Virtue Falls

  Elizabeth walked up the stairs, and took her hand. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?” Margaret searched Elizabeth’s face. “You look dreadful.”

  “Yes. After a day of work, I’m always dirty. But even for me, this is extreme.” Elizabeth touched her hair. She looked at the grubby gauze that wrapped her wounded hand. “I should go wash.”

  “Do that, then come down to the dining room. The staff is preparing a wonderful meal for us.” Margaret watched Elizabeth go inside, then turned to Garik. “How is she really?”

  “In shock. But holding it together. She always does.”

  “Early life training never goes away.” Margaret had dressed for a special occasion, in a gray dress, diamond earrings, and her jade bead necklace. She snapped her fingers at him. “Knock that dirt off before you step inside my inn.”

  He started kicking his shoes against the steps, whacking the back of his pants with his hands. Most of the mud disintegrated into dust. But some of it clung, thick and black, on his back and in his hair.

  Margaret shook her head. “Come on, then. I won’t even ask what the two of you were doing to get plastered in mud.”

  “Better if you don’t.”

  Margaret led the way into the resort. “Has Elizabeth remembered … anything?”

  “Not about the murder. She’s certainly remembered what it’s like to be the center of attention.” He followed. “How did you hear?”

  “Harold was in Virtue Falls, distributing the supplies you brought, and someone saw you and Elizabeth go in the sheriff’s office, and come out with the escort.” Margaret had that sneer she wore when people made her angry. “Within minutes the news was all over town that Misty’s body had been found.”

  He remembered the middle-aged, gray-haired dumpling of a grandmother who worked at the sheriff’s office. She always wore a kindly smile while she spread the news of who was in trouble and why. “That secretary of Foster’s, right? What’s her name?”

  “Mona. Mona Coleman of Coleman Wood Products.” Margaret’s tone made it quite clear what she thought of Mona and her products. “And yes, she is the Virtue Falls broadcasting system.”

  “I remember her from before.” From when he was a teen delinquent, he meant. “I hated her then, too.”

  “Not that everybody in town wouldn’t have gossiped anyway, but I’m sure the news made a welcome change of topic from the earthquake.” Margaret walked toward the kitchen. “I hope for Elizabeth’s sake there’s closure in finding her mother’s body.”

  “And a rough couple of weeks while everyone rehashes the time Charles Banner killed his wife with the scissors.” A big chunk of mud fell out of his hair and landed on Margaret’s antique Persian rug.

  She sighed. “You’d better go shower.”

  “Long shower? Short shower? How’s the water situation?”

  “The well is fine, the pump is working, the cistern’s full, but I’m worried about propane, so don’t linger.”

  He started up the stairs.

  “And, um, Garik?”

  He recognized that tone of voice. Warily he turned back.

  “Wait a little before you go into the bathroom that you’re sharing.”

  It took him a moment to realize what Margaret had done. “You put both Elizabeth and me in the Pacific Suite?”

  “Why not?” Margaret leaned hard on the walker and looked up at him. “There are two bedrooms, one on either side of the living room.”

  “Heaven knows there are no other suites free in the resort.”

  Margaret laughed.

  “You are a wicked old matchmaker,” he said.

  “A man and his wife should be together.”

  No use reminding Margaret they were divorced. She did not believe in divorce. “Until this is over, I’m going to stick close to Elizabeth,” he told her.

  “For a start, that will do very well,” she said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Garik stepped into his room.

  One door led into the connecting sitting room. Another led into the connecting bathroom. In there, he could hear water running, and he spared a moment to remember better times, when he would have stripped down and strolled in, and joined Elizabeth in the shower, and helped her wash … and made love to her … and helped her wash again.

  She had said she equated him with an active sex life.

  He was glad to hear that, because today, despite being furious that she’d returned to the canyon while aftershocks still rattled the area, he’d leaped on her.

  He hadn’t seen her in over a year, and within five minutes, he’d rolled her body underneath his and considered—no, not considered—had been driven to kiss her, to take her, there in the mud. No matter that the earth was unsteady beneath them and a tsunami could at any moment sweep in off the ocean.

  Those geological forces were primitive, powerful, inexorable.

  So was his need for her.

  The shower turned off. He considered the fact that if he imagined her getting out, drying herself, gathering her clothes, and heading into her bedroom, it would be another long night alone with a spectacular erection. Then he imagined the whole scene anyway, because imagining Elizabeth nude was one of his favorite pastimes, exceeded only by getting Elizabeth nude and having great sex with Elizabeth … anytime, anywhere.

  The jeans and T-shirt he’d worn to travel had been washed and laid out on his bed. He said a silent thank-you to the resort staff, waited until he heard the bathroom door open and close, and headed in.

  The Pacific was one of Margaret’s luxury suites. He would have never been placed in here if the resort was full … but Margaret must have seen the earthquake as a gift from God, for she’d certainly acted quickly and decisively to throw him together with his ex-wife. It had worked out well, though, because after their discovery today, Elizabeth shouldn’t be alone.

  The bathroom sported an enormous tub and shower done in waves of blue tile, the work of a local artist who had made her name working on the remodel of the inn. The resort’s signature bergamot and cinnamon soap scented the lingering steam, and he saw Elizabeth had tried to clean up her trail of dried mud with her used towels.

  He stripped off his clothes, adding a fair amount of mud to the floor. He showered quickly, dressed in his jeans and T-shirt, and headed downstairs. Sticking his head in the kitchen, he saw Harold speaking to the chef. “Thought you’d want to know—Elizabeth and I dropped mud like breadcrumbs all the way up to the Pacific Suite, and we made a mess of that bathroom.”

  Harold gave him a thumbs-up and went back to discussing how to transport the huge baked hams and pans of baked macaroni and cheese to the homeless shelter in town.

  Garik stopped outside the library door and looked; Margaret sat in the high-backed, comfortable chair, Elizabeth on the broad, low couch. Both were sipping Irish whiskey on ice and chatting.

  Elizabeth looked better, less pale and shocky, but still remote.

  Margaret had a square-jawed, determined expression that boded ill for anyone who dared make Elizabeth miserable.

  Seeing them together made him feel good, in a way he hadn’t felt since Elizabeth had first told him she wanted a divorce. No, even before that—when he realized he’d managed to screw up his marriage, and didn’t know how to fix it.

  When he was a kid, Margaret had saved his life, probably literally.

  As an adult, Elizabeth had lavished him with love.

  They were the pillars of his life.

  Not his job. Not the FBI.

  Margaret and Elizabeth.

  Somewhere along the line, he’d forgotten that, and he’d damned near killed himself over shit that didn’t matter. Yes, he was a good agent, but he could move into a less stressful form of law enforcement, live a slower pace, be closer to Margaret and Elizabeth …

  He was in control of his life. As they faced the events of the next days, that was something to remember.

  Elizabeth turned her head, her white-blond hair
like a halo around her head. She caught sight of him; her blue eyes widened, and she smiled as if the sight of him gave her pleasure.

  And that gave him pleasure.

  “Boyo! Come in here.” Margaret rattled her ice. “It’s been a hell of a week, and I need a refill.”

  He strolled in. “Trust you to sacrifice some of your ice for the cause.”

  “It’s a good cause.” Margaret’s Irish accent came on strong.

  He refreshed her drink.

  Elizabeth shook her head and covered her glass.

  He poured himself a red wine.

  “One of the few bottles in the wine cellar that didn’t break,” Margaret told him darkly. “Thank you for using a stemless wine glass. If the earth’s going to move again, we don’t need red wine spilled on my antique rug.”

  Garik seated himself on the couch beside Elizabeth. He sipped the wine. “It’s good. Of course it should be—it’s a zinfandel from the Di Luca winery.” He grinned wickedly at Margaret.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said haughtily. “I don’t drink their wines.”

  Elizabeth swirled her glass and stared as if fascinated by the mix of icy water and whiskey.

  Margaret looked to him in appeal.

  So Garik addressed the elephant in the room. “Margaret, I always respect your opinions, especially about people. What do you remember about the Banner case, and Charles and Misty Banner?”

  Margaret’s jaw dropped.

  Elizabeth straightened, and her eyes kindled with interest. “Yes, Margaret, what do you remember? I’ve always wondered how the murder looked to the people who knew my parents. Were you surprised?”

  Margaret snapped her mouth shut.

  Garik raised his glass to her. He knew Elizabeth; he knew she would feel better trying to untangle the mystery of her father’s rage and her mother’s murder.

  Margaret realized it now, too. “Everything about your parents surprised me. He was so much older and not sophisticated. Your mother was a Disney princess Barbie, shedding glamour like stardust wherever she went. She didn’t even try to charm, she simply did. I mean, I liked her, and I don’t normally like younger, taller, beautiful women.” She gave her toothy, patented Margaret-smile.

  “Did you think my father…?” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as if she couldn’t quite finish the thought.

  “Did you think Charles Banner was the jealous type?” Garik asked for her.

  “Not at all. I would swear it never occurred to him to think anything but the best of Misty. I admit, that summer when rumors started to swirl, I wondered what he would do. But I never thought what did occur … would occur.”

  “Back up.” Garik wanted the chain of events laid out in order. “You met Charles and Misty when?”

  “The year they moved here. In the spring, before the tourist season really hit, I had the scientific team to dinner. Misty was pregnant. Charles was proud. They seemed happy. Really happy.” Margaret sipped her whiskey. “It’s always a surprise and a pleasure to see that kind of affection between man and wife. It felt like … like they’d rescued each other.”

  “Rescued each other?” Elizabeth put down her drink. “From what?”

  “I don’t know,” Margaret said. “It was just an impression, anyway. Then the tourist season hit, and I didn’t see them again until after Elizabeth was born. I sent a gift, of course, a silver christening cup engraved with her name and date of birth.”

  “Did you?” Elizabeth looked delighted. “Thank you! My aunt kept it for me, one of the few things I have from … when I lived here.”

  “You’re welcome. Every precious girl should have a gift to commemorate her birth.” Margaret looked toward the door where Miklós stood dressed in a waiter’s clothing. “Ah. Dinner is served. Shall we?”

  Elizabeth got to Margaret before Garik could put down his glass.

  Margaret smirked at him as Elizabeth helped her to her feet. “Some young people have manners,” she told him. “I wish you had brought your wife to visit earlier, when I was younger and more spry.”

  He got to his feet. “When you were only ninety?”

  Appalled, Elizabeth said, “Garik!”

  Margaret leaned heavily on Elizabeth’s arm and in a pitiful voice said, “He has always been cruel to this old woman.”

  Elizabeth thought about it for a minute, looked between Garik and Margaret. “You are joking. You don’t care if he makes fun of your age.”

  “Well.” Margaret put her hands on her walker. “The difference between ninety and ninety-one is about the same as the difference between passing gas and farting. It’s semantics, and it all stinks.”

  Garik laughed at the expression on Elizabeth’s face. Putting his arm around her, he said, “Margaret is known for her plain speaking.” He smiled at Margaret. “And the older she gets, the plainer it is.”

  “Who’s going to tell me no?” Margaret asked.

  “Not me.” Garik walked ahead of them into the dining room, held Margaret’s chair.

  As always, the dining room was immaculate, but rather than the usual white linen tablecloth, lit candles, and expensive place settings, the table was plainly set. For beneath Margaret’s carefully acquired polish, she was an Irish chambermaid, practical to the bone, and Garik guessed that whatever remained of her crystal had been packed away until all the aftershocks had ceased and the resort could reopen.

  Margaret groaned as she seated herself. “Earthquakes and old bones don’t go together.”

  Garik pushed her chair in, then knelt beside her until she looked at him. “You’ll tell me if there’s something wrong with you, right?”

  Margaret brushed his damp hair off his forehead. “You can’t cure what’s wrong with me, boy. Only the Grim Reaper can do that.”

  “And on that cheerful note,” Harold said from the doorway, “Miklós will serve dinner.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  While Miklós served gazpacho and Garik poured wine, Margaret instructed Harold to pull up a chair and give her a report.

  He seated himself. He stretched out his bad leg, rubbed his thigh, and informed her of the town’s progress.

  She told him to make sure none of her people took unnecessary risks or did too much, and when she said it, she sternly looked at him.

  “I’m fine,” Harold said with irritation. “If I didn’t kill myself all those years ago with the drugs, I’m not going to die from a little hard work.”

  “I’ll take it amiss if you do.” For all that Margaret was a despot who expected perfection of her staff, she treated them as family, and fiercely protected them from harm.

  Garik was proud to be part of her family.

  “Have you received word of Kateri via the ham radio?” Harold asked.

  “The doctors put her into an induced coma to keep her from moving, and to try and stop the internal bleeding,” Margaret informed him.

  Elizabeth’s mouth trembled with anguish.

  “We’re praying for her.” Harold put a bell beside Margaret’s elbow, said, “Ring when you’re ready for the entrée,” herded Miklós out, and shut the door.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without that man.” Margaret picked up her soup spoon. “He always handles everything, but he shines brightest during a disaster.”

  “Disaster seems life-changing. For me, it seems as if the earthquake broke me apart, and perhaps … when I put myself back together, this time all the pieces will be there.” Elizabeth’s gaze skated over Garik, dutifully eating the gazpacho, then returned to Margaret. “Please tell me more about your memories of my parents. I want to know how it all looked from the outside looking in.”

  Garik was glad she asked; when Foster said he hadn’t reported all the evidence, that had reopened the investigation, and Garik needed as much insight as he could gain.

  Margaret was warmly pleased. “Of course, dear girl. Glad to. Back then, Betsy, you were the apple of everyone’s eye—smiling, outgoing, a chatterbox. The dinner with the sc
ientific team became an annual event, and Charles and Misty were always there and seemed happy. I don’t mean that everything was perfect. They were married. They argued. They completed each other’s sentences and interrupted each other’s stories. It was very real, if you know what I mean.”

  “Aunt Sandy said before my mother met my father, she was an actress.” Elizabeth stroked the napkin in her lap, and stroked it again as if it couldn’t be flat enough. “Maybe she was acting.”

  “Have you ever seen someone act happy? Eventually they slip. They overact.” Margaret rang the bell. “No, I flatter myself I can tell the difference.”

  Harold and Miklós whisked in, removed the bowls, and replaced them with the main course. Harold told them, “Miso-glazed salmon, rice pilaf, and roasted kale. Simple and delicious, so please enjoy, because with Chef dividing his time between the shelter and resort, he is fussing about the preparation.”

  “Tell him it looks wonderful,” Elizabeth said warmly.

  Garik tried to choke out some praise, but the words stuck in his throat.

  “I know, Mr. Garik. You hate kale.” Harold accepted a bowl of salad from Miklós and placed it beside Garik. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you!” Garik piled his kale onto Margaret’s plate.

  Margaret viewed the operation with a critical eye. “They spoil you, boy.”

  “Yes,” Garik said. “I had forgotten how good it is to be Margaret’s son.”

  “I never knew when I adopted him how much trouble he would be,” Margaret said to Elizabeth.

  “Then you weren’t paying attention,” Elizabeth answered.

  Margaret looked startled, then laughed long and loud. “We’ll get along fine, Elizabeth Banner Jacobsen.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to correct her on the last name, then shut her mouth again. She wasn’t going to win this fight.

  Harold shooed Miklós out and once again shut the door behind him.

  Margaret, Garik, and Elizabeth ate in a companionable silence, and when they were done, Garik returned to the conversation. “Margaret, what happened to the marriage?”