Hotel Laguna by Nicola Harrison

Author:Nicola Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

This was awful and terrifying! What had I got myself into? I couldn’t believe I’d let this man paint me, that I’d been alone with him for hours at a time. I wanted to leave, not read any more, but there was so much more to see. Such a tragedy, and the mention of her fading beauty, that she would find that reason enough to kill herself, made the whole thing even more bleak. I flicked the pages: the articles repeated similar information, and then, a few weeks later, she was barely mentioned—a Hollywood star, an aging darling who apparently refused to age any further, gone from public interest barely a month following her death.

“Mr. Lane,” I said as I approached his desk once more. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but might there be any articles with photos that show Isabella Rose prior to … I mean, any mention of her companion, the artist? Mr. Radcliff. A bit earlier, a story about them together?”

He nodded. “We could go back to an earlier date.” He turned to the bookshelf with the leather-bound books, opened one, turned its pages, set it down, and took out another, then another. I kept glancing up at the clock, watching the minutes tick by, hoping Hanson wasn’t looking for me. He wasn’t an early riser, no matter what the occasion, and I knew I had another twenty-five minutes until ten o’clock, but this time the task was taking Mr. Lane longer.

“I’m looking for a mention of them in the index from a few years prior,” he said. “It’s not necessarily going to be front-page news.” He looked and looked, took out another bound book.

I wondered if I should offer to help. Many hands make light work, my mother always said when I helped fold the laundry she took in—to make extra money after my father died. But when I looked down, my hands were trembling.

“Ah, here we go.” Mr. Lane seemed excited. “A photo caption.” He walked briskly back down the corridor to the room with the books of newspaper archives, and I almost trotted along to keep up, pleased with his newfound sense of urgency.

“What did you find?” I asked, excited now at the prospect of getting closer to the truth.

“A theater gala.” He looked pleased with himself. He climbed the ladder again—much higher this time—and came down, opening another book, tapping the page.

The picture was unmistakably Hanson in his twenties, with a full head of dark hair, arm in arm with a gorgeous, smiling woman in a long, dazzling gown. It was Isabella Rose. It seemed extraordinary how some women just stood out like that, as if they were born to be a star. Scarlett had the same quality, I thought, a charisma that filled any room. I leaned in to examine the picture of Hanson. He was good-looking as a young man, almost with a film-star quality himself. He looked as if he might be enjoying himself, walking arm in arm with Isabella Rose, adoring fans in the background reaching out to touch her.

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