The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  “I need to verify a few facts,” the sheriff said casually.

  Too casually.

  “Shoot,” Max said just as nonchalant, but his brain kicked into high gear. Seth had disappeared; it was not like him to let his meal ticket out of sight. Something was wrong and the sheriff was involved.

  “On the night Duncan Morrell was murdered, I need to know where you were, who you were with and the time frame.”

  Max kept a smug smile off his face. God, he was good. Seth was involved in this. Evidently, the sheriff had learned that Seth had lost heavily in Morrell’s investment scheme. That gave him a motive to kill.

  “I went out to The Hideaway at a little before midnight,” Max said slowly as if he was having trouble recalling exactly where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Just the opposite was true, of course. It had taken him weeks to find the right bait—Stacy Hopkins—then set the hook and reel in Seth Ramsey. “I met a couple of friends in number five.”

  “You have one of the most impressive homes in Taos. Why would you meet friends in such a dive?” Zach asked.

  The question took Max by surprise, yet it pleased him. Since selling his oil business, he’d had little to do except sit on his ass and watch his assets grow. Restoring La Casa del Sol had been fulfilling in a way that he hadn’t expected. He was inordinately proud of taking a run-down, two-hundred-year-old hacienda and restoring it to its former glory.

  “There was a certain lady involved,” he said in a careful tone as if he didn’t suspect Zach Coulter knew exactly who the “lady” was. “She had come to the club with her husband, but he was leaving early. Seth was already there, so why make everyone drive out to my place? It was easier to meet in The Hideaway. Sometimes cheap motels are more fun, don’t you think?”

  That got him. Zach’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why would Stacy Hopkins agree to meet you and Seth?”

  God, he was good, Max told himself yet again. Zach knew exactly who was in the room. Then what was it that he really wanted to know? “Look, Sheriff, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble,” Max said as he stalled for time, trying to figure out what was going on here.

  “Everything you tell me is strictly confidential. I don’t care about people’s sexual escapades, I’m just interested in finding a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Stacy’s a candy nose,” Max informed him, attempting to sound as if this fact was being dragged out of him when he didn’t give a damn what happened to her. “Give her coke or money for coke and she’ll do anything. I gave her money to party with us. Threesomes are real fun, ya’ know.”

  He didn’t say that he’d paid her way more than it was worth. He’d watched Seth for weeks and noticed his interest in Stacy. From then on it was easy. He’d paid Stacy to perform, then get out on cue, so he could have Seth to himself.

  “I need to know what time each of you left bungalow five.”

  That’s what this was all about. Time and motive. “Ah, shucks, we were having so much fun. Next thing I know the sun is peeking through the itty-bitty slit in the blackout drapes. It was just after five-thirty when we left.”

  “Exactly who left with you?”

  Seth could have come up with an alibi just by saying he’d been with him, Max decided, but Seth hadn’t. The wussy was too ashamed of what he’d done to admit it. People should accept each other for what they are. But no, Seth coveted respectability and still hankered to marry a rich woman so he could have the best of both worlds.

  Max was tempted to blow Seth’s cover, but decided against it. Lying for Seth only gave him more power over him. “We all three left together, but everyone had their own car. Seth drove out to my place. I had some contracts I wanted him to go over.”

  Zach asked a few more meaningless questions, assuring Max that he’d read the situation correctly, then went back into the gallery. Max waited until he was out of sight before walking across the plaza.

  There weren’t very many people in the River Spirit Gallery. Those who were there were clustered around Nevada and Lowell Hopkins. Stacy was wandering around the back. As usual she looked bored, having no interest in her husband’s business. Max went around the side of the building into the alley and opened the back door. He walked through the dark storeroom and peeked into the gallery. Stacy was just a few feet away, her back to him.

  “Stacy,” he said in a voice just loud enough for her to hear. “I have something for you.”

  The brunette slipped through the door. Even in the dim light from the alley, he could see that she was pretty in an earthy, sexy way. He understood perfectly why Seth found her so attractive.

  “Thanks for your help the other night,” Max said as he guided her out the back door and into the alley. He pulled a tiny box out of his pocket. He snapped it open, showing Stacy what appeared to be a well-known brand of headache medication.

  “What have you got there?” Stacy asked in that breathless voice of hers.

  “Something special. Put one under your tongue, honey.”

  She popped the tablet into her sweet mouth. She was real good with those lips. And that tongue. Whoa!

  While the capsule dissolved, he pulled out his money clip and peeled off five bills. He held them up to the light. “Samuel P. Chase, sweet lips. Secretary of the Treasury. Naturally, he put himself on the thousand-dollar bill.”

  He folded the money and tucked it into her bra, making certain he ran his hand over the soft globe until he found the nipple. Her eyes were narrow slits now, the high-grade coke laced with a few goodies, had kicked in. She leaned against the building, her breasts thrust upward, breathing hard through those pouty lips.

  “The money’s yours, honey. You earned it.” He let his hand drift downward to her crotch. She didn’t protest; he knew she wouldn’t. Once you were hooked, you lived for that high. And nothing else mattered.

  “Just remember one thing,” he said, as he fondled her. “You were with Seth and me until dawn. We all left that room together. Got it?”

  Stacy nodded, but he wasn’t certain that she understood. He probed lightly with his fingers, pressing into the soft silk fabric of her dress.

  “Tell me exactly what you’re going to tell the Sheriff when he asks.”

  It took a few minutes for Max to give her instructions about what to say while Stacy parroted back her answers before he was satisfied that she’d verify their story. By the time he’d finished, he had her dress up and her panties in his pocket. He was rock hard. He took her, standing up against the wall in the back alley, enjoying every second of it.

  Sometimes there was nothing like a woman.

  Sixteen

  “Bassinger’s a liar,” Zach told Brad Yeager as they drove the Bronco out to the rodeo arena to keep a lid on things. “I don’t know what tipped me off, but my gut instinct says the sleazeball is lying.”

  “What would Bassinger have to gain by lying?”

  “Beats me. I’ll double check his story with Stacy Hopkins tomorrow, but she’ll probably back him up.” Zach was pissed big-time; he’d been dead certain Seth was guilty. He had been waiting, just dying to gloat when Alexander Holt heard the news. And Claire. He had planned to tell her personally.

  Ramsey was a helluva lot sleazier than anyone suspected. He’d slipped a Roofie into Claire’s drink. Then he’d left her, knowing she was under the influence of a dangerous drug. Anything could have happened to her.

  “I’ll pull the file on Bassinger,” offered Yeager, breaking into his thoughts, and Zach promised himself that he would fix Seth Ramsey the first chance he got. “I’m going to take a closer look at Lowell Hopkins, too. Everyone seems to think it’s odd that he took on Nevada.”

  “You know what else strikes me as really odd?” Zach pulled onto the blacktop road that led to the rodeo arena located on the outskirts of the reservation. “Nevada let some women keep him tied up for hours. That’s his alibi.”

  “People go for that S and M stuff.” Yeager shrugged as if it wasn’t any big deal.
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  Zach’s scalp pricked at the thought of being tied up and sweat peppered the back of his neck. He knew—first hand—how it felt to be tied up. No way did he equate being helpless with great sex. But he didn’t share his private feelings with Yeager.

  “Speaking of S and M, want to torture yourself?” Zach asked. “Vanessa Trent’s worried about being kidnapped. Why don’t you go out there and look over her security arrangements?”

  “Hey, thanks!” he said. “I’m perfect for the job.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Zach’s mind was on Claire, not the murder or Vanessa Trent. Tonight, for once, Claire had been almost friendly. She’d thawed just a tad and he planned to take advantage of it. If his luck held, there wouldn’t be any fights that his deputies couldn’t handle. He wanted to get back before the gallery closed. There would be dancing in the plaza and then the fun would really begin.

  Dumping Vanessa Trent on Yeager was a brilliant move. Maybe the flashy actress would want to add an FBI agent to her list of conquests. Sure as hell, Zach wasn’t going for it. Vanessa was nothing more than a slut with a body created by some pricey Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. Did she really think those boobs looked natural? She should check into a clinic and seek treatment for silicone dependency.

  Some men went for the silicone bit. A glance sideways confirmed Yeager had a shit-eating grin on his face. No doubt he was anticipating the “security” advice he was going to give Vanessa Trent. The actress didn’t want advice; she wanted to get laid.

  He found Vanessa’s interest in him demeaning in a way that he could never have explained. Zach never fully understood, but had long since learned to accept that women thought he was sexy. Adding a badge made him even more appealing to certain women. That was what the actress was after, a man with a badge.

  Not Zach Coulter without a badge.

  He had no interest in bed hopping. Okay, okay, he’d spent more than his fair share of time in various women’s beds, but at this age, he’d gone beyond simply screwing. Now, he wanted more than a quick tumble.

  He wanted the whole enchilada. A home. The family he wished he’d had when he was growing up. But did he think he was going to get what he needed from Claire? Hell, no. Her old man still had the power over her. The scene in the plaza this evening proved that. Holt could pitch a fit and Claire would tell Zach to go to hell.

  So why was he torturing himself? The answer was as simple as his returning home. Something compelled him to give it a try.

  Angela had deliberately lagged behind Claire and hadn’t gone into The Rising Sun Gallery. She’d been anxious to see the paintings that had kept the majority of people from wandering from gallery to gallery as they usually did during the Art Festival. Claire had been so upset about her father that Angela hadn’t wanted to disappoint her if she couldn’t get excited about her new artist.

  Face it. Nothing excited her anymore. Not cooking. Not sex. And she didn’t want to have the rug pulled out from under her entirely by discovering she no longer had enthusiasm for art. What would she do then?

  She wandered next door into the nearly empty Tallchief Gallery that specialized in Native American jewelry. She could always use another piece of hand-crafted jewelry, she thought, but when she looked into the cases, she couldn’t decide on anything. Every piece reminded her of something she had, even though most were one-of-a-kind.

  Embarrassed for the owner who was hovering at her elbow, anxious to make a sale, Angela selected a silver pendant. She handed him her Visa and waited. She was out on the sidewalk heading back to Claire’s gallery when she dropped the small box as she tried to shove it into her purse. It hit the bricks and the pendant tumbled out.

  From the shadows a man emerged, quickly retrieving the box and pendant. “You dropped this, ma’am.”

  There was no word on earth—even the most vulgar term—that upset her more than “ma’am.” It made her feel old and she freaked whenever one of her young stud-muffins used it. But coming from this stranger with the warm brown eyes and shy smile, it seemed right. Anyway, he was older himself, and rather handsome in his own way.

  His face was thin, almost gaunt, and his thick brown hair was cut stylishly short, nearly hiding the gray along his temples. His tall, lean frame wasn’t the type of body that normally attracted her. But he had a down-to-earth, likable air about him that appealed to her.

  “What is it?” he asked as he carefully placed the silver pendant in its box again.

  Angela had to take another look to recall just what she’d bought. “It’s the Crow Mother Kachina.”

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Really beautiful.”

  His comment seemed to refer to the pendant, but the way he looked at her when he said it made her wonder. “It’s kind of sad, actually. The Crow Mother is the mother of all Kachinas according to the Hopi people. During the ceremonial bean dance, she selects the war heroes who will sacrifice themselves for the good of the tribe during battle.”

  “Why would you buy something so depressing?” he asked with the same shy smile.

  Until that moment she hadn’t realized that she must have subconsciously selected the pendant because she was depressed. Of course, she couldn’t say that to a total stranger. “The craftsmanship is superb. I couldn’t resist.”

  “It is beautiful,” he said, but again, he wasn’t looking at the pin. Each time he gazed into her eyes, he kept staring at her longer.

  He was coming on to her, she decided, but he wasn’t her type. Not only was he too old, he was slender. She preferred young buff males. Still, he did have something elusive that attracted her.

  “Did you visit The Rising Sun Gallery?” she asked just to keep the conversation going.

  “Yeah. It’s really hot in there. Too many people. I need space.”

  “Well, what did you think about the featured artist?”

  The stranger shuffled his feet and shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess.”

  She looked into his earnest brown eyes and saw a flicker of some indefinable emotion. Obviously, he was just a tourist and didn’t know much about art. Was he alone, she wondered, then quickly asked herself why she cared. “Well, I’ve got to go. Thanks.”

  She hurried toward the entrance of the gallery where clusters of people were sipping margaritas. As she went in, she looked over her shoulder and saw the stranger on the sidewalk staring at her.

  It was another five minutes before Angela finished greeting friends and edged her way through the crowd and was close enough to see the paintings. She blinked once … twice just to make certain she wasn’t imagining this.

  Oh, my, God!

  Both paintings, especially the one of the cowboy with the bouquet, struck an emotional cord. A lump rose in her throat and she swallowed hard, reminding herself to analyze this art as a professional. Emotional paintings weren’t necessarily great paintings.

  Fabulous use of color, she thought objectively. The artist had taken the softer hues of the high country, inspired by the early morning light on the sugarloaf mesas and shadowy canyons. Those moody hues, his flawless use of pastels, and unerring perspective were an astonishing meld of creative elements that few artists had mastered.

  Unique brushwork, too, she noted. It was sharp in places as if the paint had been applied with a blade, yet in other areas the strokes were feather soft. No ordinary art-store brush had touched this canvas, she decided. The artist had made his own.

  Angela wasn’t certain how long she stood there enthralled by work so unique it defied description. There was an air of mystery and longing and loneliness that spoke to her because it echoed what she was feeling. She was on the verge of tears, yet for the first time in weeks, she was happier than she had ever been.

  Art, her great love, had not deserted her, after all.

  “What’s the woman thinking?”

  Now long had Claire been standing beside her, Angela wondered. “Who knows? That’s the great strength of this artist’s work. It defies one single int
erpretation.”

  “He’s obviously from the new school of contemporary realism.”

  “True,” Angela agreed, unable to suppress a note of sadness as she recalled what Claire had said about Alexander Holt’s reaction to the painting with the bouquet. Thank God her father was dead, Angela thought, remembering too vividly how he’d yank her chain the same way Claire’s father did.

  “I’ll take both of them,” Angela said without dickering, which wasn’t the least bit like her. “Now, I want to see—she squinted to read the name scribbled in the right-hand corner—“the rest of Paul Winfay’s works.”

  “Winfrey. Paul Winfrey,” Claire corrected her. “This is it for now. These are the only paintings he’s completed.”

  “You’re presenting a new artist with just two paintings?” Angela was dumbfounded. She’d followed Claire from the gallery in Arizona where she’d been manager to her own gallery and knew Claire was too savvy to represent an artist without a body of work to substantiate his talent.

  “Paul’s just started. He has a brilliant future.”

  “You can’t seriously expect me to invest this amount of money when the artist doesn’t have other works,” Angela retorted, her anger and frustration mounting. “The more he sells, especially to museums, the more my investment will be worth. Otherwise, I have two expensive paintings by a nobody who may never pick up a brush again. I won’t be able to resell them.”

  “Then don’t buy them,” came a masculine voice from behind her.

  Angela whirled around, self-consciously realizing she had been shouting at Claire, and people were staring at them. The stranger she’d met outside had spoken those words. Apparently, he was the artist. Unbelievable. She would never have pegged him as the arty type.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she demanded, barely conscious of the people moving closer to catch every word. “What have you been doing that you wasted your time when you should have been painting?”

  He reached over and took her hand. The gleaming seven-carat diamond on her finger had been a gift from her father—when she’d broken off with the tennis pro. The Piaget watch with its diamond band had been her gift to herself for her fortieth birthday.