Zeitgeist Page 10

  Grant paused to glance at the television on his way past. A slender woman, quite beautiful and clearly Fiona’s mother with her dark skin, blue-black hair, and brown sloe eyes, laughed into the camera while she lighted candles on a birthday cake, a miniature Fiona on one side and a tall, awkward boy with pale-blond hair, blue eyes, and a mulish mouth on the other. “Set that down and come join us, Harley! Fiona will blow out her candles now, and she might need help.” She had a slight accent and enunciated her words with the care of one to whom English was a second language.

  The scene shifted to sky and then trees before righting itself, and a tall blond man with amused blue eyes stepped into the scene. “With all her hot air, she should be able to blow out the torch on the Statue of Liberty.”

  The little girl laughed. “No way, Daddy!”

  “Whitley, where are you going?” the man asked.

  The boy, now out of camera range, mumbled something indistinguishable.

  “You’re breaking up a precious family moment, son.”

  “Let him go,” the woman said. “He’s at that painful age. Boys.”

  “Boys!” the little girl parroted.

  “Men,” Fiona said, speaking from the bed. “Don’t get too comfortable. Look in the boxes if you want, but after that, be on your way.”

  Blocking out the laughter and conversation emerging from the television, Grant continued to the closet, opening the door, turning on the light, and crouching down by the pile of boxes. Fiona hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d suggested Whitley had been in a rage while packing his father’s things. Shards of glass clung to the inside of chrome frames. He found it interesting Whitley hadn’t broken all the framed photos, only the ones with Fiona or her mother included, either singly or in family shots.

  He sifted gingerly through the contents. There. Correspondence. That’s what he’d wanted. Grant extracted a thick accordion file and, shifting to sit with his back against the wall, began riffling through it, one section at a time, stopping when he came to a paper-clipped sheaf of business correspondence. Pulling the papers out, he set the accordion file to the side and began reading.

  “What did you find?”

  He started, almost dropping his prize. “Let a person know when you’re planning on sneaking up on them, why don’t you?”

  “If I wanted to sneak up on someone, why would I let them know? What did you find?”

  “More interesting is what I didn’t find. This is a packet of personal business documents and correspondence, but I found nothing about Whitley’s mother: no marriage certificate, no death certificate, no divorce papers.”

  “What are you holding there?”

  He passed her the papers. “Your parents’ marriage certificate. Your mother’s birth certificate. She was an India native. And her death certificate.”

  She took the papers from him but didn’t look at them. “Daddy met her when she was working as a translator for some businessman trying to talk him into outsourcing the customer service call center. My father had no interest in outsourcing, but he took the meeting out of politeness. He saw my mother, and it was—”

  She didn’t finish her sentence, instead standing there, looking down at him with a haunted look in her eyes. He guessed her father had told her “love at first sight,” words she now appeared to loathe.

  Her eyes cleared, and she glared down at him. “Why are you still here, in my bedroom?”

  Grant glanced at his watch and did the math while rising to his feet. He stood so close to her she had to raise her eyes to maintain her hostile expression. “Three hours and twenty-three minutes.”

  Confusion crossed her face. “What?”

  “Three hours and twenty-three minutes. That’s how long it’s been since you had to remind yourself how much you hate me. I’m making progress.”

  The confusion was supplanted by annoyance, not anger, which he considered promising. “If you don’t leave now, the only progress you’ll be making is a rapid descent down the stairs, preferably face-first.”

  He grinned. “Admit it, Fiona. You’re getting used to having me around.”

  “As a teenager with mild acne, I got used to having the occasional pimple. I always got rid of them, too. Find a room and occupy it.”

  “I’m thinking about the turret room. I’ve never slept in a round room before.”

  “That’s a good choice for you. It’s haunted.” She began to move toward the bed.

  “Haunted? Like chains rattling and moaning?”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t know. Whitley told me he heard a woman crying in there. It frightened me. I never went in. Tonight, I tried all the keys on the door, but none of them worked. You can search for another set of keys if you’re determined to sleep there. It might be fun. Not for you, but for me. Finding you curled up on the floor, sucking your thumb, and completely, blessedly mute, perhaps permanently, would go on my short list of good experiences I’ve had since the plane blew up.”

  “You know you don’t mean that. You’re starting to warm toward me.”

  She widened her eyes, opening her mouth and then shutting it. “Leave.” She stabbed a finger toward the door.

  “I’m going. And I won’t be back.” Grant headed for the door.

  “Damned right you won’t be back.”

  “Damned right,” he agreed, giving her a broad smile before he stepped into the hallway.

  Chapter 12

  That had gone well, Grant decided while collecting his suitcases from the top of the staircase and walking to his room at the opposite end of the hallway. She really was coming around. Any day now she’d realize they were meant to be. Any day now she’d accept kismet.

  Of course, they might not have any day now.

  That was a pessimistic outlook. She couldn’t be pushed. She needed to come around on her own. He had to continue to believe it would happen, that’s all. Optimism was both his vocation and avocation, optimism and happily-ever-afters.

  Writing romance novels came naturally to him. He couldn’t recall a time when he hadn’t believed one day he’d meet the perfect woman, the one meant for him and him alone, his soulmate. Friendship maturing into love might be all very well for other men, but he wanted more. He wanted an instant recognition of destiny, of a future spent with one special woman, a spark igniting a bonfire when their eyes met. He’d dated his share of women, never letting them believe he sought commitment, and all his past relationships had both begun and ended in friendship. He still communicated regularly with three ex-girlfriends and had even served as bachelor of honor at one’s wedding.

  It wasn’t until he’d seen Fiona poring over a book in the Siouxland Public Library and been felled by a heady sense of rightness that he’d known he’d finally found the one. Now he must be patient. Like water dripping steadily on a stone, he would wear away the hard shell in which she’d encased her heart. It would happen.

  His sisters called him a hopeless romantic, reminding him of his duty to the Haldeman name to sire the next generation of Haldeman men. When he’d told them he’d finally found the woman with whom he’d spend the rest of his life, they’d been at first happy for him and then dismayed upon learning he hadn’t yet spoken with her.

  “Love has to be reciprocal,” Deedee had stated, her sweet face troubled. “From what you’ve said, what you have sounds more like obsession than love.” Kindly but misguided Deedee saw obsession in the most commonplace actions, such as Grant’s liking cold pizza for breakfast or his tendency to work for twelve hours straight when the words were spilling forth like oats into a silo.

  Cecilia had been more forthright. “You’ve become a stalker, Grant. Get a life.” Cecilia was a stickler for proper behavior, insisting her children address adults as sir or ma’am and frowning on public grooming, preferring her brother walk around with his hair looking like a porcupine’s backside rather than whip out a comb in public.

  Now that he thought about it, he wondered why he
’d mentioned Fiona to Cecilia in the first place. He wasn’t a stalker. He was goal-oriented. And a bit panicked, knowing if he didn’t force communication between them, she’d sail out of his life as unobtrusively as she’d sailed into it. One day, she’d be gone, and he wouldn’t even know her name.

  Glenda’s contribution, made after a thorough consideration of his sad tale, was to say his feelings for the woman weren’t love at first sight. She said they were love at second sight. At first, he’d seen a beautiful woman. It wasn’t until he’d realized she was troubled and had, in his words, a “tragic backstory” that he’d decided he was in love with her. A visit to the local animal shelter would generate the same emotion. She’d recommended he drive out there right away. Glenda, who owned three dogs, all of them past shelter denizens, ended every conversation with advice to visit the local animal shelter.

  He’d decided not to mention Fiona to his two oldest sisters, Laura and Helen, but word did get around in a tight-knit family, and they’d been pressuring him for the last several months, asking him whether he’d met anyone new. He wondered what they’d have to say if he called them right now and told them he and his special someone, an allegedly dead woman, were housebreaking together. What they may consider eccentric and dangerous, he preferred to think of as progress.

  And progress it was. Twenty-four hours ago, Fiona wouldn’t give him the time of day. Twelve hours ago, she’d threatened to drive over him. An hour ago, she’d told him to hurry while racing ahead to grab the suitcases.

  She was definitely coming around.

  It occurred to him he wasn’t tired. He wouldn’t sleep, not for a while. Stepping into his room, he held the lantern high while studying the windows. The blinds were drawn, but the curtains were open. Grant set the lantern on the floor before moving to the windows and closing the curtains. Maybe he should drape the windows with bath towels, like Fiona had. Ah, but he didn’t know where the bath towels were stored. He should ask Fiona.

  Halfway to the door, he stopped. Not tonight. Bothering her again after such a promising start would be stalking. His bathrobe should do the job.

  That project finished, Grant flicked on the light switch and glanced around, hoping for some entertainment. Another console television topped by a DVD player, both likely as old as Fiona, squatted against the wall at the foot of the bed, apparently standard furnishings in these third-floor rooms, which mirrored motel rooms. He saw no DVDs, however, and he wasn’t in the mood for channel surfing.

  He revolved, looking for a book or a magazine, and felt panic rise. Not even a bookcase, much less books. He’d once encountered a similar situation as a child at a doctor’s office and had come close to hyperventilating at the thought of waiting an hour or better without so much as a tattered Highlights magazine. Mom had sent his sister Laura to the drugstore across the street, and he’d whiled away his time reading the latest issue of Seventeen.

  After a moment’s reflection, he decided a dearth of books was odd. During their tour of the house, he hadn’t seen one bookcase, not even a book left lying out. This would be odd in any household but was especially odd in the house of the owner of Delaney.com, the nation’s largest media retailer. He should mention this to Fiona.

  Grant turned toward the door and paused. Tonight wouldn’t be a good time to draw this to Fiona’s attention. She’d think he was looking for an excuse to be around her. She wouldn’t appreciate his lightning recognition of a troubling problem; she’d perceive the lightning arrival of a troubling problem: him.

  If he’d been thinking, he’d have packed his eReader, but when a man’s been bashed on the head and sees his life pass before his eyes while a whacko hitman announces a scheme for his murder, he tends to forget minor concerns like the possibility of being stuck in a house with nothing to read. Ah. He had his laptop. He could begin researching Delaney.com for unusual search patterns. Grant was halfway across the room before he realized he’d have no Internet access here.

  He wondered whether Fiona remembered the password to their Wi-Fi. He should ask her. Not tonight. Tomorrow.

  Three hours and twenty-three minutes between recollections of her animosity toward him. He was making progress.

  Resigned to a sleepless night spent contemplating his progress while wishing he had something to read, Grant spun on his heel, heading for his suitcases, and froze. That had felt like the floor shifting beneath his heel. He spun back the other way, grinding his heel in. Yes, that had definitely been the floor shifting. Rocking back and forth, he decided the floor beneath his foot was rotten. Just his luck to get the only room with a one-way, high-speed descent to the first floor.

  Or were they all like that? Maybe he should—no, she didn’t want to see him again tonight. He’d pushed her as far as she would go. Any more interruptions, and she’d toss him and his suitcases into the street.

  He stepped backward and experimented with shifting his weight on a different section of floor. No looseness there. Interesting. He stepped forward and tried the first section again. Only this part was loose. Or was it loose? He remembered reading about mysterious passageways and secret rooms in old Victorian mansions. Well, not necessarily Victorian ones, in fact, most of the mysterious passageways and secret rooms had been in old British castles, but one or two had been in Victorian mansions.

  What had that Chicago serial killer’s name been? That’s right: H.H. Holmes. It had been in the late 1800’s that the man had built his famous “Murder Hotel,” a Victorian mansion with secret rooms, doors opening onto brick walls or could locking only from the outside, and staircases ending in mid-air. Holmes had used the hotel to lure women in, mostly employees, and once he was tired of them, he’d stick them in an airless room for a nice bout of suffocation or hang them by their necks in a room specifically designed for that purpose.

  That would be right up Whitley Delaney’s alley.

  Grant stepped back and dropped to his knees, pressing his hands down on the carpet, hoping to feel the edges of a trapdoor, but the ancient, thick-pile carpet thwarted his attempts to discern a clear shape beneath it. If he had a knife, he could slash it, but knives were something else he appeared to have forgotten while packing. He made a mental note to never forget books or knives again when traveling.

  Maybe he could yank out the carpet. He glanced up, staring across the room at the heavy chest of drawers braced against the wall. To yank out all of the carpet, he’d need to move the chest of drawers to the other side of the room, and there was no guarantee he could free the carpet from the side once he’d moved the chest of drawers. Easier and less physically demanding would be a knife.

  Grant jumped to his feet, picked up his lantern, and opened his door, stepping out and softly closing it behind him. If she saw him now, sneaking toward her bedroom, she’d taekwondo him into the next house over. Even worse, all his progress would be lost. Walking on the balls of his feet, he eased down the hallway to the stairs. Her light was on, and he could hear voices. She was still watching the family movies. She’d never hear him wandering the house in the dead of night.

  Grant tiptoed down both sets of stairs, walking in the dark with his lantern turned off in case he passed an uncovered window, all the while hoping he didn’t take a neck-breaking stumble. Once he’d reached the first floor, he decided to chance a light, flicking on the lantern. This was what she’d called the formal sitting room, a room as large as most two-bedroom houses and austerely furnished in a couch, a coffee table, and several overstuffed armchairs, exactly what a lunatic needed after a long day spent trashing rooms and vandalizing cars.

  He walked openly now. She couldn’t possibly hear him, not from the third story. Moving to the kitchen, he began pulling out drawers, looking for a knife. There. That one should do. Grant selected a butcher knife that by anyone’s standards would qualify as a significant knife.

  Sliding the drawer shut, he turned, the knife in one hand, the lantern in the other, and flung himself back into the counter at the sight of Fion
a standing six feet away, her pistol pointed at him.

  Chapter 13

  “The knife,” Fiona said, her eyes glittering in the lantern’s glow. “Set it on the table.”

  “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “It’s not a stalker preparing to unite him and his beloved in one final bloody scene? That’s what it looks like, Grant.”

  Maybe he hadn’t made as much progress as he’d thought. At first prepared to cajole, he felt anger rise. “When are you going to learn you can trust me?” he asked, his voice sharper than intended.

  “When you put down the knife and back away from it.”

  Now she was really making him angry. “No.”

  “No?” She looked surprised.

  “You heard me. You can shoot me. I don’t care. However, I’m keeping my knife, and I’m going to my bedroom, and I’m going to cut out the carpeting over what I believe to be a hidden trapdoor. If you want the knife after that, you can have it. Otherwise, get the hell out of my way, because you’re really starting to tick me off.”

  He thought he saw a slight stain rise in her cheeks, but he really didn’t give a damn. He’d put himself on the line for her, sort of—well, he would have if she’d asked him, and it wasn’t any fault of his she hadn’t asked thus far—and this was the thanks he got. He moved toward her. He saw the gun waver before he shoved his way past her and trotted up the stairs, compelled swiftly upward by the anger rising within.

  How could she possibly believe he meant her harm?

  Returning to his room, he tested the floor, pressing his toe down and seeking the wobbly section. There it was. Dropping to his knees, he sliced the tip of the knife into the carpet, blade-side up, and began cutting across, ignoring her entry into the room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t look up. He was still angry. Grant began making another slice, this one perpendicular to the other.