Page 22 of Shadow of Doubt

Though the little book was half-full of entries, there wasn’t even a notation for the man she’d married.

Names that were vaguely familiar caused little sparks to flare in her memory, though the faces that swam in her mind were blurred and fleeting.

In the section for people whose surnames started with J, she found Janet Jones, then saw that the address had been crossed out with a note to look under C, where her sister Janet had landed after resuming use of her maiden name.

Her sister’s face came to mind, and she remembered a teary confrontation where Janet had confided that her husband, the love of her life, had left her for another woman, a younger woman with no children and a lot of money. Janet had been nearly suicidal and she’d sworn off men for the rest of her life. It had been raining heavily outside, the water sheeting the windows of her apartment….

Nikki sucked in her breath. Suddenly she remembered where she lived—a small walk-up in the Queen Anne section of Seattle. The rambling old house had originally been built in the 1920s, and later divided into four apartments. Her studio was located on the uppermost floor in quarters originally designed for servants. The ceilings were sloped, the windows paned dormers, but there was a brick fireplace, tons of closet space under the eaves of the old manor, and a gleaming hardwood floor. Long and narrow, the roomy apartment was filled with plants and antiques.

Heart racing, Nikki remembered the braided rug she’d picked up at a garage sale, an antique sewing machine she used as an end table and a rolltop desk positioned near the windows. Her computer table was in the corner near a built-in bookcase and her lumpy couch, a hand-me-down from… from…oh, Lord, who gave her the camel-backed couch? Her great-aunt Ora!

Warm tears gathered in her eyes at the thought of her relatives, now with faces and names. She thought about her home, a place she remembered. Her sister Carole had been at the teary meeting as well, telling Janet to divorce the bum and get on with her life. As Carole rationalized, Janet could “take Tim to the cleaners.”

Had there been happy moments with her sisters? Nikki concentrated, but no other memory of either woman drifted through the foggy corridors of her past.

Sniffing, Nikki tried to think of Trent, of the times he’d been there. Had he helped her cook in the tiny kitchen alcove? Had he been around to patch the leak in the roof near one of the windows? Had

he swept her into his arms and made love to her there on the rug before the fire or on the daybed tucked under the eaves?

Her throat filled, but she remembered nothing but the incessant pounding of the rain when her sister had poured out her heart, alternately crying and swearing about Timothy Jones, DDS and SOB.

Heartened by the breakthrough, Nikki became impatient, trying to force more memories. She sifted through the address book again, stopping at the section marked N. Sure enough, David Neumann’s name, address and phone number were neatly recorded. Yet she hadn’t even scribbled Trent’s number in the book. Strange.

She tossed the little address book aside and looked through her wallet, stopping again at the family portrait. Had Janet remarried since her divorce from Tim? And Carole? Did she have a husband?

Do you? a voice in her head demanded. She glanced at her wedding ring, shining and mocking, a symbol of possession that felt awkward around her finger. Why couldn’t she remember Trent slipping the little band of gold on her hand? Had there been music at the ceremony? Probably not. A bridal bouquet? A wedding dress of any kind?

“Stop it!” she growled at herself. All she was doing was creating a headache of mammoth proportions, and she didn’t want to have to take any more medications for pain. Right now, while she had time alone, she needed a clear head.

In frustration, she walked back to the closet and pawed through her own clothes, half expecting to find a creamcolored linen suit suitable for a wedding, or a plethora of negligees, or…what? Discovering nothing, she turned back to the bed and her heart nearly stopped beating. The camera! Biting her lip, she picked up the 35 mm and checked the back. Nine pictures had already been taken. Her throat went dry. Surely, if she’d been on her honeymoon, some of the snapshots would be of Trent. Her fingers were sweaty as she clicked open the back of the camera, removed the film cartridge and slipped the undeveloped film into her purse. What would she do if Trent wasn’t in the pictures? And, oh, Lord, what would she do if he was?

The shadows in the room were getting darker as the sun dipped behind the ridge of mountains to the west. It was still daylight, four in the afternoon by her watch. Trent would be back soon and she hadn’t accomplished much. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast at the hospital, but she didn’t have time for food. Not yet.

Propped on the bed, with her Spanish-English dictionary lying facedown on the night table, she gathered her strength and tried to dial her mother in Los Angeles, but was told by the operator that all outside lines to the United States were busy.

Wonderful, she thought sarcastically and made a mental note of the people she needed to call. Her family, of course, and her editor at the Observer, Peggy Hendricks. Also, she’d call Connie Benson, a co-worker and close friend. If Nikki really had been seeing Trent in the few weeks before she’d flown to Salvaje, certainly someone she’d known had met him—a friend or a co-worker, if not the members of her family.

She had to work fast. Searching the room for an extra room key, she found nothing. Well, that wasn’t going to stop her. She slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, locked the door behind her and made her way through the hall to the elevator.

With a groan of ancient gears, the lift arrived and she climbed in with an elderly couple and a teenage girl draped in a beach towel. With a deep tan and perpetually bored expression, the girl glanced at Nikki, flinched, then slid her eyes away. Blushing, Nikki noticed that the little old lady with apricot-tinted hair was staring at her face.

“My goodness, what happened to you?” she said, her eyes concerned behind owl-like glasses.

“I… It was an accident. I, um, fell off my bike,” Nikki replied, hating to lie, but not wanting to tell her life story to the anxious woman.

The woman clucked her tongue. “Well it looks like it’s healing. In a few days, you’ll look much better. But you’ve got to keep the scabs soft. With vitamin E—”

“Phyllis, please.” The gentleman shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss. My wife used to be a nurse and she can’t ever give up her profession.”

“It’s fine,” Nikki assured them both, glad to hear good old American English.

“Don’t you go out in the sun too much,” Phyllis advised as the elevator shuddered to a stop. “Wear a hat. The sun’s no good for you, anyway. Causes wrinkles. Just look at me.”

“Come on, Phyllis.”

The teenager slid out of the car as soon as the door opened, and the gentleman shepherded his wife toward the front doors. Nikki started toward the registration desk on the far side of the lobby.

The hotel was old, with thick plaster walls, paddle fans and rich-hued carpets spread over cool tile floors. In the center of the lobby, a screened aviary lent guests a view of brilliantly colored birds and lush tropical plants that flourished around a central pond and small waterfall. Goldfish and koi swam beneath the lily pads while a toucan screeched from an upper limb of a small palm.

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