DO YOU BELIEVE? TOR Books ISBN: 0-765-34888-8 May 2005 Get a 20% discount from NewAndUsedBooks

Chapter 3

     The Pig and Pie, one of Marleton's thirteen pubs, sported doves copulating on its cupola and a peacock screaming at cars in the parking lot. The inside was less exotic, wood-paneled, utilitarian. Rose was determined to ask about her sister in every one of them if necessary. She kicked herself again for not asking V. F. Drummond's gardener and his companion about Joan. Maybe it had just been jetlag that left her tongue-tied.

     Rose took a seat in front of a dusty window whose tiny panes looked like they were cut from the bottom of a bottle. She studied the blackboard offerings for a few moments before going to the bar to place an order for steak and kidney pie and a pint of the local ale.

     She saw V. F. Drummond's gardener when she returned to her seat, playing darts in a corner with several men. He wore a cleaner t-shirt—Sting this time—but the jeans were the same faded ones from the afternoon. At least he hadn't washed her card yet.

     He wore grass-stained sneakers, or trainers as Joan had called them soon after her arrival. The use of the British terms in place of American ones was just another example of Joan showing off.

     Joan had worked the terms into her e-mails with pedantic pleasure over the many weeks she'd traveled around England. Her sudden return to the American turn of phrase before her e-mails had abruptly stopped was another symptom something was seriously wrong. Historically, Joan assumed a persona, whether British or Native American, and carried it to the bitter end.

     Rose forced herself from thoughts of Joan, watching the men fling their sharp metal darts at the target.

     Drummond's gardener was a wildly indifferent player, tossing his darts without pause, either missing the target completely or hitting almost dead center.

     Rose found herself unable to drag her attention from the knot of men. The hostile gardener had a long, lean body that appealed to her even if the grubby exterior wrappings did not.

     He made a spectacularly bad throw, hitting a sign that read, "Women of Easy Virtue Welcome." His cronies burst into jeers.

      "Vic. You're a royal pain in the ass. Can't you do any better?" one dart player called out.

      "Yeah, Drummond. You're a bloody shame," the bartender said, but without any real heat.

     Drummond.

     Rose's head began to pound. She jumped to her feet, then froze. What was she going to do? Challenge the man in front of his friends?

     A young woman brought Rose's steak and kidney pie over to the table. As the barmaid set out the silverware and a napkin, Rose subsided to her seat. "Is the guy with the Sting shirt the novelist V. F. Drummond?"

      "He is."

     The woman had a soft English complexion and fair blonde hair tied up with a pink bow the color of her cheeks. She also sported so many silver rings in her eyebrows, nose, and the center of her lower lip, she glittered.

     "Could you introduce me to him?" Rose asked.

     "Barman won't like it if you bother him," the waitress said. "Here he's entitled to his privacy. He's just one of us."

      "Thank you anyway," Rose said. The barmaid nodded and returned to her place behind the bar. Light flirting by the dart players told Rose the woman was Nell, wife of Will the bartender, who could be her twin, minus the face metal.

     Nell's husband looked like a work-out king, and Rose imagined if anyone bothered V. F. Drummond, Will would set him straight.

     Rose chewed her lip and watched the dart game. The good-natured ribbing the author took for his erratic play showed he was a regular in the pub.

     She toyed with her pie, poking at a lump of meat and trying to decide whether it was steak or kidney, though she thought whatever it was would come back up her throat if it passed her lips. She rehearsed several opening statements she could make to Mr. V. F. Who-the-hell-did-he-think-he-was-Drummond.

     Finally, she thrust her spoon into the thick crust on the pie and went to the bar. The dart players eyed her. No one gave an inch when she planted herself in front of the author.

      "Mr. Drummond? I believe I asked you a question this afternoon. You haven't given me an answer yet."

     Drummond, who was propped on his elbows, stared at her in the mirror behind the bar. He drained his glass and turned around, though he kept one elbow on the edge of the bar. "I sent it by e-mail."

      "You'll have to tell me what the message said because I don't have a computer." She clenched her teeth together to hold back other words—tart words of frustration.

      "Why don't you wait till you get back to Prince of Prussia, or wherever, and read it then. It'll still be there."

      "You know something, Mr. Drummond—"

      "Vic. I prefer Vic."

      "Thank you, but I prefer Mr. Drummond. You could have told me who you were. I'm not a stalker. I asked you a simple question. Common courtesy—"

     He straightened up and frowned. "Common courtesy, Ms. Early, suggests you don't just walk into someone's garden and start asking him personal questions."

     The bartender and the other dart players drew a step or two closer to their friend.

     Whether surrounded by friends, or standing alone, Drummond was far more daunting than he'd been in the sunny English garden.

     Rose held her place. "I knocked on the door, but no one answered."

      "That was your answer." He turned his back, signaled the bartender, and pointed to his empty glass.

      "I suppose because you're famous, you think you can be as rude as you like."

      "Miss." Nell hooked Rose's arm. "Finish your pie and go."

     Rose let the woman tug her away. She sat down and took up her spoon, but her hand shook so much, she dropped it, splattering gravy across her sleeve.

      "Shit," she muttered, dabbing at the stains with her napkin. Her eyes welled with tears. She fought them, concentrating on the spill.

     Vic Drummond half sat, half fell, into the chair across from her. He put his glass down along with one filled with something clear and bubbly. "A little sparkling water will take that out."

     She nodded and dipped her napkin into the seltzer.

      "You're not going to cry over a few spots, are you?" Drummond asked. He stretched out his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles. He lit a cigarette and directed smoke-rings at the blackened beams overhead.

      "I'll cry if I want to," Rose said.

     He broke into the song with a credible American accent. A friend at the bar shouted for him to shut his gob.

     She couldn't help smiling.

      "Feeling better?" he asked.

      "I'd feel much better if you'd answer my question."

      "Why don't you answer one of mine first? You're from some town in Pennsylvania I've never heard of, you're obviously upset about something, and I don't think you're the usual autograph seeker. So why don't you tell me what you're doing in Marleton."

      "King of Prussia is near Valley Forge. Surely you've heard of that place? Where Washington wintered his troops before whipping the British?"

      "I'm a little vague on that part of history, though I seem to remember Washington was an abominable general. You're not here to quell the British on this side of the pond, are you?"

     "No. I'm looking for my sister, Joan." Tears crowded her eyes. She would not cry in front of this man. "She's not at The Rose and Thistle. She doesn't answer e-mail or phone calls. I don't know what to do."

     Rose Early poked about in her pie.

     Vic considered her over the twisting smoke of his cigarette. "Did you pick the B-and-B because of the name?" he asked.

     She shook her head. "Joan picked it. She said it summed up our relationship. We're always at odds with each other. Now . . . I don't know where she's gone."

      "Probably to the coast to lie in the sun."

     Rose Early shook her head. "She left some things behind. Important things."

     Vic stubbed out his smoke and watched Rose Early make mush of her pie. Except for her accent, she could have been an Irish colleen with her freckled complexion and reddish-brown hair. Although he wasn't sure the red was genuine.

     Her jeans and shirt were all-American, though. The designer name was stitched on the front pocket of her top, a white, long-sleeved jumper with brown splotches on the sleeve. And a few spots on her lovely, all-American chest, though he doubted she knew that.

     He signaled for another pint. "So your sister left a few things behind. I'm always nipping around to the shops for things I've forgotten to pack."

      "I'm not talking toothpaste or razors. She left a camera lens, some research material. Your book."

      "Maybe she considered it all rubbish. I've been tossed in the dust bin before."

      "Your book might be trash, but the lens isn't. And she wouldn't abandon her research materials before she'd finished her book."

      "She was a writer?"

      "Is. Is a photojournalist. A pretty famous one, too. Her last book was on Pueblo pottery."

      "Marleton's pretty far from the pueblo, Ms. Early."

      "Rose. I know, but that's Joan." She leaned forward. Her intensity came at him in almost tangible waves. "This latest book is on church art. It doesn't matter what the subject is, if Joan considers it worthy of a book, she puts her heart into it. I don't care if she was going to the shore or dining with the queen, she'd no more leave her research material behind than her camera lens."

     She dug in the rucksack by her feet. She set a chunky black object on the table. "It's just like one I have at home. Dad gave us our first serious camera when we turned twelve. I still have mine and all the lenses, and I know Joan still has hers. She'd never part with this one."

     Vic picked up the lens. He noticed the garden dirt still beneath his nails, and felt a flush of embarrassment rise on his cheeks. He was suddenly intensely aware he hadn't had his hair cut in weeks—or shaved for two days, either.

     Rose tapped the initials. "Joan marks everything. That's why I know it's hers."

     He shrugged. "So she left a few bits behind. Maybe she intends to come back for them after she goes . . . somewhere."

      "Look. I've asked myself these same questions. She didn't just leave the stuff behind. She boxed it up and put it in the bottom of a broom closet. Way in the back."

      "Then I fancy she'll be back for it."

      "It doesn't make sense. She paid for the month of July, packed everything but the box, stopped answering my phone calls, and drove off." She toyed with her pie. "I might agree she just wanted to get away if it weren't for her e-mail messages."

     Vic eyed the mishmash Rose had made of her supper. His stomach growled a protest of too much beer and too little food. He called out to Nell to bring him an order of fish and chips.

      "What about her e-mail?" he asked. He didn't know why he was questioning Rose Early. His natural need to snoop, his Aunt Alice would have said.

      "Joan's e-mails were becoming very . . . weird is the only word I can think of. Then they stopped. The same day she left the Rose and Thistle."

     Nell set two fish and chip orders in front of them. "Thought you might find this more to your liking, miss," Nell said and swept away Rose's spurned steak and kidney pie.

      "How'd she e-mail you if you can't?"

     Rose stared at him, her grayish-green eyes wide. "Good point. I didn't think of that. How did she e-mail me?"

     He doused his chips with vinegar. "I think you should visit the library. They have at least a dozen computers. If your sister used them, Mary Garner will remember her."

      "I'll go now."

     Before Rose could leap from her seat, he put a hand on her arm. "The library is closed at this hour." He watched Rose's face shift from optimistic to disappointed to blank.

     She subsided into her seat. She picked at her fish and chips, and he suspected her thoughts were far from the pub.

     When he'd finished his supper, he leaned on his elbows and lit his last cigarette.

     She set her fork beside her barely touched plate and leaned her elbows on the table in imitation of him.

      "So, Mr. Drummond. You haven't answered my question. Do you believe in evil?"

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