Kate & Blake vs The Ghost Town (Kate & Blake Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Dakota Kahn

  “I haven’t talked to him yet,” I said.

  “That’s two. Who else you got?”

  I almost didn’t want to say. My other suspects were real long shots, and people from town. It was like calling your dad a drunk at the Thanksgiving table. It didn’t matter if it was true, you just didn’t want to do it. Brought the family down.

  “Kate, are you doing the job, or aren’t you?” Blake said.

  “Miguela Sepulveda,” I said.

  “Really? Just because she’s the head of the anti-development league?” Blake said.

  “No. Well, that’s the first part of it. She’s really gung-ho about it, right? Way more so than I think the whole thing merits. I was starting to think she had money tied up in the land, but that would mean—”

  “That she was in business with the Landowner. And it would also mean she’d want the development.”

  “Maybe. We’re heading to California Gold, right? That’s where Sparks is staying,” I said, trying to sound casual, matter of fact, unconcerned.

  “Yeah, why? Have you ever been inside?” Blake said, glancing at me through the rear-view while mostly keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Once,” I said, then took a deep breath and spilled the whole sordid story. Tricking Tyler Zane, finding Miguela, getting my picture taken. Everything.

  “So,” Blake said, obviously forcing himself to stay calm, “It’s a good thing you’re getting this job with the Landowner, because you’re probably not gonna get to keep being a PDA.”

  “Now, it was one little breaking and entering and it wasn’t even that. I was following a lead.”

  “You’re not a cop,” he said, his tone getting a little more agitated than I believe I deserved. I pouted for a minute, then continued.

  “Anyway, she’s hiding something. And what she said about Wendover, just hours after he was found dead. Seemed a little… heartless.”

  “You don’t have to like somebody just ‘cause they’ve died,” Blake said. “But we need to get a handle on her movements that night. Who’s the last person?”

  “Adriana Feather,” I said. “And not because I’m mad she sneaked into my office, or because she told the whole town Rip Chiaki is the killer.” Well, not only because of those things.

  “And what evidence do you have against her?” he said.

  “She’s sneaky and creepy and up to something. Might as well throw her on the suspect pile.”

  Blake didn’t argue, largely because he was pulling into the parking lot of California Gold and didn’t seem to want to take the time. He got waved through at the ticket booth, because cops always get waved through in places like this. I was just happy he didn’t park in a handicapped space to show his complete local authority.

  “Okay, this is probably going to take a little arm-bending,” Blake said, as we got out of the car and walked toward the entrance. “Guys like this are usually strictly appointment only.”

  “Okay,” I said, steeling myself for what was to come. Maybe a mad dash into the elevator while Blake held off hotel security. Maybe I’d have to give Tyler a kiss to get into the security room and run the cameras (after barring the door) so Blake could get up without trouble.

  I was ready for anything.

  And a little disappointed when the whole plan involved Blake walking up to the desk, smiling, and saying, “I’m here to see Gerry Sparks. Could you please tell me what room he’s in?” and showing his badge.

  It was Violet at the desk, who looked at Blake like he was Matthew McConaughey, and me like I was his suffocating wife whom he needed rescuing from. Blake smiled, and Violet kept her eyes on him.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Sparks has left instructions not to be disturbed—”

  “I’ll call the judge for a warrant,” I said, slapping my hand down on the desk and looking as tough as I could. I am not that tough, and Violet was young and fit and not that impressed looking.

  “We won’t need a warrant,” Blake said. “We just need a few minutes of Mr. Sparks time. Violet, please?”

  She blushed, and looked down, then said, “All right. Come with me.”

  I’m not sure why we needed her anymore, but Violet left her sacred desk duty and walked to the bank of elevators off to the left. There was one to the far right that didn’t have any buttons on it, just a key-card slot. Violet pushed a key-card through it, and the elevator door popped open.

  “Wow,” I said, suitably impressed. This elevator was huge. It was like the kind they have in hospitals, with room enough for a couple of gurneys and a pile of dead people in the corner. Blake thanked Violet, and we both stepped inside.

  “Just hit the button,” Violet said.

  “Which floor?” I said, and she rolled her eyes, rather offensively.

  I’m used to normal people elevators, not enormous ones that only have one button.

  Blake, with a courteous nod (more courtesy than the little tramp deserved) pushed the button, and touched his hat to her as the door slid closed.

  The elevator began its journey upwards, and I tried not to look Blake in the eye.

  “So, where are you and Violet going on your honeymoon? I mean, after you get a note from her parents saying she can stay out late,” I said, very cattily.

  “Who?” Blake said.

  “Violet. That girl.”

  Blake just shrugged like the words I said didn’t really mean anything.

  “Now when we get in there,” he said, “I think it might be best if I do most of the talking. Seeing as you’re not really connected to the case anymore.”

  “And you’re afraid of what I might say?” I said, keeping my quite reasonable high dudgeon at being dismissed.

  “Little of column A, little of column B,” Blake said.

  I harrumphed, and looked away. Unfortunately, the entire elevator was mirrored, so looking away was still looking at Blake, and his amused expression.

  I was just about to tell him to wipe off his smirk when the elevator dinged, and the door opened.

  Sparks’ small man, dressed all in black with an empty expression but dark, penetrating eyes, stood there. I had the notion of plowing right through him, but Blake took a step back, and was for an instant at a loss for words.

  I smiled, and said, “Excuse me,” but the man didn’t shift. His hair was cropped super close, and it was impossible to tell if it was white or very blonde. He did not look like a young man, but held in its expressionless stillness, his skin did look smooth. Almost like marble.

  “We’re here to speak with Mr. Gerry Sparks. It’s on a police matter,” Blake said, holding out his badge. It was weird to hear the tone in Blake’s voice. He was being respectful almost to the point of obsequiousness.

  Come on, I wanted to say. I could pick this guy up and carry him.

  Or so I thought until I saw him hold out his hand, and wait for Blake to hand him his badge. There was a surprising suppleness to his movements, and underneath his tight black shirt I could see muscles moving, like when you watch the fur of a big cat as it moves. They look all smooth, but the tissue just underneath the hair is taut, terrible muscle.

  I was suddenly very nervous.

  But the man didn’t do anything sudden to make me nervous. His movements were subtle and a little strange, but slow, as if he were the one dealing with some dangerous animal and he needed to project calm and stillness.

  Then he stepped out of the way, and we both walked past him. He’d passed his silence on to us, and we walked into the penthouse room like we were heading into a monastery.

  Behind us, the elevator door closed, and the man passed a key card into the slot on the other side. I could hear behind the closed door the elevator sliding back down into its hole. There would be no quick exit for us. We were, essentially, trapped.

  The small man stepped ahead of us and lead us to the dining room. It was enormous, practically a conference room, with expensive art on the walls and a glass table that seemed to sparkle in the light.

&nb
sp; “Wow, you’ve got to use a lotta Windex,” I said, just to crack through the icy atmosphere that had taken over everything.

  The small man waited for us to step fully into the room. Then he closed the door leading back to the elevator, opened another door in the opposite wall, and disappeared into it.

  “So, what’s the point of that?” I said, while Blake was admiring the abstract paint-splotchy painting on the wall.

  “Of what?”

  “Of pretending he’s some movie super-villain henchman. He’s going to Sparks, right? And he’s not just going to stand there mute, miming that a cop and his fiancee are waiting in the dining room. Words will be spoken. Why does he go around pretending?” I said, feeling weirdly emphatic on the point.

  “It’s to intimidate people. Do you feel intimidated?” Blake said, looking over at me.

  “Yes, and I don’t like it.”

  “Then it’s doing the job,” Blake said, returning to his saturnine examination of the painting.

  “Do you even like abstract art?” I said.

  “No. I like things that are things. But it’s something to look at,” he said.

  “It’s called ‘The Wreck of the Hesperus Redux Upon The Arizona Shore’”, a voice said behind us.

  The doors in this penthouse were made to be silent, so neither of us had heard Sparks sneak up. I jumped a little, turned, and nearly jumped again.

  He was stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat… and darned if he wasn’t a fit piece of humanity. White chest hair (with a gold chain offsetting the white) and a chiseled chest - at least as chiseled as a post-50 man was going to get.

  He wore a towel around his waist and I hoped to heck something underneath that. His chest was rising and falling with his breath, but he didn’t seem to be panting. Under control.

  “Did you come up from the gym?” I said.

  “No, I have my own box here,” he said, gesturing back to the door he’d come in from. It closed silently, his just as silent bodyguard waiting inside it. “I’m going to eat. A smoothie, spinach, kale, protein powder. Do you want one?” he said, and without waiting he pointed his bodyguard toward another door.

  It opened, and the guard slipped silently through. It was all chrome and glass through the door, modern kitchen appliances.

  “Who in the world rents this place out when you’re not here?” I said. A hand on my shoulder, Blake gave me a tight little squeeze. I know he wanted to be the lead here, but hey, I’m a modern woman. And if I’m going to be stuck in a room with a naked sweaty 50-year-old with a manservant and abstract art, I’m not biting my tongue.

  “Nobody,” he said, sitting down. I kept my gaze almost ceiling level, rather than risk seeing the towel lose its integrity under the clear glass table. “I own this floor. Just as I own the entire building.”

  That opened my eyes.

  Blake stepped in front of me. “I’m Chief Deputy Blake Spanner, sir, of the County Sheriff’s. This is Kate Becker, a local attorney with a particular interest in the recent murder.”

  “James Wendover,” Sparks said, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’ll personally miss him. Shame for the family, and the company. Every tawdry little casino and stripper bar and horrible little theme restaurant Wendover Amusements put its name to came out of his creepy little mind.”

  “That means, with him gone,” I said, putting my own hand on Blake’s shoulder, “there’s really no competition for the new development.”

  “There never was!” Sparks said, leaping out of his seat, looking very emphatic. “He’s a carpetbagger and a loose screw. I have roots in the community, right here under your feet!”

  He stomped.

  “California Gold. Built by a consortium of hotel planners with a silent partner,” he said, then pointed to himself, two thumbs. “The most impressive builder in California.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” Blake said, very dry.

  “No, there was all kind of reasons to keep it all DL, but we’re coming to the decision time. Tonight, when this whole town gets to decide to throw in with either people who get themselves killed, or someone who’s already been here, impressing y’all from afar.”

  He had a curious tone and volume to his voice, as if he were perpetually performing to a microphone on the far other end of the room. Maybe he had a kind of animal magnetism, but I wasn’t his kind of animal. Yech.

  “You came to the anti-development meeting on Friday night,” I said.

  “Damn right! Great pizza place, Pirate Petes! Might buy it out, or at least invest, get them to develop the whole pirate theme better.”

  Pike’s Peak. One of the highest points of the Rocky Mountains…though why a restaurant in the Sierra Nevada's is named after a Rocky Mountain peak is a completely different question.

  “But you were at the meeting.”

  “And I had coffee later with that gal,” Sparks said. “What’s that gal’s name?”

  The door to the kitchen opened, and three perfectly blended smoothies came out on a tray, the bodyguard holding them up steadily with one hand. He placed one in front of Sparks.

  “What was that gal’s name?” he said.

  His bodyguard looked at him.

  “Sepulveda! Miguela Sepulveda, thanks.”

  The bodyguard nodded, and delivered us each a smoothie. It was green, with tiny ice crystals that sparkled, and it looked pretty good. Even though I’d had a pretty big breakfast with Blake, I was suddenly feeling a little peckish, and dug into mine immediately.

  It’s amazing how controlled the sounds were in this place. The guard must have blended the smoothie, but the door to the kitchen closed so tightly we couldn’t hear it. And the bodyguard moved without making a single sound.

  Except when he set down Blake’s drink, and a bracelet secured to his wrist peeked out of his black sleeve, slightly. It was a charm bracelet, about the only thing on his person that wasn’t completely business, and it tinkled cutely as it slipped out of place.

  With barely a flick of his wrist, he moved it back under his sleeve, and I heard the tinkling again.

  And froze.

  It was exactly the same sound, the only sound my attacker made when he knocked me down in the parking lot.

  Chapter 15

  When this was all over, I would have about five minutes of screaming to do. My house backs right up to a swamp, I can go back there and scream my holy head off with nobody but Matador to hear it. And he’d come a quacking and find out what was wrong.

  “Don’t worry,” I’d tell him. “I couldn’t scream when I was inches away from the man who attacked me, because I am a master of my own reactions. Even though I wanted to scream and hide and was so terrified I slopped some smoothie out on the clean, clean table, I didn’t. Even when his boss said, ‘Go clean that up’ and the man took a cloth out of nowhere and cleaned up, right in front of me, so close I could touch him and that bracelet felt out and jingled again and my insides turned to water and I nearly freakin’ died… I did not react. So I’m screaming now, duck.”

  Matador would hear me and shake his duck head and go about on duck business secure in his own fowl calmness. People are nuts, Matador might think, but he wouldn’t be too put out.

  I was put out. I sat there in silence with my drink, my brain firing on a million cylinders and not an instant of my attention on what Blake was saying or what the boss of my attacker was saying back to him.

  “So you saw her until late in the evening?” Blake said to Sparks, while the latter took a long draught of his smoothie, and smacked his lips, loudly, rudely.

  I had the sick feeling they were talking about me, and that Sparks, or his minion, had been watching me. And they were just talking about it like I was a TV show.

  “Until about midnight at that place on the corner of Forest and Inyo. I didn’t look at the name. If it’s not my name on the side of a building, I don’t much care what it’s called.”

  “Forest Corner Grill,” Blake said, quietly.r />
  What? I hated Forest Corner Grill, ever since I got kicked out of there for sending my food back when I was a teenager. The chef literally chased me out of the restaurant. I think he brandished a butcher’s knife. Why would Sparks be watching me there?

  Then my scared brain calmed itself down and my reason took over. They were not talking about me one bit - they were talking about Miguela Sepulveda and… a date Sparks had with her after the meeting?

  “So your date broke up at midnight?” I said, watching his reaction. He had none, just shook his head.

  “Well, she saw something and got mad and drove off. It was hilarious, actually,” he said, leaning back, grinning. “Because she saw Wendover drive by. Hell, we might have been some of the last people to see him alive, driving with Greene to the site. I said to Sepulveda, ‘Hey, let’s follow them out, challenge them to a fight.’ She’s a big girl, she can handle herself.’”

  He laughed and winked at me, very creepily. Then continued on.

  “And she said, ‘he’s gonna go build something else. He’s got no shame! He’s got to be stopped. Somebody has to stop him.’”

  He folded his arms, like somebody who had just given a great gift to his guests, and was awaiting praise for it.

  “So?” I said.

  “So, she left, not even pretending to pay for her part of the bill, and ran off. To do what? Who knows? I went back here and went to sleep. Woke up to the news that my competition had gotten himself killed, and that was that.”

  “So you’re saying,” Blake said, a notepad in his hands and notes appearing rapidly within, “that Miguela Sepulveda, on seeing Wendover heading toward Crestgold late at night, said something vaguely threatening about the man who ended up dead, and then ran off herself?”

  “Crazy, huh?”

  Or just the sort of thing a guilty man himself might make up to throw investigators off the scent while he worked up a more suitable alibi. Just think of it - Rip Chiaki was everyone’s scapegoat, and as long as the police kept their eyes on him, nobody else was scrutinized.