Promise Not To Tell(54)

It was seven o’clock in the morning. She was still in her robe and slippers. There was no reason to get dressed in a hurry. The most thrilling event of the whole damn day – the arrival of the ferry and departure of the ferry – wouldn’t take place until midafternoon.

Not that she cared about the arrival of the ferry. She wasn’t expecting any guests. It was a weekday and there were no reservations. She didn’t know which was worse, spending the days alone in the big house or making polite chitchat with the customers.

The only reason she kept one floor of rooms open was so that she could maintain the illusion of being a real innkeeper. The locals were suspicious enough as it was.

She had certainly never expected to stay this long. She had been trapped on the island since December, faking her way through the bed-and-breakfast business while she waited for Tucker to find the key.

It had all seemed so simple back at the start. After Abigail’s death she had come to the island to pack up her half sister’s things and make arrangements to put the old Victorian on the market. She had hoped to make a little money on the sale of the house.

But she had discovered Abigail’s diary, and that had changed everything.

She had flipped through it, expecting to find it dull reading at best. Abigail had been a weak, pathetic screw-up all of her life – just the kind of na?ve idiot you’d expect to get swept up into a cult. But the details of Abigail’s time in Quinton Zane’s cult had proved to be downright riveting.

So much money had been raked in and most of it had vanished into a secret account. In the end, of those who had once known the location of the key, only crazy Hannah Brewster had been left alive.

The plan to get the information out of Brewster had failed. She had jumped to her death rather than deal with what she believed to be the reincarnation of Quinton Zane.

The only lead left was Virginia Troy, who seemed entirely unaware of just how valuable she was. But Troy had complicated things by hiring Cabot Sutter.

The coffeemaker finished the brewing process. Rose turned away from the window and poured herself a mug full of coffee.

Just another boring day on the island from hell.

She was startled by the sound of gravel crunching under tires. That made no sense. The ferry wasn’t due to arrive for several hours. Maybe one of the locals had stopped by for some reason.

Reluctantly, she got to her feet and went through the lobby. She twitched the curtain aside and frowned when she saw who was coming up the front steps.

She opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

CHAPTER 37

The small parking lot behind the Lost Island Bed-and-Breakfast was empty except for Rose’s big four-by-four.

“No surprise,” Virginia said. “It’s still February.”

She did not know why she felt compelled to explain the obvious to Cabot. The Lost Island B and B had always seemed sad and forlorn, even before Abigail Watkins had died. It had not improved since Rose Gilbert had taken over.

But today, for some inexplicable reason – maybe it was just her nerves – the old Victorian appeared more unwelcoming than ever. The drapes were pulled across the windows and there was a No Vacancy sign behind the glass in the front door.

Cabot continued on around the old house and brought his vehicle to a halt in the front drive. He sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the gloom-filled structure. Then he reached into the back seat for his windbreaker and gun. He adjusted the windbreaker so that it covered the holstered pistol on his hip, but he did not fasten the front. A chill went through Virginia when it dawned on her that he wanted to be able to get to his gun in a hurry if necessary.

Well, there isn’t much point wearing a gun if you can’t get to it quickly, she told herself.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She unclipped her own seat belt and reached into the back for her parka and her cross-body bag. She got her door open, jumped down and walked around the front of the vehicle to join Cabot.

Together they went up the front steps. Cabot pressed the buzzer.

There was no response. Cabot waited a few seconds and then rapped sharply on the front door. Again there was no answer.

“Rose must be inside,” Virginia said. “Maybe she’s in her room upstairs and can’t hear the buzzer.”

“Or maybe she’s trying to discourage business.” Cabot tried the knob. It turned easily in his hand. He opened the door and walked into the small lobby.

Virginia followed him. “That’s weird. Feels like the heat is off.” She glanced into the parlor. “No fire going, either.”

Cabot went to the foot of the stairs. “Rose Gilbert? This is Cabot Sutter. I’m here with Virginia Troy. We need your help.”

There was no response. Virginia did not hear any footsteps overhead.

Cabot glanced back over his shoulder. “Wait here.”

She wanted to ask why but when he reached inside his jacket and took out his gun, she decided she probably would not like the answer. He used to be a cop, she reminded herself. Old habits.

He went quickly through the downstairs rooms, checking the office, the kitchen and the parlor.

A short time later he returned. “The place feels empty but I’m going to check upstairs. Stay here until I get back.”

“All right,” Virginia said. “But it’s starting to feel like something is very wrong. Be careful, okay?”