Recently opened, it had failed to produce the kind of dire consequences envisioned by its critics. Although there were still those who grumbled about extra traffic in town and eyesores along the coast road, most residents of Finn’s Harbor had settled down to an uneasy truce.
No one could deny the benefits brought about by the increase in tourists to the town, and the resort and accompanying golf course were too far along the coast to cause much of a physical nuisance.
The buildings were mostly hidden by trees from the road, and the golf course stretched inland, out of sight unless one was actually up on the bluff that housed the main structure.
Driving up the winding driveway that had been carved into the cliffs, Clara had to admit, the Hill Top was quite a magnificent sight. The green, multi-angled walls of the hotel blended in with the trees. Green and white striped canopies shaded every window. In front of the main doors, the sweeping drive curved around a bubbling water fountain.
Spread out on either side were smaller buildings, dotted with tiny balconies overlooking the sea with gorgeous views of the bay. The first tee of the golf course was visible from the driveway, the rest of the holes hidden by a thick stand of evergreens.
Clara felt as if she were looking at a movie set, and half expected to see famous stars wandering around.
Beside her, Stephanie was making oohing and aahing noises, apparently every bit as impressed as her cousin. “I bet it costs an arm and a leg to stay here,” she said, as Clara drove into the parking lot and parked the car.
“Probably.” Clara wound down the windows, then twisted around to look at Tatters. “We won’t be long. Be good and take care of the car.”
Tatters grunted a response.
Clara patted his head before sliding out of the car. “We have to think of an excuse to talk to Paul Eastcott,” she said, as Stephanie joined her.
“You waited until now to think of that?”
Clara started off toward the hotel. “Got any ideas?”
“We could say we’re location scouts working for a movie company.”
Clara glanced at her. “That’s a pretty good idea.”
“Except we don’t have business cards, or anything.”
“He might not ask for them.”
“But what if he does?”
“Okay, what else?”
“I don’t know. Something to do with the rodeo?”
Clara thought hard. “I guess we could ask him about becoming a barrel racer.”
“Seriously? Do we look like women who ride horses every day?”
“We’re not that out of shape.”
“We’re not exactly in shape, either. Besides, don’t we have to apply to a rodeo association or something for that?”
“Okay, so what other brilliant ideas do you have?”
They had reached the doors, and now Stephanie looked worried. “We’d better think of something fast, or they’ll be throwing us out on our ears.”
“Okay, then. We fall back on the old reporter story.” Clara’s breath caught as she entered the lobby. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light bouncing off the gold-papered walls. Green, polished leaves of English ivy wound around thick white pillars, and red velvet armchairs waited for tired bodies to sink into them.
Walking across the gold carpet felt like stepping on soft pillows, and she paused by a huge, ornate pot of orchids, fascinated by the brilliant hues of the delicate petals.
“This is a far cry from the sleazy taverns we usually end up in,” Stephanie muttered, her gaze riveted on the far end of the lobby. “Get a load of that counter.”
Clara looked. The reception desk stretched from wall to wall, its light oak surface gleaming in the glow from a dozen brass lamps. Behind it, young men and women in gold jackets smiled and nodded at customers, while behind them dozens of brightly colored fish swam back and forth in an enormous aquarium.
“It must have cost millions to build this place,” Stephanie added. “I can see what Anita meant when she said Paul Eastcott wouldn’t leave his wife. Her family must be disgustingly rich.”
“Money isn’t everything.” Clara set off for the reception desk with her cousin at her heels.
The young man behind the counter bared his teeth in a grin. “Good morning, ladies! Welcome to the fabulous Hill Top Resort. How can I be of service to you today?”
Clara gave him her sweetest smile. “We’d like a word with Mr. Paul Eastcott. Can you tell us where we can find him?”
The grin wavered. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’m sure he’d love to talk to us. We’re planning on writing a glowing online review of the rodeo, and we’d like to interview him for the piece.”
The grin faded away completely. “You’ll have to make an appointment with him, Ms. . . .?”
“Quinn.” Clara held out her hand. “Clara Quinn.”
The young man looked up and down the counter as if uncertain what to do next. After brushing her fingers with his, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Ms. Quinn, but—”
Stephanie leaned in next to her cousin, smiled up at the clerk and murmured in her best breathless, husky voice, “We simply must see him this morning. I’m sure he would want the rodeo to be successful, since he’s responsible for producing it, and after the bad publicity it got yesterday with the murder and everything, we just know we have to put something positive out there as soon as possible so that people will flock back to the rodeo for the rest of its run and make it a huge success.”
The clerk had the kind of panicked look one gets when faced with an impossible decision. “I still don’t think—”
Stephanie held up her hand to silence him. “You look like the kind of man who knows how to make the right decision. Right now, Mr. Eastcott needs all the help he can get, and we’re the right people to give it to him. I’m quite confident he’ll thank you personally when he finds out how much we can do to boost the attendance at the rodeo.”
“Really?” Again the young man looked right and left, as if seeking confirmation. All of his coworkers were deep in conversation with customers, however, while several more waited to be served. “I guess I could call him—”
His hand hovered over the phone and Stephanie covered it with hers. “That won’t be necessary. I can see how busy you are, and I’m quite sure Mr. Eastcott will be delighted to talk to us. Just tell us where we can find his office.”
She was practically purring, and the clerk visibly squirmed. His face still wreathed in doubt, he hesitated a few more seconds, then blurted out, “His office is on the eighth floor. Suite 880.”
“Thank you so much.” Stephanie flashed another smile, then tugged Clara’s arm. “Let’s go.”
As they waited for the elevator, Clara said, “Haven’t lost your touch, I see. You could charm the tusks off an elephant.”
Stephanie grinned. “Just don’t tell George that. I don’t think he’d appreciate me making eyes at strange men to get what we want.”
“Well, let’s hope it works on Paul Eastcott.”
Stephanie’s grin vanished. “You think he’s going to believe we’ll write a review of the rodeo?”
“If we sound professional enough.”
“What if he gets mad when he finds out we didn’t do it?”
“There’s no reason why we can’t do it. There are plenty of social sites where we can write a review of the rodeo. After all, I’ve seen the show, and Wes told me a lot about it.”
Stephanie flipped a strand of blonde hair back from her face. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ve always fancied myself as a writer.”
“Well now’s your chance.”
Neither of them spoke as they rode up to the eighth floor with a couple of chattering women and a stern-looking man in a business suit.
Stepping out of the ele
vator, Clara gazed in awe at the blue flocked wallpaper tinted with silver, the royal blue carpeting and the gold numbers and handles on each door they passed. “Everything smells so new,” she murmured, as they walked the length of the corridor.
“Everything smells so rich.” Stephanie paused at a water fountain where a miniature cherub offered a drink from a gold-tinted chalice. “Just look at that. Does water or wine come out of that thing?”
Clara chuckled. “You can check it out on the way back.” She nodded at the last door on the right. “There it is. Suite 880.”
Stephanie cleared her throat. “I hope he doesn’t have us thrown out.”
Clara lifted a hand to rap on the door. “That’s the least of our worries.”
Stephanie made a small sound in her throat as the door shot open and a man’s face appeared in the gap.
Clara took a deep breath. The tall, husky man in front of her stared at her as if she were something nasty brought in on his shoe. He looked impatient, annoyed and inflexible. Here was a man obviously used to getting what he wanted and dealing harshly with anyone who tried to get in his way. Was he a killer? If so, she and Stephanie could be walking into a boatload of trouble.
Upon seeing the cousins, the man’s dark eyebrows lowered. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Not too gracious a welcome, Clara thought, as she did her best to give him a professional smile. “Mr. Paul Eastcott?”
“I am.” His frown intensified. “If you’re looking for a job, you’ve come to the wrong place. My assistant, Lisa—” He shut his mouth, swallowed, cleared his throat and finally muttered, “Go back to the desk and ask—”
“Mr. Eastcott,” Clara butted in, “we’re so terribly sorry for your loss. We’re huge fans of the rodeo and we just hate to see all the negative publicity about the murder, so we thought if we wrote a glowing review and put it out on the Web for everyone to see they would flock back to the rodeo to see what all the excitement is about.”
Steely blue eyes regarded her with suspicion. “You’re the press?”
“Freelance.” Clara held out her hand. “I’m Clara Quinn and this is my . . . er . . . partner, Stephanie Dowd. We would love to write about the rodeo. It’s such a thrilling show, and it would be a shame if people missed out on it because of such an unfortunate tragedy. I’m sure it cost a great deal to produce it, and you must worry about making a profit. With the right exposure, I’m confident the customers will be lining up to get in.”
Paul Eastcott appeared to be thinking it over, and Clara pressed her advantage. “If you could just spare us a few minutes to answer a couple questions, we’d be so grateful. We do like to get our facts straight when we’re writing reviews. Since you’re the production manager, I’m sure you know more about the rodeo than anyone.”
Paul opened the door a little wider. He wore a pale blue silk shirt under a well-tailored tan suit, and towered above Clara’s five-feet-ten frame by at least six inches. His athletic build testified to a rigorous workout routine, and his strong features were clean-shaven. He looked the epitome of a successful and wealthy businessman, and just a little lethal. “What do you want to know?”
Taking that as an invitation, Clara brushed past him and marched into the office, dragging Stephanie by the arm. “Thank you so much. I promise we won’t take up too much of your time.”
Looking irritated, Paul closed the door. “Very well, but no questions about the murder. I know nothing about it, except what I heard from the media. I wasn’t even there when it happened.” He motioned to them to sit down on comfortable-looking leather swivel chairs in front of a wide, polished desk.
Taking a seat, Clara’s gaze went to the windows, which reached from floor to ceiling and overlooked the golf course. The office was high enough to see over the trees, and in the distance, golf carts zipped between holes, or stood at greens while their occupants putted white balls across the smooth surface. A glittering blue lake divided some of the holes, and patches of golden sand gleamed in the sun. It looked peaceful, relaxing and expensive.
Stephanie sat down next to her, stiff-backed and looking poised for flight.
Grabbing the opening Paul Eastcott had given her, Clara murmured, “It must have been a dreadful shock for you to learn your assistant had been murdered.”
“It was.” Paul sat down behind the desk. “As I said, though, I wasn’t here when it happened. I was in Portland, trying to set up a run for the rodeo there.”
“Oh, really? I hope you were successful.” Belatedly, Clara realized she should have brought a notebook with her to take notes. Thinking fast, she drew her phone from her pocket and held it up. “Recorder. Hope that’s okay?”
Paul answered her with a brief nod.
“So when did you hear about the murder, then?”
At first she thought he wasn’t going to answer. His face seemed to lose all color, and he stared blankly down at his desk. Finally he spoke, his voice sounding strained. “I was on my way home that afternoon when I got a flat tire and had to stop to get it replaced. I knew I wouldn’t have time to eat before the show, so I stopped at the Pioneer Inn for dinner. It took longer than I expected. By the time I got back on the road the show was almost over. I made it back just as the finale began. It was only a few minutes after the show ended when someone came to tell me Lisa’s body had been found.”
“That’s terrible. You must have been devastated.”
She was watching his face closely, but saw nothing but weariness in his expression when he answered. “I lost a good assistant, but her family lost so much more.”
Either he was a good actor, or he wasn’t as devoted to Lisa as she’d believed. Clara tried to sound unconcerned when she murmured, “I wonder who could have hated her enough to kill her.”
Paul shifted his weight on the chair. “We don’t know if it was someone who hated her. It could have been a robbery gone bad, a random act of violence—anything.”
“So it could. Still, it seems that she must have been planning on meeting someone. Why else would she go behind the concert stage?”
“Could have been any reason. I—” He broke off, as if realizing he’d said too much. “Okay, that’s enough about the murder. I said no questions, remember? Now, what do you want to know about the rodeo?”
Realizing she would get no more out of him without raising his suspicions, Clara gave up on the line of questioning. Fortunately, thanks to Wes’s descriptions, she was able to ask fairly intelligent questions about the performances and backstage production. When she figured she had enough to write a comprehensible overview of the entire process, she slipped her phone back in her pocket and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Eastcott. I’m sure our readers will find this all very interesting.”
“I hope so. We need this show to be successful if we want to make it an annual event.”
“Then we’ll certainly do our best to make the review as exciting as possible.”
Stephanie, who had been silent throughout most of the conversation, murmured a polite good-bye. Clara led her out the door, thankful to be leaving.
Stephanie barely waited for the door to close behind them to whisper, “So? What do you think?”
Clara placed a finger over her lips and waited until they had almost reached the elevator before answering her. “I think Paul Eastcott probably cared for Lisa Warren, but that doesn’t mean they were having an affair. Lisa could have just made that up. She wouldn’t be the first woman to brag about a fictitious affair with a rich and powerful man. I did think it weird, though, that in spite of him asking us not to talk about the murder, he went ahead and told us what he was doing that evening. Unless he actually wanted us to put that in the review.”
“Well, it does prove he had nothing to do with the murder. Maybe he just wants to clear his name with everyone.”
“If it’s true.”
They had rea
ched the elevator, and Stephanie jabbed the down button. “You think he was lying?”
“There’s one way to find out.” The doors silently slid open and Clara followed her cousin inside. This time they were alone, and Clara thumbed the button for the first floor.
“How?” Stephanie demanded, her gaze on the lit numbers display above the door.
“Eastcott said he stopped for dinner at the Pioneer Inn on the night Lisa was killed. I think it might be a good idea if we had dinner there. A man who looks like he does would stand out above the crowd. Someone was bound to have noticed him if he was there. I’ll take that picture of him that was in the Chronicle.”
Stephanie smiled as the doors eased open again. “The Pioneer Inn? I like it. So much better than the greasy food in cheap bars.”
“If Paul was telling the truth about being at the inn that night, that would mean Lisa must have been meeting someone else behind the concert stage.”
“Yeah. I wonder who.”
“By the way, you didn’t say a word while we were in his office. I kept expecting you to butt in with something.”
Stephanie shivered. “He kind of intimidated me.”
“That doesn’t happen very often.”
“I know. He seems so . . . powerful, I guess. Like there’s nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t do if he set his mind to it. That kind of man makes me nervous.” Out in the fresh air, arms outstretched, she spun around. “This is such a beautiful place. It must be nice to live like this all the time.”
Clara shook her head. “Too boring. You’d have nothing to get excited over.”
Eyeing a couple of young, virile golfers strolling by, Stephanie murmured, “Oh, I don’t know.”
Clara gave her a hefty nudge in the shoulder. “You’re a happily married woman with three kids.”
“I am indeed.” Stephanie grinned. “But it doesn’t hurt to indulge in a little fantasy now and then, does it?”
“As long as it stays in your head.” Clara set off for the car. “We’d better get a move on or Molly will be complaining because I’m late again.”
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