Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  I gave a start. I hadn't even thought to ask that. Carolyn was one step ahead as usual. "Would you mind if I copied down these names?" I asked her. "I'd like to follow up on them."

  "Of course not." She handed over the book. "Why don't you just hold on to this. I can get it back later." Her voice caught a little, and she shook her head again as if impatient with herself. "Although I guess there's really no hurry, is there?" She pulled a business card from her handbag and gave it to me. "If you need anything else, you can call me any time, day or night. That's my cell number, on the bottom." She bit her lip. "I'd say you could use the dedicated phone, but—"

  "I understand," I said quickly. "You probably never want to hear that phone ring again."

  She gave a tiny nod and looked away. It took her a millisecond to steel herself. "I just thought of someone. Annie had mentioned a friend of Eddie's that she didn't trust. I think she was even a little afraid of him. She had the alarm system installed after Eddie died because of Randy."

  "What's his last name?" Curt asked.

  "O'Brien," she said immediately. "I think he was a valet at one of the casinos. Silver Dollar, I think. I have no idea if he's still there. He used to stay at the Sea 'n' Spray Motel on Lamppost Lane. I saw him a few times at the house, and I could see why Annie always said there was something about him that made her skin crawl. He stood over six feet tall and had one blue eye and one brown eye. Unsettling." That ghost of a grin touched her lips. "And yes, Randy was hairy."

  I looked over the register again. "I don't see him on here."

  "He didn't attend Eddie's memorial service," Carolyn said. "They'd had a falling out." She hesitated. "Randy made a move on Annie. Naturally she told Eddie about it."

  Curt and I looked at each other. "We might have found our Sasquatch," I said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WEDNESDAY

  At one time there'd been a rash of one-story motels sprinkled along the Jersey Shore. Most had been bulldozed over time, but a few stragglers remained, unkempt cousins of the sparkling high-rise hotels that had replaced them.

  Curt and I rolled into the parking lot of Randy O'Brien's motel the next morning. The place was an island of decrepitude in a sea of sticky melting blacktop. A dust colored one-story building squatting beneath a moth-eaten sign: Sea 'n' S ay Motel.

  We got out of the Escort and stood staring at the sign.

  "Looks like someone took target practice," Curt said. "Guess being a valet doesn't pay very much."

  "The cow says moo," I said.

  He gave me a look. "Just couldn't help yourself, could you."

  I shrugged. "Look on the bright side," I said. I usually didn't. It was sort of a genetic flaw. "It's only a block away from the ocean."

  We turned to look at the dunes at the end of the block. It was a really long block. We couldn't hear a thing.

  "Well," I said brightly, "it's out there somewhere."

  "At least they've got vending machines," Curt said. "And there's a Chinese restaurant across the parking lot."

  We looked. The place was completely dark, with pieces of plywood nailed over two of its windows. A heavy chain secured the doors. On the plus side, its sign was still bright and hole-free.

  I blew out a sigh. Although it was midmorning, it was in the mid-90s with stifling humidity, no breeze, and not a cloud in sight. My shirt was stuck to my back. I didn't even want to know what my hair looked like.

  Curt, of course, wasn't sweating a bead when he looked over the motel. Not much to see. A rusted ten-speed was chained to a pole in front of a room. A rusted Chevy Impala was moored in front of another. He pointed his chin in the direction of the rooms to the left of the office. "We'll start where the curtains just fluttered."

  "Maybe it's the air conditioning," I said. And maybe we'd be invited inside, out of the heat, and served iced something and cookies. Cookies would be good. I could use some sugar to counteract the draining effects of the equatorial heat.

  "Maybe it's Randy," Curt said. "Come on."

  I followed him with a definite lack of enthusiasm. The prospect of meeting Randy set my nerves on edge. Based on what Carolyn had told us, I already disliked him by proxy.

  Curt knocked sharply on the door. It rattled badly in the frame but somehow stayed shut. I heard a sound like a giant rat scurrying across the floor, and this time I saw the curtains flutter from the corner of my eye. "Someone's there," I whispered.

  Curt knocked again.

  "Go away!" a female voice yelled.

  "I'd like to talk to you," Curt said. "Would you open the door, please?"

  "Go away!"

  "You could step outside if you want," he said.

  "Go away!"

  "I think she wants us to go away," I said. I stepped up beside him. "We're looking for someone named Randy O'Brien," I called. "Do you know him?" Nothing. "It's very important that we find him."

  "Go away!"

  I shrugged. "I gave it a try."

  "How about this." Curt pulled a twenty from his pocket. "You open the door, I give you twenty bucks, and you tell us what you know about Randy."

  Silence. Then the sounds of the door being unlocked. Before either of us could react, it cracked open, a skinny arm shot out to grab the twenty from Curt's hand, and the door slammed shut again. More sounds of bolts and security chains and a final "Go away!" that sounded suspiciously triumphant to me.

  Curt stared at his empty fingers. "Our job here is done."

  "Now our search for the nearest ATM begins," I said. "I think you're on to a new technique here."

  Curt gave me a withering look.

  "Probably a good idea to hold it to fives, though," I said. "We have a few days to go."

  "Not helpful," he told me. He gave the door a baleful look. "Let's try this from a different angle."

  The motel office was about what you'd expect in a motel like the Sea 'n' Spray Motel. White walls, worn carpet, a smattering of old tour brochures on a makeshift plywood front desk. We rang the little bell on the desk, and after some time, an enormous woman trundled slowly out of the back office. She was dressed in a black car cover that was nearly formfitting, but in no way slimming, and flip-flops with plastic daisies attached to them. Her toenails were bright pink. Her hair was in fat rollers. She wore too much mascara and a scalding red lipstick with magenta lip liner that made her mouth look like a failed paint-within-the-lines project.

  She greeted us with the warmth and openness of heart you'd expect from a member of the hospitality industry. "Whaddya want?" She blotted her lips with a balled-up napkin, but gently, so as not to disturb her masterful makeup application. The napkin came away looking bloodstained.

  Curt unleashed his most potent smile on her—the one that showed both dimples and lots of white teeth and made his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. It almost made my panties melt, but the desk clerk just kept staring at him, blank-faced. Maybe she was transfixed by that smile. Or maybe it just took longer for panties that large to melt.

  "I'm looking for my cousin," he told her. "I was told he might be staying here. His name is Randy O'Brien."

  "Uh-huh," she said.

  "He's a big guy," Curt went on. "Sort of hairy. Hair the color of…" He trailed off and looked at me for help.

  "Hair," I said helpfully. It was the best I could do. Carolyn hadn't given us that much.

  Curt stopped himself just short of an eye roll. "Could you tell me if he's staying here?" He refreshed the killer smile.

  Still nothing. The woman was clearly missing a gene. She vented an aggrieved sigh and rolled her eyes upward. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Either she was having a seizure or praying for strength in dealing with the endless parade of imbeciles that the universe saw fit to shove into her path on a daily basis.

  Very slowly, she bent over the counter, sliding forward on her forearms until she was practically nose-to-chest with Curt. The counter groaned under her weight. "You got a warrant?"

  Curt's smile vanis
hed. "We're not cops. I told you, he's my cousin."

  "Uh-huh. There's no Randy here." She walked her hands back, pushing her way upright inch by inch, gave a pointed nod toward the door, and turned away.

  "Hold up," Curt said. "Maybe you got him on film." He motioned toward the security camera mounted in the corner behind the desk.

  She snorted. "Mister, you got any idea how many sad sacks and drifters wind up in this place? How many you think I'd get if I started filming them? They come and they go, and that's the end of it."

  Curt didn't look surprised. "Then maybe you could check the register."

  "They come and they go," she repeated. "I don't take names."

  Curt whipped out another twenty and held it up without saying a word.

  She took it and tucked it into her car cover. "Room 12, round the back. You didn't hear it from me."

  "Hear what?" Curt said with another flash of dimples.

  Nothing. "Uh-huh," she said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "I think I'm losing my touch," Curt said as we headed for Room 12 round the back. The back of the Sea 'n' Spray Motel was worse than the front, thanks to trash heaped on the ground next to two full Dumpsters along with a car's worth of bald tires and discarded fast food wrappers. A few fat seagulls swooped lazily down to help themselves to leftover fries and chunks of bread.

  "Don't worry about it," I said. "She's probably got a stud back at the trailer park. At least you got a room number."

  "You could have done that, if you'd forked over twenty bucks." He glanced at me. "By the way, can I borrow twenty bucks?"

  I had about eight dollars in my handbag, counting the loose change and a two-dollar scratch-off winner. Which reminded me, I had to cash that in.

  Luckily, Curt wasn't waiting for a loan. "I sure hope Randy's around. I don't even want to think about being here after dark."

  The place was run-down and flat-out ugly, but I didn't get a dangerous vibe from it. More like desperate. Which maybe sometimes was the same thing.

  We stopped at Room 12. Closed curtains. No sounds from within.

  Curt put his ear to the door. "I hear breathing."

  I blinked. "You're kidding."

  He grinned. "Yeah. I am." He knocked. No response.

  "Let me try." I reached around him and knocked. No response.

  "I'm really getting sick of this place," Curt said.

  "Let's jimmy the lock," I said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Have you got a skeleton key handy?"

  He stared at me. "No," he said, "I do not have a skeleton key handy."

  Maizy would have had a skeleton key. Probably better not to mention that. "How about a screwdriver?" I said. "I hear you can jiggle the thingy and the doo-dad will release from the whatsis." I looked at the door doubtfully. "Of course, that would probably damage the frame."

  "You worry me," Curt said.

  That was bound to happen. "How about a credit card? It'll take longer, but I think we can make it work."

  "You've got to be kidding." But Curt reached for his wallet and pulled out a platinum Visa. Show-off. "Before I forget, Maizy's not allowed to play with you anymore. Now wait, I want to record this." He pointed his cell phone at the door and made a "go ahead" gesture.

  Like I knew what I was doing. I stepped up, slid the card between the door and the jamb, and wiggled it around, hoping I didn't snap the card in two. I had no idea if I was even near the doo-dad or the whatsis. But when I tried the knob, the door opened.

  Curt's mouth fell open. Nice to know I could still surprise him. I stepped aside. "After you."

  "You know this is breaking and entering," he said.

  "I didn't break anything," I said. I was kind of proud about that. "We'll just take a quick look around."

  "A quick look around," he agreed and went inside. It was a very small room, with a shabby looking unmade twin bed and dresser, and a small round table with two spindly chairs near the window. It smelled like industrial cleanser. Randy O'Brien hadn't done anything useful like forgetting his wallet or leaving behind a photo ID. We found a day old newspaper in the wastebasket along with an empty Dunkin' Donuts coffee cup. The closet was empty except for one pair of black pants and a white dress shirt, probably the clothes he wore to work. There were a few ratty T-shirts in the dresser, along with two pairs of jeans and some socks and underwear. Randy was about as low maintenance as you could get.

  Except for the pearl earrings on top of the dresser, half buried under a coiled gold chain.

  "Hey." I grabbed Curt's arm and pointed. His lips tightened when he saw the earrings.

  "Annie had a pearl necklace," I said. I moved closer to the dresser, trying to discern if the pearls could be real without actually touching them. It was hard to tell—I wasn't into jewelry all that much. But they seemed to match Annie's necklace. I stared at Curt. "I think Randy O'Brien is Sasquatch."

  "Maybe," Curt said. "Maybe not. Maybe these belong to his girlfriend."

  We glanced around. No other signs that a woman had been there.

  "Maybe they don't," I said.

  "Let's go ask him." Curt gave me a gentle push toward the door and followed me out. With the bottom of his shirt, he wiped the doorknob clean before pulling the door shut. He grabbed my hand. We practically jogged until we hit the parking lot. Then we slowed to a casual stroll across the blacktop, just two lovebirds on our leisurely way. Nothing to see here. We climbed into the Escort and drove off as slowly as legally possible.

  Which wasn't all that hard to do, since the Escort was running out of gas.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Forty minutes later, after we'd found a fee-free ATM, filled up at a gas station, and battled summer traffic to get to the Silver Dollar Casino. Curt pulled the Escort into the porte cochère. Clearly all that traffic had been headed somewhere other than the Silver Dollar. Since it was the middle of the day, and since most casino patrons in the middle of the day were seniors on limited budgets who either bussed in or self-parked for free, there wasn't a lot going on around us. I saw two valet attendants on duty, neither one of them fitting Carolyn's description of Randy. Neither one made a move toward the Escort.

  "Hopefully no one else gets here before Randy," I said.

  Curt didn't say anything.

  The valets didn't move.

  "Maybe Randy doesn't work days," I said.

  Curt shrugged. "Then we come back at night."

  We sat and waited some more.

  "Maybe you should tap the horn," I said.

  "They see us," Curt said grimly. "They just don't want to park the car." He narrowed his eyes in their direction. One of them got engrossed in his cell phone, and the other began surveying traffic. "That's the way you want to play it," he muttered, "I've got all day."

  I rolled my eyes. "Why wouldn't they want to park the car? That's their job."

  Curt looked at me. "Have you seen your car lately?"

  "It's a perfectly good car," I snapped. "It's got four tires and an engine and everything." I crossed my arms. "This is going to severely affect their tip. I'm not giving a dollar to a—"

  "There he is," Curt said.

  I sat upright, staring. Except for a shaved head, he was exactly how Carolyn had described him. He was well over six feet, well over two hundred pounds, and well overdue to see an aesthetician for a good body waxing. Hair sprang out from collar and rolled-up sleeves, and I didn't have to see his back to know it probably looked like a shag carpet.

  Eww.

  I reached over and locked my door.

  "That'll make it hard to get out of the car," Curt said.

  "I'm not getting out." I shuddered. "He might eat me."

  "He won't eat you," Curt said. "Not as long as we have some raw meat to pacify him." He grinned at me. The grin disappeared when the Escort suddenly sank a foot lower on its chassis as Randy leaned on the driver's door with both hairy hands. He bent forward to look in at us with those unsettling mismatched eyes, and I suddenl
y knew how goldfish in a bowl felt. I could see sweat beaded on his scalp like rain on a newly waxed car.

  "The way this works," he said, "is you two get out of the car, and I get in."

  I didn't say anything. I was busy looking for Annie's jewelry, but he wasn't wearing any earrings, unless he was wearing them in unconventional places.

  "Nice watch," Curt said, and I zeroed in on Randy's wrist. He was wearing a watch with a leather band and a brilliant blue face. His hair was curling over the band, but I was pretty sure if it wasn't, I'd be able to see an engraved E and L on there.

  "Where did you get that?" I asked. My voice sounded a little shrill. This psychopath had not only murdered Annie, he'd robbed her house afterward. "Did you get that from Annie Hollander's house?"

  "Easy," Curt said in a low voice. He opened his door and got out. He was about three inches shorter than Randy O'Brien and maybe twenty pounds lighter. "You have to excuse my girl," he said.

  "No, he doesn't," I yelled.

  Curt ignored me. "You got a few minutes?"

  Randy did an elaborate shrug. "You can see I'm kinda swamped here."

  Curt and I turned to look behind the Escort. Crickets.

  "You need directions or something?" he asked.

  Curt flashed a twenty. "I need information."

  I felt my face grow hot. Curt was actually going to pay this lowlife? We hadn't agreed on this. We hadn't even talked about it.

  And the lowlife was acting like this happened to him every day. He took the twenty and shoved it in his pocket without saying a word. He just cocked his head and waited.

  Curt jerked his thumb in my direction. "She's kind of ticked at me right now. She caught me with her best friend and—"

  "My man," Randy said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Now I have to make it up to her," Curt went on. "I have to buy her jewelry. She's into jewelry. But I don't have a lot of money."

  Randy looked pointedly at the Escort. "No kidding."

  "Help me out here," Curt said. "You've got to know a place I can score something tax-free, so I can keep the old lady happy."