Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1) (6 page)

Laura shoved up the sleeves of her Hart’s Inn sweatshirt for the fiftieth time. Slapping golden oak stain on the wooden back of the diner booth, she tried not to clench her teeth with every hammer bang behind her.

Cole.

The blasted man had somehow found her. Not only did the bad penny turn up again tonight, he joined the stage crew. Only in her cabin could she escape him.

Not a bad penny, a loose cannon. Why did he have to be her protector? She couldn’t bear it. His very presence unearthed painful memories she habitually kept buried.

And since he’d raised the specter of a hit man, at every step she looked behind her, around her, expecting an attack. Maine was safe. She’d never given a thought to walking alone from her cabin along the wooded path to the rambling inn and the theater beyond. But tonight at the first scrabble in the murky twilight shadows, she sprinted for the theater’s stage door.

Good sense told her she needed Cole’s protection, but why did it have to be at close range?

“If that man’s eyes had laser beams, you’d have a hole in your back. You and our new hunk have a problem?” an amused feminine voice whispered.

Laura recognized the redhead about her own age. An inn guest, she too had recently joined the stage crew. “Vanessa, oh, hi. No, no problem. We … knew each other in high school.”

The friendly woman smothered a laugh with the blue-checked curtains she carried. “Why do I have the feeling that’s as complete as saying Romeo and Juliet met at a party?”

Vanessa’s laughing green eyes and warm candor invited sharing. Laura could use a friendly shoulder, but she had hit the wall with what she could divulge about Cole. “Romeo and Juliet about says it.” A tragedy. She’d rather not think about the ending. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Acting as bait meant she needed protection. She could handle his presence. She couldn’t block her awareness of him, but she didn’t have to talk to him.

BY THE TIME the stage crew took a break, Laura had had enough of Cole’s laser stare and overbearing attitude. When his back was turned, she slipped down the backstage stairway. A few minutes to herself would restore her equilibrium.

The lower floor used to be the stable of the old barn. Storage and dressing rooms lined a hall through the former horse stalls. She inhaled the fragrance of long-removed hay, its essence embedded in the wood.
No one seemed to be working in any of the rooms. All was dark except for a bare bulb in the long hall.

She sank into the comfort of the old rocking chair used in
Arsenic and Old Lace
. More than one of the gentlemen callers had drunk the ladies’ elderberry wine and died in its embrace.
Morbid thought. Not what she needed as a mood changer.

The wooden stairway creaked. A second tread creaked.

Someone was coming.

Alarm bells rang in her head. How stupid! She’d done exactly what Cole warned her not to do. She’d gone off by herself. Heart pounding, she eased to her feet.

Perhaps it was only one of the stage crew. Or Cole.
But perhaps it wasn’t.

Where could she hide?

As the unknown person continued down the stairs, she ducked among the hanging costumes in the nearest storage room. She held her breath and waited. Sweat trickled down her back.

Rubber soles squeaked on the cement floor. Someone was walking along the hall, just as she had.
As the footsteps approached, she peered between a silk cloak and a velvet doublet.

Vanessa walked by the door, a bucket of paint in one hand.

Laura exhaled slowly, her hand on her chest. Safe enough, but she might not have been. She wouldn’t be so foolish again. Extricating herself from the soft fabrics, she strolled out into the hall.

“Oh, hi, Vanessa. What’re you doing down here?” She tried to sound casual, but could hear a wobble in her voice.

The redhead turned from the doorway where she stood, alarm on her freckled face. She slid a hand from her jeans pocket and pointed. “Extra paint. I left it in here since I don’t know where it goes. What’re you up to?”

Laura shrugged. “Checking to see if we could use any of these costumes. Nothing more modern than Shakespeare’s time, I’m afraid.”

Vanessa gestured toward the stairs. “After you.”

When the two women emerged backstage, Cole’s disapproving countenance zeroed in on Laura.

Making a show of ignoring him, she grabbed her brush and slapped more stain on the wood.
Back where she started. Worse. Her mini escape had done nothing to lighten her mood, and now she felt foolish and foolhardy.

***

When the work session ended, Laura made her way to a seat in the orchestra section to view the rest of the rehearsal. Ranks of old church pews sloped up the barn’s second story. Burgundy carpeting covered the aisle floors, but the rustic charm of the building’s origin glowed elsewhere in the bare boards and beams. The theater’s quaint and bucolic atmosphere welcomed and warmed her.

Among the orchestra seats, scattered knots of people chatted or pored over scripts. No tall, dark-haired male arrested her gaze. No compelling blue eyes drew her.
Cole must still be backstage.
Taking a seat toward the rear, she allowed herself a sigh. But was it of relief or disappointment?

A moment later he came up the aisle toward her, a cell phone at his ear. As he sidled down the row of seats toward her, he spoke into the receiver in gentle, coaxing tones — in Spanish. She recognized one word,
querida
, sweetheart. Then he said in English, “Gotta go,” and disconnected.

Impressed at his facility in the language and eaten alive with curiosity, she knew better than to ask. An intelligence operative would have a cover story.
But she couldn’t help wondering if the person on the other end was a woman he’d met in Colombia.

“Tired?” He sat beside her, too warm, too large and too close for comfort.

She turned, ready to do battle. Verbal duels kept the barriers up, kept conversation at a superficial level.
A safer level. “No, but if you are, feel free to leave. I don’t notice you doing much of a job of protecting me tonight.”

His charcoal jeans and T-shirt revived the old bad-boy persona and heightened the aura of male potency. He offered her a smug curl of his lip. “You’re covered. Somebody has kept an eye on you since I left you.”

“Someone was in the woods?” The rustlings, the shadows? That was an agent — officer — guarding her?

His gaze pinned her. He leaned against the bench seat, the thin cotton of his shirt stretched taut across powerful shoulder muscles.

She fought to control her erratic pulse. It was merely physical attraction. She could fight it. “What do you have set up? What are you doing here in the theater? What—”

“Twenty Questions?” The grooves in his cheeks deepened with the softening of his scowl. He covered her hands where she gripped the seat back in front of her. “Take it easy. We’re working this one out. I won’t keep you in the dark.”

The warmth of his hands slid more heat to a part of her body she’d rather ignore. She ought to pull away, but remained still, savoring the contact. “Sorry. I’m a little spooked.”

“Good one. Spooked.” He grinned. “By the way, I checked your cabin’s gas connections. The outside tank valve was tight. The safety valve on the heater itself must be broken. Hard to say if it’s by design or accident. Damned unreliable method for murder, though.”

“The valve’s probably defective. I’ll speak to Stan.”

“Don’t just speak to him. Get it fixed.” He leaned back and propped one ankle on the opposite knee. “Now what’s this damn play about?”

He was trying to divert her, calm her nerves. He was right. This wasn’t the time or place for plotting. But his thoughtfulness and sincerity shouldn’t surprise her.

Once he’d wrapped her in his leather jacket to keep her warm on his motorcycle. At an arcade he threw Ping-Pong balls for an hour to win her a gold charm in the shape of a crown because he said Midas’s daughter should have a crown. It was with the few things she’d been able to bring away with her when she ran from the hospital.

“The play?” he prompted.

“
Diner
’s a murder mystery, as you may have surmised from the title.”

“
Death at the Diner
. A dead giveaway.”

She groaned and smiled back, too aware of him.

He sat with his hands splayed on his knees. How large and masculine the fingers looked, with black hairs curling above the knuckles. As she remembered those fingers sliding across her skin, flames flicked through her veins.

“Unusual assortment of characters.” He jerked a nod toward the stage.

She dismissed the spell cast by his nearness. “
Dine
r’s on the order of an Agatha Christie story. It involves a group of disparate people brought together in one place.”

“In this case, a diner.”

“A snowstorm traps them. One by one, they’re murdered, and the remaining characters have to solve the mystery before they too are killed.”

“How well do you know these people? Has anyone joined the troupe in the past few days?”

“You mean, besides you?”

He cut her a calculating look.

Sarcasm was no more shield from his persistence than from his sensuality. She sighed. “You can’t seriously suspect any of these people. Most of the actors and stage crew are regular guests or employees. Nearly everyone arrived at the resort long before Markos was spotted in Boston.”

“I suspect everybody. Markos can pay big bucks for your scalp. Can you be certain nobody here would accept money to set you up?”

His soft tone didn’t remove the sting from his words.

A frisson, like walking into a spider web, crawled over her skin. How could she fear any of these people, whom she considered friends? But she had no choice. “All right. What do you need?”

“Just connect names with faces for me. I have a list for background checks.” He leaned forward as though absorbed in the scene. “And, Laura, don’t go downstairs again without me.”

At the image of Markos’s thug Kovar leaping out at her from a rack of costumes, she flinched. Did she have the strength to place herself in jeopardy?

She had to if she wanted her life back.

A young man rolled on stage on a bicycle, followed by a perky young blonde, a trench-coated man and a woman. “That’s Burt Elwell, a local boy. He’s our only handyman since his uncle Jake hurt his back.”

“Ah, the young dude with the hots for you.”

Surprised he remembered Burt’s waving to her, she gave him a disgusted look. “I don’t know why I’m even responding to that idiotic observation. He’s twenty. He has the hots for all females between fifteen and forty.”

Cole snorted.

She wouldn’t consider jealousy as his motive for his attitude. No, his surliness stemmed from his protective mode. But her heart fluttered anyway.

“That’s supposed to be a motorcycle,” she whispered, “but we don’t have one yet. He plays a rebel biker.”

“The mountain bike suits the kid better,” he growled.

“You must’ve met the owner, Stan Hart, when you arrived. There he is in the cook’s apron behind the diner counter. Martin Rhodes, a retired dentist, is the detective, and a local teenager named Heidi plays his daughter. The elderly woman with the orange bouffant is Doris Van Tassel. She and her sister Bea were the leads in the last play,
Arsenic and Old Lace
. They come here every summer. You probably suspect them too.” This was getting ridiculous.

When he didn’t respond, she moved on to the observers in the front row of seats.

“I’ve met the stage crew,” he said, when she pointed out Vanessa and the stage manager seated beside her.

The director, white-haired and regal, strode to the stage apron. “Let’s get this blocking right, people.”

“Rudy Damon once directed several plays on Broadway. He’s a college professor now. He and Stan renovated this old barn for summer productions about five years ago.” Laura pointed at the solid beams and gracefully curved gambrel roof. “This and the inn are the only structures left of what was a prosperous farm a hundred years ago.”

“I see somebody trying to get your attention. Who’s that at the edge of the stage? In that big yellow drapey thing, she looks like a ripe melon.”

A laugh bubbled up. He did always make her laugh. His incisive wit had been one of the first things to attract her. “Oh dear, you’re right. My father the diplomat calls that type of bosomy woman a powder-puff pigeon. And the drapey thing is called a caftan.”

She waved back to the older woman, whose choices in fashion often didn’t suit her short, plump stature. “That’s Bea Van Tassel, Doris’s sister. She’s doing publicity and some light stage crew work.”

Bea tripped down the steps from the stage and swept up the aisle toward them as they left their seating row. “Yoo-hoo, Laura, did you like the chowder I left for you?”

Laura smiled and patted the woman’s arm. “Oh, yes, Bea, thank you. It was delicious. I’d love the recipe.”

The woman wagged a parchment-skinned finger at her. “Sorry, dear, it’s a family secret” Her modulated stage voice belied her eighty-plus years. “But I’ll bring you something else later in the week.”

She looked brightly up at Cole. “You’ve just joined us, I believe, young man.”

Laura’s stomach clenched. She didn’t know how he was explaining his presence. Leaving it to him, she introduced them.

“I understand you and your sister wowed them in the last production.” He took her proffered hand gently.

Clear blue eyes twinkling, Bea smiled. “You’ll do, young man. And you’ll love it here. This is such a beautiful place. And not a bad little theater for its location. These productions give me a chance to relive my glorious youth.”

“Bea and her sister used to perform on Broadway,” Laura put in. “They started out in the chorus line and eventually had starring roles.”

“We had a good run,” the other woman said. “Of course, that was decades ago. We retired before Rudy Damon’s day.”

“This director?” Cole asked. “I’ve never heard of him, but I’m no theater expert.”

“Oh, yes, he was in demand a few years ago. The white hair makes him look older. Unlike some people.” She beamed and patted her sausage curls, as black as shoe polish. “He had a hot streak before his last two plays bombed. No producer would take a chance on him after that.”