The Senator’s Daughter (34 page)

Right now, she was safe inside the waiting room. He dared not broach the subject of her going back to San Francisco with him until Mary was either given a good prognosis or …

Lyle slid his arm along the back of Sylvia's chair and she looked at him. Though she'd washed up in the restroom, a spot of soot smudged her forehead and his cream-colored shirt that she wore was mottled gray. Aware she wasn't wearing a brassiere, he glanced down and his face warmed.

Dragging his focus up to her face, he said, “I've got to get some air.”

She nodded, but showed no sign of wanting to go along.

“If there's news of Mary,” he told her, “come and get me.”

Lyle went out through the automatic glass doors past the “No cell phones” signage. Morning had broken in the town of Napa, autumn sun slanting over the parking lot. The crisp chill made him wish his jacket had been in his duffel instead of burnt to cinders along with the chair it had rested on in his inn room. Inhaling the clear air, he found the stench of smoke still permeated his nostrils.

Based on what he'd heard and read about breathing fumes, it would probably go on for days.

Walking away from the building, fronted with a large gold statue of the Virgin Mary, he pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. Immediately, it beeped. Message waiting. Six thirty a.m.

Lyle took a glance at the number. He didn't go to voice mail, because he suspected there would be at least one message from the Senator. It took a few rings before District Attorney David Dickerson's secretary answered. He'd expected voice mail or the man himself.

“Is he in, Lara?”

“In an early meeting.” Her usual crisp efficiency. “He wants to see you right away.”

“What about?”

“He didn't say.”

“Tell him tag, he's it.”

“He said if you called, I was to tell you to get over here right away.”

“I'm in the Napa Valley.”

“I know.”

Though Lyle knew Andre had phoned his boss on Monday morning, he felt a frisson of alarm.

“The inn where I was staying burned up last night. Looks like arson, and I'm at the ER with some folks.”

Lara put on her command voice, soft, yet with steel, the one she used to convey Dickerson's orders. “If you're not on a gurney yourself, I'd get back here ASAP.”

Lyle cursed mentally. “I'll be in as soon as I can.”

He pressed the button to disconnect the call, and stared at the golden morning, fallen leaves tumbling across the asphalt, a wall of evergreens across a side street.

Lyle glanced back at the ER door. He didn't want to leave Sylvia.

It looked as though he must.

The TV showing local morning news out of San Francisco had the sound muted, but Sylvia got the gist from the captions.

A couple of seats down, Buck threw aside his magazine. “When they ran me out of Mary's room, they said it was for ‘a few minutes.'” He pushed to his feet, his blackened jeans leaving a mark on the light-colored chair. “I'm going back in.”

Sylvia watched him go, praying Mary's chances for recovery were good, and dreading bad news.

Suddenly, she saw a TV image of her parents on the steps of the San Francisco Opera House. Looking like royalty, the Senator in black tie and Laura in red silk …

Red. When she should be in black in case her daughter had died.

Sylvia's jaw clenched until her teeth ached. Their smiles, their waves to the news camera, and laughter at something someone called from the crowd. A limo awaited them at the curb.

She was shaking all over. How dare they appear so carefree? Could they really have wanted her out of their lives? Were they happier now they could be looked upon as holding their heads high through adversity, rather than cringing in anticipation of the next “On the Spot?”

Lyle strode back into the waiting room, stowing his cell phone in a holder at his belt. He looked all business, as though he was already mentally in the City.

Until he took in the tail end of the report on her parents' night at the AIDS benefit.

Their eyes met. “It was for a good cause,” he tried.

Her jaw set.

“I'm sorry,” Lyle said.

He sat in a chair facing hers and took her hands. “My boss called and I have to go in to work.”

“I thought you had time off.”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. David Dickerson is a tyrant … well, you know from when he called me that night.”

Sylvia nodded. Yet, she had a gut sense if Lyle left her, something terrible would happen. “You've only been gone a couple of days. What's so important?”

Lyle ran a hand through his hair. “I've actually been away from the office since September 22.”

“That's a long …” Her black brows came together. “Oh!” Her exclamation was soft, yet telling. “That's when the news about me being missing …”

“Yes.”

“You were looking for me.” Her expression softened.

His Adam's apple bobbed. “It was right after the TV news broke that you were missing when your father showed up in my office. Wrangled a leave of absence from Dickerson. So you can see the DA must be impatient to get me back for something.”

Buck Kline appeared on a swing of the door to the ER treatment area. His silver hair was mussed and his expression grim.

Sylvia rose. “Mary's not…?”

Lyle shoved up out of his chair. With an effort, he shifted focus to Sylvia's concern, and his own, about the kindly innkeeper who'd taken Sylvia in when she believed her to be a penniless stray, who'd tried to fend Lyle off when she falsely IDed him as an abuser … His heart rate accelerated while he waited to hear the fate of the feisty woman who'd smiled at him and Sylvia last night as they clearly went off to share a bed.

Lyle met Buck's troubled eyes. “How's she doing?”

“The doctors say she had more trouble with the smoke than the rest of us because she's small-boned and her lungs are little. She needs oxygen therapy, and she'll have to take it easy for a while.”

“I am relieved she will be all right,” said an accented male voice behind Lyle's shoulder.

He turned to find Andre Valetti on his way to greet Buck with a handshake and smile, all the while managing to look grave. An old undertakers' trick Lyle never wanted to master.

“I stopped by the inn on my way down.” Andre shook his head. “A terrible loss.”

Lyle listened for lack of sincerity, but he couldn't be sure.

“I imagine it looks even worse in daylight.” Buck sank into a chair, his palms spread over his knees. “You were right about it being a firetrap. It went up as though the sprinklers didn't come on.”

“They didn't in my room,” Lyle said.

“Or downstairs,” Sylvia added.

“I don't know if you've had a chance to talk with law enforcement…” Andre paused.

“No,” Buck said.

“We do know it was arson,” Lyle broke in.

Andre nodded. “One of the sheriff's men said the water valve where the pipe comes in from the river had been set in an ‘off' position.” He moved closer to Sylvia. “When I walked in, it was such a relief to see you unharmed. Someone threw a Molotov cocktail through your window.”

“We know that, too,” Lyle said.

Andre put a proprietary hand on Sylvia's shoulder. “I feared you might have been burned.”

“Fortunately,” Lyle put in, “she wasn't in
her
room.”

With a glare at Lyle, Andre walked Sylvia a few steps away and talked to her in a low voice Lyle couldn't understand.

Disgusted, he took the seat beside Buck. “I'm sorry about your place. I hope you can rebuild it.”

Buck rubbed his chin. “I don't think my heart's in trying to create a modern version of that grand old Victorian.”

Lyle fiddled with his keys. He needed to be on the road, but Sylvia was still with Andre. “What will you and Mary do?”

“Provided there's no problem with the water … maybe build a little house on the riverbank, take time to read and garden. We hadn't realized how hard we'd been working in our so-called retirement until Sylvia came along.”

“About the water,” Lyle said, “did you talk to the people at USGS?”

“I did. They told me if the mercury levels in the spring water exceeded thirty-five parts per million, the governor would call an evacuation of the area.”

Mary must have known this late last night; her fears had been well founded. How could any of them have expected their inn to be destroyed in quite a different way?

Andre's Italian loafers slip-slipped as he approached, Sylvia at his heels.

“What about the short term?” Lyle asked Buck.

“I suppose a hotel…”

Andre's hand descended to grip Buck's shoulder, like the patron, or whatever they called them in Italy, men who acted as though they owned people as well as land. “No,
mi amico.
I could not hear of you and Mary in a hotel when I have so much room.”

Buck raised his head. “Thank you, Andre.”

“Anything you'd like, my chef can prepare … a private nurse for Mary … whatever it takes to set things right.”

Andre turned to Sylvia. “You, too, of course. You must come and stay with your friends.”

A muscle twitched in Lyle's jaw while Andre took advantage of misfortune to reel in an attractive woman. That he believed her to be poor and out of a job made it even more despicable. He probably imagined offering some menial work for her at the villa and having her at his beck and call.

“Sylvia,” Lyle said. “Could I speak with you for a minute?”

Black eyes met his and she followed him wordlessly to the automated doors. Outside, Lyle led her to one side so Andre couldn't watch through the glass.

“I want you to come back with me,” he urged. “If you don't want to go to your place, then stay with me.”

“I can't leave, not with Mary …”

“With the inn in ruins, you can't help Mary and Buck anymore.”

“I have to stay and help nurse Mary; she did it for me when I ran my car over the edge.”

“That's true,” he tempered. But it meant she'd be at Andre's.

“Last night you said you were ready to go back and see your folks.”

Uncertainty flickered across her face. “I said I would think about it.”

He made a guess. “After you saw them on TV, laughing, you're still mad at them.”

“Well, I—”

“The reason I keep pushing you is that not only did your father seem worried, I saw your mother crying over you.”

“Laughing, crying …” Sylvia shook her head. “Mom's a regular Meryl Streep.”

His heart thudded. If she wasn't willing to go with him, was there any commitment despite the intensity of last night's lovemaking?

He wanted to take her in his arms, but there were cars pulling in and out of the parking lot and hospital workers in colorful scrubs coming and going. He'd never been big on public displays, and, after becoming famous for kissing on television, he was even more cautious.

“Look,” he tried. “What if that Molotov cocktail was aimed at you? What if somebody's out to get your father by harming you?”

“I'll be safe at Andre's,” Sylvia said.

“Safe!” Lyle snorted. “He might be the one who burned the place.”

She looked dumbfounded. “How can you say that? He's been a good neighbor to Buck and Mary, and how could he be out to get my father when he doesn't know who I am?”

“Okay, maybe he was after me. In my line of work, I've developed some good instincts. Yesterday morning, I got him riled with some pretty pointed questions. About whether an elderly woman was hastened to her death so Tony could buy her land. A big tract adjacent to Andre's, so I suggested he must be in on it, too.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me I wouldn't get away with talking to him that way.”

“That doesn't mean he wanted to kill you. The bomb wasn't thrown through your window.”