Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [82]
“Okay,” Lottie said, “I think you’re right. This potential buyer wasn’t normal. Your uncle was being harassed—stalked almost by some obnoxious woman. But he doesn’t say in here whether he ever heard from her again. So why…”
He said nothing, merely opening the old-fashioned ledger book that had once sat on the front desk of the hotel. In keeping with the vintage theme of the place, Roger used to have his guests sign in the enormous journal, using a big, swooping feathered pen. They’d always gotten a kick out of it and it had fit the ambiance of Seaton House perfectly.
“Look at the names of the people who stayed here the first week of June.”
She ran her fingertip over the names—some easy to make out, some scrawled. She stopped exactly where he had. On a barely legible signature, scrawled Louisa Mitchell.
All the color left her face so fast, he’d have thought she’d seen a ghost. The ugly possibilities had occurred to her as quickly as they’d occurred to him.
“Do you think she had something to do with your uncle’s accident?”
“Lottie, seeing that name and the date…I think it’s worse than that. I think she killed him.”
HE DREAMED THAT NIGHT. Violent dreams of his uncle not just stumbling over a rock or being startled by a noise. But of a woman’s arm coming out of a misty cloud. Pushing against Roger Denton’s chest. Then the old man falling away into the nothingness below the cliffs.
Simon woke up several times, and each time Lottie murmured something sweet in her sleep and curled close to him, pressing as tightly to his body as she could get.
He pulled her even tighter. Held her closer.
Tomorrow, he would drive into town and track down this lawyer, Andrews. He’d find out everything he could about the woman he suspected had killed his uncle. Where she’d come from, what she looked like. If the lawyer couldn’t help, he’d at least be able to direct Simon toward the former employees of Seaton House. With a guest as regular as that one—especially a pushy one who was bothering the owner—somebody had to remember her.
He had no doubt he’d track down the woman. What would happen when he did so remained to be seen.
At some point during the night, he must have finally fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, the bedroom was bathed in sunlight. The clock said it was nearly eight.
Beside him, he realized, Lottie was also awake. Lying flat on her back, she stared up at the ceiling. Her lips moved, as if she was talking to herself, and he couldn’t help remembering what she’d once said about cursing people she was mad at under her breath. She was obviously very mad at someone because she was frowning as she muttered.
“Hey.”
Jerking her head to face him, she murmured. “Good morning.”
But she didn’t curl back into his arms or offer him a good-morning kiss. Instead, she kept frowning, then slowly looked up toward the ceiling again.
He finally had to laugh, she looked so fierce. “Who are you muttering about?”
“I’m not muttering.”
“Ha. There was some definite muttering going on.”
Still not looking over, she admitted, “I’m thinking of your uncle. And what’s happened to you.” Finally rolling onto her side to face him, she continued. “I can’t imagine anyone killing someone for a building.” She reached up and scraped the tip of her finger against his scar. “But I guess it’s no more heinous than someone trying to kill another person for a hundred dollars and a watch.”
Yeah. Ugly. He knew exactly how she felt.
“You know,” she said, “there’s something bothering me. Have you ever had that feeling where you hear something, and you just know it’s important—that it has significance—but damned if you can figure out why? It’s like a tiny thought running rampantly around my brain, scampering out of reach every time I try to catch it.”
“You’re good with words.”
“I’m going to be a writer.”
“Good job,” he said, offering her as much of a smile as he could manage.
Lottie wrapped her