Obsession Falls Page 8

  No use lying to me, child. I’m not really here.

  She sighed. “Fine. Yes. I’ve got paper and pencils. Why?”

  Draw what you saw.

  She bit her lip.

  Draw what you saw.

  Goddamn persistent ghost. “I don’t want to.”

  Draw what you saw.

  “It hurts to remember.”

  It’s fresh in your mind. Draw what you saw.

  “What good will that do?”

  When the moment comes, you want to be able to show the truth.

  “Those men … they were cruel. Murderers. That boy. He was so scared. Terrified. Sick. Yet he was looking around, trying to figure a way out. What could I do? I had to help. Stupid idea.” She’d run through the whole scene so many times in her mind. “I still don’t know what else I would do.”

  Are you sorry you helped him?

  “No! But I’m sorry for myself.” She hung her head and wept.

  You’ll recognize opportunity when it presents itself, child. Look for it, be brave, and seize the moment to get out of here when you can, as fast as you can. You’ll do that, won’t you?

  She nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

  Now … stake your tent, and do it twice as good as you think you need it. Rake up pine needles and branches and pile them around the base, then place rocks on top of them. The wind’s going to howl. The snow’s going to pile up. You don’t want to be buried alive.

  Frightened, she looked at her tent.

  Do you? His voice sounded fainter, more distant.

  She looked back.

  He was gone.

  She did as she was told. She staked and reinforced the base of her tent.

  Then she sat by the fire and watched the clouds race to cover the moon … and she used all her skill to draw the scene with Dash, Hernandez, and Miles McManus exactly as she remembered it, one panel after another.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Another two weeks of storms, another two weeks of lonely darkness and cold, and Taylor knew she was going crazy. She couldn’t strategize about clearing her name and going back to her former life. She couldn’t draw. She couldn’t look for opportunity and seize the moment. She couldn’t even fish.

  All she could think of was surviving the cold, wondering where her next meal was coming from, and if she could get down the hill fast enough between storms to gather supplies. And she thought about wolves. They howled at night, coming closer and closer.

  When she found herself fondling her pistol, she packed her backpack, stepped out into the storm, and headed down the hill. Better to die in Wildrose Valley than up here as wolf food. By the time she reached the road, the snowfall had eased and subzero cold had settled in. An ever-increasing number of cars slowly passed her, making the surface a skating rink.

  Where were they going? What were they doing?

  Ah. They were turning in there, through the gate to one of the fabulous mansions. At the far end of the winding, plowed drive, she saw the house lit up like a Christmas tree, and a long line of cars waiting to discharge their occupants.

  A party.

  So she walked through those gates and up the long driveway. A sign said SERVICE ENTRANCE, and that seemed the right way to go. She sure as hell wasn’t a guest. The trek led to the back of the house, toward the sound of voices, the glow of light. She found herself at the kitchen entrance beside a white moving van that proclaimed, GEORG’S FINE CATERING, and in smaller letters underneath, KETCHUM, IDAHO.

  She edged down the side away from the light.

  A long ramp angled from the truck to the driveway. Husky men moved narrow refrigerators on wheels out of the truck and up another ramp through the open double doors and into the kitchen. A myriad white-coated waitstaff carried plastic-wrapped silver trays of hors d’oeuvres inside.

  A short, skinny, excessively animated man in a dark suit and a wool coat stood in the middle of the action, giving orders in short, clear, concise sentences that held all the more authority for his quiet tones.

  Taylor watched the activity with all the longing of Lancelot for the illusive Holy Grail. These people had food. She was hungry.

  But even more than that … they were human. She hadn’t spoken to another human being in over two months, unless she counted her father, and she knew it was nuts to have seen him. She absorbed the babble of voices like the parched earth soaked in a sudden rainstorm. After so much silence, she almost couldn’t distinguish one word from another.

  Suddenly, she realized the officious man in charge had turned on her like a rabid dog. “Are you from the employment agency?”

  She stared at him, mute.

  “God. Another idiot.” In a slow, clear voice, he asked, “Did the employment agency send you?”

  “No.”

  Her voice was apparently too faint for him to hear, for he shouted, “Do you know how to serve food?”

  “I’ve waited tables,” she said. Almost ten years ago when I was in college.

  “Good. Go inside, put on a black servers’ outfit.” He looked her over and sighed loudly and ostentatiously. “No, wait. First, take a shower in the servers’ bathroom. Wash … your … hair.”

  Bewildered, she touched her head.

  “Wash? You know, with shampoo?”

  She didn’t answer, but stared at him wide-eyed.

  “Are you on drugs?” he asked sharply.

  “No.”

  “If I weren’t desperate…”

  Taylor saw him wavering, saw her opportunity fading, and seized the moment. In a clear voice, she said, “I’m out of practice, but I can do it. I promise.”

  He chewed on his lip, then nodded. “You’d better do it. After you wash … your … hair, get dressed in the servers’ clothes. Then come back into the kitchen. When I say it’s time, you take a tray, go up, and offer an hors d’ouevre and a napkin. Can you do that?”

  “I can.”

  “Hurry. We don’t have all night.”

  She nodded. But she didn’t know where to go.

  He sighed again, walked up to her and took her arm, and led her toward the house. He parted the bustling stream of humanity like Moses parted the Red Sea. At the door, he took her face in both his hands and spoke directly into her face: “Through the kitchen, down the hall, to your right. That’s the servers’ bathroom. Shower. Use soap. Don the servers’ outfit, the black outfit.” He scrutinized her further. “The people they send me.” Raising his voice, he said, “Sarah!”

  A woman’s voice came from the depths of the kitchen. “Yes, Georg!”

  “Feed this thing before you put her to work.” He gave Taylor a push.

  A broad, cool-eyed woman looked her over, picked out clothes from a cupboard on wheels, and handed them over. “Come back,” she said, “when you’re clean and dressed.”

  Taylor found herself prodded around mobile refrigerators and marble countertops, around cooks wielding knives and long spoons, past stovetops filled with boiling pots and sizzling pans, and into a dim hallway and the servers’ bathroom. She’d taken enough speedy showers in strange bathrooms; she knew what to do. She stripped out of her grubby clothing, leaped into the shower, used a scratchy loofa with scented soap, leaped out, covered herself with hand lotion—sure, she was in a hurry, but her skin was parched and cracking—and dressed herself in black slacks, a black shirt, a black vest, and a red bow tie. She picked up the black jacket and carried it with her as she returned to the kitchen. She didn’t know what to do about shoes; her boots wouldn’t work here, but somehow she thought Sarah would have a solution.

  Sarah did. She pointed at Taylor’s feet. “What size?”

  “Eight.”

  “I need a size eight black oxford!” she shouted.

  Someone else’s shoes were shoved into Taylor’s hands. Taylor donned them, grimacing at the feel of used bowling shoes. But the plate of food Sarah placed in her hands distracted her.

  “Sit.” Sarah pushed her toward an empty corner of the long table s
urrounded by yet more slicing, dicing sous-chefs. Placing her hand on Taylor’s shoulder, she pressed her into a chair in front of a plate overflowing with a variety of cheeses, breads, hors d’oeuvres, and exotic tidbits. “Eat. It’s bad advertising for Georg when his server looks like a starving child from a third world country.”

  Taylor nodded. She sat. She ate. She looked up.

  Sarah was watching her shrewdly.

  “The crab cakes are oversalted,” Taylor told her.

  “You’re not from around here. I didn’t think so.” Sarah turned, chins jiggling, and shouted in her deep voice, “Griffin! Pull the crab cakes apart and start over, and this time, put down the saltshaker!” She turned back to Taylor. “Anything else?”

  “Everything exemplary, especially the steak bites dusted with dried morels and peppercorns.”

  “My creation,” Sarah said with satisfaction. “And kudos to you for recognizing the morels. What’s your name?”

  Taylor should have thought of this, but getting hired, actually talking to people … when she walked up the driveway, she hadn’t dreamed this would happen.

  “Come on. Come on. You’re going to make me think you’re an escaped convict.” Sarah was far too shrewd for Taylor’s comfort.

  “Summer. My name’s Summer.” Not much of an alias, but one Taylor would respond to.

  “All right, Summer. Finish your food. We’ve got another fifteen minutes before we have to be out there with the trays.”

  Taylor slowed down. It was all delicious, and rich with flavors she hadn’t tasted for too long. She didn’t dare overindulge. And, she suspected, refreshments would be provided throughout the evening. These caterers—they fed people.

  She put her half-finished plate on the counter by the dishwashers, and joined the lineup of servers beside the array of silver platters.

  To her surprise, Georg himself handed them out, telling each server what was on the tray, making them repeat it back. “This is the first big event of the holiday season. Mr. and Mrs. Brothers were my original clients. You will not fail me.” His dark gaze swept around the waitstaff.

  Everyone murmured, “Yes, Georg.”

  Taylor felt a tremor of stage fright. She was going into a party. With people. Would someone recognize her?

  Georg paced before them, never still, gesturing deliberately, pointing at one server, then the other, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “Whatever you do, keep moving. You look for guests to signal you, you offer the tray when you get a chance, but you glide through the crowd. You are unobtrusive. You dress alike. You look alike. You are alike. You are Georg’s servers. After the party, no one even remembers you were there.”

  “Right,” Taylor murmured. These were wealthy people. She was staff. No one would even look at her. She followed the others up the stairs, down the corridor, and into an enormous ballroom of shining hardwood floors, crystal chandeliers, and lofty flower arrangements. A band played background music from the stage in the corner. This room, this home, was arrayed as gloriously as any in a formal Washington, D.C., event.

  On the other hand, the guests wore western chic. The men wore black leather dusters, black cowboy hats, and big belt buckles. The women wore fringed leather dusters in jewel tones with fur trim and snap-front shirts. Everyone wore jeans and cowboy boots. Expensive jeans, and expensive cowboy boots.

  The bar was busy. Servers with champagne were hopping. And Taylor found her tray of chicken satay emptied almost at once. She returned to the kitchen and this time brought out nacho bites with fried oysters. Then Brie served on croissants smeared with butter.

  After the first rush of consciousness at being in a room with so many people, Taylor settled down to work in the crowd. She overheard broken bits of conversations. She gathered that this was the annual fund-raiser for the local rodeo given by Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Brothers of the Brothers Resorts and Dude Ranches, and for the first time Taylor realized how dangerous her appearance here could have been. She had once bid on the redecoration of their western-style luxury hotels. At the time she had cursed the loss; now she thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t won the contract. If she was recognized … her skin crawled on the back of her neck, and she turned to see who was watching her.

  It was an old man, out of place in his formal tuxedo, and he beckoned her.

  She hurried to his side.

  Once he had been much taller, but now he had shrunk until he was about her height. He was fragile and bony. His shoulders were bent; he looked as if he were about to fall over. And he sported a mass of white curling hair and overgrown white curling wizard eyebrows over bright, inquiring blue eyes.

  She liked him. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes. What’s that on your tray?”

  “Bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with shrimp and cheese.”

  He hummed with delight as he helped himself. “Are you allergic to shrimp?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then sit down and eat the whole tray.” He waved the jalapeño in her face. “My God, you girls. Always dieting to within an inch of your lives. How are you going to catch a man, looking like that?”

  She couldn’t help it. She grinned. “They already fed me in the kitchen, and I don’t want a man.”

  “Are you gay?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No, sir. I’m currently unattached, and happy to be that way.”

  He clicked his tongue in disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. All women should be married.” He took a hearty bite, chewed, and swallowed. “I shouldn’t be eating this. Heartburn will keep me up all night. But I love ’em, used to eat ’em by the train-car load. Goddamn, that’s great. Don’t tell my wife.”

  “I won’t.” Taylor offered him a napkin.

  He took it. “So … you were disappointed in love.”

  “Several times.”

  “It’s like riding a horse. Gotta get back in there. You don’t want to die alone.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. She’d faced death too often lately to be able to joke about it.

  The old man saw something in her face, because his blue eyes narrowed. Then he looked past her and said, “No, I am not allowed to eat such spicy food, but thank you for offering.” He shoved the half-eaten jalapeño into Taylor’s hand.

  She slipped it into her vest pocket.

  A woman’s strong voice came from behind Taylor. “Joshua, do not try to bullshit me. After so many years, I know exactly what you’re up to before you even think to do it.”

  “Pain in the ass,” he muttered, and dabbed at his lips.

  “I told you not to harangue this child.” The brilliantly gowned old lady slipped her hand through her husband’s arm. “Don’t pay attention to the old coot,” she said to Taylor. “He’s always trying to save the world.”

  “It could be worse. He could be trying to destroy it.” Two months without making polite chitchat, and already Taylor had lost the knack.

  Joshua elbowed his wife. “See there? This young girl likes me.”

  “Even if you do tell her she’s too skinny.”

  “Too damned much dieting these days. I like a woman with meat on her bones. Like Lorena.” He patted his wife’s rump.

  Lorena calmly removed his hand and held it in hers. “What’s your name, dear?” she asked Taylor.

  “Summer.” The lie came more easily this time.

  “Beautiful name,” Lorena said.

  “You know,” Mr. Brothers said, “before we hit it big with the resorts, Lorena here used to be a hairdresser. You might get her to cut your hair. I’m not trying to be mean, gal, but you look like you backed into a lawn mower.”

  “That was rude, Joshua. True, but rude. And I am still a hairdresser. Never know when this being wealthy thing might take a header and I’ll have to go back to work.” Lorena glared at her husband.

  He glared back at her.

  Taylor could tell they’d gone over this ground multiple
times, and their fight was nothing more than affectionate sparring. She started backing away. “I should go back to work, too, before Georg fires me.”

  “If he tries, tell him to speak to me,” the old man said gruffly. “Anyway, it looks like they’re hailing me to do my little song and dance, and start the auction.” He straightened his coat.

  Lorena straightened his tie.

  He walked toward the stage to increasing applause.

  Of course. He was Joshua Brothers, the host of the party and the owner of the house. All the clues had been there. Taylor had simply become so socially inept she hadn’t recognized them.

  Mrs. Brothers patted her arm. “When the party’s over, come and find me and we’ll trim that hair of yours. It’ll improve your chances to find steady work.”

  Mr. Brothers took the microphone and announced Lorena’s name in proud tones.

  “There’s my cue,” Mrs. Brothers said.

  Taylor watched her walk toward the stage. Keep a steady job. Is that what she should be doing? Tonight, no one had recognized her. Instead of skulking in the mountains with no plan and no future, should she go into Ketchum and see about becoming a … a waitress?

  Yes. She could continue to work. Because no one ever looked at the servers. But for any kind of work, she needed a first and last name and a Social Security number. Not everyone was going to look at her and assume she was registered with an employment agency, nor would they be willing to hire her with no documentation. Georg had been reluctant, and Taylor had no guarantee she would receive money for her stint tonight. On the other hand, she’d had a hot meal and a shower, so it was worth taking the chance.

  At the party, cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and the auction gave way to dancing, and then a generous buffet and circulating trays of dessert. Summer carried the bite-sized lime cheesecake in a chocolate cup, and found herself very popular. She was serving two women, smiling and saying, “I’m sorry, if you’re lactose intolerant I’m afraid the cheesecake is not your best choice. But the cotton candy cups are not far behind, and—”

  Behind her she heard a man say, “You know the Renners had a false alarm on their security system, right? Now Dick Harbo insists his place got broken into.”