Chill of Fear (7 page)

He had no idea how. It seemed bizarre to suppose that she could have any connection with what had happened here twenty-five years before, especially when she had told him this was her first visit to The Lodge. But all his instincts as well as the quiet voice in his mind insisted there was a connection.

All he had to do was find it.

Another man might well have been daunted, but after too many years of sifting through the same information again and again and finding no answers at all, Quentin felt energized at the mere possibility that there was a new avenue to explore. But he had to be cautious, he knew that. Whatever else she was, Diana was emotionally vulnerable; if he pushed too hard or too fast...

So, hard as it was for him to cultivate patience, he forced himself to let a few hours go by before he sought her out. He had breakfast, and then went down to the stables hoping to talk to Cullen Ruppe, the man who had been here at The Lodge twenty-five years before.

It was Ruppe's day off.

Malevolent fate again.

Quentin was left to prowl restlessly around the stables and gardens for a while, before he finally gave in and found out—with some difficulty, given the hotel staff's famous discretion—where the painting workshop was being held.

As he approached the conservatory, he was silently debating how to handle this meeting when he was thrown off balance by a completely unexpected development.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

Beau Rafferty smiled. "Teaching a workshop."

Quentin eyed him suspiciously. "Uh-huh. And I suppose Bishop had nothing to do with it?"

"This series of therapeutic artistic workshops," Beau replied pleasantly, "was established years ago.

They've been so successful that at least two are held each year. In different parts of the country. Taught by different artists. We're all volunteers and sign up well in advance, supplying information such as the time of year or area of the country in which we'd prefer to teach. Then each of us goes through training so we're better equipped to deal with our troubled students."

"And when did you sign up?" Quentin inquired, his tone just as affable.

"About six months ago."

"Saying you thought April in Tennessee might be nice?"

"Well, it is, isn't it? I suggested The Lodge. I was told it would be the perfect setting."

Quentin sighed. "So Bishop did have something to do with it."

"With putting me here, certainly. But you know as well as I do that what happens next is always up to us. And at the end of the day, I'm just here to teach a therapeutic workshop."

"You're the one who's here to help Diana?" Quentin didn't even try to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Beau smiled. "I'm just teaching a workshop, Quentin. I don't think either one of us believes that will provide Diana with the answers she's looking for. It may pose a few more questions for her, though."

Frowning, Quentin looked past the other man into the conservatory. He saw Diana in the far corner, standing behind an easel, her face oddly without expression as her right hand moved rapidly. From this angle, he couldn't see what she was drawing, but something about her posture and that curious absence of emotion on her face...

"Is she doing what I think she's doing?" he asked.

"Yeah, she's on autopilot. Has been for nearly half an hour now. The artistic version of automatic writing, totally from the subconscious and whatever psychic senses are tapped."

Quentin looked quickly back at the artist. "Jesus, Beau, you told me yourself that's dangerous as hell."

"It is. It's also the only way, sometimes, to unlock the door blocking us."

"Maybe it's blocking her for a reason."

"There's always a reason, Quentin. And, always, there's a moment when it's time for the door to be unlocked." He paused, adding, "Bishop said to tell you it's time."

"You mean—"

"I mean all the pieces are finally here. All the pieces you need to solve your puzzle."

Quentin stared at him. "Why do all the people around me talk in metaphors?"

"Probably to see that look on your face."

Refusing to laugh, Quentin merely said, "In plain English, did Bishop offer up any sage advice as to how I'm supposed to help Diana?"

"No."

"Free will. Dammit."

"We make our own choices and follow our own paths. Not even Bishop can control what happens once a situation begins to unfold. Obviously, this one is unfolding." Beau glanced back over his shoulder at the absorbed Diana, and added, "She'll be coming out of it any minute now. I don't have to tell you that she'll be...upset. Disoriented. And disinclined to put much trust in a stranger. Be careful, Quentin."

Quentin watched the other man stroll away, muttering under his breath, "Easy for you to say."

He really didn't have a clue how to handle what he strongly suspected was going to be a very difficult interlude. But that had never stopped him before, so he squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and went into the conservatory.

He barely glanced at sketches on other easels as he passed them, thinking only that Beau was clearly dealing with a number of emotionally disturbed persons if their drawings were any indication.

When he reached Diana, he studied her face first, noting the dilated pupils and intent but expressionless face. He wasn't sure whether he should touch her or say her name, but before either option could be put to the test, she blinked suddenly, shook her head a little, and dropped the charcoal stick she held, flexing her fingers as though they ached.

"Diana?"

She looked at him, frowning. "What're you doing here?" She sounded not so much dazed as a little sleepy.

"I wanted to buy you lunch," he said, following his instincts.

"Oh. Well—" She glanced at her sketch, then looked back at it quickly, her face going pale and an expression of fear tightening her features.

Quentin reached out to grasp her arm, still following his instincts, and then looked for the first time at what she had drawn. And it was his turn to feel total shock.

Amazingly detailed, especially for a charcoal sketch, it was a view looking out a window from inside.

A window seat with pillows framed the view, and through the panes of glass a garden scene was visible.

A spring garden, judging from the smudges that were surprisingly vivid little black-and-white portraits of various flowers.

Standing in that scene, looking toward the window, was a girl. She was perhaps eight or nine years old, with long hair and sad, sad eyes. She wore a small heart-shaped locket around her neck.

"My God," Quentin said. "Missy."

Missy?" Diana tore her gaze from the sketch to stare at him. "You know her? You mean—she's real?"

She sounded shaken now, and there was a new tension in her body, as though she were poised to run.

Quentin got a grip on himself, realizing in the same instant that his grip on her arm had tightened unconsciously. She didn't seem to notice, but he forced his fingers to relax at least a little, and summoned a smile he hoped was reassuring.

"You've captured her beautifully," he said, keeping his tone casual. "I could never forget those sad eyes."

"But... I don't know who she is. I don't know anybody named Missy."

"Maybe you've just forgotten," he suggested. "It was a long time ago."

"What?"

Quentin swore silently and tried again. "Look, Diana, why don't we talk about this over lunch?"

"Why don't we talk about it here?" Seemingly noticing his grip for the first time, she pulled her arm free. "Who is Missy, Quentin?"

He forced himself to look at the sketch again, consideringly this time. Asking himself if the resemblance he had first seen really existed. There was, after all, no reason to further upset Diana if he'd imagined the similarity.

Except...he hadn't. Because that was Missy. Not an image that merely resembled her, but
her.
The big, sad eyes. Long, dark hair. The oval face with its stubborn chin. Even the way she was standing, one foot tucked behind the other ankle, balancing easily, was characteristic.

And it was painful, how vividly alive she was in his mind.

"Quentin?"

He looked at Diana, fully aware that he wasn't much good at hiding his feelings. "Maybe it's just my imagination," he suggested.

Spacing the words for emphasis, she said, "Do you know who this girl is?"

"Was," he said finally. "Who she was. Missy Turner was murdered, Diana, at the age of eight. Here at The Lodge. Twenty-five years ago."

She stared at him, drawing a slow, deep breath, then said with what was obviously a tenuous calm, "I see. Then I must have seen a photograph somewhere."

"Do you remember seeing one?"

"No. But my memory isn't the best. Some of the medications I've been on... stole time from me."

He thought that was one of the most wrenching things he'd ever heard despite her matter-of-fact tone, and had to clear his throat before saying, "We can figure this out, Diana. But not standing here. Why don't we have lunch—out on the veranda, if you like, in the sunshine—and talk?"

Again, her wavering was visible, and Quentin spoke quickly to persuade her.

"You came here for a reason. One more round of self-examination, remember? And in the process of that self-examination, you drew an amazing picture of a little girl who died twenty-five years ago. A little girl whose murder I've been trying to solve most of my adult life. There must be an explanation for that, and I think we both need to find it. That's worth a conversation over lunch, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied slowly. "Yes, I think it is."

"Good. Thank you."

Diana looked at the sketch a moment longer, then carefully tore that page from the pad and rolled it up. She slid it inside the oversized tote bag hanging on the side of her easel, then took off the smock she wore and hung it in place of the tote bag.

Quentin noticed that the tote bag held a smaller version of the sketchpad on the easel, but didn't comment as she put the strap over one shoulder and indicated with a nod that she was ready to leave.

It wasn't until they reached the door that she realized something, asking, "Was I here alone when you came in? Where was Beau?"

"He left when I got here." Quentin didn't elaborate and hoped she wouldn't question him further on the subject.

Diana frowned, but shrugged as though to herself. She didn't say anything else until they were settled at a table on the veranda and the attentive waitress had taken their order and left them with iced tea and a basket of rolls.

Ignoring both, Diana said, "You said you'd been trying to solve her—her murder most of your adult life. Why? Were you related to her?"

"No."

"Then why? If it was twenty-five years ago, you had to be no more than a child yourself."

"I was twelve."

"Were you here when it happened?"

He nodded. "I grew up in Seattle, but that summer my father moved us into one of the cottages here because he was doing some work near Leisure. He's an engineer, and he was overseeing the construction of a major bridge."

"So you spent the summer here. What about Missy? Did she live here?"

"Her mother was a maid in The Lodge. In those days, some of the employees had small apartments in what eventually became the North Wing. That's where Missy lived." He shrugged. "There weren't many kids around that summer, so those of us who were here tended to do things together. Hiked, fished, rode the horses, swam. Typical summer stuff, mostly designed to keep us out of the way of the grownups."

Diana could barely remember being eight, so she was guessing when she said, "Did Missy have a crush on you?"

He smiled slightly at the word, but nodded. "Looking back—yeah, she probably did. At the time, thinking myself so grown-up, I just saw her as a tag-along kid. She was the only girl in the group, and the youngest of us. But she was shy and sweet, she didn't mind bugs or jokes or the messes boys got into, and I... got used to having her around."

Still guessing, Diana said, "You're an only child."

He didn't seem surprised by the statement. "Yeah. So having other kids around all the time was a novelty for me, one I enjoyed.

To me, by the end of the summer Missy had become the little sister I never had."

"By the end of the summer?"

Quentin nodded. "It was when she died. In August. It'll be twenty-five years this coming August."

"What happened?"

His face tightened, and a bleak chill entered his eyes. Slowly, he said, "There was something weird about that summer, from the very beginning. At the time, I thought it was just that The Lodge was old, and that old places had a creepy feel to them; it was something I'd noticed before then, at other places.

And then, being kids, we scared each other senseless with ghost stories around campfires down near the stables, pretty much on a nightly basis. But it was more than tall tales and overly active imaginations. We

—all of us—had experiences that summer that we really couldn't explain."

"Like what?"

"Bad dreams when we'd never had them before. Catching a glimpse of something out of the corner of our eyes, only to turn and find nothing there. Strange sounds we heard in the night. Places in the buildings and on the grounds that felt wrong to us. Places that felt... bad."