White Mountain. Dinah McCall

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СКАЧАТЬ blinked back tears. “Yes, one of our residents, Franklin Walton. He’d lived here for many, many years, and his death was so unexpected.” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “He was murdered.” Then she added, “But not here, of course. Braden is a quiet little town. Nothing like that ever happens here, thank God. The tragedy is that it’s so soon after Dr. Abbott’s passing. Isabella is distraught, as we all are.”

      Jack knew the name Franklin Walton. The man was the reason he was here. But he didn’t know who Isabella was, and the Abbott name meant nothing to him other than the name of the hotel.

      “Dr. Abbott? Was he the owner of this hotel?”

      She nodded. “Yes, but he and Dr. Schultz and Dr. Arnold also founded White Mountain Fertility Clinic. Most of the people who come to the clinic for help also stay here at Abbott House.”

      “I see,” Jack said.

      “I’ll need to see a credit card, sir.”

      Jack pulled one out of his wallet and laid it on the counter. As she ran it through the system, he turned to survey the lobby. Like the house itself, it was quite grand to be in such an isolated location.

      “This is quite a place,” he said.

      The clerk smiled.

      “Yes, isn’t it? It was built in the early nineteen hundreds by a well-to-do rancher who later went broke during the Depression. After that it went through a series of owners until Samuel Abbott bought it sometime during the seventies.”

      “Interesting,” Jack said. “So am I to take it that Dr. Abbott and this Walton fellow were friends?”

      The clerk looked up, a little curious as to the stranger’s interest.

      “Yes. Mr. Walton lived here, as do Isabella’s other uncles.”

      “Isabella?”

      “Dr. Abbott’s daughter.”

      “Other uncles? Are you saying that the murdered man was her uncle?”

      “No, none of them are related by blood, but Isabella called them her uncles just the same.”

      Jack nodded. “I know what you mean. Back home in Louisiana we sometimes call an elder member of our community by such a title. It’s our way of giving them respect.”

      “Yes, exactly,” the clerk said, and then handed him a key. “You’ll be on the second floor, room 200. That’s the first one on your right at the top of the stairs.”

      “I noticed this house has three floors. Are any of those available? I like heights.”

      She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but the third floor is the uncles’ apartments.”

      One more bit of information to file away. “That’s fine,” Jack said, and smiled openly, not wanting her to question his curiosity. “It never hurts to ask, though, does it?”

      Charmed by the big man’s smile, the woman felt herself blushing. He reminded her a bit of one of those hot young actors, only he was a bit older and had a much stronger jaw. Delia admired men with strong jaws.

      “If we can be of any further service, don’t hesitate to ask. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock but the kitchen stays open until eleven o’clock at night, so you can order à la carte any time you choose.”

      “Thanks,” Jack said, and picked up his things and started toward the stairs. As he did, he glanced up, then froze, his gaze fixed on the painting above the stairs.

      The woman in the portrait was stunning. A thick crown of black hair framed a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine china. But she had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

      “So beautiful.”

      “Yes, isn’t she?” Delia said. “That’s the late Isabella Abbott, Dr. Abbott’s wife.”

      “She’s dead?” The thought brought real pain.

      “Yes, almost thirty years ago. She died in childbirth.”

      Jack took a step closer, locked into her enigmatic stare.

      A phone rang behind him, and he jerked at the sound. Only after the clerk began to carry on a conversation with someone on the other end of the line did he manage to tear himself away from the portrait and move toward the stairs. Halfway up, he found himself at eye level with her face. She was looking straight at him, beseeching him for something he couldn’t understand.

      Breath caught in the back of his throat, and his mouth went dry. It was only with great effort that he tore himself away and continued up the stairs. Still rattled from the unexpected communion with a ghost, his hands were shaking as he stuck the key in the lock, then opened the door to his room. Without paying any attention to the fine old world furnishings, he walked inside, turned the lock as he dropped his bag, and sat down on the bed with a thump.

      The room smelled like his grandmother’s house—of lavender and roses, with a slightly musty air that had nothing to do with lack of cleanliness and more to do with age. A ripple of uneasiness made the skin crawl on his neck. He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Isabella Abbott looking back.

      “I’ve got to get a grip,” he muttered. “I’ll unpack, scope out the place and make a preliminary report before dark.”

      But weariness overcame his good intentions as he lay back on the bed, telling himself he would rest for just a few minutes.

      When he next opened his eyes, the room was in darkness. He rolled over and sat up with a start, confused for a moment as to where he was at. Then the scent of lavender drifted past and he remembered. He was in Abbott House.

      His belly growled as he glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He’d missed dinner but was too hungry to wait until morning. Hopefully there would be a vending machine somewhere on the premises. All he had to do was find it.

      As he slung his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked up and then out the window. The curtains had yet to be drawn against the night, and the silhouette of the mountain range behind the hotel was very visible. It loomed over the landscape—a dark and immovable force of nature against the blue-velvet texture of the sky.

      Stretching tired muscles, Jack stood, then walked to the window. Below, the well-kept grounds of the hotel looked black outside the circle of illumination beneath the security lights. The place had a beauty of its own that was difficult to name. The grandeur of such a house seemed out of place in a land that still bore traces of wildness from its past. He thought of the man they had buried today. It was a good place in which to get lost.

      But why he’d done it was the question of the day. Why had Vaclav Waller faked his own death? And why come here to Montana? There were any number of countries in which he could have chosen to hide.

      He ran his fingers through his hair in quiet frustration and turned away from the window. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about all that. Right now he wanted some food and the rest of a good night’s sleep.

      Isabella couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing her СКАЧАТЬ