By Familiar Means (33 page)

35

“Good morning, Anna.” Rich strode up to me as I walked into the lobby. He paused briefly to smile at a harassed-looking young mom with a toddler braced on her hip. He enveloped one of my hands in both of his as he shook it, and the rough edges of his bandages grated against my knuckles.

“Hi, Rich. Thanks for arranging things.” I tried to give him a cheerful smile, but I did not feel cheerful. I felt exhausted. After Julia and Val had left, I'd stumbled back upstairs and fell into bed. I am by nature a morning person, but this time it took the alarm three tries to drag me out of bed, and the last time worked only because Alistair came and put his cold nose on the back of my neck. The gallon of coffee and the fresh bowl of granola had barely taken the edge off my post-late-night blur.

“I'm so glad you could see your way to making time for us,” Rich was saying. “Christine's in her office.” He nodded toward the open doorway off the side of the registration desk. “Can I show you the way?”

“I think I can find it,” I said as I extricated my hand. “I
don't want to take you away.” He wore the red blazer over his white button-down shirt and was clearly on duty this morning.

“Oh, it's no problem. Now, have you talked to Jake and Miranda?” he asked softly, but anxiously. “Are they doing okay?”

“As of yesterday,” I said, which was about as much answer as I was going to give him.

“That's great.” Rich beamed. “I hear they had quite the celebration at the coffee shop. I wanted to come, but all things considered, I figured I better not. Don't want to rock that boat.”

“Have you and Miranda been friends long?” I asked.

He smiled, but it was a little strained around the edges. “You sound surprised that we could be friends at all.”

“A little.”
After all, Jake was accused of killing one of your employees.
I did not say this out loud. What I did say was, “I've heard there's some . . . tension between you and the Luces.”

“Between the Luces and the hotel, not me,” said Rich. “I had my first cup of coffee at Northeast Java. Spoiled me for Starbucks forever. Jake and Miranda are a vanishing breed. They really believe in making the world a better place. I can't . . . I can't picture Jake doing anything cruel to another person.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he looked down at his bandaged hands. “And, well, I hate to admit it, but we're not always quite as . . .”

“Zen?” I suggested.

“Zen, as we should be,” Rich agreed. “But I really do want to help.”

I believed him. The question was, did he really want to help Jake and Miranda, or was he just trying to help the Harbor's Rest?

“Well.” I hitched my purse strap up on my shoulder. “There is something you could do that would help out, in a small way.”

Rich beamed. “What's that?”

“It's not really anything to do with Jake and Miranda's
problems, but . . . you know I'm working on these murals for the new coffee shop? Well, I understand Harbor's Rest has its own archives.”

That startled him. “An archive?” He frowned. “No . . . not that I know of anyway.”

“Oh,” I said. “My mistake, then. I've been doing a lot of research lately, and I thought for sure I found a photo that was supposed to be from the Harbor's Rest archive.”

He smiled ruefully as he shook his head. “I know our great-grandfather collected clippings and so on, and there's the things hanging in the bar.” He gestured behind him. “But that's all really more Christine's department than mine.”

“Well, then I'll ask her.” Although, it seemed really strange that one of the kids who grew up here wouldn't know about an archive. “In fact, I should get going. I don't want to be late.”

“Yes, of course,” he said smoothly. “But come find me afterward, okay? I want to hear how it went.” But even as he said this, Rich's attention had shifted to the front desk. The clerk was beckoning to him over the head of a woman in slacks and a cashmere twin set who looked politely peeved.

“You'll have to excuse me.” Rich touched my shoulder as he hurried past to the desk, the clerk and the guest. I shifted my grip on my portfolio and walked toward the hallway for the staff offices. I may have had a little trouble with my shoe. Nothing much, just enough for me to have to sit down on one of the padded benches by the wall for a second, where I just happened to be able to hear the lady in cashmere complain about the charges on her room, and Rich quickly and quite voluntarily void an entire night's stay.

I put my shoe back on and headed down the thickly carpeted corridor to the business side of the Harbor's Rest.

Christine Hilde's door was the fourth on the right, and it was open just a crack. I made sure I'd muted my phone, tucked a stray lock of hair back behind my ear, hitched my purse strap up on my shoulder, and raised my hand to knock.

“Merow?”

I jumped back, startled. Miss Boots slipped out of the office and wound around my ankles once. “Meep?”

“Hello, to you, too.” I bent down to give her a quick scratch and whispered, “Listen, we need to have a talk about Alistair, okay?”

She looked at me with full-on feline skepticism.

“Come in!” called a woman. “And close that door, would you?”

I did, and I did, and it was like walking into another world.

Compared to the vintage luxury of the hotel's public spaces, this room was positively stripped down. The floor was bare except for one Persian rug. The furniture was all chrome, glass and white leather. The photos and books on the blond wood shelves were widely spaced, and the bay windows at her back were hung with neutral-colored vertical blinds rather than drapes or shades.

Her glass-topped desk was completely empty except for a pen in a crystal stand, and her Apple laptop, where she was typing away at a rapid-fire pace.

“Sit. There's coffee if you want.” She waved one hand toward the brushed-steel carafe on the table between the visitors' chairs. With the other she worked her mouse. “I'll be right with you.”

“Thanks.” I set my portfolio and purse down and poured myself a cup.

Christine Hilde was a match for her office: modern, pristine and efficient looking. She shared her brothers' coloring and if I'd had to guess I would have said she was at least ten years older than me. She'd had help from a very good salon keeping her hair that rich chestnut color. Her makeup was likewise done with a light and professional touch. Unlike Rich and Dale, Christine did not wear the hotel's red blazer. Her gray skirt suit was perfectly tailored and her blue blouse was silk.

Christine made another few mouse clicks and then closed the computer. She also took off her half-moon glasses and stowed them in her desk's central drawer.

Then, somewhat to my surprise, she came out from behind her desk, poured herself a cup of coffee and sank into the other visitor's chair with a long sigh.

“God, what a morning!” She slurped her coffee. “Anna
Britton, right? I hope you are. I couldn't stand another screw-up before lunch.”

“I'm Anna,” I said, and we shook hands.

“I feel like I should say, ‘So we meet at last,' Miss Britton.” Christine took another slurp of coffee. “It seems like I've been hearing your name nonstop, or at least your family's name.”

“Oh, erm . . . yeah, I suppose you would have. Well.” I folded my hands across my portfolio. “Thank you for agreeing to look . . .”

She raised an eyebrow at me. “Do we really want to pretend this is a job interview, Miss Britton?” She gestured toward my portfolio with her mug. “We both know you agreeing to come here has nothing to do with any new artwork, or us partnering with local artists or anything of the kind. This is all about Jimmy Upton.”

The words were flat, declarative and just the tiniest bit combative. Christine was throwing down the gauntlet.

I blinked. “I'm trying to work out if you're waiting for me to deny it.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I'm pretty sure it wouldn't do any good anyway.”

“Not a lot, no,” she agreed.

“So, if you know Rich's setting us up for a job interview was a smokescreen, why did you agree to see me?”
And why did Rich think he had to try to put one over on you?
He might aspire to being smooth, but if this was a sample of his organizational skills, I could understand why he was just a manager when his siblings were in the executive offices.

Christine settled back a little farther into her chair and crossed her ankles. I got the feeling she had decided I was someone she could do business with. “I wanted to get a read on you for myself,” she said. “You've gotten the whole family up in arms. My mother is furious at your grandmother. Dale thinks you're spying for Frank Hawthorne and his paper. Rich thinks you can help smooth things over with Jake and Miranda.”

“What about Kelly Pierce?” I asked. “What does she think? And Shelly Kinsdale?”

Christine barely blinked. “How about if I ask you what your friends on the force think about us, especially after about three pots of coffee consumed in the wee hours of the morning.”

“Oh. You saw that.”

The corner of her mouth curled up. “I don't need bifocals yet, Miss Britton, and you are not that subtle. Besides, I saw Frank the second he walked in the door.”

“I didn't realize you knew Frank that well.”

Christine laughed. “Of course I know Frank. I'm the marketing director. He publishes the local paper and contributes material to at least three other news Web sites. And since you're his tenant and since all of a sudden I couldn't turn around without hearing your name, I asked him about you. Surprised?”

“No, not really, I guess.” What I was, though, was miffed—suddenly, distinctly and sharply. Frank could have at least warned me he was talking to Christine Hilde. You could argue that he didn't know I was coming here this morning and that he was still annoyed with me about my refusal to go to the police with what I knew about Chuck. But at the moment all that felt distinctly beside the point. “Um, what did he say?”

“That you're a fine professional artist and an up-and-coming amateur busybody.” She saw the expression on my face and smiled. “All right, he did not say ‘busybody.' He did say that he thinks you've gotten in over your head trying to help Jake and Miranda.”

That made at least two of us. “What do you think?”

Christine looked at me for a long time. I tried not to squirm or break the silence. I very much wanted to hear what she had to say. The truth was, her no-nonsense approach was refreshing. At the same time, the office was setting me on edge. I had my shields up so I wasn't getting a Vibe, exactly, but the place was jarring. It was like she'd gone out of her way to make sure everyone knew she wasn't like the rest of her family.

“I think you're sinking in this mess, just like the rest of
us.” Christine's sigh was short and sharp. “Rich brought you in here because . . . well, Rich likes to be seen as the good guy. It's what he does, and it makes him a great floor manager, but it means the rest of us are the ones who have to take care of the tough stuff.”