Kingfisher(21)

Todd Stillwater’s father, it had to be. He must have done something so unspeakably wicked that every mention of that name, his history at the Kingfisher Inn, was forbidden even unto the unborn generations. She crouched over the photo for a long time, gazing at the three of them: Hal, Merle, the chef. Finally, the idea floating around in her head became coherent.

No way could she ask Hal. Her father refused to talk.

Maybe Stillwater would.

She took the photo with her when she drove to his restaurant on her day off. She went in midafternoon, in the calmer hours between lunch and dinner. No wolf chased the pickup through the streets, nor did Merle fling himself between her and Stillwater’s name on the door. Why? she wondered. Where was he, if he felt so strongly about protecting her from some horribly lurking menace? She slammed the truck door a little crossly, climbed the worn marble steps, and opened the door to find Todd Stillwater sitting at the tiny bar, surrounded by paperwork.

“We open at seven for dinner,” he said absently, without turning around. Carrie, surprised to find such cool elegance in the genial patchwork of downtown Chimera Bay, looked curiously at the black linens, the red cut-crystal vases, the thick marble walls of the early bank that stood sentinel against sound from the busy highway.

“Pretty,” she said, and he turned.

“Carrie,” he said, smiling, and stood up. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Is this a good time?”

“Perfect.”

In the light of day rather than streetlamps, so was he, she thought dazedly. His black tie was loosened around his unbuttoned collar, his sleeves rolled halfway up forearms lightly furred with gold against a darker gold that, her fingers anticipated, would be warm and textured to the touch. She swallowed, wondering why she had never noticed forearms before, or the amazing bones of the wrist.

“I just came to talk,” she said uncertainly.

“Good idea. I’m just going over accounts, nothing that can’t wait.” He rose, pulled out a couple of chairs at one of the tables beside the windows. “Sit down. Or would you like to see the kitchen? Sage is out shopping; she should be back anytime now to help me plan the dinner menu. Much as it ever gets planned. I’m impulsive, like you with your bites. You’d be welcome to stay for that. In fact, it might—”

“I came to ask a question,” she interrupted.

“What’s that?” he asked promptly, and she sat down awkwardly, with a thump, laying the envelope on the cloth between them. He sat, too, looking at it expectantly. “One of your recipes?”

She shook her head and drew out the photo.

He sat silently a moment, gazing at it. His brows peaked; he bent closer to it suddenly. “Is that—is that Hal Fisher? In a tux? Wow. Where— Wait. Is that— That’s the chandelier in the Kingfisher bar.”

“It’s the old hotel.” She tapped Merle’s smiling face. “That’s my father.”

“I’m damned.”

Her finger shifted to the face under the cream-puff hat. “That looks,” she said steadily, “like you.”

He picked up the photo wordlessly, angling the old black and white to deflect the light from the window. “It does,” he breathed. “It could be me.” He dropped it onto the table, stared at her. “I had no idea.”

“No idea what? Is that your father?”

“I have no idea,” he said, his eyes, wide and startled, meeting hers, and she felt the sudden rush of blood from her neck to her hairline.

“Oh.”

“No, it’s okay—”

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s just that—”

“I only just found the photo hidden away in my father’s closet. I’d never seen it before. And the chef—he looks so—”

“Yes, he does.” He brooded over the photo silently while Carrie, her face still burning, watched him. Thoughts whirled in her head; she caught at them, trying to make sense of them. If Todd Stillwater didn’t know his father—if that chef was his father—then whatever horrors he had inflicted on the Kingfisher Inn resonated in his name—in his son’s name—but had nothing to do—

“But had nothing to do with you,” she whispered. He glanced at her, his eyes, silvery gray as a blade, tarnished with thoughts, memories.

“My mother fled from my father as soon as she could after I was born. She took me south to Severluna. I always thought my name—Stillwater—was her maiden name. But maybe not.” He touched the photo lightly, near the chef’s face. “That might—that might explain— It must have been something he did—”

“Yes.”

“The tensions I’ve felt around that place—”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what he might have done? Anything at all?”

She sagged against the table, sighing deeply. “How could I? No one ever answers any of my questions. I was hoping that you knew what happened. Why everything fell apart at the Kingfisher Inn, why Hal and Lilith stopped speaking, why Ella blames somebody with your name for everything, but she draws in small and tight like a snail whenever I ask.”

His eyes dropped; he studied the photo again, while she studied his eyelashes, the exact color of his hair, the pale matte brown of a walnut shell, against the warmer shade of his face. Where does he find that sun around here? she wondered. He was gazing back at her suddenly, and she felt the fire across her face again, but not even that could make her look away.