by Nancy Radke
"I figured you might need the earplugs."
He was the sender of the earplugs...and the tickets. Perri's smile stiffened and her face went pale at the information. Those tickets had meant nothing. Her hopes had been founded on the vanity of a performer who wanted her to come and hear him.
The air left her bubble of happiness and she deflated as fast as a blown-out tire. The full weight of Owen's danger slammed the joy out of her. Fear took its place, causing her to feel faint.
Trying to gloss over the shock of her discovery, she groped for a topic...something she hadn't done all evening. He didn't appear to have noticed anything. Maybe he thought her dazed condition was from finding out who he was. "The plugs helped," she finally said. "But don't you value your own hearing?"
"Why do you think I wear the long hair?" he laughed mockingly. "I'm not dumb. I have ear protectors underneath."
"Hugo!"
The mischief flitted across his face at her accusing tone. "So?"
"But your audience. They'll all be deaf before they're fifty."
"Ah, well. That's their choice. They want loud; I give 'em loud. But be sure, I protect my own ears. So do all of the band members. People want loud, long-haired, wild looking entertainers; that's what they get. Personally, Donegal make me sick every time I look at him in the mirror. But this way, no one recognizes me and I don't get mobbed on the street."
“How did you get them in my room?”
“You’d left the connecting door unlocked.”
“I never... I always check it.”
“You didn’t this time.”
She sighed. She couldn’t remember checking it. "Don't you have to get ready for your show tonight?"
"Yes. That's why we're eating so early."
"And...and the rest of the time?" she whispered, not able to get any volume in her voice.
"I'm booked for Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. The rest of the time is strictly my own...except when the band needs to practice a little."
"And that was the business you had to do last night, and the night before?"
He nodded. "Uh huh. I've been here a full week."
"But...you came in on my plane."
"No, I didn't. I was at the airport to see a friend off. Saw you and joined your group. Naturally."
That was right...he hadn't had any luggage; he'd been fighting off Anna's attentions. Perri's thoughts drifted, ending with a flat acceptance of the fact: he didn't have anything to do with Owen. Wishing wasn't going to change that.
Their eyes met again, but this time the attraction was banked down. "You look tired, Perri." His voice was kind. "I won't keep you any longer."
If only he knew how tired she really felt...and why.
"Thanks."
"We are on a voyage of discovery, you and I; through turbulent seas frothed with ivory, you and I..." he crooned, singing softly to her as he swiftly removed the dirty dishes and placed them on a lower shelf of the cart.
Taking a clean towel from where he'd laid it over a chair, he dried her feet, gave her a hand to stand; then took her in his arms, whirled her through the door and once around the room in a quick dance step—and kissed her.
"Um, sweet." he murmured, and claimed her lips again when she unthinkingly stood on tiptoe to reach him. Like a flood victim who had just lost everything, she wanted comforting. She clung to the sustaining strength that was as much a part of Hugo as his music, sensing somehow that he understood what she was going through. Which was odd. It seemed strange that her intuition would fail her at such a moment.
"Good night, Perri."
"'Night, Hugo." She had been kissing him for comfort ...and received that and more as his lips sought hers with sudden passion. He was demanding more than she was able to give, and she pulled away, puzzled, because she felt he was also unwilling to give all she wanted from him. Each had held back a part of himself. Perhaps, when she had finally linked Owen and Walt, her hesitation would vanish. But what was making Hugo hesitate?
Her lips tingling from the contact with his, she passed into her own room, moving as if in a trance, closing the door gently behind her. And locking it.
Once alone, tears of despair filled her eyes and it took a few minutes to regain her self-control. The tickets had been an emotional anchor, a touchstone promising help. She had been unconsciously clinging to them, and now felt swept away, like a floating twig pulled from an eddy and hurtled downstream.
Around the room she walked, in a dazed circle, round and round, dumbfounded, trying to come to terms with the situation. Her emotions swung from one extreme to the other.
What should she do now? Keep searching? Use Hugo as protection?
Hugo Brandt. Donegal. She never would have guessed. Even his walk was different.
At least Hugo wasn't here to kill Owen. That much of her intuition had been accurate. Stopping her restless pacing, she walked into the bathroom and stared at her strained features in the mirror. Her blue eyes were a darker shade, reflecting her uncertainties.
The song he'd been humming in the taxi...she recognized it now. It was the song he'd written for her. Was that the truth, or just a line he gave every girl?
No wonder Hugo was widely traveled. And could afford that dinner and this expensive hotel. She turned on the water in the sink, running it to get it hot.
No wonder he could sing so well.
His voice should have told her. Hadn't other people guessed? She began to wash her face, pressing the hot washcloth against tired eyes.
Whatever had gotten into him, that he should tell her who he was? A lot of folks, given that kind of information, would go to the nearest sleaze magazine and sell it. She wouldn't; she wasn't the kind of person to abuse a trust— but there was no way he could know that.
But the discovery that Hugo was the ticket sender beat down the pleasure she had felt upon finding out who he was.
She was back to square one.
Twenty minutes later Perri finished getting ready for an early night. She had to rest.
That decision made and reluctantly accepted, she turned out the lights and crawled into bed. She would renew her search for Walt in the morning.
The heaviness of sleep had already laid its weight upon her mind when she was disturbed by a sharp rapping on her corridor door.
"Who's there?" she called, groggily, but was answered only by another sharp rap. Throwing back the sheet, she stumbled over to the door.
It couldn't be Hugo. She had heard him leave. He'd be preparing for his show.
Perri pressed her ear against the door, hesitant about opening it. Was this someone who had figured out what she was doing down here? The warning given by Owen's friend made her cautious.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I need to talk to you. We have a mutual friend." The words were whispered just loud enough to hear.
"Who?"
"Walt.”
Relief swept over her. At last! Contact with Walt. "Who are you?"
"Joe Nolan. I'm here helping Walt. Are you alone?"
"Yes," she assured him, as she quickly slid the bolt and pulled open the door...to stare, open-mouthed at the man standing in the hall.
"You!" she cried, her tone rebuking him. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
CHAPTER NINE
"I couldn't. Not then" The gray eyes of the young mechanic met hers with an earnestness she hadn't seen in him before. His level gaze was serious; jaw set, lips firm. He was the same man who had asked her— her very first night in Mazatlan— if she was a fan of Donegal's. He wore dark gray slacks and a knit polo shirt of silver and blue...making her aware of the inadequacy of her cotton nightgown.
Stepping inside, he placed his hand firmly over hers as she reached for the light switch. At the same time, he closed the door, sealing them in darkness.
"Leave it off, Perri." He spoke quietly, calmly, and with an air of authority. "Turn on the bedside lamp instead, as if you're reading." His voice was higher than Hugo's, the vowels sli
ghtly clipped, but it had some of the same carrying power.
"All right." He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, yet Perri found the contact assuring. She was so relieved to get in touch with someone from Walt, she could have kissed him.
"I have a hundred questions."
She could feel his shape in the darkness, towering over her, smell the clean manly scent of him along with a minty aftershave, hear his quiet breathing as he moved beside her.
His voice held a hint of gentle laughter at her exaggeration. "I don't have time to answer all hundred of them. How about just three or four? Walt has a question of his own. ‘Why haven't you gone home?’"
"Because Owen has been in touch with me—”
"He has!" He stiffened and grasped her arm, halting her beside him.
"Through a friend of his. I'm to let him know as soon as I locate Walt. I've been searching all over for him."
"This friend...did he give you any sign to prove who he was?"
"No. But he was the same one who called me at home and said Owen needed help."
"Strange that Owen would do that." He released her arm, making her feel deserted.
"Anyway, I can't think of any sign he could give me."
"That happens, but usually people can think of something."
Her hand flicked the lamp switch and the light glowed mellow, casting a golden circle on the ceiling and bed stand and across the rumpled sheets on the bed.
He was no longer a dark shadow, but a young man with clear gray eyes, full of quiet competence. There was an honesty about his direct look that drew her to trust him. He was enjoying being with her— his look of open admiration telling her that this aspect of his job wasn't at all hard to take— and she stepped aside so she was no longer backlighted by the lamp. His eyes flashed an acknowledgment of her move while paying tribute to her charm.
"Who are you?"
"Joe Nolan. I'm a private investigator. Walt hired me as soon as he got the postcard from Owen, telling him—”
"So that's what it was."
"Oops...." He winced.
"You weren't supposed to tell?"
"No."
She was wide awake by now and extremely annoyed with all this secrecy. "Why didn't you tell me who you were, the first day?" she sputtered. "I've been going crazy with worry."
He looked apologetic. "Sorry. Walt's orders. He wanted you to go home; not get embroiled in this mess."
"Tell him I'll go, as soon as I get him together with Owen's friend."
"What does this person look like?"
"I don't know."
"Then how're you going to...?"
"I'm to stop wearing my pendant as soon as I know where Walt is. Then he'll approach me."
"Okay."
"Where is Walt?"
"I can't tell you."
"Can't? Or won't? What am I supposed to tell Owen's friend?"
"No problem. Walt's trying to keep you out of things. He believes the less you know, the better. Walt is using the last name, Richmond, which is why you couldn't find him. Hopefully, no one knows your identity, except for Owen's friend. I had to make sure no one was tailing you, just waiting for Owen to make contact, so they could grab him."
"Are you sure there's no one?" she asked, made cautious by his caution. "I thought I was being followed a few times, but when I checked, the person had gone past."
"Just me so far, I think."
"I haven't seen you."
"You weren't supposed to."
She stared at him and he grinned back at her, as smug as Hugo sometimes was. When he didn't want to be seen, he probably wouldn't be.
He was the typical clean-cut, sports-athlete type; very innocent-looking...as if he had never seen trouble in his life. His manner was unassuming. In his way, he was fully capable of blending in with his surroundings when he wished.
"I also checked my tracks to see if I was clear. I don't want anyone to link you and Walt, you and me, or me and Walt. The fewer times we're seen together, the better. If Walt or I run into trouble, we don't want to draw you in."
"I see. I didn't think about that."
"You need to." His clear gray eyes sparkled, alert and full of interest. He had a direct way of appraising the person he was talking to. His lips were relaxed, mobile, as if he laughed easily— the laugh lines already showing near his eyes. He looked like a man who enjoyed his work.
"But what if I need to get a message through to you?" she stewed, twisting her hands in agitation. "There's this persistent man who keeps popping up, wanting to accompany me—”
"Hugo?"
"Yes. You know him?"
"He seems harmless enough; a ranch owner taking a vacation. Keep him around."
So Donegal's secret was undetected by Walt's private eye? So much for his efficiency. "But what if I want to contact you when Hugo's there?"
"If you see me on the street or in the hotel don't recognize me. If you wish to talk, tap two fingers under your lips. Then I'll seek you out. And I'll come here every evening around this time."
"Okay." If she was going to use Hugo, maybe she should tell him what she was really doing here in Mazatlan. Then at least he'd be prepared. She owed him that much. "Should I tell him? I wouldn't want him to get hurt."
"No. Walt's orders. The fewer who know anything, the better. Although he did do a good job getting rid of that pesky fellow today."
"You saw?"
"Yes. You didn't see me, but I was close. I'll be near...usually. Just don't go looking around for me."
"I won't. Thanks." Even if she didn't see him, knowing he was there and aware of her and in contact gave Perri a sense of security; at least more security than she had felt before.
Joe turned to leave, and she quickly asked her most important question. "Wait! About Walt. How is he?"
"He's okay. He nearly put himself in the hospital the first day he got here, trying to walk all day."
"Sounds like him."
"He wouldn't ride in the pulmonías more than once around town; felt that if he spent too much time in them he'd become conspicuous. I persuaded him to stay in his room most of the time. He's as hard to handle as an injured athlete. He'd drive himself into the ground and still keep going."
"That's my Walt. He has a terrible time waiting while others do the work. Did he bring his oral interpreter with him?"
"No. Even well-intentioned people talk too much." Joe's gray eyes hardened as he added, "Tell no one." Then they softened once more. "You're doing a good job, Perri. You've made more progress than Walt and I have."
"But what if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person?"
"Just do your best. Don't worry about anything else except finding Owen. I've got to leave now."
"Just one more thing before you go. When I see Owen's friend, where do I send him?"
"Good point. Tell him to meet us on the beach, in front of that vacant hotel behind the tennis courts. Its just a shell, a project someone started and never finished, out near Sabalo Point. At either 6 a.m. or 6 p.m."
"What if they want a different time?"
"Too bad. They're supposed to be friendly, but I don't like getting hit by friendly fire."
He chuckled when he heard her make a sound of annoyance.
"Must you joke at a time like this?" she demanded tartly.
"Yes. Especially at a time like this." He saw the disbelief in her eyes and went on to say, "When you're in a tight situation, you have to joke around, Perri. You use humor to ease the tension. Otherwise you would be too tight to go into action effectively. Like an athlete, you function better when you're relaxed."
"Oh." She hadn't considered that. Her nerves were so taut right now she didn't know if she could laugh.
"Remember that. If you don't relax, the tension'll destroy you. You get so exhausted, you can't think fast...you can't move."
"I'll remember."
His hand went back to her shoulders, kneading the muscles gently. "You're tight as a bow string ri
ght now. Turn around."
She did so and he pushed firmly on her tense shoulder and neck muscles.
"Ow!" She hadn't realized she was so tight. No wonder she had been feeling so tired.
He worked in silence for a few minutes, his hands gentle and strong, impersonal yet comforting as he massaged the tension away in the same manner she had worked out the aches in her step-father's leg. If he'd do this every night....
"Anything else you want to know?" he asked.
"Yes. How did Owen get into this mess?"
"That I can't tell you; except he's helping someone else. Without the extra baggage, Owen would be home by now." He released her with a gentle tap and Perri turned back to face him, noticing again the way his sense of humor swiftly took over and lit up his features.
"Remember, I'll be close. You can leave a message for `Mike' in room 430. I'm not in there very often, but I do check for messages."
With an encouraging squeeze of her hands, he opened the door, slipped into the hallway and was gone. Slowly Perri closed it after him.
What kind of threat existed that made Owen's enemies willing to kill? Perri didn't read too many mysteries, but she knew there had to be a motive. What had her step-brother done or said or seen that made people intent on killing him? Or were they simply after the person he had helped?
At least she didn't have to try to ditch Hugo. That too was a relief. She was beginning to look forward to having him around. More than that, she wanted to spend more time with him...to get to know him better...in spite of the fact that he was Donegal.
Impatient to get things going, she dressed and returned to the lobby, leaving her pendant behind.
At the desk she asked for messages. There were none. She hadn't expected any, but it gave purpose to her presence. There were not many people in the lobby. Most were strangers, although she did see Carl Freeman and Anna together in the coffee shop; and Junior checking out the magazines. She wandered down the corridor between the clothing shops, all closed, then turned to retrace her way back.
The man who had tried to talk her into letting him be her guide was standing right behind her, one arm outstretched to prevent her moving forward.