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 mound 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.
The other tenants had nonetheless responded to the newcomer by displaying a restraint that for them was significant. Except for an occasional lapse, Althea’s vocabulary had been uncharacteristically civil, and although Jules had basically ignored Quinn, Edna’s nurturing frenzy had barely fallen short of actually tucking a napkin under the poor man’s chin.
It had been an interesting evening, to say the least.
Dabbing her moist forehead, Janine considered another sip of punch, then discarded the notion, stepped behind the jacaranda and discreetly poured the nauseating beverage at the base of the tree. She patted the bumpy trunk, then glanced up and noticed a couple standing apart from the crowd, apparently engaged in an intense conversation.
Although the woman was facing away from Janine, that brittle, red-gold bouffant was unmistakable. Besides, only Althea Miller would be crass enough to wear a leather miniskirt and cropped midriff top to a funeral.
The inappropriate attire wasn’t particularly surprising but the fact that Althea was attending services for a woman she’d professed to despise was a bit of a jolt, and the man to whom she was speaking seemed inordinately uncomfortable. He was a distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-fifties, and would have been quite attractive but for his pained expression. Althea’s spine was as stiff as a broomstick, a desperate rigidity that was quite uncharacteristic.
Janine watched intently as Althea fumbled in her bag then dabbed at her face with a tissue. The man glanced around as if assuring himself that he couldn’t be overheard before bending forward to issue a terse statement. Instantly Althea’s head drooped and her shoulders quivered. The man said something else, then spun on his heel and strode away.