“It should have been me. The world needed her more.” Wayne reached out and touched the dew that beaded the whiskey glass.
“Maybe the next world needed her even more. Angels aren’t born. They die.”
Wayne searched the man’s eyes but they were black and cold, as impassive as midnight on a distant moon. “I can’t believe beyond this one.”
Wayne nudged the drink away, but only a few inches. Through the bottom of the glass, the snake on the coaster undulated, the forked tongue slipping in and out. The music, chatter, and laughter swelled to a crescendo, as if a church choir had hit the Rapture chord.
“Perhaps a question,” Cristos said. “Did you come back because you expected to meet her? Or because you were certain she wouldn’t?”
“This conference.” Wayne swept his hand out to indicate the hotel. “It had nothing to do with the promise. It’s a haunted hotel and that’s what I do.”
“Will or fate?”
Wayne touched the glass again. “The outcome is the same.”
“Not yet.”
Wayne had the glass to his lips and the first swallow burned a sweet path to his belly. He thought of Kendra and the expression in her eyes when she found him—a look that said she knew it all along, that the Digger was determined to hollow out his own grave and bury himself. The second swallow washed that vision away, and his gut warmed as if the banked coals of hell had been stoked into a cheerful blaze.
Cristos nodded in approval. “Welcome back.”
Digger Wilson could summon the courage to face Beth and do what he had to do. He figured three drinks would be enough.
Chapter 28
“So, what do you think of this place?” Violet picked at the label of her Corona bottle, aware that it was the international bar-scene signal for horniness. She wasn’t sure she was horny, not yet, but Phillippe definitely had potential. According to Cosmo and Glamour, women knew within three seconds of meeting whether they would sleep with a man. Violet was suspicious of that formula, because the advice was geared toward the upper-class single woman with a busy career. Three seconds was not enough time to calculate someone’s net worth and, more importantly, his willingness to shower that worth on a lover.
“The decor is not even shabby chic, just plain shabby,” he said, pursing his plump lips. “I would give the whole place a makeover.”
“Janey’s going for the creep factor. She realized ghosts are good for business.”
“Janey Mays.” Phillippe fluttered his eyes toward the smoke-stained ceiling and sipped his chablis. “Pisser dessus. Piss on her.”
“Yeah,” she said, noticing the bar was fuller than it had been in weeks.
“She’s petasse, a whore for donkeys.”
Violet barely heard him over Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” the ballad of self-pitying barflies around the world. A wine-drinking chef with a flair for interior design who used phrases like “shabby chic”? God, he wasn’t gay, was he? Just her luck. She’d taken his French accent as a sign of European hunkness and had totally overlooked the signals. Cosmo never said anything about this.
“You want another?” Phillipe said.
Violet had only finished half her beer and it was getting warm and flat. “I’ve got an early shift.”
He took the bait and she took it as proof that he wasn’t gay, or he might have been more concerned for her well-being and less about the potential for a score. “Hey, the night is young and so are we.”
“Okay, but if I get wobbly, will you take care of me?”
He grinned, and some wolf glinted in his teeth. “You can trust me, mademoiselle.”
The way he said implied that she couldn’t trust him a bit, which she took as an even better sign. As he approached the bar, her eyes roamed from his taut buttocks and she surveyed the room, noting in particular the off-duty staff smoking and drinking. Dead-end slaves killing time. Violet was better than them--she was a dreamer. Why, with a break here and there, she could take Janey’s position. Assuming the old Battle Axe was really dead.
When Phillippe returned with their drinks, he said, “So, what’s all this talk of fantomes? Ghosts? A couple of the cooks were talking about the knives that fly across the room by themselves.”
“Well, they say the place is haunted. That’s why these people came, to hunt the ghosts.”
“Like on the TV shows?”
“Yeah.” She pointed. “That man at the end of the bar, that’s Digger Wilson. He put this together.”
“He sure knows how to drink.”
“Well, it’s only a little after midnight. I don’t know why they gave up so early.”
“Maybe they found what they were looking for.”
“You don’t believe that junk, do you? You’re French, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be enlightened.”
“These ghosts, where do they hang out?”
“Well, they say Room 318 is the spookiest. The wiring is a little tricky, but other than that, it’s just another room.”
“How about a little tour?” His eyebrows raised in suggestion. He definitely wasn’t gay, and she shifted in her seat.
“The hunt rooms are reserved for the guests. Wouldn’t want to barge in on anyone. Janey would have a hissy fit.”
“The basement?” He smirked, a challenge in his European eyes. “Nobody down there, oui?”
“Nobody,” she said, leaning forward so she could whisper over the jangling strains of “Crimson and Clover.”
He knocked back his wine and stood, holding out his hand. She considered the choice between Phillippe and the unknown or the petty cash in the bar till.
What the hell, the cash will always be there, and Janey could fire Phillippe next week for all I know. This might be my only chance. Sure, he’s only a cook now, but he has a chef’s degree, and that could lead to management.
She was out the door before she’d really made up her mind, and by then it was too late.
Chapter 29
Cody had dropped her at the door to 318 like a perfect gentleman.
Not a kiss on the cheek, not a hint that he’d tuck her in if she wanted, not even a handshake, just a “Get some rest, and I’ll catch you in the morning.”
Kendra was disappointed but also relieved, because she was tired and edgy. At least the room lights worked. After all that weird stuff in 218, she welcomed some down time with her sketch pad. The room had two twin beds, which wasn’t too awkward because she’d traveled a lot with Dad, but Kendra didn’t want any goodnight hugs. With luck, Dad wouldn’t show up until she’d drawn herself to sleep.
She settled on her bed and chose a charcoal pencil. She opened the pad to find the sketch of Dorrie Dough-Face and Rochester the Rat Boy.
I tore that out and left it for Bruce.
Except this picture wasn’t quite the same. Rochester’s eyes had a glint in them and his whiskers lifted in a sneer, while Dorrie grinned as if to say, “I ate the last doughnut and the bitchin’ crumbs, too. Whatcha gonna do about it?”
The little twerp must have sneaked into the room and copied the sketch back into her pad. He obviously had a master key. But his fingers were way to plump to draw at such a level. Kendra was proud of her skill, but she was also realistic about the work involved. Talent meant little until you had logged those endless hours of development and made the shift from art to craft. That was way too refined a concept for a 10-year-old to grasp, and prodigies were in short supply.
“You like my picture?”