“And now Frank’s in charge,” I said, uneasy.
“Pie Hard is a real show, you know,” Charlene said. “We have to assume they know what they’re doing.”
“I guess,” I said, unconvinced.
Standing, she reached across the counter and patted my hand. “You can do this. If you need to talk after you meet with Frank, call.” Charlene rose from the barstool.
I followed her to the front door. “If I learn anything from him about Regina’s death, I’ll let you know right away.”
“That wasn’t what I meant,” she said, “but it’ll do.” She left. The bell jingled in her wake.
I locked the glass door behind her and flipped the sign to CLOSED.
We clean up throughout the day, so the final mop and wash was no big deal. My only stressor in the closing process was the cash count. I’m an English major, not a mathematician, and sometimes I had to count it out three or four times to get the numbers right. Luckily, I didn’t have TV cameras or Nigel watching over my shoulder as I totaled up tonight. I checked the cash count against my records, and locked the money in the small safe.
By 7:45 p.m., I was cruising down Highway One toward the TV crew’s luxury hotel. Wind whipped through the open window, tangling the hair I’d loosed from its bun.
I pulled into the wide parking lot. Lights from the gabled hotel glowed cheerfully. Sunset darkened to a purpling ribbon on the horizon.
How could they afford the Belinda? The hotel seemed extravagant for a cable TV show. Did the crew get a discount?
A chill breeze blew off the ocean. I grabbed a black Pie Town hoodie from the passenger seat and pulled it over my head. Looping my purse over one shoulder, I strode across the lot.
The hotel lobby had hardwood floors and high ceilings. White wainscoting accented sand-colored walls. Maybe someday, if Pie Town was super successful, I could sleep in a place like this—but that day was far off.
Figuring the bar couldn’t be too hard to find, I meandered deeper into the hotel. Finally, I had to stop and check a map on the wall. There were actually two bars—a wine bar of dark, polished wood, and an airy “anything goes” bar overlooking the ocean. Frank was in neither, and I felt a measure of relief.
Annoyance followed hard on relief’s heels. Where was he?
I returned to the wine bar, in case he’d shown up while I’d been in the other. He hadn’t. Following the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses, I walked back to the second bar and fumed.
I stared out of the large, square windows at the darkening ocean. Why was I surprised that he was late? I had twenty-plus years of evidence proving the guy was unreliable. This was just more proof that Frank was who he said he was, my feckless father.
My fists clenched. And I was wasting time.
Turning from the windows, I stormed to the reception desk. I should have asked Frank for his cell phone number. If he wasn’t in a bar, he was probably in his room. Maybe the desk could call for me.
Nearing the high, white-paneled desk, I slowed, recognizing the dark-haired woman on the phone behind it. Blueberry pie was her game, with the occasional spinach and goat cheese quiche thrown in.
She looked up and smiled, raising one finger to let me know she’d be right with me. Her bun gleamed beneath the ceiling’s inset lights. She hung up. “Hi, Val. What are you doing here?”
“Um, I’m here to meet someone from Pie Hard. You know, the TV show? They’re featuring Pie Town.”
Her brown eyes widened. “I wondered if that might be about you! I knew they were staying here, and there aren’t many bakeries in town. How’s it going?”
“You probably heard about Regina Katz.”
She winced. “Everyone heard. Her poor husband.” She shook her head. “He’s a wreck.”
“Oh?”
“One of the maids must have forgotten to replace his wastepaper basket when she was cleaning the room this morning. He was very upset. Very. Of course, he wasn’t really upset about a silly basket. But grief makes everything more emotional.”
“He came to work today,” I said, “but I honestly don’t know how he got through it.”
“Poor man. Hotel management’s talking about putting up new fencing near the cliffs, but it seems too little too late.” She leaned forward, her cream-colored blazer pressed against the desk. “And I’m not sure it will help. If someone’s determined, a low fence won’t stop them.”
“You sound like you think it was suicide?”
“I can’t imagine what else it would be. The trail is clearly marked and enclosed by a fence. Ms. Katz would have had to climb over it to get anywhere near that cliff, which is well lit.”
I adjusted the purse over my shoulder. “But the fence is only a foot or so high. It’s easy to step over. People do jump it, don’t they?”
“There is a dirt trail on the other side of the fence, closer to the cliff,” she admitted. “But it’s still not close enough for an accidental fall.” She sighed. “Who are you trying to reach?”
“Um . . .” My insides squirmed. “Frank Harris.”
“Harris? That’s your last name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I guess it’s pretty common.”
“I can’t give out room numbers, but I can call the room for you.”
“Please.”
The clerk called, phone pressed to her ear, head canted. She shook her head and hung up. “No answer.”
“Oh. Well, thanks. I’ll check the bars again.”
“Or you could try building three-b.”
“Three-b?” I asked.
“The Pie Hard crew is renting it as their workspace. I just walked past there, and the lights were on.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
She handed me a map printed on elegant paper and circled an outbuilding. “It’s located on the north side of the hotel. Follow the path from this door here.” She pointed on the hotel map. “It’ll take you through the golf course and right to the front door.”
I thanked her again, walked through the hotel and out one of the side doors. Solar lights illuminated the stone paths. I navigated the trails through the rolling lawn to a low, gray, wood and stone building.
The curtains were drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows. Light streamed through gaps in the fabric.
I found a white-painted door and knocked. “Hello?”
No one answered.
I hesitated, then tried the latch and walked inside.
The gray-carpeted room was L-shaped. A long table loaded with computer equipment ran down the center of one leg of the L. Chairs lined one side of the table.
The room smelled like gasoline, and my nose wrinkled. Good luck getting that deposit back. What had the Pie Hard crew been doing in here?
A door clicked shut.
I spun around, but the door I’d come through was closing, slowly. There must be a second door in the room.
“Hello?” I walked past the long table and peered around the corner. This section of the room was empty as well. The curtains were shut and the exit door at the far end was closed.
Walking to that door, I pushed the handle down.
Locked.
This was weird, because I was on the inside. I should be able to open it, right?
I rattled the door, but it was stuck.
Uneasy, I wiped my palm on my jeans. I wasn’t locked inside. The room had two doors, and I knew the front was unlocked.
A boom roared behind me, and then a rushing sound.
I staggered.
Acrid, black smoke billowed around the corner of the room.
Pulse thundering in my ears, I raced toward the smoke. The computer table was ablaze, flames licking the ceiling. Tongues of fire raced along the carpet and up the curtains. Coughing, I ran to the first door and pushed the handle down.
It didn’t budge.
An alarm rang, deafening.
Panicked, I threw my full weight on the lever, banged on the door, screamed. Smoke seared my throat
. I drew shallow, pained gasps.
I doubled over and looked for a way out. Out, out, I had to get out. Forcing myself closer to the flaming table, I grabbed a chair. I hurled it at the curtained, floor-to-ceiling window.
The chair ricocheted off, banging me in the shoulder. I cried out in pain and exasperation.
The smoke was unbearable, scorching my eyes and throat.
I dropped to my knees. Weakly, I kicked at the window. What the bloody blue blazes was it made of? Why wasn’t it breaking? I fumbled with the cell phone in the pocket of my Pie Town hoodie.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“Fire,” I rasped over the clang of the alarm. “I’m at the hotel in building b . . .” I couldn’t remember the name, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The room telescoped away from me. My vision blurred and went dark.
CHAPTER 8
Cold water dripped down my face. I sputtered, surging upright, cold talons of fear tearing at my chest.
Hard and painful, something else gripped me too—a man. Strong arms dragged me backwards. Fresh air tickled my nostrils, and I sucked in a breath of clean, ocean air. I opened my eyes to the horizon, deepening to shades of cobalt.
“I’m okay,” I rasped and struggled to get my feet onto the path beneath me.
The iron grip released, and I turned to my rescuer.
Frank. Water dampened the shoulders of his tweed suit jacket, plastered his dark hair to his head. His eyebrows looked singed.
“You,” I whispered, throat raw.
“You’re safe now, but let’s put more distance between us and the fire.” He nodded toward the burning building. Black smoke poured from its slowly closing front door.
He grasped my arm. Together, we staggered farther from the building and collapsed on the cool grass.
I pressed my palm to my chest, rolled to my knees, and tried to vomit the smoke from my lungs.
“Here’s your purse.” He dropped it on the lawn beside me.
He’d thought to grab my purse? Laughter bubbled up in my throat, and I pressed my hands to my mouth to stifle it before he accused me of hysteria. “Thanks,” I choked out.
Frank coughed and sat up on his elbows. “You’re welcome.”
A firetruck rolled across the golf course. Its headlights bobbed as it sailed up and down the neat rolling hills.
My Pie Town hoodie, t-shirt, and jeans were soaked. The fire sprinklers inside must have kicked in, finally. I shivered. What had taken them so long?
The firetruck groaned to a halt. Men in thick, canvas jackets and yellow hats piled out and swarmed past us.
“Anyone in there?” a grizzled fireman asked Frank.
My maybe-father glanced at me. Blue and red lights flashed weirdly, making strange shadows.
I shook my head, coughed. “No.”
Losing interest, the fireman rejoined his crew. An ambulance stopped nearby. Men in blue leapt from the vehicle and hurried to us.
Frank leaned closer. “Deny everything,” he said in a low voice.
“There’s nothing to deny,” I said, indignant. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He patted my shoulder. “Stick to that story.”
“It’s not a story.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
Paramedics swooped down on us, and he snapped his jaw shut.
One paramedic maneuvered me to the back of the open truck. Sitting me on a bumper, he shined a flashlight into my eyes, looked down my throat, and took my pulse.
Police officers trotted across the lawn. I strained my eyes in the growing darkness, looking for one in particular.
Gordon, in his blue suit jacket, strode purposefully across the rolling lawn. Sighting me, he broke into a run, and my heart lurched, tears pricking my eyes.
“Val!” He wasn’t winded when he reached me, perched on the bumper with a blanket over my shoulders. His gaze bounced from me to the smoke seeping from the open doors of the outbuilding. Firemen carrying hoses over their shoulders lumbered inside.
“You were in there?” the detective asked. “What happened?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” A short, bulky woman in the hotel’s sand-colored blazer strode toward us on five-inch heels. In spite of them, she wasn’t much over five feet tall. Her tanned face was lined, the tips of her pixie-cut hair frosted. It flashed in the glare of the emergency lights. “I’m the manager. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.” I coughed, and the blanket slipped from my shoulders. Making a grab for it, I readjusted. “I went inside and didn’t see anyone, and then the fire started and—”
“Fires don’t just start,” the hotel manager snapped.
“I smelled gasoline,” I said. “I think someone was inside with me, and—”
“What were you doing with gasoline in there?” she asked shrilly. “It isn’t allowed.”
“Ma’am,” Gordon said, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting over there.” He nodded toward the firetruck. “I’d like to finish taking this lady’s statement.”
“She was inside the building when the fire started,” the manager said. “It’s obvious what happened.”
Hands in his trouser pockets, Frank strolled to join our group. “It’s obvious your hotel is liable for criminal acts committed on the premises.”
Gordon’s green eyes narrowed. “Sir—”
“We are not liable if an arsonist nearly sets herself on fire,” the manager snapped.
“Except she didn’t.” Frank said. “Someone had wedged the doors shut from the outside, locking her in. The same someone I saw leaving the building moments before the fire started.”
My blood turned to ice. I hadn’t set the fire, and I figured someone had locked me inside. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing.
“You saw someone?” Gordon asked.
“That’s impossible,” the woman said. “Those doors don’t lock that way.”
Gordon signaled to two uniformed officers, and they strode toward us.
“When I arrived,” Frank said, “I found rubber doorstops wedged into both exterior doors. They’re the same kind your hotel maids use. Valentine couldn’t open those doors from the inside—not blocked by those doorstops. And she couldn’t have put the doorstops there and then let herself in. My daughter could have been killed due to your negligence.”
The woman drew herself up. “It isn’t my fault if—”
“Ma’am,” Gordon interrupted and nodded to a tall, African-American cop. “Please go with Officer Billings. He’ll take your statement.”
She pressed her lips together and followed Billings away.
“You said you saw someone leaving the building?” Gordon asked Frank.
“A man, I think,” Frank said. “The light was getting dim, and I was far away. I’m sorry; I can’t tell you more than that.”
“Did you get a sense of his build?” the detective asked.
“No,” Frank said. “I can’t even swear it was a man, I’m afraid.”
“And what were you doing outside?”
“Looking for Valen—Val. We were supposed to meet in the bar, but I was a bit late and saw her through the window.” He motioned toward the four-story, gabled hotel. “She was walking toward the building the crew’s been using for editing. I figured she was looking for me, so I followed.”
“Kent,” Gordon said to the second officer, “please take this gentleman’s statement and find out how we can contact him later.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Frank asked me.
“The paramedics said I’ll be fine. And thanks,” I said grudgingly. He’d probably saved my life, but that didn’t absolve him of over twenty years of neglect.
“This way, sir,” Officer Kent said.
The two men walked away from us.
“What happened?” Gordon asked.
Tugging the blanket closer, I told him. “I must have passed out for a minute,” I finished. “It couldn’t have been long. Then Fra
nk was dragging me from the building, and the firetrucks were on their way.”
“What’s going on?” Steve Katz huffed toward us and fumbled with a high pocket in his photographer’s vest. He stumbled to a halt and stared, eyes wide, his gaze bouncing from me to the building. “No, no, no! This isn’t happening!”
“I’m sorry.” I coughed. “But everything on that big table was on fire, and then the sprinklers came on—”
He whirled on me. “You! You did this to get out of your contract! I told Regina we shouldn’t have gotten your partner to keep the show a surprise.”
“N-no—”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” He stepped closer, and Gordon put a restraining hand on his chest.
“Sir—”
“She did this! She didn’t like the idea of us being in Pie Town from the beginning, and now she’s got her way.”
“Back off,” Gordon said, his voice hard.
Steve stumbled backward. “Don’t touch me! I’ll sue!”
Chief Shaw, tall, narrow, and elegant in an expensive gray suit, strolled toward us. “Now what’s all this?” he asked jovially.
“This woman.” The photographer pointed a shaking hand at me. “She tried to get out of the show, and Regina wouldn’t let her. Now Regina’s dead. And when that didn’t stop Pie Hard, she set our equipment on fire. She’s set this whole thing up.”
“Arson doesn’t seem like Miss Harris,” the chief said. “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”
“She inhaled a lot of smoke,” Gordon said. “The paramedics have told her not to strain her voice.”
I shot him a startled look. They hadn’t said that.
“But before they did, she gave me a statement,” the detective continued. “Ms. Harris had an appointment to meet with the show’s new producer. When she couldn’t find him in the hotel bar, she came here, where she was told the crew was working. The building appeared empty, but someone set the place on fire and trapped her inside. Her movements can be confirmed by the hotel reception.”
“Hm.” Shaw rubbed his narrow jaw. “It does seem as if someone has it out for your show, Mr . . . ?”
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