8
At the airstrip, Kellen parked the van and she and Birdie got out their ponchos—every Yearning Sands vehicle was always equipped with dry ponchos—and donned them. They turned on the runway lights and prepped to receive the plane, then climbed back into the van to wait. “It’s good to be busy,” Kellen said. “When the memories hover like bat wings.”
“This is a different kind of busy than the holidays.” Birdie handed her the roster. “We’ve got newlyweds from Wenatchee. Six ladies from Alaska. A single guy from Virginia.”
Kellen knew. In her brain, she had already started an entry for each guest, and as she met them, she would finish filling them out. She said, “The single guy. Nils Brooks. I took his reservation. He asked for an isolated cottage with a view of the ocean and the mountains. He wants to be alone to write his first book.” She looked sideways at Birdie. Nils Brooks was not the first author to arrive and demand privacy to write.
Sometimes they even did it.
“So he’s going to want someone to haul room service out to him through rain and snow and wind?” Trust Birdie to see the practical side of things.
“Figure on an ATV parked at the kitchen door all the time.” Kellen’s phone rang. She answered.
Sheri Jean said, “I’ve got this afternoon’s three receptionists from town who slid off the road into a ditch. One of them is hurt, the other two tried to push the car out and are covered in mud. I can transfer one of my people to the front, but the concierge has a dentist appointment and Mara says she can’t help me with coverage.”
Someone beeped in. Kellen looked. No kidding. It was Mara.
Kellen ran the employee schedule in her mind, hooked the two of them into a conference, smoothed their ruffled feathers, presented them with a solution that both could live with and got off the phone.
Birdie gave Kellen the side-eye. “Have you always been able to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know the location, schedule and qualifications of every employee and juggle them around until they fill the needed space. You don’t use a computer. It’s in your brain.”
“It’s a gift.” With her fingers, Kellen circled the round scar on her forehead.
“That thing looks like you were shot.”
Kellen took her hand away. “It’s a birthmark.”
“Sure. What dumbass would ever believe that?”
“The doctor who did my Army physical.”
Birdie did such a double take Kellen was glad they were parked. “You convinced a doctor that that is a birthmark?”
“I told him that’s what it was. He convinced himself. He couldn’t believe that anyone could survive a gunshot to the skull, much less be walking and talking. He couldn’t find any problems like seizures or schizophrenia or, you know, outbursts of maniacal laughter.” Kellen remembered the terror she’d felt during the military doctor’s staccato interrogation. “Most important, he couldn’t find an exit wound.”
“Whoa. There’s no exit wound? Is it a birthmark?”
“I guess.” It wasn’t. But when a person couldn’t recall a whole year of her life, that threw a lot of stuff into doubt: memories, skills, maybe even sanity.
“You don’t know?”
“If you’d been shot in the head, what would you know?”
Birdie nodded thoughtfully. “Good point. Speculation is that your lover shot you.”
“I wouldn’t think so.” Pause. “Dunno.” Pause. “There’s speculation?”
“You know how the boys and girls are. Gossip is their life’s blood.”
“The boys and girls?”
“The boys and girls at the resort who spend too much time making beds. The staff who stand around waiting for guests to arrive and have nothing to entertain them until—oh God!—everyone arrives at once, all the crises need to be dealt with now and no one has time to catch their breath. Same shit as in the Army, only without all that messy death.”
They both nodded. Birdie might be maligning “the boys and girls,” but Birdie and Kellen had both been there, in the military, doing the most boring grunt work day after day until the moment the mortars started raining down, the enemy advanced and suddenly there weren’t enough seconds in a minute. Resort work was usually less dramatic, but the atmosphere was comparable.
Birdie grinned at her. “Want me to make up a big lie? Entertain them?”
“Ick.” The idea of speculation gave Kellen the creeps.
“Your husband caught you with your wealthy lover, shot you both and turned the gun on himself. They both died, but you lived, and in your despair, you joined the military.”
Too close for comfort. “The wealthy lover and the husband? That’s so done.”
“You’re right. I could make it juicier.” Before Kellen could tell her no, Birdie drew a quavering breath. “I want people to talk to me again, to meet my eyes and forget my husband died in my arms.”
“I swear I didn’t tell them.”
“You didn’t have to. It was in the news, and inevitable someone would… Anyway, they feel so bad for me all the time they make me remember Daryl even more.”
Damn it. Kellen didn’t want the staff gossiping about her, but if they were going to do it anyway, why not allow Birdie to use her? It couldn’t hurt. Not really. “Well, I always say, if you’re going to tell a lie, tell a big one.”
Birdie grinned, a bright smile that lit her long, thin face and made her beautiful. “Let me work on it. I’ll get all those folks hopping!” She pointed. “The plane just dropped out of the clouds. We’ll be on duty soon.”
The plane came in fast, hit the runway and skidded on the wet asphalt.
Kellen closed her eyes.
In a patient, amused tone, Birdie said, “You’re really afraid of flying, aren’t you?” Kellen’s crew were eternally entertained by her horror of leaving the ground.
“I’m not afraid of flying. I’m afraid of hitting the ground too hard and exploding into flames.” Kellen sneaked a peek as the pilot straightened out the plane. “Also, it makes me want to throw up.”
“You can take Dramamine.”
“How’s that going to help with the impact and the flames?”
The plane came to a halt. The pilot opened the door, lowered the steps and secured the plane while Kellen parked the van as close as possible.
Birdie gathered rain ponchos. Kellen got the first box of hors d’oeuvres, and together they hurried up the stairs. Inside, they found the passengers gathering their belongings.
Birdie did the honors. “Welcome to Yearning Sands Resort. I’m Birdie and this is Kellen.”
Kellen smiled and waved, scanned the faces and completed her roster.
JUSTIN AND JULIA FLORENCE:
NEWLYWEDS. YOUNG. REALLY YOUNG. HIGH SCHOOL?
SHIVERING SHERLOCKS:
SIX FEMALES FROM ALASKA. DEBBIE, CANDY, RITA, NANCY, TAMMY AND PATTY, LATE 60S–EARLY 70S. ANNUALLY VISIT YEARNING SANDS FOR MYSTERY WEEKEND.
NILS BROOKS:
MALE, 30S, 6’, 180 LBS. DARK-RIMMED GLASSES. CUTE. NERDY.
Kellen didn’t recognize anybody and nobody appeared to recognize her. She relaxed a previously unnoticed tension in her shoulders. She’d been thinking too much about Greenleaf, making herself jumpy. Because Xander had told her to, she breathed, and because she was in the hospitality business, she smiled.
Birdie continued, “We’ll be transporting you to the resort. We’ve parked the van at the end of the stairs. As you can imagine, in this weather, our goal is to keep you as dry as possible.”
Some chuckles.
“It’s too windy for umbrellas, but if you need a poncho, I have them. One size fits all!” Birdie raised the yellow plastic over her head. “But first, Kellen has some hors d’oeuvres to sustain you until you get to the resort. Help yourselves to one on the way out the door, and don’t worry—we have more in the van.”
The promise of treats got the group moving in a hurry. Everyone took one, descended the steps, gasped at the lash of the wind and rain and headed for the van.
Out of the corner of her mouth, Birdie asked, “Are those two old enough to be married?”
Kellen knew exactly what she meant.
Justin and Julia held hands and smiled at each other. When the ladies from Alaska asked about their love story, the two of them gushed that they’d met as freshmen at Wenatchee Valley College, dated until they both graduated, and gotten married in January because it was the cheapest time of the year.
The pilot unloaded the luggage onto a cart and pushed it toward the back of the van; when Birdie started to lift the suitcases, Justin leaped forward and took over. Nice kid. Julia waited patiently, then the newlyweds crawled into the back of the van and snuggled and kissed.
“The Shivering Sherlocks ladies are a hoot,” Kellen said to Birdie.
They were. Tammy White seemed to be in charge; she herded them toward the seats, consulted her clipboard and told them their room numbers and who their roommates would be. When she was done, the other ladies saluted, laughed and teased her, then talked over each other in rapidly increasing volume. Debbie had no-nonsense iron gray hair, Candy had dyed hers a soft blond, but they were obviously twins. The ladies helped themselves to the hors d’oeuvres and pried into Kellen’s and Birdie’s backgrounds.
Nils Brooks came down the steps late, holding his computer case to his chest like a child he needed to protect. He ducked to get into the van, smacked his head, backed away and took off his rain-smeared glasses. He slipped them into his pocket.
Kellen caught a glimpse of his eyes. Brown, with thick black lashes.
Kellen took a long step back. She knew him. Didn’t she?
“He’s an author,” Mrs. White told Birdie and Kellen, as if that explained everything.
Kellen watched from behind as he climbed into the seat in the back corner and scrunched away from the newlyweds. Those eyes… She remembered those eyes. But his face… No. She didn’t remember him at all.
“He can write in my book anytime,” Birdie quietly told Kellen.
Startled, Kellen raised her brows at Birdie.
“I’m a widow,” Birdie said. “There’s nothing wrong with my vision.”
Kellen could hardly argue with that. He was nice to look at. And those eyes… “He’s not what I expected. On the phone, he sounded impatient. The way he questioned me about the area—he thought he was the shitz. That man has a dimple.”
“More than one, I’d imagine.”
“I’m talking about the one in his chin.” With everybody seated, Kellen got into the driver’s seat.
Birdie lowered the jump seat, faced the guests and picked up the second box of hors d’oeuvres.
“Hey, folks!” The pilot stuck his head in the van, startling everyone. “It’s getting dark. The weather’s closing in. I’ve got ice on the wings and I’m not going to chance taking my plane out. Mind if I stay at the resort until it clears?”
CHAD GRIFFIN:
MALE, 40S, PILOT, ACCOMPLISHED WOMANIZER (IN HIS OWN MIND). EATS TOO MUCH, DRINKS TOO MUCH, DRAMATIZES HIS (UNLIKELY) MILITARY BACKGROUND. SHIFTLESS, LAZY, IRRITATING TO RESORT STAFF, BARNACLE-LIKE (DIFFICULT TO REMOVE).
Still, Kellen had no choice, so she said, “Of course, Chad, come on in.”
He flung in his carry-on, slid into the passenger’s seat and turned to face the group behind him. “You’re not rid of me yet.”
The women laughed and assured him they didn’t mind.
As they made the trip to the resort, Birdie gave them a brief history of the area, the Di Luca family’s vision for this place where the land met the sea and sky and what they could expect in the way of activities. All the while she passed more hors d’oeuvres.
The newlyweds fell on them with enthusiasm: they were teenagers, this was free food—and they were going to need the energy.
The drive took twenty minutes, and as Kellen turned onto the sweeping driveway toward the portico, she saw something white near the drive under a row of rhododendrons. She knew what it was; one of the coyotes must have dragged a bone away from the carcass out on the grasses to gnaw on in peace.
Kellen interrupted Birdie, and with a broad gesture, she pointed toward the resort. “The main hotel building was built in 1957 and inspired by the royal palace of the Spanish kings of Navarre Olite. The resort was enlarged in 1970 and again in 1999. While you’re here, take the time to study the antiques the Di Luca family has collected.” She drove under the portico, turned and smiled at the guests. “Here we are! Your luggage has been tagged and will be in your rooms when you get there. Go in, check in and enjoy a complimentary beverage.”
Russell opened the van door and helped the ladies out. Chad Griffin grabbed his bag and hurried in. Birdie herded the guests into the lobby.
Kellen waited until they were inside and standing in line at the desk, then she pulled on her rain gear, grabbed a handful of linen napkins out of the van and sprinted down the wet driveway and into the grass. She started to reach for it, then halted, her hand inches from the broad bowl of the well-gnawed bone. It wasn’t a shank or a rib, but a hip socket or…or something similar. The femur remained in the socket and that, too, had been gnawed on.
Something about this wasn’t right. More than not right. Terribly, horribly wrong. This looked like…
A man’s voice spoke behind her. “That’s a female human pelvic bone.”
She jumped hard and spun around.
Nils Brooks stepped back, hands up.
Right. He had startled her, but she’d overreacted. Feeling foolish, she snapped, “How would you know?”
“Writer. Suspense. I study this stuff. Also, I was in the military. I saw some bodies while I was on active duty.”
Rain fell. Wind blew. He kept his glasses in his pocket and those eyes—brown with dark lashes—made her nervous. Made her wipe her damp palms on the thighs of her pants. “What branch?”
“Marines.”
No wonder she didn’t like him.
“Why are you out here?” she asked.
“I spotted the bone when we drove in, saw you run for it, thought I’d see why it had your attention.”
Great. He was observant and irritating. “This held my attention because guests are squeamish.” Covering her hand with a napkin, she picked up the bones.
The femur wiggled around, grinding in the socket.
“Unless you have gorillas around here, there is nothing other than a human woman that has that distinctive shape.” He bent to look more closely.
She covered the bones with another napkin. “I’ll show this to the Cape Charade policeman.”
Nils Brooks stuck his hands into his pockets. “Let me know what he says.” Turning away, he wandered back toward the portico and the lobby, and as he did, he called back, “But I’m right.”
Too bad that he probably was right.
She sprinted across the soggy lawn toward the hotel wing where the remodelers were working, and as she ran, she called Temo. “Did you get that carcass picked up yet?”
“Not. Yet.” She could hear the motor of his ATV, the wind blowing past the phone and his incredible frustration. “First I had to explain to two of the local idiots that, no, I’m not paying them to play games on their iPads. Then Smart Home called. They are neither.”
“Smart, nor home? I am sorry, Temo. Let me know what you find as soon as you find the, um, skeleton.” She hung up on him, then called Sheri Jean Hagerty. “I have an emergency. Can I postpone for an hour?”
“You had an emergency yesterday.”
“Did you hear about the carcass found on the grounds this morning?”
“What about it?”
“One of the coyotes dragged off a chunk and a guest saw it.” Which was true. Nils Brooks had seen it.
No one understood the megrims of some guests as well as the guest experience manager. “Let me know as soon as you’re free.”
“Will do.” Kellen ducked under the tape warning guests not to enter, opened the door and walked toward the still-unfinished concierge lounge. Sheets of plastic hung over the door; she pushed them aside and entered a hell of leaning ladders, a roaring belt sander and swirling wood dust.
Lloyd Magnuson stood alone in the middle of the room, wearing ear protection and a filtering mask, and frowning at the cornice board he was smoothing.
Kellen waited until he paused, then shouted, “Lloyd!”
LLOYD MAGNUSON:
MALE, 5’7”, 130 LBS., BALDING IN FRONT, DREADLOCKS IN BACK, AGE 46, LOOKS 60. CAPE CHARADE POLICEMAN, DUTIES INCLUDE DEALING WITH: SPEEDING TICKETS, VEHICLE COLLISIONS, UNRULY TOURISTS. MAIN INCOME FROM CARPENTRY WORK + CREATING OBJETS D’ART FROM DRIFTWOOD, SHELLS, FISHING NETS, FLOATS. SELLS AT CAPE CHARADE GROCERS.
He looked up, startled, dropped his ear protection around his neck, wiped his sleeve over his safety glasses and pulled his mask to the top of his head. “Now what?”
They’d had an argument about the size of the cornice board, Annie had taken Kellen’s side and he was still irritated.
“I need you to be a policeman.” She pulled off the top napkin and held the bones cradled in the other napkin. “I found this in the rhododendrons and I was wondering… That is, I thought it looked like…”
Lloyd pulled a pouch out of his pocket, unzipped it and pulled out a clean rag. He wiped off his safety glasses. “Yep. I’m a hunter, and that’s a hip joint.” He studied it. “No animal I’ve ever seen.”
“A woman’s?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah…”
She put it down, napkin and all, on the cornice board.
“Don’t! After all the work I did on that cornice board, I’m not having someone’s moldy bones mess it up.”
“Then you move it. I’m not holding that any longer.”
He stepped back instead.
“Maybe the coyotes had dug their way into the local cemetery?” she asked hopefully.
“Are you kidding? Agnes visits Felix and Oscar every day.”
Kellen blinked. “Um…”
“Agnes Juettner. Spinster lady who donated a new fence around the cemetery in return for getting her dogs buried there. This is probably a suicide or an accidental drowning that washed up onshore in the high tide. Let me check in with the sheriff. She’s in Virtue Falls, north of here. I swear, Sheriff Kwinault’s got connections with everybody in the county, and with the state and Feds. She’ll know if anybody local is missing and for how long.”
“How did the hip bone get to the resort grounds?” Kellen answered the question herself. “Coyotes.” And said, “Oh God. Oh no.” She had connected the dots. The carcass she had sent Temo to collect wasn’t a deer or a raccoon. It was a woman. She pulled out her phone. It rang in her hand. She answered before the first ring finished. “Temo?”
His voice was tense. “I’ve got a situation here. We need the cops.”
Kellen looked at Lloyd Magnuson. “I’m here with the cop.”
“The cop. Of course there’s only one.” Temo laughed harshly. “Bring him—her?—and come out. Now.”