so her college instructors had told her. And, while she wasn’t going to be interviewing this man exactly, she was hoping to extract a few bits of information from him.
As he led her into her room, she thanked him politely and noticed that he was looking at her surreptitiously. Mel knew what he would see. At five foot four, she wasn’t tall, but she balked against the label of short. Her figure was a little disproportionate, being rather too rounded up top, and bit narrow in comparison around the hips. Her legs were slim, and thankfully, due to that fact, looked longer than they actually were. Shoulder length, honey brown hair, and deep brown eyes gave her a warm, friendly look as did her generous smile.
Her college professors had told her that her friendly, girl-next-door appearance would help her make contacts and win the confidence of those she interviewed. Personally, Mel longed to be a drop-dead gorgeous, sophisticated reporter, who could wrap an interviewee around her finger with a mere bat of her eyelashes and some pithy repartee.
It was impossible for Mr. Mancini to know what she was thinking, but for some reason the man’s lips twitched as he finished giving her a once over. He made no comment however, merely nodding his head and exiting, softly pulling the door shut behind him.
As the locking mechanism clicked into place, Mel turned to examine her room only to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A mortified groan escaped her. No wonder Mr. Mancini had trouble keeping a straight face. Her hair was a mess, her coat was buttoned crooked, and there was a smudge of chocolate from her make-shift lunch smeared across her chin. Her shoulders sagged; so much for being sophisticated.
Shrugging off her coat, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her boots off before flopping backwards on the mattress. Oh well, even if she looked a mess, Edward seemed to like her, and that meant he’d most likely be willing to talk to her when she started doing her research.
As she stared at the ceiling, she ran over her mental checklist on ‘how to be a journalist.’ Establish contacts—check. Be friendly so the other person will open up and talk to you—check. Listen attentively—umm, not quite a check.
Mel gnawed on her lip. That was always the hardest part for her. She tended to be a bubbly, outgoing sort who loved to talk and was always forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt the interviewee with her own random thoughts. In her mind, she tattooed the words ‘shut up, Mel’ across her brain, while ruefully acknowledging that it probably wouldn’t help.
Last on her to-do list was reporting the real story without personal bias creeping in—another partial check. ‘Report the facts,’ the instructors had always told her, ‘not opinions.’ Unfortunately, Mel tended to have lots of opinions about almost everything, and found it hard not to state them. Well, she inwardly shrugged, at least for this assignment all she needed to write was a straightforward report on a person’s life. A photographer wasn’t likely to be involved in anything controversial and his life couldn’t be that interesting. After all, the man took pictures of flowers and wildlife; she doubted she’d be able to muster much of a personal opinion about that!
The final report wasn’t due for several months, so once she’d tracked the fellow down and interviewed him, she’d have plenty of time to write his life story. Writing was what she did best and those were the courses where she’d received her highest marks. Words seemed to flow through her mind and onto the page in an unending stream. In fact, writing too much tended to be her biggest failing in that area. Luckily, it shouldn’t be a problem in this circumstance, she decided. The report didn’t have to fit the confines of a newspaper column, so she’d be able to ramble as much as she wished… provided Mr. Taylor had anything in his life worth rambling about!
Lying on the bed, she absentmindedly studied the design on the ceiling and thought about what she’d discovered so far. At first, she’d done the most obvious—searching Ryne Taylor’s name on the web. The internet hadn’t turned up much; he was a photographer of some minor renown specializing in nature photography. A few art galleries had shown his work with sales being modest. The picture that had sparked her benefactor’s interest had been purchased at Bastian’s Fine Art Gallery. It was located just a short drive from the man’s last known address, which was in Smythston, Oregon. The previous week, she’d phoned the gallery, but the call had produced very little information. Yes, they had sold a Ryne Taylor photograph to a Mr. Greyson. No, there was no information available to the public about the photographer himself.
The fact that the information wasn’t available to the public meant that there was information available; Mel just needed to find a way to get her hands on it. Unable to find an address or phone number for the mysterious Mr. Taylor, she was resorting to what was affectionately called ‘old fashioned leg work.’ Hence, she found herself travelling half-way across the country in the middle of February to this small non-descript town.
Stretching, she ran her hands through her hair and forced herself to sit up. While she would prefer to be investigating someone on a tropical island, her present location wasn’t all bad. Giving a small bounce, she deemed the bed comfortable and looked around the room, for the first time taking real note of her surroundings.
Decorated in turn of the century elegance, the room had gleaming wood and rich hues throughout, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere. Aside from the mirror that had revealed her less than perfect appearance, there was a small fireplace with a love seat in front of it, a breakfast table and two chairs, a bed, night tables and a dresser. A door to the side of the room appeared to lead to the bathroom, which made Mel recall her earlier desire for a warm shower and a meal.
Calling the front desk, she arranged for the delivery of a meal to her room. While it was being prepared she headed for the shower, emerging fifteen minutes later wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, and feeling considerably refreshed.
Her timing was perfect. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her meal and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Thanking the slight girl who wheeled the cart in, Melody spared her a momentary glance. The girl had dark hair and green eyes; a pretty thing, only slightly younger than herself.
“If you need anything else, just call downstairs and ask for me. My name’s Elise.”
“Thanks, Elise.” Mel lifted the lid off her plate and inhaled the delectable scent of steak cooked to perfection. “Have you worked here long?”
“For about four months. I usually just work in the tea room but Mr. Mancini asked if I’d help out up here this weekend. There’s a ’flu bug going around and he’s short-handed.”
Mel forced herself to ignore her meal in favour of cultivating yet another local contact. Four months was long enough for Elise to have possibly encountered the elusive photographer. “This seems like a lovely place. Do you get lots of business?”
“It’s steady. Lots of locals stop by downstairs for lunch and a few rent rooms up here for weekend getaways or if they have company and need a place for guests to stay. And, of course, we get a few travellers such as yourself. Where are you headed?”
“Actually, I’m a free-lance journalist and I’m researching local artists for an article.” That was the story Mr. Aldrich, the lawyer, told her to use. He didn’t want anyone knowing who she was really working for. Mr. Greyson liked to keep his life and
his interests private.
Elise smiled at her. “Be sure to check out Bastian’s Gallery, then. It’s just down the road and they show quite a few of the local artists.”
“Thanks. I’ll put them at the top of my list.” Even though she’d already planned on going there, she didn’t want to hurt Elise’s feelings.
Elise nodded and Mel noticed how she was rubbing her stomach. Hmm, was the girl coming down with the ’flu, too? Or, was she pregnant? Mel recalled how a fellow waitress, Nicole, had always been rubbing her belly when she was expecting. Eyeing Elise speculatively, Mel wondered if there was a slight thickening of her waist. It was hard to tell, with the apron wrapped around her. Oh well, it really wasn’t any of her business.
“Well, I really should get back to work. I hope you enjoy your stay here.” Elise headed towards the door.
“I’m sure I will. It’s been nice talking to you, Elise.” Her stomach chose that moment to rumble again and she pulled a self-deprecating face.
Elise laughed softly and pulled the door shut behind her.
With Elise on her way, Melody sat down to enjoy her dinner. As she’d suspected, the food was delicious and soon her plate was empty. With a satisfied sigh, she sat back and checked her watch. It was five-thirty. She could walk down to Bastian’s Gallery and see what information she could dig up about Ryne Taylor, but she was tired. Being charmingly casual, while making subtle inquiries, seemed like too much of an effort at that moment. A nap was eminently more appealing.
Getting to her feet, Mel heaved her suitcase up onto the bed and dug out an old t-shirt to sleep in. It wasn’t fancy, but then again no one was going to be seeing her in it and it packed easily. Shaking the wrinkles out, she took off her robe and pulled the grey t-shirt on. Her skin immediately raised into goose bumps as the cool cotton slid over her body. She shivered and pushed back the duvet, climbing between the crisp sheets and curling up into a shivering ball. Soon her body heat was warming the bed and she felt her muscles relaxing. Stretching out, she sighed and closed her eyes. She’d just take a little nap and then…
Chapter 2
Sun streamed in through the lace covered curtains and fell upon the table situated in front of the window. It glinted off the highly polished, wooden surface, and cast a cheery glow over the whole room. The brightness made Mel squint and grumble against the assault on her vision. Her little nap yesterday had been much longer than she’d intended. Despite sleeping for over twelve hours, or perhaps because of it, she felt exceptionally groggy that morning. Perhaps, it was due to the fact to that this was the first time, in what seemed like ages, that she had actually been able to get a decent night’s sleep. Whatever the reason, her body was reluctant to let go of the wonderful sensation of resting in a warm cloud of eiderdown and fresh linen.
Back home in Chicago, her little apartment had intermittent heating, a lumpy mattress and paper thin walls. The latter provided her with the privilege of hearing the tenants on all sides of her arguing, watching TV or engaging in… er… physical relations, at all hours of the day and night. That, on top of working two jobs in an effort to try and raise money for her education, meant she was chronically bleary-eyed and over-tired. Friends told her to move, but being situated by the El—elevated train tracks—meant the rent was cheap and with the building located mid-way between her two jobs, she felt she could suffer through the inadequacies of her dwelling with the ultimate goal of being able to afford better some day.
But now it appeared all that would be behind her much sooner than anticipated. Blinking sleepily, Mel propped her chin up with her hand while sipping her coffee and pondering yet again the providential turn of events that had landed her in her present situation. Researching this photographer was going to be a piece of cake and the substantial windfall the assignment was paying would mean she could quit one of her jobs and go back to school earlier than planned. With any luck, today she’d find out where Ryne Taylor resided and tomorrow she would be on her way to his home. A few days of talking to him and the preliminary part of the job would be done.
A smile passed over her lips as she thought of how Mr. Taylor would react when he finally heard the news that he was the focus of an article. He’d probably welcome the attention given him. After all, trying to make a name for yourself in the art world was no easy task. Perhaps, Mr. Greyson even wanted to become the photographer’s patron and the article was destined to be published in some fancy art magazine. Mel brightened at that thought since it would help her own career along, too. Hmm… Mr. Taylor and she might both end up benefitting from their encounter in ways neither could even dream of at the moment.
Feeling the caffeine finally activating the synapses of her brain, Mel began to take a more active interest in the happenings outside her window. The snowstorm had passed by overnight and the sun was causing the temperature to rise. Icicles dripped from the eaves and the fluffy white snow of yesterday was slowly melting into a miserable, soggy mess. Early morning commuters drove slowly down the narrow downtown streets, streams of slush spewing behind them. Snowploughs must have been working during the night, as piles of snow lined either side of the roadway. Merchants were out shovelling walkways and spreading salt on icy patches so that customers wouldn’t slip and fall while purchasing their wares.
A silver pick-up truck pulled in near the curb in front of the Grey Goose and Mel watched the scene below her with increasing attentiveness. First, a tall dark-haired man climbed out. From her second storey vantage point, she could easily make out his features and her heart beat a little faster in appreciation of his male beauty. He circled the vehicle and opened the passenger side door, reaching in and lifting a woman out and over the piles of snow onto the safety of the sidewalk.
Mel smiled; Good-looking, strong, and chivalrous. Observing the man tenderly kissing the woman and then lingering to watch her walk away, she sighed with envy, her hidden romantic streak making itself known. The fellow was obviously smitten. Wasn’t that just the way? The good ones always seemed to be taken.
The woman turned to wave at the man and Mel caught a brief glimpse of her face. It was Elise, the girl who had brought in her meal last night. What a lucky little thing she was, to have a man like that! Hmm… Maybe she should ask if he had a brother. Mel wrinkled her nose and shook her head, quickly dismissing the idea. Nah—hunky men usually didn’t go for the-girl-next-door types such as herself. They were after sultry beauties and sexy models that would look good hanging off their arm.
On that depressing note, Mel stood up and began to dress. The local businesses would be open for customers soon and it was time she got to work looking for information about Mr. Taylor. First, she would stop by the art gallery and see if she could wheedle any information out of the sales associates. Then, if that was a dead end, she’d search out Edward Mancini, and maybe even Elise. There was always the possibility that the photographer had stopped by the tea room for lunch when he was at the gallery making arrangements for the sale of his photographs.
She wished she had a picture of the man, or at least a description. It was always easier for people to recall someone from a photo rather than from a verbal description, which she didn’t have either, she glumly acknowledged. Mr. Aldrich hadn’t given her much to go on, beyond the man’s name and occupation. Oh well, the town wasn’t that big. Maybe it was the kind of place where everyone knew everybody’s business.
Taking a final sip of her coffee, she put on her coat and left the room, her spirits high in anticipation of a successful morning.
*****
Three hours later, Mel was back at the Grey Goose, sitting in the downstairs tea room, determinedly crunching a breadstick and totally unaware of her elegant surroundings. The potted plants, the period furniture, the soft music in the background, were all lost on her as she wallowed in her own bad mood. She knew her frustration was evident on her face, but quite frankly didn’t care. Her morning optimism was gone and replaced by the starkness of reality.
After
oohing and aahing over dubious artwork and schmoozing with the people who worked at Bastian’s, she was still no closer to finding anything out about Ryne Taylor. The staff at the gallery had been friendly and admitted that they had sold some of his work, but no one was willing to talk about the man himself. All Mel had been able to garner was that there was a bit of a black cloud hanging over the whole topic. A few sly hints were dropped about a former, now missing, sales associate having had an affair with the man and somehow misdirecting the proceeds from the sale of Taylor’s work into her own account, but that was all she could discover.
When she’d first heard that little tidbit, the journalist in Mel had perked up her ears. This sounded like a mystery worth investigating. It had all the right elements; a missing person, a steamy affair, pilfered funds… But when she’d tried to question them for more specifics, everyone had become uneasy; their barely suppressed enjoyment over the titillating scandal disappearing behind suddenly shuttered expressions. Mel instinctively felt they were hiding something, but what? Finally, the gallery owner himself had come over and glared at his workers, who had taken one look at his disapproving face and scurried off to the far corners of the establishment. Once they were gone, he’d addressed Mel coolly, informing her in the politest of tones that she was keeping his employees from their work. Unless she was intending to buy something, perhaps she should be on her way.
Realizing that she had broken a basic rule of journalism and been too pushy, too soon, Mel left, all the while mentally kicking herself for alienating what was presently her only sure source of information. She knew she was supposed to be patient and not appear as if she was pumping people for information, but it was just so frustrating. Pregnant pauses made her fidgety and usually she ended up filling them, totally defeating the purpose. Those people had the information she needed somewhere in their records. Why wouldn’t they share? Surely, Mr. Taylor would welcome the publicity, if he only knew it was available to him!