by Terry Odell
He ordered their drinks and glanced at the television, which was giving the weather forecast. He knifed up a bit of dip and spread it on a cracker. “I figured there’s not much we can do until we find out if they caught Scumbag.”
“I guess so.” She picked up the menu and then looked at her watch. He followed suit, surprised to find it was after three.
“Well, Emily. We can have some appetizers, or go whole hog and call it an early dinner. What do you think?” He figured they’d be on the road again, but wanted to keep Kelli’s mind away from that for the moment. “I vote for food.”
“Fine.”
Emily was fading and he needed her back. He fixed her a cracker. “Try the spread. It’s good.”
She accepted it, but he noticed her fingers touched only the edge of the cracker, carefully avoiding his.
Their Guinnesses came and he watched Kelli take a tentative sip. She rolled it around her mouth, then studied the ceiling.
“What do you think?” he asked. “It’s an acquired taste, I guess.”
“No. It’s … almost chewy. Kind of chocolaty, too.” She took another sip. “Good.”
He put down his menu. “Have you decided what you want?”
Without looking up from her glass, she said, “Well, it’s an Irish pub. I’ll have the Irish stew.”
* * * * *
Kelli picked up the laminated list of beers from its holder behind the salt, pepper and vinegar. She pretended to study it while she watched Blake, who seemed focused on the television sets above the bar. Things felt all right when they were playing Bill and Emily, but Blake and Kelli kept intruding. Blake and Kelli had shared something under that pine tree, something neither was ready for. Bill and Emily could enjoy lunch. But even across the table, she felt his heat. Blake’s.
She’d seen it on the stairwell. Fear first, then relief. Even though he was hurt, he’d come up ten flights for her. He could have told her to get out and made his own escape.
Or waited at the bottom of the stairs. Had he felt guilt? Obligation? She thought of him, hurt and sick, in those motel rooms. Thought about why she’d stuck with him instead of dumping him at an emergency room. It wasn’t guilt. Not obligation, either—maybe it had started that way, but no more. And what she’d seen on the stairwell—what she’d felt under that tree—that wasn’t guilt—or obligation.
Later, she told herself. Much, much later. “This isn’t real,” he’d said. Nothing was real when your life might depend on someone else. It was normal to forge a bond.
She’d given her heart away twice and suffered the pain. Never again. Banking the arousal that welled insider her, she set down the beer list and gazed at the television screens.
“You think I should get a haircut after all?” Blake’s voice cut through her contemplation.
“What?”
“A haircut.” He lifted a tendril of his hair. “I’m sick of the cap.”
“Not to mention you forgot it.”
“Guess I had something else on my mind.”
The look he gave her was pure Blake and it was a moment before she could breathe.
“Besides,” he went on. “I don’t think Bill’s a watch cap sort.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know—he works in the field. But yeah, the hair’s probably the first thing someone would latch onto, and at a second look—well, we don’t need anyone taking second looks.”
The waitress showed up with salads and a basket of hot soda bread. Blake pushed the basket toward Kelli.
“No, thanks.” She picked up her fork, watching Blake rip off a slice of bread, slather it with butter and take a huge bite. Very little seemed to interfere with the man’s appetite. She took a tentative bite of lettuce, chewing slowly. Her stomach was still undecided about food. Pushing the cucumbers and tomatoes aside, she picked at the greens.
Blake had finished his salad and two more slices of bread when the waitress returned with their entrees.
Blake poked his fork through the browned layer of mashed potatoes topping his dish. Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her, then her plate. “Eat.”
She sampled her stew. Rich, comforting. She chewed on a piece of lamb, savoring its flavor. It was the first time she’d actually tasted anything since she’d cooked for Blake. She scooped up some of the vegetables, enjoying the mix of textures against the meat.
“How do you do that?” Blake asked.
“Do what?”
“You’re even eating like Emily.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kelli ate because she had to. Now, you’re—I don’t know—classy.” He wiped his mouth. “Wait. That didn’t come out right. It’s that your mannerisms, the way you walk—everything changed. It’s not that one is better. Just different.”
“Emily isn’t Kelli.” She took another bite, then picked up a slice of bread and broke off a small chunk. “I have no clue what triggered someone connecting Kelli with Casey. It could have been anything—like you said, a distinctive head gesture. Or a speech pattern. If Kelli’s going to have to disappear, she has to disappear completely.”
“Sweetheart, you scare me. But you’re not Emily. You’re borrowing her, right?”
“Don’t you like her?” She grinned. His normal cockiness had vanished. He was off balance. She pondered the quick jolt of power it gave her.
“Sure. I guess. Yeah.” He locked his gaze on her and she knew he was under the pine tree. With Kelli.
He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I think the best I can do is a haircut. I don’t think I’d pass muster as a field biologist.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to.”
“Well, field biologists eat, right?” He dug into his shepherd’s pie.
“Yeah, they do. And so do their wives.”
They lingered over their meals and coffee. Blake seemed to have grown comfortable with her being Emily and she laughed when he tried out various Bills.
“Not a Boston accent. Please. Besides, they live in Florida.”
“Okay, Sweetheart. But I say Bill was born in … Texas.” His drawl was perfect. “Or maybe Canada, eh?”
More people had trickled in, the after-work crowd filling the bar. When one man urged the bartender to turn up the volume on one of the televisions, she realized they hadn’t so much as glanced at the screens since they’d started eating.
Blake reached across the table and gripped her hand. There was an exterior shot of the Plaza, with police cars and flashing lights. Someone, his face electronically blurred, was being put into a police car.
“Is that an ambulance?” she asked, trying to get a better view.
“Can’t tell for sure. Guess I’ll put off the haircut.”
Chapter Fifteen
Blake opened the Bonneville’s passenger door for Kelli, surprised she didn’t give him an argument. “Where to?”
“Back to the hotel. Where else?”
He paused. What happened to the woman who was one step ahead of everything? “Sweetheart, are you sure? We’re not positive they caught Scumbag.”
“You think the cops showing up at the hotel and taking someone away right after you reported a wanted felon is a coincidence? That it wasn’t Scumbag?”
“No, I’m saying maybe someone told him where to find us. And maybe that someone is coming, or is sending someone else.”
She twisted in her seat and looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was. Or she’d lost the paranoia bug and he’d caught it. Then he saw her following his thought process.
Her eyebrows lifted. “You sure you only read three Sherlock Holmes stories? That was pretty good.”
He allowed himself a quick bask in the glow of her approval. “So—where to?”
“Back to the hotel.”
He searched her face to see if she was joking, but she was dead serious. “Weren’t you listening? We can’t.”
“We have to. Everything I have is up there. My computer was in the middle of another search when you called
, plus all the papers, files, everything.”
“Then what’s in the gym bag?”
She looked at him like she didn’t know what he was talking about. He pointed to the backseat.
“Oh,” she said. “Yeah. Reflex. That’s got my barest survival essentials. Emergency ID, some cash, my thirty-eight, a change of clothes. Enough to get me one step down the road if I have to start over. But we can’t start over. There’s too much up in the room. Drive.”
“No. It’s too risky.”
“Fine. I’ll get a cab.” She leaned over the seat, grabbed her bag and opened the passenger door.
“Damn it, get back in here. We’ll go to the hotel. Together. But in and out. Grab our stuff.”
The door slammed shut. She clutched the gym bag to her lap. “Go.”
* * * * *
Blake swung the Bonneville through the hotel parking lot, choosing a slot by the side entrance. “In and out, remember?”
Kelli nodded. They got out of the car and entered the hotel. A crowd of people milled through the lobby area and he saw Kelli tense and freeze. He put a hand at her elbow. “It’s all right. Some convention cocktail party. They’re all too busy drinking to notice us. Let’s go.”
They made their way through clusters of bodies to the elevators. Groups of hotel staff stood, heads together, hands gesturing. Undoubtedly talking about Scumbag’s arrest. He tried to listen, but couldn’t make out more than a general buzz before a ping announced the arrival of the elevator.
Inside, Kelli’s eyes were glued to the floor numbers as the car rose. He took her hand, laced his fingers with hers. “You’re probably right,” he said, as much to reassure himself as her. “If they caught Scumbag, we should be okay. Nobody else could be here. At least not right away. And we’ll be gone by then.”
She shrugged. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “We’re fine. Bill and Emily, right? Back from dinner.” He used his best Texas drawl. “Well, it sure wasn’t chicken-fried steak, but the Irish grub wasn’t half bad, now was it?”
When she smiled and gave him The Shake, he tousled her hair and grinned. “Glad you’re feeling better, but you’ve got to be Emily again. Watch it.”
Hand in hand, they strode down the hall to their suite. He inserted the key card. When the light turned red, he tried again. And a third time.
“What?” Kelli asked.
“My key won’t work. You got yours?”
He sensed the presence of someone behind him and snapped his head around. Kelli gripped his arm.
Two men approached, one in an expensive suit wearing a hotel nametag, too far away to read.
“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Cranford. I’m glad you’ve returned. Allow me to explain.” A touch of the South in his speech, Blake noted. The words dripped out slowly, with extra syllables.
Blake studied the other man. Dark-skinned, his shaved head reflected the light from the hallway. Shorter than Blake by several inches, his posture somehow managed to exude height. Blake took in the gun holstered at his waist and the gold badge held up at shoulder level.
“I’m Detective Gunther, Eugene Police Department.”
“Let me,” the hotel man said. He reached past Blake and inserted a key in the lock. The light flashed green and he pushed the door open. “Can we go inside? I’d like to apologize on behalf of the Plaza. If you’ll gather your things and call the bell captain, we’ll have you in another suite right away.”
“What do you mean?” Kelli asked. “Did something happen to our room?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He never got inside, but—”
“Excuse me. Would somebody please explain what’s going on?” Blake’s heart pounded, but he kept his face neutral.
By now, the foursome was inside the room. Blake glanced around, but nothing seemed any different from what he’d come to accept as Kelli’s working style of strewing piles of papers on any flat surface.
“I’m Rhett Newberry, hotel manager,” Expensive Suit said. He gave Blake his card. “We never give out room numbers. I want to assure you the employee in question has been reprimanded and something like this will never happen again.”
Blake stuck the card in his pants pocket. Bill. He was Bill. “Maybe if you’d start at the beginning, Mr. Newberry? My wife and I just returned from some sightseeing and an early supper. She’s tired and was looking forward to lying down for a while.”
He glanced at Kelli, who was staring at the conference table covered with papers. He drew her closer to him and she wrested herself free and hurried to the table.
“Bill, you know what I’ve told you about leaving your papers all over the place. These fine people will think we’re such slobs.” She piled them into one neat stack and sequestered them inside a desk drawer. “There. That’s better. Maybe we can sit down?” she said, gesturing toward the conference table.
“I’m sure we’d be more comfortable over here, Emily.” Blake walked to the couch and settled down. Kelli—now the consummate Emily—strolled to the couch and sat beside him, resting her hand on his thigh. He took it and held it. Cold but steady.
“I’m sure Detective Gunther can explain,” Newberry said. “I’ll let him finish his questions—he’s assured me they’re routine—and you call when you’re ready to move. Oh and your stay is on the house, of course, and if you’d like to eat at one of our hotel restaurants, you call me and I’ll arrange it.” He nodded at everyone, gave an apologetic smile and slid out of the room.
The door clunked shut and Gunther gave Blake a crooked smile. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a small notebook and pen.
“What did he mean?” Kelli asked. “Why are we moving?” Blake heard the faint wobble in her voice and wondered how much was put on.
“Merely a precaution, Mrs. Cranford.” The detective’s voice seemed to start at his toes and resonate up to his mouth, where it exited a deep bass. “We apprehended someone trying to break into this room.”
“An employee? Is that what Mr. Newberry meant when he said someone had been reprimanded?”
“Not exactly.” Gunther’s eyes darted back and forth between Blake and Kelli. “The suspect managed to bribe a clerk in reservations into revealing your room number. I believe Mr. Newberry has taken care of her.”
Gunther pulled out what looked like a police booking photo of Scumbag. “Do you recognize this man?” he asked.
Blake took the picture, held it so he and Kelli could examine it. She took the photo from him, running a fingertip over it and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“No. Should I?” He put his arm around Kelli in a gesture of protection. She rested her head on his shoulder. Okay, he knew this scenario. He’d used it before, working with a partner to close a tough deal. The corporate version of good cop, bad cop. Only now it was Emily playing the innocent wife and he’d be playing the cooperative but indignant husband.
“Someone called in a tip this afternoon,” Gunther said. “We apprehended the suspect trying to break into your room.”
Kelli leaned forward. “So you caught him, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gunther replied. “We did.”
Blake let a little indignation through when he spoke. He patted Kelli’s hand. “Detective, if you have your man in custody and he was trying to break into our hotel room, shouldn’t you be talking to him, not us?”
“Oh, we are. But he has a lawyer—a very expensive lawyer—and he’s not doing much talking. I thought you might give us something to work with.”
“He’s going to be in jail, though, isn’t he?” Kelli sounded frightened. Blake didn’t think she was digging very deep to show the fear.
“For now. We’re trying to tie him to another crime—a murder that took place near an EnviroCon property.”
Kelli gasped. “Murder?”
Blake let his voice rise. “Officer Gunther, you’re frightening my wife. Is there any reason for us to think we’re in danger here?”
“No, not
at all.” He looked at Kelli. “I’m sorry ma’am. One of our officers was wounded while we were arresting Mr. McGregor, so this is a priority.”
“Is he all right?” Kelli asked. “The officer?”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. McGregor had a knife. Our officer’s being stitched up. He’ll be fine.”
“Thank goodness,” Kelli whispered. “Bill, I … I think I need to lie down.”
He started at the genuine shakiness in her voice. She was chalk-white and looked imploringly at Gunther.
“Of course, ma’am. Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No, I’ll be fine if I lie down for a few minutes. Sorry, I get this way sometimes.” She gave a weak laugh. “No stomach for blood—even thinking about it.”
“Will you excuse me, Detective?” Blake said. “I need to see to my wife.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but rose and started walking Kelli to the bedroom.
Gunther half stood. “No problem. I have a few more questions and I’ll be on my way.”
Blake helped Kelli to the bed. “Sweetheart, you look like a ghost.” He kept his lips close to her ear. “Don’t tell me you can pass out at will, too?”
“No. I’m sorry. But how many more people are going to get hurt because of me?”
“Quiet. It’s not because of you. Now, you’ve got about thirty seconds to brief me.”
She struggled to sit up. “I’ll be okay. I can go back.”
“No, you can’t. We’ve got the upper hand here for a minute. He thinks he’s upset you—and he has, but not for the reason he thinks. I can probably get him to fill me in on what they know. But I need to know some more about my job, and Bill.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath and by the time she exhaled and opened her eyes, some color had returned to her face.
“You’re here to meet with someone from EnviroCon—Yoshi Obayashi is the normal coordinator. Three possible land donations—you don’t know the particulars. And you’ve never worked with Kelli, but you probably saw her at an EnviroCon fundraiser or some other function. You’ve heard of her, though—she’s top-notch.”