The Raven Master Page 2

  Coulliard’s eyes warmed, just a little. “Anything else?”

  “There’s a bathroom at the end of each hall.” Janine handed him the key. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  He bounced the key on his palm. “I’m sure I will.”

  She licked her lips, nodded curtly, then turned and strode quickly down the hall.

  When she reached the stair landing, a stain on the faded carpet caught her eye and she paused to investigate. She rubbed her fingertip over the gritty brown spot, then noticed another muddy smear a few feet from the first.

  As she searched for other mud stains, a shrill voice from the kitchen distracted her. Making a mental note to add carpet cleaning to her list of projects, she hurried downstairs to referee the rest of her squabbling tenants.

  After closing the door, Quinn examined the interior locking device and was annoyed to discover that the security lock automatically engaged each time the door shut. It was not an easy lock to jimmy. If the other rooms were as well protected as this one, that segment of his mission would be more difficult than he’d hoped.

  The security arrangements were an unfortunate surprise. Quinn had counted on the trusting nature of rural residents to make his job easier. Although the Darby Ridge towns-folk had greeted him warmly, cheerfully answering personal questions about their neighbors without suspicion or hesitation, it appeared that his lovely landlady wouldn’t be as obliging.

  In spite of a polite demeanor, she’d scrutinized Quinn as though committing his features to memory and the fact that she’d also paid meticulous attention to his vehicle hadn’t escaped his notice, either. He wondered if the woman would be astute enough to check the license number with the Department of Motor Vehicles. That could be a problem.

  In fact, Janine Taylor herself could be a problem. The leery woman had watched him as a sparrow might watch a stalking cat, a surprising—and unpleasant—contradiction to the guileless welcome he’d received from her Darby Ridge neighbors. Apparently she wasn’t a native of the area, yet she seemed rather young to have deliberately cloistered herself in such a remote location. Quinn had also noted a peculiar apprehension in those golden brown eyes, a secret fear that he might have found intriguing under other circumstances.

  At the moment, however, his speculation wasn’t born of idle curiosity. It was crucial that he understand exactly with whom he was dealing. A mistake in judgment could be fatal.

  Dropping his duffel on the tidy bed, he glanced around the sparsely furnished room. A frameless oval mirror was positioned over a plain pine bureau, unadorned except for an ashtray and a thin stack of magazines. A goosenecked floor lamp was positioned beside the dresser and a wobbly wooden chair sat under the room’s only window. There was also a narrow closet containing an extra pillow and a few bent hangers.

  After a cursory inspection of the accommodations, Quinn rolled up the yellowing vinyl shade and was pleased to see that the second-story vantage point offered a clear view of the smoldering ruins several blocks away. That was an added bonus.

  After reclosing the shade, he extracted a snub-nosed .357 revolver from his duffel, spun the cylinder to check load, then tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket and walked out of the room.

  By late afternoon, the sun had broken the fog’s gray grip, and clouds billowed like cotton mushrooms in a field of cornflower blue. The breeze was cool, not chilly, but as she walked the familiar sidewalks of the quiet residential area, Janine paid no attention to the pleasant weather. Instead she clutched the empty canvas tote, stared at cracked concrete and plodded up the hill toward the place where only yesterday Marjorie Barker had tended her roses.

  The acrid smell of smoke clung to the air, becoming even more pungent as Janine crested the rise. She didn’t want to look up, didn’t want to see the carnage. Swallowing hard, she focused on the brisk movements of her own sneakered feet and busied her mind by identifying the various weeds that flourished between the sidewalk’s concrete slabs.

  Suddenly she jerked to a stop. From the corner of her eye she saw the smoke-stained pickets at the edge of the burned-out property. Hesitantly, she raised her eyes. The sight turned her stomach.

  Beyond the fence, thorny stalks stood barren amid the clutter of shriveled blossoms and dead leaves—all that remained of Marjorie’s beloved garden. A brick chimney rose from an elongated heap of charred and blackened debris; everything else had been completely consumed by the raging flames.

  Both repulsed and ghoulishly fascinated, she was unable to look away. That scorched skeleton had once been a home, a safe haven that had suddenly and inexplicably turned deadly. The grim scene was a bleak reminder of how fragile life was, how easily destroyed.

  As Janine contemplated that sobering thought, a movement beyond the ruins caught her attention. She shaded her eyes and was stunned to see her newest tenant lurking in the shadows beyond the burnt hulk of Marjorie Barker’s house.

  Quinn Coulliard emerged from behind a tree not thirty feet away. Apparently unaware of her presence, he walked to the edge of the rubble and bent to examine a charred remnant. After a moment he dropped the object then stared at the cold ashes with an expression of regret and utter despair that touched Janine to the bone.

  As she studied the man’s jagged profile, she noted that his features appeared softer, less intimidating than she’d first thought and the subtle slump of his shoulders hinted at an unexpected vulnerability that was oddly appealing.

  A breeze swirled through the site, scattering ashes and whipping the few loose hairs that had escaped the binding at his nape. Standing, he absently brushed the long strands from his face, turned into the wind and looked straight at Janine. The grief in his eyes took her breath away.

  In less than a heartbeat that intense sadness dissolved into an impassive stare. He nodded an acknowledgment, ducked under the yellow police ribbon haphazardly stretched around the perimeter and sauntered toward the sidewalk. Tucking his hands in his jacket pockets, he gestured toward the fire scene with his head. “How did this happen?”

  Janine shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Since our fire fighters are all volunteers, the investigation team will probably come from Eugene, which is about fifty miles west of here.”

  “When is this team expected?”

  “I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

  “The site is unprotected,” he replied curtly. “When a death is involved, authorities aren’t usually so cavalier about preserving evidence.”

  A cold chill skittered down her spine. “How did you know that someone died here?”

  “Word gets around, even to newcomers.” His wintry eyes held her captive. “Some say it was arson.”

  Although the last comment was issued like an afterthought, Janine was nonplussed by the intensity of his gaze. She moistened her lips, reminding herself that a man so deeply affected by a stranger’s tragedy must be more compassionate than those secretive eyes would indicate. “Small-town gossip tends to be overly dramatic, Mr. Coulliard. The fire was probably started by a spark from the fireplace or an electrical short.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Without answering her question, he gazed at the burned rubble. A muscle below his ear twitched. His jaw clenched and beneath his sculpted cheekbones deep hollows suddenly appeared as though the flesh had been gouged away by demonic fingers. Shaded by a thick fringe of darkness, Quinn’s eyes were as cold as frozen ponds and his sharply angled features hardened like a stone mask, revealing a leashed rage that frightened her half to death.

  She stumbled backward, her heart pounding wildly.

  Suddenly the fearsome expression dissipated and was replaced by one of calm concern. As Janine followed the direction of his gaze, she saw two frightened children cowering behind a tree at the edge of the burned property.

  Quinn greeted them softly. “Hello.”

  A brown-eyed boy of about nine emerged towing a blond girl who appeared to be a year or two younger
. Janine recognized them as Rodney and Sara Drake, who lived a few houses up the block.

  The boy nervously returned Quinn’s smile. “Hi.”

  After Janine completed the introductions, Quinn squatted down to the children’s level, smiling at the girl who peeked out shyly from behind her brother.

  “Sara is a pretty name,” Quinn told her and was rewarded by a happy giggle. He turned his attention to the somber young boy. “I’ll bet you take good care of your sister, don’t you, Rodney?”

  The boy nodded. “I have to, ’cause she’s a girl and all.”

  An amused twinkle warmed Quinn’s pale eyes and the transformation was stunning. As Janine watched in mute fascination, the man who had terrified her only moments ago now exuded a magnetism that shook her to the soles of her feet.

  And she wasn’t the only one affected. Quinn was speaking softly, gesturing toward the burnt house, and both children were listening with a rapt attentiveness that bordered on reverence. “How did you feel last night when you saw the fire?” Quinn asked.

  “I was real scared,” Rodney replied quickly, then jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and studied his scuffed sneakers. “Don’t tell my pa, though. He says real men never get scared.”

  “Hmm.” Quinn laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I certainly would have been scared.”

  The boy peeked up uncertainly. “Really?”

  “It’s okay to be frightened. Fear is what makes us cautious and gives us the ability to protect ourselves.”

  While Rodney considered that, Sara stepped forward with huge eyes. “Miss Barker was real nice. Sometimes she gave me flowers to take to my mommy.” The girl’s tiny lip quivered as a fat tear slid down her cheek. “Do you think she got scared when the fire came?”

  “I don’t know, Sara.” Quinn gently touched the child’s face, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “It’s very sad when someone dies, isn’t it?”

  The girl hiccuped and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  Quinn smoothed the child’s shiny bangs. “Are you afraid that what happened to Miss Barker might happen to you?”

  Sara twisted the hem of her T-shirt and nodded.

  “Let’s talk about that,” Quinn said softly, sandwiching the child’s small hand between his own large palms. To Janine’s surprise, the girl responded, blurting out her feelings as though she’d known Quinn Coulliard all her young life.

  After encouraging both youngsters to express their feelings, he listened intently then responded softly, calming their fears without mocking them. To Janine it seemed as though he’d actually established a kinetic mind-link with the children, and she couldn’t help comparing Quinn’s perceptive interaction with Charles’s rigid intolerance.

  Charles. Even the silent echo of her ex-husband’s name brought exquisite sadness and regret. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d been deeply in love, looking forward to starting a family with the man who had stolen her heart. During the courtship, Janine had been honest with Charles about her desire for children. In retrospect, however, she realized that he’d never specifically responded to her excited chatter about having a houseful of babies; still, she hadn’t expected that Charles would deliberately deceive her.

  But he had deceived her, and the betrayal had been shattering.

  A childish voice broke into the sad memories. “We gotta go home,” Rodney was saying. “Ma gets real worried if we’re gone too long. Are we gonna see you again, Mr. Coulliard?”

  Quinn stood. “Sure. I’ll be around.”

  Smiling, Rodney waved goodbye, then took his sister’s hand and led her up the hill toward their house.

  When the youngsters had disappeared from view, Janine tilted her head, regarding Quinn with new respect. “You’re very good with children.”

  He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “I like kids. They haven’t lived long enough to be cynical.”

  “Only a confirmed urbanite would be so jaded.” She regarded him curiously. “Obviously you haven’t spent much time outside of the asphalt jungle. Do you have friends here in Darby Ridge?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she forced a teasing smile. “Was that a difficult question?”

  He looked at her then, but his eyes were veiled and unreadable. “Will I be evicted unless I can provide local references?”

  She flushed, realizing that her probing questions were less than subtle but was unable to quell her mounting curiosity. “Of course not. I just wondered how long you’ve been in town and what brought you here in the first place.”

  His gaze never wavered. “I was passing through yesterday afternoon and liked the scenery.”

  Janine doubted that. On any map of Oregon’s Cascade Mountains, Darby Ridge was a nondescript dot on a winding broken line and much too secluded to be stumbled across. Besides, despite his transient appearance, the mysterious drifter’s eyes seemed to reflect a higher purpose.

  Still, she decided to keep her questions to herself. If Quinn Coulliard wanted to maintain his privacy, she could respect that. After all, Janine had her own sordid secrets.

  Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed the canvas tote. “If I don’t get to the grocery store, dinner will consist of packaged macaroni and carrot sticks.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  She laughed tightly. “Unfortunately the other tenants aren’t as easy to please. Without a three-course meal and appropriate dessert, I’m afraid there would be an ugly revolt.”

  “You’re exaggerating, of course.”

  “Not at all. The last time dinner was a disappointment, Edna spent the entire meal praying for my salvation, Jules sulked like a thwarted child and Althea cursed my cooking with words that could only be defined by an X-rated dictionary.”

  “Well, my new neighbors sound quite colorful.” His eyes gleamed with sudden interest. “Tell me more.”

  “Words wouldn’t do them justice. Besides, you’ll meet them all at dinner.” She glanced at her watch and groaned. “Which won’t be served until midnight unless I get to the store.”

  “Of course.” Since Quinn was blocking the sidewalk, he took the hint and politely stepped aside. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”

  “Yes. This evening.” With a weak smile, she turned away and hurried up the hill.

  When she’d disappeared over the rise, Quinn’s smile flattened. He wasn’t the least bit pleased that his lovely landlady had caught him viewing the fire scene. The woman had too many questions, and his evasive answers hadn’t fooled her one bit. He’d seen the curiosity lurking in those soft brown eyes, recognized the skeptical crease of her brow. She didn’t trust him. That was too bad. A curious woman was an annoyance but a suspicious one could jeopardize his mission.

  Quinn hoped that Janine Taylor wouldn’t interfere with his plans, but if she did, he’d have to deal with her—and she wouldn’t much care for his methods.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The memorial service for Marjorie Barker took place on Friday morning, two days after the fire. An overflow crowd packed the tiny chapel while the Reverend Mr. Weems delivered an eloquent if somewhat protracted eulogy. Prayer books were opened. Respects were paid. Amens were spoken. Flowers were laid on a snow-white casket. Finally the congregation spilled into the courtyard, gathered at linen-draped refreshment tables and transformed the solemn occasion into a social event.

  Finding shade beneath a flowering jacaranda, Janine alternately fanned herself with the mimeographed remembrance card and sipped sticky sweet punch from a paper cup. After being forced to breathe the repugnant combination of Edna’s overpowering cologne and stale body odor from an anonymous pewmate, Janine decided that fresh air had never smelled quite so wonderful. The service had droned on forever, and she hoped Marjorie would forgive her gratitude that it was finally over.

  With a quick glance at her watch, Janine fretted about the chores awaiting her back at the boardinghouse. There hadn’t been time to clean up after breakfast, and if she didn’t tackle the mou
nd of laundry piled in the basement, there would be no clean linens for the weekend.

  Although she longed to slip away early, there was a certain decorum to be maintained, and she certainly didn’t want to become fodder for the rumor mill that, if hushed whispers and shocked expressions were any clue, was already in full gear.

  Shifting restlessly, she scanned the groups of gossiping matrons and blustering, somber-faced men. Some shook their heads sadly; others touched their throats or covered their mouths in wide-eyed disbelief. Janine didn’t have to hear the muted conversations to know what was being said. Thanks to Jules’s uncanny ability in wheedling information from “informed sources,” she’d heard everything last night at the dinner table.

  According to Jules, Marjorie’s body had been found in bed with her hands neatly folded on her chest. Since preliminary investigation revealed that the fire had started in the kitchen, it was presumed that the woman had set a pot on the stove, then dozed off and been overcome by smoke as she slept.

  The explanation, although perfectly logical, had been deeply disappointing to Jules, who was still reluctant to relinquish the notion that Marjorie had been the victim of foul play. In fact, he’d been quite annoyed that the Barker family hadn’t permitted an autopsy, and he’d stubbornly insisted that a proper medical examination would have proven his theory that the woman had been murdered by the mob.

  At that point Althea had called Jules a disgusting ghoul; he had retaliated by pointedly questioning Althea’s lineage. Edna, having experienced a remarkable recovery from her previously inconsolable grief, had ignored the ruckus and solicitously dished a second helping of pot roast onto Quinn’s plate.

  Such unpleasant arguments between tenants were unfortunately all too common, although Janine silently conceded that the presence of her newest boarder had probably prevented the discussion from becoming even more volatile. Not that Quinn had said anything particularly soothing. In fact, he’d spoken very little, evading personal questions with nondescript replies and inspecting his tablemates with his trademark intensity.