“The hell you do.” Nobody knew what he thought of his work, or why.
Walking to the closet, she pulled a light sweater off the hanger. “I’m going out with my friends. I’ll be back in the morning. I suggest you go down to the bar and get drunk. Maybe pick someone up and have a few laughs. You can use this bed, because God knows we never fuck anymore.”
Sometimes, when he was around Vivian, he felt as if she chipped off pieces of him until someday, he would simply disappear. “I don’t like it when you talk that way.”
“About fucking? Or about the fact you can’t get it up?”
He grabbed her shoulder.
She rammed him with her elbow, right in the solar plexus.
With a whoosh, his breath left him. He doubled over in black and red agony.
“Don’t touch me.” Vivian grabbed his hair, lifted his face to hers, and leaned over until she was at the level of his eyes. “Not unless you want a divorce.”
He got enough breath to wheeze, “You wouldn’t do that.”
“No. You’re right. You’re too lucrative.” She let go of him and straightened. She headed for the door, and opened it.
“I’ll go back alone,” he said.
She halted. Turned on her heel. Looked at him, and her eyes snapped with impatience.
“I mean it.” He slowly straightened, one hand splayed on his chest.
“You will? Really? You don’t know how to do one single thing for yourself. I pay the bills. I handle the publicity. I supervise the website and the social media. And I sure as hell make all the travel arrangements. How are you going to get yourself somewhere with no air travel and no roads?”
“I’ll think of a way. I will. Vivian, my people are in Virtue Falls. My paintings.” He had to say it again. “My people.”
She drew a breath. “I’m sorry, Bradley. I lost my temper. You’re right. You’ve got an image to protect. Tomorrow I’ll start making the arrangements to return to Virtue Falls. But please, for once, think like a businessman. We’ve got to make this an event.”
“I have to get back as quickly as I can.” His chest hurt from the anxiety of not knowing what he would find in Virtue Falls.
“What’s your rush?” Vivian wore that vicious half-smile she had perfected. “Do you need to check on your girlfriend?”
“I haven’t slept with another woman since I married you.” He meant that.
“Then that’s your problem.” She meant that, too.
“Can’t you figure it out?” He held out one hand in appeal. “This isn’t about sex or money. It’s about…”
“Yes, yes. I know. I’ve heard it all before. Your heart is there. Your muse is there.” She didn’t understand. She never would. “I promise, first thing in the morning, I will make the arrangements. I’ll find out what they really need—”
“How? We’ve had no contact.”
“I’ll get a list from the Red Cross on what earthquake-stricken areas usually need, and we’ll bring it with us. We can rescue Virtue Falls and get good publicity out of it at the same time. You’ll see.” She walked back to him and patted his cheek. “I’ll get it done as quickly as I can. Until then, really—go get laid. That’s what I plan to do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Elizabeth got up early. So early that when she had dressed, and wandered out to look through the windows at the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility, it was barely light, the sun still tangled in the branches of the forest that pressed and loomed so ominously close to the building.
Funny. Yesterday afternoon, she had thought the forest a green and lush paradise, a place where wild things roamed free and she could breathe air fresh and free, away from curious eyes and cruel tongues. Now the forest seemed eerie, too tall, a dark silhouette and a place where ghoulies and goblins lurked.
What happened to the bones?
She didn’t even believe in ghoulies and goblins. Never had, not even as a child. She believed in facts, in science, in the eternal earth … all of which were changing before her eyes.
As they should. As she knew they did.
But knowing and seeing were two different things, and knowing her father was a murderer, and having him ask about the bones was creepy. Like the forest.
Didn’t you find the bones?
The echo of her father’s voice sent a shiver down Elizabeth’s spine, and she jumped violently when behind her, Yvonne said, “You’re up already! I suppose that latest aftershock woke you.”
“Yes.” Better to say that than admit she hadn’t slept a wink after her father went back to his room.
Yvonne looked her over. “Your clothes are in pretty good shape.”
“The rest are in my apartment. I don’t know when I’ll be able to retrieve them.” Elizabeth was surprised to discover she could speak so calmly, especially considering the fact that she’d spent the last hours lying flat on her back, holding the covers to her chin, staring wide-eyed at the empty doorway, afraid that her father would return … or the ghost of her mother would waft into the room.
That was the part that bugged Elizabeth; waiting for her mother made her as crazy as Yvonne and her father.
“Cute shoes, though,” Yvonne said. “But probably not comfortable?”
Elizabeth looked down at her battered Tory Burch sandals. “They were, until last evening when I ran all the way to Virtue Falls Canyon to film the tsunami.”
“You really are an odd girl,” Yvonne said impulsively, then looked sorry and embarrassed.
“I know.” A movement down the corridor caught Elizabeth’s eye.
A gray-haired, stooped man in a white coat shambled down the corridor toward them, looking like an aging basset hound.
“Who is he?” Elizabeth gestured. “One of the patients?”
Yvonne turned and gave a cry of joy. “Doctor! You made it!”
Elizabeth stared in awe and dismay. This doctor had a belly sagging over his belt, hair that looked as if birds had made their nest in it, and a red mustache completely at odds with the rest of his coloring. Her father looked more with it than this guy did.
“Hello, Yvonne. Yes, of course I made it. With a few detours here and there.” His voice sounded like a bassoon, deep and mournful.
To Elizabeth, Yvonne said, “Dr. Frownfelter is retired, but he continues his practice at the nursing home and here at Honor Mountain. He always says that if he didn’t do it, who would?”
“Because insurance doesn’t pay well on these cases, you mean, and there’s too much government paperwork?” Elizabeth asked.
“Exactly.” Yvonne turned back to him. “Doctor, this is—”
“No need to tell me who she is.” He looked Elizabeth over from top to toe. “You’re either Misty’s ghost or Misty’s daughter. I’m guessing the daughter.”
“I’m Elizabeth Banner,” she said stiffly.
“Good to meet you, Elizabeth Banner.” He shook her hand firmly, then didn’t release it.
She was too uncomfortable to pull it back. “You knew my mother?”
“I did. When she lived here, I was her doctor. Beautiful woman, inside and out.” Dr. Frownfelter squeezed Elizabeth’s fingers. “Charles was a lucky man.”
What could Elizabeth say to that? Then why did he kill her? “Some might not agree she was lucky,” she said neutrally.
“I suppose she wasn’t as intelligent as Charles, but when it came to relationships, she was shrewd. Earthy. Rock solid. She adored Charles and adored you. So you need to think about that before you accuse your father of some dastardly crime.” Dr. Frownfelter’s heavy eyelids sagged over his faded blue eyes. “I delivered you, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.” The fact left her feeling vaguely uncomfortable, as if he’d peeked at her underwear.
Dr. Frownfelter didn’t seem to notice. To Yvonne, he said, “How did Charles handle the earthquake?”
“He loved every minute.”
“Of course he did.” The doctor smiled.
“Dr.
Frownfelter was the prison doctor almost the whole time your father was incarcerated,” Yvonne told Elizabeth. “They spent a lot of time together, and know each other well.”
Didn’t you find the bones?
Dr. Frownfelter shrugged his massive shoulders. “We spoke the same language—pretty rare in that place. I wish I had been able to get him out of there sooner. An earlier application of medication might have slowed the disintegration of his brain.” At last he released Elizabeth’s hand. “Of course, if we had done that, he might not now be able to see Misty’s ghost.”
“You think the disintegration of his brain allows him to see my mother’s ghost?” After the night she had spent, Elizabeth half-expected him to say yes.
“It allows him to think he sees her. Good to meet you again, Elizabeth.” Dr. Frownfelter took Yvonne’s arm. “Where should I start my rounds?”
The two of them disappeared down the corridor, leaving Elizabeth feeling pleased to know Charles’s doctor didn’t believe in Misty’s ghost, and unsure what to do next. She wanted to leave the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility, but it seemed rude to rush out without saying thank you and good-bye. But neither was she going to hang around while Yvonne and Dr. Frownfelter toured the facility.
So Elizabeth gathered her gear, checking twice for her video camera and her notebook. She wrote a note and left it on the nurses’ station, and headed out the door. She had been so glad to arrive the night before … and now she was so very glad to leave.
She was in her car and driving away when she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw Yvonne and Sheila rushing toward her across the parking lot.
She stopped. Of course she did.
The two nurses stood smiling and panting.
Elizabeth rolled down her window and said, “I hope someone comes soon to relieve you.”
“They will,” Yvonne said. “Dr. Frownfelter says he worked in town before he headed out here. Most of the injuries aren’t life-threatening, and old Mrs. Smith is paying for helicopters to take the worst cases to the Portland hospitals. Virtue Falls was lucky. We were all lucky.”
“Except Mr. Cook,” Sheila said.
What happened to the bones?
“I do wonder how the old fart is doing,” Yvonne said.
Sheila dug her elbow into Yvonne’s ribs.
Yvonne smiled tiredly. “I’m getting punchy.”
Elizabeth revved the engine a little. “Thank you for all the care you’ve taken of me.”
“You bet, dear,” Yvonne said.
“Take care of that hand,” Sheila said.
Elizabeth flexed it, and felt the stitches pull. “I will.”
“Stay away from the coast!” Yvonne spoke through the driver’s window. “Go the straightest route you can to the resort, but stick with the inland roads. If there’s been slough-off, it’ll be on the coastal highway.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Take your time,” Yvonne said. “Have you got enough gas?”
Elizabeth nodded again, waved, and eased up on the clutch.
Didn’t you find the bones?
As the car began to move, Yvonne stepped back. “Let me know when you get there … as soon as you can. Your father will be worried!”
Elizabeth nodded again, waved again, and pressed on the gas. If she didn’t get out of this parking lot soon, she was going to start screaming.
Well, she was going to scream anyway, but she didn’t want to do it in front of Yvonne and Sheila. They didn’t deserve that. They were both nice women, dealing with lots of crazy, frightened people every day. They didn’t need to deal with her, too. She could handle crazy and frightened on her own. She’d done it before. She could do it again. It was just best if she … didn’t speak.
As she peeled out onto the highway, she waved again, a backward wave that in no way included a glance back.
* * *
Yvonne and Sheila walked back to the building.
Yvonne swapped her employee ID through the electronic card reader. The door unlocked, and she opened it. “I don’t know what Charles Banner said to his daughter, but he scared her to death.”
“Maybe,” Sheila said, “she saw Misty’s ghost.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Do you need anything else, lady?” Miklós Korngold watched in concern as Margaret lowered herself, inch by inch, into the Queen Anne–style chair beside her bed.
“No, Miklós. A little time by myself should do it.”
“I hang around outside your door. If you need me, you call.”
“I will.”
Miklós was twenty-one, with a pronounced Hungarian accent, a gold tooth, a hairy chest, and skinny shoulders. He was one of her projects, a needy immigrant she sponsored and employed. And thank God she had taken him in.
For the electric generators ran the essentials.
The elevator was not considered an essential.
But Margaret could not ascend and descend the stairs, at least not without young Josue Torres and his brawny arms, or four muscular employees. Josue was gone, whisked away by the helicopter to join his wife, and the employees were all busy. So Margaret was stuck either up in her fourth-floor suite or down on the main level. She had chosen up, with Miklós as her liaison.
Now she watched him perform a salute, two fingers to his forehead. He shut the door behind himself, and she groaned.
She needed to sleep. She needed to lay flat on her back, and close her eyes, and not talk to anyone, listen to anyone, comfort anyone, for twenty-four hours.
She glanced at the clock. It was just after three in the afternoon, but in the hours since last night’s earthquake, she had hardly had a moment’s rest. How could she? She was responsible for the resort and everyone in it. Even when it became clear the tsunami would do them no harm, the guests were still terrified.
She was terrified, too, yet God knows why, people expected a ninety-one-year-old woman to face death with equanimity.
She couldn’t do that. Death, she supposed, she could face; it was the manner of her death that she feared. But she didn’t quite have the energy to embrace life as she used to, either, so she rested and listened to the silence that had descended, and was glad.
While the staff had scurried around doing a preliminary cleaning, preparing sandwiches, and handing out drinks to the guests, Margaret had used her ham radio—she never threw anything away, not out here, not when it came to basic communication needs—to make contact with the outside world. Within two hours, she had the first helicopter landing in the parking lot, ready to ferry guests to Portland, to the hotel rooms she had managed to beg and cajole for them. Some guests left their cars parked here; she promised as soon as the roads were open, their vehicles would be delivered to them.
The evacuations had cost a fortune, digging deep into her emergency fund, but what were her choices? Broken glass was everywhere, glittering, beckoning, waiting to slice fingers and feet. Every time the earth shuddered, another picture fell off the wall, another table toppled. The resort was a lawsuit waiting to happen, and she would not allow some guest with more hair than brains—specifically Aurora Thompson—to take what was Margaret’s.
At the desk, the big old ham radio squawked.
So much for Margaret’s silence.
She hadn’t used the walker since she had recovered from her knee replacement, but the constant aftershocks had convinced her she needed something a little steadier than a cane. So now she pulled the blasted walker close, pushed herself to her feet, and made her way to the desk. Leaning over, she flipped the switch on the microphone and with the full weight of her annoyance in her voice, she said, “I’m fine. The resort is fine.”
A moment of silence, then Garik gasped out a laugh. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
Although Garik couldn’t see her, Margaret smiled. “Ah, boyo, it’s you.” A relief to hear from him. He had been quiet for too long and worrisome a time, months now since he’d checked in with her, and even then she could tell he
was depressed and unlike himself. “Where are you?”
“Not far away. I’m in Portland. It took me a while to remember your ham radio, but when I did, I stopped and bought one.” Without taking a breath, he asked, “What about Elizabeth? Do you know about her?”
“That I don’t.” Margaret pulled up the desk chair and seated herself. “It’s been all kinds of madness here.”
“Damn. That foolish woman is exactly the type to wander into danger without a thought.”
“The same could be said for you.”
He grunted, and wisely changed subjects. “You’re not hurt?”
During one of the aftershocks, Margaret had wrenched her back, but no point in bringing that up, not in this crisis. “No one’s hurt, not really. Some of the staff and guests cut themselves on broken glass, and we’ve lost too many of Mrs. Smith’s precious antiques, but all in all, we came out well.”
“Good.” With dedicated intensity, he asked, “Can you contact anyone in Virtue Falls to find out about Elizabeth?”
“That I can. Sheriff Foster sent one of his deputies around to check on the resort—”
“He didn’t come himself?”
“The poor lad thinks I don’t like him.”
“He’s right. You don’t.” Garik sounded amused.
“He was a pompous, self-righteous ass even when he was young, and after the Banner case, he believed his own publicity. No. I don’t like him. But you—you’re incredibly concerned about an ex-wife.” Margaret waited to hear what Garik would say to that.
“She divorced me.” He sounded defiant, incredulous—and miserable.
“And why did she do that?”
“I don’t know. Something about … me not listening, I guess.”
“You guess? You weren’t listening when she told you?”
Silence.
“So you still love her?”
“Simply because I’m worried about her doesn’t mean I still love her.”