THE KEEPING
By
Nicky Charles
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Nicky Charles on Smashwords
The Keeping
Copyright © 2010 by Nicky Charles
Other works by this author:
Forever In Time
The Mating
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading Material
*****
Many thanks to Jan Gordon who acted as my editor and tirelessly read, reread, advised, poked, and prodded until this project was complete. Also, thank you to Ermintrude for her invaluable advice on locations and journalism. Finally, thanks to all of the ‘Gutter Girls and my readers at FictionPress who have offered their feedback, encouragement and allowed me to practise my writing skills on them.
This book is a sequel to The Mating, my first werewolf story. Many people became enamoured with the characters in that book and kept asking what happened to them. Ryne especially seemed to capture readers’ imaginations and so, in response to those many requests, this tale was written. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
*****
THE KEEPING
*****
Prologue
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A.
The room was silent, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood majestically near the doorway and the faint sounds of the old man’s breathing. To look at him, one might wonder if he was alive or only a wax figure; his eyes were unblinking and the rise and fall of his chest were barely perceptible. His gnarled hands rested lightly on the arms of the chair in which he sat, their occasional tightening the only real sign of the emotion he was feeling.
Pale winter sunlight, so typical of early January, was valiantly trying to brighten the large, cluttered room. Its weak rays crept past the heavy velvet curtains and cast a beam across the floor, creating a bright swatch in the otherwise gloomy interior. Small specks of dust drifted lazily on the faint air currents before settling on the laden surfaces of the tables and shelves.
Sculptures, figurines, and books, covered every flat inch of the room. Similarly, artwork filled the dark panelled walls, yet the gentleman in the chair still deemed his collection to be paltry and inadequate. Or, at least he’d felt that way until now. Years of searching and gathering everything related to his favourite theme had finally paid off.
The faintest movement near the corners of his mouth would let an astute observer know he was pleased. Over the fireplace mantel hung his latest acquisition. Studying it with care, his gaze traced over the subject matter, analyzing and assessing. A quiet grunt and a slight movement of his head was the only acknowledgement he gave that here was what he had spent his whole life looking for.
“That will be all, Franklin.” His voice was deep and strong despite his years, instantly commanding respect and obedience.
A man, dressed in the formal garb of a butler, stepped out of the shadows that clung to the edges of the room and bowed at the waist. “Yes, Mr. Greyson. If you need anything else, just ring.” Silently, the servant picked up the step ladder he had used to hang the picture and left the room, quietly shutting the heavy mahogany door behind him.
As Franklin’s footsteps faded into the distance, the older man stood and advanced towards the fireplace. His steps were sure, his stride long—no decrepit shuffling for him, despite his years and the aching of his joints. Clasping his hands behind his ramrod straight back, he stood in front of the framed photo.
Excitement was bubbling inside him, though his calm countenance gave no sign. This was what he’d been searching for. Everything else in the room was now worthless; his priceless statues, the expensive glossy books, paintings by renowned artists; they all paled in comparison to this one piece.
“Proof.” He whispered to himself, his eyes alight with a fire that had been missing for years. “After all this time, I finally have proof.” Reaching out his hand, he traced the name scrawled in the corner of the picture matte. “Whoever you are, Ryne Taylor, you’ve made me a very happy man.”
After those few words, he fell silent again, contemplating the subject matter of the picture. He’d acquired it two months ago and had spent the intervening time examining it, studying angles, looking for shadows, measuring length and distance, pouring over minute details with a magnifying glass. There was no refuting what he’d found. Now the amber eyes in the photo glared at him, challenging and arrogant, almost as if they knew his plan and were daring him to try and execute it.
Eventually the man looked away, staring at the thick carpeting beneath his feet. A dry chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I can’t hold your gaze. You’re not even here, and still you manage to be dominant.” Shaking his head, he made his way back to his chair and sat down heavily. Picking up the phone, he dialled a familiar number, and then waited impatiently for someone to answer, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. When the call was finally answered, he wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Greyson here. I need to talk to you, Aldrich ... What about?” He gave a short bark of laughter while looking up at the picture again. “A wolf, of course.”
*****
Stump River, Ontario, Canada — 700 miles Northeast of Chicago
Ryne wiped his hands on a greasy rag and pulled down on the hood of the aging pick-up truck. He sauntered to the far side of the garage and pitched the filthy rag in the garbage. “Filter’s changed, Ben. Anything else?”
Ben Miller looked up from the service desk, where he was totalling the work orders. “Nope. That’s it for the day. Thanks for coming in to help.”
“No problem. I can use the extra cash. That money pit I bought wants new plumbing.”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated the man before him. Not for the first time, did he wonder why a young fellow like Ryne Taylor would choose to live in a god-forsaken place like Stump River. Not that Ben didn’t like his hometown, but he was aware of its limitations. No night life except for the local bar and Wednesday night bingo at the church. A two-hour drive to the next largest community. Young people left Stump River, they didn’t move here.
Mind you, George and Mary Nelson were mighty happy that Taylor was bucking the trend. He had bought their crumbling house and the large parcel of land it sat on. There hadn’t even been any quibbling over the cost; he’d paid the asking price without batting an eye. The sale had provided the town with nice bit of gossip to help pass the winter, as well as allowing the elderly Nelsons to retire to Timmins, a larger urban centre, in relative luxury. Ben looked around his small business and smirked. Maybe Taylor would buy his place, too, should he ever decide to retire.
Watching Ryne get cleaned up at the nearby sink, Ben couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy. All the local ladies positively drooled when Ryne was in town. Even his own wife wasn’t immune. Ben had unwillingly eavesdropped on her conversation with a friend just last night and had almost felt a tad inadequate after listening to them go on about his black hair, blue eyes and ‘devilishly sexy smile’—their words, not his, of course. When they’d started to enumerate his physical attributes—broad shoulders, long legs, lean hips, and a muscular body—he’d turned the TV on real loud to drown them out.
Ben shook his head. All he saw, when he looked at Ryne, was a hard-working, confident man who knew his way around an engine. That was enough in his books. Ryne helped him out at the garage a few days each week and Ben was grateful for the assistance.
“Got any plans for the weekend?” Ryne had dried off and walked over to where Ben was working. He leaned against the counter and chugged down a bottle of water.
“The wife and daughter want me to take them into Timmins shopping. We might go to a show while we’re there, too.”
“Sounds like fun.” Ryne wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and threw the bottle into the recycling bin. “I’m going to be working on the house as usual.”
“It was a big project you undertook, when you bought the place.”
“I know, but I like the area, and it came with a lot of land. My friends and I like our privacy.”
“To each their own.” Ben shrugged and handed Ryne a check. “Here’s your pay. Don’t spend it all in one place.”
Ryne laughed while stuffing the cheque in his pocket. “Nah. I’ll spread it around. Some at the hardware store and some at the bar.”
“Lucy will be happy to see you, I’m sure.” Ben mocked him good-naturedly as he walked out the door. Ryne merely waved and continued on his way. Lucy worked at the local bar and had been real friendly with Ryne ever since he and his friends had moved to the area a few months back.
Watching Ryne cross the street, Ben wondered about the man and the two other fellows, Bryan and Daniel, who lived with him. They weren’t related, looking nothing alike, but something bound them together. At first, there’d been rumours that they were gay, but their behaviour at the bar on Friday nights soon dispelled that rumour. The local lovelies swarmed around them and they did little to discourage the attention, especially the younger two.
Ryne was a bit more discriminating. Oh, he’d been involved with a few of the local girls, before settling on just Lucy, but for the most part, he held his liquor and was usually the one dragging the other two home at closing time, provided they hadn’t hooked up with some female beforehand. Ben chuckled. Business at the bar was a lot brisker since the three had moved into the community.
A few residents thought the newcomers were a bit strange, but except for the fact that they all lived together in the middle of nowhere, no one had any real complaints against them. The men were polite and didn’t bother anyone. Most likely, it was as Ryne said; they’d moved here for privacy and because they liked the area. Nothing strange or mysterious about that.
Chapter 1
Oregon, U.S.A.
Damn! There was a certain sick feeling in Mel’s stomach as she lost control of the vehicle and it began to slide across the snow-slicked roads into the oncoming lane. A horn blared as she narrowly missed a pick-up truck but that relief was short lived as a telephone post loomed ahead. She clenched the steering wheel tighter, trying to steer into the skid; muscles tensed as she braced herself against the impact that was sure to come. When it didn’t, she sent up a brief prayer of thanks.
“Stupid, snow covered roads.” Muttering to herself, she felt the car straighten out of the skid, wincing as the vehicle narrowly missed a farmer’s mailbox. Moving back into her own lane, she blew a puff of air up over her face causing her bangs to float up and then settle on her forehead again. Annoyingly, her long lashes kept catching in the too-long fringe of hair—she really needed to make time for a cut, she reminded herself—but she didn’t dare take her hands off the wheel to push her hair out of the way. Blinking rapidly, she managed to free her lashes and clear her vision.
The forecast had called for light snow, but the weatherman was obviously an idiot and didn’t know a high pressure zone from a low. Heavy white flakes were falling on her windshield and the wipers were having a hard time keeping up. Twice now, she’d stopped and wiped the accumulated white stuff from the blades. She shouldn’t have trusted the fellow at the rental agency when he said the car was fine, but at ten o'clock at night, after a long flight squished between a large man and a frazzled mother with a crying baby, all she had wanted to do was get a car, escape the confines of the airport and find a room at the nearby motel. Now, she wished she’d been a bit more particular.
A road sign proclaimed that her destination, Smythston, Oregon, was rapidly approaching and she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. She’d had a late start, being up half the night listening to planes land and take off and now her two hour trip had turned into four hours of white knuckle driving. She couldn’t wait to get to the bed and breakfast where she’d booked a room. A hot shower and dinner, followed by a nap were going to be her reward for surviving this trip.
In the brochure that lay on the seat beside her, The Grey Goose Tea Room sounded quaint and boasted luxury rooms with home cooked meals. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she knew that even if the place was no better than a mom and pop greasy spoon, she’d devour whatever they had to offer. Her stomach was telling her it was long past feeding time. She glared at the snow that was messing up her schedule, all the while hoping her room was still available once she finally arrived at her destination. An oncoming transport trailer uncaringly doused her car in slush and Mel swore vigorously as her view of the road disappeared.
Quickly flicking the wipers onto high, she peered out of the streaked windshield and wondered once again at the sanity of taking on this particular job. It was a ridiculous assignment, but paid well, and since she was next thing to being broke, she couldn’t be too choosy.
After years of working dead-end retail jobs, she’d finally gone back to school, earned her high school diploma, and then enrolled in the journalism program at Northwestern University. It wasn’t the most practical course, her guidance counsellors had pointed out. If she was looking for a secure career, computers were the way to go. She’d thanked them kindly for the advice, but knew she’d never be able to sit in an office all day, every day. Being in one place too long didn’t suit her—she had ‘itchy feet’ just like her mother, which was probably why she’d constantly drifted from one job to another. After the initial thrill of learning a new skill wore off, she soon lost interest and found herself searching the want ads for yet another new position.
At least, once she was a journalist, an employer would pay for her to move around. It wasn’t a great wage, but it was something she enjoyed, and helped lessen the restlessness within her. Talking to people, visiting new locations, researching backgrounds; each day would be different or at least that’s what she hoped. Right now, she was taking a year off, being half way through the four year program and completely out of funds. By juggling two waitressing jobs and writing a few freelance articles, she was hoping to make enough money to go back to school next year and finish the program.
That was why this job was exactly what she needed. A lawyer, named Leon Aldrich, had contacted her on behalf of a client—a wealthy client, no less—to do some work as an investigative journalist. Mel had been a bit surprised to be contacted by the man, wondering how he’d come by her name. Mr. Aldrich claimed one of her college instructors had passed her name along and Mel had hesitantly accepted the explanation. It was against college rules to show favouritism, and Mel was curious as to who had put in the good word for her. The lawyer had merely smirked at her, saying she had been chosen from a number of other candidates. He added it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not quite sure what to make of the man, Mel had shrugged and listened to his offer. She needed the money and couldn’t afford to be too choosy.
The man had presented Mel with a lucrative job offer; in exchange for a ridiculously large sum of money, she was to research a photographer named Ryne Taylor and write a piece on his life. It had seemed a bit strange at the time. The photographer in question wasn’t famous or anything, but after thoroughly checking out the lawyer’s references and those of his client, Anthony Greyson, she’d decided the job was legitimate and had agreed to the man’s terms.
It was pretty simple. Find the reclusive Mr. Taylor. Research his life, how he chose his subjects, where he took his pictures, and who had purchased them. She was to give updates on each new development to keep them aware of her progress, write a final article, and then submit it back to the lawyer. All expenses would be paid and there was a very loose deadline.
The job seemed almost too good to be true, but if life was going hand her a golden egg on a silver platter, she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at it. She frowned as she reflected on her phrasing for that last thought. For a journalist, she had certainly slaughtered the use of those clichés. She chuckled, glad her thoughts were her own and not subject to editorial criticism.
Taking note of her surroundings, she realized that she was now inside the town proper. Fumbling for the brochure at her side, she turned to the section that showed a map on how to find the Grey Goose. Placing it on the steering wheel, she glanced between it and the road while looking for street signs to help orient her.
A mere fifteen minutes later, she stood in the entryway of the quaint bed and breakfast, talking to a distinguished looking gentleman who had introduced himself as Edward Mancini.
“Yes, Ms. Greene, I took your reservation over the phone last night. I’m so glad the weather didn’t delay your travel plans.”
She smiled and brushed her hair out of her face for probably the fiftieth time that day—she really did need to get it cut. “It wasn’t the most pleasant drive, but I made it.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re here safe and sound. If you’ll just follow me, Ms. Greene, I’ll show you to your room.”
“Please, call me Melody.” Using her most ingratiating smile, she looked up at the man and noted in response, a faint upturning at the corners of his mouth. Personally, she didn’t care much for her name and usually went by Mel, but men seemed to like ‘Melody,’ and as a ‘wannabe’ hard-nosed journalist, she didn’t hesitate to use the fact to her advantage.
“Melody, then. And you may call me Edward. Follow me.” As she walked behind him, Mel mentally gave herself a point. Getting on a first name basis with the people you were going to interview was a great way to ensure they would be willing to open up to you—or so her college instructors had told her. And, while she wasn’t going to be interviewing this man exactly, she was hoping to extract a few bits of information from him.
As he led her into her room, she thanked him politely and noticed that he was looking at her surreptitiously. Mel knew what he would see. At five foot four, she wasn’t tall, but she balked against the label of short. Her figure was a little disproportionate, being rather too rounded up top, and bit narrow in comparison around the hips. Her legs were slim, and thankfully, due to that fact, looked longer than they actually were. Shoulder length, honey brown hair, and deep brown eyes gave her a warm, friendly look as did her generous smile.
Her college professors had told her that her friendly, girl-next-door appearance would help her make contacts and win the confidence of those she interviewed. Personally, Mel longed to be a drop-dead gorgeous, sophisticated reporter, who could wrap an interviewee around her finger with a mere bat of her eyelashes and some pithy repartee.
It was impossible for Mr. Mancini to know what she was thinking, but for some reason the man’s lips twitched as he finished giving her a once over. He made no comment however, merely nodding his head and exiting, softly pulling the door shut behind him.
As the locking mechanism clicked into place, Mel turned to examine her room only to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A mortified groan escaped her. No wonder Mr. Mancini had trouble keeping a straight face. Her hair was a mess, her coat was buttoned crooked, and there was a smudge of chocolate from her make-shift lunch smeared across her chin. Her shoulders sagged; so much for being sophisticated.
Shrugging off her coat, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her boots off before flopping backwards on the mattress. Oh well, even if she looked a mess, Edward seemed to like her, and that meant he’d most likely be willing to talk to her when she started doing her research.
As she stared at the ceiling, she ran over her mental checklist on ‘how to be a journalist.’ Establish contacts—check. Be friendly so the other person will open up and talk to you—check. Listen attentively—umm, not quite a check.
Mel gnawed on her lip. That was always the hardest part for her. She tended to be a bubbly, outgoing sort who loved to talk and was always forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to interrupt the interviewee with her own random thoughts. In her mind, she tattooed the words ‘shut up, Mel’ across her brain, while ruefully acknowledging that it probably wouldn’t help.
Last on her to-do list was reporting the real story without personal bias creeping in—another partial check. ‘Report the facts,’ the instructors had always told her, ‘not opinions.’ Unfortunately, Mel tended to have lots of opinions about almost everything, and found it hard not to state them. Well, she inwardly shrugged, at least for this assignment all she needed to write was a straightforward report on a person’s life. A photographer wasn’t likely to be involved in anything controversial and his life couldn’t be that interesting. After all, the man took pictures of flowers and wildlife; she doubted she’d be able to muster much of a personal opinion about that!
The final report wasn’t due for several months, so once she’d tracked the fellow down and interviewed him, she’d have plenty of time to write his life story. Writing was what she did best and those were the courses where she’d received her highest marks. Words seemed to flow through her mind and onto the page in an unending stream. In fact, writing too much tended to be her biggest failing in that area. Luckily, it shouldn’t be a problem in this circumstance, she decided. The report didn’t have to fit the confines of a newspaper column, so she’d be able to ramble as much as she wished...provided Mr. Taylor had anything in his life worth rambling about!
Lying on the bed, she absentmindedly studied the design on the ceiling and thought about what she’d discovered so far. At first, she’d done the most obvious—searching Ryne Taylor’s name on the web. The internet hadn’t turned up much; he was a photographer of some minor renown specializing in nature photography. A few art galleries had shown his work with sales being modest. The picture that had sparked her benefactor’s interest had been purchased at Bastian’s Fine Art Gallery. It was located just a short drive from the man’s last known address, which was in Smythston, Oregon. The previous week, she’d phoned the gallery, but the call had produced very little information. Yes, they had sold a Ryne Taylor photograph to a Mr. Greyson. No, there was no information available to the public about the photographer himself.
The fact that the information wasn’t available to the public meant that there was information available; Mel just needed to find a way to get her hands on it. Unable to find an address or phone number for the mysterious Mr. Taylor, she was resorting to what was affectionately called ‘old fashioned leg work.’ Hence, she found herself travelling half-way across the country in the middle of February to this small non-descript town.
Stretching, she ran her hands through her hair and forced herself to sit up. While she would prefer to be investigating someone on a tropical island, her present location wasn’t all bad. Giving a small bounce, she deemed the bed comfortable and looked around the room, for the first time taking real note of her surroundings.
Decorated in turn of the century elegance, the room had gleaming wood and rich hues throughout, creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere. Aside from the mirror that had revealed her less than perfect appearance, there was a small fireplace with a love seat in front of it, a breakfast table and two chairs, a bed, night tables and a dresser. A door to the side of the room appeared to lead to the bathroom, which made Mel recall her earlier desire for a warm shower and a meal.
Calling the front desk, she arranged for the delivery of a meal to her room. While it was being prepared she headed for the shower, emerging fifteen minutes later wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, and feeling considerably refreshed.
Her timing was perfect. A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her meal and her stomach rumbled in anticipation. Thanking the slight girl who wheeled the cart in, Melody spared her a momentary glance. The girl had dark hair and green eyes; a pretty thing, only slightly younger than herself.
“If you need anything else, just call downstairs and ask for me. My name’s Elise.”
“Thanks, Elise.” Mel lifted the lid off her plate and inhaled the delectable scent of steak cooked to perfection. “Have you worked here long?”
“For about four months. I usually just work in the tea room but Mr. Mancini asked if I’d help out up here this weekend. There’s a ’flu bug going around and he’s short-handed.”
Mel forced herself to ignore her meal in favour of cultivating yet another local contact. Four months was long enough for Elise to have possibly encountered the elusive photographer. “This seems like a lovely place. Do you get lots of business?”
“It’s steady. Lots of locals stop by downstairs for lunch and a few rent rooms up here for weekend getaways or if they have company and need a place for guests to stay. And, of course, we get a few travellers such as yourself. Where are you headed?”
“Actually, I’m a free-lance journalist and I’m researching local artists for an article.” That was the story Mr. Aldrich, the lawyer, told her to use. He didn’t want anyone knowing who she was really working for. Mr. Greyson liked to keep his life and his interests private.
Elise smiled at her. “Be sure to check out Bastian’s Gallery, then. It’s just down the road and they show quite a few of the local artists.”
“Thanks. I’ll put them at the top of my list.” Even though she’d already planned on going there, she didn’t want to hurt Elise’s feelings.
Elise nodded and Mel noticed how she was rubbing her stomach. Hmm, was the girl coming down with the ’flu, too? Or, was she pregnant? Mel recalled how a fellow waitress, Nicole, had always been rubbing her belly when she was expecting. Eyeing Elise speculatively, Mel wondered if there was a slight thickening of her waist. It was hard to tell, with the apron wrapped around her. Oh well, it really wasn’t any of her business.
“Well, I really should get back to work. I hope you enjoy your stay here.” Elise headed towards the door.
“I’m sure I will. It’s been nice talking to you, Elise.” Her stomach chose that moment to rumble again and she pulled a self-deprecating face.
Elise laughed softly and pulled the door shut behind her.
With Elise on her way, Melody sat down to enjoy her dinner. As she’d suspected, the food was delicious and soon her plate was empty. With a satisfied sigh, she sat back and checked her watch. It was five-thirty. She could walk down to Bastian’s Gallery and see what information she could dig up about Ryne Taylor, but she was tired. Being charmingly casual, while making subtle inquiries, seemed like too much of an effort at that moment. A nap was eminently more appealing.
Getting to her feet, Mel heaved her suitcase up onto the bed and dug out an old t-shirt to sleep in. It wasn’t fancy, but then again no one was going to be seeing her in it and it packed easily. Shaking the wrinkles out, she took off her robe and pulled the grey t-shirt on. Her skin immediately raised into goose bumps as the cool cotton slid over her body. She shivered and pushed back the duvet, climbing between the crisp sheets and curling up into a shivering ball. Soon her body heat was warming the bed and she felt her muscles relaxing. Stretching out, she sighed and closed her eyes. She’d just take a little nap and then...
Chapter 2
Sun streamed in through the lace covered curtains and fell upon the table situated in front of the window. It glinted off the highly polished, wooden surface, and cast a cheery glow over the whole room. The brightness made Mel squint and grumble against the assault on her vision. Her little nap yesterday had been much longer than she’d intended. Despite sleeping for over twelve hours, or perhaps because of it, she felt exceptionally groggy that morning. Perhaps, it was due to the fact to that this was the first time, in what seemed like ages, that she had actually been able to get a decent night’s sleep. Whatever the reason, her body was reluctant to let go of the wonderful sensation of resting in a warm cloud of eiderdown and fresh linen.
Back home in Chicago, her little apartment had intermittent heating, a lumpy mattress and paper thin walls. The latter provided her with the privilege of hearing the tenants on all sides of her arguing, watching TV or engaging in...er...physical relations, at all hours of the day and night. That, on top of working two jobs in an effort to try and raise money for her education, meant she was chronically bleary-eyed and over-tired. Friends told her to move, but being situated by the El—elevated train tracks—meant the rent was cheap and with the building located mid-way between her two jobs, she felt she could suffer through the inadequacies of her dwelling with the ultimate goal of being able to afford better some day.
But now it appeared all that would be behind her much sooner than anticipated. Blinking sleepily, Mel propped her chin up with her hand while sipping her coffee and pondering yet again the providential turn of events that had landed her in her present situation. Researching this photographer was going to be a piece of cake and the substantial windfall the assignment was paying would mean she could quit one of her jobs and go back to school earlier than planned. With any luck, today she’d find out where Ryne Taylor resided and tomorrow she would be on her way to his home. A few days of talking to him and the preliminary part of the job would be done.
A smile passed over her lips as she thought of how Mr. Taylor would react when he finally heard the news that he was the focus of an article. He’d probably welcome the attention given him. After all, trying to make a name for yourself in the art world was no easy task. Perhaps, Mr. Greyson even wanted to become the photographer’s patron and the article was destined to be published in some fancy art magazine. Mel brightened at that thought since it would help her own career along, too. Hmm... Mr. Taylor and she might both end up benefitting from their encounter in ways neither could even dream of at the moment.
Feeling the caffeine finally activating the synapses of her brain, Mel began to take a more active interest in the happenings outside her window. The snowstorm had passed by overnight and the sun was causing the temperature to rise. Icicles dripped from the eaves and the fluffy white snow of yesterday was slowly melting into a miserable, soggy mess. Early morning commuters drove slowly down the narrow downtown streets, streams of slush spewing behind them. Snowploughs must have been working during the night, as piles of snow lined either side of the roadway. Merchants were out shovelling walkways and spreading salt on icy patches so that customers wouldn’t slip and fall while purchasing their wares.
A silver pick-up truck pulled in near the curb in front of the Grey Goose and Mel watched the scene below her with increasing attentiveness. First, a tall dark-haired man climbed out. From her second storey vantage point, she could easily make out his features and her heart beat a little faster in appreciation of his male beauty. He circled the vehicle and opened the passenger side door, reaching in and lifting a woman out and over the piles of snow onto the safety of the sidewalk.
Mel smiled; Good-looking, strong, and chivalrous. Observing the man tenderly kissing the woman and then lingering to watch her walk away, she sighed with envy, her hidden romantic streak making itself known. The fellow was obviously smitten. Wasn’t that just the way? The good ones always seemed to be taken.
The woman turned to wave at the man and Mel caught a brief glimpse of her face. It was Elise, the girl who had brought in her meal last night. What a lucky little thing she was, to have a man like that! Hmm... Maybe she should ask if he had a brother. Mel wrinkled her nose and shook her head, quickly dismissing the idea. Nah—hunky men usually didn’t go for the-girl-next-door types such as herself. They were after sultry beauties and sexy models that would look good hanging off their arm.
On that depressing note, Mel stood up and began to dress. The local businesses would be open for customers soon and it was time she got to work looking for information about Mr. Taylor. First, she would stop by the art gallery and see if she could wheedle any information out of the sales associates. Then, if that was a dead end, she’d search out Edward Mancini, and maybe even Elise. There was always the possibility that the photographer had stopped by the tea room for lunch when he was at the gallery making arrangements for the sale of his photographs.
She wished she had a picture of the man, or at least a description. It was always easier for people to recall someone from a photo rather than from a verbal description, which she didn’t have either, she glumly acknowledged. Mr. Aldrich hadn’t given her much to go on, beyond the man’s name and occupation. Oh well, the town wasn’t that big. Maybe it was the kind of place where everyone knew everybody’s business.
Taking a final sip of her coffee, she put on her coat and left the room, her spirits high in anticipation of a successful morning.
*****
Three hours later, Mel was back at the Grey Goose, sitting in the downstairs tea room, determinedly crunching a breadstick and totally unaware of her elegant surroundings. The potted plants, the period furniture, the soft music in the background, were all lost on her as she wallowed in her own bad mood. She knew her frustration was evident on her face, but quite frankly didn’t care. Her morning optimism was gone and replaced by the starkness of reality.
After oohing and aahing over dubious artwork and schmoozing with the people who worked at Bastian’s, she was still no closer to finding anything out about Ryne Taylor. The staff at the gallery had been friendly and admitted that they had sold some of his work, but no one was willing to talk about the man himself. All Mel had been able to garner was that there was a bit of a black cloud hanging over the whole topic. A few sly hints were dropped about a former, now missing, sales associate having had an affair with the man and somehow misdirecting the proceeds from the sale of Taylor’s work into her own account, but that was all she could discover.
When she’d first heard that little tidbit, the journalist in Mel had perked up her ears. This sounded like a mystery worth investigating. It had all the right elements; a missing person, a steamy affair, pilfered funds... But when she’d tried to question them for more specifics, everyone had become uneasy; their barely suppressed enjoyment over the titillating scandal disappearing behind suddenly shuttered expressions. Mel instinctively felt they were hiding something, but what? Finally, the gallery owner himself had come over and glared at his workers, who had taken one look at his disapproving face and scurried off to the far corners of the establishment. Once they were gone, he’d addressed Mel coolly, informing her in the politest of tones that she was keeping his employees from their work. Unless she was intending to buy something, perhaps she should be on her way.
Realizing that she had broken a basic rule of journalism and been too pushy, too soon, Mel left, all the while mentally kicking herself for alienating what was presently her only sure source of information. She knew she was supposed to be patient and not appear as if she was pumping people for information, but it was just so frustrating. Pregnant pauses made her fidgety and usually she ended up filling them, totally defeating the purpose. Those people had the information she needed somewhere in their records. Why wouldn’t they share? Surely, Mr. Taylor would welcome the publicity, if he only knew it was available to him!
Grabbing another breadstick, Mel bit into it angrily. She imagined that right now Mr. Bastian would be asking his employees what she had wanted to know. Quite likely, he’d even instruct them not to talk to her anymore. Bastian’s, she thought glumly, was going to be a dead end.
She’d glossed over that fact when she’d called the lawyer, Leon Aldrich, half an hour ago, to report her findings. He’d been rather peeved that she hadn’t checked in last night, claiming to have been concerned about her safety. While she’d explained about being tired and the poor driving conditions, she’d inwardly acknowledged the real reason for his attitude.
Aldrich appeared to be waiting for her to abscond with the large cash advance he’d given her. He didn’t seem too keen on her, nor on his client’s interest in Ryne Taylor, for that matter. Mel knew Aldrich felt she was under-qualified for the job, but Mr. Greyson had picked her out of all the other applicants. The sour look on Aldrich’s face when he delivered this news, made it obvious that the wealthy man was ignoring his lawyer’s recommendations. It was strange how Aldrich seemed to have taken an instant dislike to her; Mel usually got along with almost everyone. Maybe it was because she was spending his client’s money on a project that he felt was foolish.
Whatever the case, Mel hated reporting to the man. He always made her feel guilty and desirous of a thorough washing that would remove any traces of their interaction, even if it had been only over the phone. This morning was no different. She’d stated the facts as succinctly as possible; she’d arrived safely at the Grey Goose, had been to Bastian’s, but unfortunately hadn’t found any new information. Her next move was going to be checking the archives of the local paper. Aldrich had reluctantly agreed with her plan and she’d hung up, feeling his disapproval oozing down the phone lines.
At least now that the unpleasant task of talking to the man was over, she was free to sit and brood about her morning in relative peace and quiet. Mel was doing so with great success, mowing down breadsticks and leaving a little array of crumbs all over the white linen tablecloth, oblivious of her surroundings. When a shadow fell across the table, she gave a start, having forgotten she was in a public restaurant. Looking up, she saw Elise standing beside her.
“Hi! You look a bit down. Having a bad morning?” Elise’s concerned inquiry immediately made Mel feel a bit better. Here, at least, was one friendly face.
“Yeah. I was at Bastian’s Gallery all morning. There’s one particular artist that I’m trying to get some background on for my article, but I struck out.”
“And they didn’t have any information for you?” Elise seemed rather surprised by the fact.
“Well, they said they didn’t, but I think they’re holding out on me.”
“That’s strange. Wouldn’t an artist welcome publicity?”
Mel snorted. “You would think so.”
Someone called Elise’s name and she glanced over her shoulder. “Oops, my order for table three is ready. Here’s the menu. The luncheon specials are listed on the front. I’ll be back in a minute to take your order.”
Mel watched Elise’s retreating form, thinking she could ask her about Ryne Taylor. Bastian’s was a dead end, but maybe the local people knew something about the man. After all, he had lived in the area before disappearing off the face of the earth. Determined not to be quite so eager for information this time, she purposely engaged Elise in casual conversation when the girl returned.
“I saw you getting out of a pickup this morning. Was that your husband?”
“Yes.” Elise rolled her eyes and appeared exasperated. “Kane’s so over-protective right now. He wouldn’t even let me drive in by myself this morning because of the snow.”
“You mean he’s not always like that?”
Elise blushed prettily. “Well, a bit, but it’s getting worse now. I just found out that I’m pregnant and I swear, he’d have me sitting with my feet up for the next eight months if I didn’t demand otherwise.
Mel grinned inwardly. She’d been right last night when she had seen Elise rubbing her stomach. “Eight months? So you really did just find out. Those home pregnancy tests are getting more and more accurate, aren’t they?”
“Pregnancy test?” Elise frowned. “Actually, Kane just scented that...” She stopped and looked flustered for a moment. “I mean, Kane just...er...” Someone called her name again, and she appeared relieved to have a reason to abandon the conversation.
Sipping her water, Mel pondered what Elise had meant to say. Kane just scented...what? ‘Scented’ was a strange word to use. Dogs scented things, and from the glimpse she’d had of the man, he was anything but a mutt. For all that she’d love to pursue the conversation, it obviously made Elise uncomfortable, so Mel decided to drop it before risking alienating what was possibly her newest source. Elise’s husband, while gorgeous, was not her primary concern.
Eventually, Elise returned with the lasagna Mel had ordered. She looked a bit leery, as if fearing further questions. Trying to reassure her, Mel commented idly on the weather and Elise started to relax. Through the course of the meal, Mel kept the conversation light whenever the waitress happened to stop by her table offering more water or breadsticks. By the time she finished the meal, Elise was chatting easily to her once again. Deciding to make her move, Mel cautiously introduced the subject that was foremost in her mind.
“Well, I suppose I’d better hit the streets again and see if anyone is willing to talk to me about the local artists.”
“Who, in particular, are you interested in?” Elise asked idly, while writing up the bill for the meal.
“A local photographer, named Ryne Taylor. He used to live around here, but no one seems to know where he went.” If she hadn’t been watching, Mel probably wouldn’t have noticed the way Elise’s fingers suddenly gripped the pen tightly. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Ryne...Taylor did you say? No, I don’t believe I do. Of course, I only moved here in October.” Elise shrugged and kept her eyes on the bill.
“Oh. That’s too bad. Well, I’ll just ask around town then.” Mel could sense that Elise was lying, but having learned from her experience at Bastian’s, decided not to press the issue, in case she needed the young woman for something else in the future.
Elise handed her the bill and turned to leave, but then hesitated. Mel watched as she chewed on her lip. The server seemed to be gathering her courage before turning and posing a question in an overly casual voice. “Why are you asking about this particular photographer? I’ve never heard of him, so his work can’t be that good.”
“Someone who bought one of Mr. Taylor’s pictures raved about the quality of his work, and I thought I’d better check him out.”
“Oh.” Elise frowned and traced an idle pattern on the table cloth with her finger. “Um...do you know what the subject of the picture was? If it was displayed at Bastian’s, I might have noticed it once when I was shopping in the mall.”
Mel hesitated, but could see no problem in admitting the truth. “I’ve seen a few of Taylor’s pictures but not that one in particular. Supposedly, though, it was a picture of some wolves.”
Elise swallowed hard and nodded. “Well, I have to get back to work. Maybe I’ll see you later.” She looked at Mel briefly, worry apparent on her face, and then left.
“Right. Later.” Mel raised her hand in a perfunctory salute then narrowed her eyes as she watched Elise walk briskly away. The girl knew something, the question was what? What was the mystery surrounding this photographer and his present whereabouts?
*****
Mel spent the afternoon at the Smythston library, looking through back issues of the local paper for any mention of Ryne Taylor. He did have an exhibit a year ago, but the article didn’t include a picture of the man, nor any other useful particulars. She rubbed her forehead in frustration. Obviously, the man was very ordinary or there would have been some mention of him. But, if he was so ordinary, then why were the gallery and Elise withholding information about him? It wasn’t as if her article would harm him. There was no malicious intent.
And, as far as she knew, her benefactor, Mr. Greyson, just wanted background on a favourite artist. Maybe Greyson felt Mr. Taylor was an up-and-coming talent, and wanted to purchase more of his work as an investment, before the pictures became too expensive. Whatever the reason, she was being paid handsomely for the job—a job that wasn’t progressing very satisfactorily and would leave her with nothing to report to Mr. Aldrich, if she didn’t get moving. Arching her back, she pulled out yet another edition of the paper and got back to work.
Several hours later, Mel stood on the steps of the library, muttering under her breath and contemplating her next move. There must be a way to find Taylor. She had long ago dropped the honorific ‘Mr.’ when thinking of the man—he was now just plain ‘Taylor’ in her mind. Anyone who was causing her this much frustration wasn’t deserving of the extra title.
She shoved her hands in her pocket and tilted her face to the sky, wishing inspiration would descend upon her. A few snowflakes were drifting lazily down and catching on her lashes, causing her to blink rapidly. If she hadn’t been feeling grumpy about her unproductive day, Mel might have appreciated the lacy white precipitation. As it was, she merely brushed the flakes from her face, stomped down the steps and along the sidewalk, morosely noting how her pant cuffs were becoming soaked from the slush. She was heading for the post office now, in the vain hope of finding a lead there.
Possibly, some mail was still being delivered to Ryne’s old, local address. The local postmaster would need to redirect it to his new location, so maybe there was some information to be had from that sector. Privacy laws would likely prevent her from having access to what she needed to know, but at this point, anything was worth a try.
Pushing open the heavy metal and glass doors, Mel entered the buff coloured building and glanced around. The ‘lovely’ impersonal atmosphere that habitually permeated of all government offices greeted her. Scuffed terrazzo flooring, a bedraggled fig tree, and bland paint were the extent of the decorating in the cavernous space. Post office boxes lined two walls and several kiosks stood in the middle of the room, displaying posters and various government brochures. At the far end of the room, people stood in a trance-like state waiting for their turn while others huddled around a nearby table, writing addresses on packages or affixing stamps.
Deciding that she’d have a greater chance of success if there wasn’t a long line, Mel pretended to peruse the various posters while keeping an eye on the number of individuals awaiting service. No one spared her a glance, everyone seeming to be busy with their own agendas. The outer door opened, letting in a rush of cold air, causing the various papers and pamphlets to rustle in the breeze before settling down again. Mel glanced towards the source of the mini disturbance and was surprised to see Elise entering with her hunky husband. They appeared to be having a heated discussion, and some inner voice told Mel to make herself scarce.
Quickly positioning herself on the far side of the kiosk, she strained to hear what the two were saying. Their voices were low, but she managed to catch most of the conversation.
“I said I’d never heard of him, but I don’t know if she believed me or not.” Elise whispered to her husband. Mel frowned. What had Elise said his name was? Kyle...? Ken...? Kane! That was it.
A male voice rumbled in reply. “And you say she mentioned the wolf picture?”
“Uh- huh. She said that someone had told her about it and now she wants to write an article on him.”
“Damn! I knew that picture was bad news. I’ve tried to get it back without letting anyone know why. Hell, I’ve even offered to buy it for an exorbitantly ridiculous amount, but the agent representing the buyer claims it’s not for sale at any price. Whoever owns it must know its significance.”
“Maybe not. We might be jumping to conclusions. It was a good picture and possibly someone likes it simply for its artistic value.”
Something growled and Mel had to resist the urge to peek out from her hiding spot. Did they have a dog with them?
“Kane! Shh! You know better than to do that in public.” Elise admonished and Mel frowned. Apparently the man had been doing the growling. That was a strange habit.
“Sorry. It’s just that this is my worst nightmare. Someone discovering— “
Elise interrupted her husband and Mel nearly started growling herself. Discover what? Inwardly, she urged Kane to continue, but of course he didn’t. Elise spoke in soothing tones. “Even if the owner of the painting is suspicious, there’s no way they’ll ever discover where the picture was taken because the land is private. You've never allowed outsiders into the territory unsupervised. And we’ve covered Ryne’s tracks carefully. After the debacle of the missing payments for Ryne’s other work, Bastian’s doesn’t want to be sued, so they’re bending over backwards to keep us happy. They won’t say anything. And the rest of the pack has always kept a low profile. No one really knows much about Ryne, least of all, where he moved to.”
Kane muttered something indiscernible and the two moved out of hearing range.
Mel inhaled deeply and tried to quiet her pounding heart. These people knew where Ryne was and there really was some form of mystery surrounding the man and his photograph. Not for the first time, she wished she could have seen the picture in question, but the lawyer who had hired her said his client didn’t allow casual viewings. She decided it must be something pretty special to warrant all the money that was being spent just to find the photographer.
After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, Mel saw that the line consisted of only Elise and Kane. Edging closer, she buried her head in a brochure and eavesdropped some more.
“Good afternoon, I’d like to mail this to Ryne Taylor in Stump River, Ontario, Canada. How much will that cost?” Mel hazarded a peek and saw Elise place a package wrapped in brown paper on the ledge. As the postal worker weighed the package, the girl smiled up at her husband. “Do you think Ryne will like the sweater I bought for his birthday?”
“He’d adore a potato sack if you sent it to him.” Kane sounded a bit disgruntled and Elise laughed.
“Kane, I can’t believe you’re still jealous of him. You must know there’s nothing between us. I’m having your child and I love you.”
He bent over and kissed her cheek. “I know and I love you, too. It’s never been a question of your affections. It’s Ryne’s interest in you that bothers me.”
“He was just joking, Kane.”
“Possibly, but like I always said, once he gets his own mate...”
The conversation stopped as the postal worker announced the cost of mailing the parcel. Kane paid for the postage and the package was set to the side, being too large to fit in a regular mail slot. Mel watched them leave while tugging at her ear to try and fix her hearing. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn Kane had used the word ‘mate.’
Shaking her head to clear it of the questions floating about in her active imagination, Mel approached the counter and smiled at the frazzled woman behind the counter. “Hi! I was wondering if you could help me...” She paused as her gaze fell upon the package that sat only a foot away, awaiting mailing. It had Ryne’s address printed neatly on the front in large block letters. Cha-ching! Jackpot! Okay, now she just had to distract the woman in order to get a good look at the label.
“Yes? You were wondering...?” The worker raised her brows, prompting Mel to continue.
“Oh, sorry. Yes...um...I was wondering if...anyone had turned in my car keys. I dropped them here yesterday.”
“I wasn’t working yesterday, but I'll just go check out back.” The postal employee gave her a distracted smile and turned away. Mel leaned forward, craning her neck in order to see the address on the package clearly. RR#1, Stump River, Ontario, Canada. Stump River? What kind of a name was that? And Canada? Good lord! Hearing the postal worker returning, Mel quickly finished memorizing the address and was leaning casually against the counter by time the woman returned.
“Sorry. There were no keys turned in yesterday. Are you sure you lost them here?”
“Well, it could have been on the street, but with all this snow...” Mel shrugged. “That’s okay. I have a spare set.”
The woman eyed her suspiciously. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, I’m just passing through. Thanks for your help, though.” Mel started to walk away in case the woman began asking more questions. She wanted to get that address written down before she forgot it. Too bad it wasn’t more specific. A rural route, or RR address, could cover a lot of territory, but at least now she had some idea of where to look.
As she walked back to the Grey Goose, she began to plan her strategy. First she’d call Mr. Aldrich with an update. Then, she’d leave for home early the next morning. It would probably take her about a week to research Stump River, Ontario and look for any record of Ryne Taylor in Canada. Her previous search had focused on the United States since she’d never imagined the man would actually leave the country. It seemed sort of drastic. What possible reason could he have for heading so far north? Was he hiding something or was he hiding from someone?
Mel felt a little burst of excitement inside of her. Thus far, this assignment had only been appealing because of its monetary rewards. Researching an artist just hadn’t seemed that interesting. But now that an actual mystery might be involved, it was much more exciting. She wondered what Taylor might look like. If the fates were with her, he’d turn out to be attractive, like Elise’s husband. She snorted derisively. Dream on, girl. Guys like that didn’t grow on trees. Knowing her luck, this photographer would be seventy years old, balding, and pot-bellied.
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