But Rainbow never needed an invitation to talk. The first time Elizabeth came in for dinner, Rainbow told her, “A lot of people think my name is unfortunate for a woman my age. You know—I was born in sixty-eight in Haight-Ashbury, after the Summer of Love.” She paused and seemed to be waiting for something.
Elizabeth belatedly picked up her cue. “Your parents were hippies?”
“Hippies? God, yes. The original hash-smoking, psychedelic-music-playing, free-love-practicing hippies.” Rainbow shook her head like a disapproving mom. “Still are, for that matter. After I was born, they decided the city wasn’t a good place to raise a baby, so they went into the Sierra Nevadas and learned weaving from a Native American woman who’d learned techniques from her great-grandmother. They’re pretty good at it. You’ve probably heard of them.”
“I don’t think so.”
“They’ve got one of the temporary exhibits in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. My parents are Alder and Elf Breezewing.”
Elizabeth’s head was spinning. “Which one is Alder and which is Elf?”
“He’s Alder and she’s Elf, of course. It’s the Breezewing exhibit!”
Elizabeth blinked.
Rainbow put her broad hands on her broad hips. “You really don’t know a damned thing about anything except rocks, do you?”
“That is not true. I also understand alluvial deposits and am studying the recently mapped ocean floor off the coast of Virtue Falls for an understanding of why tsunamis are so massive in this area.” Elizabeth thought it an intelligent answer.
Rainbow stared at her as if she was speaking a foreign language. “Right. You’re like your father. I’ll get your dinner. I had the cook put an extra order of fries on the plate.”
Elizabeth wanted to ask what she meant about her father. Had Rainbow known him when they lived here?
But Elizabeth had learned, the hard way, never to talk about Charles, so instead she asked, “I asked for mashed potatoes. Didn’t I?”
“They’re coming, too. You need fattening up.”
Elizabeth knew for a fact she didn’t need fattening up. She was curvy. Very curvy. For a girl growing up in California, land of the svelte, being built like her was a disadvantage, not to mention it was hard to find clothes. If pants fit her hips, they were loose around her waist, and she hadn’t worn a button-up shirt since she was eleven and developed a C-cup. Her aunt said she was built like her mom. Her uncle said she was built like an exotic dancer. But he didn’t realize she’d heard him, so she would acquit him of malice. Her uncle wasn’t mean; he was overworked and didn’t have time for his own kids, much less a niece who never talked much even after she recovered her power of speech.
Elizabeth realized she had a bit of a disconnect from the rest of the world caused by the knowledge that humanity could turn on her in an instant. She recognized the fact she sabotaged her own relationships, and sometimes she really tried to join in with the general populace and talk about the weather. She just never got it right. Not even with Garik.
Especially not with Garik.
Best not to think of Garik.
She bent her head to her reports again, and didn’t notice when one of the town’s elderly inhabitants held court in the corner, pointed her out to the tourists, and regaled them with the tale of how Elizabeth Banner had seen her father kill her mother with a pair of scissors.
CHAPTER TWO
“Virtue Falls Resort has already celebrated its hundredth birthday.”
The tourists said, “Ooh.”
“Built in nineteen-thirteen by John Smith Sr., this elegant four-story boutique hotel and spa perches on a rocky precipice over the Pacific Ocean, and was a profitable addition to the immense Smith fortune, which consisted of a thousand wooded acres, a sawmill, and the mountaintop mansion in which the family lived.” Margaret leaned on her cane and listened as the dozen newly arrived guests now said, “Ahh.”
They stood in the great room of the resort, on the next to the last stop of the tour. Margaret had probably told this tale to resort guests at least five thousand times—and she loved it. It was her Irish blood that made her a storyteller, and her own self that made her love dealing with people.
She didn’t mind that the guests craned their necks to look up at the massive rustic Douglas fir beams supporting the high knotty pine ceiling, or ran their hands over the restored early-twentieth-century furniture. She wanted them to admire the great room. More than that, she wanted to give them the feeling that they were part of the Smith family.
When that happened, they would return. Even now, she recognized one couple; Mr. and Mrs. Turner had first come as honeymooners. Now they brought their teenage son.
That was the kind of connection Margaret liked to see. She continued, “Unfortunately, World War One took the oldest Smith son into battle and he died in the fields of France. Grief killed John, Senior. Mrs. Ida Smith and her son Johnny had not been trained to manage properties, and surviving the Great Depression required more skill than the two of them could provide. By the time Mrs. Ida Smith visited Ireland in nineteen thirty-eight, the Smith fortunes were well on their way to vanishing. Luckily, Mrs. Smith met me.” Margaret nodded while her guests laughed. “I was sixteen years old”—a lie, she’d been fifteen—“and Mrs. Smith brought me back to work for her. Eventually, I married her son Johnny”—he’d never had a chance, she’d married him within three months—“and we made a marvelous team.”
“How long were you married?” Aurora Thompson was middle-aged and vacationing alone, with a white, untanned line across her wedding ring finger.
Margaret diagnosed her as recently divorced, poor dear, still wallowing in self-pity. “Not quite thirty years,” Margaret said. “But no other man has ever tempted me to revisit the marital state.”
“I’ll bet a lot of men have tried.” Josue Torres was no more than thirty, handsome as the devil and with a twinkle in his brown eyes.
“Ah, you are a charmer.” Margaret smiled at him and checked for a ring. Married. Where was his wife? Why was he here? Was he one of the philandering bastards she despised? “Are you applying for the job?”
“If I were single…” He sighed dramatically. “But my wife is joining me tomorrow.”
Margaret put her hand on her chest, and she deliberately deepened her Irish brogue as she said, “Ah, you’ve broken me heart.” She straightened, and speaking toward Aurora, she said, “Actually, I find my life without a man of my own quite enjoyable. But then, I’m a pigheaded old woman who likes to do what she wants, and marriage is all about compromise and giving.”
Aurora nodded, and the worry line between her brows lessened.
Yes, remember the bad times in your marriage and think on what your life can be now. You’ll be happier.
Satisfied she’d given the discarded wife something to consider, Margaret continued, “When I arrived here in Virtue Falls, the Smiths’ wooded acres and the sawmill had already vanished, but we made the resort world-famous and when Mrs. Smith died in nineteen sixty-seven at the age of eighty-eight, she had the gratification of knowing we had saved the family’s fortune. I had lost my dear Johnny the year before, our children were grown and gone, so I donated the family mansion, now a historical home, to the state of Washington, and moved here where I live in a suite of rooms overlooking the ocean. The view is spectacular, but as you’ve discovered, at Virtue Falls Resort, every view from every room is spectacular.”
The guests murmured and nodded.
“Are there any questions before we move on to our last stop on the tour, the Virtue Falls deck, and enjoy a glass of wine?”
The drive up the coast at this time of year was always gorgeous, and one retired couple from the South had been lavish with praise for the scenery and the inn. Now in her warm, soft voice Mrs. Daniels said, “I noticed several prints on your walls that looked as if they had been painted by Bradley Hoff, and I know he says Virtue Falls is his inspiration. Have you met Bradley Hoff?”
“I have not only met him,” Margaret said, “I’ve had him dine here many a time. And those are not prints—those are originals.”
Mrs. Daniels turned to her husband. “I told you so.”
Mr. Daniels sighed. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I still don’t want one of those slick paintings stuck on the wall of my office.” He seemed to realize he might have offended Margaret, and said, “I hope my opinion didn’t offend you, ma’am.”
“Not at all. When it comes to art, individual taste rules, and the critics certainly are not kind to Bradley. But as he always says, he cries all the way to the bank.”
Everyone laughed, even Mr. Daniels.
“Is he as nice as he seems to be on television?” Mrs. Turner asked.
“He is a lovely person, as is his wife, Vivian.” Although Margaret found Vivian a little thin and sharp, like salad dressing with too much vinegar. But Bradley seemed devoted to Vivian, and as Margaret knew, every ass had a seat. “Vivian is his manager and is very protective of Bradley, his time, and his talents. Otherwise, I think, he would paint all the time. So they are the perfect couple.”
“She was on the Atlanta morning show with him one day,” Mrs. Daniels said, “and she said he has contributed a lot to Virtue Falls.”
“He has indeed. You probably heard that he raised funds to rebuild the gym at the high school when it burned down. They named it the Bradley Hoff Facility.” Which peeved Margaret more than a little, for over the years she had put a fortune into various causes and charities in Virtue Falls, too. In fact, right now, she was supporting the tiny public library, and no one had named even a brick after her.
But it was not Bradley’s fault he had found fame as Nature’s Artist, serving up pretty paintings to a grateful world, and Margaret was just a crotchety old innkeeper. And ungrateful, too, for … She gestured to a large Hoff on the wall behind them. “Bradley painted that here on our deck, and as a surprise for my eighty-fifth birthday, he had it framed and hung for me. I particularly like the way the ocean rises into the sky as if there’s no horizon.”
“With all this valuable stuff sitting around, you must have a great security system,” Aurora said.
“Yes,” Margaret said crisply. “I do. Any other questions?”
“I’d love to tour Mr. Hoff’s studio. Is he in town?” Mrs. Daniels asked.
Mr. Daniels sagged.
“I believe he’s on tour with a showing of his newest paintings, and in any case, the only person he allows in his studio is his wife.” When Mr. Daniels straightened up again, Margaret smiled at him. “Bradley is a pleasant man, but in the end, he is an artist first and foremost, with an artist’s quirks.”
A hand waved.
She waved back at the teenager. “Yes, young man?”
“How old are you?”
“Mason Eugene Turner!” His mother looked shocked—and curious, too.
“It’s all right,” Margaret said in a soothing tone. “I’m at the age where I might as well brag about it. I’m ninety-one.”
“Whoa.” The boy grinned. “That’s cool!”
The guests laughed.
“Thank you, I think so, too. It beats the alternative.” Margaret looked around. “Any other questions?”
“Why did Mrs. Smith bring you back from Ireland? I mean, it was such good timing, it being right before World War Two and all.” This female was in her early forties and here by herself, and she had that
I’m writing my first book
look about her.
Margaret made a mental note to avoid conversations with her. Authors always wanted to blather on about their plot.
“It was good timing, yes, and Mrs. Smith brought me back because I did her a favor.” Before the female could ask what, Margaret gestured to her staff and they threw open the three sets of French doors.
The wind off the Pacific rushed in, filling the great room, chasing every other thought out of the guests’ minds.
“That fresh air will bring a light to your eyes and a bloom to your cheeks,” Margaret said in satisfaction.
They streamed out onto the deck, exclaiming at the view. The younger ones hurried to the railing and looked down fifty feet to the waves that battered the rocks. The older adults accepted the wool throws the staff were handing out.
Guests who had been here for days arrived to socialize and enjoy the complimentary drinks: Washington wines, a local beer, or bottled water.
Margaret took a moment, as she always did, to listen to the ocean.
It was a good life for little Maggie O’Brien of Dublin, Ireland. A very good life indeed.
And on that thought, she reached out and softly rapped her knuckles on the wooden railing.
Knock wood.
She knew better than to tempt fate.
CHAPTER THREE
Sheriff Dennis Foster shuffled through the papers on his desk.
His secretary wasn’t worth much even when he was in town, and when he left to attend a law enforcement conference in Oakland, Mona apparently spent all her time doing her nails because she sure as hell didn’t file the reports from his deputies, the mail, or God forbid, the alerts that came in from the FBI.
He could see the alert dangling, half off the edge of his desk. It had that distinctive FBI official letterhead …
When he first got into law enforcement, he had dreamed of being an FBI agent, of traveling the country fighting crime. But he was stuck in Virtue Falls, taking care of his mother, whom he loved, he really did, but she’d been sick for so long, and that voice of hers, like fingernails scraping on a blackboard.
No wonder he went to every conference he could wangle the money for.
He told himself he was in command here, and surely it was better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.
He picked up an envelope and ripped the corner, blew into it, and pulled out a special offer from some women’s fashion magazine.
How did he get on a list for a women’s fashion magazine?
He flung it in the recycling bin, then thought better and shredded it. He wouldn’t put it past Mona to go through the recycling and spread the rumor he wore women’s underwear. Like he could get away with women’s underwear in this town.