11
Good question, kid. Kellen had come here seeking a place to build a home, and now the home had become its own kind of nightmare with friends she didn’t know if she could trust and her own mind that led her through logic and programming and abandoned her when it came to her own memories.
Sheri Jean turned to Kellen. “You are going to call Annie, aren’t you?”
“Right now.” Kellen started for the office.
“What about our meeting?” Sheri Jean asked.
Kellen turned and looked at her in exasperation.
“You’ll come to me after you talk to her,” Sheri Jean instructed. “Tell me what she said.” She left Mara and Kellen alone in the spa waiting room.
“She has a very stern sense of what’s owed to her.” Mara grinned without humor. “Gruesome death cannot change that.”
“I get that.” Kellen had been in so many countries and so many situations where status ruled and wisdom came second to ego. “But it’s hard to bend to tradition when today I’ve seen a mutilated corpse.”
“Mutilated?” Mara bounded to her side. “What do you mean, mutilated?”
Why had Kellen told her that? Something about Mara’s competitive competence had lured her into confession. “Priscilla’s hands had been severed.”
“No wonder you were sure it was a murder. That’s sick. That’s brutal. What else do you know that you didn’t tell us?”
“Nothing. I’ve seen corpses before, in war zones. This is different. Not combat. Cold brutality. The stench of death is different. Less random. More intent.”
“What Lloyd Magnuson knows about police work couldn’t fill a teacup.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you think the people here are in danger?”
“I think—” Kellen faced Mara straight on “—it’s dark and cold and stormy and we’d all be happier if we do as I said and stick together. I don’t think there’s any more bodies out there, but I don’t know for sure, and in the meantime I want Annie to tell me what to do.”
“Sounds good. You up for our run tomorrow and some sparring?”
Kellen stared at Mara in amazement. “No, I’m not up for a run. I’ll be lucky if I’ve had any sleep by then!” She stalked out, muttering, “A run. Really.”
Mara hurried after her and called, “See you at five.”
Kellen faced her.
“Five thirty?” Mara suggested.
“All right, but if I don’t show, go without me.”
Mara jumped and pumped her fist in the air.
God, that woman was annoying.
Just outside the spa, Kellen met the Shivering Sherlocks; she flattened herself against the wall and waved them on. To no avail.
The six ladies surrounded her and peppered her with questions about the corpse.
She assured them their safety was paramount.
They wanted to know the gruesome details.
She made her disclaimers, assured them she knew nothing about police work. They drooped in disappointment, managed to catch her in one group selfie and, when she told them they’d be late for their appointments, hurried into the spa.
Kellen sagged. For nice ladies, they had a real disconcerting interest in murder.
She started toward the office, passed the elevator and backtracked. Mr. Gilfilen had suggested often dropping into the second-floor security center; now was a good time. Brief security before talking to Annie. She took the elevator up, used her pass card to unlock the door and found:
AXEL RASMUSSEN:
WHITE, MALE, 30, 5’10”, WEIGHT 275 LBS., EMPLOYED AT RESORT 9 MO., CURRENTLY ASLEEP IN CHAIR IN FRONT OF THE MONITOR ARRAY. SNORES—APPROX. 90 DECIBELS.
Obviously, she needed a camera in the security center to make sure the employees were even conscious. She walked up behind Axel and clapped her hands as loudly as she could.
He jumped hard enough to almost fall off the chair, then stood up and whipped around, ready to fight.
She didn’t step back. She met his gaze straight on. “What do you see out there?”
He thought better of his belligerence and tried to fake his way through. “Nothing much. Not enough guests to worry about right now.”
“If we don’t have a lot of guests, we don’t need to worry about their safety?”
“No, I mean, there’s not much chance for trouble with this guest list. Some old ladies, an author, some newlyweds, the regulars up in the suites…” Mr. Gilfilen had indicated his staff was lacking. She had to agree.
“We found a body today,” she said.
“One less guest, huh?” He laughed.
She didn’t. “Staff. Priscilla Carter.”
He shrugged. “Pretty girl. You want a seat?”
“No.” If she sat, he would sit, too, and she wanted him on his feet. She pointed to the monitor for the eighth floor of one of the towers, where a tall shadowy figure slid along a darkened corridor. “Who’s that?”
“Him.” Axel rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. That’s Carson Lennex.”
“What?” Incredulous, Kellen leaned closer to the monitor. “No.” He lived here in one of the top-story penthouses. She’d spoken to him this morning, seen him head out with his golf clubs into wretched weather, watched him greet fans with dignity and kindness. She had never imagined he would dress up like a ninja and skulk around.
“Maybe he’s dreaming of his glory days when he played James Bond.” Axel laughed, then changed his mind and coughed.
“Does he ever do anything that’s a problem?”
“No. That is, Mr. Gilfilen says to let him alone, and he got that word from Mrs. Di Luca.”
So Annie knew. “What is it we’re ignoring?”
Axel pulled his belt up over his belly. “He breaks into storage rooms and sometimes he takes stuff.”
“Like shower caps and shoe shine kits?” She was incredulous again.
“Can’t ever have too many shower caps.” Axel laughed again.
She did not like this man. Her gaze slid to the old-fashioned big black bank vault, the one they used to store the guests’ valuables and the resort’s records. Mr. Gilfilen had assured her the locking mechanism was new, only selected staff could access it and he had made her one of the privileged few. She hoped that was true; she would hesitate to trust Axel with anyone’s cash or jewels. “Who do we have on the floor?”
“McGladrey.” Axel brought one monitor into sharp focus on a man in a dark suit standing in the gift shop staring at a display of candy bars. “He’s a good guy, one of our best security men. He’s as faithful as an old dog.”
As they watched, McGladrey slid a Twix into his jacket and made a run for it.
“Faithful, but not honest,” she said.
Axel broke a sweat.
She studied the monitors, watched a smiling Sheri Jean mingle with the guests, saw the miles of empty corridors and the outdoor entrances.
“This guy’s interesting.” Axel pointed at Nils Brooks. “He came in from his cottage, looked around the lobby, then wandered the halls taking notes.”
“He’s a writer.” She felt as if she was making excuses for him. “But even for a writer, that’s odd behavior.”
As if he had heard her, Nils Brooks turned and looked up at the security camera. She studied him, added to and corrected his profile:
NILS BROOKS:
MALE, 30S, 6’, 180 LBS., BROWN HAIR (BLOND ROOTS?), BROWN EYES (COMPELLING), LONG LASHES, MILITARY HAIRCUT. NARROW JAW. DARK-RIMMED GLASSES. CUTE. HANDSOME. NERDY. CONFIDENT. CLOTHING: EXPENSIVE, WELL-WORN.
Somehow, he didn’t add up. Had she misread him on first sight? If so, how? She didn’t miss clues. Watching him now, unobserved, he seemed more the commanding personality she’d first spoken to on the phone. In her experience, contradictions in personality meant trouble. Was he hiding something? Or was she overreacting to today’s discovery?
Axel was clearly delighted to have redirected her attention. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, please do.” She looked Axel up and down. “Finding a body has made me aware that everyone currently at the resort, both guests and employees, could be victims—and could be killers.”
He frowned. “Hey, look, I’m sorry you found a body, but it’s not like someone got murdered.”
“It was a murder.”
“Oh shit.” His face got red and he perspired more profusely. “At least it wasn’t somebody from around here.”
Sarcastically, she said, “That does make everything better.” She thought that he was in a prime position to be the killer. But the problem with having such a gruesome crime laid on her doorstep was—everybody looked like a villain. “Mr. Gilfilen set everything up before he left, so he told me. I’ll occasionally drop by, but call me if you see anything suspicious.”
“Right.” Axel pulled a tissue out of a box and blotted his face, then blew his nose. With sweaty sincerity, he said, “I’ll watch, Miss Adams. We don’t want anything like murder happening again.”
At least he understood that.
She made it to Annie’s office without interruption—that was one advantage to being at an almost empty resort—up two flights of stairs to a wide set of double doors. A square glass-covered table with a well-constructed model of the resort and its grounds dominated the center of the spacious room. Annie’s desk faced the door. Kellen’s desk faced the window. A small, comfortable seating area with a gas fireplace and bookshelves hugged one corner. A dusty CB radio, kept for emergencies, hid in a cabinet with paper clips and typewriter ribbons.
Kellen used the house phone to make the call.
Leo picked up. “What is it?” His voice sounded tired and rough.
“Mr. Di Luca, we have a crisis here at the resort.”
“Do your best to handle it.”
Not the response she expected. “You don’t understand. We found a body. A dead body. A corpse.”
“You don’t understand. Annie arrived here and collapsed. She’s got pneumonia. She’s in the hospital on oxygen and she’s in the middle of an arthritic flare-up. She’s suffering, maybe dying.”
Pity and grief caught her around the throat. “Mr. Di Luca, I’m so sorry. What can I do for you? For Annie?”
“Take care of her resort.” He took a rasping breath. “Annie has complete faith in you. I do, too. Whatever decisions you make, I’ll back you one hundred percent. If Annie makes it through the night, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. If not…”
“I’ll pray for her and you and your family.” Kellen meant it with all her heart. She hung up and stared out the window at the vista that had been so glorious three months ago when she had interviewed for this position. Now wind-driven rain splattered against the windows, dark low-hanging clouds blocked the view, and behind all that, the sun was setting, stealing the last vestiges of brief winter light. Kellen could see why Annie had warned her of the difficult Washington winters, of the unending dark and constant rain. Annie…
Sweet Annie. Smart Annie. She had been struggling this morning, saying odd things that meant…nothing, or so Kellen hoped. Annie always put on such a good face, it was easy to forget her age and condition. But not now. Not when death hovered close.
Kellen checked the time. If Lloyd Magnuson had left as soon as they’d finished cleanup, he should be close to Virtue Falls by now, maybe even there, and he needed to know they had ID’d the victim. She called his beloved flip phone. It rang, but he didn’t pick up. She left a message.
Mara rapped on the door frame. “Hey. You busy? Did you bring Annie up-to-date?”
“Leo says she’s ill.”
“My God. What luck. What…timing. In the hospital?”
“Yes, and…” Kellen choked back the words. She could not bring herself to say Annie might not recover. She wouldn’t believe it, and she wouldn’t say it. “We’re going to have to go on as best we can.”
“Sure. We can do this. This might help.” Mara wandered in casually dropping information like Gretel with her pieces of bread. “I wanted you to know. I have a contact at the FBI. I talked to him.”
All of us out here are running away from something.
“Will the FBI show up to investigate?” Which would be a relief, considering the situation.
“Doubt it. They’ll wait for the coroner’s report.” Mara made her way to the model of the resort and looked down at the landscape. “They’ll put the information in their files, and they’ll say Priscilla’s been dead four months and nothing has happened since. If another body pops up, they’ll be here.” Mara shrugged. “That won’t happen, so brief answer—no FBI. They’re overworked, you know.”
“You know an awful lot about the FBI.” A less than subtle inquiry.
“Old boyfriend.” Mara used the sleeve of her hoodie to carefully clean the glass over the model. “Listen, the spa girls are upset, so I had them bunk in the hotel, two to a room. I hope that’s okay.”
“Good idea. I don’t want them driving between Cape Charade and the resort. Let’s keep them here and safe.”
Mara started for the door, then backtracked. “You know, I was thinking. Priscilla’s death happened four months ago, and nothing’s happened since. I think everybody’s overreacting.”
“Yes. Possibly. But we have a killer who apparently threatened her, frightened her, managed to capture her and hold her long enough to kill her and cut off her hands. That’s…vicious. Maybe the sick bastard is gone from here, never to return, but I think this warrants extra caution.”
“Wow. When you put it like that, I agree. If you want, I can find you someone to bunk with, too.”
“No.” Nightmares. Flashbacks. “No, I’m on call all the time now, and I thought being manager was a big job. Being manager and security manager of a resort with a murder is so overwhelming, no one will want to room with me. I’ll be up and down all night long.”
Mara slapped the door frame, turned, and in that bright, snappish way of hers, she said, “Still, you’d sleep better if you weren’t alone.”
“I wouldn’t sleep at all.” For fear I’d scream in terror or cry in pain and grief.
“Your call. But remember, Priscilla lived in your cottage. Still, if no one’s spotted her ghost in four months, I suppose she’s not hanging around.”
“I suppose not.” Kellen watched Mara walk away and was all too bitterly aware of the obvious.
It wasn’t Priscilla’s ghost she needed to worry about.
It was Priscilla’s killer.