someone watching her, she turned to find two women staring at her from across the road as they walked together toward the center of town.
There was mistrust in their expressions, a look that made her feel instantly uneasy. Was this simply the usual locals-versus-tourist hostility, or something else altogether?
To Rachel’s mind it looked more like suspicion.
Or even fear.
The two women looked away from her now, chattering quietly as they walked. She had no idea what they were saying and didn’t really want to know.
It couldn’t be anything good.
Ignoring them, she took her suitcase from the trunk and moved up the front steps of the inn.
A moment later she was inside a quaint, old-fashioned foyer with a small reception counter on one side and shelves full of books on the other. Beyond, through a wide doorway, was a dining parlor and a polished wooden staircase that led to the second floor.
Rachel heard a faint grunt and moved up to the counter. A woman in her mid-forties was crouched behind it, searching through a low drawer, all of her concentration centered on the task.
Rachel cleared her throat and the woman jerked her head up and sucked in a breath, touching her chest in surprise.
“Oh, my,” she said. “You scared the bojangles out of me.”
Rachel offered her a sympathetic smile. “I was hoping you heard me come in.”
“I can’t hear a thing when I’m concentrating.” She gestured to the open drawer. “And I can’t seem to find my scissors, either. You wouldn’t happen to have a pair on you, would you?”
Rachel shook her head and smiled. “The one thing I forgot to pack.”
“I don’t know where they got to. Maybe in back, by my bed. I don’t like to sleep without some kind of…” She glanced at Rachel’s suitcase and frowned. “Who exactly are you?”
It was Rachel’s turn to be surprised. “Rachel…Rachel Hudson. I have a reservation?”
The woman took a moment to make the connection, then raised her eyebrows. “You didn’t get my message?”
“Message?”
“I told you not to bother coming, dearie. We’re not taking in guests for a while.”
“What? Why?”
The woman was about to respond when her gaze shifted to a spot behind the counter. “There they are!”
She reached forward and brought out a pair of sharp sewing shears.
“I didn’t get any message,” Rachel said. “And I need a place to stay.”
The woman was holding the shears just below the handle now, her fingers wrapped around it as if it were a dagger. She made several practice stabbing motions in the air, her eyes fixed on the blades. She seemed to have forgotten about Rachel altogether.
“Hello?”
The woman looked up sharply. “I know you came a long way,” she said, sounding only slightly apologetic, “but if you had any sense in you, you’d turn around right now and go back home.”
“Why?”
She lowered the scissors and leaned forward, gesturing for Rachel to come close.
Rachel hesitated, not sure the woman was all there. Then she did as she was asked and the woman whispered, “It’s for your own good, my dear. This place isn’t safe. She won’t rest until we’re all dead.”
Rachel was confused. “She?”
The woman straightened again, forgetting all about the apparent need to whisper. “You haven’t heard about her?”
“Who?”
“Weeping Willow, that’s—”
“All right, Maddie, enough.”
Rachel turned to find a guy in jeans and a work shirt coming down the stairs. He was about thirty-three and darkly handsome, with what looked like several drops of Native American blood in his veins. He was a good six foot two with broad shoulders, workingman’s hands and startling brown eyes that, despite her better instincts, made Rachel’s heart stutter.
Down, girl.
“Quit scaring the guests,” he said to Maddie. “How do you expect to make a living, chasing people away all the time?”
“She needs to know what’s going on around here.”
“There’s nothing going on that a little tried-and-true police work won’t fix.” He held out a hand for Rachel to shake. “I’m Nick Chavaree, the local sheriff. I’m staying here while my house is being…” He paused, frowned, withdrew the hand. “You look familiar to me. Do I know you?”
Rachel was pretty sure that if she’d seen him before she’d remember. He was that good-looking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Wait,” he said, then crossed to the bookshelves. He searched for a moment, then pulled down a worn paperback that Rachel knew all too well.
A Dangerous Mind.
Her first bestseller.
Flipping the book over, Chavaree studied the photo on the back—an old one that needed to be updated—then looked at Rachel. “Tell me this isn’t you.”
“Sometimes I wish I could.”
Even after three books in the top ten, she still wasn’t used to being recognized. Most writers remain anonymous their entire lives. But she’d spent enough time on the cable networks and the morning talk shows to become something of a celebrity.
She half expected Chavaree to ask her to sign the book, but his demeanor abruptly shifted from friendly to hostile. “You’re here about the murders, aren’t you?”
“Murders?”
“Don’t be coy.” He moved toward her now. “That’s why you picked this place to stay. You thought you could get some inside information from me.”
She had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but had a feeling it explained a lot. These murders obviously had something to do with the so-called “commotion”—and probably the looks she’d gotten outside—but she wasn’t interested in finding out.
“I’m just here for a little rest and relaxation,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“Uh-huh.” Not bothering to hide his skepticism, Chavaree tossed the book on the counter, then took a jacket out of the closet. “I admire your talent, Ms. Hudson. Your books are always compelling. But I’m gonna say this just once, okay?”
Rachel frowned. “Okay…”
