Keepsake (63 page)

Wyler lifted one eyebrow at her and said, "Both. But in any event
—"

The younger sister interrupted. "The cover was a collage of a murdered victim, some cops, and a gang. You were one of the good guys, weren't you? I
never
forget a face," she cried, pleased. "My God. What an amazing coincidence!"

"That story was done four years ago," Wyler insisted, as if she had no right to dredge up ancient history. He'd been a sergeant then, and hungrier for recognition than he was now. "Anyway, maybe I'll just try the inn on the other side of you," he murmured.

Allie was scandalized.
"What!
The Calico
Cat?
You
can't stay at a place called the Calico Cat! It's just not
...
appropriate," she decided instinctively.

"Not to mention, there's a NO VACANCY sign hanging there, too, Mr. Wyler," Meg added.

Julia was becoming impatient.  "I'll call The Waves. Presumably
they'll
know  whether they have a room or not."

Wyler smiled thinly and said, "That's very kind; I —"

"He will have
my
room,
"
said Allegra Atwells. She had the look, the tone, the absolute command of a high priestess at the altar. Everyone was impressed.

Almost.

"No. He won't."

"Meg!" Allie said sharply. "I can do what I want. This is all about control, and you know it.
"
She turned to Wyler, who by now was weaving from the pain, and said, "I'll bunk down with my sister. Are you allergic to dogs? Oh, God, and cats, of course: I hope you don't mind sleeping with cats. We keep them out of the guest-side of the house, but they pretty much have the run of everything else. Just give me five minutes
—"

"Mr. Wyler, I'm sure you can appreciate the spirit in which my sister has made her offer, but it won't be possible. Her room is nothing more than a dressing closet; it has no private bath
—"

"Neither do our guest rooms!"

"—
and I'm sure you'll be more comfortable at the Waves or somewhere else."

"There won't
be
anywhere else. If we're full, everyone's full," said Allie with embarrassing candor.

"Please forgive my sister, Mr. Wyler," Meg said through set teeth. "She hasn't had her nap."

"Meg," murmured Allie in a voice soft and hurt and low. "Is this how it's going to be all summer?"

Meg opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped. She turned to Wyler with a grim look. Apparently she thought it was all
his
fault. "If you could give us half an hour," she said stiffly.

Wyler looked at Allegra for
her
reaction. She was beaming. He took that to mean he had a room
...
her room
...
some
room. "Thanks," he said, sweeping both sisters up in the same grateful glance. "I'll keep out of everyone's way."

Flushed with victory, Allie turned suddenly shy and dropped her look from his. "It will be our pleasure," she said in a devastatingly old-fashioned way. She slipped her arm around her older sister and squeezed her affectionately as they walked toward their house, leaving the detective feeling like a loose ball that had been fumbled, recovered, and run into the end zone for a touchdown.

He pivoted awkwardly on his cane and began heading back to the Elm Tree Inn with Julia Talmadge.

"There. You see? All's well that ends well, Mr. Wyler."

Wyler murmured something polite in agreement.

In the meantime he was thinking that he'd never
seen anyone so beautiful in his life. Allegra Atwells was drop-dead, knock-down, stop-traffic gorgeous.

Her face was so disturbingly beautiful that he'd scarcely paid attention to her body. Her body, he remembered only vaguely
—
that it was tall and sexy and that she carried herself like a queen.

Too bad she was a spoiled brat.

"How did you hurt your leg, Mr. Wyler?" asked Julia Talmadge without a trace of nosiness in her voice. She might have been asking him how he took his morning coffee.

"Gunshot," he said curtly, hoping by his tone to nip further inquiries in the bud.

"Oh, yes; a hunting accident. We see a fair amount of that up here," she said pleasantly. Obviously she made no connection between him and the old
Newsweek
article. If only Allie Atwells were so dense.

****

"Do you remember Orel Tremblay, Allie?"

Meg, back from the Shop ‘n Save, was scrubbing a guest bath with
Ajax
while her sister was changing bedding in room
5
across the hall. Meg's voice, cheerfully puzzled, rang out above the flush of the toilet. "Remember? The old recluse in the little cottage up the hill behind Pete's Bike Rentals? We used to see him grocery shopping sometimes. He always wore that red-and-black-checked deerstalker's hat, even in summer."

"I guess," her sister answered vaguely. "What about him?"

Meg came out of the bath with an armload of used towels. "He wrote me the strangest letter.

Here. Read it.
"
She turned and cocked one hip so that Allie could lift the envelope that jutted from the pocket of her khakis.

Allie looked at the address, written in a shaky hand, and extracted the letter. Aloud she read,

Dear Mrs. Hazard,

It's real urgent I see you right away. Wednesday would be good but not before eleven nor after six. You could say it's a matter of life and death. The nurse will let you in. Please make the time. I used to hear you were an upright woman.

Yours,

Orel
V. Tremblay

"For goodness' sake," Allie said, frowning. "Are you going?"

Meg dumped the linen into a plastic hamper and shrugged. "He claims it's a matter of life and death," she said ironically. "Do I have a choice?"

At that moment Tom Wyler showed up in the doorway with a hopeful look on his face. Both sisters greeted him in the same breath, one with less enthusiasm than the other.

"I hope I'm not too early," he said, glancing around the still unmade room. Your handyman sent me up here."

"That was our brother Lloyd.
Your
room
—
my room, that is
—
is all set," Allie said warmly. "It's upstairs and to your left. Come on. I'll help you with your bags."

"Hold on, I hear Terry," said Meg, sticking her head out the hall and flagging down an eleven year-old boy in full trot. She steered him into the room. "Take Mr. Wyler's things into Allie's room, will you, honey?"

The boy, dressed in torn jeans and Keds, fastened two piercing blue eyes on Wyler, looked him up and looked him down, and said, "Why? You sleepin' with my aunt Allie, mister?"

Everyone rushed to say no at the same time. The boy gave an indifferent shrug and ran downstairs for Wyler's bag.

"They grow up so fast nowadays," Meg said wryly to the detective.

"I know; I have one of my own," Wyler remarked in the same wry tone. He began the painful journey up one more flight.

Allie fell back on the half-made bed and threw her arms out wide. "
Married!"
she wailed. "How
could
he?"

"For Pete's sake, Allie," her sister said. "What's the big deal? You've just met the man."

Allie rolled her head toward her sister. "So? Can't I be attracted to him?"

"You're attracted to him because he's hurt," Meg said flatly. "He can't chase after you the way the rest of them do — not yet, anyway."

"Not true. I'm attracted to him because of the look in his eyes, so sad and tired and fed up with the world. And because — don't you laugh — because he was on the cover of
Newsweek
. I mean, don't you think that's fate? What are the odds that a four-year-old magazine would be lying around in my room with him on the cover?"

"What are the odds that you've actually read the article inside?" Meg said, grabbing her sister by the ankle and half puffing her off the bed.

"I scanned it. There's not much about him; just an angry quote of his about children doing violence to children. Don't you think he's good-looking?"

Meg scowled at a new water ring on the mahogany dresser. "Yeah, I guess," she said, distressed by the ugly stain.

"I'll just go see if he needs anything," Allie said, bounding up from the bed.

Meg held on to her sister's shirt. "Not until you're done here. Why do you always make me play the evil stepsister?"

"Because," said Allie, wriggling out of her grasp with a grin, "you were born to the role."

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Embers
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