“Yes. Possibly. But we have a killer who apparently threatened her, frightened her, managed to capture her and hold her long enough to kill her and cut off her hands. That’s…vicious. Maybe the sick bastard is gone from here, never to return, but I think this warrants extra caution.”
“Wow. When you put it like that, I agree. If you want, I can find you someone to bunk with, too.”
“No.” Nightmares. Flashbacks. “No, I’m on call all the time now, and I thought being manager was a big job. Being manager and security manager of a resort with a murder is so overwhelming, no one will want to room with me. I’ll be up and down all night long.”
Mara slapped the door frame, turned, and in that bright, snappish way of hers, she said, “Still, you’d sleep better if you weren’t alone.”
“I wouldn’t sleep at all.” For fear I’d scream in terror or cry in pain and grief.
“Your call. But remember, Priscilla lived in your cottage. Still, if no one’s spotted her ghost in four months, I suppose she’s not hanging around.”
“I suppose not.” Kellen watched Mara walk away and was all too bitterly aware of the obvious.
It wasn’t Priscilla’s ghost she needed to worry about.
It was Priscilla’s killer.
12
Kellen had a checklist of tasks left. Sheri Jean held the number one slot. But when Kellen walked into the lobby lounge, she found Sheri Jean leading the predinner wine tasting.
The newlyweds were nowhere in sight. Naturally.
The Shivering Sherlocks were there en masse, dressed in costumes: one wore a man’s suit, tie and fedora; the twins had on flapper costumes complete with fringe and feathers; Rita had tied her red hair in a kerchief for an admirable imitation of I Love Lucy’s Lucille Ball; Tammy had painted on high-arched eyebrows and pretend-smoked a cigarette; and Patty had pasted on a jaunty mustache and rocked as a stout Hercule Poirot.
Carson Lennex sat in their midst. He looked every inch of his urbane self, not at all the kind of man who lurked in hotel hallways, abducting rolls of toilet paper. He seemed to be enjoying the ladies’ conversation. Since they were all about the same age, Kellen supposed they related on a shared experience level.
Nils Brooks sat off to the side, and when he saw Kellen, he pushed his black-rimmed glasses up his nose and observed her with interest.
Kellen walked into the lounge and smiled. “Are we enjoying ourselves?” She sounded like a manic nurse in charge of recovering patients.
The guests cheerfully returned her greeting.
One of the Shivering Sherlocks twins waved her over. “Dear, is there a problem? I’m trying to call my husband and I can’t get cell reception.”
The gray-haired twin whipped around and snapped, “For God’s sake, Candy, Randy will survive for one night without you checking on him.”
“Debbie, when the poor man retired, he didn’t know how to turn on the oven!”
“Whose fault is that?”
“It’s mine,” Candy said softly. “He worked so many hours and I didn’t want him to have to come home and cook.”
“You worked, too!”
“I was only a teacher. He worked the pipeline.”
“I’d rather weld something than care for thirty pimply-faced, angst-ridden adolescents every day.” In an aside to Kellen, Debbie said, “I’m not totally heartless. I gave Randy a cookbook when he retired. The man can read.”
For the first time, Candy looked ruffled. “Well, he can’t follow instructions!”
“Show me a man who can,” Debbie said with some humor. To Kellen, she said, “Any word on the communications outage?”
Kellen hadn’t realized there was a communications outage, but a quick check on her phone proved Candy was right. “The storm probably knocked out our cell tower. Let me find out if our landline phones are working and I’ll get you through to your husband.”
Sheri Jean scooted over. “Is there a problem?”
“Cell tower must be down. I’m going to get Candy a phone.”
Sheri Jean looked sternly at Candy. “I could have done that.”
“You were busy! This young lady was just wandering around. You must be the resort’s jack-of-all-trades.” Candy smiled kindly at Kellen.
“Pretty much. Let me find you that phone.” Kellen walked over to Frances at the concierge desk. “The cell tower has stopped transmitting. Do we have any communications at all?”
Frances looked up from her keyboard and monitor and glared evilly. “All communications are down. No cable, so no TV.”
“Landline?”
“That we’ve got.” Frances handed over a cordless phone. “And the CB radio in Annie’s office in case of real emergency. That thing always works. The storm’s playing havoc with anything satellite related. I’m supposed to be making reservations for a whale-watching tour, weather permitting, for the newlyweds.” She gestured broadly. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Tell them weather is not permitting.” Kellen glanced around. “It’s not like they’re hanging around looking for something to do. If you know what I mean.”
“Her great-aunt gave them a whale-watching tour as a gift, and by God, she’s determined they should watch whales.”
“I wonder how long it’s been since she was a newlywed.”
“Really.” Frances lowered her voice. “You can go out on the ocean, heave your guts up, freeze to death and hope for an orca sighting…or you can stay in bed, warm and cozy, and have sex. What would you want to do?”
“I hear sex can cause motion sickness, too.”
Frances cackled. “Only if it’s done right.”
Chad Griffin waltzed up to the desk and said, “Thought you ought to know. Communications are out.” Without waiting for a response, he headed toward the lounge and poured himself a hefty glass of wine.
“The pilot’s staying here tonight?” Frances said. “I can’t stand that guy. Look at him trying to horn in on Mr. Lennex and his harem. Those ladies don’t want him when they can have a movie star.”
Chad had pulled up a chair to the edge of the group and was trying to engage Rita in conversation.
“Of course.” Frances exuded disgust. “He’s making his moves on Mrs. Yazzie. She’s the only widow in the group.”
“She’s leaning away.”
“She’s a smart lady. He’s a freeloader and he thinks every woman in the place is impressed because he’s a war hero and a pilot.”
Surprised, Kellen asked, “Is he a war hero?”
“So he says. I don’t care. He’s old.” Frances couldn’t have made her disdain more obvious. “I’ve got better things to do, like find out if anyone knows what’s happening to our communications.”
“Call Mitch. He’s good with mechanics and electronics. Have you met him?”
“You bet.”
“He can’t fix anything outside tonight, but there might be something going on with the server.”
“Okay.” Frances wore the ghost of a grin. “I’ll call Mitch. Want him to check the generator while he’s at it?”
“How often does the power go out?”
“Not too often, but when it does, it’s nice if the generator is functional. Look out, here comes Sheri Jean and she looks like she’s on the warpath.”
Kellen swiveled on the balls of her feet. “Sheri Jean, I suggest you organize a movie night.”
“We’ve got no cable? No streaming?” Sheri Jean’s voice rose.
“We’ve got nothing but a bitch of a storm and a long, dark night ahead of us.” The rotating front door whirled suddenly. A gust of wind swept the lobby; it knocked petals off the flower arrangements and sent papers flying.
Kellen and Sheri Jean stared.
No one entered. Then Russell popped his head in. “Sorry! I did latch it, but somehow it
came loose. Ghosts, I guess.”
“Priscilla,” Sheri Jean whispered. “She’s sending us a message.”
Startled, Kellen studied her white face. Sheri Jean really believed, and that seemed so unlike her. “What message would that be?”
Something—a branch—hit the big window facing the sea.
Everyone jumped and laughed.
Sheri Jean shivered. “Priscilla is not going to rest until her killer is brought to justice.”
13
The Lykke Estate
Greenleaf, Maine
The computer on the desk released a ding! and Sylvia Lykke woke from her light doze, leaped off her bed and scampered to the desk.
The computer was the only thing that roused her anymore, her only link to the real world. Erin said Sylvia was getting senile, that she suffered from dementia, and more and more she locked Sylvia in her room.
Sylvia got lonely. So lonely. When she looked out her window at the Atlantic Ocean, crashing and thrashing and blowing froth about, she felt as if she had spent her life at the edge of the continent without love, without friends, without companionship. But when the computer dinged, when there was a text or an email, Sylvia knew someone remembered her, even if it was only an offer of a penis extension.
This email was different. This was from Debbie, her old friend Debbie. They’d gone to school together here in Greenleaf. Debbie had married at about the time Sylvia married. They both had children. They both lost their husbands…
Debbie had mourned the loss of her husband.
Sylvia had been relieved at the loss of hers.
Ten years later, a man had appeared who swept Debbie off her feet. She remarried and moved to Alaska.
The two friends had drifted apart. Sylvia didn’t often hear from Debbie, so this email was a treat. She opened it and read.
Wish you were here! Candy and I are on our annual mystery weekend at Yearning Sands Resort, and guess what? Remember your daughter-in-law, Cecilia? Remember her cousin who visited right before the explosion? I think I met her here. She looks so much like Cecilia! I almost said something to her, then thought probably she didn’t want to remember that awful time. I managed to snap her photo.
I hope you’re doing well and can write soon. I often think of how much fun we used to have in school…
Sylvia scrolled down to look at the photo.
She stared. Oh God. How she stared!
She laughed. A small chuckle at first. Then a wholehearted belly laugh.
Cecilia. Cecilia.
Erin unlocked the bedroom door and walked in. “Mother, what’s so funny?”
Sylvia had long suspected Erin had surveillance on her. She was sure of it now, but she didn’t care. She laughed and laughed. “He was right.” She pointed at the photo. “He was right.”
“Who was right, Mother?” Erin had been a pretty girl, always tall for her age and big-boned, but with startling hazel eyes, thick blond hair and a wide mouth. Yet no man had ever been interested in her. Or perhaps she’d never been interested in any man other than Gregory, not since that moment when Waddington Lykke brought Sylvia and Gregory home from the hospital, put the squalling infant into Erin’s eager arms and said, “This is your younger brother. You must take care of him. He’s the Lykke family heir, and very precious.”
Now Erin carried an extra twenty pounds, but she was still attractive. She ran Lykke Industries with an iron hand…and Sylvia feared her daughter.
“Mother!” Erin took both Sylvia’s shoulders and shook her hard. “Why are you laughing?”
Sylvia’s neck snapped, and she sobered. “You’re such a bully.”
“What?” Erin reeked with annoyance. “What was so funny?”
“That.” Sylvia pointed at the screen. “He was right. He didn’t kill her. There she is, Cecilia, alive and well. The dear child does look well.”
Erin shoved her mother out of the computer chair and sat and stared. In a faraway voice, she said, “I’ve found her. Gregory, I’ve found her.”
“There’s nothing wrong with her being alive. Gregory’s rotting in his grave.”
Erin looked at her in fury. “He is not!”
“So’s Waddington. Nobody ever deserved death as much as your father. He was a cruel man. When I married him, I thought I’d married a prince. But he hurt me. All the time, he hurt me.” Sylvia wandered toward the bed. She had forgotten Erin was here, forgotten why she was on her feet. She was lost in the past, in memories that brought tears to her cheeks. “He never gave me anything except two children who were monsters like him. I knew there was something wrong with Erin when I found my kitten with its neck broken. I cried. I thought Waddington had done it. But Erin said I loved the kitten more than her, so she killed it. Until then I didn’t know about Erin. But Gregory… I knew from the first moment I looked into his eyes that he was warped, like a looking glass all distorted. When he married that poor girl, I thought… I’m still ashamed, you know? That I didn’t stand up for her. But Waddington hurt me so much I didn’t have any courage left. He said I was nothing and he made me nothing. I’m nothing.”
Erin touched Sylvia’s arm.
Sylvia turned and looked at her in surprise. “Dear, what are you doing here? How wonderful to see you. I grow so lonely here…”
“Do you know who this is?” Erin pointed at a picture on the computer monitor.
“Oh! Oh! It is Cecilia! Gregory was right. She lived. How good to know she lived.” Sylvia laughed and thought how good it was to laugh.
Erin lifted her hand.
Abruptly sober, Sylvia cowered.
Erin dropped her head, took an impatient breath and said, “Gregory wanted her dead. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember.”
“When we brought him back to the house, Gregory told me to finish the job that he failed to do. That was what Gregory wanted. Don’t you understand?”
“I understand, but, dear, Cecilia was such a sweet girl, and your brother…hurt her. The way Waddington hurt me.” Sylvia saw the past, felt the pain of broken bones and cruel taunts. “We can let Cecilia go, can’t we?”
“Is that what you think?”
“You did bury him, didn’t you? Gregory? You buried him?”
“Where, Mother? Everyone thought he was dead!”
“It doesn’t matter where. You didn’t keep his body, did you? For so long? That would be—”
“Monstrous? Because I’m a monster created by you and my father?” Erin’s hazel eyes blazed.
Sylvia shrank away. “Don’t be angry. I didn’t call you a monster…did I?”
“Honestly, Mother. You’re batty!”
The computer dinged again. Sylvia perked up. “Good! An email. I like emails. I’m not so alone when they come in.” She tried to walk toward the desk.
Erin steered her toward the bed and said forcefully, “Mother, it’s nighttime. You’re sleepy. You should go to sleep.”
“I am sleepy.” Another ding! Sylvia remembered the photo and again tried to walk to the computer. “But I want to write Debbie, tell her that that’s not Cecilia’s cousin, but Cecilia herself. How good to know Cecilia is alive and well!”
Erin blocked her. “At least the cousin is dead,” she said with cold satisfaction. “She intended to steal Cecilia from Gregory. For that, she deserved to die.”
“No, she didn’t.” Sylvia wrung her hands. “He shouldn’t have killed her.”
“Does Debbie say where they are?”
“I don’t remember. I think… I don’t know. But Debbie and her sister go there every year with their friends for a mystery weekend. Do you think I might go next year?”
Erin put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and pressed her onto the bed. “Yes. You should go next year.”
“And see Cecilia? I’ll tell her to beware of y
ou.” Sylvia’s mind wandered again. “You’re a monster like your father and your brother, only worse…”
“Such a good idea to warn Cecilia.” Erin helped her mother lie on the bed. She pulled up the blankets, tucked her in, made her comfortable.
Sylvia smiled into her daughter’s face. “I always knew you were the worst of them.”
“Yes.” Erin picked up a pillow.
“But I love you anyway.” Sylvia petted Erin’s cheek. “My daughter. My monster. Tomorrow I’ll warn Debbie about you. She’ll tell Cecilia.”
“That’s a good idea, Mother. Tomorrow. You do that.”
14
Kellen was exhausted. She should go back to her cottage right now, get some sleep before getting up tomorrow for another replay of today. But she was frazzled, worried about Annie, about the resort’s staff, about a gruesome death committed somewhere close, and the body… So many questions about the body. And the killer. Was the killer lurking in the winter’s dark and observing as they reacted to the recovery of Priscilla’s body, hands removed in some cruel dissection?
Lights gleamed from the windows of the maintenance garage. Someone was there, working or cleaning up. Kellen let herself in out of the weather. And heard a familiar sound: the click-release of a safety on a firearm.
She froze.
Birdie sat at a table with her feet up, a steaming mug before her, a book in one hand and a pistol in the other.
Kellen waved tentatively. “Hello?”
Birdie clicked the safety back on and slid the Glock 21 SF into the holster she had attached to the table leg. “Shut the door behind you. You’re letting in a draft.”
Kellen let the metal door thud shut. Outside, the storm was roaring, but in here it was quiet and safe. “You heard the news, I see.”
“Yes. Poor kid. When I’m here alone at night, I keep a pistol near at hand.” Birdie smiled without humor. “Although not usually this near at hand.”
Kellen took a moment to breathe in the familiar scents of tires, grease and sweat. Electronics from an ATV were scattered in pieces across the floor.
Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade Book 1) Page 10