“We’ll go over as soon as we finish eating,” Jake said.
Rachel set down her spoon. “I’m a history buff. I was looking at the history of the town, and I came across a place called the Solomon Clinic.”
Jake saw the waitress stiffen.
“The Solomon Clinic,” she said slowly. “How did you hear about that?”
“It came up when I was talking to a woman. She said she’d been there as a child.”
“It’s closed,” the waitress said, her voice turning icy.
“I see.”
“It wasn’t one of the scenic attractions in town.”
“What did they do there?”
“I really don’t know.” The waitress turned away abruptly and left the table.
That question certainly got a reaction.
Uh huh.
The place must have had some kind of bad reputation.
We’ll check into the Magnolia House, then ask around some more.
Is that a good idea?
What do you suggest?
Checking old newspapers.
Okay.
As soon as they’d finished their gumbo, the waitress was back with the check. Her smile was gone, and she didn’t have any more conversational gambits.
Jake paid in cash, and they left quickly.
In the car he said, “We’ll use the name on my alternate credit card. Mr. and Mrs. Jack Le Barron.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “What’s my name?”
He thought for a moment. “It should start with the same letter. What about Reagan?”
Jake consulted the address, then stopped at a gas station to ask directions. The Magnolia House bed and breakfast was located outside of town on a wooded tract off the main road.
Fifteen minutes later, they found a sign advertising the establishment and turned in at an access road through stands of oak and cypress trees.
Up ahead was a circular drive in front of a red brick mansion with a portico and white columns out front.
“This really is lovely,” Rachel murmured.
Jake nodded. He didn’t particularly care about the accommodations, but if a nice room made a difference to Rachel, he didn’t mind.
Thanks.
He was still disconcerted to discover that what was intended as a private thought was being picked up by someone else.
