Free Madeline Mann by Julia Buckley Page A

town. One is quaint, and one is more elegant. If you want the first, you can stay at Thatch Cottage. If you're lookin’ for modern conveniences and a nice Jacuzzi, then go to Elegance. That's two blocks over on Griffith, on the corner. Can't miss it. It's on the house. Least I can do when you come all the way out here for Jamie.”
    Jack and I both began to thank him, and he waved us away. He pulled a business card out of his pocket and scrawled something on the back. “Wherever you decide,” he told us. “Just show this to the innkeeper. I'll be in touch about Logan.”
    I thanked him again and felt a bizarre desire to bow as well. Wick was like Saugatuck royalty, and we'd been invited to the palace.
    Jack and I chose Elegance. Our room had a pretty view of a forested park, no longer visible in the autumn dark. The room was decorated with refined simplicity and muted tones, and the style was in the little details. I viewed the well-stocked side bar and the telephone table that contained not a Gideon Bible, but a local restaurant list, some mysteries for in-room reading, and a few copies of Connoisseur and the New York Times . I pulled back the bedspread and found that the sheets were silk, and the pillow contained not a mint, but an entire bar of Godiva chocolate, which I proceeded to eat. I sat on the edge of the bed, munching and kicking my feet to the rhythm of some distant sirens, the sound of which drifted in our window like a delightful October ghost.
    “I've never slept on silk sheets before,” I said with my mouth full.
    Jack was fiddling with a television in one corner, probably trying to find PBS. Jack loved watching those shows that no one else cared about, like the mating habits of the praying mantis or the slow erosion of the world as shown in time-lapse photography. “About time you did,” he murmured, playing with the channel selector.
    “Should I call my mom and tell her where we are?” I asked, mostly for something to say.
    “Nah. We'll be home tomorrow. She won't even miss you.” Jack had now found a promising-looking station that featured some tiny animal facing extinction; it looked like a cross between a rat and my high school economics teacher. He settled into a wingback chair and let out a contented sigh. “God bless Wick Lanford,” he said.
    The phone rang then. “He heard you,” I joked as I walked to the telephone. I picked up the receiver. “Hello,” I said, smiling and wiping chocolate from my mouth.
    “It's Wick Lanford,” said a voice barely recognizable as belonging to the man we'd just met. His tone had an indefinable quality that raised the hairs on my arms.
    “Hello,” I said again without the smile. “Did you find Logan?”
    Wick made a horrible noise, like the bellow of a bear, and I jumped in place and sent a shocked look toward Jack. I realized then that Wick was crying.
    “Mr. Lanford!” I yelled. “Is everything all right?”
    After a few moments, Wick got himself together. “Logan's dead,” he said tonelessly. “I got here and found him dead, killed by someone. He's…been killed.”
    “My God,” I said. I sat abruptly in the chair next to the phone. “I…don't know what to say. I'm so sorry. This is terrible, I…” I went on, trying to voice my feelings of sorrow and commiseration and doing an inadequate job. Finally I cut myself off. “Mr. Lanford, what can I do?”
    The idea of specific action focused him. “I've got some police out here, and more on the way. I told them you were here—they found this little card you left for Logan. They want to ask you some questions.”
    “Should we come out there?” I asked.
    “No. No, I don't think so. Too much going on. But now that I know where you are, I can tell them, and they can come on out. You'll still be up?”
    “Of course!” I assured him. As if I would sleep now.
    I hung up and told Jack what Wick Lanford had told me. “So he was in there, Jack, lying in there when I stood outside calling