new padlock hung open.
Natalie stood still and listened. Nothing but the sound of distant wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. With the lock open, silence was not a good sign. Maybe someone was hiding inside, trying to be quiet.
Or maybe someone was hurt. Blaine scratched at the door again and this time it opened slightly. Someone had closed it so lightly the latch hadn’t caught. Blaine pulled forward. Then Natalie heard a tiny, high-pitched cry.
Good lord, she thought. Could someone have crept into The Blue Lady just as she and Lily used to do and gotten hurt? After all, the place was a wreck.
Natalie started inside, then hesitated. There had been a murder last night. Maybe she should go home.
But if she simply walked away, deserting someone who might be hurt, she would never forgive herself. And she wasn’t defenseless—she had her gun. She had to at least give the pavilion a cursory scan.
Inside, the dance room looked cavernous. “Is anyone here?” Natalie called. Not a sound. She flicked the beam of her flashlight around. Only a few tables sat on a dusty floor. “Do you need help?”
She stood still, barely breathing. Silence. Maybe she’d only heard a bird that had flown in when the door was open and been trapped. Time to go, she told herself, but she couldn’t leave just yet. She hadn’t seen this place for years.
She and the dog walked across the floor, Blaine’s nails
clicking on the wood. Beautiful wood, once highly varnished to facilitate the smooth moves of dancing feet. Grandmother St. John had told her all about The Blue Lady where she and Grandfather had spent so many hours of their youth. Natalie closed her eyes and in her mind the room filled with people, the men in formal black, the women in a rainbow of satin with gardenias pinned to their hair. She pictured her grandmother—an elegant woman with dark hair, flashing green eyes, and a taste for fine champagne—dancing to the sounds of big bands.
Natalie opened her eyes and the opulent scene vanished. Once again she stood in a big, empty room filled with dust and ghosts and the sound of dark, cold water lapping against rotting pilings.
A thud of her heart reminded her she was still winded from running. All the exertion after a raging panic attack had left her drained and she suddenly felt woozy. The room spun. She sat down on one of the chairs near a wall and drew a slow, deep breath. Then another. She frowned. What did she smell? Roses? Impossible. She wore no cologne. Imagination, she told herself. She’d been thinking of Grandmother who wore an expensive rose-based perfume. But no rose perfume lingered in the lonely pavilion. Only the memory of a beautiful woman dead over ten years.
A few more slow, deep breaths and she’d be ready to head for home, she thought, glancing around the room. Windows lined the pavilion, providing a panoramic view of the lake. She knew soft blue lanterns once hung around the structure. The slightest breeze sent them dancing, turning the lake water into a rippling sapphire fairyland. Now only a yellowish glow from the sodium vapor lamps in the parking lot of a nearby convenience store struggled through the filmy, flyblown windows.
She darted the flashlight beam around again. Overhead soared a high cathedral ceiling. In the center hung a huge, mirrored ball.
Natalie started. She’d never seen it except in pictures. In all the years she’d come here, it had been covered in burlap.
Now the ball glittered, reflecting the room in a hundred prisms of polished glass. Freshly polished.
“Is anyone here?” she called again, this time her voice not so strong.
“Na-ta-lie?”
Natalie stiffened. Blaine’s ears lifted and she turned her head to the right.
No one.
But it had been a woman’s voice—young, clear, delicate. A familiar voice. The voice on the phone this afternoon.
No, no that couldn’t be, Natalie told herself sternly. She was deeply shaken by the murder, by her dream, by the phone
Natalie stood still and listened. Nothing but the sound of distant wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. With the lock open, silence was not a good sign. Maybe someone was hiding inside, trying to be quiet.
Or maybe someone was hurt. Blaine scratched at the door again and this time it opened slightly. Someone had closed it so lightly the latch hadn’t caught. Blaine pulled forward. Then Natalie heard a tiny, high-pitched cry.
Good lord, she thought. Could someone have crept into The Blue Lady just as she and Lily used to do and gotten hurt? After all, the place was a wreck.
Natalie started inside, then hesitated. There had been a murder last night. Maybe she should go home.
But if she simply walked away, deserting someone who might be hurt, she would never forgive herself. And she wasn’t defenseless—she had her gun. She had to at least give the pavilion a cursory scan.
Inside, the dance room looked cavernous. “Is anyone here?” Natalie called. Not a sound. She flicked the beam of her flashlight around. Only a few tables sat on a dusty floor. “Do you need help?”
She stood still, barely breathing. Silence. Maybe she’d only heard a bird that had flown in when the door was open and been trapped. Time to go, she told herself, but she couldn’t leave just yet. She hadn’t seen this place for years.
She and the dog walked across the floor, Blaine’s nails
clicking on the wood. Beautiful wood, once highly varnished to facilitate the smooth moves of dancing feet. Grandmother St. John had told her all about The Blue Lady where she and Grandfather had spent so many hours of their youth. Natalie closed her eyes and in her mind the room filled with people, the men in formal black, the women in a rainbow of satin with gardenias pinned to their hair. She pictured her grandmother—an elegant woman with dark hair, flashing green eyes, and a taste for fine champagne—dancing to the sounds of big bands.
Natalie opened her eyes and the opulent scene vanished. Once again she stood in a big, empty room filled with dust and ghosts and the sound of dark, cold water lapping against rotting pilings.
A thud of her heart reminded her she was still winded from running. All the exertion after a raging panic attack had left her drained and she suddenly felt woozy. The room spun. She sat down on one of the chairs near a wall and drew a slow, deep breath. Then another. She frowned. What did she smell? Roses? Impossible. She wore no cologne. Imagination, she told herself. She’d been thinking of Grandmother who wore an expensive rose-based perfume. But no rose perfume lingered in the lonely pavilion. Only the memory of a beautiful woman dead over ten years.
A few more slow, deep breaths and she’d be ready to head for home, she thought, glancing around the room. Windows lined the pavilion, providing a panoramic view of the lake. She knew soft blue lanterns once hung around the structure. The slightest breeze sent them dancing, turning the lake water into a rippling sapphire fairyland. Now only a yellowish glow from the sodium vapor lamps in the parking lot of a nearby convenience store struggled through the filmy, flyblown windows.
She darted the flashlight beam around again. Overhead soared a high cathedral ceiling. In the center hung a huge, mirrored ball.
Natalie started. She’d never seen it except in pictures. In all the years she’d come here, it had been covered in burlap.
Now the ball glittered, reflecting the room in a hundred prisms of polished glass. Freshly polished.
“Is anyone here?” she called again, this time her voice not so strong.
“Na-ta-lie?”
Natalie stiffened. Blaine’s ears lifted and she turned her head to the right.
No one.
But it had been a woman’s voice—young, clear, delicate. A familiar voice. The voice on the phone this afternoon.
No, no that couldn’t be, Natalie told herself sternly. She was deeply shaken by the murder, by her dream, by the phone
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