by Louise Lynn
“You’re mad, aren’t you?” Celia’s brows furrowed.
Hazel shook her head. “No. It’s not your fault Paul asked you to this thing. Though, he’s been over there talking to Kenneth and Dale for ages.”
Celia rubbed her arms and nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think he even noticed I showed up. Not that I mind. Because I didn’t come for him.” She reached for another glass of champagne. She’d already finished her first.
Hazel resisted the urge to take one and decided to make for the other side of the room—away from Sheriff Cross.
As she did, one of the party goers she didn’t recognize intercepted her. He was a small man just south of middle-aged with a balding head, though what little hair he did have was combed over the top in a black greasy mess. He wore a finely tailored suit with an ostentatious purple tie, and his eyes glinted as they swept over Hazel’s body.
She wished she hadn’t relinquished the emerald coat.
“I’ve been coming to Cedar Valley for years, and I don’t believe I’ve ever met someone so stunning,” he said, and held out his hand.
Hazel forced a smile and took it. She wasn’t really in a position to be rude to anyone who could be a potential customer. Not unless they deserved it, of course. “Thank you. I only set up shop six months ago.”
A shadow slid over the man’s face, but his hand lingered on hers longer than she appreciated. “The photographer. Yes, Mr. Barkley told me about you. How impressed he was with your work. I’ll have to stop by your studio some time and have a look around.” His smile was as greasy as his hair. His skin was an orange tan, similar to Dirk and Simone.
Hazel finally pulled her hand away and fought the urge to wipe it on her dress. “Oh, you’re welcome as long as it’s not a crime scene anymore. After that business with Dirk, the police have shut it down for the moment.” She never felt happier for that incident than she did right then.
“Unfortunate, but I’m sure that nastiness will be cleared up soon. Here, my card,” he said, and a little off-white business card appeared between his fingers.
Hazel snatched it. “I’m Hazel Hart. You know where my studio is?”
“Of course, and I’m—”
“Giorgio Vincente, I believe,” Sheriff Cross’s deep voice grumbled from behind Hazel. A moment later, he stood next to her. Instead of his uniform, he wore a dark suit, but it made him look more like a detective than some suave party-goer.
“Sheriff Cross,” Giorgio said, and that shadow settled over his face and stayed.
Hazel blinked and glanced at the card in her hands. It said: Giorgio Vincente. Hilltop Realty.
Her blood went cold. This man was the third person who was on the boat the day Sara Barkley drowned. And the one who’d been sending the letters to people in town about buying the properties on Lake Street.
“So, how long are you in town?” She tried to make it sound nonchalant. She had questions for the man, and she couldn’t ask everything she wanted with the sheriff standing right next to her.
Giorgio smiled. “I just came into town for this. I live in North Lake City, but I wasn’t going to miss a party at Cedar Lodge, even in such miserable weather. At least it’s not snowing.” His eyes stayed fixed on Hazel, and she noticed a drop of sweat on his brow.
Was he nervous around her or Sheriff Cross?
She betted on the latter.
“Is he bothering you about your studio, Ms. Hart?” Sheriff Cross asked in a way that sent a jab of annoyance right to Hazel’s gut.
“Not at all. He only mentioned he wanted to see my photos,” she said with a plastered smile that felt close to cracking.
“Impressive as your skills as a photographer are, he may have had other things in mind. What do you have to say about that, Mr. Vincente?”
The smaller man turned the color of a canned beet and shook his head. “Nothing else in mind but to buy one of her photos. Dirk told me about them and—”
“Yes. Dirk. The man who happened to die there? It’s a crime scene, and I shouldn’t have to remind you to stay away from it.”
“Not at all. I see, uh, someone I know. Nice to meet you, Ms. Hart. Sheriff Cross. Have a wonderful evening,” Giorgio said, and scuttled away. The way he moved reminded Hazel of the crawfish that hatched at the lake in warmer years.
Still, she didn’t learn anything useful from him.
“I don’t know what you thought he was doing but …”
The look on the sheriff’s face caused the words to die in Hazel’s throat. His mouth was a hard line, but his eyes danced with something akin to concern. “Stay away from him. He’s trouble.”
“Oh? What kind of trouble?” Hazel raised a brow. At least she knew it was well defined and sculpted now, thanks to Cece’s handiwork.
His eyes slipped over her casually and the smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “A different kind of trouble than you, but still trouble. He’s been harassing people with businesses on Lake Street to sell. Then there’s his connection to Dirk Barkley. You sure you’ve never met him before?”
Hazel shook her head. “This is the first time, but he was on the boat the day Sara Barkley died. And he had an argument with Tommy Kholi that day as well.”
Sheriff let out a bark of laughter. “Maybe I was wrong. You’re a worse kind of trouble than Vincente. We have this investigation under control.”
“I never said you didn’t. But do you still think I planted the gun?”
Sheriff Cross frowned. “It was stolen from the Carson City gun show a few weeks ago, along with several others. So, I’m not sure. Have you been to Carson City lately?”
“Actually, no. Not since the summer. Does that mean I can have my studio back?”
“Not yet,” the sheriff said through gritted teeth.
Right, she was wearing out her already thin welcome. Hazel scanned the room for some avenue of escape.
Paul had finally extracted himself from Dale and Kenneth, and stood next to Celia. She had another glass of champagne in her hand, and Hazel hoped it was still her second and not the third. Or fifth.
A flash of brown hair caught her eye, and she snapped her mouth closed before she gave away her shock. There in the corner stood April and Michael. They were huddled together, and April kept shaking her head. Michael looked close to tears, as he had their entire time at lunch.
But Michael also said April had gone back to Carson City.
He’d lied to her.
But why?
“Who’s that with your assistant?” Sheriff Cross asked.
Hazel frowned before she could stop herself. “His girlfriend, April.”
Beside her, Sheriff Cross stiffened.
Hazel glanced in the direction he turned.
Simone stood there in a silver dress that looked more like something to wear to a club than a party at the upscale lodge. It left very little to the imagination, being both cut short and low.
She was more dolled up than Hazel herself, but she didn’t look the least bit happy about it. Simone wrung her hands and glanced around the ballroom, as if she were looking for someone. Then, her eyes latched onto Paul and she stalked toward him—a cheetah after its prey.
Hazel took a step before she knew what she was doing. To her surprise, Sheriff Cross didn’t stop her.
Though he did have one last thing to say. “Going to give your condolences?”
Hazel nodded absently and gave him a tight smile.
She’d already lost the opportunity to talk to Vincente tonight. She didn’t want to miss out on Simone, no matter what Celia said about taking it easy. She could relax once this was solved and the crime scene tape was removed from her studio.
“You look beautiful,” Sheriff Cross said.
Hazel stopped in her tracks. Turned. Wished the warmth of the room didn’t all flood to her cheeks at once. “Um, thank you.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “But I miss the hat.”
Hazel narrowed her eyes. The one nice thing he’d said, an
d he had to ruin it. “I miss the uniform,” she said, spun on her heel, and marched away.
Chapter 10
Hazel thought Simone was headed straight to Paul, but at the last moment, the woman swerved and made right for the buffet tables.
Her heart throbbed in her chest as she approached. She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress and hoped it didn’t leave some sort of stain that Celia would complain about later. There was a reason she didn’t like to dress up, and this was part of it.
Plus, the dress had no pockets. She needed pockets in a moment like this.
Simone didn’t seem to notice her, though the younger woman’s eyes flitted over the table and she grabbed two glasses of champagne, one in each fist. She drank one without stopping to take a breath.
Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Simone, I’m surprised to see you here.” She tried to keep her voice as kind as possible. She was the person who argued with Sara Barkley before she drowned. And she was one of the two people in the room when Dirk was shot.
Probably not a coincidence.
Simone stiffened and took a long gulp of her second glass of champagne before answering. “I couldn’t stay in that house. Too big, empty and cold, and I don’t know how to light the fireplace. He couldn’t go and have an easy electric heater put in. No. Instead he put in some stupid thing that needs logs and fire.”
If she was so cold, why was she prancing around in an outfit like that? Hazel kept that thought to herself. “I’m sure someone would show you how to work it. Perhaps Tommy Kholi or maybe Giorgio Vincente?”
Simone snorted and finished the second glass of champagne. “Tommy wouldn’t know how to do it. He’s practically useless at everything, except for losing money. And Giorgio doesn’t want to help me. He just wants to buy the place. Which he might be able to do now that Dirk …” her voice broke and she let out a few sobs, though only a singular tear rolled out of her eye.
What Sheriff Cross said was right. She was pretending to be upset. But Hazel didn’t think she was pretending to be frightened. She was too stiff and kept glancing around like she expected to see someone.
“You stayed at the lodge then?” Hazel asked and picked up a glass of champagne herself though she didn’t drink it.
Simone nodded and dabbed her eye with a napkin. “At least there’s room service here. And people. I can’t be alone right now, not after what happened. What are you doing here? Can’t believe you’re not in jail,” she said though her voice held little heat.
Hazel swallowed a lump in her throat. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened, but I don’t see how any of it’s my fault. I wasn’t even in the room.”
Simone flipped her hair over her shoulder and her dress shimmered in the golden light. Hazel noticed several people eyeing her curiously, and a few of the men leering. She pursed her lips. “Not your fault? Why did you have a real gun lying around your studio, then?”
Hazel sucked in a breath through her teeth and forced herself to remain calm. She could get annoyed later. Now, she needed answers. “I didn’t have a real gun. They were all prop guns, and someone switched them out for—”
Simone’s hand clamped around Hazel’s forearm, the nails long, sharp and painted bubblegum pink. Her skin felt clammy and cold. “Prop guns?” She dropped her voice to nearly a whisper. “I only ever saw one gun. The gun that—you know.”
Hazel’s breath clogged in her throat. Only one gun? But when the deputies had cleared her Old West studio, they carried out a whole box of props, including the guns.
Yet Simone claimed she only saw one?
Either she was lying or someone else was.
“Who found the gun? If you remember. I know this whole thing has been incredibly difficult.”
“Are you gonna drink that?” Simone asked, and Hazel shook her head. The young woman snatched it from her grip and took a big sip. Her cheeks hardly flushed, and she looked as pale as it was possible under her orangey tan. “Dirk found it,” she said in a small voice. “We just wanted to—I just wanted to do a saloon shoot. The last time we came up, everything went so wrong and we never even had a chance. And then I didn’t feel ready to come back to Lake Celeste until recently. He suggested shooting our engagement photos here, and I thought a good memory could be placed over a bad one, and now this,” her voice broke into sobs, and she gulped the remainder of the champagne.
Hazel patted her shoulder, which was nearly as cool as Simone’s hand. “I’ve never kept a real gun in my studio. Not once. I understand if you don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. And I’m sorry you have bad memories associated with Cedar Valley. What happened last time you were here?” She kept her voice low and sympathetic.
Simone finally met her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled. Her eyes were wide like that of a frightened animal. A deer caught in headlights. Hazel had seen enough of that growing up in the mountains. “You don’t remember? Everyone who lives here remembers. Sara. When she—” Real tears filled Simone’s eyes this time and dripped down her cheeks. Her mascara ran with it until her eyes looked like those of a sopping wet raccoon.
Hazel fetched another napkin and handed it to Simone, who wiped her face and daintily blew her nose.
“I’m sorry. I heard about it, but I didn’t live here then. It happened a couple of years ago, right? I thought it was just an accident?”
Simone snorted again, and her shoulders hunched. She no longer looked as confident as she had before. “Sara was like a sister to me. I know I was just her personal assistant, but I lived with her for years. We were so close and then, after it happened, there were rumors that it wasn’t an accident. That someone pushed her off the boat. But I know the truth. I know what happened that day,” she said, and froze in place. Her already wide eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “No. Not again,” she cried, and turned suddenly.
Then she ran.
Well, it was more of a hobble than a run since she was wearing heels and had drank at least a bottle of champagne.
Hazel spun around, and saw no one of any particular interest behind her.
Paul and Celia stood near the fire, shoulder to shoulder, and Celia was smiling at one of Paul’s antidotes. It didn’t even look particularly forced.
A few of the older women were still at their table, then Hazel’s eyes landed on a pair of dark ones. Tommy Kholi. He stared past her, a dangerous glare in his eyes, and Hazel’s blood went cold.
Had he scared Simone into running? And why was he here? Hazel didn’t have time to ask him.
She rushed out of the room to follow Simone, and ran straight into Sheriff Cross. She would’ve toppled over backward if he didn’t snag her shoulders in his strong grip. He held her there, breathing heavily through his nose, and she sucked in a deep breath that smelled like his spicy cologne.
“What on earth, Ms. Hart?”
“No time. I was talking with Simone and she bolted,” Hazel said, and bit the inside of her cheek.
She expected the sheriff to scold her, but instead a dark shadow settled over his expression. “Where did she go?”
Hazel pointed, and he sprinted in that direction. She took up the rear. No way was she going to sit this out. Not if Simone could clear her involvement in the case.
They charged into the lobby, and Hazel’s boots slid on the smooth floor. Sheriff Cross looked back and forth, and Hazel made her way to the front desk.
She slammed her hand on it and the concierge jumped. “How can I help you, Miss?”
“Did you see a woman run through here? Blonde hair and sparkly dress?”
The man nodded. “Simone Wilkins. She’s a guest here. Is she in some sort of danger or—”
“Yes. Where did she go?”
The man shrugged. “I’m not sure, she headed towards the guest rooms. If I had to guess, she was going to retire for the evening. Suite four seven six.”
Hazel blinked. That was a whole lot easier than she expected. Then she noticed Sheriff Cross at her elbow and scowled.
They both made for the elevator, and as they stepped inside, the sheriff leaned over and touched the button for the 400 suites.
“Is this how you don’t investigate things on your own?”
Hazel stood up straight. “It’s called being concerned about a client. If that coincides with your investigation, so be it,” she said.
Sheriff Cross rolled his eyes.
A moment later, the elevator dinged their arrival, and they rushed into the hall. It was empty but for a flash of blonde hair at the end.
Golden blonde—not the white blonde of Simone.
It was in the opposite direction of Simone’s suite, but Hazel turned toward it nonetheless. Something about it was so familiar.
She ran, and, to her surprise, Sheriff Cross started after her.
“Friend of yours?” he asked as they turned the corner.
Hazel shook her head and sucked in a breath. The door at the end of the hall stood open, and the blonde-haired figure disappeared behind it.
The hair fell just past the shoulders in thick waves. The figure itself was shorter than Hazel by a good six inches, and wore a black hoodie and a floral dress.
Hazel charged after her.
Sheriff Cross put his arm in front of her and pulled a gun from his holster, which must’ve been hidden under the jacket.
She drew in a sharp breath, and he held his fingers to his lips and shook his head.
Then he shoved open the door and stepped outside.
Shivering, Hazel followed him out onto one of the lodge’s great balconies. It was built high enough to give them a view of the lake even from the mountainside. Though, the view was obviously shrouded in darkness now.
Icy wind stabbed at her lightly clad arms and threw the skirt of her dress around her knees wildly. Her eyes swept the balcony, but it was empty.
Whoever the blonde woman was—she’d disappeared.
Vanished into thin air.
Like a ghost.
Chapter 11
Hazel shivered uncontrollably as Celia draped the crushed velvet coat around her shoulders, and Paul handed her a cup of hot cocoa with a three-inch mound of whip cream on top.