Killer Smile

by Marilyn Pappano

  Claire’s answering smile was amazingly cheery, reminding her of Stacia’s normal happy-happy mode—though her sister had had little to be happy about lately where Natasha was concerned. “I have bookcases over there—” she waved toward the lounge around the corner, past the stairs “—and the vending machine is in the first room down that hall, on the right. It’s disguised as a refrigerator. There’s candy and chips and cookies, too.”

  “Thank you.” Natasha turned down the passageway that led to the back parking lot and went into the first room. It wasn’t much bigger than a closet and held a small fridge with bottled water and pop, a coffee maker with a selection of brew pods and a nice mix of sweet and salty snacks. An honor sheet hung on the refrigerator door: no need for money, just add her name and choices to the list.

  Armed with pop, M&M’s and a bag of barbecue potato chips, she returned to the lobby. After taking a couple of books from the case, she sat in a cozy chair in the corner that was almost big enough for two. A knitted throw was draped over one arm, and a hassock stood a few feet away. She felt almost giddy at being out of her room, though not overly exposed. The windows gave her a great view of the entire block outside, the chair dwarfed her, and if worse came to worst, she could hide underneath the throw and possibly go unnoticed.

  Too easily, she could see Daniel rolling his eyes at that.

  First things first: with three M&M’s melting in her mouth, she took the phone and an accompanying note from the bag. She would recognize Daniel’s handwriting anywhere; back home she had dozens of notes he’d written her, everything from asking her to buy bread to suggesting dinner out that evening to professing his love for her.

  This note was much more impersonal.

  The phone is activated. The number is 918-555-0949. The chief’s, Ben’s and my numbers are already programmed. So are Stacia’s and your insurance agent’s.

  Insurance. Ugh, she hadn’t even thought about that. Would a photo of the twisted metal frame that was all the fire had left be enough to convince them the car was totaled, or would they still need to send an adjustor?

  She stuck the note and the bag in her purse, the phone in her pocket and examined the two books she’d grabbed: both hardcovers, one a psychological thriller and the other The Unlucky Ones. Oh, great: terror and gore. Crazy-making and dead-making.

  Instead of getting up, though, she kicked off her shoes, propped her feet on the hassock, covered up with the throw and opened the second book. I’ve heard that book will give you nightmares, she’d told Claire last night. Well, it wasn’t as if that would be anything new, would it? And it might be a nice change of pace, to dream someone else’s nightmares rather than her own.

  The story was true, according to the blurb on the cover: “The experiences of a young girl whose parents were serial killers.” It could also be nice, Natasha reminded herself, to remember that a lot of people had problems far deadlier than her own.

  Please, God, let it stay that way.

  Music played softly in the distance, probably from the private office behind the check-in counter, and traffic splashed by on the street. The sidewalk was empty of pedestrians—really, who wanted to do anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary this afternoon?—and Natasha lost herself in the book. It was scary, yes, and poignant and sad, and every few pages, she kept reminding herself of what Claire had said about the author: she survived horrible things and went on to live a good life.

  Gradually, she became aware of the fact that she was no longer alone. The hairs on her neck and arms prickled, and fear spasmed in her gut as she slowly drew her gaze from the book page. A man stood at the edge of the carpet—his raincoat and shoes damp—depositing a dripping umbrella into a nearby stand. Obviously he’d just come in, but she hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t caught a whiff of rainy freshness or a cooler breath of air. She thought her senses were more attuned to her surroundings than that and was faintly disturbed that they weren’t.

  He shrugged out of his coat, revealing dark trousers, a gray button-down and a black tie. Her heart rate slowed as she recognized him as the third-floor guest. In the business of computers, Officer Gideon had said, which made Natasha’s skin crawl just a little, and from California, which made it crawl more. But the officer had also said he was a regular, same week every month, and he’d arrived in Cedar Creek this time before she’d even crossed the New Mexico state line. He wasn’t in the running to be her stalker.

  He could be, Tasha nagged. Anyone could be. Even Claire. Even Daniel.

  After an instant, the irritable voice reconsidered. Well, not Daniel. He’s too...

  Sane? Normal? Uninterested?

  The computer guy seemed to notice her for the first time and cast a cautious glance her way. Great, was she so consumed by her stalker that she was starting to act like one herself?

  She smiled at him, hoping for polite, not wanting conversation or company. When he took a few steps her way, her hopes sank, but his destination was the bookcase, not her. He ran long fingers across the spines of the hardcovers that stretched across the top rows, apparently looking for a specific title.

  Natasha picked up the book she was reading. “Is this the one you want?”

  When he turned, his glance went to the book she offered, then to the thriller sitting on the table “Nah. That one is. Claire said it’s very good.”

  She offered it, too. “You can go ahead and take it. I haven’t started it.”

  “Well...are you sure?”

  “One’s enough for me. My eyes aren’t used to these things called paper books. They’re accustomed to the tablet, where I can change the size of the font and look up things in the dictionary right on the page and change pages with a tap.”

  He laughed as he came forward to take the book. “I’m old-school. I still prefer the feel and the smell and the weight of a real book.”

  “Isn’t that heresy for an IT guy?”

  His brow crooked up, and she shrugged. “Claire mentioned it.” Not to her, granted, but she didn’t want to acknowledge being the person who, however inadvertently, had disrupted the guests’ trips and brought a criminal investigation into their lives.

  “Rob,” he said then stuck out his hand. Unfortunately, it still held the book. He switched hands and offered his again. “I’m Rob Miller.”

  “Natasha.” She half rose and shook hands. His palm was damp, his grip unimpressive. She wasn’t crazy about bruising handshakes, of course—Archer had one of those unless he remembered to tone it down in time—but she liked to know she was shaking hands with a live person. Rob’s fingers had barely closed around hers before he let go and pulled back. It was forgettable.

  They stayed there, out of words, it appeared, and a little awkward, when a colorful movement outside caught their attention. An instant later, the door opened and in breezed the four wine-trip women. They wore bright clothes and carried brighter umbrellas, and all four of them carefully clutched large, heavy shopping bags to their chests. One of them flashed Natasha and Rob a far-too-cheery smile. “We thought we might have to swim Cedar Creek—”

  “Or go down with the wine,” a second one interjected.

  “—but we made it, and we’re celebrating with a wine-tasting in our room tonight. Wear your jammies.”

  The third one subjected Rob to a sly up-and-down look. “You, too, if you have ’em. But join us even if you don’t.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” Natasha said with a smile.

  “Neither were we when we started these trips. Come see how good we’ve gotten.” The woman winked, then her gaze narrowed. “Hey, you’re the owner of the formerly-red-car-now-scorched-heap-of-twisted-metal, aren’t you? Honey, we’ve got a bottle of blackberry wine with your name written all over it. Room five, any time after seven.”

  They thundered up the stairs, still clutching their purchases, then Natasha shifted her attentio
n back to Rob. “Glad I don’t have the room above them.” At his slight frown, she hastily went on, “They can’t get too bad. Claire keeps letting them back every year.”

  Instead of relaxing, his frown sharpened a few degrees, his gaze directed toward the stairs, where the women had disappeared. Abruptly, he gave his head a shake, then smiled at her. “I’ll be in my room tonight with pizza and a good book, thanks to you. Perfect ending for the week I’ve had.”

  With a nod, he left, too, so quiet on the stairs that compared to the wine women, he was damn near stealthy.

  Settling back in the chair with the thriller she’d rejected earlier, she sighed softly. When she thought someone was stealthy because he didn’t walk like a herd of elephants, maybe it was time for her to take that blackberry wine and drink down every drop.

  Chapter 4

  “I have better ways to spend a Friday evening,” Daniel announced sourly as he waited for traffic to pass before opening the door of the SUV and sliding out.

  “What? Watching cop TV?” Morwenna took her time circling the vehicle, and why not? She wore a lime-green raincoat that reached below her knees with purple-and-black checked rain boots that ended in the same vicinity. The coat’s hood was pulled over her head, casting her face in deep shadow and giving a glimpse of its red-and-yellow striped lining. It would take a flood of biblical proportions to get her wet.

  “I don’t watch cop TV,” he said with a scowl.

  “Unless it’s to laugh at the mistakes.”

  As she strolled across the street, he took her arm, trying to nudge her to go a little faster. “Don’t worry, Dan’l. Nobody’s going to miss seeing me in this outfit.”

  “No, but it might make them run you down on purpose.”

  Under the hotel awning, he let go, and she shook impressively before pointing one chastising finger at him. “You have no concept of fashion as a statement. As art.”

  He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Remember? Dad? Supermodel? I grew up in designer diapers and jammies. I had the best coordinated wardrobe of any nursery school student in Malibu. I know fashion. I also know color-blind I-don’t-give-a-darn, too.”

  “Jeffrey’s style is as classic as classic can get. My style is funky.”

  “Your style is close your eyes, grab some garments and throw them on.” As he reached for the door, movement in the lobby shifted his gaze past her, poking the ember of annoyance in his gut. Natasha sat in the corner, shoes kicked off, snuggled in as if she were safe in her own living room instead of a hotel lobby with plate glass windows from side to side, there for anyone to see from the sidewalk, the street or the other neighboring buildings. Why wasn’t she in her room with the door double-locked and the blinds drawn?

  Because it was an awfully small space to be confined to for hours on end, and he hadn’t actually told her to stay there, which she would be quick to point out if he made a fuss. And there’d been no direct threat against her yet—just her fiancés and her car. The only person even remotely threatened was him, and he’d been two dozen places today without looking over his shoulder even once.

  Well, maybe once.

  Not noticing his hesitation, Morwenna pushed past his outstretched arm, opened the door and went inside. “Evening, Claire,” she called, hanging her coat on the rack and taking a few steps toward the desk, stopping at the edge of the rug. “I won’t come any closer because I don’t want my wellies to drip all over your floor, but how are your cat babies? And how’s your mum?”

  Daniel dried his boots on the rug, intensely aware of Natasha’s speculative gaze on them. She had more color than when he’d last seen her, and less hurt, and an air of boredom that practically vibrated. Placing a finger in the book she was reading, she closed the cover and waited.

  His boots squeaked a few times as he moved from the heavy-duty rug at the door to the braided one where the furniture sat. He thought of a dozen things he could say—shouldn’t say—and settled on the least offensive. “Did you get the phone?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t get to give the officer this.” She pulled a sheet of hotel paper from the back of the book and laid it on the coffee table between them.

  He had to take a few steps more to pick it up. Identifying information for her other fiancés: Kyle, Eric, Zach. When they were together, everything was always Natasha and Daniel. Natasha and I. We. He’d been able to ignore Natasha and Kyle and Natasha and Eric because he’d known this time was different. They were different.

  And then there’d been Natasha and Zach, and before long, there would be Natasha and someone else, because while he might have been different, she wasn’t. She was the same unable-to-commit woman who’d broken hearts both before and after his.

  “Thank you for putting Stacia’s and my insurance agent’s numbers in the phone.”

  He shrugged. Serve and protect—that was what cops did. His gaze fell on the book she was reading, a cover he knew well. The Unlucky Ones. “You’re reading—” At the last instant, he bit off the words. No more than a handful of people in town knew that author Jane Gama was Mila Douglas, the chief’s wife, and that that nightmare had been her life. Any time Mila wanted to spill the secret, great, but he wasn’t going to spill it for her.

  “Kind of creepy reading given the circumstances,” he said instead.

  “It’s easier to worry about Jane than myself.”

  “She survives,” he said drily.

  “I know. I don’t think I could have started it if Claire hadn’t told me that.”

  She looked past him, and he realized that Morwenna and Claire’s conversation had ended. Morwenna was still standing on the rug instead of stepping onto the wood floor, but her curiosity was sharp enough to minimize the distance between them. She looked from him to Natasha, then back again, rolling her eyes. “Where are the manners Jeffrey taught you, eh? I’m Morwenna Armstrong. I work at the police department. And you’re the size-two beach goddess with OMG shoes.”

  Natasha’s expression was part amused, part wry. Daniel knew she wouldn’t waste time wondering if that description had come from him. His fashion sense extended only to his own clothes, he wasn’t sure he’d ever used the word goddess in his life, and he was very sure he’d never said OMG in his life.

  Natasha set the book aside, threw back the afghan and stood, coming around the furniture to shake hands with Morwenna. When he saw that she’d changed out of the tiny shorts she’d worn earlier, something crazy like disappointment surged through him, but he ruthlessly pushed it away.

  “I’m Natasha Spencer.” She gave Morwenna a look then said, “I like your outfit.”

  As Daniel joined them, Morwenna punched him on the arm. “Ha! She’s clearly got better taste than you.”

  Or lies better, he thought, because he was pretty sure Natasha wouldn’t be caught dead in leggings, a miniskirt and layered T-shirts, snug-fitting in eye-spasm-inducingly bright and clashing colors. Granted, Natasha could catch every man’s attention wearing olive drab camouflage.

  “You look incredibly comfy,” Natasha said, and Morwenna nudged him again.

  “I know! No one seems to understand the concept of comfort today. Mum spends half her life in leggings but still gives me the evil eye when I leave the house wearing them.”

  “The difference is your mum is running marathons in her exercise clothes while you’re going to work and on dates in yours,” Daniel helpfully pointed out. “To say nothing of the fact that hers tend to match.”

  “It’d be a sad world if we all had to match, wouldn’t it?” Morwenna shifted closer to Natasha. “We’re here to take you to dinner. You might want to put on something that covers more. The rain’s got a chill to it tonight. I’ll escort you upstairs to change while Daniel turns the vehicle around to park in front of the door the way I told him to when we got here.”

  He watched the thoughts cross Natasha’s face: amusemen
t, fading boredom, curiosity, surprise. Was she wondering what his and Morwenna’s relationship was? Did she assume Morwenna was a cop, too, maybe even a detective working plainclothes, not that the phrase even existed in Morwenna’s vocabulary?

  Or was he projecting his own thoughts on her? He’d seen the man talking to her the first time he’d driven by. He’d noticed how reluctant the guy seemed to walk away from her. He’d texted Ben and asked him about the information they’d dug up on the only single guy on the guest registry.

  Daniel didn’t like her hanging with the man, he’d decided after scanning his photo, his identifiers, his job information. He was sure of that. But it was okay, because he was equally sure that his only objection was Natasha’s stalker situation. Having possibly put Daniel’s, Kyle’s, Eric’s and Zach’s lives in danger, the least she could do was delay looking for number five until that was resolved.

  Jealousy had nothing to do with it. He was just trying to do his job.

  He tuned back in to find both women watching him. Morwenna wore her exasperated face, and Natasha still looked faintly amused. For what was probably the second—or fourth—time, Morwenna said, with impossibly unhelpful hand gestures, “We go upstairs. You get car. Turn around. Park at door.”

  Daniel scowled at her. He wasn’t about to admit that he’d been too deep in thought about Natasha and that guy and jealousy to hear what either woman had said, so he just turned toward the lobby exit. Natasha never dawdled getting ready. Changing shorts for jeans, sneakers for boots...a couple minutes, tops. They would be back in the lobby by the time he drove far enough down the block to make a U-turn and came back.

  Morwenna had been right: with the setting of the unseen sun, the rain had picked up a chill. Misty auras circled streetlights and headlights, and denser pockets of fog floated free-form a few inches above the concrete. For just a moment, as he turned the truck’s heater on and waited to pull out of the parking space, he felt a tug of homesickness. He wanted to see sunlight, to smell the ocean brine on the breezes, to feel the heat of the sun and the air and the ground combining to warm him all the way through. He wanted to be dry. Comfortable. Peaceful. Was it so much to ask? Of course not. Was it going to happen?