Still Lake. Anne StuartЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Oh, I’ve decided. Nothing could make me leave here until I’m good and ready to go.”
It was far from the best news she’d ever heard. There also wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it. “I need to get back to the inn,” she said.
“Of course you do. You’ve been very…neighborly.”
She didn’t glare at him, as much as she wanted to. She headed toward the door, uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her. She paused. “I wouldn’t drink the water from the tap if I were you. Buy some bottled stuff at Audley’s. I think they get the water straight from the lake here.”
“I don’t mind a little gasoline.”
“That would be the least of your worries. I’d hate to think of how sick you’d be if you picked up something organic. Stomach bugs can be downright nasty around here.”
“Now, why do I have trouble believing you care?” he murmured.
“If you were doubled over in your bathroom you’d be out of reach of my sister, but I don’t think I could in good conscience let that happen,” she said in her coolest voice.
“It’s not your sister I’m interested in.”
She almost thought she’d misunderstood him. She stared at him across the room, but he didn’t even blink. Finally, she gave in to her cowardice, letting the screen door slam behind her as she made her escape down the path.
5
Why the hell had he said that? Griffin picked up the sheet of paper and squinted at the names, then took off his glasses to get a better look. Instead he found himself analyzing her handwriting. He would have thought she’d have a tight-fisted, crabbed style of writing. That, or something with too many curlicues and even smiley faces over the Is. Instead she had a bold, slashing script, a little hard to read, but strong. He glanced up at the screen door, half expecting her to still be there. She was long gone.
Not his type, he reminded himself. He liked his women skinny and sophisticated, with short skirts and long legs and no emotion. He wasn’t interested in a chintz-wearing domestic goddess who viewed him as the Big Bad Wolf come to chow down on her little sister. Particularly when Sophie Davis was much more succulent.
The thought was unbidden and quickly dismissed. He didn’t have the time or the inclination to spend thinking about getting beneath his neighbor’s flowered, ruffled skirts, even though he was obscurely tempted. He needed to find out what he wanted to know and then get the hell out of there. Telling her he was thinking of buying the Whitten place was just a bluff, to see her reaction. There was no way he’d tie himself to a town like Colby, not with his history. No matter how much it called to him. It was nostalgia, not destiny. Hell, he didn’t even believe in destiny, or much of anything at all.
In the meantime, though, he was going to have to make himself more comfortable, and getting rid of mouse turds and being able to make a decent cup of coffee were two major requirements. Not to mention making sure the roof didn’t fall in on him while he was lying in bed with…
Lying in bed alone, he reminded himself sharply.
Shit, maybe it was the air around Colby. Maybe he hadn’t just been a randy young drifter, maybe the air had an aphrodisiac quality. Because truth to tell, he’d been hard ever since he’d seen Sophie Davis look at his rumpled bed, and he knew better than that.
Get in, do the job and get out. It had always been his mantra in life, and this situation was no different. He needed to concentrate on finding out what happened twenty years ago, not waste his time being distracted by animal instincts he’d long outgrown.
He leaned back in the old chair, looking at the decrepit cottage with new eyes. So Sara Ann Whitten had disappeared some time while he’d been in prison? He tried to remember her but came up blank. The Whittens had been an older couple, and their daughter must have been too young to catch Griffin’s predatory eye at the time.
He glanced around the room. In the wake of Colby’s burgeoning revival as an exclusive vacation spot, this place would be worth a fortune. Instead it sat by the lake, abandoned, for years on end. According to the real estate agent the title on the old house was murky. The parents were dead, and the daughter had been missing for years. There was no one around to care enough to have the girl declared dead, no one who cared enough to see to the old house. The town fathers had finally decided to rent it to cover some of the unpaid taxes, but sooner or later it would be sold at auction.
What would make a young girl run away? Granted, northern Vermont was about as far off the beaten track as you could get, but to never return, never tell anyone where you were going, seemed unlikely. Particularly when a murderer had roamed that very area.
Too bad for Sara Ann Whitten, but he really wanted to believe she was murdered, her body buried somewhere. Because that would prove without a doubt that he hadn’t killed anyone, that there’d been a serial killer loose who happened to prey on the young women of Colby’s year-round community. Or at least it would prove it enough to give him peace of mind.
He reached for his notebook, shoved the list of names inside, then started writing. Number one, get into the hospital wing and see if anything jarred his memory. Number two, find out anything he could about Sara Ann Whitten. When she disappeared, who she was involved with at the time, what people thought happened. See if she had any friends still around who might have heard from her.
Number three, search the Whitten house for anything that might suggest what happened to her.
Number four, find out if any of the murdered girls’ families still lived in Colby, and figure out whether or not he could talk to them without them realizing who he was.
Number five. Keep away from Sophie Davis and her randy sister and her gaga mother with the too-sharp eyes. And try to avoid Doc Henley, as well.
And all that would only be a start. He figured he’d give it a couple of weeks if he was lucky, maybe less if the weather turned cold early. He couldn’t spend too much of his life looking for answers that he might not find. He’d already lost five years he wasn’t going to get back. Finding the truth would simply enable him to let go of it and get on with things. Maybe.
No time like the present to get to work. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers before he realized there was no signal. Nada.
He flipped the paper over to Sophie’s side, and wrote beneath her list, Get the goddamned telephone turned on. Then he shoved his cell phone back in his pocket.
“He’s a reporter.”
“I beg your pardon?” Marge gave her a strange look. “Who is?”
“John Smith. If that’s even his name. He’s doing research on serial killers, he’s got law books and medical books and case studies all over his bedroom.”
“His bedroom?” Marge said blankly. “How the hell did he get you in his bedroom so fast? I thought you were the Virgin Mary.”
Sophie gave her an irritated look. “I was helping him out.”
“Sure you were.”
“He wanted my advice on what needed to be done around the Whitten camp, so I showed him. I told him to have it done and have them send the bills to you.”
“Like hell you did,” Marge said in horror.
“Like hell I did,” Sophie agreed placidly. “Whenever the town finally decides to sell the old place you’ll get the money back. In the meantime it can come out of the rent.”
“The town’s garnishing the rent for back taxes.”
“Then tell them to sell it to me.”
“You can’t afford it right now.”
“Good point,” Sophie said morosely, stabbing her slice of peach pie. The