Secrets (63 page)

Star said, “They don’t have to, do they?”

Rese frowned. They were Lance’s friends and had no reason to be there without him. No reason to any of it without him. She slammed the door on that thought.

Star twisted her hair into a wad. “You need help.”

“No, I don’t.” Her Help Wanted sign had caused everything that followed. She’d rather do it all alone than let anyone help her again.

Star wailed, “You can’t cast us out. ‘The miserable have no medicine, but only hope.’ ”

Who was Star to think she had the corner on misery? “I’m not telling you to go. I just assumed you would.”

“How could we leave you?” Star came and took her hands. “Friends forever.”

Rese swallowed. What did that mean? And what possible good was it? “Anyone know how to cook?”

Lance pressed the phone to his ear, relieved Rese had allowed Chaz and Rico to stay. He suspected that if Rico left, Star would go with him, leaving Rese alone with all of it.

“It’s only until she hires a cook, mon.” Chaz spoke softly. “I thought you’d want to know.”

He did. He wanted to know everything: how she was doing, what her neck felt like. But he knew that without being there. He’d taken a crowbar and rammed it in where her tendons should be. “Chaz, I’ve got to fix this.”

“That would take voodoo, and it’s not allowed.”

Lance squeezed the bridge of his nose. “She’s that mad?”

“She’s … stoic.”

Stone. Hard. Guarding herself. He drew a slow breath. “If I could just talk to her… .” Hold her, comfort her.

“She said if you set foot on the property she’d shoot you.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t have a gun.” He’d faced some pretty tough neighborhoods, especially Rico’s. He’d never been shot, but he’d been knifed, and maybe that was a more accurate description of the pain he felt now, slow and slicing.

“Nonna wants me to bury Quillan.”

“Rese would be glad of that.”

Lance closed his eyes. “Did she go down?”

“I heard her banging and shouting through the pantry wall. By the time I got down the other way, she had broken the flashlight and was … pretty scared.”

Lord
. He sagged. “What do I do, Chaz?”

“Seek first the kingdom of God, and all things will be added.”

Lance sank down on the bed. Wasn’t that what he’d been doing? Or was it his own kingdom he’d built, sharing his faith because of who he was, not who God was?

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

D
rained, head aching, Lance went into the narrow bar side of the restaurant downstairs instead of the elegant room where he’d dined with Sybil. He chose one of the small tables along the wall, picturing Rese in the kitchen, arms around herself, chin set.
“I don’t date my employees.”

“Why not?”

“It’s bad policy.”

And it was. If he’d kept it business as she had intended, she would not be hurting now. She might be furious; she might be fierce. But he could take that. What he couldn’t stand was the visceral knowledge of how much he’d hurt her. Because if what was going on inside him was anywhere close to what he’d made her feel….

He sank into a chair. Behind the bar a panel was carved with the year Prohibition was repealed. The carving reminded him of Rese; the date, of Nonna. There it was in a wooden panel, his dilemma. Just when he thought he had figured it out, it got turned back on him again.

He opened the briefcase of dossiers he had carried down. He had no idea how to make things right with Rese, so he tackled the search that had brought him there in the first place. What had Vito been involved in? Illegal trafficking? Money laundering?

The bartender asked what he wanted. Lance could answer that, given a year or two. But he supposed the man meant in a smaller sense. Food was not tempting, but his head ached from stress and lack of nourishment, so he ordered a burger and fries, then read through the pages on Arthur Jackson.

A period of the man’s life was detailed on those pages, but there was nothing overtly damning except the odd times he met with people for what seemed to be transactions. Whoever had recorded it all had gone to a lot of trouble to tell him very little. He knew when and with whom, but not what, as though the what was already assumed and this was just a record of its happening.

Lance narrowed his eyes at the page. Dates, times, payoffs, transactions. Someone watching and recording. But what was the reason for such meticulous scrutiny? Blackmail? The two photos were poor, probably shot from a distance.

He picked up one and then the other, looking closer at Arthur Tremaine Jackson. He didn’t see much resemblance to Sybil, and certainly didn’t recognize the people with him. But the photos might have meant something to someone.

His burger came and he took a few bites while he perused the other envelopes. Some of the men looked like downright thugs. The muscle of the operation? Their pages also had dates and amounts, but again listed no reason for the payments. No sales of merchandise, no services rendered.

If Vittorio had compiled these, he knew—or was working for someone else who knew—what the entries meant. They were very discreet records, but the fact that they’d been hidden in the cache suggested their incriminating nature. Someone didn’t want these found.

And what about the cash? Blackmail? If Vito had something on all the guys represented in the envelopes, that might account for the hefty stash. He chewed a tepid French fry, then pushed the plate aside and uncoiled the string on the last envelope as Sybil slid into the chair beside him. He hadn’t seen her come in, and her sudden presence was like a vulture lighting. She must have smelled carrion.

She set down her glass of wine. “You look miserable.”

He sighed. “You look great. As always.”

“Your flattery will get me nowhere.” She flicked her hair back over her shoulder.

He smiled grimly.

“I heard you took a room here.”

“You did?” That was quick, even for a smaller town than Sonoma.

She winked at the bartender who blew her a kiss. “Donny listened to me rant after the last time. He thought I’d be interested.”

The man had said nothing of Sybil to him. But given their respective allures, that was understandable.

She raised her chin. “All’s not well at the inn?”

“I don’t want to talk about Rese.” Not to Sybil; not to anyone.

She ran her finger around the fastener of one envelope. “Haven’t seen one of these before.”

Her great-grandfather’s dossier was buried, but Lance gathered them all and closed them in the case.

“More research on the inn? Or family history? Or both?”

He didn’t answer.

She clasped his thigh. “We’re on the same side, you know.”

“Sybil…” He reached down and removed her hand.

She shook her head with a little laugh. “There you go with all the things you won’t do.” She took a French fry from his plate. “You didn’t eat your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.” What he wanted was to be alone. To get a plan, to…find his way.

“What if I gave you the letter anyway?”

Meaning no strings attached? He leaned on his elbow. “Why would you do that?”

Her eyes traveled him, enigmatically. “Do you believe in karma?”

“As in past lives?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “As in bad things coming back to haunt.”

Oh, yeah. He could write the book. “What bad things?”

She sipped her wine. “What do you think the chances were that we would meet?”

“Had to be pretty good, since we did.”

She leaned forward. “Preordained?”

“Sybil…”

“I’m not making a pass.”

Draped like that, her blouse was making it for her. He adjusted his position to limit the view.

The candle flame glinted on her glossed lips. “There’s a reason why you’re here, why we met as we did. We have a connection.”

He swallowed. “There’s no connection, Sybil. I was using you and Rese to find what I wanted. And I made it all some holy quest from God.”

Sybil raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s honest.”

“Thought I’d try it for a change.”

She drained her goblet, and Donny had her replacement before she set it down. She traced the moist path a drop had made with her finger and licked it. “The difference is it bothered you. Of how many people would that be true?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.” But before she started thinking more of him than she should, he stood up. “I’m sorry, Sybil. I really am.”

She leaned back in her chair. “And I had to fall for the last cavalier.” Then she reached into her purse and took out the letter.

Rese clenched her fists. Eyes open and pacing, anger ate at her: a dull rage at Mom for wanting her dead, indignation at Dad’s dishonesty and doubts, and a sharp fury with Lance. She couldn’t go out to the shop and work, not with guests sleeping upstairs. She couldn’t sand floors or build furniture. She was exhausted, but the strain had pulled her neck so tight she could hardly bow her head.

If she tried to lie down it was worse. Every time she closed her eyes she jolted up with a surge of panic. Her heart rushed, her chest compressed. Then she was up again, pacing the hallway of her suite.

Lance had come looking for answers. She didn’t know the questions. All she knew was that it hurt. She had removed the entertainment poster, taken his name and pictures from the Web site, but she couldn’t delete him from her mind. And as angry as she was with him, she was more furious with herself. Like Mom with Walter, she had seen what wasn’t there—a man who loved her.

Pathetic! She was pathetic. Her eyes closed … but the moment she lay down, it started again. Waves of panic.
Don’t close your eyes. Don’t sleep
. Too many things to hurt her—things in the dark and things in the light. She couldn’t tell the difference. If Lance could fool her so completely … Lance and Dad and Brad….

How would she know? How could she ever know? She hunched her shoulders, gasping for breath.
“So it’s surrender you don’t like. Losing control.”

“No, Lance. It’s betrayal I don’t like. And I’ll never lose control again.”

Lance sat on the bed with the envelope in his hands. He had wanted it, as Sybil knew, wanted whatever he could get, whatever she could find. Answers, information. Pieces to put together. To fix what was wrong. Make it all right.

He slid the envelope back and forth between his thumb and fingers. Sybil had surprised him, giving it up with no return favor. Why had she changed her mind? It didn’t matter. He had what he thought he had wanted. Lance turned the letter over. The envelope was new. Like the other things from Sybil it would be a duplicate of the original. Not like the letters from Nonna and Conchessa.

“Use it wisely,” Conchessa had said when she gave him the letter expressing Nonna’s fears, but he’d been neither wise nor honest. Nonna hadn’t talked, just sent him to Conchessa, but he doubted she would approve of his decisions since. With his eyes on his goal, he had excused his means, and hurt Rese. Whatever the letter revealed, it would not undo that.

He tipped his head back, aching. She would not sleep. That would be two nights in a row, and she’d be stressed out in the morning, and there was nothing he could do. Not even Tony could make this one right.