White Mountain. Dinah McCall
in the early nineteen hundreds by a well-to-do rancher who later went broke during the Depression. After that it went through a series of owners until Samuel Abbott bought it sometime during the seventies.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. “So am I to take it that Dr. Abbott and this Walton fellow were friends?”
The clerk looked up, a little curious as to the stranger’s interest.
“Yes. Mr. Walton lived here, as do Isabella’s other uncles.”
“Isabella?”
“Dr. Abbott’s daughter.”
“Other uncles? Are you saying that the murdered man was her uncle?”
“No, none of them are related by blood, but Isabella called them her uncles just the same.”
Jack nodded. “I know what you mean. Back home in Louisiana we sometimes call an elder member of our community by such a title. It’s our way of giving them respect.”
“Yes, exactly,” the clerk said, and then handed him a key. “You’ll be on the second floor, room 200. That’s the first one on your right at the top of the stairs.”
“I noticed this house has three floors. Are any of those available? I like heights.”
She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but the third floor is the uncles’ apartments.”
One more bit of information to file away. “That’s fine,” Jack said, and smiled openly, not wanting her to question his curiosity. “It never hurts to ask, though, does it?”
Charmed by the big man’s smile, the woman felt herself blushing. He reminded her a bit of one of those hot young actors, only he was a bit older and had a much stronger jaw. Delia admired men with strong jaws.
“If we can be of any further service, don’t hesitate to ask. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock but the kitchen stays open until eleven o’clock at night, so you can order à la carte any time you choose.”
“Thanks,” Jack said, and picked up his things and started toward the stairs. As he did, he glanced up, then froze, his gaze fixed on the painting above the stairs.
The woman in the portrait was stunning. A thick crown of black hair framed a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine china. But she had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.
“So beautiful.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” Delia said. “That’s the late Isabella Abbott, Dr. Abbott’s wife.”
“She’s dead?” The thought brought real pain.
“Yes, almost thirty years ago. She died in childbirth.”
Jack took a step closer, locked into her enigmatic stare.
A phone rang behind him, and he jerked at the sound. Only after the clerk began to carry on a conversation with someone on the other end of the line did he manage to tear himself away from the portrait and move toward the stairs. Halfway up, he found himself at eye level with her face. She was looking straight at him, beseeching him for something he couldn’t understand.
Breath caught in the back of his throat, and his mouth went dry. It was only with great effort that he tore himself away and continued up the stairs. Still rattled from the unexpected communion with a ghost, his hands were shaking as he stuck the key in the lock, then opened the door to his room. Without paying any attention to the fine old world furnishings, he walked inside, turned the lock as he dropped his bag, and sat down on the bed with a thump.
The room smelled like his grandmother’s house—of lavender and roses, with a slightly musty air that had nothing to do with lack of cleanliness and more to do with age. A ripple of uneasiness made the skin crawl on his neck. He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Isabella Abbott looking back.
“I’ve got to get a grip,” he muttered. “I’ll unpack, scope out the place and make a preliminary report before dark.”
But weariness overcame his good intentions as he lay back on the bed, telling himself he would rest for just a few minutes.
When he next opened his eyes, the room was in darkness. He rolled over and sat up with a start, confused for a moment as to where he was at. Then the scent of lavender drifted past and he remembered. He was in Abbott House.
His belly growled as he glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He’d missed dinner but was too hungry to wait until morning. Hopefully there would be a vending machine somewhere on the premises. All he had to do was find it.
As he slung his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked up and then out the window. The curtains had yet to be drawn against the night, and the silhouette of the mountain range behind the hotel was very visible. It loomed over the landscape—a dark and immovable force of nature against the blue-velvet texture of the sky.
Stretching tired muscles, Jack stood, then walked to the window. Below, the well-kept grounds of the hotel looked black outside the circle of illumination beneath the security lights. The place had a beauty of its own that was difficult to name. The grandeur of such a house seemed out of place in a land that still bore traces of wildness from its past. He thought of the man they had buried today. It was a good place in which to get lost.
But why he’d done it was the question of the day. Why had Vaclav Waller faked his own death? And why come here to Montana? There were any number of countries in which he could have chosen to hide.
He ran his fingers through his hair in quiet frustration and turned away from the window. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about all that. Right now he wanted some food and the rest of a good night’s sleep.
Isabella couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing her Uncle Frank’s face in the coffin. Even in death, she imagined she saw the horror he had experienced in knowing he was going to die.
They had laid Frank Walton to rest beside the man who’d been his best friend in life, but as the first shovel full of dirt had fallen onto his casket, Isabella had realized she had not known a thing about Frank Walton’s family. He’d always spoken of his past in vague references and of his family in the past tense, so she’d just assumed that he had outlived them all. But what if he hadn’t? What if there was the odd family member somewhere—a cousin, an in-law—someone who, if they had but known, would also have mourned his passing?
At the thought, she had looked up at the others and realized she knew little to nothing about them, as well. They had always been such constants in her life that she had taken them for granted, but she’d been jolted out of her complacency with the passing of her father and now her Uncle Frank. When this was over—when they could all think without wanting to cry, she was going to rectify her lack of knowledge. Family was everything, and now, except for five elderly men who were no blood kin at all, she had none.
The digital readout on her alarm clock read 12:10 a.m. She sat up with a sigh and swung her feet off the side of the bed. Maybe a glass of warm milk would help her sleep. It didn’t sound appetizing, but it still beat the chemical hangover that a sleeping pill always gave her. Grabbing her long white robe from the closet, she stepped into her slippers and headed for the door, confident that she would be able to slip in and out of the kitchen without disturbing anyone else’s sleep.
The soles of her slippers scooted silently along the polished hardwood floors as she moved down the hall. Seconds later, she circled the staircase and entered the lobby. Out of habit, she paused at the desk, checking the security of the hotel that was also her home. Satisfied that all was well, she started toward the kitchen. About halfway across the lobby, a hint of movement in the corner of the room caught her eye. Then, as the movement became mass and the mass became a man, her heart skipped a beat.
“Hello…who’s there?” she called.
She heard a catch in his breath, and when he spoke, the husky timbre of his voice made her shiver.
Jack was still prowling