Кей Хупер - Chill Of Fear

"Those were the days," Quentin murmured.

"Yeah, a lot of this sort of thing would hardly cause a ripple now. Except in the tabloids, I guess. But setting aside what's written here, look at how it's written. Look how the handwriting changes. What — it was a round robin kind of deal, with one person passing the journal on to another, taking turns to write what they knew? I'm a big fan of conspiracy theories, but what kind of sense does that make?"

"It doesn't."

"No, it doesn't. And here's a date of 1960. More than forty years? What would be the point of keeping this journal that long? Has anybody been here that long?"

"The housekeeper, Mrs. Kincaid, has lived here her whole life," Quentin answered. "Her mother was housekeeper here before her. In 1960, she wouldn't have been much more than ten, I'd guess."

"None of this was written by a child."

Like most of Bishop's team, Quentin had at least a bit of expertise in numerous diverse fields, and was able to say with some confidence, "I agree. I know enough about handwriting analysis to be pretty sure of that. Not written by a child and not written by a single individual. But at least some of these entries show some fairly clear indications of individuals with a few problems."

"You said 'resentful' before."

He nodded, frowning down at one page in particular. "I'd say so. Envious, resentful, judgmental."

After a moment, Diana said quietly, "It's about judgment. It's about punishment. Maybe whatever's left of Samuel Barton set himself up as judge and jury."

“Yeah, except..." Quentin leafed through the pages, his frown deepening. "As far as I know, none of these names connect to any of the missing or dead people."

Diana leaned back on the sofa with a sigh. "Dammit, I was hoping we were getting somewhere. Somehow. But it's just another puzzle piece, isn't it? A journal filled with secrets, written by God knows how many different people over a span of more than forty years."

"If it's a signpost, it's a damned enigmatic one," Quentin agreed.

"And why was it in the attic?" Diana wondered. "The most recent entry was that one for 1998, and if it was written when it was dated, then the journal must have ended up in the attic only a few years ago."

"Unless it was kept in the attic all along," Quentin suggested.

"It was in one of the old steamer trunks that have to be over a hundred years old, so it would have been easy to find up there. Easy to keep track of. From what Stephanie said, the attic is aired and dusted maybe once or twice a year, but otherwise is left undisturbed, so whoever kept it there could be reasonably sure it would remain hidden."

"It's as good a possibility as any," Diana said with a sigh of agreement. "But I still don't get how — and why — so many different people would have kept up the entries."

"Because," Stephanie said from the doorway in a rather grim tone, "they were paid money to do it. A lot of money."

Alison Macon would have been the first to cheerfully admit that she wasn't the best maid in the world. Or even the best one in The Lodge. Work wasn't her favorite thing, and being a maid was hard work — especially when she was expected to follow Mrs. Kincaid's exacting standards.

Being a reasonably bright girl, Alison had developed a number of shortcuts to make her job a bit easier and even more pleasant. Most were harmless, depriving no one of a clean or comfortable room. So what if she didn't change the unused towels for "fresh" ones as Mrs. Kincaid demanded; the towels were still clean, after all.

And there was no need to throw out perfectly good flowers when all that was needed to freshen them was a change of water in the vase. And what was the sense of scrubbing a tub that had clearly not been used since she had last cleaned?

The result of all her little shortcuts was that Alison often had a bit of extra time to herself now and then. Time to slip out and enjoy one of the rare cigarettes she allowed herself. Time for an extra half hour of sleep in the mornings, and perhaps even an occasional very refreshing afternoon nap.

Most importantly of all, time to sneak out and meet her boyfriend, Eric Beck, whenever he could get half an hour or so away from his own boss down at the stables.

Like her friend Ellie, Alison carried a forbidden cell phone, making it easier to arrange their meetings.

On this late Friday afternoon, Alison finished her work in record time, helped along by the fact that nearly every room on her floor was empty and only a few due to have guests to check in over the weekend. So when her silently vibrating phone announced a call, she was able to happily arrange a meeting.

But she was startled to encounter Eric just outside the side door she always used.

"Why are you up here? If Mrs. Kincaid sees you—"

"She won't. Look, I don't have much time, because that damned storm earlier postponed one of my classes." Eric often led the trail rides into the mountains, but also taught the occasional beginning rider classes The Lodge offered.

"People want to ride this late?" she asked, allowing herself to be led around the corner and along a narrow path through the shrubbery toward one of their favorite meeting places.

"Maybe three," he grunted. "I told Cullen it was hardly worth the bother of saddling the horses, but he gave me the old company line about always entertaining the guests."

"Well, it is what The Lodge is famous for, after all," Alison said. Suddenly uneasy, she added, "Maybe we'd better not do this, Eric."

"My work's caught up, and I'm on a break."

Alison hadn't told him that her own "breaks" were slightly on the unofficial side, and she didn't want to confess now. Eric was the best-looking single man under thirty employed at The Lodge, and she was still astonished that she'd caught him.

Well, sort of caught him. That wasn't exactly official either.

"Nobody's going to give us grief for taking our breaks," he added, still pulling her along.

His eagerness sparked her own, helped along by her usual gleeful awareness of having pulled one over on Mrs. Kincaid. No fraternizing among the staff — yeah, right.

"Okay, but we'd better be quick," she told him.

He grinned at her over one shoulder. "When weren't we quick?"

Alison was about to offer a witty response to that when Eric suddenly stumbled and lurched forward, pulling her with him. They ended in a tangle on the ground, and her breathless laugh was cut off with brutal suddenness when she looked to see what they'd fallen over.

Once she started screaming, she couldn't stop.

The body of Ellie Weeks lay sprawled just past the overgrown arbor, one outflung hand resting among a few bright flowers that had probably been planted long ago and just as long ago forgotten.

Her maid's uniform was neat, her hair still in its accustomed and girlish high ponytail. But a braided leather strip cut deeply into the flesh of her neck, and above it her face was mottled, her eyes wide and tongue thrusting between her parted lips.

The big, bright lights illuminating the area so that the police could work as darkness fell lent the area a garish, almost stagelike glow. The young woman might have been posed, as though playing the part of murder victim only to rise unhurt when the curtain fell.

Except that she wouldn't do that.

"It's here," Diana said softly.

Quentin reached for her hand. "This time we'll stop it," he said.

"You don't know that."

"I believe it."

"I wish I did."

Nate looked at them both rather curiously, but said, "Apparently, this was fairly popular as a meeting place for young lovers. Not far from the main building but more or less isolated, at least from the areas used by guests. It was a part of the original garden, but they'd allowed the hedges to overgrow and hide the two garden sheds."