In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [53]
“Yeah,” she said in a small, frozen voice. “I can go for that.”
The Hainsville Inn & Country Club looked like the rest of Hainsville. Pristine red brick with white clapboard, verdant lawns, and soldierly rows of flowers that, Mel thought, must be too scared even to droop their heads in the torrential rain, for fear somebody might annihilate them.
Camelia checked them in and then they headed for the bar, a cozy red-plush-booth affair, with a faux log fire blazing as merrily as a faux fire could in the massive river-rock fireplace.
They ordered drinks from the bland-faced young man behind the bar: she a cosmopolitan, he a beer. Perched on stools, each contemplated his or her own thoughts.
Mel took a sip of the cosmopolitan. The young bartender had gotten it right, exactly the way she liked it: light on the cranberry juice and even lighter on the lime, and the vodka was Belvedere. It was the first good thing to happen that day and she gave him a smile. Then she got on the phone and called the hospital. And Camelia got on his phone and called the precinct.
No news on either count: Ed was status quo, neither worse nor better. And no progress on the Ed Vincent–killer situation.
Camelia downed the beer and ordered a single malt. He stared moodily into the glass. The color reminded him of Mel’s eyes and he stole a glance at her. The purple shadows were back and she was yawning. She looked beat and he heaved another sigh.
“I’m too tired to be hungry,” she said, nibbling on a handful of peanuts. “All I want is to fall into bed and sleep.”
He nodded. “Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.”
She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was hoping so too. She finished her cosmopolitan, slid off her stool, dropped a light kiss on his cheek, said good night, and was halfway across the room before he realized it.
“So? What time should I wake you?” he called after her.
“Wake me? Oh, whenever you’re up. You call the shots here, Camelia. I’m just your assistant. Remember?”
He was smiling as he watched her lope fluidly across the hall to the elevator. He wished she had stayed and had another cosmopolitan. He sighed as he ordered another single malt, just so he could remember the color of her eyes again.
Then, pulling himself together, he quickly dialed his home number.
32
Early the next morning, Camelia was breakfasting alone in the perkily decorated dining room, surrounded by potted plants and piped music, and a young blonde waitress in a wide, rustling red skirt and a white organdy apron. She had the same bland look and perfect white smile that seemed to be the norm in Hainsville. He wondered where they recruited them from.
“You from around here?” he asked as she took his order.
“I sure am, sir. My family has lived here for three generations.”
He nodded. “Then maybe you’ve heard of this guy, Ed Vincent?”
“Vincent? No, I don’t think so, sir. It’s not a local name, and believe me, I know them all.” She laughed, showing her pretty white-on-white teeth, reminding him again, uncomfortably, of Stepford Wives.
“Well, everyone’s real nice here,” he said, accepting a copy of the local newspaper she handed him. The Hainsville Gazette. What else would it be called? he thought with a wry grin.
He glanced through it while he ate the perfectly cooked, perfectly bland eggs and bacon and a boring Stepford bagel that bore no resemblance to the hard chewy New York type he was addicted to. He washed it down with unbitter coffee, sadly lacking in caffeine and slightly too cool for his taste, and thought again about the newspaper.
He checked the masthead. FIFTY YEARS OF BRINGING HAINSVILLE ITS NEWS, it boasted, and gave an address on Third Street.
He got to his feet as Mel appeared, looking refreshed and energetic and totally out of place among the potted palms, in her black leather and her short skirt and her high-heeled ankle boots.
“At least I know where we start this morning,” he said by way of greeting.
“You do?” Mel gave him that grin. “Okay, honey,