But the last thing he wanted was for anyone to know he was watching the Last Resort. The old woman wouldn’t like it, and the sheriff damn sure wouldn’t approve.
“I need a lawyer, Brad. You have any suggestions?”
“You think it’s that bad?”
“The sheriff believes I’m guilty and he isn’t open to any other ideas. Yeah, I think it’s that bad.”
“I know some people in Tulsa. I’ll talk to them and get back to you. Is there anything else I can do?”
Yeah, Mick wanted to say. Quit standing up for me to the sheriff. Discussing the threats he’d made in anger with no intention of carrying them out wasn’t helping any.
But he didn’t say anything of the kind. “Nothing I can think of.”
“I’ll look into the lawyers and give you a call as soon as I have something.”
Mick hung up, reclined the seat a few inches and stretched as much as he was able. He should have gotten some lunch, even just a candy bar and a Pepsi, before pulling in here. He hadn’t eaten much since the deputies had knocked on his door Sunday morning with the news of Sandra’s death.
His response, in his own mind and surely in the deputies’, had left much to be desired. He had been shocked, in the same way he would have been shocked if his secretary or his neighbor back in Oklahoma City had been killed, less than if it had been Brad or a member of his own family. There had been a brief sense of loss for what he and Sandra should have had and a shameful sense of relief that what they had had was over. There would be no more fighting, no more rages, no more battles over every aspect of their lives together and apart. No more daily sorrows, no more hatred, no more contemptuous exchanges.
His wife had been brutally murdered, and he couldn’t feel anything more than a general sadness. What kind of man did that make him?
A sorry one.
Damned sorry.
It was another hot dry day, a prelude to the hotter drier days of July and August. Hannah Clark regretted leaving the isolated cabin the moment she stepped outside and the heat wrapped around her. If the air-conditioning in her car worked, she wouldn’t mind so much, but it’d gone belly-up last summer and she hadn’t yet found the money to fix it. Even if she had any money to spare, there were so many other things that needed fixing more——the dishwasher in the restaurant kitchen, the computer gathering dust in her office, the leaky roof, the half-dozen room air conditioners that had quit working, eighteen leaky faucets, twenty-four mattress sets that had seen better days, thirty-six sheet-and-towel sets that were approaching threadbare... The list went on.
She didn’t mind living on a budget. It was a fact of life when you earned your livelihood from a motel located as far off the beaten path as the Last Resort. Her parents had budgeted every penny, and her grandparents before them. But her parents and grandparents had at least kept up with the outgo. They’d kept the place in reasonably good repair. Since her father’s death ten years ago, she’d been struggling to keep her head above water.
Lately she’d felt as if she’d lost the struggle. She was drowning, one slow painful breath at a time. This weekend, though, she’d at least broken the surface and was treading water. She’d bought herself a ten-thousand-dollar reprieve, and it hadn’t cost her so much, had it?
Just her pride. Her dignity. Her self-respect. Her decency.
Her smile was thin and unforgiving. She’d always said she would do anything to save the Last Resort. Now she’d proved it.
She tossed her overnight bag in the passenger seat, spread a towel over the driver’s seat to protect her legs from the hot vinyl and climbed inside. She hadn’t wanted to come to the cabin two days ago. Now she didn’t want to leave. With no radio, television or telephone, it was quiet and peaceful here. She’d passed her days doing nothing. When she’d gotten antsy Saturday afternoon, she’d walked down to the lake and swum until she was exhausted. When she’d remained antsy Sunday, she’d done it again, and then she had slept the afternoon away.
As soon as she walked back into the motel, there would be so much to do that she wouldn’t sleep away another afternoon for, oh, ten years or so.
It was a ten-minute drive on a winding lane back to the paved road and another fifteen minutes from there to Sunshine. She didn’t look at the shabby buildings and homes she passed on her way to the motel. Looking just reminded her of the life she’d wanted for herself away from Sunshine, working at a job of her choosing, living comfortably, worrying about nothing but the narrow details and problems of her own life. She’d even made a start at fulfilling her dream when she’d earned enough scholarships to go away to Tahlequah to college.
Then her father had died, and her mother’s always fragile health had taken a turn for the worse. Her grandmother— Mom to the family, Mrs. Clark to everyone else and Sylvie to her granddaughter—had hated calling Hannah home from school, but she’d had no other choice, and Hannah had had no choice but to go. She’d never regretted being available when her family needed her, but she’d always regretted giving up her dreams.
She had learned to hate the motel even as she had devoted herself one hundred percent to it. She had humbled and demeaned herself to save it, but she would burn it to the ground herself if she could get away with it. She hated it and needed it and would sell her soul to the devil to hang on to it.
She’d already sold her body. What would it hurt to put a price on her soul?
She parked in front of the two rooms that served as her quarters, took her bag inside, then went to the office. Her timing wasn’t the greatest. The lunch crowd had come and gone, and the dinner crowd wouldn’t show for another two hours. She would have too much time to deal with her mother, too much time to try to hide secrets from Sylvie.
Picking up the mail from the desk, she sorted through it quickly—nothing but bills—then returned it to the counter. This time of afternoon, she could find her mother in the two-bedroom apartment the two women shared right next door, and Sylvie would be in the kitchen, baking pies while their cook, Earlene, took a break to pick up her grandkids from their mother. No use putting off the inevitable.
Sylvie was up to her elbows in flour. Her rhubarb and strawberry pies were popular in the restaurant, but Hannah’s summer favorite was dewberry cobbler. One was cooling on the counter near the sink.
“Cut yourself a piece and have a seat,” Sylvie invited. “I’ll tell you about the excitement in Sunshine this weekend.”
Hannah obeyed her, topping a big piece of warm cobbler with vanilla ice cream before sliding into a chair at the table where she and Sylvie shared most of their meals. Excitement and Sunshine were words a person rarely heard in the same sentence. The last exciting thing she could recall happening here was back in high school when the postmistress had chased her husband buck naked down the street with a cast-iron skillet after finding him in bed with the divorcée next door.
“Wouldn’t you know, I leave town for two days, and something finally happens,” she said dryly, then turned her attention to the ice cream melting over succulent berries and thick flaky crust. “What was it? Did Mr. Tyler’s pigs get into Miz Coffman’s garden again?”
“It was murder. Late Saturday night.”
Wide-eyed, Hannah stared at her grandmother. They hadn’t had a murder in Sunshine since...well, ever. Everyone around here was too nice, too well mannered, too boring. “Who was murdered? Someone we know?”
“No, she was from Oklahoma City. One of those resort people. They think her husband did it. Odd thing is, he insists he was right here when it happened. In room 17. With a woman.”
Turning cold inside, Hannah continued to stare. Dear God, this couldn’t be true. There must be a mistake. Sylvie must have misunderstood. But Sylvie never misunderstood. Something had gone wrong, terribly, horribly wrong, and God help her, she was involved. She, Hannah Clark, a major failure at life in general, was involved in murder. Sweet heavens, what had she done?
“What did the sheriff say her name was?” Sylvie wen
t on. “Sheryl? Susan? No, Sandra. That was it. Sandra Reilly. They found her body in the ruins of the resort—”
“Ruins?” Hannah’s voice sounded choked, as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. As if all her muscles and nerves were knotted up tight inside her with fear, alarm and pure panic.
Sylvie turned from the pie crusts. “Whoever killed her burned the place down around her. Guess we won’t have to be worrying about the competition anymore.”
Hannah was going to be sick. The few bites of ice cream and cobbler she’d swallowed threatened to come right back up. Oh, God, this was none of her business, none of her fault. It was a mistake—lousy luck, bad police work, no more. It had nothing to do with her or her weekend, oh, please, God, nothing.
Halfway across the kitchen, Sylvie was giving her a strange look. She was still talking, but Hannah couldn’t. make sense of the words over the roaring in her ears, and after a moment she stopped trying. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping the food in her stomach, on slowing the painful thud of her heart, on controlling the rapid tenor of her breathing and the trembling that exploded through her.
When Sylvie laid her hand against Hannah’s cheek, she jumped. Her eyes flew open and heat flooded her face. “I—I’m sorry. Wh-what...”
“You don’t look so good. You did a little too much partying up there in Tulsa this weekend, didn’t you? I haven’t seen you looking so washed-out since you came dragging in sicker than a dog with a hangover after your high-school graduation. Don’t you know you can’t go years without drinking, then get drunk without getting sick?”
“I didn’t...” She let her denial trail off, let her grandmother believe what she would. It was far better than the truth, which she wouldn’t offer if she could.
“Why don’t you go on to your room and lie down? I don’t need any help here until suppertime.”
Scooping up the cobbler dish, Hannah took it with her. She’d lost her appetite—she might never eat again—but if she left it behind, Sylvie would know there was something far more wrong than a few too many drinks, and Hannah would get no peace until her questions were answered.
She walked outside, her stride measured, her movements controlled, until she was out of sight of the plate-glass windows. Then she raced to her room, fumbled the door open and slammed it behind her. She tried Brad’s local number first, got his machine, then dialed his office in Oklahoma City. The secretary politely informed her that he was in a meeting. Near hysterics, she demanded to speak to him, anyway.
He sounded cool, placating, when he came on the line. “Hello, Hannah. I see you’ve heard the news.”
“What’s going on, Brad? You told me this would be so simple, just a little favor to help Sandra out of a bad marriage, to help her get her fair share of her husband’s assets. You said she would get some money, you would get control of the company and no one would get hurt. Well, she’s dead, Brad, and the sheriff is saying he killed her!”
“Yes, the sheriff is saying that, isn’t he? He thinks he’s got an open-and-shut case. He isn’t even looking for another suspect.” Brad’s tone chilled a few degrees. “Don’t leave yourself off the list of people who got something out of the deal. Remember that ten-thousand-dollar note I wrote off for you? You profited, too, sweetheart.”
She began trembling again, and for one frightening moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Finally, with a great ragged sob of air, she said, “We both know where Mick Reilly was Saturday night and Sunday morning. We both know he didn’t kill his wife. When I tell the sheriff—”
“The sheriff knows all about the nonexistent Elizabeth. He’s already questioned your grandmother and examined the room. Everything was taken care of before he got there.”
Stretching the phone cord, Hannah unlocked the connecting doors between her room, number 18, and the next and stepped into the doorway. Shafts of light came through gaps where the curtains weren’t properly closed and highlighted the dust heavy in the air. The last time she’d been in this room, it had smelled of sex, heat and passion. This afternoon it smelled of must and dust and looked as if it had stood empty forever.
“How did you do that?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and it was heavy with fear.
“That’s none of your concern, darlin’. It discredits Mick’s alibi, and that’s all that matters. Do you understand that? His alibi will remain discredited.”
“But, Brad, if I don’t talk to the sheriff, they’ll charge him. He could go to prison for the rest of his life. He could get the death penalty!”
“So could his accomplice. I have a carbon of a check here, Hannah, drawn three days ago on Mick’s personal account, for ten thousand dollars. It’s made out to you and apparently signed by him. If you go to the sheriff with this outrageous story that you’re the mysterious Elizabeth, it would be my duty as a law-abiding citizen to pass this on to him. The fact that the check hasn’t yet been cashed would be inconsequential. Of course, Mills would want to know why Mick was giving you that kind of money. For sex? No woman’s that good. For work? Everyone knows you haven’t worked for him. What could possibly be worth that much money?”
An alibi, Hannah thought numbly. And in one move Brad would destroy Mick’s alibi and implicate her in Sandra’s death. Dear God, she was implicated. She had lured Mick to the room next door while ten miles away Sandra had been lured to her death. She had helped cast suspicion and blame on an innocent man while the real killer...
She sank to the floor and let her head fall forward. She had helped frame an innocent man while the real killer—while Brad—murdered his wife. Oh, Lord, she was in such trouble.
“I assume by your silence that you understand what I’m saying. Our original agreement was that you would keep your mouth shut about everything until I gave you permission to talk. That agreement still stands. If you break it, if you talk to the sheriff, your grandmother or anyone else, I’ll make you sorry, Hannah. I’ll see that you become a suspect right alongside Mick. I’ll see to it that you lose your precious motel and that your crazy mother and the old woman wind up on the streets. Do you understand?”
“I understand.” Her words had no voice, though. Clearing her throat, tightening her grip on the phone, she repeated them in a frightened whisper.
“Write this down.” He gave her a name, address and phone number. She scribbled them on the first piece of paper she found. “That’s a friend of mine in Tulsa. If anyone asks, she’ll swear you were there with her from ten o‘clock Saturday morning until one o’clock this afternoon. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t betray me, Hannah. Don’t make me destroy your sorry little family.” He didn’t wait to hear her response, but hung up, leaving her listening to the faint hum of a line that had gone dead.
Chapter 2
Mick rolled his head from side to side, then checked his watch. He’d spent ten hours in the truck watching the motel, except for the fifteen minutes it’d taken to drive to the Texaco down the street for snacks. The dinner crowd had come and gone, and four guests had checked in for the evening, filling rooms 1, 3, 5 and 7. The wandering granddaughter had returned, too, driving a junk heap that looked perfectly suited to the motel.
In his heart he’d harbored the hope that Hannah was Elizabeth, but the moment he’d seen her, that hope had been lost. Hannah looked as wholesome and innocent as Elizabeth had looked sexy and sultry. Her hair was blond, while Elizabeth’s was fiery red. Her clothes were loose and shapeless while Elizabeth’s had been chosen to seduce. Hannah was rather plain, as if she belonged at the Last Resort, while Elizabeth had stood out like a diamond among stones.
So he’d moved on to his next best hope. Elizabeth must be a friend of Hannah’s. There was no other reasonable explanation, and he’d been trying for hours to think of one. All he had to do was catch Hannah alone and convince her that it was in everyone’s best interests if she came up with the information he needed.
Catc
hing her alone hadn’t yet proved possible. After spending more than an hour alone in room 18 this afternoon, she’d spent the rest of the time in and out of the guest rooms, the dining room, the kitchen and the office. Practically every time he’d seen her through the big windows, she’d been accompanied by either the crazy woman or her grandmother. She’d waited tables, checked in guests, carried extra towels to room 3, delivered pillows to room 5 and made multiple trips to room 7. It wasn’t beyond believing that there were multiple problems with the room, or it was entirely possible that the man who’d checked into the room just liked having the young woman wait on him.
Tired from sitting and doing nothing, Mick got out of the truck and walked a few. yards to stretch his legs. The night was still, the air heavy with the promise of rain. A mosquito buzzed his ear before settling on his neck, and he slapped it away, then walked to the telephone pole and leaned against it. With no street lamps in the entire town of Sunshine and no more than a quarter moon in the sky, he could have been invisible.
Hannah stood behind the counter, ledgers open in front of her. She emptied the cash register, counted the money a couple of times, then zipped it into a slim deposit bag. Periodically she stopped what she was doing, ducked her head and covered her face with her hands. Did she know about Sandra’s death? Did she suspect that her friend Elizabeth had something to do with it? He hoped so—hoped she was shocked, stunned and willing to do something about it
But what if she wasn’t willing? What if she would protect her friend no matter what the cost to him?
If he could get inside her room he could look for some proof of Elizabeth’s existence himself. Surely Hannah kept an address book. Surely he could find something—an address, a phone number, even just a full name. Then he could ask for her cooperation, and when she lied—if she lied—and insisted she knew no Elizabeth, he could confront her with the proof.
It wasn’t a great plan, he acknowledged as he started toward the shoulder of the road, but at least it was something. He had a tremendous urge to do something.
The Overnight Alibi Page 3