The Summer Retreat

by Sheila Roberts

  He also didn’t have a black heart, she reminded herself. But if there wasn’t any chemistry, what was the point?

  And yet... Chemistry. What use was it if things always blew up in your face? Celeste heaved a sigh.

  “He’s a good cop,” Jenna pointed out. “And a good man. That doesn’t mean he’s the right man,” she hurried to add. “But you shouldn’t rule him out.”

  “I’m not really looking,” Celeste reminded both her sister and herself. “Not rushing into anything. Remember?”

  “Dating isn’t rushing.”

  “The way I date, it is.” Deep inside, that burning desire to find someone to fill the empty spot a dead father had left behind always seemed to push her into some man’s arms. But in the end they were never the right arms. There’d been Billy Harris in high school. Captain of the football team—how clichéd!—and so in love with himself there hadn’t been room for her in that relationship. He was followed by Richard, who wasn’t as smart as she was. That wouldn’t have worked. And in college it had been all about Kenny Norris. “This is it,” she’d told her sister. Kenny was perfect—gorgeous and smart. Too smart. He’d excelled at making Celeste feel inferior, sneering at the romance novels she read, wondering about her inability to balance her checkbook, looking down on her career choice. “Not much challenge in teaching little kids,” he’d said on their last date ever, to which she’d responded, “Little kids are our future.” Then she’d added, “I don’t think we’re really a match.” So much for yet another “this is it” relationship. She hadn’t been a match with Theo, either, who’d been so charming and fabulous when they first began dating that she was sure she’d struck gold. But he turned out to be fool’s gold. Theo was abusive. At least she’d seen the signs of that early on and got out before he started smacking her around. Then there’d been Josh, the musician, a very short-lived romance, followed by Edward. She was so sure he was The One that she’d gotten herself a subscription to Bride magazine. He’d seen a copy on her nightstand and had broken up with her the next morning. “Nothing personal, Celeste. I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.” She’d made the mistake of asking when he thought he might be ready and that was all it took to send him screaming into the night. Or rather broad daylight. Finally, there’d been Emerson, the cheating lizard. Good grief. Talk about a pack of losers.

  She couldn’t afford to keep betting her heart on men like that. From now on she was going to guard it, even against nice, line-dancing cops.

  Who had time for romance anyway? She was busy enjoying her family and helping out around the Driftwood.

  Monday found her with the maid’s cart, making her rounds and cleaning up after the guests who’d departed the day before. Happily, there hadn’t been so many check-outs that she’d had to work all afternoon on Sunday, and she’d enjoyed spending time on the beach with her sister and niece and then later playing cards with Aunt Edie. Line dancing that evening had turned out to be fun, too. And today, after she was done working, she was going to grab a thermos of lemonade, a book and a beach towel, and find a spot on a sand dune to soak up some sun. Yep, life was good at the beach.

  She knocked on the door of room twelve. “Housekeeping.”

  There was no answer, so she used her key and went inside with her towels. Hearing the shower running in the bathroom, she decided she’d better leave the towels on the bed and scram.

  As she set them down, she noticed a steno tablet lying on the bedspread. Some sort of list was written on the top page.

  None of her business, of course.

  She craned her neck to see.

  Kind of an odd list, with things written under columns. Odd column headings, too. Where. How.

  The water was still running. She picked up the tablet. As she began to read what was listed under Where the hairs on her neck stood up. This was no grocery list. Alley in back of the club, apartment parking lot, side of road—need to slash a tire for this to work. She moved to the other column, How. The word at the top of that list made her heart stop. Hunting knife.

  Knife? She gulped. What kind of sicko was staying in room twelve?

  “What are you doing?” demanded a male voice.

  Chapter Four

  Celeste dropped the tablet as if her fingers were on fire. There in the bathroom doorway stood a man wearing nothing but a towel. He was lean, somewhere in his thirties and had reddish hair, which was still damp from his shower. Chest hair, too. You didn’t see that very much anymore. It was so...manly. But his face, and that expression in his eyes—this was what a psychopath looked like.

  “Sorry,” she stammered, backing toward the door. “I just brought you some clean towels.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. Evilly.

  She fumbled for the doorknob. Her heart was pounding so loudly she could hardly hear herself say, “Bye.” She yanked open the door and rushed out, slamming it behind her. If he didn’t have a room key, she’d have used her master and locked him in.

  Abandoning her supply cart, she raced for the office where Jenna was studying an Excel spreadsheet on her computer. “We’ve got to call the cops!”

  Jenna looked up, her eyes big. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a murderer staying in room twelve.”

  Jenna stared at her as if she was nuts. “What are you talking about?”

  “The man in room twelve is planning to bump someone off.”

  Jenna frowned. “And you know this how?”

  “I know this because I saw his list of where and how to do it.”

  Jenna rubbed her forehead. “Okay, you’d better start from the beginning.”

  Celeste recounted what she’d seen, then pulled her cell phone out of her jeans back pocket.

  “You can’t go calling the police just because you saw a list,” Jenna told her.

  “Yeah, I can.” What was wrong with her sister anyway? Celeste started punching in 911. “Are you forgetting what happened to Rachel Mills?”

  Celeste sure hadn’t. The woman had lived in their Seattle neighborhood, a few houses down from them. She was a newlywed and had enjoyed decorating her new home and collecting gardening tips from her neighbors. One summer night she’d gone to the mall and was spotted by a sicko. While she was shopping, he’d managed to slash one of her tires unseen. He’d followed her out of the mall and when she’d pulled over with a flat, he’d stopped and offered to help, luring her out of her car. Then he’d threatened her with a knife and tried to kidnap her. She’d gotten away, but the experience had changed her from a happy, outgoing woman to a shy, frightened shadow who rarely left her house.

  “This is nothing like that.” Jenna jumped up and snatched away the phone before Celeste could hit the final digit. “Remember the last time you called the police for me?”

  “You heard a noise and thought it was a burglar.”

  “No, you thought it was a burglar,” Jenna corrected her.

  “So did you,” Celeste insisted.

  “And it turned out to be Pete. Trust me. There’s a logical explanation for the list in that guy’s room.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “I don’t know,” Jenna said, sounding exasperated. “All I know is Henry Gilbert isn’t partying and keeping people up all night, he doesn’t smoke and his credit card didn’t get declined. He’s the ideal guest.”

  “Until he croaks someone. Some poor woman’s going to have her tires slashed and her throat cut. We need to do something before someone gets hurt.”

  “I’m not calling 911 on a paying guest, especially one who’s booked for the whole summer,” Jenna said stubbornly.

  “All right. We won’t call 911,” Celeste said.

  “Good.”

  “But we can at least ask your buddy Victor what he thinks.”

  Jenna let out a sigh.

  “Come on. What if this guy’s
planning to bump someone off?”

  Her sister still hesitated. “I saw the list,” Celeste said. “You don’t write down possible places to kill a person and the weapon you want to use for no reason. At least, let’s call the station and see if Victor’s on duty.”

  Jenna sighed again. “Okay, I’ll call.” Then she went back to her spreadsheet.

  With a scowl, Celeste snatched her phone from the desk. “Now. If you don’t, I will.”

  “Okay, okay. But this is stupid.”

  Celeste stood by as her sister talked to the front-desk person at the station. “He’s on patrol? Oh, well, then...”

  Celeste grabbed the phone and said, “Ask him if he’ll come by the Driftwood Inn. We may have a situation.” Then she pushed End.

  “Oh, great. That’s going to be good for business,” Jenna said. “He’ll probably come in with lights flashing.”

  “It won’t be so good for business if people find out we’ve got a crazed murderer staying here. You have heard of the Bates Motel, haven’t you?”

  Sure enough, a few minutes later Victor King rolled in. Right behind him came his partner, Jenna’s admirer, Frank Stubbs, a short, squat middle-aged man who lived up to his name. Victor had been subtle but Frank had his car’s top hat spinning.

  He swaggered into the office, Victor behind him. “What’s the problem, Jenna?”

  Jenna gave Celeste the disgusted older sister look she’d perfected back when she was thirteen. “Nothing, I’m sure. My sister thinks we have a crazed murderer staying with us.”

  Frank’s eyebrows shot up toward his receding hairline. “Whoa.”

  “It’ll probably turn out to be like the time I thought we had a burglar,” Jenna continued.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Frank told her. Then, to Celeste, “What makes you think you’ve got a killer staying here?”

  Celeste repeated her story. Neither policeman laughed at her, which she considered vindication.

  “Planning to commit a crime can be a crime,” Victor said.

  “See?” Celeste turned to Jenna. “I told you.”

  “But,” he went on, “you’ve got to have more evidence than just some ideas on paper before it’s a crime, though.”

  “What does that mean?” Celeste demanded.

  “It means we leave our guest alone,” Jenna said firmly.

  To go and murder some poor, unsuspecting person? “You guys can’t do anything?”

  “Not at the moment,” Victor said.

  “Well, great,” Celeste snapped, throwing up her hands. “So we have to wait until he slashes our tires for you to come to life.”

  Victor feared no man, but women seemed to be another story. His cheeks took on that familiar rosy hue.

  Frank, however, wasn’t intimidated by female scorn. “The law’s the law. But you keep your eyes peeled. If he puts down any more details, let us know.”

  Honestly, what more did they need? “Like what?”

  “A name would be helpful,” Victor said. “We really can’t move on something as vague as what you’ve told us.”

  Jenna stepped in before Celeste could say any more. “We understand. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “You keep an eye on him,” Celeste said to her. “I’m not getting my throat cut.”

  “You’re not going to get your throat cut,” Jenna assured her.

  Easy for her to say. She hadn’t been in the room with Hannibal Lecter, Jr.

  * * *

  He watched her walk into the club with another woman dressed as slutty as she was. Her laugh echoed to the alley where he stood, and her red heels glinted under the neon light of the club’s sign. There was a line of people waiting to get in, but he knew she’d have no trouble getting past the muscled idiot at the door. She’d toss that long, dark hair, bat her false eyelashes at him and be in, just like that. He watched the swing of her hips. The hem of her dress barely covered her ass. The thong underneath wouldn’t cover it at all. Yeah, she was dressed to kill.

  Except tonight she was dressed to be killed. Yeah, the bitch must die.

  Henry Gilbert read the comforting, violent words on his laptop screen with a smile. It was going to be so satisfying to kill Nikki. Over and over again. He loved being a serial killer.

  On paper. In real life the only thing he’d ever killed were spiders. And a rattler when he was camping in Eastern Washington with some of his writing buddies. He suspected if he had to hunt his own food, he’d turn vegetarian. In real life he didn’t have the stomach for blood.

  Fiction was a different story. As a kid he’d been a Marvel comic addict. As a teenager he’d devoured books by James Patterson, Dean Koontz and Stephen King the way some kids wolfed down cookies.

  His life wasn’t as action-packed as his writing. No fights, no murders, no mysteries to solve. No drugs or drunken orgies. He’d partied some in high school, but never to the extent of getting into trouble. Too goal-focused for that. He’d lettered in track—cross country specifically—partly because he liked to run, partly because he liked to think, and the solitude on those long runs gave him plenty of time for that. He’d been president of the honor society and graduated from college summa cum laude. Now, as an adult, the partying consisted of meeting with his writing critique group, playing pool once in a while with a couple of old college buddies and the occasional online gaming binge.

  How had he wound up with a woman who hadn’t cracked a book since high school? Nikki’s favorite pastimes had been reality TV and shopping.

  He’d met her when he and his friends had tried out a new sports bar in Seattle. They were playing pool and drinking a beer when she and a girlfriend sashayed up to the table next to theirs. He’d seen her bend over the table, lining up a shot, and that had been that. Nikki had the cutest butt in all of Seattle. And yes, she favored thongs. So beer, pool and hot underwear—just what every lasting relationship should be built on.

  What a fool. It had served him right when it all caved in. Thank God he could escape into his world of murder and mayhem. Writing was good therapy, better than a shrink.

  And obviously, what he was working on was convincing, if that goofy maid he’d caught snooping through his stuff was any indication. He’d seen the flashing blue lights meant to convey a police presence a few minutes after she’d fled the room and he had enjoyed a chuckle. Oh, yeah, the killer in room twelve. Hey, there was a title for a future book.

  Meanwhile, though, he had to finish She Must Die, which was due at the end of August. First book in a two-book contract. Ha!

  How many times had Nikki taunted him about never selling anything? “Give up and get your job back, Henry,” she kept saying. “You’re not going to make it as a writer. You should know that by now.” Yeah, behind every great man was a woman who dissed him and made him all the more determined to prove her wrong.

  What a different tune from when they’d first met. She’d thought it was sexy that he was so smart and writing a book. But then, she’d also thought it was sexy that he was making a buttload of money working for a big dot-com company. She’d also thought his houseboat on Lake Union was sexy. She’d liked how creatively romantic Henry was. That was especially sexy. She’d moved in a month after they’d hooked up.

  Then he’d decided to quit his job, live off his savings and work on his book. That hadn’t been so sexy.

  “What were you thinking?” she’d demanded. “You don’t even know if you’re going to sell the thing.”

  “I’ll sell it,” he’d said. He’d been writing off and on since middle school; he’d already sold a couple of short stories to literary magazines when he was in college. Payment had been in free copies, but still... He had faith in himself even if she didn’t.

  * * *

  Sad to think how everything had unraveled. She’d gone from “You’re so smart” to “You’re such a loser.
” And in between had been the complaints. Those had actually started before he’d quit his job. She’d hated it that he spent chunks of his Saturdays working on his book when she wanted to go to the mall or get away for the weekend. “We don’t do anything anymore,” she’d complain. “You’re becoming boring.” Translation: You’re not entertaining me every minute of every day.

  Yes, moving in together had been a big mistake. Even dance lessons—effing dance lessons, for crying out loud!—couldn’t save them, and he’d been a star pupil if he did say so himself. She’d gotten tired of his “little project” as she began to call it. “You’re never gonna make any money at this,” she’d predicted.

  “You’re wrong. I’m gonna make it as a writer,” he kept insisting.

  Nikki hadn’t been willing to stick around to find out. She’d finally given him an ultimatum, right after Valentine’s Day—had to stick around for the chocolate and flowers. It was either her or his stupid book. He’d chosen his stupid book.

  If only, on the evening of their last fight, she hadn’t backed out in a huff and run over his dog.

  Who shouldn’t have been out. Henry always had Gus on a leash when they went for a walk or to the dog park, not just because there was a leash law, but also because cities with their traffic and crazy drivers weren’t safe places for animals. But Nikki had been so preoccupied with hauling her crap out to her car she’d left the door half-open. Gus had slipped out and she hadn’t even noticed. How could she not have noticed?

  Henry had his excuse. He’d been in the tiny back bedroom that served as his office, pouting and pretending to write. Too late, he’d realized Gus was missing. He’d gotten to the door in time to see her screeching away in her car like she was at the Indy 500. And slamming into his dog. Poor old Gus hadn’t stood a chance.

  To her credit, Nikki had been beside herself. She might not have loved Henry, but she’d loved Gus. Not enough to go with Henry when he rushed the poor old guy to the animal hospital, though.