The old woman’s voice turned pensive. “You think Hannah’s lying about knowing that Elizabeth person, don’t you?”
He wasn’t about to answer truthfully. Instead, he turned the question back on her. “Do you?”
She straightened to her full height. “My granddaughter does not lie.”
But she was afraid that, maybe this time, Hannah had lied. Mick could read it in her face. “No,” he agreed. “Hannah doesn’t lie.” He pretended to mean it.
With a worried nod, Sylvie pretended to believe it.
It took Hannah little enough time to clean the rooms that had been occupied last night. Pushing the cart in front of her, she dragged her feet on her way to the last room. To Mick’s room.
She hoped he wasn’t there, but his pickup was still parked out front, and she’d seen no sign of him in the lobby or the dining room as she’d passed. She hoped he would leave the room while she cleaned it, but knew she couldn’t be so lucky. He would stay, hovering over her, making her uncomfortable with snide remarks about Saturday night or frightening her with reminders of Brad’s threats and his own.
She knocked twice at his door. When there was no answer, she unlocked the door and swept the room with a wary gaze. The bathroom door was open, the lights were off, and the bed was unoccupied. Maybe the sheriff had picked him up. More likely he was in the kitchen, sweettalking Earlene out of a midmoming snack to make up for the breakfast Hannah had served him.
Leaving the door propped open, she opened the drapes, closed the connecting door and locked it, then gathered damp towels and stripped the bed. Housekeeping was a job she’d had since she was ten, one she could do in her sleep. This room required a little extra attention, though. Besides the fact that it’d been used only two nights in the past several hundred, Brad’s efforts to reinforce that unused image had been impressive. The dust on the bedside tables looked as authentic as any of the other long-unused rooms.
She dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed and washed, and brought in a chair and a lamp from next door to replace what Brad had removed. Even with her best efforts, she had to admit when she was finished, the final product wasn’t much of an improvement. It was still shabby. Everything was still old. It wasn’t the sort of place most people would choose to spend the night.
It was the perfect place for her.
When she turned, she was surprised to see Mick standing in the doorway.
“Good, you’re finished. Come to Yates with me.”
She gave Mick a dry, disbelieving look. “Why in the world would I want to do that?”
“Because you don’t want me making your mother or Sylvie suspicious about the exact nature of our...ah, relationship.”
“Where do you need to go in Yates?”
“The hardware store. That leak is going to drive me crazy.”
She glanced needlessly at the sink. All the faucets leaked, but she couldn’t afford a plumber and didn’t have a clue how to fix them herself. “You can’t fix it.”
“Yes, I can. I can fix just about anything.”
Except this mess they were in, she thought as she shook her head. “I can’t let you.”
“Would it make you feel better if I promise to make it leak again before I leave?”
Rather than accept responsibility for the silliness of his question, she changed the subject. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time, like finding a lawyer or arranging a—” As his expression turned grim, she bit off the words and looked away.
“A funeral? I’ve done that. The medical examiner in Tulsa has released Sandra’s body. The funeral home will pick her up later today and the service will be held tomorrow.
She had arranged one funeral—her father’s—and that had been one too many for her. She didn’t envy Mick the task of burying his wife, especially when he was suspected of killing her. By now the rumors had surely spread through their circle of friends—helped along, no doubt, by Brad. Mick would be the subject of speculation and gossip at what was already a difficult time. “I’m sorry.”
After a long moment, he shrugged and let it drop. “I’ve also found a lawyer—though not the one Brad suggested. He’s driving down from Tulsa this afternoon. While I wait, I thought I’d fix the faucet.”
She pushed the cart through the door while he followed, then picked up the pile of laundry on the sidewalk and balanced it on one hip. “What if Brad’s in town?” Silly question. She sounded as if she was considering Mick’s invitation when she didn’t have time to waste going off to Yates with him. There was laundry to do, windows to wash, supplies to order and other endless chores. Besides, the last thing in the world she wanted was to spend more time alone with Mick Reilly.
Being seen alone with him by Brad was the very last thing she wanted.
“He’s in Oklahoma City, trying to expedite the collection of fifteen million dollars from the insurance company. He’s not likely to drop everything to come here.”
“And how much insurance are you expecting to collect?”
He looked puzzled. “The insurance on the resort was in the company’s name. It goes to whoever owns the company, not to either of us individually.”
“I meant life insurance.”
“None. We carried insurance only on me. If I died, Sandra would get my insurance and my share of the company. If she died...” His shrug was awkward. “I wouldn’t be at a financial loss.”
Meaning Sandra hadn’t contributed much in the way of money to their marriage. She didn’t seem the type who had bothered herself with housekeeping or cooking, so Mick had probably hired someone to do that. She apparently hadn’t shared her bed with him for a long time—according to Brad, they hadn’t even lived together for more than a year—and she hadn’t offered him friendship or wifely support, either. As far as Hannah could see, Sandra’s sole contributions to their marriage had been to spend Mick’s money and make him unhappy.
“Will the sheriff let you go to the funeral?” she asked quietly.
“He asked me to stay in the county, but he can’t order it unless he arrests me. Though honestly I’d rather be sitting in jail than attend her funeral. Everyone’s going to think I’m guilty.”
“Even your friends?”
“Most of the people we socialized with were her friends. Other than Brad, my only friends were people on our crews. People beneath Sandra’s notice.” Shoving his hands into his hip pockets, he stared at the abandoned gas station across the road. “Hell, I feel guilty even though I didn’t kill her. If Brad hadn’t wanted to get rid of me, maybe she’d still be alive.”
“You can’t blame yourself for someone else’s warped actions.” She’d been trying to convince herself of that ever since realizing what Brad had done yesterday. She was luckier than Mick, though. No one had died because of her actions...yet. If he was charged, convicted and sent to prison, if he got the death penalty... God help her.
“So will you go?” At her blank look, he explained. “To Yates.”
“To the hardware store and nowhere else?”
He nodded.
“I have laundry to do.”
“It’ll wait.”
“And windows to wash.”
“I’ll help you.”
“And carpets to shampoo.”
“Putting it off a little while longer won’t hurt.”
Looking down the sidewalk, she saw Sylvie standing in the glassed-in foyer, watching them with hands on her hips. If Hannah turned down the invitation and remained here, Sylvie would be on her heels for the rest of the day, wanting to know what was going on between them. She couldn’t tell Sylvie the truth, but couldn’t lie to her, either. From the time she was a small child, she could wrap both parents and her grandfather around her finger, but not Sylvie. Sylvie had always seen through her lies, no matter how innocent, and this one was far from innocent.
“All right. If Sylvie doesn’t mind watching the office...”
“I’ll meet you at my truck.”
He went int
o his room, and she started toward the office. When she reached the glass doors, Sylvie held one open while she pushed the cart through.
“For someone you just met this morning, you two seem pretty cozy.”
“We were just talking. I talk to guests all the time.”
“We don’t have guests like him all the time. In fact, we’ve never had a guest like him...have we?”
Hannah met Sylvie’s gaze and held it, even as her cheeks began to warm, even as the certainty that she’d been caught in a lie began to grow in her stomach. “To the best of my knowledge, last night is the first night Mick Reilly has ever checked into this motel,” she said evenly, hoping desperately that Sylvie wouldn’t nitpick over her phrasing of the denial.
But Sylvie always nitpicked. “He doesn’t say he checked in the other time. Says he was brought here by a redhead named Elizabeth. Says he was in her room when his wife was being killed.”
“I was in Tulsa Saturday night. How could I know what went on here? Seems you should be asking Ruby these questions, since she was working that night.” With a smile that felt as false as her words, Hannah pushed the cart around the desk and into the utility room. She wasn’t safe, though. Sylvie came through the door as she unloaded the dirty linens.
“You don’t have a clue who this redhead might be?”
“You know all my friends, Sylvie. There’s not a redhead in the bunch.”
“I don’t know this woman you went to Tulsa to visit. What was her name again?”
Hannah dumped a cup of detergent into the washer and tried to remember the name she’d written on the paper in her room. She’d been so shocked by Brad’s revelation that she’d finished the call in a haze, making note of her alibi automatically without much of it registering. But the name... “Rebecca Marsters.”
“And who is she?”
“I knew her from school.”
“Is she a redhead?”
“No.”
“So what about Reilly? Is he lying? Mistaken? Confused?” Sylvie waited a beat. “He doesn’t strike me as a dishonest man or one easily confused. If he says he was in room 17 with a redhead, I have to give serious thought to the possibility that he was in room 17 with a redhead.”
After adding bleach to the hot, sudsy water, Hannah dumped in the sheets and watched the agitator pull them relentlessly down. She’d felt that way ever since agreeing to Brad’s scheme—as if she were caught in a whirlpool of lies, regrets and guilt that kept pulling her down, that might spit her out but more likely would suck her under to drown. “I don’t have any answers to give you, Sylvie. I guess only Elizabeth can explain that.”
“Maybe Elizabeth—” Sylvie gave the name a sarcastic twist “—will take a notion to do so before they send that boy to prison for something he might not have done.”
Drawing her self-protective instincts around her, Hannah faced the old woman with a steady expression. “Do you think I’m lying, Sylvie? Is that why you wanted him out of here? Because you think I’m somehow involved in his wife’s death?”
Thankfully Sylvie looked aghast. “You would never hurt anyone.”
“Do you think I’m protecting Elizabeth?”
She wasn’t so quick to answer this time. “I think I don’t know what’s going on.”
Hannah brushed past her. “Well, if you figure it out, let me in on it. Right now, if you don’t mind watching the office, I’m going to run an errand.”
“With him? I saw you talking to him, and he’s waiting outside beside his truck.”
Glancing out, Hannah saw that Mick was indeed waiting at the truck. “Yes, with him. We’re going to the hardware store.”
“He can pick up washers and whatnot without your help.”
“You don’t want me to go?”
Sylvie hesitated, then waved her hand. “Go on. I’ve got nothing better to do than hang around here. Why don’t you get enough washers and whatnot so he can fix all the leaks?”
“He’s a guest, not a handyman.”
“He’s a guest who happens to be very handy. Here, this ought to cover it.” Sylvie pressed a hundred-dollar bill into Hannah’s hand, then picked up the clipboard used for inventorying kitchen supplies. “Be careful.”
Her farewell made Hannah’s mouth turn down. She’d always been careful, and look what it’d gotten her: a shabby motel with little future and a shabbier life with no future at all.
Maybe even no life at all.
The hardware store in Yates was small but carried a wide variety of supplies. Though most of the materials for the resort had been brought in from Tulsa, Mick had frequently sent one or another of the crew here for small orders. He was grateful now that he’d never come himself. The fewer places he went where someone might recognize him, the better.
“You have plans to paint your rooms anytime soon?” he asked as he selected a variety of supplies to repair the sinks.
“We try to periodically. Why?”
“I’ll show you how to patch the cracks and holes.” He’d noticed that the last time his room had been painted—a long time ago—no effort had been made to fix anything, and it showed. “All you need is some Spackle, a putty knife and a few gallons of paint. It’ll only take a couple of hours per room.”
She gave him a long, even look that he figured was leading to a refusal. Instead, when she replied, it was on a different subject. “You’re getting too much stuff for one sink.”
“You have more than one sink that leaks.”
“So I’ll call a plumber.”
“You can afford me a whole lot easier than you can a plumber. I’m free.” He closed his mouth before the dig that she was the one with a price tag attached could slip out. He would prefer to think that she’d been foolish, reckless or desperate for affection than to know that she’d been paid—or, at least, promised payment—for seducing him. He would really rather think that she’d been motivated by desire—tike him—and not financial gain. It was going to take him a while to get over the fact that it’d taken money to get him into her bed.
She was shaking her head. “You can‘t—I can’t—”
“How about if I teach you how to fix the leaks yourself? Will that satisfy your pride or propriety or whatever makes you refuse?” At her reluctant nod, he added the last of the O-rings and washers, along with a couple of replacement seats, to the shopping cart. “So, what about Spackle and paint?”
After a long moment of indecision, she shrugged. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”
He added the necessary supplies to the cart before moving on to the paint. “Why don’t you pick a pretty color and do your own rooms first?”
“I have to live in those rooms, and I don’t like the smell of paint.”
“You have sixteen rooms where you could stay temporarily.” He meant to stop there, not to say anything else, but the words escaped in spite of his good intentions. “Seventeen, counting mine.”
She stiffened and refused to look at him, and her cheeks turned pink. “White will be fine.”
For a moment her words didn’t register, but her eyes did—blue, wary, vulnerable. The delicate contrast of her skin did—pale gold brushed with the faint pink of embarrassment. The full curve of her mouth did.
Swallowing hard to clear his throat, he forced his attention to the paint samples in front of them. “Which white? Winter white, off white, bone white, Navajo white, antique white? There are a million different whites.” He picked up a sample card and held it against her cheek. “How about this one, instead? Morning Blush. It’s an exact match for your cheeks when you’re naked and sweaty and you’ve just—”
She brushed his hand away impatiently, almost fearfully. “Would you stop it?” she demanded, barely able to manage a whisper.
He drew the sample back and twisted it in his hands. “Stop what? Making you blush? Suggesting you could sleep with me? You did it before—at least, you had sex with me. I don’t know if you slept at all or if you waited until I was asleep so you could run
off.”
“Stop reminding me. Stop talking about it. Stop implying—” She clamped her mouth shut and stared at the cans of paint.
“Implying what? That I would like to do it again?” He made his voice cold and hard, spoke his words with great deliberation. “I was sexually attracted to you before I knew about Brad and his money. I’m still sexually attracted to you now that I know.”
“Well, I’m not—”
He touched her jaw, and her denial died a quick death. “Lie to your grandmother, to the sheriff, to yourself, but, darlin’, don’t lie to me. It’s still there. Whatever made Saturday night the best damn night in eleven years for me is still between us. Don’t make me prove it to you, not unless you’re ready to spend another six or eight hours in my bed.”
Looking as if she might cry, she edged away from his touch, then turned her back on him. “Forget the paint. I’m ready to go. I’ve got to get back.”
He watched her walk to the door, then moved a five-gallon can of Morning Blush from the shelf to the cart.
Once everything was paid for and loaded in the back of the truck, he started the engine and switched the air conditioner to high. The blast of cold air raised goose bumps on Hannah’s arms and made her nipples rise to prominence underneath her thin shirt. She had nice breasts, nice hips, nice everything under those oversize clothes. He could understand not wanting to dress like Elizabeth all the time, but he couldn’t understand wanting to dress like this. Her T-shirt was shapeless and, even tucked into her shorts, it swallowed her. The shorts were baggy, hid even a hint of the curve of her hips and reached all the way to her knees. Maybe they were fashionable. He didn’t know, since Sandra had never allowed anything so casual as shorts in her wardrobe, but they sure as hell weren’t appealing.
On the other hand, because he knew what they hid, they weren’t discouraging, either.
“Are you really in a hurry to get back?” he asked as they drove out of town.
Her response was a mute shake of her head.
After a couple of more miles, he turned off the highway onto a wide paved road. At Brad’s insistence, it wound through the trees, instead of making a straight shot for the lakeshore. Eventually, if everything had gone according to plan, there would have been a golf course on one side, a jogging trail on the other, with broad borders of well-tended azaleas that would have surpassed the springtime show at Honor Heights Park over in Muskogee.
The Overnight Alibi Page 7