by Shéa MacLeod
I took the bathroom next. Again, nothing but the usual makeup and bath stuff. Clean towels hung neatly from the racks, looking as if they’d never been used, and the toilet paper rolls had neat little triangles still folded on the ends. It was looking more and more like Natasha hadn’t come back to her room all day; if she had, I suspected at least the triangles would be gone.
I inspected the living room and kitchen area last. Like my own dining room table, Natasha’s contained her laptop cord—the police likely took the laptop itself—and various papers and pens. In the kitchenette, I found an open bag of expensive coffee, a bunch of bananas, and an unopened bottle of red wine. The fridge held coffee creamer and six single-serving containers of Greek yogurt, all vanilla.
Through the sliding glass door, I could see a view of the Gulf. It was, in a word, stunning. The one thing about Florida I truly liked. Off to the side, cabanas stood sentinel over early morning beachgoers. The one where Natasha’s body had been found was still wrapped in yellow crime scene tape.
With a sigh, I started for the door. There was nothing in the suite to indicate what Natasha had been up to or why someone might have killed her. I was halfway to the door when a thought struck me. I turned around and headed for the phone sitting neatly on the end table next to the couch. Beside it was a cheap pen and a pad of paper with the hotel’s logo on the top. I picked up the pad and tilted it toward the light. Sure enough, something had been written there. I could only assume it had been written by Natasha since, from what I could tell of my own room, the pads were replaced with each new guest.
I ripped off the top sheet and tucked it into my capris pocket. I could figure out what was written on it later. As I headed toward the door, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. It was a text from Cheryl.
Police coming! GET OUT!!
Chapter 5
Adventures in Sleuthing
I RAN FOR THE DOOR, my flip-flops making an awkward splooch sound on the marble floor. My hand was on the door handle when a second text came in. A quick glance at the screen and I froze in place.
Too late! HIDE!!
Cheryl was overly fond of exclamation marks. I gritted my teeth, desperately looking for a place to hide. The closet was a no-go. They could easily open it and find me. Ditto the bathroom. I considered the balcony, but tossed that aside. Even if I closed the drapes, they could open them easily enough and see me. And I wasn’t exactly built for climbing over balconies. Even if I managed, with my luck I’d get locked out.
That left one place: under one of the beds. I eyed the narrow openings with a malevolent eye. I loathed tight spaces, and these barely looked high enough for a mouse to crawl under, never mind my generous backside. Nothing for it. I’d have to put on my big-girl panties, suck it up, and squeeze under.
Crossing my fingers, I dropped to my belly and wriggled beneath the bed nearest the door. My butt scraped uncomfortably against the wooden slats of the bed frame. My boobs mashed into the floor in a way that told me I was going to be sore later. No doubt my purple t-shirt was covered in dust bunnies. My feet were barely out of sight when the door swung open and a pair of white sneakers entered the room, followed by a pair of scuffed black dress shoes.
I narrowed my eyes. I’d know those shoes anywhere. They went along with the rumpled suit and the scruffy day-old beard growth. Detective Costa. What was he doing here? Well, obviously investigating a murder, but why was he back in Natasha’s room when presumably he’d already gone over it last night?
“Thank you, Alfonse,” the detective said in his smooth baritone with just a touch of an accent. Barely noticeable, but definitely there. And definitely sexy. I gave myself a mental shake. Costa was the enemy. Well, maybe not enemy, per se, but he was definitely not on my side at the moment.
“No problemo, detective,” the man called Alfonse replied. I was guessing he was some sort of resort employee. “You want me to wait?”
“I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Sure thing.” The white sneakers passed in front of my hiding place. The heavy fire door opened and slammed shut behind Alfonse. There was a pause. One of those “pregnant” ones.
“You can come out now.”
What the—? I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. When I opened them I could see the black dress shoes standing right in front of my hiding spot. Was Costa psychic?
I held my breath. Maybe he was just guessing, and if I stayed still, he’d go away.
“I’m not going away.”
For crying out loud. Was he a mind reader now? With a heavy sigh, I wriggled my way out from under the bed, the metal side rails scraping along my ribs in a most uncomfortable way. Likely I’d have bruises.
Surprisingly, Costa did the gentlemanly thing and reached down to help me to my feet. Unsurprisingly, he gave me a cold, hard, cop stare while he did it.
“Ms. Roberts. Fancy meeting you here.” He waited, clearly looking for an answer as to what I was doing in a dead woman’s room. A woman whose body I’d discovered only a few hours earlier.
I knew from my crime shows that guilty people babbled nervously, and even though I was nervous as all get out, no way was I going to babble. Nope. I was going to be cool as a cucumber.
“Oh, I was just, you know, passing by. Door was open. Probably the cleaning people? Anyway, I was curious, you know. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Certainly not a murdered one. We writers are a...curious lot. Thought I’d, um, see where it happened. Well, not “it,” per se, since she probably got killed on the beach, right? But, you know, the place she lived, er, stayed...” I trailed off as Costa’s expression never changed. So much for not babbling. Nerves. They always got to me.
“Curious, huh?”
“Oh, um, yes. Very. Writer thing. You know.” Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
“Yes, you said that already.” He gave me a look that said he didn’t quite believe me. Probably he could arrest me for contaminating the crime scene or interfering with a murder investigation or something. “You know I could arrest you for interfering with a homicide investigation.”
The man really was a mind reader.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again. I didn’t touch anything. Promise,” I blathered like a lunatic. “Well, except the door handle, of course. And the slider door. I wanted to see how much better her balcony was.” Oh, good way to incriminate yourself, Viola. Let him know you were jealous of her balcony. Which I wasn’t. Much.
“I suppose the crime scene tape disappeared by itself.”
“Uhh, well, no. I took that down myself,” I admitted. I was in for it now.
“Hmm.” That one sound held a wealth of meaning. None of it boded well for me.
“I promise, if you let me go, I’ll never enter this room again.” I figured it was a promise I could keep since the only clue I’d found was now residing in my pocket. I probably should give it to Costa, but now that he’d caught me in Natasha’s room, I’d likely just moved right to the top of his suspect list. I had even more of a reason to solve her murder now and even less of a reason to show him what I’d found. He’d probably think I planted it.
Costa paused for the longest time. Long enough to leave me squirming. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. But, Ms. Roberts, stay out of my investigation.” He had no need to spell it out. The underlying threat was clear.
“Sure thing, detective,” I agreed and slipped out the door before he could change his mind.
“I KNEW THIS WAS A HORRIBLE idea,” Cheryl wailed over her cheeseburger. “That detective has it in for you now.” The breeze off the ocean ruffled her hair. The Flying Fish Grill had wide windows that were always left open to the sea air. It was one of my favorite eating spots on the resort grounds. It was great for people-watching, too.
“It’ll be fine,” I assured her around a mouthful of grilled chicken and avocado sandwich. A blob of mustard oozed out the other end and plopped on my blue blouse. I sighed as I dabbed it o
ff. Par for the course. The curse of large bosoms. “Sure, Costa’s probably more suspicious of me than ever, but I am going to prove to him that neither of us are killers.”
Cheryl’s brown eyes widened. “What?” she all but shrieked as she dropped her burger back into its basket, sending ketchup droplets shooting across the table. None of them ended up on her. Charmed, that one. “I thought you promised to stay out of the investigation.”
“I had my fingers crossed,” I said smugly.
Cheryl let out a strangled sound and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, sweet heaven above. This is a horrible idea, Viola. You’re bound to get yourself killed or wind up in jail or something.”
I waved that off like the nonsense it was. Whoever had killed Natasha had no reason to kill me. Unless I discovered their identity and turned them into the police, of course, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. As for ending up in jail, that was a real possibility, but only if I didn’t prove my innocence first.
“Look,” I said, “I found this in Natasha’s room. It looks like she wrote something on it. Maybe it’s important.” I slid the piece of notebook paper across the table. Cheryl snatched it up and held it to the light with a frown.
“You can’t read anything. The impressions are too faint.”
“Right, which is why I need a pencil.”
She opened her mouth, but before she could respond, a shadow fell across the table. I glanced up to see Lucas Salvatore. His white linen shirt looked crisp and clean against his tanned skin. His hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. Unlike mine. Between the wind and the humidity, I was beginning to look like the victim of a lightning strike. Why did he have to look so perfectly yummy, darn him?
“Good afternoon, ladies. May I join you?”
I opened my mouth to tell him to go away. I didn’t need Lucas getting involved in my little plans, but before I could say a thing Cheryl batted her eyelashes and purred, “But of course. Please have a seat.”
The metal chair legs scraped softly against the tile as he made himself comfortable. “Now, what was it about needing a pencil?” he asked.
“Viola found a clue. To Natasha’s death,” Cheryl blurted, picking up her burger again.
I glared at her. The woman hadn’t an inkling how to keep a secret. “Cheryl, that’s on the down low.”
“Don’t worry,” Lucas said, giving me a meaningful look. “I can keep a secret.”
Oh, I just bet you can. “Still, you don’t want to get messed up in this.”
“Sure, I do,” he said warmly. “Anything I can do to help, I’ll do it.”
I studied him for a moment, wondering what his angle was. Why was he so keen to help? Oh, my word, maybe he’s the killer!
Of course, that was ridiculous. Why would Lucas Salvatore, a man who could buy and sell Natasha Winters ten times over, want to kill her? Okay, she was a nasty piece of work, but I couldn’t see Lucas caring about that. He seemed so...unruffled about darn near everything. As far as I knew, Natasha and Lucas ran in completely different circles. In fact, during the scuffle at the opening night party, they both had acted like they’d never seen each other before. Granted, it was easy enough to pretend not to know each other. What if they’d been lovers who had a falling out, and Lucas killed her in a fit of passion?
No. I couldn’t quite see that. For one thing, Natasha was a bit trampy for a class act like Lucas Salvatore, but even if he’d been into her, he was far too old. Natasha liked them young. Lucas was a good-looking guy and in remarkable shape, but he hadn’t seen twenty in quite some time.
Once I’d settled in my own mind that Lucas wasn’t a true suspect, I decided I could use his help. After all, he was a thriller writer. He must have picked up a thing or two while researching his novels. After all, I’d learned to make pemmican for one of mine. Believe me, that is not something you want to get into.
“All right, this is why I need a pencil,” I said, pulling out the slip of paper. “I found this in Natasha’s room.”
“You broke into a crime scene?” He didn’t seem particularly shocked.
“I know right? She’s a lunatic,” Cheryl muttered.
“Not a crime scene, exactly,” I said. “I mean she didn’t die there.” He gave me a look which I ignored. “In any case,” I continued, “if I rub the pencil over the impressions on this sheet of paper, we can read what was written on the pad. It might lead us to the killer.”
“Or it might be a shopping list,” he pointed out with annoying logic. Cheryl stifled a giggle.
“Do you or do you not have a pencil?” I snapped.
“I do not, I’m afraid, but I am certain I can acquire one.” He stood up and strolled to the bar. As he leaned over, his shirt rode up enough that I could see he had a very nice backside. I told myself not to stare.
“Don’t you just love how take-charge he is?” Cheryl asked dreamily, swirling a fry around in a pool of ketchup.
“Yeah. Totally. Why did you have to go blab?”
“Because he’s an expert.”
“He’s a writer,” I snorted, “that doesn’t make him an expert on anything except maybe comma usage, and even that’s doubtful.” Most writers, including yours truly, have a dickens of a time with commas. Thank goodness for line editors, that’s all I’ve got to say.
Editors. Now there was a thought.
“What about Natasha’s editor?” I asked.
“Yvonne?” Cheryl frowned. “What about her?”
Yvonne Kittering had been Natasha’s acquisitions editor at Romantic Press. Sort of like her rep or sales agent, I guessed—unlike most of us who were published there, who were pretty much left to our own devices and never heard from our acquisitions agents again, Yvonne’s sole job was to keep Natasha happy. Not exactly my idea of a dream job. Rumor had it that Yvonne hated Natasha, though I’d never seen Yvonne do anything but suck up.
“Maybe they had a falling out or something. Natasha was notoriously hard to work with,” I suggested. “If I were Yvonne, I’d have murdered Natasha years ago.”
Cheryl waved that away. “I saw them at the party. They seemed perfectly fine. Yvonne was kissing her backside as usual, and Natasha was lapping it up like she was the Queen of Sheba.”
“Huh. Still, I’d like to talk to Yvonne. Even if she isn’t a suspect, I bet she would have a good idea on who’d have it in for Natasha. And why.”
Lucas returned to the table before I could continue my train of thought, stubby pencil in hand. “As my lady wishes,” he said, handing it to me with a flourish.
“Thanks,” I said lamely. Laying the paper on the table, I used the broad side of the lead to lightly color over the impressions. Letters became visible, and I frowned.
Cheryl leaned over my shoulder. “What is that? Letters?”
“Yes. Looks like a K and a V. Followed by a number: 506.”
“Sounds like a hotel room,” Lucas drawled, leaning back in his chair.
It sure did. “Okay, but what about the letters?”
“Maybe they stand for the name of a hotel or something,” Cheryl suggested.
“Wait, there’s more,” I said as I scribbled across the lower half of the paper. “It’s a time. Ten p.m. No date, unfortunately, but it couldn’t have been too long ago or someone probably would have written over it by now.”
“All right,” Lucas said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table. “We’ve got a time, a location—I’m betting that room is in this hotel—so what do the letters mean?”
He was right. Natasha wasn’t exactly the sort to put herself out, and she didn’t much care about being subtle. She’d probably insist the meeting take place as close to her own room as possible. “I’m guessing it was whomever she was meeting.”
“KV,” Cheryl muttered. “I don’t know. That doesn’t sound familiar.”
I grinned as a thought struck. “Sure it does.”
The other two turned expectant gazes in my direction.
&nb
sp; “It does?” Cheryl asked.
“Sure. I’ll bet you anything it’s Kyle. Natasha’s boy toy.”
Chapter 6
Prime Suspect
FINDING KYLE WAS EASY enough. He was ensconced behind the circular bar in the middle of the hotel lobby wearing his hotel uniform of khakis and a white button-down shirt with the Fairwinds Resort logo. The bleached tips of his hair were spiked with gel, and he had one of those golden tans that meant he spent a lot of time in the sun. He was undeniably handsome in a young boy sort of way.
Kyle gave me a friendly, but bland smile as I approached the bar. The kind of smile that tricked a girl into believing she was special, when actually the smile was totally impersonal. I’d seen that look on bartenders and wait staff the world over. I imagined it was a defense mechanism against the unwashed masses.
“Hi, Kyle,” I said cheerfully as I slid onto one of the barstools. “Why don’t you pour me a nice blackberry bourbon? On the rocks.” It was barely past lunchtime, but what the heck...I was on vacation. Sort of.
“Sure thing, ma’am.”
I tried not to glare at the “ma’am” comment. “Heh, careful with the ‘ma’am’ there, Kyle. I’m not that much older than you.” I laughed awkwardly.
He gave me a look that told me exactly what he thought of that statement. “Of course...miss.”
I went ahead and gave him a black scowl. He wasn’t looking anyway. “Alrighty then,” I said with another awkward laugh. Interrogating people wasn’t as easy as Detective Costa made it look. “Hey, you’re last name wouldn’t happy to be...” I pulled out a random name, “Blackburn, would it?”
He gave me a funny look. “No, it’s Vaughn. Why?”
Aha! I’d been right! But I kept my expression bland and gave an airy wave. “Oh, it’s silly, but a friend of mine has a cousin named Kyle that works somewhere around here. Wondered if you might be him.”
“Nope,” he said, pulling a glass from under the counter.