Forced to the Altar. Susan CrosbyЧитать онлайн книгу.
cows home. Two men and a woman looked her over from their seats at a wood plank table. Coffee mugs and empty paper plates holding wadded-up napkins sat in front of them.
The woman pushed herself up. “I’m Lil,” she said, extending her hand. She was about forty years old, had graying, long black hair and wore no makeup, nor did she need it. Her skin glowed. “You must be Julianne.”
“My reputation precedes me?” she asked, a little startled then reasoning that Mr. Moody must have called ahead.
“Something like that. My cohorts are Reb and Misery.”
The men nodded in greeting. Misery was a tall, skinny African American who looked to be in his thirties, and sixtyish Reb probably hadn’t shaved or cut his hair in twenty years, his beard and hair like a furry white blanket.
Like characters out of a story, Julianne thought, enjoying them. She rubbed her hands together. “I came for the action.”
Reb laughed, knocking his hand against Misery’s arm from across the table.
“Can I get you something?” Lil asked. “Got soda and coffee, but nothing designer or frilly. You have your choice of two sandwiches—tuna salad and tuna melt. No salads. Brownies, though.”
“I’d love a brownie and coffee, thank you.”
“We serve the high-octane, just so you know.”
“Strong’s good,” Julianne said, taking a seat at the picnic table next to Misery.
“So, you’re from Cal-i-for-ni-a,” he drawled.
How did he know that? “I am.”
“You’re one of those surfer girls?”
“I tried it once.”
“Once? You give up that easy?”
“I ended up in the E.R. with a concussion. Once was enough.”
Reb chuckled. “It’s a smart girl who learns a lesson.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at Lil when she placed the coffee and brownie in front of her then took a seat across from Julianne.
“What do you think of the island of the damned?” Lil asked.
Julianne relaxed, her hands cupping the mug. “Is that what you locals call it? I think it’s majestic, but I haven’t seen much of it.” She glanced around the room, which reminded her of a movie set. Nothing was displayed with designer flair, but the shelves and stacks were dust free, if jammed with everything from razors to toilet plungers, canned beans to bottled water. “I take it people do their grocery shopping elsewhere.”
“Orcas Island,” Lil said. “A quick boat ride.”
In otherwise empty spaces on the walls were pen-and-ink drawings of the island, including the store. They had price stickers attached, but she couldn’t read them from where she sat. “Is Orcas the island I can see from the castle?”
“Sure is.”
She was aware of her companions’ restrained curiosity and decided to open up a little, thinking it might garner some information. “I’m working at the Spirit Inn.” She took a bite of the brownie, deep, dark, chocolaty rich and packed with walnuts. Bliss.
“We heard that. How’re you liking it?”
“It’s a little spooky,” she said with a shrug. “Ghosts, you know.”
Reb nodded his head thoughtfully.
“Any kind of industry here other than tourist?” Julianne asked.
“Nope.” Lil pointed out the window. “There’s a day-camp area where people come by boat in the good months. They fish a little. Hike a little. Have a picnic. Then off they go at the end of the day. It’s regulars, mostly. We don’t have much of interest to draw folks.”
“Are there ever any guests at the inn?” There, see? She dropped that question right into the conversation. Julianne was proud of herself.
No one even fidgeted. “This isn’t tourist season,” Lil said.
Again, not an answer. What about when it is tourist season? Julianne wanted to shout. “I guess I won’t be around long enough to find out for myself,” she said. “I’ll be gone before too long.”
“We heard that, too.”
Julianne got a kick out of that comment. Like any small town, word traveled. She was just surprised that Zach was talking about her. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he’d planted just enough information to deflect curiosity. Still, the three people at the table seemed to protect his privacy. Why? How much did they know about what he did? And why wasn’t she allowed to know?
“I’ve heard a helicopter a couple of times,” she offered as bait.
Silence hovered for several long seconds, then Misery said, “Julianne, if you’re looking for information on your boss, you’d best be asking him. We don’t interfere in each others’ lives around here. And we safeguard our own. You’re an outsider. A pretty one, and one with spunk, I can tell, but you don’t belong.”
She decided if she wanted to keep coming to If You’re Desperate for conversation and a change of pace, she’d better play the game differently. “Lil, this is the best brownie I’ve ever eaten.”
“It’s the weather.”
“Huh?”
“Something about the weather on this island makes ’em so good. Like San Francisco is good for sourdough. I tried to make these elsewhere, but…” She shrugged.
Julianne finished her brownie, picked up her mug and wandered over to examine one of the drawings. It was like looking through her tower window. She glanced at the price—one hundred dollars. The cost was out of place in the tiny store in the middle of nowhere, which made Julianne more curious. She could just make out a signature in the lower right corner, an H followed by a half-inch wavy line leading into another H, although both Hs were stylized so they might have been Ks or Rs. K and R? Keller? No, she was pretty sure they were Hs.
“A local artist?” she asked.
“We have a few,” Lil said. “Some pretty famous ones.”
“But you respect their privacy.”
Lil smiled. “Lots of little artist colonies here and about. Those creative types seem to fancy their space.”
“And don’t fancy other people.”
“Some of ’em. Strange bunch.”
Misery stood. “Time for me to get a move on. Nice meeting you, Julianne. Come back and visit.”
She shook his hand, then Reb joined him. They left together.
Alone with Lil, Julianne wondered how the woman made enough money to survive. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she didn’t need to. Strong personal reasons must have driven the residents here, stronger than making money in the usual ways.
“Enjoying your time here on the Prom?” Lil asked.
“I’d like to be busier, but yes, I am.”
“If you’re considering taking a drive after you leave here, you can keep going around the bend. Stick to the road and don’t wander off onto private property.”
“Are there signs posted?”
“If it’s not on the beaten path, it’s private.”
All these cautions. It was like a soap opera and mystery all together. “It must take a special kind of person to live like this.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, I guess.”
Julianne decided she’d worn out her welcome. No one wanted to give her answers, and their doubts or concerns about her would